Playing The Victims [BL]

Chapter One Hundred & Eight | Fourth World

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"Here," Finch offered the flask of potent alcohol, "Take a sip before we start. It will help with the pain." He advised, to the scepticism of the Chief's son.

"The drink is usually only consumed during ceremonies. It's something our clan cherishes," Hawk said slowly but it didn't change the expression on Finch's face. So the older man begrudgingly agreed and opened his mouth.

After a few gulps, resulting in Hawk scrunching his face and shaking his head as he cleared his throat, Finch moved from the man's side and to the injury on his leg. It had visibly improved; with the removal of dirt and potential contaminants. The risk of infection had reduced, but given their surroundings, it was still prevalent.

The Chief had sent the small flask via the protection of a warrior. The man had appeared reluctant to hand it over to Finch, but with one look at the weakening Chief's son, he guiltily relinquished control. He didn't even stick around to see whether or not Finch tipped it down his own throat. Which is of course what he did.

But since he wasn't that much of a drinker, he only took a sip before feeling like he could hack up flames.

Finch didn't give the man much time to think about it, as he ripped off the bandage by pouring some of the liquid over the open wound which went straight through the flesh. As soon as he did, and Hawk convulsed with pain, Finch applied pressure with some of the clean rags. He tried not to look at the aggrieved expression on the man's face.

It was a slow and painful process, in which Finch had to be creative when thinking up different methods he could use. He had long since lost his squeamish tendencies, after seeing a whole variety of injuries in the previous world. But currently, with limited supplies, he had to think outside of the box.

During the previous evening, restricted to the Chief's son's hut, Finch came up with an idea for makeshift stitches. They were far from perfect, but would do the job of sewing the skin back together. From there, the wound would be easier to handle. But the stitches were made out of a material like twine.

It was only when he received the alcohol, could he sterilise the thread and show it to Hawk. "You want to what?"

"No matter how well I wrap your leg, the skin won't mend itself without help. The boars tusk has sliced through your muscle, which won't mend without me criss-crossing this between the two sides and closing them." He showed the twine off before grabbing one of the arrows he'd also requested.

Hawk had already learnt that it was better to keep quiet and watch the young man, and found it fairly entertaining to see how pinched his face became when he was concentrating.

Finch carefully removed the flint, which had been painstakingly sharpened into an arrow shape, and started using the method of scoring the sides to make it smaller and sharper. It took a little bit of time, but eventually he managed to make an object which held some semblance to a small arrow-head.

Rubbing his aching neck from sitting hunched over on the ground for some time, Finch got to his feet. He grabbed some water both for himself and the patient before he showed the man his creation. "I'll use this to help thread the twine." He revealed, and in response Hawk grabbed the flask of alcohol and tipped a large quantity down his throat.

He seemed to regret it immediately afterwards, but Finch didn't blame him. His method didn't sound so quick and painless. He'd only managed to get the flint as small as he was able, without it breaking. It was a very brittle rock so he was limited with what he could do.