(no subject)
Title: A Port in Extremity
Author Eglantine_br
Extremities Challenge
He did not think Archie had heard. When Horatio lifted him, (so horribly light in his arms, bones and stretched skin burning with fever,) Archie had swooned. His head had fallen back against Horatio’s jacketed arm. Horatio could see the blue vessels beneath the skin, (dirty and pale, and he had never been either.) He could feel the horrible racing of Archie’s heart and it could not go on at such a rate surely? Not when Archie was so weak and sick? Horatio had lurched to the locked door and he was shouting, screaming. His own heart ice cold with dread. Archie did not stir, the noise did not move him. He ought to have complained, he should have struggled or questioned. Or at the very least made some jest about Horatio’s poor Spanish.
But none of that happened. Horatio was permitted out of the cage. They asked for his promise that Archie would not run. Horatio snarled something, gabbled something. There was a Spaniard fathead who claimed to be a doctor. He spared Archie a glance, dismissive.
“Typhus- he’s done for anyway.” He did not think Archie had heard that. Please God he had not heard.
His own noise had bought them something. Horatio was shown a winding stair up to a tiny white walled room. No bars here, not a cell. There was a bed, and he lowered Archie with care. He noticed distantly that he had torn his jacket lifting Archie, torn both sleeves off under the arms. He had not heard them rip. He stripped the jacket off.
Archie was very still on the bed. He looked neglected just dropped there. Horatio would have liked to pull the blankets over him, give him comfort. But he did not. Archie was too hot for that. There was a better comfort though, that might do some good. There was a washstand in the corner, there was a ewer but no sponge or cloth. Horatio snatched up his jacket and tore the left sleeve off the rest of the way.It was not clean, but neither was Archie. The water was tepid, the basin dusty. All of Spain seemed inclined to dust.
There at the angle of the jaw the pulse still raced; Archie’s skin, pale as dirty paper. Horatio stroked the wet sleeve there. Archie’s closed eyelids creased. He drew a deep and shuddery breath.
“Horatio?”
“Yes.” Horatio’s voice was hushed.
“Don’t be. I’m sorry- don’t be.”
“All right. I won’t be.”
“Don’t be. I’m sorry. I-”
“Shh. It is all right. Whatever you want is all right. Just rest.”
“I didn’t mean it. I never meant it. They said I had to and I-”
Archie’s voice was a dry hack. His eyes opened, glittering with fever. They sought Horatio’s face, and they were filled with sorrow and horror.
“Hush now,” Horatio said. “All is well. Rest a little Archie, just for a minute.”
Horatio brought the cool cloth down to Archie’s neck, Archie tipped his chin just a little. He was not wearing a neck-cloth. He was wearing a filthy shirt that Horatio had never seen before.
“Cold.”
“I know, just a little more.” He could see the small fine shivers begin. Not much more then.
He took Archie’s near hand in his own, turned it palm up. He knew this hand as well as his own, knew the small fine scars, the creases, the exact and lovely placement of the blue vessels of the wrist. Now the hand was limp, hot, dirty. But it was not marked with a fine red rash. Horatio swabbed gently. There had been none under the horrible shirt either. Perhaps not typhus then. Just perhaps not.
Archie had closed his eyes again. He was breathing more slowly. The hand was heavy in Horatio’s lap, limp, curled like an autumn leaf. Here he was small and ill, but undeniably real. Found, lost, and found again, he had returned from somewhere far and bad. There would be time enough when he woke to make sense of it. There would be time for everything. Horatio composed himself to wait.
Author Eglantine_br
Extremities Challenge
He did not think Archie had heard. When Horatio lifted him, (so horribly light in his arms, bones and stretched skin burning with fever,) Archie had swooned. His head had fallen back against Horatio’s jacketed arm. Horatio could see the blue vessels beneath the skin, (dirty and pale, and he had never been either.) He could feel the horrible racing of Archie’s heart and it could not go on at such a rate surely? Not when Archie was so weak and sick? Horatio had lurched to the locked door and he was shouting, screaming. His own heart ice cold with dread. Archie did not stir, the noise did not move him. He ought to have complained, he should have struggled or questioned. Or at the very least made some jest about Horatio’s poor Spanish.
But none of that happened. Horatio was permitted out of the cage. They asked for his promise that Archie would not run. Horatio snarled something, gabbled something. There was a Spaniard fathead who claimed to be a doctor. He spared Archie a glance, dismissive.
“Typhus- he’s done for anyway.” He did not think Archie had heard that. Please God he had not heard.
His own noise had bought them something. Horatio was shown a winding stair up to a tiny white walled room. No bars here, not a cell. There was a bed, and he lowered Archie with care. He noticed distantly that he had torn his jacket lifting Archie, torn both sleeves off under the arms. He had not heard them rip. He stripped the jacket off.
Archie was very still on the bed. He looked neglected just dropped there. Horatio would have liked to pull the blankets over him, give him comfort. But he did not. Archie was too hot for that. There was a better comfort though, that might do some good. There was a washstand in the corner, there was a ewer but no sponge or cloth. Horatio snatched up his jacket and tore the left sleeve off the rest of the way.It was not clean, but neither was Archie. The water was tepid, the basin dusty. All of Spain seemed inclined to dust.
There at the angle of the jaw the pulse still raced; Archie’s skin, pale as dirty paper. Horatio stroked the wet sleeve there. Archie’s closed eyelids creased. He drew a deep and shuddery breath.
“Horatio?”
“Yes.” Horatio’s voice was hushed.
“Don’t be. I’m sorry- don’t be.”
“All right. I won’t be.”
“Don’t be. I’m sorry. I-”
“Shh. It is all right. Whatever you want is all right. Just rest.”
“I didn’t mean it. I never meant it. They said I had to and I-”
Archie’s voice was a dry hack. His eyes opened, glittering with fever. They sought Horatio’s face, and they were filled with sorrow and horror.
“Hush now,” Horatio said. “All is well. Rest a little Archie, just for a minute.”
Horatio brought the cool cloth down to Archie’s neck, Archie tipped his chin just a little. He was not wearing a neck-cloth. He was wearing a filthy shirt that Horatio had never seen before.
“Cold.”
“I know, just a little more.” He could see the small fine shivers begin. Not much more then.
He took Archie’s near hand in his own, turned it palm up. He knew this hand as well as his own, knew the small fine scars, the creases, the exact and lovely placement of the blue vessels of the wrist. Now the hand was limp, hot, dirty. But it was not marked with a fine red rash. Horatio swabbed gently. There had been none under the horrible shirt either. Perhaps not typhus then. Just perhaps not.
Archie had closed his eyes again. He was breathing more slowly. The hand was heavy in Horatio’s lap, limp, curled like an autumn leaf. Here he was small and ill, but undeniably real. Found, lost, and found again, he had returned from somewhere far and bad. There would be time enough when he woke to make sense of it. There would be time for everything. Horatio composed himself to wait.