Luminous

120 - Depths of Despair (1/2)

The ride back to the Dragon's Crossing was a subdued one. Outside, the summer sun set cobblestones aglow, glittering with specks of last night's stardust. Townsfolk and tourists alike had shaken sleep from their company. They edged down the crammed thoroughfare, turning to hoarse yells of merchants on both sides of the road toting their wares. 

Children streaked through the quagmire, arms aloft with flimsy toys that would barely last them through the Fest. Laughter, music and song. Sighs of sappy young lovers and tuts of frustrated parents.

Meya wondered how they could be so blind, so carefree. So cruel as to mock her with their cheer. Didn't they know her dream was shattering, her love was dying, her path was ending?

Baron Kellis was consoling Baroness Sylvia on the bench across from her. He patted her hair as she sobbed silently into the side of his neck, pressing his nose—then his lips—onto her forehead. 

Meya didn't know if it would actually be worse if Coris were forced to flee straight away. Five more days with him still within reach, yet unable to meet, seemed more of a torture.

"Meya," Kellis's deep, melancholic voice pulled Meya from her thoughts. She tore her gaze from Sylvia, answered him with her hollow glowing green. Under his frown, his blue eyes were straining against grief.

"He will return. I promise," he said heavily. Meya shook her head, her welling tears washing away the image of him.

"When, milord?"

Kellis lowered his eyes to his lap, and her heart writhe in disappointment, even as she knew the answer—or lack, thereof. He steered away,

"Your family will be fine. Arinel won't leave you destitute. She'll find a post for you, treatment for your father. All you must do from now is what you always have. Stand for Greeneyes."

Meya clenched her hands atop her knees and hung her head, her cheeks burning in shame. Yes, she knew, but how could she explain why she wasn't content, wasn't grateful? How could she let them know that now she'd seen what could be, she couldn't return to what should be?

She couldn't forget the gold-gilded carriage, the milk baths strewn with rose petals, the trays laden with mounds of meat and platters of pastry, the dresses of silk and satin trimmed with silver and padded with lace, the goose-down mattress and pillows, the bustling servants, the rolling carpet cushioning her footfalls, the lightness of never having to worry about tomorrow's bread and bed. And she couldn't let her family live and die nameless, faceless, forgotten, without ever having a taste of these riches.

What's the point of fighting for a better life for Greeneyes, if you can't have the life you dreamed of, too?

Their carriage veered onto the courtyard of the inn, slowing to a stop next to another poised to depart. Before its ajar door stood an old man with bushy tufts of white-gray hair and an equally tangled beard. He was dressed in flowing robes of violet silk. The golden thread embroidered onto his sleeve flashed in the sun as he examined the contents of his satchel, tossing bundles of herbs and flowers onto the overflowing arms of his apprentice.

Her heart skipped a beat. Meya flung the door open and tumbled down the steps, dashing to the wide-eyed man and boy.

"Master Healer! Master Healer, sir!" She latched onto his arm, gasping, "were you here for my father? Mirram Hild? How is he?"

At Dad's name, the healer blinked, and a gleam of recognition came to his eyes. He raised his free hand. Meya feared he'd brush her off—she'd mostly known doctors who were ill-tempered—but he patted her hand, weary.

"His spine is crooked and withered," he said, keen blue eyes peering through tangles of white eyebrows to her, then shook his head. "Happens eventually to all men who toil. No cure for it but rest and time. Herbs may dull his pain, but it will never go away."

His words sunk like claws of ice into her heart, robbing strength from her arms. Her hands slid and fell lifelessly to her side. Meya gawked at him, disbelieving.

"He'll never walk without a cane? He'll always be in pain?" she whispered. The healer nodded, his face grim.

"And he must not work."

That was not the problem, of course, but it was disconcerting. Ever since she could remember, Dad had always worked. Dad...worked. That was what he did. All he did. Then, suddenly, he was never to do so again.

He'd never trudge off at sunrise again, cramming his fraying straw hat on his head, Mum's lunch bundle swinging from his fist. He'd never walk through the swishing wheat to the tavern at sundown again, grumble about Meya to Draken until both their pints dried. He'd never barge through the door at dinnertime again, sweep a squealing Mistral off her feet and into his arms. He'd be an old man confined to the warmth of the hearth, teetering over his old-man stick.

No! She balled her fists, protesting to Freda. He ain't even fifty! It ain't even his time! She couldn't take that. She wouldn't take that!

"Isn't there a way to cure him at all? Set his spine straight? Rebuild it?" Meya pleaded. The words tasted insane even on her tongue, but she couldn't overlook even the slightest glimmer of hope. The healer closed his eyes and shook his head again.

"Not even with Nostran medicine, I'm afraid."

He sighed, then reached out a veined hand and grasped her shoulder, pinning her with his keen blue once more.

"You take good care of yourself, lass. That's all he needs."

After a few hard, reaffirming pats, he released her and clambered onto his ride. The carriage bore him off to his next patient, leaving Meya alone as cold reality crushed her.