|The Arms Coat Goes on the Outside|
|Summary:||Senna sees to Gedeon's wound. There may be screaming.|
|Related Logs:||Continuation of The March West and A Day in the Field|
|Oldstones Camp — 1/3rd of the way between Stonebridge and the Roost|
|A pitched tent with a couple cots.|
|7 January 289|
"Of course he is." Senna pulls a waterskin from her pack, pouring some of it into a bowl, then over her hands to the side. She waits until Anton has set Gedeon down to start on the armor, peeling it away carefully. "Hot water will decrease the chance of infection," she adds. She's not going to give anyone /orders/, but she can mention suggestions, right? Drawing a deep breath, she moves to sit next to the bed. "Let's take a look at what we've got here."
Anton sets Gedeon down. It's not precisely gentle, but one could call it 'careful', maybe. Or at least unlikely to do any further injury or cause significant pain. Whatever, he's laid down. Anton straightens up, calling over his squire to help with Gedeon's armor.
There are small sounds, mostly choked down, as Gedeon's armor is eased off and his wound revealed. It's a gash that cuts deeply into the abdominal muscles, though thankfully not so deep as to risk any innards spilling out. The greater concern is the bits of fiber from his arming coat and the links on maile that have been imbedded into the wound.
Senna hisses a bit herself when she sees the wound. "So. My apologies in advance, Ser Rivers, but this is going to hurt," she warns, splashing her hands and a simple pair of tweezers with a little bit of alcohol. "I'm going to try to fish out the bigger bits first. Then we'll see how much we have to flush it to try to really get it clean. That part /will/ hurt, but at least we should have some hot water by then. That and a little bit of alcohol, and it will hurt like seven hells, but hopefully it won't go septic."
Gedeon lifts his head as much as he may to peer down at the wound before letting it flop back onto the cot. "Never mind water," the blond knight says. "Once it's cleaned and flushed, it needs firemilk." His eyes close slowly at the thought of what that shall feel like. "The Haighs brought a maester. He'll have some."
"I certainly hope so," Senna murmurs, already absorbed in picking at the debris. "Firemilk's just a little bit beyond my capabilities. Perhaps he'll show me while he's at it." At least she has neat hands, and knows what the debris should look like. And she's slightly prettier to look at while she's working than the maester, which counts for something.
It does, perhaps, though it may be that a lovely girl reaching inside a slice to one's belly and plucking things out loses a bit of her appeal. Still, Gedeon is a well-behaved patient, and if there are small gasps or growls as Senna hits on particularly painful spots, he does his best to keep still and let the woman do her job.
Every now and then, Senna rinses the wound with water and alcohol, trying to flush out the worst of the debris and reveal anything else that may have been pushed into the wound. "Ser Anton?" she asks in a low tone, without looking up from her work. "Perhaps the Haighs might be willing to lend you their maester? Or at least a bit of firemilk. I've seen it used, but I'm afraid I can't make it myself. It's his best option." She glances up briefly, lips twisting in a grimace. "Though I don't know what they'll try to charge for it."
Anton watches with bland sort of interest as he and his squire see to his armor. He looks over at Senna and Gedeon as she addresses him, looking through his lashes, one brow arching. "Does it require one?" He looks at Gedeon again, and, finishing up checking a buckle, passes off his breastplate to his squire and nods, "I suppose it can't hurt to ask."
"All depends," Gedeon murmurs, peering over at Anton with slightly glazed eyes and offering a weak smile. "on how much you fancy having me around a while longer."
Senna lifts a hand at Anton's question, wiggling it from side to side. "It's not that the wound is /bad/," she explains. "It's that it's filthy. No offense to your personal hygeine, Ser Rivers," she adds to Gedeon. "Though it might not hurt to wash the arming coat a little more often."
"I wash it after every war," Gedeon insists, letting his eyes close for a moment. "Though I'll admit, I wasn't expecting it to end up inside me."
Anton snorts at Gedeon, and nods at the pair of them. He straightens up from where he leans against the edge of a chair and nods, "Well. I suppose I had better go see about it, then." He claps his knight on the shoulder as he heads past.
"Mmm. And when was the last war you washed it after?" Senna arches a brow at Gedeon, taking the chance to distract him with conversation as she rinses the wound once more. "Did you wear it for the entire crossing back from the east?" A faint smile touches one corner of her lips, teasing.
"Oh, no, we didn't bother with the colors there," Gedeon murmurs, opening his eyes to watch Anton depart before he closes them again. "Before I came to Stonebridge was the last time, I expect. Stop blaming me and my perfectly tidy arming coat. It's the filthy ironman sword that's most likely the culprit anyhow, if anything goes septic."
"Well, that's a fair guess," Senna muses. "Though I'm not finding any fish scales in here just yet, so that's a plus. Don't laugh," she cautions quickly, pressing a hand to his abdomen above the wound. "That will not help matters."
Gedeon growls faintly as his stomach muscles twitch in anticipation of a chuckle. "Stop being funny," he retorts, lifting a hand to rub it over his damp face. "Is there any water I could drink?"
"Most of it has alcohol in it at this point," Senna admits, glancing to the skin at her side. "Which…you may appreciate if Ser Anton returns with the maester and firemilk." She passes the skin to him, though she holds on to it for a moment to caution him. "Small sips. We'll get you something with a little honey in it as soon as this is taken care of."
"Yes," Gedeon murmurs for small sips, "due to the gaping wound. I noticed." He tips his head up, taking a couple small swallows. He grimaces faintly each time his muscles flex, and by the third swallow, he gives up and offers the skin back. "If it was poisoned… well… well done, I suppose."
Senna snorts softly, carefully pulling a dirty thread out of the wound. "I assure you, Ser Rivers, if there were orders to see you dead, all I'd have to do is walk away." Not that she's making any promises, mind. "Or I could have let one of those ham-handed barbers take care of this." Taking the skin, she rinses once more, then digs out what /could/ be a fish scale. "But to be honest, Ser Rivers, I think the Ironborn have made this a little more difficult for you. Not only will the king be preoccupied with the small matter of a major rebellion and invasion, but so far, I'd say the Naylands are doing an admirable job of protecting Stonebridge."
Gedeon is laying on a cot with his shirt and armor removed and a rather deep and impressive gash to his abdomen, which Senna is currently fishing about in. The knight looks pale and a little grey, face damp with sweat and eyes more closed than open. Still, he's managing to quip to the healer as she works, which is likely a sigh of good spirits. Or high fever. "The King is busy," he agrees, "and I don't think it prudent to discuss the issue with someone both allied with the Naylands and swimming through my innards, but you're right in that we've all got greater concerns than who holds Stonebridge just at the—" he grits his teeth as she pulls that 'fish scale' free.
Senna's lips quirk as she holds up the fish scale for his impression. "I will grant that perhaps some of the filth may come from the blade rather than your arming coat," she allows, rinsing her tweezers in the bowl at her side. She's doing her best to keep herself and the wound clean, but her hands are still bloody from digging about in Gedeon's innards trying to clean them out.
Squire Rowan Nayland pushes aside the tent flap and enters, still wearing his armor, though his gloves and helm have been removed somewhere along the way. His surcoat is Terrick purple and gold. He's caked in blood — but for once, it appears none of it's his. Sweaty and dirty and hair plastered flat, he stands a bit awkwardly, turning almost the same color as Gedeon to see the knight so gravely wounded.
"Will he live?" is the first thing the boy says, stepping toward where the knight lies.
"Seems likely," Gedeon opines of his own state as he peers over at the grimy squire. "Hullo, Rowan. You did well, from what I saw, though I'm sure your knight's already told you the same." His voice is a little thinner than normal, and if he's doing his best to sound his usual, casual self, there's a strain to his face and features that's not usually present.
Senna looks up at Rowan's entrance, though she seems almost disappointed to see who it is. "I hope so," she answers, turning back to the knight for another round of rinse and repeat. "The wound itself isn't terrible, and I've seen men live through much worse. But it's pretty filthy, and I don't have access to things like firemilk. Ser Anton's gone to check with the Haigh's maester to see if he has any, and if he'll part with it, but I don't if or what they'll try to charge for it. For now," she continues, "I'm getting it as clean as I can. Then we'll bandage it lightly with a poultice to try to draw out infection rather than sewing it up just yet."
Rowan nods, moving to sit on Gedeon's other side, making sure not to get in Senna's way. He takes the wounded knight's hand — offering something to squeeze when the pain's intense. "Thank you for tending him, Mistress," says the solemn squire. Then, "Is there anything you require that might be gathered locally. I know a tiny bit of herblore — I might be able to find and fetch it."
Gedeon's fingers thread through the squire's as they're offered, and their hands rest palm to palm which, for some reason, calls up another faint smile to Gedeon's lips. "Just the firemilk, I think," he says, "unless the mistress has additional suggestions."
"I've most of what can be gathered locally in my things," Senna nods toward her bag. "Though if you wouldn't mind heating water, that would be helpful." She twists a faint, rueful smile toward the squire. "You know knights, after all. They get dubbed and suddenly they forget how to do anything for themselves." If she has any thoughts about the linked fingers, she keeps them to herself, giving the wound one more rinse and poking about to make sure she hasn't missed anything obvious.
The squire's eyes are intent on Gedeon's face, as though to give the wounded man his gaze to hold on to, as well. When the knight smiles, the squire reflects it, his expression touched with melancholy, rue, and deeper things. After a moment, he nods and gives Gedeon's hand a squeeze before standing. "Of course, Mistress," the boy assents. "I'll do that."
Gedeon blinks over at Rowan, but he doesn't hold the squire's intent gaze for very long, and when he moves away, the knight scrubs his hand over his face again. "How much more cleaning, do you expect?" he asks of Senna.
"Almost done, Ser Rivers," Senna promises. "I think I've gotten everything I can with picking through and flushing. I'll give it one more good flush, hopefully with some warm water, and then we'll see if Ser Anton was successful. I don't want to leave this open any longer than we have to, in case anything else should manage to get into it. Thank you," she adds to Rowan, glancing up from the wound. "And even with the firewater, we're probably best to poultice and bandage and then sew it after a day or so to make sure we don't sew in any infection."
With a last glance back, Rowan hastens to provide what the healer requires, slipping out as silently as he entered.
He listens and offers a faint nod for Senna's advice, even if he must swallow down a faint grimace for the idea of a final flush. "As you think it best," he murmurs to Senna.
"Just a little longer, Ser Rivers," Senna murmurs, brushing a hand over his brow without even thinking about it. Once more she flushes the wound, making sure to use plenty of water to wash out any debris. And then, thankfully, the borrowed maester arrives with the borrowed firemilk. There's a few moments of discussion between him and Senna, a description of what's already been done, before the maester moves over to inspect the wound and Senna moves to where Rowan was before, offering a hand. "Ready?"
Gedeon is, by this time, looking more grey than pale, the pain and blood loss taking their toll on the man's health and spirits. He curls his hand around Senna's and offers a wan smile. "No," the knight says, "Do it anyway."
Senna passes over a strip of thick leather, already marked with the imprints of teeth. "Take this," she suggests, waiting until everything is settled before nodding to the maester. And then there is BURNINATION.
Leather strip to bite. Not a good sign. But Gedeon opens his mouth and puts the thing between his teeth, and a moment later he's glad of it. The leather gets new imprints, and even so, there is a sound that would likely be a scream if Gedeon's mouth were open. His eyes widen and then squinch shut and the hand around Senna's squeezes harder than is comfortable, certainly harder than Gedeon realizes. Tears trickle from the corners of his eyes and his muscles jump and twitch as if they can squirm away from the fire inside them… which only adds to the agony, really.
Senna knew what was coming. She has a second hand wrapped around Gedeon's, squeezing back to offer what support she can through the pain. "It hurts, I know," she murmurs. "But it will make it better. And you will live. And while it isn't much fun now, I assure you, living is better than not." At least the application of the firemilk takes less time than the whole cleaning and picking things out part. It's a quick pour, and then it's finished. The /pain/ isn't finished, but the maester's part is.
After a long while (or, at least, it feels like a long while) Gedeon's tense-tight body relaxes enough that breaths held and sucked in as choked gasps ease into a calmer sort of panting. His free hand, shaking a little, lifts to remove the leather from his mouth and he wipes the back of his hand across his lips. "Oh, fuck me," he exhales weakly. And then, "I'd apologize, mistress, but you traffic with Alek Coope. I presume you've heard worse." The leather is dropped and Gedeon swipes quickly at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Living is better than not," he repeats wearily, "on that we can agree."
Senna doesn't seem the least bit discomfited by Gedeon's language, lips quirking with amusement. "My father was a tourney knight, Ser Rivers. Ser Coope has nothing on him." She takes back the strip of leather, wiping it on her skirt before tucking it away once more. "And I think it's time you passed out. I'm going to bind that up a bit to keep it clean until we sew it up tomorrow. And the night will pass much more pleasantly for you if you're asleep."
"How about drunk?" Gedeon asks weakly, "Could I be drunk, too?" But the question seems more a jest than an actual query, his eyelids already lowering. There's only so much a body can take before it simply decides to turn off.
"Not until we're stitching you up, I'm afraid," Senna shakes her head, carefully pulling her mangled hand free. "Rest, Ser Rivers," she murmurs, then turns to prepare the poultice.