For the June of Doom prompts: 4 "Does that hurt?", 28 "Numb", 29 "Fever".
After a while, the roll of thunder fades and dies away. The occasional flashes of lightning are faint and far in the distance. Yet, there is another sound that keeps Sabrina from finally getting some well-deserved sleep. The Nilfgaardian's teeth are chattering loudly. How annoying. It is chilly in the cave and, in contrast to her, he does not even have the luxury of a cloak. Perhaps she has rested enough by now to cast a warming spell on him? Not to help him, of course, but to stop the vexing noise. Yawning and stretching like a cat, Sabrina conjures up a small, glowing sphere in her hand and gets to her feet.
Unfortunately, the enemy commander is not shaking and chattering from the cold alone, she quickly realises when she has a closer look. His forehead is glistening with sweat in the shine of the floating magic orb and feels unnaturally hot to the touch. Shit, he is running a temperature.
The man moans and blinks his eyes open.
"P-princess?" he chatters, staring up at her, his eyes bright with fever.
Is the Nilfgaardian confusing her with this insolent ash-blonde brat, Yennefer's princess ward? Sabrina wonders. The girl everyone seems to be so desperately chasing after for whatever unfathomable reason? In the dim light and with her long blonde hair there might be a faint resemblance between the two of them, she has to admit, but other than that not so much.
"I'm not a princess," Sabrina says indignantly. "I'm a sorceress. And I'm going to turn you into an eel if you keep staring at me like this!"
He shrinks back at the harsh tone of her voice and the threat, and averts his eyes. Good, despite the high fever the man seems lucid enough to understand her.
"Turn around, I need to check on your shoulder," she says, a tad more friendly. And he does. The wound does not look too bad, Sabrina decides after thorough scrutiny. Can it be the reason for his fever? It seems rather unlikely.
"Are there any other injuries that you failed to tell me about?" she asks, raising her eyebrow accusingly. She would not put it past the moron if he had a stab wound in his butt and had never mentioned it.
"My h-hand," he chatters miserably, then heaves a loud groan when she grabs his arm.
There is a bloody gash in the black leather glove covering his left hand. With plenty of dried blood plastering it to the injury, Sabrina has to tug firmly to remove it. He cries out with pain as she does so.
"And why again did you think it was a good idea to keep this to yourself, Nilfgaardian?" she inquires sarcastically, waving the bloodied garment in his pale, sweaty face. After all, there was plenty of opportunity to tell her while she was half dragging, half levitating him down the footpath to the beach.
"I — I forgot," he pants through gritted teeth. "And y-you — you didn't ask."
Right, now it is her fault. Sabrina scowls down at the enemy commander while dabbing at the freshly bleeding, deep gash with her handkerchief. How on the continent can one forget that one's hand has almost been cut in two? The man must be even more of an idiot than she had thought possible. Or had his hand gone so numb that it had stopped aching? Perhaps the nerves are damaged, too.
"Does that hurt?" she asks, pinching his middle finger. He shakes his head. "And this?" Another shake of his head.
Soon it turns out that the Nilfgaardian has not only lost the feeling in three of his fingers, but also the ability to bend or move them, and Sabrina strongly doubts that she will be able to fix this. Maybe Triss could, however, she would certainly not approve of her plan of action but insist on having the Nilfgaardian officially arrested, questioned and executed - properly this time. What is more important at the moment anyway is to stop the infection of the wound that must be the reason for his fever. Luckily, there is some bitter left in Sabrina's secret flask. Tomorrow morning she will get some potions and salves and proper dressings from the Aretuza infirmary, and blankets and food and everything else that she will need. For now the strong alcohol will have to do to disinfect the badly inflamed injury.
"This will hurt," she warns before pouring the bitter into the gaping gash. The Nilfgaardian flinches and bites his lip to not cry out again. The sorceress grips his left hand firmly in hers and starts to mutter her basic healing spell. Gradually, the wound stops bleeding and the gash closes slowly, leaving an ugly, raised, angry-red and swollen scar. Sabrina provisionally dresses it with her bloody handkerchief.
"Now go back to sleep and don't you dare make any noise, Nilfgaardian!" she commands sternly. "I need my beauty sleep!"
Using the last shreds of her chaos, she murmurs a quick warming spell, then she sinks into the soft sand not far from him.
Exhausted, she falls fast asleep.