The Admiral’s Fate
The combination of hot and cold was unsettling.
On the one hand -- or rather, the one cheek -- his face was burning. There was a proper lighting of blood beneath his skin, swelling a bulging where the bulk of the damage had been done. His jaw sat poorly on his skull, leaning to one end where the swelling was worst. It left his right eye shut, unable to open from the girth of flesh that formed an apple beneath his caterpillar brow.
On the other hand, the wind was screaming around the dingy, sloop they had managed to abscond with. With his limbs in poorer state than his face, Thomas possessed little capacity to row or aid in the ropework. Naught but himself and eight men were left. The sodden, salt-damaged and bloody remnants of his crew. Nine men -- and one.
The past days … weeks? Had it been a month? … all slurred in his mind. But through the pain, he caught call to recollect. The tenth man desperately huddled aboard the sickly sloop had been their savior. Indeed, were it not for his station, Tom would have been dead long before the strange ‘pirate’ could have endeavored to rescue him. The why of that particular act was still hanging in the air … a question for dry land, perhaps.
Stephan, the man had said, by way of Hadley. Not a name Tom knew -- and he knew quite a many, especially in the realm of seafarers.
“Ho! -- HO! Lighthouse!” called one of the men in a hoarse, salt-scoured voice.
Stormholme was lay ahead, and it brought a vestigial smile to Tom’s face. Even in an overcast storm, he could still find his way home. They ran the ropes in and tightened the sail to give them the wind, scraping over the choppy waters toward the harbour.
Twenty-three days and counting.
Elaianna could feel the pit of her stomach twisting into more and more of a knot. She could hardly sleep. She barely had an appetite. It was all too familiar a sensation. Waiting. Hoping. Praying. Not knowing what had happened to her husband. Wondering if he was gone-- if she would ever see him again.
And if she did, would it be him that she saw?
Sitting at her desk, she had asked her handmaiden to leave her for the evening. She needed time and space to herself. She didn't want to admit to anyone what she had done. She didn't want to admit what was going through her mind. She stared at the parchment, addressed to an office in Stormwind.
Arthur Daud,
I am writing to inquire about the state of our agreement, and if you have already cashed in your end of the
That was it. That was all she could write. She could feel anger flaring up. Anger at herself for writing as if her husband were some item, but at the same time, she couldn't risk writing down and leaving evidence of the deal made a year ago.
Then she heard it-- the bells of the harbour. She stood up so fast that there was a clatter as her chair fell behind her. Racing towards the balcony, she ignored the frigid whip of the winds as they blew over her, and stared towards the harbour.
Entering into the shallow waters of Stormholme harbour, was a precarious sloop.
The vessel was beaten, wind-worn and rife with cannon damage. The headsail was nearly shred, and it was only through a tight hold on the ropes that it could swell with any wind. By a cursory glance, it seemed fit for the bottom of Sailgrave, not cruising into the protected holdings of Stormsong Valley. Spit, gristle, and willpower seemed to keep the ship afloat.
Given the lack of any weaponry aboard, there was no call to arms. Though one of the harbour guardhouses did rise with activity. There was a pause in the harbour bells. The spyman atop the eastern tower held his glass to eye and --
“MEDIC! MEDIC! MEDIC!”
The cry was followed by a horn blast, the fat-belled trumpet at the spyman’s side coming full of air. As was commanded, so came to be. Attention and sound came from the upper estate, and soon enough men in white frocks rode down to the harbour, just in time for the decrepit sloop to all but ‘ram’ into the dockhead.
There was a still moment, filled only by the ‘clack-clack!’ of horse hooves coming from the harbourway until …
CRRRRKK -- KSSH!
The foremast split with a sad, sickening sound like broken twigs. It fell forward in an impotent display of destruction, falling without consequence onto the dockhead. Bubbles began to emerge around the sloop, betraying it’s hull failures -- she was slowly, slowly sinking right there in the harbour.
All that Elaianna could make out from where she stood was the small vessel making it's way into the harbour. She squinted, and took note of what disrepair she could see from a distance. The foremast wasn't aligned. By the time she had turned from the balcony to race down the stairs of Stormhollow castle, she missed the very thing she scrutinized collapsing.
The medics were on their way before she was. Yet the lady wasn't far behind. She didn't have time for a saddle. If she was right, then she had already lost twenty-two days worth of time. She had to be right. What other peoples would come back into Stormholme harbour in such a state? She could reason a great many people seeking refuge after dealing with the Horde on the open sea, or pirates, or other dangers. But she tried to think optimistically. She had to. Even if she was running out of that optimistic steam.
Click-click. Click-click.
Arriving after the medics, Elaianna swung one leg over the horse, and landed with a light 'thud' on the ground. She ignored the looks she acquired from what few paid mind to the new arrival. The Duchess riding a horse bareback, like a man, in a dress? It drew a few glances, but the attention was ultimately on those who had returned from sea.
"What is going on? What is the state of things?" she asked the first man she found.
The man in first attention was a medical professional -- at least he must have been, by the white-frock coat and the elbow-high rubberized gloves he wore.
“My Lady -- please, we aren’t sure yet. These men are severely injured, we need to get them to the -- “ he spoke as he turned toward the Duchess, head bowed in respect. Yet he was cut off by a sudden, loud ’thump!’.
As it turned out, most of the men trying to climb off the broken sloop were not in any condition to walk, let alone climb. Many scuffled and fell to the knees as they came onto the dock, immediately in the arms of the white-coats who cooed to the salt-scoured men with a chorus of, ‘Whoaa -- whoa!’s and ‘steady now, steady --’s.
Elaianna looked towards the vessel as the first of the men fell onto the wooden boards of the dock. Her brows were knit in concern. "--I don't care who these men are, see to it they are all seen to, and the duchy will fund all medical costs," she instructed to the same white coat professional.
However, the last man off the derelict once-sea-faring vessel merely collapsed the instant he touched the wooden dockboards. One arm hung limp at his side, earlier clutched with delicate attention to his chest. His right eye was swollen shut, stained with black and yellow bruising. The weatherworn rag trousers he wore were stained to a sickly orange. By the shaking, he seemed to possess rather … poor vitality.
All the same, a tiny hoarse call left his blistered lips, ”Ain’ no place .. like hooome~”.
Elaianna's eyes went wide as that hoarse voice called out. It wouldn't have been heard over the commotion, were it not for the Lady being so familiar with the sound of her husband's voice.
"THOMAS!"
Holding up her skirts up as Elaianna sprinted forwards, dropping to her knees beside him. She felt the burn of knees being skinned by the rough wooden boards. "Thomas, Tom... Oh tides. Tides.. You're..." She looked up and towards the medic she had first bothered, waving him over. "Medic! Over here!"
At the waving of the Duchess, the medic rushed forward with his satchel in hand.
With the sound of his wife’s voice, Thomas tried to move. It was a valiant effort, truly, but availed him very little. His torso rose in a breath, but the airflow caught in his throat and hitched with a twitching of the ribcage. His left arm tried to reach out toward her, but it seemed ill-fit for service at the juncture of his upper arm and shoulder.
“Thhff -- ick. Thfickk -- Mff .. “ he attempted to speak, with little grace. The swell of his blistered lips gave terrible aid in pronunciation, and left him impotently waving a few spare fingers at the other men as he spoke.
Elaianna reached a hand out, fingers delicately caressing whatever part of his arm looked the least swollen and prone to feel pain at her touch, rather than any sense of calm. "--Shhh, dear. Shh. We'll have plenty of time to talk once you've been looked after."
A concentrated groan left him at her statement.
He rose somewhat, coming up to keep his weight on his hip as he wagged a limp hand at the coughing, beaten and bloody men being attended to by the medics.
“M’boys -- th’thhfick -- sick, sick. No water in five .. “ his voice trailed off, too sucked from moisture and nourishment to do much other than whistle with a hoarseness further.
"We'll get them watered, love. They're already being taken care of," she assured Thomas gently.
The medic crouched beside Thomas and stuck his jaw tight, appraising the Admiral’s poor state of condition. A few lines creased themselves in the man’s brow, and he called over two other men to help him lift the half-conscious sailor into a stretcher.
“... I will be honest, my Lady,” he spoke in address to Anna, “I am not certain how his grace is even alive. With your leave, we must get him to the infirmary immediately at risk of fatality … “ His eyes trained on Anna in wait for the slightest indication of an ‘OK’. As urgent a matter as it was, they were still on her order above all else.
Leaning out of the way, she gave the man some room to inspect her husband. His words gave reason for her complexion her to pale. She couldn't lose him. She couldn't have him returned to her only to die. "Do what you must to save him. Please," she urged, rising to her feet.
Don't you dare die on me now.
As simple a command as that was enough to strike the medics into action.
With a thorough grunt, the three men loft Thomas into a stretcher despite his half-lidded arguments. With quite fine timing, a horse-drawn carriage arrived with a massive red cross on the side of it, and the rear doors flung open to accept the Duke within.
The other sailors were being quickly allotted to other stretchers, and those of standing-health were given to horseback to be taken to the manor’s infirmary. Most were of reasonable state, enough to hold their heads aloft at the very least. One amongst them, a younger man by comparison, seemed to lack anywhere near the injured state of the rest.
“Your grace? Are you coming with us, or riding ahead?” The medic spoke to Elaianna as he stepped up into the front of the carriage, leaving a space in case the Duchess desired to ride with her husband.
Elaianna glanced to the carriage, then towards the horse she had ridden all the way down to the harbour. She waved at one of the passing dockworkers. "You there," she called out, stopping the young boy in his tracks. "Can you ride a horse?"
"Yes, ma'am-- Lady-- Grace."
"Take my horse, and head to the castle. Ride ahead, and alert them that the Duke is en route with life threatening injuries, and several others are on their way to the infirmary for the same treatment. -- Hurry."
The boy nodded and sprung into action with the orders given by the Duchess herself.
Only then did Elaianna turn and hurry to the carriage, letting her actions answer the medic's question. As she climbed inside she stayed as near to Thomas as she dared without being in the way of the medic. "I'm not leaving him alone," she told him.
The conviction of her voice allowed only a nod in response from the medic.
Three of them went about their work to attempt to stabilize Thomas as the carriage rocked to and fro along the cobbled road. One of the men held a lantern aloft as the other two pressed and prodded the Admiral’s wounds for information.
“NNGHH! -- “
One of the medics frowned at the pained response.
“I’m feeling separation -- atleast two are floating in the abdomen.”
“Two? Tides … wait, one here as well. L3 -- which do you have floating?”
Another press came against Thomas’ side.
“NGHH -- hgh, hghh -- mhh .. “
“R1 and R3, both outside ligament limits. The bruising is consistent with rapid, repeated blunt force trauma. I’m seeing stippling … a studded tool.”
There was a calm, methodical tone to their voices. Quite professional, and rightly so. Stormholme held no half-baked professionals, least of all medical staff. As fate turned, the Anchor Trading Company held quite a need for finely talented healers.
“Heart rate is rising … I see clam and fever. We need to brace and get an airway -- “
“I’m on it, get me a tubing and a separator for his throat -- “
The carriage hit a bump, and Thomas head rocked forward, and then back. There was an uncomfortable ‘krrkt!’ sound as he came back to a rest. Both medics cringed, locking their teeth and simultaneously commanding the third to hold Thomas’ neck and head in place.
Amidst the ongoing diagnosis and preliminary treatment, there was a scouring of wind past the carriage windows. Unnoticed, apparently, by the medics focused on their work -- it whistled like a man’s voice. A mocking, taunting tight-lipped tune.
"Not yet," Elaianna mumbled to herself-- or was it to the wind? "Not yet."
She could feel her heart pounding heavily in her chest. She was anxious, and truth be told? She was terrified. She couldn't lose him. Not now. Not yet. Not again.
"Hang on, Thomas," she murmured softly. "Hang in there, love. Stay anchored with us now..."
Yet as they spoke of a separator for his throat and needing an airway, she had to turn her head to hide her cringe. She couldn't watch that. She'd have the memory burned in her mind if she did.
Keen was the mind that looked away.
There was a thick, strangulatory sound as the medics intubated Thomas. They produced a hinged, metal tool to hold the flaps of his throat open as they put a tube to his trachea. Attached was a hand-pump which could provide a steady flow of air.
While oxygen was quite welcome, it produced quite an audible pain in the man as his lungs swelled and -- in doing so -- pushed his shattered ribcage to and fro.
A stronger man might have kept his mind, but there was only so much rope on a ship. Thomas had thrown all he had overboard, and thus gargled and fell unconscious from the pain.
As his eyes rolled back and his breathing steadied without the constant clenching of his muscles from pain, the whistling halt. Were the medics wise to the sound, they had no mention or care for it. They were too busy halting the steady decline of Thomas’ blood pressure.
But by thankful speed, they arrived then at the infirmary. The rear doors opened abruptly to reveal a half-dozen strong team of healers and a tidesage ready to take the Admiral within. As they stabilized him and got him onto a gurney to wheel within the primary trauma ward, a black-coated bird swooped down to perch atop the wagon. It remained there as Thomas was wheeled inside, watching.
@thomasstalsworth @atc-wra