Foggy Revenant [October 2999] [Runa]
Mar 10, 2019 22:22:50 GMT -5
Post by Ceolmund on Mar 10, 2019 22:22:50 GMT -5
“It’s all right, sweetheart, give her some room.”
Ceolmund’s eyes were unremoved from Runa despite the request to give her room, but she had room enough, as far as he was concerned. He was not blocking her airways, just holding her as she began to rouse, but Runa was moving erratically, and she managed to get a hand up to her face.
“Don’t touch,” he told her quickly, grabbing her palm to keep it away from her face, and Hildred was humming to her and pressing her back into the cot, though Ceolmund’s hovering persisted. “Runa, lay down,” he repeated after her mother, as if she might listen to him better. Runa had always listened to him, though he was in no mood to listen to the other healers around him, and Avila’s presence was becoming more than annoying.
“You scared the soldier. He thought you looked like a Dunlending—I think your…nose is broken. It looks pretty terrible, doesn’t it, Ceolmund?”
The man pressed his lips firm and his jaw twitched. “It looks bad.” Maybe it looked like a Dunlending now. Half of them had their faces bashed in by clubs. Their clans warring with one another, and they used what weapons they could fling, but he supposed that was not the thing to say, and even after the first bit had left his mouth he regretted it, but Ceolmund was nothing, if not honest. “Lay still… Runa,” he said, and he released her only for a moment to move around to the other side of the cot, kneeling on the floor aside, and his hands were back on her shoulders.
“Get out, get out of the way," he ordered gruff to Avila, and then, "Fix it, Hildred,” he said, and every bit of his words were still coming as if he were speaking to other soldiers upon the field of battle. His heart was racing as it did when one needed to dress a wound on the plain, and his adrenaline going, stifling all mist and haze that had been in his tired mind after the long walk. “I’ll hold her down.”
It was going to hurt; there was no escaping that but if she’d hold still and let her mother move the dislocation back into position, it would heal the better than if she would not. Ceolmund had, in his few years in the Eored, seen many a man acquire breathing difficulty for a nose not proper treated. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he repeated, and his voice was hushing her more gently, though he could still feel the blood pounding through his neck, through his chest, and his arms. “You’re fine now,” he said, and his hands slipped to her cheeks, to the side of her face to hold her head still against the cot, ready for Hildred’s motion to set her face back at ease.
Ceolmund’s eyes were unremoved from Runa despite the request to give her room, but she had room enough, as far as he was concerned. He was not blocking her airways, just holding her as she began to rouse, but Runa was moving erratically, and she managed to get a hand up to her face.
“Don’t touch,” he told her quickly, grabbing her palm to keep it away from her face, and Hildred was humming to her and pressing her back into the cot, though Ceolmund’s hovering persisted. “Runa, lay down,” he repeated after her mother, as if she might listen to him better. Runa had always listened to him, though he was in no mood to listen to the other healers around him, and Avila’s presence was becoming more than annoying.
“You scared the soldier. He thought you looked like a Dunlending—I think your…nose is broken. It looks pretty terrible, doesn’t it, Ceolmund?”
The man pressed his lips firm and his jaw twitched. “It looks bad.” Maybe it looked like a Dunlending now. Half of them had their faces bashed in by clubs. Their clans warring with one another, and they used what weapons they could fling, but he supposed that was not the thing to say, and even after the first bit had left his mouth he regretted it, but Ceolmund was nothing, if not honest. “Lay still… Runa,” he said, and he released her only for a moment to move around to the other side of the cot, kneeling on the floor aside, and his hands were back on her shoulders.
“Get out, get out of the way," he ordered gruff to Avila, and then, "Fix it, Hildred,” he said, and every bit of his words were still coming as if he were speaking to other soldiers upon the field of battle. His heart was racing as it did when one needed to dress a wound on the plain, and his adrenaline going, stifling all mist and haze that had been in his tired mind after the long walk. “I’ll hold her down.”
It was going to hurt; there was no escaping that but if she’d hold still and let her mother move the dislocation back into position, it would heal the better than if she would not. Ceolmund had, in his few years in the Eored, seen many a man acquire breathing difficulty for a nose not proper treated. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he repeated, and his voice was hushing her more gently, though he could still feel the blood pounding through his neck, through his chest, and his arms. “You’re fine now,” he said, and his hands slipped to her cheeks, to the side of her face to hold her head still against the cot, ready for Hildred’s motion to set her face back at ease.