“Shit...shit...!”
Hands shaking, Cartien raked through the grasses with unsteady fingers, desperate to find any dry material he could light with his flint. Around him, the boughs of the willow swung gently in the wind, pelted by raindrops as the marsh was blanketed by the storm that had allowed them to flee.
But it may have been too late.
Lyeos was crouched near the edge of their makeshift hideaway, peering through the branches with coal-like eyes. The end of his tail flicked with tension. Near the base of the gargantuan tree was Zilva, her form collapsed near the trunk as a wound on her flank trembled and bled sluggishly. Against her belly was Alethia.
She wasn't moving.
Finally gathering enough dried grass and wood, the prince stacked it as Rau had taught him, working swiftly as he fought the urge to panic. Flint struck steel, sparks igniting only to die in the wind. “Come on!”
Move, princeling.
Obeying by instinct, Cartien leaned back as Zilva swung her mighty head around, snorting a stream of metallic flame onto his pyre. It caught instantly, feeding the eager tongues of fire.
“Okay...okay. I'll get some water to boil, a-and I've got some rags in my saddlebags. I – Lyeos!”
The dragon ignored him, still watching.
“Keep your head...princeling...”
Giving a start, Cartien looked to Alethia. Her face was ashen, lips tinting blue as breath stumbled past them. “Don't talk! You've got to save your strength!”
“I'm...far from dead...” she muttered. “Just so...exhausted...”
“Don't you dare fall asleep on me – you'll never wake again!”
“Keep whining like that, and I'll never find sleep...” Tapering off, she went silent.
Swearing again under his breath, Cartien leapt to his feet and dug through his mount's gear, taking out a small cast iron pot and several stained but cleanly rags. Through the branches he went, parting them with a hand that then went to shield his eyes from the rain. The deceptively-clear water of the marsh lapped against the island's shore, and he carefully scooped a pot-full, careful not to stir and invite the mud.
“All right, I've got water – it'll take time to boil, but once it does I can clean that wound of yours.” Setting the pot atop a stack of stones to rest atop the fire, he approached his captain. “Permission to...view the wound?”
“Hn...”
“I'll take that as a yes.” Glad she was already free of her coat, Cartien set about unbuttoning her shirt, expression set as he revealed her pale torso. But there was something that took him aback. “...are those...?”
“Yes – ignore them. A pity they were in the wrong place this time,” Alethia muttered, ending with a hiss as he revealed the damage to her side.
It wasn't pretty.
The flesh was scraped away, looking like someone had worked long and diligently against her hide with a length of sanded paper. The edges were crusty and curled, pieces of skin ragged and crimson with dried blood. The entire side of her tunic was dark with the stuff, and he blanched at just how much had been lost. Within the nest of harried flesh were the sides of several ribs, a brilliant, unsettling white against the red meat. The prince could easily encompass both spread hands over the wound and still not hide it completely.
“Has the bleeding stopped...?”
He swallowed harshly. “Aye.”
“Good...I did my best to cauterize the bulk of it before I lost most of my energy...”
“I can see the scorch marks...”
“Never mind them. Does any of it look blackened, or rotten?”
“N...not yet.”
“Good...” The woman's head lolled against the curled coat beneath her head. “When the water is hot...do not hesitate. You must keep this wound clean...or the maggots will find it. And I don't feel like becoming a feast for the little beasts.”
The prince heaved slightly, holding back an urge to vomit. “Will it really clean it?”
“Aye...the heat will purge infection. Be sure to give me one rag to stifle my cries. But do not heed them – the pain is worth the result. Don't stop until you've bathed it all, and well.”
Shaking his head, Cartien mumbled, “I...I don't know if I can do this.”
“Zilva's magic is tied into her own wound. Lyeos lacks the know-how to aid injured flesh. It's not as...sophisticated as magic, but this will do. And you're the only one here to do it,” she finished bitterly. “I am...too tired. But once I rest, I can tend to the remainder of the damage. You just have to keep illness at bay until I regather my strength. You can do that much, at least...”
Glancing to the water, which had begun to roll with bubbles, Cartien gave a shaky sigh. “I...I will try.”
“That is...all I can ask...”
Worried at her breathless tone, the prince gathered the cleanest rag, flinching as he tucked it into her mouth. It would keep her from crying out and making too much noise, and hopefully from biting herself in her tiredness should she thrash against the pain. The rest were all dipped into the water, bringing about a hiss from him as he tossed them from hand to hand. But once he had a handle on them, he built up his nerve and pressed it to his captain's side.
A muffled moan of suffering made its way through the cloth, her back arching weakly before slowly relaxing. Air rushed through her nostrils, which flared with both pain and effort. Guilty, Cartien mopped the cloth against the angry flesh as best he could.
Replace it into the water...it must be rinsed, Zilva advised quietly. Had you two basins, you could clean it there, but...this will have to do. You will need to change the water after several passes. No sense pressing soiled water back into the wound.
Listening and nodding, Cartien did as asked. Once all the cloths were sullied, he took them to another part of the shore, rinsing them and his pot before gathering fresh water from upstream. Slowly, less blood and redness soaked into the rags, and the water he dumped was clearer. Only once a rag came away clean did he give a sigh of relief.
There was nothing left for him to do.
Sleep, Zilva murmured as he sat with a groan. I will watch her. I am idled while my wound retreats. You must rest.
Too exhausted to rebuke, the prince fell over to his side, asleep within moments.
