rosaline (goodnightrose) wrote in _equinox_, @ 2008-06-24 01:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | character: carlisle cullen, character: esme cullen, character: sam uley, location: cullen home |
Who: Carlisle, Esme and a v. unconscious Sam Uley.
Where: The mysterious Cullen basement!
When: Directly after the fight between Carlisle and Sam.
What: The healing of harms?
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There was a crack in the varnish on the hardwood floor in the entryway and Esme, in her typical fashion, was on her hands and knees with sandpaper, a can of wood-stain and a can of polyurethane. She scrubbed the crack mightily, uncovering the original wood so that it could be more easily protected.
The struggle to reach home felt infinite. In some remaining rational portion of his mind, Carlisle was certain that wasn't so--the outline of trees had blurred in the speed with which he moved, faster than any human eye could perceive. But, were a human eye able to witness vampire speeds, it would have been able to see how dramatically slower his progress was, burdened by the large and injured dead weight of an unconscious Sam Uley and limping from the strange sensation of weakness in his side. And then, there was the all-encompassing thirst that raged through his body, where he could hear the pulsing heartbeat of every living creature in a several-mile radius, and how he wanted. A constant drumming of hundreds of hearts drove his beleaguered steps, and he didn't really see much of anything until he broke through the treeline and stumbled onto his own groomed property, with his large, beautiful house sitting serenely by the river, a beacon of peace and comfort. Sam fell to the lawn just then. Carlisle sighed, fell down beside him, then picked them both back up with an effort that shouldn't have been. He closed in on the large French doors in the back of the house, twisted the handle of one and pushed it open with the combined weight of his own body and Sam's. The result was a less-than-graceful heap into the living room.
As the well-oiled hinges clicked in place to admit one of her family members, she turned to welcome them before practically crying out in alarm. There was Carlisle - God, what happened to him? - and an unconscious Sam Uley staining the cream rug a tired, rusty old red. Kicking over the wood-stain in her haste, she flew to Carlisle's side and grasped his cheeks in her cold hands. "What! What is this?"
He wrapped a pale hand flaked with blood around one of her wrists. "Esme," he said, striving to remain as calm as possible, as if stumbling home with the unconscious body of a werewolf and looking like an axe murderer was a perfectly normal event. "I need you to do me a favour."
"Alright," she said, swallowing a large lump in her throat. Carlisle had to know what he was doing. "Alright, Carlisle."
He took a moment to make sure she was with him, frightened though, as she was, then calmly proceeded to explain. "I need you to go to the hospital and bring as much morphine as you can, though I do recommend you leave some remaining at least until the staff can restock tomorrow as it will be delivery day. I think it goes unsaid you should try and remain unseen. I'll worry about forging records later."
She nodded sharply, already halfway out of the door as he finished his sentence. Fortunately, having been to the hospital many times to visit Carlisle, she knew her way around the employee areas and was able to use her invisible speed to procure what he requested. As she turned back for home, she glanced at a clock and noticed that less than ten minutes had passed.
And in the course of those ten minutes, Carlisle didn't get done as much as he should have, and was all too aware of it. He had brought Sam down to the basement and laid him carefully down on a clean sheet. It was hardly the most sterile of conditions, but fortunately his patient was more resilient than most. What morphine supplies he had in his medical bag were already injected into that unconscious body, one shot after the other, without thought. He remembered how much morphine he had used just to sedate Jacob, and this would be exponentially more painful. These tasks accomplished, he propped himself against the wall and critically studied the werewolf before him, noting the malformation of bones, the contusions, the scarring.... He'd have to wait for Esme and the drip before he could go further. The edges of the world began to blur.
... and before anything could happen to him, she was in the house and down the steps. The morphine was deposited by the table upon which Sam lay as she sped to her husband and proppped him up with strong arms. "I guess I shouldn't ask about what happened."
"An unfortunate misunderstanding," he blithely excused. At her touch, he straightens and tries not to limp to the table. He could do this asleep, if he slept. His hands set up IV drip in efficient and precise actions, but his hands are trembling a little too much when he went to inject the needle. It takes a moment to will himself into steady assurance, though he slips the needle in quickly before even that dissolves. He hoped she hadn't noticed. "I need to reset several bones." He tilted his head, listening intently. "No pierced internal organs. Good blood flow to the extremities, though the right leg is a bit thready."
"He'll stay unconscious until you feed," she said softly, not missing one misstep as she trained her keen awareness upon him. Something was particularly wrong with his hip and she frowned, almost too intimidated to ask.
"The longer I wait, the more difficult this will be. The greater the chance that the bones wouldn't heal properly," he said in a rush of explanation that booked no argument, else he feared he'd collapse completely against her soft entreaty. The drip was steadily at work. He'd start with the right femur. His hands were already in place, though he couldn't help but flash back to the vivid image of him crushing these limbs int he first place. Through clenched teeth, he continued, "Esme, I need you to spot."
Esme silently conceded, knowing that helping him through the process would mean that he would take care of himself more quickly. Moving around her husband, she placed a firm grip upon Sam's right hip and spread her hand directly over his knee socket.
Despite his reminisces, his hands were sure and unhesitant. A grotesque snap of bones pierced the air, but he grimly began splinting and wrapping. Wordlessly, he proceeded to the next, trusting Esme to follow his lead. It was a difficult and long process, even for him. There were hundreds of breaks that needed mending, pausing occasionally to change the morphine bags. When he was finished, Sam didn't look that dissimilar from an Egyptian mummy, practically only his face still left uncovered, but certainly not the least ravaged.
As the last bone is set and splinted, she catches her husband around the shoulders and turns him gently, finding the dried blood inconsequential. "Carlisle ... " is soft, pliant as she begins to ascertain his body for wounds.
"We might need to chain him. At least...until things can be clarified. I don't know if the morphine will be enough. He should move as little as possible..." he continued, quieting when he faced her, touching her hand. "I need to hunt."
... and she shortly found out why, when her hand missed a very familiar curve in his hip. If her face could whiten any more, if her breath could stop and her heart-beat waver, it would have just then. But she kissed him hard on the lips and nodded. "I'll do it."
"No," he said with too much force. "There could be more." And he could never let Esme put herself in that much danger. "The treaty is off."
"You will lose your mind, Carlisle. You must go. If only for a little while."
"It might be best if everyone stayed out of the basement for awhile." He kissed her fervently, grateful to see and touch her again. "I'll be back."
"Of course," she said, pushing him toward the stairs, kissing and touching as she went. Though she could do nothing for him in the state he was in, she hated to be parted from him once more. Though, when he left the basement, she turned to the unconscious werewolf on the table with narrowed eyes. "You're lucky," she said to the sleeping form, pulling heavy chains from a hook in the corner to wind around his limbs and his waist, "that I am not a vengeful woman."