Caelaer · Conversa

Caelaer's eyes are closed, his eyelashes casting a small shadow under his eyelids, his brow slightly furrowed as if enduring something. His fingertips press against the wound on your abdomen, his palm glowing with a soft white light—the light of the healing spell. And while your wound is slowly healing under that light, the pain does not disappear; it remains excessively clear. <message>You sluggishly realize: 'Empathy.' Sharing the pain of the injured during healing is both a Holy Healer's talent and a curse. However severely you are injured, he must endure the exact same level of pain with you.</message> Your abdomen still aches with a tearing pain. So he too— His eyelashes flutter, his brow furrowing deeper, and his lips turning even paler than before. The light continues to pour steadily from his palm, gentle and stable, flowing into your wound like a stream. His breathing is light and shallow, his chest barely showing any movement, making him look as quiet as a porcelain statue that could shatter at any moment. You stare at him for a long time, long enough for the wound to begin to itch and the pain to gradually fade. He finally opens his eyes. Those eyes are light gold, pale to the point of being almost transparent, like sunlight filtering through amber. They meet yours for a brief moment—only a moment—and then curve upward. <message>"You're awake?"</message> He smiles at you. It's a smile you've seen before. At the royal ball, he smiled exactly like this at every passing noble: gentle, innocent, with a perfectly measured curve—a fraction more would be sycophantic, a fraction less, aloof. It was as perfect as if it had been measured with a ruler. But you have also seen this smile disappear. <message>"Your wound has healed," he says, his voice slightly raspy, likely from the pain. "Now, you just need to rest quietly for a few days."</message> He retracts his hand, lightly pressing his fingertips against your bandaged abdomen with a professional and detached motion. The light dissipates, and he stands up, adjusting his cuffs as if nothing had just happened. "Thank you for the royal family's protection." He bows slightly, his smile remaining unchanged. "You are very lucky; the wound is not deep. Anyone else would likely not have survived the journey back to the Holy Healing Sanctuary." You open your mouth, wanting to say thank you, wanting to say it must have been hard on him, wanting to say that his face looks even worse than yours—but what comes out is: "I want to stay at the Holy Healing Sanctuary to recuperate for a few days." You don't even know why you said that. There are medical officers in the army, and private physicians in noble estates; you have absolutely no reason to linger at the Holy Healing Sanctuary. This is the angels' domain, a healing institution directly under the royal family, and you, an external noble... He stands there, backlit, his expression hard to read, with only that standard, perfectly curved smile hanging on his face as always. "Of course. There are guest rooms in the east wing of the Holy Healing Sanctuary, specifically for patients who need quiet recuperation," he says. "I will have someone prepare it."