Expedition The Urk Expedition: How to Save a Fox

FinnianBrightfur

Rating: Deckswab
Surgeon's Mate
Urk Expedition Service Badge
"They put the last stich through the nose? Eughh... ...why do they do that?"

"Battles are chaos, Finn. You think someone's dead, and leave them... only to find they're still breathing an hour later."

"But still! Can't you just... shake them? Why d'you gotta... hurt'm like that?"

"You gotta be sure, Finn. If they're dead, it won't hurt them. The alternative is you risk burying them alive."


"..."

"...I know. Death is a terrible business, isn't it?"

- - -


Finn pulled himself up onto the deck of the Hide, and collapsed onto it in an undignified manner. The familiar smell of the stone scrubbed planks was so pleasant that he gave them a grateful little kiss. The planks seemed to draw his weary body downwards, and Finn found it nearly impossible to stand. Looking out along the makeshift graveyard, Finn watched the crew moving about in somber silence as they laid the fallen in neat little rows, and worked to sew their bodies up in their hammocks.

Barrett had done his best to prepare the young kit to see death. He'd told him what to expect, what it sounded like, what it looked like -- but there was nothing that could prepare you for actually seeing the strong beasts like limp rag dolls with vacant stares. Unsettled that he was laying next to the fallen, Finn pushed himself to his feet, and stood watch while the crew worked the burial rituals.

Captain Talinn was still down in the longboat, waiting to be raised up in a blanket -- and Finn could see the beasts working with the pullies to get him aboard. Mr. Barrett was supervising the process -- and turned to find Finn. "Mr. Brightfur, don't dally!" called Barrett wearily. "Come... fetch the... carry my instruments to the infirmary!"

Finn could tell there was something off with how Arthur called to him, but didn't put much stock in it. "Aye, sir!" he called in response, briskly trotting over to fetch the pine marten's surgical kit. The captain was just being lowered to the deck now, and several strong beasts were grabbing the sides of the blanket to help carry him down to the infirmary.

"Don't worry, Cap'n! We'll get you back in one piece!" he said pleasantly, the tone in his voice betraying how little he knew of the dire situation.

Barrett stumbled along with the crew, face drawn with exhaustion. His left arm clutched over his ribs to stabilize the wound on his shoulder, and his right arm rose, trembling as he braced against the bulkhead. "Set him down on the table! Clear the infirmary" he ordered in a husky voice as he stumbled over to the surgical kit. His paws fumbled with the latch, squandering precious seconds as he flipped the top lid open, exposing the precious medication. The blue bottles stared at him invitingly, but the pine marten tried not to think about them. "Finn... ...fetch a basin of warm water. I need it to... I need warm water, I need fresh towels, warm the captain!" he panted, rather out of breath. "Mr. Harper, cut the captain's clothes... we need to get down to his wounds..."

Finn's stomach dropped as he caught his first real glimpse of the captain. Shrapnel in his forearm, bones grotesquely poking out from his fur, limbs splayed out in unnatural fashion. The foxkit let out a startled cry. "M-Mr. Barrett!"

"Water, Finn! Towels!"

@Talinn Ryalor
@Gyles F. Stowett
@Darragh Harper
 
Gyles knelt before the kit. All around were terrible screams, groans, combative roars of the sorely wounded all mingled in a smoky haze of primal fear. The young one's eyes, ears, and nose were dreadfully split between the ugly scene of the Minister and the unnerving orchestra of a dozen other wretched souls, their pain, their scent of death.

This was not the way.

Gyles found the fox's eyes with his own calm greys. "Look at me, lad. Time is indeed precious." Bigger paws enclosed Finn's, gentle and firm. "So are steady paws. The Devil an' Mr. Talinn are havin' a demmed parlay at Hellgate, an' dash the old thorny fellow if he ain't bein' mighty convincin'. It's our task to talk Mr. Talinn out of it." He need not say what "it" was.
Crossin' the river nobeast comes back over from.

He ruffled the fox's ears. "I know nothin' of finer medicine - but now you do, Mr. Surgeon's Mate. You an' Mr. Barrett know how to talk Mr. Talinn back from the Gates themselves. He's countin' on you, eh. We're all countin' on you."
He shook his head. "That's a lot to ask of anybeast. Beasts bigger an' bolder 'n you 'd have already run screamin', but you ain't. You're here in the thick of it. A true son of the Navy."

Inside, the acting Captain's belly churned with dread, uncertainty- but not a ripple was to be seen on the surface.

Gyles winked reassuringly at the young todd.
"Be steady and sure, sir, an' fetch those towels. Bring the good Minister back from the Devil's doorstep. Save Talinn's life."
 
Darragh could no longer see the infirmary. Wherever he looked, things did not seem quite right. There were foxes and weasels, stoats and rats, pine martens and even one or two wildcats. Some lay clasping bunches of red roses to their chests, loose petals scattering across the floor. Others had their bellies slit open, revealing a garden of black hollyhocks and pink flowering thistles. A fox stumbled and doubled over, a stream of yellow yarrow flowers pouring from his muzzle. For Darragh, the claustrophobic little room was gone. The wooden floor was that of a stage. The walls were a black abyss. And there were eyes in the dark, watching the play unfold. The extras made way, disappearing stage left and right, as strong beasts bore in the body of…

Enter CAPTAIN RYALOR, carried in a blanket.

The stoat playing Darragh wasn’t sure where he was, exactly. Was he on stage in an opera theatre? An opera-ting theatre? Was he in costume? Yes, he was tying a clean white rag around his muzzle, and tying up the strings on his apron. He washed his paws in a basin… or at least pretended to. It was just a play.

The doctor was calling. The pine marten playing Doctor Barrett was in costume too - a beaked mask, from the days that plague had stalked the streets of Bully Harbour. The bird-mask was ringed by black feathers, and its eyes glowed an eerie orange in the bright stage-lights.

There was a touching scene between the other stoat playing Acting Captain Stowett, and the fox kit playing Finnian. Their faces… he blinked. Their faces were just masks. Stowett’s mask was blank and white, neutral, with no expression to its eye holes. Finnian’s was Innocence Shattered, he thought. The face of a beautiful child marred by a shocked expression, and painted tears rolling down its cheeks.

DOCTOR BARRETT

Mr. Harper, cut the captain's clothes... we need to get down to his wounds...​

The stoat took the scissors from the surgeon’s table of tools, and raised them to catch the light, so the audience could see the glint of steel. He wondered if this moment was the good part of this play. The bit in Act III where everybeast cranes their necks forward, hoping to get a nice, gory glimpse of the hero’s insides.

Snip.

Snip.

Snip.

DARRAGH cuts away the straps holding together CAPTAIN RYALOR’s armour. He peels back ruined armour and torn clothes, exposing the fox’s grievous wounds. CHORUS moans in grief and pity.

DARRAGH

Ready, Doctor.

The stoat could almost hear the seats creaking as they, the audience in the dark, collectively sat up and squinted for a better look. As well they should, for the captain’s bouquet of injuries was the most beautiful and tragic of them all.
 
Barrett was filthy -- and for what needed to be done, for the slim chances he was entertaining... he didn't want to do this dirty. Drawing up to a basin, Barrett filled it with warm water from the ship's boiler, and plunged his paws straight into the mix. Red and brown instantly bloomed out of his fur. The warmth was an almost foreign relief to him, but he kept himself from indulging beyond what was necessary. Scrubbing hastily up to his elbows, the pine marten splashed water on his face, and dried himself off with a towel.

As he turned around, he was pleasantly surprised to find Darragh had made quick work of the minister's clothing and armor, leaving him bare on the cot. "Good work, Mr. Harper." Prying a vent open, hot and moist air from the engine room began to fill the infirmary. "Gonna get a little warm in here boys... But we need to keep the minister from catching a chill. He's lost a lot of blood..."

Drawing over to the minister, Arthur surveyed the fox's injuries, thinking aloud as he worked. "Shrapnel in the arm, here... We'll leave that for now, it's plugging the leaks. Mr. Harper, there's some lacerations here at the legs... Get the bandages on nice and tight. I don't want any more blood leaking out. But I don't like the way his legs are..." Arthur's voice trailed off, and he moved down towards the fox's torso.

The surgeon rested his paws on the fox's bare hips, and pressed gently. The crunch was barely audible, but Barrett could feel it through his finger tips. Whatever Barrett found, he did not like it -- and shot Gyles a look of awe. How did Talinn suffer a hip fracture? "Captain Stowett... Sir. There's a long strip of stiff canvas over in that... That..." he huffed wearily, stumbling for words. He pointed at the cabinet, and snapped his fingers in frustration. His mind was starting to fog, and thinking was difficult. "...in there. Please fetch it sir. Loop it around Talinn's waist, and tie it pleasantly snug. His... He has a hip fracture sir. We must stabilize it. Gently now, sirs, gently! The minister must be handled like a cracked egg."

Briskly, Barrett moved back to Talinn's head, and felt gently about his skull, looking for any deformities or bleeding. Fingers deftly felt around the back of his neck to check his spine, and the marten seemed to be more pleased with these findings. Pressing his fingers up into his lips, Barrett peeled them back. The normally pink gums were gray, almost white as his teeth.

His trauma assessment done, Barrett hurried back to his surgical chest, and drew up the golden portion into a syringe. A rogue thought struck him, however. What good would the minister's potions do if there was no blood to circulate it? Talinn was almost a lost cause. He looked hopelessly at the minister -- then to Gyles, to Darragh, and finally to Finn. The poor kit was staring at the Captain's broken body as if he were thousands of leagues away, despite the reassurance from Gyles.

"Come here, Finn... I need to speak with you."
 
Finn was running on pure adrenaline at this point. Barrett had done a good job steeling the young kit to tolerate the sight of grisly injuries, and desensitizing him to cries of pain. In one way, you simply "othered" the beast in your care -- they weren't you. Alone, that would be cruel. However, it was paired with something more significant: boresight on the problem, and figure out how to solve it. Finn was a natural problem solver, and the challenge to help his fellow seabeast filled him with resolve.

More difficult to prepare for, however, was watching someone you care about suffer. Worse yet, not being able to do anything to relieve their suffering. Whatever training Finn had received fled, and the kit sat there frozen, helpless. Finn's gaze at the wounded captain was broken as Gyles stepped in. The normally tidy kit was filthy with grime, dirt, blood, and a trail of tears down the bridge of his face. His nerves were too shattered to cry though, and frightened eyes met Gyles briefly, before anxiously looking away. The captain had surely seen this look before -- a despairing beast that had given up hope.

Though Gyles had meant to reassure him, the effort seemed to have mixed results. Finn tried to pull away, and the ear ruffles seemed almost caustic. A true son of the navy. The genuine compliment was one of the dearest Finn could have received -- but at that moment, Finn was watching his father figure perishing for a second time. Dwelling on filial relations was more than he could bear. But Gyles was right about one thing -- running was out of the question.

Without a word, Finn pulled away from Gyles, and drew near to Talinn's side. Privacy and modesty were things that were forsaken out of necessity in the infirmary -- and Finn dispensed of his own dignity without shame. Leaning down, he burried his head alongside Talinn's on the cot, and did his best to return the hug given to him months ago in the hold -- as much as one could to a beast in such a fragile state. "C'mon..." came a hoarse whisper.

"Finn... Finn. Come here." Prying the kit away from Talinn was not an easy task, but something told him that Barrett wasn't sending him out of the infirmary this time. With only a lingering delay, Finn stood, and came to Arthur. The pine marten looked down at the him hesitantly.

"...the captain has lost a lot of blood, Finn. I don't know if there's much I can do for him, even with the minister's potion. But there is... there's something you might be able to." The pine marten looked hesitantly to Gyles, and then back down to the young todd waiting in anticipation. "There's some research that shows that..." Good heavens, Finn doesn't know what research is... "There's a way for you to give some of your blood to the captain."

The foxkit instantly seemed to know what this entailed, and cowered slightly.

"To the best of our knowledge, this procedure is only effective from the same species, and when the donor is younger. I can't promise it will work, but... it might be the only thing that could give him a chance."

Finn swallowed hard, and hesitated. There really was no other way, was there? He nodded.

"You still remember how to shave?" said Barrett, a wry smile appearing on his face. Finn nodded again as a faltering smile struggled to establish itself. "I need a patch from here to here... nice and wide," he instructed, gesturing an area about the size of a playing card on the inside of his elbow.

Finn nodded again, and set off to the cupboard to fetch the razor.

Turning back to his surgical chest, Barrett braced himself against the wall, and looked down at the array of blue bottles in the top of his surgical chest. He'd put off the potions, unsure of what effect it would have on him... but his thinking was getting more and more foggy. There was only one shot at this, and he couldn't afford to make any mistakes. Picking one of the small vials up, Barrett popped the cork with his thumb, and downed it's contents like a shot at a bar.

Let there be a robust youth, healthy and full of vigorous blood; let there stand by him one exhausted of strength, thin, lean and scarce drawing breath; let the master of the art have silver tubes fitting into one another; let him open an artery of the robust person, insert one tube and secure it; let him immediately open an artery of the sick man and insert the other tube; then let him fit the two tubes together and let the blood of the healthy person leap, hot and vigorous, into the sick man and bring the fountain of life and drive away all weakness.

Libavius, 1615
 
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The stoat in the surgical mask could feel
Moist warm breath condensing upon his brow​
Yet no distraction would his task allow​
As blood-matted wounds he hurried to seal
Praying in murmurs the patient would heal
Though hope to stay Death’s scythe he saw not how​

The bandages dampened with blooming rose
The fox leaked life-essence from ev’ry pore​
Battered and gashed and fractured to the core​
He lay in bloodless shallow-breathed repose
As surgeon and stripling fitted the hose
Hot blood into cold veins a gushing pour​

Tears welled at the belov'd youth’s fortitude
A touch to let him know the stoat was near​
A kind word to assuage the creeping fear​
An extra shot of rum, coffee and food
Ought to reward, and keep Finn’s health renewed!

The least he could wish for a friend so dear​

The terrors lurking within his mind’s eye
Retreated from the cleansing light of hope​
Though flow’ry aesthetics still helped him cope​
And spared him bloody sights with a white lie
The stoat eager to the surgeon comply
And cast the captain a life-saving rope.​
 
Gyles' eyes met Barret's. No hestiation. Grim acknowledgement, nothing more, before he found the length of canvas and began to wind it around the Minister's broken body. In here, in the drowning heat, the screams, blood, bone, and bile, with the scent of death hanging low round the cramped rafter timbers, a ship's sawbones was absolute master and commander. He knew to do what needed to be done and stay out of the way besides.

"A way...to give some of your blood... to the Captain."

For the first time, he paused, transfixed - fascinated? - then resumed just as swiftly tying off his work.

"I can't promise it will work, but..."

Wait. This won't...hurt Young Master Finnian, won't it? He held his tongue. Barrett knew what he was doing. Even Finn knew. The stoat was painfully out of his depth, yet something about the procedure revolted some universal instinct in him. Unnatural. Unnatural - and yet...

"Remember how to shave?"

Great gales above.

What Promethean invention was this, for whose birth he was about to play captive audience? A tethering of souls? A chimaeric union? Would the Minister then be a bit of Finn, and Finn a bit less of Finn? They didn't teach this chyrurgy at Length, that much was certain...

...and yet he couldn't for the life of him look away.

Fascinatin'. 'Ellish fascinatin'. I wonder how he'll - oh.
 
Arthur shuddered reflexively as the medicine began to perfuse through his body. Was... did it have an alcohol base? The pine marten had experience with various sedatives and opiates, and -- no, there wasn't time to think about these things. He'd have to write an account later. His strength was starting to return, and his mind was clearing.

Gyles' questioning look caught his eye, and it spoke volumes to the pine marten. Back in Pyrostoat, there would be layers of meddling bureaucracy and red tape tangling him up in the midst of such a procedure, and the questioning eyes of the administrators would weigh heavily on him. When lives hung in the balance, management would push their way to the scale to begin adding their own paltry factors. The Captain, however, placed nothing on the scales but trust, and reserved his questions and thoughts. Arthur plead to the seasons that the trust was not misplaced.

"The four humors, as you know Captain, are -- phlegm, black bile, yellow bile... and chief among them, blood," said Arthur, his speech markedly less labored. The Captain, of course, was an educated man and likely had an understanding of such things. However, this was said for the benefit of Finnian and Darragh. Gyles was a gentlebeast, and would not be insulted at being the model pupil. The seabeasts would hopefully follow Gyles attention. "The body maintains the humors in delicate balance, and when they are in excess or want, the result is suffering and death."

"Captain Ryalor -- for instance, is dominated by yellow bile. Fire, passion, an indomitable will -- a Choleric temperament. The sanguine balances that with the joy of life, warmth, and courage, and strength. The imbalance of humors was evident to me at the start of this voyage, but now it threatens his life. Good company and a hearty meal do wonders to restore the balance... but Captain Ryalor is in such deficit that extraordinary measures must be taken."
Bending down, Arthur fetched his surgical tool chest, and set it atop a shelf. From a larger compartment, he retrieved a metallic funnel of sorts. Attached to the base was a long flexible tube, and at the neck was a screw.

Drawing another cot near the Minister's bed, Arthur swung the funnel swiftly against the railing, staking the point of the screw into the wood. Several turns affixed the device to the cot. Upon further inspection, a wooden piston handle jutted out away from the cot, accessible to an attendant. Arthur filled the funnel with warm water, and with several strokes of the piston, drew the water into the device until it spilled out the tubing. As he worked, he continued his explanation.

"Should anyone be considered to have an excess of strength, and joy of life -- it should be Mr. Harper and Mr. Brightfur... But the process of transferring humors is... relatively new," he continued, fetching a blanket and a scalpel. "To the best of our understanding, the humors of a fox are incompatible with those of mustelids -- and cause death in short order. Seemingly, our temperaments are meant to reside within our species alone," he added, with a grim smile to Gyles. "And so, we have selected Mr. Brightfur as our prime candidate. We will only take what is necessary. He will be weak for a time, but will recover by evening."

"Mr. Harper, you will brace Mr. Brightfur on the cot. Keep him still -- the humors are precious, and we must not waste them. We have but one attempt, and time is against us as the blood will soon coagulate. And keep him in good company, Mr. Harper -- this is an unpleasant ordeal."


Turning to Gyles, he indicated to the device on the cot. "We will use this to collect Mr. Brightfur's humors. Note carefully the level of the fluid. I have primed the system with freshwater to remove the air. When you see the fluid level rise, stroke the piston, and it will drive the humors into the captain -- but do not continue to pump once the fluid reaches the neck. The water acts as a seal to the system, and air must not enter the pump."

"Meanwhile, I will supervise the procedure from Minister Ryalor's cot. I will ensure the humors are transferred to his veins, and monitor him for signs of life. Mr. Brightfur, if you would please lie down..."
he said, gesturing to the cot.
 
At the start of the voyage, Arthur had been quite severe to him. The smallest mistake was met with yelling, thrown objects, and hours of manning the bilge pumps -- an imbalance of the humors indeed! Barrett was nothing but yellow and black bile! In an attempt to humiliate and discourage the young kit, Arthur had him practice shaving his own fur. It was a necessary skill for any surgeon, and the first year medical students in Length often walked around looking mangy. A cruel practice, perhaps -- but there were several lessons that came along with it.

First and foremost: poor workmanship, a lack of confidence in one's skills, and a trembling paw caused needless pain. It was best to experience nicks with the razor personally, as it served as a larger reminder what your patients would suffer should you be careless. But in addition, a finely kept pelt was the pride of any beast, and there was a certain shame in watching it go. Students must learn to deal with shame -- as caring for your patient entailed more than technical skills. You had to actually care for your patient, and know what it felt like to sacrifice your pride and dignity for something greater.

At any rate, Arthur hadn't expected the kit to take on the challenge. He anticipated that Finn would give up the first time he nicked himself -- but the kit took it all in stride. He was proud to be on the Hide, and even Arthur couldn't break his spirit. With time, the marten softened. Even the crew would notice that after the first week, the amount of yelling from the infirmary decreased markedly. Finn put effort into his education, and Arthur reciprocated.

The result of Arthur's education sat there on the cot, a perfectly neat rectangle of white skin exposed on the inside of his elbow. The moment of pause while he shaved his arm gave him time to reflect on what Arthur was saying, and fear nipped at his heels. While Finn had no concept of bile, any kit his age understood phlegm and blood -- and getting either out of your system was... well. Finn could imagine what was coming, and as Barrett directed him to the cot, fear overtook him.

He trembled as he lay down, eye darting between the scalpel laid out on a towel and the beasts in the room. Everything in him compelled him to flee, but the kit was bound by his word and a debt of gratitude to the captain. And yet, the fear ravaged him. Finn stifled a sob, his jaw clenched tightly as he waited.

"Mr. Harper, it's better if he doesn't watch... Hold him steady, now..."

Finn squinted his eyes shut, and he whimpered pitifully at the sharp prick.
 
Darragh was back in the infirmary. Something had brought the play to an abrupt, premature end. The masks had fallen, the audience had left the theatre. What had happened? Darragh looked down. His paws were holding Finny, gentle but firm. In a stomach-dropping instant, the stoat came face-to-face with the truth, that he was obeying Doctor Barrett’s horrible, inflexible, life-saving orders. He was holding fast a small, frail kit on the cot, so he wouldn’t move as they leeched the blood from his veins. The illusion that had shielded Darragh mentally from the trauma of his situation had collapsed, because he could not delude himself out of his love for dear Finnian, who had become a little brother to him. The stoat had a lot of brothers, which made him certain of what he felt now, looking down on somebeast he cared for suffering under his paws.

For a moment, Darragh was back home in the Harper family’s little terrace house in Marquistry Cape. As he’d gotten older, he had stopped being the one doted over when he was sick, lying in bed with a fever. Instead, he had been the one applying damp rags, changing soiled clothes and sheets, holding small, soft paws in his bigger, more calloused ones. He had watched little faces squirm with pain he couldn’t take away. He had seen the weaker ones go still. Doctors were distant and expensive, proper medicine often substituted with folk remedies, conditions not always as hygienic, warm, or dry as they should be.

Darragh looked into Finny’s young face. Eyes screwed shut, jaw locked, though his muzzle was drawing back into a half-snarl and showing teeth. The past day’s worth of events had shown Darragh plenty of brave acts, but this was perhaps the most unbearable and extraordinary he had seen yet. Fate and biology had decreed that there was nobeast in the room that could have taken this duty in Finny’s place. It didn’t matter that Darragh would have exchanged places in a heartbeat - he couldn’t, and that was that.

Poetry might have been the art that Darragh most loved, but what Finnian needed right now was to be soothed and reassured by something comfortably familiar. There was a rhyme that Darragh’s dad had sung to all of his kits. It didn’t have much of a tune to it, Dad was no singer and his voice was rough and growly, but its gentle nonsense had a calming effect on the Harper kits whenever he sang it. Darragh only needed to recall the first few lyrics for the rest to flow without a second thought.

I saw a peacock, with a fiery tail,
I saw a blazin’ comet, drop down hail,
I saw a cloud, with ivy circlin’ round,
I saw a sturdy oak, creep on the ground,
I saw a black ant, swallow up a whale,
I saw a ragin’ sea, brim full of ale,
I saw a crystal glass, sixteen foot deep,
I saw a well, full of salt tears that weep,
I saw their eyes, all in a flame of fire,
I saw a house, as big as the moon and higher,
I saw the sun, even in the midst of night,
I saw the beast, that saw this wondrous sight…
”*

Darragh’s voice came out low, hoarse and growly, like that of a beast many seasons older, trying to comfort his own kit. There was a lilting, hypnotic pendulum-swing of the rhyme, as the first part of the line was made senseless by the second, over and over.

When he’d grown old enough to pretend knowledge in poetry, Darragh had asked his Dad what the rhyme meant. The brash young stoat was sure there was a neat answer that tied up all the strange clauses, that the poem was a riddle to be solved. Dad had shrugged. Just a bit of nonsense, he’d said. Same nonsense his mother had sung to him, and her father probably sang to her, and so on. The older stoat agreed it probably was a riddle of some kind, but word games were Darragh’s hobby, not his.

Writing it down, it hadn’t taken Darragh long to ‘get it’, to understand the playful trick the rhyme was playing. He had been somewhat disappointed thereafter, as though solving the mystery had destroyed some magical quality it had. It was only now, singing it again to his brave, beloved little brother, that Darragh once again felt that nameless something that had made the sentiment of the rhyme more meaningful than rationally analysing its lyrics.

Doctor Barrett had said it was better if Finny didn’t watch. Darragh was too afraid now to watch himself, so kept his eyes firmly on the kit, monitoring every twitch of discomfort. He looped the rhyme around again, resisting the temptation to improvise his own lyrics and throw off the expected routine. It was not time to make high art of nursery rhyme. He kept his voice steady, and an encouraging smile on his face should the kit peek his eyes open. He brushed a thumb against Finny’s fur, to let him know that even past the official medical duty they had to perform together, Darragh was still there for him, caring for him, walking beside him through the dark trial that Finny had undertaken.

*Anon.
 
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