A tool is an item built to serve a specific purpose or function.
Annunu only rarely left the medbay in what Chachanji had called "Coralhaus" - she supposed "Coral" or Coral-something was the name of his company, but such details had been filed away as momentarily irrelevant when she'd first arrived in this place - since Gogonji had been brought in and laid on the bed. She left briefly once to bathe and change, since her clothes were hanging off of her in tatters; she returned within a bell, haunting Gogonji's bedside, saying little in the presence of others, making herself quietly useful by cleaning sheets and utensils, turning him as necessary, checking vitals, and generally functioning as a healer's extra pair of hands. She only had to be told to do something once; she only made mistakes once; she was quiet, polite, and effective, but rarely moved more than a yalm or so away from the prone Gogonji.
You are just a tool, he'd told her, and don't you forget it.
She napped fitfully on the bench by the bed when she had to have sleep, but in general she did not sleep. Bells spent alone with the patient, she brewed tea constantly, in anticipation of a waking that did not happen. She knew the strength Gogonji liked it; it would be hot and fresh for him when he awoke, whenever that happened. That which was left to cool, she drank herself. She subsided on little else, for she only ate that which was brought to her and never requested else or additional. She watched Gogonji.
"I understand."
When no one else was in the room, she spoke to him. Perhaps it was because she thought that the sound of her voice would help him somehow, or perhaps it was for herself. She told him every story she'd ever heard from Chuta, even the ones she knew would elicit rolled eyes and a "hmpf!" were he awake. She told him about herself, her past, her training, her skills, her likes and dislikes. She described to him the room, Chachanji, and everyone she had met in the Coralhaus in minute detail, with the exacting eye of one trained to observe subtleties. She even read to him from the medical dictionary shoved in the back of the room, though she stopped after a while as if she couldn't continue. She shared what little she knew of his history, what he'd shared and what others had let slip, reminding him constantly of who he was, where he was, and the fateful events that had brought him here. She rarely touched him, but often smoothed his blankets, wiped his forehead, touched a damp cloth to his lips to keep them from drying. When her voice gave out, she drank tea.
She would not, could not forget it.
Annunu only rarely left the medbay in what Chachanji had called "Coralhaus" - she supposed "Coral" or Coral-something was the name of his company, but such details had been filed away as momentarily irrelevant when she'd first arrived in this place - since Gogonji had been brought in and laid on the bed. She left briefly once to bathe and change, since her clothes were hanging off of her in tatters; she returned within a bell, haunting Gogonji's bedside, saying little in the presence of others, making herself quietly useful by cleaning sheets and utensils, turning him as necessary, checking vitals, and generally functioning as a healer's extra pair of hands. She only had to be told to do something once; she only made mistakes once; she was quiet, polite, and effective, but rarely moved more than a yalm or so away from the prone Gogonji.
You are just a tool, he'd told her, and don't you forget it.
She napped fitfully on the bench by the bed when she had to have sleep, but in general she did not sleep. Bells spent alone with the patient, she brewed tea constantly, in anticipation of a waking that did not happen. She knew the strength Gogonji liked it; it would be hot and fresh for him when he awoke, whenever that happened. That which was left to cool, she drank herself. She subsided on little else, for she only ate that which was brought to her and never requested else or additional. She watched Gogonji.
"I understand."
When no one else was in the room, she spoke to him. Perhaps it was because she thought that the sound of her voice would help him somehow, or perhaps it was for herself. She told him every story she'd ever heard from Chuta, even the ones she knew would elicit rolled eyes and a "hmpf!" were he awake. She told him about herself, her past, her training, her skills, her likes and dislikes. She described to him the room, Chachanji, and everyone she had met in the Coralhaus in minute detail, with the exacting eye of one trained to observe subtleties. She even read to him from the medical dictionary shoved in the back of the room, though she stopped after a while as if she couldn't continue. She shared what little she knew of his history, what he'd shared and what others had let slip, reminding him constantly of who he was, where he was, and the fateful events that had brought him here. She rarely touched him, but often smoothed his blankets, wiped his forehead, touched a damp cloth to his lips to keep them from drying. When her voice gave out, she drank tea.
She would not, could not forget it.
People have forgotten this truth. But you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you have tamed.
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