Chapter 105: Mirror Therapy

Dimitry swiped open the curtain dividing the hospital examination room into two sections: a barren yet efficient half for commoners, and the other containing Zeran goblets and statuettes and paintings of purebred horses to justify charging nobles extra. Today’s patient belonged to the latter demographic. “This way, Sir Meier.”

Warnfrid limped past the curtain. “I swear it’s killing me, Your Holiness.”

Forged from polished steel and gleaming with meticulously coated wax and oil layers, the earl massaged his L-shaped prosthetic leg, which struggled to rectify a below-knee amputation. Warnfrid was one of the unlucky ones. Although most amputees developed phantom limb pain post-surgery, many had moderate symptoms that eased over the years. His got worse. And from what he said at a recent banquet, no one believed him.

“You don’t have to convince me,” Dimitry said. “I know it’s not just in your head. And even if it was, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t treat it.”

A decorated breastplate that ceased to undulate hinted that Warnfrid held his breath. “Then you really can make it stop?”

Dimitry hoped so. Though he took great pleasure in his work, each patient discharged a moment of unbridled satisfaction, today, he acted selfishly. Warnfrid was the only general in Malten whose wounds left him incapable of defending a border against heathens or the southern kingdoms. Decades of military experience wasting away.

A misfortune Dimitry would reap. His knowledge of modern warfare couldn’t substitute for someone who had spent his life studying and living on the battlefield. Warnfrid would make for an excellent instructor for the Sacred Hospitaller. And, if all went well, he might even agree to serve as their general.

But first, Dimitry had to earn Warnfrid’s loyalty. And what better way than by managing his chronic pain? “I never would have asked you to travel to the capital if I didn’t have something in mind. Now, let’s get your armor off. Lili, would you come assist—”

“Unnecessary!” With a flick of his wrist, Warnfrid disconnected two buckles by his shoulder. A red and gold pauldron clanged as it slammed into a dark granite floor. “I never needed a squire, and I don’t need some girl to wipe my ass.”

Seeing the aged noble get red in the face while reaching for a strap behind his neck, yelling at an approaching nurse to stay away, Dimitry thought of his father. Like Warnfrid, dad would always push away a helping hand to maintain his image of self-sufficiency. Even now, he was probably lying on that red couch, watching the fifth rerun of the evening news instead of doing the physical therapy exercises the physiatrist prescribed to manage his back pain.

The result of Dimitry’s negligence.

As a kid, he was always too busy hanging out with his shitty friends to help at his dad’s construction company. Just after emigrating to a country with a language he couldn’t speak, his old man started the business himself and did everything alone because he couldn’t afford employees. Though he was too proud to ask for help directly, his dad often mentioned his overwhelming workload, and Dimitry ignored him. Only after graduating medical school did Dimitry apologize by helping his dad expand his childhood home, but by then, it was too late. The damage had already been done. Degenerative disc disease and osteoarthritis left his dad barely able to walk.

“Now what?” Warnfrid asked, standing next to a blurry pile of armor lacking a steel leg.

Dimitry’s distant gaze refocused. Once more, he caught himself slipping into the past—an incident that had grown in frequency ever since Kajla hinted at a possible return to Earth. “Would you please take off your prosthetics and take a seat on the therapy table?”

Warnfrid untied a wire strapping his stump to the steel leg, kicked off the well-made contraption, and fell back onto the granite bench’s leather cushion.

“Align your body with the table and keep your thighs straight.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect.” Dimitry lifted the wide silver mirror Angelika brought in from somewhere mysterious last night and placed it between Warnfrid’s legs.

The earl stared longingly into the mirror, his whole limb reflecting off the surface to give the appearance of two intact feet.

“Try moving your legs—both of them.”

Hesitant at first, Warnfrid wiggled his toes. The digits of his reflected limb followed suit. “It… it feels like they’re there.” No different from a child entranced by the immersive world of a video game, he shook his feet, touched his shins, bounced his calves against the bench’s cushion. “Like it’s all really there!”

“Good. We’re trying to trick your mind into thinking just that. If this works, your pain should get better.”

“And my foot? Remember, I told you at the banquet that it has felt clenched ever since the javelin went through—“

“I remember. This’ll help that too.”

“Then I’ll…” Warnfrid’s lower lip trembled. “I’ll be able to sleep through the night again?”

As much as Dimitry wanted to say yes, he couldn’t. Mirror therapy wasn’t a miracle cure, and there was no backup plan. Only potent drugs like opioids and antidepressants reliably numbed phantom pain. Even if he could prescribe them now, the benefits were temporary, and the side-effects were often worse than the original issue. His sole recourse was religion. Hopefully, a faith-based placebo would improve Warnfrid’s chances.

“I want you to pray,” Dimitry said. “With all your might, pray to Zera, and I know Celeste will guide you through this.”

The earl slammed his eyes shut, muttering breathy verses.

“Do you feel her embrace?”

“I-I think so.”

“Good. Curl your toes as much as you can. Real tight.”

Teeth clenched and graying eyebrows furrowed, Warnfrid’s breathy whispers grew in volume and desperation.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

“Now release.”

Warnfrid’s toes uncurled, as did those in his reflection. His head shot up. He stared at Dimitry, grasping for words that took several seconds to sound. “Nine years. Nine years my foot’s been tense.”

“How about now?”

“It’s relaxed.”

“And the pain?”

“So much better, but the stump and shin, they still—” the aged earl’s voice cracked. He glanced away before relief could overwhelm his face.

It seemed Dimitry’s plan went off without a hitch. Patients needed many mirror therapy sessions before their phantom pain became manageable. Warnfrid was no different. Though Dimitry took no pleasure in preying on a man who just had his first taste of salvation, his recruits were dying. He needed to give them the mentor they needed before another catastrophe struck.

“Still in pain?” Dimitry asked. “Looks like there’s much more healing left to do.”

Warnfrid watched him with pleading eyes. “You can do more?”

“I can, and I want to, but…”

“But what?”

“Zera commands me to rebuild the heathen barrier, but doing everything on my own is taking up all my time.” Dimitry looked down at his boots. “I hope you can understand.”

Warnfrid hopped off the table. “Your Holiness, allow me to offer my aid. Supplies, laborers, whatever’s necessary to ease your divine burden.”

“You really want to help?”

“If I may.”

“Well, I suppose there’s something you can do.”

Just like that, Dimitry had earned himself a general. Warnfrid agreed to stay in the capital to discipline and train the Sacred Hospitaller in exchange for daily mirror therapy sessions. During that time, he would also make strategies to fight heathens at the coast and from Malten’s walls with non-magic voltech rifles in mind. What ideas would the aging earl come up with?

Though Dimitry was eager to find out, he identified several long-term issues with this arrangement. Once he revealed every exercise, Warnfrid would discover that he could administer his own mirror therapy sessions. Could piety alone keep the earl’s loyalty? Worse still, Warnfrid’s disability left him incapable of leading troops into battle. His role in the army couldn’t go beyond preparation and planning. He also mentioned his hesitation to fight against other nobles, citing a growing unease amongst a few of Malten’s aristocrats. Most likely the same nobles that avoided the summit where Dimitry became the archbishop.

A troubling prospect.

Currently, Dimitry’s troops couldn’t fight a crawler, let alone vassals and their expansive armies. He prayed tensions would remain low until the Sacred Hospitaller could prove itself a benign force by exterminating heathens and ‘purifying’ the land. No rational commander would wage war against a holy army that benefited all across Malten.

However, until then, Dimitry had to take every precaution. That was why he made Warnfrid agree to another condition—one that would circumvent the earl’s conditional loyalty and expedite the training of a cohesive military unit. But such a condition required the consent of another party. Dimitry went to meet with her now.

Frigid afternoon winds numbing his face, he rushed through Malten’s paved streets. Four royal guards and two combat sorceresses marched alongside him. They cautiously eyed the surrounding citizens, most of whom knelt and raised an arm to Celeste as Dimitry passed.

“Your Holiness,” muttered a young forge worker whose face was sootier than his brown apron. As if fearing to get too close, his spine pressed back against an iron-reinforced stone wall.

Dimitry often debated how to respond to religious praise. Would a real archbishop walk by her followers without offering a passing glance, or would she spout some Zeran nonsense? Perhaps an understanding nod was enough. Or should Dimitry do something more, like tip his hat?

He tested different methods as he walked. A benevolent smile seemed to work best, generating mostly positive reactions and dampening the gut feeling that told Dimitry he was bullshitting people too much, yet the half-hearted wave of an English queen performed better on the well-to-doers strutting across the broad streets of the castle district. Further experimentation was necessary.

Dimitry soon reached his destination—a narrow shop whose wooden sign bore its title: Vogel’s Enchantments. He knocked on the door, and the personal guard the queen assigned to him formed a perimeter around the entrance.

“Who is it?” an elegant voice much like Leona’s asked.

“Dimitry.”

“A moment, Your Holiness!” The sound of crates being kicked into walls and dense vol pellets clanging within stuffed drawers came from inside. Footsteps rushed closer. The door opened, and a young woman knelt at the threshold, scarlet hair tied into a hasty bun behind her head. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for the wait.”

Of the three Vogel sisters, Leona was definitely the most cultured. Not that her siblings offered much competition. However, despite her courteousness, today she seemed rushed. Off. What alarmed Dimitry most was an unusual lack of masterfully applied lipstick and rouge, which had always decorated her face. “Is everything alright?”

“Y-yes, come in. Would you or anyone in your escort like something to drink?”

“We’re in a bit of a hurry.” He stepped inside and shut the door. “I know she’s off duty right now, but may I speak to Angelika?”

Leona’s orange eyes widened. “Is it about that?”

“What’s that?”

“What my sister did the other day—right in front of Her Royal Highness. I’m so embarrassed. I can’t apologize enough.”

“You mean Angelika cheating on the exam?”

“Yes. And her wrestling Emilia into submission while you and your exalted guests were watching.”

Well, that explained Leona’s twitchiness. “No, this isn’t about that. I’d prefer it if you relaxed a little.”

Leona stood up and exhaled a sharp breath. She swiped a hand through her makeshift up-do, and her slender fingers emerged with pins between them. Her wavy scarlet hair fell over her shoulders. “Honestly, if you’re here to reprimand Angelika, I won’t stop you. She’s been acting weird lately. I think she stole my mirror.”

Dimitry’s eyes furrowed. “Is it a long, silver mirror by any chance?”

“Yes! Have you seen it?”

“… No.”

A heartrending whine escaped the young woman as she led him into the parlor and up the stairs, yet Dimitry said nothing. These were times of struggle. Everyone had to pitch in for the war effort. “Speaking of the alleged crook, how’s she doing?”

“Probably still burying her head under the pillow.”

That wasn’t good. For the favor he had come to ask, Dimitry needed Angelika at her most confident. “Taking it that bad, huh?”

“Doesn’t even come out to eat.”

After a walk halfway down a corridor whose mixed lavender and citrus scent grew stronger the further one trekked, Leona stopped in front of a door. “Get out here, you damn thief!”

“Go away,” a muffled voice responded.

“I know you took it!” Leona kicked open the door, which swung around the hinge and slammed into the wall. “Besides, the apostle is here!”

As predicted, Angelika lay face down on a narrow bed with her head under the pillow. “Tell him to go away, too. I’m busy.”

Dimitry stepped into the room. Not one stray sock littered the floor, and a stack of neatly folded robes lay atop a dresser. The white plastered walls were barren except for an oil painting of a man with strict eyes hanging over a window. How organized. A far cry from Saphiria’s disastrous bedroom.

Leona pulled back on Angelika’s kicking feet. “Get. Up!”

“Leave. Me. Alone!”

Though getting Angelika to agree to anything like this would prove difficult, Dimitry ventured to try anyway. “If it’s okay, I’ll talk to her here.”

“I’d warn against that,” Leona said. “She can get violent when she’s like this.”

“You haven’t seen violent,” Angelika spat.

Though the girl struck fear into the bravest man while holding a voltech rifle, right now, she looked like she needed a hug. Dimitry sat beside her and shook her shoulder. “Are you still beating yourself up over the exam? It’s been three days. Everyone forgot already.”

“You didn’t forget. And neither did she.”

“You mean Leona?”

“No.” Angelika pulled her head out from under the pillow, frazzled red-brown curls like a cloud around her face. “I meant Leandra. Did you see her? She was laughing at me. Laughing! At me! Do you have any magic that makes people forget things? Actually, can you just make me disappear? And not with invisall—permanently.”

All this heartbreak over a court sorceress’s opinion. Oh, the fragility of youth. Dimitry didn’t miss being a teenager. Before he could convince her to take on greater responsibility, he had to build her up. “Leandra wasn’t laughing at you. I think she likes you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She was shooting you grins that whole day. You may be a klutz, but you’re a reliable klutz. Remember when we were testing accelall? Even while you were smuggling a chicken into the castle district, Leandra spoke highly of you.”

Angelika sniffled. “So, like, you don’t think she hates me?”

“I think you two would get along.”

Leona shot Dimitry an appreciative glance. She rested Angelika’s head against her hip, stroking her sister’s chubby cheek with a thumb. “See? You were worrying for no reason.”

“Thanks, you guys.”

“Now give me back my mirror.”

“I told you I didn’t take it!”

“Then who did?”

“Emilia!”

“I didn’t take anything!” a feeble voice protested from behind a locked door across the hall.

The longer Dimitry watched Leona pull on Angelika’s face, the greater his longing for home grew. He missed his sister. While she never showered him with affection like a Vogel might, whenever the workload of residency left him stressed, she would rattle on about magnetic levitation trains until he forgot. Alyona was a special case.

He suppressed his nostalgia. Now that his guard regained some confidence, he could make his request. “Hey, Angelika.”

“What?”

“As you know, I’ll be forming my first squadrons soon. I want you to train as my first officer.”

Leona’s mouth dropped open.

“M-me?” Angelika said. “I… I can’t. They’re just refugees and I’m—I’m not some noble. I even flunked that exam you gave me.”

Dimitry shook his head. “You didn’t flunk. I looked at your blackboard after everyone left—you did better than many people in that room. Weren’t you listening when I said everyone’d miss at least a few questions?”

“Emilia didn’t miss any questions.”

“Of course she did.”

“She did?” Leona and Angelika asked in unison.

“I just knew when to stop,” eked the voice across the hall.

“Damn genius,” Angelika groaned. “Look, even if I did decently, I never went to university. I never learned tactics. Magic and following orders is all I’m good at.”

“That’s why I got you a tutor: Warnfrid.”

“Warnfrid?!”

“You mean the Earl of Canterburg?” Leona asked.

“That’s the one,” Dimitry said. “He agreed to mentor Angelika. I also have this.” He pulled a thin booklet from under his cloak and placed it in the girl’s unsteady hands.

Angelika flipped open the leather cover. “The writing—it’s so neat.”

“I had Claricia organize it, but Richter and Mira wrote the contents. There’s a bunch of stuff about warfare: logistics, sieges, setting up encampments, drills for training squires, distributing rations. I think Mira even threw in grappling and rifle butting techniques.”

As her sister browsed pages at random, Leona leaned over her shoulder to read. “What’s gue… guerrilla warfare? Sounds a lot like raiding.”

“That’s a little something I threw in during editing.”

Angelika closed the book and set it down. “You have all these awesome people helping you. I mean, I’d happily march under any of them to murder some heathens. Can’t you ask them to lead your troops?”

“Maybe I could rope them into it if I tried,” Dimitry said, “but unlike Richter or Mira or Warnfrid, you know my secrets. You’re quick on your feet. You’re kind. You’re brave. You run laps around Malten every morning and you care about the refugees. In my mind, there’s no one better for the job than you. I can rest easy if you’re in charge.”

“Who says I care about some stinking refugees?”

“No one’s buying that,” Leona said.

Angelika grimaced at her sister for a moment before her gaze fell to the closed book. “B-but… what if I fuck up?”

“That’s part of the learning process,” Dimitry said. “Besides, Warnfrid will do the heavy lifting early on. Someone as bright as you can easily learn from him.”

“I wish I trusted me as much as you trust me.”

Leona grabbed Angelika’s shoulders. “You should do it.”

“Not you too.”

“Think about it! Our father left to fight for that drunkard duke, and none of them ever came home. Do you think dad would want you to make the same mistake? Dying at some noble’s command?”

Angelika stared wide-eyed at her sister.

“If dad was in charge,” Leona said, “I know he would never have left us. And neither will you. Bring yourself back home, always!”

A long silence passed as Angelika gazed into her open palms, which rested on her lap. Both determined and cowardly, her orange eyes wavered. “Fine.” She glanced at Dimitry. “I’ll try, but I won’t promise I’ll be any good.”

When Angelika said she would train as an officer, she expected something difficult—a task she could fuck up and use as an excuse to relinquish the crushing responsibility to someone more capable. But not this. This was just humiliating. “Celeste guides us with her staff!”

“Celeste guides us with her staff!” repeated the platoon of refugees running by her side, barely able to maintain a formation, let alone a neat one.

“Her glory follows wherever we go!”

“Her glory follows wherever we go!”

Lines ripped from the gospel and bastardized by the apostle. Dimitry called this abomination a cadence. Though Angelika had often sung hymns ending in cadences when she was part of Archbishop Fronika’s choir, he claimed this one had benefits beyond praising Zera. The unified chanting supposedly kept recruits in sync, cleared their minds, and helped control their breathing. Angelika shouting verses was also meant to teach her leadership and confidence.

But as she jogged through Malten’s western forest, snow falling onto her crimson hood from withered oak branches, all the ‘cadence’ did was make Angelika feel like an idiot. If a real lieutenant like Valter or Machias saw her, she would die on the spot. “Zera loves me and I love her!”

“Zera loves me and I love her!”

“Through science we obey her will!”

“Through science we obey her will!” the recruits mimicked, too busy scanning the skies for flying devils to ask what the hell science was. Most couldn’t even sing. And not just because they sucked at it. Around two dozen men and women struggled to catch their breath, falling behind an already stretched formation.

Should Angelika slow down? Maybe she should yell at the stragglers like Dimitry suggested. He said it would give the troops discipline or something, but Angelika zoned out mid-conversation. Maybe she should’ve read that book he gave her.

Oh well. Only one thing to do.

Play it by ear.

Angelika slowed her pace until the most sluggish recruit caught up—a lanky man who held his hip while stumbling forward.

“What’s your name?” she shouted into his ear.

“J-Jost, mad-madam sorc—“

“Jost, what the fuck makes you think you can slow everyone down? We’re waiting for you!”

He stopped. “I… I can’t… catch my b-breath. Everything’s blurry and… and flashing.”

“You’re out of shape!” Angelika pushed him forward. “Go!”

Wheezing, the man resumed his pathetic bumbling.

A wicked smile crept across Angelika’s face. That was fun. She reveled in her newfound authority for a moment before realizing it was her job to lead commoners like Jost into battle. Her gut dropped. If these people couldn’t complete a lap around Malten, how the hell was she supposed to make them kill heathens?

Angelika shook her head. Dimitry must have had a spell to make them useful. Pushing all the responsibility onto him, she caught up with the formation.

They circumnavigated a barren field where an armored and legless noble demonstrated forward thrusts to a company of two hundred recruits. Sir Warnfrid suggested that the Sacred Hospitaller should wield halberds, and Dimitry agreed. Smart. The spear and hook made halberds deadly against uppity thugs, while a well-aimed swing from its axe blade would split a crawling devil’s core. A peerless all-rounder.

That was assuming the refugees could use them. A woman in a creased brown gown ogled her halberd—one of many Dimitry borrowed from Her Royal Majesty’s treasury—and swung. The momentum sent her flying, and she fell face-first into frozen dirt.

Sir Warnfrid, however, didn’t seem bothered. As if the woman was a countess's daughter, he rushed to help her to her feet. The typically grumpy noble had a spring in his step. Must have gotten laid or something. There was no other way to explain his outburst of energy, which included his zealous planning of today’s events.

It was Sir Warnfrid who chose to train the recruits outside of Malten. He claimed that living behind walls made city dwellers weak, and before the troops became brave enough to march to the coast, they first had to acclimate to the forest. But that wasn’t all. The earl was eager to tutor Angelika right after this.

A chill shot down her spine. What if she made herself look like an idiot? Again? Distracting herself from the dread, Angelika glanced back.

That recruit from before, Jost, teetered like a drunk. He fell.

She clicked her teeth. Seriously, how unfit could a person possibly be? Angelika dashed towards him. “What the hell is your problem? Do you expect to fight heathens like this? They’ll murder you! Get up and run, and if you can’t run, then at least crawl!”

“I-I can’t—“

“Yes, you can!”

He looked up, terrified eyes staring right through her. “I… I can’t see.”