"Well", said Sir Smiddich through gritted teeth, "That all depends by what your sawbones means by 'no overexertion', my dear".
The salve was cooling and he could tell she was trying to be gentle; the wound was puckered and pale from having been wrapped tightly in bandage for many days. He'd been in and out of consciousness during that time, and the letters and reports from his comrades had stacked up.
"Smoke?", he asked her with a grin, digging into his jacket pocket. There was a slim paper packet lined with foil, which he tipped and.... only a single thin cigar toppled out. With a shrug he popped it in his mouth and lit it from a taper against a candle. He puffed gleefully, sending the smoke high into the tent before offering it to Lady Gia with a wink.
"You've missed your calling, Gia", he said as she smeared her ointment and bade him sit up so she could wrap her dark bandages around him, "You make a fine nurse, and a pretty one", he grinned.
He had grown terrible shaggy about the face during his wounding, and although he normally wore a rakish goatee, he was overrun with scruff, "Send your lad for hot water, Gia, towels and your sharpest razor", he said as she passed the cigar back to him, "Shall we see who has the steadier hand?".
