Rowen J. Ilbert. Sixty-eight years of age. He was a man who had seen two wars in his lifetime, and who had served on the frontlines of both. A brilliant tactician, he had been, and a bit of a legend in the city of Sharilton for his roots there as a humble butler to the local Lord Cline. Jude had never met him, but he'd heard of him many times when he visited his mother's hometown as a young child. It was the sort of name that stuck with him, in the back of his mind, out of sheer respect and admiration, but somehow now it didn't seem to process that such a man was being treated here.
It was the fourth day of his duties. Nothing of note had occurred; Milla had gone home without any further complications, accompanied by her seemingly eccentric sister-Muzet was her name, if he recalled correctly-and he'd fortunately heard nothing since. No deaths in his jurisdiction, nor had Director Rideaux paid any mind to him. Things were going almost too smoothly, not that he would complain, but perhaps that was why fate brought him together with his childhood hero.
The man was old and grey, even beyond his years. That same loneliness he'd seen in Milla, he sensed it in Rowen, too. He hardly came off as a hero in this state, worn down and just... broken. War had taken its toll on him, certainly. They said he suffered from post traumatic stress disorder, a given to say the least, and it was a miracle he could breathe on his own with the state of his lungs. His reputation was a far cry from the young woman, perhaps because he'd fought for Rashugal against both Auj Oule and Elympios, but then again he doubted there was much patriotism in the mixed ranks of hospital staff.
Maybe it was because they thought he would die sooner. It unsettled Jude how accurate that probably was, but there was no desire simply to help people survive; not here, not where healing had become nothing more than a competition.
"Mister Ilbert, good evening." The young doctor smiled, but his weary patient didn't return the gesture.
"Evening, doctor," he greeted with a harsh edge to his voice. "I wasn't aware they allowed your kind to practice medicine."
"'My kind?'"
"Elympions, boy. After what you did to Lord Cline, I can't believe they let you near our wounded." He was half-Elympion, but anyone would know it wasn't them who'd assassinated Cline. That blame fell on Rashugal's former king-a figure he'd been strongly warned against mentioning in Ilbert's presence, considering the history between them.
'Tread lightly,' was his best advice to himself. This man was scarred beyond imagination by whatever it was he'd seen, he was delusional, paranoid. Jude was a new person, moreover a new person who clearly resembled a perceived enemy, and it was his duty to do whatever he could no matter how uneasy he felt. "Sir, I know nothing about all of that. I was born and raised in Rashugal," he reasoned, "during the last year of the war."
He looked over him suspiciously, clenching his hands into loose fists. It wasn't a particularly unbelievable story, but there was no knowing how he would respond. "And what of your parents?"
"A doctor and a nurse."
That didn't put him at ease, but he did visibly relax. "No funny business; I'll have my eye on you," he cautioned, winking at him like he was a child. Of course, in his eyes, Jude was nothing more than a child age-wise.
"So, Mister Ilbert, how are you feeling?"
Before the old man had a chance to reply, there was a loud pounding outside of the examination room and a frustrated cry of, "Sir, please calm down!" from one of the nurses. He glanced warily at the hall, but tried to keep his focus on his patient. He obviously wasn't convincing.
"Go investigate, first. I'll be here when you return; I'm not doing that badly." He chuckled as Jude nodded thanks and slipped silently out of the room, clipboard in hand. Quite a scene was unfolding down the hall, he could see from there, and he hurriedly rushed toward the front desk. Two nurses were attempting to reason with a large, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark suit, and one of them was standing in front of a young girl-she couldn't have been much older than eleven or twelve-who was repeating, "Really, I'm fine!" quietly
"Sir, I'll page the doctor, so please wait here-!"
"What's going on?"
The younger nurse-he felt bad, but he couldn't quite remember the woman's name yet-turned to him hopefully, a smile suddenly crossing her face. "Doctor Mathis! Thank goodness," the nurse gave a sigh of relief. The man immediately turned to face the doctor with a desperate scowl, pointing furiously at the girl.
"My daughter is hurt," he barked. "Clumsy thing fell off her stepping stool when she was cleaning. She cut her shoulder on the counter a few days ago; looks like it got infected."
"I'll be with her in just a moment," he said, his mind still half-occupied with Rowen. He had to finish up in there still, regardless of this man's attitude. Despite the loud protests, he instructed the brunette nurse to take a look at the girl and rushed off.