It had been three weeks since Blake had arrived in this strange city built upon a hill.
He had recovered for the most part. His leg still felt stiff sometimes, his ribs ached on colder mornings, and his back had its bad days, but he could move well enough. Rest, food, and clean water had done him a world of good.
He had hovered over Garwin like a mother hen the entire time.
Even now, the meeting with Feowin felt like something out of legend in Blake's mind.
Blake had been sitting beside Garwin's cot, watching over him in the healer's hall, when a man suddenly burst through the doors.
The stranger moved toward the bed with purpose, but before he could take another step, Blake was between them.
"Hey, hold up!" Blake snapped, hands raised but firm. "Whoever you are, he's still fragile! I swear, if you mess him up, I will knock the hell out of you."
The man—broad-shouldered, scarred, and wild-eyed with emotion—stopped in his tracks, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.
"And who are you to deny a father his child?" His voice was rough with barely restrained fury.
Fram moved forward quickly, about to intervene, but Blake didn't back down.
"I'm the guy that kept him alive."
A thick silence fell over the room.
Fram cleared his throat, speaking urgently before things could escalate. "My lord, it is true. Without Blake here, young Garwin would be dead." His tone was intense, trying to defuse the situation before Feowin accidentally harmed the very man who saved his son.
Feowin stood rigid for a long moment, his eyes darting between Blake and Garwin. Then, without warning—
He lunged.
Blake had half a second to tense before he was crushed in a bear-like embrace, ribs screaming in protest as Feowin—a man built like an ox—wrapped him up and held him tight.
Blake squirmed, biting back a groan. He had been through a lot of pain in his life, but this? This was testing his limits. The man was babbling now, voice thick with emotion, half sobbing, half laughing.
Finally, Fram managed to pry Feowin off of Blake—but not before muttering curses about overzealous fathers and reckless fools.
"It's alright, Fram," Blake finally said, rubbing his sore ribs. "He didn't know I'm still banged up."
Feowin barely heard him. He had already dropped beside Garwin's cot, gripping his son's hand in both of his own.
"Will he recover?" Feowin asked, his voice thick.
Blake took a deep breath, shifting back into medic mode. "Yes," he said firmly. "But we'll have to be vigilant. His recovery won't be quick. We'll keep a close eye on him."
Feowin nodded sharply. Then, he turned back to Blake, his eyes full of something raw and unspoken.
Then, he knelt.
"My lord," he said, voice low and reverent, "if ever you have need of me, I swear it by the Valar—you have but to ask. You have given me back my only son, and for that, you have my eternal thanks."
Blake stiffened, feeling completely out of his depth.
"I was just doing my job, sir," he said, voice almost sheepish.
Feowin said nothing—only clapped a massive hand on Blake's shoulder before turning back to Garwin.
From that moment forward, Feowin took it upon himself to repay Blake however he could.
It had started subtly—a plate of food left near his cot, a fresh waterskin handed to him without a word. At first, Blake thought nothing of it, but then he realized—Feowin was always the one doing it.
And he never asked.
The burly man had become almost like an overprotective older brother, full of boisterous laughter and rowdy humor, where Blake had his dry sarcasm and devil-may-care attitude.
It was an odd friendship, but one that worked.
Finally, after weeks of watching over Garwin, Blake had relented.
The young Rider was strong enough now to be moved to his family home, but Blake left strict instructions.
"No physical activity," Blake had said, firm as iron. "I don't care if he begs, whines, or swears on his ancestors—if he's out of bed, I will tie him to it."
Garwin had winced at that, but he hadn't protested.
"The wound is closed," Blake continued, his voice brooking no argument, "but his lungs are still fragile, and they will be for weeks yet. After that, we'll play it by ear—but we will not rush his recovery."
Feowin had agreed wholeheartedly.
Garwin, on the other hand, had remained quiet—but whenever he looked at Blake, there was something else in his gaze now.
Something akin to reverence.
It bothered Blake more than he cared to admit.
Word had spread.
The tale of the wounded stranger who had pulled a Rider back from the brink had swept through Edoras like wildfire.
Blake had noticed it first in the way people looked at him.
The curious glances, the hushed whispers. Then, it became more than just looks. People began approaching him. At first, it was the occasional rider, a soldier with a sore shoulder or an old wound that refused to heal.
Then came the villagers.
A mother with a sick child. An old man whose hands ached in the morning chill. A young woman with a deep cut that was beginning to fester.
Blake helped where he could, offering small treatments, careful advice—but deep down, he knew his supplies wouldn't last forever.
He had to think of something soon.
Because no matter what world he found himself in…
So Others May Live.
Blake sat silently upon the dais of the Golden Hall, his gaze fixed upon the rolling plains below.
The wind whispered through the open terrace, carrying the distant sounds of Edoras—the clang of the forge, the calls of merchants, the neighing of horses in the stables below. But Blake heard none of it.
He was lost in thought.
He didn't notice the assured tread of Freya until she settled beside him, silent for a moment before speaking.
"What troubles you this morn, Blake?"
At least she had finally dropped the formalities. Just Blake. Thank God for small mercies.
He sighed, running a hand through his short, dark hair.
"Your people keep coming to me for healing." His voice was even, but there was a weight behind it. "I don't mind. I'm not complaining. But the thought… it disturbs me."
Freya tilted her head slightly. "Why?"
Blake exhaled sharply. "Because my supplies won't last forever. At the rate I'm using them, I'll run out before long. I need to figure out a way to replenish them."
Freya smirked. "Ah. Thinking of becoming Edoras' chief healer, are you?" There was mirth in her tone.
Blake gave her a flat look. "Freya, your people think I can perform miracles." He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "I can do a lot, sure. But without proper gear? I'm hamstrung. And if I don't come up with a plan soon, there are going to be people I can't save."
Freya's amusement faded, replaced by quiet understanding.
Blake had already taken inventory of his gear.
His weapons were still in good shape. He had expended only a small amount of ammunition, meaning he could stretch his supply for a while longer—if he used it sparingly.
But his medical gear?
That was the real problem.
It was running low. And once it was gone, it was gone.
"You have healers here," Blake said at last, glancing at her. "I wonder if I can meet with them. See if, between me and them, we can think outside the box. Maybe—just maybe—we can find some kind of parallel between my equipment and your own."
His fingers curled absently against the wood of the dais. "Something… anything that can help save lives."
Freya was silent for a moment, watching him. Then, at last, she nodded.
"Then I will arrange it."
Blake found himself in what he could only assume was their version of a hospital.
The air inside was thick with the scent of herbs, damp cloth, and the faint, underlying bite of sickness. Beds lined the long wooden hall, each one occupied by the injured or ill. The room bustled with activity—healers, aides, and apprentices moving about, tending to their charges with practiced hands.
Blake observed it all with a sharp, clinical eye.
He could see things that would make modern doctors scream.
Bandages that should have been changed long ago. Wounds stitched with unsterilized thread. Patients drinking water that was likely carrying illness rather than curing it.
It wasn't malpractice.
They didn't know any better.
Blake exhaled, rolling his shoulders. They were doing their best. And for all his training, for all the medical knowledge he carried from a world far beyond this one…
So was he.
Freya had disappeared into the back, speaking in hushed tones with someone unseen. When she returned, she was not alone.
Walking beside her was a man of short stature but commanding presence.
His graying hair and full beard gave him an air of wisdom, though his frame was thin, almost wiry, more suited to study than war. Unlike most men in Edoras, he wore robes rather than armor, the fabric marked with subtle embroidery—runes of healing, perhaps, or something more ceremonial.
His sharp eyes raked over Blake with clear assessment.
Freya came to a stop beside him, arms folded.
"Blake," she said, raising a brow, "this is Cynric, chief healer of Edoras."
She tilted her head slightly toward the older man.
"I have told him of your request… and he has expressed some interest in speaking with you."
Her tone was amused, but Blake caught the slight emphasis on 'some'.
Cynric was skeptical.
And Blake would have to prove himself.
Cynric studied Blake as if he were a puzzle with missing pieces.
The older healer's expression was unreadable, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he paced slow, measured circles around the younger man. The firelight of the healing hall cast long shadows over the wooden beams, and the murmurs of the sick and wounded formed a constant backdrop.
When he finally spoke, it was with the tone of a scholar addressing an unproven student.
"You claim to be a healer," Cynric said. "A warrior, yes, but also a healer. That is… rare."
Blake said nothing, waiting.
Cynric came to a stop before him. His sharp, gray eyes narrowed.
"Very well. Tell me—what is the nature of a fever?"
Blake exhaled slowly through his nose.
This was a test. And not just a test of knowledge—but of patience.
"A fever," Blake said evenly, "is not a disease. It's a symptom."
Cynric's brow ticked upward slightly, but he said nothing.
Blake continued. "It's the body's natural response to infection. The immune system raises core temperature to try to kill whatever bacteria or virus has invaded it."
A few of the nearby aides stopped moving.
Cynric's lips pursed.
"A fever is a sickness in itself," he countered, voice clipped. "We treat it by cooling the body, by bleeding the bad humors away."
Blake shook his head. "If you bleed a fevered man, you're weakening his body further."
Cynric stiffened slightly. Blake could tell no one had ever dared to correct him before.
Freya, standing nearby, hid a smirk.
"Then tell me," Cynric said, voice edged with curiosity and irritation. "What, in your wisdom, would you do instead?"
Blake crossed his arms. "That depends on what's causing the fever."
Cynric's brows drew together.
Blake took a small step forward, voice calm but firm.
"If it's from a wound infection, you have to drain the wound first. If it's from a sickness, you focus on keeping the person hydrated. A fever itself isn't the enemy—it's what's causing it that you have to treat."
A pause. A long one.
Cynric studied him for several seconds too long.
Blake could practically see the gears turning in his head.
Finally, the old healer exhaled through his nose.
"…Interesting."
Blake smirked. "Glad to be of service."
Cynric shot him a glare. "Do not grow smug, foreigner. I have more questions."
Blake chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "Hit me."
Cynric's expression darkened. "You have been hit quite enough, I think."
Freya snorted. Blake grinned despite himself.
Cynric cleared his throat and pressed on. "You spoke of wound infections. Tell me, then—what are the signs?"
Blake immediately responded. "Redness, swelling, warmth around the wound. If it's bad, the skin will start to streak—red lines running up the limb. If it's really bad, the person will develop fever, chills, confusion."
Cynric's eyes flickered with something between interest and suspicion.
"And how do you treat it?"
Blake hesitated.
Because the real answer was antibiotics.
And Rohan didn't have those.
Cynric caught the hesitation. His head tilted slightly, as if studying something particularly curious.
Blake exhaled. "Ideally? You'd clean it with something that kills bacteria. Boil your tools, boil your bandages. If the infection's bad, you cut away dead flesh before it spreads."
Cynric narrowed his eyes.
Blake could see the wheels turning again.
Because this was not what Rohan did.
They cleaned wounds, yes—but not like Blake did. They boiled water for drinking—but not to sterilize tools.
Cynric had treated hundreds of infections in his time. Some survived. Many did not.
And this strange foreigner—this warrior-healer—was speaking as if he could tip the balance.
Silence stretched.
Finally, Cynric let out a breath.
"…You speak with confidence."
Blake shrugged. "I speak with experience."
Cynric's gaze bored into him for a long moment.
Then, at last—
"Show me."
Blake blinked. "What?"
Cynric gestured to the injured men in the hall.
"Words are air, foreigner. Prove yourself with your hands."
Blake exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
"Alright, old man. Let's get to work."
Blake rolled up his sleeves as Cynric led him toward one of the sickbeds near the back of the hall. The air smelled of herbs and damp cloth, but underneath that, there was the faint sour scent of sickness.
The man lying on the cot was young—maybe twenty, barely older than Garwin. He was pale and sweating, his chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths. His skin had a slight yellow tinge, and his lips were dry and cracked.
Blake took one look at him and knew this was no battle wound.
Cynric folded his arms. "This is Hálric, a stable hand. He fell ill three days past. Weakness, vomiting, fever. His appetite is gone, and he barely rouses."
Blake crouched beside the cot, resting his forearm on his knee. "Alright, let's see what we're dealing with."
He reached for Hálric's wrist, pressing two fingers gently against the skin. The pulse was fast—too fast. His body was burning up, trying to fight something off.
Dehydration. Weak pulse. Fever.
Blake's eyes swept over him again. The yellowing skin. The shallow breaths. The deep lines of exhaustion carved into his face.
"He's poisoned," Blake said bluntly. "Bad food or bad water."
Cynric arched a brow. "Poisoned?"
Blake nodded. "Foodborne illness. Probably from something spoiled or unclean water." He gestured at the pale young man. "His body's trying to flush it out, but he's lost too much fluid."
Cynric tilted his head slightly. "And your treatment?"
Blake took a slow breath, thinking. In a hospital back home, Hálric would be hooked up to an IV within minutes.
But here?
He'd have to do this the old-fashioned way.
Blake turned toward one of the healers. "I need clean water. Boiled."
The woman hesitated, glancing at Cynric, who gave a short nod. She hurried off.
Blake turned back to the sick man.
"Right now, his biggest problem isn't the poison. It's the dehydration. If he can't keep fluids down, he's in real trouble."
Cynric watched him closely. "And how do you plan to make him drink if he cannot keep it down?"
Blake reached into his medical pouch, pulling out a small packet of powder.
Cynric's gaze narrowed. "What is that?"
Blake ripped the packet open with his teeth. "Oral rehydration salts. Salt, sugar, electrolytes. Basically, it tells the body to start absorbing water instead of rejecting it."
Cynric frowned. "Salt and sugar? How does that—"
"The body needs sodium to hold onto water. Sugar helps the cells absorb it faster." Blake mixed the powder into the boiled water as soon as it was brought to him, stirring it quickly before lifting the cup to Hálric's lips.
The young man groaned, turning his head away weakly.
Blake clicked his tongue. "C'mon, buddy. I know you feel like hell, but you gotta drink this."
He slipped an arm behind Hálric's shoulders, lifting him slightly and pressing the cup to his lips. At first, only a few drops made it past cracked lips. Then, finally—Hálric swallowed.
Blake let him take slow, careful sips. Not too much at once—too much water too fast would only make him vomit again.
Cynric watched with unreadable eyes. "So you would treat poison by forcing water into him?"
Blake shook his head. "By keeping him from dying of dehydration, yeah."
He glanced back at the stable hand's pale face. "The next step is figuring out what poisoned him."
Blake turned toward Cynric. "You said he fell sick three days ago. What did he eat?"
Cynric nodded to one of the younger healers. "Find his kin, ask them what he last ate."
The woman rushed off.
Blake moved on, checking Hálric's stomach. He pressed gently against the lower abdomen. The young man whimpered in pain.
Blake frowned. "Tender stomach. It's not just water—this is food poisoning. Something he ate is tearing him up from the inside."
Cynric's expression darkened. "If the food is spoiled, what can be done?"
Blake glanced at the healer. "What do you usually do?"
Cynric's jaw tightened. "We feed them bitter herbs to cleanse the stomach."
Blake thought for a moment. It wasn't a terrible idea. Some herbs had natural antimicrobial properties.
"Alright. We'll use your herbs to fight whatever's still in his gut." He glanced back at Hálric. "But we're also gonna make sure he keeps getting fluids. Little by little."
After the bitter herbs were prepared, Blake fed them to Hálric in slow doses, watching carefully for any reaction. The young man grimaced in discomfort, but did not vomit. That was a good sign.
Cynric watched Blake's every move.
Hours passed.
Hálric's breathing grew steadier. His color remained pale, but no longer deathly so. He kept small amounts of water down, and his pulse, while still weak, no longer pounded in his throat.
At some point, Cynric let out a long breath.
"…You are certain of this method?" His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful.
Blake, still seated beside Hálric's cot, glanced up.
"It works where I'm from. It should work here too."
A pause. Then—
"Hmph."
Blake arched a brow. "Hmph?"
Cynric's expression was unreadable. He studied the sick young man, then Blake, then finally let out a slow breath.
"You are not entirely without wisdom."
Blake snorted. "I'll take that as a glowing recommendation."
Freya, standing nearby, tried and failed to suppress a smirk.
Cynric shook his head, muttering something under his breath. Then, after a pause, he spoke again.
"…Tomorrow. You will work with me tomorrow."
Blake blinked. "Wait, just like that?"
Cynric narrowed his eyes. "Do not mistake me, foreigner. You are reckless. You rely on strange methods. But I have seen charlatans and fools, and you are neither."
He turned sharply on his heel.
"Be here at dawn."
And just like that, Cynric was gone.
Blake watched him go, shaking his head.
"I think I just got hired."
Freya laughed outright. "Welcome to Edoras, healer."
The next morning, Blake was already waiting when Cynric entered the healing hall.
The old healer arched a brow. "You are punctual."
Blake, sitting on a wooden stool near the fire, stretched his arms overhead with a wince. "Figured if I was late, you'd kick my ass."
Cynric snorted. "That remains a possibility."
Blake grinned. Freya, leaning against the doorframe, rolled her eyes in amusement.
Cynric moved swiftly through the hall, checking on patients with the ease of a man who had done this for a lifetime. He murmured instructions to his aides, examined wounds, and only once glanced in Blake's direction.
Then, one of the younger healers burst through the doors.
"Master Cynric! A rider has fallen—his leg—"
The urgency in her voice made Cynric's eyes sharpen.
Blake was already standing.
The injured man lay upon a wooden table, his face pale and twisted in agony. His breathing was ragged, his hands clawing at the edge of the table as if bracing for the pain.
Blake didn't need to ask what was wrong. He saw it immediately.
A compound fracture.
The rider's leg was badly broken—split just below the knee, the bone punching through the skin like jagged ivory. Blood pooled beneath his thigh, soaking the linen beneath him.
Freya hissed in sympathy. Some of the aides turned away, looking ill.
Cynric merely folded his arms. "The man was thrown from his horse. His leg shattered upon the rocks. His kin carried him here."
Blake nodded absently, already scanning the injury. He could feel the tension in the room—the younger healers watching, waiting to see what he would do.
"Alright," Blake muttered, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's do this."
The rider groaned, sweat dripping from his brow. His face was contorted in agony, his body tensing with every shallow breath.
Blake turned to one of the aides. "What do you use for pain?"
The woman hesitated. "We…we have willow bark, my lord."
Blake grimaced. Not strong enough.
He dug into his med pack, pulling out his dwindling supply of painkillers. His hand hesitated. Every pill was one less for later.
But this man needed it now.
He crushed the pill, mixed it with water, and gently tilted the cup to the rider's lips.
"Drink."
The man obeyed, though his hands shook. Blake turned to Cynric.
"How long do your herbs take to work?"
"A long while," Cynric admitted. "And they do not dull the pain completely."
Blake nodded, watching the rider's breathing slow just slightly. The painkiller was starting to take effect.
But there was no time to wait.
Blake exhaled. "Alright, this is going to get messy."
Cynric frowned. "You speak as if it is not already."
Blake ignored him. "I need boiling water, clean bandages, and something to hold him down."
"Hold him down?" One of the aides paled.
"If he moves while I do this, it'll get a hell of a lot worse."
Cynric gestured, and two of the stronger aides stepped forward, gripping the rider's shoulders and arms.
Blake leaned over the man, gripping his thigh firmly. "Listen to me. I know this hurts, but I need you to stay as still as possible. Do you understand?"
The rider gave a weak, jerking nod.
Blake adjusted his grip, planting his feet. This part was going to suck.
He met Cynric's gaze. "I need you to pull."
Cynric blinked. "You want me to—"
"I'll guide the bone back in. You pull the leg straight. If we don't do this right, he'll never walk properly again."
Cynric's face was a mask of skepticism, but after a pause, he moved to the opposite side of the table and gripped the man's calf.
Blake took a slow breath. "On three. One… two…"
He pulled on two.
The rider screamed, the wet, sickening sound of bone grinding against bone filling the air. A few of the aides turned away, looking like they might retch.
Blake worked fast, forcing the jagged edges back into place, guiding the broken limb with precise, practiced movements.
Then—
It was done.
The leg was aligned once more.
The man was half-conscious from the pain, sweat pouring down his face.
Cynric looked at Blake with something unreadable in his expression.
Blake exhaled, wiping sweat from his own forehead. "Now, we splint it."
One of the aides handed him two wooden slats, and he carefully positioned them along either side of the man's leg.
"Tight, but not too tight," Blake muttered, securing them with clean strips of cloth. "He needs circulation, but we can't let the leg shift at all."
Cynric nodded slowly. "This… I understand."
Blake stepped back, rolling his shoulders. "He'll need rest. A lot of it. He won't be walking for weeks."
Cynric studied the unconscious rider. "…And if he had been left to us?"
Blake knew the answer. The man would have been crippled for life—if he survived at all.
But he didn't say it. He just looked at Cynric and shrugged.
"Doesn't matter. He'll walk now."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, finally—
Cynric let out a breath. "Hmph."
Blake snorted. "There it is again."
Cynric shook his head, muttering something in Rohirric before turning toward the watching aides. "Well? Do not just stand there! Prepare a bed for him—carefully!"
The healers rushed to obey.
Cynric turned back to Blake, studying him for a long moment. Then—
"Again, tomorrow."
Blake smirked, shaking his head. "You're a tough man to impress, old-timer."
Cynric's eyes glinted. "And you are reckless."
He turned sharply and walked off, robes billowing behind him.
Blake exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
Freya grinned from where she stood. "He likes you."
Blake snorted. "That's his friendly voice?"
Freya chuckled, pushing off the wall. "You did well, Blake Takahashi."
Blake watched as the aides carefully carried the wounded Rider to a proper resting place.
He had done his job.
And tomorrow, he would do it again.
By the third day, something had changed.
Blake could feel it the moment he entered the healing hall. The air was thick with urgency, the usual murmurs replaced with sharp commands and hurried footsteps. It wasn't just another day of tending wounds. This was different.
There was a crowd. Freya was there, her arms crossed, her expression carefully composed, but there was tension in the way she stood. The younger healers hovered nearby, their faces uncertain, some pale with what looked like fear. Even Cynric was rigid, his hands folded behind his back as he stood over a table at the center of the hall.
Blake stepped forward, and the gathering parted.
The moment he saw the man lying on the table, his stomach clenched.
A thick, jagged wooden stake was buried deep in the man's side, just above the hip, driven through his lower back. Blood had seeped into the wooden surface beneath him, but not in great enough quantity to mean he was already gone. He was still alive, but barely. His breath came in shallow gasps, his face waxy with pain, sweat beading along his forehead.
Freya spoke first. "His name is Edric. A farmer. He was mending his fence when part of it collapsed. He fell onto a broken post."
Cynric's voice was quiet but firm. "You have treated wounds, foreigner. You have set bones. But this… this is beyond saving."
The healers watching murmured their agreement. Some looked away, as if unable to bear watching the inevitable.
Blake ignored them.
He moved closer, crouching beside the table, pressing his fingers against Edric's throat. His pulse was weak, but it was there.
"Edric," he said, his voice steady. "Can you hear me?"
The man's eyelids fluttered, but he didn't respond.
Blake pressed lightly along his abdomen, feeling for swelling, checking for any signs of internal rupture. There was none. If the intestines had been punctured, his belly would already be distended, swelling from the poison of his own body. If his stomach had been hit, he'd be vomiting blood.
Blake exhaled slowly. "It missed the gut."
Cynric's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered.
Blake pressed further along Edric's back, his fingers gentle but firm, searching for swelling along the lower spine. No sign of major arterial bleeding yet. That was a small mercy. If the stake had severed an artery, the man would already be gone.
When Blake sat back on his heels, he was met with silence.
"You think you can remove it without killing him?" Cynric asked.
Blake met his gaze without hesitation. "Yes."
A long pause stretched between them. Then, finally, Cynric gave a single nod.
"Then prove it."
Blake pushed to his feet. "I need boiling water. Lots of it. Now."
One of the younger healers hesitated, eyes flicking toward Cynric as if seeking approval. When the old healer gave a sharp nod, they rushed off to comply.
Blake turned to Freya. "Hold him down."
She frowned. "Hold him?"
"If he moves when I pull this out, he'll tear himself apart."
Without another word, she moved into place. Cynric followed suit, pressing a firm hand against Edric's chest while Freya braced his legs.
Blake exhaled, steadying himself. The stake was slick with blood, buried deep in torn muscle. No sudden movements. No twisting. One pull. One smooth motion.
He wrapped his hands firmly around the wood, feeling the uneven grain beneath his fingers.
"On three," he said.
"One."
"Two."
He pulled on two.
The wood slid free with a sickening wet sound. Blood welled up instantly, dark and fast.
"Pressure!" Blake barked.
Cynric moved instantly, pressing clean linen to the wound, his hands steady. Blake pressed down hard over his, trying to slow the bleeding.
"Keep him breathing," Blake ordered, not looking up.
Freya leaned over Edric, murmuring something soft but firm. The man shuddered, his pulse fluttering beneath Blake's fingers.
Not yet. Not yet, dammit.
The aides returned with boiling water. Blake soaked clean cloth in it and packed the wound tightly, layer by layer. Cynric watched, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"You pack the wound before closing it," he murmured.
Blake nodded without looking up. "If I close it now, blood will pool inside. He'll go septic."
Cynric said nothing, but Blake could feel his eyes on him, calculating, assessing.
When he reached for his last sutures, he already knew they weren't enough.
"Freya," he said, his voice tight. "I need hair."
She blinked. "Hair?"
"Horsehair. Strong. Clean. It'll hold."
She hesitated only a second before vanishing through the door. Within moments, she was back, a length of golden horsehair in her hands.
Blake dunked it into the boiling water, watching as it curled slightly before pulling it free and threading the needle.
His hands moved on instinct, stitching with quick, precise movements. Edric's breathing was still shallow, but it remained steady. That was something.
One final knot. One final press of clean linen.
And then—it was done.
Blake sat back on his heels, exhaling slowly.
Freya looked between him and the still-breathing man. "Is… is he going to live?"
Blake wiped his bloodied hands on a cloth, exhausted down to his bones.
"If he makes it through the night, he has a chance."
Silence hung in the air.
Then—Cynric exhaled sharply. And laughed.
A small, short chuckle, but a laugh nonetheless.
Blake blinked. "Uh. What?"
Cynric shook his head, smirking. "Reckless. Stubborn. Foolish." He glanced down at Edric, still breathing. "...And yet."
He looked back at Blake, and for the first time, there was something new in his expression. A nod. Acknowledgment.
"You are a healer, Blake Takahashi."
Blake let out a slow breath.
And for the first time since he'd arrived in this world—he smiled…a full true smile.
Later that night, Blake sat with Freya and Cynric in what passed for the old healer's study. It was a modest space—cluttered with scrolls, dried herbs, and the faint scent of aged parchment. A small fire crackled in the hearth, throwing flickering shadows against the walls.
The night was quiet save for the distant sounds of the city beyond Meduseld's walls. Somewhere out there, Edric still breathed. His fate was no longer in their hands. Blake had given him a chance—but the fight was his own now.
Cynric poured wine into three simple cups—a dark, rich vintage from Gondor. He took a long sip, savoring it before setting the bottle aside.
The old healer's eyes were sharp, calculating. "So, healer Blake Takahashi, what do you truly require of me?"
Blake swirled the wine in his cup, watching the firelight dance across the surface. "My equipment isn't limitless." His voice was quiet but steady. "One day, all of it will be gone. The bandages, the medicine, the tools—they will run out. If I do nothing, I'll become just another set of hands, no more skilled than any of your other healers." He exhaled slowly. "I've spoken to Freya about this at length. I want to find a way forward—to work together, you and I, to advance medicine here. To make sure that when my supplies are gone, I'm still able to save lives."
Cynric arched a brow, amusement flickering behind his lined features. "So you do not seek to replace me, then?" He chuckled, taking another slow sip of his wine.
Blake huffed a quiet laugh. "No, trust me, I don't want your job." He tapped his fingers against the cup absently. "I just want to save as many lives as I can."
Freya sat back, watching the exchange in silence. There was something profound in this moment, something weighty. It was more than just words between two men—it was a meeting of minds, of purpose. Arrogance and tradition had been set aside, not for pride, not for power, but for something greater.
Years later, she would look back on this night as one of the most beautiful moments to ever grace the world of men.
Cynric studied Blake for a long moment before nodding. "Show me, then."
Blake raised a brow. "Show you?"
The old healer set his cup down. "The equipment you speak of. If we are to build something new, let me first understand what you hold in your hands."
Blake didn't hesitate.
He pushed aside his wine and began unpacking his med kit.
One by one, he laid out the tools of his trade—the last remnants of a world that no longer existed for him. He unrolled bandages unlike any the Rohirrim had seen, syringes filled with medicines that would be lost to time, needles finer than anything Cynric's hands had ever held.
As he worked, he explained each tool's purpose, each method, each treatment. His voice was steady, patient.
Freya listened, though much of it was beyond her understanding. But Cynric—he understood.
He did not scoff at the unfamiliar. When something puzzled him, he questioned it—not out of doubt, but out of hunger for knowledge. He leaned forward, inspecting the tools with the keen eyes of a scholar, asking about the stitching techniques Blake had used, the cleansing methods, the materials that made up his bandages.
For the first time, Cynric was not just a healer of Rohan—he was a student.
At last, when the kit had been fully laid bare, Cynric leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled before him.
"If you could change my halls of healing, Blake Takahashi—how would you do it?"
Blake rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling. "First, drop the 'healer Blake Takahashi' thing."
Cynric smirked. "And what shall I call you then?"
Blake smirked back. "Blake. Or Takahashi. Take your pick."
The old healer nodded. "Then I am Cynric to you." His expression grew serious again. "I hear enough 'Chief Healer' dribble from those who walk through these doors."
He gestured toward the open hall beyond them, where the wounded lay in their beds. "I still run this place, and I always will. But if you truly wish to change how things are done—if you believe we can save more of our people—then I would have your assessment." His gray eyes met Blake's, unwavering. "What improvements would you make?"
Blake sat up, setting his wine aside, his expression turning serious. "With something simple."
Cynric arched a brow. "Simple?"
Blake nodded. "Cleanliness."
The old healer scoffed lightly. "We already clean wounds, boil water, and burn soiled bandages."
"Yeah, and it's not enough," Blake countered. "I saw your apprentices today. Saw them tending to the sick, using the same cloth from one patient to the next, dipping their hands in the same water basin without thinking. I get it—you're doing what you can. But that kind of thing is killing people."
Cynric frowned. "How?"
Blake drummed his fingers on the table, thinking for a moment. "You ever have a man recover from an injury, only for his wound to turn foul days later? Fevers take him, even when the wound itself should have healed?"
The old healer exhaled through his nose. "Aye."
Blake nodded. "That's not chance, or bad fortune. It's something we call cross-contamination. When you touch one wound and then another without properly cleaning your hands, you're spreading something invisible—germs. Tiny things, too small to see, but they can kill just as surely as an orc's blade. They live on your hands, your tools, even the bandages you think are clean."
Cynric listened, his fingers tapping lightly against his cup.
Blake leaned forward. "It's why boiling water helps. Heat kills them. But if you don't scrub your hands properly—really scrub them, with fresh water, not the same basin used by everyone—those germs stay. And they spread. And people die because of it."
Freya had gone still, her usual smirk replaced with quiet contemplation.
Cynric rubbed a hand over his beard, thoughtful. "So… something as simple as washing hands properly could save lives?"
Blake nodded firmly. "Not just could. It will."
The old healer exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "It is such a small thing…"
Blake gave a half-smile. "The smallest things are usually the deadliest."
Cynric let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head again, but there was no mockery in his gaze. Only consideration.
He took another sip of wine before finally speaking. "Very well. Show me."
Blake smirked. "Thought you'd never ask."
Blake pushed his wine aside and stood, stretching out his still-sore leg before stepping over to the small washbasin in the corner of the room. It was filled with cloudy water, used by who knew how many hands throughout the day.
He looked back at Cynric. "Alright, humor me. Get me some flour."
Cynric arched a brow. "Flour?"
"Yeah. Or anything that leaves a fine powder on your hands—chalk, ash, whatever you've got."
Freya leaned forward, curious now. "What are you planning?"
Blake grinned. "A lesson."
Cynric muttered something about strange southern rituals, but he called for an apprentice to fetch what Blake asked for. A few minutes later, a small bowl of fine ground flour was placed before him.
Blake dusted his hands with it, coating them evenly, then clapped them together lightly, sending a small puff into the air. He held them up, wiggling his fingers.
"This," he said, "is what you can't see. The germs I was talking about? They stick to your hands, your tools, your bandages. Just like this."
Cynric watched with interest as Blake stepped toward the washbasin and dipped his hands in. He gave them a quick rinse, shaking off the excess water, then pulled them out and held them up again.
The flour was still there. Some had clumped together, but much of it remained, settled in the creases of his palms, under his nails, between his fingers.
Cynric's expression sharpened slightly.
Freya leaned in. "It's still there."
Blake nodded. "Exactly. And that's what happens when you just rinse your hands without scrubbing them properly. It looks clean, but the danger is still there."
Then, he stepped aside and poured himself a fresh bowl of clean water. This time, he scrubbed—really scrubbed.
He ran his fingers over his palms, scrubbed between each knuckle, under his nails. He did it for a full thirty seconds, until the water had turned murky.
When he pulled his hands free and dried them with a clean cloth, he dusted them again with flour.
Nothing stuck.
Freya exhaled, shaking her head in quiet amazement.
Cynric leaned forward slightly, his eyes flicking between the two basins.
"You're saying the same thing happens with these… 'germs'?" the old healer murmured.
Blake nodded. "Every time you touch a patient with unwashed hands, you could be spreading an invisible killer. It doesn't matter if you don't see the dirt—it's there."
Cynric was silent for a long moment. Then, without a word, he rolled up his sleeves and reached for the clean water.
He scrubbed his hands.
Properly.
And when he pulled them free, he studied them like a man seeing them for the first time.
Blake wasn't done. Now that he had their attention, he moved to a set of fresh linen bandages stacked on the nearby shelf.
"These," he said, holding one up, "are clean, right?"
Cynric nodded. "Freshly woven."
Blake didn't dispute it. Instead, he rubbed the bandage between his fingers, handling it like anyone else would. Then, without thinking, he reached back into the flour bowl, pressing his fingertips into the fine powder before pulling them out again.
The bandage, once clean, was now dusted with white.
The meaning wasn't lost on Cynric. His lips pressed into a firm line.
Blake shrugged. "You touch a wound. You grab a fresh bandage without cleaning your hands first. Guess what happens?"
Freya exhaled. "You're spreading sickness even when you think you aren't."
Blake nodded. "Now imagine if that was blood, or dirt from the last patient you treated. Every single time you skip cleaning your hands, every time you reuse a cloth without washing it, you're gambling with someone's life."
Cynric turned toward the healers standing in the doorway, watching in silence. He gestured toward the murky water, the once-clean bandage, then looked at Blake with something unreadable in his expression.
"And you say this will stop the fever-sickness? The wasting that takes men who should have healed?"
Blake nodded. "It won't stop everything, but it'll stop a lot."
The old healer was silent for a long moment.
Then, finally—he turned to the apprentices.
"Throw out the old basins," he said, his voice even. "From now on, water will be drawn fresh for each patient."
One of the younger healers hesitated. "But Master Cynric, that will take more time, more effort—"
Cynric cut him off with a sharp look. "Then we will make the effort. We will boil more water. We will scrub our hands as he has shown. We will change bandages with clean hands, or not at all."
The apprentices nodded quickly, rushing off to obey.
Blake let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Damn. You move fast when you want to."
Cynric smirked. "If I am to suffer your presence in my halls, Takahashi, then I would have you teach me something worth my time."
Blake huffed a quiet laugh. "Well, good news—I'm full of useful knowledge."
Freya grinned, clapping him on the back. "And reckless ideas."
Cynric merely raised his cup once more, watching as the healers of Edoras began to change their ways before his very eyes.
Cynric drained the last of his wine, setting the empty cup on the table with a quiet clink. His gaze drifted toward Blake's arm, where the patch on his sleeve bore the words he had come to respect, though he had only just learned them.
"That motto of yours… So Others May Live." The old healer's voice was thoughtful, almost reverent. "Those words… they are truly special."
Blake nodded, his fingers absentmindedly brushing over the patch. "Yeah," he murmured. "It's what we live by. The motto of every man who does what I do."
Cynric exhaled softly, his expression unreadable as he pushed himself to his feet. He moved toward the doorway of his study, standing in the threshold, his eyes sweeping over the healing hall beyond. The dim lantern light cast long shadows across the floor, the flickering glow illuminating the patients resting in their cots.
Edric still breathed.
The Rider with the shattered leg still mended.
The young man who had come to them days ago, fevered and weak, had left healthy.
Cynric took a slow sip of wine, his gaze lingering on the great wooden beams arching over the hall, the very bones of Edoras itself. His lips pressed together, and when he spoke, his voice carried a quiet weight.
"I will commission a plaque," he said at last, gesturing toward the space above the entrance. His hand moved with a decisive motion, as if he were already placing it there in his mind. "Above that door. So that all who enter will see it." He glanced back at Blake. "It will read, So Others May Live."
Blake stilled.
"All who wish to learn here will aspire to that creed," Cynric continued. "And when my time comes, I will pass those words down to the one who takes my place." He took another sip of wine, then let out a breath. "Words to live by."
Blake felt something settle deep in his chest, something he couldn't quite name. He raised his cup, meeting Cynric's gaze. "Damn right they are."
Their cups clinked softly, the sound small, almost insignificant.
But Freya knew better.
She stood back, her arms crossed, watching the two men before her. A warrior and a healer, two souls from different worlds, bound now by a shared purpose.
And she knew, without a doubt, that she had just witnessed something greater than either of them realized.
Something that would change Rohan forever.