Aracelis struggles as they’re dragged out of their home, easily overpowered by the village guards. “You can’t--make me!” they protest, their breath hitching in panic. “I won’t heal anymore!”
“Now, now, child, what kind of attitude is that?” the headwoman asks, sighing and shaking her head at the stubborn healer. “These people work hard to bring food to your table every night, and you won’t do them the simple courtesy of mending their wounds?”
They stop when the guards do, hair hanging in their face and partly obscuring the hunters. But they can smell the blood, and they see how one is cradling his arm--it’s broken, for sure. They’ve healed three broken arms arleady this month, the pain still lingering from the last one.
“You--you got along fine without me before,” they protest.
The headwoman crosses her arms. “It’s the pit, then, if you won’t do as you’re told.”
The bottom drops out of their stomach, and they start to shake, pulling at the restraining hands on their arms. Not the pit, they forgot about the pit, it’d been so long since--
The headwoman smiles. “Changed your mind, child?”
“Yes,” they blurt, desperate. “Yes, alright, I’ll heal them, please--”
The guards don’t release Aracelis, but drag them back into their house, sitting them at the kitchen table. One keeps a hand on their shoulder as the hunters come in, one limping and trailing blood, the other still tenderly cradling their arm.
With a shaky breath, they reach out to the bleeding one, putting fingertips on the visible wound. He moans in relief as his pain fades and the flesh knits back together, and Aracelis bites their lip to keep from whimpering as they feel not only the gash, but other scrapes and bruises, ghosting into their skin.
The broken arm is next. They brace themself, giving the injured limb as gentle a touch as possible. There’s a startled yelp as it snaps back into place, and then they yelp as well as the pain sinks into them. They jerk their hand away and hold their arm close, hunching over to protect the phantom injury.
“Very good,” the headwoman praises, ruffling their hair. “Take them to the pit.”
Their head snaps up, teary eyes wide in alarm. “But I healed them!”
“Yes, but you had to be talked into it,” she answers, motioning to the guards. “I thought you knew better by now, child. I suppose you need a reminder.”
Aracelis struggles, their heart hammering in their chest as they’re dragged outside again, to the well at the edge of town. One of the guards lets go to open the trapdoor a few feet away from the stacked stones, and the other marches dutifully forward, ignoring the healer’s desperate pleas.
The headwoman stops them just before they’re thrown in. “We provide you with everything you could possibly need, Aracelis,” she reminds them, tilting their trembling chin up with her fingertips. “You have a lovely home and you don’t have to pay for food or clothing or entertainment. All you have to do for us is use that wonderful gift of yours.”
Aracelis nods miserably. It’s been like this for two years, ever since they made the mistake of stopping in this village on their way home from a visit. If they just be good and heal people, they get temporary pain, maybe some weakness. If they disobey...
“We’ll see you in a few days, child,” the headwoman says, stepping back again. The guard shoves Aracelis forward, and they tumble down into the cold, damp hole, wet dirt surrounding them on five sides.
“I’m sorry,” they whisper, as the trapdoor is pulled shut, and they hear the lock click as their eyes adjust to the darkness.
If they calm down enough, they can pretend the tiny points of light coming in through cracks in the boards are stars against a night sky.
