An Elegy For The Soul

Chapter Twenty Eight

Rivers of Blood

Aven struggled to make sense of it all— of all the frantic movements contrasting with the eerie stillness.

River stumbled towards her, hand clenched against his neck, crimson seeping between his fingers. Lucan lay frozen on the ground, his chest unmoving, eyes fixed and unblinking. River bled profusely, his clothes sodden with an immeasurable amount of blood. Lucan was dry and pristine, his wound hidden amidst the brown tufts of his unruly hair.

River was dying. Lucan was dead.

The chair leg clattered to the floor as Aven rushed forward to catch River before he fell. His weight pushed them out of the room, and she collapsed backwards, River toppling on top of her. He attempted to lift himself off her, but his arms wouldn't support him. They shook wildly until they finally gave out, collapsing back on top of her. Blood spilled from his wound, soaking into her white nightgown, mixing with the scant spray from Lucan.

Aven rolled them over, frantically pressing her palm against the gash. "Where are your medical supplies?" she asked, her gaze darting all around the dark room. "You must have gauze or dressings hidden away somewhere. Don't all physicians keep such things?"

Tears blurred everything together for Aven. She couldn't distinguish River's colors from one another: not his pale skin, or black hair, or rich brown eyes. He was so red, saturated in gore that dyed all his other hues.

With one bloodied hand, River pointed wordlessly at his room, fat drops flowing in small rivulets down his palm and dripping off his fingertips. Aven grabbed that hand and pulled it back to his neck.

"Keep pressure.," she choked out. "I'll be right back."

River didn't say anything. His unfocused eyes fluttered back and forth, chest rising rapidly as his breaths grew labored. She hurried to his room, searching desperately for anything that would help stifle the bleeding.

At the foot of his bed, atop a wooden trunk, lay a first-aid zip kit. Aven snatched the pouch and hurried back to River. Inside, she found two packs of ten-yard gauze. Bloodied hands stained everything red as she tore through the packaging and unrolled a foot of gauze. But before she could apply it to River's neck, he grabbed her wrist with slick fingers.

  "The console table," he gasped, battling to get the words out. "Grab the jar."

"I need to stop the bleeding. The jar can wait," she insisted, resisting his hold, but he tightened his grip further, pulling her arm until her face dropped close to his.

"Get... the jar," he rasped, urgency evident in his voice.

Without unrolling any more of the gauze, Aven shoved the wad into River's hand and guided it to his neck. He held pressure and she leapt over him, racing for the console table. Little light reached down the hall, but she grabbed the only thing on the table resembling a jar and hurried back.

An oil lamp rested at the center of their coffee table. Aven hurriedly lit the wick using a match from the pile nearby. Light flooded the room, and she almost wished it hadn't. In the shadow of darkness, things seemed less daunting, but as the light illuminated all the gruesome details, panic rooted her feet in place.

There was so much blood. It spilled from River, drenched her dress, and pooled grimly on the wood. The gauze he pressed to his neck was already soaked through. She didn't know what to do. Didn't think one person could survive such a loss.

River's eyes met hers. In them, the desperation transformed into the calm reassurance of a trained physician. "It's okay," he said, his voice steadier than a person in his place ought to be. "Gauze are meant to be absorbent—" His breath hitched, and he took a few labored pulls. "I'm going to be okay."