herbs-and-poultices

[herbs-and-poultices]

A character, unaware of another's injuries, only finds out when they touch them and the other character flinches and cries out in pain, much to the first character's shocked dismay and concern.

[herbs-and-poultices]

after this, or a little bit in the midst of it, from a different angle...

-

"Merrim?"

it felt like nighttime, now; perhaps it was the chill of the close stale air of the room that told her, or perhaps just the dizzying intensity of her fever. she heard footsteps by the door, strange ones, and forced her eyes open, the faint lamplight setting the ache in her head throbbing again.

"it's all right," Kev was saying, softly, his hand resting on hers, "she's a friend."

a friend, or at least not an enemy. a girl in a faded dress and apron, carrying a basin, looking cautiously from Kev to Alan to her and back. this was not, likely, a trick of Rhyes or any of his folk - they didn't have the look of meek confusion down very well.

Kev must have talked to someone here at the inn. Kev must have -

"we can't stay," she managed to get through her dry throat, and swallowed futilely, her mouth sticky. "we can't - "

"you're not going anywhere," said Alan, from his guard post by the door, "we'll figure it out."

that was what Alan always said, and see where that had got them all. the light burned her eyes, just as the rough cloth of the blankets seemed to burn at her skin. everything seemed to be made of pain these days, all sensation jumbled up alarmingly, the only clarity the sharp agony of the wound in her shoulder, a lodestar both waking and sleeping.

"then leave me and go, idiots."

(she'd said that from the start. from when Kev had dragged her out the back door of the manor into the alleyway, his hands bloody crimson and his face gone all paper-white.)

"because if he - " the effort of breathing must have been a little too much, that time, her throat closing with the sudden spike of pain tearing through her, cutting off her words.

she couldn't take any more blades for them. couldn't save them any longer. nothing left but vengeance and the inevitable -

"shh," said Kev, "shh, let's wait till morning." and then, "let's get the bandages changed, all right?"

-

somehow every time they changed the bandages it hurt more, not less. it seemed that Kev knew that, because he was saying sorry over and over again, voice barely to be heard over the roaring in her ears, and it should have been me - which Merrim tried to scold him for, with the bare remnants of breath she could spare, until her throat ached too much from holding the cries back and she gave in to the pain at last. the girl - Talya - she was holding her hand, somehow, and having something else to focus her consciousness on helped a little, trying to send her mind into her senses, the brush of chapped fingertips and work-dull nails.

and it was probably a bad sign, this, how much it hurt, shaking loose the whimpers she'd managed to keep still for so long. but she had known since the beginning, since Rhyes's dagger had flashed in the lamplight that night and she'd shoved Kev aside with all her strength; she had known this wouldn't end well, or easily.

the salve stung, and then numbed, mercifully. she measured out her breaths between her teeth as Kev wrapped the fresh bandages, and opened her eyes again, to see the little servant's quietly worried face and Kev's grief-wracked one above her.

they gave her water, afterwards, and that helped a bit with the headache and the dusty taste of her mouth. water with something else in it, from the sharply herbal aftertaste, but she drank it thirstily anyway as Kev tilted the cup to her lips.

"if we - do leave," said Alan, by the door. "if we can't stay - "

"don't talk about it," Kev spat back, in a low voice over his shoulder. "we'll leave in the morning. maybe - maybe we can buy a pony, or something, so she won't have to walk any more."

something of a comfort to hear them planning, at least. even if she wasn't sure she could stay upright on a horse, and the thought of sitting through the jolting stride of one was an even worse idea. she took another breath, carefully, and let it out; whatever she'd drunk was making her head hazier than normal, which also felt like a weary mercy by now.

she blinked; the light was unsteady on the ceiling above. she thought maybe she could sleep, now, properly, to the sound of their soft voices murmuring not far from her, the two she knew and the young stranger's. maybe if she slept, she'd feel better in the morning, and the shivers of fever would let go of her by daylight. and then nobody would have to stay in danger any longer for her, and... and she would have saved them, like she had been trying to all this time...

all a dream, she knew, even now. but it was worth dreaming a little, now and again.

[herbs-and-poultices]

Sorry for being a bit late!

Anyway... favorite whump tropes?

-- @whumperofworlds

One I've been really appreciating lately is the hazy, drifty, fragmented awareness of a character who is barely clinging to consciousness or drifting in and out (due to pain, blood loss, fever, sheer exhaustion, a combination of the above).

[herbs-and-poultices]

A character wakes up after their ordeal; safe and stable but so utterly spent, they can’t manage to open their eyes more than half-mast as they flutter open. The others are nevertheless overjoyed and relieved to see a glint of finally-lucid eyes through their lashes before they droop exhaustedly closed once more.

[herbs-and-poultices]

Feeling very social today haha.

If anyone wants a whumpy related ask, feel free to reblog this (reblogs mostly because side blogs and I can't tell who's who at times LOL)

[herbs-and-poultices]

An injured character vastly overestimating their ability when asked whether they can stand, only to have their knees buckle/come over dizzy and faint/bad leg give out/be overwhelmed with pain upon attempting to do so and instead collapse back down into their companion's arms.

[herbs-and-poultices]

This has probably been said before, but it's worth saying again: Friends/companions just, like, hanging out with the injured / recently ill one while they recover.

Not explicitly "taking care" of them or "cheering them up", just being together because that's what comes naturally.

Sitting around their bed, playing cards or dice together, swapping stories / songs / tunes, chatting over warm mulled drinks, sharing a meal of something better than their recent broth-tea-and-porridge fare.

[herbs-and-poultices]

I totally agree! We get a range of wintry weather where I have lived/studied, I've regularly been out in winter temperatures of clear bone-dry 5F (-15C) and gray blowy sleety 35F (2C). I would take the former any day. For me the coldest-feeling temperatures are 25 to 40F (-4 to +4C), for precisely this reason.

You can dress for dry cold. You can warm up from dry cold. But when it's "warm" enough to be damp? Good luck.

i'm polish and today my british friend said to me "you don't know what our cold is like. it's always wet and windy and it goes straight through you. if you touch anything - you're wet, and you can't get warm for hours. [in poland] you're fine as long as you get wrapped up. i can't even do that" like oh my god. my condolences. but also... SUCH writing inspo

stop this is INCREDIBLE

and i 100% agree—wet cold always feels 1000x worse because the damp chill gets in your bones and is so hard to shake 🥶 i have vivid memories of shivering for hours on cold rainy days in college when i could just NOT get warm

also i googled this and apparently the dampness makes heat loss “more efficient” which is why you feel this way!

[herbs-and-poultices]

H/c aesthetic: makeshift bedding.

The little group has found someplace to stop for a bit. They hurry to strip off their coaks and coats and spread them on the ground one atop the other, then they very gently lay their injured companion down.

[herbs-and-poultices]

An character is injured, or an injury is suddenly jarred, and their hands fly to the site of injury, grasping at the spot as though to contain the pain, as though the pressure could compress it back into where it sprang from- their initial instinct is to clutch at their hurt and the sustained pressure overrides the first sharp stab of pain from the injury.

[herbs-and-poultices]

A character, weak after an ordeal of illness or injury or exhaustion, managing to get themselves more-or-less sitting up but visibly trembling with the effort of remaining upright, every muscle engaged in the feat and quivering as though with the exertion of supporting a tremendous weight, stubbornness about the only thing keeping the weakened character from immediately collapsing.

[herbs-and-poultices]

Riding double- one character afoot or thrown or unable to keep their seat through exhaustion or injury and their companion of necessity taking them up on their own horse; passenger riding behind, arms clutched tight around their saviour's waist or steadily loosing their grip and leaning ever more heavily against their back; or wedged in front between companion and saddle bow, rider's arms encircling them to reach the reins and the ailing character lolling unsteadily with the horse's gait; the struggle to get both up and into the saddle and to dismount, without either one falling and the rescued character being of little assistance theirself.

[herbs-and-poultices]

Stoic whumpee breathing harshly in pain, clutching Caretaker’s hand. Hard. So hard that Caretaker has to carefully wrestle Whumpee’s fingers open to reposition their hand so it doesn’t get broken, all the while whispering encouragement under Whumpee’s groans and cries.

[herbs-and-poultices]

An injured character discovered at the break of day collapsed under a tree where they've obviously lain all night, the heavy dew laying cold and damp over them as well as beading the grass wherein they lie; seeping into every seam of their clothing, leeching the animal warmth from them, and lending a clamminess to the fever-heat that eminates from their brow.

[herbs-and-poultices]

A character hovers their hands over their companion's badly contorted limb, clearly broken- and given how far backcountry they are, left with no choice but to set it- and hesitates, then locks eyes with their companion who’s gazing up at them with utter trust even through the pain that pinches tight at the edges of their lips and that’s all the character needs to nod and set their hands firmly, gently to the broken limb...

[herbs-and-poultices]

A character, resting after their ordeal, is halfway roused by some small offer of comfort- a companion adding another blanket to their covers; adjusting their pillows or the awkward angle they've fallen asleep in; removing shoes of another garment ill-suited for sleeping in; dimming the lights/closing the door just ajar/quieting anything making noise to create a more conducive sleeping environment; stoking a fire or stove; depositing a cat or stuffed animal to cuddle- in a way that blends almost dreamlike into their mostly-asleep state with just the warm impression of care and safety it brings.

[herbs-and-poultices]

she'd guessed from the start that the three of them weren't all leaving the inn the next morning. she'd seen them arrive, the two in their rain-spattered cloaks supporting the third of their group between them, hood pulled low, and harsh breathing the only thing she'd heard from them as they passed her on the way to the counter. just a glimpse of a sallow, pain-drawn face as they'd paid the innkeeper and made their slow mutual way up the creaky staircase - and then she'd had to run because the table by the window needed another round of drinks.

she'd offered, to the man who came back downstairs later, his unshaven and bruised face harried: "you lot all right? you were looking a little rough just now, do you need anything?"

he hadn't seemed to expect an inquiry from the lowest-ranking barmaid, and startled a moment, but then answered easily enough. "is there any healer in this town?"

"just Brant, he's the apothecary. little place under the giant oak tree by the cornfield. his door is shut for the night but you can go find him tomorrow if you need." it hadn't used to be just that, but town was a generous descriptor for whatever was going on in their clearing between the riverbend and the roadside. if you didn't work at the inn, or had your older brother or dad working at the inn, there wasn't much reason to stay around.

the man shifted from foot to foot, glancing around the crowded room. "we... met with some troublesome people on the way here. nobody likely to bother any of you good folk, of course, or in a place with others around. but..."

he must have observed her skeptical look, because he sighed, then, and when he spoke again his voice was softer still, as weary as his eyes.

"a stab wound from an associate of mine, three days ago. we had a disagreement and she got between us. it's the ... kind of thing she does."

there was a sorrow hanging all about his words that he didn't seem about to spill to a strange barmaid, and she didn't blame him for that, but she couldn't leave him alone in it either. she re-settled the tray in her aching arms. "if you need to, you can wake up Brant," she said. "he's had it happen before."

he didn't answer, but nodded, and turned to the door and the rainy night outside.

-

she didn't see them again until half-past ten o'clock, after the last of the supper dishes were washed and the only folk at the tables were the stragglers who'd probably fall asleep there anyway. Cook had given her leave for the night and Mari and Joan were off to their homes and families, and so there was nothing between her and her closet and sleeping cot besides her own meddlesome curiosity and strange pity.

still, she'd lingered in the hallway, and seen the door open, and the man from before and one of his friends (now drier than before but equally as unkempt as his companion) step out and close it softly behind them. his friend had a basin of water in his hands, and a bundle under his arm.

" - see in the morning," he was saying, and then, "Rhyes doesn't forget things like this."

"she won't be able to travel," said his friend, "that's clear enough - "

"did you find Brant, sir?" she said, maybe too suddenly because it made him jump, but they'd have to go past her to get to the stairs anyway.

"I did. thank you - " he paused.

"Talya, sir."

"Talya. yes."

and then, because they were both watching her with the distinct expression of people who desperately needed something to go well in their lives right then - "any way I can help?"

-

there were ways to help, it seemed. hot water, and rags, and another blanket. they let Talya in when she returned, perhaps a quarter of an hour later, their soft voices falling to silence at her knock.

they didn't seem to want to give her their names, those two men, and the hunted look in their eyes had only seemed to intensify over the hours. but she heard one of them murmur Merrim over the motionless figure on the bed, and saw her eyelids flicker open in response - wide muddled pale eyes unfocused in the lamplight, sliding from face to shadowed ceiling to closing door.

"it's all right," the man said, "she's a friend."

it gave Talya an obscure feeling of delight to be called a friend, nicer than hey you there or girl or whatever else. she set down the fresh basin of water on the three-legged table and undid the bundle of blanket and rags.

from the bed, the woman's gaze followed her, sweat-matted brown hair tousled around a fever-flushed face. she'd curled one hand around the man's hand where he knelt by her, and the other arm hidden under the blanket, bloodied bandages just barely visible at the shoulder.

"we can't stay." her voice was hoarse. "we can't - "

"you're not going anywhere," said the other man, from where he sat cross-legged by the door. "we'll figure it out."

"then - leave me and go - idiots," she said, with the air of someone who'd said it several times before, her eyes slipping shut again. "because if he - "

"shh, shh, let's wait till morning." the man rubbed a thumb across the back of her hand, then clambered up. "let's get the bandages changed, all right?"

there were a lot of layers of dirty, blood-clotted bandage to remove, and Talya helped, since one of the two men seemed intent on keeping watch by the closed door and startling at every footstep in the hallway instead. Merrim seemed to be asleep at first, but now and again the clench of the corners of her mouth, the shivery tensing and release of her body, betrayed the pain of it. the bitter, herbal scent of the balm they'd gotten from the apothecary didn't quite mask the stink of blood and a poorly-healing wound.

"I'm sorry," the man would whisper, now and again, and then, "should've been me."

"numbskull," said Merrim, barely to be heard, but with a twitch of her lips towards something like a smile.

cleaning the deep, messy stab-wound just beneath the hollow of her right shoulder made her cry out, though, in small sharp whimpers that made Talya cringe to hear. the man by the door would jump as well, glancing towards the door with each cry.

"do you think someone's after you - here?" Talya had to ask, in a momentary spurt of company loyalty and practicality. the innkeeper liked to know things like that.

"not yet," said one of the men, and "maybe," the other, almost on top of his companion.

well - no use asking that again. Talya had only to settle down by the bed, and in a sudden instinct reached out to stroke the back of Merrim's clenched fist, among the rumpled covers.

"you can sleep here tonight, anyway," she said, inanely, but perhaps the woman heard her; anyway, her fingers fluttered a little, and grasped at Talya's, sweat-slippery and desperate.

better to put off decision-making for a bit, maybe.