Page 192: Either Slain or Wounded Dangerously
Either Slain or Wounded Dangerously
Summary: The grievously wounded Anders is brought back to the Charlton camp with Aleister and his men. His wife shows herself to tend to his frantic care.
Date: 25/1/289
Related Logs: Volmark, Rise
Anders Aleister Cordelya 
The Charlton Campsite
A chaotic campsite after a wild battle.
Wednesday, January 25, 289

"Duke of Buckingham, Is either slain or wounded dangerously; I cleft his beaver with a downright blow." — King Henry VI Part III, Act I Scene I

The Charlton camp has been on edge since the fighting started. Mostly empty other than followers — cooks, whores and chiurgeons in the main. The nameless, dirty low woman with her hair up in a cap has been pacing nearly the whole time. Corrie wanted to follow after, but she knew she couldn't into battle. She spoke with a few of the other women, but once the whores got to the post-battle rutting jokes, she simply walked away. Now she paces the very edge of camp, that heavy sack of herbs and tools ever across her shoulder. Behind her, there are warm fires, waiting ale and bodies for the returning men. Her eyes widen as she sees the mass of men, many wounded, returning from the road. "Incoming! She calls back to some of the others."

There are wounded Flints, taking shelter with the first friendly encampment; wounds are bad. But there are a couple that come in behind the walking wounded that are aided in their step, one of the men-at-arms looks as if he almost carries one in plate, which is covered in blood, with each step, he drips blood behind him. It's a slow walk, Anders having to push himself forward, and the men-at-arms encouraging each step that follows the next. "We're almost there, my lord.. almost, and then you can sit." There is no response from the Lord in plate; he's beyond the ability to speak at the moment, saving every ounce of strength for that final step so he can rest.. just to close his eyes.

Walking along without the aid of a Flint is Aleister and due to the injury upon his leg, he's found himself trailing a touch behind. Blood now weeps from the gash in his breastplate and his left gauntlet is now beginning to stain red as it drips down his arm. The arrival into the camp warrants the press forward of a few of the retainers, each of whom is waved off before he's motioning towards the grouping of Flint's, "Into the pavilion and onto a bed." His mace is simply discarded to the side and with a wincing movements, he begins to shed pieces of armor as he moves, starting with his gauntlets.

As they get closer, Corrie sees her worst fears come true flashing before her eyes. Aleister is hurt, yes, and it makes her stomach clench, but Anders coming along with that group makes her whole chest tight. There's so much blood. Her green eyes shoot wide, words choking hard in her throat as she stares at them, trying to find the will to move forward, to speak… To do anything. She only freezes for a moment, but it feels like a century until she jerks forward and dashes in the direction of the tents, moving into action. "I'm a chiurgeon, let me through… By the gods let me see the men! Bring me to the worst!" And her accent? Totally forgotten. No, that's the proper, ringing lilt of the Crannog nobility from her lips. She's following them straight for the pavilion, almsot right next to Aleister now. Her dirty clothes and borrowed shoulder cloak in Charlton colours are probably doing nothing to hide her now.

Words are buzzing, the sounds registering as voices, but there's no one that Anders can actually latch on to and identify. He knows that it's bad as he's lost most of his feelings in his extremities, and it's muscle memory that keeps him moving forward. There's no hint of recognition even in his wife's voice.. it's simply.. noise. The man-at-arms nods at Aleister's words and gently moves his Young Lord into the designated pavillion and pauses as he begins to gently remove his armor. The gambeson beneath is soaked with his blood to the point of almost being able to wring it. Once done, Anders is led to the mat and is laid down.. gently. Once down, the Flint closes his eyes, his breathing shallow. It doesn't hurt anymore.. which is shock that is taking over.

It's a slow process towards the pavilion, made even slower by the constant stopping to tug at a piece of armor and as Aleister moves, it's simply left in a trail behind him, as if marking his path. If he notices Cordelya beside him and realizes who it is, there's no mention of it, for he's too focused on angling towards a table and a chair, which he promptly lowers himself down into. There, an arm comes to rest upon the table and he lowers his forehead to rest upon it. No doubt, to simply pass out and leave himself to be treated by those healers that the Charlton's brought along.

Seeing the state of her husband, Cordelya chokes on a breath, a sudden well of tears in her eyes. "…Anders… oh gods, Anders…" She breathes out shakily, poor Aleister being ignored as well. Fortunately, she's not the only chiurgeon, but she's the only one she's going to let work on her husband's severely damaged neck. She blinks past that moisture in her eyes, not able to afford staring through cloudiness as she looks over her husband's body. "Don't… don't sleep. My lord… don't close your eyes… just… stay with me." She begs him as she sinks to her knees at the side of the mat and begins to rip open her bag of tools. First to the skin of alcohol, cleaning her hands and arms thoroughly, before waiting for the men to finish pulling off the armor so she can clean out the wound and see it closer.

That's all he wants to do, close his eyes. Anders has to fight the feeling, his lids heavy and simply not willing to remain open. He manages to utter.. nothings, his words slurred as attempts are made to keep him awake and talking. Once stitched up, he's given leave to finally close his eyes, though woken up on the hour to be sure he hasn't slipped into an unconsciousness from which he won't wake. He's awake again, and doesn't even try to speak, to move.. and his eyes don't have a great deal of focus to them.

The stitches were difficult, but not impossible. Alcohol, some firemilk to ensure the wound is totally clean, carefully rooting around all through the damage to make certain all fabric and armour is out of it, and then it's stitched shut. But that's not Cordelya's worry. The back and side of his neck is so viciously swollen that it goes beyond a bleeding wound. It's distinctly possible something is broken, if not shattered. They'll be lucky if it's just a crack and bad bruising. Corrie's carefully gotten a make shift splint along the back of his neck, carefully supporting it with wood and packing. He looks like some damaged doll, but it's the best she can do. She leans over, having cleaned the dirt off her own face, not caring to hide now. "…Anders… love… talk to me… can you hear me?" She asks softly.

There comes some sounds during the tending; groans, but there's simply no real feeling— part of the body's coping mechanism. It'll be so very painful after the first 24 hours.. and unconsciousness will be a blessing from the gods. He lies unmoving, brown eyes open, and to hear the voice, it's as if it comes to him in the fog of a dream. A bad dream. At first, he simply doesn't recognize the voice, even though he can hear the words. Understanding simply isn't there.. but after a heartbeat, he blinks, and his lips move, though no sound comes other than something that resembles a croak of one of the toads of home.

Now that there is no needle in her hands, no immediate work she can do, Corrie cannot stop the glassiness in her eyes. She's not one to all out sob like some swooning, hysterical woman. They are silent tears, just welling up and then escaping down her lashes and cream pale cheeks. She leans over a bit more, slightly shaking, small fingertips smoothing across his forehead, gently removing some hair from his temples, trying to reassure tenderly. "…Don't try to move… Don't… don't push too hard. You… you'll be fine… just… we just had to be certain… you'd wake up…" Her voice cracks on those last words.

Anders has absolutely no desire to move, none at all. If anything, all he needs, perhaps, is something to wet his lips so they don't crack. The words, again, he can hear.. and through the mist, he begins to identify the voice. "Cor- -" Now, knowing who it is who speaks to him, he wants to move. He can't be like this, but.. he can't. "Cor- -" His gaze is set straight up, and the briefest attempt to roll his head to the side is met with total resistance. He's incapable, even if he wanted to. Licking dry lips, he tries again, "What—" and fails.

Those glassy green eyes turn to the side, grabbing at the skin of water she's had at his side, waiting for these moments. Even if all of her wants to tremble, to fall into tears, Corrie is meticulous and gentle as she brings the end of the skin to his lips, using her fingertips to ensure not much more than a trickle is released, but she'll let him drink as long as he needs. "Slow, Andy… slow…" She whispers, her tone that shaken sort of rasp but she is doing her best to keep it together. "Just… relax. Go back to sleep… I will be here in the morning… "

Sleep? Anders knows that he'll close his eyes, only to be woken by a pinching of his chest in an hour or so to be sure he hasn't gone into a sleep from which there is no waking. The water is cold, and feels good on his lips.. but he coughs. Swallowing is difficult, but he tries. One small pull, a trickle.. and two.. but all he really wants is the moisture. "Cor—" He's afraid, but there isn't the words that could begin to describe it, even if he could. He still can't feel anything, even if he can move his arms, his hands, fingers, legs, feet and toes. "Sleeep.." He does close his eyes, drawing a deep, shuddered breath as he does, releasing it soon after.

"I…I'm here. I came…just… just in case something like this happened. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere." Cordelya murmurs softly, not leaving his side, especially now. She finishes letting him sip from the skin and carefully sets it aside. One of her hands, probably far warmer than his, slip down and to the side. Her other palm reaches up to smooth through his hair once again. "Sleep… we'll talk tomorrow, when you're better…" Foolish dreams that a day could make all the difference, but it's probably the sort of fantasy that will get both of them through the night sane. "Sleep, love… sleep." She leans over, her scent clear on the air. It's definitely Corrie. She kisses his forehead gently as she tries to soothe him back into rest.