Light and Shadows

Keys for All Occasions: Cicatrix

Of all the many new and unpleasant experiences Renathal had accumulated recently, this had to be one of the most embarrassing.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, he struggled to hold the end of the long bandage in place with his elbow. Even that slight pressure against his side made him wince, but it freed both hands to wind the rest of the unwieldy cloth around his abdomen. The process still seemed to demand one additional hand at least, but Renathal was loathe to ask for help. Those he considered friends, such as Draven and Theotar, would worry at the extent of his wounds, and with anyone else there was the risk of rumours. It would be a serious blow to the rebellion's image if the other Venthyr knew just how badly their leader was injured.

Though, as the carefully positioned bandage began to slip yet again, Renathal was forced to admit there might be no other choice. He tugged frantically at the uncooperative cloth, but... too late. The whole painstaking arrangement collapsed in a whisper of silk, pooling innocently at his feet. Renathal groaned out loud at the prospect of picking it all back up and starting again. Bending was its own agony, but it paled against the ignominy of being unable to do something as simple as tend his own wounds.

Squeezing his eyes shut against yet another failure, he sank onto the table behind him, allowing the enormous wooden structure to take some of his weight. Like the high-backed chair accompanying it and the dark velvet chaise lounge pushed against the wall on its other side, the table was scaled for Denathrius; as was the room itself most likely, with its high ceiling and widespread walls. Not for the first time, Renathal wondered what the Master had used this room for.

He had few memories of Sinfall before the Sire had dragged him here, intending to end his firstborn where he began. Whatever the original purpose of its many huge chambers and hidden passageways, Sinfall was now an abandoned, crumbling ruin. Much how Renathal himself currently felt as he pressed a hand firmly to his side, attempting to ease some of the relentless ache.

"Would you like some help?"

Renathal recognised the voice, but did not open his eyes. Of course, he thought glumly. It would be the Maw Walker who caught him like this; wounded and weak, unable to succeed at even this menial task.

"I appreciate the offer," Renathal said, as casually as he could through clenched teeth, "but I will manage sufficiently."

There was no answer, and Renathal hoped, for the first time since meeting the Maw Walker, that she would give up and go away. But the sound of soft shoes across stone was coming closer instead of fading back into the hall, and when Renathal opened his eyes, she was kneeling at his feet, gathering up the unruly length of colourless cloth.

"You know," the Maw Walker said mildly, rolling the bandages into a tight, orderly ball, "it was ignoring my advice about assistance that led to this injury in the first place, Your Highness."

Her tone held no reproach, but being reminded of his plan's utter failure still smarted. There was a jagged edge to Renathal's voice when he replied:

"Surely, you are above saying I told you so."

"I'm not above implying it."

The Maw Walker met his eyes and smiled. Not her small, inscrutable smile either, but a wide expression full of short, white teeth and gentle mischief; effective in disarming Renathal's rising shame and frustration.

"But," she continued, drawing the word out as she rose to her feet, "if you let me help you, I'll not say another word about it."

Renathal considered this. For reasons he could not quite fathom, it bothered him for the Maw Walker to see him in such a sad state: propped up by the table, shirt hanging off his arms, unable to bandage his own wound or even reach the bandages at all. Yet, as pathetic as he must look, it was nothing compared to their first meeting. And anyway, the pain in his left side was making his eyes water.