| Firemilk: The Revenge |
| Summary: | Senna and Cordelya try to rid Gedeon of his infection. More screaming. |
| Date: | 09/01/289 |
| Related Logs: | The March West, A Day in the Field, The Arms Coat Goes on the Outside, Prone, Old Friends and New |
| Players: |
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| Oldstones Tent — Army Encampment |
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| Cloth walls, dirt floor, a cot with a sick guy in it. |
| 09 January 289 |
Gedeon Rivers, the bastard of Stonebridge, is laid out on a cot with a blanket pulled up to his shoulders. He's been so for much of the day, under the care of Senna on and off as well as his former squire, though the lad was finally lured away to eat and rest a little, himself. He's dozing lightly, skin flushed with fever, shivering now and again. He's no better than he was last night but, a testament to Mistress Delacourt's diligent care, he's no worse.
In part, Cordelya wishes someone had told her earlier how bad off the poor Ser Rivers was, but then there is also a small, selfish part of her that was relieved to have the evening with her husband. Still, the moment she did hear word of the knight's wound and illness, she's gathered the pack she traveled with and bustled straight through the camps, her lady's maid hurriedly following and grumbling, as Corrie makes her way quick to Gedeon's side. Now outside, slightly catching her breath, she raps upon the tent's flap lightly before calling in in a soft voice.."Ser? Mistress?…I… I came to see if I might be of help?" She doesn't want to entirely intrude without permission, but she doesn't seem to be leaving either.
Senna is in the process of tormenting Gedeon with another change of bandage and poultice, two small pots sitting at her side. One holds the old, used bandages, while the other holds fresh bandages soaking in a solution. A bowl in her lap holds more of the poultice she's been using under the bandages. She looks tired, with dark circles under her eyes, but she's trying. "My lady," she murmurs as the other woman enters, dipping her chin and half-folding in a sort of bow over Gedeon's wound. "Any help is welcome. Though I'm afraid we've had the Haigh's maester in with firemilk, and there's an infection despite that."
Having (perhaps) eaten, but obviously not rested for the short while he's been gone, Rowan trudges back into the tent just behind Cordelya. He startles a little, mumbles apologies, and goes to sit beside Gedeon's cot once more, a post he's scarcely abandoned since this morning.
The fellow who's the reason for all of this commotion becomes a little more alert as he acquires one more visitor, and as Senna peels his bandages back for another bout of hurting-to-help. "Lady Flint," he murmurs, Gedeon's eyes tracking first she so named and then the squire who darts in after to settle by his bed, "I'm afraid you find me rather poorer company than when last we spoke."
Cordelya frowns a bit deeper, carefully setting down her pack and then removing her blue cloak. She hands that back to her maid and then dismisses her aside, to wander if she wishes or to linger in the corner and out of the way. Corrie's in a practical, not very elegant burgundy dress with an empire waist and close fitting sleeves. It's comfortable and allows for work without the interference of too much fabric. It also makes her look more stick thin and girlish that much of her other clothing. She walks to Gedeon's side and draws in a deep breath, shaking her head. "If firemilk has not done it, the festering will have to be cut and burned out. He will have scars, but if it's done right he will survive." The tone of her voice is such an odd contrast to the childish femininity of her body. She's all business in mind and words. And then she realizes he's awake. Poor man, the women talking as if he's not there or he's lost in fever. "Oh… Ser Gedeon… I am.. so… You shouldn't have heard that. I am sorry. And do not be afraid. This is half the reason I traveled south with my husband. To be able to help in such instances. You're perfectly fine company." She gives Rowan a slightly awkward smile and a nod, btu she does not know the young man.
"If it was just in the skin, m'lady, I'd agree," Senna murmurs. "But to get it out, you'd have to take some of the muscle, and that isn't going to serve him very well in the long run." There's a beat, as she tips her head to one side. "Granted, neither will dying of infection, but I've known knights who'd prefer it," she muses, giving Gedeon a considering look. "It's been less than twenty-four hours, and there isn't any sign of the infection spreading or getting into the blood," she points out, gently cleaning the poultice from the edges of the wound. The skin is pink, but there are none of the tell-tale red lines spreading from it. "I've been trying to keep him warm, hoping the fever may finish what the firemilk started."
Rowan sucks in a breath, going sheet white and looking as though he might need something in which to be ill. "There's nothing else that can be done?" the boy rasps, so urgently that one might think it's his own flesh they're talking about burning. He looks gratefully at Senna, who sounds a little saner, and then to Gedeon. It's the knight's decision, after all.
The knight listens and blinks slowly, brows raising. "I'm sorry, what? You, ah, you wish to cut what? Those bits inside me… I'm fairly certain I need them." Gedeon frowns faintly, "I understand your concern Lady, but if the infection is being well controlled, is there a possibility of waiting and taking such drastic measures, should it worsen?"
Cordelya shifts a bit closer to him, though she frowns a hint to all of their protesting words. That makes Cordelya hesitate just a bit. "I… I have never just hoped to control festering. There is… such a risk…" The thin woman admits gently, but she gently comes to kneel near Gedeon's side so she can watch Senna with the cleaning of the wound. "And I take it you have all the herbs you need? I've my own supply but I know Mistress Senna is… beyond skilled in such things. I mainly came to see what I could do to help." She admits, suddenly feeling just a touch awkward and useless.
"If you happen to have firemilk in your things, I wouldn't mind another dose," Senna admits with a faint smile for Cordelya. "I've seen much worse wounds than this, my lady. The wound itself is clean, as long as we have him slightly elevated, he's not losing too much blood. He's not well, but he's stable. And as being able to take part in these sorts of things is his livelihood, I'd prefer not to risk that too soon." She turns a wry look on Rowan and Gedeon both, amused. "Keep your hats on, boys."
Rowan clears his throat and blushes a bit, rubbing the back of his neck and nodding meekly to Senna. "Yes, Mistress." He takes several deep breaths, attempting to expel his anxiety.
There is, at the mention of another dosing of firemilk, a small, miserable groan from Gedeon. He moves one hand to scrub it slowly over his face, but after a hard swallow, he nods.
The question of firemilk brings an immediate nod from the Flint woman, thin features tilting down as she begins to dig through her pack. "I brought mostly firemilk and milk of the poppy, knowing the injuries we would be encountering. I've also spoken to some at Stonebridge about starting a small garden to grow the things we will need to remake supplies. It will take weeks, if not longer, but if we start now we will at least have some renewable supplies as the tome goes on. Hopefully…" She gives a tired sort of laugh, "This war will not be so long as that. But just in case." Rail thin fingers then pull out the jar of firemilk, carefully sealed over fire so it gives a little *POP* as she turns the top. She smirks to Gedeon. "Oh, buck up, Ser. I am not nearly so frightening as the bloody Ironborn." And finally her green eyes flicker to Senna. "Open the wound and let me see it? If you hold things clear, I can pour into every crevice. We can do this beyond thoroughly if we do it together." Corrie might be delicate looking and a supposedly lady, but she's not groaned or shied away once at the thought of any of this.
The squire takes knight's hand between both of his, jaw tensing visibly. He wasn't present for the last dose of this stuff, but Gedeon's wordless complaint has the lad steeling them both for some spectacular pain. "Does he need something to bite on?" the boy asks, low.
"Quit moaning," Senna adds to Cordelya's chiding, smile faint. "Just think, you might get a few hours without me digging around in your insides." At Rowan's question, she offers out a leather strap, familiar to Gedeon, for the knight. "We'll give you one last rinse and search, then we'll use the firemilk. Thank you, my lady, by the way," she adds, looking to Cordelya. "I've not had much chance to make it myself. If you wouldn't mind showing me some time, I'd be glad to help with production."
"Yes," Gedeon answers Rowan's question, his eyes closing slowly as Cordelya speaks on 'every crevise' and 'beyond thoroughly'. As if the first round wasn't terrible enough! "Rowan," he murmurs as the squire takes up his hand. "Perhaps… perhaps you should leave."
"Would you leave me?" Rowan asks Gedeon, and knowing the answer already, places the strip of leather between the knight's teeth.
Cordelya can be entirely empathetic often, but in moments like this, it's as if the needs of body totally eclipses the needs of the mind and heart for her. She has no sympathy for poor Gedeon's paunful experience to come. "Yes, something to bite would be well. And he is a squire, Gedeon. Blood, pain and firemilk are going to be a part of his life for the rest of his days? You would send him away from reality?" Cordelya tsks, softly, but then just looks up to Senna, most of her concentration on the woman's features. "Actually, boy… get us a candle and hold it near. I want as much light as possible on this. If you are all insistant on cutting nothing, then we need to find why this wound is not cooperating. Rivers here is young, healthy, strong. There is something causing this issue. So bring us light, the Mistress will sharpen her eyes as I will mine, and we shall get this through with as fast as thoroughly allows."
Senna quirks a brow at Rowan and Gedeon, but makes no comment on the pair. "This will hurt, and if you're lucky, you'll just pass out," Senna informs Gedeon, pausing to brush a hand over his brow before offering the pot with the solution in it to Cordelya. "If you'd like to wash you hands," she explains, doing the same herself. But it's polite to just suggest these things to nobility.
Gedeon opens his mouth to argue further, but gets a strip of leather stuck between his teeth for his troubles and his retort, whatever it would have been, is halted. There's little he can do but lie still, blink up at the ceiling and give himself over to the mercies and knowledge of the women hovering over his too-exposed insides.
"Of course, Senna. Thank you." Corrie would have no doubt remembered, but for now the woman is happy for the help. She reaches her hands over, carefully rolling up the thin sleeves all the way to her elbow, exposing the bird-like bones of her wrist and thin forearms. She reaches hands over to the pot, thoroughly scrubbing and worrying at her skin, doing her very best to ensure the dirt of the day is free of her fingers and palms before they go about the delicate procedure. As some increased candle light is provided, she nods towards Senna. "This is yours to start, Mistress."
Senna likewise cleans her hands as well as she can, though with the frequent soaking in the solution from changing bandages, she's already well-soaked. "Apologies in advance, Ser Rivers,"
Senna likewise cleans her hands as well as she can, though with the frequent soaking in the solution from changing bandages, she's already well-soaked. "Apologies in advance, Ser Rivers," she murmurs, then leans over the wound to give it a thorough wash with the solution. That, Gedeon should be used to by now. What's more unusual is how she starts carefully searching beneath the skin, the very tip of her finger searching for any further debris. It isn't debris she finds, but instead a small lump of a cyst, hidden beneath a curve in the cut. "There you are, you little fucker," she murmurs, either not realizing her language or not caring. Keeping a finger on the spot, she takes a small knife, wets it in the solution, then deftly slices /just/ a little bit more out of poor Gedeon's flesh, dropping the resulting mess into the pot of dirty dressings. "That should help."
The leather bit is a little re-emptive, and when he realizes the firemilk isn't arriving just yet, He removes it from his mouth, though his hand remains curled around it. The cleaning is unpleasant, but it's also well familiar now, and beside a tightening of his jaw, Gedeon endures it gracefully. The finger beneath his skin, and the quick slice of a knife, cause a sharp, surprised breath to be sucked in through his teeth and then hissed out again.
Rowan keeps Gedeon's other hand, the pad of his thumb tracing the scar that crosses the knight's palm. Not that either of the ladies poking in his innards are likely to catch such a subtle gesture, further blocked by the angle of the squire's body. He keeps his gaze steadfastly on Gedeon's face, eyes a steady place to fix onto should he need.
Cordelya is about to point out that small bit, catching just the faintest bump in the light of the candle that her maid has brought over, since Rowan is doing an excellent job of clearly being a good and loyal friend to Gedeon. "Ahhah. Yes, Senna… good. Very good. Hopefully that was it." She murmurs softly, then she looks back to the men, a slightly sterner frown upon her small mouth. "It imght be time for that leather now." And once Senna is fully finished cleaning out that wound, Cordelya leans over to begin the very worst and best process ever for such a wound — the administering of firemilk. She does it in a very slow, dripping trickle, moving her fine hands the smallest hair at a time, coating the whole wound in the stuff millimeter by millimeter, never using too much or too little. She may be a BIT anal retentitve, much to poor Ged's pain, no doubt.
Gedeon lies still, his gaze moving from the women working over his injury to the squire keeping a hold of his hand. The others may not note the scar Rowan touches, but the knight does, of course, and his lips twist wryly. A smile more sad and resigned than anything else. He settles the leather back between his teeth, draws in a slow breath, and then ohmotherfuckergodsdamnhelldamnasscrap. The first time was painful enough, a quick pour, a sizzling burn that took hours to end completely, but at least the initial rush of agony was swift. Now, it's a fire being lit again and again, on each and ever bit of a wound already raw and throbbing. He bites down on the leather, hard, and Rowan's hand gets squeezed to the point where the lad may need his own fingers inspected for breaks, afterwards. Gedeon tries to keep still, but his back wants to arch, his stomach wants to squirm and his free hand clenches the sheets beneath him so hard, there's a ripping sound. He makes small, strangled noises around the leather and between harsh, gasping pants, and his eyes alternate between opening too wide and squeezing shut. When they close, the pressure and the pain cause tears to drip down his temples.
Cordelya growls just slightly low in her throat as she sees Gedeon's belly and hips start struggling to even stay still. "Rivers…" She grumbles sternly, her free hand jerking out to spread eagle her fingertips across the good part of his abdomen and side and press a vice grip there, almost. She might be small, but there's a core of strength to her that often is fueled by adrenaline and determination. She pins him there as she continues to pour. "Almost there." Not really… but over halfway there, at least. "I suggest you remember to breathe or you will just black out. Or perhaps that is a better idea."
"I've got him," says Rowan, grimly, pinning Gedeon to the mat (as it were). "Please — use both your hands, lady. We'll all feel better for that."
Excruciating pain does a bit to fuel adrenaline and determination as well, and Gedeon's body twists in protest for a moment at being scalded from the inside out and pinned down, besides. He casts Cordelya a rather wild and furious glare before the non-lizard part of his brain gets control again and he demures. The knight forces himself back into stillness, except for the shivers he can't quite seem to stop.
Senna keeps a hand to Gedeon's shoulder and one to his hip on the opposite side from Rowan, firm and practiced. "One more go," she promises the knight. "And seven willing, you'll heal up the right way and no one will accuse me of trying to murder you. We went over this. I don't like you enough to take the blame for your murder." Somehow, that makes sense, doesn't it?
Cordelya nods to all of them, totally ignoring the glare of -death- from Gedeon. She's gotten worse glares before from people she's not even certain existed! She just focuses on the pour of that slow, deep burn through the wound, and then reaches her own fingertips over to rub it a bit deeper into the area where the cyst was removed, and a few other crevices. It'll leave her fingertips burning a touch, but she doesn't much seem to care. Once that's done, she pulls back and goes for the top of the glass jar, carefully grabbing it to seal off what is left of the firemilk supply before she moves to clean her hands. "That… should, very hopefully, do it."
The squire is a soft lad, it seems. While he's strong enough and willing enough to help hold Gedeon still, watching the knight suffer so is enough to bring tears to Rowan Nayland's eyes. Manly tears, of course. He ducks his head and swallows hard, shutting his eyes against them and breathing deep.
Well, that just about does it. When Cordelya presses the firemilk deeper yet with her fingers, Gedeon screams. Or, it would be a scream, but the leather in his mouth saves him from that indignity, reducing it to some lower, more guttural sound. By the time the entire hellish process is finished, the knight is paler than before, if that were possible, shivering with fever and agony, doing his best to pull his shit together enough to at least raise a hand and ease the leather from his mouth.
Senna lets out a held breath of her own when Cordelya finishes with the firemilk, slowly easing up on her grip on Gedeon. Quiet, she rubs the back of her wrist over her eyes. "Well," she murmurs. "Give it until the morning and we'll sew it up if it looks like the infection is easing?" Automatically, she goes through the motions of washing her hands again, then starts to gather up the old bandages.
Cordelya lets Senna clean her hands first before Corrie herself leans over to do the same and then moves to other bandages. "Shall I recover him, Mistress?" Though she's already going through the process. She's just as studied as Senna, it seems. Together, the pair are probably infinitely better than any Maester, just sadly female and therefore probably not near so respected. Corrie has good hands for healing and chiurgeonry, her fingertips almost strange in their length and just how thin they might be. Her hands almost look not entirely human. But then, she is one of those strange swamp folk!
Rowan drops his forehead to Gedeon's shoulder for a moment, looking nearly as exhausted by the ordeal as Gedeon himself. The lad soon collects himself, however, looking up at the womenfolk, his own feminine features bleak and pale, eyes huge, inky spots in his face. "Mistress… Lady…" he doesn't seem to have words. "I will not forget your efforts on behalf of my friend. Thank you."
Shaking fingers remove the strip of leather from his mouth, and Gedeon lets it fall to the floor, unconcerned. His hand rubs over his face again, taking traces of tears and drool with it. He has no words to offer, in thanks or otherwise, still working on simply being able to breathe without gasping.
"Please, feel free," Senna invites as Cordelya starts covering the wound once more, slumping a little bit on her stool. "I'm not sure my mind is in it anymore. I'm reasonably certain my hands are doing it on their own." She looks over at Rowan as the squire offers his thanks, a weary smile at one corner of her lips. "I can't speak for the lady, squire, but the need for this sort of thing is why I came. Just watch his back once he's well so we don't have to to it again."
Cordelya is fresh, clear of eyes and mind, she's not been sitting at a sick bed for nights on end and attending to the wounded for hours, so it's no surprise she was able to bring some fresh mind and steady hands to the equation. She now leans over and secures a bandage light but firmly across Gedeon's stomach, still a touch more focused on the body than she is the man. "I have it, Senna… you should rest, you know? I slept the night through. I somehow suspect you did not… I can sit with him." She murmurs gently to the woman and then, finally, looks back to the men. Rowan's given a bit of a smile, "It's no issue, young man…" Then to Gedeon, her thin brows arching with just a touch of tired amusement, "Still hate me, Ser? It's all over now."
The Nayland boy breathes out, something between a wry chuckle and a sigh. "I'll do my best, Mistress," he promises. Cordelya is given a grateful smile that's frayed and fuzzy with exhaustion. He slumps into the camp chair he's been occupying, half-asleep already.
"It wasn't," Gedeon manages between shaky breaths, "personal. Lady Flint." He tries for a smile, though it's only the corners of his mouth that manage to lift, "Thank you both, I am appreciative, even if my innards are less so." To the squire he says only, "Watch your own vitals, and your knight's. Let me," another shuddery breath, "see to mine."
"You sleep," Senna says firmly to Gedeon, pushing up slowly from the stool and arching her back in a long, neck-cracking stretch. "I think I am going to do the same. Thank you, Lady Flint," she adds, finally managing a proper curtsey for the noblewoman.
Cordelya looks over all three of them, her brows knit in concern, "Aye, -all- of you sleep. I am rested. I can keep watch and monitor his fever now that, hopefully, we've taken care of things." Corrie then sinks back to her haunches and, eventually, the floor. She doesn't need a chair, she'll just stretch out on the floor at Gedeon's side, it really doesn't seem to bother her. She half drowns in a pool of her own burgundy skirts, trying to smooth them out to look half accessable and now pull her sleeves back down to avoid any sort of chill.
"Fuck off," mumbles Rowan in vague, sleepy response to Gedeon's instruction. Apparently? The young man intends to do precisely what he will. And that includes sleeping in the chair he occupies currently, his vigil incomplete until he — Seven willing — wakes to see Ser Gedeon rally. He salutes the lady, ready to obey her at least, and is dozing before he likely realizes the daft creature means to bed down on the floor.
It may not bother the Lady Flint, but it bothers Gedeon a little to have a noble woman laying on the ground beside him. He stares at her, but he's too worn to protest, and while the firemilk continues to do its painful work, the exhaustion and strain tips Gedeon down into sleep, despite it.
