Field Medicine
Mar. 14th, 2020 02:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shinonFandom: Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn
Characters: Skrimir, Ranulf (ambiguous Skrimir/Ranulf vibes if you want 'em); mentions of Skrimir>Soren
Word count: ~1000
Warnings: Vague references to fantasy violence and wound care
Notes: Signed up for a prompt challenge; misunderstood the parameters of the prompt challenge; spent 1000 words dunking on Skrimir before realizing I couldn't use it. Probably won't do that challenge at all now but here's some cats.
The wound along Skrimir’s flank wasn’t deep, originally, but it’s long, and with all the running he does and all the twists and contortions of the feline spine, he has ripped it open a third time. It’s ugly, and getting uglier.
“Just pack it with grass,” Skrimir says, forced reluctantly back into the shape of a man in between battles.
“I would,” says Ranulf, “if you would stop packing it with hair.” He’s still picking tufts of red fur from the lips of the wound. Sometimes this operation requires force, but Skrimir doesn’t wince, and never has.
There’s some kind of mystery here, probably. When it’s not all matted down like this with blood, where does all the hair go when you shift shapes? Do the dragons keep their scales underneath their skin? If you cut a raven, out of raven form - if you broke the taboo on fighting in this state, which would be no more than they deserved anyway, betrayal after betrayal - would you hit a layer of feathers before you drew blood? Or does the goddess have some other place for all the integuments the laguz aren’t currently using?
At one point these speculations would’ve been amusing, and he’d have spent the afternoon bothering Lethe with them. Right now it seems less of a joking matter, since Ranulf is currently patching up his absolute idiot of a commanding officer and also he’s increasingly suspicious the goddess has no idea what she’s doing.
“I may be a fool,” says Skimir, as Ranulf, taking recourse to one of those clever little beorc knives, cuts a knot of blood-colored hair out of the blood-colored blood.
“You may,” he allows.
“I wasn’t finished,” says Skrimir, with just the hint of a snarl. Oh, of course. Physical pain is nothing to him, but ding his pride just a little, even now when he’s trying to come over all humbled and penitent, and he can yowl for days. His hands flex in the short-pile Crimean rug. A recent affectation, these furnishings. Ranulf suspects he’s trying to impress Soren, and in that, he’s even more wrongheaded than usual. “I may be a fool,” he repeats, and then adds, heavily, “but.”
“Well, go on.” Ranulf fetches bandages. “I can’t wait to see what cunning rhetorical reversal you have in store, General.” He measures out a linen against his arm, checks it against Skrimir’s bulk, sighs, doubles the length, and slices it free. For simpler wounds, for less important campaigns, it's just a matter of mutual grooming and then sitting on the patient’s chest purring obnoxiously in their face until they recover the strength to shove you off. But the time is too short, the stakes too high, and Skrimir too damnably good at shoving. So: two-legged medicine it is, with all its inconvenient apparatus.
“But I did what I thought right.”
“No one disputes that. Raise your arm - there we go.” He passes the bandage around Skrimir’s chest. He has to sort of rest his chin on Skrimir’s shoulder to make the reach, but luckily, beorc sensibilities about personal space have yet to rub off on him. “No one has ever doubted your sincerity or your courage. So that’s a good start. All you need to fix is the thing where you’re wrong about everything all the time.”
The intended provocation doesn’t work. Skrimir says, “I will go before my uncle and lay aside all ambition. Of military command, of… the throne.” He stares fixedly at the walls of the tent. “I lay them aside, as the pretensions of a callow and arrogant cub. If my uncle wishes, I give up any claim even to call myself his kinsman.” He looks at Ranulf now, somber. “I’ll tell him you tried to dissuade me.”
“With some success,” says Ranulf, pointedly tying the bandage off. Of course, the wound’s much more extensive now than the hit his claws originally scored, but Skrimir did that to himself. There’s a metaphor for you.
Skrimir turns his head away, annoyed. “I will tell him all this. But I’ll tell him - I thought it was what honor demanded. My honor and our people’s.” Well, of course, Ranulf thinks, mostly people don’t do suicidally reckless things when they think they’re wrong. But it’s probably a good lesson to take away, at this point. He’s used to thinking of Skrimir as merely hotheaded, ignorant, and intractable, but sometimes he’s reminded that Skrimir is young, too - and if he lives long enough, he can learn better. “The shame and folly are mine to carry. I will carry them.”
“Well, don’t do anything premature,” Ranulf says, moving away to inspect his handiwork. “Let His Majesty decide for himself whether he wants to disown you before you go throwing yourself out.” Skrimir looks unconvinced. “That’d be usurping his privilege.”
Skrimir sighs, shuts his eyes, and nods.
“Can you move around all right in that?” Ranulf asks. Skrimir stands up, stretches, rotates his torso one way and then the other. The bandages don’t seem to impede him, and there’s no fresh outpouring of blood. Ranulf gets up, too. “All right, then. Avoid transforming if you can. Stay off the front lines.”
Skrimir bares his teeth in irritation. He likes the front lines, Ranulf knows. He doesn’t like having to ever sit back and think about anything. But at last he says, “Fine.”
“Soren would agree with me,” Ranulf cajoles. Just in case he hasn’t carried his point yet.
Skrimir’s tail lashes the air. “I said fine.” Ranulf puts his hands up in placation, and heads for the tent flap. He’s done what he can here; the brooding that will inevitably follow is something Skrimir needs to manage alone. Just as he is about to bow out, Skrimir says, in a small, uncharacteristically petulant voice, “Do you know, Ranulf? I thought this was going to be an adventure.”
Ranulf shrugs one shoulder. “We’re all experiencing new things, that’s for sure.”
Characters: Skrimir, Ranulf (ambiguous Skrimir/Ranulf vibes if you want 'em); mentions of Skrimir>Soren
Word count: ~1000
Warnings: Vague references to fantasy violence and wound care
Notes: Signed up for a prompt challenge; misunderstood the parameters of the prompt challenge; spent 1000 words dunking on Skrimir before realizing I couldn't use it. Probably won't do that challenge at all now but here's some cats.
The wound along Skrimir’s flank wasn’t deep, originally, but it’s long, and with all the running he does and all the twists and contortions of the feline spine, he has ripped it open a third time. It’s ugly, and getting uglier.
“Just pack it with grass,” Skrimir says, forced reluctantly back into the shape of a man in between battles.
“I would,” says Ranulf, “if you would stop packing it with hair.” He’s still picking tufts of red fur from the lips of the wound. Sometimes this operation requires force, but Skrimir doesn’t wince, and never has.
There’s some kind of mystery here, probably. When it’s not all matted down like this with blood, where does all the hair go when you shift shapes? Do the dragons keep their scales underneath their skin? If you cut a raven, out of raven form - if you broke the taboo on fighting in this state, which would be no more than they deserved anyway, betrayal after betrayal - would you hit a layer of feathers before you drew blood? Or does the goddess have some other place for all the integuments the laguz aren’t currently using?
At one point these speculations would’ve been amusing, and he’d have spent the afternoon bothering Lethe with them. Right now it seems less of a joking matter, since Ranulf is currently patching up his absolute idiot of a commanding officer and also he’s increasingly suspicious the goddess has no idea what she’s doing.
“I may be a fool,” says Skimir, as Ranulf, taking recourse to one of those clever little beorc knives, cuts a knot of blood-colored hair out of the blood-colored blood.
“You may,” he allows.
“I wasn’t finished,” says Skrimir, with just the hint of a snarl. Oh, of course. Physical pain is nothing to him, but ding his pride just a little, even now when he’s trying to come over all humbled and penitent, and he can yowl for days. His hands flex in the short-pile Crimean rug. A recent affectation, these furnishings. Ranulf suspects he’s trying to impress Soren, and in that, he’s even more wrongheaded than usual. “I may be a fool,” he repeats, and then adds, heavily, “but.”
“Well, go on.” Ranulf fetches bandages. “I can’t wait to see what cunning rhetorical reversal you have in store, General.” He measures out a linen against his arm, checks it against Skrimir’s bulk, sighs, doubles the length, and slices it free. For simpler wounds, for less important campaigns, it's just a matter of mutual grooming and then sitting on the patient’s chest purring obnoxiously in their face until they recover the strength to shove you off. But the time is too short, the stakes too high, and Skrimir too damnably good at shoving. So: two-legged medicine it is, with all its inconvenient apparatus.
“But I did what I thought right.”
“No one disputes that. Raise your arm - there we go.” He passes the bandage around Skrimir’s chest. He has to sort of rest his chin on Skrimir’s shoulder to make the reach, but luckily, beorc sensibilities about personal space have yet to rub off on him. “No one has ever doubted your sincerity or your courage. So that’s a good start. All you need to fix is the thing where you’re wrong about everything all the time.”
The intended provocation doesn’t work. Skrimir says, “I will go before my uncle and lay aside all ambition. Of military command, of… the throne.” He stares fixedly at the walls of the tent. “I lay them aside, as the pretensions of a callow and arrogant cub. If my uncle wishes, I give up any claim even to call myself his kinsman.” He looks at Ranulf now, somber. “I’ll tell him you tried to dissuade me.”
“With some success,” says Ranulf, pointedly tying the bandage off. Of course, the wound’s much more extensive now than the hit his claws originally scored, but Skrimir did that to himself. There’s a metaphor for you.
Skrimir turns his head away, annoyed. “I will tell him all this. But I’ll tell him - I thought it was what honor demanded. My honor and our people’s.” Well, of course, Ranulf thinks, mostly people don’t do suicidally reckless things when they think they’re wrong. But it’s probably a good lesson to take away, at this point. He’s used to thinking of Skrimir as merely hotheaded, ignorant, and intractable, but sometimes he’s reminded that Skrimir is young, too - and if he lives long enough, he can learn better. “The shame and folly are mine to carry. I will carry them.”
“Well, don’t do anything premature,” Ranulf says, moving away to inspect his handiwork. “Let His Majesty decide for himself whether he wants to disown you before you go throwing yourself out.” Skrimir looks unconvinced. “That’d be usurping his privilege.”
Skrimir sighs, shuts his eyes, and nods.
“Can you move around all right in that?” Ranulf asks. Skrimir stands up, stretches, rotates his torso one way and then the other. The bandages don’t seem to impede him, and there’s no fresh outpouring of blood. Ranulf gets up, too. “All right, then. Avoid transforming if you can. Stay off the front lines.”
Skrimir bares his teeth in irritation. He likes the front lines, Ranulf knows. He doesn’t like having to ever sit back and think about anything. But at last he says, “Fine.”
“Soren would agree with me,” Ranulf cajoles. Just in case he hasn’t carried his point yet.
Skrimir’s tail lashes the air. “I said fine.” Ranulf puts his hands up in placation, and heads for the tent flap. He’s done what he can here; the brooding that will inevitably follow is something Skrimir needs to manage alone. Just as he is about to bow out, Skrimir says, in a small, uncharacteristically petulant voice, “Do you know, Ranulf? I thought this was going to be an adventure.”
Ranulf shrugs one shoulder. “We’re all experiencing new things, that’s for sure.”
