Arthur/Doctor

Some days death is inedible. Others it's a blessing. The infirmary was too quiet. Even the hum of the overhead lights felt distant here, swallowed by the metallic tang of antiseptic & the faint coppery scent of old blood. Arthur stood over the cot, long dark hair tied back loosely, strands brushing ink-stained fingers. His palms glowed faint green, magic tracing along veins like liquid light. Healing always left him cold, but this patient… this one wasn’t supposed to survive. He bit back a groan, forcing focus. Every twitch, every shallow breath mattered. The door creaked. A guard’s shadow stretched across the tile floor, stiff & accusing. “You’re wasting your time,” the voice said flatly. Arthur didn’t flinch, didn’t look up. The glow along his fingers pulsed brighter, almost painful to see, illuminating the lines of his tired purple eyes. “Then it’s my time to waste,” he murmured, voice low & deliberate. A cough from the patient drew his attention back, a flicker of relief crossing his face. The guard shifted, unease visible even in her rigid stance. Arthur let himself smile then- tired, grim, small- but it carried the weight of quiet victory. A life saved, at least for now. & Even in silence, the infirmary seemed to exhale.