(no subject)
Sophie's too curious to be terrified, at first - the bright lights shining without visible candles, the thick stone walls, the eerie singing and the strange costumes of everyone hurrying about provide plenty of distraction from the temerity of what she's offered to do.
Then she sees the first of the victims - and she's abruptly too furious to be terrified.
They are all so, so very young. Far too young; none of them older than Howl, and some look as young as Michael, or even Martha. And there are so many of them, and there is nothing that can justify so many dying so young. Nothing at all.
Sophie's fixed up her share of scrapes in the past; you tend to, when you have two younger sisters. Nothing, of course, on this scale, but she knows how to wash out the place that's hurt. Knows, in theory, that you're supposed to sew up something large, although she's never done it herself.
But she is, she reminds herself firmly, very skilled with a needle. And fortunately, she always carries one with her.
She takes a deep breath and creaks to her knees next to the closest victim: a young woman (and why a woman was on a battlefield, Sophie can't imagine) with long wounds that stretch from her face down her arm. She looks rather as if she's been clawed by something -
- think of it like a piece of fabric. Just another suit that needs to be sewn up.
Sophie threads her needle, and grips the girl's hand briefly and (she hopes) reassuringly in hers. "This shouldn't hurt," she says, aloud, and wills it to be true; and then, as she starts to sew - the girl stares at her blankly, and doesn't say a word - begins to mutter.
"You'll be quite better quite soon. The stitches will help your wound heal very quickly, and it won't get infected or anything. It won't. You'll need to rest a bit, of course, but you should be able to move the arm just as usual within a few days. And you won't have any lasting trouble from it - no, none at all," and she ties off the knot feeling rather hopeful. It feels as though that's worked.
Not all the victims she sees are that easy. The next two have no visible wounds at all; they just look - well, Sophie can't describe it that easily, but unwell - and she's not sure what to do for them except kneel beside them and tell them helplessly that they'll be getting better, that the poison is going to leave them and that everything is going to work properly again and that they're going rest and be well.
They both go to sleep. The first one looks a little healthier once she's left; there's something wrong with the second one, still, and she's not sure that she can fix it.
There's a young man who's been turned to stone. A monk tells her she won't be able to do anything for him, and to move on to the next one. She puts a hand on his arm, and whispers, "Be human again - you don't want to be stone. Be a man again." But it doesn't work, any more than it had worked on the dog-man, and she moves on.
One of them dies while she's still creakily bending herself down to try to reach his wound. She blames herself and her slowness, even as she stretches herself back up to call for Yuna or one of the other - what had she called them? Summoners? As someone hurries over, she tells herself not to be stupid. It's not her fault she has creaky knees. If anyone, she should be blaming the Witch of the Waste.
It doesn't really make her feel better.
It feels almost like a dream, the whole interlude - well, more like a nightmare. Her voice is hoarse and croaking by the time the night is done from telling people that they will get better, from telling wounds that they want to close up without infection and hearts that they want to beat more strongly and pain that it wants to go away, and she still has no idea what's worked and what's hasn't.
Then she sees the first of the victims - and she's abruptly too furious to be terrified.
They are all so, so very young. Far too young; none of them older than Howl, and some look as young as Michael, or even Martha. And there are so many of them, and there is nothing that can justify so many dying so young. Nothing at all.
Sophie's fixed up her share of scrapes in the past; you tend to, when you have two younger sisters. Nothing, of course, on this scale, but she knows how to wash out the place that's hurt. Knows, in theory, that you're supposed to sew up something large, although she's never done it herself.
But she is, she reminds herself firmly, very skilled with a needle. And fortunately, she always carries one with her.
She takes a deep breath and creaks to her knees next to the closest victim: a young woman (and why a woman was on a battlefield, Sophie can't imagine) with long wounds that stretch from her face down her arm. She looks rather as if she's been clawed by something -
- think of it like a piece of fabric. Just another suit that needs to be sewn up.
Sophie threads her needle, and grips the girl's hand briefly and (she hopes) reassuringly in hers. "This shouldn't hurt," she says, aloud, and wills it to be true; and then, as she starts to sew - the girl stares at her blankly, and doesn't say a word - begins to mutter.
"You'll be quite better quite soon. The stitches will help your wound heal very quickly, and it won't get infected or anything. It won't. You'll need to rest a bit, of course, but you should be able to move the arm just as usual within a few days. And you won't have any lasting trouble from it - no, none at all," and she ties off the knot feeling rather hopeful. It feels as though that's worked.
Not all the victims she sees are that easy. The next two have no visible wounds at all; they just look - well, Sophie can't describe it that easily, but unwell - and she's not sure what to do for them except kneel beside them and tell them helplessly that they'll be getting better, that the poison is going to leave them and that everything is going to work properly again and that they're going rest and be well.
They both go to sleep. The first one looks a little healthier once she's left; there's something wrong with the second one, still, and she's not sure that she can fix it.
There's a young man who's been turned to stone. A monk tells her she won't be able to do anything for him, and to move on to the next one. She puts a hand on his arm, and whispers, "Be human again - you don't want to be stone. Be a man again." But it doesn't work, any more than it had worked on the dog-man, and she moves on.
One of them dies while she's still creakily bending herself down to try to reach his wound. She blames herself and her slowness, even as she stretches herself back up to call for Yuna or one of the other - what had she called them? Summoners? As someone hurries over, she tells herself not to be stupid. It's not her fault she has creaky knees. If anyone, she should be blaming the Witch of the Waste.
It doesn't really make her feel better.
It feels almost like a dream, the whole interlude - well, more like a nightmare. Her voice is hoarse and croaking by the time the night is done from telling people that they will get better, from telling wounds that they want to close up without infection and hearts that they want to beat more strongly and pain that it wants to go away, and she still has no idea what's worked and what's hasn't.