𝖯𝖱𝖮𝖳𝖤𝖠|𝖢.𝖡 (𝖿𝗍.𝖩.𝖭)

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖨𝖵-𝖮𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖺

The surgeon's quarters were dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and the faint sound of the duchess's labored breathing. Mercer sat in a worn chair beside her cot, his weathered gaze fixed intently on her pale, still form.
     Hours had passed since Cutler had summoned him, demanding constant updates on the duchess's condition. Mercer had dutifully relayed every change, no matter how small, but the prognosis remained grim.
     As the night wore on, Mercer found himself observing the duchess with clinical detachment. Her normally regal features were now gaunt and ashen, the bruise on her temple a stark contrast against her sallow skin. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, and her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.
     Mercer leaned forward, careful not to disturb her, and gently dabbed at her forehead with a damp cloth. The duchess stirred slightly at his touch, a faint murmur escaping her chapped lips.
     Mercer froze, his expression impassive. "My lady?" he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Can you hear me?"
     The duchess's eyelids fluttered, but she did not open them. A soft whimper escaped her, and her brow furrowed in distress.
     Mercer watched her dispassionately, his weathered hand hovering over hers but making no move to offer comfort. "Rest easy, Your Grace," he said, his tone flat and detached.
     At his words, the duchess seemed to relax slightly, her breathing steadying. Mercer continued to observe her, his own fatigue betrayed only by the slight slump of his shoulders.

The night dragged on, and Mercer remained steadfast, his vigilance unwavering. As the first hints of dawn began to filter through the windows, the duchess stirred again, her eyelids fluttering.
     Mercer leaned forward, his expression unchanged. "My lady?" he murmured, his voice as impassive as before.
     The duchess's eyes opened, hazy and unfocused, and she let out a soft, pained whimper. Mercer's gaze remained unreadable as he watched her struggle to regain her bearings.
     "You're safe now," he said simply, offering no further reassurance. "The attack is over."
     The duchess's gaze slowly cleared, and a flicker of confusion passed across her features. "Wh-where..." she rasped, her voice barely audible.
     "Aboard the HMS Endeavour, Your Grace," Mercer replied, his tone matter-of-fact. "You were injured, but you're under my care."
     The duchess's brow furrowed, a spark of alarm flaring in her eyes. "My...ship?" she managed, her voice strained.
     "Secure," Mercer stated, his expression giving no indication of his true feelings. "Your assailants have been driven off."
     Some of the tension seemed to leave the duchess's body, and she sank back against the pillows, her eyes drifting closed once more. Mercer watched her impassively, his hands clasped loosely in his lap.
     "Rest now, Your Grace," he said, the words devoid of any warmth or concern. "You're in good hands."
     Mercer expected the duchess to immediately slip back into unconsciousness, but to his surprise, she managed to speak up with great difficulty.
     "You do not...have to keep...sitting there, Sir," the duchess rasped, her voice barely audible. "You seem...rather tired..."
     Mercer's brow furrowed slightly at her unexpected words. He had anticipated her returning to the oblivion of sleep, but her observant gaze, even in her weakened state, caught him off guard.
     For a moment, Mercer was tempted to dismiss her concern. After all, he was merely carrying out his duties as Lord Beckett's assistant, attending to her recovery at his master's behest with the same clinical detachment he applied to all his tasks.
     But there was something in her eyes - a glimmer of genuine worry, perhaps - that gave him pause. Mercer shifted slightly in his chair, his weathered features softening ever so slightly.
     "I will remain until Lord Beckett is satisfied your condition has stabilized, Your Grace," he replied, his tone still professional, but with a hint of something that might have been interpreted as gratitude.
     The duchess regarded him for a long moment, her brow creased in a faint frown. Then, with visible effort, the corners of her mouth twitched upward in the barest of smiles.
     "Then I...shall endeavor...to rest," she murmured, her eyelids fluttering as she succumbed once more to the pull of unconsciousness.

Mercer sat back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the duchess's face. There was a flicker of something akin to approval in his expression, though it was fleeting, quickly masked by his customary stoicism.
     He would remain here, as he had promised, vigilantly monitoring her condition at Lord Beckett's behest through the remaining hours of the early morning. And though he would never admit it, a small part of him was grateful for her unexpected concern.