“Just to be clear, you, a guy who couldn’t even control his own bleeding, wants to sew himself up? Instead of accepting help from me? Someone who knows what they’re doing?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Right. Ok.” She tosses the packets onto my chest and folds her arms. “I can tell you have some sort of complex going on, so we’ll just do this the hard way.” She turns, walks to the far side of the cell, and sinks to the ground.
A “complex”?
With her legs crossed, she gestures towards me. “Well, go on, Nurse Vexar. You have what you need.”
The only people who have ever treated me this way are my brothers, and I am not sure how to handle it coming from someone else. She’s obstinate and argumentative and the exact opposite of everyone I have ever met. Half of me finds her infuriating, while the other half is intrigued. Captivated even. I almost want to push her further andsee what she does, but I resist the odd temptation.
Working to ignore her, I rip open a thread packet and am surprised to find a needle with the thread already attached. It takes me a few tries to get a hold of the small needle, but I manage. All the while, the nurse sits, picking dried blood off her hands and occasionally flashing me impatient glances.
“Am I boring you?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Just waiting for the interesting part.”
With the needle in hand, I grip both sides of my wound and start to sew. Sweat beads on my brow as bolts of pain ricochet through me, but I do not stop.Never stop. Never slow.By the time I’ve driven the needle through my flesh for the fourth time, I realize my error. I failed to tie a knot in the first stitch, and now, with every pull and release of the thread, the wound opens and closes.
I have no idea what I am doing.
I glance over and find the nurse watching me with a quiet intensity that makes my skin tighten and neck burn.
“Have you never seen someone sew themselves up?” I ask.
She stands and approaches. “Not like this, no.” Her voice is soft and caressing—a shocking contrast to her earlier tone. She adjusts the light next to the bed and squats down, gazing up at me. “I get it, you’re a big tough warrior, but you don’t have to do this yourself. Youcanaccept help.”
“I am fine,” I insist, not meeting her gaze.
Her hand reaches out and rests on mine. The intimacy is startling, but I do not flinch away. Wide, dark eyes bore into me with a kindness and depth that cracks the stone around my resolve, and I feel myself already giving in to her.
“Let me help. Please.”
I want to refuse, but my body moves on its own, offering her the needle before I have a chance to consider myactions. Something about her makes me want to trust her. Some urge in the back of my mind. A pull deep in my gut.
With gentle movements, she takes the needle and reaches for something on the edge of the bed. Her fingers brush my side, and I tense as my nerves fire all at the same time.
“Sorry,” she says, glancing up, “you were laying on the needle-driver.”
I hope I have not made a horrible mistake by accepting her help, but my vow is already broken, and it is too late to choose honor over survival. Dying here would leave a power vacuum and cause irreparable damage to the empire. Beyond that, I am quite certain of the cause of my peril, and it is a crime I cannot allow to go unpunished. I may not be able to retain my throne, but I can still retain some semblance of order in this empire.
After a few waves of the sani-light, she picks up a pair of long tweezers in one hand and a clamp-like instrument in the other. With an apologetic smile, she says, “I wish I had something to help with the pain, but I don’t. So, just tell me if you need a break. And if you feel like you’re gonna pass out, tell me.”
I nod, still uneasy about accepting her help but willing to trust my instincts. I just wish I knew what she was getting out of this. Motives are as important as actions, and hers make no sense. She risked her freedom for a stranger. Why?
She must notice my apprehension, because she pats my shoulder and says, “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. Just don’t move, yeah?”
The needle dives into my flesh, sucking the air from my lungs.
“Are you intentionally making this painful?” I grunt.
“Surprisingly, no. But thisis going to suck for a bit, and there’s not much I can do about it.”
Somehow, despite my obvious pain, she seems entirely unaffected. Calm even.
My muscles tense as I struggle to lie still, and when I look down, there is a pleased smile curling her lips.
“Are you enjoying this?”
