do we wanna see the first page of my book? I’m thinking of changing the plot
I don’t know how I feel about the plot, basically to make a long story short a a works with the “high court” if you will (I hate to use that word” to combat an illness spreading through the lower kingdoms they’ve chosen to ignore, but some of their people have begun to get sick so that’s why it’s a concern. they offer her a deal, that they’ll let her make one “major move on the board” if you will, and give her one big favor. her choice- kill the queen in another region, for reasons I cannot name yet 🫡.
This is the first page! just her intro of life before allat. there are blanks bc i don’t know the names some stuff yet
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People often assume my work is potions and magic, they’d be wrong. It’s usually a work of patience.
You have to hold patience waiting for mixtures to react
You have to hold patience in carefully testing
And you must hold patience with people that can’t accept the truth.
The mother in my workshop clinged to the table whispering wishes into the wood like it would carry them places. Well, the boy on the table was past prayers. She insisted to me he was still alive, there was still a warmth to him, as if warmth alone could anchor a body to life. However, there was truth in her words,
He was still alive.
A wound like his shouldn't have gotten infected that easily, and if it did, it wouldn't hollow out the life in his body with such hunger, such greed. It made me sick just to look at it, despite the fact I’ve seen it hundreds of times. And said truths like this hundreds more. The mother looked desperately into my eyes, though I don’t know what she would want to hear from me at this point, what else would there be to say? Other than the truth of course.
I checked the boy’s wound again, the flesh around it was blackening, it smelled of soot and old water, and obvious infection, but from what the mother described, how could it get this bad? it couldn't get this far, not that fast. He clearly wasn’t in pain, though he did flinch to my touch, not exactly at the wound, at the entire arm, everywhere else he was still. His heart beat faintly, by now I knew what would be best for him, I probably knew when he walked in actually, it was a bit selfish of me to keep testing like this, to rack up the ledger, and to be sure.
I set down my tools and dipped my hand in my basin, I watched it cloud as I swilled my hands in the water. Wiping my hand on my apron I caught the mother's gaze, and delivered what I had to say.
“I feel you already know what I’m going to say, I won’t waste my breath.”
I stood there, I watched her cling onto him, it felt like something personal, something I had no means to interrupt, so I waited. Eventually she let her body go slack and wiped her face with the back of her hand. When she looked up at me, she looked less desperate, like she'd come to terms with something certain.
“You can take him if that’s what you need.”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
She clarified "For.. whatever you do. I know you _____ usually take ‘things’, blood, bone, if you need any of it just have him, allow me to have the latter, let me bury him, and give me something for him.”
My eyes narrowed. “Who told you I was a ______”
She paused, standing aback, like she could be offended more than I was. It always shocked me how blunt people could get under stress, perhaps this was her way of haggling.
“It’s simply not true, I do humble work, for people like you. Take the boy to your home, and spend what time you can.”
I watched the mother leave, her boy wrapped in linen, and her steps slow, she hadn’t even offered to pay. Though, people tend to get upset when I ask for payment without providing a solution. So just let her go, her steps, slow and deliberate. When the door shut, the room felt heavier.
That mother, she’d probably go to a “miracle healer” – and get her son killed.
“___________”, never created mircles, it did quite the opposite. Though that was its design, it made sense for it to function that way. It wasn’t a gift, it was hardly divine