The Entertainer of Selnar — Part II: The Infirmary of Selnar

 

This Gorean Fan Fiction was generated using Chat GPT alongside the RP logs. 

Please note that the Gorean Saga is a fictional series, and its world, customs, and values may not align with modern societal standards or moral principles.

Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman

The ferry had carried them across the narrow strait from the harbor of Selnar to a neighboring isle, small but prosperous, where the Green Caste kept a private infirmary for those of rank or privilege — and those lucky enough to be taken in by its physicians.

The Entertainer, Armand Geh’Mare, moved with stiffness, his right wrist cradled against his ribs, his golden eyes shadowed with irritation and pain. He followed the Lady Neeve, her bearing calm and authoritative, through the low doorway of a tidy house marked by the green and white pennants of her caste.

They were greeted by a tall man of dark skin and even darker hair, robed in the greens of the healer’s caste. His eyes were bright with amusement.

“Greetings,” he said, with a voice like fine silk. “I am Aetes Omar, assistant physician of Selnar. I should have been made full long ago — but alas, local licensing… nonsense.”
He smiled, spreading his hands. “Please forgive the state of my quarters. I have only just moved in.”

Armand inclined his head with a courteous nod, though his expression betrayed his discomfort. He assumed this place belonged to the man, and found Aetes’ manner more personable than the average green-caste physician he’d met in his travels. Certainly more so than that pompous old viper Torren, the head of caste in Selnar, whose arrogance was enough to sour any man’s mood. Perhaps that was why the entertainer had avoided seeking help here sooner.

Lady Neeve, for her part, was visibly relieved to stand on solid ground again. She had endured enough of the ferry’s swaying to last a lifetime.

“Neeve Barbosa,” she said, inclining her head. “Assistant Head of Caste from Var-Kor. This man needs his wrist seen to urgently.”

Her tone brooked no debate. She gestured toward the nearest cot. “Sit.”

Armand gave her a look that would have made a lesser woman waver — the kind of indignant, wolfish glare that said he was used to commanding his own stage, not obeying orders. But she had the look of one who tolerated no argument, so, grumbling lowly like a restless lart, he obeyed.

While he settled, Neeve went to the basin, rolling up her sleeves. She scrubbed her hands to the elbows, her motions efficient and practiced. Then she donned gloves, mixed water and green paga, and set her instruments to soak. When she returned, she began unwrapping the crude bandage from Armand’s wrist.

Aetes moved beside her, washing his hands as well, his voice smooth as poured honey.

“Splendid to meet you, Lady. And yes — my brother Latif mentioned your arrival. If ever you require assistance, my house is at your service. I have several trained slaves, but they sleep at this hour.”
He smiled, the expression both professional and charming. “Since you outrank me, do let me know what you require. What seems to be the trouble?”

Armand clenched his jaw as the last of the soiled bandage came free.

“I was mugged,” he said shortly. “This is the worst of it. The rest healed on its own.”

Neeve examined the wrist, her brow furrowing. “Broken,” she murmured. “And badly reset. See the angle? We’ll need to correct it. He will need something to bite on. Then we’ll apply lavender oil for inflammation and a healing salve. Though…” She glanced up, her voice softening. “This does not look like a brawler’s break. More deliberate – perhaps a wound of... a cruel Master... or man..... who wishes to torment their kajirus or Ward? Tell me again what happened, Armand. The truth this time.”

Her tone was maternal, practiced — the same one she’d used, perhaps, on her own daughters when they thought to lie their way out of trouble.

Aetes chuckled quietly, fetching the needed items: A bit of lavender oil blended with a mix of berries and other ingredients that masked its flavour, a vial of healing salve, a leather strap, and a tray of clean cloths. “Quite a quandary!” he explained conversationally. “Our family’s a mix of healers and merchants — Latif is the Omar breeder who resides just outside of Lydius. We know something of both trade and treatment.” He slipped out to prepare tea, steeping it strong and sweet to mask the bitterness of medicine.

When he returned, Neeve had the entertainer’s wrist in her hands. “Bite,” she ordered giving him the leather strap, and he did.

“One… two—”

She pulled before the count was finished.

Armand bellowed into the strap, the sound muffled but fierce. His body tensed; for a moment his hand rose as if he might strike her, but he forced it down, the cot rattling under the impact. His eyes blazed like molten gold.

“Do I look as though I wear a collar, woman?” he snarled, spitting the strap aside. “You would do well never to say such a thing again.”

The silence that followed was thick as oil.

Neeve stepped back instinctively, remembering too late that she was a Free Woman, unguarded in a strange city, having touched the pride of a Gorean man. She swallowed, recovering her composure.

“Drink the tea,” she said evenly, gesturing toward the cup Aetes offered. “It will help with the swelling and infection. And let me see that knee while we are here.”

Aetes’ lips curved faintly. His eyes glittered with humor, though his tone remained soothing.

“I do not think the Lady meant insult,” he said, voice low as velvet. “Though, if I may, you would look quite handsome in such jewelry.”

The jest softened the air. Armand’s glare cooled to a begrudging smirk.

“I’d be too high-maintenance and expensive to be anyone’s pet,” he muttered, raising the mug. He took a long drink, the honeyed brew warm upon his tongue.

Neeve wrapped the wrist carefully, her touch gentler now. “Two more of these teas today,” she instructed. “Rest the arm. Aetes, do you deem a sling necessary?”

“Yes,” the assistant physician replied simply. He stepped away and returned with a linen sling, fitting it deftly about the entertainer’s shoulder. “You may remain in the long-stay bed tonight, or my kajirus can ferry you back to the mainland.”

Armand shook his head stubbornly. “I’m not a baby in need of coddling. I’ll take the ferry.”
Still, he accepted the sling, the salve, and another flask of the lavender brew. “What do I owe you?” he asked finally, his tone guarded but respectful.

Neeve smiled faintly. “Let us call it a favor freely given,” she said. “A fortunate night for you, perhaps.”

Aetes chuckled, whistling for assistance. From a side room, a ginger-haired kajirus emerged, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The assistant physician gestured toward the ferry outside.

“Drive our guest home,” he told the slave, “and see the Lady to her quarters.”

The kajirus sighed, bowed, and obeyed.

As they stepped out into the night, the faint perfume of healing oils and paga lingered in the air. Behind them, the lanterns of the infirmary glowed like twin green stars, steady and calm — a small island of order in a restless, uncertain world.