05-24-2025, 04:27 PM
Quillon blinked against the dull throb in his side, his breath steady but shallow. When the woman approached, his posture stiffened reflexively. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t lean in either.
“I’m fine,” he said at first, voice quiet but firm. A pause. He tracked her methodical hands as she slipped on the fresh gloves. Still, he didn’t pull back when she took his injured hand.
“Quillon Hawke,” he answered when prompted, glancing at her briefly. His gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary, adding almost as an afterthought. “Veilwarden of the Brotherhood of Ascension.”
He winced slightly as she began to clean the scrape, but made no sound. His voice remained even. “I didn’t hit my head. Just my ribs. Nothing cracked, probably just bruised.” The antiseptic stung, but what caught him off guard was the way she moved. Clean, efficient, but… gentle. She wasn’t just going through the motions. She cared. That wasn’t common. Not out here.
He exhaled slowly, not from pain, but memory. Scratchy sheets. Fluorescent lights. The quiet beep of machines, the steady rhythm of nurses checking vitals. It felt like a lifetime ago, younger, weaker. So much time spent waiting for someone else to help him stand.
He glanced down at the wrap forming over his hand. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, and yet there was something soft in them. He hadn’t expected that. “…You’re good at this,” he said, quieter now. A touch of surprise in the words. Not flattery. Just an observation, maybe even respect.
“I’m grateful. For the care.” He looked her in the eye for a moment, letting the silence stretch, then nodded once.
“I’m fine,” he said at first, voice quiet but firm. A pause. He tracked her methodical hands as she slipped on the fresh gloves. Still, he didn’t pull back when she took his injured hand.
“Quillon Hawke,” he answered when prompted, glancing at her briefly. His gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary, adding almost as an afterthought. “Veilwarden of the Brotherhood of Ascension.”
He winced slightly as she began to clean the scrape, but made no sound. His voice remained even. “I didn’t hit my head. Just my ribs. Nothing cracked, probably just bruised.” The antiseptic stung, but what caught him off guard was the way she moved. Clean, efficient, but… gentle. She wasn’t just going through the motions. She cared. That wasn’t common. Not out here.
He exhaled slowly, not from pain, but memory. Scratchy sheets. Fluorescent lights. The quiet beep of machines, the steady rhythm of nurses checking vitals. It felt like a lifetime ago, younger, weaker. So much time spent waiting for someone else to help him stand.
He glanced down at the wrap forming over his hand. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, and yet there was something soft in them. He hadn’t expected that. “…You’re good at this,” he said, quieter now. A touch of surprise in the words. Not flattery. Just an observation, maybe even respect.
“I’m grateful. For the care.” He looked her in the eye for a moment, letting the silence stretch, then nodded once.
![[Image: Quillon-signature.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/07/Quillon-signature.jpg)