The intermingling scent of blood and poultices filled her nostrils. It amazed Stella that her nose continued to work as it did; three straight suns of handling the wounded, the dying, and the dead had left the chirurgeon drained beyond measure.
Beneath her was an Elezen, one of many knights heavily wounded in the Steps of Faith. His stomach had been torn open by the claws of a dragonfly, and while magic had brought him back from the brink, it would be Stella's hands that made sure he stayed in the realm of the living.
She was tired, yet even now, with even-handed restraint and mechanical discipline, she proceeded to sew the gash in the Elezen's stomach, his entrails having been carefully refolded back within his body. His mouth had been somewhat forcefully stuffed with bitter roots to stem the pain. The metallic smell of blood permeated his entire being, and he groaned with each new incision made to accommodate the silken threads that comprised of the stitching.
The Hyur glanced over to see if the knight was still conscious, and whether it was from the roots or the pain, the Elezen had passed out.
With a few more minutes, her work was finished, and with a sigh she closed the lid on her surgeon's kit and stood up to leave.
Despite delicate hands and a feminine demeanour, Stella carried herself with the confidence of a warrior, and as far as she was concerned, a warrior she was. Her battles were against Halone herself, fighting the Fury to prevent the reclamation of Ishgardian souls fallen in battle. Her weapons--unlike the immaculately crafted staves and wands of the conjurers--were the thread and needle, the knife and the tourniquet, the saw and the splint, for she had not been blessed with the talent for conjury.
Stella had never step foot on a true battlefield, but in truth she never needed to; the hastily constructed triage ward of the infirmary had all of the sounds and smells of one. The screams of a man who's flesh had melted from a biast's flame, the cries for mercy from those who had been trampled or clawed by a diresaur, the smell of blood, entrails, and evacuated bodily fluids from those who were one step away from death's door. A wife or mother wailing over the body of a dead knight, as it was carried away to be prepared for a proper funeral.
Such things were little more than background noise and odd odors, now, as noteworthy to Stella as the sun rising in the morning.
A light touch tapped Stella's shoulder who, in her exhausted state, whipped around. A young male Elezen regarded her, dressed in the same white robes of a chirurgeon, though his were covered in considerably less blood. A brief glance at the bags under Stella's eyes caused the Elezen to tut. "You've done more than enough. You should be going home now, Stella." He placed a hand on the side of the Hyur's face, as if tracing invisible wrinkles.
Stella snorted derisively, slapping the Elezen's hand away. "You worry too much, Eaufault." She was, however, thoroughly startled when Eaufault suddenly grabbed her left hand, which had been trembling. Almost instinctively, Stella willed her hand to cease its trepidation, though the damage had been done as Eaufault's eyes narrowed into the closest thing the soft-faced Elezen could muster into a glare.
"You know more than anyone that treating patients while exhausted will do you more harm than good," the Elezen said sternly, reaching out to take a hold of Stella's surgery kit.
The Hyur recoiled almost violently, her eyes alight with fiery pride, half at Eaufault's attempt to grab her tools, and half at the knowing indignation that Eaufault was completely right. She had been at this for far too many bells, with only the tiniest lapses of sleep to comfort her; it was amazing that she hadn't made a critical mistake thus far. And yet, the idea of returning to the empty house was just as abhorrent to her as justifying Eaufault's patronizing tone. "I do not believe I require your permission to perform my duties," she snapped testily.
Stella knew what she should do, but Eaufault's condescension re-ignited her stubbornness. Wordlessly, she turned away from Eaufault and marched onwards towards the inpatient ward.
In sharp contrast to the triage ward, the inpatient area was considerably more light and airy. Though it was still far too cold among the everwinter of Coerthas to have open windows, it was lacking the heavy atmosphere of death and decay. The knights here--those who were awake--were weakened, but had been deemed to recover quite steadily. Some citizen volunteers were handing out bowls of warm porridge or stew to those who were awake.
Perhaps it was just because of her exhaustion, but even thinking about Eaufault's condescension incensed her. With that in mind, Stella marched up to the first patient she saw.
It was a Hyur; he could not have been much older than three or four cycles than Stella herself. His sandy blonde hair was somewhat disheveled, but fortunately he didn't seem to have any significant external wounds. The upper half of his torso was carefully wrapped in bandages.
She knelt down and reached out to begin changing the bandages--not necessarily because they needed to be changed, but because Stella needed to do something to engage her discipline and calm her frayed nerves--when the man's eyes flew open and he tried to reflexively sit up, only causing him to immediately groan and fall backwards onto his cot.
"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?" Stella asked methodically, more out of habit than out of genuine concern. Not that she wasn't concerned, but if this knight was in the inpatient ward he couldn't be too badly injured, affording Stella some room to relax, if ever so slightly.
"Like I've been trampled by a herd of chocobos," the Hyur groaned again. He attempted to sit up once more, causing Stella to place a firm hand on his shoulder to force him back down onto the cot. Wordlessly, she began to pull the bandages off of him, but now it was his turn to clasp her arm.
"Wait. This is a gentian poultice; you shouldn't waste it," the Hyur said.
On the one hand, it was intriguing that a common knight seemed to be aware of the mixture by scent alone--the mark of a practised herbalist or, perhaps, just an odd upbringing. On the other hand, Stella was quite annoyed whenever someone attempted to tell her how to do her job, particularly when that someone was an uppity knight who couldn't even sit up on his cot because of broken ribs.
There were few things more irritating to her than patients attempting to play backseat chirurgeon.
"The gentian will regrow, in time. The same cannot be said of you if these wounds of yours are beset by infection because you wanted to save some poultice," Stella said testily, her lips drawn into a thin line. Whether it was her logic or her mildly threatening tone of voice, the man relented, laying down to allow her to pull the bandages off his torso.
The bruise on his torso was ugly, but looked worse than it actually was. The knight seemed to offer a small prayer underneath his breath. "Thank the Fury for Ishgardian steel," he muttered.
Before Stella could stop herself, she snapped. "Your gratitude better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield and away from the brink of death. Halone is busy enough claiming the souls that were 'offered' to Her."
The exhaustion was wearing on her. Stella knew that she'd been awake for far too long and working far too hard, and internally she winced at the bitter, spiteful tone she heard herself speak with. And this was a stranger, as well. Yet the knight's small prayer brought to mind those chirurgeons in the triage ward still working to save lives, and those who had stepped onto the battlefield to bring the wounded to safety...and those who had not returned from the battlefield at all.
"You'll have to stay here for at least a few more suns until you're well enough to move," Stella said brusquely, pushing her exhaustion and her more venomous thoughts to the back of her mind and brushing an errant strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes. "Unfortunately, there won't be a scar." That was a particularly baffling piece of male posturing that Stella found indelibly idiotic. The Temple Knights particularly were far too eager to show off some wound or other, as if the mere act of boasting about being nearly killed would enlarge--
"All the better," the Hyur grunted, examining the newly-applied bandages. "A man with scars is just a man who was stupid enough to get hit in the first place."
Stella paused, the corner of her lips daring to curl into a slight grin, mentally filing away that observation for use as a retort on the next knight lamenting the lack of scars. "That's...a good way to look at it," she said lightly. Stella stood up and turned to leave, but not before feeling something clasp onto the edge of her robes. At first she was irritated, but her expression softened almost immediately.
"Er..." The knight on the cot seemed to struggle with whether or not he should speak. "May I...know your name? I'd like to better spend my gratitude. However briefly."
The request caught her off guard. Quite simply, no one had ever asked her name before. To most of the Temple Knights, though they were grateful for the chirurgeons and Knights Hospitalier both, they latter two were merely a service. Healing and recuperation was just part of the process of going back out into the battlefield to get killed, and the chirurgeons and hospitaliers were just nameless functions of that process. In short, some part of Stella had firmly believed that no knights would ever care about the names of those who struggled to save them from Halone's grasp.
Stella paused, searching the knight's face for any sign that she was being made the fool. There was, however, nothing but earnest gratitude.
"Stella," she replied. The chirurgeon felt exhaustion begin to settle upon her like a heavy blanket.
The knight nodded gratefully. "Thank you for saving my life, Lady Stella."
Stella simply returned his nod with a small one of her own, before turning to walk away. All of a sudden she felt some embarrassment; surely it was one of the knight's fellows or a senior chirurgeon who had pulled him off the battlefield, and yet he saw fit to thank her? Perhaps the man was simply a fool. That was a distinct possibility.
The thought of returning home to rest came to her mind again, though Stella took her time in pushing that thought back as she moved to another line of cots.
Beneath her was an Elezen, one of many knights heavily wounded in the Steps of Faith. His stomach had been torn open by the claws of a dragonfly, and while magic had brought him back from the brink, it would be Stella's hands that made sure he stayed in the realm of the living.
She was tired, yet even now, with even-handed restraint and mechanical discipline, she proceeded to sew the gash in the Elezen's stomach, his entrails having been carefully refolded back within his body. His mouth had been somewhat forcefully stuffed with bitter roots to stem the pain. The metallic smell of blood permeated his entire being, and he groaned with each new incision made to accommodate the silken threads that comprised of the stitching.
The Hyur glanced over to see if the knight was still conscious, and whether it was from the roots or the pain, the Elezen had passed out.
With a few more minutes, her work was finished, and with a sigh she closed the lid on her surgeon's kit and stood up to leave.
Despite delicate hands and a feminine demeanour, Stella carried herself with the confidence of a warrior, and as far as she was concerned, a warrior she was. Her battles were against Halone herself, fighting the Fury to prevent the reclamation of Ishgardian souls fallen in battle. Her weapons--unlike the immaculately crafted staves and wands of the conjurers--were the thread and needle, the knife and the tourniquet, the saw and the splint, for she had not been blessed with the talent for conjury.
Stella had never step foot on a true battlefield, but in truth she never needed to; the hastily constructed triage ward of the infirmary had all of the sounds and smells of one. The screams of a man who's flesh had melted from a biast's flame, the cries for mercy from those who had been trampled or clawed by a diresaur, the smell of blood, entrails, and evacuated bodily fluids from those who were one step away from death's door. A wife or mother wailing over the body of a dead knight, as it was carried away to be prepared for a proper funeral.
Such things were little more than background noise and odd odors, now, as noteworthy to Stella as the sun rising in the morning.
A light touch tapped Stella's shoulder who, in her exhausted state, whipped around. A young male Elezen regarded her, dressed in the same white robes of a chirurgeon, though his were covered in considerably less blood. A brief glance at the bags under Stella's eyes caused the Elezen to tut. "You've done more than enough. You should be going home now, Stella." He placed a hand on the side of the Hyur's face, as if tracing invisible wrinkles.
Stella snorted derisively, slapping the Elezen's hand away. "You worry too much, Eaufault." She was, however, thoroughly startled when Eaufault suddenly grabbed her left hand, which had been trembling. Almost instinctively, Stella willed her hand to cease its trepidation, though the damage had been done as Eaufault's eyes narrowed into the closest thing the soft-faced Elezen could muster into a glare.
"You know more than anyone that treating patients while exhausted will do you more harm than good," the Elezen said sternly, reaching out to take a hold of Stella's surgery kit.
The Hyur recoiled almost violently, her eyes alight with fiery pride, half at Eaufault's attempt to grab her tools, and half at the knowing indignation that Eaufault was completely right. She had been at this for far too many bells, with only the tiniest lapses of sleep to comfort her; it was amazing that she hadn't made a critical mistake thus far. And yet, the idea of returning to the empty house was just as abhorrent to her as justifying Eaufault's patronizing tone. "I do not believe I require your permission to perform my duties," she snapped testily.
Stella knew what she should do, but Eaufault's condescension re-ignited her stubbornness. Wordlessly, she turned away from Eaufault and marched onwards towards the inpatient ward.
In sharp contrast to the triage ward, the inpatient area was considerably more light and airy. Though it was still far too cold among the everwinter of Coerthas to have open windows, it was lacking the heavy atmosphere of death and decay. The knights here--those who were awake--were weakened, but had been deemed to recover quite steadily. Some citizen volunteers were handing out bowls of warm porridge or stew to those who were awake.
Perhaps it was just because of her exhaustion, but even thinking about Eaufault's condescension incensed her. With that in mind, Stella marched up to the first patient she saw.
It was a Hyur; he could not have been much older than three or four cycles than Stella herself. His sandy blonde hair was somewhat disheveled, but fortunately he didn't seem to have any significant external wounds. The upper half of his torso was carefully wrapped in bandages.
She knelt down and reached out to begin changing the bandages--not necessarily because they needed to be changed, but because Stella needed to do something to engage her discipline and calm her frayed nerves--when the man's eyes flew open and he tried to reflexively sit up, only causing him to immediately groan and fall backwards onto his cot.
"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?" Stella asked methodically, more out of habit than out of genuine concern. Not that she wasn't concerned, but if this knight was in the inpatient ward he couldn't be too badly injured, affording Stella some room to relax, if ever so slightly.
"Like I've been trampled by a herd of chocobos," the Hyur groaned again. He attempted to sit up once more, causing Stella to place a firm hand on his shoulder to force him back down onto the cot. Wordlessly, she began to pull the bandages off of him, but now it was his turn to clasp her arm.
"Wait. This is a gentian poultice; you shouldn't waste it," the Hyur said.
On the one hand, it was intriguing that a common knight seemed to be aware of the mixture by scent alone--the mark of a practised herbalist or, perhaps, just an odd upbringing. On the other hand, Stella was quite annoyed whenever someone attempted to tell her how to do her job, particularly when that someone was an uppity knight who couldn't even sit up on his cot because of broken ribs.
There were few things more irritating to her than patients attempting to play backseat chirurgeon.
"The gentian will regrow, in time. The same cannot be said of you if these wounds of yours are beset by infection because you wanted to save some poultice," Stella said testily, her lips drawn into a thin line. Whether it was her logic or her mildly threatening tone of voice, the man relented, laying down to allow her to pull the bandages off his torso.
The bruise on his torso was ugly, but looked worse than it actually was. The knight seemed to offer a small prayer underneath his breath. "Thank the Fury for Ishgardian steel," he muttered.
Before Stella could stop herself, she snapped. "Your gratitude better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield and away from the brink of death. Halone is busy enough claiming the souls that were 'offered' to Her."
The exhaustion was wearing on her. Stella knew that she'd been awake for far too long and working far too hard, and internally she winced at the bitter, spiteful tone she heard herself speak with. And this was a stranger, as well. Yet the knight's small prayer brought to mind those chirurgeons in the triage ward still working to save lives, and those who had stepped onto the battlefield to bring the wounded to safety...and those who had not returned from the battlefield at all.
"You'll have to stay here for at least a few more suns until you're well enough to move," Stella said brusquely, pushing her exhaustion and her more venomous thoughts to the back of her mind and brushing an errant strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes. "Unfortunately, there won't be a scar." That was a particularly baffling piece of male posturing that Stella found indelibly idiotic. The Temple Knights particularly were far too eager to show off some wound or other, as if the mere act of boasting about being nearly killed would enlarge--
"All the better," the Hyur grunted, examining the newly-applied bandages. "A man with scars is just a man who was stupid enough to get hit in the first place."
Stella paused, the corner of her lips daring to curl into a slight grin, mentally filing away that observation for use as a retort on the next knight lamenting the lack of scars. "That's...a good way to look at it," she said lightly. Stella stood up and turned to leave, but not before feeling something clasp onto the edge of her robes. At first she was irritated, but her expression softened almost immediately.
"Er..." The knight on the cot seemed to struggle with whether or not he should speak. "May I...know your name? I'd like to better spend my gratitude. However briefly."
The request caught her off guard. Quite simply, no one had ever asked her name before. To most of the Temple Knights, though they were grateful for the chirurgeons and Knights Hospitalier both, they latter two were merely a service. Healing and recuperation was just part of the process of going back out into the battlefield to get killed, and the chirurgeons and hospitaliers were just nameless functions of that process. In short, some part of Stella had firmly believed that no knights would ever care about the names of those who struggled to save them from Halone's grasp.
Stella paused, searching the knight's face for any sign that she was being made the fool. There was, however, nothing but earnest gratitude.
"Stella," she replied. The chirurgeon felt exhaustion begin to settle upon her like a heavy blanket.
The knight nodded gratefully. "Thank you for saving my life, Lady Stella."
Stella simply returned his nod with a small one of her own, before turning to walk away. All of a sudden she felt some embarrassment; surely it was one of the knight's fellows or a senior chirurgeon who had pulled him off the battlefield, and yet he saw fit to thank her? Perhaps the man was simply a fool. That was a distinct possibility.
The thought of returning home to rest came to her mind again, though Stella took her time in pushing that thought back as she moved to another line of cots.
