Ch. 2— Angel of Mercy
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"Christine, we're short-handed today, dear. I'm going to need you to change Mr. D'Anton's bandages. Also be sure that man takes his medicine. He's been known to skip his doses if you don't watch him like a hawk. And Lord knows we don't want infection to set in. He has enough troubles as is. " Nurse Tomlin bustled away, already giving directions to an orderly, her tone shrill in harangue.
Christine placed the pile of carefully folded linens she had been holding back in her cart. Her hands started to shake. She couldn't touch him. Mr. D'Anton already made her nervous. If she got that close to him, then he would know, and he would just tease her more for it.
Desperately, she tried to think of anyone else available to do the task. Thayer? Faucher? Nurse Deniaud? She sought each of them out, dismayed when she found they were each and every one of them as busy as she. Nurse Tomlin had not exaggerated; they were woefully understaffed.
And this was all the more reason for her to quit shirking her responsibility and get it over with as quickly as possible.
Going to the cupboard, Christine gathered the necessary medicines and supplies, all the while telling herself she could do it: be professional, distant, and courteous… and aloof, dammit!
She needed to be aloof!
It wasn't as though she found the task ahead disagreeable.
On the contrary, her curiosity was piqued to see what he looked like now, scant months after his injury and the subsequent surgery. When he had arrived at the hospital, the damage to his face and body had been extensive. Dr. Khan had done the best he could with the limited medical supplies he'd had on hand.
But the day he had arrived was the day before the Nazis were defeated by the Allied forces and all of Paris freed; their medical supplies were severely limited. And he had come to them badly burned on over sixty percent of his body, parts of shrapnel still imbedded deep within his upper chest, thigh, and lower leg. The field surgeons had done what they could to staunch the bleeding and patch him up, but still, they had almost lost him in transit to the hospital.
Upon arrival, he had spent numerous hours in surgery, Dr. Khan trying to save his leg while Dr. Grieg worked on minimizing the damage inflicted from the burns and cuts, picking pieces of shrapnel from his skin.
All in all, Mr. D'Anton was very lucky to be alive.
And aside from the loss of his vision, Christine knew he would always walk with a limp—one of the many lasting reminders of his service to his country.
His face, however, had been wrapped in a heavy coating of bandages that needed to be washed, soaked in an antiseptic unguent, and changed every twelve hours to prevent him from developing infection. It was a very painful process. She knew, because she had heard the other nurses discussing it in detail, their voices filled with pity for the unfortunate man.
As she made her way to his room, Christine vowed she would not give him her pity. He deserved her devotion for his service to her country, and she would be devoted to making this as painless as possible for him.
So thinking, she resolved to do it, her fit of nerves, momentarily forgotten.
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Erik heard her coming to his room only a moment before she knocked. He was intrigued. Now, what could she be doing that would break the pattern the little nurse had so stringently set herself…? He heard the squeaking squeal of the cart and grit his jaw. Ah, a torture session then. And the hellcat Tomlin must have sent her sweetest angel to administer it.
No tentative knock this time. Not for Nurse Daae. This time, she gave a knock of determination. "Mr. D'Anton? May I come in, sir?"
"Et tu brute?" Erik said fatalistically as he heard the door open and the cart being pushed into his room.
He received the shock of his life when she rejoined him, "Animis opibusque parati."
He felt a smile tug his facial stitching despite himself. "And are you truly prepared, Torturess Daae?" he asked, knowing the phrase she uttered in Latin meant: 'I come heart and mind prepared for anything'. "Does that include causing agony and unnecessary suffering to this hapless, helpless patient under your tender and merciful care?"
She slowly wheeled the cart beside him and said soberly, "I would hardly call what must be done 'unnecessary', sir. And yes Mr. D'Anton, I came prepared."
Erik gave a sardonic grin. So the kitten did have claws after all.
He flinched as he felt her cool hand touch underneath his chin, gently urging his head to rise. "I'm sorry," he heard her say, "I should have told you I was going to do that. I'll try to be more mindful, sir." The spot she touched remained one of the few places on his face that was un-bandaged due to burn, scrape, or wound, and it was very sensitive to touch.
"I'm going to begin unwrapping the gauze, alright?"
He nodded tersely, and he felt her delicate fingers at his throat, slowly beginning to unwind the tightly bound dressing. He should be used to this by now. It had happened twice a day for the last two months, but he was not.
It was an excruciating ordeal.
And even though Erik had endured his fair share of agony throughout this nightmarish experience, nothing seemed to lessen the pain each time it occurred.
In desperation, he tried to distract himself. "So, you are versed in Latin, Nurse Daae? You must tell me how a young woman such as yourself," he winced as he felt her gently start to peal the gauze away from a burn. He persevered, keeping his tone more jovial than he felt, "How does a young woman such as yourself come by such knowledge?"
He heard the sound of water pouring into a basin, and then her gentle hands were once more on his now thinly-bandaged face, applying a damp sponge filled with water to loosen the gauze where it had adhered to his skin by blood or some other nauseous, sticky substance.
He flinched again as she began to tug, separating the linen layer from the flesh. At this point, he typically cursed the nurse attending him a blue streak, disparaging her profession, personality, looks, and birth.
He grit his jaw, biting back his words. He would not, could not do that to her. To do so would be to break one such as she, and so, trembling, Erik endured.
For her sake and his, he did so in silence.
Blessedly, just when he thought she was going to forgo his question entirely, she answered, "My father, sir, was a music professor at a small but prestigious university in Stockholm. I spent my formative years attending classes—they were free for the family of faculty—and so, that is how I learned to speak Latin."
"Music… Ms. Daae, your father was a musician?" Erik asked, intrigued.
There was a sad note in her voice, when she answered softly, "He tried to be."
Erik made some noise of assent. She was coming to the last bit of it, the bit that always burned like hellfire any time one of them touched it, and he couldn't help the grunting wince of pain.
Again, she apologized, "Oh, sir! I'm sorry! I'm trying to be careful, but it's just—"
Reaching up, Erik grasped her hands, "Don't apologize," he grit, "Just… hurry."
He felt her hands tremble. "Y—yes, sir."
He gave a terse nod and immediately released her, drawing a centering breath and forcing himself to relax and focus on her, her thoughts, her words.
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"You said he 'tried to be'…what exactly does that mean, Ms. Daae?"
Christine gulped as she looked down at the ravaged remains of his face. God, but he was almost unrecognizable from the man he once was! Oh, how she wished she hadn't known what he looked like before. How she wished it!
It made the reality all the more terrifying.
In the months since his injury, the bruising and swelling had gone down considerably, and the torn and burned skin had begun to heal. But the scar tissue resulting from his burns were developing keloids: she knew this was the term because Dr. Grieg had used it to describe what would sometimes occur to the skin of a patient suffering from a cut or burn.
Thick, shiny, and purple-tinged, the 'mutant' scars were developing along both sides of his face, from his hairline down to his neck in an obscene patchwork that curved to encompass parts of his cheek and chin as well. The nerves in the muscles near his right upper lip had been severed, and so now he could no longer move that part of his face, and it sagged.
She was glad she kept his eyes covered for she didn't think she could bare it if he stared sightlessly up at her from such a face. God! She didn't think she could. And despite her vow, Christine looked down at the now unfortunate looking man in pity.
It was cruel; a cruel and vicious twist of fate to lay such a man as he this low.
"I am waiting, Torturess Daae." His tone, and his expression, although still tight with tension and pain, were teasing of her. He grinned a lopsided smile that tugged at the corner of one of his stitches, and Christine felt her heart skip a beat.
Blinking, she shook her head.
What was it he had asked her? Oh, yes. Her father.
She picked up the mild soap and began to work lather into the water-laden sponge. "I did say he tried to be a musician, but…" she bit her lip, and gently began to rub the sponge over his face. She drew a breath and confided, "You know the expression, 'those who can't do, teach?'"
He made a humming noise that Christine was beginning to associate with him agreeing with her to continue. She sighed, "Well, that was my father. He had a gifted ear for critique but not for creation."
"Ah." He cocked his head to the side, intrigued. "And does his daughter share his ability for critique?"
Christine surprised herself with the vehemence of her reply when she answered, "His daughter does not share his love for music in the slightest."
Again, he reached up to clasp her hands. "That is a true shame, my dear."
She gulped, feeling the need to justify her answer, justify herself, but he instantly released her hands, with a gentle reprimand, "Now, mademoiselle, the soap does sting. Please hurry as fast as you're able."
Christine swallowed back the emotion she felt and quickly did as bid; somehow getting the impression that he—this man that sat so bared and broken before her—pitied her.
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