Sillage

Chapter 20: Duty. Danger.

TW MENTAL HEALTH/PANIC ATTACK/MENTIONS OF MURDER/EXPLICIT INJURY

Work until you forget.

Work until you feel nothing anymore.

Work until you're too tired to even think. Work until your brain screams for a break and your muscles almost give out in agony.

Work. Work. Work.

Lucky for you, so far the Scouting Regiment has never failed to provide you enough patients to keep any distracting thoughts at bay.

"Tell me again what shape the leaves you rubbed against your armpits had."

Pencil tightly held between your fingers, you watch the blonde man in front of you from under furrowed brows. Afternoon heat slowly creeping its way inside the infirmary, your attention is briefly caught by a tiny bird seated on the nearest windowsill. If it weren't for the cool stone walls surrounding you, and the enormousness of the chamber, you're sure the warm rays of light flowing through the open windows would make the air barely breathable, even for an autumn day. Furious storm from last night completely forgotten by the world, but settled into your heart instead.

Eyes returning to the problem on hand, you carefully examine the nasty urticaria the man in front of you presents.

Seated on the examination table, upper half-naked and arms raised and placed above his head, he shifts his weight uncomfortably, reddish hue kissing his cheeks in embarrassment. The intense color almost matches the ugly rash present right on his underarms.

"Well, they were around ten centimeters long, and four centimeters wide. Oval, with a sharp tip, and the margins were, um, jagged. When I touched them they felt kinda prickly, but...I never thought..."

It's the third time you made him describe the plant to you, skeptical of the fact that someone could actually rub nettles on their skin willingly.

Shaking your head, your quick digits write everything down. "Those were nettles, Mr. Loth."

"N-nettles?!" Eyes almost bulging out of their sockets at the revelation, you almost feel bad for the young soldier the moment a wince of pain escapes his lips at the sudden movements.

Closing the leather notebook with a muffled thud, you brace your hands on your hips and release a short exhale through your nose. "Yes. You developed urticaria, or more widely known as stinging nettle rash or hives."

"H-h-hives?!"

Panic written all over his face, you're quick to interfere and try to counter any anxiety. "Don't worry, it's not something permanent. The nettle is used in medicine for a variety of things, but rubbing it directly on the skin causes inflammation, hence why you developed that ugly irritation. Why did you do that?"

He hesitates for a moment, head dipping down in shame. "I saw a piece of advice in a beauty newspaper for women. It said to rub long oval leaves against your armpits to get rid of the smell. I must've mistaken them, I thought it was supposed to sting before going numb or something like that. I don't know what I was thinking."

Well, that certainly is anything but what you expected. When he first walked through the door, body stiff, face red and sweaty, eyes almost tearing due to the itching and prickling sensation under his arms, the moment you saw the rash and he told you he used some plant, you could've bet your life his friends played a prank on him. Who would've thought he actually did this to himself?

Well, you suppose you should be grateful since it's nothing contagious. An epidemic inside the Regiment would be the last thing you could deal with, between titan experiments, a deranged mind, and a mysterious death. You refuse to add your complicated relationship with your superior on top of all of those.