A Court of Worlds and Eternities (Book IV: Part I)

Chapter 55

As the weary group entered the hospital, the atmosphere buzzed with a sense of urgency, reflecting the severity of the situation. Medwitches rushed to greet them, their faces etched with concentration and empathy. They were quickly assessed and escorted to treatment areas, where the true extent of their injuries could be properly addressed.

Lowen was in dire straits, her body bearing the brunt of Vidar's brutality. Her ribs, nearly all fractured, formed a cage of agony around her lungs, making every breath a labor. As she lay on the treatment bed, Medwitches surrounded her, their hands glowing with a soft, golden light that seeped into her skin, knitting bones and soothing internal bruises.

Azriel, despite his own severe injuries, refused any treatment until he was assured that Lowen was stable. When it was finally his turn, the Medwitches were exceedingly careful. Azriel's wings were the most visually striking injuries. The once magnificent, powerful structures were now marred by deep gashes where the enemy's blades had sliced through the delicate membranes. They avoided direct contact with his wings, using their magic from a slight distance to apply a shimmering salve that sparked with magical energy, meticulously stitching the torn fabric of his wings with threads of light that shimmered like stars. It was a slow, painstaking process, with Azriel gritting his teeth against the pain but remaining stoically silent throughout.

Malek had numerous deep lacerations across his body, each proof of his fierce combat. The Medwitches cleaned each cut with a fizzing potion that bubbled on contact, sealing the wounds with a sharp, hissing sound. The process was both odd and uncomfortable, but Malek endured, his mind preoccupied with the events that had unfolded.

Nesta, though less critically injured, was treated for deep muscle bruises and minor cuts. Cooling salves were applied liberally, emitting a soothing minty vapor that helped to alleviate the pain and reduce swelling. Her skin absorbed the salves, leaving a cool tingling sensation that provided some relief from the constant ache.

After hours of treatment, the group was finally deemed stable enough to move on their own. They were directed toward the hospital's showers, where they were given soft, fluffy towels and simple garments to wear afterward. The Medwitches cautioned them to keep the water lukewarm, mindful of their recent injuries and the potential shock to their still-recovering bodies.

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In the soothing warmth of the steam-filled shower, Azriel leaned heavily against the cool tile wall, his Illyrian wings carefully positioned to avoid the direct spray of water. The steam wafted around him, easing the stiffness that clung stubbornly to his muscles—a residual reminder of the battle's toll.

The door creaked open, and Lowen stepped inside, her movements cautious and measured. She was wrapped in a towel, which she hung next to his before she closed the door behind her, sealing them both in the humid embrace of the shower. The warmth seemed to amplify as she approached, her presence a comforting contrast to the chill of the tiles.

Azriel watched her, his hazel eyes tracing the lines of discomfort that marred her otherwise stoic expression. The weight of the recent events hung between them, tangible in the steamy air. Lowen lifted her gaze to meet his, and for a long moment, they simply looked at each other.

A tear escaped Lowen, tracing a path down her cheek, evidence of her near brush with death. She took a careful breath, her voice soft but carrying a weight of its own.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her eyes flicking to his wings, noting their battered state.

Azriel reached up to gently wipe away her tears.

"I'll heal," he assured her, his voice a low rumble in the confined space.

Lowen nodded. She hesitated before asking about Varric and his sons, a question laden with complex emotions.