Darragh's mind was jump-started out of shock by the brusque commanding tone and imposing presence of the broad-shouldered surgeon. The numbness and uncertainty that had come after his first taste of battle evaporated, as new responsibilities came to take their place.
Darragh turned to shut the tent flap, only for Silvertongue to step in behind him and close it himself. The fox was missing his trademark hat and his fine doublet, there was a tourniquet around his arm and a far-away look in his eyes. Darragh didn’t like to see the usually high-spirited officer looking so grim, but there was no time to linger on it. Laying Nashirou on one of the few remaining cots, Darragh’s ears twitched as he heard the fox beside him sob, then totally lose it.
The stoat’s whiskers wilted. Under the dirty snow, the congealing blood and the poor visibility outside, he hadn’t even realised it had been Swifttail he’d been helping. He didn’t want to see the fox’s resolve break, for there was a chance he too would collapse.
Empathy can come later. Didn’t you hear? The surgeon wants a diagnosis, and you’re the only one left standing. Looks like you just got promoted, Doctor Harper. Let’s see that bedside manner.
“Easy does it, mate, we’re lookin’ after you,” Darragh murmured, peering into Nashirou’s eyes to check for a response. The stoat clenched his stomach muscles, trying to keep any quaver from his voice. He needed to sound gentle, concerned maybe, but not seriously worried. He began rolling up his sleeves in imitation of Surgeon Barrett.
The patient is conscious, Doctor, but perhaps he’s entered a fugue state. Possibly a sign of Post-Violence Melancholy. You don’t have the facilities to treat it, the nearest decent pub is over a thousand nautical miles away.
Darragh reached out with his mucky, dried-blood paws, only to realise that his state of battle-induced filth was not very Medical. He found a basin of water to wash and splash his face, then wrung out his paws. He reached for Nashirou’s waistcoat buttons, only to find that he was shaking too much, and every time he poked into the poor fox, he heard a piteous whine of agony. Darragh gritted his teeth, ashamed to be causing his patient any more pain. He knew what he had to do, even if all his medical knowledge was coming out of a lurid adventure story written on pulp. He couldn’t see if there were any scissors in the tent, time was precious and everywhere there were bloody bandages, and discarded personal effects of the wounded. No matter, he was not totally unprepared. Pulling his folding knife from his pocket, Darragh flicked it open, and grimaced in apology.
“I’ll stitch ‘em back for you, promise.”
In deft motions, Darragh cut the beautiful silver buttons from Nashirou’s waistcoat, scooping each onto a tray on the nearby table. The buttons for his shirt were next. Blood matted the fox’s handsome marble fur and there was something wrong with the hitched way his chest rose and fall, but Darragh’s face was a mask of detachment. Nashirou needed a proper doctor, but in the absence of the surgeon, the performance of a doctor would have to do.
The patient has severe contusions, extensive lacerations, and a misalignment of his sanguine humor… his what?! What the sodding corks are you talking about?! You're not a doctor! The surgeon told you to find his injury. Well you found it - it's his EVERYTHING that's hurt!
“Ahh, it’s not so bad,” Darragh lied, like the lying stoat he was. “Don’t get too comfy there, the surgeon’ll probably toss us both out.” The liar lied another comforting smile, and patted Nashirou’s paw. “H-How’re you feelin’? Any erm… discomfort y’might want me to raise with Doctor Barrett?”
