Coronation Of A Disaster
It was a messy, ugly wound.
"He's lost a lot of blood," Dr. Vose said, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she packed the wound. "We need plasma. We need an operating theater."
"We have neither," Stark said, his voice tight. "Use the bandages. Do whatever you have to do."
I pulled a stool up to the head of the bed. I sat down. I took his hand. It was cold. I rubbed it, trying to force warmth into his fingers.
"Come on," I whispered. "Don't do this. You're the Captain of the Guard. You don't get to die in a storage room. You die in battle, or you die in bed at ninety, annoying everyone with your war stories."
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