Chapter 9: On the Mend

A gorgeous nurse dressed in a bright pink blouse and lacey white skirt handed Ronan a silver dinner plate. He sat up in his heavenly bed and graciously accepted the steaming plate of roasted broccoli and chicken slices that were adorned in melted cheese and herbs.

“Thank you, Angelina,” Ronan said, the delicious scent of the food making him smile brightly. Everybody he’d seen in the temple so far was older than him, and it made him feel all the more pampered, as if catching up on the nurturing he never received growing up.

Tresses of Angelina’s curly blonde hair brushed Ronan’s cheek as she adjusted his pillow and said, “You’re very welcome, Sir Ronan.”

Ronan fixed the plate on his lap and picked up his fork. Chuckling, he said, “I insist, just Ronan is fine.”

Angelina nodded and returned his soft smile. She said, “You’ll have to forgive me, Ronan. I’m very accustomed to the formalities of this temple.”

She lifted the side of his gray doublet, inspected the stitching on his mended wound, then remarked, “It’s really incredible how quickly you’ve healed. Two weeks and it’s almost time to remove the stitches. You’ve gained twenty pounds that you so desperately needed, and have managed to keep pace with me on our walks around the temple.”

Angelina swept some loose hair from Ronan’s face. She admired the stubble on the man, blushed, and said, “I’m quite proud of you.”

Ronan was completely elated, and felt like a king. For fourteen days he’d been nursed by Angelina and her cohorts, and he felt the most incredible that he ever had. There was food always in his stomach, a book to read at his bedside, and always a nurse or Ike to speak with.

“Any progress I’ve made in recovering is solely because of you,” Ronan said to Angelina.

Angelina shook her head and giggled. “I’m not so sure Si— I mean, Ronan. I’ve tended to many wounds on many people. None have shown the resolve that you have.”

As Angelina reached over to fix more blankets over Ronan’s toes, Ronan noticed the Mark of Butterfly through the opening in the back of her pink blouse. On her shoulder blades were a set of beautiful black butterfly wings, and beneath each wing were three tally marks. She was a Butterfly Rank 6, making her a Nightblade Adept capable of powerful magic.

Ronan smirked, knowing that for all her kindness, she was a warrior. The thought gave him hope for the kind of man he could grow to be now that he was on the mend.

“I must be off,” Angelina said. “I’ll be back in two hours after your meal has digested. Then it will be time for your daily massage. Your muscles need to be relaxed for when you’re ready to join our ranks.”

Heeled boots thudded into the room, and Lord Wallace stood to Ronan’s other side.

“He may be joining our training regiment sooner rather than later,” Lord Wallace declared. His cow skin gloves cracked as he secured both his hands behind his back.

Angelina offered him a small bow.

“Adept Angelina. You are dismissed,” Lord Wallace stated.

“Yes sir,” Angelina replied quickly. She left promptly.

Wallace gave her a sinister, disrespectful glare.

“I’m still in conversation with the Master Nightblades here, Ronan. We’re deciding what to do with you.”

Ronan put on his most graceful voice and addressed Lord Wallace by saying, “If you’ll consider having me, I’ll work my hardest to serve the Temple of the Butterfly well, and destroy any monster or Hellsworn that crosses my path.”

Wallace’s eyes sharpened.

“We’ll see,” he responded. He exited the hospital ward in long, loud strides.

Ronan sighed.

He was still getting used to the way this temple functioned. These were not poor kids scraping by and being raised in a snowy tundra; The Temple of the Butterfly was home to only the wealthy, pretentious, and arrogant. Of course, there were still those who had been born from money and were kind, like Angelina and Ike. But the people Ronan had encountered all had a long and rich lineage of respected parents and grandparents. Lord Wallace was the son of a wealthy duke. Angelina’s parents had been esteemed doctors for a king and queen. Even the clumsy Ike of Lanningale was one of many children to the most successful merchant fleet organizer in his side of the coast.

Ronan didn’t know what to say in these conversations, so he simply smiled and listened. What could he share of his own life? From what he could remember, Ronan never knew his parents, and he never had anybody in his life that he looked to as a mother or father. He’d always existed, lonely and wearily, trying to figure out the next step.

Reputations and titles made Ronan realize how out of place he was in the Temple of the Butterfly. He knew how hard he’d have to work for respect, but he was up for the challenge. He blew steam off the dinner plate and attacked his first slice of chicken with his fork.

Ike hobbled into the room on a set of wooden crutches. His brown muttonchop sideburns had greatly grown out in the two weeks they’d been in the hospital ward together, and his hair was out of a ponytail and draping his shoulders. As he moved with his crutches and kept his casted leg outright, loose bits of hair bounced in front of his eyes. For each shambled step Ike took, he blew the hair out from his eyes only for it to fall right back in place.

Despite his huffing, he seemed happy.

“Angelina says at the rate I’m healing, I’ll be ready to join the training ranks again,” Ike hummed.

“Well,” Ronan said between bites, “you’ll have an ally in me.”

Ronan jabbed his fork in the direction of Ike’s cast. “There won’t be a repeat of this kind of thing.”

“Thank you,” Ike said quietly. Ronan could tell that Ike was not used to being shown compassion, and that made Ronan appreciate and connect with Ike all the more.

Ike approached the window beside Ronan and opened the curtains. Ronan flinched at the bright sunlight.

“You really ought to let more sun in here,” Ike commented.

For a moment, the two glanced out the window, watching the Rank 1 and Rank 2 Butterfly Nightblades gather in the training grounds below. It seemed to Ronan that sword technique was not as important as showing off the bright gold buttons on their embroidered pocket vests to one another, or comparing the size of their jewelry.

Ike noticed this too. He nodded his head and said, “You know what I like about you, Ronan?”

The two listened to the Butterfly Trainees remark about their fancy clothing.

“I like,” Ike continued, “that you don’t seem in this trade for the money or the fame. These people want to complete monster contracts to line their pockets with gold to be spent on statues of themselves in town’s centers. But you seem different.”

Ike trailed off, and Ronan ate more delectable food.

“I want to help people,” Ronan said.

“And I believe that,” Ike replied.

Then Ike slapped his head with a hand and nearly lost his balance on his crutches.

“I nearly forgot!” Ike exclaimed. “There’s a Rank 8 Nightblade who wishes to speak with you about the fate of the Temple of the Serpent. Hurry this meal down, won’t you?”

Ronan felt a pang of hope from Ike’s words, as if Ronan was about to meet somebody who shared their sentiments of doing good in the world. A Rank 8 Nightblade was a Master, just as Titanoboa had been.

Ike started to hobble away.

“I’ll tell her you’re finishing up,” he said. “Meet us outside the hospital ward. And Ronan, believe me, this is not somebody you want to keep waiting.”