Welcome to Gaia! ::

Several weeks since the arrival of the stranger on Yael’s soil. Several weeks of the foreigner—Ottolo, as Zekiel had named him when the boy declined to give his own—in Zekiel’s care and by the day, minute by minute, hour by hour, week to week, his condition did improve. But slowly. Healers came at first, brought in by the church itself to see to Ottolo’s worst injuries. The more time passed, however, the less they visited. He did not ‘need’ as much help then, Sister Mortrem said, and his condition had passed the point where they feared he might die any day. Zekiel continued to eat with him and Ottolo’s strength was returning.

But still, Zekiel felt a pull. An impulse that he could not pin down and did not attempt to: Ottolo would benefit from outside aid.

And, as it happened, Zekiel knew just the person.

It was entirely his own idea, and he did not consult anyone about it, but not so much to avoid doing so but simply because it did not occur to him. He had met a healer, by course of his own learning, and now — after the gods had once before put him in Tacrith’s path — the gods had delivered him a new task who happened to require the aid of a healer. It seemed obvious to him.

He had spoken to Ottolo of it, about Tacrith and the possibility of bringing in another outsider in the other boy’s eyes, and though Ottolo had shown hesitance and suspicion, the assurance that Tacrith was indeed Zekiel’s friend seemed to be enough to placate his concerns. At least enough that Zekiel himself felt comfortable seeking Tacrith out again—which he did. This time, after a chipper greeting to the man at the front door, he strode into the medical facility he’d last met the boy at without waiting for permission, and moved directly to the attendant at the front desk.

“Good morning! And blessings be upon you. I am Zekiel, and I should like very much to know if Tacrith is about if it please you when you get a moment, the gods have a task for him.”

Weeks upon Weeks upon WEEKS of nothing but grey walls was slowly driving Tumelo mad. No one truly bothered to stop and talked with him beyond a simple greeting and commanding him about to move about when they bathed him and changed his sheets. Well, there was Zekiel, the acolyte who he had become close to. He had come to see him several times a day from the moment he had awakened and had been extraordinarily kind to him.

But the more he met people in passing who would come in and almost act afraid of him, the more he resented them. He had not chosen to be here! He did not wish to be the weird foreigner who had no choice but to sit here and try to live because a stranger near forced his hand! That aching feeling in his mind to return to the arms of the gods plagued him daily. Every time he was forced to eat. Every time he was stripped naked and moved around like a rag doll because he did not have the ability to clean himself. Every time he opened his eyes to see the blank grey ceiling above him he felt it. What life was it to live when he had to depend on everyone for everything?

A worthless one.

He wouldn't deny that there were moments of happiness or curiosity that came. The moment that Zekiel came into the room, his heart soared, like when a sailor finally sees a lighthouse in the middle of a squall. The storms and screaming and fear and anxiety and despair all seemed to quiet briefly when Zekiel sat with him and spoke of his day. The acolyte painted such vivid pictures of a world he had not seen and brought him bits and pieces of it such as flowers and food and scents. It brought life to the little room he was in. Yet now he wished to bring in an element that he had not yet experienced while trapped in this windowless room. A friend.

Initially Tumelo vehemently disagreed with that. No one wanted to see his disfigured face or his broken body... Beyond that no one wanted to see a supposed cursed child that cried out in his sleep more often than. But Zekiel insisted he was a good person, and insisted that he would appreciate the help... How could he deny him?

So now he sat and waited til Zekiel came again, sketching out another image of how the world looked from his spot on the bed. Every day, the same image was drawn, with little variation beyond the flowers and toys that he managed to move about, this day day would be no different.

Tac stiffened naturally at the hug, managing to not push Ze away. Yep. Nothing changed. A friend who needed assistance? Injured. Treated, but in need of more. "Of course. I will see what I can do."

The trip to the sanctum was both short and ages long. It was already a bit of a trip, but the constant chatter made the passage of time flux greatly. By the time they reached their destination, he was using his cane again. Blasted trip...

He watched the blessings given, wondering the extent of the injuries. They'd been described, but nothing was certain until it was seen. When he followed in, dragged along by Zekiel, his eyes went to the patient. His walk paused, and his face was like stone. It wasn't the injuries that caught him off guard, but what could be seen aside from them. ...What in the darkest wood was this? What was that hair? That skin? ..A person from the other lands! After a moment, he nodded and stepped forward. Strange looking or not, he could tell the injuries were real, and severe. It must have been incredibly painful... "Zekiel has described what he could to me." He dragged a chair over and sat next to the stranger's bed. "Will you allow me to assist you?"

Zekiel slipped in, shutting the door behind him and watching Tacrith.

Perhaps it ought to have occurred to him — between Tacrith’s pause and the surveying flick of his eyes — that Ottolo’s race, in this case, was a pivotal feature that Tacrith may have benefited from knowing beforehand. Those in the Sanctum with him and even those outside of it certainly were. Every priest and priestess, every caretaker, every medical physician, and even the villager who had hastily dropped him upon the Sanctum steps so eager to be rid of him—all took great notice and seemed to hold a special fear for ‘the foreigner.’

And yet.

Alas.

Zekiel followed in Tacrith’s wake without a thought on it, his smile bright as ever because Tacrith’s impassive expression and follow-up move to approach and inquire were exactly what he might have hoped for or expected. Tacrith was a good man, and a doctor. All would be well.

“He can help because he knows the ways of the body,” Ze said from over Tacrith’s shoulder. “I have seen him tend to those in states such as yours and others of all varieties. It would be good to know what we must do to help you build the strength to sit in a wheeling chair. So that I can take you out to see the morning.”

The moment that Tacrith drew in close to touch him, Tumelo flinched terribly and tightly closed his eyes. How could he not when most hands that came out to touch him or move him were rough and unkind? Those who came to help him change the sheets and use his pot had hands that would grip his worn and beaten skin so tight that he would not be surprised if new bruises were beginning to form. They had no care for him, no gentleness in their touch. But he wouldn't scream or cry out, not after the first time when a particularly cruel older woman smacked him in the arm when he murmured about being in pain. All of that tossing and turning they did to him left him numb, and every so often someone would even blow out his candles, leaving him in the darkness. He would lie there, aching and burning, crying softly until a different soul came by and out of pity lit them again.

Not that he would say this to anyone. After all, he was lucky to receive such 'kindness' at all. Especially since more than one guard or priest murmured about throwing him back into the sea where be belonged. More and more, he wished that to be true.

Yet here he was, his only friend watching with a smile as a healer looked over him. Even then, as he slowly opened his eyes again, he could see the hesitation the man had before his hand reached his skin. This person whom Zekiel called his friend thought so lowly of him too, didn't they?

Another flinch came as Tacrith's hand finally reached his belly. He was thin, frighteningly so, but not nearly as horrible as it had been a few weeks ago. With Zekiel's determination of only eating when Tumelo ate, his hand was forced and he slowly regained his appetite. So much of that energy consumed went straight to the healing process that it was hard for him to put on any weight at all. At least he wasn't withering away as he was the first few days or so upon his arrival.

At the doctor's command, Tumelo tried moving each limb individual. This first arm moved just fine, as it was only wounded by a broken finger, which was doing well. The second could only manage a few single finger wiggles as it was bound tightly to his chest. Having had it's humerus snapped, it was not allowed to move at all, only when the healer came in to check on it. And recently, it was less and less often leaving the bandages less than appealing to the Nose. Neither of his legs could move very much, so he opted to simply move his toes and wiggle his hips a little. That's what was important, right? For his hips to be able to bend and move, even a little bit, meant that he could sit in a chair.

All of it caused pain. Pain that made his eyes water and his teeth begin to grind. But he wouldn't complain.

"I'm fine... It doesn't hurt."

Throughout the flinching and wiggling, Tacrith wouldn't let himself yield. This boy had been through a lot, and.. it didn't seem like his trials were over. He would have to mention the condition of some of those bruises later... Some of those were fresher than the others.... Jaw tight at the implications, he focused on watching the movement. Definitely weak, but everything seemed to work still; relatively speaking.

It doesn't hurt? His expression gained a slightly irritated narrowing of the eyes. "Don't do that," he scolded flatly. "Ottolo, is it? You may tell yourself it doesn't hurt, but don't expect me to believe you. Zekiel didn't come to me on behalf of you because he simply felt like it."

He bent to pick up his bag, glancing over at Zekiel. "I could use some water. ..Cold for me, and a bowl of warm water for him." Sifting through his bag, he pulled out a few jars to work with.

At Tacrith’s request, Zekiel nodded, though it may only have been visible to Ottolo, from their given positioning. “I’ll fetch some—” His eyes caught Ottolo’s stare, wide-eyed and nervous, and his feet paused a half-step out. In response, though, he only moved in, reaching for Otto’s good hand and giving a gentle squeeze to the fingers that could take it without hurt.

“—and I will only be a moment,” he said, as much to Tacrith as to Ottolo. “Tacrith has the gods’ blessing.” The words, ‘and mine’ flit through his head, but hesitated there: was that not presumptuous? To put his own word there in juxtapose with the gods, as though his were remotely as valid? But, the Sanctum had chosen him a speaker, and Ottolo was a foreigner who seemed to put more immediate trust in him than his gods, regardless of the relevance, so, he said it: “And mine, Ottolo. He will help you be well.”

With that, Ze let his fingers drop, and slipped out of the room, down the hall and towards the nearest supply of what he would need. In this case, the kitchens.

For just a moment, Tumelo thought he had gotten through to Zekiel. He was going to stay! But then the other's words spoke different, assuring him that he would only be a moment... Then vanished. And the young windling felt the tears that were already threatening to drop leave his eyes and run down his face. More and more followed until in one single action it got worse.

The flinch that came with Tac reaching for him once Zekiel left was worse than any other he had experienced since first meeting Tac, and a terrified sound came from him as he did his best to flee towards the wall, more out of habit by now than any real sense. After all, he couldn't move but an inch or so. The hand, however, was kind, and gentle, only moving the sheet to better comfort him rather than hurt him. It was too late, however, the boy broke down into soft sobs using his good hand to best muffle it. The other care takers hated it when he cried, and it only made things worse.

It took a few minutes or so for the young man to finish his episode and gather his thoughts. Things didn't get worse. He wasn't beaten or poked and prodded, simply stared at. He had over reacted, and for what, for the man who Zekiel placed his faith in to simply wait for him to be done with and give a response.

"They are nothing..." Tumelo finally whispered, having calmed down just enough to give the doctor a coherent response. He pulled his blanket up further along his body to hide the fresh bruises on his chest and shoulders. All over there were marks, some faded as they should have been, only faint reminders of his journey to Yael. Others were still fresh, ranging from blues to purples to just the faintest of reds. They were on his hips, on his thighs, on his chest, neck and shoulders, and their placements surely pointed to earthling hands. But he would not complain. These people were still so kind to him. He had no right to complain at all.

"... I am left alone. Sometimes the candles go out and I reach out blindly in the dark. My hand is weak, and I drop things on myself... That was all." Even as a youngling, Tumelo was an awful liar. He couldn't manage to look at the man he spoke to, only speaking in a hush toned, as if frightened that anything louder would lead to more rough hands throwing his broken body around further.

Unsure of which gods were even bothering to listen to him at this point, Tumelo just pleaded within himself for Zekiel to return soon. He had already lost his composure once, and didn't want to do it again..