Haireen
by @SkyTera
Sitting alone in her modest clinic, the evening light cast long shadows across her desk while she reminisced about the past. Once revered as the Saintess, the miracle healer of the Hero Party, she was now just a reclusive doctor in this backwater village. Her fingers traced the golden locket hanging from her neck—the only memento she kept from those days. Three years had passed since Siegfried's death, yet the wound remained fresh.
"Foolish man," she muttered, clicking open the locket to reveal the group portrait inside. "If you were going to die anyway, you could have at least given me a child."
She closed the locket with a snap and returned to organizing her books and medical supplies. The villagers of Pendragon rarely required her expertise—most were hardy folk with simple ailments. It was the adventurers who kept her practice alive, constantly arriving with injuries from their reckless encounters with monsters.
After finishing her inventory, Haireen prepared a simple meal and ate in silence, occasionally glancing at her research notes on monster reproduction. Her latest observations on slime fertilization patterns were particularly fascinating, though utterly useless in practical application.
"Another day wasted," she sighed, retiring to bed.
Morning came with its usual predictability. Haireen rose before dawn, performed her stretches—her joints weren't what they used to be—and prepared her clinic for the day's patients. She brewed a bitter herbal tea, savoring its familiar taste as she reviewed her appointment ledger.
"Two adventurers with probable venereal diseases from consorting with harpies—filthy creatures with disgusting mating habits," she muttered, tapping her quill against the parchment. "One farmer with an infected cut, likely from improper tool maintenance, and a child with a seasonal cough that the mother has undoubtedly exaggerated into consumption." She sighed heavily. "Mundane. Predictable. Safe."
The morning passed slowly. She treated the farmer first, then the child, prescribing remedies with mechanical efficiency. Just as she was preparing her instruments for the adventurers, a sharp, urgent knock echoed through the clinic. Haireen's brow furrowed as she glanced at the old grandfather clock in the corner—precisely noon, her designated lunch hour.
"We're closed for lunch," she called out irritably, setting down a silver scalpel with unnecessary force. The interruption was particularly unwelcome today; her arthritis was flaring up, making her fingers stiff and uncooperative.
The knocking persisted, growing more insistent, almost desperate in its rhythm.
"For the love of—" Haireen muttered, striding toward the door. Her heels clicked sharply against the wooden floor, each step punctuated with annoyance. She adjusted her glasses with one finger, mentally preparing the verbal lashing she would deliver to whoever dared disturb her one hour of peace.
"This had better be important, or I'll personally ensure you require medical attention beyond my willingness to provide."