Prompt #18 - Succor
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Vahne Wolndara dragged the heavy coat tighter about herself and shivered. The skies over the snow had been absolutely pristine ever since Aurelia and the others had stormed the tower, but clear skies and dry air meant bitter cold and most of her fellows stood huddled around the fire pits trying to soak in what meager warmth they could, hands wrapped about tin cups of coffee and hot chocolate.
Never in her life before coming to Garlemald had she ever experienced cold like this.
How did she ever stand it? Why would anyone even want to live in this waste?
She was well familiar with winters in Gridania, wet and dark, the damp sinking into the bones like rain into soil, but breathing the air up here felt like inhaling a lungful of knives and it was nearly impossible to get warm no matter your proximity to a fire. The commanders were constantly nagging them to change out their stockings regularly, to check fingers and toes after every outing to make sure they hadn't lost their color.
Many grumbled about it until Maxima (Lord Maxima? Ser Maxima? Vahne wasn't really very clear on the proper protocol and she didn't dare ask) had made it very clear to all of them that despite the wandering Telophoroi and the wild beasts and the rogue magitek, the most likely killers by far were exposure and frostbite - in that order - and he spoke of it with a grim frankness, the sort of familiarity borne of lifelong experience.
It was oddly like talking to Ishgardians about the Dragonsong War. And even the Ishgardians, accustomed by necessity to the bitter cold of their seven-year winter, were faltering in the relentless ice and wind of far northern Ilsabard.
"Vahne," a calm, bright voice called at her back. She turned to see the ruddy-haired A-Ruhn-Senna, the Elder Seedseer's younger brother and a surprisingly steady leader. He commanded Gridania's part of the contingent, and had since their arrival in Camp Broken Glass taken it upon himself to oversee the operation of the infirmaries. That alone was enough to make her wonder why he'd approached her personally.
"Seedseer."
Hopefully he'd understand why she didn't wish to shake his hand. It was just too bloody cold.
"You look as though you should seek some shelter," he said mildly. It was difficult to see his eyes beneath his long fringe but his stance was that of someone who possessed sufficient familiarity with the elements and had few if any concerns about the cold. At least for all she knew. "I have a job for you."
Vahne wanted to protest, but the Padjal was already off, boots crunching through a fresh layer of powder snow towards the warehouse building they'd repurposed. White leathers against white and black and the eerie-looking spindles of the huge red pines that grew up here, about the only things that did. At a glance it made him look like a wraith, one of the spirits said to haunt the Amdapor ruins near her childhood home.
She shook off the illusion as she followed him. It didn't take long to realize they were entering the wing reserved for the tempered. Some stared sightlessly at the ceiling, muttering the same unsettling mantra over and over again. Some screamed without words, thrashing against the restraints that bound them to the bed, so compelled by Anima's final orders that they were a danger to themselves.
Others simply lay senseless, bound in unnatural sleep. So it was with the patient at whose bedside A-Ruhn paused.
Vahne frowned, wondering why they were here. Certainly there were older and more experienced healers among the contingent's medical corps who might show more skill with administering Mistress Leveilleur's tempering treatment to the afflicted imperial soldiers and refugees, but she knew full well that most of those present were simply those few still willing and able to care for them.
Truthfully, many within the contingent now found themselves struggling anew with old hurts. Trying to remain neutral in the face of the slurs and accusations that many refugees still hurled their way was a greater challenge than many had anticipated, and Vahne herself bore too many of her own scars to trust herself with the work.
"I entrust this young man to you," A-Ruhn said. "You will have the care of him forthwith."
Vahne felt her stomach give an unpleasant twist. She shook her head.
"I can't," she whispered. "I-I'm sorry, ser, but... I can't."
"Why? What is the matter?"
"I can- the conscripts, maybe, if there's any here, but-"
"Conjurer," A-Ruhn interrupted, "I understand your reservations. Truly. But we do not have the extra hands at present, and even if we did, healers are not meant to pick and choose whom we wish to treat. We come to the aid of those in need of our skills and do our work as best we are able. Regardless of our personal feelings."
She swallowed back the bile that burned her throat.
"He's a Garlean soldier."
"Most of the refugees are Garleans, Miss Wolndara. It was assumed that you understood you would be using your skills to treat them when you agreed to join the contingent."
It was impossible to miss the admonition in his tone, mild as it was. She colored, cheeks suddenly warm despite the numbing chill of the large room, and dropped her gaze to the hand that lay limp and unresponsive, wrist bound in a thick leather cuff.
"Would it help to know that Aurelia requested you personally?"
Her chin jerked upward and she could only stare at him in shocked silence, too stunned at the revelation to answer.
Aurelia-- but why? Why? She knows what happened to me! She knows what they did- she was there when it happened! Why would she ask me to-
"According to her account, this legate officer - despite his fear and distrust of us - was the only one willing to accept her help with the sick and wounded while she and the Leveilleurs were in their camp. All three of them were sorely grieved to see him tempered by the primal, and when I asked if she had anyone in mind whom she would consider to watch over him in their absence, she recommended you."
"I don't know why she would trust me with him. Friend or not."
"The Warrior is a Garlean herself, you know," he said, gently. "But I think that is somewhat beside the point. She is a woman of great integrity, and I trust her opinion. If she says you are the correct person for this job, then you are the person I want to take care of him. None other will suffice."
Swallowing heavily, Vahne looked away. Her eyes stung, either with tears or wood smoke, and in that moment it was hard to say which it was.
Being a healer means accepting death, but it also means accepting hard choices, E-Sumi-Yan's words to his novices - words now five years old - echoed in her mind. You will have to treat people who will curse your very existence and lose those you wished dearly to save. The world is a harsh and unfair place, but we must rise above it and know ours in turn. We must be even handed in our dealings with all who seek succor from the elementals.
She remembered fire. The sight of her home burning. Her aunt's agonized screams.
Only the wood can decide whether to give the gift of life... or allow it to pass and give way for something new.
She looked down at the limp hand on the coverlet, half-curled into the sheet like a wilting leaf. There was something pathetic and piteous about it.
She couldn’t see that hand anymore. Something hot prickled at her eyes and her throat hurt.
"Miss Wolndara?"
It took so much more effort than she could have dreamed, to force down her angry tears, to push past it. Every ilm of her being screamed against it, tried to remind her what had happened seven years ago. What his people had done to her aunt, to her home. To her.
She managed to keep her composure, but only just.
Slowly she reached for the Garlean man's hand - cool from the chill of the room, but not alarmingly so, not yet - and peered down at his face. Blue-black hair fell in a tangled waterfall against the thin pillow, the exposed third eye just above his brow a stark pearl-white against his bronze skin. Hollow cheekbones, mouth slack, lips cracked and pale. The only sign that he lived was the slow and steady rising and falling of his chest. He had been in this state for some few days at least.
His palm and fingers bore the patterned calluses of a swordsman, or at least someone who used a one-handed weapon very often, the nails short and chipped. She squeezed his hand, carefully, gauging. There was no response, not even a reflexive twitch from the pressure. Not that she had expected aught from him anyway.
At last, Vahne sighed-- resigned at best, but accepting of the task nonetheless.
If Aurelia thinks I can do it, I’ll try. I don’t... know how well I can do it. But I’ll try.
"What's his name?" she asked, then added (somewhat hastily): "I know it... probably doesn't make much of a difference right now if I know it or not. But- he'll eventually wake up and be able to ask what happened and if I'm the one taking care of him, it's probably going to be me. So..."
A-Ruhn offered a nod, a grave incline of the chin that Aurelia herself would have found rather reminiscent of his sister. There was a world of approval in it- and understanding.
“His name is Jullus.”