What He Does to Me (V.2)

Chapter 6

Sunshine filters through the cracks in my curtains and dances on my closed eyelids. I yawn, as I am gently roused by the sounds of chirping birds.

What a pleasant awakening. It almost makes it feel like the events of last night were nothing but a dream.

The dried salve on my arms and distinct lack of pain remind me otherwise, though. I don't think I've ever had a remedy work this well. This confirms my theory that Dr. Aster truly is somebody to be respected.

I feel a sense of gratefulness swell in my chest. I'll be happy to answer any questions she has, just as long as she can make me enough of that salve to last me a lifetime.

As the events of last night begin to settle in my head, distinct images of the Acting Grandmaster's face lit by the gentle candlelight in the room surface themselves.

Slight worry begins to taint my memories. If I wanted to shake the feeling of pitying looks, throwing a fit over virtually nothing was not the way to do it.

I recall the way he held my hand to help me with a menial task I should be able to do myself. As I try to analyze it, though, I feel my heart rate quicken at the mere thought of what went on last night.

That's right, he told me I could forego titles when talking to him. He gave me permission to use his name.

It's funny, I don't think most royalty would care for someone's permission in this way. And yet, to me, this almost feels sacred.

I sit in silence for a moment, thinking about nothing in particular, feeling warmth bloom in my face. He makes me feel strange, that knight. I don't know what it is about him, but I think it's inducing some sort of psychosomatic symptomatology that I haven't felt before. As if I needed any other problems from my already ailing flesh. I should probably ask Dr. Aster about it later.

Speaking of symptomatology, I should probably finish applying the salve to the rest of my body. I told the Acting Grandmaster I would, and my arms feel ready to do some work.

I gingerly unbutton my shirt and retrieve the bowl of medicinal paste from my nightstand. I take a bit of the mixture from the bowl. It smells almost sweet, though distinctly medicinal. It's cool to the touch, and a shade of light periwinkle.

What kind of herbs would one have to put in a bowl to achieve this colour? Most medicines I know are usually of the green variety, owing to the general greenness of plants.

I gently massage it into the skin by my left ribs, which elicits an involuntary groan from me. I hate accidentally unlocking new pains by bringing them to my awareness.

It's a lot easier to just let somebody else do this part for you. I remember being much younger and having this done to me after a particularly strenuous day of re-learning to walk for the thousandth time.

And I think the Acting Grandmaster would have last night, if I'd have asked him to. Sure, it probably would single-handedly send me into cardiac arrest from embarrassment, but I think he would have.

I would never ask him to help me like this, though. Not in a million years. I'm already ashamed enough about needing to look at my own body, let alone have someone like him look at me.

I've seen him. He's strong, capable. He carries himself with grace, and stands tall with pride. It's not hard to see that next to him, I fall embarrassingly short in every category. Remarkably inferior is what I am, and I don't want him to realize that just yet if he hasn't already.

I lazily trace a path from the tip of my collarbones down my sternum with the paste, a path my fingers have traced before many times. A prominent scar runs down this path, raising the surface of my skin just enough for my fingers to naturally gravitate towards it. A result of surgery after surgery to fix my broken lungs and start my failing heart, I hear. It was dangerous, but the royal family was left no other recourse, I hear. The King and Queen wouldn't be able to bear losing a seventh child, so this one needed to live, I hear.