[ It is a well-placed question. Godfrey's pale, sleeping complexion and still steel chest could just as easily be gone.
He might have been, were he allowed to doze much longer. Rushing feet and a drop at his side stir him, his head moving sluggishly against Gale's bundled bedroll. Sharp pain greets him and he grimaces, eyes cringing open, gauntleted hands opening and closing as the pain radiates toward them.
Gale is above him. Godfrey's throat works as Gale's hands do, peeling back layers to expose his wounds. Thick, throbbing blood glues the layers below his plate together - gambeson to leather, and to linen. The breath is stolen from his chest as an errant move jostles one of the shafts in his shoulders. Hot, numbing agony. Coldness in his fingers. Godfrey screws his wet eyes shut and waits out the pain. ]
The-- [ There is hardness in his voice - brittle and strained, his throat pulled tight around it. ] There is a knife. It is sheathed to one of my boots. Cut the padding away, if need be. Do not jostle the arrows.
[ His eyes open again, and he pins his gaze to the wretched sky - the lances of cold, diminished light struggling against the cloud-cover. ]
The arrows in my shoulders - they must be seen to. I fear the-- the one on the left. It is perilously near to an artery. [ One he'd been taught of, during his training; slide a blade behind the left collarbone, just above the heart, and a man could be exsanguinated in mere minutes. ] I've only so much healing left, but - enough, I think.
[ Enough to stem the tide of one wrong movement. Godfrey masters his throat long enough to swallow. ]
You must cut the shafts with a steady hand. As near to the skin as you can. Leave the rest in place. Pull the left arrowhead out only if you c-cut the artery. Pack and wrap them, and then-- [ His chest raises, shivering, with a long breath, ] my shoulders must be splinted, that I do not move the arrowheads within myself.
no subject
He might have been, were he allowed to doze much longer. Rushing feet and a drop at his side stir him, his head moving sluggishly against Gale's bundled bedroll. Sharp pain greets him and he grimaces, eyes cringing open, gauntleted hands opening and closing as the pain radiates toward them.
Gale is above him. Godfrey's throat works as Gale's hands do, peeling back layers to expose his wounds. Thick, throbbing blood glues the layers below his plate together - gambeson to leather, and to linen. The breath is stolen from his chest as an errant move jostles one of the shafts in his shoulders. Hot, numbing agony. Coldness in his fingers. Godfrey screws his wet eyes shut and waits out the pain. ]
The-- [ There is hardness in his voice - brittle and strained, his throat pulled tight around it. ] There is a knife. It is sheathed to one of my boots. Cut the padding away, if need be. Do not jostle the arrows.
[ His eyes open again, and he pins his gaze to the wretched sky - the lances of cold, diminished light struggling against the cloud-cover. ]
The arrows in my shoulders - they must be seen to. I fear the-- the one on the left. It is perilously near to an artery. [ One he'd been taught of, during his training; slide a blade behind the left collarbone, just above the heart, and a man could be exsanguinated in mere minutes. ] I've only so much healing left, but - enough, I think.
[ Enough to stem the tide of one wrong movement. Godfrey masters his throat long enough to swallow. ]
You must cut the shafts with a steady hand. As near to the skin as you can. Leave the rest in place. Pull the left arrowhead out only if you c-cut the artery. Pack and wrap them, and then-- [ His chest raises, shivering, with a long breath, ] my shoulders must be splinted, that I do not move the arrowheads within myself.
[ They could see to his leg once this is done. ]