○ Common ○ Rakahi ○ Pailtic ○ Hussian ○
119th Trial of Vhalar, Arc 716The 7th Break
“Infection has spread into the wound and poisoned the blood. There is little we can do for her in the way of common medicine.” A tall man stated. He was pale, dark haired, and particularly clean for the kind of place the band found themselves in. Glasses sat on the bridge of his nose and quite glaringly out of all his features was the slave mark on the side of his neck. His behavior, however, was far from one.
“In the way of common medicine?” Haraji repeated, his voice tingled with disbelief, “Do you mean to suggest something else other than medicine?”
“Well, there are certain drugs we've been manipulating mixtures with that may help improve her condition, but unless something drastic takes place, it will only improve the quality or her life, not the quantity.” The news seemed to obviously upset the Biqaj smuggler as he began to pace about the floor of the clinic with a distant expression.
“You said she was aboard a ship for... Twenty trials?” The slave continued.
“Roughly.” Caed answered.
“Spending twenty trials aboard a filthy ship is no place for a kind of wound she has. You cleaned and packed it? How many times has she broken fever?”
“Twice, I think...” Haraji stopped pacing, “What drastic measures do you mean?”
The slave was silent for a long while before the implication finally clicked within the smuggler's mind and he shook his head, “No. You find another way but I can assure you, she would rather die than become a lab rat or creature you people are notorious for making.”
Caed sighed, “Accusations will get us no where.”
“I take no offense, but this is the most I can offer for her condition. She's facing withdrawal from the Panorium Powder, dehydration, fever, infection... I'm surprised she's still alive, even more so that she's still moving her arm. The nerve damage alone from the cauterization should have stunted that... Nevertheless, death will greet her sooner if she decides to do nothing.”
“Well then,” Caed muttered, “Here's hoping fever killed her stubbornness.”
“No.”
Freya laid upon a thinly stuffed mattress that was held up by a less than adequate wooden frame. Her skin was ghostly pale with purple bags under her black eyes and hands that shook of their own will. The biqaj woman was sweating profusely and breathing rather hard as she shut her eyes and shook her head, “I won't...”
Haraji tossed a hand through his hair and scowled, “Why, because it's Rhakros? You're dying Freya. They can't do anything more for you.”
“I will not...” She sucked in a breath and shook, trying to ease the ache of her body,”... become... some lab rat.”
“Freya, this isn't about being a lab rat, it's about treatment. Let them try to help and if they can't, we'll find some other way.” Caed tried to reason with her but only anger flashed across her face.
“Help? There isn't any help here— there is only death! I will not... allow you... to hand me to them like some puppet to be... worked over!” Breathing harder, her head plopped against the lumpy pillow. “Get out...”
She could feel her voice waiver as she spoke the words, but Freya was too weak to correct herself. At a time like this, she wished she'd bled out on the deck. Maybe this is what Wendell intended for her all along: to die a slow and miserable death.
“Alright Freya, but we'll be back by nightfall... You need to consider your options until then.”
There was no point to the man's words. Freya already made up her mind. She'd rather die a lonesome death than become something she wasn't. She would never allow herself to be reduced to anything less than who she was and if that meant death... then so be it.
Once the sound of the door signaled it shut and their boots thudded away, Freya rolled over and sank into the mattress. Tears welled up in her eyes and thin fingers reached out for something— anything. She found the pillow and curled into it, drowning its soft comfort in sorrow.
It was because of the fever, Freya told herself.
It was just the fever...
