“It’s not the result we wanted, naturally,” the doctor says as he scribbles notes onto his pad. “But we weren’t anticipating a perfect result. I know you’re tired of hearing it, Astraea, but recovery isn’t a binary process, and like an injured soldier relearning how to walk, easing your body into relearning how to properly handle magic is all a part of the process. You just need to have patience.”
“Doc[ast.bq2||tor],” she suddenly snaps, whipping her head towards him with such ferocity that her hair swishes across her shoulders. “My <b>patience</b>–”
The doctor remains nonplussed by Astraea’s sudden aggression, and the moment their eyes meet, her energy deflates and her body relaxes. He’s not her enemy, and she knows that. But her emotions got ahead of her.
The infirmary falls deathly silent as Astraea lowers her hackles. The strength suddenly leaves her body, and her fingers fall slack – and the rock in her left hand drops, clinking against the floor. She looks down in surprise; she hadn’t intended to do that.
“It’s just,” she says somberly. Her throat catches, causing the last syllable to come out higher than she intended. “I don’t know how many more times I can wake up in the morning and not recognize my own hands. Or look in the mirror and see someone else.”
The doctor remains silent, then turns back to his pad and writes something else. “I know we’ve discussed this in the past,” he says before finishing his note and looking up at her. “I can schedule you with the palace’s counsellor, if you’d like.”
She pauses. She considers it. The sound of her breathing through her nose fills the ambience. “No,” she eventually decides. “With the state of the world today, there are more able-bodied fighters in the palace’s retinue that need more immediate attention. My dysphoria doesn’t stack up against someone else’s trauma.”
“Mental health isn’t some kind of competition, Astraea.”
“It’s not,” she agrees, “but I didn’t spend years of my life locked in my room studying just to crumble at the sight of a mirror. I’ll… survive. I can put up with it.”
The doctor curls his lips inward, his eyes narrowing. You know that look – it’s the look of someone who isn’t sure if they believe the person they’re speaking to. From the way she’s reacting to her perceived repeated failures in therapy, Astraea could be on the verge of a breakdown. You’re pretty sure you’re making the same face.
“Well,” he says with a languid sigh. “I can’t make you take a treatment you don’t want to take. But the offer is there if you ever change your mind.” He turns his back to you both as he makes for the infirmary’s dedicated apothecary. “That’s enough for today. Remember to do your exercises. I’ll speak with you again tomorrow, same time.”
