[Place of Purging] Fever

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

85th of Spring, 511 AV "Pure? What does it mean?... Such yellow sullen smokes Make their own element. They will not rise, But trundle round the globe Choking the aged and the meek, The weak." -Sylvia Plath “Just hold very still…” Duvalyon was peering through one of the heavy lenses to magnify his young patient’s arm, almost sweating from concentration. If the boy was going to survive the burn, it had to be clean of even the tiniest debris. A situation made worse by his mother’s too hasty application of inferior bandages. As Duvalyon delicately raised pinching claws to the wound the boy shrieked in his face. “Stiller.” The shrieking was not abating and Duvalyon could smell the alcohol the child had been given to dull the pain. Not the finest pain-killer, but the only sort his mother seemed comfortable with. Duvalyon preferred a dose of mirage for the patients, but while it made them easier to work on, the side effect were sometimes… unique. “There,” Duavlyon gently picked out pieces of lint, “Almost done with this.” He gave the boy an encouraging smile, but suspected it fell flat for lack of feeling. After tense minute of eyestrain, every last bit was out of the burned flesh. Duvalyon put the lens down, relieved. “Mother Iris,” Duvalyvon looked up at the boy’s adopted mother. “We’re going to clean the burn with alcohol, then treat the skin.” He failed to tell her by “treat” he meant periodically scrape the dead skin off the child’s arm. “This will take a few days, so prepare yourself.” Deeper apprehension crossed her face but she kept nodding. Her arms were coiled around her waist in a personal hug. “And when that is done, we’re going to apply honey and wrap his arm. There will be a scar, but let’s be grateful. At least it wasn’t his face.” Attendants were filtering into the room, readying to transport the boy to a different room. All Duvalyon had to do was keep the mother distracted. If she followed them to the next room and witnessed what they were doing to her son, she’d likely attack them. “We will take excellent care of your son. Svoreador himself will be checking on his recovery.” Duvalyon tried to look chipper about this, but he knew it really meant “his lordship” would be breathing down his neck as Duvalyon preformed the messy parts. “In the future perhaps opal gloams instead of oil lamps in his room. I know the lamps are convenient as they can be turned off and the gloams have to be carried away and covered.” Duvalyon shrugged sympathetically. “At least until he is older.” Or stopped trying to set things on fire, either would do. ….And gone. The Attendants had managed to whisk the boy away. “Feel free to rest in the waiting room for now.” He was herding her to the chamber whether she liked it or not. Her daze was sufficient enough to keep her malleable. The moment her feet crossed the threshold, Duvalyon fled, leaving her to the ministrations of the others. Strolling down the hall, he felt lucky for dodging that arrow. From some nook, the boy’s shouts began and were promptly muffled. Good girls, keep all those doors tightly shut. Pity was, the patient had to be fully awake when they began the scraping so they would know when they began to touch living flesh. Duvalyon cringed, finally beginning to feel sorry for the shrieking child.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon had gained ample experience in treating burns in the last Spring when the Nest had erupted in flames. The reports were mixed as to the cause, but he had been solemnly informed that his surrogate Dor had managed to fly away. He recalled the brief conversation between himself and the head keeper. At the end of all her apologies she flung an ill-formed excuse: "It is a hard business using a Kelvic for harvest, Duvalyon. Even though Kelvics are ever so pretty, maybe it would be best to stick with human sorts in the future." She had left in a hurry, afraid of the tone of his voice when he answered, "Duly noted." It was fortunate she didn't also note how he had destroyed the unlucky object in his hand. Svoreador had then scolded him for letting his possessive pride keep him from selling the bird to the Curare nest when they offered. "It would have been their misfortune, now. And you would have been several hundred mizas richer." Alas, Duvalyon had lamented, he was a fool for red hair. The subject had been left at that between them, as Svoreador found no pleasure in talking to a child from whom he was incapable of getting a reaction. Back then, the medic had to shake off the habits of eras. It had not been as simple as removing every speck of the evidence. His thoughts were still curved around the empty silhouette. When he had mechanically prepared food for both, the mistake threw him into a black temper. Of all the reactions he could have, his instinct flew straight to anger. He was still young, he realized. Despite all his airs, he could still be reduced to tantrums when without audience. Thankfully, his work embraced him then. The Purging never ran out of tasks to distract and consume. Tending to the surrogates was especially fitting. It required only aptitude not courtesy. It ought to have been a harder transition considering the circumstances, but Duvalyon fell into it with a vengeance. If any ever bothered to listen to them, his patients would have reported a fresh cruelty. He looked at them like organs on a table.