Stitches

“What do you mean there is no surgeon available?” Wim yelled at a workman.
“There is a garrison right up there. There has to be a surgeon assigned to it,” his tone was angry.

He pressed on the man’s bleeding leg.
“Get me a fine needle and fine thread, bees wax, some clean clothes, and a bottle of hard alcohol,” he yelled at a young lady that was watching.
“Now!” He said.

She returned with what he had asked for. Taking the cork of the bottle in his teeth he opened it, taking a swig and then giving the wounded lumberjack a large belt of it. Then poured some on the wound as an offering to any god that would aid him.

He quickly threaded the needle and told the lumberjack, “This is going to hurt.”
This was an understatement.

Then to three other men who had gathered, “Hold him so he can’t move his leg.”
He ran the thread through the wax a couple time so it would not tug in the wound.

Then he started. Through the skin into the muscle across the wound A little way up he pulled across then repeated the process. The man yelled and pulled but finally passed out from the pain. Sixteen more times he did this then wrapped the wound tightly with a clean cloth to protect it.

Wim had spent some studying medicine and had spent many hours practicing stitches on horse and cow cadavers. Mostly to spend time with a nurse he had his eye on. When it came to the memorizing work, he lost interest. That was shortly before his father shipped him off to here.

When he was done he said, “Take him to the garrison physician.”
Then added, “on a wagon.”

He couldn’t let the man bleed to death.

Wim returned to the task the Bremaster sent him on.