Dragon Kin 2

13

Carmen

I put my patient's age at twenty. About five-foot-five. A hundred and twenty,for weight. All within levels. Healthy, and in good shape. There was some looseness to her skin, but nothing that would be called elastosis. A bit pale but that was expected, considering the loss of blood and state of shock.

She was unconscious. Since I didn't need anything from her at the moment, I let her sleep. She was going to be awake soon enough.

Removing the poultice and bandage from her shoulder, I used some clean water to clear away the mush from the wound. Probably something like boiled yak piss, or something. Which was fine, unless you happen to have antibiotics and other medicine.

My professional opinion was, if you have boiled yak piss on your wound, you needed to see a doctor.

They closed it up, which I wasn't going to second guess. There were plenty of reasons to go either way.

My professional opinion was, if you didn't know all of the reasons to close the wound or leave it open, then you needed to see a doctor.

"Hello," she said.

"I'm not sure how to greet the 'mistress' of the king," I told her, as I snipped and pulled the threads holding the wound closed. "Are you the erotic kind of mistress, or the one with the whip?"

She smiled, and looked out the door. "Both, I suppose."

Glancing I saw she was watching her king. "Don't worry, he's been good."

"Oh, I'm not worried. A little anxious maybe, to be honest," she said.

"About this?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, looking back to me. "I can feel the fever. I know about gangrene. And I'm not sure what he would do if I failed to get past this."

She winced when I pulled the wound open. "Pardon. I can use a local if you need it."

"No," she shook her head, and then I felt ... something. A vibrancy from her. Vital energy, I suppose. It felt like the memory of a tickling and then it was gone.

"What was that?"

"Pain relief," she said.

"If you can do that, then why am I here?"

"I can't heal. I'm not a Bridget, like you are. I'm a Morrigan."

"What is a Bridget?" I asked, returning to the wound. True to her word she didn't wince at all, as I pulled it open further. She glanced at my wrist, and then to me, "You're just starting the Change then?"

"Yes," I said. Deciding that mincing words with her wound be more of a burden than my brain could handle at the moment.

From my back-pocket I took out my phone, and took several pictures of the wound from different angles — with and without the flash. Putting that away, I found the forceps and tweezers from the surgical kit, and a liter of fresh water.

"Do you know Celtic Mythology?" she asked while I cleaned out her wound. There was definitely signs of infection, but nothing major like gangrene. Another day though, that story could have had a different headline.

"A bit."

"But not Bridget," she offered.

"Hmm," I said, as I held a pen light to look down inside. "Wait, wasn't she the one that turned Christian? St. Patrick, and all of that? I'm not a saint. Dear lord."