Meddle Not In The Affairs Of Dragons
Just a short chapter, but hopefully a good one.
Chapter 2
By the end of the ministrations, the seemingly endless nicks and cuts that had to be unbound, cleaned and rebound, had worn away at Macnair's gratefulness until he wanted to grab hold of his nurse and throttle them. Careful or not the pain was grating on his nerves and he had seen spots more than once, particularly when the wounds around his face had their stitches removed. It was a wonder, that, seeing as his eyes were bandaged up swathing him in darkness.
His shoulder, face, arms and lower legs had all been dressed in fresh bandages and he had thought his torment to be over and he would be left alone, at least for a time.
It was quiet.
Was he alone? A frown twitched across his forehead as he tried to listen for signs of movement.
Something warm and soft was shifted away from his body. Cloth. A sheet. It had been rearranged to pile over one hip leaving him exposed to a cool breeze he hadn't noticed before. Trying to recover himself and maintain what little dignity he had left, he reached for the cotton coverings but found a hand around his wrist. It was gentle but firm.
"Don't make this difficult, Macnair," The shock that this person knew who he was, gave his nurse the chance to push Walden's hand away. Deft fingers were already lifting away soiled bandages moving uncomfortably close to prized appendages.
The bounty hunter mused on that injury, so close to his pride, and remembered the swipe of a barbed tail. That was one of the latter, before his shoulder was gouged mercilessly by the great beast. He had seen the tail rushing towards him just a fraction too late and had jumped back just as-
White hot agony tore down his hip, jarring every nerve in his body accompanied with a throaty roar of pain. The hand that had been pushed down now snatched at the cloth daubed in cleaning fluids, grabbing hold of a set of fingers broader than he had expected and tore them back. The pain did not stop though. It seemed his nurse was cleverer than that, having dropped the cloth and taken it back up with the opposite hand, well out of Macnair's reach.
With each pass that was made over his hip and angling down towards more sensative areas, lances of colour sent dizzy waves through him. No matter how hard he squeezed at the fingers, no matter how he bellowed and swore blue murder, it would not stop.
"There. Now let go of me," The voice of his rescuer and now bane of his current existance, was still calm, but he detected a hint of strain there. If he'd caused them pain, it was only fair. Macnair's only wish was that he had done more.
Reluctantly, he released the fingers. With his chest heaving, the scours down his ribs burning and a fresh sweat springing through newly cleaned pores, the fight seemed to have gone out of him, his hand resting, limp, by his side. He was half expecting the sheet to be thrown roughly over him but when they were arranged, placed down so as not to aggravate any of the uncovered injuries, Macnair felt an odd respect for his nurse.
He heard a sigh, the sort of sigh to go with bending down and, shortly after, a few footsteps moving away from him. Gradually he caught his breath, the pain subsided to a dull ache, his muscles relaxing a degree. He listened to it for a while; each breath in, each wheezing breath out. His throat still smarted.
-
A clunk interrupted a nap he didn't realise he had been taking. Usually, Macnair would have been aggravated by the unannounced visitor but his injuries flared his anger to somewhere around fuming and livid. Adding into the mixture his grumbling stomach, thirst and the headache creeping on, he was thoroughly pissed.
He wanted to know where his supposed nurse was and why they hadn't fed him yet. He felt like he'd been lying there for hours, his guts churning, as though it was slowly digesting itself but doubted his shouts would have been answered, even if he could. There was a hollow scraping sound. Someone cleared their throat. He was no longer alone. Even though it would do nothing to improve his mood and would hurt like the blazes, Macnair made to demand a drink.
"Water?" The question was stolen from his lips before he had even opened his mouth. So his nurse was back then. Good. The lazy sod could tend to him properly, Macnair thought with a scowl and the barest of nods. If he was in any fit state to, he would have smacked the negligent son of a-
The delicious sound of water being poured into a tin mug stopped his thought process in its tracks. Soon enough, the touch that was now becoming so familiar raised his head up and the rim of a cup pressed to waiting lips. Clumsily at first, not helped much by Macnair's greedy attempts at guzzling every drop like each was his last, the pair negotiated enough to successfully get more into the bounty hunter and less on his bare chest.
Once his thirst was quenched, his throat seemed easier, swallowing less painful. His stomach on the otherhand, was not pleased in the least. Like a bear waking up from winter-long hibernation, it was snarling for sustenance. With a welcome scent of cooked onions, beef and fresh bread, it seemed his prayers had been answered for the second time. This nurse was learning.
Macnair lifted a tremulous arm to take whatever utensils would be offered, determined to feed himself. He would not stand the indignity of being spoon fed like a baby. To his annoyance his arm was too lead-weighted, his body too weak to keep this up long and that bloody nurse had ignored him. The limb dropped heavily, sending bursts of pain along his nerves. He swore.
"I'm going to prop you up, and then feed you," The nurse informed him.
"I'll feed myself," Macnair growled, though more to do with his vocal chords than his anger.
The same spell that had lifted him from his less than comfortable bed earlier that day was again employed and the nurse made short work of creating a stand of pillows. Blood rushed to his back, tingling and making him aware, once more, of every little perforation in the flesh there as the spell laid him easily against his new support. He hated pins and needles.
"Open up," His previous statement, it proved, had fallen on deaf ears. His nurse was determined to strip away every scrap of dignity he had left, humiliating him, it seemed. Macnair clenched his jaw defiantly but at another lurch in his stomach he was forced to open his mouth. At the first morsel, he realised that the bread had been broken up into small chunks and was now saturated in beef broth. It appeared he was not expected to be able to chew either and that stung his pride, regardless of how tasty the meal was. He could masticate wounded or not and he took a stubborn joy in proving it. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.