#like also. this is 20 pages in word. its 6470 words. its a long post so. if you hit 'keep reading' on accident just reload the page or smth

[waywardsalt]

uhhhhh a bit ago for a class i had to write a short story and then i wrote 20 pages in like three weeks which i havent done in forever. and i like it too so. heres what i would consider the 'final' fully edited version of that short story

Miséricorde

(Includes brief animal death and self-harm)

                Misericorde, misericorde. A sleek dagger with a long, slim blade. The weapon of a mercy killer, secured firmly to the traveling surgeon’s belt.

The surgeon held tight onto the misericorde’s polished hilt, gazing into the passing trees as she walked. With night soon falling, a place to set up camp was sorely needed. Collecting water was also appealing— a lake or a river would be nice. She’d been on the road for hours.

The surgeon sighed to herself. She started going through the pouches at her belt. Vials, her jar, her tools… She straightened up as she heard the distant creaking of wheels. She began to jog back the way she came and spotted a carriage pulled by a pair of large horses. Likely a merchant company, she realized, seeing crates in two of the three carriages following the first.

The leading carriage neared her, and the surgeon raised an arm and shouted, “Hoy there!”

The coachman jerked his head up and tugged the horses to a slow stop. She strode over, giving a short bow. “Apologies for any inconvenience, sir. Are you the leader of this…”

She trailed off, and the coachman, a gruff-looking man with tanned skin and a bushy beard, said, “Caravan. We’re a caravan, miss. Travelin’ merchants. What d’ya need?”

The surgeon clasped her hands behind her back. “Nothing urgent, sir, I merely just wish to ask if I may join your company for a time.”

“Ah, well.” The coachman slid off the bench and onto the ground to stand before her- he stood just a few inches shorter than her. “’m sure he’ll wanna know why we stopped…” He looked sheepish, then eyed the surgeon suspiciously. “Who’re you? ‘m name’s Kestral.”

“A traveling doctor, heading from town to town to aid any in need,” she briskly explained.

A man hurried over; Kestral stepped aside as an older man with close-cropped hair and a stern face reached them and peered at the surgeon. He narrowed his eyes at her, then at Kestral, who shrugged. “She says she’s a doctor, askin’ to travel w’ us.”

“I’m Elric,” the man simply said to the surgeon. “You certainly look the part of a traveling doctor. We aren’t opposed to picking up hitchhikers, so long as you earn your keep.”

“Oh of course, Elric sir.” The surgeon bowed again. Her hair was tied tightly back, and with her deeper bow, it fell into her face. She paused to brush it behind her shoulder before continuing. “I will offer my services freely when they are needed— I’ve just been walking a long while.”

“W-well.” Elric crossed his arms, looking a bit off-put. “Ma’am, you’re free to stay with us, so long as you cause no problems. Come, come with me, you look… exhausted.”

The surgeon was led to the second carriage and invited on, and hardly a moment after she laid eyes on her companions, the carriage began to move. She gave Elric a thin smile and turned to the others in the wagon. “I am pleased to meet you all.”

They stared at her, and Elric cleared his throat and introduced her quickly. A young man— vaguely resembling Elric— sat up. “Greetings, miss. You can call me Tash.” All of those in the carriage began to introduce themselves, and the surgeon patiently took note of all of their names and faces. Tash was a brown-haired youth, appearing related to Elric in some way. Sitting close together were a pair of ordinary merchants; West, a man looking to be nearing old age with graying hair, and Jassine, an older woman with world-weary features. The final two passengers were a pair of lightly armored women standing at the end of the carriage. One was Emm, with short black hair and her arms crossed over her chest, and the other was Lissen, red-haired and with an almost dreamy look in her eyes— the two caravan guards, Elric explained.

The silence returned when the introductions were finished, and the surgeon turned her gaze to the landscape they passed. The sunset painted the sky with fiery hues, and she found herself drawn to the deep reds she could see closer to the horizon.

“Uh, miss?” The surgeon turned; Tash was peering at her, leaning closer. The others in the carriage were looking at her. She felt a faint spark of dread. “You didn’t tell us your name.”

Ah. She shut her eyes a moment and suppressed a chuckle. She opened her eyes and shook her head. “You may just call me ‘doctor’. Through all of my travels, my name has admittedly been worn away and eroded from my memory.”

An easy, rehearsed lie. She privately judged their reactions. Tash looked curious, still, but satisfied. Elric had fixed her with a hard, inscrutable stare, and both Emm and Lissen raised an eyebrow. West easily accepted her answer and Jassine just gave a short hum. None of them pried further, and she turned her gaze back to the sky.

It was late in the night when they stopped. The front horses were kept reined to the first carriage, while the extra brought along by the back of the caravan were given a great deal of slack to wander. The surgeon trailed after the group when they dismounted the carriage and began unloading items from the third wagon. Sleeping bags, foodstuffs, a variety of items to set up camp. She helped without a word, and Tash thanked her when she joined him in starting the fire.

She used her misericorde to cut short some twigs they used. The dagger’s blade gleamed, but Tash’s eyes were drawn to the strange greenish hilt, dotted with specks of red. “I’ve never seen a tool like that,” he whispered. “What’s it made from?”

“I don’t rightly know,” the surgeon lied. “I picked it up in a town a few months back.” She tightened her grip on the bloodstone hilt. “It may be polished and painted wood, for all I know.”

Talk around the fireplace was lively. West prepared a meal for the merchants, and Elric discussed trade with Jassine. The surgeon listened in— they were textiles traders, starting from the far-off town of Corphen on a southern island. A few times, the topic of religion came up.

Tash was sitting apart from the rest. The surgeon settled down next to him. “You are Elric’s son, are you?”

“Did he tell you?”

“No. There is a resemblance. I’ve an eye for such things.”

“Oh.” Tash studied the grass at his feet. “You’re a doctor?” He stared at her clothing. “Is the white so it’s easy to see blood?”

“So it’s easy to see grime. I require my equipment to be clean in order to effectively treat wounds.” She brushed dirt off her jacket. “Foot travel is unappealing to me, as you can imagine.”

Tash was open with her as they conversed. The surgeon idly rubbed the bloodstone pommel of her dagger. He seemed the kind of person vulnerable to the harsher aspects of the world, but he was a kind soul without question. And yet his father’s eyes periodically fixed upon the surgeon for mere heartbeats at a time. Tash’s open kindness was certainly not an inherited trait.

They slept under the stars and woke with the rising sun. The two guards seemed constantly alert. Jassine returned to the carriages to check on the merchandise, and Kestral was off inspecting the horses. Tash was the last to wake, and Elric took him to the second carriage. The surgeon watched them go, then turned to West.

“How did you happen to acquaint yourself with Elric?”

The older man grunted in a good-natured manner. “Elric’s decently known ‘round these parts. We’re on the way to Nariko City, o’ course, and he ‘n his son hails from there. Bit of an up-and-coming name. Figured I’d get t’ know him in case he strikes gold.”

The surgeon nodded sagely and raised an eyebrow as she caught a glimpse of the skin uncovered by West’s rolled-up sleeve. “That’s a fresh-looking cut you have there.”

He blinked and peered at it. “Eh, this? It’ll take more than that t’ stop these old bones, nothing t’s worry about, miss doctor.”

“Know that I can tend to it if it becomes worse.”

“’Course. That’s your job, ain’t it?”

Tash and his father stayed in the second carriage for the rest of the day. The caravan moved on and the surgeon settled into the third carriage with the others. Jassine was the one to spark conversation with her, the surgeon careful with her words while they seemed to tumble out of Jassine, the woman having been an adventurer in her youth and now uses her experiences to craft unique textiles.

Still, at no point during the day did the surgeon feel particularly welcome in the group. They stopped for the night and again Tash struck up conversation with her. She was merely passing through, and despite her indulgence of Tash’s extroverted traits, was uninclined to share much about herself, as with Jassine.

The next morning, while helping inspect the carriage wheels, Jassine brought up the subject of gods.

“I take it you’re a religious woman?” Jassine asked, causing the surgeon’s heart to skip a beat. “Most people are. I’ve yet to meet someone who altogether denies the existence of the gods.”

“It’s only logical,” the surgeon quietly replied. “The magic in this land is the easiest proof, and we have those able to channel the power of their patron gods when needed. Why ask? I believe in these gods, but in my time traveling, having brushed against so many religions that I find it difficult to commit to one.”

Her words were lies, and they were ones that made her shiver. Her flesh, her blood, her bones, they knew her words to be lies, but they were lies that made her inwardly shudder. The weight of misericorde at her hip brought her back from her brief despair— it was silly to worry about such things, not when she so dearly believed in forgiveness.  She took a deep breath. “Are you a religious woman?”

“I am. A believer in the mother of the arts, the weaver of textiles and the painter of canvases and the writer of tales. You’ve heard of her?”

“Of course. I hear of many gods and beliefs in my travels.” The mother of the arts. An admirable goddess; the surgeon, on occasion, provided offerings to the mother of the arts, as someone with an earnest respect for creative pursuits. “The mother of arts suits you in your trade. Was there a different god you paid respects to in your time of adventure?”

Jassine scoffed and shook her head. She rubbed her fingers against a wheel spoke, then sighed, “Perhaps, but I didn’t pay as much mind to gods in those times.” She glanced over her shoulder before continuing, “I never told this to Elric, truthfully. I doubt West would care much, bless his easygoing heart, and Tash is such a kind boy. But Emm and Lissen have worked for Elric for years, and Elric himself is pious to a fault. Not the most tolerable man, really.”

“I know the type,” the surgeon murmured, her careful tongue slipping and allowing the depths of her misery and spite coat her words. The look Jassine gave her was thankfully understanding. The surgeon’s hand curled around the misericorde’s hilt, and she recomposed herself. “In any cause, Kestral will be pleased to know that the wheels are in perfect condition.”

It was that night, as they were preparing to sleep, when West pulled the surgeon off to the side. He didn’t speak, but the surgeon already knew what was on his mind; she’d treated enough patients to know the look of a man with a soured wound. He rolled up his sleeve and she recognized the look of a blossoming infection and guided him to lay down in one of the carriages.

She alerted the rest of the caravan before she began— there were looks of worry, the oldest member of the caravan having a wound nearing infection, but Jassine and Tash appeared to have confidence in her as she announced that she would tend to him to the best of her ability.

Elric followed her back into the carriage to watch.

She’d had audiences for her surgery before. Even audiences as stern as teachers strictly grading her work, and audiences as primordially observant as her goddess.

Before she laid out her supplies, the surgeon mouthed a prayer to her goddess.

Mercy, please, grant him mercy.

Bottles, syringes, jars, scalpels… all items from her pouches that she laid out on the carriage floor, all items that Elric eyed with suspicion.

“Have you never seen a surgeon work?” she asked, unable to hide her amusement at his scowl. “I should hope a merchant such as you would be at least familiar with some of these tools.”

“Just get to work,” he gruffly mumbled, and the surgeon did just that.

Her hands were steady and experienced. The last tool she withdrew was her misericorde with the bloodstone hilt, the polished silver blade glinting in the moonlight. West looked nervous; Elric stared at it with an unreadable expression. She set it down next to West’s arm and got to work on the wound.

She soaked a rag in disinfectant and cleaned the wound, ignoring the man’s pained groan as she soaked his cut and cleared away any dirt. It was a simple treatment, and she felt calm and comfortable picking through her bottles of ointment and stock of bandages. The wound was clean and needed to be dressed and wrapped, but before she moved on, the surgeon lifted her misericorde. “I need to create a small cut to help the infected blood escape.”

“Go ahead, ma’am.” West looked away, and the surgeon opened a small cut just below the bottom of the gash with a precise flick of her wrist. Blood leaked out, and she desired to ask him if she may draw extra blood with a syringe, but it was not the appropriate time. So, she moved quietly on to the final wound-dressing.

The ointment was meant to be cold against skin, and West hissed as she spread it in and on the wound. Once his skin was slick with the medicine, she began to wrap his wound in bandages.

“I need to check on this every night until this heals. If we reach town and it is still healing, find a doctor there to check on it.” West nodded obediently, and the surgeon tied off his bandages.

She gathered up her supplies and sheathed her misericorde, feeling Elric’s eyes follow her every movement. His suspicion hung over her for a long while after that night she treated West.  

A few days later, it was pouring rain. The horses pulling the carriages were large beasts with thick fur, bred for strength and stamina, animals the surgeon had scarcely seen.

But they were horses all the same.

So, when the trail became wet and slippery, and one of the horses stumbled at the edge of the ditch and fell, the crack of a broken bone reaching those in the second carriage, the surgeon prepared herself to carry out her misericorde’s core purpose.

Elric and the two guards hopped off the carriage, and the surgeon followed with her hood pulled on. Kestral was cursing, having stopped at the edge of the ditch. The horse writhed in the mud, its eyes rolling wildly in pain and distress. One of its forelegs was bent at an awkward angle. Elric scowled and crossed his arms over his chest, and Lissen sadly murmured, “Poor thing. Kestral, I’ll help you situate another horse.” The coachman grunted and started to cut the fallen horse’s reins.

“Will you just leave it?” the surgeon asked, innocent curiosity in her voice.

“Nothin’ else t’ do,” Kestral grumbled, straightening. “The weather’s too bad t’ stick around.”

“I can dispatch it quickly.” The surgeon crouched at the edge of the ditch. “No point in leaving it to suffer.”

“…Go for it,” Kestral responded with a shrug. “’m sure it’ll thank ya.”

There was no further discussion, and the surgeon was left with the dying horse. The rain would make it nearly impossible to salvage any parts of the animal once it was dead, but it deserved mercy nonetheless. She carefully slid down into the muck beside the animal, careful to stay out of the way of its hooves and sat by its head. She removed the glove from her left hand and laid her bare palm on its neck. The horse stared up at her with glassy eyes.

The surgeon raised the misericorde and made a thin cut in the horse’s neck, and she pressed a finger against the cut. Blood welled up around her finger and she shut her eyes, focusing on the animal’s blood. Her own blood seemed to burn in her veins as it dimly communed with the horse’s.

Be at peace. I will grant you mercy, as is my sworn duty.

The horse slowly relaxed, its eye still fixed on her, but it quieted and stopped thrashing so much. The surgeon kept her fingers pressed against the cut, and she calmly positioned the misericorde’s blade above the horse’s eye. The blade was thin and long— designed for a swift and decisive kill.

The thrum of the rain seemed to dim around her as the surgeon drew in a deep breath and plunged the misericorde deep into the horse’s eye. The animal thrashed once, then went still. She gently ran her fingers through its soaked mane, then slowly drew the dagger’s blade out of the eye. As it exited the wound, the gleaming blade was coated in blood, but the rain washed that blood and gore off the metal, leaving the blade as clean as though it had been freshly forged.

A new horse was attached to the front carriage as the surgeon sent a prayer along with the dead horse’s soul. Forgiveness to the broken bone that had led to its merciful death— it had been a loyal and proud animal, the blood had told her.

Tash’s voice rose above the rain, calling to her that they were going to get going again. She called back that she would catch up to them.

The caravan traveled on without her, and the surgeon removed a jar from her belt- a jar the size of her hand, three-quarters full of blood. She wasted no time— she slashed the horse’s throat with the misericorde and held the jar up to the wound to collect blood. It was blood that carried the life of the horse and was shed as a result of mercy. Once the jar was full to the lip, the surgeon screwed the lid back on, stood and bowed deeply to the dead horse, and ran to catch up with the caravan. Misericorde, gleaming blade of mercy, was returned to its sheath.

They slept on the carriages as the rain continued, and the topic of religion returned. The surgeon rolled onto her side at the edge of the carriage and feigned sleep. Jassine, Emm, West, and Elric talked, while Tash was snoring softly and Lissen was alert at the edge of the carriage.

“I reckon the church in town oughta like our stock,” West declared. “I’ve heard they have a few churches in town, I might visit and pray to th’ god of trade.”

Jassine laughed. “Of course, gold and demand are at the forefront of your mind. I might see if they’ve got an altar to the goddess of the arts.”

“I’ve no need for churches,” Emm muttered. “I do all my praying on my own— Don’t give me that look, Elric. I know the father of battle is a touchy subject, but it’s what I believe.”

“Be careful with that,” Elric tersely replied. “You’ve heard about the crusades.”

The conversation quieted. The surgeon willed her breathing to slow. Elric spoke up. “We should go through our stock in the morning. Make sure there’s nothing that could be seen as blasphemous or profane. The word of the lord of law is spreading, as it ought to.”

Emm didn’t respond; the surgeon heard her stand and join Lissen. The surgeon knew of the lord of law, and he was a stern, strict god, hands-off with his belief of respect and hierarchy. It was while hoisting banners of the lord of law that soldiers had run her and her fellows out of their homes and decreed their beliefs as heretical. The old surgical scar on her abdomen itched.

Gods of law, goddesses of nature, lords and ladies of trade and art and speech and government. She’d studied as many as she could, and found that the wider a deity’s domain, the wider the reach of their religion. But the narrower that domain, the more intimate the prayer.

In the following morning, she observed Elric’s prayer for the first time. He prostrated himself on the ground, his flesh, blood, and bones belonging to his lord and therefore something not to tamper with. Many religions held that view. Your flesh, blood, and bones are sacred and therefore are not to be touched, altered, or manipulated.

It was understandable why he was so suspicious of her. A doctor, a surgeon, meddling directly with the flesh, blood, and bones, though, so far, with little tampering that crosses the lines etched by his beliefs. Doctors in service to the lord often worked with potions and tinctures; surgeons, at most, usually just stitched up wounds. Deeper meddling was frowned upon. The body was a sacred temple, not to be breached or split open under decree of the lord of law.

The surgeon, as everyone else was busy, declared that she needed to wash, and walked off into the forest to find a pond. The lord of law was not her lord. She prayed to the mother of blood and so worshipped the body in a different way— a way in which touch, alteration, and manipulation was forgiven and celebrated when it granted mercy, in whatever form it took.

She found a clean pond and stripped naked, laying everything at the base of a tree. The water was cool and reached up to her knees at its deepest point. Her first job after taking to the roads was to remove a tumor from a priest of the lord of law. He was an old man who knew who she was, but did not care. Much of what she did to cure him went against the popular doctrine, but as he’d said, there are many gods in the land, and to unflinchingly treat the word of the lord of law as stone-faced fact was plainly ignorant.

He'd spoken his mind. There had been a passion to him; a passion more suited to a follower of the mother of blood than the lord of law, though the surgeon knew herself that her cold demeanor was at odds with her beliefs. When she’d become a proper blood-sworn, there had been frenetic partying and celebration with her peers, but her own emotions had always been subdued and measured.

The surgeon had brought two items with her into the pond— her misericorde and her jar of blood. She would wash in the aftermath of her ritual.

Her first ritual was an anxiety-ridden one, but no more anxiety ridden than her first surgery or her initiation. The coven she’d lived with had been gentle and reassuring every step of the way. The surgeon sighed and shut her eyes as grief washed over her. As a blood-sworn she was bound to forgiveness, but she doubted she could find it in her to forgive the people that had driven her from her home and killed her brothers and sisters.

The jar and the misericorde lay on a half-submerged log. The surgeon unscrewed the lid of the jar and lifted it. The blood inside was from a myriad of sources; the dead horse, a bandit she’d killed, a company of patients she’d treated at the last town. Humans and animals, blood of the healthy and sick and dead. She lifted the jar and tipped her head back and drank the blood.

It was warm and thick, the metallic taste more than familiar to her after her many blood-sworn years. She started with small sips, then took larger gulps— drinking deeply until the jar was empty. Not a drop was wasted— though, if the ritual went well, she would be forgiven for any waste.

She traded the empty jar for her misericorde and straightened her back. The wind sent a chill through her body, and the surgeon eyed her surroundings, looking for the slightest rustling of a bush. More so now than ever, uninitiated witnesses would not be tolerated— if not just for her nudity, then for the way her practices had been marked as deeply profane. She lifted her misericorde and admired the shining metal and the dark stone handle.

Her skin was tanned, and her forearms and hands were riddled with small scars. Old cuts and slips of the hand from her time learning to use the scalpel and misericorde in surgical acts. The surgeon held her left arm straight out, and she rested the tip of the misericorde on the underside of her elbow.

She drew in one last long breath, and tore the sharp blade through her arm, slicing it open from elbow to wrist. Blood sprayed and pain shot through the limb, but she remained on her feet. Blood streamed down her skin and poured into the water around her, the cut so deep that in some places the white of bone shone through besides the glistening skin and muscle.

She bowed her head and watched the blood dissolve and disappear in the water as accepted tribute. The pain in her arm faded, and the wound was perfectly closed with nary a scar when the surgeon lifted her head. The mother of blood had accepted her ritual and blessed her with healing and the knowledge that she’d been aptly merciful in her work.

The surgeon waded into a deeper part of the pond and quickly washed herself, then hurried back to dry herself off and redress herself. It would be unwise to be gone for too long. The jar returned to its spot on her belt and the misericorde was returned to its sheath.

A bush rustled, and the surgeon shot up and tore the dagger from its place and didn’t relax as Tash sheepishly showed himself. “What do you think you’re doing?” the surgeon demanded.

“Y-you’re a follower of the mother of blood.”

“Give me a good reason not to slit your throat where you stand. What do you wish to do with that information? Trade it off to your father so he can have me executed as a heretic? Use what you’ve seen as blackmail? Speak.”

Tash held up his hands, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry. I was just curious. I have no grudge against you. I don’t pray to any gods, and you’ve helped us so far. I promise to keep it a secret.”

The surgeon kept the dagger pointed at his chest and advanced closer to him. “See that you keep your word. You seem a kind soul; I hate to rid the world of your presence. Just know that while I am merciful and forgiving, that mercy can be ruthless.” She slowly put the dagger away, and they silently headed back to the caravan.

Neither of them spoke. Tash kept glancing her way, but with more curiosity than suspicion. The surgeon kept her eyes forward. There was a hitch in their step as the sounds of shouting drifted their way, and then they set off sprinting through the trees. Tash half stumbled through the undergrowth and the surgeon quickly left him behind with her more graceful dash.

The surgeon burst from the tree line upon a scene of bandits accosting the caravan, Emm, Lissen, and Kestral battling with them. The surgeon rushed to the nearest bandit— already engaged with Emm— and she wrapped an arm around his neck and sank the misericorde deep into his side. He grunted and fell as she released him with withdrew her blade, and Emm just gave her a short nod before joining Lissen. There were only a few bandits, but something about the weapons they wielded sent a shiver down the surgeon’s spine. Lissen had the sense to keep her distance.

Tash rushed into the carriage for safety. The surgeon slashed at the nearest bandit and managed to nick his throat- deep enough to reach the artery and cause blood to spray out. she breathlessly turned to Lissen as the bandit collapsed. “When did they show up?”

“They just got here, cocky bastards.”  Lissen sheathed her sword and nodded behind the surgeon. “Hardly capable. We’re already done. Thanks for your help, doctor— hm. Kestral looks hurt.”

The pair of them jogged over. With the body of a bandit slumped close by, Kestral was sitting against the first carriage. The surgeon lowered herself to the ground near him. “Let me see your wound, Kestral.” The coachman just groaned, and the surgeon gently lifted his hand away from his side. She hissed once she saw the wound. “Emm. Bring me one of the weapons.” The guard complied, and the surgeon started mentally considering her options.

When Emm presented the surgeon with the weapon, a plain dagger with a strange sheen, she scowled. “Ah, they used blessed weapons, wonderful. It would be helpful to know which god blessed them, that’s a waste of time now.” Kestral’s wound already had the smell of infection coming from it, and the skin and veins around it were turning a sickly green. “If I don’t work on this soon, he’ll die- please make sure I have space for this. I may need to operate on him— it looks like parts of that blade may have chipped off in the wound, likely another part of that cursed blessing.”

The surgeon hastily began setting out her tools, and ordered, “Find a cloth for him to lay on. I’ve seen such wounds before; there is only so much time before only magical solutions will work.” Emm complied and ran off without a word, while Lissen hung around. The surgeon glanced over at her. “Help me out here.”

Emm quickly found a plain cloth and laid it on the grass, and Lissen helped the surgeon move Kestral onto it. The two guards eyed the tree line, and the surgeon felt dread creep up on her as she cut away at Kestral’s shirt. “Please trust me, sir, I have the abilities to save you.”

He just nodded slowly, grimacing. The surgeon tensed as she heard footsteps behind her, but kept her focus on sorting her tools and thinking of how a normal surgeon could handle this— if even possible. Her eyes flicked up to Kestral’s pained face, and she tightly gripped her forceps and scalpel. With or without an audience, she would need to call on her blood-sworn blessings.

“Trust me,” she repeated, her voice strained as she became more aware of the rest of the caravan watching. She knew to inspect the wound- the basic treatment of applying disinfectant and numbing cream, and carefully checking the depth of the wound and extracting any metal. She’d treated wounds caused by blessed and cursed weapons before— her blood-sworn abilities gave her an advantage in meddling directly with her patients’ blood.

Once the wound was cleaned, the surgeon ‘accidentally’ slit one of her fingertips open. She could practically feel Elric leaning over her. Jassine and Tash sat on either side of Kestral. West was quietly tending to the horses. The surgeon drew in a long breath and worked faster. The poison was spreading quicker than expected, and she started to make small cuts with the scalpel along the infected veins, just barely remembering to numb each area— she would have to thank Jassine for talking to Kestral while she worked.

“Prayer may help,” Elric murmured, and the surgeon glanced briefly back at him. He shuffled over to sit next to her, in his hands a small white totem of the lord of law. “This poison is not natural to his body, and therefore throws off the law. The lord may help.”

“Sure,” the surgeon hissed, resolving to ignore him while she continued to open new cuts and apply medicine.

Nothing was helping.

Her hands stilled, and the weight of misericorde at her hip reminded her of her oaths. Of what she’d pledged herself to all those years ago, the god that she swore to provide mercy and forgiveness in the name of, the very reason why she’d made the ultimate show of faith and operated on herself in return for greater ability.

She met Tash’s eyes and reached for the dagger.

Mercy on this injured man, and forgiveness to the flesh that ails him.  

The surgeon drew the misericorde and deepened the cut in her finger, whispering, “Mother, aid me in my work once more.” Blood streamed from the cut, more so than was naturally possible. It didn’t matter who saw at this point, so long as they didn’t stop her.

She traced the coachman’s wound with her bloodied finger, a spark shooting through her arm as visceral connection was established. Kestral’s eyes shot open and met the surgeon’s, but through his blood she felt his tentative trust. She could trace his veins, find the path of the poison, and sense every detail she may need for her work. She doubted she would truly need to cut into Kestral’s body, instead just communing with his blood and flesh.

There was a furious bellow beside her, and Tash lunged past her to restrain his father. The surgeon steeled herself, blocking out the pious merchant’s angry shouting. The speed at which the vitriol towards her faith had spread still haunted her but she had rarely come into contact with anyone who harbored that vitriol and knew what she was.

She would have to thank Tash— no, not just Tash. Kestral, Emm, Lissen, Jassine, and West. Filtering out the poison and ensuring that it stayed out, she urged Kestral to stay still, continually impressing upon him that she only wished to help him. She traced the wound with her misericorde, and located the poison, dark blemishes among the vitality of the blood. Bizarre curses and blessings, highlighted by her desire for mercy. The desire that pulled her forward and kept her focused inward on the wound and the blood, compelling it to take ahold of the intruding poison and carry it back out.

Elric’s fingertips brushed her back, and she resisted the urge to turn and chastise him. Already she was seeing progress, a sheen joining the blood leaking from Kestral’s wound, and she quickly dabbed it up with a disposable rag. The cursing from Elric and the muttering from Tash urged her to work faster. “The poison is almost out,” she tensely reassured Kestral.

The color of the injured man’s veins returned to their normal color, and the surgeon kept her focus sharp until no more poison was extracted by the blood. She let out a shuddering breath and removed her bleeding finger from the wound. Kestral and all the others watching seemed to relax- Elric’s cursing had slowed down. She glanced back at him, taking in his scandalized expression. She turned back and sighed. “Kestral.” He winced. “I’m going to stitch up your wound.”

No protest. The surgeon got to work much more quickly than before, calm enough to talk. “When you reach the city, find a doctor and have them take a look at you. I promise you’ll live, but you will need to take care of this as it heals.” She paused, then added, “Do not tell them anything about me aside from my being a doctor. I am sure you know why.”

“Of course,” Jassine answered for him.

The surgeon stitched dutifully for a moment longer, contemplating what to do next. Threaten them? The reputation of her faith was bad enough. No, she would have to hold out hope that these good people would not sell her out. Elric, on the other hand…

Once the basic stitches were in place, the surgeon turned to face Elric, still held back in Tash’s embrace. The man began to speak, but she cut him off. “I care not what you think of me. Neither do I consider you to be in my debt. Understand that due to my faith, I am a woman of mercy and forgiveness, and I shall therefore forgive you for any hatred you hold towards me, despite the unfoundedness of that hatred.” She turned away and started to wrap bandages around Kestral’s waist, not wishing to waste any more breath on Elric.

She was pledged through the flesh, blood, and bones to heal in the name of the mother of blood, and her patient was more important than a man whose faith had turned him against her.

They reached Nariko city three days later. Kestral moved gingerly, but had, with the help of West and Jassine, taken good care of his wound. Elric had not spoken to her since she’d made her blood-sworn faith obvious— not that she wished to speak to him, anyways. Emm and Lissen flanked her as she stepped out of the carriage onto the city streets. Emm smiled at her, and Lissen just gave her a reassuring nod as she started off to leave.

She’d gotten where she needed to go and would move on once her job was done in the city. There was no reason to stick around with the caravan. It would likely pose a risk to her and her identity if she lingered.

The surgeon set off to find a hotel. She had messages to send and equipment to clean. She’d hardly taken a few steps as a hand on her shoulder prompted her to turn around. She was met by Tash’s melancholy smile. “…Thank you for saving Kestral. And… helping us. I’m sorry about my father. I swear to make sure he doesn’t endanger you and your identity.”

“Don’t be sorry. I forgive him, as I should. I hope you are successful in any of your future endeavors. I suspect you are one with a bright future.” With that, she turned back and walked off, adding over her shoulder, “Worry not about your father sharing news of a wandering blood-sworn surgeon. There are many like me, and you don’t even know my name.”