“Say it plainly,” Isadore said.
The healer stiffened, inhaled. “This is no hex, no curse,” she said. “Tharbie suffered a complete neurological breakdown. Essentially, the brain processes trauma and stress the best way it knows how — it compartmentalizes, it rationalizes, it forgets. The brain is strong, but even it can get overwhelmed. Think of it like putting a stack of wooden planks over four watermelons. Eventually, the burden becomes so great that the watermelons collapse in on themselves.”
The war… The Prophecy… Isadore swallowed. “So… it, just, what, threw out everything he ever knew? He acted like he didn’t even know me.”
“It retreated,” the healer said. “And in doing so, it cut off everything it didn’t think was necessary for basic survival.”
“So… how does it connect with him acting like a kid?”
“Because it retreated to a time where it felt the most safest. Where the world made sense.”
Tharbie was eight years old when the Duchess’s army went into his village, ransacked the place. Burnt half of it to the ground. Killed his parents.
Goddess… It went that far back?
He remembered what happened just before this: him smuggling a child onto a refugee airship, then a missile barrage blowing it and several others out of the sky. Tharbie screaming, running toward the burning, falling wreckages.
The child, along with hundreds of others, didn’t make it.
“What does the lady mean?” Tharbie asked, his legs kicking between the chair legs.
“It means…” Polia’s voice trailed off. “It means your brain got hurt. Badly, and now it’s trying to fix itself.”
“Oh.” Tharbie paused. “Does it need help?”
Isadore tightened his jaw. “Tell me, is this forever or… can he recover?”
The healer sighed. “Realistically? Months. It will take months, if not years depending on how far back the brain retreated into itself.”
Isadore licked his lips. “And… And it thinks he’s a child? He’s not… faking it?”
“No,” the healer shook her head. “This is his brain trying to protect itself.”
“Wh-what can we do?” Polia asked, her voice breaking.
“Be there for him, protect him. You will have to treat him as if he were an eight-year-old in the body of a teenaged boy. Be patient, he might ask or do things that he wouldn’t have before this.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“We’ll have to notify the council,” Isadore said, running a hand through his hair. “Damn it all…”
He, Ishim, and Polia were back
“I don’t think the Prophecy’s gonna apply anymore, Ishim,” Isadore said. “Not when he’s in this state.”
“The Duchess might not care,” Ishim said. “If she thinks he’s still alive, even in hiding, she’s not gonna care if he’s mentally a child. She’ll go after him all the same.”
“And even if there was another one,” Polia said, “no telling where that person is, or if they’re even of age…”
Isadore sucked in his cheeks. “So what do you two suggest? Take a guy who can barely tie his own boots without help and put him on the front lines?”
Polia shot up to her feet, glowering. “How dare you? That’s not what I’m saying at all! But we can’t pretend there isn’t a crisis unfolding before us! The Duchess is this close to obtaining the damned trident, and once she gets it, it’s over.”
“She’s right,” Ishim said. “The council’s gonna be pissed about this. Some might put him out there anyway—”
“Not going to happen,” Polia snapped. “But this is the situation we’re looking at right now: the Chosen One, as it stands, can’t even protect himself now. It’s up to us.”
“He’s essentially a child now. We’re not dragging him into a war!” Honestly, that’s kinda half the conflict. The higher ups who believe in the prophecy want him to keep fighting. The other half wants to protect him, while there’s a fringe group who thinks the prophecy was a lie.
