Cursing through his pain, Faolán somehow managed to limp his way up the steps to the church. His entire body was bruised and aching, but it was the deep wound in his thigh that he was worried about. Even though he had bound it with a strip cut from his pant leg, blood was still leaking through the cloth at an alarming rate and dribbling down his leg. Maybe he just hadn't done a very good job; he'd never had to bind something that bad before.
Never in his life had he seen so much blood.
Well, not since he'd glimpsed his mum slaughtering that pig...
While he didn't fancy himself weak-stomached and had had butchered his share of chickens, the thought came at the wrong time. This was no pig's blood--it was his. It was enough to make him go pale and stagger, a wave of dizziness overcoming him, but somehow he managed to keep his feet and not go tripping back down the steps. Maybe it helped that he'd pitched his weight forward when he felt himself swaying backwards. With a grunt, he let his weight thud against the large door, cheek pressed against the cool wood. Ow...
Faolán wanted to just slump down and curl into a tight ball, close his eyes and rest and hope the throbbing, stabbing pain would just stop--but something told him if he did that, he'd stay down; he could barely move his leg as it was. So after taking a few deep breaths, feeling like he'd run miles even though he'd hobbled less than half of one, he grabbed the door handle and shoved it open.
Blood dripped onto the floor as he stood there, favoring his right leg, and he braced his weight heavily against the door frame. "H...hello?" he called out, out of breath. It was late evening but there was always someone present at the church, right?
"I, uh...I think I might be dying."
