| Present day Ortal's home, The Spires The writer sipped from his tea before placing the cup back on top of the saucer. He leaned forward over the parchment he had rolled out on the desk. With slow and careful motions he reached for the quill in the ink well. He dipped it off on the edge of the well, making sure that no ink was dripping off of it before he placed the sharp end of the quill on the parchment. He started writing once more, turning shards and fragments into a whole memory on parchment. |
| Winter, day unknown, Year 459 Crone's tent, Undrykas' pavilion (unknown), Endrykas The smell of herbs mixed with the scent of whatever was boiling in the kettle and combined itself with the smell of melting wax from the candles in the tent. It was late at night and darkness was all around. Inside the tent it was nice and cool, the breeze flowing through the open tent flaps that were used as doors and windows. Outside, the sound of a horse passing by the tent could be heard, if someone listened. It's ears stood up as it paid attention to what was happening around it. The calm outside was so much different from the inside of the tent. Then there was the scream. It pierced right through the calm night, a wail of pain and hurt. The horse reared, partly from the noise, partly from the pain that was transmitted to it through the bond it shared with its rider, now lying in the Crone's tent, bleeding out all over her floor. The Udrykas rushed from the kettle to his spot in the corner of the room. The Crone rushed from the fire to the man on the floor. Although she was probably around fourteen times the Undrykas' age she moved with grace and speed through her tent. She picked up leaves left and right, added herbs to her hand and nuts or seeds wherever she found them. The Undrykas sat in his corner and watched as his hands methodically mashed the paste in the bowl. He held on firmly on the club in his hands as he rolled it around, squishing the paste underneath the club. The herbs and plants he was working on all had some sort of painkilling effect, combining them together into a powerful but dangerous painkiller. His mind ran over the names of the herbs he was working with. He could recite their names and their effects without having to look at any of the scrolls or books the Crone had showed him the first time. As soon as the paste was finished, the Undrykas scooped it out of the bowl and applied it to a series of bandages in front of him. Then he took more of the herbs, mixed them together and started all over again. The club moved rhythmically. First he stomped on the herbs and plants to flatten them and make sure all of the little bulbs were flattened or cracked. Then he started to apply constant pressure and move the club around in circles, rolling it around. He pressured hard on the bulbs to make sure they released all of their liquids into the bowl. His arm and shoulder were starting to strain. He had been pressuring bulbs and plants and herbs for a while now. He didn't know how long. Another scream from the man on the floor. There was a lot of blood. The Undrykas got up and walked to the kettle. He picked up the other bowl, careful as it was hot, and replaced it with the new one. He had replaced it almost five times already now. Sitting back down, the Undrykas started fishing out the stems and roots of the plants. He didn't need them for the rest of the recipe. From the corner of his eyes he could see the Crone moving back and forth between her herb stash, the fire and the patient. Everytime she got to the patient he screamed or moaned. It wasn't going very well for him. The Undrykas grabbed the club again and set to work. With the liquids from the plants having been heated over the boiling water, they had mixed more properly and had turned less liquid. He added some powder. He didn't know the name of it. But it turned liquid into paste. After the powder he started clubbing the paste-to-be and squished it under the club. Circular motions around the edge of the bowl and ever closer towards the middle. There was the softest sound of the club brushing past the bowl as he moved it. Focusing on some of the more stubborn pieces of the plants, the Undrykas smashed them under his club and rubbed them out into the paste. Then he started fishing out the bulbs. They were not needed anymore. He scooped the rest out and spread it out over the last bandage. He crawled up and moved over to the man on the floor. The Undrykas recognized the wounds at first glance. Glassbeaks. Apparently, there had been four scouts. And a glassbeak party of six had ambushed them. Only one guy had made it out alive, but from the looks of it, he wasn't going to make it. That didn't stop either the Crone nor the Undrykas though. Exceptions. The Undrykas was pushed a bowl by the Crone. "Apply it to a wound, stitch it up and wrap a bandage around it." That's how he learned. By doing things. He didn't pretend to be fighting a giant monster like the other children did when they fought each other for practice. No, he had real patients with real bleeding wounds caused by real biting or otherwise harmful monsters. The contents of the bowl smelled terrible. But then again, almost all the concotions the Crone made smelled terrible. And the taste was often times even worse. The Undrykas scooped up some of the contents of the bowl with his two fingers and applied them to a wound on the patients arm. The Crone sat opposite side of him, doing the same. Her side was the worst. More wounds, more blood, more mess. The man on the floor screamed as he put the herbs in the wound. The Undrykas staggered back. He didn't notice how the crone was messing with one of his wounds, trying to stop the bleeding with herbs and her hands. He placed the herbal paste in the wound, spreading it out with his fingers, and squeezed the two parts of flesh together. Now the patient was screaming in pain because of him. He held the wound shut, not caring about the man's screams. A curious thought passed through his mind for a moment. He would win either way. Either the man lived and beat up the Undrykas, in which case the man lived. Or he would die. And the Undrykas wouldn't get beaten up. He smirked. Something that happened less and less over time. The needle pierced through the man's skin, right next to the wound. He pulled the thread through the skin, almost all the way to the end. The needle pierced again through the skin, across from the first one. The thread pulled the two sides of the wound closer together. The needle continued on its zig zag course. It pierced tiny hole after tiny hole in the skin around the wound as the Undrykas' left hand held the two pieces together. He worked frantically. The wound he was working on was the worst on his side but the Crone's side was much worse. She also seemed to work quite a few times faster than him. More experience. The Undrykas made sure the thread was unable to let go on its own. If the man survived, the thread would remain in place until the Crone deemed it safe to remove it. The knife easily cut through the thread, releasing the needle from the stitches. His fingers were covered in blood, most of his hands were covered. He put the needle and thread aside as he quickly wiped his hands on the cloth next to him. It didn't help much. It was already soaked with blood. He dipped his fingers into the bowl again, scooping out more of the concotion the Crone had given him. He spread it out over the lesser wounds. Even the lesser wounds were bad, although not as bad as the chunk of fleshing missing from his thigh on the Crone's side. His hands were steady now. They hadn't been when the man had been brought in. But as he had been working, his hands had calmed down, his entire being had calmed down and had entered something the Crone refered to as the 'Eye'. He worked methodically as the needle and thread stitched up wound after wound. He didn't bother with the scratches and cuts. There were wounds with missing pieces to be fixed first. They didn't talk. The Undrykas and the Crone. They barely said a word, except if they needed something from the other side of the patient. On his knees, the Undrykas moved around the patient, kneeling next to his head. His shoulder had another big wound. The Crone was busy with the largest of all his wounds. She was sweating and muttered under her breath. He had never seen her sweat before. He focused on his task. A little water to clean out the wound first, then the application of the Crone's concotion. The man stirred. He had fainted around the time the Undrykas had finished his first wound. With the back of his hand, the Undrykas wiped away the sweat that was about to drop down from his brow. It was hot inside. The fire was roaring as it boiled water and paste. The Undrykas held the flesh together with his left hand. The needle pierced his skin yet again. The Undrykas had lost count long ago how many times he had punctured the side of a wound with the needle in order to close the man up. Calling him pale was an understatement. The man was entirely white. But his chest still moved, he was still breathing. The Undrykas worked on the wound, closing it up stitch by stitch. He moved back to his side, out of thread. He grabbed the bandages he had prepared. Carefully and with only the smallest amount of practice, the Undrykas wrapped the bandages around the wounds in the man's arm, shoulder and leg. The bandages were placed properly and with the rich spread of paste it was hard to miss the wound. It was probably his imagination but the man seemed to calm a little. He bandaged the arm as well, wrapping the bandage around the wound he had stitched up. The painkiller paste would apply itself to the wound for the next few days, the Undrykas couldn't quite remember how long it lasted. His head was thumping, like someone was hammering the inside of his skull. He ignored it. He made sure the bandage was applied firmly and wouldn't move out of place on its own. He applied the third bandage to the shoulder. The shoulder gave him a little difficulty but a creativity helped him along as he wrapped the bandage around the shoulder. There was a memory somewhere of Glassbeaks. The Undrykas couldn't remember it properly. There were children all around him. And glassbeaks all around them. He couldn't quite remember. The bandage was applied and he moved around the head of the patient again. The fourth bandage would go around his other shoulder. The Undrykas could see the difference in the patient now, already he was calmer, more relaxed. He quickly applied the bandage, the same way he had done around the other shoulder. It wasn't professionally done but it was done well enough for the man to feel the effects. He left the Crone alone. The mortar and pestle were in his hands once more. They needed more bandages to be prepared. The bowl was hot from having been over the boiling water for so long but the Undrykas ignored it. Ignoring it was something he seemed to be getting better and better at. The club smashed into the liquid as he cracked the bulbs. Then he added the powder and started mixing and pressuring the liquid into paste. He watched the patient as he worked. His circles moved slower and slower as he focused more on the patient. The mortar and pestle clattered to the floor as the Undrykas scrambled up and moved towards the man on his hands and knees. His ear hovered above the man's lips as he looked down his body. No movement, no breathing. His fingers touched against the man's throat with one hand and held onto his wrist with the other. The Crone was looking at him. She already knew. He now knew as well. He let the man's wrist slip from his grasp and it thudded on the floor. That was it. No reaction. The man had died. |
| Present day Ortal's home, The Spires The writer finished the last of the fragment, ending the memory. For some reason he didn't feel sad. The memory hadn't been linked to sadness or loss. He leaned back in his chair. He felt relieved but he couldn't quite place it. Maybe it was the memory. Maybe it was because he had finished writing. He sipped from his tea. His eyes blanked out as he stared towards the light of the window as it snuck through the leaves and vines outside. What a curious notion, to feel relieved at the death of a man you were trying to save. The more he learned about the Undrykas, the more of a mystery that person became. |
