DB Lazarus
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43. Another Customer—Er, Patient
🕑 Added 2025-01-30 03:02:40 +0000 UTC“You okay?” asked Dorian.
“Yeah.” This short, terse response to Dorian’s first question of the day had become my standard answer—one that had become more and more unbelievable because of my deteriorating state on many recent mornings. I could no longer hide all the bruises I had accrued. They numbered more than anyone could justify from mining.
At least I could obtain water unscathed. That saved a trip and dirty clothes. No, getting water was the easy part. Instead, I struggled with avoiding their retribution. Somehow, they always knew when I went to the well, and they would find me later and make me pay the price. It was as if they had eyes on the location 24/7, which knowing them, they probably did. They may be [Miners], but a few likely had friends in the guard.
Dorian had become more and more concerned, and rightfully so, since I could no longer hide my injuries. None of the beatings rivaled the first, though I could not tell if that was because they had to keep them quick or they didn’t want me to die. I had tried to limit my time alone, but with my longhouse so far from the others, they had ample opportunities to jump me as long as they kept it quick. The injuries I sustained never exceeded what a potion could heal. However, the assaults had occurred enough times that I couldn’t afford to keep using a potion to erase all my injuries—not that I would. Waltzing around like I had greater “access” to more healing potions than they did pissed them off royally. Of course, I didn’t have a secret stockpile, but my skill made it seem that way. Unfortunately, it had taken me twice to learn that lesson. So now I focus on healing the visible injuries just enough to appease them and not raise Dorian’s suspicion too much.
“Dorian, I'm fine. Really. The blood draws are taking a toll.” Again, not a lie, but definitely not the whole truth.
He grunted but didn't say anything. I debated speaking up, but then Kyria Rhaptis’s words ran through my mind. I wouldn't drag him into this, not yet. I still had another play: getting an Oresian [Mage] to dig me a well or do whatever magic they used to create water.
I picked up my pick and gestured to the end of the tunnel. “I got this. You can check out the new expansions.”
“Alright then.”
He turned and left. I waited another few minutes before finally letting out the cough that I had been holding back. It was deep and wet and developed a rattle when I got going. I didn’t need an x-ray to know it wasn’t good.
Damn lack of immunity. Though, I can’t believe it took me this long to catch something.
Unfortunately, that is where my stroke of luck ended. I had no good options to treat my illness. Previously, the potions had only slightly alleviated my cough. They healed the injured lungs, but they didn’t seem to affect the infection. Rather, they would have worsened it if not for my skill.
If I had caught things earlier, would the potions have treated it?
As if to laugh at my plight, another cough overtook me.
A deep voice spoke from behind me. “You sure he is capable?”
I jumped at the sound and turned to face the speaker. Two Ættir—one I recognized, stood six feet from me. Rægnor had brought a friend, who, based on his stiff posture and crossed arms, had come reluctantly.
Another coughing fit overtook me, but they waited as I got myself under control. In a break in a long coughing streak, I found a chance to respond. “I am.” Ættir didn’t make social calls. They could only be here for one thing, and I needed to remove my potential patient’s doubts. “I had to conserve my potions.”
Rægnor’s eyes narrowed. “You have not reported any major encounters with monsters.”
“Monsters aren’t the only danger in this camp for a Human.” His frown deepened, but I didn’t have the time nor the inclination to explain. While he was at least a step above most of the other Ættir, most of his brethren weren’t much better than the Volki. Sure, their disdain showed through mostly by ignoring me, but the leader of our company did try to kill via Aether toxicity. “It doesn’t matter. You are here for healing, and I can enhance your potion.”
The other Ættar hesitated, and Rægnor huffed, “You may doubt his honor, but do not doubt mine. He has helped—at least hear him out.”
The Ættar’s frown deepened, but he relented. “How does this work?”
“I will take a bit of your potion and apply it to your wound. I have a skill, [Enhance Medicinal], that allows me to amplify its potency.”
“How much will this cost me?”
“Nothing.” That earned me a scowl. “It is fair. You are providing the potion. It doesn’t take me that much work.”
“Much is not nothing. Why are you doing this?”
“Because it is the right thing to do?” I let out a sigh and threw up my hands. What made them hate Humans so much? “Do you need a selfish answer? Then here’s one. It will help me level. If you need an even more selfish answer, I need to build a reputation as someone who has a valuable service.”
He nodded as if that was the most reasonable explanation he had ever heard. It took everything I had not to scream out in frustration. I would need to learn more about their concept of honor if I was going to interact with them and stay sane.
“Now show me the wound.”
He lifted his shirt revealing a large bandage that wrapped around his chest, and it, like every other bandage in this place, was soiled.
"Can I take this off?"
He grunted in affirmation. I undid the knot and carefully removed the bandage. Unlike Rægnor’s wound, this one was on his back. The lacerations also weren’t as deep, but it was much more inflamed. The entire skin radiated warmth without touching it.
“I am going to press on it.” My exam confirmed my worries. While there weren’t clear signs of an abscess, it wouldn’t be much longer if it wasn’t cleaned. “This is beginning to fester.”
“Then we are done here.”
“What? No. I can still do it. I just need to wash it out and use a bit more of your potion.” I’d also need to use a lot more Energy, though he didn’t need to know that. It would have killed the deal in an instant.
At my response, he and Rægnor dropped into a quick conversation. They spoke in a different language than Common. The languages shared a few words, but those I caught suggested an argument about continuing our deal.
“Let me try. I know potions can increase festering, but I will use a minuscule amount. I will have complete control of its action with my skill. Also, if you don’t do something, this will get worse, and you will need a [Healer].”
My argument blatantly exploited their pathological avoidance of utilizing their [Healers], but sometimes you needed to play dirty to do right by your patient. And it worked. He agreed to a trial.
I grabbed a clean cloth I had tucked away for wound care and a waterskin. “If you have any pain suppression skills, I would use one now.”
I poured the cold water onto the wound. He flinched, though probably more from the shock of the temperature than the pain because he didn’t let out even the tiniest of sounds when I cleaned out the wound, which, like Rægnor’s, was filthy. I threw the dirty piece of cloth—a strip from a bedsheet once used by a former occupant of my longhouse—onto the ground and grabbed another one.
A waste, but without something to boil them in, I didn’t dare reuse them.
I worked the next wet rag deep into the wound. It was definitely the beginning of an abscess. Cleaning the dirt from the wound released an unpleasant but familiar stench. I didn’t dare focus my perception on it. Just standing near it, I could pick up on the “wrongness” pouring out of his wound.
I can’t believe I am doing this again.
I had gained plenty of practice at cleaning out wounds during my surgical intern year. Of all the things that I missed when I left that specialty, wound care was not one of them. Still, he needed this. Without cleaning, the dirty wound would need more potion and, more importantly, Energy to work. I couldn’t afford that extra mental drain. I debrided the wound, picking at the large chunks with my makeshift bandage and washing away the filth with water.
Finished, I tossed another filthy rag onto the floor. “Alright, it’s clean,” or as clean as I could make it when lacking sterile saline and gauze.
I took a deep breath, studying the wound once more. Even when cleaned, the “wrongness” lingered. I didn’t have to try to detect it. Just focusing on it nearly made me gag as a sudden foul taste surged in the back of my mouth. When I did focus on it, I could almost make out a dark, haze coming from it.
Am I developing a type of synesthesia? Or is my mind playing tricks on me?
I needed more data, and I had a way to get more in front of me.
Does this cross any ethical lines? Do I need to tell him about my possible hallucinations?
I couldn’t see a negative impact, and as it was, I had a tenuous rapport with my patient. I reached out a hand. “Let’s start.“
Rægnor placed the potion in my palm. I took it, popping the top. I brought all my mental energies to bear as I applied a drop to the wound. Even with starting as far from the infection as I could, the potion accelerated the infection. The reek that I had eliminated with cleaning the wound returned. Though just a sliver of its original potency, it joined with the bitter taste in the back of my mouth. Even though I was prepared, the combination roiled my stomach, and I had to fight to keep my last meal down.
I blinked once, then twice. Yep, that dark aura around the wound had intensified.
So, probably not a hallucination. Not that it matters right now.
My course of action didn’t change. I funneled more Energy to suppress the potion’s effect on the bacteria. My head and then arm tingled in an increasingly familiar manner as the Energy draw increased. I applied another dab. This time, the potion’s regeneration rate slowed. The wound began to knit, though far more slowly than with Rægnor. Corralling its effect to the Ættarsk tissue consumed too much of my mental bandwidth. I couldn’t empower the potion to speed healing while still suppressing bacterial growth and ensuring proper wound healing.
The mental drain, however, paled in comparison to the profound sense of satisfaction from healing him. I savored this degree of improvement. It didn’t come often enough—or ever. I couldn’t remember the last time it had.
I spent most of my waking hours in the hospital. Most people that I managed needed weeks, sometimes months, to recover. Of course, I had discharged them long before that. Hospitals had become places for acute illness, not recovery. Acute rehab hospitals and skilled nursing filled that role if they couldn’t go home.
I shipped—discharged—so many people to one of those facilities, especially as a neurology resident. Neurologists rarely got the glory. Sometimes we got lucky with tPA or a course of steroids…sometimes. But we didn’t get the big wins like I had during my surgical internship and even my internal medicine residency.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise. I knew that neurologists don’t tend to fix things—at least not the serious illnesses. Still, you didn’t know how much you’d miss something until it was gone. Maybe my attendings doing outpatient neurology had a different view. Their interactions with patients as snapshots over weeks-to-months, not hours-to-days. However, stuck in the hospital, I patched them up enough so that I could get them out the door—whether a lower level of care or home. Dispo was king, and nothing made residents and admins grumpier than a patient stuck on the floor with no disposition. So, as I literally cured—cured!—a severe wound over minutes instead of inching the dial toward full recovery, I couldn’t help but hold on tight to a feeling I had long forgotten.
I didn’t even need that much potion. The amount I had used, though without a doubt generous, had healed the majority of the wound. However, it did leave me in a slight bind. I circled around to address the Ættar.
“I’ll give you an option here. It’s not fully healed, but a single dab would probably be overkill. You can leave it this way, or I can heal it. I don’t know how valuable your potion is to you at this time, but it won’t take much.“
He twisted and flexed his back. He moved as if he still didn’t have an open wound. “This will do.“
“Are you sure?”
He grunted. “Barring any surprises, I’ll be back to normal by the end of the day.”
I raised an eyebrow. Enhanced regeneration? Either way, I would need to develop a better way to judge the doses. “If you say so. But you have to promise me you’ll change the bandages each day. Only reuse them if you boil them.”
“Why?”
Germ theory was beyond them, but a basic understanding of wound care? Was that an unreasonable expectation? Even ancient Egyptians had used methods to reduce infection.
“If you don’t keep them clean, they’ll fester. All wounds should be cleaned with at least water and bandaged with only clean bandages.”
Rægnor picked up on my annoyance. “What you recommend is new to us. The Mother has graced our people with enough [Healers] to take cure of injuries and create potions and other remedies.” He almost spit out the next words. “To go this long with such limited access to [Healers] is…rare. However, it seems to be something that you have much experience with.”
Is something overwhelming the [Healers]? If so, what?
My patient snarled, “Brother, you speak too much.” He glanced at me, lips pressed flat. “Despite the help, he is not kin.”
Since he likely had multiple levels on Rægnor, the conversation went the only direction it could. Rægnor fell silent, and I didn’t push. My patient studied me in the dim light of the tunnel before nodding. “I will remember your care.”
“Of course. Again, keep those bandages clean. I can get new ones if you don’t have any. And wash out any dirt that accumulates in the wound.”
Neither responded as they walked away. I let them go before letting out the cough that had been brewing. It wrecked me when it came. A firestorm in my lungs. With a hand on a wall, I steadied myself as I hacked up a lung.
Unfortunately, there was truth in that euphemism. Red tinged my spittle and sputum. Beaten, drained, and with a searing pain in my lungs, I was a mess. Still, none of that managed to diminish the wide smile on my face. I had healed another person!
I coughed again before taking another sip of potion. Now I just needed to figure out how to heal myself. If not that, I would need to make inroads fast to get the Vísir to cure me before I died from a stupid infection.
Comments
Ruben B
Thank you for the chapter!
