Chương 37: “He and I (1)”

It was already Wednesday. Celestia had been inside the Tower for five days. Normally, climbers only needed two days to complete Floors 1-5, maybe three. But since her trials were completely different from the norm, in addition to the hours she'd spent lying on the waiting room floors recovering, she lost track of count. Martha must have been beside herself. That suspicion was confirmed the moment Celestia limped up to the office entrance and the front door swung open before she could reach for it.

Martha stood in the doorway, and for just a very short moment, her composure broke. Her eyes went wide, her lips parted, and her gaze dropped to the blood-soaked leaf-bandaging, the missing boot, the spear being used as a crutch, and the general state of ruin that was her mistress.

"Rochelle," Martha said without turning around, "Go to the nearest church. I need their best healer here within the hour. Go now." There was a sound of hurried footsteps and a maid who swiftly ran past Celestia, bowing briefly before disappearing down the street behind her. Martha stepped forward and took Celestia's left arm, guiding her inside carefully.

"My lady. Carefully." Celestia let herself be led. She was too tired to protest, and frankly, Martha was better at this than she was. Within minutes, she was seated in her office chair, and Martha had already retrieved a basin of warm water, clean cloth, and a set of fresh bandages from the supply cabinet. The maid worked in silence at first, carefully unwinding the crude leaf wrappings from Celestia's right hand. What lay beneath made Martha's hands pause for just a moment before she resumed.

She cleaned the wound slowly, rinsing the cloth between each pass.

"My lady," Martha said, wringing out the cloth.

"What happened?" Celestia leaned back in the chair.

"The Tower wasn't what I expected. I'll need to prepare more next time." Martha said nothing to that. She moved to the right knee next, cutting away the torn fabric of the dress-armor around the joint to get access. The flesh beneath was swollen and discolored, and the puncture wound where the arrow had gone clean through had only partially closed. Martha had her own thoughts on the matter. Jade had told her plainly, around a week ago, that her mistress was not talented.

Lady Celestia was diligent, disciplined, and stubborn beyond reason, but she did not have the raw ability that others possessed. When Monday had come and gone without Celestia's return, Martha had done the only thing within her authority. She wrote a letter to the Reingarde main estate, addressed to the Duke and Duchess, informing them that Lady Celestia had entered the Tower on Saturday and had not yet emerged. She had worded it carefully, but the implication was clear enough.

Now, wrapping a clean bandage around the knee and securing it with a pin, Martha spoke again.

"My lady, I would request that you send a letter to your father as soon as possible notifying him of your survival." Celestia blinked, then processed what that meant.

"You wrote to them?"

"On Monday, my lady. When you did not return."

"Hmm." Celestia closed her eyes and let her head rest against the back of the chair.

"I should do that." The words came out soft, almost lazy. The tension that had held her body together for god knows how long was finally unwinding, and it left her feeling more heavy and sluggish than when she was in the tower. Martha finished the last of the bandaging and stepped back.

"I'll prepare a change of clothes and have a meal brought up." Celestia gave a small nod without opening her eyes. By the time she was cleaned up and dressed in a loose blouse and trousers that didn't press against any of her wounds, the smell of food had already reached the office. One of the maids brought in a tray: roasted chicken with herb sauce, a bowl of soup, steamed greens, warm bread with butter, and a pot of tea. Celestia's stomach clenched at the sight of it.

Along with the food, someone else arrived; there waddled in Sir Ozymandias, his flat face scrunched into an expression of supreme indignation. He marched straight to the center of the room, planted his stubby legs, and let loose.

"Awoooo! Arf arf arf! Awooawoo AWOOOO!" The stream of howls was relentless. Celestia, who had the unfortunate ability to understand the pug's meaning through their bond, translated it involuntarily. He was furious. He had been promised, as an emperor of noble peerage, certain standards of living. Among these was caramel-flavored ice, which he had requested no fewer than three times this weekend through a series of carefully articulated howls.

The staff, being common-born and evidently lacking in both breeding and comprehension, had failed to deliver on every occasion. One of them had offered him vanilla. Vanilla. An insult of the highest order. He demanded that his summoner address this failure of her household immediately. Celestia put a hand on her forehead.

"Arf! Awoo ARF ARF awoo!" Furthermore, he had been left unattended for the better part of three days with nothing but these well-meaning but linguistically deficient servants for company. Did she have any idea what that was like? Did she? Celestia turned away from the pug entirely.

"Martha, where is Paimon right now?" Martha, who had been standing near the doorway watching the exchange, answered without missing a beat.

"She is currently in her afternoon training session with Jade, my lady. Along with the others."

"Awoo!" Celestia looked at her meal. The chicken was still steaming. The bread was warm. The butter was soft and glistening. Her mouth started to involuntarily salivate. She reached for the fork with her left hand and managed to pick it up. Then she looked at the knife. Then at her right hand, which was wrapped in so much bandaging. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

She tried to grip the knife but her fingers didn't close, so she set it down and stared at the plate. The chicken needed cutting and the bread needed buttering. Nearly everything on the tray required two functioning hands, and she currently had one. She could just pick up the chicken with her bare hand. Tear the bread apart. Eat over the plate and let the crumbs fall where they may. No one in this room would judge her for it.

Martha certainly wouldn't say anything, and the pug— She glanced at Sir Ozymandias, who had gotten bored of his tirade and was now licking the floor near the desk with loud, wet slaps of his tongue.' Absolutely not.' She refused to eat like that again if the situation did not demand for it. She had spent too long crawling through filth and blood and she would not, upon her return to civilization, stoop to consuming a meal like the useless mutt right next to her table. Celestia sighed and pushed the tray back.

"Martha. Keep the meal warm until the healer fixes my hand."

"Of course, my lady." Martha moved to collect the tray.

"AWOO—""And the tea… Leave the tea. I can manage a cup." Martha set the teacup within reach of Celestia's left hand and carried the rest out. Celestia picked up the cup, took a sip, and let the warmth settle through her chest. It was good tea. Martha always made good tea. A knock came at the door. One of the maids poked her head in.

"My lady, the priest from the Church of Light has arrived. Shall I send him in?"

"Yes."

"Arf! Arf arf awoo arf! AWOOOOO!" Sir Ozymandias, apparently energized by the arrival of a new audience, launched into a fresh round of grievances. This time, Celestia heard something about the inferior thread count of his bedding and a demand for an official apology from whoever had last bathed him with unscented soap. Celestia set the teacup down.

"Martha." Martha reappeared in the doorway.

"My lady?"

"Put him in the cage."

"AWOO?!" Martha crossed the room, scooped the pug up with both hands, and tucked him under her arm. Sir Ozymandias squirmed, his stubby legs kicking in the air and his howls reaching a new pitch of aristocratic outrage.

"AWOOAWOOAWOOOO!!!" This was a violation of his rights as a sovereign! He would not stand for this! He demanded a formal hearing! His summoner would regret this decision when she needed his counsel! The door closed behind Martha, and the howls grew muffled, then distant, then silent. Celestia picked up her tea again. She was mid-sip when the door opened and closed. Celestia set the cup down and turned to see who it was.

The man standing by the door was, without exaggeration, one of the most beautiful people she had ever seen. White hair, cut short and neat, framed a face so finely sculpted it bordered on androgynous. His features carried a gentle softness, long lashes, a straight nose, a jawline that was defined but not sharp. If not for the priest's cassock marking him plainly as a man, she would have had to look twice. Celestia couldn't help but stare.

If this man claimed to be the second-most beautiful person in the world, no one would dare claim first. He was, and she did not arrive at this conclusion lightly, a genuine rival to her own appearance.

"Good afternoon, Lady Reingarde." Even his voice sounded like it had been designed to put people at ease, carrying a gentleness without being false.

"Hmm." She caught herself mid-comparison, her cheekbones versus his, her complexion against that impossibly clear skin, the way his features somehow managed to look effortless while hers required Martha and a full make-up set; but she set these aside, there were priorities.

"My hand and my knee," she said.

"Those need attention first." The priest gave a slight nod.

"If I may?" He crossed the room and knelt beside her chair, his movements unhurried. He gestured toward her right hand. Celestia extended it, and he undid the bandages carefully, layer by layer. Martha's clean wrappings came away easier than the crude leaf-bandaging from what she scavenged from the tower, but what lay beneath still made the priest's hands pause for a moment before he resumed.

The skin was raw and uneven, the muscle beneath still torn in places where the glove's redirected force had shredded it apart. Several of his fingers hovered just above the worst areas without touching, gauging depth and damage by proximity alone.

"This is quite serious," he said, turning her hand gently to examine the other side.

"The tissue damage extends deep into the tendons." He indicated along her wrist and the base of her fingers without pressing on them.

"You're fortunate I was at the church when your staff came looking. Most of the other healers on rotation today are apprentices. They would not have known where to begin with this." He set her hand down carefully and moved to the knee. He cut through the bandage Martha had just applied with a small blade he procured from somewhere, then pressed lightly around the swollen joint.

His fingers found the edges of the puncture wound, tested the range by bending the joint a few degrees, and stopped when Celestia's leg tensed involuntarily. He sat back on his heels and looked up at her.

"It may take multiple days to completely heal both of these." Celestia had expected as much. Healing magic in this world could stop wounds from worsening and prevent deaths outright, depending on the injury's location. But it was far from instantaneous reconstruction. Unless the healer happened to be an archmage capable of weaving full restoration spells, and those were rare enough that most people never encountered one in their lifetime, the process was gradual.

The magic drew from the healer's life-force and, more significantly, from the injured person's own. Push too hard in a single session and the patient's body would deteriorate before the wound had a chance to close. It was the main reason why healers were so highly valued for their potential, and also why conventional doctors still had a role in medicine.

"My personal maid will handle the payment," Celestia said.

"Get to it." If the priest was bothered by her tone, it didn't show. He placed both hands over her right hand and closed his eyes. A faint glow gathered around his palms, soft and white, and warmth spread into the damaged tissue. It wasn't pleasant. There was an itch deep in the muscle. Celestia watched her own hand twitch as torn muscle fibers reconnected beneath the skin. The exposed areas closed over, new tissue forming pink and raw where the shredded flesh had been.

The swelling around her knuckles reduced gradually until the shape of her hand looked like a hand again. When he finally stopped, Celestia could move her fingers. She tested them. They closed into a fist, slowly, and the motion was still painful, pulling at something still tender beneath the new skin. Functional, but far from healed. He moved to the knee next. The same glow and the same warmth, the same uncomfortable itch beneath the skin. This one took longer.

The arrow had punched clean through the joint, and her passive Physical Recovery skill had closed the wound unevenly over the past several days, leaving scar tissue in awkward places that the priest had to work around rather than through. When he finished, the joint could bend without the sharp spike that had accompanied every step since Floor 2.

It still had a dull stiffness that she could feel even while sitting, and she could tell from a slight test of pressure against the floor that it still wasn't able to hold her full weight. But the wound itself had closed properly for the first time since the arrow went through it. The priest withdrew his hands and stood.

"Any more today would be detrimental to your health," he said.

"Your body needs time to recover the life-force that was spent. Pushing further now would risk doing more damage than the original injuries." He straightened his cassock.

"I will return tomorrow to continue."

"Fine." Celestia flexed her right hand again, watching the fingers curl and uncurl.

"Find Martha, my personal maid, for the payment." He gave a polite bow and turned toward the door. His hand was on the handle when Celestia spoke.

"Your name." He paused and turned around, introducing himself.

"My colleagues refer to me as Noah, Lady Reingarde." He opened the door, stepped through, and closed it gently behind him.