Anastasia's House

The moon hung lazily in the air above the town of Port Argentium, casting its pale light over the rooftops of the small, freshly built houses. At this hour, the vast majority sat quiet and dark, the residents deep in their slumber after a long day of hard work. The dead of night cast its stillness over the streets around them, the air carrying only the sounds of the distant waves, the gentle breeze through the nearby trees, and the steps of a guardsman’s boots as he made his nightly rounds, quietly grumbling to himself about the night shift.

Otherwise, not even the mice stirred at this hour.

One house remained the exception, however, and one nobody batted an eye at any more. The residence of one Doctor Anastasia Vulpin, the chief surgeon of the town’s infirmary. Her neighbours had grown to understand that she kept odd hours, and many even suspected that she didn’t sleep at all, so the light in the downstairs parlour and the upstairs bedroom flickering through the closed blinds wasn’t cause for a second look.

Not a long enough look to notice the open window on the building’s second floor at least…

The streets outside remained silent save for the distant footfalls of the lone guard, and soon even they faded into the distance. Nobody knew that Gray had even set foot outside, save for an upset cat who had likely already faded back into the shadows themself.

It would be immediately obvious that Gray had found himself in a bedroom. In one corner opposite the widnow was the standard, slightly larger than single bed, which had been made up very neatly. The sheets were the same as the others rationed out to every other household nearby - an off white colour, stitched in places where it had to be salvaged, and with a deep blue woollen blanket above the mid-sheet, which saved the occupant from the warm, but itchy material. The pillows were once again standard, but one stood out, one that looked hand stitched. It didn’t match the bed at all, with its colour being a mix of yellow and orange swatches, each one decorated with a different pattern, but the ‘thank you’ stitched into the front of the pillow was clear as day. It looked quite a bit more comfortable than the standard pillows too. Beside the bed sat an end table with a drawer in its top, which supported a cup, a small jug of water, and a lantern that lit up the room.

Beside the windows that Gray had clambered through, sat a desk which had clearly been moved to the side, as if someone had been inspecting Gray to arrive via the window. The desk itself seemed entirely unnoteworthy, not like the desk in Anastasia’s office, which had been inlaid with all sorts of patterns. The only thing of note about the desk was the stacks of paper and the three books atop it, all of them sporting Anastasia’s handwriting. Most were covered in medical jargon as she’d put her thoughts to paper, and some were far more hastily scrawled and not in a language that likely anyone would understand. Upon closer inspection, it would seem more like a strange type of short form.

The books seemed well maintained, the first being a book of stories that Stasia had somehow gotten her hands on, and atop that sat a small notebook that seemed to match it. Inside that were page numbers and references, along with several notes of Stasia’s own thoughts, even if it were fiction. The next book was just like the ones in her office, full of medical information and sketches of body parts and innards, as well as the doctor’s own observations.

The final booked seemed tied up tight and given quite a lot of care by the looks of it. Anastasia’s personal journal, if the ‘personal property of Dr. Anastasia Vulpin’ written along the spine was anything to go off of. It certainly wasn’t a medical journal written to educate, as most of her other books were.

Opposite the bed, in the other corner, sat a well crafted looking wardrobe, its doors sat just above three large drawers. It didn’t seem like the standard collection doled out to the masse as the town’s houses were built, but instead looked hand crafted by a professional. From the intricate designs and excellent joinery, anyone in the know would recognise it as the work of the elusive, grouchy Av’rae woman who lived out in the forest. She often took orders for projects as a trade for the town’s wares, so either she and Stasia had crossed paths, or her goods were as good as money to the townsfolks.

One of the doors was open, revealing the clothing inside. It looked like Anastasia’s eclectic taste was not exclusive to her gymnast-like outfit, which had been tossed into a small basket beside the wardrobe by the looks of it. While her regular outfit was purposely made to be as colourful and revealing as it was, her other clothes seemed to take inspiration from her quilted skin. She had a few dresses hanging up, each made up from scraps and salvaged cloth from several other pieces of clothing, but - like her - they all seemed to fit together and all appeared tailored to suit her. Nobody in town would try to do something like that with salvaged clothes, at least not that well. Had she managed it herself? Regardless of who did it, they did quite a marvellous job. The same could be said for the various other shirts, coats, and trousers that were hung in the wardrobe.

A few subtle scents hung in the room to anyone perceptive enough to notice. The scent of clean laundry, which most people smelled of given how everyone got their laundry done by the same team in town, and the slight scent of dust on the bed’s blanket. There was also that scent that lingered under it all, a vague clinical, medical smell that seemed unique to Anastasia, likely from her work.

But there was also something else lingering through the air. The door leading towards the second room and staircase sat wide open, with light shining across the wall from the stairway below, and the scent grew just a touch stronger when approached. The smell of… flowers? But not the normal kind, the kind that had been refined, almost artificially manipulated. Soap perhaps?

Whatever it was, it came from the next room, but no sound went with it. The only sound was the crackle of a fire down on the ground floor, as well as the light swishing of a pencil and the rustle of paper.

As Gray made his way down the freshly built steps, quieter than a mouse, more of the downstairs would be revealed. Along the back wall was Anastasia’s kitchen, made up of a basin and bucket, a wood burning stove, and ample counter space that stretched the width of the room. There were two bowls and two plates neatly stacked on a shelf under one counter, and two glasses sat to the side of the counter, all clean and pristine, and there wasn’t a morsel of old food to be seen on the spotless counter or basin. The counters stretched from the opposite wall to the pantry that sat underneath the upstairs hallway before the stairs. The pantry door was open, revealing the inside to be barrel save for the town’s standard ration basket that sat half full on a shelf. Many had outgrown these ration baskets, with things steadily starting to improve, but not Stasia.

Beside the stairs sat a small table with two chairs, one had seen quite a bit of use, but the other had small specs of dust sitting on the seat. Stasia must have been a creature of habit. In the middle of the wall opposite the stairs was the house’s fireplace and chimney, and in front of it two worn, but rather comfortable looking chairs with a small table between them. A fire gently crackled, illuminating the room where the oil lantern, sitting on a thin table under the one of the front windows that flanked the front door, couldn’t reach.

The downstairs seemed as spartan as the floor above them, but it still had its odd charms. In an old, worn frame that sat the window featured a child’s drawing. It appeared to be a small girl standing on some squiggly grass, holding hands with a woman who had been drawn with every colour the child could manage to find, and they both appeared to sport large, red, exaggerated smiles. At the bottom, in barely legible handwriting, was a simple ‘Thank’ and, though one attempt had already been crossed out, ‘you!’. It was the only picture in a frame inside the bottom floor, and one that had been placed with great thought.

Though the rest of the walls were bare of pictures for now, Stasia had taken the time to place a small bunch of wildflowers that gave the air a slight flowering scent, placed in an old, cracked vase that sat on a shelf on the wall between the fireplace and the front window, with the rest of the three shelves taken up by several books, many in disrepair and the others seemingly hand bound recently.

Most importantly, however, was the woman who sat in one of the comfortable chairs before the fire, wearing what appeared to be a patchwork robe. Some parts of it were sampled from plush, fur-like material, some just basic, unnoteworthy swatches of colour, while a few appeared even slightly sheer, revealing the faint colours of patchwork skin below. The masked woman sat with her hair down, freshly brushed and drying, and without it being braided and wrapped around her crown her hair hung down to her chest in long straight strands that curved around her mismatched ears. As Gray grew closer, the smell he had found in the room above grew stronger, the smell of lavender and soap. Judging by her drying hair, it was clear the woman had just bathed.

Her right leg was crossed over the left, slipping out of the patchwork robe at her lower thigh, and atop the quilted skin of her knee sat a sketchbook, with a matching pencil in her free hand. The page showed an almost statuesque woman, with long flowing robes and an elegant expression like one would find on a statue in a capital city. In fact, that’s exactly what the impressive sketch looked like, but it was hard to put a finger on which city.

As Gray brought the package from his shirt, Stasia lifted her cracked and worn pocket watch from her robe pocket. “You are exactly on time, Gray. Punctual. Precise.” She put it away and turned her head just as the package was placed. “Welcome to my home. Please, make yourself comfortable.” She gestured to the seat beside her before looking at the package. “...oh!” It took her a moment. “A gift? This is… unexpected, but appreciated.”

She closed the cover on her sketchbook and placed it on the table beside the package and shifted her legs so she could sit upright. With eyes of fascination shining from within her mask, she placed the package in her lap and began to gently unwrap the waxed cloth and straw beneath. Then her strange, unnatural grin stretched further along her cheeks as she regarded the prize within. “Honeycomb. How delightful!” She wicked just a small amount of honey from the end with the point of a discoloured finger and examined it in the light of the fire. The golden hue shifted and swirled with the fire behind it before she placed the blob on her tongue, which until now had been hidden behind her mask. Thankfully, it was in one piece - though it was blue. “Mm!” She looked to Gray with a grin as she bundled the honeycomb back up again. “Thank you, Gray, this is unexpected. I have never tried honey before, and I have always been curious.”

She stood, allowing the robe to straighten around her form, and she gently carried the honeycomb to her bare pantry, where she quickly found a shelf for it. She looked into her ration basked with some thought. “I apologise that I cannot reciprocate. I hadn’t thought to get any snack or any gifts of my own. You are welcome to partake in some of my rations, if you would like?”

The woman plucked the basket from the pantry and placed it on the dining table, should Gray wish to sample any of the dry, mostly tasteless, but nutrient packed foods that sat inside. Then she approached the man again. “Thank you for coming, Gray. I feel we may speak a little more freely here in my home. Liberally. Without restriction.” She paused for a moment, was that correct? “Hm. Yes.” She took a moment to look the man over before her grin tightened at the corners. “You’ve cleaned up your eyebrows and hair,” she stated, matter of factly. “It looks… better. Nice. Handsome? Hm.” She took a moment to consider that, then with her grin remaining genuine, spoke. “Yes. Certainly.”

Prepare her rations? She wasn’t sure what he meant by that at first, they were mostly already prepared, but she nodded with her strange grin anyway. To her, her rations were nothing but nutrients, she didn’t really think too much of the taste or texture normally. She didn’t feel it necessary to take more than she needed, not with the town’s population being largely undernourished even after some time, so she stuck with the standard rations and didn’t complain. She felt no need to!

Still, she watched curiously as Gray worked, cooking up a storm before her as she sat in her arm chair. She took a few moments to take her long auburn hair in her hands and began to twist and pull it into a long braid, then with the help of a few pins she tied it up around the crown of her head, keeping it out of the way in her usual style.

Her time as an audience member was only a brief respite however, as she was quickly recruited for pot stirring duties. She took up this duty with enthusiasm as she began to stir, watching the broth turn and churn, noting the various scents that wafted up from it. “Fascinating…” she said in an almost whisper, her attention shifting constantly between the pot and her friend’s work with his blade.

“I have no real need for texture and taste,” she finally said as he worked. “The island doesn’t have enough for me to spoil myself, so I continue with what I need. Thankfully, one of the many efficiencies my father had in mind during my body’s creation was nutrient absorption. This ration pack would normally last me closer to four days.” She didn’t seem to mind that Gray was using a lot of it. She’d still make it through those four days regardless with everything being cooked up before her.

Finally, the two were sat together at her dining table, a direction she hadn’t imagined when she had invited him to her home. In fact, all she had thought about was a talk without prying ears, less so a cooked meal, but who was she to complain? She curiously lifted one of the two spoons she owned and sniffed at the soup. The slightly spicy, rustic aroma filled her sinuses with such smells that it tightened her grin with joy. “I believe I can trust you far enough to not poison me. And if you did… it would be a fascinating entry in my latest medical journal. “

She deposited it in her mouth and let it flow over her tongue, reaching every donated, blue taste bud. “Mm!” she finally exclaimed behind a closed mouth. She swallowed and grinned once more, two rows of pearly whites, almost perfect if not for the one noticeably longer canine tooth on the top right of her smile. “This is marvellous,” she said, dipping her spoon in the soup, then going for the kebab Gray had made with her kindling, which only made her eyes swell with joy. Such tastes, she didn’t think these foods could ever be used in such ways. Cooking was something she’d never really had much curiosity in, but her mind was certainly considering it then.

“Tailor?” she asked, her head listing slightly to the right in that slight curiously bizarre way that she had about her. She looked at her gown and her grin tightened once more. “I have no tailor, though I am flattered regardless. Other than the outfits you have already seen, I have taken to creating my own clothing from the still useable scraps I can find. It may surprise you to hear that some people will dispose of clothing or rags for the slightest bit of damage. They have more than enough to keep me clothed for a long time.” She placed her hand on the table and lifted her sleeve, revealing the stitched skin beneath. “Good stitching runs in my family.” Was that a joke? Her tightening grin might indicate it. She was getting good at the whole social business!

Then Gray spoke once more and her head listed to the other side, but it quickly dawned on her. Amongst the clarity and truth of his statement was an admission of something a little further, intimate even. It was unexpected, but Stasia couldn't help but think - should it have been? Her mind went back to their previous discussions and the topic of sex having been brought up. She had invited him to her private home shortly after. It made sense!

“I do not do what I do not want to do, Gray,” she said, lifting the kebab once more, preparing another bite. “I understand that completely. I was not brought back and gifted new life to do what I do not want to do.” She took a bite and chewed it as she considered his words. “My freedom is… interesting,” she admitted. “I am free in most senses of the word, that is certain. For the most part, I can go where I please and do as I please, with the understanding that what I want to do and where I want to go are within the expected boundaries of societal morality. Which they are, I go where I am needed, and I do what I enjoy - healing those who need healed.”

Another bite. Oh so delicious, it certainly was a treat for the patchwork woman. “There has only a few restrictions levied on me so far. You may have already gleaned that I cannot seek out my father, I cannot speak to him in any shape or form, I cannot attempt to break him out of wherever he has been taken, I cannot provide him anything, nor may I visit him. I am to consider him gone, non-existent, perhaps even dead, and there is nothing to be done about it.” She seemed nonchalant about these things as she held the kebab in her mismatched hands.

She then looked to the doors for a moment and placed her skewer back down on the plate. She stood and walked over to ensure the door was locked - it certainly was, and deadbolted to boot - and then made sure the shutters were the same. The light might slip through the cracks, as Gray had seen from the outside, but they were indeed in privacy. She soon returned to the table with her friend.

“But these were rules handed down by a woman who was not elected to her position by the general population.” She sat and picked up her skewer once more. “A former empress with riches beyond measure. Having said this, however, she would likely be elected to leadership if the people of this town had such a choice - so it is not worth a second thought. Regardless, she arrested and took my father away for the simple crime of insulting her, thus, and I wish for this to remain between us, I see her as a tyrant. An effective tyrant, yes, but a tyrant nonetheless.” Another bite. So good. So good! “And I have no mind for politics, my place is to heal her subjects, so my opinions on our leader are entirely pointless.” She placed the skewer down once more. “My point being, I have no real interest in following those rules because they were created from an event that I found to be unjustified.”

This time she took a spoonful of soup as she collected her next thoughts. “The other rules imposed on me were rather simple, and ones that did not necessarily have to be said. No creating any more of my kind, even if I am more than capable, and no reanimation.” She twirled the spoon between her fingers with a dexterous grace as she spoke. “Which is preposterous. To rip people from death has no place in the morality of being a doctor, and it is beyond my abilities regardless. I have no way to save the dead, my abilities are limited to pulling people from the brink and keeping them alive. Those who can bring back the dead…” her grin faltered for a moment. “They have no place in my infirmary, nor my presence.”

Her grin quickly returned to full size, however. “I fear we have strayed slightly. While I do welcome an ally who lives outside the laws of this town, it was not my intention on our friendship. I find you fascinating as you are, Gray, and I do not wish to manipulate you in any way, with my words, or otherwise. Your wishes are very clear,” she said, then reached over and placed a hand on his, the grin tightening at her lips. “Very clear…” she slipped her hand away, but she made sure to let the touch linger as her hand moved.

“I can assure you, given your situation and general liberty, I would like to ask questions and nothing more,” she continued. “Ones that would get myself in trouble, yes, but they would not put you in danger. I would like to know what you know of my father, such as where you saw him, and if he is alive. I have… things I wish to discuss with him. Improvements that I cannot do myself.”

Then she leaned back in her chair slightly. “I can assure you, I had no real expectations surrounding your answers, and they will have no effect on the possibility of counting my patches.” Did she just flirt? “That is something I had not considered when I invited you here tonight, but it is something I am now… curious about.”

As Gray spoke, Stasia’s head listed to its left, her brilliant blue and green eyes wide and fixated on his with absolute focus, her grin ever present. To anyone else, it might be off putting, but those closest to her know its just one of her funny little quirks.

“A conspiracy…” she gently said under her breath as she listened, gears in her own brain turning and churning out hypothesis after hypothesis. He made interesting analogies that Stasia would have liked to analyse, but she didn’t directly interrupt, only letting the tail ends or final thoughts of her musings slip from her lips. Cracks. Corruption. Already? Former empire, unsurprising. Did the size of the town require such cloak and dagger yet? If at all? Did they already have enemies? “Fascinating…”

Stones? She hadn't thought of that before, it wasn’t her business how the town was built, only that her infirmary was fit for purpose. She had barely even taken any consideration to her home until recently, when a guest had asked why it was so spartan. She hadn’t been offended, but she too began to notice it. She blinked once, then twice as realisations dawned on her. “Forced labour.” Isra wouldn’t be the first to employ such means. But her father wasn’t a physical man, he was a man of science and knowledge. What good would he be amongst the vagabonds? She had her suspicions. Those suspicions were somewhat confirmed on Gray’s mention of his skills being put to use. “...flesh golems.”

Her eyes flicked to the side for a moment and her head shifted to the other side, thoughts streaming across her brain as she considered those words. Did she have brothers or sisters? Siblings? Kin? She had toyed with the idea, but she never considered it herself. She couldn’t reconstruct a body to give herself a sibling, it was against the laws that shackled her, but she also dared not remove memories from an alive brain. Not only morally, but physically, her brain appeared to be the perfect specimen for imprinting - the memories gone before she had been rescued. At least, that’s what her father’s journal had said. “I may have family…” she softly cooed.

She quickly snapped back to reality when Gray mentioned the infirmary. Her head tilted once again, back to its original side as she listened, but her grin seemed just a little less tight. Much to consider so far… “I have up to date inventory manifests,” she says with confidence. “I overlook them myself, anything coming in, anything used, and anything going out. Exported. Requisitioned.” She paused… yes, accurate. “Nothing goes missing, not under my eyes. But things are requested by an authority higher than I and… I suspect higher than Doctor Marks. He is a dear friend… I do not believe him to be…” what was the word she wanted? “...complicit - if your hypothesis is correct.” She folded her hands on the table with a strange grace. “I think I understand what you are suggesting,” she continued. “I will review the export logs and, while I am doing so, rejected requests for supplies that I know for a fact were in stock. Things that were not life or death but… still curious.” She nodded again, her mask and carefully braided hair not shifting for even a moment. “I am expecting Nina soon.”

That question… did she trust her father? She pondered it for a long moment. “...No.” Came the answer. “My father is capable of great things. As a doctor I trust him with my life. As a person, no, I do not know the man beyond the night I was awoken and his subsequent incarceration. He and I are not alike, he will do things because he can, my moral base as a doctor, one created for saving lives, not experiments, is far higher.”

But then her eyes focused and her grin tightened. “I am almost flawless.” She said it with such confidence, as if she had proof. “And I am no prototype. I am the culmination of years of research, I perform my designed functions and exceed them. The only flaw in my design, in my father’s own words, is that I still need to sleep - albeit very little. Otherwise, I am the peak of efficiency, to my fingers, to my eyes, to my stomach, and to my lack of an appendix or internal reproductive organs. Anything that was inefficient about the human body has been mostly solved for myself.”

She stood and stepped across the room, her feet almost silent against the normally creaky floorboards, but not because of her grace or weight, but because she had mapped the room in her mind time and time again. She knew what boards made the least noise. She traced her finger over a handful of the books on her shelf and pulled one from the bunch, then flicked through it. After finding her page, she returned to Gray and slipped the book before him.

It was a journal written in handwriting similar to Stasia’s, but certainly not hers. They described the success of creating Stasia’s body, how the internal changes had taken extremely well. The only concern was if she would awaken, and become the surgeon Vulpin Sr. needed to assist him. The one who could carry on his work, if needed.

“My care for human life is designed as such,” she continued. “As well as the lives of anything sentient. It is what makes me an effective surgeon, I will do everything in my power to save a life, to create fixes that will last a standard human lifespan. This is not a weakness - this is the culmination of determination and the will to defy nature. I have adapted it to fit the description of a surgeon, this much is true, but I am as I was recreated to be - and I am very proud of this.”

Anastasia certainly knew more about herself than most people. Her confidence could not be shaken - it wasn’t in her programming, so to speak.

“I will not be going anywhere, not by my father’s hand,” she concluded, her hand shifting to embrace Gray’s with a caring touch. “I can only be improved with my own designs.” She looked to her hand where the stitches had healed into a flawless shift from a small patch of green to a slightly tanned caucasian. It was something she had spent many hours of pondering over the past two days. The flesh had healed all over her body, she wasn’t at risk of falling apart and her stitching had become cosmetic by that point, but to heal without scarring? Without a guiding groove to replace or repair? It felt… limiting.

“We doctors must sacrifice if we are to be… efficient. Effective. Exceptional.” Was that right one fitting? According to her patients, perhaps. “It is one I would make again without hesitation. I am here to save lives, and any damage to myself is… repairable. Negligible. Acceptable.” To an extent.

Her hand squeezed Gray’s for a moment as several thoughts collided in her mind, giving her pauses for thought. She processed them one by one, putting the majority to rest. There would be a time and a place to consider the endless possibilities that arose in her mind, but sitting there with Gray was not it.

She placed her free had atop Gray’s, sandwiching it between two patched palms. “I will,” she said. “But only if you promise me you will not harm him. There is much I wish to discuss and… I have use of his skills.”

Anastasia’s eyes winced just a touch behind her mask, but she knew Gray wouldn’t quickly change his mind, despite how much she’d have liked him to. “If,” she says with some sort of finality. “The only danger he posed was to egos, which is why he was arrested. Its possible he can do harm with his talents, but I have to believe he would not use them in such a way. You will not need to harm him.”

“Not until I have spoken to him, and if the work I have planned can be done.” She gave Gray’s hand a short squeeze. She needed her father, if only for one last operation. After that… it would be up to Vulpin Sr.

Her expression softened once more. She harboured no ill will as she understood that it was Gray’s nature to think the worst of people who could be potentially dangerous. If anyone tried to get her to stop saving lives she certainly wouldn’t comply, so she could not ask it of others and instead she could only hope that her father didn’t do anything drastic.

Her hand remained on Gray’s, not wanting to let go just yet. Despite her creator and his reputation, Anastasia continued to prove that she had no ulterior motive for asking Gray to come over. There was no secret plan, no hidden weapon, just a woman who wanted to spend time with her new friend. So far, that time had been greatly enjoyable.

“People are not weak,” she said as her grin tugged at her stitched cheeks. “I am still made of flesh and bone, I still carry the same weakness as everyone else - I am just as frail.” She let her head tilt slightly to the side as she continued. “I am designed. Unnatural. Created. There was room for improvements and they were done. Nobody else has had that luxury, and I think no less of them for it.” Her hand squeezed again. “I think no less of you for it.” Her head tilted again, matching Gray’s own tilt. “Flaws are what make people natural. Normal. Interesting. And while I am almost perfect in my design and function, I still wear my flaws on my skin.” Her thumb gently stroked along the length of Gray’s as she spoke. “Not frustrated. I celebrate the flaws I find in others as I hope they do for my own.”

Her grin tightened once more. “I wonder about your own flaws, Gray,” she says. “As well as your perfections. I may never know what lies inside, but…” Her eyes looked him over for a brief moment. “I am curious about what may be hidden on the outside.”

“Swords?” Anastasia asked as she leaned back, allowing her hand to drift back across the table. His large sword was in the corner, where he’d left it… then she tilted her head and blinked as the first knife slipped from his sleeve and then to the table. “Oh… fascinating…” she softly cooed. She should have expected that.

What she didn’t expect was the knife behind the ear. Was it sleight of hand? Was the knife actually embedded in his skin? That was something Stasia was intrigued to find out, just where and how many knives and swords did he have on or in him?

Most importantly, would she get pricked?

Her thoughts shifted again as he pulled away, then her eyes danced along his form as more of him was exposed. “I am still to figure out the rituals and signals of this land as well,” she said through a toothy grin, and her eyes went from his exposed collarbone to his eyes once more, “But you seem to understand my own.”

She stood at his request, holding no fear. She saw no immediate danger in Gray, though she likely should, but ultimately she saw more in him than others would. At least, that’s what she thought.

She walked around him, feet gentle against the floor and her robe swishing ever so slightly against her legs as she stepped, until she stood behind him. She hesitated for a moment before she answered. “If I may touch you… yes,” she said in a quiet tone before her gentle hands gripped at the edge of his clothing.

She allowed Gray to guide her and take the lead, understanding that it may not be the most comfortable situation for him considering what he’d reveal of his past. Allowing someone who he may very well still consider a stranger to assist him in disrobing showed Stasia more than his words could. Slowly she pulled away the layers of cloth until she got to bare skin.

Her eyes danced over the sight of his back, her eyes darting from feature to feature. It wasn’t as she’d expected though… perhaps she should? “May I…” she asked, holding out a hand to show him her intention, then moved it back towards his back. Her finger gently traced along the largest of the scars that decorated his back, part of her feeling sympathy, but it was overpowered by her doctor’s mind, examining it and considering possibilities.

“Whip…” she said in a very small voice. The depth of the wounds, the shape and size, it all matched to injuries she’d seen… hm, not in new Isra though. Perhaps a past life? Curious… still, she took her hand up and looked to the brand at the base of his neck. “And branded…”

She didn’t reach out to touch the brand. It looked… not quite right to her. Fresh, but not at the same time. It took everything in her power to not poke and prod, to not diagnose it. She had to remind herself that she was not a doctor at that moment, but a friend, and potentially a little more.

Instead of reaching up, she slipped her hands around Gray’s sides and pressed her palms to his front, then pulled herself in close. He’d feel the material of her robe against his back, then the mixture of warm skin of her cheek, cut in half by the cool, smooth sensation of her porcelain mask against his shoulder as she held him close. With the doctor in her quelled, all that was left was sympathy. “You deserved better,” she said in a warm, gentle tone, just under his ear.

She stood, holding the man for a few moments, basking in the mutual warmth of their bodies. Her hands remained on his chest, pressing gently against his skin, and her breath danced gently against his back… but then she slowly pulled away, allowing her hands to drag along him. One slipped down his arm and into his hand as she stood beside him. Her eyes danced along his form for a moment, confirming her own suspicions, before she looked him in the eye.

“Come with me,” she said in a small voice, her grin still clear as day before she started towards the stairs, guiding him along.