Kysis nodded, slowly, detachedly, not moving from his spot at the table. His bandages felt cool, wet, against his skin, but at the same time muggy, oppressive. They needed to come off. Perhaps it would be good to let the wound breath some rather than rewrap it immediately. First, though, it needed a wash.
This musings ran through his head as he waited, trying to distract himself from the heavy feeling of the bandages around his abdomen. If he had been kept in better quarters after the wounding, if the wound had been treated immediately, Kysis might have been healed already. In Ottoman hands, he had to make do with basic items, like a dirty tunic, stagnant water, whatever he could get to clean his wound and keep himself alive until escaping.
Licking his dry lips, he mashed them together, closing his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath. He could feel it pull on his wound, front and back. It was strange, being able to feel all the way through. Thankfully that sensation has dissipated before his long ride north, but the memory of it still lingered. The cavity where that blade had been would remain in his mind for a long time to come, he was sure.
Soon enough, Lam was back.
Ready?
He had an injury, yes, but he was far from invalid. Kysis stood on his own, quickly, none of the pain he felt passing over the cold mask of his face. The Lord rolled his shoulders, getting a slight bit of their stiffness out. The hot water would help as well, which his travel weary body was greatly looking forward to, even if he would not admit to it verbally.
Not saying a word, he walked to the bathing room, the one which had been his parents’ first, then Alia’s before her death. That event seemed distant, a tiny blip in the past. So much had happened since then. Kysis tried not looking at the grand bed as he passed through the room, going straight to the secluded, large bathing room, a notable luxury, but something Marcos had been insistent upon having, like a palpable stamp of their standing in society.
Kysis had never much been for such displays, such mantles, but he bore it. In Oberon, that seemed the only way anyone was recognized.
Rather than sitting somewhere, Kysis stood off to the side, patient, silent, slowly starting to take off the heavy linen bandages over his abdomen. As the layers peeled off, the bandages became more and more discolored, the bottom layer with a slight rust hue to them.
Flinching, Kysis pulled that last thin cloth layer off.
Stitches still showed along the slice just below his ribs, both front and back. It was slightly wider than a Greek blade, nor was it the straightest line between the front and the back. Ottoman blades were different, and Kysis would not forget that soon either.
The air felt good on the wound, but he knew water would feel much, much better.