It's a well established fact that healers of any sort made the worst patients, and Chase was no exception. Even those who had for years trained under Chase's direct supervision to act as extensions of himself earned curses, instruments plucked from their hands, instructions ignored and rewritten in his own hand to be followed to the letter. When he finally lay, confined to the rectangle of a mattress meant for someone else, anyone else, the bones and muscles of his leg re-knitting painfully, no drugs dulled keen eyes that moved from bed to bed in the trauma center thrown together a mile under the earth.
Many dead, more to die, the wounded lay quietly. It was eerie, really, but spared the chaos of moans and screams of those separated from limbs or from family, the healers could work more rapidly and effectively. Ghosts among the living and the dead, moving from bed to bed, judge and jury combined.
Charts were brought, stacked at the healer's beside without comment and he reviewed each in turn, the searing pain with every turn of his head a galling reminder of the bastard who had put him on his back, and the bastard's bastard who had been stolen from his grasp. The next generation would not be so lucky, Chase vowed, shadowed eyes gleaming as he lay back and let exhaustion have its way. And Cledwyn would pay. His mind teemed with possibilities, with scenarios and eventualities, and he would have his revenge. Adrian had all but promised it, and with the way clear, Chase could think of nothing to prevent him taking his rightful place among the Three.
Nothing stood in his way, and the bare curve of a smile only grew when the curtains parted to reveal Nikki, the perfect fit for the empty space at his side, and he reached for her, cursing softly when ribs and shoulder reminded him why that was unwise. The nurses drew the curtains around the bed, as he lay back again, fingers still extended, the word about to be spoken odd and unfamiliar on his tongue. "Please..."