dead before the day is done

A quiet life. That is what Nicodemus Vanadium lived; biding his time through life one day at a time, one class after another. It was simple, and yet it was vacant. While he dived into his studies, his nose always in a book or ruminating over the newest exam, lab or experiment, Nico had an overwhelming sense of... displeasure. Annoyance was often a mask he wore, his patience thin with his less than apt colleagues, and it wasn't long before even the tests didn't stimulate him enough to want to stay here. He had spent much of his first year, ever since he could comprehend reading or simply watching, studying the art of health and healing through his mother and grandmother. Herbs were a second language to him now, with their properties memorized to an eidetic memory.

He was supposed to be studying today, but his eyes were weary. He was sick of being inside, and he knew eventually summer would become autumn, which would become winter. Distaste flavoured his tongue as he stepped out from the campus doors, inhaling a breath of fresh summer air - though it wasn't enough to birth a smile upon his face. At least, not yet.

There was commotion, though. The yells of men drifted through the air, and Nicodemus was ever a curious fellow. Small ivory paws carried him to the fountain lounge area, and what he found there was nothing he could have ever imagined.

Laying there, in a pool of blood, was a man.

Wide blue eyes stared as he froze for a moment. No one else was approaching him, and he could see a trail of blood droplets and paw steps that ran in the opposite direction. Slowly, he hesitantly approached, his metallic crown lowering as he sniffed at the body. Was it even alive? As he got closer, the true gruesome scene was clear to him.

This man had been robbed of his eye.

His stomach roiled; the sight of such gore nearly causing him to lose his contents on the spot. But he swallowed - forcefully - telling himself that this would pale in comparison to what he'd be subjected to as he aged. Ever quiet as a mouse, he stepped closer until he could hover a paw before the mans mouth.

Breath tickled the sensitive skin upon his palm, and he winced. Blood poured from the wound - among others across his body - and he knew that he'd need medical attention very quickly. But he was so much bigger than him... So he ran back to the School, scrambling as he made arrangements with others, talked with a professor or three on what he should do. Ultimately, the decision was made - the man would become a patient of sorts, a practicum if you will, to explore Nicodemus's talents. Upon agreement, they carted the man off into a closed off section of the school, and gave Nicodemus a key to the door.

...

Situated upon a relatively comfortable stretcher, Nicodemus stared at the sandy man before him. With an audible gulp, he tried to calm his frantically beating heart before he reached over to the bench beside him, grabbing a fistful of cobwebs and moss that was peppered with pain medications and stuffed it into the socket with the missing eye. Using large leaves and a pasty type of glue, he placed that over the wound. He inspected the rest of his body, and after a while of meticulous inspection and preparation of the injuries, he was all patched up - for now.

Nicodemus leaned back, sweat beading upon his steel crown as his white paws were stained with blood that wasn't his.

And he waited. Even if it took hours, he would be here with fresh water for when the anonymous man woke up.

manip + code: clae

It felt right, to give up. He had no reason to go on, not when he had seen no point to any of it. He was the same, he had always been the same, shallow, soulless monster, and what had been exacted upon him, he had deserved in full. Funny… how it all happened. One moment, he lived his life in a wallowing emptiness that repeated day after day. And then, divine justice was exacted upon him, taking away the life he had forfeited. Was it even truly Bastien who had done it to him? After all, he had always been about his principles and reasons, his justifications and excuses… but Bastien needed no words to convey his message. Because, as Savard had perhaps realized, the message that was sent was not of Bastien’s mind, for it needed no words. It came from an older, and higher, power. And it so happened that the agent, the instrument, of said message, was a most unsavory messenger angel. This was the fate that he had been owed, for all he had done, and all he had failed to do. A light greeted Savard, then, a bright, brilliant light. For a moment, he felt it to be the long road that all wolves must walk, at their appointed time. But instead of a path, the wolf’s vision slowly came into focus to a den, a rather tidy one at that. Various unpleasant scents mixed together in his nose as he took them in, and he could only wonder whether they belonged to what remained of him, or of the room he lay in. And then there was the pain, a radiating, piercing pain that stirred him to his senses, as his nerves came alive once more. But he was still too weak to react, laying limply on the cot that had been provided for him, motionless, save for his breathing.He could smell his own blood, catch the sight of leaves soaked in ferrous browns and crimson reds. He didn’t expect the next world to have have so much need for fancy potions and medicines. As his eye swiveled the room ever so slowly, the aged wolf suddenly got the feeling that he wasn’t alone. He saw a white shape, with piercing blue eyes, sitting there, watching him. A young wolf, well-groomed, eagle-eyed, next to whom was a bucket with some sort of liquid in it. It didn’t matter all that much… but to know that this wolf hardly looked the part of a shade or spirit was all he needed to confirm something about himself. He, unfortunately, was alive, and every single moment he could recall rushed backed to him, like a silent storm surge. He seemed worried, yet attentive, the way his icy blue eyes were honed on him. He couldn’t even lift his head all that much to get a better look, Savard’s one good eye doing most of the world as it trailed to the strange youth watching over him. “Water,” came a whispered hush from the wounded giant.

everything he touched fell apart

code // art

Hours passed. Nicodemus paid no mind to the passage of time, instead his focus was entirely on his patient; waiting for something, anything, to show he was still alive. To show that his juvenile patchwork didn't actually kill him instead. Dutifully, every hour, he changed the bandage, and every second time he did, he re-administered the poultice into the socket as well. It was quite a few of these changes that the bleeding finally began to slow, the mans blood clotting the open, gaping wound.

But this was just the beginning. Nico couldn't even begin to imagine what it would be like to have to relearn how to see. Instead, he simply hoped that the wolf didn't wake up in a rage, or thinking he was still in the middle of a fight.

Movement.

Slowly, the man looked around with his one eye. Slowly, he regained his consciousness. Nicodemus only watched in silence, garnering the mans reaction before he would speak. He'd be beaten to the punch however as the single eye spotted the bucket beside him.

"Water." he rasped, tongue sticking to the dry flesh within his mouth. Nicodemus obliged, standing and bringing a small cup of water to his parched lips; tipping it carefully so that the sandy wolf didn't have to strain himself too much. Once he was sated, he returned the cup to the basin before turning to look at the patient again.

"I found you... earlier," he began, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "so I brought you back to the school. I've done my best with your... uhm, eye." bedside manner was proving not to be Nicodemus's strong suit. So he fell silent, unsure of what to say to him now.

manip + code: clae

The comfort that the water brought was surreal, refreshing, a reward that, as he swallowed, felt he didn’t deserve. It cleared away that dryness in his throat, but not in his soul. No, that was something that he was only now beginning to be reminded of, stirring awake, and cognizant of his own actions. Not to mention, a young attending wolf looking over him, tending to him as if he were a prized pet of some kind. He spoke quietly, softly, explaining to Savard he had found him, and carried him all this way. The university? That was… in Inverness, wasn’t it? Where had he been attacked? He didn’t remember, he didn’t care. He was tired, weary, but he couldn’t bring himself to shut his eyes. His eye. It was almost like a bad dream in a way… but he was starting to remember what had happened. How it felt. How it sounded. It was a reminder of something he didn’t want to be reminded of. Because it forced him to consider how he felt. What did he feel about it? Rage, guilt, he didn’t know. And he didn’t want to know. Savard wanted to thank the wolf for saving his life, for doing something kind, unprompted. And yet, thank you’s are courtesies reserved for wolves who had done a good thing. Saving his life didn’t feel that way, not when he had made peace that he was beyond saving. He was here, still, and had not one good deed to show for his life. He had made that clear, just as he had made how little regard he had for any wolven life, the night before. Any other wolf might have been thankful or appreciative for the second chance they had been given, but as he stared at the flat-looking wolf before him, his one good eye hazy, shapes and colors appearing so much blander and so less lifeless, he could not do so. He felt there was little need to lie, to not be truthful in the things he said, even though the truth would have made this far more simpler. There was only one word he had to say, in a raspy, strengthless voice. “Why?” Whether it was in reference for why this had happened to him, or why he had been saved, was for the medic to decide.

everything he touched fell apart

code // art