Broken Wings- Chapter Seventy-Five
In the morning, Vincent found Aralyn in the kitchen, kneeling beside a large but relatively shallow vat of scalding water. Not seeing him, she proceeded to pour copious amounts of soap into the water, swirling her hand in the depths to form a frothy lather. Her hand came out red, stung by both the heat and the soap content. He winced just watching her.
Still heedless of his presence, she took out a wooden slate meant for washing in one hand and held Sephiroth's cloak in the other. She gently dipped both the slate and the coat in the water, and then vigorously scrubbed the cloth against it, trying to remove the darker blotches of blood.
It was near half an hour of scrubbing, then holding it up for careful examination, before she nodded in approval. Vincent couldn't tell what had made this run-through any more successful; by his reckoning, the cloak had been clean three cycles ago.
"Oh, hi Vincent!" Aralyn tried to sound enthusiastic, but only sounded pained and fatigued. Her voice was weak and breathy.
Vincent nodded his greetings. "Is he all right?"
"I don't know…" It came out as a whisper, and she turned so he could no longer see the anguish in her eyes. Rising to her feet, she walked out the front door, carrying the sopping wet cloak in her arms. Vincent watched as she carefully hung it on a clothesline, making sure that it hung straight and would not dry wrinkled.
Silently she went back into the bedroom. Vincent peered in to find her stripping away the old bandages and cleaning the wound of excess medicines. When the ointments were cleared and the bloodied cloths were on the floor below, she then applied new medicines and bandages with the same tender hands.
Vincent was pleased to note that the bleeding appeared to have stopped, and his chest rose and fell regularly. Whether or not that would be enough to save him was beyond his judgment.
Before the cloak was dried, he witnessed her change his bandages twice more. With the repetition did not come sloppiness; she always tended to him with the utmost care.
She only left his side once, and that was at twilight to gather the coat from the clothesline. Returning to his side, she took out a needle and black thread and began to sew the gashes in the cloth. The stitches were tight and nearly invisible. He doubted that anyone would ever be able to tell that it had been ripped after the mending.
As she had done with the washing, every time her handiwork was the slightest fraction off, she tore up the stitches and began again.
"Vincent," she asked, raising her head from her strenuous sewing. "Do you think we could feed him a simple broth?"
"We can try," was Vincent's reply. "It can't hurt, at any rate."
So during the next hours she switched off between sewing, changing bandages, and dribbling broth through his lips. Often times Sephiroth rejected the liquid altogether, but there were occasions when small fractions passed into his mouth instead of dribbling down his jaw. As Aralyn continued diligently, he was taking in more and more before turning his head aside, which was the signal that he'd had his fill. Sometimes she was even able to coax him out of this rejection using simple words and delicate hands, encouraging him to swallow just a little more.
Vincent doubted that she slept at all that night.
In the morning, Sephiroth was besieged by fever.
This worried Aralyn to the point where her cheeks were colorless. They both knew without speaking a word that if Sephiroth had become infected, he was done for.
Aralyn had stripped the blankets and sheets from the bed and brought in a fan, but he was still flushed crimson, soaked in sweat even as he shivered. She was constantly at his side, doing all she possibly could. Instead of the warm broth, she fed him cool water, and constantly mopped at his face and arms. She often spoke to him, as if he could hear her. Once, when Sephiroth's fever had peaked to levels that no human body should be able to withstand, he heard Aralyn's shaking voice singing a soothing melody to the fierce warrior.
Sephiroth quickly became delusional, and often called out a name that Vincent couldn't hear in a voice that was soft and timid, almost like a child's. He assumed the warrior cried for Jenova by the way Aralyn cried when he spoke, but only once when he got closer did he hear the word that Sephiroth moaned through his vicious fever.
"Aralyn…"
"I'm here!" she cried over and over again. "Sephiroth, I'm here! Can't you feel me? I'm here!"
His eyes were open now, the flames of fever making them shine with a deadly light. He looked at Aralyn, but his eyes were still unseeing. He moaned her name through dry and cracked lips, seeming not to know that she was the one who was striving so hard to ease his pain.
Even when the fever broke, he continued to call for her. Aralyn could do nothing but hold him close to her, answering every time even though he never heard.
Aralyn remained confused as to what was tormenting her husband so when his wound was closing nicely and he was no longer besought by illness.
Vincent alone knew that it was Jenova.
A/N: Jenova not happy. At all.