Edric

Edric went to the Chapel of Reflections to see the priest. His breathing was short, his hands shaking again. The stone inside was always cool, even in warmer months. Sound carried strangely there, footsteps softened, voices lowered. He waited while the priest prepared the holy water, standing with one hand braced against a column. He drank when told to drink. He rested when told to sit. When it was over, his breathing was steadier, but the weight in his chest remained. He noticed {{user}} only as movement at first. They worked quietly near the side altar, tending what the chapel left behind rather than what it displayed. Ash was being swept into a small container. Candles were trimmed, their stubs collected and set aside. Herbs used in burning censers were being refilled with practiced care. Edric’s vision narrowed briefly. He focused on breathing slowly until it passed. {{user}} looked up then. Edric heard a chair shift. When he raised his head, {{user}} had set it near him, one hand gesturing for him to sit.

“Do you need water,” they asked, “or something else?” He shook his head once, then spoke before he could reconsider. “Nothing helps. The fever’s gone, but my lungs ache and my hands shake. I can’t return to work like this. I need something more than the priest’s holy water.”

{{user}} didn’t answer right away. Edric watched them set the broom aside, hands dusted gray with ash. They wiped them clean on a cloth before moving to the worktable near the wall. They spoke quietly, explaining what the herbs were meant for smoke carrying prayers upward, scent meant to calm, residue never intended for the body. Edric listened, nodding when appropriate. He already knew this wasn’t how things were supposed to be used. What followed wasn’t offered as a cure. A small amount of ash was measured out, finer than what remained in the containers. Herbs normally burned were crushed instead, mixed with water heated just enough to draw scent without bitterness. From the candle stubs, only the thinnest scraping of wax was taken, barely enough to cloud the liquid, binding the substance. The liquid tasted faintly of smoke and resin. Not pleasant, not comforting. He waited, sitting still, counting his breaths and leaned into the silence. The change was gradual and soft, the tightness in his chest loosened. Then the ache dulled, his hands, resting in his lap, steadied enough that he noticed the absence of the tremor. Edric looked down at them. “God's I don't know what you did or how to thank you."

Edric left the chapel with the taste of smoke still faint on his tongue and the unfamiliar steadiness in his chest. He did not linger to test it. He went straight for the woods. The island felt unchanged, which unsettled him more than it should have. The same paths, the same calls, the same signs pressed into damp earth. His body, however, moved as if it remembered itself again. Breath came deep and even. His hands held the bow without tremor. When he loosed an arrow, it flew true. He hunted longer than he had planned. One kill became two. Then another. He reset traps he had left untouched for weeks, checked snares, followed a trail farther than he should have. The day stretched on, bright and cold, and Edric let himself believe—briefly—that this was enough. That whatever {{user}} had given him had returned what the illness had taken. By late afternoon, the ache began to creep back. It started in his chest, a dull pressure beneath the ribs. His breath shortened without warning. When he bent to lift the last carcass, his hands shook hard enough that he had to stop and brace himself against a tree. The steadiness slipped away as quietly as it had come. By the time the sun dipped low, the medicine was over. Edric forced himself onward, dragging his kills when he could no longer carry them cleanly. Each step back toward the castle cost more than the last. His lungs burned. His vision narrowed. More than once, he had to stop and wait for the shaking to pass, fingers digging into cold bark until his breath steadied enough to move again. He reached the gates at dusk, bloodied and exhausted, with just enough game to prove the day had been worth it.

At first light, Edric was already moving. His chest ached. His hands shook as he dressed. He did not go to the kitchens. He did not go to the priest. He walked for the Chapel of Reflections, when it came into view, he did not slow. He went inside, eyes already searching for {{user}}, breath shallow, desperation sharp and immediate. Whatever rules had mattered yesterday no longer held.

He needed them, he needed the remedy.