Sidony had spoken to many of the soldiers on the battlefield; all of them had been wary of what treatment might mean for them, what could happen as a result, their fears of the danger and the consequences of it. It doesn't come as a surprise to her that someone like this man might have the same fears - a soldier is a soldier only for as long as he can carry a weapon and hold himself in a fight. She has no experience of such fears herself, of course, as she is young and more intelligent than people credit her for, but she can understand the reticence.
She gives him a few moments as she puts her things away, makes sure her hands are clean and dry, makes sure that everything is put back in its proper place because that is what she must do. Her desk is tidy, her tools are clean and in the right place, and when she turns back to look at Marcoulf her expression is steady and gentle. There's no point causing him more uncertainty.
"No." She lifts her shoulders, casual and careful. "I do not think it would become impossible for me to treat in so short an amount of time. All you need do is come and tell me when you would like for it to be done."
As her back is turned, the soft clink of tools returning to their places, he studies the back of the hand with its new bandages. He hates the look if it. The purple under the forefinger and thumb's nail is the color of a ripe red plum.
Once the girl - and she is that, even if she is a healer - has turned back around, Marcoulf has already begun easing the wrapped hand back into its thick mitten.
"Then I'll call next month," he says, businesslike and curt. "What name should I refer to you by?"
There's a rather gentle urge to dismiss the mitten, to say something about it, but it's not her place to comment on what he does or does not do. Instead, she smooths down her skirts and watches him, waiting. She's never been very good at this part of the job, the part where she has to make idle conversation or say something gentle to make them feel better.
The truth is easier, she thinks. Let them know just how dangerous and painful their treatment might be, even if they might not like to hear it.
"Of course." A nod of her head. "Sidony Venaras, if you please."
Luckily, the man before her hardly seems to be looking for a kind word. Instead, he gives her a curt nod, punctuated by some slightly shift in the line of his shoulders. It's maybe the smallest bow ever imagined. "Ricart. I appreciate your time, Mademoiselle Venaras. I won't take any more of it."
And just like that, he draws the edge of his cloak forward over his shoulder and turns for the door. He's gone as abruptly as he'd appeared.
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no subject
She gives him a few moments as she puts her things away, makes sure her hands are clean and dry, makes sure that everything is put back in its proper place because that is what she must do. Her desk is tidy, her tools are clean and in the right place, and when she turns back to look at Marcoulf her expression is steady and gentle. There's no point causing him more uncertainty.
"No." She lifts her shoulders, casual and careful. "I do not think it would become impossible for me to treat in so short an amount of time. All you need do is come and tell me when you would like for it to be done."
no subject
Once the girl - and she is that, even if she is a healer - has turned back around, Marcoulf has already begun easing the wrapped hand back into its thick mitten.
"Then I'll call next month," he says, businesslike and curt. "What name should I refer to you by?"
no subject
The truth is easier, she thinks. Let them know just how dangerous and painful their treatment might be, even if they might not like to hear it.
"Of course." A nod of her head. "Sidony Venaras, if you please."
no subject
And just like that, he draws the edge of his cloak forward over his shoulder and turns for the door. He's gone as abruptly as he'd appeared.