Hailey felt immensely wronged.
"I was there to wake him up, and he hits me on the head? The nerve!"
He rubbed the eyes, shooting a glare toward the clinic doors where Harley had disappeared. She had dashed out moments ago, a flash of determination on her face, obscured by the odd bird-beak mask that he had insisted on her wearing. Nobody noticed the reluctant frown beneath it as she hurried out, only to return just as quickly with a bundle of linens clutched in her arms.
Outside, she paused by the wooden table near the "bastard" who had caused all the trouble and dropped the stack with a slight huff. She cast a quick, sidelong glance at the caravan that had arrived that morning, a caravan more luxurious than anything she'd ever seen in her life. The fleet of carriages parked in the clearing looked almost out of place in this dusty town. Her eyes lingered on the leading carriage, crafted from the finest, darkest obsidian, gleaming even under the dull light of the overcast sky.
"That carriage... it's beautiful," he murmured to himself. "But what I wouldn't give for a simpler life..."
In the open space outside, Luther sat behind a wooden table, looking every bit the overworked doctor he was. Dressed in a similar bird-beak outfit, he was methodically tending to a long line of patients, each more desperate than the last. He glanced up briefly, muttering under his breath, "It's like a never-ending procession of suffering."
He turned back to his current patient, a young man with a pale, drawn face and an arm that hung at an odd angle. There were no ready-made splints available, so Luther improvised, using two roughly carved wooden sticks as braces, wrapping the injured arm tightly in linen strips to hold it in place.
"Alright," Luther said, finishing with a firm knot. "If you're strong enough and follow my instructions, you'll be able to use that arm again in a couple of months."
The young man looked uncertain. "Are you sure this is all I need, doctor?"
"What were you expecting? For me to cut off the hand and be done with it?" Luther's sarcasm was laced with exhaustion as he motioned for the next person in line.
He stifled a yawn, rubbing his eyes and pounding his leg lightly with his fist to keep himself awake. "All this because a little brat decided to wake me up at the crack of dawn. I should be resting, not dealing with this parade of misery," he muttered under his breath, casting a weary glance back toward the clinic. The caravan from the forest had brought half of its travelers to his doorstep, each with ailments and injuries of their own.
The next patient was a middle-aged man, his arm a mess of torn flesh and bruising. He gingerly placed it on Luther's desk, wincing as he asked, "Doc, do I need an amputation?"
Luther raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the man's show of bravado. "As long as you want to survive, we can try to save the arm," he replied coolly.
The man tried to maintain his stoic facade, but the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead betrayed his fear. Luther noted the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in his lip. This was no easy task for the man, despite his tough exterior.
"No need for amputation," Luther said after a close inspection. "But it's going to take patience. This will hurt, and you'll need to keep it clean and come back for more treatment. Understand?"
He began cleaning the wound carefully, making small, precise stitches, grimacing at the torn skin and the sickly hue of the flesh. He was painfully aware of the lack of proper medicines; there was no penicillin, no real antiseptic. Infection was a gamble, and Luther had seen too many men lose limbs or lives from wounds like this. But he did what he could, focusing on each stitch, every strip of linen that would keep the wound secure.
As he worked, he was transported back to his days in the emergency room, where scenes like this played out daily. There, he hadn't worried about showing off his skills; modern tools were plentiful, and people trusted science. But here, every step, every incision had to be cautious. Certain procedures, anything that seemed too invasive, too advanced; could be mistaken for something sinister. He knew he had to tread carefully; surgeries like craniotomies and tracheotomies were far too radical for this place and time.
Here, people accepted treatments like drilling holes in skulls to release "evil spirits" or bleeding patients to "cleanse" them. He often wondered how much longer he'd have to practice this way before more advanced methods would be accepted. Until then, he was bound by superstition and tradition, patching up patients with little more than cloth and herbs.
With a final stitch, he tied off the linen and looked the man in the eyes. "You're done for now. Rest the arm, keep it clean. I'll do what I can, but the rest is up to you."
The man nodded, still trembling but grateful, and moved on, making way for the next in line. Luther took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever fresh injury awaited him, the weight of his knowledge tempered by the limits of his tools and the patience of a doctor in a world that didn't yet understand what he could truly do.
This time, Luther used a needle and thread to close the wound, knowing that a traditional approach would be more palatable for the townsfolk. The stitchwork was precise, quick, and practiced; a demonstration of true skill.
Watching from beside an exquisite obsidian carriage, an elderly man in a fine suit and tie stood with arms folded, observing the doctor's every move with a critical eye.
"Miss, this doctor is quite skilled," he murmured, squinting slightly as Luther deftly finished suturing.
Inside the carriage, Elizabeth Jane von Kro Marie, calm and calculating, had already removed her white gauze gloves and was idly toying with a polished revolver on the table before her. She spoke with quiet authority, her tone betraying a trace of intrigue.
"Imagine that. In a backwater Town, we find a doctor with talents that rival my personal physician. He must have some hidden motive for staying here." She paused, watching Luther through the carriage window. "Soros, pay him three times the usual fee. Inform him that we'll be staying for a while and that I would like to hire him as our temporary private doctor."
Soros, the man outside, raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. This wasn't a request he'd anticipated. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Having a skilled doctor on hand could prevent their journey from being cut short by illness or injury, both of which were inevitable risks in their line of work.
"Yes, miss," he replied, bowing his head slightly before approaching Luther.
Meanwhile, Luther's hands were a blur of movement as he worked on his last patient of the morning. With a practiced flick, he sliced away necrotic flesh from an infected arm, then dusted the wound with crushed herbs to ward off infection. He wrapped the wound with clean linen, tying it off with a firm, confident knot.
"Listen carefully," Luther instructed the patient, his voice firm and direct. "Change the herbs twice a day, and under no circumstances let the wound get wet."
The middle-aged man nodded enthusiastically, relief washing over his face. The burning and stinging had finally dulled, and he felt like he'd been given a second chance. "Thank you, doctor! I'll follow your advice to the letter."
Luther nodded curtly, satisfied that his instructions had been heard. "Good. Now, off you go."
The man left, and Luther leaned back, stretching his aching limbs. Hours of treating injuries and tending to the sick had left him sore and drained. All he wanted now was a decent meal and maybe a short nap.
He glanced toward Soros, who had been standing quietly nearby, a clear look of expectation on his face. But Luther had no patience left for formalities.
"Alright, old man. Everyone's been treated, and you've paid for their care. So, if there's nothing else, I'll be on my way. I'm starving," he said brusquely, already gesturing for Harley to pack up.
But Soros remained unfazed by Luther's impatience. He stepped forward, his expression stiff but resolute. "Mr. Doctor, if I may have a moment of your time. My lady has an offer for you."
Luther sighed, his shoulders slumping in irritation. This man had been eyeing him with barely concealed disdain since the moment he'd arrived. Now he wanted a favor? Typical.
"If you've got something to say, say it quickly. I don't have all day," Luther replied, glancing at Harley, who was watching the exchange with thinly veiled amusement from the clinic door. He beckoned her over to start clearing up as he walked Soros a few steps away, hoping to keep this conversation brief.
"Our lady, Miss Elizabeth von Kro Marie, wishes to hire you as her temporary personal doctor while we remain in town," Soros stated, his tone formal and precise.
Luther blinked, surprised at the audacity of the offer. "I'm sorry, but I'm not interested in being anyone's personal doctor," he replied, shaking his head with a definitive finality. The last thing he wanted was to be tied down to a rich family with endless demands. He had his own goals to pursue; his swordsmanship skills weren't going to improve themselves, after all.
Soros looked mildly affronted, but he pressed on, his tone growing more insistent. "This isn't an offer to dismiss lightly. You would be compensated handsomely, and the von Kro family's friendship is not something one discards so easily."
Luther raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Friendship of the von Kro family? Never heard of them," he replied flatly. Aristocratic connections meant nothing to him. Besides, the man's lofty tone only irritated him further.
Seeing his disinterest, Soros tried once more. "Are you certain? The rewards would be considerable."
But Luther had already turned away, barely giving Soros a second glance as he strode toward the clinic. "Look, I've got my own plans. You can keep your rewards," he called over his shoulder.
He entered the clinic and, with a final nod to Harley, firmly closed and locked the door behind him, cutting off any further protests.