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Chapter 20 - Ofelia's Determination
🕑 Added 2025-05-22 21:00:02 +0000 UTCOfelia stirred awake as the first rays of dawn filtered through the room's small, fogged window. She blinked groggily, her mind still hazy with sleep, but the comforting warmth pressed against her side kept her from moving immediately. Slowly, awareness returned, and she realized she was nestled against James once more, but this time, she lay on her side, her back gently pressed to his chest.
Her breath hitched as she noticed his arm draped over her, resting lightly against her waist. She could feel the weight of it even through the fabric of her pyjamas. The intimacy of the position sent a flush rising to her cheeks. She was not used to this—this kind of closeness. Not with anyone. But she didn't pull away. Instead, she lay still, uncertain if she should move, afraid of waking him.
Cautiously, she tilted her head and glanced up at him, her heart fluttering at the thought of meeting his gaze. Yet, what she saw made that flutter twist into a knot of concern. James's face was pale, his features tense, and beads of sweat clung to his brow. His breathing, though steady, sounded heavier than normal. Something was wrong.
Alarm shot through her, and her body stiffened. Carefully, she wiggled slowly out from under his arm, her movements deliberate so as not to disturb him. Once free, she sat up and leaned over him, her trembling hand reaching for his forehead. The moment her palm made contact with his skin, she pulled back in shock. His forehead was burning.
Her heart pounded as the realization sank in. He's sick. Oh no, he's really sick.
Panic threatened to paralyze her, her thoughts racing as she stared down at him. For a few moments, she didn't know what to do. Her mind reeled with the weight of the situation. James had been fine yesterday—tired but fine. How had this happened so quickly? Was it something serious? Could it be fatal? The thought made her stomach churn.
Just then, James stirred. His lashes fluttered, and his eyes cracked open. They were glassy, unfocused, but he managed a faint smile when he saw her. "Morning…" he croaked, his voice raspy and weak. He coughed, a dry and strained sound that sent a fresh wave of worry through her. "Think I… caught a cold."
"A cold?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her heart felt like it had stopped. In her experience, illness wasn't something to take lightly—especially not for someone like James, who seemed so unfamiliar with the world around them and its dangers. From him to her, "a cold" could mean something far worse.
James shifted as if to sit up, but his body faltered, and he collapsed back against the pillow. He grimaced, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. "I'll… be fine," he murmured, though even his words sounded weak.
For a moment, Ofelia froze, her fear holding her in place. But then, as if a switch flipped inside her, she moved into action. "No," she said firmly, her voice shaking but determined. "You're not fine. You need to rest."
She leaned over and gently pressed him back down into the bed as he tried to sit again, her hands careful but resolute. His body was too weak to resist, and he allowed her to tuck the blanket snugly around him. Ofelia's mind raced as she assessed what needed to be done. He needed medicine, food, and, above all, time to recover. But she couldn't do it alone.
"Stay here," she instructed, her tone more commanding than she had ever used with anyone before. "Don't try to get up."
James gave her a faint, tilted smile, as if amused by her sudden assertiveness. "Yes, ma'am," he mumbled, though his voice carried none of its usual energy.
She hesitated, unsure if she should leave him, but there was no other choice. "I'll… I'll need money. For the inn and to get medicine," she said quickly, watching his face for any sign of resistance.
To her surprise, he nodded without hesitation. "In my bag," he muttered, his voice barely audible. He gestured weakly toward the satchel resting on the table near the bed.
Ofelia moved swiftly, retrieving the bag and bringing it to him. She watched as he fumbled with it, his hands trembling as he pulled out a small pouch. His fingers struggled with the string, but he eventually opened it and handed it to her. The clinking sound of coins inside made her glance inside briefly. Gold, silver, and bronze coins gleamed back at her—a sum of at least fifteen gold in total.
"Use what you need," he said with a faint smile. His hand brushed hers for a moment, the warmth of his skin a reminder of his fever. "Don't… worry."
Ofelia swallowed hard, clutching the pouch tightly. She nodded, a fierce determination lighting her eyes. "I'll be back soon. Just… don't try to move, all right?"
James chuckled weakly, his eyes fluttering shut. "I'm not going anywhere," he muttered.
Ofelia stood there for a moment longer, watching his chest rise and fall with labored breaths. Then, squaring her shoulders, she turned and left the room, her mind already racing through the steps she needed to take to ensure James would recover. I won't let anything happen to him. I'll make sure of it.
Stepping out of the room, Ofelia closed the door behind her gently, as though any loud sound might disturb James's fragile state. Her steps were quick but hesitant as she descended the creaking staircase to the common room of the inn. The pouch of coins felt heavy in her hands, a tangible reminder of the responsibility now resting squarely on her shoulders.
The innkeeper, a stout man with a slightly graying beard, was wiping down the bar. Ofelia approached him cautiously, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the gazes of a few patrons lingering on her—a quiet judgment she had grown used to. Forcing herself to ignore them, she stood in front of the innkeeper.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice trembling slightly, but she steadied herself quickly. "My master has asked me to pay for four more days here. He's unwell and wants to ensure everything is arranged."
The man looked at her with a raised eyebrow, his eyes flicking from her face to the pouch she held. There was a moment of hesitation, during which her pulse quickened. Would he refuse her because of what she was? But then he gave a small grunt of approval.
"If it's coming from him, then I've no problem with it," he said, reaching for his ledger. "Four days, you said?"
Ofelia nodded quickly. "Yes. And… could the meals be light? Something easy for him to eat? Perhaps soup, if it's not too much trouble?"
The man paused, his hand hovering over the page he was writing in. Then, to her surprise, his expression softened. "Soup, eh? Aye, we can manage that. Tell him to rest up."
Relief washed over her, though her chest still felt tight with worry. "Thank you," she murmured, tossing 16 silver coins on the desk and bowing her head slightly before turning to leave.
Outside, the village was bustling with activity, the air thick with the mingling smells of cooked food, livestock, and dirt. Ofelia moved with purpose, weaving through the crowd as she searched for any sign of an alchemist's shop or someone who might point her in the right direction. Her eyes scanned every stall, every sign, but her lack of familiarity with the village made everything seem unfamiliar and chaotic.
Taking a deep breath, she approached a man standing by a cart of vegetables. He looked gruff but not entirely unapproachable. "Excuse me," she began hesitantly. "Do you know where I could find an alchemist?"
The man turned his head to look at her, his brows furrowing. His gaze lingered on her pointed ears, and his expression hardened. Without a word, he turned his back on her and walked away.
Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but she forced herself to try again. This time, she approached a woman carrying a basket of cloth. "Please, I'm looking for an alchemist. My—"
"I've nothing to say to an elf," the woman snapped, her tone icy as she brushed past Ofelia, muttering under her breath.
The rejections piled up, one after another. Every time she tried, her words were met with disdain, suspicion, or outright hostility. It was as though the entire village had decided her race made her unworthy of assistance. The weight of her failure pressed down on her chest, making it harder to breathe. James is sick, maybe dying, and I can't even find someone to help him because of who I am.
Her steps slowed as despair clawed at her heart. She stood still in the middle of the busy street, the world around her moving on as though her struggles didn't exist. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. She couldn't cry—not now, not when James was depending on her.
It was then that a thought struck her, sharp and sudden. The guard post. She remembered the place vividly, the harsh walls where she had been detained after the bandits were dealt with. And she remembered the captain—Hegor. He had been kind to James, even protective. If anyone would listen, it would be him.
Renewed determination coursed through her. She turned on her heel and headed toward the post, her steps quicker and more purposeful. When she arrived, the guards stationed outside watched her approach with suspicion. Ofelia hesitated, her mind racing. She needed them to take her seriously—no pleading, no mention of herself.
She straightened her back, pushing the fear to the edges of her mind, and spoke clearly. "My master, James, sent me," she said firmly. "He's unwell and told me to come here for help."
The guards exchanged glances, their skepticism evident. One of them opened his mouth to dismiss her, but the other held up a hand. "Wait. James… That the young man who came with Captain Hegor the other day?" he asked.
Ofelia nodded quickly, keeping her expression as neutral as she could manage. The guard who had stopped his companion turned back to her, studying her for a moment before finally saying, "Stay here."
He disappeared into the building, leaving her alone with the other guard, who continued to eye her warily. Ofelia clenched her hands into fists, willing herself to stay calm. Please, let him be here. Let him help.
When the door opened again, the first guard reappeared and gestured for her to follow. "The captain will see you," he said.
Ofelia let out a shaky breath, a glimmer of hope stirring in her chest as she stepped into the post. This has to work. For James.
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Ofelia followed the guard through the stone corridors of the post, his pace brisk but steady, her stomach twisting with every step. The weight of the pouch of coins pressed against her side, but it did little to comfort her. Her mind was filled with James's pale face, his labored breaths, and his weak attempt to reassure her. She had never seen him so vulnerable, and the thought of him slipping away tightened her chest like a vice: What if I'm too late? What if he doesn't make it? She bit her lip, forcing herself to keep moving. James had trusted her with this task, and she wouldn't fail him.
The guard finally stopped in front of a modest wooden door. He knocked twice, then opened it without waiting for a reply. Inside, Captain Hegor sat behind a sturdy desk, the surface cluttered with maps, reports, and a half-empty mug. The lines of stress on his face eased slightly when he recognized her.
"Ofelia?" he said, surprised. His gaze flicked behind her as though expecting to see James. "What's going on? Why are you here alone?"
The guard stepped aside as Ofelia entered. Hegor waved him off with a curt, "You're dismissed. Return to your post." The guard nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
Ofelia hesitated for a moment, clutching the pouch of coins James had entrusted to her. The words stuck in her throat, but she forced them out. "It's James… He's sick." Her voice wavered, and she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. "He has a high fever, and he can barely move. He said it's just a cold."
At the word cold, Hegor's expression changed instantly. The color drained from his face, and his usually sharp, commanding demeanor faltered. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in alarm. "The Winter Cold? It- It can't be we already pass the season..." he muttered, almost to himself, the words heavy with dread.
Ofelia's stomach churned at the fear in his voice. "The Winter Cold?" she repeated, her own voice trembling. "What is that? Why are you so afraid?"
Hegor stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. His jaw tightened as he grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. "It's not just any illness," he said grimly. "The Winter Cold… it's dangerous. Deadly, if untreated. Entire villages eradicated from the map from that thing."
"What do you mean?" Ofelia asked, panic creeping into her voice. "James said it's just a cold. How can it be deadly?"
"Because we don't know what causes it, we don't know how to treat it," Hegor explained as he opened the door and gestured for her to follow. "People just get sick—fevers, coughs, weakness—and most of the time, they don't recover, the fever cooking their brains out. We call it the Winter Cold because it strikes harder in the colder months. Without proper care…" He trailed off, his expression grim.
Ofelia's steps faltered as his words sank in. Without proper care? No… No, this can't be happening. Her chest tightened, and she struggled to keep up as Hegor strode through the streets with purpose.
The morning air was crisp, and the village was already bustling with activity. The sounds of merchants calling out their wares and the clatter of carts filled the streets, but Ofelia barely noticed. Her thoughts were consumed with worry. "Will he be okay?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"That depends," Hegor said, his tone clipped. "We need an alchemist. If anyone can help, it's him."
They arrived at a small shop nestled between larger buildings, its faded wooden sign creaking in the breeze. The smell of herbs and strange potions wafted from within. Without hesitation, Hegor pushed open the door, the small bell above it jingling sharply. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and bitter chemicals. An elderly man with a wiry beard and sharp eyes stood behind a counter, carefully measuring powder into a vial.
The alchemist looked up, his expression annoyed. "What is it this time?" he asked, his tone gruff.
Hegor didn't waste time. "We've got a case of the Winter Cold," he said, his voice steady but urgent. "We need your help, for her master."
The alchemist froze, his hand hovering over the vial. Then, much to Ofelia's shock, he threw his head back and laughed—a loud, raspy sound that echoed in the small shop. Ofelia's fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. How can he laugh? James is dying!
The alchemist's laughter subsided abruptly, and his sharp gaze shifted to Ofelia. His expression was cold and bitter as he spoke. "Your master is already dead."
The words struck Ofelia like a dagger to the chest. Her breath hitched, and she staggered, barely managing to keep her balance. Dead? No… Not James. Please, not him. Memories of loss and helplessness flooded her mind, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She felt her legs weaken as despair gripped her once again.
"Don't you dare!" Hegor roared, slamming a fist on the counter. The jars rattled, and the alchemist looked up in mild annoyance. "Don't you dare say that without offering a solution! Is there something you can do?"
The alchemist shrugged, his expression indifferent. "There's a treatment," he admitted. "A potion. Rare, costly to make and I have it in stock. It has about a thirty percent chance of working. But even if it does, the boy will be bedridden for a month, maybe longer."
"Then why did you say he's dead?" Hegor growled, leaning forward.
The alchemist smirked faintly with a shrug. "Because the potion costs ten gold pieces, can't go any less then that, because the cost of the ingredient don't permit it. Most people can't afford it. And even if they can, most won't pay that much for such slim odds."
Before Hegor could respond, Ofelia stepped forward, her movements sharp and determined. She reached into the pouch at her side and pulled out ten gold coins. The weight of them in her hand was a reminder of James's trust in her. She slammed the coins onto the counter with all her force, the metallic clink echoing through the room.
"Go heal him. NOW," she demanded, her voice trembling with emotion but unyielding in its resolve.
The alchemist stared at her for a moment, clearly surprised by her boldness. He slowly gathered the coins, weighing them in his hand. "Very well," he said. "Where is he?"
"At the inn," Ofelia said. "He's too weak to move."
The alchemist nodded, tucking the coins into a pouch. He grabbed a leather satchel filled with vials and tools. "Let's go. If he's still alive, I'll do what I can."
Hegor placed a hand on Ofelia's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze before they followed the alchemist out of the shop. As they hurried back to the inn, Ofelia's heart raced. Hold on, James. Please hold on. The fragile flame of hope burned within her, small but unyielding.
