The mystic infirmary adjoined to the Saillune Royal Palace was a busy place in recent months. But since Christopher's death, it had been silent for almost a year, accepting only soldiers that had hurt themselves in what anyone would consider stupid ways. A stubbed toe on an abandoned helmet, a gouged eye for dueling with long sticks as if they were swords (out of boredom), an array of bruises for falling off the outer walls, and broken bones for falling asleep on the staircase patrol were the most odd cases the infirmary has had. Now they had a more serious case to work on, someone who was a friend of the crown princess it seemed.

The infirmary itself was a large square room with a high ceiling and many beds filling its interior. The beds were all clean and spotless; one could imagine that such impeccable cleanliness is required in a medical facility. Zelgadis was the only occupant in the room, bare chested and pale with fever. His breathing was an issue of some concern, as it was extremely irregular and labored. Mysteriously, he had no physical contusions anywhere on his skin; no bruises, or cuts, or sores.

A shadow lurked in the doorway leading into the facility, modest and fraught with worry. Her bright gaze filled with concern, she focused on the lone figure in the single occupied cot.

He has... a human body now, she observed, but it's still him...

"YIPE!" Amelia cried all of a sudden. Another feminine shadow that had pinched her in the lower back formed out of the dim hallway, a chastising look in her eyes.

"What are you doing here, Miss Amelia? It's not good for you to see him in this state."

Amelia glanced up at the taller woman, flustered at her unannounced arrival. "Hmf. You know how it goes, Miss Sylphiel. You can't rest when one of your allies is in pain or need of assistance."

Sylphiel had changed little over the years. She maintained her spirit of true humanitarianism, and what better way to show it than to work as a healer for Saillune? If there was a difference in the Priestess from Sairaag, it was in her clothes; like most members of the Saillune Clerics, Sylphiel wore a white robe long to her ankles. An embroidered stole that went over her shoulders, slipped through a sash, and dangled at her knees was the only accessory in her outfit. Sylphiel, glancing over the top of a pile of hot towels that she carried in a basket, gave Amelia a maternal, sympathetic smile. "I know. I know. But you can't stick around here all day. You have a speech to give to the youth assembly at Saillune Academy tomorrow, and you have to rehearse."

Amelia's eyes widened, a look of someone that had been defeated with a move that had been either completely ignored or completely unforeseen. It was for this reason that Amelia hated chess, and perhaps why she hated mindgames even more.

"Gah!" she shouted, "I completely forgot!" Without replying to Sylphiel again, Amelia careened off down the hallway, tripping and stumbling over the length of her mantle as she went. Sylphiel watched Amelia scamper off with the same smile that she tried to carry with her at all times. Sylphiel was no stranger to tragedy, nor to disappointment. Sylphiel stood at the doorway where Amelia stood seconds before, and she began to zone out.

"Sir Gourry," she whispered to herself.

"I-is someone... th-there?" Zelgadis' voice intruded, shaky in spite of his efforts to keep it steady and controlled as all would remember it. Sylphiel dropped out of her daydreams like a hot coal out of someone's bare hands, and she hurried to deliver the heated rags to Zelgadis.

"S-Sylphiel?" he murmured.

"Yes, it's me, Lord Zelgadis," she replied placidly as she settled down in a stool beside his cot. Removing one of the cloths from the basket she carried, she applied it to his forehead and hoped that the steam and moisture of the herbs prepared for his treatment would seep into his skin, into his lungs, and help him heal. Zelgadis remained still as Sylphiel continued to practice the treatment methods that she had learned in the time that she had been in Saillune's service. Her grandfather, Mr. Gray, ran this facility with punctual perfection, and it was to her that the burden of keeping it up fell to after he retired. Now Sylphiel intended to do the same as her grandfather, if her daydreaming didn't get in the way.

"Ame-melia... I have to..."

"Miss Amelia has duties to attend to, Lord Zelgadis," she replied in an attempt to pacify him. "She is very concerned about you, so I'm sure that she will be back as soon as she possibly can."

Through a source that remained a mystery to even him past this day, Zelgadis summoned up the strength to get out of the bed and stumble halfway across the room.

"No! I have to tell Amelia or--!"

Sylphiel panicked and stood from the stool. The care she showed for what happened to the towels from then was diametrically opposed to when she was carrying them; the very dust in the air stayed away from them for fear of divine retribution. But now Sylphiel jogged over to Zelgadis' side, and she laid a delicate hand on his shoulders as he held himself off the ground on all fours.

"Please, Lord Zelgadis. Don't do this. You haven't responded at all to our magical healing. Exhausting yourself won't make Miss Amelia any happier, do you understand?" Though Sylphiel's voice was as soothing and caring as always, Zelgadis was not worried about making Amelia happy. It was about keeping her safe. And it frustrated him to no end that he could not get the warning out to her. If she knew... and she took precautions... then he could rest. Then he could... die.

---&---

A lone figure in gleaming white clothes traipsed out onto the auditorium's stage, approaching a solemn podium emblazened with the coat-of-arms of Saillune's Royal House. Upon reaching the podium, she pivoted 90 degrees on her foot to face the empty expanse of seats hidden by the darkness. Amelia lost herself in her thought, imagining herself as a burning beacon of justice in this dark sea of lost, wandering seekers of the light. Even as she stood calmly behind the podium, her blood surged through her veins with the burning zeal of Saillune, the roaring passion of justice.

"... FRIENDS!" she crowed in a commanding voice, the trademarked cry of an impassioned warrior of love and righteousness. Amelia spread her arms out to her sides, reaching up for one of the intense beams of light produced by the spots for effect.

That's as dramatic as it got. The next several words fell out of Amelia's memory, practically pushing out of her ears and scattering like bits of broken glass across the stage to hide away from her. Amelia switched her eyes left and right, as if she could see those words fleeing in panicked horror at some unforseen fate. She tried to recall them, opening her mouth again and declaring:

"... FRIENDS!" she hollered at the darkness. Something deep in the back of the auditorium toppled with a clattering crash, but other than the sound of a pail rolling down the aisles, it was as silent as the Desert of Destruction.

"... You have a wonderful start, Amelia. But..."

Amelia angled her head down with a crazed look in her eyes, focusing the emanator of the voice in her gaze. There stood Clawfell, adjusting his spectacles and holding a few parchments in his hands. One was rolled open, and it seemed that he was trying to follow along with what Amelia was supposedly rehearsing.

"This isn't going well, Amelia." Clawfell let the parchment roll itself up, and he approached her from the steps on one side of the stage. "Tell me, child -- is something bothering you?"

"Yes!" she shouted readily. "Something is bothering me, Clawfell!" Clawfell tilted his head slightly, standing about six paces from Amelia as she gestured grandiosely with her hands.

"My Ally of Justice and good friend, Mr. Zelgadis, is hurt and I don't know what caused it! Why, I don't even know how bad it is! He has a fever, he is mumbling in a delirium, and no one will let me see him! Why! Is there no JUSTICE in my own home!"

Clawfell adjusted his spectacles, not taken aback by Amelia's rampage in the least. This is what he gets for first working with Philionel, and Gracia, and now Amelia. He knew their mannerisms by heart, and he also knew that sometimes he had to dispense a little common sense.

"Amelia, my child... 'Justice'... does not necessarily mean you get what you want." Clawfell paced for a few feet, explaining this thought so that Amelia could understand it. "I am not only sure, but certain, that your father, Philionel, would enjoy very much to spend every second of the day with you like in older times," he explained quietly with a few gestures. "But he knows that he cannot, because he is king and has duties to attend to."

At Clawfell's words, Amelia's gaze seemed to redden. It became shadowy, as if something other than Amelia had possessed her body. The air seemed to rumble with a thick wave of emotions, and then it dissipated as soon as it came. Amelia fell to her knees and sniffled lightly, a prelude to a good cry. Clawfell sensed something hurting in his heart, and he stepped over to Amelia with a comforting hand to place on her shoulder.

"Rest assured, Princess," Clawfell whispered to the woman-turned-girl sobbing into his robe, "your friend -- Zelgadis, was it? -- will get the best care of its kind here in Saillune. I promise. He will be better. There's no need to worry, my child. None at all..."

She is much too young, Clawfell whispered in his thought, for all this responsibility.