“Why did you do this?” The Healer’s Apprentice asked Cherie, and Cherie blinked, slowly coming back to reality. The Healer’s Apprentice was thumbing Cherie’s first two scars. He looked concerned, and Cherie didn’t like that. He hated it when people showed him pity. He wasn’t something to be pitied.

“Oh, those? I was fucking around.” Cherie smiled at the Healer’s Apprentice and the Healer’s Apprentice’s brows knitted, bronze eyes darting up to Cherie in alarm.

“You were…messing around?” The Healer’s Apprentice asked. “As in…experimental? Or… were they…some sort of a self-punishment?” He paused for a moment, jaw going tight as he considered the own words he just said. “Or were they inflicted by someone else?” He probed him hastily, raising an eyebrow at Cherie.

“Yes,” Cherie said instead. As vague as it was, he preferred it that way. He didn’t need the Healer’s Apprentice to poke his nose into his business. What happened to him was his secret. He grinned when he saw a flash of annoyance in the younger male’s expression. “What?” He teased him. “It’s all of the above,” he chuckled darkly.

A muscle ticked in the Healer’s Apprentice’s jaw as he scowled. He grabbed his fountain pen and began scribbling on his notepad. The Healer’s Apprentice’s handwriting was beautiful, Cherie noted to himself. It was a lilting cursive, the g’s and y’s bearing swooping loops. It was lovely penmanship, which was saying a lot, because Cherie was so used to seeing the Healer’s scribbled nonsense on the paper. He couldn’t tell the a’s from the z’s.

The Healer’s Apprentice must have noticed that Cherie was staring at him writing because he closed the notepad, brows furrowing. Cherie smiled at him, amused, but the Healer’s Apprentice was anything but.

“What about this one?” The Healer’s Apprentice asked as he ran his forefinger against the scar that was on his mid-shin.

“That? A whip.” Cherie shrugged.

The Healer’s Apprentice’s eye twitched and he asked in a low, strained voice, “A…whip?” He didn’t seem to believe Cherie. Which was interesting, mildly interesting. It wasn’t like Cherie was a goody-two shoes like some of the other boys. No, he tended to run while, which always got him into severe trouble.

“Yeah. It was either the whip or paddle, so I chose the whip.” Cherie leaned back against the chair, propping his elbows on the chair’s top rail.

“Y-you what?” The Healer’s Apprentice set down the notepad and fountain pen, exhaling hard. “Are you being abused, Mr. Hodg—sir?”

“Abused?” Cherie laughed. “Goodness, no. I’m too fast to be abused. No one can catch me.” Seeing the disconcert on the younger male’s face, he felt a weird twinge in his chest. He puffed out his cheek as he huffed out a sigh. He ruffled the Healer’s Apprentice’s hair, telling him earnestly, “Hey. I’m fine. Okay? Really. I’m fine. Don’t worry so much about me. I’m asking for some medication for my insanity. That’s it. I’m sure you have something. Or-or-or you could give me a numbing potion—”

“Absolutely not, Mr. Hodge! In your state, I have a strong feeling you will misuse it and that is not the route I want to go down.” The Healer’s Apprentice snapped.

“It’s Cherie,” Cherie growled at the younger male, grabbing the front of the younger male’s blouse, tugging him close. “I’m so close to setting this place on fire. If you dare say that name again, I will light this place on fire with the Hyl’s Maiden.”

The Healer’s Apprentice jolted in alarm, bronze eyes widening. “P-please don’t. Please… my master will cane me…please don’t, please don’t…”

“What’s your name?” Cherie demanded.

“W-what? S-sorry? Why do you want to know my name? My name is unimportant to know. My title is the Healer’s—”

“I know that, you dumbass, but think of it as an exchange. You called me by the wrong name therefore you must tell me your name.” Cherie cut the Healer’s Apprentice off.

“Ixtilius Forthwall,” the Healer’s Apprentice mumbled.

“Ixtilius?” Cherie echoed.

“Yes…Ixtilius Forthwall,” Ixtilius muttered, gaze flickering to the left.

“Who named you?” Cherie asked.

“My mother. Just before she passed.” Ixtilius’s jaw was tight, brows knitted. “Why?”

“My mother also named me,” Cherie added, smiling brightly. “Though she died later. Nine years after I was born. I’m sure a wolf ate her.”

Ixtilius looked uncomfortable. “A wolf…ate her…?” He reiterated hesitantly.

“Yeah. Ten years ago, there was a massive Red Fever breakout, and the hybrid wolves attacked. That’s how I lost both my parents and I’ve been living with my maternal grandmother since. I’m pretty sure Nana hates me, though.” Cherie said. “But hey, it’s not like she’s got that many years on her, anyways.” He chuckled derisively.

“I…see…” Ixtilius said, and he cleared his throat. “Diagnosis: madness. You’re self-destructive. You’re going down an unpaved road that will only lead to more pain and disasters. There are several things I could do. I could do a craniotomy to remove some blood pressure in your brain. I could gather some leeches from the pond we have just down the hill from here. Or I could give you a potion. I’ll probably need to mix several ingredients to produce the right thing, though. Wormwood to inhibit violence, sage for self-purification and cleansing, rose hips and rosemary to heal, lemon balm to help with your unstable mentality, and hyssop for more purification. Perhaps I can throw in some celandine for your…mood.” Ixtilius canted his head. “So, what’s your choice?”

“What if I want you to do an incision on my brain? Or the leeches?” Cherie leaned forward on the chair, resting his hands on his thighs.

Ixtilius pursed his lips before running a tired hand down his face. “I…could do that. If you want. But I can’t guarantee it’ll work. It’s fifty-fifty for craniotomy and with the leeches, you have a forty percent chance of survival. The potion? You have a ninety-odd percent chance of survival.”

“The leeches sound fabulous,” Cherie concluded and Ixtilius threw his notepad on the ground, snapping, “No, I take it back. I will not be using leeches on you. Nor will I be using the craniotomy. In fact, I’m not allowed to! Potion it is. Let me gather the supplies. You sit…right there and wait.”

Ixtilius left Cherie sitting and he began surfing through the shelves and boxes, trying to find the various herbs. Cherie watched the younger male move with purpose and precision. It was admirable. He smiled to himself, arms crossed over his chest, eyes observing Ixtilius attentively.

The young male got to work, straining, bleaching, mixing, cutting—he was working fast but carefully. He kept glancing at Cherie once in a while, as if daring him to move from his spot. Cherie gave the Healer’s Apprentice a teasing smile, merely pacing back and forth beside the chair, not wandering away from the area.

“Tell me, Ixtilius, how did you become the Healer’s Apprentice?” Cherie asked, sitting on the chair backwards, his legs and arms wrapping around the chair’s backrest.

“It doesn’t matter how,” Ixtilius said dismissively as he began mixing the ingredients together.

“But I wonder how. Keep me entertained while you make that potion that will supposedly cure my ‘madness’.” Cherie told him.

“My master found me.” Ixtilius said stiffly. “My birth father abandoned me by Jophiel’s Church, on the steps. Left me in a box with my name and birth date. I was roughly two weeks old when he left me there. Master was heading to Church early that Sunday and he found me. He took me in. I’m forever indebted to my master. He…helped me a lot.” He paused his stirring of the potion in the pot, and he looked at Cherie. “Why?”

“I can’t imagine him being nice,” Cherie said. “He’s rather blunt and hypercritical. He’s a hypocrite, too. Sure, he knows how to heal, but other than that, he’s useless. He’s demanding and short-tempered.” Cherie tilted his head. “You mentioned you were fifteen. The Healer is twenty-seven. If he found you, fifteen years ago on the steps of Jophiel’s Church, he was only twelve. What did he do with you? Did he watch you solely or did he take you back to his parents?”

“Why does that matter?” Ixtilius growled as he poured the potion into a jar and capped it. “You will take exactly three tablespoons at exactly 2000 hours, not a minute before or after. It must be a tablespoon. You will keep this by your bedside. Do you understand me?” Ixtilius demanded as he gave the jar to Cherie.

“What happens if I don’t follow your instructions?” Cherie asked, examining the dark gray liquid in the jar.

“You’ll shrivel up and die.” Ixtilius said and Cherie canted his head.

“Really?” Cherie asked.

“No.” Ixtilius’s voice was harsh. “Now please. If you excuse me, I have things to do. Please leave, sir.”

Cherie waved his farewell. “Goodbye, Ixtilius Forthwall.” He left Sayfe Infirmary and was practically blinded by the high noon sun. Just how dim was it in there?

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