Abelen had sworn that he would try and keep his distance from Kirkwall after his daring escape from the cells. He didn't want to get recognized, or even worse, arrested and tossed right back into a cell. After all, he was a wanted murder now, and he doubted the city guard would be his biggest fan now he had killed a few of them. And yet, when he had awoken in his bedroll that morning with sweat beaded along his brow and his shoulder in more pain than ever, he decided that it had become a necessity to try and find a healer. Which had led him once more into the City of Chains, head ducked and the hood of his cloak pulled up as he slipped past the guards. He just needed to stay out of sight and not draw any unwanted attention to himself. How hard could that be?
Gritting his teeth as he practically hobbled down the stairs to Lowtown, his eyes were constantly on a swivel, fingers brushing over the pommel of the shortsword stashed under his cloak. He wasn't foolish enough to come back without any weapons. While a bow would have brought too much attention, he could get away with a few smaller blades to at least protect himself. Whether he could currently use them, when he could barely raise his right arm above his head without incurring excruciating pain, was another matter entirely.
He'd tried his best to go without a healer. While his leg was still in some pain, the wound was, from what he could tell, healing. Albeit, it was still slower healing than he would have liked. The arrow hadn't gone too deep, unlike his shoulder, where the arrowhead had buried itself almost all the way to the bone. And the guard had made extra sure to twist the arrow in his shoulder a few times before yanking it out, no doubt causing more pain than was necessary. Abelen had maybe made extra sure that particular guard was on the receiving end of a knife to the neck before he escaped the cells. He'd hoped, however, that he would still heal, doing his best with whatever healing plants he could find outside the city walls, crushing them all together and wrapping them into the wound with bandages. Not that it appeared to be working, and actually looked worse than what it had been a few days ago.
Finding the right healer who wouldn't immediately just throw him at the city guards was a little bit of a struggle, but he managed to finally get a name and a location out of some of the residents of Darktown. He just really hoped they could help, once more gritting his teeth as he gingerly shouldered open the door, eyes narrowing as they adjusted the sudden light difference inside. "I was told I could find a healer here?" He was hardly a local so just hoped he had gotten the right building. Would be embarrassing if he were in completely the wrong place.
It was odd, being back in Kirkwall. This new job – protecting some high born so-and-so – had come with a Hightown mansion to headquarter in. Esme hated it. Or maybe she’d missed this place? She snorted derisively at the thought, building up the fire in the hearth of the small Lowtown house she’d once shared with Ceren.
It had, of course, changed hands. The neighbor had not taken out their common wall, but a handful of semi-feral children bedded down in the old kitchen on cold nights. Esme knew most of them and did not begrudge it. She cleaned both rooms and traded a few trinkets from her travels to her tiny landlords in exchange for her old bunk. Just for now.
She’d work up her courage about the manor house eventually.
For the moment, she was alone. The stranger was lucky to catch her there, though the unexpected appearance of a strange man nearly scared her out of her skin.
“You don’t knock?” Rude. Esme’s expression softened as she got a better look at the stranger. He was very young – perhaps even younger than she was – and seemed feverish. Or, at the very least, quite pale and sweaty. Hopefully he didn’t have some sort of terrible disease.
It seemed unlikely. He was cloaked and armed, for one. While not definitive on their own, it suggested he was much more likely to have suffered an occupational injury. Esme knew the type, being one herself. Second, his movements were awfully stiff, especially the way he held his right arm.
“Yeah. Okay. Come in.” She motioned toward an empty bed and dragged a heavy satchel onto the other. Flipping it open, Esme perused the contents with a critical eye. A pity Horus wasn’t here. Not to sell her talents and potions short, but magical healing was leaps and bounds quicker and she did not relish time alone with strange men.
Well, she could always send a runner if the situation called for it.
He hesitated, glancing slightly to the door he was using to hold himself up. He hadn't knocked, had he? Just barged into some stranger's home without even thinking about it. Maybe he was lucky he wasn't on the receiving end of a blade right about now. Sorry, the words came out softly, biting back the pain as he tried to straighten up a little more, I'm used to making quiet entrances. His job was to neither be seen nor heard. If he had business back in his Master's home, he was supposed to slip in and slip out without anyone even noticing he was there in the first place. Knocking was at the bottom of the list of things he was supposed to do unless his Master had summoned him to his office. Then, he was supposed to knock. But that rarely happened, he was not the sort to get summoned to any offices.
But that was neither here nor there now. Now he was in the doorway of some stranger's home seeking aid, and he just hoped he wasn't about to get tossed out on the street or handed over to the city guard.
Despite the permission to enter, Abelen was still hesitant as he slipped inside the door, shuffling slightly to close it behind him. He knew better than to just trust some stranger, almost attempting to keep his distance as he moved towards the bed, biting back a small yelp as he perched himself on the edge of it. Only then did he move, brushing the hood of his cloak down with his left hand, his right arm still hanging rather uselessly at his side, unwilling to irritate the pain further. Even though he was barely moving, it was like a thousand tiny jabs under the skin, biting and tearing with every ride and fall of his chest.
I was - ah - he cut off when he made the stupid mistake of moving just a little too much. A grimace crossed his features, though it was quickly gone almost as soon as it had appeared. On the receiving end of a few arrows awhile back and the injures aren't healing as much as I would like them to. He didn't want to say too much, just in case two and two was put together. I have done what I can, but I think I've just made it worse.
The fact both wounds went untreated for a few days while he simmered quietly in his cell waiting for his Master to come and save him also probably didn't help. If they had been treated immediately after, then perhaps he wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place.
Arrows, huh. She’d dealt with a lot of crossbow inflicted injuries lately, traditional bows not so much. He was lucky to be on his feet if his enemies had wielded longbows. A smaller weapon, perhaps? Shortbows were easier for your average grunt to learn and use. So were crossbows, for that matter. It left his attackers a complete mystery – and perhaps that was for the best.
“Alright. I’m gonna take a look now.” The stranger was so skittish, she thought it best to give ample warning. After a short pause, she gingerly lifted his sleeve up to inspect the wound. Whoever had removed the projectile had likely not done so kindly. Even with the wrapping still on, she could see that the surrounding skin was red and swollen. Clearly the source of the young man’s fever.
It was a dreadfully familiar scenario.
The plant matter worked in with the bandage raised an eyebrow. It looked intentional, not as if he’d simply tumbled through a hedge – answering the question about what he could do, indeed. They were local plants, very familiar to Esme. Ceren used to bring them home in her saddlebags.
“These do have medicinal properties, so you were halfway right. Unfortunately, they rot and fester like anything else – and that’s more harm than good.” She retrieved a thin pair of scissors from her cloak and cut off the wrappings as gently as she could. The old wisdom of chewing on raw elfroot and rubbing it directly in your wounds was apparently alive and well. And that was better than nothing for certain hardy individuals.
A distillation mixed with honey or fat generally produced better results for everyone else of less robust constitutions.
“Your wound has gone sour. We need to get it clean – then I can stitch it or burn it, your choice. From there, I can send you away with medicines that will help heal you quickly.” Esme turned her attention to the hearth, setting a pot of water to boil. When she came back, she stood square in front of the young man, considering.
“Do you want anything for the pain? As you can see, I don’t have anyone to help hold you still.”
Despite the fact he was now sitting down in a stranger's home, every nerve in his body was just screaming at him that he shouldn't be here. What if she put two and two together and realized he was the recent escapee? What if there were wanted posters somewhere, and she ended up recognizing him? While he had been told that this was the best place to come if you wanted to stay off the radar, he still wasn't about to trust a complete stranger. Not when he was so vulnerable and couldn't put up a decent fight. If everything went wrong, he didn't know how he would be able to successfully fight back.
So, he refused to get comfortable, just shifting his head slightly into a nod, keeping one hand close to the shortsword at his side. Just in case. He really hoped that he wouldn't have to pull it out, but he wouldn't hesitate if he needed to defend himself.
I tried to change them every day. Tried, anyway. He knew better than to just do it once and then be done with it. Plants rotted, and having rotting plants, despite them having medicinal properties in his open wounds, wasn't the best of ideas. But, it was hard to get his hands on clean bandages when you didn't have any money and no supplies to fall back on. He hadn't brought anything with him from Tevinter, and even if he had, no doubt it was long gone by now. His master had probably sold it for some extra coin, or just taking it back to the Imperium.
He eyed the healer as she boiled water to clean the wound, gritting his teeth slightly as she returned again. I can sit still. Pain was an old friend at this point. If she had requested that he take his shirt off, she would see the scars evident of that from years and years of experimentation and punishments. Scars along his arms, his back, around his wrists. If he could handle all of that, then he could handle this.
And so, he sucked in a lungful of breath, mentally and physically preparing himself for a moment, before shifting his head into a slight nod. Do it.
