Chapter 726: A Healer’s Reluctant Patient (Part One)
While Virve carried Isabell away so that Heila could tend to her injuries, another healer was tending to their patient in one of the most private bed chambers of Lothian Manor.
The bedchamber felt hushed and intimate compared to the grand halls of Lothian Manor, with thick stone walls that muffled the sounds of the household’s daily activities. Gray autumn light filtered weakly through diamond-paned windows, casting shifting shadows across the room as heavy clouds rolled overhead.
Rain drummed steadily against the thick glass, creating rivulets that distorted the view of the courtyard below while a fire crackled in the room’s small hearth, providing just enough warmth to press back against the damp chill that seemed to seep through the manor’s ancient stones.
The air in Bors’ bedchamber carried the faint scent of lavender and beeswax, remnants of Isla’s presence that Bors maintained even after her passing. The first summer that passed without his wife at his side, he’d berated the Mistress of Servants so fiercely for failing to hang lavender to dry beside Isla’s embroidery table that even years later, the household staff brought fresh flowers without fail lest they provoke their lord’s rage.
Now, as the daylight outside faded toward evening, Bors Lothian sat uncomfortably on an armless chair, feeling the cool air of the room on his bare chest and arms while Loman pressed his ear to his father’s chest, listening to the sounds of his breathing as air moved through his lungs.
"Breathe deeper for me, Father," Loman said gently as he moved his head to the opposite side of his father’s chest, straining to hear the slightest trace of a catch, rattle of wheeze as the older man’s chest rose and fell.
More than twenty years ago, during the War of Inches, Bors Lothian’s figure had been strong and powerful. His thick muscles allowed him to fight in heavy armor as though it were light, and his long-handled ax cut and cleaved through any demon wearing less than a heavy coat of mail.
Now, the ravages of time had turned solid slabs of muscles soft, and the hair on his chest had turned a gray that matched the hair on his head. There was still strength in his body, and his eyes were still as sharp and cunning as they’d ever been, but a certain roundness had settled across his shoulders, his belly, and even his backside, making it clear that his days of riding into battle astride a mighty warhorse were long behind him.
"I told you, it’s nothing to be worrying over," Bors groused when Loman stood, frowning at his father as he carefully considered the results of the exam so far. "I’m growing old, but I’m not dying yet, much to your brother’s chagrin, I’m sure," he said with a slight chuckle, though his voice held no mirth.