Bloodletting

Sweat beaded on Emeryn’s cheeks and forehead, dampening his grey-streaked hair and beard. He tried to wipe it away with his shoulder—his hands and forearms were already stained crimson up to the elbows.

Emeryn’s hands trembled violently as they closed around the leather wineskin which sat upon a wooden table that was as equally discolored as his hands and arms. Lifting the container to his lips, Emeryn’s fingers squeezed too hard on the skin, causing the red liquid to spill out and over his hands. 

The spout quivered and moved until finally Emeryn’s lips wrapped around the mouth of the skin and he swallowed deeply of the poor vintage, though his refined tastes cared not at this moment. For much of his life, he wouldn’t have imagined ingesting such atrocious quality wine, but those days were behind him. At least for now.

The corpse that lay atop the thin and splintered table had only recently gone silent; the wailing and pleading for her mother were as equally in vain as Emeryn’s attempts to hold back death. It was her blood, in addition to others, which stained his hands and arms, as well as the thin tunic which covered his chest.

Tears flowed down his cheeks as he slammed the notably lighter wineskin back upon the table.

Emeryn didn’t want to guess the age of the young woman, though he knew she couldn’t be more than twenty. She should be dancing at the Spring Festival, with newly budded flowers braided into her brown hair, smiling and laughing with a young lover. Instead, she had bled out on a lonely tabletop with only Emeryn, who had always been the “Greatest Failure,” left to save her.

Who was he kidding? He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t save anyone.

His eyes moved around the tent, flitting across the pile of corpses as well as the soon-to-be corpses.

The screams of the dying washed over him—pleading, breaking, fading. Emeryn collapsed onto the muddy floor, body wracked with sobs. He hugged himself, hands covering his ears, and rocked back and forth.

I can’t do this. I won’t do this.

A product of a fine family, which had a sound reputation and a status high enough that those in his family rarely saw a fraction of the lands that the held. Because of this, Emeryn had been granted many fine things in life. He had never had to fight for anything. He had lived a life of exceptional leisure. 

He had attended a prestigious school and had passed in the middle of his class. Well enough to be left alone for the years of his training, but not high enough to stick out.

Emeryn had also inherited more than a reputation, and wealth, he had been blessed with an appealing face that had meant he had rarely gone to his bed alone.

Athletics and friendship had always been fruitful and required little effort in either venture.

And yet now he saw that all of his achievements weren’t truly his. He hadn’t ever had to struggle for anything. He had never met a responsibility that he couldn’t sidestep or a hardship that he couldn’t ignore.

Life hadn’t prepared him for this.

The only thing life had prepared him for was the bottle. That had come easy. Always within easy reach. Always a friend to have a drink or two with. And if not, it was easy enough having a sip by himself.

How can I save them with hands like these? He thought, lifting his blood-stained hands up in front of his face. The blood was caked in every crevice of his skin, under his nails, and every wrinkle of flesh. The hair on his arms was matted down with chunks of dried blood clinging to the follicles.

The tremors had started some time ago—sudden, violent, only calmed by a stiff drink.

A vision of the lifeless girl’s face etched itself into his mind, as he pictured her twirling and smiling in a burst of golden sunshine, far away from the screams and stink of the dying that filled the tent.

I can’t do it.

Too much life had been lost at his unsteady and unreliable hands.

I can’t. I’m a coward.

He had always been afraid.

He had been no more than ten, and people had begun to whisper of his greatness. But it wasn’t his truly. It was his parents. Fostering and nurturing and spreading the lies about him. His team had trailed by only a few points in nunto ball, and the expectation had been on Emeryn to score the points and win the game. He had felt the weight of those expectations and instead of rising to the occasion, had faked a shoulder injury after a tackle and had to be carried off the field.

It was from this early age that he had begun to learn the best means of shirking his duties. Better to be middle of the pack and not work for anything and mix into the herd.

When he had told his parents that he wanted to be a surgeon, they had been appalled.

“No more than a common butcher, is what they are!” His father had screamed at him. Arguing had never been Emeryn’s strength, and not wanting to rock the boat, Emeryn had become a physician instead. The curiosity of surgery had never waned, and he had taken to its study in his off time.

I can’t let another die.

He had known the basics of the procedures and had an understanding of what he had to do. He just needed practice.

And he had found it.

Emeryn was brought back to the present when the corpse upon the table was carted away, and another body slammed down upon the tabletop. Not even a courtesy wipe down of the blood and gore that had covered it from the previous corpse had been given.

Gripping the sides of his face, Emeryn began shaking his head furiously, the tears now streaming down his cheeks. He tucked his head between his bent knees.

“I can’t. Not another. I can’t.” Emeryn said, his voice quivering

“And yet you must.” The voice was deep and calm and yet didn’t reassure Emeryn in the least. He felt the other's presence, looming over him, casting a dark shadow across his body and mind.

“I can’t do it anymore.”

“Stand up. You have a job to do.” The words did not contain anger or hostility; instead, they remained even and emotionless.

Emeryn’s shoulders slumped forward, his hands tightened, and pulled at his hair and beard. 

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The wineskin, refilled, was thrust into his hand, and Emeryn without question took a long swallow on the container once again. 

His hands had stopped shaking.

“Get up.”

Emeryn pulled himself back up and looked down at the brown-haired girl.

You should be dancing. He thought through the tears.

"Now cut."

Emeryn didn’t look at his grey-bearded tormentor. He made the incision. It had to work this time.

I can save you this time.

The girl screamed. Begged. As she always did.

His work, which would never end. His prison, one of his own making.