Chapter 13
1239 Words
The camp was quieter than usual when Genevieve arrived, her satchel heavy around her shoulder. Today felt heavy, as if the very air had shifted while she wasn't looking.
Alfred sat stiffly on a low wooden stool, one arm braced on his knee, the other hanging loosely. His cold, unreadable gaze fixed on the ground, startling her.
“General,” she said softly, bowing her head in greeting.
He didn’t respond, barely looking her way.
She cussed inwardly. Why did his silence hurt more than any breach of propriety ever had?
She knelt beside him and reached for the bandage on his arm. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips. The wound looked inflamed and stubborn, refusing to settle despite her earlier treatments. She could not understand why.
She lifted her gaze slightly. "Does it pain you?"
"No," he said. A clipped and cold answer.
She scoffed and continued working. The quiet between them felt almost suffocating. She cleaned the wound carefully, hands steady from routine even as her thoughts tangled.
Why was he acting like this? What had she done? Had she offended him without knowing?
When she finished binding the wound, she drew back and wiped her hands on a cloth.
She hesitated for a small moment, searching his face for any softness, any trace of the Alfred she knew.
There was nothing. Only a wall of ice.
"General," she said carefully, "this wound reacts strangely. Are you certain nothing else happened when you were injured? It is not healing the way it should."
He finally looked at her, but not with gratitude or patience. With disdain.
"Maybe your skills are too simple to heal it, healer."
Dismissive.
Sarcastic.
A title she had never claimed.
He knew she was not a mere healer, and he used it anyway.
She stared at him shocked. The weight of his words pressed down, and hot tears welled in her eyes
When the weight of his words settled in, her eyes swelled with unshed tears.
Alfred’s jaw tightened as soon as he saw it. He cursed himself silently, anger and guilt knotting in his chest.
Genevieve steadied her voice even though it shook. "Apothecary apprentice, General. Do good to remember that."
She snapped her satchel shut.
"And if my abilities falls short of your standards, then I wish you better fortune dressing your damned wound."
She rose and stormed out, the door banging violently behind her.
Inside, Alfred stared at the empty space she left behind. He had wanted distance and needed distance, but not like this. Never like this.
He lurched to his feet, ready to chase after her, to wipe her tears, to offer whatever comfort he could. But at the doorway he hesitated, refusing to take another step. How could he trust himself with her, knowing she was promised to another?
Outside, Genevieve marched forward with her heart pounding in her ears.
She nearly collided with Atharina as she rounded a corner.
"Oh, Genevieve. I have been looking for you," Atharina said quickly, stepping forward as if to catch her arm. "There is something urgent I must tell you."
"Not now," Genevieve said sharply.
Atharina reached toward her again, desperation flickering in her eyes. "Please, Genevieve, it is important."
"I said I cannot," Genevieve replied. This time her tone was more forceful so unlike her.
Atharina stepped back, startled. Her lips twisted and she muttered to herself in self reproach, “Aye… warn her off, as if my words matter. I'm the village w***e after all."
Genevieve caught only the faintest sound of her voice, too blurred to make meaning. She was already turning away, hurrying off and Atharina could do nothing but watch.
Ahead, Genevieve saw her father standing with two village elders, deep in conversation. His presence usually steadied her. Today it only made her chest ache more. The thought of him noticing her tears and asking questions was unbearable.
He spotted her immediately. "Ah, Genevieve. You are back. We were just discussing—"
"I will be inside," she murmured quickly, forcing a wavering smile. "I am tired."
He frowned, watching her closely, sensing the storm beneath her calm.
“Are you well, child?”
She swallowed, nodded once, and turned away before her face betrayed her.
She slipped inside the small house, closing the door softly behind her. Only then did she allow her breath to shudder out of her, hands trembling as she pressed her forehead against the wall.
Her chest heaved, the hurt finally breaking through the fragile armor she had tried to hold together.
Genevieve sank onto the edge of her bed. She pressed her forehead against the wooden frame and let herself breathe, even if only for a moment.
Avana entered quietly, closing the door behind her. Her eyes wide with concern.
"Vieve, what happened?" Avana asked softly, her gaze searching her sister’s face.
Genevieve shook her head, gripping her satchel tightly. "It’s Alfred… he… he treated me like I am nothing. He called me a village healer. Just… that."
Her voice broke and she clenched her fist. "The village… they see me as a mere healer… even though… even though as an apothecary apprentice, I’m… I’m more advanced than Cassius, the village healer."
She hiccupped, pressing a hand to her mouth as another sob shook her chest. "It… it hurts… what I’ve learnt for years… all these years… being discredited… just because I’m a woman. If… if I were a man, I would have been honoured!"
Avana’s jaw tightened. Her voice low with restrained fury. "That is intolerable. He should be taught a lesson, and the village as well. You should go back to the city."
"Sister, I cannot."
"Yes, you can! Continue your apprenticeship properly. Show them what you can do." Avana shot back.
Genevieve shook her head firmly. "I cannot. Father would never allow it, and the village would never let me leave. Even if they refuse to acknowledge my skills, they would never let me go."
Avana’s anger softened into resignation. She stepped closer and pulled her sister into an embrace, holding her tightly. "I suppose you are right. The world here is blind to talent when it comes in a woman’s body."
For a moment, silence wrapped around them. She pressed her cheek to Genevieve’s hair catching the faint, acrid scent of dried roots, smoke and dust that clung to Vieve's work clothes. It wasn't the clean smell of a city shop, but the heavy, desperate smell of camp medicine. That smell and the thought of the city made her mind drift back to her late husband Dorgon.
He would have known what to do. If he were still alive, she would still be in the city with her sister.
Vieve could have had a better match than that imbecile Harrald. Dorgon promised her that before he passed. The thought choked her, and tears unwillingly ran down her face.
She had never been able to say she loved her husband, but he had treated her with kindness, and his death in such unclear circumstances under the king’s service had been so unfair.
What could she do now, as a young widow? Go to the imperial palace and bang on the royal doors for answers?
She held her sister tighter and let herself cry, hoping, perhaps, that Harrald would indeed love her sister and that Vieve would have more luck in marriage than she ever did.
- Writer
