CONTENT WARNING: loss of a baby, sadly far more commonplace in this time period.
- One discussion sounds as if it is about suicidal thoughts. It isn't what the character means at all, but the similarity is worth warning about.
- Discussion about sexual intercourse, but only discussed vaguely, and nothing NSFW is shown.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This takes place a year after the previous chapter. Things might get a bit timeskippy from now on.
Owen
After having not seen each other for many months due to our busy schedules- and other issues - Reynold and I finally find time to meet in Willow Creek's famous coffeehouse.
The coffeehouse is almost like a whole other world inside of one building. The aroma is divine, all-encompassing, filling every spot of melancholy and doubt in your mind with its wondrously-distracting scent. Inside Willow Creek's famous coffeehouse, rich and poor, man and woman, all sit around tables discussing all matters of interest from business to politics, from art to science. Whatever ideas and prejudices someone had before entering were left at the door. All you needed was the money for a cup of coffee, and when the poor could not pay but needed shelter or food, sometimes the businessmen would even pay his or her way. Pamphlets of all kind are always scattered across the tables.
Half of these people don't know each other at all, and yet will happily engage in discussion, debate and business of any kind. I often frequent this place by myself, and tell complete strangers about a few of the more recent marvels of medicine for as long as they were willing to listen. Many nobles and the very rich despise this place. The freedom of thought and ideas, the mingling of the classes and sexes, it could destroy everything they held dear. Thanks to those many miles away from Henford, coffee had the entire surrounding country in a tight grip, and we wouldn't have it any other way.
"I don't know how you drink that stuff," he says, forcing a laugh. "I'll stick with the milky cocoa, I think."
"You know, coffee was once considered medicinal to some, you know," I tell him. "And I can understand why. It's the only thing keeping me awake and alert. Maybe even alive at this point."
Tonight, I have no intention of polite chatter with anyone other than a good friend. He hasn't been looking after himself, I can tell. He looks incredibly dishevelled, seems focused elsewhere, and his eyes never seem to be upon me, and he's barely touched the food I bought for him. He doesn't look like he's been eating well, either.
He gazes over at some women beside us, happily chattering away about something rather intriguing - the excavation of enormous bones halfway across the world, possibly belonging to ancient giant lizards. Lydia told me of how the ancient peoples of Shang Simla were digging up dragon bones for countless years, sometimes using them for medicinal purposes- perhaps the remains of the Western dragons of old might be able to tell us their story.
"Are they over there, as well?"
Reynold looks down upon the table, pretending to read off one of the pamphlets- something to do with a giant marine creature in Windenburg's oceans.
"They are."
"What are they saying?"
"I don't know," he replies, louder. "I'm trying to ignore them."
At first, I wasn't sure I believed Reynold was truly seeing ghosts. As time went on, and his letters about the matter became more detailed, I began to realise that, delusion or not, there was definitely something deeply troubling him. I noticed his once-flourished handwriting dissolve into near-scrawls, some of them barely legible at times.
"Anyway, never mind me - You look exhausted - I can see the bags under your eyes. You should try and rest more, Owen. Coffee will only solve half of your issues."
"My, my, Father- you're starting to sound like a physician yourself," I reply, chuckling, but he doesn't seem to see the funny side.
"I'm not trying to be your doctor, Owen- I'm trying to be your friend."
The joys of male friendships. Telling teach other you should look after oneself whilst not doing anything close yourself.
It wasn't entirely a negative kind of exhaustion. Lydia and I had the entire mansion renovated. On top of that, Lydia had a few apprentices to deal with, and I was tasked with helping train a young man named Josiah Reyes, a student of Willow Creek's university who was interested in some more practical learning. Josiah hated me entirely, but it was either put up with me, or go back to the library devouring textbooks all day and only learning half of the profession.
"You needn't worry, Father-"
"Just Reynold is fine," he replies, in a quiet tone. "Haven't been Father for months."
"That doesn't mean you won't return, does it? They'd welcome you back wholeheartedly, I'm sure-"
"Of course." He laughs to himself, and I see something close to a smile. "The regular church-goers are wonderful, amazing people. But...all that's left of the Peterans now are my close friends. It's a rough situation. Without me, Peterism here might even die off completely, but I'm in no way to try and convince anyone at this point..." He takes a sip from his mug and grimaces. He's let the hot chocolate go cold.
I'd heard talk around the town about the Peteran priest's apparent 'madness'. This past year, the shift in Withernham, and Henford by extension, had been markedly Jacoban, no thanks to the combined forces of Volpe and the Eye of Jacob, Juniper. I've always despised the Jacobans. Historically, they've done nothing but stand in the way of medical advancement- from suggesting illness was not to be cured, for it was the Watcher's punishment- to trying to prevent physicians and surgeons alike to dissecting and studying the bodies of the dead, considering it an offense to the individual.
Reynold lets out a deep sigh, staring into his mug. "Though, I must admit, the more the ghosts talk to me, the more tempted I am to join them..."
Why would someone like Reynold have such destructive thoughts like that?
"I thought life was considered a precious gift to Peterans? You can't just throw it away, no matter how difficult things get. People need us, and the dead would do anything to have what we have."
"Watcher, no, I don't mean it like that," he growls, lying his face on his hand. "I used to 'dream' of them every night, and now I realise I'm not dreaming- I'm on their side instead of ours. They try to comfort me, I think. The world of the dead, it's...it's an unimaginably-beautiful place." His voice trails off into something airy and half-conscious. "It's just plain white, with a few familiar things from our world...but that's the beauty of it, the relative nothingness of the place. They keep pulling me towards it, and it's just...so tempting. It's not wanting to be dead, Owen- it's more like wanting to pack my bags and go elsewhere for a while, so I've been doing little but sleep recently."
Even I can't tell what is reality and delusion for him at this point. I'd written to someone in Windenburg about it, a so-called master of the mind, but all he'd told me to do is keep reassuring him that it isn't real and tell him to keep it all to himself.
"The world of the dead is rather a permanent trip, I imagine, once they get a hold of you... Why don't you take a trip to the seaside? Brindleton Bay is lovely this time of year, I hear. I'd be happy to fund it. After all, without you and your work, everyone in Withernham and beyond would be lost. Lydia, Kat and I work to heal the body, but what you do...it heals the soul, and that's equally as important. And, once and if your wellness comes back to you, there's your healing...knowhow."
His eyes dart away when I mention that. Without his partner, his daughter, and his magic, I'm sure he feels like an empty shell.
"I appreciate it, Owen, I really do, but I can't stray too far from here- I've been planning for ages to go and visit Áine and Róisín in Glimmerbrook," he replies, his voice almost on the edge of tears. "Them and the Peterans are the only things keeping me grounded at this point. My father is trying his best, but...I can't do any 'healing of the soul' when I don't even know if I'm dead or alive."
Reynold's father, Alistair, had decided to move in with him with his condition worsening. He doesn't talk about him a terrible amount, so I've no idea what he's like.
"I'm sorry, Owen. I made it all about me, and I didn't even ask about your-"
I was half-hoping he wouldn't bring it up.
"Oh, no, never mind. It's been...difficult, and that's putting it lightly."
* * *
I tell Reynold of all that's happened to us this past year or so.
The entire mansion has been completely renovated from top to bottom, and everything that ever reminded me of Samuel's existence is long gone- save for a few bits and pieces.
The garden, complete with stables. I'd like to have some more animals at some point, but I wouldn't want to overwork the staff.
We'd turned most of the bottom floor into a waiting area for our patients, including a small library for them, and some toys for the children. By the door is a fanciful glass cabinet displaying all of both mine and Lydia's many awards.
A small office, a little cramped, but it seems the mansion is smaller than I once thought- with the 'lucky' white porcelain rabbit I've had since my youth, a gift from my mother. Lydia is much more a believer of luck than I am, and she insists I put it somewhere more prominent. I'm unsure. As much as I adore its sentimentality, there's something inexplicably irritating about that little white rabbit's presence. In fact, it's Lydia's obsession with prosperity that's led to the plethora of dragon decorations to go alongside the gryphons.
The downstairs living room is tucked right in the corner, now fully walled off from the stairs, and lovingly decorated with a skeleton.
The kitchen. I doubt we'll ever have so many guests, but there's a kind of fanciful authority to such a needlessly-long dining table that drew me to it.
The upstairs rooms are adorned with many of Violeta's beautiful paintings, including a specially-commissioned sleeping gryphon for the bedroom. I think he looks rather adorable. Lydia finds him a little unnerving, as if he is ready to strike with his talons. The entirety of the upstairs level, bar the consultation room, which has hardly changed, is off-limits to patients. The alchemy laboratory has not changed much, either. And, of course, there's the nursery. Some nights, we can swear we can still hear soft crying.
The rooms for our new staff are lavish enough to be comfortable, and loosely-decorated enough that they can do what they like to call it home for as long as they're here. The cellar is still fairly empty, but includes herbal remedies, alchemical potions, all of my notes and findings, various medical texts, and a few mostly-arcane curiosities I found sorting through everything. Unsurprisingly, I learned a lot about my magical heritage that Samuel had neglected to tell me, and it seemed some things he'd kept away from his own wife, also. I've been trying to get in touch with a history which is almost lost to me.
Some our ancestors were, like Walter Viridis, complete quacks, who were caught once trying to sell fake miracle cures- how embarassing. At one point, some members of my family apparently lived somewhere in Glimmerbrook. An old diary from an uncle I'd never met mentioned that he was a sort of field medic as well as a fairly-competent combatant as a member of the Bloodmoon resistance... No wonder Samuel kept that little tidbit hidden.
Knowing that someone in my lineage, and in my profession, also felt it necessary to step onto the frontline and protect his own kind no matter what, it's had me thinking ever since. Not only that, but my brief time as a father had forced me to entirely re-evaluate both the oath I swore to, as well as myself. Just how far was I willing to go to protect the people I cared about? My uncle had both given and taken life, and yet he was still revered for doing everything in his power to keep the resistance alive and well. With tensions rising, who knows what that might mean for the future- though, currently, the future is difficult to think about.
Perhaps the most interesting of these curiosities, left to gather dust in the cellar for goodness-knows how many years- is the bright pink orb, made of some sort of precious stone. The stone base has gryphons carved into it, and there's something in Old Simlish on the bottom. Perhaps, when Reynold is more stable, he might be able to read it. It looks like something that may be used for divination, possibly?
As for the current new additions to the mansion:
Alexander, the stable boy who also delivers letters and medicines around the area with the horses. He's about Eli's age, and in some ways, reminds me far too much of him. Sometimes, Eli lends a hand with the horses. He does it purely out of his passion for them, but I still give him something for the trouble.
We now also have sixteen-year-old Matilda, who prefers to be called Tilly. She helps with the cleaning as well as lending a hand with the cooking when Lydia and I have no time to do so. I'm impressed by just how spotless she leaves everything. It's amazing how quickly she works. We're thankful to have her on board, especially with myself and Lydia's current struggles.
My friend Reynold knows the feeling all to well - to know you are so relied upon by so many, that you have little time for negative thought processes. He tells me the wolf goddess of the moon Lunvin's teachings say to not pity oneself and to move forward regardless of what troubles you, as the wolves do. On occasion, I retreat to the laboratory, sit and cradle my grief where I should be cradling my daughter, and return to my duties. Come to think of it, it has been an entire lifetime of maintaining an air of professionality- I can't stop now.
Dare I say it...it becomes easy to forget, especially in all of the typical Annorin hubris, that no amount of access to medical knowledge will save everyone. We are still hundreds, maybe even thousands of years from finding a cure from all ills, after all. She was almost in her first year, our little Lucia. Then she became stricken with something neither Lydia nor I could find a cure for.
The sensational news of Samuel's death was beginning to blow over at that point. I'd faked sympathy and grief for him, and said that he'd passed away from a terrible winter flu. No-one questioned it. After all, Samuel was an aging man, and who would blame the 'beloved' son of a world-renowned physician for being too 'pained' to speak of it?
Once the news of my daughter got out, as it always does around these parts, the people spoke sickeningly of it- saying that no Annorin would care about their own dead and dying children. Except I did, and still do, and have not stopped trying to save them. Even when they tell me almost to my face that they don't care, that I wouldn't think twice about their own children- I'm back in the laboratory moments later trying to conjure up remedies for them. Sometimes, it's infuriating that the hardworking folk of Henford think me to be like my father at all.
Lydia is doing well, and her apprentices seem to like her- and, in my eyes, seem a little too eager with a bone saw- but she is also taking this all with difficulty, to no-one's surprise. I recently caught her eyeing herself in the mirror, saying to me that she had the body of a mother and yet no baby, and the thought disturbed her.
It doesn't matter how familiar you are with death- it's never something that seems to get easier to face.
I will always be thankful for Lydia, and also for my little brother. The two of them are the only reason I managed to not become like Samuel in the end. Eli has been a ray of sunshine ever since he was born. When things became monotonous, sometimes dark, Eli's smiling face always lifted my spirits. Despite his childlike babbling being rather irritating, I let him sit in my room and play with his toys when Samuel wasn't around. We both spent most of our lives convincing one another that, someday, we would both be free of Samuel's shackles. He's now running his woodworking business with the help of his partner, Daniel. Maybe someday, he'll take on an apprentice of his own. He still doesn't the know the truth about Samuel...
Lydia worries for our family's future, since we are both not terribly far from our forties- soon enough, we will try again. In life, in medicine, and I suppose in all things, ultimately - all we can do is try again.
* * *
"Sweetheart, you're hesitating."
Our plans to 'try again' are completely halted by my distracted mind. I let go of her for a moment, and stare into the candle. Lydia turns my face towards hers, and she tilts her head a little. I lie back on the bed and sink myself into the silk sheets.
"I'm just trying to force myself out of this bout of negativity," I explain to her. "I want nothing more than this, it's just that...I can't stop overthinking. I can't be constantly thinking about negative outcomes, Lydia, but I can't seem to stop myself at the moment."
"I've rushed you, haven't I?" she asks, her voice desperate and guilty. "I'm so sorry-"
"Lydia, it isn't you, I promise. In any other context, I'd say the future is what it is and is out of our control, and yet I can't stop thinking what might happen to a second child. But that's no good for either of us, or for the eventual child...What kind of physician am I, if I can't look forward like that?"
Lydia pulls me towards her, and I put my hand under her chin. She's unimaginably beautiful, and she's been through so much. I'm trying to shake the thought from my mind, that parenthood will become entirely about grief.
"Think of it this way, Owen- I exist, don't I? So do you, and Eli... In time, our family will survive, and thrive."
She's correct. Eli and I wouldn't exist at all if my mother hadn't persevered. I think that's a part of what concerns me- Lydia isn't always open about her feelings. Whether it's because she's a surgeon, a mother, or a woman, she feels the need to just carry on and keep quiet, as hypocritical as that sounds.
"You're more than just a physician, Owen- you're a human being, and a father. Contrary to popular belief, you, too, have your down days the same as any human being."
"Are you sure you're up to this?" I ask her, gently as possible. "I'm still a little concerned about you, is all. You've been through a lot this past year or so."
"Of course I am; don't worry about me." She gives me a little peck on the cheek, and holds my palm in hers. "We will always keep Lucia in our hearts, but we need to look forward as well, I believe. What do you think? Do you want to carry on, or shall we wait a little longer?"
I move in a little closer, and her expression turns from kind and loving to something between intimate and primal.
"Thank you as always for reassuring me, Lydia. I say we try again, don't you?"