Private The Slups Physician, Heal Thyself

[Arthur Barrett]

[ Set approximately one fortnight after the Golden Hide returned from Urk, and a few days after "Blood on Her Paws". ]

Bitter, miserable cur.

After his particularly embarrassing debacle with Amnesty, Arthur had made profuse apologies. He swore up and down that he wouldn't let this happen again. The behavior was unbecoming of his profession, and undercut his reputation -- not to mention, the trouble he'd inflicted on innocent beasts. And for a few days, Arthur made good on his promise.

But come the weekend, Barrett was thirsty again. The freedom he had made him restless, and bad decisions were easier to make than good ones. Barrett found himself stumbling out of taverns again, and again, and again. The only change he'd actually made was to be more careful hiding his behaviors. Slightly more tattered clothes, and a change of location to the Slups should be more than enough to keep him from running into familiar faces.

It was now a Wednesday evening. The sun was still up, and Barrett had already been turned out of the tavern. Never a reputable establishment -- it was always seedy enough that he didn't expect to run into any of his shipmates, or anyone from Pyrostoat. He was starting to get a reputation, though. It was hard to blend in when you were a hulking pine marten.

Bitter, miserable cur.

Arthur was a natural hermit. He lived on his own, and didn't mind it terribly. But of late, the pine marten couldn't bear to be alone with his own thoughts. That phrase kept coming back. Thankfully, the voice was neither Silvie's, nor the Wolf's. Merely his own thoughts -- and Arthur could control those. Or so, he thought. Try as he might, the pine marten couldn't drive the phrase away. At this rate, he wouldn't even be able to function when the Hide embarked on her next voyage. Something had to be done.

In his earlier years, he had friends he could call on. Share a meal with. The camaraderie was always a comfort, and things had a way of sorting themselves out -- but Arthur had burned every bridge. He'd even been planning to invite the foxes over to crash with him, and celebrate their return to Bully -- but... then things had quickly turned south. He'd beaten Kaii and Darragh in the hold. He still couldn't look Silv in the eyes -- and Swift was... well. Entangled. Finn was off with Alwyn, not that he'd confide in a kit. But he certainly couldn't talk openly with Gyles. Even Berchar! Gates, he'd made a complete fool of himself. And all his professional contacts wanted nothing to do with him.

That's when he saw the cart.

Miss Chloe had made waves some twenty years ago. "Oh now, chile! Don'chu lie to Miss Cleo! You been huht befoh!" A complete fraud and charlatan, who parted many fools from their money. And yet, Barrett could see the reasoning. Someone to confide with under the guise of anonymity. A disposable relationship for hire.

Arthur's fur began to bristle as he approached the cart. Something about the lighting coming from inside was queer, and unsettling. Gates, the idol had messed with his mind enough, perhaps this was a bad idea. But Arthur steeled his mind. That episode in the hull wasn't real -- he was suffering from exhaustion. This... fortune teller was just a charlatan. It was a mutually exploitative relationship. If things went south, he'd leave.

...what were a few gilders?

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The streets of the Slups were still bright with the last rays of day. Sunset spilled its copper light across the rooftops, setting the broken glass in the gutters aglow. Even here, in Bully’s worst quarter, the air was clearer than usual, carrying the brine of the harbor and the faint tang of spilled ale. The taverns had spat their drunks into the alleys, and the clamor was dying down into mutters and snores.

But one shadow did not belong.

The cart hunched at the end of the lane, as though it had rolled in from some darker season. Its frame sagged with the weight of bottles that gleamed green and gold in the failing light, each filled with potions and tonic too bright to be honest. Twine-tied charms swayed against its boards, knocking together like eerie wind chimes. Painted letters peeled from its flanks - Cures. Charms. Fate Divined. - their faded script bending with every shift of the wheels. And yet, no beast pushed nor pulled.

From beneath came a rasping chchkt, dry as an old hinge. The Porter unfolded from shadow, its shrouded shape dragging cloth and rope across the cobbles. It lingered just long enough to turn its head toward Arthur, large dark eyes blinking wetly and loosing another insectile trill, before sinking back beneath the cart.

The glow inside thrummed, bottles clinking softly as a beast stirred within. A curtain at the rear of the cart billowed outwardly, and out stepped Thistle Brambledew with a sweep of his tattered cloak. His quills rattled with their tied feathers and beads, and his knobbly wooden staff tapped the ground.

"Ahhh… a visitor? Or just a wayward beast with a curious gaze?"

For a moment he studied the pine marten with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and sympathy.

"No beast finds my cart by chance," he said, voice rolling like old parchment. "Threads have a way of tugging us where we’re most in need... whether we know it or not."

The lantern-light inside the cart warmed, glimmering across the colored bottles as though to agree with him. It made the whole contraption seem less like a trap and more like a hearth lit just for the weary.

"So then," Thistle continued, spreading his paw in a small flourish, "shall we see what comfort or counsel the fates have set in your path today?"

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur fashioned himself to be a rather observant fellow -- it came along with the profession. Maladies presented themselves with subtle symptoms, and one needed their wits to stay sharp to have any hope of rendering aid. Perhaps it was the alcohol dulling his senses, perhaps it was just the lighting -- but Arthur didn't see the porter until he was nearly upon him. The pine marten recoiled in fright, and would be ashamed to admit it his reaction was equal parts surprise and disgust.

Before he could react further, Thistle appeared at the end of the cart in dramatic fashion. The pine marten froze in his path, and gazed up at the beast in the cart in awe, his jaw agape. Jaded wretch that he was, he was not beyond having the rug pulled from under his feet, or being caught off guard.

The pine marten swallowed, and tried to respond to Thistle's question -- but the mystic had already devised an unassailable answer. Arthur straightened his spine, and drew in a breath.

"Then neither of us believe in chance!" he retorted adversarially (if not drunkenly.) He wrestled with his clouded thoughts, refusing to be bested by shock and awe. His response took an uncomfortable moment to build, but his eyes burned with cold defiance.

"Needs!" he spat back, the word as pointed as Thistle's quills. "The same thread that leads the orphan to warm shelter draws the brigand to the weary traveler. Are you not satisfied being the mere voice of the fates? Must you claim to know their purposes as well?"

The marten looked off into the evening shadows, his bristling fur slowly starting to settle. "I'm troubled by a fear that I cannot name. Haunted by thoughts I cannot escape. Bound by an invisible paw." His voice carried an air of resignation, and he drew closer to the threshold. "Whether your words bring clarity or comforting lies..."

But he paused again, as if he had caught his tongue just before it spouted foolishness. "...I will not know that for some time. Take my coin then, and tell me of purpose and comfort. But know the threads of fate draw the brigand to the magistrate and to the gallows alike."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The Porter stirred again at the mention of coin. With a rasping chchkt it slunk out from beneath the cart, cloak dragging heavily like wet cloth, one long paw outstretched. Its blank eyes blinked once, twice, fixed squarely on the pine marten until the gilders passed into its grasp. Only then did it retreat with a scuttle, vanishing into the shadows with another faint, insectile trill.

Thistle’s gaze followed Arthur’s recoil, the quills at his brow dipping in something that looked, strangely, like sympathy.

"The Porter handles all coin," he said softly. "He means ye no harm. He is a creature bent by pain. Warped in body, and wracked in mind. My tonics give him what ease they can. A measure of relief, if not release. And under my care, he finds employment and belonging."

For a time he let silence breathe, the cart’s lantern glow flickering across bottles like fireflies in glass. Only when the marten’s words had fully spent themselves did Thistle lean on his staff and speak again.

"A fear with no name," he murmured, "that’s the heaviest burden of all. Wounds of flesh can be stitched, foes with names can be met head-on. But the unseen? The unknown? That gnaws deeper than any blade."

His quills rattled faintly as he tilted his head, the faintest smile touching his mouth.

"Yet to seek it out, to try an’ name it… that’s no weakness. That’s the first act of fightin’. You are a soul that will not yield, but longs to know the shape of his adversary."

He raised a paw in gentle invitation, cloak parting like a curtain as he gestured toward the cart’s inner glow.

"Step within, then. The fates draw us to such crossroads for reason. Whether they’ve spun you comfort, clarity… or a thread further tangled, we’ll see it together."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur's fur bristled as the porter emerged from the shadows, and he recoiled slightly. As he came into the light, Arthur could see it was a pitiful beast -- but the marten was so caught off guard that it took him several moments to realize he was the mystic's cashier. The marten fumbled in his pockets for coinage, and gently handed it over. He had seen cases like this before: beasts with twisted backs and limbs, who somehow defied the odds against them. It was difficult to watch, as there was little to be done for them. There were those who thought the merciful route would be drowning them as kits -- but Barrett wouldn't stand for murder. The mystic's care for the crippled beast spoke volumes on his character, and softened Arthur's expression.

Wordlessly, Arthur listened to the mystic speak his comfort. His relaxed expression twisted into a flash of anger suddenly, and faded into a bitter scowl. The first act of fightin', indeed! He let out a dismissive scoff as he stepped into the cart, bracing himself against the door. "A soul that will not yield? And what do you know of my soul?" he barked, his anger growing. "It's yielded beyond what it could bear! Like a sapling, it bends, it splinters, it fractures! If only it were strapped to a breaking wheel, I could comfort myself by laying fault on my tormenters -- but I allow it to happen! Nothing binds my soul to the breaking wheel but my own cowardice!"

His fury getting the better of him, he seized a nearby flask of some liquid, and drunkenly hurled it into the street. "Fraud and cheat! Is that how you ply the truth out of beasts? Sting them with flattery, and drag out confessions?"

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The flask shattered in the street, and the Porter let out a startled hiss from under the cart. Thistle didn’t so much as flinch. He only gave a small, wry tilt of his head.

"My tonics work better when drunk, you know… but if throwin’ bottles eases the spirit, I’ll not fault ye."

The hedgehog stepped back inside, the curtain falling shut behind him.

The rear of the cart opened into a narrow, low hallway, barely two meters deep, every inch of it pressed with shelves of tinctures and vials. Symbols and foreign script were stamped on the crates, the air rich with the mingled scents of dried herbs, resin, and warm wax. The hallway emptied into a square, candle-lit chamber carved in dark mahogany, walls and shelves stained and scratched from long use. A deep rug sprawled across the floor in curling patterns of burgundy and rust, and every wall was cluttered with oddments: pressed flowers, teeth in jars, brittle scrolls, bird bones, trinkets and coins, some gleaming, some green with corrosion.

At the center stood a round table draped in a velvet cloth the color of blood. A veiled crystal orb rested at its heart, flanked by a smaller table with a deck of cards beneath linen and a simple tea set beside an ornate brazier. Across from it sat a single high-backed chair, worn and older than the rest.

Overhead, a small chandelier spilled flickering light through coils of incense of frankincense, sandalwood, and rose. The warmth was immediate, unreal, as though the outside world had been folded away.

Thistle crossed the chamber and rested his paw lightly on the crystal’s linen shroud. His voice came even, untroubled.

"Ye see me as a fraud an’ cheat, but why? Ye arrived on yer own, and parted with coin freely. At the moment, ye only cheat yerself of my time by makin’ baseless accusations. And yet… I’ve already learned more of ye than I’d hoped. Ye’ve spoken truer of yourself in anger than what ye could with a thousand kind words."

He lowered himself into the high-backed chair with a slow creak of wood, quills shifting softly as he leaned forward.

"A beast stretched thin is not proof of cowardice, but proof he’s carried more than any soul should alone. Even iron bends when the load is too great. The act of seein’ it, speakin’ it aloud... That is strength... It’s the same as settin’ a broken bone. Ye name the break, ye line it true, an’ only then can it mend."

His paw tapped the table lightly, eyes glinting behind the rising incense smoke.

"An’ as for your sapling… aye, a stem may splinter, but if it’s given a stake to lean on, water for its roots, it’ll heal, straighten, and grow tall again. No stem thrives in a barren field. It needs the forest, needs the soil, needs the care of others. Even the fates weave us into tapestries, not lone threads."

He gestured to the seat across from him, voice low but steady.

"So then. Sit. No more flattery, no more fury. Let us see what thread the fates have spun for ye tonight."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Though he regretted throwing the bottle as soon as it left his paw, the mystic's reply was shockingly indifferent. It was more grace than he deserved. Arthur braced himself against the doorframe with his forearm, and leered at the mystic. Thistle had his attention now, and the anger simmered on his face, and dissolved into regret.

The kind words were nigh unbearable to hear. They weren't true, and Barrett knew it to be so. The petulant side of him wanted to contentiously bicker about every little thing. Thistle still hadn't accounted for his lying flattery. The mystic knew nothing of setting bones -- much less recovering a ruined reputation, or even gardening! The marten clutched his paws to his face, gripping and pulling at his pelt in frustration. It would do no good to speak now. Thistle had won this bout, and would take his verbal victory lap.

Arthur tipped his head back against the door frame, and panted from the mere exertion while drunk. Alcohol sapped his strength more than it used to. He watched Thistle out of the corner of his eye like a caged beast, and raked his claws down his face. Outside, the sun rays were starting to disappear behind the buildings and horizon. The lamp lighters were going about, the lanterns winking on one at a time. Barrett considered leaving the cart... but knew that would only add to his shame. If the mystic wanted to set his hooks into him, then let him rip and tear.

Resignedly, he drew up to the table, and sat down on his seat with a thud -- causing the cart to jostle just a bit. He leaned forward imposingly on the table, propping himself up on his wrists. "No flattery, no fury --" he agreed wearily, leveling with the hedgehog. "-- and no lies. It's too late in the night, even for courteous lies. Lies use up so much strength. Past this hour, there's only strength left for truth.*"

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle regarded the pine marten’s weary slump with the same calm as before, his paws folding together atop the velvet-draped table.

"Truth costs less strength than lies, aye," he said gently. "Though it still takes courage to sit an’ drink it plain."

He reached for the smaller table at his side, where a simple pot of water hissed faintly over the brazier. With practiced ease he measured dried chamomile and dandelion root into two chipped porcelain cups, the petals and stems crackling softly as they met the steam. Soon the air was thick with a mellow, grassy scent that softened the incense. He poured carefully, sliding one cup across the table until it came to rest before Arthur’s wrists.

"Not a tonic," he explained, voice matter-of-fact. "No tricks, no glamour. Just tea. Even the fates know a beast thinks clearer with warmth in his belly."

His quills shifted with a faint rattle as he leaned back, watching the steam curl between them.

"I’ve no business with lies. I may not always be right, but I’ve lived long enough to see patterns... in the seasons, in the soil, in the hearts of beasts. They repeat, over an’ over. Knowing the weave helps a soul see where the threads might tighten, and where they might be steered aside."

He tipped his own cup, blowing across the rim before taking a slow sip. Then, with a flicker of dry amusement, he nodded toward Arthur’s cup.

"Go on, have a swallow. Might even 'elp to sober ye up."

The glow of the lanterns pressed warm against the bottles in their shelves, making the chamber feel almost like a hearth. Beyond the shimmer of glass and steam, the veiled crystal still waited at the table’s heart, untouched. Waiting patiently for it's time to shimmer and shine.

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Upon closer inspection, the marten looked incredibly weary. His eyes were somewhat sunken, his fur disheveled -- and he gave an uncomfortable shrug of his shoulder as if it bothered him. His clothes were clean at least... though they'd need a wash. The scent of alcohol and tobacco was hard to miss.

Quietly, Arthur watched the hedgehog go through his tea ritual. There was something comforting about it. He'd not enjoyed a cup of tea with another beast in some time -- much less had someone make him a cup. His paws opened as the cup slid closer, and he let the heat soak into his paws. He nearly flinched again at the word "courage", but let the matter slide. He'd soon see for himself whether or not the mystic knew what he spoke of.

"I don't know where to start," he confessed. He lifted the cup to his lips, took a sip, and frowned affectionately at the drink. It was a good brew. "It's almost as if I'm cursed to watch beasts make the same mistakes. Walk into the same traps. Completely powerless to stop it. If I speak kindly to them, they ignore me. If I speak harshly to them, they write me off as a... bitter, miserable cur -- and then they still ignore me."

"Part of me wants to just be silent. If they're going to walk into hellgates, then let the problem solve itself. But... I can't bear to watch it happen again, and again. Especially when the resulting problems end in my paws."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle listened in silence, paws steepled beneath his chin as the marten spoke. His eyes softened at the confession, not with pity, but with the quiet recognition of one who’d seen too much himself. When Arthur finished, the old hedgehog exhaled slowly, the sound low and thoughtful.

"You’ve carried others so long ye’ve near forgotten how t’ set yourself down," he murmured. "There’s no shame in that. Healers see the same wounds open, the same beasts stumble into the same fires, an’ yet they keep tendin’ the burns. It’s not a curse, just the cost of carin’."

He reached forward, nudging aside his tea mug to clear a space at the table’s center. His tone shifted then to something more gentle, almost conversational.

"Now then… let’s set a bit of mood, eh?"

A quiet click came from beneath the table. The veiled crystal stirred, a faint hum rolling through the wood. Beneath the linen, a glow began to pulse. First a deep red, then softening to amber, flowing back and forth like ripples on water. The light danced across the glass vials along the shelves, painting the chamber in slow-moving warmth.

Thistle lifted the linen with a measured hand, revealing the orb in full. The glass caught the lamplight like trapped honey, its shifting color filling the space between them.

"Now," he began with a wry grin, "for some, this orb a portal to the realms beyond. For others, a beacon of truth itself. But between you an’ me, it’s exactly what it looks like... a glass bauble an’ a lantern. Still… you’ve got t’ admit, it does give ambiance."

He sat back, letting the play of light do the talking for a moment.

"There’s a reason the fates favor beasts like you, y’know," he said at last, quieter now. "You see the pattern before it repeats. You ache because you notice. Because you care. An’ the day that pain fades, that’ll be the day the fire’s gone out of you."

He gestured lightly toward the glowing orb, its surface pulsing like a slow, steady heartbeat.

"So. Let’s see if we can make sense of that ache, shall we?"

 

[Arthur Barrett]

A sour look washed over Arthur's face every time Thistle complimented him -- told him he was brave, or courageous, or talked about there being no shame in something or other. The marten opened his mouth again to protest, but wasn't quick enough to slip a word in. He resigned himself to enduring the flattery, and looked off with a bitter huff while the mystic lit his lamps.

Internally, Arthur had started to write Thistle off -- and the disdain was written plainly on his face as he mused over his tea. Forgotten how to rest -- bah! And he carried no beast. Like the old fable of the strong man and the wagoner, Arthur wouldn't go above and beyond for those who didn't make the effort.

Lifting the mug to his mouth, Arthur sipped at the tea, and inhaled deeply. It was a lovely brew. Arthur appreciated the cozy the atmosphere Thistle was building, and gave a half hearted chuckle as the mystic wrote off his crystal ball -- but Thistle touched something painful with his words.

"Aye..." he said, staring into the glow of the orb as if it were a campfire. "It's all I know... This marten's too old to learn new tricks. Not that I wish it, but... better to die on my feet than... fade into irrelevancy..." he grumbled, spitting the bitter words out. "'s pitiful enough shouting into the void as it is. When I'm a decrepit invalid and pauper, I reckon it'll be even more pathetic. 'n all the beasts from th'medical college'll walk by and toss a gilder in my cup'n mollify me. 'There there, Arthur... blinking shame what's become of you, inn'it?' -- they'll enjoy that quite a bit, I reckon."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle let the silence hang, only the quiet hiss of the orb and the soft crackle of the brazier between them. The marten’s words weren’t met with interruption or counsel, but only the faint nod of a creature who understood far too well what it meant to be tired of mattering.

He poured himself another half-cup of tea, watching the steam curl between them like a lazy ghost.

"Aye… better to die on your feet," he murmured, "I’ve said that myself once or twice. Trouble is, I’m still standin’, and still waitin’ on the dyin’ part."

A quiet, knowing chuckle escaped him. Not cruel, but the kind that came from shared absurdity. He sipped, let the warmth settle, then went on.

"They call me a lunatic in these parts. A fraud, a peddler o’ snake oils. Some say I sell lies to the desperate, others that I curse the ones I fail to cure. Maybe there’s truth in all that. But every mornin’ I still open the cart, still light the lantern, still set the tea. Because beasts come, broken an’ lost, an’ sometimes..." he gave a small shrug, "...pretendin’ t’ know what I’m doin’ keeps us both from sinkin’."

A quiet, lonesome chchkt rose from beneath the cart. Thistle’s gaze flicked toward the sound, his eyes wistful. He leaned back in his chair, quills softly rustling. The light from the orb washed his fur in amber and rose, the color of old embers.

"We all wear masks, y’see. Some to fool others, some to fool ourselves. There’s no shame in it. Sometimes a beast needs a story to hold himself together when truth alone would tear him apart."

His tone softened, almost fond now, like an old doctor speaking to a peer rather than a patient.

"You’ve worn your mask a long while, surgeon. Too long, maybe. Kept the bones set, the flesh stitched, the pain quiet. But a mask can grow tight if ye never lift it. The trick isn’t throwin’ it away. It’s learnin’ when to rest it for a spell... to breathe, t’feel the air on your face, an’ still rise after."

He smiled faintly, lines deepening at the corners of his eyes.

"Now then," he said, voice lifting just enough to hint at his old showman’s spark, "before this tea goes cold, tell me... what does a beast like you do when he ain’t fixin’ every other soul in the world?"

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur choked on his tea with a laugh at the mystic's confession, and for a brief moment, a playful spark lit up in his eyes. "At first I became ill. After one week, I feared I would die -- and after two, I feared I wouldn't!" he said, a boyish grin spreading over his muzzle. Such gallows humor seemed to sit well with him, and relieved some of the tension.

The crystal ball held his attention captive. The warm glow it radiated was a small comfort, and provided something inanimate and nonconfrontational to gaze at -- a touch less demanding than making eye contact. Gates, is that all there is behind this? A cup of tea and a cozy room? I should set up shop... he mused to himself.

But a split second later, the tension came rushing right back. Arthur set his teacup down on the saucer with an uncomfortable clatter. "Masks? Speak for yourself, mystic..." he said with a certain coldness. "You may play to your customers, but I don't have that luxury. Surgeons can't make it up as they go along." The remark had teeth to it, and Barrett leered over the top of the crystal ball, meeting the warm smile with a contemptuous gaze.

> "Now then, before this tea goes cold, tell me... what does a beast like you do when he ain’t fixin’ every other soul in the world?"

"Die." Arthur finished the tea in a single swig, and returned the cup with a blunt air of finality. "Was it not obvious?" he asked incredulously, gesturing mockingly over his body. "Or do you just enjoy seeing if your customers are honest with themselves?" With that, he stood. The marten seemed ready to walk out, only waiting for an answer from the hedgehog.