Fantasy Καρδιάφοβία

[Daisie]

Ambrosia was focused wholly on her work, and though she wouldn't stretch it far enough to call Lysander conversational, he was actually talking, and that somehow was a comfort to her. After so many hours of hardly hearing a thing from him, it was a weight off her shoulders to finally understand him a little more. Every shift, every tug of the needle, truly seemed to pain her far more than him. Regardless, she managed her emotion as best as she could, sewing up the wound faithfully.

"Of course I'm being gentle." Amber answered, as if her actions were basic common sense. Her eyes even came back up to Lysander's briefly, giving him an annoyed look before she came down to tie the string at the end. "This wound is horrid. I don't want you to suffer."

"You don't deserve that, Zander."

Despite the bold claim of her words, she spoke as if they had little weight, and to her, they did. It was simply a matter of fact: you're supposed to treat others with kindness and warmth. Truthfully, Ambrosia didn't know for certain whether Lysander could be considered "worthy" of such a gesture. Based on how effortlessly he had just swiped away 5 grown men, she had no doubt he'd done far more gruesome things in his past, most of which she had no interest in hearing of. But regardless...

"You're still human. You still bleed, and you still hurt. You can't deny that," she explained as she brought out the little clay pot, pulling the top open. She dug her fingers inside, scraping against the bottom to coat her fingertips in a thick, green, and grassy paste. She paused before she could bring the substance to his wound, under a realization that she knew so little about Lysander's violent upbringing - had he ever even had proper wound treatment before? What were Spartan healers like? Did he know what was happening?

It gradually sunk in just how much faith this near-stranger had put into her, allowing her this close to his wounds.

"This is called poultice," she explained empathetically, just in case, and with a small smile. "It's made to soak into the wound and draw out toxins and help you to heal. It's infused with honey for cleanliness, and aloe to soothe the pain, that you might be able to relax."

"I'm putting it over the sutures. Uhm, those are what the threads are called in the skin, rather than cloth. The sutures." Resuming her tender touch, she began dabbing the poultice about the wound. Her shaking nearly all stopped as she found some form of relief in being able to help, somehow, still patiently explaining herself. "The poultice will harden over time, and it'll help seal the wound and protect it from further damage while the sutures hold it together."

 

[Melpomene]

The position had become standard. From boyhood sitting in the healer's tent when the wounds became to powerful and blood dripped from fingertip, the source unknown and his eye clogged. Each scar was formed and etched deep into flesh from a weapon unknown and a time that was foggy yet a faint memory came when the tips of flesh ghosted over the risen white lines that were netted across the tan skin of his body. There was never a need for gentility. He was a Spartan boy and Spartans were strong, packed muscle beneath soft flesh. Flat lines in their abdomens appeared when they were 12 and blooming into a muscular structure that rivaled any other poli when they were in their late teens - ready to serve in the army before entering land-owning adulthood.

He hardly felt pain being treated before. And hardly did he find anyone who thought he needed to be treated with any degree of gentility. For a moment he studied her out of the corner of his eye. Being startled left him long ago. But an Athenian speaking with such a soft languor surprised him. Most knew of Spartan substance and few thought Spartans in need of being coddled.

"You know very little of me, Ambrosia," he spoke lowly though not with any malice. It was an observational tone. Watchful as he studied her. He glanced away after a long moment, feeling the slight sting as the poultice touched his wound. But the pounding of his heart ended and the blood would slowly clot and dry. He could already feel the muscle searching to stitch itself together. He knew his own body well - just as any warrior should. How much it could take and when he needed a break. This was barely anything and he did not think to worry of it too much.

"I usually am not conscious for this part..." he muttered as he watched her work.

But he did sit up straighter. "Ah, so I will be ready to fight again when it dries. We will continue to the dragon on the morrow."

 

[Daisie]

A look of shock crossed Ambrosia's face as Lysander announced his readiness to fight the draconic beast merely the next morning. There came a pause to her as she went over it in her head again - The thought of not allowing this wound to heal for at least a few days was ghastly to her. But on the other hand, he hadn't even flinched throughout any of her wound care, which she found equally unthinkable. Lysander seemed so completely foreign to her. Perhaps he was right, and he didn't actually didn't need the rest.

It was almost as if they were made of different material, she posited to herself as she finished her job. Were Athenians and Spartans truly so far apart that not even their flesh and blood was composed the same, anymore? Ambrosia couldn't even comprehend withstanding a knife to the shoulder, let alone with such casualty.

"T-... Tomorrow?" Ambrosia stuttered, hesitation evident. She glanced down towards her hands, as if only then recognizing the blood smeared across them. "Well, if you think you will be ready by then..."

But then there was a certain curiosity in her eye. Despite her complexion having whitened a shade or two at the reality of the red spilled across her hands, she chose her next words carefully. "Spartans... do feel pain, don't they? I don't see how they couldn't, but yet... you don't react."

Ambrosia trailed off. She busied herself only by staring at her bloodied palms, appearing deeply troubled by them, yet morbidly fascinated. Finally, she drew her eyes back up towards him, almost as if trying to peer past some trickery of his.

"Why can't I do that, too?"

 

[Melpomene]

His readiness came as a shock to most.

The ability to stand up from ailments and go back into the thick of battle was not necessarily Spartan - but they had that hardiness within them that knew nothing was over until they were dead. And in his line of work, caution could not be afforded when the next meal to be had may be dependent on how fast he can take down this draconic beast that threatened them.

He never expected anyone else to have the same forfeiture and looking down at Ambrosia he could see the wear on her already. How unused to this life she was. He was bad at comforting people, worse at providing false platitudes. He leveled himself, perhaps facts would help her, she was a scholar after all. They liked to hear facts and learn, did they not?

"Spartan boys aren't fed, they're expected to steal their food so they can learn stealth and the like." he finally spoke, low and heavy. "We were raised to endure hunger - encouraged to steal with the threat of death or whippings on being caught. We had to smuggle in foxes to the halls as a challenge. It was like a rite of passage. And the foxes, well, they scratched. They would dig their claws into your belly and start trying to burrow in until they could pull out your guts. And the guards would know that and stop us and if we showed even a hint of pain on our faces then we failed. So before that we would practice, cutting each other with knives to steel our own nerves. Learning pain before we could be destroyed by it."

He glanced down at her for a long moment. "You weren't raised for that, Ambrosia. I was the brute raised to act as the fist, you are the gentle Athenian raised to act as the scholar. Don't think your place in life is any less important."

 

[Daisie]

Lysander was correct about one thing: Facts were what made Ambrosia tick. As he began regaling her with stories from his youth, she may have kept her horrified expression, but it wasn't long before her hands fumbled for something else from her sturdy, woven pack. She drew out a small and flat wooden box of notable workmanship, carved with various intricate flourishes on the outside. She cracked it open to reveal a thick coat of wax at the bottom, accompanied with what looked to be a very well-loved wooden stylus.

Despite being visibly discomforted by the gruesomeness of his tales, every little letter she scratched through the wax seemed to steel her mind. Her back hunched over her work. It was a compulsion - a way to cope.

She was lost enough in her writings that it took her a few moments to catch up to what Lysander ended his remarks with. He'd spoken directly to her. As soon as she realized, her stylus halted and her dark grey eyes were pulled up to meet him again, filled with shock and insecurity. Straightening her horrid posture, she brushed a long lock of hair from her face.

"You are..." She uttered before pressing her lips together in consideration. "... More well-spoken than I would have thought from a Spartan."

There was a space of silence as she thought on what she'd just said. Some half of her realized she'd just paid him a compliment, and the other half was chastising her for it. She wasn't entirely sure why, but she didn't like the feeling, anyways, as a redness dusted her cheek. She abruptly closed her wax tablet and tucked it into her lap tightly, the folds of her chiton hiding it away.

"I've finished treating you, so you should sleep." She stated firmly before hastily realizing her commanding tone. "... If you'd like. I'm going to, anyways."

 

[Melpomene]

"We are given a proper education there," Lysander said with a slight raise of his brow, but after gently testing his shoulder he slowly decided to rise from his current position and return to his pack. There should be none giving them trouble for a long while and he was more than prepared to sleep for the night. The bright blue of day had already bled out until the black of night sparsed with glittering stars came and hung over them.

He carefully laid out his bedroll as he tossed a few sticks into the fire to keep it up and warm as the night took the heat from the desert and replaced it with a dry chill that managed to seep deep into the bones.

"Keep covered - the desert can be as brutal at night as it is in the day. We'll continue upon sunrise on the morn and then we'll go find the dragon."

He settled on his back and closed his eyes.

He planned to sleep until morning and did not intend to be disturbed. He was a light sleeper, but he seemed to be a heavy one with gentle snores and being undisturbed by any noise that was deemed as non-threatening.