12 Days Ago
"How's he?" Sorin asked, out of breath, just as he came rushing down the corridor and pushed into the gates of the King's chambers. The nurse who was tending to the figure lying dormant on the bed glanced at him, then went back to her work.
Their work included drenching a cloth into cold water, wringing it, and then cleaning the sweat and bodily fluids from the King's body. Some of them were preparing potions or mixing two antidotes to arrive at a possible solution for the illness that had seemed to strike all of a sudden. An elderly royal physician sat on a stool nearby, going through endless books and leaflets, turning the pages tirelessly to find the answer.
Anything to cure His Majesty.
"His condition is worsening," a nurse whispered in the otherwise silent room, awestruck and her eyes wide as she stared at the King's motionless form. "Nothing seems to be working."
Sorin did not want the narrow opinion of an inexperienced nurse, mostly because it was pessimistic. He turned to the elderly physician, the one who had been handling this situation since the past few days.
"Malachi," Sorin called, having Malachi look up at him, his eyes seeming to lose their focus for a moment. "What is going to happen? Tell me he's going to live."
Malachi, the physician, didn't answer. Didn't tell him that the King was going to live.
And in that moment, this was all that was enough to unsettle Sorin more than he already was.
Sorin's heart swelled with rage. It looked like the physician didn't want to tell the truth because he didn't want to hurt Sorin's feelings, and he didn't want to lie either because he couldn't bring himself to do it.
"Tell me something!" Sorin yelled all of a sudden, shocking everyone else in the chamber. "Just tell me something! Don't make that long face, tell me what is going on!"
He hated not knowing. He hated having someone take care of him, he hated whatever these elders in the room were doing—thinking that he was a small child and needed to be protected from the solemnity of father's illness.
"Your Highness," Malachi began with a trembling voice, then swallowed. He looked down and let go of the leaflet book he was holding. A gust of wind fluttered in the window and swept it away onto the floor. "I have searched through all the medical documents and books. There seems to be no answer to King Drystan's illness." He stood up and walked over to Sorin, his head bowed and stature diminutive. "I apologise, but I don't think he'll survive any more than the next twenty-four hours."
Sorin's breath stopped. Literally, stopped. And when he breathed again, his chest ached. His heart at last freed away from his muscles and dropped down the pit in his stomach. He hadn't eaten since last night, and maybe it was that or just that knowledge he'd just gotten which instilled this urge in him to throw up.
Because Malachi was staring at him with such a pitying glance, Sorin looked away from him, not wanting to witness the sympathy. He wanted everyone to just stop looking like they gave a crap about what happened to the king.
No one did.
No one cared.
Not after all those rumours that had been going on around. All those rebellions and riots on the streets, the people protesting against the monarch, against the new laws and the rules. Every single one of them had already been hoping for the king's demise in some way, to free themselves from the unworthy ruler, the "one who wasn't born into royalty".
There was no use showing now that any of them felt bad.
"Get out," Sorin whispered his command, stepping aside from Malachi and walking towards his father's bed.
YOU ARE READING
What We Left Behind
FantasyEric tried to commit suicide. He was saved. Now he's living the aftermath. He's facing his family's disappointment and worry and seeing a psychiatrist whom he wants to like. But there's some law against that. Once you've tried to kill yourself, no...
