OOM: Treating Sinric's ankle

[cook_the_rude]

 Hannibal's office is dimmer today, the windows largely covered by dark grey blackout blinds to keep out the summer sun, while two lamps, one by the couch, the other stooped over the drawing table, provide islands in the soft gloom.

The prints on the wall, still mostly Istanbul, and harem scenes, have now been joined by a series from the 18th century depicting Farinelli in different operatic costumes that all have ridiculously huge and long plumes on the helmet or hats in common.

Hannibal puts down the exhausted Sinric on the couch and then fetches his medical bag from the closed bottom part of the book case.

Comments

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric nods and goes where the doctor directs him, careful of his ankle thought the hot water has taken some of the ache from it.

His eyes are already heavy and he moves with an exhausted sluggishness. He touches the doctor's shoulder lightly as gel is spread on his bruises, carelessness muttering his thanks in Greek.

[cook_the_rude]

The doctor puts the gel aside and opens his arm to Sinric.

"Lie on your side beside the covers," he says, "so the gel gets to dry; I'll cover you up if you fall asleep."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric goes to him gladly, like a tired child. But the view as he stretches out on the bed is anything but child-like.

From behind, half turned, he is a vision of androgynous beauty. His small, heart-shaped buttocks, the sweep of his back, the fall of his golden hair in its long braid swept over his neck. He should have been a grecian muse or a renaissance model rather than a Byzantine slave.

He's sleep almost at once.

[cook_the_rude]

He'll wake up in the morning, safely covered and held in Hannibal's arms, comfortable against his chest.

[thewidewideworld]

It is a relief to wake in the arms of someone he trusts but he wakes knowing what he must do. He slips as silently out of bed as he can, gathering his clothes and seeking the means of leaving a note.

[cook_the_rude]

There are paper and pens on the desk.

[thewidewideworld]

He leaves the note in English, his handwriting ornate and careful.

Forgive me, sir. I must seek Earl Ragnar and tell him what has befallen his steward.

Your care of me is beyond measures and my thanks poor but you have my gratitude everlasting.