Altair resisted his efforts to undress, swatting at his limbs. For all that he struggled though, he might as well have been a sickly child. The swats were no more than slight nuisances that Diens brushed aside with ease. The sanguine cloth peeled it from Altair's body with almost a squelch, from the fresh fluid that saturated it and made it cling to the man's flesh. There was a pause to his step as he came to the end of what he could unravel, the rest of the cloth trapped underneath Altair's body as he laid down.<br/><br/>Normally he might urge his patient to sit so that he could unwind it with ease, but with the condition of the cloth he found it fruitless to keep it in one piece. A foul smell drifted from the linen, and only boiling water would banish the miasma — something that they did not have upon the ship. Igniting a fire for boiling water whilst upon a wooden vessel for the sake of a cloth was ill advised.<br/><br/>At his belt he had a dagger sheathed, and he pulled it from where it was tucked for his disposal. Lifting an edge of the cloth he sliced through it, rending a jagged split in wake of the blade's path. Now he tugged the cloth back like he would the bark of trees, to expose what treasure was hidden beneath. But where a tree might've given away to a pleasant earthy scent or a refreshing one of sap, Altair's cocoon gave way to the cloying scent of bloody iron.<br/><br/>Lines of mahogany striped the skin of his back, contrasted by the pale milk of what hadn't been rend open. The wounds leaked clear fluid, but no pus. Still it was a ghastly wound, that covered most of Altair's back. Diens counted no less than twelve lashes; it was difficult to tell, where some of the lashes overlapped in a single place. It was a miracle that Altair had survived a whipping as well as an extended stay in the sea's waters. Either alone Altair might, but together Diens had never thought possible.<br/><br/>"They certainly look like marks, though marks of pride I would not know," Diens answered. "Pride has certainly earned some lashes. I cannot say if that is the same for you... but I can say that it was unlikely there was anything you could do better. Pirates are fond of brutality, and little would steer a sadist away from a path where they could hurt someone."<br/><br/>The linens he discarded, tossing them to the floor where they would bother no one. They were dirty, and keeping them where they had been would've rushed Altair into a realm of infection. Altair did not resist as the linen came from underneath him, and he had gone silent. Again Diens touched his hand to the man's forehead, to gauge his fever; to his touch, it seemed warmer. Labored breath came from the slave's lips, and his eyes had been closed shut. The slave had fallen senseless to the world, though that was not a bad thing — better to lose consciousness than to remain conscious to agony.<br/><br/>The door creaked open, and in entered Snow. Once he was inside the room the door was promptly shut closed. The expression across his lord's face was blank, as he reached his hand over the exposed mess of flesh, hovering it a few inches over. Silent and unmoving Snow stood there, looming over Altair like a statue crafted out of marble. Then, he broke the quiet.<br/><br/>“A throbbing feeling radiates from his wounds… Is there anything you can do for him? Any concoction that you may create from what we have at hand, that may restore him to health?" Snow asked.<br/><br/>"You know as well as I the sort of concoction he needs. Whip lashes open for maggots to fester inside. All of the herbs and tinctures we have at hand, but the most important thing we..."<br/><br/>"Powder snow," Snow breathed. "I know the concoction as well as the back of my hand, but… we have no snow here. I had hoped that perhaps there was some other mixture that might help... at least one you could use far from Weiss. Is there no summertime alternative?"<br/><br/>"Even in desert lands, if they procure ice shaved down into fine flakes whenever they can. Otherwise, all that can be done is assuring that flies do not crawl into the exposed flesh and settle into the crevices."<br/><br/>"... I see..." Snow said. “Then there is nothing to be done but pray that he will make it.”<br/><br/>Diens agreed. No amount of altruism could replace that they were missing what they needed. Snow was snow and nothing else would suffice. What a poor soul. The gods have given you a terrible fate, to die at sea surrounded by strangers without comfort. If only we had snow, then you might survive to see the next sun. Then, he remembered. Something that he hadn’t thought of in a long, long while. But we do have Snow.<br/><br/>“... Snow,” Snow whispered softly. From the floor he retrieved the jug of fresh water that he had given to Altair to drink. The jug was considerably full, since Altair had little to drink before drifting back into unconsciousness. “Snow.” He stared at the fresh water crestfallen, like it were a foul memory.<br/><br/>Snow shook his head, breaking out of his stupor. He looked like he had been remembering the events that had happened long ago. “It’s been fourteen years since I last sung, Diens. The melodies have almost faded away.”<br/><br/>“So it’s been,” Diens affirmed. It had been many years ago that Snow had made a promise, a promise to never sing again. Snow had made it to his father, so that he might slumber in peace. “I remember that promise.”<br/><br/>“We do have snow, my lord,” Diens interjected. “Yours.”<br/><br/>The air of the room changed, and became cold. Most would attribute it to nature, but he knew where the cold truly came from. Diens turned around and met eyes with Snow. His eyes were forlorn. Like he had only just remembered that that was an answer as well.<br/><br/>“My snow?” Snow asked softly.<br/><br/>“Yes.”<br/><br/>The topic of snow was one of grief, when it had once been one of blessing. Snow was gifted with the ability to sing. At times there was an unearthly tone to his song, the type of tone that made one’s hairs bristle in trepidation. With that song came power, a power that long drifted back in the lineages of Weiss nobility and royalty.<br/><br/>It had been so many years ago that Lord Siennought died, to infection brought on by the fire that had consumed their hold. The maddening glare in the late Lord Siennought’s eyes when he had implored to his son to never again sing had remained in his memories all these years. But for all of the love that he bore for the late Lord Siennought, he could never love that promise.<br/><br/>“You remember what he said,” Snow mumbled, a wisp of speech that was hard to hear. “That my song would bring ruin to our house. That my song had willed the gods to make the fire in the kitchen swell into an inferno. You saw the fires that turned Igna’s End to ash. And all of those screams. Even today, I remember the smell. The smell of scorched flesh. That smell that burrows into your nose like a hare trying to sleep for the winter.”<br/><br/>“I remember it all. Only a handful of those in the hold survived,” Diens said. “Milchen and I were the only two to emerge barely scathed. You clung to life. And… the rest, burned fatally or rendered to ash.” There was more that happened, but he left those words unsaid. The tragedy that had befallen them was a secret that need not be aired when all those who knew could recall it clearly.<br/><br/>Perhaps it had been Snow’s song that had brought godly wrath down upon them. Diens didn’t know. No one knew. All anyone knew was that, that day, Igna’s End had burned down. The tale that had been told was that a flame had burst in the kitchen, and spread quickly. But Diens knew that was far from the truth. The truth was more than that, and even Snow didn’t know it.<br/><br/>Snow’s eyes turned from the water to Altair’s hair. There was a bittersweetness to his expression. “It’s strange, but his hair. It reminds me of mother’s…” Snow noted, drifting off at the end. “... If she were still alive, she would have urged me to sing. She had done that for me when I ailed. She would’ve done that for the children of servants too.”<br/><br/>“... The words of our house are ‘ties over all.’ That our people must come first before all. Because without our people, we would be nothing,” Snow recited. “Father would always tell me the words of our house. Everything for the good of our people. Even dying, if that sacrifice was needed.”<br/><br/>There was a shift in his expression. The sort of expression a man had when he was given a thankless task. “Fetch me some linen, Diens. But do not enter the room until I tell you,” Snow commanded abruptly. “I wish to be alone with Altair, so that I might nurse him with my own hands… I know the concoction better than even you.”<br/><br/>“As you wish,” Diens responded. With that, he left the room. He would go and find linen, and when he did he would return.<br/><br/>It took some time for him to find the linen in the ship’s hold. With many barrels, crates, and chests it was difficult to find exactly what one needed. All of the linen was tucked away neatly in a small chest, for if wounds were ever taken by any on board. The chest was near full with the cloth; a full chest meant that the crew of the ship had been met with fortune and managed to escape conflict.<br/><br/>He measured a length of it, judging it by eye to be the amount that Altair had come aboard with. When he had it lain neatly on the flat surface of the chest’s lid, he cut at it with his knife to take what he required. Then he folded the remainder cloth back into the chest, leaving it as it had been before.<br/><br/>As he approached the door to Snow’s room, he could hear a soft melody. It was that of an old Weiss lullaby, sung to children by the poor and rich alike. This time he shivered, but not because of the cold. The melody was beautiful and brought chills down his spine, but he could not hear the words; they were too faint to fall upon his ears. The cadence of Snow’s voice when he sung was one he hadn’t heard in a long time.<br/><br/>With a fist he knocked on the sturdy door. Inside the room Snow fell silent. “I’ve procured the linen, my lord. May I enter?” Diens asked.<br/><br/>“Yes.”<br/><br/>Diens pushed open the door. Snow loomed over Altair, with one hand holding onto the water jug and the other inside. The jug’s opening was wide enough that Snow could fit his entire hand through. “I’ve only just finished making the concoction,” Snow informed. “It’s been long since I’ve made it, but it should be good.” He set the jug down on the floor. “Now we must wrap him up in the linen.<br/><br/>Diens helped to steady Altair upright, as Snow began to wrap the linen around the slave’s torso. It was quick work, and soon Altair was back to lying down on his gut.<br/><br/>Snow picked up the jug from the floor, upturning it onto Altair’s covered back. Fine snow dyed brown with the essence of herbs fell from the jug. Once the jug was emptied, Snow set it aside and began to spread the snow all across the linen evenly, so that the entirety of Altair’s back would be covered.<br/><br/>“Icicles, Diens,” Snow suddenly said. “When he awakes, we will tell him that this concoction is made from icicles ground in a mortar and pestle.”<br/><br/>“If you wish, my lord,” Diens nodded. “Now all that needs to be done is more waiting.”<br/><br/>“Another thing, Diens.”<br/><br/>“Yes?”<br/><br/>“Never ask that of me again. Today will be the last time I break my promise.”<br/><br/>“If that’s what you desire, I promise.”