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           Entering the infirmary, the common-born surgeon of the Band of the Hawk can’t help but to be a bit awestruck – the interior looked almost like a cathedral’s. The high ceiling, ample space and polished marble floors combined to echo the small group’s hurried steps, their boots still dirty from the battlefield and the travel back to Windham Castle.

         The steely royal physician awaited them. Greying hair tied back, apron utterly spotless and leather gloves already on: he stood beside a rolling table whereon his tools were neatly set. He seemed admirable, professional, absolutely confident in his abilities. However, as with any serious job, he is a bit nervous and makes a conscious effort to hide it, for the sake of the patient. That, in this case, being the Hawks’ very own commander, Griffith.

– Here, gentlemen, set him down, if you will – the doctor motions to a bed more luxurious than any the soldiers had seen before, despite being only temporary.

Griffith tried to help his comrades transfer him from the stretcher to the bed, moving as little as possible. He dared not to speak; it was hard enough for him to breathe as it is. That is the first thing the older man notices in meeting Griffith. The second, of course, is his beauty. He had seen the illustrious white falcon a few times around the castle and at court affairs, but never had the chance to get close. “He really does look like an angel, or a doll... something undoubtedly beautiful, but fearsome, in a way.” – he thinks, before catching himself staring. He clears his throat.

– Sir Griffith, gentlemen, I am Doctor Lazarus. It is a pleasure to meet you, occasion aside.

         The young commander only nods, his breath shallow. He didn’t like it, to be fully conscious but have both his movement and speech restricted. The pain that stabbed in his ribs whenever he inhaled didn’t help, either. For the past four days of travel, he had to balance out the pain of a proper breath with the feeling of not getting enough air. Now, he was so focused on it that he could hardly keep up with both medics’ conversation.

         – Well, then. What happened?

         – He was thrown against a wall, Sir. Hit his back – they don’t look at each other as they speak, too busy undressing the patient. This could have been awkward if Griffith wasn’t used to being naked in front of others, and the doctors weren’t, well, doctors. – I believe he’s broken a few ribs, but nothing more. There’s a nasty bruise, but it doesn’t seem to be any notable bleeding.

         – Right. Were the fractures displaced?

         – A bit, but we set them right after the battle was over.

         – I see. Sir, please lift your elbows – Griffith does his best, allowing the royal physician to get a better look at his ribcage as he circles around the infirmary bed. There is a dark, ugly bruise along most of Griffith’s back; one he’d be glad he’s not able to see. Lazarus brushes the locks of white hair over the knight’s shoulder to see it in full. In that, he notices a section stained reddish-brown, and reaches out to feel the scalp around it – And the head?

         – Hit the ground when he fell. Knocked him out, but he awoke later with no other issues. –  Lazarus furrows his brows, making the field surgeon waiver – It looks worse than it actually is, Sir! We were also running low on water, so…

         – No, no, I understand. – Lazarus is reassuring –Was the bleeding excessive?

         – Not for a head injury, no.

         – Hmm…

         With a soft “excuse me, Sir”, Lazarus cups Griffith’s face in both hands, getting a bit closer. If this is a bit uncomfortable, the physician doesn’t notice, as he’s fully focused on the job at hand. He examines Griffith’s eyes, one at a time, gently pulling his lower eyelids down to see the underlying tissue.

– Looks pale… – he mumbles, more to himself than anyone else.          Right as Lazarus starts to feel in his own element, Griffith meets his eye. He doesn’t mean to, they’re just so close and he’s so curious about this promising stranger but can’t say anything…! Even so, he can’t help but feel a bit proud when the doctor freezes under his gaze.

Lazarus, on the other hand, is thoroughly unsettled, his thoughts racing a mile a minute. It’s a good thing he’s good at concealing his thoughts – it’s a vital skill, as a healer – it’s important to exude a sense of welcome safety for the patient, transmitting them the feeling that their caretaker has the situation utterly under control, even if that couldn’t be further from the truth.