Chapter 7
Donovan woke from a long slumber. The world around him was nothing but a blur. He struggled to open his eyes, with only his right responding to his request. He winced as he tried to scan the room. His muscles ached as if they had not moved in months; his head throbbed with a constant pain. A fuzzy figure sat in a wooden chair to his right.
"Morning young sir. It is nice to see ya awake." The soft female voice paused. "We often wondered if you'd ever come out of yer sleep. How might ya be feelin' today?"
"Where am I?" said a gravelly voice coming from Donovan's dry throat.
"Yer in the Church hospital. We have converted one of the Church barracks into this place of healing that you 'appen to find yerself in. We've been tendin' to yer wounds. You got pretty beat up out there."
"How long have I been asleep?" As Donovan spoke, he attempted to sit up. Pain shot through his body, he gritted his teeth and let out a grunt that echoed through his skull. With the pain obviously showing on his face, he sat up in his bed.
"Careful! Careful sir. Yer wounds are still fresh. You don't want 'em openin' up again do ya?"
Donovan's vision cleared a bit more and he was able to get a better glimpse of the woman by his side.
She answered his previous question, "It has been two anda' half weeks since the battle. Several of yer partners didn't make it, and several of yer partners also litter the beds around you. Most of 'em are more worse off than yerself. At least ya still got all yer limbs!"
Donovan lifted his right hand towards his forehead. His fingers and hand were still a bit numb. Upon contact with his head, his fingers felt the distinct touch of threaded stitches upon his brow. Drawing his fingers downward along his face, he reached a large stitched area over his left eye.
"Ya, we're sorry 'bout that. Not much we could do other than remove it. It had been split in two by the blow. Out she had to come I'm afraid," said the nurse with a depressing tone.
He continued to scan the wound downward with his fingers. A continuous seam of stitches ran down from his forehead, through his left eye socket, around his left cheek, down his neck, and finally ended halfway down his left breast. The cut had been terribly deep, and the skin had to be pulled tight in order to seal the wound. Thick threads from the stitches ran in sloppy crisscross patterns down the wound. A sticky, glue-like substance had also been painted onto the strings. Its purpose was to help sterilize the injury and to contain the flesh within.
With his sensations slowly returning, the multitude of different pains within him became greater. He could feel the threaded stitches pulling tightly across his face. Each breath and each spoken word pulled the strings taut. When his remaining eye either blinked or moved, he could feel the muscles in his left twitch in an attempt to direct an optic which no longer existed.
Donovan could now more clearly see the healer by his side. She was not much older than himself, maybe a bit younger, and she appeared quite thin. She wore an exotic white sundress that widened with a fanciful flurry near her ankles. The dress was decorated with intricate sky blue patterns of connecting lace circles. Around her chest she wore a similarly designed satin vest of blue and white. Her brown hair was kept up in a ponytail with long strands of deep blue ribbon. Her eyes were a subtle forest green; her cheeks warm and rosy. As Donovan focused on each of the features of her face, he noticed that she wore a slight smile.
"What is your name?" Donovan asked.
"My full name is Isabelle Damascus, but my friends call me Bella. I work in the local herbalist's shop, right 'ere in town. I've come to 'elp with the wounded, yerself included. It's a shame what happened to ya poor fellas."
She paused; then asked a question. "Would ya like a drink? We have some special tea for ya."
The woman left to speak with another herbalist within the large room. Donovan could see that other injured soldiers lay in the beds around him, each of them wounded in a different way. He wondered just how many had died on the day of the attack, and how many ended up here. A moment later the nurse returned with a ceramic cup containing a steaming cup of dark tea.
"'Ere. Drink this. It'll help with the pain."
Donovan brought the drink up towards his mouth and dry lips. The scent was thick and aromatic. The vapors seemed to waft easily up into his nostrils. His head began to feel much more pleasant and more relaxed. He put the cup to his lips and drank. The hot liquid warmed his tongue.
The taste however was bitter, very bitter. In fact, it almost tasted putrid. No longer pleasant, he swallowed with a large gulp. His sense of taste seemed to disappear into a tingling numbness.
"Good job then. That'll make ya forget yer worries. It was a cup of dried Ifriit leaves by the way. Brewed directly from the plant of the Heavens. Amazing stuff it is. Can cheer up the saddest of folks."
For Donovan the tea was neither helping with his pain, nor was it combating a lingering depression that was growing inside of him. He slowly began to realize and remember what had occurred during the battle. Before he had much time to think about the events, the nurse spoke up again.
"Someone is 'ere and has been waitin' to see ya. I'm gonna go fetch 'im. Be back in a few minutes young sir."
The physical pain within him was slowly growing as time passed, almost becoming unbearable. He could feel his entire sections of his body retching in agony. His one good eye slowly rolled into the back of his head. Seconds later, he had fallen asleep due to the pain.
In his head, Donovan could see the town square. The sky was a dark grey; no shadows appeared upon the ground. A thick fog surrounded the immediate area. He lay face down upon the icy cold cobblestones of the square. The stones were so cold that it felt like they burned. He leaned back, raising his head in order to look around. He could clearly see the entire area with the use of both of his eyes.
In front of him a few paces away stood his sister Bettany; a much younger version of her at that. She was aged only five years and the familiar tiny yellow ribbons tied her hair into loose strands. She stood there motionless and was staring directly into Donovan's eyes. Her eyes were completely open, but tears flowed down her cheeks. Her lips were not quivering and she was not audibly crying.
A black shape slid into the space behind her.
She raised both of her arms towards Donovan, with her hands outstretched. It was as if she was attempting to plead for help from her older brother. He tried frantically to crawl upon the ground towards her, slipping upon the glassy stones.
Suddenly outside of his dream a gruff male voice spoke. His dream broken, Donovan lost the visions within his mind and was forced back into the real world. A pang of frustration and desperation ran through the back of his head.
Continue to Chapter 7 - continued
"Morning young sir. It is nice to see ya awake." The soft female voice paused. "We often wondered if you'd ever come out of yer sleep. How might ya be feelin' today?"
"Where am I?" said a gravelly voice coming from Donovan's dry throat.
"Yer in the Church hospital. We have converted one of the Church barracks into this place of healing that you 'appen to find yerself in. We've been tendin' to yer wounds. You got pretty beat up out there."
"How long have I been asleep?" As Donovan spoke, he attempted to sit up. Pain shot through his body, he gritted his teeth and let out a grunt that echoed through his skull. With the pain obviously showing on his face, he sat up in his bed.
"Careful! Careful sir. Yer wounds are still fresh. You don't want 'em openin' up again do ya?"
Donovan's vision cleared a bit more and he was able to get a better glimpse of the woman by his side.
She answered his previous question, "It has been two anda' half weeks since the battle. Several of yer partners didn't make it, and several of yer partners also litter the beds around you. Most of 'em are more worse off than yerself. At least ya still got all yer limbs!"
Donovan lifted his right hand towards his forehead. His fingers and hand were still a bit numb. Upon contact with his head, his fingers felt the distinct touch of threaded stitches upon his brow. Drawing his fingers downward along his face, he reached a large stitched area over his left eye.
"Ya, we're sorry 'bout that. Not much we could do other than remove it. It had been split in two by the blow. Out she had to come I'm afraid," said the nurse with a depressing tone.
He continued to scan the wound downward with his fingers. A continuous seam of stitches ran down from his forehead, through his left eye socket, around his left cheek, down his neck, and finally ended halfway down his left breast. The cut had been terribly deep, and the skin had to be pulled tight in order to seal the wound. Thick threads from the stitches ran in sloppy crisscross patterns down the wound. A sticky, glue-like substance had also been painted onto the strings. Its purpose was to help sterilize the injury and to contain the flesh within.
With his sensations slowly returning, the multitude of different pains within him became greater. He could feel the threaded stitches pulling tightly across his face. Each breath and each spoken word pulled the strings taut. When his remaining eye either blinked or moved, he could feel the muscles in his left twitch in an attempt to direct an optic which no longer existed.
Donovan could now more clearly see the healer by his side. She was not much older than himself, maybe a bit younger, and she appeared quite thin. She wore an exotic white sundress that widened with a fanciful flurry near her ankles. The dress was decorated with intricate sky blue patterns of connecting lace circles. Around her chest she wore a similarly designed satin vest of blue and white. Her brown hair was kept up in a ponytail with long strands of deep blue ribbon. Her eyes were a subtle forest green; her cheeks warm and rosy. As Donovan focused on each of the features of her face, he noticed that she wore a slight smile.
"What is your name?" Donovan asked.
"My full name is Isabelle Damascus, but my friends call me Bella. I work in the local herbalist's shop, right 'ere in town. I've come to 'elp with the wounded, yerself included. It's a shame what happened to ya poor fellas."
She paused; then asked a question. "Would ya like a drink? We have some special tea for ya."
The woman left to speak with another herbalist within the large room. Donovan could see that other injured soldiers lay in the beds around him, each of them wounded in a different way. He wondered just how many had died on the day of the attack, and how many ended up here. A moment later the nurse returned with a ceramic cup containing a steaming cup of dark tea.
"'Ere. Drink this. It'll help with the pain."
Donovan brought the drink up towards his mouth and dry lips. The scent was thick and aromatic. The vapors seemed to waft easily up into his nostrils. His head began to feel much more pleasant and more relaxed. He put the cup to his lips and drank. The hot liquid warmed his tongue.
The taste however was bitter, very bitter. In fact, it almost tasted putrid. No longer pleasant, he swallowed with a large gulp. His sense of taste seemed to disappear into a tingling numbness.
"Good job then. That'll make ya forget yer worries. It was a cup of dried Ifriit leaves by the way. Brewed directly from the plant of the Heavens. Amazing stuff it is. Can cheer up the saddest of folks."
For Donovan the tea was neither helping with his pain, nor was it combating a lingering depression that was growing inside of him. He slowly began to realize and remember what had occurred during the battle. Before he had much time to think about the events, the nurse spoke up again.
"Someone is 'ere and has been waitin' to see ya. I'm gonna go fetch 'im. Be back in a few minutes young sir."
The physical pain within him was slowly growing as time passed, almost becoming unbearable. He could feel his entire sections of his body retching in agony. His one good eye slowly rolled into the back of his head. Seconds later, he had fallen asleep due to the pain.
In his head, Donovan could see the town square. The sky was a dark grey; no shadows appeared upon the ground. A thick fog surrounded the immediate area. He lay face down upon the icy cold cobblestones of the square. The stones were so cold that it felt like they burned. He leaned back, raising his head in order to look around. He could clearly see the entire area with the use of both of his eyes.
In front of him a few paces away stood his sister Bettany; a much younger version of her at that. She was aged only five years and the familiar tiny yellow ribbons tied her hair into loose strands. She stood there motionless and was staring directly into Donovan's eyes. Her eyes were completely open, but tears flowed down her cheeks. Her lips were not quivering and she was not audibly crying.
A black shape slid into the space behind her.
She raised both of her arms towards Donovan, with her hands outstretched. It was as if she was attempting to plead for help from her older brother. He tried frantically to crawl upon the ground towards her, slipping upon the glassy stones.
Suddenly outside of his dream a gruff male voice spoke. His dream broken, Donovan lost the visions within his mind and was forced back into the real world. A pang of frustration and desperation ran through the back of his head.
Continue to Chapter 7 - continued
posted by The Floating Cat @ 1:37 AM
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