Major character death but no Genshin spoilers, also description of injuries
Everything hurt. You were bleeding from slash that crossed from your shoulder to your waist.
You were blinded by the sheer amount of blood pouring over your eyes, barely conscious.
Gasping for air, you could feel the blood filling your airway, creeping its way to your lungs.
You tried to crawl away, you swear you did! But your arms were barely functioning, as if they were hanging on by a thread, one more stretch and they’re done for.
“Mhm, not as special as I had hoped, I really can’t believed you learned nothing after all these years.”
You almost forgot he was there, your head feeling so light it could only remember to breathe, crawl, breathe, crawl, breathe, cra-
A sharp pain shot through your right arm, you couldn’t see who or what, but you could feel the bottom of a shoe crushing with its weight.
“You researchers really don’t change do you? You all claim to be in pursuit of wisdom, yet neglect to learn the things you believe force you to abandon your own morals. How do you expect to see any growth in your mind and soul if you stick to your so called ‘principles’”
You tried replying, but all that came out was some lame gurgling, barely conscious.
“Choking are we? On your own blood no less, how does it feel to be betrayed by your own body?”
He laughed, you felt the weight lift from your hand.
You could barely hear from your ears, your mind too far gone to register anything.
“Don’t think I would forget who you are, I remember you from my student years, you weren’t very fond of my methods. You fit right in with those other brainless slaves.”
Damn you Dottore.
“Truly you should thank me” is this what it felt like to have life leave your body? “I spared you all those years ago, gave you the chance to grow, but alas.” Breathing became even more straining, you felt yourself fading in and out of consciousness “You had your chance, I’ll make sure to remember you properly though!” You could barely hear him, your body surrendering to fate. “You’ll have a special place in my laboratory.”
Damn you Zandik.
Damn every single version of you.
As much misery as I write for him, I swear I like him dude I swear
Summary: The man has no problem using Daryl to break you.
The rope bit into your wrists until the skin burned raw, every futile pull only making it worse. Your captor had lashed you to an old pipe along the wall, the stench of mildew and rust thick in the air. You could barely move, forced to look straight ahead at the spectacle he wanted you to see.
Daryl was pinned against the opposite wall, arms spread wide, chains hooked into bolts driven deep into the concrete. His chest rose and fell heavily, sweat slicking through the grime on his skin. He jerked against the restraints once, twice, but they held.
The man holding the knife smiled at you before turning back to Daryl. “You’ll scream before she does.” He muttered, dragging the blade slowly across Daryl’s ribs. The sound was wet, like fabric tearing.
Only it was flesh.
Daryl grunted through clenched teeth, his jaw locked tight. You knew he wouldn’t give his torturer the satisfaction. Blood ran down his side in a thin ribbon, pooling in the waistband of his jeans before dripping onto the floor with a faint patter.
Your chest seized, every instinct screaming at you to look away.
But you didn’t.
You couldn’t.
The man knew that.
He wanted to break you through Daryl.
When the knife pressed deeper, Daryl’s head slammed back against the wall, a guttural sound leaving his throat. His eyes flicked to you—blue fire through the haze of pain.
Don’t.
The word wasn’t spoken, but you heard it all the same.
Don’t cry.
Don’t give in.
The man’s fist crashed into Daryl’s face, snapping his head sideways. Blood sprayed from his split lip. He laughed—choked and rough—and spat red onto the floor at his torturer’s boots.
“Gonna hafta do better than that.” Daryl rasped, voice shredded.
Your bindings cut deeper as you strained, desperate to break free. Your own cries were muffled by the filthy rag tied around your mouth while helplessness squeezed your chest like a vice. You could feel every blow as if it landed on you instead.
And through it all, Daryl kept dragging his eyes back to you. His bloodied glare was a tether—his silent way of telling you he could take it.
Even as the knife came down again.
The blade traced higher this time, slicing shallowly across his collarbone. He hissed roughly through his teeth, then bit it back before it could break into a cry. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the chains, tendons straining with the effort to stay upright.
The man drew the knife down in a slow line, carving through skin just to see you flinch. Blood welled up—dark and thick—and ran down Daryl’s chest in rivulets. You shook your head violently against the gag, muffled shouts tearing from your throat, but it only made the bastard torturing Daryl grin wider.
The knife was gracelessly tossed onto a table in the corner in favor of another weapon. Your captor picked it up with deliberate slowness, the slide of metal on wood making your teeth itch.
The next blow came from a crowbar, the brunt of it landing across Daryl’s ribs. The crack echoed, sharp enough to turn your stomach. He doubled over, hanging from the chains, choking on a cough that brought more blood to his lips. He spit again, weaker this time, but his eyes still sought you through the haze.
“Stop!” You tried to scream, but it came out garbled, strangled. Hot tears burned trails down your face.
The torturer turned, crouched in front of you, pressing the curved end of the crowbar to your cheek. “This isn’t for him,” he whispered, voice like gravel. “This is for you.” He moved too quickly for your attempt at a headbutt to connect. He was back at it quickly, driving his fist into Daryl’s stomach.
Daryl sagged against the wall, chest heaving, but when his eyes locked on yours, there was still that fire. He wanted you to see he wasn’t broken. Not yet.
The crowbar was drawn back in baseball bat fashion, but the door burst open before the next strike could land. Gunfire thundered in the room, deafening. The torturer dropped in a heap, half his skull gone.
In seconds, strong hands tore at your restraints, yanking the gag from your mouth. You gasped air so sharply that it stabbed your lungs, and the moment your wrists were free you stumbled across the floor, not even paying attention to who had even freed you.
“Daryl!”
He was still chained, head lolling forward and blood dripping in a steady line. Rick and Michonne worked to get the bolts free, speaking back and forth. To each other. To Daryl. To you. But you heard nothing but static. Nothing but Daryl’s wheezing pants. When his restraints finally loosened, he collapsed forward—straight into you.
You caught as much of him as you could, arms wrapping tight around his shaking body. His weight nearly drove you both to the ground. His breath was hot and ragged against your neck. His blood smeared across your skin and soaked into your clothes, but his voice was still his, low and rough.
“’M’fine.” He whispered, though he was barely holding himself upright. “Ain’t—ain’t no need for all’a your blubberin’.”
You laughed wetly, your hands cradling his face, sticky with sweat and blood. “You’re not fine.” You choked. “But you’re here. That’s enough.”
He groaned when you shifted, but his arm still came around you, pulling you in close as if you were the only thing keeping him from shaking apart. Or maybe he was doing that for you.
Rick’s voice was urgent in the background, saying they had to move, but for a moment, there was only you and Daryl. Two heartbeats that pounded in sync, clinging together in the aftermath.
And when his lips brushed your temple—shaky and soft—you knew he was still fighting. For you.
Started playing Caves of Qud and so far I haven't died in a disappointing way yet. Either I get instantly obliterated by something I have no comprehension of, in which case I have learned something new, or I end up permanently fused to terrible gear with tons of incurable diseases, so death is a mercy since I can't see this run going anywhere.
New Hollow piece! Previous pieces with this character are here: 1, 2, 3, 4. We have skipped forward again.
I crawled out of the river - almost mindless, some sodden shred of self making me exert effort, grab for a handholds and pull myself forward. Gravel and mud slid into the water underneath me and bits broke off the reeds and branches I yanked at.
Something caught - tore - I left it behind and heaved myself up the last few feet, gripping handfuls of mud and wet vegetation desperately in my fists.
Once I was far enough away from the waterline I no longer feared being pulled back under, I flopped onto my side, and from rolled agonisingly over to lie on my back. I gazed uncomprehending up at the sky and lay there, waiting for the thundering of the water in my head to stop. I could feel my heart, pattering rapidly and faintly away somewhere distant. Not here. Here there was just the roar of water, tumbling me over and over myself, and cold water as sharp and stinging as a willow switch, and the brutal shock of hitting stone: all echoing around inside me so I scarcely knew what I was, let alone who.
Who knows, actually? Not me. All right, I couldn’t drown anymore, but that waterfall should have killed me. Should have killed anything.
The sky was blue streaked with pink, I noticed after a while. There were a few brave stars coming out, upriver where the logging camp was.
A frog chirruped, somewhere to my left. My skin was frighteningly numb, but I felt the tiny wet impact as it landed on my chest.
“Hey,” I croaked. I coughed, and the wet rattling in my chest convinced me that I needed to sit up. I scooped up the frog, soft and glistening, with the hand that had the most functional fingers and put it aside gently. I rolled over and heaved up my lungful of river water. Or, you know, whatever I had in there nowadays.
“How dare they,” said the frog.
“Okay, so, I think we should jot that down as a mixed success.” I spat out some riverbed sand, and a clump of moss that was streaked with blood. There was something very badly wrong with my shoulder and my elbow. How had I pulled myself out of the river with it when it bent in the wrong fucking places?
It hurt, of course, but… everything hurt. If I sat here and thought about how much it hurt, I was going to disappear into that tiny shred of willpower in the onslaught again.
“Humans have indeed grown arrogant and disrespectful in the generations since they left these shores,” the forest god said. “How dare they? It is not to be borne!”
I looked down at it, tiny and motionless as a jewelled figurine in the gravel. “Uh.”
“I have been exceedingly patient,” the god said. “I have ignored many large and small indignities. I have been generous in my understanding of their ignorance. I have approached with peaceful intent, and offered terms. And this is how they treat my messenger?”
“Well, I’m touched you care,” I said. I looked around me; this stretch of the river was wide and slow, deceptively lazy-looking brown water sliding by as if to belie the churning nightmare I’d just been through. I’d left a trail of broken vegetation and a collapsed river-bank behind me where I’d come out. I spied something pale and incongruous caught in the tangled roots of the bank. Ah.
“Of course I care,” the god said. “Instruments are not made so easily as that. I attempt to treat with them, and they try to destroy my messenger? Do they think I will forget? Do they think this will cow me?”
“I don’t think they think anything much, really,” I said, shimmying carefully back down the muddy trail. “Forethought is not - exactly - a strong suit of politicians.”
I took hold of my ankle and carefully eased it out of the tangle of roots it had been caught by. I felt my own fingers on my skin, fuzzy, as if I had just sat on it for too long and it had gone numb. But… over there. Right.
I’d thought I was doing pretty well, actually, but maneuvering the curve of the heel around the bend got me for some reason. I rested my head on my intact knee and retched, stomach rebelling and head spinning.
“They will pay for this,” the forest god said.
I lifted my head, alarmed.
“Hey, whoa,” I said, “It’s not that bad.”
“You have not been listening,” it accused me. “You could have been swept out to sea and lost to me entirely. More to the point, this is not about you. This is about - ”
“Disrespect,” I said, heart sinking.
“Yes.”
I grabbed my errant foot, and started to grimly shuffle myself back up the bank. If anything else was missing, I definitely wasn’t getting it back.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I panted. “I messed it up. I’m sorry it went badly. But, you know, I -”
“You are not at fault. You gave them my message.”
Part of me was relieved that; you are not at fault. I quailed at the thought of it being angry with me again. My current state was bad enough, but I knew that I could live through much worse than broken bones.
But it was wrong, actually; this was my fault. Shouldn’t have let them get the drop on me. And I needed to stop the forest god from working itself up into a temper that it would then take out on everybody in the camp.
“Listen,” I said urgently. “You weren’t expecting this, were you?”
It regarded me with all of the furious dignity that could fit in a wet brown amphibian the size of a brooch. “Such should be obvious. Do they not know what I am?”
“Well, no,” I said, surprised. I laid the foot down with shaking hands, studiously avoiding looking at the mess of my knee where it was supposed to attach. There was surprisingly little blood; small mercies I supposed. “They haven’t seen you. Not like I have. So, you weren’t expecting this, but I was, actually.”
“You expected this.”
“Well, not…” I lifted a hand in a limp gesture at the river and myself. “Not all of it. I thought I’d get out of there in… one piece. But I wasn’t thinking they’d listen to me on the first try, that’s for sure.”
“Why would you predict they would be so foolish?”
“They haven’t seen you,” I repeated. “And like I said, we don’t have anything like you were we come from, and we haven’t for… thousands of years. So, no, they don’t really know what you are. All they’ve seen is me.”
“You should be enough.”
I shrugged - which, I do not recommend trying when your shoulders are so fucked up they are different heights. Things crunched and I had to fight off a wave of sick dizziness. “Why? Anybody can say they’re a god’s messenger. It wouldn’t be a good idea,” I added hurriedly. “Not here. But back home, there would be nobody to be offended. So their first thought isn’t that I’m real, it’s that I’m either some sort of grifter, or I’m crazy.”
The forest god was silent. Thoughtful.
“As far as they’ve seen, I’m the problem. And if I’m just a crazy human with no god behind me, getting rid of me solves the problem. So they took a gamble, and maybe it’s not smart and it’s definitely not right, but it makes sense if you think like somebody who’s managed to get themselves to the top of something like this settlement attempt.”
I took a deep breath, fighting off the dizziness. The forest god sat in what I hoped was contemplation of my point.
“Can… you can put this back, right?” I asked, more piteously than I’d intended, indicating the ruin of my knee. I could still feel it. But nothing had ever come off before. “I… my head healed up, and the stomach wounds… do I put it back, or…”
“It will heal,” the forest god said. “You do not require specific effort from me to do that.” The frog turned in place, suddenly purposeful, and sprang further up the bank, in the direction of the trees. “We can speak of this further when you wake.”
“Wake?”
“I assume you will want to sleep while the damage repairs.”
I looked up at the rapidly purpling sky. “I… don’t think I’m going to be able to do that.”
“That, I can do.”
I regarded the idea with some suspicion. I was reminded of waking in the forest’s heart with my memories hidden away; sitting here in pieces was horrible, but I didn’t think I wanted to be made to forget it. But…
Sleep would be so nice.
“Please,” I said to the god. “You aren’t going to do anything while I sleep, are you? You won’t act against the settlement?”
“No.”
“...promise?”
“Impudent human. I said that we would speak further.”
I closed my eyes. I’d meant to drag myself further under cover, but my eyes were suddenly incredibly heavy. “Okay, then. Thank you.”
Hi! I’m sorry to hear you haven’t been feeling well. I did have a prompt if you’re up for it - would you be interested in writing something for Whoa Bessie where Bucky has a bad experience at the doctor and starts flashing back to the traumatic experiences of being in the hospital after losing his arm? Maybe Steve has to figure out what’s going on and help him?
Hope you continue to feel better!
I apologize for the length and delay of this; it completely ran away from me. I don't know if I tagged appropriately, but expect the usual with just a touch more graphic content than usual (Bucky's memories of war/event/injury...)
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James has a bad feeling as soon as they enter the hospital. It’s the same old VA, just a medical office instead of a therapy room.
But’s cloudy outside. Forecast says it’ll be raining within the hour. James doesn’t like it.
“Hey.” Steve nudges James’s knee, and James closes the weather app on his phone. “It’s ok. It’ll be ok.”
James nods once. He tries shrugging to loosen up his shoulders, but everything stays tight and locked.
The MA calls James’s name.
They do most of the talkdown in the hallway, pause briefly for the scale, though James knows his weight down to the tenth of a kilogram, and file into an exam room.
The not-rightness creeps as a shiver starting somewhere around James’s lumbar spine and trails upward into his back, his neck, under his hair. The crown of James’s head seems like a good stopping spot, but the feeling doesn’t release.
The MA smiles, but she looks tired. Maybe she has kids. Maybe she’s getting shift differential after already working an overnight, bothering patients for their blood pressure at two in the morning.
The exam table is reclined, and, covered in its crisp white sanitary layer, looks more like a bed than a place to sit. It’s narrow, though. High. More like a gurney. The cot with rails and wheels that ferries people in and out of surgery.
Steve must feel his tension, because it’s his light touch that guides James into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs opposite the exam table.
“Oh,” James murmurs. “Yeah.” He sits, then tries taking a deep, steadying breath. “What’s this again?” he whispers at Steve.
“Neuro.” Steve sits beside him.
James knows he’s flashing his discomfort like a beacon, but he’ll take his chances and hold it together, for the MA at least.
Her hair’s in a bun, perfectly aligned at the back of her head. If she’s working a double shift, she must have extra strength hairspray. Maybe the MA has a military background. But, eh, she looks too young to be in and out of service and gone through community college in that amount of time. An honorable discharge, perhaps? Or maybe she takes ballet class at the community center for personal time away from her yet-imaginary family and work schedule.
She’s not even looking in James’s direction, but her presence is threatening. He tries estimating her height, slouched as she is in front of the rolling computer cart. In a fistfight, he’d win in an instant, even though sometimes his reaction speed is delayed. He’s not as strong as he used to be. But the last time he socked Steve in the middle of a night terror, it had left a bruise.
“Mr. Barnes?” Now the MA is looking in his direction.
James is completely lost. “Mm?”
“She’s asking about your symptoms,” Steve says.
“Um.” James takes the redirection, but it’s not enough to completely un-lose his thoughts. Change paths. Make words.
James examines the linoleum floor as he struggles to string together a meaningful vocalization. Every time he gets a sentence to the tip of his tongue, he pulls back. He’s wrong. He’s in pain. He isn’t understanding, and nobody is explaining in the first place.
The bottom corner of the exam table has a wheel. More akin to a swivel chair than, say, an actual hospital bed, but… that doesn’t make it ok.
James stands up. His knee pops, and phantom pain blisters from his stump arm. Some morbid, bloodsucking jellyfish is suctioned to his body, tentacles stinging around his back and up his chest. He cries out in pain, and Steve is up and supporting him in no time at all.
“Buck?” Steve asks. “Tell me. It’s ok.”
James looks at his stump arm, expecting bandages stained with blood, if not a surgical knife or twelve cutting into already-desiccated flesh that looks more like raw hamburger than human.
There’s nothing. Just a shirt sleeve. When did he start wearing shirts? Where are the telltale snaps of the hospital gown?
“It hurts,” James manages to say. “I-I-I cant. This-this.” He moves his eyes to the window quickly enough to white out his peripheral vision. Everything is blurry. No, it’s raining. Fuck.
“Can we not?” James grunts toward Steve’s ear.
“It’s just a talking appointment. Just Neurology,” Steve tries to explain, but James shakes his head until he feels like he might vomit. Anesthesia does that. He half expects someone to come rushing in with a syringe of Zofran dissolved in water, hurrying to inject it into the med port on his NG tube.
He doesn’t have an NG. James’s throat hurts from pain and terrible feelings he usually shoves away, but they’re now forcing themselves out in sickly panic.
There’s no beeping pump on a pole, tied to him with yards and yards of tubing. Nutrition. Oxygen. IV hydration through the PICC line that added a substantial scar to his good arm.
The other arm was bad? Is that why they took it away? He may have been in and out of consciousness during the event, the rescue. James remains grateful to the PJ who drugged to the nines as soon as they closed the helicopter door. But he knows. He smelled his own flesh burning over the overwhelming fumes of smoke and gasoline. He’s pretty sure he saw the inside of somebody else’s brain, and James hopes to god and the army that the casualty has been appropriately bagged, transported, and buried. Somewhere peaceful now. Like heaven. Arlington, probably.
“I need to go.” He can’t be in here. Not anymore. Not with the simple nervous system poster on the wall, practically a drawing of what’s-his-name post-explosion. He was in James’s unit. He ought to at least know his name. More than a few buddies sent him cards and letters while he was inpatient. James can’t find even one with the feeling of a personal connection. Strangers. Like meeting friends, yet in reverse.
“Can we--?” There’s more spit around James’s lower teeth than seems otherwise appropriate. He shakes his head again. “Go?”
“Is it a bad one?” Steve seems to finally have caught on. He increases the pressure of his hand on James’s back, so now it’s grounding as well as stabilizing.
“Mm.”
“I can get you a drink of water,” the MA offers. “Or if you want to go back to the waiting room…”
“We have to go.” It comes out abruptly, spoken through James’s teeth as he tries not to acknowledge the taste of things long-since-digested. It’s already risen past his chest. He can feel the tang at the back of his throat.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” Steve tries to clarify. “Or reschedule.”
James grips Steve’s arm. “I’m—probably—“ He feels breathless. Almost weightless. “Might throw up.”
“Ok.” Steve has them out of the exam room before James has time to blink.
The MA shouts and points them toward the accessible bathroom. The first door to the left. Wasn’t that a game show? Hospital television. Always on HGTV or Game Show Network so it’s appropriate or all ages, creeds, and levels of inattention.
“Call to reschedule?” The MA asks. “Or do you want an appointment this afternoon. We have a cancellation spot.”
It’s a game show. It’s a game. Get to the place as fast as you can to do the thing, take care of the problem. Move the tank on the offensive. Point an AK-37 at a couple Hijabis in the street market. Run the course in basic, not letting the tires catch the toes of his barely broken in boots. It keeps going back. Football in high school. Fucking PE class in grade school. He didn’t know Steve then, but James would’ve still picked him for his team.
“We’ll call,” Steve says, confirming what’s probably obvious. James is fried. A bundle of sizzling nerve endings encased in a lumbering body. Like he’s been electrocuted. But electroshock therapy is generally frowned upon. They didn’t leave him literally frying on South Asian sand just to cook him in the hospital all over again.
The MA nods and waves them on. Steve opens the restroom door and pushes James toward the toilet, where he’s more than happy to kneel and, well, not pray.
Steve stands between the toilet and sink, prepared to help, but yet to take action. “Ok to touch?” he asks.
“N-no,” James murmurs into the toilet bowl. He’s in so much pain he’s almost numb, at least at the scarred tissue of his stump arm and the opposite occipital lobe. He should probably do something with his hair. Steve usually does that. But not when the back of his head is exploding—no. No. Not with an IED. Not with a neurologist.
“Tell me when you’re ready?”
James focuses on Steve’s voice. Melodic. Deepened, over the years. Aging well, and pleasant, like slow cello music, or a bottle of whiskey. And not the kind from the gas station.
They’ve been doing this shit since they were stupid teenagers. Scramming before the clerk noticed the bottle shoved into the waist of Steve’s pants. Always on the brink of trouble, though back then there was nothing to be afraid of. Who cares if you’re caught by the dorm monitor? Forgetting to return a borrowed textbook. Smoking a little weed. Maybe more than a little.
The amount needed for personal use, not intent to sell. Just to loosen up. To feel good. To get over the awkward of sex. To learn what it means to be in love. To be less afraid of the future.
It is the future. James has a hard time seeing it all in the same lifeline. There’s too much. It’s too broken up.
But there are constants. And things James knows he can’t change. The weather. The rain. Steve.
James lets his chest heave as his body pulls in the air it needs. His heart hammers, working to circulate his blood. Oxygenate it. He knows how to do this.
James tries to spit delicately, but then breaks form and accidentally wipes his mouth on his stump shoulder. He stops. Rides out a wave of fresh pain.
The best thing about Steve is that James doesn’t have to hide from him. Or in front of him. One of James’s eyes starts to stream, but he knows Steve is there, listening, as he shakily puts shirttail to eyeball.
“Mm-hm,” James hums. There’s a beat’s pause as he finds his next words. “I’ll tell you.”
Hi , My name is Tim’Terrica Jackson , I’m 19 years old and I’m originally from Minden, La ! On Ma… Tim’Terrica Jackson needs your support fo
Tim'Terrica is a 19 year old Black law student who was involved in a devastating car accident and sustained brain damage, numerous fractures across her face, and lost her right eye as a result. Her doctors say she needs a second reparative surgery, but her insurance will not cover the costs of it. Please share and donate if you can to help her afford her surgery!
Character Relationship(s): Thorin x dwarrowdame!OC (Estel)
Word Count: 1,742
Warning(s): Graphic depictions of injuries.
Translation(s): Kharkhul: Hurts
Zerlarê: My supreme desire
~~~~
“Slowly, slowly!” Eberen scolded the ellyn shifting Thorin from the make-shift stretcher to one of the cots within the halls of Erebor. “His dressings will come undone!”
I hovered around the edges of the swarm of healers; wavering on the edge of wanting to be by Thorin’s side and wanting to give the healers space to do their best to pry his life from death’s beckoning arms.
“Someone fetch the athelas infusion!” Saelind called out, and the note of panic in her voice sent my heart plummeting.
I wrung my hands, biting my lip nervously as I shifted, trying to see through the elves around Thorin.
“Here,” I watched as an elleth hurried up with a large bowl cradled in her arms. It was placed at Thorin’s bedside and I caught a glimpse of his booted feet through the parted crowd, elevated slightly with a bolster.
“I will need clean water, needle and thread, and bandages, Laphada. Eberen, prepare a poultice of turmeric and chamomile.” Saelind commanded, and the elves split off from the group, hurrying their separate ways.
Raising her head, Saelind caught my eye as I lingered on the outskirts. “You,” she nodded to me, “come. It’s alright.” She encouraged and I needed no further prompting.
I hurried to Thorin’s side, hesitating for a minute before reaching out and grabbing his hand. It had a definite chill to it that wasn’t deathly cold, but not warm either. “He’s so cold…” I whispered, and Saelind nodded as she began to cut Thorin’s tunic into pieces so she could pull it off.
“Ai, it is because of his blood loss. And he is in shock. Once we get him sewn up, he needs to be kept warm. If you would not mind..?” She motioned to Thorin’s body with her shears.
“Oh, of course, yes!” I helped pull the bloodied tunic off Thorin’s chest. But the moment the cloth fell away onto the bed, I let out a gasp. “By the Valar,” I breathed as a gigantic red mark came into view on Thorin’s upper chest.
Saelind tsked. “That will bruise, I’m sure.” She murmured as she gently probed the area. “I do not think any ribs are broken… Do you know how it happened?” She raised her eyes.
“No, I was not there,” I whispered. My gaze had been drawn to Thorin’s abdomen and the site of the injury that held him on the precipice of this world. “Mahal.”
“It looks bad, I know…” Saelind murmured as she set about gently bathing the area with a cloth dipped into the athelas infusion. Her movements were hurried, but gentle.
I nodded, staring wide-eyed at the blood-encrusted hole in Thorin’s side; the edges already black and blue. She was right about it not being pretty. The very sight of it sent chills down my spine.
“It is good that the blood stopped though,” she paused, looking up at me with a curious gaze. “Forgive me, I have never asked your name, but you know mine.”
“My name is Estel,” Saelind raised an eyebrow. “Yes, it is an Elvish name. It is a long story.” I resisted the urge to avoid her curious gaze. I had nothing to hide; to be ashamed of.
“Best saved for another time then.” She smiled, placing the cloth into the now pink-tinged athelas infusion. “Laphada!” She called out, “where are the things I asked you to fetch?”
A blond elleth appeared, a bowl and bandages cradled in her arms. “My apologies, Saelind. I had to wait for supplies to be brought from Dale.” She gasped, and Saelind nodded.
“Nothing to forgive. I only need the needle and thread and then you will help me stitch this wound up.”
Laphada bobbed her head before hurrying off again.
Saelind pulled a clean cloth from the table beside Thorin’s bed and dipped it in the fresh water. Wringing it out, she handed it to me. “Here, you can wipe that blood off his face, Estel. Then I can decide if I need to stitch that gash up after I finish with the sword-wound.”
Gently, I began cleaning the black and red spatters off Thorin’s face. I took care around the angry red line that slashed across his forehead, studying it curiously.
The blood had even made its way into his hair and beard, and as much as I wanted to clean it off—for I knew Thorin would be horrified—it would have to wait until his condition was stable. I refused to think in ‘what ifs’. Thorin would pull through this.
Soft murmurs came from the other end of the cot, and I glanced over to see that Laphada had returned with a needle and thread. Saelind was preparing to stitch Thorin up, pulling the waistband of Thorin’s trousers further down his hips so she had more room to work.
I turned my gaze away, unable to watch the needle flash in and out of Thorin’s skin. I could do my own share of stitching up, but not when it was on someone I loved or knew closely. Things were just, different.
I slipped my hand into Thorin’s again, clasping his thick, calloused fingers tightly. I knew it was silly since he couldn’t feel anything, but it allowed me some small measure of comfort to have his hand in mine.
The illusion of comfort shattered suddenly as a roar of pain shattered my eardrums. Thorin’s hand was no longer limp in mine; quite the contrary. My hand was now being crushed into miniscule pieces.
“Thorin!” I gasped, trying desperately to pull my hand away from his iron-grip before he broke my fingers. “Thorin!” The urge to scream was quite strong given the amount of pain I was feeling.
“Kharkhul!” Thorin bellowed, writhing on the cot. “MAHAL!” He screamed, the sound spearing my heart.
“Thorin, amrâlimê, lie still, please.” I begged, finally jerking my hand away from him as he grasped at the edges of the cot.
“Eberen! Kesel!” Saelind yelled, bringing two ellyn running. “Hold him down so I can finish stitching him up. Laphada, you hold his legs.” She ordered, struggling to keep Thorin from breaking the thread in his throes of agony.
The ellyn came up to hold Thorin’s shoulders down, and I moved to allow them to hold Thorin still. He continued to scream as Saelind resumed her work.
“Can’t you give him something?” I begged, hands covering my ears in a futile attempt to drown out Thorin’s cries.
Saelind only shook her head. “It is too late now. By the time anything took effect, I would be finished.” She explained even as she continued to guide the needle through Thorin’s trembling skin.,
Swallowing hard, I turned away, clenching my hands into fists. But that side of Thorin was no better. I watched as he strained against the ellyn holding him down, his cheeks wet as he bellowed.
It was heart wrenching to stand there and watch him and not be able to do anything. This was a Thorin I’d never seen before. The Thorin I had gotten to know took injuries in stride, not letting the pain show.
Thorin let out another roar, his body taut as he fought against the pain of the needle. My nails dug into my palms as I clenched my fists tighter. After another heartbeat, I couldn’t bear it any longer and hurried to lean over him, grabbing one of his flailing hands in both of mine.
“Thorin,” I called over his bellows, “Thorin, it’s me, Estel!”
He squeezed my hand tightly, staring up at me with wide blue eyes. “Estel,” he gasped through tightly clenched teeth. “Tell them,” he groaned, his body shuddering, “tell them to stop. Please, Estel.”
“They’re trying to help you, Thorin. I know it hurts, but it’ll be over in a moment, I promise.” I tried to reassure him; tried to reassure myself. But Thorin was no longer listening to me. He had drifted back to that unknowing state where he fought fiercely against the ellyn, deaf to anybody’s voice.
His hand tightened around mine, exerting a grip that topped his previous. I had been so wrong to assume that he’d been squeezing my hand tightly. This felt like he was grinding my hand into pieces.
“Thorin!” I called again, “Thorin, zerlarê. Listen to me, my love. Listen to my voice, Thorin.” His grip on my hand eased. “Thorin, I love you.”
“Estel,” Thorin breathed, his eyes still closed.
“You can do it, Thorin. Just a little longer…”
“Finished!” Saelind exclaimed, “Laphada, the poultice, if you would.”
Thorin relaxed against the cot, his chest heaving as he sucked in deep gasps. His face was pale and shiny with sweat. “Estel…” His voice slurred before falling silent, his head lolling to the side.
“Saelind?” I panicked, thinking that Thorin’s body had had all it could take and was giving up.
The elleth hurried up, laying a hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat. “He’s only unconscious, Estel. I expect that it was the pain of the stitches. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.” She reassured me before going back to her task of applying an orange paste to the puckered wound on Thorin’s abdomen.
Some of the adrenaline that had blazed through me dissipated. Letting out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding, I relaxed my grip on Thorin’s hand.
“Now, for those bandages…” I heard Saelind mutter, and I turned to watch as she instructed Laphada on how to lift up Thorin’s hips so she could wind a snowy bandage around his wound.
Suddenly, I found an odd feeling sinking its claws into me.
Jealousy.
I blinked, trying to figure out why I was—oh. The realization was sudden and I tried not to glare at Laphada as she removed her hands from my husband’s waist. She was touching a part of his body I’d never gotten to before. Thorin’s hands were well acquainted with my hips, but it wasn’t the same the other way around.
And well, if things weren’t so perilous, I’d be admiring those wide hips that Thorin possessed. As was my right as Thorin’s wife.
“Now,” Saelind sighed, wiping at the sweat beading on her forehead. “That gash…”
“FILI, NO!” A wild yell had my head snapping up to look around the crowded room. I’d been so caught up in Thorin’s fight for life that I’d forgotten about Fili and Kili.
After millions of years of searching the void, Fladrangedt, Aramithan, Geryon, and Axiom Rref finally found a universe full of human servants they could call home and/or parasitise, but Tirnhas got there first.
