Every jostle—no matter how well-meaning or gentle—manages to find some injury to irritate. Whether it’s one of the bruises hidden under Kieran’s clothes or the more glaring open wounds on his face, it feels like there’s no part of his body that isn’t debilitated in some way. But that’s neither Pratt nor Ben’s fault, so Kieran does his best to grit his teeth and stifle any yelps brought by the attempts to make him somewhat comfortable. For what it’s worth, his friends’ reassurances do help assuage his panic, and even though his breath still hitches with every other heave, he’s settled into some semblance of a rhythm by the time Ben has him secured.
The promise of a healer’s arrival sparks a renewed hope inside of Kieran, and pushes him to keep fighting. Sure, he has no idea what makes a healer any different from a doctor (he imagines Pratt would’ve just said ‘doctor’ if there wasn’t some sort of difference), but the ultimate beggar can’t start choosing now.
What doesn’t sit right with him, however, is what’s about to come next. Distantly, he realizes that he must be bleeding still, given the gruesome nature of his untreated injury, the fact that he can taste iron mixed with salt, and the way his head has never stopped swimming and only seems to be getting worse. However, with the adrenaline running through his veins and the overwhelming dread over the fact that he can’t see, what should’ve been obvious eluded him. He knows it needs to be addressed first, but when Ben announces that he’s going to try to mitigate the flow, Kieran can’t help but tense up even as he attempts to nod in understanding.
The initial press of cloth against his open wounds—no matter how soft the fabric—is like lightning lancing through his body, burning hot and hitting every nerve down to his fingers and toes. His back arches against Ben’s hold and the heels of his boots dig into the ground, leaving marks as his body instinctively thrashes against this fresh new wave of unfettered bullshit.
Kieran doesn’t scream at first, his throat closing up from sheer shock, but as he wrestles his body under control, all of that pent up panic and anger and absolute misery needs to make itself known somehow. He sucks in a few deep breaths from between his clenched teeth and, digging his fingernails into the palm of Ben’s hand, lets loose.
no subject
The promise of a healer’s arrival sparks a renewed hope inside of Kieran, and pushes him to keep fighting. Sure, he has no idea what makes a healer any different from a doctor (he imagines Pratt would’ve just said ‘doctor’ if there wasn’t some sort of difference), but the ultimate beggar can’t start choosing now.
What doesn’t sit right with him, however, is what’s about to come next. Distantly, he realizes that he must be bleeding still, given the gruesome nature of his untreated injury, the fact that he can taste iron mixed with salt, and the way his head has never stopped swimming and only seems to be getting worse. However, with the adrenaline running through his veins and the overwhelming dread over the fact that he can’t see, what should’ve been obvious eluded him. He knows it needs to be addressed first, but when Ben announces that he’s going to try to mitigate the flow, Kieran can’t help but tense up even as he attempts to nod in understanding.
The initial press of cloth against his open wounds—no matter how soft the fabric—is like lightning lancing through his body, burning hot and hitting every nerve down to his fingers and toes. His back arches against Ben’s hold and the heels of his boots dig into the ground, leaving marks as his body instinctively thrashes against this fresh new wave of unfettered bullshit.
Kieran doesn’t scream at first, his throat closing up from sheer shock, but as he wrestles his body under control, all of that pent up panic and anger and absolute misery needs to make itself known somehow. He sucks in a few deep breaths from between his clenched teeth and, digging his fingernails into the palm of Ben’s hand, lets loose.
“MOTHERFUCKER.”