Yada Yada, Rhyme Rhyme

Aerwyna stirred the steaming pot. Outside the castle infirmary the sounds of battle raged. There was the clang of swords and shields, the roaring of the dragon, and the screams of the injured and dying. She tried to shut them out. It didn’t really matter who won. She was the Chief Healer. One way or another she’d be mending the injured when the battle was over. Sure, she would prefer if the army of the One Chosen by the Forces of Light drove the Lord of Darkness out of the castle, but they hadn’t won for the last five years, so it didn’t seem likely they would win today. Everyone knew the prophecy, all that yada yada, rhyme rhyme nonsense and everyone had a different interpretation. The Forces of Light said it meant they would win. Eventually. The Lord of Darkness said it meant he would win, and the last five years (and deaths of four Chosen Ones) was a pretty strong argument in his favor. For now, along with the other healers, Aerwyna prepared potions and bandages and healing stones and sharpened knives for the inevitable amputations. It kept her busy and away from the windows were the Battle to Determine the Fate of the World played out. Again.

*

They had been right to prepare. As expected, the army of the Lord of Darkness, with its trained warriors, superior armor and weapons, and sheer enormity of numbers, won. There were casualties of course, and those poor souls, including the Dark Lord himself, were now being admitted into the castle infirmary. Aerwyna moved from one patient to the next, casting spells to stop bleeding, straighten bent limbs, and generally prevent people from dying. In between, she helped brew more potions and clean knives and try to rummage up more bandages. The work blurred together as she picked up bits and pieces of the battle. The Chosen One hadn’t been found among the dead yet and had apparently survived the battle. Many of the Dark Lord’s generals had fallen. The dragon still lived, but both wings were torn. The grooms outside were trying to patch it up. She found this out on a trip to the well for more water. There she picked a few herbs and had a good look at the ruined fields around the castle. It would be a lean winter. All the reasonable normal people (who seemed to outnumber the maniacal lunatics at the moment) wanted the fighting to end. But on they went. At the end of the day Aerwyna found herself coaxing the irritable Lord of Darkness to drink potions, and being very glad that his sword arm was broken and encased in a cast, where he couldn’t use it to hit her.

They both had a fitful night. Dark Lords are terrible patients. They tend to threaten violent destruction on whoever was telling them (gently and with sympathy) that yes the arm really was broken and needed to stay in the cast, sitting up too fast would cause dizziness, and that throwing up after a battle was normal and not a sign of weakness, though maybe it was a sign of infection and fever, and yes, a potion really could help with that in the long run and throwing it all over the place wasn’t going to do anybody and good. Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, the Dark Lord finally slept and Aerwyna had a bit of a breather. She would have liked to take a nap herself. Instead she brewed another potion with the herbs she had found by the well. As the steam rose up, she reflected on how lucky she’d been to find those particular herbs. She’d thought the Head Gardener had weeded them out years before the Dark Lord had taken the throne. When he woke she held out the potion to him. “Here,” she said in her most soothing voice, “Drink this.” And for a wonder, he did. Three hours later, the Lord of Darkness was dead and the castle was negotiating terms with the Forces of Light.

*

There had been one maniacal minion who had given a great speech about carrying on the Dark Lord’s legacy, but no one paid any attention to him. During the negotiations it came out that the fifth Chosen One was deathly ill from dragon poison and it became Aerwyna’s job to heal her. The camp of the Forces of Light was lacking in everything, from tents to water and medicines, but the jovial attitude of the victors almost made up for it.  There were no true healers with training. The poor man who had been trying to heal the Chosen One was relieved when Aerwyna arrived. Aerwyna was relieved to see that he hadn’t done a bad job. Dragon poison was non-intuitive to heal. With proper training, he would do well. They didn’t have time for that though so he acted as her assistant. The Chosen One drifted in a fevered haze, muttering to herself, until Aerwyna had a good idea about all her journeys. A bard would have killed to be in her position. The Chosen One’s companions hovered nearby and Aerwyna drafted them to fetch supplies from the castle. By the time the Chosen One finally woke, the fever had lasted three days.

“Drink this,” Aerwyna said, handing her a potion. Reflexively, the Chosen One pushed it away, spilling the potion.

“Who are you?” demanded the Chosen One. “Give me a sword and-”

“Relax, Neirin,” said the man who’d been Assisting Aerwyna. “We won! The Dark Lord is dead!”

Neirin, the Chosen One, calmed down and finally drank the potion and apologized. “I’ve been so sure someone would poison me, or something like that. It’s made me rather paranoid about what I eat.”
Aerwyna smiled. “You’ll last longer than the Dark Lord then.”