The tools were crude, the environment far from sterile, and the weight of the task at hand pressed heavily on my shoulders. But there was no time to dwell on uncertainties or mistakes—I had to act. The girl's life depended on it.
I cleaned the scalpel and the needle with the alcohol the old woman had provided. My hands trembled slightly as I held the tools over a small flame from the oil lamp nearby. The alcohol wasn't pure, and the flame wasn't exactly a sterilization chamber, but it was the best I could manage.
The girl flinched again, her body jerking weakly. She was losing strength.
I spoke softly to her, my voice wrapped in the lilting, uneven cadence of my strange tongue—something brittle and foreign, a mix of sharp syllables and broken melody. It came out odd and warped to my own ear, as though it belonged to a language buried far from here.
"This will hurt, but it's to save your life. I need you to be brave."
Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze glassy, and she tried to make sense of my words, lips trembling as though attempting to grasp meaning from the strange sounds. Confusion clouded her gaze, and I could see she struggled.
Before I could speak again, the old woman stepped closer. Her voice, steady and calm, cut through my disjointed phrasing like a bridge. She placed a hand on the girl's brow and translated, her tone smooth and deliberate.
"She means this will hurt, but it is necessary to save you. She needs you to be strong, little one."
The girl's features softened slightly, as though the words in her own language made the message clearer. I looked at the old woman briefly, grateful for her understanding.
I soaked a piece of cloth in the alcohol and gently dabbed at the wound, cleaning away the blood and any dirt that had clung to it. Her body twitched with every touch, and the sound of her whimpering clawed at my resolve.
I need more light," I barked, my voice sharp and rough, coated in that strange, lilted accent that twisted my words into something foreign and jagged. I glanced at the bystanders, who remained rooted in place, exchanging confused glances as though they couldn't make sense of my words.
They hovered uselessly in the background, unsure of what I meant. Before I could repeat myself, the old woman stepped forward, her gaze piercing as she looked between me and them.
"She needs more light," she said, her voice smooth and deliberate, translating my words into their familiar sounds. "Bring another lamp."
The bystanders looked at her, comprehension blooming in their expressions as they understood her translation. One of them scrambled quickly, returning with another oil lamp and placing it close enough for me to see without harsh shadows obscuring the wound. The old woman stayed close, her expression unreadable, her eyes fixed on me as though trying to piece apart the oddness of my voice.
"You've done this before," she said, not as a question but as a statement.
I didn't answer, my focus entirely on the task at hand. She was right, in a way. I had studied the human body extensively during the Time Travel Machine project, but I had never applied that knowledge in such primitive conditions. This was entirely new.
I threaded the needle carefully, my fingers steady despite the turmoil in my chest. The thread wasn't ideal—rough and uneven—but it would have to do. I glanced at the girl's pale face and felt a pang of guilt. I couldn't give her anesthetics to dull the pain, only the alcohol and perhaps a prayer that she'd stay unconscious long enough.
"Hold her down," I instructed, my voice firm and sharp, carrying that same foreign cadence that hung like a strange, fractured melody in the air. The bystanders hesitated, glancing at each other with uncertain expressions, their faces bewildered by my words.
The old woman stepped forward again, her gaze steady as she spoke, her voice clear and calming.
"Hold her still," she translated smoothly, her words cutting through the confusion. "Pin her arms and legs so she won't move."
Two of the men exchanged another glance before stepping forward, their hands hesitant but firm. They knelt by her sides and gently but deliberately pinned her arms and legs to the ground, their grip steady enough to keep her from thrashing but careful not to hurt her further. The girl's eyes were wide, and her breathing came in short, panicked gasps, but they held her still, as I had commanded.
I took a deep breath and pressed the scalpel lightly to the edges of the wound, trimming away the jagged bits of torn flesh to create a clean edge for stitching. The girl's body convulsed slightly, but the men held her steady. Blood welled up again, but I quickly dabbed it away with the cloth, keeping the area as clean as possible.
The stitching itself was a delicate process. I started at one end of the wound, carefully pushing the needle through her skin. The first puncture drew a sharp cry from the girl, and I hesitated, my heart clenching.
"Steady," the old woman said quietly, her voice unexpectedly soothing. "You're doing what needs to be done."
I nodded, swallowing hard, and continued.
The thread pulled through the wound, binding the two edges of skin together. I worked slowly, methodically, making small, even stitches to minimize scarring and ensure the wound would close properly. Every time I pierced her skin, the girl flinched or whimpered, but I pressed on.
As I worked, I explained each step aloud, more to center myself than anything. "I'm using a simple interrupted stitch," I muttered. "One loop, one knot. This way, if one stitch fails, the others will hold."
The old woman tilted her head, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Interesting method. Not one I've seen before."
"It's... different," I admitted, pausing to tie off another knot. "It ensures the wound stays closed, even under strain."
"Ah," she murmured, but said nothing more.
The crowd watched in tense silence as I continued. The wound was deep, and the work was painstakingly slow. My fingers ached from the precise movements, but I couldn't afford to rush. Each stitch had to be perfect, or the wound could reopen.
I occasionally cleaned the area with more alcohol, wincing as the girl's cries grew louder with the sting. It was cruel, but necessary. Infection was the greatest enemy now, and I couldn't take any chances.
Finally, after what felt like hours, I tied off the last stitch and sat back, my shoulders slumping with exhaustion. The wound was closed, the thread pulling the edges of her skin together in a neat, albeit crude, line.
I wrapped the area with the remaining clean cloth, tying it snugly to protect the stitches and prevent further bleeding. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do.
The girl's breathing had slowed, her body limp from exhaustion and pain. She was still pale, but alive. That was all that mattered.
I wiped my hands on a spare piece of cloth, my fingers stained with blood. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the reality of what I'd just done began to sink in.
"You saved her life," the old woman said quietly, stepping closer. Her tone was even, but there was a strange edge to it, almost like approval.
"For now," I replied, my voice hollow, the words wrapped in that odd, fractured lilt that made them sound alien and distant. "The stitches will hold, but she's not out of danger yet. We need to keep the wound clean, change the bandages regularly. And she'll need rest. Plenty of it."
The bystanders exchanged confused glances, struggling to make sense of my words. My strange way of speaking was a tangled mess to their ears, the syllables too far removed from anything familiar.
The old woman stepped closer, her gaze steady as she met their uncertain stares. Her voice was smooth, deliberate, and reassuring as she translated for the group.
"She means the girl must rest and be kept safe. See to it that she is protected and allowed time to recover."
The bystanders hesitated, unsure of how to respond, but they obeyed the old woman's quiet command. They began gathering to lift the girl, preparing to carry her toward a nearby room, their expressions wary but compliant.
As the crowd dispersed, the old woman remained, her piercing eyes fixed on me.
"You're not from here," she said finally, her voice low.
I stiffened, my heart skipping a beat. "What makes you say that?"
She smiled faintly, a knowing look in her eyes. "Your methods. Your tools. Even your accent. You're different. And I suspect there's more to you than you're letting on."
I didn't respond, my mind racing. How much did she know? How much had she guessed?
"Don't worry," she said, her tone softening. "Your secrets are safe with me. For now."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the dimly lit room.
I sat there for a moment, staring at my bloodstained hands. The girl was alive, but at what cost? I had drawn attention to myself, revealed skills that didn't belong in this time.
But I couldn't regret it. If I hadn't stepped in, she would have died.
I clenched my fists, determination hardening in my chest. No matter what challenges lay ahead, I wouldn't let fear hold me back. Not in this time.