The Vampire & Her Witch-Chapter 726: A Healer’s Reluctant Patient (Part One)

While Virve carried Isabell away so that Heila could tend to her injuries, another healer was tending to their patient in one of the most private bed chambers of Lothian Manor.

The bedchamber felt hushed and intimate compared to the grand halls of Lothian Manor, with thick stone walls that muffled the sounds of the household’s daily activities. Gray autumn light filtered weakly through diamond-paned windows, casting shifting shadows across the room as heavy clouds rolled overhead.

Rain drummed steadily against the thick glass, creating rivulets that distorted the view of the courtyard below while a fire crackled in the room’s small hearth, providing just enough warmth to press back against the damp chill that seemed to seep through the manor’s ancient stones.

The air in Bors’ bedchamber carried the faint scent of lavender and beeswax, remnants of Isla’s presence that Bors maintained even after her passing. The first summer that passed without his wife at his side, he’d berated the Mistress of Servants so fiercely for failing to hang lavender to dry beside Isla’s embroidery table that even years later, the household staff brought fresh flowers without fail lest they provoke their lord’s rage.

Now, as the daylight outside faded toward evening, Bors Lothian sat uncomfortably on an armless chair, feeling the cool air of the room on his bare chest and arms while Loman pressed his ear to his father’s chest, listening to the sounds of his breathing as air moved through his lungs.

"Breathe deeper for me, Father," Loman said gently as he moved his head to the opposite side of his father’s chest, straining to hear the slightest trace of a catch, rattle of wheeze as the older man’s chest rose and fell.

More than twenty years ago, during the War of Inches, Bors Lothian’s figure had been strong and powerful. His thick muscles allowed him to fight in heavy armor as though it were light, and his long-handled ax cut and cleaved through any demon wearing less than a heavy coat of mail.

Now, the ravages of time had turned solid slabs of muscles soft, and the hair on his chest had turned a gray that matched the hair on his head. There was still strength in his body, and his eyes were still as sharp and cunning as they’d ever been, but a certain roundness had settled across his shoulders, his belly, and even his backside, making it clear that his days of riding into battle astride a mighty warhorse were long behind him.

"I told you, it’s nothing to be worrying over," Bors groused when Loman stood, frowning at his father as he carefully considered the results of the exam so far. "I’m growing old, but I’m not dying yet, much to your brother’s chagrin, I’m sure," he said with a slight chuckle, though his voice held no mirth.

"Father, I think that’s going a bit far," Loman said as he traced his fingers down the centerline of his father’s chest, sliding past the faded scars of an old wound before moving off to one side and pressing. "Tell me if there is pain here, Father," he said smoothly as he continued his examination.

"Of course there’s pain!" Bors snapped, glowering at his youngest child. "You’re pressing hard enough to drive a knife through me. And I’m not exaggerating. Your brother is growing desperate, and men as tenacious and ambitious as he is can lash out in dangerous and foolish ways when they feel like they’re running out of options. Don’t underestimate him or you’ll find yourself face down in a gutter with an empty purse and a cheap knife in your chest to make it look like a robbery."

"I know he’s ruthless, Father," Loman said patiently as he slid his fingers to the opposite side of his father’s chest and pressed, frowning as he saw a brief wince of quickly suppressed discomfort flicker across the older man’s face. "I know what he did to his own wife after all. But blood kin is different. And even if it wasn’t, I doubt that he would risk the wrath of the Church by making a move against me."

A sudden gust of wind rattled the window panes, and both men glanced toward the sound as a cold draft swept across the room, making the fire flicker and sending shadows dancing across the walls. Loman pulled his light half-cape closer, adjusting the unfamiliar green and silver trimmed garment to better ward off the cold while wistfully wishing he had brought a set of his robes to change into after finishing yet another luncheon with a visiting Baron.

"Is that what you think of your brother?" Bors said, returning his attention to Loman and scowling at his son. Even though Loman had left behind the white and gold robes of his office in the Church, at times like this, the Lothian Marquis thought his son still looked at the world through the rosy-gold tinted windows of his temple instead of seeing to the heart of a person’s true nature.

"Your mother always said that Owain inherited too much of my strength and not enough of her deftness," Bors said in a slightly softer tone as his eyes drifted to the lonely embroidery table beside the window and the half-finished project that still sat atop it.

More than once, Bors had considered learning needlepoint himself, just so he could personally finish her final piece, but every time he considered it, he dismissed it as utter foolishness. His hands were thick, strong, and calloused from years of fighting, and he was certain that if he used them on her delicate needles and silk threads, he would only destroy what remained of her last, incomplete piece.

"She was right to worry that he would grow too accustomed to overpowering his problems and solving things with his sword that would be better solved with words," Bors added as he turned back to Loman, seeing much more of Isla in his younger son’s refined profile than he saw of himself.

"I think you still underestimate, OW!" Bors snarled as searing, white hot pain surged through his body, twisting his stomach in knots and sending pulses of burning hot pain racing all the way up his neck to the base of his jaw and shooting downward until he felt as though someone had grabbed hold of his dangling jewels and given them a painful twist.

"Careful there," he snapped, glaring at his son even as the color drained from his face as he looked at the long, ragged scar on his ribs that his son had driven two fingers into, producing pain that was worse than being stabbed with a knife. "That’s where I..."

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