Oberon and Titania

Chapter 1 - Mr Sinclair is in trouble

I heard the danger before I saw it.

Through the narrow streets of the city's western district, Mr. Sinclair, my latest patient of around forty years old, was dashing through the crowds, pushing over barrels of merchant's imported grain and bags of cotton, coming up on my left side as his feet landed heavily on the cobble ground.

He was pushing apart the crowd, receiving angry glares and a few curses, and I whipped my head around just in time to see his panicked features, eyes bulging in fear, breath hitching as he ran like a madman. In fact, I'm sure everyone around him thought Mr. Sinclair was mad.

"Mr—!" I yelled, trying to grab his attention, but he only shoved me aside as I tried to reach for his arm. My back hit the bricked wall of a building as he darted out of sight, round the bend into another road. My breath escaped my lungs for a second, and I was beginning to wonder two things; first of all, why on Erda was my patient dashing like some rabid dog? And secondly, how did that feeble man get so strong all of a sudden?

I figured that the adrenaline must've really kicked in for Mr. Sinclair, because no sooner had I pushed off the wall that another, dark-robed figure raced past me, forcing me to stick to the wall like paint for fear of getting trampled.

Said figure was quick. Very. They must have been far behind Mr. Sinclair to have only caught up now, because I swear I couldn't even see their face.

But my eyes weren't so bad as to have missed everything. I launched myself into action, chasing after the two like this was some extreme game of tag. My patient, who I had only discharged yesterday, was being hunted by some rogue bandit, I'm sure, because the cloaked figure was gripping a silvery blade, which bounced the light off in many directions, one of which was my eye.

I didn't miss the weapon as they ran past. Someone was trying to kill Mr. Sinclair.

I was glad to have remembered to wear my knee-length tunic and trousers today, because running in a dress would've been difficult, catching up with the two impossible, even with my built-up stamina and army training.

I turned the corner, keeping my eyes peeled to see which way they went. The commotion of angry pedestrians and upturned wagons led me in the direction of a quieter part of the district, somewhere easier to run.

My eyes widened as I noticed just how many wagons and empty carriages were upturned, and so quickly, too! Surely Mr. Sinclair couldn't have done all this himself, in an effort to get away — adrenaline rush or not, it wouldn't have been possible for a man with a weakened condition.

That only left the mysterious swordsman, or woman. Whoever they were.

My mind reeled. Why were they hunting some random middle-aged man?

Following the trail, tripping over knocked-over barrels and crates all the while, I managed to keep in their general path, which seemed to lead into some quiet road. There was no one around, bar Mr. Sinclair, who stood about ten metres ahead of me. He was hunched over, catching his breath and gripping his chest, as though he had a stitch or something. Maybe he did.

But where was the mystery figure? I briefly entertained the notion that he'd outrun them, somehow, despite their damned fast movements... until said figure appeared from a side street, slamming into Mr. Sinclair's left faster than I could say, "watch out!"

They tumbled into an alleyway, a relatively wide but darkened area with a few side doors leading to quiet entryways. I ran in straight after, drawing my little dagger from my hip sheath, gripping the handle firmly.

The figure was already on their feet, back towards me, leaving me with only the view of an ankle-length black cloak, black leather boots and equally dark hair—shoulder length—pulled into a high ponytail with a band and ribbon.