Before she spiralled into darkness, she headed to the infirmary to see Laeknir. Maybe he could find a place for her. She made her way through the bustling camp, her pride not allowing her to lower her head.
With her back straight and chin held high, she met each look of disdain, betrayal, confusion, and pity that crossed the faces of those she passed. They wanted an explanation—a reason they could trust to explain why she made her decision. She couldn’t explain, nor did she have to.
She found Laeknir in the midst of stitching a rather nasty cut on a witchling. He flicked his eyes to the flap as she entered, barely giving her a second glance before getting back to work. Solveig’s heart stuttered. She was sure she could count on Laeknir.
Of all people, he knew what she had been through. But maybe he was just as disappointed or angry with her as the rest. She was about to leave when Laeknir spoke.
“Wash your hands, then come over and help me with these stitches,” he ordered gruffly.
Solveig breathed a small sigh of relief and went to do as she was told. By the time she finished, Laeknir had already put his instruments down and was standing behind his seat. He gestured to it and she sat in front of the young Vanir, giving her a tentative smile.
The witchling responded in kind so Solveig studied the gash on her arm. It was half stitched closed already. Solveig looked up at Laeknir.
“My hands are too big for wounds like this. Her skin is delicate, so your little fingers will be much better than my clumsy dinner plates.” He lifted his hands to show her the evidence. Solveig studied the neat row of tiny stitches and rolled her eyes.
“Okay, sausage fingers,” she said and the lass giggled. “Which stitch are you doing?”
All soldiers were taught basic mending as a part of their training. It was a great help after long battles if everyone could help patch each other up. Wounds healed faster and there was less infection when injuries were tended to immediately.
Solveig had done her fair share of training and battlefield mending, but she took her time on this little witchling’s arm. It would scar, but Solveig tried her best to make it as thin and straight as she could.
Laeknir scrutinized over her shoulder the whole time, grumbling his suggestions and corrections. At the end, he gave the stitches a thoroughinspection and told her, “Too slow, but good.” The highest compliment she’d ever received from him.
It was good to focus her mind on something else—to concentrate on each stitch. Her heart rate stayed steady and her mind stayed clear. She was a tiny bit lighter when the lass left with a smile on her face and a pocket full of candy.
“What’s next?” she asked before he could kick her out too.
“Now you clean up your mess,” he said as another Vanir came into the tent holding his arm across his chest. Even Solveig could recognize the dislocated joint and got to cleaning her station out. She heard a familiar popping sound as Laeknir thrust the shoulder back into place.
Without discussing why she was there, they worked like that all day. Though they barely spoke, it was a companionable silence.
Each patient was shocked when they first walked into the tent to find their former general there scrubbing scalpels and needles, wrapping bandages, and completing any other tasks Laeknir assigned.
He let her assist with some of his procedures, allowing her to perform small healing tasks simple enough for her to manage. She even got to reset a shoulder by herself, and that had been the most satisfying.
It was a quiet day, but she was oddly at peace by the end of it.
She was cleaning up after the tenth person she’d stitched when she heard the tent flap open. Assuming it was another patient, she didn’t mind until she heard the voice.
“Laeknir, have you seen Solve—” He stopped when he found her in the corner. She schooled her features before turning around.
“Haven’t seen her all day,” Laeknir growled. “Couldn’t tell ya where she is.”
Latham glared at the old healer.
“Do you need something, Latham? Oh, excuse me,General Arlanson?” The sarcastic tone contained all the emotion Solveig would allow herself to show. She couldn’t help it. His face brought that out in her.
“Can I speak to you in private?” he asked through his teeth.
“No,” Solveig replied, and emotion flared in his eyes. He hated it when she answered that way. But she’d learned a long time ago that she needn’t explain herself, especially to Latham.
“I’m giving you the courtesy of asking nicely,” he said with forced politeness.
“And I’m giving you the courtesy of answering you succinctly. No,” she replied.
“Solveig, come and talk to me outside.” It was no longer a question.
“I’ve already told you no twice. I am not ready to talk to you right now.”
