Inspired by this prompt

The princess was dying. Poison. The party was urgently traveling to the Golden Capitol under the auspices of the King himself. The objective was clear: deliver the healer Melnor to the Capitol before the day’s end.

As a healer, Melnor was generous. As a learned man, Melnor was skeptical. A poisoned princess meant treachery was afoot. For this reason, Melnor insisted upon supplementing the royal escort with loyal friends of his choosing. His hand-chosen travel companions included Fenton, the spear wielding warrior; Altrxy, the black-cloaked mage; and Fleer, Melnor’s faithful scribe and apprentice.

The party set out at dusk. The royal escort—two Knights mounted upon white steeds—took the lead while the others followed closely behind. The sky glowed orange beyond the mountains which towered above the valley. Melnor was cheered by this sight for he believed a sunrise was charged with unbound potential.

“What do you think you’ll be able to do for the princess, master?” Inquired Fleer. He was young, and idealistic; he had not yet earned his white cloak, but showed great promise in his studies.

“All manner of things, Fleer,” replied Melnor confidently. It would not be fair to call Melnor arrogant, but he was nothing if not confident in his ability as a healer. “As you well know, human physiology, at the end of the day, can be boiled down to a series of electric pulses originating in the brain and terminating in various bodily functions,” he said with the practiced tone of a teacher. “With the princess, I must first understand her ailment. I will then set about correcting the erroneous and harmful signals caused by the poison.”

“That is fascinating,” said Fleer in awe.

“It’s witchcraft,” said Fenton.

“Oh, forgive Lord Fenton, Fleer,” said Melnor, “he is of a class quick to dismiss that which is not easily understood.”

“How else would you explain it then?” Said Fenton.

“Why, science, of course!” Replied Fleer cheerily.

“Very good, my boy,” said Melnor. “That’s quite right. Science informs everything we healers do. What appears magical to the uninformed is simply human potential realized.”

“I fail to see how what you do differs from our friend Altryx here,” said Fenton mischievously. He knew damn well what the difference was, but he loved to beleaguer familiar arguments on long trips.

“I’ll take this one,” said Altryx. She had been silently observing the conversation from the rear. “Where Melnor taps human potential and conducts natural energy, I tap inhuman potential and conduct energy from realms unknown. Sure, I could heal a wound, but often my magic bears a price most are unwilling to pay. Said differently,” she continued with a frown, “Melnor’s soul remains intact. Mine does not.”

“And yet we love you and your soul anyway, miss Altryx!” Said Fleer. He was a good-hearted boy and quite astute. Of course, he had heard these stories before, but reasoned that Master Melnor must have meant for his friends to illustrate a point—he was a hands-on teacher after all. Fenton and Altryx warned of the dangers of magical thinking for a healer.

“Who has use of a soul in these times?” Said Fenton with a chuckle. “Sometimes I fear you have too much soul, Melnor. You’d be far more helpful in battle were your soul as tarnished as Altryx’s.”

“At my white cloak ceremony all those years ago I took an oath to do no harm. My mind and soul are therefore honor- and supernaturally-bound to use my knowledge and ability only to heal. My hand is stayed and as such, my ability in combat is unrealized. As it shall remain.”

“Still, it’d be nice if you could patch me up quicker mid-fight, or lend some offensive support now and again. You might visit Leonus the potion master when we arrive at the Capitol. Perhaps he could set you up with some explosive potions, make you less of a sitting duck” said Fenton.

“Do no harm, Fenton,” said Altryx. “We’ve been over this. Melnor is ours to protect. In exchange he heals us. It’s symbiotic. You can’t rush these things lest you end up like poor old Festus.”

The fate of Festus was a sad one. Both Melnor and Fleer frowned at the name. A healer on the Capitol outskirts was either interrupted or unfocused—depending upon who one asks—while attempting to heal a head wound Festus had suffered. Regardless of cause, the healer inadvertently sped Festus’s heart to such a rate that it exploded through his chest. Healers preferred to not think about the case of Festus, but Fleer knew that it served, again, as a reminder of their great responsibility.

“The practice of healing is slow and arduous,” said Fleer studiously, “it requires a significant amount of focus and attention—one cannot simply wave one’s hand to heal the wounded.”

“Well said, boy,” replied Melnor. “The work of a healer is to focus. We must focus on the pulses of our patients and manipulate them along pathways to effectuate tissue repair and promote health. A healer must know the human neural pathways as well—or better—than our royal escorts here know the geography of this valley.”

Melnor was never happier than when he was pontificating about his passion for healing. He found even more satisfaction and fulfillment through his stewardship of Fleer’s education than he did from from curing the sick and injured. He found Fleer a gracious and appreciative charge whereas his patients left something to be desired. Still, it was nice to be summoned personally by the King. It showed that there was value in his work.

As Melnor was lost in thought, Fleer—as if intuiting his masters thoughts—picked up on the thread.

“You know, the great irony of our world is that it is far easier to maim and mar than it is to revive and rehabilitate. And yet, those who destroy are often heralded while those who heal are often disregarded,” said Fleer as he eyed his Master for approval.

“Try thrusting a spear through the armored chest of a bandit and let me know how easy that is, lad,” chided Fenton with a good natured chuckle.

Before either the healer or apprentice could land a riposte, the two royal escorts stopped abruptly. The knights had stopped at the base of a butte known to be popular among bandits.

“I say,” shouted Fenton as he rode forward to the escort, “this is no place for a breather, friends. Let us get back to moving with pace!”

“We must wait here,” said one of the Knights, “order of the King.”

Melnor’s blood ran cool. Something wasn’t right.

“I said it isn’t safe!” Urged Fenton. “This hill is crawling with bandits who—“

At that Fenton’s throat opened as an arrow pierced him just below his jaw line.

“No!” Screamed Fleer.

“On me!” Ordered Altryx. She quickly jumped into action, a battle-weary pro. She cast a dark cloud about them to protect them from the raining arrows streaming from atop the butte.

“This won’t hold long,” she strained. “You two need to retreat while I hold the cloud. Move swiftly back the way we came and get out of archery distance as soon as you can.”

“Fenton,” shouted Melnor. “We can’t leave him. I need to retrieve and heal him. We can use this cover to buy me time.”

“It’s too late for him,” said Altryx, “the arrows came down thick. He’s already gone. You two have to go. Now! I won’t—“

Before she could finish, one of the Knights burst through the dark cloud which had enveloped the remaining party. He swung his sword with trained precision. Altryx’s body limped lifeless, headless, as it fell off her horse.

Fleer screamed in agony, his cries were so loud and anguished that Melnor feared his apprentice had been injured. To his great relief, Fleer was fine though not free from danger. The other Knight took Fleer in his grip and held a dagger to his neck.

“Alright healer,” said the Knight not holding Fleer, “we don’t want any trouble.”

Melnor spat at the ground. “No trouble? You killed my friends, you bastard!”

“Now, now. We apologize for the collateral damage,” said the Knight somberly. “We couldn’t take any chances. Those two were liable to cut my throat should I have approached you like this.”

“Why don’t you just kill me? But, please, let the boy go,” pleaded Melnor.

“We don’t need to kill you,” said the Knight, “we know you lot are quite harmless. Bound by the oath of the white cloak, no?” He said as he tugged on Melnor’s cloak; the Knights dirty hands sullied it’s luster.

“If you don’t want me dead, what do you want from me?”

“We just want you to leave. Head back from whence you came. Ignore the royal summons and let the princess perish. We’ll leave you be. Easy as that.”

“That’s a death sentence!” Shouted Fleer. “If we ignore a royal summons—this royal summons—the king will hunt us to the end of the—“

The Knight holding Fleer pressed his dagger hard against the scribe’s neck and drew blood. “Quiet, boy!” The knight warned.

“Stop!” Shouted Melnor. “Stop! I can’t just let that girl die. Now that I know of her plight my oath won’t allow it. Were I to turn back now I’d be sentencing the princess to death. Failure to act is not absolution; to do nothing would be to do harm.”

“It’s her life,” said the Knight calmly, “or the boy’s.”

The Knight’s grip on Fleer tightened, Melnor’s chest did the same. He looked at his young apprentice and noted the fear in his eyes. Fleer knew better than anyone that his master could not break the oath of the white cloak—not even to save his ward.

Melnor focused. He focused his attention on the forehead of the Knight holding Fleer. He calmed his mind and listened: he heard his own heartbeat, the rustling of the trees in the wind, Fleer’s heavy breathing, and the Knights raspy wheeze. Melnor envisioned the neural network which etched its way throughout the Knight’s body. In his mind’s eye he saw every receptor, every node, and he thought of poor Festus; he imagined a pulse strong enough to expel the Knight’s heart from his chest.

But he couldn’t do it. He would fail his apprentice. He would fail his friend. The last thing he heard before giving up to fate was Fleer’s anguished scream.

And then both Knight’s heads exploded with a salvo of thunder.

The healer ducked his head from the sound of the blast but could not avoid a crimson shower of gray matter and skull. He raised his eyes to assess the damage and saw Fleer standing alone, covered from head to toe in blood.

“Master…I…”

“Don’t. You…don’t”

“But…I…I killed those men.”

“You did what you thought was right. I…I’m sorry I couldn’t.”

“What will become of me? I—what will become of my soul?”

The scared boy, in a matter of moments, had become a damned man, barred from ever taking the oath of the white cloak, his potential as a healer to remain forever untapped.

“I don’t know, son. No one does.” The self-assured healer found himself unsure and unable to chart a path for the first time in a very long time. He felt as though the trail his life’s path followed had crumbled to nothingness—his pupil, though alive, was no more.

“What I do know is that we need to get to the Capitol as fast as we can. The princess needs us.”

And that was all he could say. He knew not what the future held for Fleer, he knew only one thing: duty. He had a duty to uphold and he’d deal with the rest of the complications later.

Fleer followed his former master as they made their way swiftly along the trail to the Capitol. As they rode on, he replayed the fateful moment in his head over and over. Such power, such carnage. The threat was gone, but his fear remained. Fleer was deathly afraid. Not because he now had a tarnished soul, not because he had forever altered his future. No, Fleer was afraid for one reason only: he liked what he had done and how it made him feel.

Fleer was afraid of his new-found power.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out my other stories at r/InMyLife42Archive