"Is there anything you need?" Opal called as she opened the door. She carried an armload of dirty bandages. They needed washing. When she finished cleaning them, they would dry for the evening before reuse. One of the first lessons she learned as a healer was that every resource had to be used and abused. A healer had to learn how to make due. Lives depended on their resourcefulness as much as any medicine.

"No," the raspy voice of Lydia answered. The healer of Ariel laid on her mat. An open window cast the rising sun's light on her frail body. A tattered blue blanket covered most of her body, hiding her condition from the world. Half her shrunken face was hidden beneath fresh bandages. Her dark hair was in a tight braid, laying on top of her heaving chest. She took shallow breaths, struggling to cling to life.

"I won't be gone long, Mother," she called as she began to shut the door.

Lydia coughed. "Wait Opal, I thought of something."

"Yes," she called.

"When you finish with those bandages, don't come home."

"What?" Opal exclaimed, shocked by her mother's odd request. "Why would I do that?"

Though her mother's eyes remained closed, Opal could feel her commanding gaze. She wondered if all mothers had the uncanny ability to see their child without looking. "You stay cooped up in our little home too much," she explained. "Over the last year, you never complain. Whatever I ask, you do without question. Your obedience and dedication are admirable, but you never take a break."

Leaning against the doorway, Opal answered, "There's too much to do, Mother. You know that. How many times have you told me that I have a long way to go?"

"You don't have to tell me what I said, girl," her mother hacked. "I know it well, but we both know that you have the rest of your life to work. If our family history holds true, you will work your fingers to the bone until you lay in this same sickbed."

Opal said nothing to this. The same sickness her mother had would attack her one day. There was no changing it. Many of her ancestors had tried. No one succeeded. Death always won. In her family, one had only one choice. Make peace with one's own demise. Opal shuddered at the thought. "What are you getting at?" she said at last.

"You need to enjoy what little youth you have left," her mother instructed. "Wander around the village. Talk with the old women. Sing for the men. Stare at the sky. Get lost in some boy's eyes."

"Marriage again?" she blurted. "Will you leave it alone?"

"You are at the age," Lydia replied. "Men have taken notice of you. From time to time, whenever you are out cleaning bandages, someone stops by to ask for your hand."

Opal felt her cheeks flush. A question played on the edge of her tongue, but she muzzled herself. She did not want to know the answer. "They shouldn't bother you," she spat instead. "You need your rest."

"As do you," her mother retorted.

"And you want me to rest in the arms of a man, is that it?" she asked, feeling a sharpness in her tone. Opal winced at it, not saying anything more. Despite her quiet nature, there were times when she could not hold back. She hated that about herself.

"Maybe not tonight, but one day," her mother admitted with a faint smile.

"Fine," Opal agreed, growing weary of the conversation. More than that, she feared what she might say next. Better to end the topic before things escalated. "I'll go waste my day."

"Wonderful," Lydia called as the door closed.

Opal stood outside the door for a second, holding the red and black bandages. Taking a deep breath, she choked back a sob that threatened to burst from deep inside her chest. With each passing day, it was harder to see her mother's condition. It was not so long ago that she ran circles around women half her age. Over the last few months, she fell apart fast. Instead of worrying for herself, she chose to fret over marriage affairs. Healers were annoying.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"What am I supposed to do?" she wondered aloud. Over the last year, there was not much she did separate from her mother. She tried imagining what she could do for the evening, but nothing came to mind. Even after hanging the washed bandages out to dry, she was no closer to finding an answer. However, as is so often in life, the answers one seeks show up on their own accord.

She found him sitting at a corner with his face buried in his arms. He kept saying something, but it was so muffled she could not make it out. "Tristan?" she called. His body tensed. He raised his head, revealing a haggard expression. Not once in his life had he looked so disgruntled. "Tristan," she repeated, unable to believe it was him. "What happened to you?"

A horrified grin stretched out across his face. "I've gone insane," he stammered. With a gasp, he slammed his face into his folded arms again. "No," he muttered to thin air. "Not again. I can't see you. Go away."

She felt a ball of fear clench her heart. He needs help. At once, her instincts took over. She rushed over to his side. Not waiting for his cooperation, she felt his forehead. No fever, though there was too much sweat. That was as far as the examination went. As soon as her fingers touched him, he recoiled. "What are you doing?" he demanded, cheeks flushing.

"Trying to see what's wrong with you," she answered. "You look sick."

Groaning, he placed his head against the wall. "I feel sick," he replied.

"Then let me take a look at you," Opal demanded. Nothing annoyed her more than a difficult patient.

"You can't fix it," he roared, pushing himself to his feet. His knees quivered. It was all he could do to stand.

"I can't if you don't let me," she argued. "Tell me what's wrong. We're friends, right? Trust me."

He froze at that. His eyes met hers. It was now that she realized how cold they were. She was not sure if he even saw her. "You want to know?" he asked, his voice hollow. "Do you want to know what's plaguing me every time I open my eyes?" He reached out, gripping her arm. His fingers dug into her. "Will you run away if you knew the truth? Huh?"

"Let go Tristan," she barked, struggling to get away from him. His grip did not weaken.

"Can you see him?" he cried, his voice squeaking. "Do you know what it's like?"

"What are you talking about?" she cried in a panic. She struck at him, but nothing could deter him.

"No one knows," he raved. "They can't see him and I can't look away. Do you know how much that hurts? Do you understand?"

What is he talking about? "Let go," she screamed.

"You heard Opal," a little voice yelled. Someone appeared from behind him. The small figure wielded a long stick. It struck Tristan across the head with a resounding whack.

"Ow," Tristan shouted, reeling forward. His fingers slipped from her arm. He fell to the ground, caressing his head.

Standing between the pair, makeshift weapon in hand, was Ur. The child gripped the stick as if he held a double-edged blade. He leveled it at Tristan, while holding a protective hand in front of Opal. "Are you okay?" the child asked. She nodded, not able to say anything. What was wrong with Tristan?

"What do you think you're doing?" Ur demanded, turning his attention to his friend. The child's voice grew larger than his little body.

"I-I don't know," he stammered, voice muffled by the dirt. The dead eyes looked at Ur. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, wiping his mouth. "I didn't mean any harm." He crawled toward them on his hands and knees, head bowed. "Forgive me." When he raised his head again, he gasped.

"No. Not you," he screamed. Springing to his feet, he turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could. "Wait," Opal yelled after him.

"Let him go," Ur ordered as Tristan disappeared behind a corner. Opal shot him a shocked look. Where had this sudden authority come from? "Whatever is wrong with him, it's been happening for a few days."

"What is he doing?"

The boy shrugged. "Jumping at shadows. Avoiding others. Talking to himself." He paused. "It's like a madman in one of Herodotus's stories."

"There has to be a way to help him," she insisted.

At this, the child grew quiet. "How?" he asked at last. Big tears welled up in his eyes. "What are we supposed to do?"

Opal hid a gasp. She was not the only one hurt and confused. At once, she knew what she needed to do. A healing smile rose on Opal's face. Dropping to her knees, she pried the wooden blade from the boy's hand. Tossing it aside, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into her shoulder. He accepted her embrace, his wails muffled by her body. "It's going to be okay," she reassured him, patting him on the head. Still, in her heart, she wasn't sure if she believed anything she said.