Solace, III
Apr. 6th, 2006 21:40![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mapsedge"Forgive him Father, he knows exactly what he is doing."
Bishop Longshire, sitting nearly recumbant in a large and very padded chair, held a small ball of felt against the inside bend of his elbow, staunching the flow of blood. The infirmarian, a slight Benedictine monk named Alain, lifted a small stoneware bowl, now full of Longshire's blood, and turned to leave.
"I'm sorry if I caused you discomfort, father," he said, softly. His eyes, dark and slightly pointed at the corners, were sincere. "I will be back in a moment with something for you to drink. Be careful of the lancet, " he pointed with his chin at the small, sharp instrument near the Bishop's elbow, "unless you'd like to repeat the service I just performed."
Longshire gave him a lopsided smile. "Once, " he sighed, "will do."
Alain bobbed his head and left the room, pulling the door to with a booted toe.
"A fever of the blood, Bartholomew. They hope, " he indicated they by gesturing vaguely at the door through which Alain had left, "that by taking so much blood away that they'll take the fever with it."
Solace, sitting on the floor with his back against the stone wall of Longshire's apartment, said nothing.
Longshire closed his eyes and laid his head back, suddenly very, very tired. "They're taking my life along with it."
Solace absently drew small figures on the stone between his outstretched legs. At forty, he was very strong, muscled heavily about the shoulders, evidence of his labor with pick and shovel. He wore his hair shorn nearly to the scalp, and in spite of his vocation kept assiduously clean. The finger that drew on the stone, however, was bent oddly, having been broken and badly set some years earlier. The drawing was the only outward sign of his distress.
"Then..." He faltered, swallowed, tried again. "Then why? Why let them continue to bleed you?"
Longshire started, not expecting the emotion that rode just under the timbre of the gravemaker's voice. He raised his head, and regarded the younger man.
"How long have we known each other?"
Solace looked at the ceiling, his eyes focused beyond the graying plaster. "Must be..." he calculated in his head, "gone ten year."
"Fourteen, " Longshire corrected him. "Young man, I was old when we met. Fifty one years old, twenty of those as a bishop in His service." He shook his head. "I don't expect them to cure me, not as such.
"Do you remember two months ago, when I paid my yearly visit London?" Solace nodded. "On the way back, my horse stepped onto a sharp rock...bit into the frog badly. The beast reared and I lost my seat. When the hooves came back down, one came down and broke my ankle. And, as it happens, the skin, dirtying the wound."
Solace nodded. "I knew you'd been hobbled, but didn't think it meet to ask."
"Well," Longshire sat up and swung his feet to the floor as Alain returned with a cup, "that's why." He regarded the cup with a scowl. "What's in it this time?"
Alain's eyes smiled, though his mouth was kept in a strict expression of piety. "Nothing but wine this time, father."
Longshire gestured indignantly with the cup at the priest, who began putting his tools away, beginning by rolling the lancet into a piece of parchment. "You see how they treat me?" He drank, made a face. "Puts me through that torture, and brings me nothing stronger than wine."
"Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise." Alain intoned.
"Proverbs," Solace contributed.
Longshire looked in betrayal at Solace. "What, you too?" He shook his head, and drained the cup. "At least ale next time, lout." He held the cup out to Alain, who took it and bowed to kiss Longshire's ring. Longshire made the sign of the cross over his bowed head. "In nomini patri, et fili, et spiritus sancti. Amen. Thank you, my son, for your care."
Alain rose, gathered up his small bundle and left the room.
"Now." Longshire removed the felt from his arm, inspected the tiny incision, and rolled down his sleeve. He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees to rise.
"Let us to the matter."
Bishop Longshire, sitting nearly recumbant in a large and very padded chair, held a small ball of felt against the inside bend of his elbow, staunching the flow of blood. The infirmarian, a slight Benedictine monk named Alain, lifted a small stoneware bowl, now full of Longshire's blood, and turned to leave.
"I'm sorry if I caused you discomfort, father," he said, softly. His eyes, dark and slightly pointed at the corners, were sincere. "I will be back in a moment with something for you to drink. Be careful of the lancet, " he pointed with his chin at the small, sharp instrument near the Bishop's elbow, "unless you'd like to repeat the service I just performed."
Longshire gave him a lopsided smile. "Once, " he sighed, "will do."
Alain bobbed his head and left the room, pulling the door to with a booted toe.
"A fever of the blood, Bartholomew. They hope, " he indicated they by gesturing vaguely at the door through which Alain had left, "that by taking so much blood away that they'll take the fever with it."
Solace, sitting on the floor with his back against the stone wall of Longshire's apartment, said nothing.
Longshire closed his eyes and laid his head back, suddenly very, very tired. "They're taking my life along with it."
Solace absently drew small figures on the stone between his outstretched legs. At forty, he was very strong, muscled heavily about the shoulders, evidence of his labor with pick and shovel. He wore his hair shorn nearly to the scalp, and in spite of his vocation kept assiduously clean. The finger that drew on the stone, however, was bent oddly, having been broken and badly set some years earlier. The drawing was the only outward sign of his distress.
"Then..." He faltered, swallowed, tried again. "Then why? Why let them continue to bleed you?"
Longshire started, not expecting the emotion that rode just under the timbre of the gravemaker's voice. He raised his head, and regarded the younger man.
"How long have we known each other?"
Solace looked at the ceiling, his eyes focused beyond the graying plaster. "Must be..." he calculated in his head, "gone ten year."
"Fourteen, " Longshire corrected him. "Young man, I was old when we met. Fifty one years old, twenty of those as a bishop in His service." He shook his head. "I don't expect them to cure me, not as such.
"Do you remember two months ago, when I paid my yearly visit London?" Solace nodded. "On the way back, my horse stepped onto a sharp rock...bit into the frog badly. The beast reared and I lost my seat. When the hooves came back down, one came down and broke my ankle. And, as it happens, the skin, dirtying the wound."
Solace nodded. "I knew you'd been hobbled, but didn't think it meet to ask."
"Well," Longshire sat up and swung his feet to the floor as Alain returned with a cup, "that's why." He regarded the cup with a scowl. "What's in it this time?"
Alain's eyes smiled, though his mouth was kept in a strict expression of piety. "Nothing but wine this time, father."
Longshire gestured indignantly with the cup at the priest, who began putting his tools away, beginning by rolling the lancet into a piece of parchment. "You see how they treat me?" He drank, made a face. "Puts me through that torture, and brings me nothing stronger than wine."
"Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise." Alain intoned.
"Proverbs," Solace contributed.
Longshire looked in betrayal at Solace. "What, you too?" He shook his head, and drained the cup. "At least ale next time, lout." He held the cup out to Alain, who took it and bowed to kiss Longshire's ring. Longshire made the sign of the cross over his bowed head. "In nomini patri, et fili, et spiritus sancti. Amen. Thank you, my son, for your care."
Alain rose, gathered up his small bundle and left the room.
"Now." Longshire removed the felt from his arm, inspected the tiny incision, and rolled down his sleeve. He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees to rise.
"Let us to the matter."
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no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 18:24 (UTC)