[Purging] Try Not To Fall

[Gracen]

60th Fall, 512 A.V. the sky’s not for us we weren’t meant to fly all we can do is try not to fall -sergei lukyanenko It was mind over matter. His body worked through the pain and exhaustion because his will forced it to do so. Hand over hand, the silken rope held between his feet, his knees, as he shimmied higher. This was the farthest he had ever climbed at once and without any cheating with the Flux. He could taste the small personal victory just a few feet away. His hand reached the ledge of solid rock, and he had to will his fingers to clench properly, so stiff and sore were they from his ascent. But they wouldn't close properly. He began to flux energy into them, not caring whether that was cheating or not. He didn't want to die. Priorities. This wasn't working, so he shimmied up farther and attempted to get his arm around the ledge. From there, he scrabbled for a handhold, any handhold, but there was none to be found. In this awkward position, he wondered how long his legs would hold out, whether it would be long enough for him to figure out some way around the mutiny of his body. Minutes passed as he sweated and tried not to have an existential crisis. Twelve years and he had located one of the men on his hit list, but that one had to be the last, as there would be no escape from dreaded Hai. Let it be known, his will never gave out. It was only his body that did. He slid and entered a free fall that was somehow exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Was this peace? He was going to die. He was going to... *~*~* They brought him to the Purging, a couple of Symenestra men who had more compassion than the others. He was bleeding through the hastily put together bandage on his head. His left arm was broken, and it was likely from the tearing of his clothes and the swelling and bruising that he had a broken rib or two. His ankles were twisted, and he was cut and scraped and bruised and bleeding. It was the head that would worry a physician, though. Head wounds were the trickiest. He moaned quietly, and that was the first sound he had made in a while. They weren't sure if that was a good sign or not.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"A human?" Duvalyon wondered aloud when an aide hastily informed him of a pressing arrival. "Looks like he got ambitious with the roads." "Excuse me," he said to the patient in front of him, "She'll finish this for me. Otherwise, you know what to do." He waved the aide inward to take his spot and finish wrapping the sprain. When Duvalyon entered the room where Gracen was splayed, his first destination was a basin where he washed his hands. He gave the human a cursory inspection. The scene was oddly familiar but graver than the last sunborn he treated for a head wound. Another aide was already arranging materials to clean the wound in a nook beside the bed. Not wasting anytime, Duvalyon began to gingerly peel the soaked bandage from Gracen's skull. A damp and slightly stinging bit of cloth was pressed against the gash. As the Symenestra worked, he spoke to Gracen in clear, emotionless common. There was a mild accent that dissipated the longer he spoke. "You're in the Kalinor infirmary. We're going to give you something for the pain if you can drink it." The aide was addressed in hasty lines of Symenos as they tossed terse particulars back and forth. She nodded and swept out of the room to find the herbalist. "What's your name?" he asked to gauge the patient's wherewithal. Duvalyon lifted the cloth he had pressed to the wound for a brief moment to gauge the depth and severity now that the area was slightly cleaner. It would need sutures and lots of them. The depth threatened dead space, so the skin would have to pucker outward when stitched. If Gracen had any vanity, he would thank the gods the wound wasn't on his face. Mercifully, the aide had reappeared with a wooden cup of something that smelled sharp and herbal. For Gracen's sake, Duvalyon used common. "I need the hair in this area clipped, get another aide if we require one and I want the hooked needle with catgut. Are there splint materials in here?" She nodded and began to move the cup towards Gracen's mouth. "Drink," she said soothingly, "For pain."

[Gracen]

Gracen was vaguely conscious, swimming in and out of lucidity. Hands, gentle as they wanted to be, set him down somewhere. The impact jarred him and sent bolts of pain shooting through his broken body. He didn't cry out. He had endured pain before. "Gracen," he managed with a bit more growl than was normal at the beginning and a gurgle in the back of the throat that might bespeak upcoming nausea. Perhaps he had swallowed blood. "Haxo." It had been a lie once, that name, but he wouldn't call himself a Hardai any longer. The name was tainted, as was his life. "Don't speak Symenos," he complained, but it was barely coherent. He had made some efforts to do so, but he was no scholar and most Symenestra had no desire to speak to him at all, let alone teach him their tongue. He drank as the doctor bade him, then settled back into the embrace of his pain. He wondered where they kept the cats for the catgut, but the thought didn't last for long. He didn't want to die, but it seemed likely. It was a shame. If he hadn't found Cian Galensar or Jacobi Hardai, at least he could have died in Hai with Anatoli's blood on his hands and one third of hsi revenge achieved. "Viratas," he moaned, "I still thirst for blood."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon smirked at Gracen's declaration and remarked to the aide in common, "I like this Gracen. He has a sense of purpose." He was also going to have a sense of intense pain while Duvalyon set the bone. The concoction the aide was giving the human wasn't going to be adequate. Did they have any willow bark left? Even chewing that wouldn't dull his senses enough. The Symenestra was loathe to call on every talent he had for the sake of an Azo, but the man had sworn by Viratas. It was a mark in the human's favor. Whenever it didn't interfere with his family or community, Duvalyon believed Viratas would have him serve all men, even the sunborn. "You' can't feel much," it was an observation, but it rolled into the mind with uncommon density. "This kind of injury brings a numbness," a half lie delivered with the calm certainty of a medic who knew this kind of situation. Surely, he would be a better judge than Gracen. Duvalyon tried to stuff hypnosis in the gaps where truth could shine through and dissuade the human from belief. "Your arm looks like it's growing numb," another wave of subtle magic, "Let it." Duvalyon gave space for the impression sink into the bog of Gracen's thoughts, before he began to feel for the place where the bone had drifted. Arms were easier to set than other limbs. The muscles weren't as dense and allowed better access to the bone. Symenestra had an unparalleled ability to get a good grip on something, and the distribution of pressure gave them more strength than their narrow frames suggested. Those forced to endure the unfamiliar feeling of a Symenestra trying to grab hold described it as the flesh equivalent of the thousands of fibers of velvet. A shudder usually followed the metaphor. The medic's hold on the human was as good as it was going to get. With a practiced jerk, Duvalyon tried to realign the bone that had drifted from its proper position. The human was going to enjoy this.