@firexfate
With each step Ben took, a fiery, nettled stabbing sensation burned through his shin. He knew it wasn’t terrible -- it was a mere graze from a saber -- but two soldiers had been insistent upon seeing him into the medical tent. Both men now flanked his sides, and with a grimace, he attempted to shake himself free.
“I promise you, I am fine. Please...tend to someone else,” he entreated. Managing to break free of their grasp, he grimaced and hobbled the rest of his way inside.
The tent reeked of rot and affliction. Ben tried his best to avoid these places, because the sight of so much pain and suffering tended to ail him far worse than his injuries, themselves.
“Ah, Major,” Dr. Weston greeted him. “You’re beginning to be somewhat of a regular around here...not so sure that that helps boost morale.”
Ben tried to smile, but it came out as more of a wince. “Believe me, I’d rather be a shining example in any other regard.” Favoring his left side, he added, “Will you be tending to me today? I know you’re a fan of whiskey, so you might as well just give me the bottle.”
Dr. Weston snorted. “‘fraid not, sir. In case it isn’t obvious, my hands are a wee bit tied at the moment.” He gestured to the groaning man in front of him, who was clutching at his shattered arm. “You’ll be tended to by one of the new lasses we’ve trained.”
“A lass?” Ben echoed, trying not to appear too surprised. It wasn’t that he was sexist, per se, but with an injury of his magnitude, he didn’t feel entirely relieved to hear a woman would be treating him. Rolling his lips inward, he added, “Are you certain she’s capable of treating a saber wound?”
Dr. Weston shrugged, encouraging his whimpering patient to recline. “Why don’tcha ask ‘er yourself? Vivienne!” He glanced behind him, then motioned her over with his head. “Congratulations, girl. You’ve got yourself a patient! He’s a mite fussy, too, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Ben huffed, though he smiled good-naturedly. “I can hear you, you realize.”
“Yes. I was certainly counting on it.” Opening a bottle of elixir with his teeth, Dr. Weston looked over when Vivienne approached. “Ah, there you are, girl! Vivienne, this is Major Benjamin Tallmadge. He’s got himself a nasty saber wound, apparently. Think you can manage?”
Turning to appraise the young woman, Ben felt a brief jump in his pulse at the sight of kind eyes and delicate, pretty features. He certainly wasn’t accustomed to beauty in war, and with a fumbling bow of his head, he greeted, “Miss.”
Dr. Weston snorted at the exchange. “As you’ll come to find, he doesn’t exactly have a way with words, either.”
