Open The Docks Blood On Her Paws

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Though it came as some relief that Barrett wasn’t drunk enough to be cantankerous but rather acquiesced to Amnesty’s recommendations, that still left the practicality of getting him there. Being a good head shorter than the vixen he had made a valiant attempt, bolstered by the added support of his tail at times to keep him from tipping backwards, but it was by no means easy. Still, gentlemanly attitudes had been drilled into him since birth and he persisted gamely to support Arthur.

It came as considerable relief to hear that they had reached their destination, only for his long ears and tail to wilt dramatically at the next revelation. “Oh, mercy,” he breathed, chest heaving. Wide red-brown eyes sized up the stairs for a moment, trying to weigh up the risks of even getting the marten upstairs. “Perhaps one of us goes in front and the other behind?” He pulled a face. "Unless we camp out down here and wait, of course."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Well. The trenches had their names for a reason. Bully liked to build vertically. Suppose he should've seen that coming.

It was about that time, Barrett remembered a particularly unfortunate jingle that some marketing executive cobbled together, and paid for various bards and minstrels to sing about town -- and the tune was catchy enough to bore itself into your mind like a little parasite¹. You either laughed, or you cried -- and as they started up the stairs, Barrett chose to sing it (quite drunkenly) at his own expense.

"Oh when they can't climb right up the stairs
Peaceful Meadows Retirement Home,
Peaceful Meadows Retirement Home,
Peaceful Meadows, Retirement Home!
Don't letcher loved one, fall and break a bone!
Peaceful Meaaa-doooows, Re-tiiiire-meeeemt Home!"

Making it up the first flight, the pine marten lumbered along the balcony, and rounded his way towards the second flight of stairs. Tipsy as he may be, Arthur wasn't doing a terrible job with climbing. Pine martens lived for heights! As they crossed the balcony on the second floor, Arthur started the second verse.

"Don't wanna find them, lyin' on the floor
Peaceful Meadows Retirement Home,
Peaceful Meadows Retirement Home,
Peaceful Meadows, Retirement Home!
We'll shovel'm back in to bed for you
At Peaceful Meaaa-doooows, Re-tiiiire-meeeemt Home!"

And of course, by the third floor there was the bridge.

"We'll do their laundry if we must
File taxes and manage the trust.
And our oat bran always gets a solid A!
But if they hit on our head nurse,
We'll wheel 'em outside inside a hearse
At Peaceful Meaaa-doooows, Re-tiiiire-meeeemt Home!"

Barrett was winded now, and needed a moment to collect himself before starting the final set of stairs. Gripping the banister, he announced loudly, "KEY CHANGE!" and started off again.

"When they can't get it up no more,
Peaceful Meadows Retirement Home,
Peaceful Meadows Retirement Home,
Peaceful Meadows, Retirement Home!
We mean the laun-der-ry line of course!
Peaceful Meaaa-doooows, Re-tiiiire-meee--"

Lamentably, just before Arthur arrived at the fourth floor landing, he lost his footing. He tumbled down the flight of stairs, and crashed against the wall in a pile of pine marten. "Ooof! Oww!" Bump, bump, bump, THUD! "Owwh gatesh!"

It was really quite a violent landing. Someone should make sure he was alright.

¹ While the tune was to the old song, "Down By the Riverside", the lyrics were (naturally) credited to Ruffano Quickwhistle.

 

[Liza Fairpaw]

The door to the third floor apartment opened and Liza peered out at the mustelid crumpled in a heap in front of her. The mouse Unsmudgable held a paw to her side. She looked up the staircase and lifted her other paw in a small wave at Amnesty.

"Uh, is he a friend o'yours?" Liza crouched gingerly beside the marten, nose wrinkling at the smell of grog and vomit on him. "You alright, mate?"

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

Curse and consign this night to the festering depths.

Amnesty had followed Arthur up all four flights of stairs, slowly allowing herself to think that her (possibly) ill-advised decision to make sure that the marten was alright was going to turn out just fine after all. Berchar had appeared and offered further help. Arthur had gone with them willingly, and then he had proven himself more physically capable than she had allowed herself to hope.

And then he'd fallen down the bloody stairs. No, she had let him fall down the bloody stairs. What kind of medic did she think she was? Hellgates. She turned a wry glance on Berchar and muttered, "Should've done like you said. Maybe we'd have caught him."

And then she started down the stairs, wincing at Arthur's moaning. At least he was still conscious enough to make noise. She winced again as her neighbor's apartment door opened.

"More an acquaintance. Evening, Liza. Arthur, don't move. If you didn't just break your neck on the way down it'll be a Giftsgiving miracle."

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

It all happened as if in slow motion and yet with such speed that he was far too delayed to react. Horrified, Berhchar momentarily clapped paws to his muzzle as the unfortunate marten took a tumble, the long hairs on the end of his tail comically puffed in alarm – though there was little amusing to him about the situation.

Much akin to Amnesty, the jerboa initially chastised himself for failing to catch Arthur before his topple – your training taught you better, Berchar. Still, self-pity would not help here. In spite of such self-criticism his reply to the vixen was automatic: “considering his size, I…rather think we’d only have become collateral damage.” Well, he certainly would have been.

Initially startled by the opening of a door, the artist-turned-medic stared wide-eyed at the mouse for a moment, guilt stamped on his countenance before he hopped closer to join the pair where they attended to Barrett. Poor beast: what a way to end a night, and ‘Gates only knew what had pushed him to this state to begin with. He gave Liza a polite nod before frowning at Arthur, studying his face in the fading light. Amnesty’s recommendations were sound and he was content to let her take charge, focused on taking note of how well Arthur could hear and respond.

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Barrett didn't want to answer questions. He didn't want help. He didn't want to be shipped away to a tiny little retirement home. He just wanted to garden. By himself. Alone. Forever.

Regrettably, his life choices had led him to this awful moment. He lay there numbly on the floor of the third story, too ashamed to meet the gaze of the startled beasts around him.

His head drunkenly lolled over to Liza, and he pinched his eyebrows together. "They're good beashts. Bershar, and... ...and... Amnesty. Wouldjoo... wouldjoo tell'm that? Ish true. I... Shorry, I din' mean to innerupt yer dinner," he rambled, voice breaking with emotion as he thought of the dear beasts he was troubling so.

"Ahm... Ahm alrigh'..." he groaned, sitting up against the vixen's advice. (Thankfully, he had mostly gone down the stairs on his tail. It was only at the bottom he tumbled.)

Drunk and numb as he was, there was a certain pain that even the drugs in his system couldn't suppress. The marten hissed, and arched his back as if he'd been stung by a jellyfish. "Ohh... oh gatesh..." he wibbled, timidly reaching a paw around his back as if he were trying to scratch an itch. "Dish ish gonna need a LAHT of tea..."

 

[Liza Fairpaw]

Liza sighed. She had hoped for a quiet evening, but it seemed such was her lot that rest would have to wait. Looking with some concern at where the marten was reaching around to scratch, she saw a small bit of blood on his shirt, the patch very slowly increasing in size.

"Mate, you're bleedin'." The off-duty Unsmudgable opened her door wider. "Here, Amnesty, how 'bout instead of tryin' to get him back up the stairs, bring 'im in here for now. I've got a couch he can settle on. It's no trouble, really." She glanced down at her side, which she still held with a pained expression. "Though, on doctor's orders, I can't be luggin' a big ol' beast like 'im around, so you an', what was it--Bershar?--might have to get 'im inside."

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

"You're a saint, Liza. I'll make this up to you, I swear." The vixen spared a look at her apparent patient and swore between her teeth. "Hellsteeth. Once we get him inside we'll need to strip him and make sure nothing's about to kill him before he has a chance to sober up."

What was it her teacher had said? 'Just because a beast is drunk doesn't meant he doesn't have something else going on.' Why, why did Arthur have to offer living proof of the rule tonight?

"Berchar, you ready to give this one more go?"

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Oh, the poor fellow: whatever had pushed him so? Tempting though it would have been to pursue questions as to the marten’s drinking, tonight was certainly not the night for it, especially in light of Liza’s observations. Bleeding? Arthur was going to have quite a sore morning.

Initially Berchar had hesitated to correct his name, torn between distraction and his customary struggle with self-advocacy. Fortunately Amnesty addressed him again, though any relief on that front was soon replaced by the growing unease at the task ahead. Oof; good thing he’d inherited his father's strong back, though the man had used it for little.

Heaving a sigh, the jerboa rolled up his sleeves and rubbed paws together. “Ready as I’ll ever be, ma’am. Shall we?” Glancing to the mouse who had been so kind, he offered a smile, strained though it was under the circumstances. “If you’d be so kind as to keep the door held open. Now, uhm…” he looked to Amnesty, “Which end do you want to take?”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

"Hellsteeth. Once we get him inside we'll need to strip him and make sure nothing's about to kill him before he has a chance to sober up."

“If you’d be so kind as to keep the door held open. Now, uhm…” he looked to Amnesty, “Which end do you want to take?”

Arthur set his head in his paws in shame. The world spun, and for a moment, he was glad he'd thrown up while he was on the docks. But a small part of him wished he had just fallen in, and sank to the bottom of Bully. At this rate, word would make it back to Gyles, and that would be it.

Arthur was startled to find himself being rolled onto a blanket. He must have lost focus, he didn't remember them deciding to... and with a short count of three, he was hauled a few inches in the air, carefully being transported inside the nearest apartment. A big old crocodile tear of self pity rolled down his face, and he quickly smeared it away with a paw. "Awh jesh... Put me in a wheelbar' an' dump me in the shtreet..." he sobbed.

The bloody spot on his shoulder was the size of a glider when they started, but by the time they got him into the apartment, it had doubled in width. His shirt clung to his frame, the saturated area marking where the wound was. Timidly, Arthur fumbled with his collar, popping free the stiffest button. The rest should come free with ease. "Gatesh I... I'm sho... shorry... Ah ruin's yer... Yer blanket..."

With some effort (and perhaps a little assistance), the marten was able to peel his shirt off. The marten was a surprisingly fit beast for someone his age, though perhaps that was owing more to losing some pounds on the expedition. Still, he'd managed to retain a decent amount of muscle tone into his -- oh oh, yes! The shoulder.

On his back was an ugly wound. Not a clean cut by any measure. It started high up on the top of his shoulder, and tore down across his back between his shoulder blades -- just under eight inches in length. The fur in the area had been shaven perhaps a month ago, and someone had sewn him up rather clumsily. At least five... no, six of the sutures had torn out. Without the garment to soak things up, a rivulet of blood began to trickle down his fur.

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

"Now, uhm…” Berchar looked to Amnesty, “Which end do you want to take?”

Amnesty looked from the jerboa to the hulking marten and back to the jerboa. "I'll take his shoulders if you can grab his legs..." she trailed off as she caught sight of the oozing red patch on the big mustelid's shoulder. "Or, same plan, but we put him on a blanket first. Might be a little easier on him. And us."

Whether it was easier on their patient or not, the bleeding was worse by the time they got inside. And despite attempts to dissuade him from too much movement, he wriggled his way out of his shirt to reveal the wound beneath. Despite herself, Amnesty sucked in a sharp breath. It was a brutal injury. Old enough that she doubted it was going to kill him outright as he lay in Liza's apartment, that was still an ugly amount of blood. A closer glance gave the reason. Perhaps if the original sutures had been done more skillfully. And how long had they been in? There was no way that wasn't going to turn into a terrible scar.

"Arthur," Amnesty began, her voice, she hoped, firm enough to pull his attention while still remaining gentle. Or gentle enough. "Arthur, when did this happen?"

Not that it was going to change what needed to be done.

"Liza, do you have any clean rags? Something we can use to hold pressure until I can get this sewn up again? 'Gates. Berchar, I need things from my room. Keep him still until I get back? And see if you can find out what happened?"

With that, the white fox was gone, out the door and up the stairs to her own apartment. She still had her kit, the one with needles and clean gut and bandages and... all the things that she'd used to patch wounded beasts back together. And her herbs which might, if Arthur was very, very lucky, help stave off infection.

 

[Liza Fairpaw]

Having already donated her couch to the cause, it was not difficult for the mouse to also offer a blanket in which to carry the marten into her apartment. Then she was asked for clean rags. And of course she had those, given that she was still in the mid stages of recovery from her own grievous wound, which necessitated regular cleaning and dressing changes to keep from infection.

"'Gates, mate, that's a nasty cut you got there," she commented before she went to her bedroom where she kept her box of medical supplies. Carefully lugging the box out, she slid it next to Berchar and opened it. "Should have some o'what you need in there. Rags an' some antiseptic, even some gauze for wrappin' if y'need it. I can get more from th' Smudgies tomorrow, so don' worry if y'have to use most o' it."

Wincing, she settled down to the ground beside the couch, leaning her back against it as she held her side. "Sorry, jus' gotta sit a bit. Got my own big ol' wound t'look after, too."

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

He was not built for lifting. Still puffing and panting from the effort of helping bring Arthur indoors (he had half been holding his breath out of fear of offending the poor fellow, which inevitably only made matters worse) Berchar stretched his back and cast his gaze over the marten as Amnesty drew attention to his wound. Whiskers twitched and, almost at once, there was a further shift in temperament. He needed to focus.

Aches forgotten for the time being, it was routine enough to follow orders and found himself responding automatically. With a nod of understanding to Amnesty he moved to settle himself nearer the marten’s head, both to get a closer look at the wound and for easier restraint should the unfortunate beast try and start moving. The jerboa’s long tail coiled and tucked neatly beneath himself, providing at once a sort of impromptu seat of sorts from which to work over the taller beast. What a rough job they’ve made of stitching this up: terrible job; would never have passed at school.

“Oh! Thank you so much,” Berchar replied gratefully, taking supplies from Liza and preparing them as he spoke. One paw firmly pressed clean rags to the wound, the other sorting through for the antiseptic before returning to maintain pressure. “We’ll need to keep a firm press on the wound and clean it up for Amnesty to stitch. Hold on, did you say Smudgie? As in the Unsmud-” He caught his own excitement before it could blossom, registering discomfort on the mouse’s face before she explained. Poor thing, to have this chaos brought upon her head if she was already in recovery. “I’m sorry to hear that. Well, good thing there’s more than one medic here. After Arthur here’s patched up would you like one of us to check your wound? Speaking of…”

Leaning over the marten a little more as deft paws maintained firm pressure, he studied the surgeon’s face as he spoke, looking for indications of engagement and pain. The last thing they needed was the poor soul falling unconscious. You’ve got all the fun of sutures yet to come, we can’t have you miss that. “Arthur? Arthur, that’s quite the impressive scar you’re going to have – what sort of scrape did you manage to get yourself into for this and why’d you let a blind gull have a go at fixing it up?” There, that should get his attention.

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Berchar wasn't built for carrying, but Arthur wasn't built for being carried! And yet, here he was!

His eyes shamefully avoided contact with Amnesty as she spoke to him, his ears burning with a hot shade of embarrassment. Or was it from the liquor in his system? The laudanum? The fall? Whatever the case, the prideful marten couldn't bring himself to speak until she left. Liza was just outside of his small little bubble -- but her affiliation rung out clear like a bell.

"Shmugabibble?" he muttered to himself.

“Arthur? Arthur, that’s quite the impressive scar you’re going to have – what sort of scrape did you manage to get yourself into for this and why’d you let a blind gull have a go at fixing it up?” There, that should get his attention.

The marten didn't feel much pain at this point -- and he patiently let Berchar tended to his wound. The antiseptic drew a small grunt of discomfort from him, and he held his breath for a moment until the sting subsided. As if the jerboa had asked him a different question, Arthur leaned over and put his head in his paws. "Gatesh... look a--(hic) look at me Bershar..." he moped quietly. Wiping at his eyes, he let out a shakey sigh. "They were righ'..."

Drawing in a breath, he tried to hold onto his final shred of decency. "Where to shtart? They... the put me on th' Gold'n Hide. Was their shurgeon. We got hit by a barrage of arrowsh. Wash... high ashpeckt. Jusht grazhed me. F-four weeksh? Three? Jusht had... someone make a go of it. The shtitchesh I mean. Ish it bad?"

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

It hadn't taken Amnesty more than seconds to bolt up the stairs, grab the needed things, and then to bolt back down to Liza's apartment, shutting the door behind her, and the fox arrived in time to hear Arthur's explanation. Her ears flicked back in a momentary nervous expression. A surgeon. He had more training than she had ever considered obtaining, then. Yet the wave of self-conscious anxiety ebbed away as quickly as it had come. He might be a surgeon, but she was confident she could put better stitches in place than the ones that had been ripped out.

She was ever so slightly out of breath as she responded. "It's not good, but I've seen worse. Though it's fair to say you're going to have a bit of a scar."

As Berchar finished tending the wound, Amnesty's paws found the needle and appropriate thread. Her voice was gentle, even apologetic when she spoke again. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I think you already know this is going to hurt like 'Gates. Berchar, let me know when you're ready?"

And there was Liza, sitting on ground beside the couch looking rough herself. "Once I'm done with him, Liza, do you need somebeast to look at your wound, too?"

 

[Liza Fairpaw]

Liza craned her neck around to see the wound on the marten's back, wincing empathetically. She did not envy him what came next in that process to treat the re-opened laceration. She waved off the offers from the earnest medically-oriented beasts to check her own injury.

"Jus' had me mate Rory look at it not an hour ago an' help me with the dressin' change. He's a Longblade, so he knows a bit o'what he's doing, more'n a Rangeblade like me, at least." The mouse lifted her shirt to show the neat dressing on the right side of her midsection. "Took a bit o'pipe organ clean through my middle durin' that explosion at the Opera House. At least it was one o'the higher notes. Probably wouldn' be here if it was a low C." She chuckled, shaking her head. "It's healin' up better than Berchar's back, seems like."

She looked between the trio, her brow lifted in question. "How d'you lot all know each other?"

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Whiskers atwitch as he cleaned and prepped the wound for Amnesty to take care of, Berchar’s gaze lingered once more upon the ragged injury whilst the explanation unfolded as to how the unfortunate marten had come by it to begin with. There was little suppressing the anxious flick of his bushy tailtip, folded though it was between his footpaws, to think of working aboard a ship. Surgeon of the Hide: Arthur had either proven very impressive or very unfortunate. Likely both.

Barrage of arrows. His stomach turned at the thought, quick to suppress unbidden memories with another firm press of the rag. Fuzzy memories clicked; of articles in the Smelt recently skimmed between shifts at a bar and drawing portraits, of the Hide having returned from some adventure or other. Admittedly, he had not stopped to read into much when it came to Naval matters nor really delved into the scope of their expedition. What ignorance that proved now.

If that hadn’t sounded traumatic enough an injury, Liza’s story rendered the jerboa momentarily open-mouthed. He had heard about the events at the Opera House – that had been news no beast in the Harbour could avoid – but what she had experienced sounded especially horrific. “Oh goodness. That must have been quite the injury, and you’re up and about so soon! You must be incredibly fit- I mean – considering – well not considering anything, just-‘Gates…” He flailed to try and recover, stammering something only vaguely resembling coherence before admitting defeat with a cough. Eartips pinker than before, he nodded to Amnesty as he scooted backwards. “Ahem- you can start your work. I, uhm, just met Amnesty tonight helping Arthur here. Me and him have a shared profession, though from the sounds of it he's been in more business than me, of late.” More business? you mean any business aside from helping that pine marten out.

A distraction was what he needed, and Arthur proved the perfect scapegoat: after all, even if the topic of conversation turned dour it would provide some small distraction from the stitches. “...Who was right about what, Arthur?”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

While most mustelids weren't blessed with the ability to point their ears -- pine martens were. They might not have all the expressiveness of a canine, but Arthur's were laid low. He could hear the beasts talking behind him, but focusing was becoming more and more difficult. Sentences were more of an idea than anything else.

Liza would get a curious glance. It was hard to miss hearing about the opera house. He hadn't exactly received an invitation, but such events weren't his style on good days. Arthur had considered showing up at Pyrostoat as a volunteer, but lacked the willpower to drive himself to the hospital. Seeing her injury gave him a pang of guilt. An impalement? She's lucky to be alive. I should have been there. But then again... ...they saved her. Guess they're just fine without me... Woulda just made it worse.

Arthur could feel Berchar's paw on his shoulder. Despite the dulled sting, it provided a measure of comfort. He did care, he really did. But at the jerboa's question, he swallowed and looked away. "All of 'm..." he mumbled. Bitter, miserable cur.

Sitting may have been a slightly more dignified position for treatment, but Arthur could feel the alcohol's grip strengthening moment by moment. Like a dibbun that'd stayed up past bed time, he laid down on the floor and covered his face with a paw. "Y'all... ...y'all are won'erful beashts..." he huffed, with a humble drunken gratitude. Gates... everything felt so heavy. The floor felt so nice.

There was a brief arrangement between the jerboa and the vixen. Amnesty seemed ready to start the stitches. Painful as they were, he was rather heavily sedated at the moment. It should at least take the edge off. His shoulders lifted as he took a breath to prepare himself, waiting for the impending sting.