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Entry tags:
don’t call the carrion
Characters: Aymeric de Borel, Estinien Varlineau
Summary:
Noble, disciplined, and all that chivalrous tripe, and still he has it in him to give Estinien a ribbing. Estinien was tossed from the back of a bucking wyvern, and now he lies in the wake of its retreat with his dead comrades strewn just yalms away. He glances sideways at Aymeric and his inspiring smile, and wrinkles his bloodied nose.
“You look terrible,” Aymeric tells him kindly. Estinien’s hair is kindred with the final weeks of winter, when there is no clean snow remaining, just dirty slush.
“I might bleed out,” Estinien replies. He gives a great sniff, sucking some of the blood back up into his nose.
Aymeric purses his lips. He reaches out to take Estinien’s face into his hands for inspection, and Estinien lets him do it. The cautious tilt of his head is like the rocking of a bassinet, first here then there… “Stop that,” Aymeric murmurs. “You know I am not putting you down for a nap. Have a look around, or at me; don’t close your eyes.” So Estinien opens them again. Now Aymeric is moving down Estinien’s body ilm by ilm. He touches everywhere with grace, but he does so firmly. He’s looking for what is broken, what’s too wet, or what might draw out a wounded cry.
“I’m ticklish,” Estinien warns when Aymeric is running his fingers over Estinien’s ribs, and Aymeric looks up to frown at him, then jabs him there quite sharply. It makes Estinien laugh, which in turn makes him cough terribly.
“I am pleased that you’re sounding so well,” says Aymeric, a little like a lemon rind: drier than the fruit, quite tart, but still wonderful with dessert.
“I’ve got blood and bile in my mouth, Aymeric.”
“Yes, and your untimely humor, too.”
And now a laugh, again, as well. But it’s a low one, and mostly in his throat. He realizes an obvious thing with an unexpected clarity: he isn’t frightened. He is bleeding out even as Aymeric touches him all over—now slipping past his waist, now observing the lines of his hips—but he isn’t frightened of that. Aymeric is going to find it for him.
Indeed he does. It’s an awful chunk taken off Estinien’s thigh, too close to that important vein, but just far enough away that Estinien has time to be saved. “Hmm,” says Aymeric. “That’s no good.”
“Aye, as I reckoned.”
“Well, not just the fact you’re bleeding.” Aymeric lays his fingers gently against the wound, brushing them over until he encounters the problem: the jagged edge of the wyvern’s scale, which had broken away from the ridge on its back. Aymeric taps it, feather-light, which makes Estinien gasp with a sharpness like winter’s worst freeze. “You need this out. Surgery, and done quickly.”
Estinien spits, off to the side. It’s a sluggish glob of mostly blood. “Then do a surgery on me.”
Of course he was going to say that. Aymeric shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He has to breathe slowly, though it feels like a luxurious waste to do so. “I’d rather not.”
“Seems I’ll expire in this spot, then.”
Aymeric can feel the headache rippling through him, stronger with each little wave, like too much cannonfire done too close to his ears. “Enough of that. Give me your knife.” And when Estinien does, Aymeric presses it to Estinien’s thigh, making the first cut around the scale.
Estinien screams—or, nearly. It might not be loud enough to call it that. But he shouts, at least, and then brings the sound back into himself quickly, holding a frightful storm inside his chest. The sound hangs in the air even after he quells it. It was raw, it was ragged, and it makes Aymeric’s hair stand up on end. He takes in his own sharp breath. Tries again. Same result, though Estinien is trying to prevent it.
“Just take it out of me,” snaps Estinien. He’s sweating almost as much as he is bleeding, and his lips have gone a little grey. “Never mind that I yell. I’ve a swiving piece of wyvern in the thick of my godsdamned flesh, Aymeric, of course I’ll shout and curse about it.” He whistles when he breathes, these flutey little gasps. “Earns a bit more than just a piss and moan. Now do it and let’s be done.” But Aymeric stammers, with his own lips gone pale too, and his hands falter. He’s surprised about it. Estinien can see that in the knightly blue of his eyes, now startled like an antelope doe’s. The blue begins to look more like the color of someone who is breathless with fear. “Look here,” Estinien says. He reaches out and grasps Aymeric’s hand. They’re both trembling. “Look.” Their eyes meet. “I won’t do it again. I’m not going to shout, so yank it out and tie it up nice and tight, won’t you? You won’t hear a peep out of me, so stop looking like you’ll be sick if my voice so much as starts to crack.”
Aymeric realizes that his mouth has been agape, and now it’s too dry to swallow. He tries it and fails.
“Go on, then,” says Estinien, sounding less like the jagged scale and now more like warm blood flow. He raises his hand to his mouth, intending to bite down on his own fingers to keep quiet.
But Aymeric says, “No, no.” He takes Estinien’s hand down from his mouth, shaking his head. “That is—let me speak. I’ll do it. Let me give you something else for that.” And he reaches now for his own knife, smaller than Estinien’s, no good for this kind of work. Its grip is inlaid with cedar wood.
“Open your mouth,” Aymeric says, and Estinien obeys him. They’re looking at each other while Aymeric sets the grip of the knife between Estinien’s teeth. Estinien takes it, steadies it with the jut of his canines, and doesn’t move his eyes from Aymeric’s. Not when Aymeric leaves the knife with him, and not when Aymeric touches the angle of Estinien’s jaw. It’s an apologetic touch—the last gentle one he can make before doing what’s going to hurt.
He digs the scale out of Estinien’s leg. Then he tourniquets the leg and flushes the wound with most of the water in his canteen. Estinien doesn’t make a sound throughout.
“Let’s get you home,” says Aymeric, once he’s finished. He’s sweating and he feels like he’s standing naked in the snow. More than anything, he cannot stop thinking about Estinien’s voice, the agony in it, and his own paralysis when facing that agony. More than anything—well, he’s ashamed.
He takes the knife out of Estinien’s mouth. The wood is cracked, and the grip bears a perfect imprint of Estinien’s teeth.
“Come to the market with me,” Estinien tells him. He’s hoarse; he sounds like a Coerthan cliff face, freshly battered by falling boulders. “I’ll buy you a new knife.”
Aymeric intends to keep this one. He won’t use it again, but he’ll keep it forever. “That sounds fine,” he says, while he tries with all the strength in his palms to staunch the bleeding just below the tourniquet. They’ve only to wait, now, for another unit to come and find them. “Why don’t we get dinner while we’re out?”
Summary:
Estinien was tossed from the back of a bucking wyvern, and now he lies in the wake of its retreat with his dead comrades strewn just yalms away. He glances sideways at Aymeric and his inspiring smile, and wrinkles his bloodied nose.
“You look terrible,” Aymeric tells him kindly. Estinien’s hair is kindred with the final weeks of winter, when there is no clean snow remaining, just dirty slush.
“I might bleed out,” Estinien replies.
don’t call the carrion
Noble, disciplined, and all that chivalrous tripe, and still he has it in him to give Estinien a ribbing. Estinien was tossed from the back of a bucking wyvern, and now he lies in the wake of its retreat with his dead comrades strewn just yalms away. He glances sideways at Aymeric and his inspiring smile, and wrinkles his bloodied nose.
“You look terrible,” Aymeric tells him kindly. Estinien’s hair is kindred with the final weeks of winter, when there is no clean snow remaining, just dirty slush.
“I might bleed out,” Estinien replies. He gives a great sniff, sucking some of the blood back up into his nose.
Aymeric purses his lips. He reaches out to take Estinien’s face into his hands for inspection, and Estinien lets him do it. The cautious tilt of his head is like the rocking of a bassinet, first here then there… “Stop that,” Aymeric murmurs. “You know I am not putting you down for a nap. Have a look around, or at me; don’t close your eyes.” So Estinien opens them again. Now Aymeric is moving down Estinien’s body ilm by ilm. He touches everywhere with grace, but he does so firmly. He’s looking for what is broken, what’s too wet, or what might draw out a wounded cry.
“I’m ticklish,” Estinien warns when Aymeric is running his fingers over Estinien’s ribs, and Aymeric looks up to frown at him, then jabs him there quite sharply. It makes Estinien laugh, which in turn makes him cough terribly.
“I am pleased that you’re sounding so well,” says Aymeric, a little like a lemon rind: drier than the fruit, quite tart, but still wonderful with dessert.
“I’ve got blood and bile in my mouth, Aymeric.”
“Yes, and your untimely humor, too.”
And now a laugh, again, as well. But it’s a low one, and mostly in his throat. He realizes an obvious thing with an unexpected clarity: he isn’t frightened. He is bleeding out even as Aymeric touches him all over—now slipping past his waist, now observing the lines of his hips—but he isn’t frightened of that. Aymeric is going to find it for him.
Indeed he does. It’s an awful chunk taken off Estinien’s thigh, too close to that important vein, but just far enough away that Estinien has time to be saved. “Hmm,” says Aymeric. “That’s no good.”
“Aye, as I reckoned.”
“Well, not just the fact you’re bleeding.” Aymeric lays his fingers gently against the wound, brushing them over until he encounters the problem: the jagged edge of the wyvern’s scale, which had broken away from the ridge on its back. Aymeric taps it, feather-light, which makes Estinien gasp with a sharpness like winter’s worst freeze. “You need this out. Surgery, and done quickly.”
Estinien spits, off to the side. It’s a sluggish glob of mostly blood. “Then do a surgery on me.”
Of course he was going to say that. Aymeric shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He has to breathe slowly, though it feels like a luxurious waste to do so. “I’d rather not.”
“Seems I’ll expire in this spot, then.”
Aymeric can feel the headache rippling through him, stronger with each little wave, like too much cannonfire done too close to his ears. “Enough of that. Give me your knife.” And when Estinien does, Aymeric presses it to Estinien’s thigh, making the first cut around the scale.
Estinien screams—or, nearly. It might not be loud enough to call it that. But he shouts, at least, and then brings the sound back into himself quickly, holding a frightful storm inside his chest. The sound hangs in the air even after he quells it. It was raw, it was ragged, and it makes Aymeric’s hair stand up on end. He takes in his own sharp breath. Tries again. Same result, though Estinien is trying to prevent it.
“Just take it out of me,” snaps Estinien. He’s sweating almost as much as he is bleeding, and his lips have gone a little grey. “Never mind that I yell. I’ve a swiving piece of wyvern in the thick of my godsdamned flesh, Aymeric, of course I’ll shout and curse about it.” He whistles when he breathes, these flutey little gasps. “Earns a bit more than just a piss and moan. Now do it and let’s be done.” But Aymeric stammers, with his own lips gone pale too, and his hands falter. He’s surprised about it. Estinien can see that in the knightly blue of his eyes, now startled like an antelope doe’s. The blue begins to look more like the color of someone who is breathless with fear. “Look here,” Estinien says. He reaches out and grasps Aymeric’s hand. They’re both trembling. “Look.” Their eyes meet. “I won’t do it again. I’m not going to shout, so yank it out and tie it up nice and tight, won’t you? You won’t hear a peep out of me, so stop looking like you’ll be sick if my voice so much as starts to crack.”
Aymeric realizes that his mouth has been agape, and now it’s too dry to swallow. He tries it and fails.
“Go on, then,” says Estinien, sounding less like the jagged scale and now more like warm blood flow. He raises his hand to his mouth, intending to bite down on his own fingers to keep quiet.
But Aymeric says, “No, no.” He takes Estinien’s hand down from his mouth, shaking his head. “That is—let me speak. I’ll do it. Let me give you something else for that.” And he reaches now for his own knife, smaller than Estinien’s, no good for this kind of work. Its grip is inlaid with cedar wood.
“Open your mouth,” Aymeric says, and Estinien obeys him. They’re looking at each other while Aymeric sets the grip of the knife between Estinien’s teeth. Estinien takes it, steadies it with the jut of his canines, and doesn’t move his eyes from Aymeric’s. Not when Aymeric leaves the knife with him, and not when Aymeric touches the angle of Estinien’s jaw. It’s an apologetic touch—the last gentle one he can make before doing what’s going to hurt.
He digs the scale out of Estinien’s leg. Then he tourniquets the leg and flushes the wound with most of the water in his canteen. Estinien doesn’t make a sound throughout.
“Let’s get you home,” says Aymeric, once he’s finished. He’s sweating and he feels like he’s standing naked in the snow. More than anything, he cannot stop thinking about Estinien’s voice, the agony in it, and his own paralysis when facing that agony. More than anything—well, he’s ashamed.
He takes the knife out of Estinien’s mouth. The wood is cracked, and the grip bears a perfect imprint of Estinien’s teeth.
“Come to the market with me,” Estinien tells him. He’s hoarse; he sounds like a Coerthan cliff face, freshly battered by falling boulders. “I’ll buy you a new knife.”
Aymeric intends to keep this one. He won’t use it again, but he’ll keep it forever. “That sounds fine,” he says, while he tries with all the strength in his palms to staunch the bleeding just below the tourniquet. They’ve only to wait, now, for another unit to come and find them. “Why don’t we get dinner while we’re out?”