Chapter 11

"But the visitation of Death should not bring you fear if you are sinless, for he knocks to take you back to the bosom of your Creator"

~

Lady Minerva's Chambers,

The Physician's Wing of the Imperial Castle,

Kingdom of Tristendyre,

Noon of first Phriday of the Second month,

XXI Year of Regency

Distraught from the weakening sorrow, Lady Minerva reclined against the thick, yet soft auburn mattress that dressed the bed assigned to her possession. Jaycob wouldn't be there to assist her, for he was abroad.

Her mind decided to journey to the farthest nooks of her vivid memories: the day Imogen had arrived into her life as a child of mere three years, in age, and much more in soul.

Holding on to Jehu, a lad of about a few years given to a decade, the child had invoked her grace. Lady Minerva had taken young Imogen into her care for more reason than compassion– the bairn had undeniable talent, worthy of the Physician's mantle:

It had been a miserable day, for Lady Syntyche was sinking. Many elders had visited to wish her recovery. Minerva could recall the day like it was just last night: Imogen's little hand in hers, she had taken the child to the bed of the ailing woman.

Age and illness written over her face, Syntyche's etiquettes, demeanour and ladyship had all been billowed and dissolved in the raging seas of terminal sickness and had rendered her being to the shape of a new born baby. Coiled to her core, slowly bringing knees close to her stomach, silenced in pain, eyes unfocussed, it was a saddening sight to see what the crepuscule of life could bring a mortal to.

As the physician, it was only duty to tend to her every last need. That was when Imogen had stepped near to look at the faded eyes of the gaunt face.

"She mayn't be able to see you, child", Minerva had whispered to the little girl, careful not to be heard by Lady Syntyche, for they had been unsure, with her lack of response, of how much the lady's consciousness had granted her to cognise.

She had seen emotion surface in her contrasting eyes before the little one had nodded, saying, "I will hold her hand, because the darkness is terrifying, and we should be sure she doesn't feel lost."

With that being her words, Imogen had sat her little self by the wearied and elderly lady's side, taking her wrinkled and bony fingers in her palms.

There was one magical moment there: the ailing woman's hand had gripped the child's and there was ease. A few minutes on duty had been spent, before Minerva had noticed Imogen's face pale.

Mute, as if faced with the unknown, the child had stared at the door and her eyes had moved steadily with focus, as one's eyes would when their observance followed a moving person... except there was no visible soul walking so into the chamber.

"What's bothering, Imogen?" she had asked, noticing that Syntyche's breathing had become laboured and long and deep.

Fear was one among the various emotions Minerva had been subjected to. Imogen's eyes had been fixed on a perch upon the bed where Syntyche lay. Her breathe had no longer been nasal, but through chapped lips.

The Physician's hands had begun trembling to the rhythm of her dread. As much as it was concrete that all circumstances testified eminent death, Minerva had not wanted to believe that her dear friend was parting.

"He is here", Imogen had whispered, her pupils dilated. Gauging that it was beyond her, the lady had sat by the child's side and placed a hand on her back.

"Do you know him?" asked she, receiving a mute nod.

"He keeps staring at his hourglass, because it looks so regal", she'd said, leaving a cold weight of angst to rest in Minerva's heart. She looked at the face of her beloved friend, where there were much of wrinkles, pain, yet a peaceful serenity, eyes closed and a single tear roll down the side of her eyes to the pillow beneath her head. The grip on the child's hand was still firm.

Minerva had immediately sent for a messenger to spread word that the Chief Reeve was peacefully reclining in endless respite.

All those that had had thanks and respects to offer to the woman, who had used her profession to pronounce Justice to the common folk, visited with flowers and feelings. And finally, at the drop of the last grain in His hourglass, the grip on Imogen's little hands had unwinded...

But all memories shoved aside, it was most certain that this child could see Death in personification.

Lady Minerva closed her eyes in grief. There was much ahead that her apprentice had to see, but her undeserved death stood as barrier between her psyche and all that awaited to be felt.

She considered the various means she could attend to: she had posted a Petition to meet Regent Jehoram, only to be denied the opportunity of refuting injustice; Crescence had left on a secretive venture to find where Imogen may have been arrested; Rivenhove would have null effect if she sought to utilise its essence this day; she had confidentially ordered the preparation of a meal to take to Imogen and hoped for the child to have any appetite. Meeting the girl in person was no option, for drought of time.

Judging from Crescence's intuition earlier that day, it was likely the child was held in the Dungeons. There stood no wiser opinion, for no other place could be suspected more probable.

Lady Minerva knew, from last night's medical request that the Prison had an ailing malefactor. She had requested to test the health of the reported man, in hopes of finding Imogen, but was denied entry therein.

If she wished to redeem the child, offering drugs that would challenge the conscious senses of the guards at the dungeons and thereby plot the damsel's escape was a course overruled. Drugs were solely used for the object of healing or by Druids, with much constraint.

Further, vexing the innocent who were mere pawns in the circumstances would be stooping as low as the Regent himself for staging this injustice. And finally, in demerit, Prison-keepers were always equipped with antidotes.

In all these schemes, however, there was far so much to be done at such short notice, save one thing that served hope: she rose to her feet and knelt by her bed and bowed in prayer.

There was silence in the chamber, with only the demure pattering sound of relentless rain to replace the candid chatter that Imogen would have enlivened the room with. It truly was a miserable eve to endure and the day grew old with darkness shrouding any rays of hope.

Just then, there was a knock and the Royal Physician arose to receive company.

~