Amid the fading twilight, the military camp's medical building emerged as a stark silhouette against the dimming sky. Apollyon, having just arrived outside the structure, couldn't help but notice the grim atmosphere that hung heavy in the air. The once orderly surroundings were now in chaos, with stretcher-bearers frantically rushing towards the building, each bearing the weight of wounded guards and Tiros. He could smell the familiar scent of blood wafting from the insides of the building.
The scene was a nightmarish tableau of pain and suffering. The injured personnel, their faces etched with agony and fear, bore the unmistakable signs of battle; some have resorted to eerie pained screams whilst some cried in distraught. Blood-soaked uniforms and armours clung to their bodies, and the harsh lighting within the medical facility cast eerie shadows across their contorted features.
He had noticed that some of the wounded had lost limbs, the wounds hastily bandaged to stem the bleeding. Others lay motionless on stretchers, their stillness betraying the gravity of their injuries. A sense of urgency pervaded the air as the medical personnel, Seraphina included, moved with practiced precision, assessing the wounded and making split-second decisions about their treatment.
Seraphina herself was at the forefront of the crisis, her face a mask of determination as she directed her medical team whilst simultaneously assigning the injured within the building. Apollyon could see the exhaustion in her eyes from a distance, but it didn't deter her; she was a beacon of calm amid the chaos, orchestrating the efforts to save lives.
As Apollyon stood on the outskirts of this medical storm, he couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation, he knew the task at hand was important, but he wasn't aware the degree of what he was about to step towards. The military camp, which had seemed like a bastion of strength and order just hours before, was now a place of pain and desperation. It was a stark reminder of the harsh realities of his new world, where battle and injury were never far away, and the thin line between life and death could be crossed in an instant.
As Apollyon moved closer to the medical building, he couldn't escape the chilling realization that some of those injured personnel were his fellow Tiros, individuals of similar ages who had embarked on the same journey as he had. His thoughts churned in the idea that he could be the one laying down on one of those stretchers or worse. This thought sent a shiver down his spine, and for a moment, fear threatened to paralyze him.
However, Apollyon knew that he couldn't succumb to his own apprehension. He had been summoned by Seraphina for a reason, and he couldn't afford to falter now. He steeled himself, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. With each step he took towards the medical building, he pushed his fear aside, determined to face the grim reality before him.
Inside the building, the chaos continued. Medical personnel bustled about, attending to the wounded with a sense of urgency. The sight of the injured and the sounds of their screams were a stark reminder of the brutality of their world.
Apollyon finally located Seraphina amidst the organized chaos. She was engrossed in her work, directing her team with precision. Approaching her respectfully, he waited for a brief break in her attention before announcing his presence, his voice steady despite the turmoil around them.
"Decurion," he said, "I've arrived as you requested. How may I assist?"
Seraphina's relief at Apollyon's arrival was palpable, even amidst the chaos of the medical building. She quickly acknowledged his presence and the urgent need for additional assistance. Her words were rushed but firm as she instructed him on his task.
"Apollyon," she said, her voice carrying an obvious sense of urgency, "We're short-staffed, and there's much to be done. Head to the east wing, where your fellow recruits are. Assess the injuries, provide basic care where you can, and assist the medics. We need every pair of hands we can get right now. I'll be in the west wing, tending to the more critical cases. Move quickly."
With that, Seraphina was already on the move, her medical expertise in high demand as she hurried to the side of those in dire need. Apollyon nodded in acknowledgment; his sense of purpose renewed. He made his way to the east wing, mentally preparing himself for what he might encounter among his injured comrades.
The east wing of the medical building was a nightmarish tableau of suffering. Rows of beds, once neatly arranged, now held the shattered remnants of fellow recruits. Their broken bodies bore witness to a merciless battle, and the room reeked of the iron tang of blood mixed with the acrid scent of urine and excrement that threatened to make his gastric juices erupt.
Injured Tiros, their faces twisted in pain, lay sprawled across the beds. Some were utterly still, their life force barely clinging to their battered forms. Others writhed in agony, their anguished cries adding to the eerie chorus of suffering that filled the room.
Wounds of every kind marred the recruits' bodies, evidence of a brutal encounter. Deep lacerations, gaping holes, and severed limbs painted a gruesome picture. The air was heavy with despair, and the atmosphere was suffocating, as if the weight of their collective pain pressed down on everyone present.
Amidst this grim tableau, a handful of overworked medical personnel moved with grim determination, their faces etched with exhaustion. Apollyon knew that he had entered a realm of agony and bloodshed, and he steeled himself for the daunting task that lay ahead.
Only a small number of medical personnel were present here, doing their best to attend to the injured. Apollyon knew that Seraphina's call for help was not an exaggeration; the situation was dire, and every pair of hands was needed, he noticed a nurse in particular.
Apollyon, feeling a mixture of determination and nervousness, approached this person. He cleared his throat to draw her attention and said, "Excuse me, I'm Apollyon, Decurion Seraphina's new apprentice; she asked me to help out here."
The senior nurse, her hands stained with the crimson evidence of her ceaseless work, glanced at Apollyon with a mix of skepticism and urgency. In the chaotic sea of injuries that surrounded her, she could afford no distractions.
Apollyon's announcement about being Seraphina's apprentice didn't seem to immediately sway the senior nurse, who continued suturing a particularly nasty wound. Her hands moved with practiced precision, but her gaze flicked toward Apollyon with skepticism.
"Seraphina's apprentice?" She raised a brow, sizing up the young recruit before her. "I don't recall hearing about that, but we're drowning here. What can you do?"
Apollyon, aware that his words needed to carry weight, responded with a tone of determination. "I have some experience with wound dressing and suturing. I can assist in closing wounds and applying dressings to minimize the bleeding. Just tell me where I can start."
However, as the gravity of the situation pressed upon them, the nurse sighed and set down her instruments for a moment. Her eyes met Apollyon's as she considered his offer. The wails of the injured recruits underscored the urgency of the situation, and she seemed to gamble in that brief pause.
The nurse studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, acknowledging the urgency of the situation. "Fine. We need all the help we can get. Grab a set of gloves and an apron from that cabinet over there. I'll show you what needs to be done."
"Understood."
Apollyon put on a pair of smooth leather gloves and an apron from a nearby cabinet before following the nurses' orders. She instructed him to carefully follow her instructions in suturing a fellow recruit with a gaping wound on his bare chest about a hand's width in scale. The recruit was practically begging him to stop the pain as he writhed against his restraints that bound him to the bed: "P-please…make..it sto-..p" he cried aloud whilst coughing up splotches of crimson liquid that mixed with his snotty tears.
Apollyon couldn't ignore the cries of pain that echoed through the room. The injured recruit's agony was palpable, and it prompted Apollyon's to gulp at the task at hand. He examined the gaping wound on the recruit's chest, taking in the gruesome sight.
The wound was jagged and deep, oozing blood. Apollyon's heart sank at the sight of it, but he knew he had to act swiftly and carefully. He listened intently as the senior nurse provided step-by-step instructions, her experienced hands demonstrating the suturing process.
With focused concentration, Apollyon threaded the needle, his hands trembling slightly with the gravity of the situation. The needle mimicked the modern-day instruments albeit less evolved and more crude in comparison as it looked rather unrefined. He also noticed that the threads they were using were different to the ones he was used to seeing back on earth, it was thicker, course and spindly.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and then began the painstaking process of suturing the wound. The recruit winced and cried out in increased pain as each stitch pulled the torn flesh together, but Apollyon worked as delicately as he could, hoping to minimize the suffering. Despite this, the recruit fainted as a response to the intolerable pain he was subjected to which inadvertently helped in closing the wound faster as the recruit stopped resisting their efforts.
The nurse deftly cleaned the wound and dressed it with a series of cloth wraps under the observation of Apollyon; her hands were swift and calculated prompting him to follow suite as a sense of urgency filled the air.
"Not bad", the nurse mentioned before beckoning him to follow; "next patient, move!" she ordered him.
The next patient they approached was in an even more dire condition. He lay unconscious on the bed, his breathing shallow and labored. His right foot was missing, and the stump of his leg was wrapped in a hastily applied bandage that was soaked through with blood. Blood had pooled onto the bed around the stump, and the multiple lacerations on the remaining part of his leg were a painful testament to the ordeal he had endured.
Apollyon's heart sank as he took in the sight. The young recruit's upper body was covered in odd, superficial wounds, as if he had been subjected to some form of brutal assault. The wounds were jagged and irregular most likely from slashes or stabs, and blood had crusted around them.
The senior nurse wasted no time, and with grim determination, she began to address the immediate issue which was the profusely bleeding stump. She instructed Apollyon on how to apply pressure to the wound while she worked on stabilizing the injured recruit. It was a gruesome task, but Apollyon did his best to follow the nurse's guidance, applying as much pressure as he could without causing further harm.
The injured recruit remained unconscious, and Apollyon couldn't help but wonder about the circumstances that had led to this horrific situation.
"No…he's losing too much blood", the nurse assessed the recruit in question, "we need to cauterize the stump" she continued, her tone was sombre as she turned to prepare a hot knife in a nearby furnace.
Apollyon's stomach churned as the nurse explained her plan to cauterize the wound. He understood the necessity of stopping the bleeding, but the grim reality of the situation weighed heavily on him. He had read about such procedures in textbooks and had seen them in medical dramas, but witnessing it firsthand was an entirely different experience.
With a heavy heart, Apollyon helped the nurse prepare for the cauterization. The recruit was still unconscious, blissfully unaware of the painful procedure that awaited him. The room felt suffocating, and the sounds of pain and suffering from the other patients added to the sense of dread.
The nurse's hands were steady as she heated the knife, her experience evident in her precise movements. She explained the process to Apollyon, emphasizing the importance of speed to minimize the recruit's suffering.
As the knife approached the wounded stump, Apollyon couldn't help but clench his fists, his knuckles turning white. He knew he had to steel himself for what was to come. And soon, the smell of burning flesh filled the room as the nurse swiftly applied the red-hot blade to the wound.
The recruit's unconscious body jerked in response causing him to wake up in surprise, a pained and guttural scream escaping his lips. Apollyon's heart dropped for the young man, but he forced himself to maintain his composure and assist the nurse throughout the agonizing procedure as he forced the recruit to remain still with both of his hands.
The cauterization had been a harrowing experience, but there was no time to dwell on it. Apollyon and the nurse quickly moved on to the next patient after dressing his other wounds, their senses dulled by the urgency of the situation. This other recruit had deep lacerations crisscrossing his torso revealing his white ribcage and exposing glimpses of his internal organs; his breathing was shallow and laborious.
Apollyon's hands were steady as he helped assess the wounds. The nurse's instructions were concise, and he followed them meticulously, cleaning and dressing each wound with care. Time seemed to blur as they worked together, their focus solely on the task at hand.
Amid the chaos and suffering of the medical bay, Apollyon couldn't help but feel a heavy, oppressive darkness settling over him. It was a feeling he had encountered before, a sense of despair that seemed to seep into his very soul. This depressing feeling gnawed at him as he as he continued to dress wounds.
His past hypocritical thoughts in not caring about healing others came back to haunt him. Subsequently, his current vivid situation clearly exploited and contrasted his ridiculous claims of non-chalence. He felt a profound sense of guilt that seemingly attacked his inner conscience.
The pitiable moans and cries of his fellow tiros echoed in his ears, a haunting symphony of pain that resonated with the darkness swirling deep within him. The stench of blood and other disgusting fluids filled diffused the air, clinging to his senses like a suffocating shroud. The dim, flickering lights overhead casting long, eerie shadows that danced across the faces of the wounded, contorting their expressions of agony into grotesque masks.
As he worked tirelessly alongside the nurse, each wound he dressed, each life he tried to save, they all weighed heavily on his shoulders. He couldn't escape this overwhelming sadness that threatened to consume him, the knowledge that these young men had been thrust into a world of violence and suffering, their dreams and aspirations shattered by the brutality of battles.
He knew that this outcome: their injuries, has directly destroyed these tiros chances of achieving greater things within the legion especially those recruits who have lost limbs. 'Let's not forget about the mental states of these injured recruits' he remarked thoughtfully, 'Whatever they have encountered outside of these walls must have scarred them for life' he added as he observed the surrounding tiros who were crying openly; some had even shouted for their mothers embrace.
It was obvious to him that they were developing symptoms of PTSD, a disorder that he was very familiar with back on Earth. He was acutely aware that such disorders were predominant in specific occupations especially in the military thus he wasn't entirely surprised to see such behaviour from the tiros around him. Perhaps he knew at the back of his mind that he too was emitting similar symptoms.
But even in the depths of this despair, Apollyon clung to a sliver of hope. It was the knowledge that he had a purpose here, a duty to ease their suffering, to mend their broken bodies as best he could. It was the only thing that kept him going, the only thing that pushed back against the darkness threatening to engulf him.
However, this sliver of hope was but a fleeting thought when Apollyon encountered his new patient. In the dimly lit corner of the medical bay, Apollyon and the nurse approached a recruit who lay disturbingly still as if he were simply slumbering after a long day's work. But the reality was far harsher.
Both of the recruit's arms had been cruelly severed, leaving nothing but raw, bandaged stumps in their place that served as cruel reminders of what once was. His uniform was soaked in blood, and a massive, gaping wound stretched across his torso revealing a cracked ribcage which exposed a bloody mess. Cloth wraps were strewn across his torso in an effort to contain his innards, but it was no use.
As they approached closer, ready to assess the situation, another nurse's voice cut through the air like a chilling wind. "Don't bother with that one," she said, her voice heavy with resignation.
..
"He's already dead."
..
A heavy silence descended upon the room, suffocating in its finality. The truth hung in the air, choking off any remaining flicker of hope. Apollyon's heart sank deeper as he looked down at the lifeless shell before him. The recruit appeared almost peaceful in his slumber, as if oblivious to the grim reality of his fate. Perhaps it was because of the tiros small stature but Apollyon's aged soul couldn't help but feel momentarily disheartened at that very moment.
The nurse's words echoed in his mind; Apollyon couldn't help but feel a profound sense of sorrow. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the lifeless form before him, his hands, gloved and trembling, hovered over the recruit's lifeless body, as if searching for a way to defy the inevitable. But there was nothing to be done.
In the face of such despair, Apollyon's sliver of hope seemed dimmer than ever, but he knew that he could not let it extinguish completely, his inner thoughts forced him to seek hope. 'I can't afford to let this darkness consume me. I can't let despair paralyze me. There are others still fighting for their lives, still holding on to a thread of hope.'
Apollyon turned away from the lifeless recruit, his eyes now focused on the wounded soldiers who still had a chance, no matter how slim. He knew that the road ahead would be grueling, but he was determined to walk it, one step at a time, in the service of those who needed him most.
…
Amidst the dimly lit, blood-soaked medical wing, Apollyon's wearied body finally found its way to the cold, unforgiving ground. His fatigue ran deeper than just physical exhaustion; it was the soul-wearying weight of a world at war, a world where lives were shattered in an instant.
His mind swirled with the haunting images of those wounded recruits, each face etched with pain and fear. It was a tableau of suffering that seared itself into his memory, a stark reminder of the brutality of conflict. But even in this desolation, a feeble ember of hope flickered within him, struggling to defy the overwhelming darkness. A multitude of thoughts swirled inside his mental space as he tried to convince himself.
'Did I really make a difference today? Did my efforts matter in the grand scheme of things, or am I just a small, insignificant cog in this machine of brutality? I tried my best, but is it enough? Can it ever be enough in a world where destruction and despair seem to reign supreme? I saved people today. Perhaps not all, but some. And if I can keep even one soul from being consumed by this endless night, then surely, I've made a difference….right?'
As Apollyon closed his eyes, exhaustion overcame him, and the haunting images began to fade, if only for a moment. In the grim reality of the military camp, he clung to the idea that even the smallest light could push back the darkest of nights.