He placed a hand on the man's chest, feeling the faint rhythm of his heartbeat. The man's breathing was shallow and labored, his skin clammy and cold.
Vergil closed his eyes as he weaved a quick spell, concentrating on the flow of life force within the man's body. The spark within him flickered, a fragile flame threatened by the encroaching darkness.
"His time is nearly up," Vergil muttered to himself. The man had suffered too much, his body ravaged by his injuries. There was no hope for him.
As Vergil pulled away, Xena's eyes filled with tears. She knew what Vergil meant, and her heart ached with the pain of loss. She reached out to her husband, her hand trembling as she stroked his hair.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry."
Vergil watched them, scoffing at the scene. The Halo of Merit would likely not reward him now, would it?
"But," Vergil's voice, a sharp hook, pulled her gaze. A deliberate act, she knew. "I could tether his soul to this world, buy us time to find a remedy," he offered.
Before her eyes could brighten with joy, Vergil continued, "Don't get your hopes up,"
Days blended into weeks as he began work on curing the severely injured patients. The guards went far and wide to gather all of the resources he ordered; mostly common herbs. Rare herbs are not so easy to find, and Vergil, who was not knowledgeable at all about the region's geography, could not go searching for them, especially since the search could take hours, even days. The lack of these rare herbs meant that a lot of his patients eventually died, one after the other.
Sweat trickled down Vergil's forehead as he constructed a simple magical inscription above a soldier, his chest a mangled mess of exposed ribs and ragged breaths.
He glanced up, his gaze meeting the watchful eyes of a guard. The man, etched with the weariness of war, held a silent question in his gaze. Vergil smirked, a cold, twisted thing devoid of warmth. "I can keep him alive," he said, his voice a low rasp. "But the pain…" He let the words hang there, a chilling unspoken truth.
The guard's jaw clenched, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. Vergil could see the war raging not just on the battlefield outside, but in the man's eyes – a war between duty and mercy, between the instinct to fight and the desperate longing for solace.
Vergil pushed his frustration down as he moved on to the next patient, shoving it aside like a recalcitrant child. Each new patient was a fresh battle, a test of his dwindling resources and simmering anger.
As the days bled into one another, a deep respect towards Vergil settled between the villagers. They saw the limitations etched on his face, the frustration that simmered just beneath the surface. But they also saw the results – the lessened moans, the flicker of hope that replaced the dull despair in their eyes. Vergil, the reluctant healer, became a strange kind of savior, a twisted deity doling out meager miracles in a ravaged landscape.
The air, once thick with the stench of decay, held a faint whiff of something else – a hesitant hope. It wasn't the blind faith he'd once reveled in, but a pragmatic dependence. Vergil, the caged beast, found himself a grudging warden, tethered to these villagers by a twisted necessity.
He glanced at the Halo, expecting a flicker, a surge – anything to acknowledge his efforts. But the cursed band remained inert, a cold metal mockery on his finger.
Fury, a familiar serpent, coiled in his gut, tightening with each passing second. He had been tricked. This celestial exile, this charade of redemption, was nothing but a cruel joke. He was a caged beast, forced to perform parlor tricks for the amusement of an unseen god.
"Enough!" he roared, his voice echoing in the makeshift hospital. The stench of sweat and decay seemed to solidify around him, a physical manifestation of his frustration. He flung his makeshift tools across the room, the clatter, a punctuation mark to his declaration.
"I'm done. This charade serves no purpose."
The soldiers flinched, their gazes flickering between Vergil and the injured they guarded. Though no words were spoken, the fear in their eyes was a tangible presence. He stormed towards the exit, the weight of the Halo a leaden burden on his finger. He wouldn't play this game any longer. He wouldn't be a pawn.
Just as he reached the makeshift doorway, a voice, laced with worry, cut through his haze of rage. "Corvus? Where are you going?"
Elara stood there, her youthful face etched with concern. Vergil paused, his back stiff, his gaze not meeting hers.
"I've done what I came to do," he said, his voice clipped. "There's no further need for my services."
Elara's brow furrowed. The soldiers shifted uneasily, their fear now tinged with something else – a dependence they couldn't quite voice.
Vergil's foot hovered over the threshold, his chest a furnace stoked by frustration. Days spent playing this pathetic game of healer, and for what? A sliver of his former power? Not a chance. He glanced at the Halo, a cold metal band mocking him with its silence.
"Corvus?" Elara's called his attention. Vergil turned, a sneer twisting his lips. Her brow was furrowed, etched with a worry that tugged at something buried deep within him. He hadn't signed up for this – for their desperation, for the responsibility that clung to him like sweat in the oppressive heat.
"There's nothing more I can do for you," Vergil snarled, his voice laced with a venom that surprised even him. "And besides, many died under my care. It couldn't be more clear that I am of no use,"
Elara bit her lip, a flicker of defiance igniting in her eyes. "What you've done is more than enough," she said, her voice betraying the hollowness of her words.