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We walk into my chambers, his arm draped over mine. The blood runs freely down his body, and pained look on his face. The blood isn’t visible against the black of his shirt.
He sits down on my couch, his eyes closing in pain.
“I’ll go get the kit,” I whisper as I walk quietly away. Inside is thread and a needle, perfect for stitching him up. As I come back to the couch, his head is tilted back, his neck exposed. He breathes heavily. His normally pale face is now an ashy gray.
“You’ll need to take your shirt off,” I say calmly. He reaches for the buttons, and starts before hissing in pain.
“I-” he says, a tint of anger in his voice. “I can’t.” I walk closer, and slowly undo the buttons. His eyes are scrunched closed, and he grips the velvet settee. When I get about half way, the wound appears. Blood flows swiftly down, the jagged knife cut seeming to jump out of his skin. A crooked line sits slightly below his ribs. I pull the fabric gently from his skin, and toss the soiled shirt to the floor. I gently tap a wet rag over the gash. He doesn’t make any more noise, and I assume he’s unconscious by the way his head is rolled back.
After I carefully dab the blood off, I start to stitch. My bloody time serving in the infirmary seems like a gift now. I precisely thread my needle in and out of the skin, my hands experienced. I tie it off, and inspect my work. It seems perfectly adequate. I rip a piece of silk cloth off of my dress, and tie it around his chest tightly.
The bleeding slows, and I bandage the wound. He comes to as I finish, and he looks down slowly.
“Come to my bed,” I say to him, and slowly he stands up. He is wobbly on his feet, unheard of for a soldier of his expertise. I carry his weight slowly, and eventually we end up on the bed. I help him lay back, and he lets out a short breath. As I tuck the covers around him, he looks up at me. His hair is matted with sweat, a mess. His blue eyes pierce my own.
“Thank you,” he whispers, so quiet that if I had been any further away I wouldn’t have heard him. I stop and look at him.
“You’re welcome.”
He is gone by morning.