Arryn stumbles over to Clef's side with a cup of piping hot tea. "Good morning, Elder Brother."
Clef accepts the cup, eyeing Arryn critically. His robes are stained with blood and black tea, and their wrinkled folds speak volumes. "Go find some real breakfast for yourself," he says, reaching out to squeeze Arryn's shoulder. "Something hearty. Then do the laundry. As it dries, you will get some rest. Those are your duties for the day."
If Arryn is surprised at the veritable holiday, he is graceful enough to give no sign of it. "Thank you, Elder Brother." He bows his head before scurrying off.
Clef downs his tea quickly, wincing at the burn in his throat. No sooner does he set the cup down then Cerie arrives, handing him the current list of patients who need immediate attention. Thankfully, all of them are minor cases—mostly adverse reactions to usual medications. Clef visits each one personally, rattling off alternatives and substitutions to the clerics.
He's just finished his initial morning rounds when the basilica doors open, letting in a rush of cold air. Clef looks over sharply at the intrusion. Normally, everyone uses the smaller doors to either side; the large doors are mainly for funeral processions.
The intruders are Embergrass soldiers. Two of the three are carrying a litter. "Cleric!" the one in the front shouts. "We need an Elder cleric!"
Clef is already moving, weaving around beds, pallets, and other clerics until he reaches the newcomers. "Shut the doors," he says, and a Sister scrambles to obey his command. Clef fixes the soldiers with a glare. "The cold is not conducive to recovery. Have a care when you enter; the injured need every advantage."
"He needs help," one of the other soldiers says, ignoring his reprimand. "We rode our horses nearly to death to reach you."
Clef motions for them to bring the litter. They make space in a corner, moving aside barrels of used linen. The patient in the litter does not respond, not even when his fellow soldiers rest the makeshift bed none too gently onto the floor. He's been wrapped up in cloaks like a mummy to protect him from the cold, leaving only his nose bare.
"Julia!" Clef barks. She appears not a moment later. "Scrape together some bedding for this one. We'll make another pallet here." When she runs off, Clef kneels down to unwrap his patient. Once his face is revealed, Clef pauses with startled recognition.
I know this man.
The wounds have tinged his dark skin gray and months in the field have made his cheeks grow a little gaunt, but there is no doubt about it. This is the man who saved Clef and his patients in Baron Falls. "Who is this?" he asks, continuing to unravel the patient.
"Captain Andar," the same soldier says. "He was grazed by an enemy lance. We didn't realize until after we decimated the South and destroyed their causeway. Bastard hid the injury from us." Despite his words, the soldier's voice sounds fond. "The Captain didn't want us to lose morale."
Clef had nearly forgotten. "The causeway," he says, motioning for the other soldiers to help him get Andar's shirt off. "You routed the enemy, then?"
"The attack was Captain Andar's initiative," the soldier says with pride. "He designed it and insisted on leading it. The South was thoroughly defeated; we ambushed them and drove them into the river."
"They suffered heavy losses," another soldier says. "It was a definitive blow in our favor, but the Captain… Brother, you have to help him."
"I will," Clef says, carefully peeling away the soiled bandages. He has to swallow a sound of disgust at what he finds underneath them. The crude stitches and amateur cleaning have done little to help the wound. It's a red, angry hole in Andar's side, bubbling with puss and infection. Horrified and furious, Clef gives the soldiers a scathing look. "Who is responsible for this? A
child
could apply better primary care. He's lucky to be alive." The soldiers quail beneath Clef's scolding. "Lucas!" he calls, beckoning him over. "Surgical emergency. Fetch all my usual tools and a strong belladonna blend. The Captain will be needing something to numb the pain."
Lucas dashes off to comply. The third soldier clears her throat. "Brother, we rode as fast as we could—"
Clef rounds on her. "Did you not have a field cleric among you? How did they permit such a thing to happen?"
"He died."
The blunt, quiet answer brings Clef up short. Presently, Lucas arrives with the tray of supplies, fresh towels, and water. Cerie follows suit with a cup of Clef's signature concoction. Together, they rouse Andar only just long enough to down it. Clef watches them while he washes his hands, feeling ashamed of his outburst.
Clef dismisses Cerie but keeps Lucas to help. "Forgive me," he says to the soldiers. "I spoke too hastily."
The third soldier shakes her head. "This war can rot in all seven hells." She bows, almost touching her forehead to the floor. "Please help the Captain, Elder Brother. He saved Crestfall yesterday; we should return the favor."
"I will," Clef says, and this is a promise he intends to keep. The soldiers leave Andar in Clef's hands, disappearing out the smaller door.
With Lucas to hand him tools and clean up in his wake, Clef sets to work. His world narrows to include only himself, his instruments, and Andar. The flesh around the wound is hot, infection radiating from it in waves. Andar himself is feverish, though his sleep is deep rather than fitful. Clef removes the atrocious stitches with as much care as he can afford, wincing as more blood begins to ooze from the wound. Once they are discarded, he sets to work giving the injury a necessary cleaning. He scrubs away dirt and grime, soiling rag after rag. He hands the reddened linen to Lucas, who sounds increasingly distressed.
"It's a terrible wound," he says, voice barely above a whisper.
"I've brought people back from worse," Clef says, trying to convince himself as well as Lucas. Though he had cursed the soldiers and their novice attempt at a suture, he has to admit that Andar might not have survived this long if the wound had been left open to the elements.
Once he's satisfied, Clef holds out his hand. Lucas hands him a phial of disinfectant ointment. He applies it liberally, waiting while it absorbs into the wound. Lucas gives him a surgical knife, and Clef prepares the injury for stitching, slicing away strips of torn, dead flesh. Needle and thread come next, with Clef bending awkwardly to get at the wound.
Julia arrives with a pallet and bedsheets, but Clef barely registers her. All of his concentration is focused on the precise, tidy pulls of his needle and thread. Slowly, with Clef barely daring to breathe, he closes the jagged wound, snipping the excess thread with a relieved exhale.
Lucas is at his side in an instant, handing him another jar of ointment. Clef applies the salve gently, and then with Lucas's help, wraps the wound with fresh bandages. Once they're finished, Clef stands up and wipes his brow. He summons more clerics, and with their combined effort, they manage to get Andar onto the prepared bedding without jostling his wound.
"He should wake in a couple of hours," Clef says, washing his hands. "When he does, make sure he drinks his fill, and then come fetch me."
"Yes, Elder Brother," Lucas says, handing the tray of used supplies to another cleric to clean.
It is up to him now,
Clef thinks, glancing askance at the unconscious Andar.
Be strong.
*~*~*
Around the midday mark, Lucas finds Clef redressing another patient's wounds. Elaeda had been brought in about a week ago, having been mauled by one of the South's berserkers. The lacerations are healing nicely, and Clef is pleased to be able to tell her that she is going to be fine. Lucas waits until Clef's hands are washed before announcing that Captain Andar is awake.
"And?" Clef asks, shaking droplets from his fingers. "How does he sound?"
"Pained, Elder Brother—but he does not want any belladonna at the moment." Lucas worries at his bottom lip. "He asks for the cleric who saved his life."
"Then I will go to him." Clef reaches out to ruffle Lucas's hair. "Don't fret; he likely does not want his wits addled just yet. Commanding officers are like this sometimes."
When Clef reaches Andar's pallet, he is relieved to at least see the empty pitcher of water next to the bed. Andar is attempting to lift himself up on his elbows, face pinched tight with pain. Strands of black hair are matted to his face with sweat.
"Not a good idea," Clef says, kneeling smoothly next to the pallet. With a gentle but firm hand, Clef forces him to lie back down. "I'm afraid you won't be sitting up for a few days."
Judging from the anger that flits across Andar's face, the news is most unwelcome. He makes no comment, though. Instead, he fixes Clef with a probing stare. "Have we… met before? Something about you seems very familiar to me. Or is that the potions talking?" he adds wryly.
Clef gives him the ghost of a smile. "We met in Baron Falls, the night we lost the city." He pauses, letting Andar make the recollection.
"Yes," he says, realization dawning on him. "Yes, the silver-haired Brother who risked his life for his clinic."
"I never did get to thank you for saving my life."
"I believe you just have," Andar says sincerely, holding Clef's gaze. "You've saved mine, as I understand it. Thank you, Elder Brother."
Clef glances at the blankets hiding Andar's injury. "You did not make it easy for me, Captain. It's too soon to tell, but there may be permanent damage to that side."
"Doubtful," Andar says, with enough conviction to startle Clef. "I have the utmost faith in you."
"You are most kind," Clef says dryly. "However, the Order of the Crescent does not specialize in miracles. We have tried our best, but your condition was grave when you arrived."
A strange look crosses Andar's face—as though he cannot decide if he should be affronted or amused. "And here I assumed you would be badgering me to do my best to attain full recovery."
"I'm not in the business of lying to my patients, Captain. I brought you back from the brink of death; the rest is up to you. But in my experience, such a wound comes not without consequence." He softens his gaze, willing Andar to be rational. "You did not come into my care immediately after being wounded. The early hours are critical, and… it may very well heal completely, and you will be as you were before. It may not heal properly despite our best efforts, and you will be—"
Andar reaches out to grasp Clef's arm. His grip is weak, but still his muscles quiver from the effort. "I must go back to the front lines."
Clef puts his hand on Andar's. His fingers are cold. Clef beckons a nearby cleric and asks him to fetch some tea.
"Don't put anything in it," Andar says. Despite his bravado, Clef can hear the strain in his voice.
"Captain," he says, trying to warm Andar's fingers himself, "I know this must be difficult for you to hear, but you are in no condition to return to the front. You'll not be in any such condition for a couple of weeks, at least—and that depends largely on the amount of effort you put into your recovery."
"And what sort of effort does this require of me?"
Clef leans forward, squeezing Andar's fingers. "You can start with following my advice and taking something for the pain. Ease it so you can let yourself relax. Sleep will be your most valuable ally, and it's most effective when deep and uninterrupted." Andar doesn't say anything, but gives Clef a nearly imperceptible nod. When the cleric arrives with tea, Clef says, "Please bring some bread, and a belladonna blend, as well."
Clef helps Andar lift his head just enough to sip the piping hot liquid. The tea is a blend of cinnamon, ginger, and rooibos, and the scent wafts up to Clef's nostrils. He waits patiently until Andar has consumed the entire cup before moving on to the bread. It crumbles easily into smaller pieces, and Clef feeds them to Andar one by one. He spares Andar the indignity of being fed by distracting him with the tale of his arrival.
"Crestfall was under siege," Clef says once he's finished. "And you are the one we've to thank for the victory."
Andar averts his gaze, surprisingly modest. "I did what anyone in my position would have done. If the causeway had been completed, Crestfall would have been taken. I simply saw an opportunity and took it." His face hardens as he stares at something across the room. "There will be other such opportunities out there. I should be in the field to spy them."
"Captain—"
"Andar," he says firmly. "Anyone who has fed me from the hand should call me by name."
"Very well,
Andar
: you have done your country a great service. It will not begrudge you the time necessary to heal." Clef folds his hands into his lap. "I can see it in your eyes. You are cooperating with me now, but as soon as you can sit yourself upright, you will be tripping over yourself to get out the door. This will not do. As I have said, you must mentally prepare yourself for the idea that you may need to be—"
"No."
"—A reserve member from now on," Clef says, undeterred.
Andar looks back up at him then, determination etched into every line of his face. "Then I will prove you wrong, Brother."
"Clef." At Andar's raised eyebrow, he gives a tiny smile. "Anyone who saves my life can call me by name." He grabs the cooling belladonna concoction and reaches for Andar. "Now drink this, follow my instructions, and you may very well prove me wrong."
*~*~*
Clef manages to keep Andar under control for an entire week. Mostly, he does as Clef asks him—sleeping, eating, and refraining from straining himself. Outside, the war enters what Clef refers to as the eye of the storm. All three sides involved are playing it safe for the colder months, hoarding their supplies and waiting out their enemies. He is no soldier, but he knows it is only a matter of time before someone strikes.
At the beginning of the second week, an envoy from the front arrives. Cerie directs him to Andar while Clef maintains a safe distance. The conversation is none of his business, but Clef knows that whatever the man is telling Andar, he is going to have to deal with it.