It was pure luck that Gunnar had taken a shine to her, according to him because of her "magic." She wasn't going to get that chance again, but she could at least make herself useful.
Once the wound was cleaned out with the alcohol… she looked closer. It wasn't to the point of going to rot, yet, thankfully for him. She spread the bundle of herbs out in front of her. There weren't nearly enough to tend to the entire band with what she had, but she could at least work on this one boy.
The tools she would have ordinarily used were a hundred miles away, tucked into their individual shelves in her hidden little cottage. She would have to make do without them, or else trust in the Gods to heal the man where she hadn't even bothered to try. Deirdre knew better than that.
She took a deep breath, then set about trying to crush the herbs against the wooden base of the wagon, using the half-full alcohol bottle as a grinding stone, until she had a finely-shredded and mangled pile of herbs.
Then she tore a bit of his shirt away, packed the herbs into the wound, and tied it shut. Without a needle and thread to close the wound herself, it would have to do.
As she continued working, though, it became clearer and clearer that she was horrendously ill-equipped to do any of this. She might be able to convince someone to find tools during a raid, but who on earth would listen to her long enough, or humor her?
Perhaps Valdemar, if he really recognized the value of medicine, but how would he know what to get even if she told him? He would get the wrong things, no doubt.
The idea of running away and escaping by herself was looking better and better, but there wasn't any chance of that happening.
Not for the first time she cursed herself not having been born a man. She would have been able to fight, would have been able to escape if she was captured. Sure, there was a good chance she would have been killed to start.
But strength, speed, stealth—she had none, and they were exactly what she would need if she wanted to rely on anything more than chance to survive. Three things she needed, and she had none of them. None of the men in the wagon had them, either, and they lacked the courage to use them if they had it.
She turned to face a sudden commotion outside the wagon, and then someone she didn't recognize peeked in, then held the flap open for two others, carrying Gunnar's mostly-limp body. They laid him down on the floor with the other injured.
Unlike the other two, though, Deirdre didn't fail to notice that they also tied a thick rope around his arms, same as all the others, and loop it back through the frame.
He was injured, that much was certain, and she could guess that they might want him healed, but he was as much a prisoner here as she was, now.
The first thing that Gunnar realized was the scalding pain in his side. Clearly the numbing effects of Deirdre's ministrations earlier had faded and left him quite able to feel, thank you very much.
Trying to open his eyes was its own adventure. They flickered open, and then the bright light hit him and he let his eyes close again. A woman's voice—Deirdre's—spoke softly.
"Welcome back."
He tried to open his eyes again, blinking back the blinding light until his eyes adjusted. There was a beam of light falling straight across his face. When he turned he could see her there, kneeling over him. She had a bottle in her hand, most of the way empty.
Gunnar recognized it as some potato alcohol that they had stolen during the raids. Someone must have parted with it, or Deirdre was a better thief than he had given her credit for. It was a blessing that he kept little in his tent, or she might have been off with anything she'd laid her hands on.
Then again, he hadn't let her spend much time without his eyes on her, though he knew that she wanted her privacy. He'd wanted to give it to her, as well, but that wasn't how it had worked out. Something about her drew his eyes, drew his attention. Even now.
He looked back toward the sky, letting the lights fall on his eyes now, closing them again. She pressed something into his side, something that stung badly. Another pour of alcohol burned, taking away any hope of going back to his rest.
He was so tired. Why couldn't he just be allowed to sleep? Couldn't they leave him be?
It took a long moment before he realized that he wasn't laying in his bedroll, wasn't on the ground. He wasn't in his tent.
He looked around again, paying more attention to his surroundings. He was in the wagon that they'd stolen, the one where they were keeping the prisoners and the wounded. He tried to move, to sit himself up, and then felt his arms straining against bonds he hadn't realized that he wore.
Just great, he thought. He'd just been thinking that if he wanted to take command back, he would need to be able to play nice. So much for that. Apparently, Valdemar had been more prepared for vengeance than Gunnar had given him credit for, after all.
He sat up anyway, pulling himself upright without grabbing onto the side. It sent a ripping pain through his chest again, and Deirdre cursed at him and pushed him back down. Her hands were soft, yet they moved with a steadiness that he had rarely seen in anyone.
As if she were completely confident in her actions. She pressed on his wound again with the palm of her hand and re-tied something around him, tightening almost to the point of discomfort.
"It's good to see you," he said softly.
"I'm glad you're having a good time."
"You're angry." His voice was dull and soft, and he struggled to find even the simplest of words.
Deirdre looked at him for a moment, and their eyes met. She almost looked as if she felt sorry for him. That was a first—he'd inspired different feelings in almost everyone he'd ever met. Fear, anger, pride, confidence. Never, at least not so far as he knew, had he seen anyone feel pity for him.