Champagne, France.
August 6th, 1915.
Areth Vendencia.
"Bonjour Motherfuckers," Areth said as he walked through the medical tents, flipping off the miserable French soldiers. It was raining outside, heavily in fact. It was so heavy, that water had actually entered inside the camp of which Areth was walking through.
He'd felt like an idiot at the current moment, kicking one of the recently sawed off legs, before sighing.
'Five years too late... How the fuck did I not figure that out?'
Florence Nightingale, a woman of which Areth had admired had died five years ago, at least, that's how it went in history back in his world. He was annoyed, and bitter, missing an opportunity to change up human history once more. "Hah... I suppose it doesn't matter... There will be another great healer to come about eventually. I will just need to extend my networks to make sure I find them in time.
Still, he couldn't help but feel disappointed at meeting such a renowned figure. Had he been allowed to turn back time, he would have, however, it was far too much of a taboo thing to do while Gaia, and Always were constantly monitoring him.
"Goliath sized shit stains," Areth commented dryly, knowing both of them would hear it as he continued on down to a segmented off area.
He didn't expect anyone of importance to be inside the area, only to see an old woman sitting down in a chair, writing away at a specific piece of paper before glancing up.
The first thing he noticed about her was the fierce, faded pink eyes of the woman that pierced into his soul. "Are you injured?" She asked simply. "Definitely emotionally," Areth said, earning a raised eyebrow from her. "Are you joking?" She asked, to which I nodded, recognizing just who she was, even if she was far older now than in the past. "Areth Vendencia, King of Auroa, and current leader of the Ghost brigade in this area."
Nightingale's gaze remained intense as she stood up, struggling a bit in her older age. "The King who has yet to bring in their own medics?" She asked, Areth noticing the holstered pistol near her trousers, alongside a few hand grenades. "Yes, that's me," he said without much thought, before continuing. "But let's be clear, medical supplies, and nurses will be arriving in a week. I did not wish to risk their lives until we secured a location for them to dock, which my people have done," he clarified.
The woman sighed, before extending her hand. "Florence Nightingale. I would say it's my pleasure to meet you, however, I can't say that since the rumors I've heard only portray you as a bastard," she said, not bothering to conceal her opinion.
Areth's smile only widened in response, shaking her hand. "Trust me, I am quite the bastard, but definitely far better than any nations' leaders currently."
She smiled in response, expecting to see the typical response of a politician/royalty. "Apologies, I don't do well with most politicians. I figured if I were to insult you, you'd leave," she said immediately.
"No need to apologize. I share the same feelings as far as politicians go. Useless heaps of shit. Anyways, it's a pleasure to meet you, Madam Nightingale. I have admired your work for quite a bit," he commented.
A slight distortion of the true history of the world. Honestly, there should have been a lot more distorted moments in history, however Areth could not find any until now.
Florence Nightingale shouldn't have been alive right now. She should have died five years ago at the age of ninety, however, here she was, involved in the Great War.
Far too old for the battlefield, yet she was here, working diligently.
Areth let go of her hand. "So, I won't hold you up for too long, but I'd like to converse for a bit, if you do not mind."
Nightingale shook her head. "I have to go back to treating the injured, and making room for the newly injured soldiers."
Areth snapped his finger, opening the door slightly, as every single nurse, and soldier in the main camp went limp, remaining in their positions, as sawed off limbs fused back together, bullet holes closed, and fatigue, and dirt on the nurses were erased.
Nightingale saw the spectacle, incredibly surprised, however, concealing it behind her neutral expression. "You've got my attention, Mr. Vendencia, should I brew some tea, or do you have a finger snap for that too?"
"I'd prefer your tea, madam," he replied, earning a smirk from the 95 year old woman.