Continue from here on the eighth day of Ymiden during the 718th arc...
The hole in his leg was much smaller than he thought it might have been, especially for how much everything around it hurt. He stared down at it, far more fascinated with the discolored skin and gel-like pseudo-flesh that filled what would have otherwise been a straight tunnel through his thigh than disgusted. Though, the moment the woman poked a finger against his leg - a good distance from where the arrow had been jammed through - Doran gasped and tried to flinch away. Ziemko's strong grip kept his torso in place, and the woman's hand quickly shot out to wrap around his ankle and restrain him from kicking in reflex.
"Hurts yeah?" She muttered, more to herself but still receiving a pained nod from her patient. "Looks alright... nothing rotting, little bit of blush there and- oh, and here..." Again, she poked him, though the second time wasn't nearly as painful as the first, and Doran was able to control the urge to flinch away on his own - though he did suck in a hiss through his teeth. "Mm. Good, good, good..." Waving her free hand - the devil that had been doing all of the invasive investigations - the woman muttered a casual, "Hold him down; he's not going to like this."
And her prophecy was quite correct. A cool, clean rag was used to begin gently, but firmly dabbing at the old poultice. Though she avoided the actual point of entry, the skin around the wound and the muscles below were bruised and sore, and Doran clenched his jaw and jerked his head back as he felt the fabric brush over the hole in his leg. Ziemko almost lay atop him, his hands restraining Doran's and chest pressed against his. The woman's absurd grip had moved to his shin, keeping the leg from moving too much as she worked, and Doran felt tears bristling just below his grimace.
As quickly as it started, however, it ended, the steady pull of cloth about his leg as the bandages were reapplied calming the rapid beat of his heart. Ziemko lingered for a few trills after Doran's body relaxed some, but when he seemed certain Doran wouldn't hurt himself, he stood back up to his full height, hand still resting on Doran's shoulder.
"Healing well, boy." The woman's bright blue eyes winked over at him. "Six... seven more trials, and you'll be walking." She turned, setting the mortar back upon the table as she dipped her hands in a steaming bowl at one tend of the table's surface. "Limping, more like, but your horse will do most of the work." Her voice, loud as ever, sounded confident, and Doran drew upon the plenty of excess to bolster himself.
"You have my thanks, erm...?" Ziemko leaned forward and quietly murmured the woman's name into his ear. Smiling over at his brother, face still a bit flushed from the cleaning and bandaging of his leg, he nodded his thanks before turning back to the woman. "Lady Fortoul."
The healer scoffed out a chuckle, the mountain of braids bouncing in time to the shake of her head. "Inès suits me fine, boy." She ambled over to the bed once more, unceremoniously pushing Ziemko out of her way with her hip before extending small cup of steaming tea. "Drink this. It's bitter and tastes like piss, but it'll help the healing." Doran had, to his knowledge, never had the displeasure of sampling urine of any kind, but as he sniffed the concoction, his nose wrinkled with reflexive disgust. "Better to not smell it." Inès chuckled.
"I see." Moving the cup away from his face, Doran took a short breath before he bought it back and tipped it so that the whole thing sloshed into his mouth. "Bitter" was an understatement. Though the flavor was far more reminiscent of the smell of sour weeds cut and rotted on the cobbles than one's liquid excrement, he almost choked as the vile substance clawed its way down his throat. Pulling a face of extreme distaste, Doran put a hand up over his mouth, sheer force of will keeping him from violently spewing the stuff all over the room.
Ziemko handed him the wooden bowl from before, refilled and cool, which Doran gratefully drained. It helped the taste some, but it was the kind to linger, seeping into his breath as if it had coated the inside of the throat and dripped down into his lungs. "Nasty, isn't it?" Inès had returned to the table, setting Doran's empty cup down as she began to put things back in whatever chaotic order she kept them. "Once had to drink that stuff for a solid arc, twice a trial." She turned, leaning her bottom agains the table, an impish grin and devilish light in her eyes. "Not sure what it does, exactly, but it definitely helps. Probably."
Doran only managed a quiet, "Mm." in response. He chose to believe it did help, as the thought of it being nothing more than a healer's prank might have been just enough for him to lose control over his stomach and release the contents then and there.
"What now?" Ziemko stared steadily at Inès, waiting for her next command as if they might continue coming until Doran was completely healed.
"He rests, and we wait." She responded in the sort of fashion one expected to hear from a mother who's child had been asking the same question over and over again, but with far less patience. "And don't think about moving him around for another three trials. You'll just make it worse." That too sounded as though Ziemko had attempted as such. "Now that he's awake, I'll leave you two to catch up. No coitus. I'm not washing that out."
At that, Doran raised a brow at his brother who stared impassively back at Inès and nodded. The woman offered Doran a knowing wink and laugh before she left the room to the two of them, taking care to close the door firmly behind her. "Why would she-" Doran interrupted himself as Ziemko shook his head.
"It's better she thinks we're lovers than brothers."
"Oh." He supposed the logic was sound - after all, those who hunted them did so because of their blood and Ziemko's name. The fewer people who knew the better, but if it came down to having to prove such false affections, Doran had already resolved to reject the ruse at such point. Judging from the slight shift in Ziemko's posture and voice, Doran assumed his brother felt much the same. He did, however, find comfort in just the two of them alone. Though he'd yet to begin to pick through and examine the nightmarish memories that had led up to his current incapacitation, Doran decided to start small and work his way up. "What... what trial is it?"
"The eighth."
"We've been here for seven trials? I thought - at most - it might have been the- the third..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"You had a fever."
Lily had had fevers when she grew ill, as did he, and it had never been so serious his memory had been impaired. "Was I- was it very bad?" He wasn't sure the proper words for what he was asking. His leg still hurt, and speaking meant more breathing which in turn irritated the cut upon his back. It was all a mess, really.
Ziemko didn't respond immediately. He stared down at his brother, their hazel eyes meeting, and Doran saw the same undertones of worry and guilt in the man's eyes. Slowly, when he did speak, his voice was quiet and soft. "Yes."
Again, silence settled between them. Doran could clearly remember everything up until the point his brother had returned; all else after was little more than hazy snippets of emotion, blurred images, and muffled words. "I'm sorry, Ziemko... If I-"
Immediately, his brother shook his head. "Don't." It wasn't a command. It was a request, one that Doran quietly obliged, slowly nodding his head. "I was careless. They were closer than I expected."
"Are they-" Doran started, but stopped. He wasn't certain he wanted to know. Instead he shook his head, sighing and grimacing as his breath reminded him of the foul potion that drifted within the pit of his stomach. "You have my thanks as well. Without you..." To give such macabre thoughts voice was more than he could manage, but Ziemko nodded understanding, though he hardly seemed proud.
"I failed to keep you safe." There was a harsh grate to his words, and his gaze fell to the floor.
With a soft smile, Doran nodded. If his response was surprising, Ziemko didn't show it. "True," He shifted in place, wincing as the motion jostled his leg but finding a more comfortable position among the pillows - his lower back ached, more a sign of his own forced stasis than aftermath of a wound. "But you kept me alive, and that's far more important to me."
The hole in his leg was much smaller than he thought it might have been, especially for how much everything around it hurt. He stared down at it, far more fascinated with the discolored skin and gel-like pseudo-flesh that filled what would have otherwise been a straight tunnel through his thigh than disgusted. Though, the moment the woman poked a finger against his leg - a good distance from where the arrow had been jammed through - Doran gasped and tried to flinch away. Ziemko's strong grip kept his torso in place, and the woman's hand quickly shot out to wrap around his ankle and restrain him from kicking in reflex.
"Hurts yeah?" She muttered, more to herself but still receiving a pained nod from her patient. "Looks alright... nothing rotting, little bit of blush there and- oh, and here..." Again, she poked him, though the second time wasn't nearly as painful as the first, and Doran was able to control the urge to flinch away on his own - though he did suck in a hiss through his teeth. "Mm. Good, good, good..." Waving her free hand - the devil that had been doing all of the invasive investigations - the woman muttered a casual, "Hold him down; he's not going to like this."
And her prophecy was quite correct. A cool, clean rag was used to begin gently, but firmly dabbing at the old poultice. Though she avoided the actual point of entry, the skin around the wound and the muscles below were bruised and sore, and Doran clenched his jaw and jerked his head back as he felt the fabric brush over the hole in his leg. Ziemko almost lay atop him, his hands restraining Doran's and chest pressed against his. The woman's absurd grip had moved to his shin, keeping the leg from moving too much as she worked, and Doran felt tears bristling just below his grimace.
As quickly as it started, however, it ended, the steady pull of cloth about his leg as the bandages were reapplied calming the rapid beat of his heart. Ziemko lingered for a few trills after Doran's body relaxed some, but when he seemed certain Doran wouldn't hurt himself, he stood back up to his full height, hand still resting on Doran's shoulder.
"Healing well, boy." The woman's bright blue eyes winked over at him. "Six... seven more trials, and you'll be walking." She turned, setting the mortar back upon the table as she dipped her hands in a steaming bowl at one tend of the table's surface. "Limping, more like, but your horse will do most of the work." Her voice, loud as ever, sounded confident, and Doran drew upon the plenty of excess to bolster himself.
"You have my thanks, erm...?" Ziemko leaned forward and quietly murmured the woman's name into his ear. Smiling over at his brother, face still a bit flushed from the cleaning and bandaging of his leg, he nodded his thanks before turning back to the woman. "Lady Fortoul."
The healer scoffed out a chuckle, the mountain of braids bouncing in time to the shake of her head. "Inès suits me fine, boy." She ambled over to the bed once more, unceremoniously pushing Ziemko out of her way with her hip before extending small cup of steaming tea. "Drink this. It's bitter and tastes like piss, but it'll help the healing." Doran had, to his knowledge, never had the displeasure of sampling urine of any kind, but as he sniffed the concoction, his nose wrinkled with reflexive disgust. "Better to not smell it." Inès chuckled.
"I see." Moving the cup away from his face, Doran took a short breath before he bought it back and tipped it so that the whole thing sloshed into his mouth. "Bitter" was an understatement. Though the flavor was far more reminiscent of the smell of sour weeds cut and rotted on the cobbles than one's liquid excrement, he almost choked as the vile substance clawed its way down his throat. Pulling a face of extreme distaste, Doran put a hand up over his mouth, sheer force of will keeping him from violently spewing the stuff all over the room.
Ziemko handed him the wooden bowl from before, refilled and cool, which Doran gratefully drained. It helped the taste some, but it was the kind to linger, seeping into his breath as if it had coated the inside of the throat and dripped down into his lungs. "Nasty, isn't it?" Inès had returned to the table, setting Doran's empty cup down as she began to put things back in whatever chaotic order she kept them. "Once had to drink that stuff for a solid arc, twice a trial." She turned, leaning her bottom agains the table, an impish grin and devilish light in her eyes. "Not sure what it does, exactly, but it definitely helps. Probably."
Doran only managed a quiet, "Mm." in response. He chose to believe it did help, as the thought of it being nothing more than a healer's prank might have been just enough for him to lose control over his stomach and release the contents then and there.
"What now?" Ziemko stared steadily at Inès, waiting for her next command as if they might continue coming until Doran was completely healed.
"He rests, and we wait." She responded in the sort of fashion one expected to hear from a mother who's child had been asking the same question over and over again, but with far less patience. "And don't think about moving him around for another three trials. You'll just make it worse." That too sounded as though Ziemko had attempted as such. "Now that he's awake, I'll leave you two to catch up. No coitus. I'm not washing that out."
At that, Doran raised a brow at his brother who stared impassively back at Inès and nodded. The woman offered Doran a knowing wink and laugh before she left the room to the two of them, taking care to close the door firmly behind her. "Why would she-" Doran interrupted himself as Ziemko shook his head.
"It's better she thinks we're lovers than brothers."
"Oh." He supposed the logic was sound - after all, those who hunted them did so because of their blood and Ziemko's name. The fewer people who knew the better, but if it came down to having to prove such false affections, Doran had already resolved to reject the ruse at such point. Judging from the slight shift in Ziemko's posture and voice, Doran assumed his brother felt much the same. He did, however, find comfort in just the two of them alone. Though he'd yet to begin to pick through and examine the nightmarish memories that had led up to his current incapacitation, Doran decided to start small and work his way up. "What... what trial is it?"
"The eighth."
"We've been here for seven trials? I thought - at most - it might have been the- the third..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"You had a fever."
Lily had had fevers when she grew ill, as did he, and it had never been so serious his memory had been impaired. "Was I- was it very bad?" He wasn't sure the proper words for what he was asking. His leg still hurt, and speaking meant more breathing which in turn irritated the cut upon his back. It was all a mess, really.
Ziemko didn't respond immediately. He stared down at his brother, their hazel eyes meeting, and Doran saw the same undertones of worry and guilt in the man's eyes. Slowly, when he did speak, his voice was quiet and soft. "Yes."
Again, silence settled between them. Doran could clearly remember everything up until the point his brother had returned; all else after was little more than hazy snippets of emotion, blurred images, and muffled words. "I'm sorry, Ziemko... If I-"
Immediately, his brother shook his head. "Don't." It wasn't a command. It was a request, one that Doran quietly obliged, slowly nodding his head. "I was careless. They were closer than I expected."
"Are they-" Doran started, but stopped. He wasn't certain he wanted to know. Instead he shook his head, sighing and grimacing as his breath reminded him of the foul potion that drifted within the pit of his stomach. "You have my thanks as well. Without you..." To give such macabre thoughts voice was more than he could manage, but Ziemko nodded understanding, though he hardly seemed proud.
"I failed to keep you safe." There was a harsh grate to his words, and his gaze fell to the floor.
With a soft smile, Doran nodded. If his response was surprising, Ziemko didn't show it. "True," He shifted in place, wincing as the motion jostled his leg but finding a more comfortable position among the pillows - his lower back ached, more a sign of his own forced stasis than aftermath of a wound. "But you kept me alive, and that's far more important to me."
