Weal in Woe Chapter Two --- Dull pounding. Once, twice. A pause. Again. Rapid, urgent. "Svana!" Thickly, muffled. "SVANA!" More pounding. "WAKE UP!" Continued - slower, a bit lighter, with kicking for seasoning. Maybe they'd get bored. Maybe they'd leave. Maybe she'd get back to sleep. "SVANA COTTER! WAKE UP!" Maybe not. --- She blinked slowly and sat up, reaching for her thick spectacles, the thin traces of the glue holding the cracked lenses together standing out sharply, briefly, as she settled them on her nose. The technical drawings of the anatomy textbook she'd used as a pillow snapped into focus - aetheric flow patterns, distorted by drool. Margin notes near her left hand, trailing off. Late afternoon sun streaming through the trees, through the window. The stub of a candle guttering near the edge of the desk - there hadn't been much left of it when she lit it; she hadn't been asleep long. She blew it out. "SVANA!" And the staccato thumping of fist and boot against the door, renewed. Fading in intensity; still urgent, still immediate. She stood up, chair scraping loudly off of the wooden planks of the floor, one hand kneading her lower back, the other adjusting her loose white robes. A deep breath, a glimpse in the small mirror above the wash basin - a hand through her dark wavy hair, now slightly more presentable. She waited for the next knock and kick, then unlatched the door and yanked it open, planks still vibrating. A young man, one of the locals - the blacksmith's kid. He looked scared. There was blood on his hands, on his hips - not his, from what she could see. "Someone's hurt! We need your help!" He grabbed her sleeve, the fringe of red triangles crinkling in his bloody hand as he tugged - trying to pull her into the hallway. But she was twice his size, and wasn't having it. The fabric stretched, a stitch popped. "Alrek -" she was pretty sure that was his name "- I'm still a *student.* What could I possibly -" "Something! Anything! Someone needs your *help,* Svana!" He tugged on her sleeve again. Weakly. Wide-eyed, pleading. *Someone needs your help.* She nodded, grabbed her bag from the hook near the doorway, and closed the door behind her. --- Alrek lead her out of the inn, past the wainwright's, to the smithy. Around back. A low pole barn, partially walled, filled with odds and ends. In the middle stood a long work table - on it, a crumpled bloody heap surrounded by the smith and two of the local maidens. She couldn't remember their names. Alongside, a wheelbarrow - traces of drying blood around the inside of it, near the middle. Everyone looked worried. The girls had steaks of blood on their frocks. Alrek ran up to the small group and waved in her direction, free hand on a knee, struggling to catch his breath. Everyone looked to her, hopefully - looked to her like she was trained and qualified and competent. Looked to her like she was a *graduate.* She composed herself as best she could and stepped forward, under the barn roof, the smells of soil and blood and feminine sweat washing over her in waves. She looked to the maidens and cocked an eyebrow expectantly - *explain* - then turned her gaze to the table. The crumpled bloody heap moaned, faintly. Everyone jumped back, startled. She flinched, noted the origin of the sound - there. Dark hair, covered in leaves. Pale skin, covered in mud. Gatherer's clothing - torn, shredded, absolutely filthy. One trouser leg missing - ragged, cut... the bloody mess around her middle? The mass of... cord? Stained black with blood - her boots, covered in muck. No laces. Eyes closed, breathing shallow and even. A long, segmented staff lay next to her - covered in blood near the top, dirt and mud and debris around the bottom. "She just... fell out of the forest," one of the girls whispered. "We didn't know what to do so we brought her into town to see if we could find help. Alrek ran off saying there was a healer at the inn. That's... you?" She nodded. This woman was a real mess. She *looked* at her, with trained sight - her aether was weak, but tenacious. The wound was a dark line, visible through the faint mass of the improvised bandage. Her magick might work, might do some good, there *might* still be time - but she had to be sure, and for that she needed a clean field. She swept her gaze over the small crowd of people, making and briefly holding eye contact with each of them. "I'm going to need your help." They nodded, nearly in unison. "I need buckets of clean water. I need clean cloth - rags will do, so long as they're clean. I need a jug of the local hooch; tell whoever distills it that I need it as a disinfectant. I need one of you to check around for fresh clothes that might fit her." The woman was taller than the smith, broader and heavier - that might be difficult. "And I'll need one of you -" she nodded to the girls "- to help me clean her after I've cut her clothes off." "Do you need a knife?" - Alrek, being helpful. "No." She reached into her bag and withdrew a steel scalpel, unsheathed it, held it up to the light - late afternoon, the unfinished walls giving her plenty of it to work with, to see with. "Get the innkeeper; tell her we need sheets to use as a temporary wall so we can give this woman some dignity. No men in the barn after the sheets are up." She paused. Four pairs of eyes stared at her, waiting. "Go!" She waved a hand towards the smithy - she knew water would be there. The crowd dispersed, spreading out and away, with purpose. She looked over her patient, looked over her scalpel, looked for an optimal place to cut. --- The world changed around her as she studied the body before her. Sheets went up, a lantern was hung from a beam. The wheelbarrow was rolled off, out of sight. Angry shooing noises as the women of the small town ushered the men out, away. Buckets of water, a bucket of rags. Finally - she could smell it well before she saw it - a jug of moonshine. She splashed some on her hands, on her scalpel. Dried herself off with a rag, tied another around her face. She hoped her instructors would be proud of her improvisation under the circumstances. She realized she was mumbling when she noticed one of the maidens looking at her quizzically, expectantly. "Clean and sterilize the surgical field." The next step. She nodded to the taller of the two girls - *Help me with this part.* The bloodied staff was moved off of the table. Rags were dipped in water, quickly staining with blood and debris as they scrubbed, cleaned. Light green skin emerged - smooth, clear, likely a darker jade earlier in the day, before the woman was wounded. She began to slice carefully with the scalpel, cutting off what remained of the top, the bottom. The boots came off easily, no need to damage those. Her underclothes were sodden, torn, soaked with sweat and blood. They came away easily. She clung to her professional detachment, avoided lingering over the undamaged parts of the woman's body. Two fingers to her throat, under her jaw - her pulse was slow, weak, barely there. In sync with the flow of her aether. As they worked, a clearer picture emerged. The woman was muscular, healthy, with a fresh and *very* nasty cut peaking out of the top and bottom of the mess around her middle. She dabbed at what was visible with a moonshine-soaked rag - some scabbing at the far edges. The wound bled, slowly. Not a good sign. She gently slid the scalpel under the blood soaked trouser leg, near the woman's hip, the sharp edge of the blade facing upward, and slowly cut the improvised bandage open. She gasped, involuntarily. The wound was long. It was deep. It was *wide*. Not disembowelment, but the start of it - the lower abdomen bulged alarmingly, streaks of gray visible through red. There was almost no bleeding - the woman's blood was soaking the bandage, the wheelbarrow, likely spilled throughout the forest from here to wherever she'd been injured. She could do something about that, but if she didn't seal her up first she'd just bleed out again. The gray - there were deeper, darker cuts at two points. She leaned closer, briefly pulled down her improvised mask, inhaled deeply through her nose - there, under the dirt and the blood and the moonshine. Faint. Distinct. Alarming. Perforated bowel. Too old to heal with magick. All of it was too old to heal with magick. The magick *she* knew, anyway. She wasn't equipped for this, wasn't trained for this. Fresh injuries, field medicine - helping adventurers and soldiers in the moment. That was what she was studying for. What she knew. She swore - the eyes of the girls widened at her choice of words - and thought for a moment. "Do you-" No, wait. "Does..." Slow down, think it through. "I need a very fine needle and thread - catgut. Silk if you can't find any. Sterile." Nothing else would do, not for this. "Quickly." The girls looked at each other; looked away. No help there. "THE JEWELRY LADY!" - Alrek, his voice fading. The sheet kept the men's eyes out, but - fortunately, perhaps - hadn't done much to keep her voice in. "I think he means one of our other guests. Came in around lunch, while you were sleeping." The innkeeper stood outside the improvised doorway between two sheets, arms crossed under her ample chest. "She's tall. Might have clothes to fit this one, too." She nodded at the woman on the table. "How's she doing?" Her brow creased with concern. "If your other guest has what I need, then she's about to survive a close brush with death. If she doesn't...." she sighed and shrugged. She could disinfect her, she could speed up her body's natural replenishment of her blood... but if she couldn't close the bowel perforations correctly, couldn't get her insides back inside, couldn't get her wound closed... The innkeeper nodded and looked away, towards her inn. After a moment she straightened, pointing into the barn with her right hand while making an urgent sweeping motion with her left. Help was on the way. --- Tall, lithe, dark hair - a long braid wrapped around her head, behind long ears sheathed in finely wrought silver cuffs. Hurried, curious. Shocked and openly fascinated at the sight of the damaged woman on the ad hoc operating table. "Marielle Rontremont." The woman held up a small multi-drawered box, covered in latches and handles, a well-worn shoulder strap dangling from the sides. "Svana Cotter. What kind of thread do you have?" She nodded at the box, hoping. "Not much catgut, I'm afraid. Plenty of silk. Your choice of needles." Marielle placed the box on the table between the patients feet and slid open a drawer. The craftswoman withdrew a tiny paper packet, opened a flap, held it out. Needles, in various shapes and sizes. She drew the most appropriate one out of the packet, took the proffered spool of thread - catgut, enough for the bowel - and carefully threaded the needle. The thin woman eyed her briefly, disinterestedly, her attention drawn to the body on the table. "Who is she? What happened to her?" Marielle's tone was hushed, awed. "I have no idea. You'll have to ask her when she wakes up." Threaded. Ready. She eyed the field, nodded to one of the maidens, pointed at the lamp. Pointed to where she needed it to be. "When do you think that might be?" Her tone indicated that now would be good; now would be *very* good. "Hopefully after I've closed. Could you..." she nodded - a sharp upward tic, indicated the lamp - now behind the tall woman. "Oh! Sorry!" Marielle stepped aside - forward, parallel to the unconscious woman's shoulders. She reached down and gently, cautiously, swept her dark wavy hair away from her face. Her fingers lingered, withdrew slowly. "Is there anything else I can do?" "If you have any clothes that might fit, go get them." She nodded to the girls. "We'll need a stretcher, or something that can serve as one. And two men to carry it to the inn." "We're full up." The innkeeper - weary, wondering who to inconvenience. It was a small inn. "She can have my bed." Marielle slid past the innkeeper and vanished, the girls trailing behind her. The field was as clean and well lit as it was going to get. She was as well equipped as she was going to get. She gave the short length of catgut a tentative tug, testing its strength, and got to work. --- She had the bowel cleaned and closed and had changed over to the silk, starting the slow work of suturing, when she felt eyes on her back, felt them shift, heard footsteps crunching on the dirt floor of the barn. "You need an extra pair of hands." Marielle placed a folded white nightgown at the head of the table. She reached for the moonshine, splashed some on her hands, followed with a splash of water. She surveyed the field, thumb under her chin, forefinger under her nose. "Hopping up on the table and straddling her would be optimal..." Hand placement, presumably. "... but I'd be blocking your light. How's this?" She sidestepped around the table, almost hip to hip - hip to chest, really - and leaned slightly, reaching out with long arms, long fingers pinching torn flesh together, a bit above the start of the silk stitching. "That will do nicely. Move up her torso as I suture, keeping her flesh pressed together, and we'll be done in no time." --- And so they were. The woman's aether began to weaken near the end; she tapped into her own reserves, *flowed* into her, sustained her - she'd need more, a lot more, and soon. She stood back, wiped sweat from her brow. Marielle dabbed at a few drops that had fallen on the freshly sutured abdomen with the tip of a rag, then dipped another edge into a bucket of fresh water and carefully cleaned around the newly closed wound. The woman was pale, her aether dim. She needed energy; she needed her regenerative faculties sped up, from a walk to a sprint. The inn was the best place to do that. "Let's get that nightgown on her." She carefully cleaned the needle and slid it into the paper wrapper, laying it in the open drawer of the tradeswoman's box. Marielle nodded, unfolded the gown, held it up. "It's loose on me... it *should* fit her. Might be a bit tight in the shoulders." It was. It was a bit short, too - the hem settled around mid calf. She nodded to the innkeeper; the stout woman called out a pair of masculine names - temporary orderlies. She finally noticed how Marielle was looking at the woman on the table. *Really* noticed, with her trained sight - heated interest simmered within the tradeswoman, barely contained. More than that, maybe - her training wasn't that far along. Marielle made eye contact with her, a small smile playing briefly across her lips. Her gaze returned to the patient - concerned. Worried. Curious. "I want to know everything about her," the willowy, long-eared woman whispered. She was about to say something else when the men arrived with a makeshift stretcher. With some effort the sheet-covered board was slid under the woman. Marielle stood back, wringing her hands - worried with a vivid intensity she'd only seen in relation to lovers and close family members. With a strained pair of grunts the woman was off the table, in the air, headed for the inn. Marielle quickly moved in front of the men - maybe to clear them a path, probably to guide them to the tradeswoman's room. She rinsed off her scalpel with moonshine, then water, sheathed it, placed it back in her bag. She'd sterilize it properly later. She cleaned her hands again, nodded to the girls - already cleaning up - and headed out, following the innkeeper to the inn.