The Charlatan and the Flower

The Charlatan and the Flower

The sun had already begun to quietly set and the world was bathed in the soft orange glow of twilight when the doctor opened his eyes.

His was a clinic that operated mainly in the dark of night with clients from less desirable walks of life who preferred to meet with him in the comfort of shadow. He had been running his clinic for fifteen years now and his age and tiredness was beginning to show in the lines on his face. While he had begun losing his hair at a much younger age he still wore it in such a way that the salt-and-pepper remnants swept over his pronounced widows peak. The tanned face which had seen much blood and hardship was slightly leathered now and his dark brown eyes searched the twilight for the betrayal of the outline for his silver-rimmed glasses.

Once the rectangular frames found their perch on the bridge of his nose and focus was restored to his eyes the doctor rolled from his bed and leisurely began to dress himself in the dim light.

He had no appointments booked for the first part of the evening as the mercenary bands that frequented his clinic had formed a truce amongst them while they prepared for war against Byrnan. It was going to be a quiet evening.

Crossing to the mirror that hung sadly over the small sink in the corner of his bedroom he began to shave off three days worth of growth which allowed parts of his remaining youth to shine in. After the deed was done he examined his face for nicks and cuts; his bird-like neck twisting and turning as he peered through the shadow. Satisfied he was not going to be the one bleeding that night he left his room and entered the clinic through the adjoining door.

As he opened a few windows to let in the night breeze he heard the thunder crack in the distance as the heavy summer air pressed on his chest. The clinic was swept full of the scent of fresh rain.

Ahhhhhh, he thought, the summer rain is here.

He fell into a lonely silence as he sat on a chair by an opened window and drifted into a memory. A bittersweet memory of a time before he had opened that clinic. Of a time when he was young and reckless.

Once upon a time, prior to his reputation exploding as it had among the underworld, the doctor was a novice fresh out of training from The College and serving his required military training in a small border town between Byrnan and Hieros.

He was not in the least gifted when it came to the healing arts but he was extremely talented and intellectual when it came to medicine in general. As a young man he had won a scholarship to study at The College which had taken him from the sleepy town he had been born in where the sun shone brightly to the cold confines of The College in the north. His soft bronze skin betrayed his origins as one of Hieros and his tall athletic build made him stand out even more against the pale lanky academics at The College.

Due to his almost abnormal skill with the medical sciences he had been nicknamed The Charlatan and that moniker followed him even now. He had been known as The Charlatan for almost twenty years and the real name his deceased parents had given him had been almost forgotten. There were very few who knew or called him by such a title that even he forgot it from time to time.

The clinic he had been forced to work in post-graduation was small and overrun daily by the needs of the Byrnan military and the civilians who were unfortunate enough to get caught in the crossfire. Peppered among such a colourful clientele, The Charlatan also worked with the prostitutes from the many brothels that dotted the red-light district. They needed everything from screenings for disease in order to keep working, to abortions to keep their last remnants of sanity. It was a hard place, a hard trade. Many of the men and women who sold their bodies at the brothels did not do so by choice. Some had to pay off their debts or debts of their loved ones, some had been captured and some had just been sold in order for the remaining family members to continue eating. It was not pretty. It was not glamourous. Many came to the brothels in that border town and the brothels in the other military occupied towns in order to make a quick buck and keep living for even just one more day.

It had been summer then as well in the town in the north which was not immune to the heavy heat and the showers of rain that made your clothes stick to your skin and your lungs stick to your ribs.

Charlatan had been hot that night. So hot. He had seen nothing but blood since his shift had started twenty-five hours prior. He was hot and tired. Tired and hot. There was no relief for him in the foreseeable future.

And then he saw her.

The good doctor would never forget that night as he recalled it now, some seventeen years later. It was that night the woman entered his station in the clinic. Upon gazing at her his head ticked forward, a nervous habit he had developed as a child and which contributed to his bird-like features. She sat before him, quietly waiting for his stare to abate. She was clothed in a tight strapless dress which allowed her bronzed shoulders to glimmer with sweat and rain in the dim light of the clinic. It was that skin tone that declared she was not a native of the north either; brought there perhaps as a bride. Or a slave. The possibilities were not pleasurable to think upon. She played with her fingers and twirled a segment of her soft auburn hair between her index finger and her thumb.

Charlatan felt his heart skip a beat with an unexpected anticipation.

He wanted her. He wanted to caress that small face with those bold blue eyes that peered quizzically at him from behind a splash of greyish freckles that concentrated on the bridge of her nose before spreading across her cheekbones.

Charlatan adjusted his frames nervously and cleared his throat when he realized he had done nothing but stare at her in silence since she had entered his room.

"What seems to be the trouble?" he asked meekly, flipping through the chart in his hands.

She smiled slightly, sadly.

"Uh, Doctor, I am here to-"

He wasn't really listening. Not to her words. Her voice was also soft and melodic. He wondered if her skin was as delicate to touch as he was imagining. He stared at her, watching her lips move as she spoke. Did he find her beautiful? Did he just simply want to have her, consume her, in an effort to satiate this hunger that had developed his body?

A sudden crack of thunder followed by a pouring of rain jolted Charlatan to attention and he smiled at her.

He could never remember how the rest of the appointment went. He vaguely recalled ordering tests and drawing blood from her arm which was as soft as he had imagined. All he could clearly recall was that she was slightly older than he had been at the time and that she went by the name of Hana.

It would be just over three days until he saw her again.

Charlatan was perusing the streets with some surprised time off. The clinic had just received some fresh graduates and after spending forty-five hours training them Charlatan was released into the streets to unwind. The accelerators he had taken some five hours ago in an effort to stay awake were slowly leaving his system and he wanted nothing more than a woman to lie with and a good sleep to follow.

Pleasantly buzzed he made his way to his favourite brothel, The Garden, and smiled at the Matron upon entering before making his way to the lounge where he would wait for his girl.

He was such a frequent user of the services at The Garden that the Matron knew him by name. She knew his likes and his dislikes, the room he preferred to use and the types of girls that caught his fancy. She would ensure he always had a good time and in return for the excellent service Charlatan would give the girls of The Garden preferential treatment when it came to screenings, abortions, and other medical necessities. As a man of science Charlatan was not afraid of the gods as some healers were. He would perform all manner of surgery that seemed to defy the design the gods had for humanity without a blink. Without a twinge of guilt to his already declining conscience.

The Matron followed him into the lounge and sat across from him in a velvet chair. She took a long drag from the ornamental pipe that rested between her fingers and slowly exhaled the musky smoke before speaking.

"I'm sorry, love. The Raven isn't available today. I know she's your favourite but she's been isolated due to illness. Perhaps another girl will do?"

The Matron's voice was low and husky from many many years of smoking. As she spoke Charlatan vaguely remembered The Raven coming to see him at the clinic and prescribing her bed rest and pills for her fever. She looked at Charlatan with anticipation. Her garish red lips were like a bloody slash across her pale face. Her bustier lifted her almost flaccid breasts to the base of her neck and cinched in her waist in an unrealistic fashion. If anything, The Matron had legs for days. Long and slender legs that lead from the tips of her toes to her still firm buttocks. She had been in the business for over the entirety of Charlatan's life at that point and he wondered sometimes with his twenty-five years of experience in living if she had chosen that trade or if she too had been forced into it as many young women and men were.

"Who can I have tonight then?" he asked, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice with a smile.

The Matron rose to her feet and snapped her slender fingers.

"I've got a new girl," she started, "I believe you tested her earlier in the week and said she was clean. She is our Flower."

But Charlatan wasn't paying attention any longer. His eyes were fixated on the entrance where the girl The Matron had called stood. The girl from the clinic. Hana.

Thunder rumbled but Charlatan couldn't hear it over the sound of his own heart. He rose from his seat and approached the girl. Woman. She wore a bustier of the most brilliant blue trimmed with soft black lace. A garter held up opaque black stockings with a ribbon as brilliant in blue as her bustier. Laced underwear that exposed the bottom of her butt cheeks completed the ensemble.

She smiled at him softly as she had in the clinic.

"Hello Doctor," she said.

Her voice rang in his ears.

"She will do just fine," he said, his hand extended and grabbing Hana by her elbow he steered to the room at the back which he always used.

He shut the door behind them without looking at the pleased smirk on The Matron's face as she pulled another drag from her pipe.

The room was dimly lit with black silk on the windows to block out the tiny beams of sun. The bed in the far corner was dressed in blue silk sheets that matched Hana's outfit. The room was filled with the sound of rain.

Hana had stopped in the middle of the room and Charlatan stood so close to her he could see the goose bumps his breath made on the back of her neck. She was just tall enough for the base of her head to reach his shoulders. He pulled her back into his arms and breathed in her smell. Cucumber and melon filled his senses. Such an exotic smell.

Wordlessly, lightly, he ran his fingers up and down her arms. She shivered in response and he felt his heart beat faster. Carefully he used his fingertips to explore her exposed skin, relishing in every sigh, every murmur she made. His fingers rested on the inside of her arm and he felt for her pulse. Instead of the rushed beating he was expecting he felt nothing but a steady thump thump thump. His hand dropped immediately in rejection.

Undeterred he touched her again. She gasped. Her skin responded to his every touch and seemed to cry out for more. Clearly she was enjoying the situation as much as he was.

He carefully led her to the bed where he gently pushed her into the silk sheets and climbed on top of her. Again he explored all her exposed flesh with his fingertips while his face nuzzled in the crook of her neck and drank in her scent. Her eyes were closed and her breathing began to speed up with the ecstasy he was causing her. As his fingers reached her bustier and began to slowly undo the clasps her voice broke the silence.

"I'm married."

Startled, Charlatan leapt from the bed, tossed money on the dresser and dashed from the room. He made straight for the lounge where he fell into the velvet couch and caught his breath.

Married? He thought.

"What's wrong?"

The Matron appeared from nowhere, as usual, and sat before Charlatan.

"She's married?" he asked her, unable to lift his head from his hands.

The Matron sighed and with that expulsed some smoke from her lungs.

"She told you, did she? I told her not to bring that up with clients. Technically, yes, she is married. Her husband has dug them a nice deep hole of debt and sent her here to work it off. The poor dear has never done anything to deserve such a punishment for her husband's behaviour. But a business is a business. I've bought her contract and she needs to work it off. That's why I figured I would giver her to you, love, since you always treat the girls so well. But if you won't take her I've got no choice but to sell her to the soldiers. No one else has the kind of money needed for her to work this off."

Charlatan sat in silence. It was not like he had never slept with a married woman before, in a brothel or otherwise. It was just the sudden statement that caught him off guard. He hadn't asked her for clarification and he hadn't even seen the look in her eyes when she told him that. He had just felt such a strong rejection he wanted nothing more than to leave the room at that moment.