Mending More than Legs(Solo/Flashback)

[Denen Sunsinger]

Date: Summer 13, 508 Denen didn't understand a lot of things, but death was one of them. It had been two weeks since his grandmother's death, and he still struggled to comprehend that she was utterly gone. Life was dangerous as a Drykas. Denen had grown up knowing this, but as a member of the Opal Clan, he had witnessed less death than many others. Strange, of course, as his life had begun with a death. Had he not been snuggled into his mother's chest as her life ebbed away? But he couldn't remember that. He had seen many men and women on the verge of death, and witnessed, too, as they were pulled back, saved at the last moment. Such was the case now. He stood alongside his father's first wife now, features grim as her hands quickly cleaned the very clear, very open wound on the side of the boy's leg. Denen felt a little ill as he watched. The bone jutted through the break, and the boy, his nephew, whimpered pitifully. Stone, Denen's father, stood across the table, mixing herbs. His older brother Phelar, father to the boy on the table, stood, holding his son's hand. His features were grim, and his eyes lighted on Denen's. “Do something,” he signed hastily. Denen nodded and raised his hands as if to do something. But he blanked. He stared at the jutting white of the bone, feeling his insides twist. He had studied healing all of his life, had seen pictures of how this sort of thing was to be fixed. He had even seen the end result, but this was the only time he had ever been asked to help, and it so happened that it was his nephew, who was only two years younger, who needed his aid. His father's hand shot across, gripping his face and forcing him to look up and meet his gaze. “You. Get bandages for Pebble, and get ready to splint the leg once she's got it set.” Denen nodded and hurried from the tent. Their supplies were near, but with his panic, they seemed further away. His blue eyes were wide, and as he stumbled toward the supply tent, he the sudden thought that it might do well to put the boy into a slumber while they operated. With the right combination of chamomile and hops, or even field balm he could help the boy through his pain. An anesthetic, as it were. But first, the bandages. Slipping past the flap of the tent, he located two, thin boards. Father kept a ready supply for splints. Denen selected two, which would have to be cut down to match the length of Lelat's leg. Thinking of this, he grabbed the handsaw that was set alongside them, and then turned about to locate bandages. Bandages, bandages...Where are the...Ah!” He held the boards beneath his arm, and then filled the other with rolls of bandages. They had spent hours in the past week shredding bandages from old tunics. He knew it might be a bit much, but he supposed it would be better to have too many than too few. He hurried back through the Pavilion to the tent where his father and family were laboring over his poor nephew. He slipped inside, standing to the side, awkward and gangly in his fourteen-year-old body, and flinched as he witnessed Pebble, with her gentle, woman's hands, forcing Lelat's bone back into place. He was grateful to be deaf, then, for he had not heard his nephew scream, or the crunching of bone against bone as the leg was mended. Stone began to clean the area where the bone had broken flesh, and upon so doing, began to apply the herbal mix he'd been concocting all the while. It was then that Denen caught a glimpse of Lelat's face, and his heart wrenched in his chest. Twelve-year-old Lelat was pale, quite contrasting his usual, vibrant smiles, and tears streaked his cheeks. He was trying to be brave, but the pain of what he was experiencing had him clutching at his father's arm for dear life. Denen thought of the agony his ears caused him sometimes, even as he got older, and he wanted nothing more than to take away the pain that was afflicting the boy. Pebble looked up then, motioning with a bloody hand for the boy to come and apply the splint. “Wrap the wound first, dear,” she signed. She pushed a strand of curled hair back out of her face, smearing blood across her brow. “Gods, where is Jada? Phelar, dear, call for your aunt.” Denen approached Lelat's leg, and his nephew, who had been teasing him a mere hour before his fall from his Strider had rendered him broken, looked up with wide, fearful eyes, as if terrified that he should be placed in the hands of someone barely two years older. Denen tried not to look at Lelat's face. Phelar reluctantly left the tent to call Jada, Stone's second wife. The young healer-in-training was silent as he approached the table, knowing that Stone's eyes were on him heavily. Denen took the boards that he had brought, and laid them both out alongside Lelat's injured leg. He measured carefully, being sure that the splint reached from his ankle to mid-thigh. He lifted the saw, and cut where it was appropriate, before he set them aside and began to bandage the swollen, ugly flesh that marked where the break had taken place. Lelat whimpered and squirmed. “G-Grandfather, I don't want Denen to do it.” He reached down and pushed Denen's hands away. The boy looked up, first to his nephew, and then to his father. Stone simply sighed and rubbed his temples. “Lelat, be still.” The boy gave a furious sob and shook his head. “He'll mess it up, Grandfather! He messes everything up!” Denen's clumsiness was often a source of frustration to Lelat. He had been made to play with him as they grew up. Denen was slower than the other boys. He tripped a lot, or knocked things over, and when Lelat wanted to play games with his cousins or friends, he often did whatever he could to leave Denen behind. He would trick him, tell him that they were meeting in one place, and then go to another, or tell him the wrong time. Stone, however, wanted this to be done, and as such growled and tapped Denen rather soundly on the head. “Keep wrapping, boy. Do you want your nephew to keep bleeding?” Denen's features fell further and he bowed his head as he finished up the initial wrapping. He carefully slid the cloth intended for holding the boards in place beneath the injured leg, so that by tying it, he would bring the boards against the limb to keep it steady. Padding. He needed padding. A sudden panic filled him. He'd forgotten padding. But his eyes darted to the excessive bandages, and he reached for a roll, which he then began to loosen until the coils were wide enough to serve as a buffer between the boards and Lelat's leg. He repeated this with the inner side of the leg, before placing the boards on either side. He proceeded, then, to tie the splint in place, fastening it snugly, but not so tightly as to cut off circulation. Once it was tied in place, he stepped back, and rubbed his arm self consciously, while Stone looked over his work. “It'll do,” he murmured. Denen nodded, and then slipped out of the tent to make tea to help Lelat sleep. There was a small fire outside the tent, and it was there that Denen crouched down to boil water. From this, he measured out two cups of hot water, pouring it into a cup. Then, drawing two small pouches from his bag, he added two teaspoons worth of crushed, dried chamomile, and the same measurement of hops. He wished he'd prepared this beforehand. But he thought of the things Lelat had done, and he supposed he could wait ten minutes. He covered the cup, and sat by the fire, counting to sixty seconds in his head ten times. This done, he strained the tea, and took it into the tent, where he offered it to Lelat. Stone's features were marked with confusion, wondering why Denen had returned, until he smelled the tea. He grunted, and then stepped out. Pebble, however, placed a gentle hand on Denen's shoulder as her grandson drank. “That was very thoughtful of you,” she signed. “Now, run along and pay Reth a visit. I'm sure he misses his boy.” Her smile was kind, and Denen nodded. He was in the process of turning about to go when Lelat reached out and grabbed his delicate wrist. “Thank you, Denen.” Denen offered a shy smile, followed by a small nod of his head, and slipped out into the warm, summer evening.

[Denen Sunsinger]

He did as Pebble advised and sought out the old horse who had been his best friend since early childhood. He found Reth grazing with the Pavilions other Striders. Reth raised his head and whinnied in greeting. Denen grinned and wrapped his arms around the old gelding's neck, pressing his face into his mane. “I made a splint for my nephew's leg,” he signed, and Reth tossed his head approvingly. His father hadn't told him he'd done it wrong, and Stone was never one to spare criticism. He lifted himself, slowly but surely, up onto Reth's back, and he rested his head against the horse's neck. Reth craned his neck around and rubbed the boy's leg with his nose, while making his way through the tents of the Brokensong Pavilion. He was coming down still off of the high that had swallowed him up during the mending of his nephew's leg. His eyes closed and a soft, contented sigh left his lips. Perhaps things weren't so hopeless after all. Sitting up on Reth's bare back, he pressed his knees into the gelding's sides. He understood, and his pace quickened. Denen leaned forward a bit, hinting to him to speed up. Reth, with whom the boy communicated silently, took on a canter, and then, despite his age, and once they had cleared the tents, took on a gallop. Denen pressed his torso down, allowing for Reth to gain more speed and to keep himself balanced. There was a yew tree, growing near a particular area of the Sea of Grass. They frequented this place often, and the tree had become something of a sacred place to Denen. It was in this area that the great tent city was currently resting, and Denen rode the familiar way to the tree. Once there, he slid down from the old Strider's back, and settled himself comfortably near the roots of the tree. He had come here as a little boy, and pretended that the tree, which bore the name of his mother, held her spirit, or that she was somehow linked to it. He had few friends, even amongst his family, and talking aloud to the tree helped him find a connection to the mother he'd never known. His father didn't have time to listen to him, and Jada—who had taken on the role of mother—had been more and more distant as he grew older. He closed his eyes, letting the fading, summer sun warm his face. A light breeze stirred his hair, and he smiled. He lifted his hands, imagining an audience before him, and began signing. Here, he could weave stories without worrying if others saw or heard them, without fear of being mocked or teased for his voice, or for being compelled to use his hands to communicate. “They say that the Brokensong Pavilion was born of the saddest tale our people know. Our first Ankal was a man by the name of Yevhen, but this tale is not about Yevhen. Rather, it is the story of his friend, and last wife, Maren.” Reth snorted and scuffed at the earth beneath his hoof. It was a story that was often recited to Brokensong children, and one that touched Denen's heart more deeply than many others. He felt stories to his core. This story, however, was one that touched him more than others, simply because the heroine shared a trait of his: deafness. “Yevhen was a mighty man, and a gifted Healer. He was blessed by Rak'keli, and he bore her mark proudly. He was, however, a bit more interested in himself than anyone else. He was very talented, after all, and having been constantly told this, he became certain that there was no greater healer than himself.” Reth snorted again, tossing his head as if in disgust. Denen laughed, though the sound was a short, more apparent in the way his thin frame trembled from it, rather than any sound he made. “I know. It's shameful to act that way.” The boy took a strand of his hair, braiding it as he pondered the next part of the story. After a moment, his hands dropped, and then continued telling the tale. “Yevhen had a very dear friend. Her name was Maren, and she was deaf, like me.” He reached up to touch his ear as he spoke. They were incredibly sensitive, and he'd just gotten over a bout of nasty ear infections. He was relieved to be feeling better. “But Yevhen was so busy trying to impress the others of the Opal clan that he oftentimes overlooked his friend. He wanted the whole world to know of his greatness, but in so doing, he forgot the greatness of others. Maren loved Yevhen with all of her soul, beyond the faults that he held, and while Yevhen appreciated his wife, he could never truly overcome himself in order to realize how tenderly she adored him.” His eyes filled with tenderness now. This was, after all, Denen's favorite part of the story. “After many years, Yevhen grew ill, and though he searched the Clan, he could not find a person skilled enough to heal him. He sent his children throughout all of Mizahar, and yet none of the healers they brought could cure him of his illness. One night, his wife, Maren, came to his side. She knelt alongside his bed, and told him that she had made a deal with the goddess of death. She had offered up her life for her husband's, and there, in the stillness of that cold night, Maren sang the broken song for which our Pavilion was named so many years ago. “My love, my love, away, away... My love, I go away. Let shadows slip from past your eyes, Let my life lengthen thine. Let my life lengthen thine.” Maren died that night, and her husband recovered by the next morning. The Pavilion took on itself a name in remembrance of her sacrifice. The Brokensong. To this day, we live in memorial of the ultimate sacrifice. It is said that the bond of a member of the Brokensong Pavilion and their loved ones is fiercer than any found in all of Endrykas, and we strive to emulate Maren's example of perfect love. Unconditional love.” There was a moment of reverence that passed between them, the horse and his boy, and Denen smiled quietly to himself. “Some...day,” he whispered aloud, “I shall...I sh-shall love as M-M-Maren did.” But young Denen had already come upon some very disturbing realizations, things he could tell to no one. He could not deny the blush that crept up on his cheeks when he watched the older boys of the Diamond Pavilion practicing their swords. There was one boy in particular, a boy blessed with golden ringlets and a beautiful flashing smile, who struck Denen with awe. But he knew, deep in the core of his young heart, that to want such a thing was forbidden, and so he did what he could to suppress it.

[Lariat]

Denen Brokensong

Experience:

Medicine: 2 xp
Herbalism: 1 xp
Riding: 1 xp
Storytelling: 1 xp

Lores:

Mending a broken leg
Sleeping Tea: Chamomile and Hops

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