Page 8 of A Balm of Healing
“What does a High Healer do, exactly, as opposed to a normal healer?” Emeric asked from where he watched her dig into her portmanteau. The man sat on his bed, legs dangling over the edge, as he wore an expression of deep vulnerability.
Time and again, Gweneth had witnessed such vulnerability in her patients. A hesitance to trust. An uncertainty of what was to come. An insecurity about their physical and mental shortcomings. But she tried her best to reassure them even if with only a gentle touch or quiet word.
She pulled out her fingerless healer gloves and slipped them on either hand. The soft leather formed perfectly over her fingers, and the magic infused inside the golden sun stones on each knuckle helped channel the intensity of her magic.
“A High Healer is someone who has trained more extensively in the healing arts. Think of it as a comparison between an apprentice and a master in a trade.”
“Then you are a master at your craft.”
She offered a smile, which immediately melted the uncertainty in his expression and replaced it with obvious fluster. She enjoyed the way his Forest Fae ears turned a slight shade of pink, a stark contrast to the white of his hair.
“Most women don’t reach the High Healer status, as they often drop their trade in favor of having children and keeping a house. I’ll admit I have pushed away such distractions to focus on my career.”
Emeric scratched his pink ear. “Then you are unmarried. No children?”
With a shake of her head, she pushed an armchair closer to the bed and sat within its soft, red- and gold-patterned cushions. The rest of the room was similar in its ornate design. Thick drapes cascaded from black curtain rods on either side of the window. Two bedside tables and a writing desk lay against the walls with fancy handles and intricate knobs. A vast rug lay beneath the bed, cushioning her stockinged feet with far more luxury than she had ever experienced.
However, even amidst the fine things around her, she got the distinct impression that Emeric was uncomfortable in his own home. This was not his own place of comfort. And like he had mentioned the day before, he was not happy here.
“Will you allow me to touch your legs?” she asked, seeking permission first this time.
Despite his previous eagerness for the chance at healed legs, he hesitated. Uncertainty returned once again, and dare she think it, a bit of self-consciousness.
She tried to offer reassurance. “You are not the first wheelchair-bound person I have seen to. I can imagine your muscles have atrophied due to you being unable to use them. I also assume your bones healed incorrectly, causing you disjointed or even chronic pain.”
Without a word, he nodded his permission, and she reached down and carefully picked up his feet and placed them on her lap. He winced but otherwise offered no indication of further pain.
Slowly, she peeled off his socks and pushed his trousers up to his knees. Usually, she regarded injuries like this with a professional air about her. But knowing how he received them churned her stomach with horror.
His feet were locked in unnatural positions. The bones in his legs were twisted and jutted out at terrible angles beneath the skin.
“I’m glad you escaped from that place,” was all she managed to say in the face of her wavering emotions.
A shuddering breath escaped his mouth. “Bastien’s friend, Ashryn, is now the chief of the village. Attleglade has changed for the better. But I still can’t bring myself to return. Everyone there thinks I died in a fire. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“I will take your secret to my grave.”
She reached out with her magic, allowing it to flow through his body to get an exact idea of the extent of the damage. It was any wonder he thought healing his legs was impossible. Bones were shattered and crooked and healed completely wrong.
Finally, her magic retreated, and her lips pressed tightly together as she glanced up to meet his eye. “To give you back the use of your legs, I am going to have to rebreak every single bone in an extremely precise way before they can heal again.”
“So it’s impossible,” he sighed.
“No.” She shook her head and unsuccessfully held back a grin. “It’s not impossible. It’stime consuming. This type of surgery will take me hours upon hours. I may have to do it in two or three sessions to give myself a few breaks. But it will be painful for you.”
His jaw dropped as he stared back at her with disbelief in his eyes. She gently set his legs back down before pulling out a small briefcase from her portmanteau and opened it to reveal three rows of elixirs within glass vials.
Not giving him a chance to answer in his shock, she held up a vial with amber liquid and thoroughly shook it up. “I would like to keep you unconscious to prevent you from feeling the worst of the pain. And I possess such medicine to take away the bite of the healing process.” She stopped in front of him and momentarily ceased shaking the vial. “Emeric, do you still want to continue?”
He ran his fingers through his hair, and a sudden desire to do the same surfaced unexpectedly. Of course, she had healed many different men of different races. Plenty of them were handsome. But something about Emeric gave her heart pause. His attractiveness. His calm soul. His vulnerability. His fragile hope.
I can’t afford to get distracted, she reminded herself. Her career mattered more than a handsome face. Besides, a relationship would only hold her back from achieving her dreams.
“I would be a fool to decline,” he replied. Wariness stared back at her through his small window of hope. “You’ve done this sort of thing before?”
“Yes.” She instructed him to lay back on the bed. In any ordinary circumstance, she would prefer to work with her patient on a cot somewhere other than their personal rooms. But Emeric’s mobility was limited. “Never to this great extent. But I have corrected poorly healed breaks plenty of times.”
“How much will this cost me?”
