#the doc

The door is there, and as she gets closer, the door opens. Amelios is there in the doorway, and he'd probably look a little more imperious if his hair wasn't standing up at all angles. "What is it?" He ask, looming slightly.

Morwen is accustomed to people looming at her. "Gavrel went missing. Some of the party has gone to assess the situation, but I did promise you I'd ask if I needed help, and also that I wasn't going to try anything heroic. So...I'm here."

"He's gone missing? How long ago? What was he doing? Do you know where he went missing from?"

"An hour and a half, and he was just going to his house to get some books to read. I gave him about 45 minutes to clean house or do whatever and then I started getting worried. He's within messaging range for at least one Party member, but not responding."

"His house. He went to his house? That's..." He sighs. "I know what's happened. Well, at least I know who it was. What has happened is less sure, but I can make a guess."

"Okay. That's...good? I was concerned there was something we didn't know about in the city. How bad is it?"

"It's Kharta," he says, and swishes backwards, taking his dressing robe off as he goes so he can change into proper clothes.

"Ghroldune?" she asks, very concerned.

"Yes," he says, dressing in something a little bit heftier than his earlier outfit, but there isn't any visible armor to say why that is.

"So...not great, though you were planning to meet with her and Gavrel at some point. Where do you want me, where do you want the Party, and do you want backup?"

"Morwen, thank you for telling me. Now, please, for everyone's sanity, go home. Take the party to bed. Kh- Master Ghroldune can get into his house, but she's not good enough to kill him. Everything will be fine come morning. I will handle this. My lady."

Morwen's a little dubious about this, but doesn't know him well enough to know if it's bravado or not, and she knows a dismissal when she hears one. "Okay. Next time hopefully I'll have enough communication magic to ask for help without coming across town." She turns to go. "Thank you for...handling this."

He nods, as he attaches several concealed knives beneath his coat.

She eyes the knives warily, though also with the thought that she would really like some knives like that. And maybe an armoured coat. She waffles about offering her house if he needs medical attention, but he does not seem to want assistance and he does know there's a healer in the Party. "Good night." She decides to take Casimir and go. Then she changes her mind. "If someone ends up needing urgent medical attention you can stop at my house." Then she ducks out.

Casimir escorts her home, with the same sort of blase attitude about the stall owners as he did on the way out, but as they near her house, he stops near the gate and sends a message to call the party back.

She pauses with him, then proceeds into the house, and waits for the party to return.

She waits for a few minutes and the party — sans Gavrel — files in, looking grim.

She relaxes slightly, but not much, considering how grim they look. "How did it go?" she asks, a little tentatively.

"There is no trace of any abuse outside the home," Peles says.

"But someone definitely broke in," Lekjun says.

"There was... noise. I could not say if it was shouting or merely a loose animal," adds Ae-Ra.

"Apparently Master Thewella knows who broke in and has the situation in hand. I'm a little concerned at the number of knives the situation seems to require, but he did not want backup. I'm not sure what's going on beyond that. I...the shouting worries me, because it's probably not a loose animal, but he was quite firm on us going to bed. I told him to bring by anyone who needed medical attention but I doubt he will unless someone's actively dying."

Peles frowns. "I will... wait outside. In case. You may sleep, if you wish. It would be advantageous if there is someone injured for Casimir to sleep."

Lekjun sighs. "I'm going to bed."

"I'm going to bed too," Morwen sighs. "Count Peles, if you want to stay up, I'll honestly be happy to have someone keeping an eye out." She goes inside and goes to bed in her clothes, since she does not have panels up yet and there are still additional drop items in her inventory. Before bed, she prays for the safety of both Gavrel and Amelios.

She goes to bed, and sleeps, and only gets through half of the final dream on the cycle before she's woken by a knock at the door, and Casimir's voice saying to "lay him here. Is this poison? That kind?! On the Forge, that is cruel."

She pokes her head over the edge of the loft bedroom to see what has happened and who has been poisoned.

Gavrel is standing, then quickly jogs up to Morwen while Amelios bleeds on her couch mm "Hey! Hey, sorry! There was... Someone waiting for me. It took a minute to get back. I can put up those panels for you now."

“The Master of the Beggars’ Guild was waiting for you,” Morwen informs him drily. “What happened? Why is Master Thewella poisoned? Why was there yelling from the house when the others went to check it out?”

"Oh, um. Yeah, that, uh, that was her. She was.. mad. At me. For the whole Atticus thing. But I'm fine! And we're going to make it work. So everything's fine. And he's going to be fine as soon as Cas is done working on him."

“How did you make it work, and why is he bleeding?”

"Well, Kharta is cool with making a deal because she doesn't want Masaru to... Coup her? What's the word for that? Anyway, so we came to a new deal, which involved him, but she's, um, aggressive, and then they sealed their Pact. With a kiss! It's a thing people do! And they also definitely stabbed each other. Multiple times. It was flirty. Didn't know stabbing could be flirty. Kinda weird."

“Stabbing should not be a form of flirtation!” Morwen throws her hands up. “What. Was. The. Pact?”

"Oh. I'm going to carry a recorder on me when I first meet Masaru and get my first assignment, and then one of Amelios's people will steal it from me and listen to it, and they'll get the person I'm supposed to hurt to safety, and Kharta will take the recording and use it to hold a council to oust Masaru and then once she's out, the contracts on her will start coming in and she'll either get assassinated or have to go so deep into hiding that she can't do anything. And because the Pact she made with me broke the Pact she made with the Guild, she won't be able to keep either as soon as it's invoked. And Amelios will give Kharta access to his operators until it's done."

“Okay. Okay, that sounds workable. The last bit sounds not great but it’s probably the lowest price she’d accept.” Morwen scrubs her hands over her face wearily. “This is. Probably the least bad outcome of that Pact.” She sighs. “You can put the screens up now if you like. I’m going to go down and see that Master Thewella’s alright.” She suits the action to the word, climbing carefully down.

"He's— going to be fine," Gavrel calls, quietly, so as not to wake anyone else, but does as instructed and puts the screens up. Morwen goes to see Amelios. He is sweating badly, his face a shade of puce that does not look correct on his greenish tan skin. Casimir is healing him, each second pulling sticky oily strings from his various wounds. Amelios's clothes have been opened to reveal his own steady mix of scars and current punctures, and three of his knives are missing, though one might be on the floor beside him, or it might be one of hers.

Morwen is rapidly reassessing her impressions of Amelios, between the scars and the fact that he acted very in control and then got very stabbed. In lieu of hovering, she looks around to see if anyone was disturbed by the kerfuffle and goes to reassure them if so.

Lekjun and Ae-Ra might have woken, but they are currently back asleep.

Morwen leans against the bar worriedly until Casimir is done, or mostly done, with his healing.

Casimir finishes up within the hour, leaving a sweaty, shaking Amelios on the couch to dry heave whatever is left of dinner.

Morwen politely waits until he seems somewhat recovered before asking, "You good? Need some water?"

He takes a deep, heaving sort of breath, then stands and clasps his coat over his injuries. "No, my lady, but thank you for the concern. I apologize for waking you. The meeting went as to be expected. We have a solution and an agreement, which is a far better outcome than could have been."

Morwen gives him an assessing look. Her assessment is: stoic idiot. "I agree about the solution; Gavrel told me, and it could have been much worse. But is there anything else we can do for you? I try not to send my guests out looking like death warmed over."

"I'm not dying, my lady," he reassures her. "The poison is not fatal, not even to you or Atticus. It's just irritatingly painful. Even without healing, I would have only suffered for a few hours. I did inform Gavrel of this, but he was staunch in seeing me to medical care, which I deeply appreciate, my lady, even though it wasn't necessary. I am currently more in need of a bath than healing or food."

Morwen's concern, and the associated concerned face, abates, but only slightly. "Well, not fatal is good, but I'm glad he got you to medical care all the same. You're welcome to use the perpetual pond, if it would help."

"A perpetual pond? Really? I didn't know those actually existed." He looks back over his shoulder to see it, then shakes his head. "No, I wouldn't want to impose, and I have an excellent bathing tub back at the Inn. But I thank you for your hospitality, my lady. You are generous and kind." He swoops a deep bow, and if he flinches while he does so, Morwen can't see it enough to confirm or deny.

"They do exist, and they're very useful. It's not imposing when I literally just offered it to you. However, I won't keep you if you don't want to stay, especially not when you're still recovering." (Morwen, internally: STOP TELLING ME HOW GENEROUS I AM AND GET IN THE POND)

"I'm fully recovered, my lady. If I look otherwise, you'll simply have to trust that I am. I am not so proud nor physically resistant enough to let myself suffer like some of your companions. I will take my leave, my lady, so you can rest. It would hardly be proprietary for a man you only met today to stay when everyone else had gone to bed."

(Once again, Morwen internally: I met Gavrel ten minutes before he took off his pants in this house. You cannot shock me that much.) "I am really not the person I'm concerned about here," Morwen sighs, more honest than she would have been if she was slightly more awake. "But I will wish you a good night. And, seriously, thank you for cleaning up that mess. I'm sure you're going to tell me that the personal cost was negligible, but it was clearly not, and you've headed off a very nasty potential turn of events."

"The costs weren't what I'd call negligible, but comparatively, it was nonexistent. Kharta might be sadistic and cruel, but compared to Atticus's abuser, she's a benevolent priestess. I bid you good night," he says, then as he bows, mutters, "Perhaps see to your inamorato? He seems like he'd like to rest here tonight."

Morwen pinches the bridge of her nose. "I think there have been enough unusual comings and goings tonight that it won't do any harm for him to stay," she says, sotto voce. "Good night." She sees him to the door, not without a little concern and not without a momentary temptation to trip him into the pond on the way, but she resists the temptation and closes the door after him. Once she's sure he made it to the street and did not fall down after he went around the corner.

He had painfully — every movement hurt — arranged his legs into a more reasonable lying position as he was moved, and now — if he hadn’t been in so much pain, he would have been comfortable. He didn’t know when he’d last slept comfortably. He’d run out of tears, it seemed, but a sudden rush of gratitude brought him close once more.

»There, that’s better, isn’t it?«

The other was lying in the opposite direction from him, just like resting herdmates would, so he couldn’t see his face, but the sheer size and black-pied coat of the body told him this was the giant who had spared him, in the end. The one they’d called Mac.

He wanted to thank him. Not doing it seemed dangerous, but he still didn’t know whether he was allowed to talk.

He was so exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, but the pain was too much. Or maybe it was the fear clawing through the heavy blanket of tiredness.

Someone was talking to him, and it wasn’t a brusque order or an angry, drunken rant about how worthless he was. They all had done this, nearly all of them. It was so very unfamiliar.

»Here, have something to drink while I dry you up. You’re soaked. That was hard work, huh?« There was a slight twinkle of amusement in the stallion’s voice, but not enough to be outright cruel. Less so as Melay was presented with a canteen containing, when he lifted it to his lips with straining arms — he was so exhausted — clean water. He hadn’t realized how dry his throat was.

The invasive touches across his body hardly mattered. He was slow to process it was a cloth being rubbed over him, taking off a layer of sweat. It didn’t even hurt, except on the ever-present bruises on his haunches where the General would beat him, which Mac couldn’t have seen under his copper fur. It almost seemed he was being gentle on purpose.

»I’m Mac,« he announced without stopping. »What’s your name, little one?«

It was a direct question. Melay didn’t want to make decisions, not right now, he really didn’t; but he knew there must be a correct choice here, and no matter how exhausted he was, he had to find it, somehow.

»Whore, sir,« he finally whispered, his voice rough in his throat. It was what the General had called him, if ever he had addressed him.

»Oh.« Mac paused. »That the only name you’ve had?«

Melay shook his head. He was so tired, and he’d chosen wrong, and somewhere inside him, he didn’t want to tell them his name, the first one. It didn’t seem right. Maybe because it wasn’t for a slave. He couldn’t tell.

Before Mac could dig into it further, a new voice interrupted him. »Leave him be. If he wants to keep his name for himself — well, it’s the only thing he has, it’s only understandable.«

»If you say so, Doc,« Mac muttered and continued in cleaning Melay up. »Guess we’ll have to stick with little one for now, then. That alright?«

Melay didn’t know how to answer.

The new arrival laid down on his other side. A hand caught under his chin and raised his eyes, forcing Melay to look at him. Black coat, white stockings on all feet. He didn’t seem familiar. Then again, he had lost track of them.

»I’m a medic,« he explained. »I’m going to have a look at your ass and see if I can do anything for you. I expect you’re sore all over, too, but is there anything else in particular that’s hurting?«

Another decision. He was so tired. Why was he being looked at by a medic, anyway? He felt a tear slip down his face. Maybe he’d just run out of water, earlier.

He shook his head. The bruises didn’t count, they’d been a rightful punishment, and he barely felt them against the rest of his aches now. They were fading, anyway.

»Can you raise your tail for me?«

The medic swore under his breath, and Melay felt he had fucked up by obeying once more.

»I can’t believe she let you do this.«

»I didn’t do anything,« Mac protested.

The medic only snorted, but when he spoke to Melay again — it took him a moment to realize — his voice was as calm as before. »I’m going to apply some ointment. It’ll sting a little, but it will stop this mess from getting infected.«

Melay braced himself, but he was exhausted enough to barely flinch when the ointment stung into what must be wounds. That was good. He didn’t want to make trouble. Why was he being looked at by a medic?

»I’m sure you’re tired, but you should eat something, too. That was a lot of work,« the medic’s calmness cracked over the word, raw anger showing through, »and you’re already underfed. When have you last eaten?«

Nothing bad had happened the last time, so he settled for speaking again. »Last evening, sir.«

»Your voice. Have you had a cough? Trouble breathing?«

»No, sir. I just…« The medic hadn’t asked for an explanation. Too late. »I wasn’t supposed to talk, sir.«

For a long moment, the medic just stared at him, and another wave of terror washed through him. He’d straight up told him he was misbehaving. He hadn’t known Melay wasn’t supposed to talk, but now he knew he’d been ignoring orders.

Mac spat, and at first Melay though he was disgusted with him, but then he followed it up with, »How long have you been with that asshole?«

»Eight years, I think, sir.«

The medic’s gaze softened inexplicably into a look of resignation. »Alright. You’re allowed to talk now, we’ll see how your voice handles it. Eat something.«

»I’ve got some bread for him,« Mac said.

»Great. Didn’t think any of you had the sense. Then get some rest…« The medic looked dissatisfied with something, and Melay would have given anything — not that he had anything to give — to know what he could have done better.

It was too late. The medic got up and walked off to the commander.

»Here.« Mac handed Melay a flatbread. »Have at it.«

There was something flavourful baked into it, some kind of herbs. He wasn’t used to it.

»Do you want to kill him? Is that what you want?!« The medic’s voice rose and leapt across the fire.

»Alright, alright, Doc. It was a mistake, alright?« The commander’s tone almost carried a note of contriteness, but it vanished in her next words. »Now let it go.«

»Get some rest, little one.« Mac gently patted his back. »We’ll be on the road tomorrow.«

Melay couldn’t think about it. He draped himself across the big stallion’s back again.

Comfortable.