“H-here now, the doctor’s put you at the front of the queue,” Darragh joked, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. The searat seemed too shocked after the battle to take much notice. It occurred to Darragh that this patient was a lot younger than he had at first supposed. He must have been perhaps just a few years older than himself, but the prosthetics, and the look in his remaining eye were those of a beast much older, and more world-weary. Darragh wondered if he would ever learn the searat’s name, and perhaps even his story.
There was a moment of anxious quiet in the tent, as Darragh wordlessly bandaged the searat under Doctor Barrett’s supervision. The cacophony outside shrieked and bellowed on, as though the battle itself were a gibbering many-voiced monste. Darragh could not make sense of it. Silvertongue had ordered a full retreat, hadn't he? Patients had been evacuated, supplies either abandoned or destroyed, and every familiar face seemed to have run off. Had somebeast been left behind? As a lowly Deckswab, Darragh had little idea of what had been planned, and had missed much of the drama taking place beyond the tent flap.
Flags draped over bodies sewn into their hammocks. Tents and crates stamped with the Imperial Navy crest burn on the beach. A shrew chieftain wearing a marine’s belt and boots too big for him, his children re-enacting the battle in play. The foebeast is driven back into the sea. In a few seasons time, we’ll just be the villains in a fireside story.
Darragh had to say something, or else he would be overwhelmed. He would collapse to the floor and weep and start babbling half-formed rhymes and sentimentalist imagery, and be of no use as either Poet or Practitioner. The throbbing bump on the back of his head prompted a question for him to focus on. He glanced at Doctor Barrett as he worked, and cleared his throat. “Is… will Kaii- will Mr. Nashirou be alright, Doctor?”
