The End of the Dream

Chapter 12

Nothing more was said on the matter—bombshell as it was that had just been dropped on you, there were more pressing concerns.

Wilford conjured up a portal wide enough for all three of you. He helped Dark through, both of them limping a little. Dark's axe had retracted back into cane form and was put to its intended use.

You trailed after them, lost and listless. Through the portal, through the office, to a small clinic that belonged to their resident doctor.

Stomach twisting with guilt still, you could only sit aside and watch as Dr. Iplier attended to them. He was professional and efficient, if perhaps a touch haughty at times. He chided the two for getting themselves injured, but it felt more like disguised worry than anything unkind.

Wilford's dislocated shoulder was popped back into place. There was nothing to be done for his ribs and bruising other than rest, a suggestion Wilford laughed off and cheerily proclaimed he would be quite fine. He refused any painkillers, in favour of announcing he would be going and getting himself a very stiff drink.

Both Dark and Dr. Iplier looked concerned, though for different reasons. Dr. Iplier warned against it from a medical standpoint, but Dark's frown was deeper.

"Wil," he said, firmly but surprisingly soft. "I know it was a shock. Seeing... her. Stay. Let me help you."

Wilford's chuckle felt fake, too light, too forced. "What? No, no, I'm fine, old boy. Nothing a good shot or ten won't fix."

He gave a cheery wave and ducked out of the clinic before Dark had time to press him any further, humming a little tune.

You took a small step towards the door after him, not quite reaching out, but he was gone. "He's not fine, is he?"

"Not remotely," Dark sighed. He stood as if to follow Wilford himself, but Dr. Iplier scowled and sat him back down.

"Nor are you," Dr. Iplier reminded him strictly.

Reluctantly, Dark let the matter lie. His wounds needed attention.

You weren't sure you should be watching, feeling awkward as Dark stripped down to the waist. His shirt and suit jacket were ruined anyway; they had huge, jagged tears ripped through them, and were saturated with Dark's ichor. He tsked, annoyed at the loss.

The wounds had already started to heal, though clearly slower than Dark would have liked. They were still deep enough and gory enough to make you wince at the sight, but at least you weren't worried about the organs in his chest cavity being exposed anymore.

Even Dr. Iplier commented on Dark's healing seeming impacted. Dark grunted, clearly irritated.

The wounds were disinfected—though it was hardly necessary; Dark's infernal energies would disintegrate any kind of foreign contamination regardless—and bandaged, wrapped around his chest and the shoulder Mark's blade had pierced. The rest would be down to Dark's innate, preternatural healing ability.

He thanked Dr. Iplier with a curt nod, then retreated to his office. You followed. You weren't sure where else to go, being neither invited nor dismissed. But you still had a great many questions, about everything you'd witnessed. If Dark cared to talk about it. You couldn't have blamed him if he didn't.

Dark collapsed onto a chaise lounge to the side of his office, rather than immediately returning to the high-backed leather desk chair that presided over the room like a throne. There was a smaller chair for visitors on the other side of the desk; you span it around to face Dark and sat.

"You will be okay, right? Dr. Iplier wasn't just trying to be reassuring?"

Dark snorted at that. "Dr. Iplier is not one to mince words; he will not hesitate to be blunt with his diagnoses, good or bad." Frustration crept back into his voice. "Under other circumstances, I would have been long since healed. Even wounds of this calibre mean little. How humiliating to be forced into repose like an invalid."