The men returned to Rothfield Monastery with Gabriella and her sons, the cool night air turning sharp as the towering walls of the monastery loomed above them. Wilbur sent them back home after easing their worries about infection.
With his previous patients dismissed, Wilbur’s infirmary, nestled deep within the monastery, was enveloped in an eerie stillness; its darkened windows faintly glowing from within, where tallow candles burned low, casting long, flickering shadows.
Inside, the air was thick with the pungent scent of dried herbs hanging from the rafters, and the soft crackle of firewood in the corner hearth added to the oppressive quiet. Wilbur moved gracefully through the shadows, his pale hands gliding over the array of vials and pouches laid out on the wooden table. His movements were deliberate, his mind racing. Yes, this would certainly not be an ordinary remedy.
As Gabriella sat nervously near her sons’ cots, she watched Wilbur intently, her heart pounding. The more she observed his methods, the less he resembled any healer she’d ever known. His touch on the vials was too precise, the way he measured each powdered mineral too exact. His eyes, those dark, unnervingly sharp eyes, glinted as they caught the light from the hearth. Gabriella shuddered but remained silent.
Wilbur grasped the trembling maiden, readying the necessary tools. He carefully crushed the petals in his mortar, the soft grinding sound echoing in the stillness of the infirmary. A sweet, almost overwhelming scent wafted from the powder as he blended it with a few drops of yellowtongue nectar, a bitter substance that Wilbur claimed was more effective against fever than feverflukes.
He added healing ores, including rare clear quartz and fire opals from Mount Lhottem. The mineral shards, with faint veins of iron and malachite, were ground into dust under the pressure of his pestle. Gabriella felt as if Wilbur was drawing on their life-force in some way. To her, these ores were merely tools for weapons and trade, but for Wilbur, they infused his medicines with something more.
Then she noticed his sharp nails, and how his eyes seemed to flash in the dim light, even though he was far from the candles and torches… how could he mix and measure all his ingredients in that dark corner?
Gabriella’s breath caught as she leaned in closer, her suspicion intensifying. Wilbur’s hands moved with an unsettling precision, and as he poured the powdered mixture into a vial of bubbling liquid, she saw a faint glow radiating from the concoction. It wasn’t the warm glow of fire, but something colder, almost otherworldly. She had heard the rumors, of course; whispers in Rothfield about the monks and the strange occurrences at the monastery. It was one of the reasons for the town's curfew… yet, this physician had healed little Annette and saved her life. This peculiar monk had revitalized Claude’s crops and had gathered enough to share with the neighbors who had turned their backs on him.
Wilbur remained silent as he stirred the glowing liquid with a rod. He sensed her discomfort, but he welcomed it. Her suspicion kept her quiet, and silence was exactly what he needed now.
Ryne was assigned to gather some plants from the secluded garden, and he returned with the final batch of freshly picked herbs, his expression grim. He handed them to Wilbur, who nodded, his focus unwavering on the potion. Wilbur sprinkled in the last ingredients; feverfluke leaves, their delicate, spindly stems curling as they dissolved into the mixture, transforming the liquid into a pale green. The firelight illuminated the concoction, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls.
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Gabriella could no longer contain her curiosity. “What… what exactly are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She struggled to keep the hint of fear from creeping in, but Wilbur sensed it. He always did.
Without looking up from his task, he replied, “A new remedy,” his tone steady. “The ingredients are rare, and the process demands precision. Your boys will be cured, but only if everything is executed exactly as it should be.”
Gabriella swallowed hard, her gaze shifting from Wilbur’s hands to the glowing mixture. The room felt colder, the air thick with an unsettling tension.
Wilbur lifted the vial and poured the mixture into three smaller ones, each emitting a faint glow. He handed them to Ryne. “Give these to the boys,” he instructed softly, his voice carrying a weight that made Ryne pause for a moment.
As Ryne carefully administered the potions to each boy, Wilbur kept a watchful eye on Gabriella from the corner of his vision. She hadn’t taken her gaze off him. He could sense her suspicions, evident in the way her eyes flicked to his hands, to the eerie glow of the vials, to the shadows that seemed to shift with him.
But she remained silent. For now, desperation outweighed her fear, keeping her quiet.
Wilbur stepped back, his expression unreadable as he observed the boys. The potion would take time to take effect, but already, the youngest appeared to be breaking his fever, and the violent tremors in the middle boy’s hands were beginning to subside. It was working.
Gabriella noticed the shift as well. She exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. A wave of relief swept over her, though it was mixed with a persistent fear. She pulled the youngest child close, whispering to him that everything would be alright.
Wilbur turned away from her, his expression darkening. The hunger clawed at him once more. He would find something to eat soon, but not in this place. Not at this moment.
___
The room was quiet, broken only by the soft crackling of the hearth and the steady grinding of Wilbur’s mortar. The mixtures he was creating shimmered in the dim light, a strange blend of rare ores and herbs casting a faint, eerie glow. Gabriella sat beside her children, caught between hope and a rising sense of dread. Her boys’ breathing had steadied, the feverish delirium subsiding as Wilbur’s concoctions took effect.
She kept him in her peripheral vision. For hours, Wilbur had not taken a break. He hadn’t touched the water she offered earlier or the small loaf of bread she left by his side. There was no sign of weariness. No sweat on his brow, no slowing of his movements. As the night wore on, Gabriella’s mind raced. No human, monk or otherwise, could work like this without rest.
Her thoughts became increasingly burdensome, but she kept quiet. Her sons were stabilizing. Any doubts she had needed to be set aside for the moment. She looked at her youngest, his fever finally easing as Wilbur’s potions took effect. The relief in her chest clashed with the persistent fear eating away at her heart.
Wilbur stayed at his workbench, mixing crushed fire opal and clear quartz dust into a small, bubbling vial. His pale fingers moved with a precision that made Gabriella uneasy; the way they never wavered, even in the dimmest light. His long, sharp nails scraped the last of the ingredients into the mixture, and she caught a glimpse of something she wished she hadn’t: his fangs. They were barely visible beneath his lips, but they were unmistakable. Fangs. A shiver ran up her spine, but she remained silent, gripping her youngest son’s hand tightly.
Wilbur’s own struggle ran deeper, hidden beneath his calm exterior. He felt the familiar, gnawing hunger rising within him. The energy required to mix the potent alchemical remedies had drained him. His vampiric nature demanded sustenance, and the blood he craved gnawed at his self-control. But not here. Not now. The boys needed him. She needed him.
Without a word, Wilbur retreated to the farthest corner of the infirmary, the shadows enveloping him as he sought to regain his composure. His eyes glowed faintly, his sharp gaze flicking to the sliver of moonlight that spilled through the high windows. He clenched his jaw, forcing the hunger back down, but the effort left him feeling weak, his hands trembling slightly. He breathed slowly, focusing on the cold stone beneath his feet, trying to suppress the dark urge clawing at his mind.
Gabriella’s voice broke the silence, hesitant. “They’re… they’re getting better, aren’t they?”
Wilbur turned, his face obscured by shadows. “Yes,” he murmured. “But the treatment must continue. The remedies I’ve created are powerful. But delicate. Their healing will take time, and the ingredients must be precise, or everything could… fall apart.”