chapter 16

Healing Roderick

GERALD'S POV

I became tense and my heartbeat increased. I did not want to lose a warrior.

As I watched him drink the substance given to him by Ethan, I prayed silently for his survival.

If not for anything, he should know something that would help us capture our foe.

Ethan's eyes narrowed, his lips moving in a rapid, silent prayer, his hands weaving detailed patterns in the air, the words of his incantation a low, persisting chant that filled the room with a powerful, unseen force.

"Begone, demon," he intoned, his voice low and commanding, a power thrumming in his words, in his very soul. "Release your hold on this man, or face the wrath of the gods themselves."

Ethan's words rang out like a battle cry, a rallying cry that echoed through the very fabric of reality, a sound that seemed to shake the foundations of the universe itself.

And then, as if in answer to his call, the air grew still, the darkness seemed to recede, the shadows melting away like snow in the springtime.

The warrior's convulsions ceased, his body relaxing, his breath coming in slow, steady gasps.

I heaved a sigh of relief, my fears and anxiety faded like a smoke in the sky.

Ethan placed a hand upon the warrior's chest, his fingers tracing the shapes of his wounds, his eyes closing in a moment of silent communion, a bond that transcended mere words.

"You are safe now," he whispered, his voice soft, reassuring. "The evil has been banished, the darkness banished back to the shadows."

Roderick, the warrior, opened his eyes, his gaze clear, but never said a word yet.

My gaze was piercing, my jaw clenched in anger, as I faced Roderick, the young lycan.

"What happened to you in the forest?" I demanded, my voice low and dangerous, my words heavy with a sense of dread.

Roderick met my gaze, he opened his and closed it, his voice a mere whisper, as if the words were caught in his throat, unable to escape.

My eyes shifted, my gaze evading him, my hands clenched into fists, a silent expression of frustration, of anger, that I could not contain.

Ethan's hands hovered over Roderick's neck, his fingers tracing the contours of his throat, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

"It is not his fault," Ethan said, his voice softer now, a hint of sympathy in his words.

"They have silenced him," he said, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. "The witches have taken his voice, to keep him from telling us what he knows."

My face hardened, my eyes narrowing with a dark, predatory gaze.

"Then we must find another way to make him talk," I said, my words a quiet, dangerous threat.

"No," the herbalist said, his voice a low, grave warning, a pronouncement of doom. "The witches will not allow him to speak, not while the curse holds sway over his mind, his body."

My face was impassive, my eyes hard and cold, and my jaw clenched in silent anger.

"Then what would you have us do?" I demanded, my voice a whisper, a serpent's hiss.

Ethan's expression was a mix of sorrow and resolve.

"There is only one way to free him," he said, his voice a dark, foreboding murmur. "We must wipe away his memories, the knowledge of what he saw, what he knows.

"It is not a decision to be taken lightly," he continued.

"It will erase part of who he is, of who he was. But it is the only way to set him free, to protect him from the witches."

"Let us leave him be for now," he suggested, his voice heavy with resignation. "We shall keep him under close supervision, give him medicines to soothe his spirit, his mind."

I nodded, my eyes fixed on Roderick's form, my expression a mask of concern, of guilt.

"Very well," I said, my voice a whisper, a silent apology. "We shall give him time, and hope that the witches' hold on him weakens."

Just then, someone knocked on the door.

The knock was sharp and urgent, the sound reverberating through the room like a shot fired in the dark.

Ethan nodded, a silent command, as the door opened, the sound of the hinges creaking in the stillness of the air.

I was surprised to see Tom as he walked into the room. His face was a picture of concern, his body tense with urgency, moved with the grace of a predator, silent and lethal, to stand beside Roderick's prone form.

His eyes met mine, a silent exchange of understanding, of grief, as he handed over a message to me, his fingers brushing against me for a brief, fleeting moment.

My face was a mask of stone and my eyes impassive, my expression unreadable, as I unrolled the scroll, scanning the words written upon it.

I recounted the herbalist's grim forecast, the curse that had been placed on Roderick, and the shadow of the witches looming over them all.

My gaze lingered on Roderick's form, his body still, his face a mask of emptiness, his eyes fixed on a distant point, as if he were already lost to the world of dreams, of nightmares.

Grief twisted in my heart, a bitter, soul-deep pain that I tried to banish, to cast aside, but it lingered, a specter of regret and sorrow.

I reached out, my hand resting on Roderick's arm, a silent gesture of comfort, of friendship, as I fought back the tears that threatened to break free, to betray me.

All I wanted was peace," I muttered, his voice a low, bitter lament, as I watched Roderick's chest rise and fall with the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

"For my pack to live without fear, without the constant threat of attack, of death."

I grasped my hands into a fist, my knuckles white with rage, as I struggled to contain the storm of emotion that steamed within me.

Tom moved forward, his steps silent, stealthy, like a predator approaching its prey, his face filled with concern, with a fierce, unyielding loyalty.

He placed a hand on my shoulder, his fingers tightening around the fabric of my tunic, a silent, wordless expression of support, of friendship.

"You must be strong, My Alpha," he said to me, his voice a low, grave murmur. "The pack looks up to you, for guidance, for leadership.

"They need you now, more than ever," Tom continued, his words a plea, an entreaty, as he met my gaze, his eyes fierce and determined.

"The witches are not the only enemy we face. Our fears, and our doubts, can be just as deadly.

"We are strong, Gerald," he said, his voice rising, his words an anthem of defiance, of hope. "We are the wolves. We are hunters. We will not be defeated."

You are not alone in this, Alpha," Tom said, his voice a soft, reassuring rumble, his gaze burning with a fierce, unyielding intensity. "I am here, as your beta, as your friend, as your brother.

"I will stand by your side, no matter the cost, no matter the danger," he continued, his words a vow, a promise etched into the very fabric of reality.

"I will fight alongside you, I will bleed for you, I will give my life for you if that is what it takes."

A spark of life seemed to ignite within my soul, a flame that burned away the darkness, the despair, as I stepped closer to Tom, my eyes shining with a fierce, primal light.

"Your loyalty, your courage," I said, my voice a low, dangerous growl, "they are a balm to my soul, a shield against the darkness. I am honored to call you my friend, my brother, my beta."

I moved closer, my arms outstretched, as if reaching for a kindred spirit, a brother-in-arms.

Tom met my embrace, his arms wrapping around my back, a silent gesture of camaraderie, of trust, as our bodies pressed together in a moment of unspoken understanding, a bond forged in the fires of war, of loyalty.

Ethan emerged from his inner chamber, his gait slow and steady, his face a mask of concentration, his eyes fixed on some invisible, otherworldly force.

He approached the room, his presence a silent disturbance, an intrusion into the moment of intimacy shared by me and Tom, his footsteps like the ticking of a clock, counting down to some unknown fate.

"Gerald," he called out to me, his voice a low, reverent murmur, as he entered the room, his eyes fixed on the prone form of Roderick.

"I have found something," the herbalist said, his voice filled with a sense of urgency, of purpose, his hands cupping a small, leather pouch, the contents within jostling with each step he took.

I and Tom exchanged a quick, knowing glance, a silent communication of curiosity, of anticipation, as they turned to face the herbalist.

"What is it?" I asked, my voice a low, dangerous whisper, my eyes fixed on the pouch, the contents within still a mystery.

My gaze was fixed, intense, my body taut with anticipation, with dread, as I watched the herbalist approach Roderick's side.

My hands trembled, my breath quickening, as the herbalist withdrew a small, crystalline vial from the pouch, its contents a glowing, swirling liquid, a mystery yet to be revealed.