"You'll need to stay in bed for the next day or so while the soul mending sets—I don't need you moving around and destroying all my hard work, so keep it to small movements. And you are absolutely forbidden any actions that would put strain on your soul. That means no magic of any kind. No Zyph body, no physical enhancements—don't even infuse a lamp until I permit you otherwise. Are we clear?" After spending the last hour painstakingly putting Foster's soul back together, Regina lectured him for the third time on the do's and don'ts of rehabilitation. He was sore everywhere and had a throbbing headache after the continual pain and stress of the procedure. The last time Regina had done this for him, he'd asked if she could knock him out, but apparently, it was vital he be awake for soul mending. According to her, 'it's good that you can feel it. It would be bad if you stopped feeling it.' Foster wasn't sure how much of that was actual medical knowledge and how much was her sadism poking through. He chose to believe it was a healthy mix of both.
When Foster agreed to Regina's terms, she turned and opened the door, "You guys can come in now," Regina called to the hallway.
August strode in, "How is our gallant hero?" He was followed by a silent Aurora and a slightly awkward Monica.
"No permanent damage, though I can't speak to his sanity." The three of them seemed to let out a collectively held breath at Regina's proclamation.
August laughed lightly. "Well, sanity is overrated anyway." He strode up to the bed with Aurora while Monica stayed back.
"How are you feeling?" Aurora asked, her voice always soft yet unmistakably heard.
Foster flicked his eyes to Monica before looking at the panther, "You know me, Aura, it takes more than a scratch."
"And here I was hoping we'd be divvying up your massive fortune according to your will by now."
"You're not in my will, August." Foster made the joke halfheartedly; he really only wanted to speak to one person.
Everyone in the room seemed to note the tension between him and Monica, but only Regina was brave enough to remark, "Alright, you two, you've seen he's alive. Why don't we give the love birds some space," Regina shooed them out, following behind them as they left. "As for you two, just kiss and make up already. You guys are supposed to be the power couple." She shut the door with a wink and a thumbs-up aimed at Foster from behind Monica.
Monica stood awkwardly halfway between the door and the bed, valiantly resisting the temptation to flee. Foster cleared his throat, "Monica, I am lost. I am twenty-three, immortal, and have achieved my life's purpose. The Hero is a tactical weapon—a tool for war. To be deployed in hopeless situations and turn them around. It is not you without value, but me. Without a battle to win, I am a blood-soaked blade that will sit in the armory and rust. This was my last way of being useful to the people who do matter. With this one final blow, Randall could've been crowned, Regina's fight in the church would've evaporated as the support of the crown switched sides overnight, and you—hah, you could've finally given up on maintaining the mask of the perfect princess and focused on your passions: learning and teaching. It's not that I don't value my life or my soul… it's just—those things matter so much more to me."
Monica looked slightly shocked by his honesty. Her mouth hung slightly open, tears ready to fall. If there was one thing Foster hated to see more than anything, it was tears staining Monica's cheeks. She was brave and intelligent and had overcome so much to become the person she was now. He hated it when he saw that same person standing alone, confused and crying—he hated it even more that it was his fault.
She scrunched her little nose, sniffling and wiping her face as she spoke, "But… sniff— that's not true! How could you say you have no value when I am standing here crying for you?"
"It's not that, sim—" a particularly loud snuff cut him off. "Zyph and Spirits Monica, come here. Stop crying, and give me a hug."
She dutifully nodded, walked to his bedside, sat beside him, and leaned in to wrap her arms around him. Careful not to piss off Regina by ruining his treatment, Foster hugged her back. "It's not that simple," he said as he stroked her hair, "Maybe I didn't use the right words. I am… directionless? I don't know. I don't like feeling this, Monica. Since being rescued and taken to the castle, I've had one goal and no passions, only duty. With duty fulfilled, what do I do now?"
She nuzzled into his shoulder, and he breathed in her gentle scent of roses, "It is a shame you cannot see your own soul. Truly. Your soul—Foster, it is the exact opposite of blood-stained. It is pure and clear, like glass. Find a new goal. A passion. A new duty. Whatever you do, don't forget that we—that I am here. You don't have to carry your burdens alone."
Foster didn't quite know how to do any of that. He just… didn't know. Maybe that was okay for now, though. Monica was warm, and she cared. For now, that had to be enough. In the embrace of his princess, Foster felt the sandman dragging his eyelids closed. Sleep found him, and found Monica soon after.