[Kenash Road] Love Thine Enemy [Denen]

[Tabarnac]

love thine enemy eighteenth fall, five hundred eleven after the valterrian Just when he was convinced that sleep would never claim him that night and the hours shuffled apologetically past midnight, exhaustion and trauma eventually took their toll, and the battered healer slipped into slumber. There was no true peace there, not yet. Dark dreams waited with bated breath for him to lower his guard down that they might stab him over and over with blades of pure despair. He saw dear Sama'el bleeding out on the deck of that ship, coughing blood and Denen's own name, then sliding with the roll of the waves to fall into the salt sea, drowned in its depths. He saw Luke cut down defending Issima, the sweet girl's body used as nothing more than a husk of a human in which to masturbate, the rogue Akalak not even concerned with the possibility of offspring. And then, because it was all or nothing in dreams, the ship sank, those brave sailors locked below decks, not even given a chance. "Wake up," said a woman's voice, a booted toe nudging his ribs. In his befuddled haze, it did not even occur to him that he could hear her. He barely seemed to have control over his own limbs then, just a numbness wrapped around a soul-deep hurt, a marionette to her will. "Get up," she said, and he got up, hugging himself gingerly to avoid further pain. "You have to see this." He saw it, though there was no moon in the sky, only stars. One of his captors, left for dead, crawling in the dirt, bleeding in the dirt, bleeding out. The monster paused, his lakan hilt-deep in the turf. When he recognized Denen, he had the audacity to laugh, to laugh as he died, as if even now Denen was something to be ridiculed, as if the joke was somehow on him. Stone Brokensong had a laugh similar to that when at his cruelest, but Denen's father was not this man. This man Denen remembered. This was the first to whisper evil things to him, about how he was almost as pretty as a Drykas mare, wondering aloud, but so softly, in such a deadly soft voice, whether Denen would ride like a mare, whether he would like to be broken to the bridle, to the saddle, to the spur. The memories and the laughter were cut of by a swift kick across his face by the woman's boot, the heel of which crunched down on his hand. She picked up the lakan and held it out, hilt first, to Denen. "He's shit," he said, a vicious word hissed through clenched teeth. "But he hurt you, so you should do the honors. Take a little of your own back before Semele's had her fill of his lifeblood."

[Denen Sunsinger]

He had been to hell, lingered there still. The bruises and cuts that littered his thin frame stood as a testament against pale skin. He'd been washed, given scraps of clothing to wear. The old clothes hung loose, too big on his slim figure. He was gaunt and drawn, pushed beyond exhaustion. Still, no matter how much he wanted to fight sleep, It eventually overcame him, and he drifted into nightmares. Disturbing images played before him, and he whimpered and tossed in his sleep. Death weighed heavily on his mind, tore into the recesses of his thoughts. All that was good and dear had been taken from him by the shadow men. The things he saw in slumber now were not so very different from the visions that tormented him in his waking hours. But he could not look away now, nor could he shake himself free of the shackles of slumber. His mind was heavy, and he wanted to fight free of this dream, but he could not pull his consciousness from the horrible scene playing out before him. He startled when the woman woke him, blinking in confusion and curling in tightly on himself. Somewhere in his mind, he realized that something was different, but he had been plucked from the midst of nightmares, and his body no longer seemed to belong to him. Despite not understanding, his body obeyed, and Denen rose to see what it was that was there. His body moved, drawn by the lingering mist of the dream realm. What met his eyes left him chilled to the core, and Denen Brokensong stared blankly, horror-stricken, at the monster who's pale eyes stared up at him in the darkness. He froze, as if paralyzed by his fear. His legs began to shake, and some intense, primal part of him screamed at him to turn and run, to put as much distance between himself and his tormentor as possible. Still, another ordered him to stay there, to take advantage of this moment and put an end to the man who had made his life hell. Caught between the two, Denen did not move, but stood, shaking and sick at heart, as he looked down to the man whose lewd signs had been the source of unspeakable horrors only a day before. Denen could not easily forget what he had said, the horrible things he had allowed and compelled the boy to think. For a long while, Denen stared at the weapon that was offered to him, and after a moment, he reached for it, curling thin fingers about the hilt. This was justice. He would finally be able to see some sort of justice done for the murder of his friends. He took a step forward, staring, unblinkingly, at the monster. Another step. His heart hammered in his throat, stifling and agonizing. He raised the blade. This was his right. He had every reason to kill this fiend. But he halted, blade raised. Jada's voice echoed in his mind. He had been a child, but the lesson resonated with him. It is our sacred duty to heal any who are in need. Even our enemies. Denen released a sudden, furious scream, and he hurled the weapon away from himself, his eyes bright with tears. "I w-w-will h-heal you," he spat out. "By the goddess, I w-will. And y-you will ki-kill me for it, but I...I will be c-cleansed in h-her eyes." He dropped to his knees, taking the scrap of cloth he'd been given to cover his mangled scalp. He refused to meet the Cerulean's gaze, even as he dragged a near bucket over and soaked the cloth, setting to cleaning the gaping wound, though his usually tender hands held little gentleness. His motions were clinical, precise.

[Tabarnac]

The woman shook her head in disbelief, but dug her heel into that mangled hand when the Cerulean reached toward Denen's face with malice. Perhaps he would hurt Denen at some point for what he did, but she was going to be sure that he would have a great deal of healing to do before that was a danger. "You're wasting your talents, kid," she said. "These boys are monsters anyway. Their gentler brothers should put them down like mad dogs, because all a mad dog is going to do is bite." Indeed, he roared, albeit weakly, and scrabbled at her boot. She looked at him in disgust. She pointed to a three of his tattoos in some strange sort of order, then explained. "This one means liar, this one means thief, and this one means murderer. Is he really someone you think this world needs walking? Shit." She spat. "Do you think your friends will thank you for showing mercy, especially if he figures out how to track you down one day? Because they're crazy, the Cerulean. He'll make it his life's mission to hunt you down and make you wish you'd never been born."

[Denen Sunsinger]

Denen knew that if and when this beast was healed, it was likely that he would die for it. But what did that matter to him? He had lost everything in the world that he had left. Everything that he had to hold him to this life had been torn out of his hands and butchered. Here, in a strange land, he had only his faith to fall back on. He lifted his eyes to the woman, his expression hard, unmoving. He said nothing. How could he? He wanted only to know that he had done what was right, even to his death. He was sworn to heal those in need, and he would do so. He ignored the woman, knowing that to listen to her reason would mean breaking his sacred duty. This had to be done. He rose from where he crouched, having cleaned the wound thoroughly, albeit a bit roughly, and drew near one of the horses. A hand on its rump, he took several hairs, and began twining them together to make thread. It took a matter of seconds, as it was something he'd done hundreds of times before. His thin face turned to the woman, though his blue eyes remained on the Cerulean. "I n-need...a needle," he said quietly. Denen knew this would be a rough sort of patching together. His kit had been left in the room with Sam, and he didn't have any herbs to hand. What was more, the most important matter was getting the bleeding to stop. He would do what he could with what he had, and the gods could do the rest.

[Tabarnac]

The woman swore quietly, but pulled the flap open on a good sized pouch that hung from her belt. After fiddling around, she handed him a medical needle. While he worked she set more things down beside him: clean bandages, feverfew, several other packets of herbs. Somehow it didn't seem strange to him that she would have these things in her little bag, nor that she would offer them to him when she clearly detested the man dying before them. The Cerulean growled, then keened like a pained animal, and Denen had to wonder, to at least consider, that the woman might know from what she spoke. This might have been the one to kill Sama'el, after all. He hadn't seen the killing blow, could only imagine it a million ways in his nightmares, both waking and sleeping. "He's lost a lot of blood," she noted, then set out some pills, expertly made by some apothecary or another. It was anyone's guess where they came from out here on the edge of the Sea of Grass and the Suvan Sea, where the road lead from Kenash to Riverfall.

[Denen Sunsinger]

Quick, experienced hands threaded the needle. His eyes were keen, even in the dark, and though he tried not to think of the horrible things this monster had done, of the claims he'd made of torturing Sama'el, he kept up his work. This was just another disagreeable patient. The man's life was not in his hands to end. That was a matter of gods. He thanked the woman quietly, and brushed the back of his hand across his brow. He had to focus. He sorted quickly through the herbs. Feverfew, of course, but that would have to be used later. He needed the blood to clot, not thin, after all. He'd have to use other methods to lower a fever. His thin hand darted up, the back pressing against the dark brow in testing for a fever. A mild one, though growing, as might be expected. Pills. Gods. Denen hadn't worked with pills before. His own medicine seemed so primal compared to this. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands against them to try and focus. Mugwort. He needed an something to help keep the wound clean. His father swore by mugwort. He remembered the look of it. Long, slender leaves, that could be torn off bit by bit. He located such a plant and brought it into his lap, before he bent down and began stitching the wound that had been the source of so much blood. The mugwort came next. Denen tore it into liberal bits, and pressed it down, fresh and unspoiled, against the wound. It would keep insects away, and keep the area free of bacteria, fresh or dried. It would prevent an infection better than any other herb he had to hand. He groped about for bandages, though it occurred to him that perhaps lemon balm might be the best solution for the fever. The citronella in the leaves would help fight fever directly in the wound, and help the mugwort to keep insects away. He located the spade-shaped leaves, brought them near his nose to be sure that they smelled fresh, and proceeded to brush them up. These, too, were applied. Next came the bandages. He had to lean close, close enough to smell the man's vile body odor, the reek of his blood. Though his arms shook, and his face was pale, he carefully wound the bandages tightly around him, layering them in a staggered manner to keep the blood from oozing through. But the stitches were tight, and would serve their purpose.

[Tabarnac]

The woman was quiet as he worked, but just as he was coming to the end of what he could do in these conditions and without his things, she reappeared -- had she moved away while he worked? -- with a kettle of water just coming down from a boil, a wooden mug, and a grim expression. There were herbs about him that could go into a tisane along with the feverfew if he wanted to bolster the monster's immune system, support speedy blood production, and any number of other things, sleep being one of them. "And when we move along," she said quietly, kneeling beside him and setting her things down too, "will you stay to nurse him back to health like a sick child? You haven't a thing that belongs to you. You'll starve out here, clutching to his feverish body to keep you warm. And for what?" She sighed. "We bring him back to Riverfall, we get in trouble for hurting him. Don't you want to go home?"

[Denen Sunsinger]

Denen trembled now, his hands quick and practiced. Gods, he didn't want to do this. This man and his companions had ruined his life. The woman came, bringing with her water and a mug. Time for the tea. The young healer thanked her quietly, studying the herbs she had brought him. He measured them in his palm. Feverfew. Hops. The concoction needed to be powerful if he intended to bring his patient to slumber. The man was big, too, a thought that turned Denen's stomach in revulsion when he remembered the vile things whispered to him. The woman spoke, and he heard. He heard. His blue eyes turned to her, stained from tormented sleep and countless tears. He watched her face, trying to weigh his options. “G-Goddess, help me,” he whispered, though whether it was to her or to his favored deity was unclear. Still, his supplication fell from quivering lips. “I h-have to...to do all I c-can. I swore. If...If I d-don't, I...am no b-better than he is. If I don't...I...I sh-shame my g-goddess and the v-v-vow I made to h...her.”

[Tabarnac]

So he had sussed Her out. Rak'keli smiled, a smile of both infinite compassion and steely determination. As She knelt there beside him, She drew closer, took his hands and placed them upon the wounded Akalak, holding Hers over them. And then something opened up inside of him, some door within him that led to untapped reserves of power, and another door that opened him up to Her, and a power that could not exist entirely within this world. Somehow he saw through Her eyes, saw the damages done to the Akalak, and saw Her power rushing in to knit flesh and sinew, mend bone and produce new blood. Deeper yet, Denen saw the conflict of the two personalities, one noble but beaten back into retreat, the other hostile and angry. As the divine energy moved within him, the channels of his own djed began to realign to a more healthy pattern, and the noble one was strengthened, the angry one calmed. He fell into a deep, healing sleep, often the best remedy for all ailments. She removed Her hands, but a warm pulse remained on the back of his, Her mark settling in. There was an echo of power there, a key to those doors within him, the key to the floodgates. "You have great compassion, Denen Brokensong," She told him, and he ceased to wonder that he could hear. "And some skill. I intend to keep an eye on you. See that My gift is not misused. Even this one deserves healing, and I will see that he is taken somewhere far from you. When you awake, We will be gone, but My touch will remain. Do you understand?"

[Denen Sunsinger]

He wept freely now, Her warmth filling him. Denen had lived his life dedicated to Her service, had known the wonder of healing others before, but had never before felt it to such degree. He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut a moment. He had to catch his breath, had to grasp fully at what had just happened to him. This sight was beyond him, and despite the tugging in his heart and the hurt that lingered there--hurt placed there by the very monster he now laid healing hands on--he could see what had once been good, and his compassion stirred. Sam would forgive him. Sam would understand. His eyes locked on the Mark. Her mark. She spoke to him, and Denen understood. He lifted his eyes to Hers, and nodded. His lips drew into a line, and with his best effort, he steeled himself so that he might manage some sort of reply. "Y-Yes, g-goddess," he whispered. "I will...live my life in s-serving You." It would be what he lived for, for there was nothing else to hope for.