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Post by Deleted on Feb 7, 2018 17:05:46 GMT -6
What Comes Next Golgotha & Sesil
A few days after the events of Ch. 5. Golgotha is wounded, and Sesil treats her. At Nazareth's Place, Ziuseset |
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Post by Deleted on Feb 7, 2018 17:07:04 GMT -6
Sesil - Serora - Savior
Juggling several patients at a time was daily business for any Savior. They would travel from Osulas to smaller outfits, visiting nomads and farmers and the occasional vagabond, and would soon promise their return to keep a close eye on their recovery. It’s what they did, dealing with the very real stress and time constraints and setting carefully considered priorities. A Savior’s work was never quite done, and it would certainly never wait.
The distant screams should have been his first clue. Noise carried exceptionally well on the sand flats of Sedo.
Now, the Skirmishers are returning on limp legs and hauling their exhausted body right behind. Resignation on their faces that scared him. There is the homecoming of the furies, casting their grand shadows and their wings blotting out the Sedo sky, hellish blue, the dry heat beating on their back. And then there’s their prisoners, members of the Flock with broken feathers, broken and brittle bones, everything broken but their spirit. In between the Furies, Skirmishers and the flock, every Savior was called to duty and Sesil can’t remember last time he was this busy.
He’s seeing many unfamiliar faces, these past few days. Most of them are unhappy to see him. Sesil regards them with an infuriating passiveness.
But now, he is at Nazareth’s place. Sometimes he catches himself quietly yearning for this place, as it gives him the offhanded sensation of home, and he’s not sure what to do with that except occasionally give in. It’s a thoughtfully put together clinic, the wildflowers of succulents peppered around like jewels as though a verdant clearing. It’s welcoming, most of all. Much healing is done in the mind after all, as the Mullah’s taught him. He took their word for it. Regardless, the clinic allowed just that.
When the Furies came home he caught himself immediately looking at the skies, blue eyes frantically ticking from silhouette to silhouette for his friend. His heart was selfish.
There was something about her presence Sesil found soothing. It was her voice –though often loud-, her confidence and humour, it was being in the presence of a capable leader and truly trusting her. He treated a wound on her leg, but he suspected her mental wounds were much worse. He kept mostly quiet about this, face grim. Allowed her all the time she needed. If she wanted to talk, she would. It was hard to measure with her, she who held her heart on her sleeve as many times as she kept composure, showing her strength at a high cost.
She came from the battle, but not really. You never quite did.
Taking care to go very slow, he removes the gauze and bandage he put around the wound some days ago. It’s vaguely sticky, yellow discharge of the wound now crusted into hard little grains. He doesn’t flinch at the scent of it, nor the sight. Then, it comes off with pleasant ease, and he puts the old bandages aside. “It looks good.” He comments, quietly and somewhat absentmindedly, perhaps more to himself than to Golgotha. He’s not lying; it does look good, but perhaps only to a doctor. The tissue is pink, marbled with red. In this yellow illumination, he can no longer pick out tendon and bone like he could before. Now only the long cut and precise stitches remain, a sculptural thing. Some fresh blood leaks from the wound and he dabs it away with some cotton, smoke grey teke like fog.
“Stretch for me. Stop when it hurts.” He asks of her, as he turns to his saddlebags to get the salves and ointments he needs before he’ll wrap her leg back up, “Have you put any weight on it?”
WC: 621| Post #1 |
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