In Dire Straits

"Ah, it's nothing, I'm sure, just a cold." The silver prince croaked as the Medic's apprentice scurried around the garden, plucking herbs from here and there and placing them delicately in a hollowed out turtle shell. He gave little to no reaction when the girl nearly kicked the whole thing over a couple of times - there was nothing to be gained from making fun of the blind, and honestly he was impressed how well she knew this garden.

"Non sottovalutarlo!" The girl replied as she paced around more. "You are the King's brother!" Wheatley grimaced at this - only because he knew she wouldn't see it. He was a Prince, yes, but he really wasn't that important in the grand scheme of things. He knew she was just nervous - she was still in training and probably never expected to treat someone of royal blood.

She had tried to find the Medic when he had first turned up, but she had no luck.

"Okay." She finally stopped in front of the pile of medicine that she had gathered for him. "This is what Mr Setebos typically gives those who have your symptoms." The girl tried to make eye contact with him but wound up staring just above him instead - she clearly wasn't aware of how tall her Fringe heritage made her. Nor how tiny Wheatley was. He couldn't help but smile at her attempt though - she clearly meant well. Probably why she suited her role.

"If you feel worse, you find me right away, okay? O-or someone else, just find someone to help."

"I'll be good, miss, don't you worry. Thank you, though."

As he carried the herbs away, he suddenly paused, putting them down.

"Hey, Miss!"

"Y-Yes?"

"No need to tell anyone about this, yeah? Don't want the kingdom worrying over nothing."

And with that, he disappeared back into the shadows of Inaria.

It had been a few weeks since she had been visited by royalty - possibly the most terrifying moment of her little life. The yearling was still training but she felt the pressure build up once her mentor, Setebos, disappeared. At the very least, she knew her way around the garden now, she knew the herbs and plants that they grew. But it meant that she was treating patients without that guidance that she wanted. There had been a few moments of panic, but so far so good.

Prince Wheatley wasn’t as well known as King Ghost, but there was no denying that royal scent. He had come to her complaining of a headache that refused to go away and a lack of sleep that was making his life misery. His voice had certainly sounded rough too, so she suspected maybe something else was going on, but he only requested something for the headache.

She had given him remedies for other possible issues too, how could she not?

She thought that would be the end of it, but there was a foul stench coming from the gardens when she approached in the early hours of the morning. The sun hasn’t risen yet, most of the pack were still resting, but she had always been an early bird. Apparently that was a good thing today, as there was clearly something going on - and she paused at the edge of the gardens to try and get her bearings.

It was a good thing she was blind; if she could see the trail of destruction someone had committed to her neat little area, she would have cried. But she could sense something had happened when she took a step forward and felt the stems and petals of some of her flowers beneath her paws. Everything had been displaced, herbs ripped out and seemingly thrown all over the place.

She would have suspected that a gang of the new royal children were misbehaving - if it were not for the overpowering stench of vomit that suggested someone had come here from an act of desperation.

”Hello?” Her voice was gentle, trembling as she walked through the carnage. ”I-It’s okay, I can help you…” There was a wheezing coming from a nearby den, one that was used to house patients, and as she neared it she recognised a scent hidden beneath all of the disgusting bile and the misplaced herbs that rattled her senses.

”Prince Wheatley?”

She couldn’t see him twitching uncontrollably, couldn’t see the foam that began to form around his mouth, a sickly pale white that dribbled down to the ground. The smell of everything else made it almost impossible for her to figure out what was happening. ”Can you talk to me? I-I can help you, I-I just need to know-”

”S-Sorry ‘bout yer garden, M-Miss.” She could hear the pain in his voice, the panic that underlined his tone. She felt her heart begin to beat in her chest and her mind began to race because she realised she wasn’t ready for this, where was Setebos, please someone help--

”I-I think this is it.”

”P-Prince Wheatley, p-please just hold on, I’ll find something-”

She didn’t know where anything was, the garden was a mess, HE WAS DYING AND SHE CAN’T--

”D-do me a favour, yeah?” She felt herself start to cry, but she couldn’t see Wheatley wince at the emotion.

(He didn’t want to do this to her, she was such a bright young spirit, she reminded him of himself, but more active, more passionate - he admired her for that).

”Tell my family I loved them, okay?”

”Resisti!! Per favore! Non morire!” She stepped closer and placed a paw on his side, only now realising the spasms that were taking hold of him. Everyone was still asleep and the time it would take them to get here and to do the right thing wasn’t enough, he was slipping so fast but she just did not know what to do-

”I-Its not...your fault…”

He chokes on the foam around his mouth, struggling violently on the ground one final time before he becomes still.

She can only stand there in shock, tears running down her face.

As the morning sun rises, the chaffinches sing. Inarian’s wake up and rise to another beautiful day.

And Leonora’s panicked cries echo through the tranquil lavender forest.

The day was new, the air cool, and the sun had just begun to warm the dew covered ground. Birdsong sounded throughout the purple trees and all of Inaria seemed at peace on this fine spring morning.

Haylyn kept to the shadows most days, memories from a time long past made her heart ache as they bubbled up to the forefront of her mind. Her children had all become these wonderful people, dazzling all that they stood before and her chest always swelled with pride when she heard mention of them from those she passed by.

It was her only true happy times, hearing, having even just an inkling of knowledge that they were happy, they were okay. Each of them with lives of their own now, Ghost a King and a husband with children of his own now. Weiss, successful and holding an esteemed rank, how proud of her baby girl she was. Cappella, a war hero, a mother and with Hashmal at her side. Then Wheatley, her little comedian, her little ray of sunshine. He was such a clever boy, so bright and new. She loved them all, they were and would always be the best things that ever happened to her.

Her heart beat for each of them.

Paws graced the ground with gentle, light-footed steps, though there was a slight drag to one of her back legs. An aching that had caused just a little limp, but she was sure if she could catch it fast enough (it had begun over the course of a couple of days) that it would be nothing. Old, she didn't like to think of the word. She wasn't 'old old', right? Haylyn still felt young enough, only tired and she was sure if others looked into her face, or saw her eyes they'd look just as tired as she felt. She expected that though, with the stress of once wearing a crown, and all that happened after it. It was the aching that she could do without.

However, at least twice a week she went out to the gardens to visit a most beloved little girl. Leonora was so attentive, and Haylyn enjoyed the time she spent there. Setebos had disappeared, but the little girl remained. The woman wondered how proud the Medic would be of his apprentice.

But this fine morning was more bitter than sweet, head raising as she came into range of the gardens, her muzzle wrinkling in disgust at the foul smell. She heard the peppermint colored girl, way before she even saw her. The panicked cries only became more frantic as Haylyn hesitantly stepped inside. "Leonora, Leonora love, are you okay?" She called, but the child didn't answer. Her pale blue eyes scanning the scene, it was like a tornado had blown through the place. Herbs tossed this way, flowers ripped to bits and trampled. "Leo- Leonora, it's just herbs sweetie, it's fine! Is this what's got you upset? Leonora, where are you!?" She called once more, craning her neck about as panic prickled at her spine, a deep breath to calm herself. It's okay, it's okay.

The girl's cries growing louder as the pale female reached the back of the garden, the housing dens, a familiar smell caught her attention, but for some reason... for whatever reason she disregarded it. No, it's not true. She didn't want to believe. But there was the girl, crying, sobbing over the body. The still lifeless body of a beloved boy. HER beloved boy. "Oh!" Came her shock, she was frozen. "Oh no, oh no, no no. It's-" A mother staggers forward, unable to process what is happening so FAST and so SLOW all at the same time. "No, no, n-no. I-t's okay. It's okay sweetheart. N-no. W-wheatley, o-oh sweetheart." The stuttering denial as she came toward them both, shakily looking to the sobbing girl and then down to her boy, her sweet boy.

"H-he's okay. Y-you're okay, c-come on h-honey it's okay. You're gonna be fine, he's fine. Y-you're a-alright. O-oh sweatheart, no no.. Sweet- Come on baby, it's.. it's o-okay.." The woman's body shook with a sob, as paws reached out to tap at him, shake his shoulder... brush against his side. Wake up, please my beautiful boy, wake up. He couldn't- He couldn't be gone, she had to tell him- Had to tell him how much she loved him, how proud of him she was. "WHEATLEY. OH, OH.. HELP! HELP SOMEONE HELP, HELP! HEELP, HELP MY BOY! MY BOOOY." Her shrieks were hoarse as the realization hit, the birds flew from the trees and Haylyn sobbed as she tried to curl around his cold body.  "MY WHEATLEY, MY LITTLE BOY! heLP! HELP!"

Inaria would wake to the song of birds, to a fresh spring day, and where mothers nudged sleepy children awake. Unbeknownst to them that another star had died that same morning,  painfully and quietly.

Tired eyes opened slowly to a field of lilac, and for a moment the sight was jarring, lacking the familiar red he always expected to see. Where am I? Home, the former prince had to remind himself almost daily. This is home. Or it would be, one day. Perhaps when his garden bloomed, filled with herbs both familiar and new, with white (not red, never again would they be red) poppies swaying in soft morning rays.

But it was barren still, the seedlings still struggling to burst from the soil where he had planted them, and what had already emerged were still so fragile and new. Soon enough — he dared not hope, but there was a semblance of comfort in the idea. Soon enough the garden would bloom, and it would be beautiful.

(He thought of Oriana's promise — had she planted it yet? Was it blooming? Was it as beautiful as he had imagined it to be?)

Rising to his feet, the silver haired male picks his way through the purple forest, plucking useful herbs here and there to later add to his stores. He is... Content. Or at least something close to it. Anglachel doesn't ask for more of this land, or this life. He holds it between cautious hands and dares not hope or dream more of it. But he can admit that it is nice, that if he closes his eyes the thought of it tastes almost sweet upon his tongue.

It is a new life. It is repentance. For what? He does not delve into that line of thought for too long, if only to avoid the thought of flame and blood, of golden lightning and claps of thunder, of a sun and a moon and little stars, of a dark face and yellow eyes and teeth that tear—

But cries break the tranquil morning. (Is it wrong to feel a moment of relief? Pulled from darkening storm clouds of his mind). The three-legged wolf breaks into a run, tightly holding whatever herbs he had collected as he bursts into a ruined garden. The healers spend most of their time here, he notes idly somewhere in the back of his mind. He had refused residence in this area, choosing to build his own den elsewhere.

(He should have stayed closer — a lapse in judgement that would not occur again.)

And there Anglachel finds a young healer and a mother, their grief and sorrow echoing across the forest. He drops the herbs he carried to join the crushed ones of Leonora's ruined garden. The pale mother wails and begs for the life of her little boy, but Anglachel recognizes death when he sees it. There is nothing to be done for the boy, and red eyes close briefly. It is a terrible sight, a terrible sound that erupts from her in piecing cries. A parent would give anything for the life of their child — and he wishes he had the power to make that trade for her. For a moment he imagines North, he imagines his little stars and his heart twists.

But they are... Alive. Making names for themselves in the land he could never return to.

(Oh Anglachel, if only you knew. The little stars are gone now — without a supernova to mark their departure. Not even a neutron star remains. Would you weep for them?)

He shakes his thoughts off, it is not his time not place for grief, and the silver haired healer moved closer. A brush of his tail against Leonora's side — a young healer, he assumes based on the scent of herbs that clung heavily to her like a second skin. He made note to speak with her later, after the shock had worn out. Losing a patient was never easy — witnessing aftermath of grief even harder yet. It was not her fault.

Anglachel knew she wouldn't believe him. She would carry this death with her, as they all did.

He would brush past the dark black and red youth and to the grieving mother's side, pressing his muzzle to her shoulder in a comforting gesture that was so useless in times like these. "He's gone, I am so sorry." Such empty apologies, the former prince knew nothing would console her now. But Anglachel was a doctor — he had a job to do, even if it was cruel. "But I will not let either of you get sick. You need herbs for preventative measures." For disease and for shock, they needed medicine. He did not expect a logical reaction from her as he would try to nudge her away. Sometimes it would take time for a disease to die after it had claimed its victims. Time was not to be wasted, and he would pull her away if need be.

(He does not dare say that they should burn the body — the time for that would come later. When tears run out and heart rate slows. For now he simply wants the two healthy. He will not watch another fall if he can stop it.)