#i love me some estinien angst too okay hfbfbfbfhdjf

[hermits-hovel]

20. bandaging/stitching up an injury

[part 1 here!]

the long-overdue second part! thank you @cadrenebula!!

quick disclaimer though, this got… long. obscenely long. unnecessarily long. I take these prompts and just... run. I’m very sorry 8′]

20. bandaging/stitching up an injury CW: blood/gore, mentions of stitching (obviously)

If there is aught Ancel can be grateful for, ‘tis the fact that the heavy downpour would help wash away and mask the scent of blood from any nearby beasts.

All the rest—the rainstorm itself, the enshrouding darkness of the night, the dead dragon he was towing, his many wounds—he could do without.

===

Scrape…

Scratch…

Scrape…

… Slip.

His jaw collides with the ground, and in a fit of frantic indignance, Ancel pounds his fist against the slick rocks as if to punish them.

“Gods—Damn it all!”

Still, he wastes no time rising once again to his feet. His legs burn, his body aches, and he’s all but certain he’s losing blood somewhere—but there exists little time to register any of that, not with a more pressing matter at hand.

Dragons are often drawn towards their fallen brethren; he doesn’t know why, and doesn’t care to learn. All he knows is how dangerous it could be to leave a freshly killed nuisance laying in undesirable locations, lest one risk attracting an endless chain of them.

And so he spits, bends down, grabs the tail of the young wyvern, and resumes dragging its corpse towards the cliff’s edge. He pulls intermittently, steps and yanks, to accommodate the dragon’s weight and to keep himself established upon the wet terrain. He cares little how much his wounds feel fit to burst at the overexertion.

And once there, ‘tis with a grunt of effort that Ancel heaves the body over the edge. He watches it tumble down, collide with the rocks and grow ever fainter until the rain-wrapped darkness swallows it from view.

That would have to do.

With the deed done, his adrenaline begins to wane, and it hits him all at once—the damage he’d sustained in the struggle.

===

As Ancel reenters the hollowed threshold of their cave encampment, he inhales softly, deeply, gathering every onze of composure he yet has before proceeding further in.

The dim light of the campfire still shines, dusting the area in a warm, modest glow. To the back wall rests their supplies and weapons haphazardly scattered about, and in their midst lays one chocobo in deep slumber.

So too does Estinien, not too far to the right of the cave. Whether or not his resting is at all restful remains to be seen, with his features strained and breath laborious as his body continues fighting its current illness.

Thankfully, the sounds had not roused him; or so it would seem.

Ancel notes that the cold cloth he’d supplied him with had fallen away, and he suspects it had grown warm by now. He would need to refresh it.

But first…

Approaching the leftmost side of the cave—his side, he established—Ancel limps towards his makeshift bed with the aid of his lance, and once there, carefully lowers himself down. He swallows any inclination to gasp from the shooting pains across his body.

And promptly curses himself upon releasing a soft hiss of breath through his teeth.

His recklessness, his folly.

‘Tis utter folly. To engage a dragon without armour, let alone without a plan is entirely too dangerous, and he’d known it full well when he grabbed his lance and charged at the beast. 

But there had been no choice, no time.

Praise Halone though he does for his triumph, She did also welcome unto him due repercussions for his haste. The monster did not succumb without a fight, and had made diligent use of its jaws and claws. As Ancel peels down his rain and blood-soaked breeches, he learns the severity of it—the reason his left leg in particular is nigh impossible to walk upon.

Even in the feeble light he can tell. The gash in his thigh is viciously wide, and the surrounding flesh is pocked and punctured with memories of the dragon’s teeth. Blood still flows in thin rivulets, pools high in divots and drips onto the blanket below; nearly his entire leg is smeared red.

It takes a concerted effort to keep his breath soft and steady at the sight of it. No matter how lightheaded he is, he would need to work quickly.

===

The sudden movement out of the corner of Ancel’s eye startles him, and had he been in a less compromising position, he might have felt compelled to grab a weapon.

Alas, he can find little relief in realizing the movement belongs to Estinien. The man had surrendered a short series of waking gasps before rolling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow. 

Almost immediately, his eyes fixate dazedly upon Ancel.

Ancel, whose bloodstained lance is leaning against the wall, whose hair is yet damp and dripping from rainwater, whose bare shoulders are draped with a spare blanket.

Boasting a very bloodied thigh. Flanked by various flasks and medical supplies. Noticeably haggard and weak as he struggles with a makeshift compression band.

Damning, to say the least.

“… ‘Twas not my intent to disturb your rest,” Ancel claims calmly. “If I have.”

“What—“ Estinien swallows the graininess in his voice. “What have you done?”

“I know how it looks, but I assure you, I’m well. Worry not.”

Try as Ancel might to concentrate on his ministrations, any hope of doing so is fated to fail. He spies yet more movement in his periphery, and paired with a distinct shifting noise, his heart nearly stops when he realizes—

Estinien has pulled himself to his feet.

In complete defiance of his lingering vertigo, he begins staggering over. Ancel might have succumbed to the shock had he not been promptly consumed by an immediate and overwhelming opposition to the notion.

“Estinien, no,” Ancel scolds sternly. “Did you not hear me? I can handle this.”

But the knight does not listen. He drops clumsily to his knees next to Ancel and swats his hands away from the bandage. “You’ve lost so much blood you’re paler than I,” he mutters and places a palm upon Ancel’s chest, pushing firmly. “Lay back.”

“You—“ Ancel gasps, indignant as he keeps himself propped upright. “Perish the thought! You’re—still running a temperature, Estinien, I can feel it.”

“I don’t particularly care.”

“Estinien.”

“I need—“ Estinien stops short, as though rethinking his statement; after a short exhale and a resigned shake of his head that he rephrases, “Let me do this.”

A strangely-worded request, and a peculiar tone he’d struck besides.

There rings the barest hint of urgency, a kind Ancel hadn’t heard in Estinien’s voice before. ‘Tis not that of a man delivering orders in combat, nor of a caretaker advising in earnest. It sounds more desperate than that, as if he were afraid of what could occur if he doesn’t carry the task through.

The thought of Estinien being gripped with apprehension is enough to stave off Ancel’s objections for the time being. He reaches up, clutches the blanket around his shoulders, and allows himself to lay back against the rocky surface of the wall.

In truth, he admits, ‘twould not likely matter who took up the deed. Utterly robbed of their strength, neither of them seemed in the best condition to be administering such delicate operations. While Ancel holds little confidence in Estinien’s enfeebled hands, he can’t say he had much faith in his own, either.

Once Estinien finishes fastening the tight band, he pauses to inspect the wound closer, then takes one of the flasks at Ancel’s side. He observes it for a moment before looking to their scattered belongings.

Ancel thinks to inquire his intent—after all, he’d already gathered what was needed—but instead watches with mounting confusion as Estinien places the flask down, leans over, and retrieves one of their discarded belts. That confusion only escalates when he loops the leather and holds it to Ancel’s lips.

“Bite,” Estinien instructs.

… Ah. For the pain.

Too tired to argue, Ancel takes the belt between his teeth and shifts his position somewhat, looking to brace himself for the inevitable discomfort.

The feel of Estinien placing his hand—alarmingly warm still—on his knee does well to earn his focus at the very least. And then, the flask is inverted, and liquid is poured directly into the gash.

As expected, the pain is instantaneous, a piercing, nauseating sensation that makes Ancel flinch. His muscles seize with the effort it takes not to twist away, and a deep hiss saws into his lungs as his teeth dig into the leather of the belt. A final, muted whimper escapes his throat without consent.

Estinien murmurs something Ancel can’t hear, but there’s no reason to ask him to repeat it. He had already taken a cloth and gotten to work gently cleaning the wound, his features drawn stiff with concentration.

And as ever, perhaps spurred by a need to avert his focus from his howling nerves, Ancel’s thoughts wander as he takes the sight in.

The situation brings to mind the first time the two had met—when Ancel pulled Estinien from their flaming barracks and administered the selfsame treatment to the gaping wound in his leg… albeit with markedly less efficiency. 'Tis with a sentimental whim that Ancel thinks to drop the belt and remark upon the parallel, but he quickly dismisses the idea.

He doubts Estinien is the reminiscing sort. And that was in the event Estinien even recalled the encounter; it took him an age just to remember Ancel’s name, after all.

When did they truly become friends, then? Had they at all? Those sound like questions Estinien would avoid answering, and in a way, Ancel finds himself similarly inclined—afraid of the answers, afraid of differing answers.

At least, for his own part. Estinien, on the other hand, never seemed to care quite as much; at least, only ever cared as much as he needed to.

Mayhap… he would merely find the question ridiculous.

‘Tis easier to never ask, then. An aching mystery indeed, but a safer one. And that was well.

That’s… how we are.

===

“Almost…” Estinien mumbles, pausing to wipe his forehead with his arm.

He had gotten the wound partway sutured, and by now, Ancel had grown fairly accustomed to the pain. The belt in his teeth helped stave it away, but his wandering thoughts and overall weariness likely played their parts in that endurance.

Estinien had also managed to tidy his leg quite nicely, enough to locate scratches and punctures that could hardly be seen in the mess of crimson. Dried patches and smudged fingerprints yet remain, however, and Estinien’s hands had grown horrendously stained. While this was to be expected, and he seemed wholly unbothered by it, Ancel can’t help but feel remorseful.

He takes the belt from his mouth, just for a moment. “There—“ A grunt as Estinien pushes the needle through again. “There are enough clean cloths for your hands.” Wince. “E-ere you dress the wound.”

Estinien nods, though it was unclear if he truly heard. Mayhap he’d already thought of that.

Aye, he is remarkably efficient in spite of his illness. Trembling fingertips did lead to accidental pricks, and by the Fury are his searing hands still utterly distracting against Ancel’s own cold flesh. But beyond the way Estinien endeavours to breathe, and the intermittent pauses he takes to ensure he stays sitting upright, one might struggle to tell that the man had taken ill at all.

‘Tis rather surreal, his manner of care—his demeanour now. Firm, as expected, but careful, delicate, so distinctly unlike him.

... Mayhap, then, 'tis not so difficult to tell that Estinien was out of sorts.

The thread tugs a final time, and the wound closes. Estinien cuts it loose with the nearby blade, and then sets both items aside before shutting his eyes.

Regaining his stamina before initiating the last step, like as not.

Ancel shifts ever-slightly, lowering the belt from his mouth and placing it at his side. He takes the liberty of removing the bandage around his upper thigh, grabbing the blade and easing it under the tight binding. Once he cuts it loose, he surrenders a sigh of relief.

“... Tell me true,” Estinien urges.

Ancel freezes, but regards him in silence.

“A dragon,” the knight continues, “entered our encampment. Did it not?”

Ancel swallows, feeling a hot wash melt over his body. It seemed remarkably like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have, despite knowing the necessities of his actions; despite how obvious it had been what manner of creature had gifted him his wounds.

But Estinien doesn’t appear angry at all. In fact, his tone and expression both are nigh indecipherable.

“… It wandered too close,” Ancel confesses, setting the blade down. “‘Twould have entered the cave and cornered us. No recourse but to engage ere it could do so.”

“Killed, or wounded?”

“'Tis dead, no question. I discarded its body over the cliffside. None of its kin will happen upon it, or us, Fury willing.”

Estinien nods, and after drawing another weary breath, opens his eyes. He turns his head slightly, slowly, and takes one of the few remaining clean cloths with intent to rinse his hands.

The silence feels suddenly naked, dialogue now missing where it should have been. Estinien has more to say.

Given the right questions.

“… Had you heard it, then?” Ancel prods meekly. “The struggle, that is. Did it rouse you after all?”

There is no answer at first, but he can hear the gears turning in Estinien’s head as he wipes the blood from his hands. And what was once a demeanour indecipherable suddenly grows notably troubled.

“Outcries reached my ears while I slumbered. ‘Twas clear as a bell in my head.”

Ancel can’t help the pang of discomfiture that strikes him at the way Estinien words that answer. He wants to respond, but not a cohesive sentence comes to mind.

Instead, he can only furrow his brow and watch his comrade cast the bloodied cloth away in favour of retrieving a new one—one he uses to dress Ancel’s wound. He does so wordlessly at first, but upon fastening the cloth in place, Estinien speaks again, eyes lidded and voice falling as quiet as it had ever been.

“Rather than wake me,” he says, “the sound engulfed my dreams. Commanded them. And no matter how real I knew the danger was, my limbs would not listen.”

His eyes fall shut, and his brows knit with slight strain—a wince, almost—and it passes as soon as it appears. Estinien confesses then, in a tone no different, yet no less haunting:

“I could not wake—only watch.”

It takes Ancel a moment to fully process his words, to realize their meaning—and then, try and fail to determine why Estinien had spoken them in the first place. ‘Tis the first time, perhaps, that he’d heard him say anything so unguarded, so…

… Personal.

“This sounds more like a nightmare,” Ancel whispers, “than a dream.”

There comes no verbal response, and no movement either at first. But after a slow, utterly telling blink, Estinien shifts and takes another roll of bandages, obviously intent on finishing what he’d started without any further elaboration.

He doesn’t need to elaborate—his earlier persistence now has its answer.

Concern and sorrow twist and churn in Ancel’s chest. Without giving himself a chance to hesitate, he lifts his hand to Estinien’s and takes the roll between his fingers, pulling it gently. It comes away as effortlessly as breaking a fruit from a vine; no resistance, no reaction.

“Estinien…” The name leaves him as an aching whisper, but the man in question offers no response.

Completely blank. He has finished speaking.

The silence continues to marinate between them, stagnant and heavy as though time had ceased to pass altogether. Ancel pulls his lips into a thin line. 

What could he say? What wouldn’t sound hollow? Did any such combination of words exist?

What does Estinien want to hear?

A smile, one weary and lost, forces itself onto Ancel’s lips.

“‘Tis… fortunate, then, that I survived,” he ventures. “To see the danger passed. To greet you as you awoke.”

Estinien’s eyes flicker to Ancel, his expression unchanging; yet there lies consideration beneath his exhaustion, hesitation beneath his discomfort.

Still too saccharine for his liking. Ancel’s smile turns apologetic.

“Ah... n-nevertheless. I think…” Ancel shifts to the side, granting more space on his makeshift bed. “You have... more than done your part for the day.” He peels the blanket from over his shoulders and lays it out over the area, covering the spot that had pooled with his blood earlier.

Sitting upright, he gestures to the freed space. “Lay down and rest proper.”

Although partway certain that Estinien would refuse outright, the man simply pauses—calculates. Hardly a beat passes before he begins to slowly shift and lower himself down 'til he’s laying on his side, a heavy exhale escaping him.

Relieved with his compliance, Ancel relaxes his shoulders and begins to wrap the bandages around his leg.

===

‘Tis finished at last—each wound he sustained, patted clean and dressed appropriately.

And now he can rest. 

He can rest... assuming he can first refresh the damp cloth he’d given Estinien earlier.

Assuming he can do so without waking him again.

Estinien himself appeared to have succumbed to slumber already, but he’d done so at a far closer proximity than Ancel would have liked; his own fault, granted, but nevertheless a hindrance. Moving without disturbing the knight may prove a challenge, but ‘tis better than allowing his head to burn. 

Better than falling asleep here. And so Ancel begins lifting himself. 

... Only to be stopped. He hardly makes it a few ilms forward before a warm palm rises and presses itself flat against his stomach. He flinches and freezes in place, his eyes darting immediately to the culprit: his fever-addled comrade.

Still laying on his side, eyes shut, but Estinien’s arm is indeed raised and braced against Ancel with notable intent.

“Is something wrong, Estinien...?”

“Rest.” The word is hardly audible, bogged by exhaustion. Ancel blinks, taken aback by the request.

“I—… I was about to,” he clarifies. “To refresh your cloth. Then I’ll move… t-to your side of the—“

“Rest here.”

Spoken more clearly, yet Ancel is certain he misheard this time.

Myriad questions cross mind—the whys, the well-beings—and hundreds more that he would never dare inquire.

Is this something you normally ask for?

This is not something you… would normally ask for. Is it?

Why now do you ask?

‘Tis the fever, no question, reducing Estinien’s ability to care, melting his steel-clad guard down into a viscous mercury. He isn’t thinking at all. He would never ask anyone of this.

Are you even awake?

“Now,” Estinien mumbles, impatience lining his voice.

Aye. Barely awake, but awake nonetheless.

Ancel thinks, for a moment, to decline politely. ‘Twould have been easy to do so. But instead he pauses, left considering Estinien’s words from earlier.

How shaken he seemed to be from his dreams, how they proved enough to spur him into action. His ‘need’, as he phrased it ere correcting himself, how easily he succumbed to his own frailty once he saw it through.

‘Tis an instinctual guess to say this feels similar. An urgent measure, a weary precaution, Estinien’s backhanded method of seeking purchase—a sense of control where he no longer held any.

A need for security; a request for comfort.

"...”

When Ancel lowers himself, ‘tis with slow and watchful movements at first. He keeps as much of a gap between them as he can, but something about doing so begins to feel... unkind, somehow.

Once he is laying upon his back, Ancel shifts himself closer, ‘til their bodies are but ilms apart. His arm arches over Estinien’s frame, though he keeps his palm on the ground.

He expects little response from this—none, in fact—but is taken further aback by the precise opposite. Estinien’s hand does not leave his stomach, but it instead remains and furls into a fist. He takes shockingly well to their new proximity and curls in even more, nudges himself closer, lays one side of his burning head against his comrade’s pounding heart.

Indeed, upon experiencing this, Ancel feels suddenly as though he’s the one who’s taken ill.

“Is...” 

Is that sound going to bother you?

Ancel can’t bring himself to ask the full question, but Estinien doesn’t seem to notice; doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest, in fact. Though only the top of his head is visible, he appears to be unconscious already.

The relentless burning of his skin is more apparent than ever, and briefly does Ancel consider the threat to his own health. Sleeping so close to Estinien would put his own condition at risk, without a doubt.

Yet there exists no true mind between them. 

He finds that he cares for the risks about as much as Estinien seems to; mayhap, they both care more for the nervous pulse now making its paces through both of their skulls.

Aye... ‘twould seem the sound of a beating heart to guide his slumber is what Estinien wanted to hear.