tbo canon
Charlie sits in the inn room, snarling at everyone who tries to help him. “I can take care of myself. Get your filthy hands away from me.”
“You’re injured, sir, and your hands, your arm, well—”
“I’m ambidextrous. Get the hell out!”
The two doctors exchange looks. He wouldn’t even allow them to cut his shirt away from his wounds, and he’s clutching hard to a tattered mess of black fabric and a glittering gem. His shirt is rust from the blood seeping out.
One last try. “Sir…”
“Fuck! Off!”
The two exit, going to tend to the next most injured person—Merre is still more than a little worn from their misadventure. Charlie locks the door and removes his shirt with a hiss, tossing it on the floor. There’s no point in even trying to save it. It’s better as blood rags. He might ask Thandi to help him clean it later.
The tie and vest are spread out on the bed gently and he examines the damage. There’s no point in saving the tie, but the vest—if he’s not wearing the vest, then what makes his gift to Thandi special at all? It would be a random button from a vest lost. The fabric is already thin from his attempt to mend it after being splashed with acid. Droplets of blood drip down his arm as he sighs and passes his hand over the rips. They come back together, but it’s so thin now. He can almost see his hand through the fabric.
Charlie straightens now, chest and arms throbbing from the pain. He can still feel the ghost of the acid that splashed over him, a subtle burning under his skin, like some of it still lingered despite the potion’s influence. He takes a breath and decides not to waste his magic here. He could use the practice, after all.
The kits are laid out for him. He’s moving slowly.
First, milk of the poppy. He’s going to need it to feel any kind of good later. A draught of that and it’ll kick in by the time he’s got his wounds cleaned out. The two doctors left him rags and hot water, at least, and he takes the time to clean thoroughly. With a stench like that, they’re probably ripe with bacteria. It makes him ill to think of the possibility of infection from those things and he grinds into the wounds with the rags, teeth grit.
The pain is a relief, somehow. He can take care of it. He can handle this.
There’s a quiet knock at his door, and Thandi’s voice. “Charlie…?”
“Not now.”
“Charlie, I want… I want to help—”
“Go away.”
He’s got to do this himself. The needle is threaded and he takes some rags to bite down on as he slowly, slowly stitches his wounds closed. The poppy is starting to kick in, and he’s feeling a little light headed, but this is all down to muscle memory now. The stitching speed picks up. It’s hard to do most of these one-handed, and harder to use the mirror to help, but he manages. It overlaps over the still-angry scar from Londlan, which is frustrating. And look at his face! The acid burn may have healed, for the most part, but his fucking facial hair. Gods.
After he’s done stitching himself up, he gives himself a wash overall. That smell. That smell. Twice, twice now he’s been attacked by these things. It’s infuriating. His hair spills out around his face and he realizes that the sprout in his hair must have fallen out while he was unconscious. Whatever.
Feeling clean is part of feeling well. He trims his sideburns, getting them to be even. He had liked the sort of wild look he had before, but he couldn’t go around with uneven muttonchops. Disgusting.
Speaking of disgusting, his arm. That’s going to fester more than his shoulder. Again, Charlie paces, trying to rouse himself from the poppy enough to put together a poultice. He should have let Thandi in.
But.
If she sees him like this, she would… she would probably cry. She would probably beg him to use his magic to heal himself, and truly, that would be a waste. How could he count on himself to heal others if he can’t even manage his own wounds? It’s a crutch. He can’t count on magic being always there.
Herbs are ground up, moistened, applied generously. It stings, but the sting is barely registering now. He’s in a daze as he cuts bandages from the bolt of cloth he bought, wrapping them around his neck, his chest, his arm. Tight, but not too tight. His head is getting cloudier. Perhaps he took too much. The tools are tidied up and put away. He puts on a fresh shirt, smoothing it. He looks at his trousers. Ech. The doctors brough clothes in, right? As a gift from the town?
Charlie kicks off his shoes, his socks, and throws the pants into a pile with the ragged shirt from earlier. It’s hard to keep steady as he pulls on these new pants. They’re not quite so… comfortable. Or nice. Whatever. He’ll clean those up.
The vest. The vest, where is it?
He grabs it up off the bed, tosses the gem from his tie into his bag, and collapses into the bed. The vest. The vest, it’s. It’s wearable. It’ll be fine.
He’s so tired.
He closes his eyes, hair fanned out, shirt barely buttoned, and buttoned crookedly, at that, and he starts to drift. He should let Thandi know he’s fine. He should… blood, the smell of blood… he needs to… needs to…
sleep.