Caring for him

*Zac*
Every time the agony in my leg brings me to the surface of wakefulness, she pours something thick down my throat and I begin the spiraling descent once again into oblivion.

The only consolation is that until I succumb completely to the sweet allure of a painless existence, she caresses my brow with cool fingers and wipes my chest with a damp cloth. For those few moments when awareness hovers, I am wondering how much longer the physician will be ripping into my leg. Or is he finished? Is that the reason for liquid instead of ether? Everything is a confusing swirl of pain and nothingness.

When I awake with no agony, panic sets in. I fear my leg is gone. I can’t feel it. Throwing off the covers, I struggle to find it.

Her hands meet mine, palm to palm, cool to heat. “No, no, you must let it heal.”

“It’s gone. I can't feel it. He took it.” I cry out

“No. It's the laudanum.” She tells me softly.

She gives me more. The panic subsides. The ache settles in. I can feel it then, with the panic gone. I want to explain why it is so important that I do not lose the leg. I have lost my memory; I can’t bear the thought of losing something else.

I should have told her before. When we were walking through my brother's garden. I wish there had been roses to pluck for her. I would have shaved off the thorns before handing one to her. I want to slip a violet behind her ear. I want to lie her down on a patch of clover, while the sun beats warmth over our skin, and passion unfolds.

Strange. Strange, how when I become lost in my own mind, I feel the allure of her, the tug of her. I want to draw her near, kiss her. I want to talk with her. Want to know her secrets, her dreams. I want to make her smile.

Not that pitiful attempt that she had given me before I had succumbed to the lure of the ether. It had been more of a grimace than anything. Forced from her. I want to see her real smile, one of joy. I want soft laughter to accompany it, teasing laughter, the sort that would erupt as she ran barefoot across a field of daffodils.

She swims in and out of my vision.

“Why did you come to my bed?” I don’t know if I am thinking the words or actually speaking them. No answer comes. But the question seems to reverberate on the air. Her reason is a secret. I do not fancy secrets unless they are mine.

Somewhere I feel I hear a baby cry. Then she is gone. I don’t want her to leave. Why? Why is she important? Who is she?

Remember. Remember. Surely here in this swirling vastness I can find answers. But my mind works no better here. It is worse. It is hot. Perhaps I am in hell. At last. I have done wicked things, selfish things. I know that I have no hope of heaven.

My leg. I have to find my leg. Now, while she is gone. But when I reach down, her hands are suddenly holding mine, and she is whispering words I can’t understand. I simply want to wake up.

To drink in the whiskey of her eyes. To ask for forgiveness. To make matters right.

*Calliope*
His fever comes with a swiftness that alarms me. Dr. Roberts had discovered a piece of steel which looked to be the tip of a sword embedded in Zac's leg. He had concluded that all of his activity lately, as he had grown stronger, had forced it to begin working its way to the surface, but it had done some nasty damage on its journey.

Having witnessed the chaos as the wounded were treated following a battle, I was not surprised that a piece of metal could be overlooked. Weary physicians worked swiftly, blood was in abundance, lighting was inadequate.

Based on the thick, unsightly scar that ran from Zac’s hip to knee, I can only surmise that it had been a ghastly gash to begin with. He is no doubt fortunate that they hadn’t simply cut off his leg.

I have seen limbs that had looked almost perfect as they were being carried out for disposal. They will all visit in my dreams once I take time for a moment's sleep.

Instead I tend to Zac’s needs as though I alone can save him, leaving his side only for short spans of time to hold Zane. He was far from being neglected, however. Jeanette sees to his needs for sustenance and cleanliness. The Princess has taken a fancy to him. On more than one occasion I have caught her rocking him or carrying him through the hallways, telling him of his past even if it doesn’t truly originate here. Draco’s father was not Zac's father and yet Zac had grown up in this house.

I yearn to walk along behind them and hear the tales of Zac as a child. But it is him, as a man who needs me now.

I suppose it is because of Zane that no one raises an eyebrow at me being alone in the room with Zac. Or perhaps it is because he incapacitated, with a raging fever and a leg that must once again go through the process of healing.

During the daylight hours I can hear the buzz of activity inside the house and out. But it is with the night closing in, when all grows quiet except for an occasional creak or a moan of things settling in, that I am the most content.

Shadows can hide a great many sins, and I feel less likely to be accused of being the fraud I am. Nor am I likely to be interrupted. For all that the princess loves her son, she does not sit by his side through the long hours until dawn. That task is reserved for me, and I gladly welcome it.

Knowing I won’t be disturbed, my hands don't shake when I move the sheet aside, remove the bandages, and examine Zac's wound to ensure it isn’t festering. Gingerly, I will apply a salve to help with healing that the physician had left with me. Using clean strips of cloth brought to me by a servant, I will carefully wrap his leg again.

Then I will begin the nightly ritual of bathing him. I start at his feet, wiping the moist cloth over his soles. From there, I will travel upward, wondering at each scar … whether it be small or large … how it had come to be. The amount of puckered flesh tells me of many battles fought, many wounds sustained. I had not been there to treat all of them.

He might not have even been brought to the hospital where I worked. As the war lingered, other hospitals were outfitted, closer to the battles.

The long journey from field to hospital had cost many a dragon his life. But what was to be done when the army lacked so much?

My journey stops at his left arm where a vampire's silver tipped claws had once sliced deep. I skim my fingers over the mutilated flesh that I had first bandaged on a cold November day, shortly after I had arrived at the hospital, one of more than three dozen nurses accompanying Filicia Sparrow.

I had been completely unprepared for the horrors that awaited us. The Battle of
Balawont, had taken place before we arrived, but the wounded were wallowing into the overcrowded Barrack Hospital and on a nearby ship. The army had been ill equipped for the tremendous influx of casualties. Some soldiers had received only cursory treatment. They lay on stuffed sacks or nothing at all.

Even now, the smell of rancid meat makes me violently ill. It reminds me too much of putrid flesh and the stench of that hospital when I had first walked into it.

I had considered myself fortunate to be selected to accompany Mrs Sparrow. In my naivety, I had even been excited.

Reality had slammed into me with the force of a hand grenade. I had wanted to run, to return to my homeland’s green fields.

Instead I had strengthened my resolve. If these men and dragons could fight to survive, the least I could do was help them battle death.

So I had donned my uniform: a hideous black woolen dress, unbleached apron, and white cap. Around her shoulders I wore a scarf with “Barrack Hospital" emblazoned in red thread to identify me as though someone might mistake me for anything other than what I was: a woman who had come to give comfort.

Although one night, someone had mistaken me for something else. When those thoughts intrude, I shove them back. I will not journey into that particular hell. Others had needed me, had rescued me from dark thoughts. In saving them, I had saved myself. In saving Zac, I had allowed him to be there to save me.

Life is a strange circle. I try not to decipher it, but rather to accept it as it comes.