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Post by AndrogynousMelon on Nov 20, 2006 22:38:39 GMT -5
Ed carefully took the saw from her fingers, not at all affected by her snippish ways. "Thank you." Was all he'd say in reply as he readied himself for the actualy proceedure. When he was certain everyone was in place, he began the deed. He could see the man clentching the leather tightly between his teeth, squeezing his fevered eyes shut in a lame attempt to hold be the screaming and tears, to perhaps spare some dignity. He was careful with his work, artful almost. He seperated flesh and bone and vein without mishap. There was a lot of blood, of course there would be. When he was finally done, he stepped back and placed the saw down. "I leave the cleanup to you, Madam." He said, though he picked up the useless limb. He eyed it for a moment then shoved it out the window. He didn't need rotting flesh in his sickroom, and perhaps some bottom feeder could live another day for it.
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Post by starvingartist on Nov 20, 2006 23:23:45 GMT -5
((I know the cauter wasn't mentioned initially, but I've edited my previous post to reflect the need for one. Not something I do often, but felt it necessary.))
Skye grimaced and grabbed a touriquet from the table, quickly wrapping it around his leg, just below the artery and pulling it tight, tying it in place. The bleeding slowed considerably, but did not stop. The saw's heat kept the bleeding from raging out of control, but did not do the job that a proper cauterization would. She grabbed the cauter from the final flame, and began pressing it against each exposed portion of the flesh. Skye noted him biting down harder, and frowned at Cadiz.
"Get me a damp rag!" she ordered.
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Post by Clover on Nov 20, 2006 23:35:40 GMT -5
With a muttered prayer, he'd pulled the man to him bodily, as tight as possible. The man was tougher then anticipated, or simply more exhausted, and so Cadiz found his job easier then anticipated.
And then it was done, and Cadiz felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that felt almost like a mourning. But Skye's words snapped through his melancholy like a chilled breeze, and he met her eyes quickly. But he did as he was told, and in silence, returning quickly. Though his face was gray and drawn, high splashed of colour vicious on his pale cheeks, he watched avidly. For someone so fascinated by healing, he knew very little practical knowledge---and as much as he might negate it, the girl knew what she was doing.
He didn't remember when he'd stopped to think of her with rancor and only a vague sense of displeasure, but the change was noticible now as he held the rag and inclined his head, "what should I do with it, your hands are, most obviously, occupied."
His smile, such as it was, was drawn and thin, more of a grimace then anything else. "What is needed?"
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Post by starvingartist on Nov 20, 2006 23:42:57 GMT -5
She frowned at him, feeling a certain sarcasm in his tone (aware that she was most certainly imagining it) but not wanting to refuse the help. She needed it too badly.
"Fever," she said shortly, assuming he would understand. The man needed comforting and as much as she disliked it Cadiz was good at that.
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Post by AndrogynousMelon on Nov 21, 2006 0:11:36 GMT -5
Ed cleaned his hands again in the salt spray and moved to another patient, more wrapping, stitching, endless attempts at comfort. Each day was the same, endless drawl punctuated by small, uncomfortable meals. Life was an exercise in futility, it seemed. He cleaned another wound, removing shrapnel as he listened to the others work nearby.
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Post by starvingartist on Nov 21, 2006 0:14:23 GMT -5
((Are we all online? *startled*))
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Post by Clover on Nov 21, 2006 0:16:50 GMT -5
And that was that, as he crossed to the bed once more. While triage was often neccessary, he would not leave this man now, and so he slid the damp cloth against fevered flesh, speaking in soft and low tones to the man, as Skye sutured the leg.
He found that he would avoid looking downwards at the messy buisness, for the look that steal over his face. It wouldn't help this man to see the dismay and the fear, so he schooled his expression into a pleasing one, and brought the cloth to wipe at tiny rivulets of sweat. Though the man hardly smelt of roses, he brought his lips to the man's ear, whispering softly to distract him.
What he spoke of, he wouldn't remember five minutes hence, but the tone was calm and reassuring, and he left it at that. The comforts of the harbor, and the good food that could only be found on land. Did the man have family, he asked, and though he expected no response, the question slipped out through his lips. It brought a twinge with it, and he felt bitterness, and a peculiar sort of loss, welling within him.
But a glance downward dispelled that, and he quickly averted his attention back to the man. "You'll be fine, sir, no worries of that. Skye will patch you up, if she's half as good with that needle as she is with her cutting little tongue---"
And then his cheeks flushed as he realized the double entendre to his words, and his expression switched from placid to mortified. He looked to her, eyes widened a little in apology.
"I didn't mean as an insult.. nor as.. as... in that way... " And he died off, mortification colouring his cheeks and causing him to lower his head and chatter inanely to the man in an attempt to avoid her eyes. Really, how stupid could he have been---to let something such as that slip out unminded...
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Post by Clover on Nov 21, 2006 0:17:26 GMT -5
{so it would seem. XD And d'aaaaawe. Cadiz was a moron! D'aaaaawe]
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Post by starvingartist on Nov 21, 2006 0:25:40 GMT -5
((XD OMG *dies of laughter*))
"Slip of the tongue or of the mind?" Skye murmured wickedly, the comment meant to torment Cadiz alone. She did not look up, only continued her work, pausing only to hold the cauter over the flame for a moment longer, the tiny axe-shaped metal glowing dully in the light of the ward. It took her only a few moment longer to finish, and she stepped back to inspect her handiwork, and to gather bandages. The movement caused her back to twinge again, and she winced. She had forgotten her injury until that moment.
Grabbing the bandages swiftly, she began to wrap the stump gently, not yet wanting to remove the tourniquet. She was certain that the cauterizing would hold, but would not risk it just yet. As she wrapped it, she smiled sweetly at the injured man.
"DOne," she assured him, stepping forward to brush a lock of hair off his forehead.
"Cadiz," she said suddenly, realizing she'd broken her vow not to speak to him, "Get me dried willowbark and rosehips, steep them. It'll help somethin' fierce."
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Post by Clover on Nov 21, 2006 0:38:49 GMT -5
He raised his eyes, incensed, and snarled at her. There was no other word for the action, an animalistic raising of his lips and baring of the teeth. But the raw dislike, and the embarassment that had brought it about, faded quickly.
He felt his cheeks burn from the blush, and he huffed out a muttered sentence that could have been, "Certanly not yours, wench", but was far too unclear to make out entirely. He muttered in spanish, low under his breath, and for all the grace of the language, it was still very obvious the sibilant words were of the foulest variety.
But his words stopped in mid-sentence when she announced she was finished, and like a great spider he unfolded himself from the position he had taken up. His spine twinged in protest, but he refused to place a hand to it, knowing the gesture would make him look like a little old woman.
So he simply stretched, lithe as a cat, and shot her a look when she mentioned rosehips and willowbark. "Perhaps valerian, as well---for sleep? I was heard it said that valerian would work... and this is a ship from a colder clime.. perhaps they might have it.."
Finding the supply chest, he crossed to it and knelt, rummaging through the little stoppers of carefully labelled herbs. This, at least, he knew. "Cumin, cayenne, cordov---I forget the word in English... ah... rosehips... but where is the damned willowbark? The damned thing hides... putana, where did you go---oh!" The little cry he made was one of glee as he seized upon a stopped bottle of it, and noticed it was still mostly there.
"Found it!" Gathering up his little stash, he busied his hands making the infusion, the bark being left as it was, the rosehips getting a slit down their middle, and the valerian--which he had found--, getting its leaves crushed as with his other hand, he held a small beaker over the candleflame to heat. With his luck, he'd explode the damn glassware.
"For your information, I would never inquire as to the skills of your tongue. Women are foul creatures, and you a harpy. Miss." But there was no sting now, just a grudging respect in his tone.
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Post by starvingartist on Nov 21, 2006 0:47:11 GMT -5
"I'm certain my husband would be most upset if you were to follow that line of inquiry," she agreed tactfully, ignoring his sniping as truth and moving on from the amputee to the other patients. Mouse was still applying the pain test, and so she moved to another man, grimacing. Half his face was burnt, and the whole of his chest oozed dangerously. A burn like this could be deadly if not cared for.
"Once oyu have mixed the tea - and no, no valerian, it will make it impossible to mark his progress during the night - then you can get me more water and bandages. Salt water this time," she noted absently, peering at the pus on the man's chest.
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Post by Clover on Nov 21, 2006 0:58:18 GMT -5
"Someone married you?!" The slight was out before he could stop it, but thankfully, the tone had assumed one of jesting before even leaving. Perhaps his lips were more aware then his brain---but he shrugged it off, eyes glittering with amusement.
"Being a harpy and a shrew, I'm suprised any man would have you. Perhaps he is deaf and blind, for he would have to be deaf to avoid your mannerisms--and blind to disregard your obvious lack of charms."
He smiled, though, and left out the valerian from the tea. He had forgotten the man would need checking, and rousing one from a valerian slumber was a hell and a half. So when the water bubbled, he brought the vial back, dumping a goodly amount of the arrowhip and the willowback into it. When the water turned a muddy brown, he raised an eyebrow, obviously unimpressed.
"This looks noxious, but up you go, amigo... the faster the swallow, the more likely this harpy shan't run your bones ragged." And now he looked downright angelic, gently administering the brew to the man at his side. He was tender, when he wanted to be, though still acidic at the least provocation.
And the man one done, so Cadiz stroked a hand through his hair once more, and then moved on, grabbing a bucket of salt water and trotting back to Skye. Placing it beside her, he shrugged his shoulders as he handed her the bandages, and then moved to another male soldier.
This one was groaning, and Cadiz sat beside him, raising an eyebrow in query. This man seemed relatively unscathed--a few scratches, a few bruises, but nothing lethal. So he asked, his tone curt and clipped, "What ails you, sailor, that you belly-ache so?"
The man looked up as if slapped, and managed to growl out his ill: stomach. Cadiz reached over, then, fisting a hand of fabric and bringing it upwards, only to have his eyes encounter livid bruising. He blinked, and then felt his skin go grey. "Skye---", and the words were a harsh call, "Skye!"
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Post by starvingartist on Nov 21, 2006 1:06:39 GMT -5
"Of course it's vile," she snapped, "if it tasted any good, it wouldn't help!"
About to rip into hm about her marriage (always quick to rise to any bait) she stopped, and put down the bucket of salt water. There was a note of panic in Cadiz's voice.
"I'll be back in a moment, sailor," she said softly, moving as fast as she could, wincing with every step. She stood next to Cadiz in a moment, brow furrowed in concern rather than anger.
"Eir bless us all..." she gasped, staring at the bruises. One, a deep purple, blossomed in his chest and dragged itself down his side, turning a blackish colour as it spread over his stomach. She grabbed the shirt from Cadiz's hands and ripped it wide open.
"I've never seen this," she breathed, fingers hovering over the discoloured skin. "What am I looking at?"
The question was aimed at Cadiz and the air simultaneously.
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Post by Clover on Nov 21, 2006 1:18:18 GMT -5
Cadiz's voice was very quiet as he spoke next, almost afraid to speak the words. He had seem something like this, when one of his cousins--one of his mother's large and boisterous family--had fallen from the roof.
And so he bit back the small tremour of fear, lest the man hear, and simply raised his eyes to Skye. "I think that means his insides are bleeding."
His intonation was childish, quiet and subdued. His cousin had died, in pain and he had been unable to help. Nothing had helped, and he hoped it wasn't so in this case. But the bruises, livid and spreading, almost before their eyes, was enough to have a sickened feeling crawling into his stomach and settling there.
"I think... I think we might need that valerian." What he left unsaid, but hanging whisper-soft in the air, was the fact that it would be perhaps best for the man to not be awake. He hoped he was wrong, but he would have bet anything--even the preciously hoarded stash of mexican tequila he hid under the mattress of his cot-- that the man had suffered a severe blow to the stomach. Hard enough to rupture something. And he felt ill from that knowledge.
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Post by starvingartist on Nov 21, 2006 1:33:25 GMT -5
Skye stopped cold, looking at the man laying prone on the cot in front of them. He was not much older than she - perhaps a bit past 20. He looked up at them, and Skye's eyes met his. There was recognition there, of what they had just said, of what was happening - or not happening, for that matter.
Her hands trembled, and she closed her eyes for a moment, feeling very ill.
"I'll get the valerian," she said, keeping her voice steady, "you need to begin cleaning the fellow you brought salt water for. Dip the rag in the salt water, and pat, don't drag it. Don't rinse in the same bucket, rinse outside the porthole. I'll be back shortly."
The walk back to the kitchens was a long one, and Skye's body felt numb as she dug through box - still open from Cadiz's visit - for the valerian. She stared at the plant in her hand for a moment, tracing the bittersweet contours with her eyes. The same cold, lurching feeling she'd had when she was pushed down the stairs was opening in her. It took more effort than it should've to brew the tea. She could've done it in the ward, but did not have it in her to mix this up in eyesight of the patient.
Returning, she stopped beside his bed.
"What's your name, sailor?" she asked softly, kneeling stiffly to hear his answer. Skye smiled at him, blue eyes soft, but not pitying.
"Well, Samuel, see if you can drink this."
She stood again, helping him to move into the more painful sitting position long enough to drink down the concoction. She had borrowed some of the sugar from the pantry, knowing it would help to flavour the drink. He drained it in two long gulps, and she lay him back down.
She would need a cup of tea herself shortly. There were bound to be more men like Samuel, more men she was utterly helpless to save. More men with tired brown eyes, flecked green. Wiping her eyes with no excuses, she came back to the bed of the burn victim, watching silently for a moment.
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