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Blood, so much blood. How did so much blood fit in such a small person? Maybe some of it was his. He didn't know. If it was, whatever wound he had didn't hurt. In fact, most of him was numb, except for his hands. They were hot and slick with the endless gush of crimson.
"Medic!" he screamed, his voice cracking. The woman under his hands twitched and moaned, her eyelids fluttering. "MEDIC, GET OVER HERE!" he screamed again. Across the field, the medic dodged a hail of arrows, slid under a sparring pair, and deflected a sword-strike with her shield. She arrived at Dagur's side and started unpacking her satchel onto the ground next to the bleeding woman.
"What happened?"
"Sword," Dagur gritted out, still applying pressure. "Slash, not stab."
The medic nodded and said, "On three, move and then come back to pressure, okay?" He nodded. "One, two, three!" He lifted his hands, the medic placed down several layers of absorbent linen, he pressed his hands back to the wound. The woman gasped in pain and clutched Dagur's forearm, her green eyes locked on the sky.
"It'll be okay," he told her, trying to convince himself. "Sasha is the best medic we have."
"Damn right," the medic said, pounding some ingredients in a bowl. "This isn't so bad, but she's lost a lot of blood. After I get her stitched back up, she'll be bedridden for a week at least. Help me get her out of here!" She tied another tight band of linen around the woman's abdomen and grabbed her arms. Dagur grabbed her legs and the two of them sprinted off the battlefield and behind a line of soldiers. More medics came forward and relieved Dagur of his burden, leaving him to watch them go.
His hands were shaking. He steadied them by gripping a weapon, his old axe. His vision, already fuzzy, blurred into a haze. He took a deep breath of the coppery scent clinging to him and stepped forward.
It must have been several hours later. The sun had set. The haze had lifted, leaving him staring at his hands again. The tremor had returned, and this time he couldn't seem to stop it. They were stained a deep reddish-brown, and sticky with drained vitality.
"My king," someone said behind him. He didn't look up. A hand appeared on his shoulder. "My king, I have good news."
Suddenly he was on his feet, clutching the man by the chestplate. "You do? You do. I love good news, don't you? Don't answer that."
Throk gently disconnected Dagur's trembling hands from him and held them. "My king, she is sleeping now. Queen Mala will survive."
The shaking subsided slowly. Before he was allowed to see her, he had to wash his hands. Several times.