It's okay to take a break from writing the game. Just throwing it out there.
Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
- Location
- United States
I am literally having so much fun you do not even understand
Starting to live this quest by the sounds of it. LMAO!
Please be sure to avoid any Tatar shivs, we like this quest and we'd love for it's author to keep writing it. <3
XXIX. October 3, 1575. Warszawa, Polish Crownlands.
- Location
- United States
The air in your chamber is cool, as it has been for a week or so. It chills the sweat on your brow, makes the compresses on your forehead dry and sticky.
"This could kill you, you could exsanguinate unduly," says the German physician in flowing Latin, his surgeon beside him. "And it may not right your humors, either. But the flesh is only dead in just one spot – you still have a chance."
He has explained the procedure – an experimental thing – designed for wounds produced by shot rather than by stabbing, so as to remove the poison that is gunpowder. He has a theory that the knife with which you were stabbed was contaminated due to the presence of gunsmoke and spilled powder, or that at least this method could draw out some other sort of unknown toxin. The physician Brunschwig devised the treatment almost eighty years ago, but never before has it been applied in such a manner: your cauterized wound will be reopened, drained of blood and pus, and swabbed with a cotton seton soaked in oil of garlic, cloves, and oregano, combined with a touch of honey. Then, a page will be taken out of the book of Paré (whom you fondly recall from the Louvre, giving you no small amount of confidence) and Paracelsus. While the latter disagreed with the principle of suppuration – this physician does not – the usual treatment of boiling oil or re-cauterization will instead be replaced with suturing once more, followed by the application of a bandage soaked in turpentine, pork lard, and egg yolks. Then, you will be surrounded with roses and herbs and other good-smelling things, bloodlet once more, and left to rest. At least, that's what you should be doing – but you've got work to do. You'll be on crutches, but you must make it to the Convocation.
"It will be extremely painful, start to finish," says the physician. "I recommend you get drunk beforehand."
You swallow. "I have to do it," you say. "I have to get my strength back. I trust you, medicus. Stay here and prepare your tools – give me a moment, though."
"Of course, Your Serene Highness," the learned man nods.
You send a servant for Mariana, Marszowski, and two bottles of strong German wermut.
Mariana arrives first, in her Austrian-inspired court attire, radiant as usual. You smile at her; she returns a weary one. "Pull up a chair," you say.
She begins to carry one over to your bedside. "God, you look so pale," she says. "Pale but so red." She places a hand on your cheek – you feel a good kind of warm. "Burning up."
"The Virgin will protect me," you say. "Either that, or I can only hope to die well and happy."
"Don't say that!" she exclaims, nearly half-angry. You sense her fear. "You're young, you can beat it back. The humors are strong in young folk."
"It's true, but look at me," you say. "I need to start making peace with my situation. I've seen strong soldiers die in one night and two days, stronger men than me."
"You call on me to tell me you're ready to die," she says, voice wavering. You can't read her face. "That's cruel, Stanisław. Even if the Reaper takes who he wishes, and at any age, that's cruel."
The servant stands furtively in the doorway, bottles and glasses in hand. It almost looks like the poor man is trying to inch out of sight.
"Enter, enter," you say, waving him in. "A glass for myself and the Princess."
"Right away. Would His and Her Serene Highnesses like to be left undisturbed?" he asks as he brings over a small table, removes the wooden stopper from the first bottle, and begins to pour carefully. Poor fellow, ever so tactful. Servants are smart like that.
"Yes, please," you say. "Shut the door behind you and knock when you've retrieved Sir Marszowski."
"Of course, Your Serene Highness."
You effortfully begin to sit up to retrieve your glass, but Mariana hands it to you without a word. She doesn't seem angry necessarily, just…
Tell her what's happening. "I'm having surgery performed on me today, in a few hours. We'll all drink to loosen up, toughen up – you, me, Marszowski, all of us," you say. "I want the two of you here with me in case something happens."
"Oh," she says, blinking rapidly. You explain the procedure. "Well, it sounds… I don't know how it sounds, that's for physicians. Turpentine works! I had a bad cut once when I was a girl."
You take a greedy swig of the wermut. Mariana matches you. You smack your lips at its strong herbal bitterness: it would be improper to have a lady throw back gorzała, and this is the runner-up in terms of strength. "You used to drink too much," she says.
"I did."
"If I had the servants give you this stuff instead of French red…" she chuckles and smiles, but looks utterly weary.
"Have you been sleeping?" you ask.
"Not quite." You haven't shared a chamber since you've had to be bundled up like this. "I just sit there waiting for a priest to call on me." You squint. "So I can be there when you die."
"Oh."
"Indeed."
You tip back the glass again and shiver. "Well," you smile, "I wouldn't mind going out seeing your face before the ceiling opens up."
"You're a gentleman," she says, probably sincere. "That's what you think it's like? The ceiling opens up?"
"Yes. And Gabriel and Michael and Raphael come down and carry you out of your body. And then you see His face, His Son and Mother by His side."
"That's grand," she says. "I always thought it would be more like… Have you ever had a dream where you see yourself?"
"No."
"I imagine there's a blink," she says, "the final blink, the closing of the eyes for the last time." She extends a palm, looking past you. "And then you're standing next to your body, and the Savior comes down and you take Him by the hand. There will be a flight of stairs." It's like she's staring out to sea.
"Perhaps it's because I was raised a prince that I think there'd be a fanfare," you muse.
"Perhaps. But again," she at last looks at you, "I don't think it's your time yet." She sucks her lips in. "I don't want it to be."
You cock back your glass and finish it. "Mariana, do you love me?"
"Love you?" She smiles broadly. She's glad you asked, you think, but: "Stanisław, I hardly know you. It's been two years and you spent a good deal of it, well… It's not like we're serfs who grew up together–"
"We met at a dance like peasants do," you tease. You're not offended. You know you acted a fool somewhat. Even if it was to glorify God.
"But I do fancy you, fool. And I always have." She sighs. "Lying with you is…" Her eyes hood slightly.
You snort, feeling a bit like the cock of the walk, pleasing memories of ecstasy flashing behind your eyes. "I just wish it didn't open my stitches. What a mess this has become."
She chuckles, but looks guilty. "I shouldn't have…"
"No, no, don't blame yourself."
She stares into your eyes. "Well, do you love me?"
You exhale a half-laugh of disbelief, shocked by the fact that you do not know. And that's what you say. "I don't know."
"Charming. Gentlemanly, even."
"I'm sorry!" you exclaim to the tune of her laughter. "There were girls in France who threw themselves at me, but I never wanted it. Courtesans, bold ladies-in-waiting, older women… I just… didn't," you say. "But when I saw you down that feasting table, it was the first time I really, truly, wanted someone." That's how you remember it. A want.
"You've never seen a prostitute? When you were a bachelor, that is?"
"No. Why do you think I was so shaky when I first had you in my hands?"
She hums. "Yes, I do recall making the first moves…"
"Oh, shut it, don't rub it in." You remember her taking off that corset as clear as day, how you reached out for her in the middle of the night and found her body. Breath mingling, heat mixing. She smelled of rosemary and lavender. "It was good."
"Yes, yes it was. The older ladies told me not to expect much growing up. Men don't know that we speak of such things." You're a little shocked at the thought of ladies talking of sex amongst themselves. "But it was good."
She reaches out and strokes your cheek. "So…" there's that tone again. The kind that raises the hair on your neck in a good way. "So, you may love me."
"I don't know," you say once more.
"It's proper for a man to love a woman, but for his love to remain aloof," she says, leaning in closer and closer to your face.
"Dark Age chivalry," you say, suddenly approaching flusteredness.
"Dark Age chivalry," she agrees, "some kind of Western romance."
She kisses you, deep and long, humming into it. She withdraws and taps your nose. Are those tears in her eyes? "So don't you die on me yet, knight. Prince. I want you to keep wanting me."
You feel like several different colors at once, and forget that you're sick. You lean in for more and thump-thump-thump. Mariana draws back quickly, smooths out the ruffles in her dress. They're here.
"Enter," you call out, more than a little annoyed, as your wife rises to her feet.
You haven't seen Marszowski in a good bit, and he definitely isn't looking great. He's skinny and pale, red-eyed and blemished like a young lad. "Your Serene Highness!" he exclaims; if you could only hear his voice, you'd be none the wiser. He strides up to your bedside, kisses a smiling Mariana's extended hand, and then bows low before you. "You're still with us yet!"
"So far, so good," you croak. "And you look half-dead!" you manage to joke.
"I don't know what's worse, the Pox or the mercury, but I'm not partial to meeting my Creator at the moment," Marszowski says. "Goddamned teeth are starting to get loose. But the rashes are gone."
"Are you in pain?"
"Oh, yes," your fencing master smiles. "Tingling, burning… But it's far from the first time I've found myself in the possession of suffering." Mortification is a good thing, after all, a gift from God in a backwards way – you try to remind yourself that.
"God bless you, sir," says Mariana. "I can see why my husband admires you." Ha! You're jealous! She means absolutely nothing by that, you know.
"Well," you declare, pointing to the bottles. "This wermut won't drink itself. I'm having a surgery performed today, Sir Marszowski."
"Wise prince to get drunk for it," he nods knowingly. "Nasty business. God willing, it brings you back."
"Indeed," you say, Mariana handing you another glass
And, indeed, the three of you try to keep things light as possible, talking about anything and everything: the leaves of the trees changing color, the birds flying off to wherever they go – and theorizing whether they change their shape for the winter or simply live elsewhere – the goings-on of the Sejm camp, the gossip amongst the magnates' wives. Laughter builds and you feel warm through your fever's chill, like your belly has turned into a gently-burning oven. Your head is light and it's hard to repress your smile.
You muster up the courage at last. "All good things must come to an end," you say. "Servant!" you address the man waiting diligently by the door. "Summon the physician and surgeon."
They arrive with their bags of tools. Your blanket-bundle is unwrapped and lowered to reveal your naked body. God, you can see your ribs, your stomach looks sucked in. You're pale. And that leg. Yellow and red and purple for the span of about a fist's worth, a little black bullseye appearing where the cauter struck it. It stings, exposed to the open air. Mariana covers her mouth, reaching out for your hand and squeezing it, worry in her eyes but not a trace of disgust. Marszowski cocks his head and grimaces.
The surgeon hands you a thick leather strap as the physician places a pan between your legs. "Bite down, Your Serene Highness."
You do. The physician speaks cooly and calmly. "Surgeon, apply ligatures above the knee and below the hip," he says in Latin.
"Yessir."
You exhale through your nose as your wounded thigh is exposed to pressure from below and above, squeezing it by proxy. Mariana continues to grip your hand. Is that your sweat or hers?
"Make the incisions and shear off the dying flesh," says the physician. "Take care around the artery."
You stop watching and begin to groan, fixating on the ceiling as your inner thigh is set alight with stabbing pain. Tears well unbidden in your eyes. Mariana hisses. Marszowski mutters an oath.
"Express the wound, surgeon."
"Yessir."
Ah! Pressure, pressure, awful pressure! He's squeezing hard. You knit your brow and moan, and you slam your free hand into the sheets and grip hard. They speak amongst themselves in German, sounding focused.
"Good, good, much pus and little blood. That's a good sign, my lord. The cleansing seton, surgeon."
You writhe in place, almost howling, hurting your teeth on the strap. He must be stretching out the wound. "Hold his leg, hold his leg," says the physician, as you feel further pressure on your knee. There's a burning now, layered atop the stabbing and the pushing and the aching. It's exquisite in its horrendousness. "Just a moment more, Your Serene Highness."
"It's looking better, lord prince," says Marszowski. Is he just saying that?
"Remember to breathe, remember to breathe," adds your wife. "Breathe deep, like a birthing woman."
"Surgeon, begin to suture the wound."
Your breathing slows as the stabbing turns to a mere burn – a very relative thing. You're sweating hard and your vision's tunneled, light in the head beyond what the wermut could do to you. You're able to be a bit more quiet, now raggedly growling. You feel your skin tightening up with every rise of the surgeon's arm, just barely visible in your lower periphery. There's a fly on the ceiling. You realize you've been digging your nails into Mariana's palm, and you untense your hand as much as you can afford to.
"Well-stitched, surgeon," compliments the physician. "Apply the bandage. This will sting, Your Serene Highness."
"Mhm. Mhm," you say through your grimacing face and biting teeth. You feel your leg raised by a pair of hands, and you hiss as the cloth makes contact with your leg. Indeed, that's quite a sting. But it's not the worst bit of the ordeal. You pull a clump of bedsheet into your hand once more as the bandages tighten with each revolution around your thigh, before your leg is gingerly placed back onto the bed. It's fiery-feeling and stinging indeed, no doubt about that, but you no longer feel the need to bite the strap. This you can handle. You remove the leather from your mouth yourself. "Holy Virgin, oh, Jesus, wow…" you laugh the kind of laugh that you can only produce in or after battle, as you've recently learned.
"Very good, Your Serene Highness," says the physician. "A success."
"Praise God," you say.
The surgeon smiles humbly. "Je le pansai, Dieu le guérit," he says.
You recognize those words. You find the poise in you to switch to French, even though the man's a German. "I knew Seigneur Paré, you know, from my time in France. And I'm glad you know him, too," you say, extending your arm to give him a handshake. May it prove true that he's the best medicus money can buy.
"Well, as I said, only God can truly heal you," he says, raising his cap and swiping a hand through his hair. "But I do try and use the latest techniques."
You're given the customary bloodletting, the surgeon squeezing wounds into his half-full pan from temple to anklebone. A combination of honey and hyssop oil is smeared on your bare chest to provide a good odor, and a bushel of dried sage is placed between your legs. "I must recommend at least several days' bedrest, surrounded by this sanitary air. You are weakened from loss of blood, Your Serene Highness, and further miasma may prove fatal. Infection could start anew."
You shake your head. "No, no. Today's Convocation Day – I must show my face."
"Stani– my lord," stumbles Mariana.
"You're sure of that, Your Serene Highness?" asks Marszowski.
The physician looks stormy, in his eyes a mix of anger and confusion and maybe even a pinch of fear; the surgeon looks bored, tired. "Of course, I cannot stop Your Serene Highness, but it is my strongest medical advice that you remain confined to bed until the bleeding ceases and any swelling goes down."
"Fetch me some crutches," you call out to the servant, fidgeting in place at the end of the room.
"Yes, Your Serene Highness."
The physician sighs and steps back. "Very well, Your Serene Highness." He and the surgeon excuse themselves with terse bows.
The crutches are delivered, you're helped into your heaviest winter clothes, and you hoist yourself to your feet – foot – aided by Mariana and Sir Marszowski. "The good leg is very good," you joke, to their grim laughter. "Just give me a moment, I've never used these things before." Your head is starting to hurt, and it feels as if it only amplifies the grinding ache of your leg. "Call for the entourage, Sir Marszowski, we move out at once."
You turn to Mariana, eyes bigger than usual. "I'll be alright," you say.
"I'm not so sure, honestly. But go with God."
"Thank you."
Your arms shake as you use the crutches and your head pounds harder and harder, beating you to even more hellish heights as you expose yourself to direct sunlight beyond the city gates. You give up as your good leg feels on the verge of buckling. "A chair! A litter. I think I need a litter."
A litter only slightly better than a common stretcher is quickly fashioned, a few pillows placed atop it for comfort. Cold beer is fetched for you, which you greedily drink down. Good for strength, it is; you'll be needing the energy. You're so focused you've forgotten that you're drunk atop it all. Your lieutenants carry you into the sea of colorful tents. You've already missed the opening ceremony.
Men part before you, peering curiously or hailing Ajaks, the wounded hero of Zawadówka. You're taken through the throng to the Senat's meeting place, and carefully deposited in the chair of the Castellan of Orsza, on one of the rearmost benches. Heads turned all the while as you were carried in, and indeed your seat-neighbors now talk to you all at once, hushed and hurried, inquiring about your wellness as much as they congratulate you on your victory. You look down and see a drop of blood blotting through your pantleg. You exhale.
Here, amongst the Senators, you are in a friendly place. Zamoyski and his people are too low-ranking, and the great men of the realm all want a Habsburg – even the men who profess Reformation. Some bishop is already speaking.
"...indeed, we know that it is in the interest of the Crown as much as it is in the interest of the Holy Church to bring about the Archduke as our new…"
You can really hear your own breathing. Thankfully, your lungs and nose and throat have been left alone by the infection. It's hard to concentrate in this state, but you understand that you need only sit here, especially for a meeting of the Senat – save your energy for the general Sejm.
You lean your sweaty head into the back of your chair, and find it hard to stay awake. You check your leg: some blood, but not too much. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Heavy eyelids and a fading, falling sensation. Falling, falling, falling.
It's dark. Shapes and colors, dark green and black-shrouded blue dance across your vision. A distant voice orates. Am I dead?
No, only sleeping, nearly sleeping. You are very weak, and you feel it in all of you: through the wermut-haze you can sense the heaviness of your body, the heat radiating off of your heavy clothes, the way how the tiny, fractional space between skin and fabric might as well be filling with steam. God, I'm sick.
Air out through your nose. Something touches you, jostling you lightly. It's your left shoulder. "...Highness…"
"...Prince…"
You emerge from the depths. "Your Serene Highness." A fellow Castellan is shaking you. "Oh, praise God."
"Thought he was dying," says another Senator quietly, facing backwards in his seat. The bishop has stopped to watch. "You seem very ill, lord prince."
[] Now's your chance!
Hoist yourself up and raise that voice and tell them of your glorious victory, the source of your illness. Sure, it's not the general Sejm, but word travels fast, and lordlings in the crowd always scribble transcripts. Then, hopefully, you can go home for the day.
[] "I'm alright." Call out to the bishop: "please continue!"
Don't draw attention to yourself. You could kill for some water or weak beer. All you need to be is *here.*
[] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."
Why lie? They all can see it. This was a bad idea.
"This could kill you, you could exsanguinate unduly," says the German physician in flowing Latin, his surgeon beside him. "And it may not right your humors, either. But the flesh is only dead in just one spot – you still have a chance."
He has explained the procedure – an experimental thing – designed for wounds produced by shot rather than by stabbing, so as to remove the poison that is gunpowder. He has a theory that the knife with which you were stabbed was contaminated due to the presence of gunsmoke and spilled powder, or that at least this method could draw out some other sort of unknown toxin. The physician Brunschwig devised the treatment almost eighty years ago, but never before has it been applied in such a manner: your cauterized wound will be reopened, drained of blood and pus, and swabbed with a cotton seton soaked in oil of garlic, cloves, and oregano, combined with a touch of honey. Then, a page will be taken out of the book of Paré (whom you fondly recall from the Louvre, giving you no small amount of confidence) and Paracelsus. While the latter disagreed with the principle of suppuration – this physician does not – the usual treatment of boiling oil or re-cauterization will instead be replaced with suturing once more, followed by the application of a bandage soaked in turpentine, pork lard, and egg yolks. Then, you will be surrounded with roses and herbs and other good-smelling things, bloodlet once more, and left to rest. At least, that's what you should be doing – but you've got work to do. You'll be on crutches, but you must make it to the Convocation.
"It will be extremely painful, start to finish," says the physician. "I recommend you get drunk beforehand."
You swallow. "I have to do it," you say. "I have to get my strength back. I trust you, medicus. Stay here and prepare your tools – give me a moment, though."
"Of course, Your Serene Highness," the learned man nods.
You send a servant for Mariana, Marszowski, and two bottles of strong German wermut.
Mariana arrives first, in her Austrian-inspired court attire, radiant as usual. You smile at her; she returns a weary one. "Pull up a chair," you say.
She begins to carry one over to your bedside. "God, you look so pale," she says. "Pale but so red." She places a hand on your cheek – you feel a good kind of warm. "Burning up."
"The Virgin will protect me," you say. "Either that, or I can only hope to die well and happy."
"Don't say that!" she exclaims, nearly half-angry. You sense her fear. "You're young, you can beat it back. The humors are strong in young folk."
"It's true, but look at me," you say. "I need to start making peace with my situation. I've seen strong soldiers die in one night and two days, stronger men than me."
"You call on me to tell me you're ready to die," she says, voice wavering. You can't read her face. "That's cruel, Stanisław. Even if the Reaper takes who he wishes, and at any age, that's cruel."
The servant stands furtively in the doorway, bottles and glasses in hand. It almost looks like the poor man is trying to inch out of sight.
"Enter, enter," you say, waving him in. "A glass for myself and the Princess."
"Right away. Would His and Her Serene Highnesses like to be left undisturbed?" he asks as he brings over a small table, removes the wooden stopper from the first bottle, and begins to pour carefully. Poor fellow, ever so tactful. Servants are smart like that.
"Yes, please," you say. "Shut the door behind you and knock when you've retrieved Sir Marszowski."
"Of course, Your Serene Highness."
You effortfully begin to sit up to retrieve your glass, but Mariana hands it to you without a word. She doesn't seem angry necessarily, just…
Tell her what's happening. "I'm having surgery performed on me today, in a few hours. We'll all drink to loosen up, toughen up – you, me, Marszowski, all of us," you say. "I want the two of you here with me in case something happens."
"Oh," she says, blinking rapidly. You explain the procedure. "Well, it sounds… I don't know how it sounds, that's for physicians. Turpentine works! I had a bad cut once when I was a girl."
You take a greedy swig of the wermut. Mariana matches you. You smack your lips at its strong herbal bitterness: it would be improper to have a lady throw back gorzała, and this is the runner-up in terms of strength. "You used to drink too much," she says.
"I did."
"If I had the servants give you this stuff instead of French red…" she chuckles and smiles, but looks utterly weary.
"Have you been sleeping?" you ask.
"Not quite." You haven't shared a chamber since you've had to be bundled up like this. "I just sit there waiting for a priest to call on me." You squint. "So I can be there when you die."
"Oh."
"Indeed."
You tip back the glass again and shiver. "Well," you smile, "I wouldn't mind going out seeing your face before the ceiling opens up."
"You're a gentleman," she says, probably sincere. "That's what you think it's like? The ceiling opens up?"
"Yes. And Gabriel and Michael and Raphael come down and carry you out of your body. And then you see His face, His Son and Mother by His side."
"That's grand," she says. "I always thought it would be more like… Have you ever had a dream where you see yourself?"
"No."
"I imagine there's a blink," she says, "the final blink, the closing of the eyes for the last time." She extends a palm, looking past you. "And then you're standing next to your body, and the Savior comes down and you take Him by the hand. There will be a flight of stairs." It's like she's staring out to sea.
"Perhaps it's because I was raised a prince that I think there'd be a fanfare," you muse.
"Perhaps. But again," she at last looks at you, "I don't think it's your time yet." She sucks her lips in. "I don't want it to be."
You cock back your glass and finish it. "Mariana, do you love me?"
"Love you?" She smiles broadly. She's glad you asked, you think, but: "Stanisław, I hardly know you. It's been two years and you spent a good deal of it, well… It's not like we're serfs who grew up together–"
"We met at a dance like peasants do," you tease. You're not offended. You know you acted a fool somewhat. Even if it was to glorify God.
"But I do fancy you, fool. And I always have." She sighs. "Lying with you is…" Her eyes hood slightly.
You snort, feeling a bit like the cock of the walk, pleasing memories of ecstasy flashing behind your eyes. "I just wish it didn't open my stitches. What a mess this has become."
She chuckles, but looks guilty. "I shouldn't have…"
"No, no, don't blame yourself."
She stares into your eyes. "Well, do you love me?"
You exhale a half-laugh of disbelief, shocked by the fact that you do not know. And that's what you say. "I don't know."
"Charming. Gentlemanly, even."
"I'm sorry!" you exclaim to the tune of her laughter. "There were girls in France who threw themselves at me, but I never wanted it. Courtesans, bold ladies-in-waiting, older women… I just… didn't," you say. "But when I saw you down that feasting table, it was the first time I really, truly, wanted someone." That's how you remember it. A want.
"You've never seen a prostitute? When you were a bachelor, that is?"
"No. Why do you think I was so shaky when I first had you in my hands?"
She hums. "Yes, I do recall making the first moves…"
"Oh, shut it, don't rub it in." You remember her taking off that corset as clear as day, how you reached out for her in the middle of the night and found her body. Breath mingling, heat mixing. She smelled of rosemary and lavender. "It was good."
"Yes, yes it was. The older ladies told me not to expect much growing up. Men don't know that we speak of such things." You're a little shocked at the thought of ladies talking of sex amongst themselves. "But it was good."
She reaches out and strokes your cheek. "So…" there's that tone again. The kind that raises the hair on your neck in a good way. "So, you may love me."
"I don't know," you say once more.
"It's proper for a man to love a woman, but for his love to remain aloof," she says, leaning in closer and closer to your face.
"Dark Age chivalry," you say, suddenly approaching flusteredness.
"Dark Age chivalry," she agrees, "some kind of Western romance."
She kisses you, deep and long, humming into it. She withdraws and taps your nose. Are those tears in her eyes? "So don't you die on me yet, knight. Prince. I want you to keep wanting me."
You feel like several different colors at once, and forget that you're sick. You lean in for more and thump-thump-thump. Mariana draws back quickly, smooths out the ruffles in her dress. They're here.
"Enter," you call out, more than a little annoyed, as your wife rises to her feet.
You haven't seen Marszowski in a good bit, and he definitely isn't looking great. He's skinny and pale, red-eyed and blemished like a young lad. "Your Serene Highness!" he exclaims; if you could only hear his voice, you'd be none the wiser. He strides up to your bedside, kisses a smiling Mariana's extended hand, and then bows low before you. "You're still with us yet!"
"So far, so good," you croak. "And you look half-dead!" you manage to joke.
"I don't know what's worse, the Pox or the mercury, but I'm not partial to meeting my Creator at the moment," Marszowski says. "Goddamned teeth are starting to get loose. But the rashes are gone."
"Are you in pain?"
"Oh, yes," your fencing master smiles. "Tingling, burning… But it's far from the first time I've found myself in the possession of suffering." Mortification is a good thing, after all, a gift from God in a backwards way – you try to remind yourself that.
"God bless you, sir," says Mariana. "I can see why my husband admires you." Ha! You're jealous! She means absolutely nothing by that, you know.
"Well," you declare, pointing to the bottles. "This wermut won't drink itself. I'm having a surgery performed today, Sir Marszowski."
"Wise prince to get drunk for it," he nods knowingly. "Nasty business. God willing, it brings you back."
"Indeed," you say, Mariana handing you another glass
And, indeed, the three of you try to keep things light as possible, talking about anything and everything: the leaves of the trees changing color, the birds flying off to wherever they go – and theorizing whether they change their shape for the winter or simply live elsewhere – the goings-on of the Sejm camp, the gossip amongst the magnates' wives. Laughter builds and you feel warm through your fever's chill, like your belly has turned into a gently-burning oven. Your head is light and it's hard to repress your smile.
You muster up the courage at last. "All good things must come to an end," you say. "Servant!" you address the man waiting diligently by the door. "Summon the physician and surgeon."
They arrive with their bags of tools. Your blanket-bundle is unwrapped and lowered to reveal your naked body. God, you can see your ribs, your stomach looks sucked in. You're pale. And that leg. Yellow and red and purple for the span of about a fist's worth, a little black bullseye appearing where the cauter struck it. It stings, exposed to the open air. Mariana covers her mouth, reaching out for your hand and squeezing it, worry in her eyes but not a trace of disgust. Marszowski cocks his head and grimaces.
The surgeon hands you a thick leather strap as the physician places a pan between your legs. "Bite down, Your Serene Highness."
You do. The physician speaks cooly and calmly. "Surgeon, apply ligatures above the knee and below the hip," he says in Latin.
"Yessir."
You exhale through your nose as your wounded thigh is exposed to pressure from below and above, squeezing it by proxy. Mariana continues to grip your hand. Is that your sweat or hers?
"Make the incisions and shear off the dying flesh," says the physician. "Take care around the artery."
You stop watching and begin to groan, fixating on the ceiling as your inner thigh is set alight with stabbing pain. Tears well unbidden in your eyes. Mariana hisses. Marszowski mutters an oath.
"Express the wound, surgeon."
"Yessir."
Ah! Pressure, pressure, awful pressure! He's squeezing hard. You knit your brow and moan, and you slam your free hand into the sheets and grip hard. They speak amongst themselves in German, sounding focused.
"Good, good, much pus and little blood. That's a good sign, my lord. The cleansing seton, surgeon."
You writhe in place, almost howling, hurting your teeth on the strap. He must be stretching out the wound. "Hold his leg, hold his leg," says the physician, as you feel further pressure on your knee. There's a burning now, layered atop the stabbing and the pushing and the aching. It's exquisite in its horrendousness. "Just a moment more, Your Serene Highness."
"It's looking better, lord prince," says Marszowski. Is he just saying that?
"Remember to breathe, remember to breathe," adds your wife. "Breathe deep, like a birthing woman."
"Surgeon, begin to suture the wound."
Your breathing slows as the stabbing turns to a mere burn – a very relative thing. You're sweating hard and your vision's tunneled, light in the head beyond what the wermut could do to you. You're able to be a bit more quiet, now raggedly growling. You feel your skin tightening up with every rise of the surgeon's arm, just barely visible in your lower periphery. There's a fly on the ceiling. You realize you've been digging your nails into Mariana's palm, and you untense your hand as much as you can afford to.
"Well-stitched, surgeon," compliments the physician. "Apply the bandage. This will sting, Your Serene Highness."
"Mhm. Mhm," you say through your grimacing face and biting teeth. You feel your leg raised by a pair of hands, and you hiss as the cloth makes contact with your leg. Indeed, that's quite a sting. But it's not the worst bit of the ordeal. You pull a clump of bedsheet into your hand once more as the bandages tighten with each revolution around your thigh, before your leg is gingerly placed back onto the bed. It's fiery-feeling and stinging indeed, no doubt about that, but you no longer feel the need to bite the strap. This you can handle. You remove the leather from your mouth yourself. "Holy Virgin, oh, Jesus, wow…" you laugh the kind of laugh that you can only produce in or after battle, as you've recently learned.
"Very good, Your Serene Highness," says the physician. "A success."
"Praise God," you say.
The surgeon smiles humbly. "Je le pansai, Dieu le guérit," he says.
You recognize those words. You find the poise in you to switch to French, even though the man's a German. "I knew Seigneur Paré, you know, from my time in France. And I'm glad you know him, too," you say, extending your arm to give him a handshake. May it prove true that he's the best medicus money can buy.
"Well, as I said, only God can truly heal you," he says, raising his cap and swiping a hand through his hair. "But I do try and use the latest techniques."
You're given the customary bloodletting, the surgeon squeezing wounds into his half-full pan from temple to anklebone. A combination of honey and hyssop oil is smeared on your bare chest to provide a good odor, and a bushel of dried sage is placed between your legs. "I must recommend at least several days' bedrest, surrounded by this sanitary air. You are weakened from loss of blood, Your Serene Highness, and further miasma may prove fatal. Infection could start anew."
You shake your head. "No, no. Today's Convocation Day – I must show my face."
"Stani– my lord," stumbles Mariana.
"You're sure of that, Your Serene Highness?" asks Marszowski.
The physician looks stormy, in his eyes a mix of anger and confusion and maybe even a pinch of fear; the surgeon looks bored, tired. "Of course, I cannot stop Your Serene Highness, but it is my strongest medical advice that you remain confined to bed until the bleeding ceases and any swelling goes down."
"Fetch me some crutches," you call out to the servant, fidgeting in place at the end of the room.
"Yes, Your Serene Highness."
The physician sighs and steps back. "Very well, Your Serene Highness." He and the surgeon excuse themselves with terse bows.
The crutches are delivered, you're helped into your heaviest winter clothes, and you hoist yourself to your feet – foot – aided by Mariana and Sir Marszowski. "The good leg is very good," you joke, to their grim laughter. "Just give me a moment, I've never used these things before." Your head is starting to hurt, and it feels as if it only amplifies the grinding ache of your leg. "Call for the entourage, Sir Marszowski, we move out at once."
You turn to Mariana, eyes bigger than usual. "I'll be alright," you say.
"I'm not so sure, honestly. But go with God."
"Thank you."
Your arms shake as you use the crutches and your head pounds harder and harder, beating you to even more hellish heights as you expose yourself to direct sunlight beyond the city gates. You give up as your good leg feels on the verge of buckling. "A chair! A litter. I think I need a litter."
A litter only slightly better than a common stretcher is quickly fashioned, a few pillows placed atop it for comfort. Cold beer is fetched for you, which you greedily drink down. Good for strength, it is; you'll be needing the energy. You're so focused you've forgotten that you're drunk atop it all. Your lieutenants carry you into the sea of colorful tents. You've already missed the opening ceremony.
Men part before you, peering curiously or hailing Ajaks, the wounded hero of Zawadówka. You're taken through the throng to the Senat's meeting place, and carefully deposited in the chair of the Castellan of Orsza, on one of the rearmost benches. Heads turned all the while as you were carried in, and indeed your seat-neighbors now talk to you all at once, hushed and hurried, inquiring about your wellness as much as they congratulate you on your victory. You look down and see a drop of blood blotting through your pantleg. You exhale.
Here, amongst the Senators, you are in a friendly place. Zamoyski and his people are too low-ranking, and the great men of the realm all want a Habsburg – even the men who profess Reformation. Some bishop is already speaking.
"...indeed, we know that it is in the interest of the Crown as much as it is in the interest of the Holy Church to bring about the Archduke as our new…"
You can really hear your own breathing. Thankfully, your lungs and nose and throat have been left alone by the infection. It's hard to concentrate in this state, but you understand that you need only sit here, especially for a meeting of the Senat – save your energy for the general Sejm.
You lean your sweaty head into the back of your chair, and find it hard to stay awake. You check your leg: some blood, but not too much. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Heavy eyelids and a fading, falling sensation. Falling, falling, falling.
It's dark. Shapes and colors, dark green and black-shrouded blue dance across your vision. A distant voice orates. Am I dead?
No, only sleeping, nearly sleeping. You are very weak, and you feel it in all of you: through the wermut-haze you can sense the heaviness of your body, the heat radiating off of your heavy clothes, the way how the tiny, fractional space between skin and fabric might as well be filling with steam. God, I'm sick.
Air out through your nose. Something touches you, jostling you lightly. It's your left shoulder. "...Highness…"
"...Prince…"
You emerge from the depths. "Your Serene Highness." A fellow Castellan is shaking you. "Oh, praise God."
"Thought he was dying," says another Senator quietly, facing backwards in his seat. The bishop has stopped to watch. "You seem very ill, lord prince."
[] Now's your chance!
Hoist yourself up and raise that voice and tell them of your glorious victory, the source of your illness. Sure, it's not the general Sejm, but word travels fast, and lordlings in the crowd always scribble transcripts. Then, hopefully, you can go home for the day.
[] "I'm alright." Call out to the bishop: "please continue!"
Don't draw attention to yourself. You could kill for some water or weak beer. All you need to be is *here.*
[] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."
Why lie? They all can see it. This was a bad idea.
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If you weren't the protagonist -- Dead.
- Location
- United States
People don't really come back from infections of such severity back then. I don't wanna say anything about what could happen to your leg just yet. Here's the resource I used for your treatment -- a fun read!
[X] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."
I really don't think in our present state we will achieve much if we try and tap our reserves for one last exertion. Our arrival and state have clearly shown our deeds and wounds. Make our apologies, a brief report admit our wounds are worse than we hoped and depart. People will be talking about it word will spread and we can go back to bed and pass out and heal. We could very much die from this young and strong as we may be
I really don't think in our present state we will achieve much if we try and tap our reserves for one last exertion. Our arrival and state have clearly shown our deeds and wounds. Make our apologies, a brief report admit our wounds are worse than we hoped and depart. People will be talking about it word will spread and we can go back to bed and pass out and heal. We could very much die from this young and strong as we may be
- Location
- Mists of Albion
[X] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."
We've already pushed him too hard, anymore than this and there will be consequences. Please, listen, don't make us a cripple or dead. This is our out.
Edit: Shit this is actually sepsis. We need to rest even if we make it through the initial infection, Spesis dramatically reduces the lifespan of the infected, more than half die in five years after contracting the disease.
We've already pushed him too hard, anymore than this and there will be consequences. Please, listen, don't make us a cripple or dead. This is our out.
Edit: Shit this is actually sepsis. We need to rest even if we make it through the initial infection, Spesis dramatically reduces the lifespan of the infected, more than half die in five years after contracting the disease.
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- Pronouns
- He
[X] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."
bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
[X] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."
Really coulda used the bribe money right now I feel like, but much more important then the political concerns- we need to not die! And to find some apothecaries and backcountry herbalists that won't bleed us maybe!
Really coulda used the bribe money right now I feel like, but much more important then the political concerns- we need to not die! And to find some apothecaries and backcountry herbalists that won't bleed us maybe!
- Location
- United States
Indeed, the great irony of "modern" "medicine:" safer in the hands of a peasant woman than an educated man! Can a guy like a Stan imagine? Enough to make a capital R capital M Renaissance Man's head spin. And then half the poor folk-healers got persecuted for witchcraft, at least in parts of Germany and England.
We ignored every warning you sent us, and here we are. Seems fitting that SV's hyperactive messiah complex ends up turning Ajax's triumph into defeat.
Hopefully our actions cinched a Habsburg victory. Let's see what we can salvage of this mess.
[X] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
It should be noted, that regular medicine was indeed lacking, yet when it comes to wound treatment, humanity was quite advanced in that field, since it had many, many centuries of practice. So long as the doctors don't try to chop your leg off, your could be reasonably sure, that they know what they are doing.
Just bad luck. I read about people with far more severe war wounds (like having your guts spilled), yet they survived and made a full recovery.
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- Location
- United States
True! I shouldn't totally knock them. The surgery to which you were subjected used empirically-proven antiseptic herbs and basically is medically sound -- just ignore the non-sterile everything, lack of gloves, etc. Also no need to express the injury, if I'm not mistaken, you don't need to clear pus unless it's a tendon injury I think. The Paré method of swabbing and bandaging gunshot wounds (specifically with turpentine as an antiseptic and pork lard as a kind of proto-vaseline) opposed to cauterization/application of boiling oil saved a lot of lives from about 1540 onwards, and you're lucky that you had such a progressive physician-surgeon duo willing to try treating a stab wound like it's a GSW.
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- Location
- United States
Argh! You would've tied it up. We've moved on already, I'm afraid, and not in favor of bedrest…
Yeah just noticed that, I thought I had refreshed before posting but apparently not
[X] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Gunshot wounds were a relatively new phenomenon, therefore the doctors had to quickly think of a more effective method of treating them. Luckily, practice makes perfect. Recording your findings and experiences greatly helps too (medicine would never move forward without the books).
[X] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."
Whoops. Our boy only has so much dog in him.
[x] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."
[x] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."
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I meant to vote, but I just forgot to.