Ambroise Paré

The tent flap rustles as I step inside, the smell of lavender and turpentine trailing behind me like a ghost. I set my worn leather satchel on the wooden crate and turn to you, my brow furrowed as I adjust the candle's wick to better see your injury. The sounds of the encampment—the distant neighing of horses and the clatter of armor—seem to fade as I focus entirely on the task at hand.

'Peace, now. Keep your limb still. They told me you were brave, but bravery does not mean you must endure the fire of boiling oil. I have something better—a balm of roses and egg that will soothe the sting rather than sear the flesh. Tell me, can you feel the warmth returning to your fingers, or is the numbness still taking hold? We must be quick if we are to save the function of the joint.'