Hysteria

Elara is on her feet before Riel can finish his sentence. The half-empty cups on the table are forgotten.

“Hakota?!” A horror subjugates Elara’s voice.

“He’s alive. They all are.” Riel chokes out, stumbling back a step to let us pass. “Clovis is already there, but she needs help!”

Elara and I charge out the door, the frantic energy of her fear pulls me along in its wake.

The scene at the gate is a tableau from a nightmare. An intimate chaos is at play, reds and oranges mix together in the torchlight.

Men and women lay strung out on makeshift pallets and blankets on the ground, their leather armour slashed and stained dark. The coppery tang of blood makes the air feel oppressive.

Clovis is at the centre of it all, a whirlwind of focused intensity. Her usually pristine white hair is matted with garnet, and her light tunic is soaked through in patches that glisten wetly.

Her hands glow with turquoise light as her lips are moving in a constant, silent stream of incantations.

Captain Roach, his face bruised and swollen with a nasty cut weeping above his eye, is somehow still on his feet. He’s badly beaten up but still directing everyone.

His authoritative growl oversees the panic. “Get those blankets laid out flat! Ganza, I need more clean water and bandages, now! Riel, get back here and help carry Maris to a bed!” He is no longer my suspicious antagonist; he is a commander, his authority absolute.

Elara frantically pushes through the small crowd of helpers, her eyes scanning the wounded, searching for only one face. I follow close behind.

We finally spot him, propped up against the stone wall of the gatehouse. His leg is outstretched with a deep, jagged gash. His thigh has been crudely bandaged with a strip of torn cloth that is already soaked through with blood.

He sees Elara, and a flicker of relief crosses his pained features. “Elara…” he grits out.

She drops to her knees beside Hakota, her hands hovering over his injury, afraid to touch. “Oh, Hakota… your leg…”

Her head darts to Clovis, a desperate plea within them. “Clovis! Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”

Clovis doesn’t look up from the man whose chest she is sealing with a latticework of healing.

Her voice is strained with exhaustion after she finishes her chant. “His wound is too deep, it needs to be stitched closed before I can work on it. Are you able to do that Elara?”

Elara is a seamstress, of course she can sew. But fabric and flesh are two entirely different materials and for that reason I feel like I can see a hesitation in her expression. A war between trepidation and desperation.

“Yes, I can!” she says, her voice iron clad.

And just like that the conflict resolves, her love for her husband eclipsing her fear.

“Boil some water. Get the smallest, sharpest needles you have and your strongest thread!” Clovis orders, before turning her attention to the next injured guard.

Elara scrambles to her feet, prioritising getting Hakota’s injuries tended to first, she maneuvers with a desperate purpose.

“Shikara. I need more hands. I’m losing too much time.” Clovis’s crimson orbs are burning with distressed urgency.

“What can I do?” I ask, as my temples pound in my head. “I don’t know any healing magic.”

“You’re going to have to learn now!” she states, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I can handle major trauma. But I can’t spare a moment on the smaller cuts. But if they’re not closed, they’ll get infected. I am going to teach you an adept incantation for sealing wounds.”

A new layer of panic, lances through me.

Just a few days ago I could barely conjure a flame without my past overwhelming me. “Clovis, I can’t. I… I’m not ready.”

“We don’t have time for you to be ready!” she snaps back, the frustration deeply embedded.

She grabs my arm, and pulls me closer. “The incantation is specific. It only works on shallow wounds to the arms and hands. It’s long, and wordy, I only have one chance to teach you. Do you understand?”

I can only nod, my throat too tight to speak.

She recites the rapid chant.

“O, sinew that is sundered, O, flesh that is torn,

I see the break in the pattern, a line of crimson thorn.

The blood that weeps a silent plea, a tide of scarlet sorrow,

The skin that gapes, that longs to be a seamless whole tomorrow.

I feel the sting, the body's shock, the harmony undone,

Beneath the cold and judging moon, beneath the midday sun.

Hush now, the pain. Be still, the fear. Your hurt is known to me,

And I shall be the patient hand that sets your nature free.

I call upon the quiet loom, the body’s patient art,

to weave the thread of life anew and bind the broken part.

Repeat it, now.”

I try, stumbling over the unfamiliar cadence. My mind is a useless static of fear and shock as it tries to race to relive my past mental contusion.

“Again!” she commands. “Feel the meaning of the words. Pour your emotion into them.”

I take a shaky breath and try again, this time forcing my mind to co-operate with the words. I try to pretend I am delivering a monologue and once I do, a poignant focus takes hold.

“Good enough.” she says, already turning away. “Do one, rest, then do another. Don’t push yourself or you’ll be another body on the ground for me to worry about.”

She points to a guard I don’t recognise, a young man with a nasty gash on his forearm, gritting his teeth in voiceless pain.

He looks at me, his eyes clouded with agony and confusion. “What are you doing?” he groans.

“I’m… I’m going to try and heal your arm.” I say, sounding impossibly small.

My hands are quaking as I place them gently over his arm, just below the wound, and begin to recite the incantation.

“O, sinew that is sundered, O, flesh that is torn…”

As I speak, I feel the same strange, pulling sensation on my face. But it’s not as gentle as before, it’s frustrating and it makes my eyes twitch. It’s pulling my focus away from my incantation.

A faint, pale green light emanates from my palm, bathing his wound in its soft glimmer.

I watch through my squinted vision, mesmerised, as the edges of the gash seem to pull towards each other. The bleeding slows, then stops. The torn flesh knits itself together, leaving behind a thin, raw, pink line.

It worked. I can’t believe it.

The guard stares at me. “Th-thank you.” he manages to release his gratitude before passing out from fatigue.

I pull my hand away. But an oscillation of vertigo takes hold and I feel incredibly light-headed.

I shake my head, trying to clear the fog, and push myself back to my feet.

Yet the fog doesn’t clear, it only gets worse. My movements are clumsy and uncoordinated. I try to focus, as I continue onto the next guard.

A woman with several smaller cuts along her arms, up to her chest and neck.

I place my hand on her arm and open my mouth to speak.

I try to bring the words of the incantation back to the front of my mind. But they’re a jumbled mess, the rhythm lost, the meaning clouded by the buzzing in my skull.

“O, flesh that is… sundered… by the patient… loom…” A garbled, meaningless prayer. The green light sputters weakly from my palm for a second before dying completely.

The guard looks at me with alarm. “Are you alright?”

I can’t answer. My legs give out from under me, and my world dissolves into a painless, welcome dark.