Gentlemen Of The Court

Chapter Seventeen

It had been one of the most gruesome three hours of her entire life. Delilah hadn't been this gruesomely exhausted ever in her life before, not even when she'd helped Mrs. Thompskin give birth to a breached child.

And the reasons were quite obvious, Delilah thought. Her emotions were high and running. Her emotions were all over the place. She was already too spent and already at edge, even before she started the healing session.

The words of Mrs. Jameson floated back to her:

You can't heal everyone. You can't save everyone. You can't fight in every war. Choose your battles Lilah. It's not a sign of weakness, there is strength in tactical retreat.

A healer was required to be at utmost calm during every healing session. She had to be emotionally uninvolved. Serene. Not a rioting mess of emotions. For during a healing, one's emotions turned to one's utmost enemies. It was like writing a really important test, and showing up for it incredibly jittery, shooken and utterly unprepared. It would backfire against you eventually. Emotional detachment. The pain on the healer was much worse, when she felt for her patient. The grief, the damage, was so much more on the healer, who couldn't cut her emotions away.

But she couldn't walk away from every scene, every battle. Why then did she have all these gifts? What were they meant to be used for if she were to turn coward every single time her help was needed?

Samara case was even more draining than the pregnant Miss Thompskin's case, not just because of Delilah's rioting emotions, but also because Samara was a gypsy. And her case was severe. She was no longer even conscious of life itself, any longer. The irony. A human having the powers to heal a gypsy. The strain was more than nerve wreaking on Delilah, and even now, she could feel the painful imprint of another scar across her bare buttocks. The lines and designs taking leadings on their own, with no help needed

The Queen was certainly brilliant, Delilah grudgingly acknowledged. A public whipping as punishment. It might be just mere whippings to other humans, but it was a gypsy's living, breathing, nightmare. It could kill.

Flogging a gypsy across her tattoos didn't just hurt the flesh. It wrought direct, intense pain to the very heart and soul of the gypsy. And if the whippings were just enough, it could cause the tattoos that had been in the line of fire, to disappear. Adding more and more to the pain the gypsy was feeling. It was like peacock forced to sheer its feathers. Painful.

And the brutal whippings had made Samara loose some of her tattoos, or in this case, enough to pass her out and deliver her into a comatose state. It was their achilles heel. Their one weakness. Gypsies couldn't be flogged over their tattoos. And Delilah guessed that the Queen had a knowlege of that. She didn't know how, because it was an incredibly guarded secret of the gypsies. But somehow, the Queen had found a way to acquire that little secret. And dear God, she was hurting and shoving at them with everything she possessed at her disposal.

Too weak and exhausted to do anything else, Delilah dragged her tired, aching feet towards the door of the room, opened it and slowly got out, then with great effort, started journeyiny down the long, dreary hallways, until she finally got to the exuberantly lit large halls where the six Gentlemen Of The Court were residing, with warm ale with expressly spread merriment and  gaiety, waiting for her verdict. For some reasons Delilah couldn't fathom, there was celebration in the air. She wondered briefly what the town had, to celebrate about. Was it the strife and the incessant killings? Or perhaps it was the rumor of the greatest, upcoming war Florence would ever face in the history of its birth— the war between humans and gypsies?
Hypocrites all of them. They called themselves humans, civilized beings. But in truth, they were simply no more than hypocrites. And some of the crowd who'd been too excited to go back home, had lingered back as well, all waiting for the verdict. Her verdict. A good amount of them actually, Delilah noted. Because the large hall was incredibly full, and jam packed with people.

They'd all waited to hear her announce her failure? Well bad for them, good for her. Because the last thing she'd be announcing tonight, was failure. They needed to find someone else's blood to rave after. Certainly not hers.

As soon as the people in the hall noticed her walk in, the whole place fell silent. Every eager eyes on her. Some of them even smearing their dirty, debauchery filled hands on her, as she walked past them, not stopping until she got to where Sebastian was.

"So. I guess it's finally time to await and obey to the full latter, whatever punishment the crowd decides to give you" Sebastian spoke up softly, searching through her stormy green eyes. He was searching for any sign of regret, or remorse. Most men, even the strongest and best of them, still felt that, when they were about to die, or be prosecuted. And yet, sadly both emotions were lacking from her features, which frankly surprised him.

"Oh don't be too quick to cast judgment Sir Sebastian. Who said anything about punishment? I was successful in my task, much to your dismay I'm sure" she felt the need to add, with a bright smile

"Liar!"

"Where is she then?"

"Liar!" the crowd began to murmur once more.

And as Delilah sought to speak up, a slightly limping Samara walked into the crowd, looking lost, but every bit as healthy and vibrant as she'd once being, before she'd been whipped.

🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺🌸🌺

A/N: New chapter for you guys. The picture of Delilah Salvador has been placed below, for you guys to see and get a glimpse of how she looks like. As always, don't forget to
VOTE🌺
COMMENT🌸
FOLLOW🌺

The fiery red hair, and jade green eyes, with beautiful almost exotic-like features, is shown so clearly in the photo. Everything is on point y'all, and I didn't even plan it. I happened upon the picture by mistake. But I knew it would fit the character of Delilah, amazingly well.