Grinding Exceedingly Fine
Content warnings: death, war, injury
The building had been a chapel once. Now it was a triage space for the war outside. Rafe moved through the chaos like a otter through water, noting, assessing, deciding. That one was gory but minor. That one urgently needed evacuation. That one was treatable. That one was survivable. That one - was not.
Their mouth tightened ever so slightly. Treatable wounds first, then assess again. Save those that could saved first, then do what they could for those who - couldn’t. They flexed hands already chapped from constant disinfection, and then reached for the nearest, dwindling, stack of bandages and the nearest set of injuries, while stretchers came in laden with wounded and left laden with bodies. Others moved between the beds too, cleaning and bandaging, cauterising and amputating.
Finally, finally, Rafe’s stretch of beds was dealt with. They cleaned their hands again, and went back down to walk the lines of the dying. This time, they offered not bandages and medicine, but a gentle touch or a gentle word. A hand to hold, a strained joke, a smile.
“I used to be good at football, before this,” one of his patients gasped, nodding at the battered ball lying in a corner.
“And you’ll play again, someday,” Rafe lied in return, smoothing damp hair back from a clammy forehead. “Send me a ticket to the match. But for now, it’s time to sleep.”
The patient smiled. Hazel eyes closed softly. They would never open again.
Rafe exhaled very quietly and rose back to their feet as a new wave of casualties rushed in. Later, they would grieve every lost patient, but for now all they could do was keep up with the unending work of it, while outside the war rolled on, grinding them all underfoot.
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