Chapter 5: Welcome To The Capital: Evandria.
The carriage stopped several times for inspections, but each checkpoint went smoothly once the guards caught sight of the doctor.
"Your mother's quite famous," Aldric remarked, his voice teasing.
The boy turned to him, momentarily distracted from the quiet conversation between the doctor and the guards. Aldric lounged on a thick animal fur rug spread across the carriage floor, his head resting lazily against the carriage's cloth-draped wall.
"She isn't my mother," the boy corrected him, his voice soft but certain. "She's the doctor."
Aldric raised an eyebrow. "Well... does she give you food?"
The boy nodded.
"She's taking you to her home, and you'll stay with her?"
Another nod.
"And she gives you sweets to eat?"
The boy's nod came faster this time.
"There you have it!" Aldric declared, leaning in conspiratorially. "The one who provides for you is your mother, and—" he dropped his voice into a mock-serious whisper, "Mother is God."
The boy blinked, the words settling in his mind. Mother is God. He glanced at the doctor, and though he didn't say it aloud, his thoughts echoed: The doctor is my mother.
---
The carriage came to a final stop after another hour of travel. The passengers disembarked, and Aldric scooped the boy up from the carriage, placing him gently on the ground before a towering structure that loomed overhead.
"This is your home now," the doctor said warmly, holding out her hand.
The boy took it hesitantly, his gaze fixed on the building before them.
It was more a mansion than a house, narrow but tall, with a commanding presence that made the boy feel small, a familiar feeling: as if a looming beast looked down on him. Its brown facade, weathered by time, revealed glimpses of the ancient wood beneath the faded paint. The steeply sloped roof bore the marks of years of repairs, its shingles uneven but sturdy. The windows were tall and arched, their glass slightly fogged, yet they gleamed faintly in the moonlight as if polished with care. A wrought-iron railing framed a small, elevated porch, its intricate swirls adorned with a few clinging vines.
Inside, the house smelled of jasmine and lemon, a delicate fragrance carried by the faint curls of smoke rising from a single incense burner set near the door. The interior was richly furnished, though understated, betraying a practical elegance that matched the doctor's demeanor.
The walls were paneled with dark, polished wood, interrupted by tapestries depicting herbal diagrams and detailed sketches of human anatomy. Beneath their feet lay a patterned rug, its fibers worn but soft, with geometric designs in muted tones of red, green, and gold. A single candelabra sat on a long oak table at the center of the hall, its candles casting a warm glow over the room.
Shelves lined the walls, packed with books, jars of dried herbs, and neatly labeled vials of unknown substances. The furniture—sturdy and functional—was crafted from the same dark wood as the paneling, its cushions covered in faded fabrics from years of use. Near the fireplace stood an armchair with a quilt draped over its back.
The silence in the house was almost palpable, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearth and the boy's hesitant footsteps. The decorations, though lovely, seemed to go unnoticed, as if they waited in vain for someone to admire them.
It was warm, welcoming even, yet strangely lonely—like heart of an animal with love to provide but solitude is their trait.
"First, a bath—" the doctor declared, her tone brooking no argument.
The boy's protests were immediate, but ignoring his struggles, she hauled him to the tub with practiced ease. As she unwrapped his bandages, his wounds—once ghastly—were revealed to be healed, the infections dried out completely. There was no pain now, only the faint memory of it.
She set about washing him with a concoction of fragrant herbs, the water clouding with their soothing oils. Leaves with astringent properties were used to scrub him down, their textures both rough and cleansing. Finally, she dried him with a soft, worn towel, the motions efficient but gentle.
"Now, a good meal—" she announced, scooping him up before he could object.
She carried him into a room. "This is my room," she said, grinning as she set him on the bed. "So it's safe. No ghosts will come to you here."
The boy, unconcerned about ghosts, cast a wary glance around the room. His unease wasn't rooted in the supernatural. It was something else—something unseen yet always present. The amalgamation lingered, flickering in and out of his sight like a shadow refusing to commit to its form. He said nothing of it.
On the bed, the doctor presented him with a feast—dishes he had never seen nor imagined. The flavors overwhelmed his palate, chicken cooked in a way he never thought of, including vegetables, for some reason which he disliked. The food filled him with warmth he hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity.
"Time to sleep!" she proclaimed, brushing the crumbs from his cheeks. She tucked him in with practiced hands, drawing the heavy blanket over him.
"We have a saying," she said, her tone teasing yet playful. "Early to bed and early to rise makes a person healthy, wealthy, and wise. Otherwise, the ghosts get them when the clock strikes thrice!" She chuckled, her silhouette framed by the flickering candlelight, before leaning in to blow out the flame.
Darkness swallowed the room as she left, but the boy didn't feel alone.
---
It was almost like a fever dream.
From the raw agony of near-death to this life of warmth and care in the Capital, the transition felt surreal. Fever dream. Why did that phrase feel so familiar? His mind snagged on the word like a thread caught on a nail. How did he know such words?
Who was he? He was not scared about the amalgamation that followed him, but he felt an unfamiliar dread about not remembering things. What if he didn't remember who he was tomorrow? That scared him very much.
He blinked into the darkness, his vision adjusting until he could make out the faint shapes of the room. Shadows stretched and shifted, and there it was—the amalgamation.
It appeared again, silent and watching.
"What… Who are you?" the boy asked, his voice hushed, sincere.
There was no reply.
"Why are you here?" he pressed.
Still, silence.
"Are you here for me?"
The amalgamation gave no verbal answer, but it moved. Slowly, its grotesque visage stretched and shifted. Its face warped, the edges pulling and curling into a monstrous semblance of a smile. The skin looked ready to tear at any moment, its nearly closed eyes gleaming faintly, eerily focused on him.
The boy's chest tightened. For the first time, he felt an unease that pierced his calm facade—not from the creature itself but from the unfamiliar dread coiling in his chest.
"I hope you live a good life… El Ritch," the amalgamation whispered, its voice unearthly yet unmistakably clear.
And then it vanished, leaving him alone with his pounding heart and the deafening quiet of the room.
Morning broke, its golden light spilling into the house, but the boy had not known a moment of rest. The specter of the night lingered in his mind, heavy and unyielding. The doctor bustled in, cheerful as ever, and pulled him from the bed with a smile that he could not quite return.
"Come now, little one. Let's get those teeth clean," she said, guiding him to the washroom.
He obeyed, his hands moving sluggishly as though burdened by lead. Each chore was a trial. Even the breakfast, rich with flavors he could not name, did little to revive his spirit. He chewed mechanically, his gaze drifting toward the corners of the room, where something—perhaps nothing—seemed to shift and writhe at the edges of his vision. The amalgamation, maybe. Or perhaps just his weary mind playing cruel tricks.
But there were other matters to attend to, and he lacked the strength to care.
---
"Today, we'll buy you some proper clothes," She announced, her voice a bright beacon. "Isn't that exciting?"
The boy offered only a nod, his energy too sparse for words.
The walk to the shop was short, though it felt longer to him, each step an effort. He clung to the doctor's hand, his grip firm despite the fatigue in his limbs. They reached a grand storefront, its polished glass and gilded lettering gleaming in the sun. The boy barely noticed.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender and freshly pressed linen. The floor was polished wood, the kind that creaked pleasantly underfoot. Before the boy could take in much else, a voice rang out.
"Adeline! What a surprise! I thought you'd be away for the week." Adeline was the doctor's name- he noticed and memorized.
The speaker was a woman in fine silks, her sharp features softened by the warmth of her smile.
"You nearly rid yourself of me, Daphne," Adeline replied with a wry grin. "But I remembered how dull your little shop would be without my company. And besides," she added, nodding toward the boy, "I brought a new partner."
Daphne raised a brow, her expression mock-serious. "Don't flatter yourself. You're only my favorite because you bring sweets. Otherwise, you'd be in the queue with the rest of the rabble."
Adeline's brow arched in warning, and Daphne quickly amended her tone. "A jest, my dear. Pay it no mind. Now, who is this sweet little thing?"
She crouched before the boy, her hands cupping his face. "Oh, you darling! Who's a little silly-billy, chongus-mongus, round potato—" She pinched his cheeks playfully, her voice lilting as though she were addressing a particularly cherished pet.
But then her gaze dropped to his arms, her smile faltering. The scars were there, the remnants of burns and infections, pale against the boy's skin. Daphne's eyes flicked to Adeline, a silent question hanging between them.
"He was in the village we searched," Adeline said softly, her tone gentle but firm. "Rescued after the attack. He's been through more than you can imagine." She turned to the boy, her smile warm as a spring sun. "But he's a survivor. And he has a sweet tooth, don't you?"
The boy's lips twitched in the faintest of smiles.
"A sweet little thing like this deserves all the sweets in the world," Daphne declared, her cheer returning in full force. She swept back a curtain, revealing rows of finely crafted garments. "Now, I'll assume these are for the child. Even if they aren't, I'll brook no arguments. Today, he's the star."
With a clap of her hands, she called, "Camilla! Goose!"
A pair of gingers appeared as if conjured, their matching hair as fiery as their quick movements. They stood at attention, their voices loud and in unison. "Yes, ma'am!"
Daphne grinned. "Meet our sweet potato here," she said, turning back to the boy. "Now, child, tell us your name."
---
He hesitated, the question pulling at the threads of his thoughts. He had spent the sleepless night grappling with it, the name that entity had spoken to him echoing like a distant bell.
It was strange, unsettling. Yet it stirred something warm within him, something that felt like safety—like home.
"My name is..." The words came slowly, as though drawn from the depths of his being.
"El Ritch."
Daphne clapped her hands together, beaming.
"A fine name for a fine boy!" she declared. "Now, let's see what we have for you, El Ritch."
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
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