[color=8882be][i]Sigurd lay on the sacks, his broken leg at an awkward angle for the rest of him. His mind in a world of horrors that few others would ever understand. Events from Spain haunted his nightmares, the brutal locals, the dead friends, and now he was to be counted as one of the  dead. His mind carried him though it's own perception of what each of the death's he'd witnessed would feel like, one after the other, his body begging to shiver with cold, as it sweated profusely in response to the mental rigor of dying over and over and over again. Sigurd tried to do anything, scream, run, fight, anything, but he was held captive by his own fear and could do nothing in his current state.

If someone didn't see to his leg soon, he'd have to have it amputated as it became infected and swollen. It should be an injury relatively familiar to Amelie, as many farm hands had the misfortune of breaking a bone, or seeing someone else break one, in the rigorous labors of the field. Sigurd's leg was broken about 16cm above his knee. Bits of broken bone, had torn through the flesh of his leg in the tumble, thus the bloody trouser leg. He was fortunate however as his femoral artery had not been damaged, yet, or he'd have been dead when she found him. The leg would take over a year to heal properly, but would either of them have that long to tend it?[/i][/color]