quiet houses, lit up by candlelight
In Zukai Nashira had taken him to the bellies of the low streets to see the kind of healthcare afforded there. The doctors were uneducated, the tools unsterile, and countless lives were lost to sepsis and infection, foul water, and improper nutrition. Atlas-- Azimal, he thinks, but then, no. Once upon a time, he did good things. He should be allowed to take credit for those, even though he never would have done it without Nashira. She should get all the credit, for everything.
In any case, Atlas had helped teach them about using heat and light to sterilize equipment. Together he and Nashira had developed a system for purifying the lower town’s putrid drinking water. He had learned and been a healer, once, so his first instinct in the hospital was to throw himself into the bustle, absorb what he could, and help out where applicable. But someone with more important things to do bodies him aside and he realizes perhaps now is not the time.
“If only I could stay and learn more,” Atlas said, looking behind him over his shoulder as Mephisto led them back the way they came, “I’m sure I could be of use. I mean, it looked like they needed help back there, right?” His heart twisted when he thought of the emaciated and impoverished, and remembered his part in it, and wanted to whither and die.
“It is nice to meet you as well, Mephisto, Warden of the Dusk Court,” he said, trying to put meaning in it and trying to step out of the cloud of self-loathing he had begun to cultivate around himself. Much to his dismay, her questions aimed to pivot him right back to where he was trying to escape. “Ah, not so many places, as the stars above them. I came from a land far, far to the south, beyond the Terminus Sea.” His face became rigid, his voice somber. “It was a terrible place. The only god there was the coin, and it bought only by blood.”
He thought of Nathely less than Nashira. Perhaps because he had hope Nashira still lived. He had buried Nathely’s desiccated corpse in the rolling sands, why not his memories of him, too?
"You seem well traveled," Atlas said, broaching another topic for the sake of his sanity. "Have you seen all of Novus? For work or for pleasure?"
In any case, Atlas had helped teach them about using heat and light to sterilize equipment. Together he and Nashira had developed a system for purifying the lower town’s putrid drinking water. He had learned and been a healer, once, so his first instinct in the hospital was to throw himself into the bustle, absorb what he could, and help out where applicable. But someone with more important things to do bodies him aside and he realizes perhaps now is not the time.
“If only I could stay and learn more,” Atlas said, looking behind him over his shoulder as Mephisto led them back the way they came, “I’m sure I could be of use. I mean, it looked like they needed help back there, right?” His heart twisted when he thought of the emaciated and impoverished, and remembered his part in it, and wanted to whither and die.
“It is nice to meet you as well, Mephisto, Warden of the Dusk Court,” he said, trying to put meaning in it and trying to step out of the cloud of self-loathing he had begun to cultivate around himself. Much to his dismay, her questions aimed to pivot him right back to where he was trying to escape. “Ah, not so many places, as the stars above them. I came from a land far, far to the south, beyond the Terminus Sea.” His face became rigid, his voice somber. “It was a terrible place. The only god there was the coin, and it bought only by blood.”
He thought of Nathely less than Nashira. Perhaps because he had hope Nashira still lived. He had buried Nathely’s desiccated corpse in the rolling sands, why not his memories of him, too?
"You seem well traveled," Atlas said, broaching another topic for the sake of his sanity. "Have you seen all of Novus? For work or for pleasure?"
@MEPHISTO |
