Two Crows Watch from the Gallows Tree (cont'd)

"That will come with time. Most of the routines also try to stay out of Lord Tarr's way. He orchestrated them as such."

“Ah.” Because he’s was an entitled prick who wanted the benefits of having humans waiting on him hand and foot, without the risk of growing a conscience and feeling guilty for treating a fellow human so terribly. “It seems he wants slaves, but doesn’t enjoy having them.”

"I would argue he quite enjoys having them." Alexander picked up the cat and stood. "And I think you ought to be off to your duties now, before someone notices you're gone."

“Yes, sir.” Pratik stood and awkwardly held the kitten out to him. “Thank you.”

Alexander took the kitten and gave him a nod. "I will see you again soon, I expect. Come back to me tomorrow so I can change the dressing on your collar."

“Yes, sir.” Pratik said, stepping toward the door. He wasn’t sure he’d ever make a proper friend out for this apothecary, but he certainly didn’t seem to hate him as much as the enemy he’d made in the cage on the way here. That was something at least.

Alexander watched him go. One of the kittens chirped curiously as it scurried out of Pratik's way. "Oh, and try not to have a conscience," he added.

A chill ran down Pratik’s spine at the sudden admonition. Oh, how he tried for that, in life in general. And yet.

Pratik glanced over his shoulder, not even sure how to answer a statement like that. “Oh?”

"It does more harm than good in a place like this." Alexander's face, narrow and generally bearing no emotion other than mild disinterest, twitched into a wooden smile. "And you seem like a man who cares too much for his own good."

Pratik hesitated the briefest moment, wondering if Tarr had driven even his apothecary a little bit mad. “It’s a constant source of frustration to me,” Pratik confirmed with an awkward smirk.

"Then be careful." Alexander turned away, bending down to pick up one of his kittens.

Pratik watched him for a moment, then turned back toward the door and stepped into the hall. Alexander seemed to be a bad omen. Foreshadowing of what would come. But Pratik couldn’t seem to put his finger quite on what was unsettling him so much about Alexander’s words.

Two slaves carrying another between them passed him on their way to the infirmary. They made no eye contact, simply hurrying past with the bloodied young man.

Pratik watched them go, face hardening, as he looked further down the hall. Tarr must have returned. Or, he supposed, maybe it was an accident. But Alexander’s admonish sat heavy in his ears. And somehow he doubted that the injury was unpreventable.

(Where's he off to now? Anybody else he wants to talk to?)