Chapter Text
“You want to tell the doctor what you did at school today?”
“…swapped arms with a classmate.”
“Mhm. And why do you think that’s a bad idea?”
“…’Cause now my arm won’t reattach.”
“Exactly!”
You could only chuckle at the banter unfolding as you eyed your patient: a Frankenstein-esque kid with mismatched skin tones and neat stitches. Beside him is his mother, so eerily similar it was as if she’d made him in her image, piece by piece, stitch by stitch. To many, the sight might have been grotesque, but you were used to it. Compared to the ordinary human clinics in Farrhaven, the practices in the Wildes required a different sort of expertise altogether.
When you studied Necromancy in the Wildes Academy of Medicine, you didn’t know which branch to specialize in. You considered getting into General Practice, a broader medical field that treats patients across multiple age groups. However, volunteer work at the nearby orphanage for one of your extracurricular activities provided you with valuable insight. Moved by the lack of experts tackling the health issues of hybrid children, you decided to pursue a career in this field.
You were an unusual kind of doctor — a paediatrician specializing in necromantic medicine for undead and magical children. The work suited you perfectly; being a hybrid yourself — part Gorgon on your father’s side, and part Wraith on your mother’s — you had grown up with a presence others often found unsettling, something in the air that made people aware of you before they even looked.
Long ago, such a lineage would have instilled fear: Gorgons for their petrifying gaze, Wraiths for their hunger for living essence. But you had learned to turn that legacy into empathy instead of isolation, patience instead of bitterness. It gave you a rare insight into children who carried unusual powers or burdens of their own.
There weren’t many like you in the Wildes, and your expertise kept your practice in steady demand for years. You weren’t in it for the money, though. More than once, you had offered your services freely, eager to help underprivileged families, especially those living on the outskirts of the Wildes.
As you lay out your tools and listened to mother and son bicker, you couldn’t help but smile. The din in the background was a constant, but you didn’t mind it; their conversations were usually amusing.
Pulling your chair, you sat down beside the kid, giving a little space for breathing room.
“So, this might sting or tickle. Hold still,” you said as you grabbed one arm from the mother’s clutches, carefully sewing it back into place. While you worked, you whispered a spell, causing your eyes to glow a vibrant green-blue. The child watched you with a mix of awe and curiosity. After sewing both arms back together, you applied a salve that immediately absorbed into the skin.
“Okay,” you start, grabbing a neon green lolly from your desk, “If I give you this, would you stop swapping arms with your friend?” You ask, one eyebrow raised. The child nods enthusiastically, eager to have the sweet. You chuckle and pull back. “You gotta promise your mum, bud, not me,” the kid pouts, then turns to his mum and pleads. The mum eventually relented.
“Alright! Just make sure you keep the stitching dry for at least another hour or two, and it should be good,” you instructed the mum more than the kid, knowing full well that his age group were rambunctious and stubborn. As you finished prescribing the salve, you handed it to the mum before they went on their merry way, thanking you.
You took a moment to replace the sheets on the examination bed and wiped the chairs down before paging your assistant to call in the next patient.
As the door to your office opens, you see a tall, hulking fellow wearing a bucket hat enter, holding a crying toddler in his arms. His gruff yet gentle voice soothes the child as he wipes away the tears with a handkerchief.
“You’re alright, love. Let’s get you checked, then off to the park, yeah?” You couldn’t help but smile. There was something oddly sweet about a large man fussing so carefully over their own youngling. It tugged up a memory of your grandfather back in Shadoweald, who had looked just as intimidating to strangers but had been nothing but patient with you.
“Hello, Mr. Price—is that right?” you asked, recalling the information from the file you had read earlier. He looked up at you, his deep blue eyes scanning your face briefly before he nodded. “It’s John, Doc. Mr. Price is my father,” he replied, shaking his head slightly. “And this is Adam. Say hello, love,” John said as he gently guided his son’s arm to encourage him to wave. Adam blinked, studying you with curiosity, his cheeks still stained with tears.
Right away, you noticed the child was unlike most hybrids you’d worked with. Adam’s hair was a tangle of brownish-green curls — snakes, as you observed with a keen eye, each one staring at you with equal curiosity. A Gorgon. His skin showed a green, sallow hue with grey-olive mottling along the shoulders, a rare combination pointing to Zombie lineage. As you studied him, the red flicker in his eyes and the shadow clinging to him suggested a trace of Hellhound blood from his father.
You cast a quick glance at John, noting the same dark intensity clinging to him, eyes flickering between red and blue, the black of his sclera making the colours stand out. Quietly, you ask, “What seems to be the problem, John?” You wave at Adam, who shyly returns it, sniffles lingering.
“Well,” John began, taking a seat as you pulled up a chair, “For starters, he’s turned all his toys to stone,” he said, fishing out his phone and showing you photos.
“He tried to turn Petrie to stone as well. Fortunately, the bugger is immune,” he says, showing you a picture of their pet cockatrice and Adam in a funny standoff. You couldn’t help but let out a soft snort.
“On top of that,” he added, settling Adam on his lap as the boy wriggled to grab at his bucket hat, and you tried not to chuckle, “he’s been up all night the past three days. Shifts, then starts bawling when he shifts back.” John swiped to another photo showing red marks along his son’s spine.
“These pop up when he shifts back; that’s usually when the crying kicks in.” You studied the photos, then asked John to turn Adam around and lift his shirt. The faint red marks along the spine were immediately visible. You traced them gently, and Adam winced, letting out another cry.
“He’s not keen on me fussing his back,” John says, gently shushing Adam and brushing away a few stray tears with his thumb. Your eyes soften as you absentmindedly run your fingers through the boy’s serpentine hair, the little tendrils curling around your hand.
“You’re alright, little one, I’ve got just the thing for ya.” You gently unwound his tendrils from your fingers before getting up to rummage through your apothecary cabinet, setting aside vials until you found a grey bottle capped with a wolf’s head and a red one with a horned stopper. Then you returned to your seat.
You lifted them for John to see as Adam tried to reach for one, making you smile.
“Now this isn’t to bore you with old elementary genetics lessons, but just so you know why I’m giving him these,” you place the horned bottle down and lift the wolf bottle, “Hellhounds are werewolves with a dash of demon blood. If I gave him the standard werewolf anti-inflammatory, it wouldn’t touch the red marks; they’d scar over time. So, I’m giving you the demon salve as well.”
As you held up the bottles, Adam reached out for them with both hands. You grinned, shifting them into one palm so you could offer the other for a handshake instead. He laughed and eagerly shook your hand.
“You can ask for an empty vial at the counter. Mix these two in equal parts, then apply a pea-sized amount to your fingers and gently massage it onto his back twice a day. He should be right as rain in a week.”
As John pockets the salves before his son can get to them, Adam throws a tantrum and starts crying. The pince-nez you were wearing turns to stone, falling off your face from the weight, and you instinctively catch it with one hand.
John sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Adam…” he mutters, but you only snort out of amusement.
“You’re a powerful little creature, aren’t ya?” you said, leaning forward with a calm smile, keeping eye contact, your eyes glowing green-blue. You knew better than to stare a Gorgon in the eyes, especially an untrained one, but you were a lot stronger than a mere child’s magical outburst, and you were immune to Gorgonic spells, being half Gorgon yourself. Adam stares at you, a little taken aback, but then he starts to beam.
“Powderful!” He repeats what you said, clapping his hands, bringing a bigger smile to your face. “Yeah, you are! Giving your Da’ a hard time, yeah? Cheeky little bugger,” you said as you gently pinched his cheeks with your thumb and forefinger, making Adam burst into a fit of giggles.
John huffs a laugh when you calm his son without a single spell, only patience and sweetness. “Powderful, is it?” he echoes Adam, mouth twitching into something almost like a smirk. When he meets your eyes, there’s a trace of admiration, or perhaps gratitude, that breaks through his fatigue.
“Thanks for the salves, Doc, but what about the gorgonic mishaps?” he asks, hoping you have an answer. Sadly, you don’t, so you chuckle, shaking your head.
“The best way would be for him to have guidance from a Gorgon parent or guardian — someone who understands the shifts and can help him manage them safely.”
His jaw tightens, just for a second, like the words scrape an invisible wound. “His mum’s not…” John’s voice lowers before he sighs in defeat.
“She’s out of the picture.” There’s a bitterness in his tone, a sense of finality. His thumb strokes the back of Adam’s little hand like it’s his anchor, and Adam places his other hand on top, innocently mirroring the motion.
You don’t pry. Instead, you turn to Adam and offer him a gentle smile. The child smiles back, stops patting his father’s hand, and lifts his own hand to touch your forehead. You feel the weight of the unspoken truth settle between you. You’ve had a variety of patients with parents who were separated, divorced, unknown, or absent. You simply nod, then rummage through your desk and hand him a pamphlet.
“If you’re interested, we offer free services for parents who need assistance navigating care for their hybrid children. Our clinic has many experts,” you said, laying out the pamphlet to provide him with options. “We have sessions with Farah on Gorgon Care every Monday and Thursday,” you added, sounding hopeful. However, John’s smile remained subdued.
“’Fraid I’m not free those days, Doc.” John said, glancing away briefly, and you feel a slight tug in your chest at the tone of his voice.
“That’s alright, when are you available?”
“Afternoons on the weekend.”
“No worries. If you’d like, I can help with your son’s care. I usually finish up around two on weekends, but I don’t mind staying a bit longer.”
John’s face reddened, and he shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t have to do that, Doc. Really. Thank you, but I’d hate to keep you from your day.” You chuckled, handing him the pamphlet along with your card.
“I insist, John. Besides, if you don’t know, I’m part Gorgon myself, so this would be a walk in the park.”
“Park!” Adam exclaims at hearing the word, tugging at John’s shirt, then pointing out the window as if it’s time for them to go.
John searched your eyes for any hesitation. You gave a small nod, willing to help out, and he finally relented.
“I appreciate it, Doc. I owe you one,” he said quietly as he stood. This time, his eyes lingered on you, steady and unhurried.
The weight of his gaze bloomed heat into your chest, and you were the one to look away first, clearing your throat as you turned toward the desk. To distract yourself, you plucked a ruby-coloured lolly from your jar of sweets, and Adam was already reaching out to hold it.
“Can Adam have a sweet?” You asked, just keeping the candy out of reach. John nods, and you unwrap the candy before giving it to Adam.
“I’ll see you Saturday, then,” you said as you led them to the door and showed them out. John gave you one final look before he broke into a smile. “See you Saturday, then,” he echoed, and then off they went to head to the front desk, bouncing his son on his hip. Adam looks behind his father, still watching you as you wave.
“Bye bye!” Adam shouts, waving his arms and his candy in the air, making John look back at you. You smile and wave back.
You watch them a little longer than you mean to. The little boy’s laughter was still hanging in the air, John’s warmth was like an ember you couldn’t quite shake before you closed the door and did your usual cleanup.