RE: Monarch - Chapter 192: Lillian IV.

Lillian walked down the long, winding road that would eventually lead her to the apothecary. It was approaching evening now, the streets of Topside filled with day laborers returning home after a full shift, with tired eyes and aching backs.

After a short—yet long enough to be polite—deliberation, she had declined the fox’s offer, having decided that while it was one thing to entertain a demon’s fancy while they blocked your way, it was a different sort of foolishness entirely to follow them elsewhere. It seemed disappointed by the outcome, but didn’t argue or try to sway her.

It had simply let her go.

And when she looked back, the fox had vanished into the ether.

Even if it wasn’t some sort of trap, or trick, the idea of learning to hunt magical creatures that carried bezoars sounded like the beginning of a far-fetched fairy tale. One that skewed cruel. Magical creatures were supposedly much more intelligent than their mundane counterparts. She’d never intentionally harmed something intelligent in her life, let alone hunted it for parts. If that was where alchemy led, perhaps Gunther was wise to steer clear of it.

On some level she knew that this was a lie. A more pleasant cover for the murkier, more difficult to define reason that was as multifaceted as it was difficult to face.

It began with her mind. Or rather, the shortcomings of it. Yes, she understood the basics of apothecary work, but that didn’t come from a knack or talent. It came from being raised by someone who practiced the craft, and long days and evenings of eye-numbing study, during which she barely retained half of what she read.It took multiple rereadings to commit anything remotely complicated to memory. Even now, with her knowledge finally approaching a workman’s level of competency, she constantly forgot the names of plants and ingredients.

She wasn’t pretty, either. Freckles ran rampant over her face. Her eyes were too close together, and she had a slight hunch from all the nights spent leaning over dusty books illuminated by candlelight.

If she was honest, the reason she’d turned the fox down, with all his murmurings of her exceptionality and enigmatic qualities? It was because he was clearly wrong. He’d confused her for someone else. Someone better. Looking back over the course of her life, all the way to the present, there wasn’t a single thing about her that stood out as anything other than average.

After the sobering events of the day, she could see with clarity that her recent fixation on alchemy was nothing more than another in a long line of fleeting obsessions. Before alchemy, infrastructure had fascinated her, coming up with ways to improve and streamline the tight, winding roads of Topside. Before that, she’d latched on to blacksmithing, enthralled with the forging and shaping of molten metal. That too had faded.

And before that?

She was fairly certain she’d wanted a pony.

The fox was wrong. There was nothing special about her.

Even now, she could feel her desire to cross-section the bezoar and start another experiment fading. The fox had said that with flax seeds, the recipe would have failed, regardless. She could picture so easily how it would end. The bezoar growing smaller and smaller still, as she tried countless combinations of ingredients, and mixtures, only to one day find that it had shrunk to nothing, and despite her hours and efforts, she had nothing to show for it.

And the mere idea of going through all that for nothing felt… exhausting. Pointless.

Maybe, living in Gunther’s shadow wasn’t nearly so terrible as she’d thought.

A familiar weariness came over her as she realized all the accounts she’d need to settle. She would eventually use up the bezoar. It was the least she could do for the fox who’d misjudged her so poorly. Once she expended it—most likely with minimal result, she’d need to pay old man Rin back. Embarrassing as that would be. It would take her a while to save up her earnings from the apothecary, but this was important. She might not be noteworthy but she could, at the very least, maintain her integrity.

There was a groan from a nearby alley, so soft it was almost imperceptible. Lillian stopped in place, peering into the void.

The groan came again, belabored and pained.

With the moon’s position, the alley was black, a threshold of pitch darkness delineating it from the dimly lit path. A cruel voice whispered to her, a voice that only came to her when she was at her lowest.

Once today wasn’t enough? Must you thrust yourself into danger again, and again, and again?

No. Even if she’d resigned herself to her father’s shadow, she was still an apothecary. If someone was hurt, or sick, she had a responsibility to look. To diagnose. And if possible, to aid.

Lillian steeled herself. And stepped over the threshold.

It took nearly a minute for her eyes to adjust. And once they did, she gasped, her stomach turning. Before her was the silhouette of a boy laying on his back, arms splayed out to either side. As her eyes adjusted further, the severity of his condition came to light. There were wing-like outlines on his neck, the distended flesh around the imprint dark and purple. His hair was clumped and matted with blood, speckled with little flecks of white she realized, to her horror, were probably bone fragments.

She knelt down over him, attempting to be as gentle as possible as she pulled his eyelids back and checked his pupils. As she’d feared, one was tiny enough to be a period on a printed page, the other so large the iris was barely visible.

“Oh, no… oh you poor thing.”

“Rough… night…” the boy slurred, the syllables of his words barely distinguishable from each other.

“Looks that way.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear only to have it fall back down. “Can you tell me who you are?”

“Arn…” Arn? That didn’t sound like a name. Was he just parroting what she said, or did she mishear it?

“Can you tell me your family name?” If the boy was lucid enough, maybe she could alert his family to what had happened. She couldn’t move him like this.

“…icks…” the boy said, then fell quiet. She tapped his face as gently as she could, and asked more questions. Tried to rouse him again, keep him awake. But there was no response.

Tears pooled in her eyes, obscuring her vision. “Gods. I’m completely useless.”

Average. Not special. Useless. Lillian.

“Leave me alone,” Lillian hissed, barely realizing she was responding aloud.

To what end?

“That would be telling,” she snapped. Then her hand brushed her satchel, and something occurred to her. Something important. In a rush, she undid her satchel, reaching beneath the clump of ruined moss and withdrawing the glowing bezoar. It was an alchemical catalyst, but that was only one use. According to the texts, that was almost outshone by its potent healing qualities.

Unsure of how to draw them out, she held the bezoar to his lips.

It shuddered in her hand and dissolved, glowing particulates fragmenting, drifting into the boy’s mouth and down his throat. Lillian watched in abject wonder as the bruises on his neck faded. When she bent down to check, the wound on his head—gaping and angry moments before—was already half-closed. His eyes flicked open, pupils much closer to equal.

“We need to get you somewhere safe,” Lillian said. He didn’t seem to understand her, but responded as she hauled him up, clinging to her for support. “Just stay awake, and keep listening to the sound of my voice…”