Sins of the Forgotten King

The Healer

Before the world crumbled into ash and shadow, the healer had been someone else entirely. There was a time when their heart had not known hatred, when their hands had only known the art of healing, and when their soul basked in the light of all that was good.

In the soft glow of memory, the healer was a child, full of innocence and wonder, their world alive with warmth and light. Born into a large family surrounded by laughter and love, they would run through sun-dappled forests, feet light upon the earth, heart as free as the wind. There had been no darkness then—only the boundless joy of childhood.

The healer's gift had been discovered early. At first, it was subtle—the way their touch could calm an injured animal or bring relief to a feverish brow. As they grew, so did the gift, until it became impossible to ignore. The village elders spoke of it in reverent tones, calling it a gift from the Valar, unseen for many generations. This gift, they said, would shape their destiny.

There had been no ambitions beyond healing. It was enough to see others well again, to watch pain fade beneath a gentle touch. Violence and hatred were distant concepts, foreign to their peaceful corner of the world. Sheltered by their parents, they learned only the gentle arts of compassion, love, and kindness.

Then came the day when they were chosen.

The memory is sharp, clear as a polished jewel. Standing in the village square, the healer had been stunned when the delegation from the temple arrived. Their robes, made of the finest elven silk, flowed gracefully as their serene faces spoke of purpose. They had come for the one with healing hands. The healer's family was as taken aback as they were. The temple, the most sacred of places, where only the most gifted healers learned under the greatest Elven healer of the age, was to become their new home.

It had been a place of light, of wisdom, of family. The elders assured the healer they were not leaving their family behind—they were merely gaining another one. And it was true. The healers at the temple welcomed them with open arms, becoming not just mentors but kin. Day and night, the healer trained, learning the art of healing in its purest, most sacred form. They were taught to harness the energy of the world around them, to mend both body and spirit.

The temple itself, built into the heart of the forest, was a sanctuary of indescribable beauty. Ancient trees wove their branches overhead, forming a living canopy that protected the sacred grounds. The air was always alive with the hum of life—birds singing, wind whispering through leaves, and streams bubbling gently. The essence of the place seemed to thrum with the magic of healing.

Among their peers, under the watchful eye of the greatest healer the world had known, the healer thrived. They became something more than they had ever thought possible, part of a lineage of healers stretching back through the ages, all dedicated to preserving life in its many forms.

In those days, the light within them shone bright. Doubt and fear had no place in their heart. They believed in the goodness of the world, in the power of love and compassion to heal all wounds.

But that belief would be shattered.

The memory of the day it all ended—the day the world turned to dust—is still raw. It presses against the healer's consciousness, waiting to consume them. They had been in the temple, surrounded by their family of healers, when a shift in the air was felt. A creeping sense of foreboding lingered on the wind, but none had understood the magnitude of what was coming.

Sauron's forces had arrived like a storm, blackening the sky with their numbers, cruelty slicing through the peace they had known. The Orcs tore through the temple with merciless precision, slaughtering those once called family. The healer remembers the screams, the shattering of stone, the smell of smoke and blood.

They had tried to fight—not with weapons, for they had never held a sword—but with their gift. They had tried to heal, to save those around them, but it was no use. The darkness that descended upon them was too vast, too powerful. One by one, the people they loved fell, until the healer was the only one left.

Kneeling among the ruins, hands covered in the blood of their brothers and sisters, the healer's gift failed for the first time. They could not bring them back. They could not heal the devastation wrought upon the temple.

In that moment, something inside them broke. The light that once filled their heart dimmed, replaced by a cold, gnawing emptiness. The world they had known was gone, and with it, their innocence.

The healer is no longer the child of light, no longer the one who believed love could mend all wounds. They have become something darker. Hands, once so gentle, now ache for revenge. Though hatred burns inside, a small, fragile part of them clings to the memory of who they once were.

But with each passing day, that part grows fainter.

As they are dragged away from the ruins of the temple, bound and a prisoner to the very forces that destroyed their life, the healer realizes that the person they had once been is gone.

All that remains is a shell, driven by the singular purpose of destroying the one who took everything from them.