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>SELECTED: “Forgive me, sister. Angel, grant me strength.” You whisper the last. Weakness in the face of the enemy is unacceptable. True, the enemy here is human suffering and all the plagues of the world, but your duty is the same. You must face this as a man, lend aid where you can, and use this lesson to value the good works of those you are sworn to defend. [Hearty]
<span class="mu-b">+1 Step on the Path of Adam [27 Steps].</span>
<span class="mu-i">“Forgive me, sister.”</span> You reply, eyes downcast as you follow her to the table where the orderlies are preparing the unfortunate soul for rough surgery. His thrashing becomes wild and stronger than any wounded man has a right to be, the sight of the knife giving the patient a sudden burst of instinctual vitality.
Your breath comes sharp and ragged, it takes more strength than you realised to hold the screaming man down. You can hear the wet slap of flesh, meat hitting the table, the sound of cutting bone. It is not a fast process, and there is not much in the way of anaesthetic to be found here.
<span class="mu-i">“Angel grant me strength…”</span> You close your eyes and grit your teeth, clamping down on the man’s ruined arm as the butchering work is done. Your sympathy takes a perverse turn to hate, hate at the man’s pain and his wailing. Your fingers tighten, imagining them around this poor, damned slave bastard’s neck. Cain on the Cross at least then the screaming would stop!
The worst part was the pleading in his eyes, the babbling foreign cries of frantic desperation. Although he mercifully passes out before the grisly work is halfway done, you know that the man could not understand why this was being done to him. He probably came here for medicine, not realising the infection was too far gone. Not realising that he would walk away a one-armed slave. If he walks away at all.
<span class="mu-i">“Will he live?”</span> You look up from place on your knees once the work is done, wiping vomit from your mouth once you’re done retching. You taste iron on your lips where the back of your hand passes, it nearly sends you throwing up again.
<span class="mu-i">“He has lost a lot of blood.”</span> Sister Genevieve replies, wrapping the massacred limb tight. You’ve seen stronger, haler men succumb to wounds far less grievous than this. <span class="mu-i">“By morning we will know. All we can do now is pray.”</span>
<span class="mu-i">“I....”</span> You don’t know why you began to hate a man whose only crime was to suffer. Why was anger your response? You shake your head. Another confession for Towbray in due course. <span class="mu-i">“Pray. Of course.”</span>
<span class="mu-i">“You’ve done enough, sir knight.”</span> Sister Genevieve hands you a towel, wet and steaming warm.
<span class="mu-i">“Enough?”</span> You look around at the room, so much condensed suffering piled into such close quarters. You look down at your own hands, bloody red to the elbows. <span class="mu-i">“How could this be enough?”</span>
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