[maikafanawen]

Mr. Sedal wove between the hammocks, distributing rations to the laid-up wounded: a total of about eight that had survived with their assorted scrapes and bruises. He offered estimates of time for recovery and if he'd need to do any more surgery. One unlucky sailor would need to have the bone in his leg reset because the surgeon had not had enough time during the battle. The poor man didn't even have enough time to yell before the pained shot through his body and he passed out for two hours.

By the time Sedal got around to Devon, the young man had envisaged all the possible remedial pain he'd have to endure. The surgeon pressed at a few places on Devon's forearm and moved his fingers; he could hardly feel any of it. Sedal unwrapped the gauze and peeled off the purple leaves, dropping them onto a tray.

"It's healing up somewhat slowly," he mused, "I'm afraid it may have been contaminated as well. We'll just have to mind it as it mends itself." He turned the leaves over and placed the semi-clean side back on the gash.

"Shouldn't you get new.... leaves on there?" Devon asked nervously.

Sedal kept his somber gaze on his work when he answered. "Devon, if I had enough athelas, I would." Devon slumped back in his hammock sullenly. The surgeon finished binding his shoulder and looked with mild sympathy at his patient. "I understand why this wound is deeper than the couple centimeters or so it cut into you. It's not easy having to tell people that they may not be able to do much with certain, rather important parts of themselves for a while, or ever. Lucky for you, though, you didn't loose the whole thing. But I don't know if you'll ever be able to move as fast with the sword as you used to."

The surgeon finished his work and moved on, giving Devon some time for peace. But Devon didn't want to be alone; being alone meant he had time to think, to think about never being able to fence as well as he used to. It was one of the few things he had really excelled at. He was only average in his academics, and relatively poor at politics. Without fencing, he had nothing. His eyes began to burn and he pressed his right fist against them; a suppressed sob racked his chest and he coughed. He got angry. Don't cry damnit, he slid down in his hammock and shielded his face with his mobile arm. Don't let anyonesee you cry! He took a couple of deep, steadying breaths and finally closed his eyes ready for sleep.

In his dreams, he had a wooden arm to which a sword was secured. He was surrounded by pirates with hundreds of perfect, strong arms wielding impossibly long thin, needle-like swords. Devon struggled with his own weapon but it would not obey any of his commands; it kept dropping its point and the corsairs moved ever closer. 'Devon!' yelled Calnan from somewhere above him. 'Use your sword! Pick it up! Come on! Fight like you used to!' Devon opened his mouth to say that he couldn't and hundreds of athelas leaves came out instead of words. 'Devon!' Calnan yelled again. 'Devon!!' The pirates lunged at once. 'DEVON!'

He bolted upright and his hammock swayed dangerously before a pair of hands steadied it.

'Whoa!' said Callath, the hands' owner. "Settle down what's wrong?" Devon was breathing hard and tried to get a grip. Callath sat with him, silent, until his friend was breathing normally again. Then he asked quietly, "Are you okay?" He looked concerned and Devon tried to make his mind clear itself.

"I'm fine," he managed. "What are you doing?"

"I was just sitting here and sort of fooling with a candle," he held up a lump of wax twisted and marked -- Devon chuckled -- "when you started to sort of moan and move around. So I woke you up before you fell." Devon nodded and picked idly at the seam on his blanket. "Sedal said that the dagger cut some of the nerves in your shoulder that made it possible for your arm to move properly. He says you may not have full ability to feel things either, in your arm."

Devon nodded slowly, "Yeah...he told me--more or less." They both were quiet for a minute. There was little movement on deck except for the muffled hammering of a spar, and the snap of sail. It was very dark--probably late evening, during the night watch. There was a single lantern on the wall by Callath's head; its flame flickered with the movement of the melted wax around the wick in sync with the ships' bobbing.

"Whose watch are you on?" Devon asked.

"Marx's. He's third mate now that Frency was killed and second mate Talon is in that hammock there with a mild concussion so Marx and Loliway are running the watches."

"Talon?" Devon repeated. "He's got a concussion from the battle?"

Callath smiled ironically and shook his head. "No, we were lifting a new spar up the mast for the topsail and one of the stays snapped. It swung down and popped old Talon right on the head. Sedal says he'll be fine though and back to work in a less than a day."

The sound of eight bells tolled and Callath shifted and stood. "S'my watch now. Calnan will be down here in a minute. He may have a mind to go strait to sleep but he'll probably be by for a few words. Get some rest. I'll see ya."

Devon nodded, "See ya."