The Physician’s Hands

 This Gorean Fan Fiction was generated using Chat GPT alongside the RP logs. 

Please note that the Gorean Saga is a fictional series, and its world, customs, and values may not align with modern societal standards or moral principles.

Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman

The infirmary was quiet the first time Neeve stepped inside that morning, save for the faint rattle of glass jars and the soft hum she carried on her lips. She moved immediately to the treatment room where a young woman lay bound to a bed, her breathing shallow, her skin striped with angry welts. Another healer had managed only to clean the wounds before exhaustion overtook her, leaving a note that some injuries might need stitching.

Neeve washed her hands, checked the patient’s pulse and breathing, and coaxed softly, “Girl… are you awake?”

The girl drifted in and out of consciousness, her breaths uneven. When a firm knock sounded at the door, Neeve made one last check over the girl and went to answer it. A man stood outside with another injured girl on a leash, this one bruised around the face, struck by something far harder than a hand. He demanded she be examined at once, but Neeve’s gaze hardened. There was already one girl inside who was barely clinging to stability.

After a brief exchange, she returned to the first patient and spoke gently. “You are safe. In the infirmary. You’ve been beaten badly, and you were tied for your own protection. If you promise not to run, I will remove the restraints.”
The girl agreed through tears and trembling breaths.

Neeve assessed the damage—more than thirty lash marks covering the woman’s back and sides, several deep enough to require closing. She mixed water with a green herbal powder, creating an antiseptic wash, and warned softly, “This will sting.” She cleaned each wound with practiced care, her motions steady and precise.

Another girl—bruised and barely standing—hovered nearby and tried to assist, but Neeve corrected her sharply. “Cold compress. Now.” Pain made the girl’s thoughts foggy, but eventually she followed the order, led by a trained assistant who had just arrived.

With help now present, Neeve returned fully to her patient. She applied numbing salve to the deepest lacerations, allowing it to sink into the torn flesh. When the skin grew dull and unfeeling beneath her fingers, she prepared her sutures.

Her technique was meticulous. She set her needle at a perpendicular angle, threading through the deeper layers first, using simple interrupted stitches that would hold strong while the body healed itself. The motions were crisp, confident—born of years of repetition, of lives saved under far darker circumstances. She stitched each gash closed in a clean, methodical rhythm, pausing only to guide the girl’s breathing or whisper reassurance when the memories threatened to overwhelm her.

When the front was finished, she gently turned the woman onto her side and sucked in a quiet breath at the sight of even more lashes across her back. She repeated the entire process—cleaning, numbing, stitching—until each deep wound was closed and protected.

Once stable, she prepared a bitter willow-bark tea to ease the pain. “Drink it all before you sleep,” she instructed. “You will remain in this bed until fully recovered.” Harsh words, perhaps, but born from compassion sharpened by years of seeing needless suffering.

Only after the first patient was settled did Neeve move to the second injured girl—the one beaten in the face. She examined the swelling, cleaned the gashes, and stitched the brow with the same precise movements she had used moments earlier. As she worked, her voice softened.

“I am sorry for snapping at you earlier. These punishments… they are barbaric. Unnecessary. And seeing it repeated again and again—” She stopped herself before her anger overtook her hands. “I will file a complaint. Someone must answer for this.”

She finished the sutures, washed her hands carefully, and brewed a second cup of willow-bark tea. Then she oversaw the food and water being brought to both patients and ensured each girl drank, rested, and remained under observation.

Despite the exhaustion seeping into her bones, Neeve continued moving through the infirmary with the steady presence of someone who had once known suffering firsthand—and vowed never to let others endure it alone. Her heart was tender, but her skill was steel. Every girl she treated was stitched not only with thread, but with the fierce, unspoken promise that she would fight—quietly, relentlessly—against a world that hurt them so easily.

And as night approached, the infirmary finally fell into a hush: two broken bodies beginning to mend, and one physician keeping silent watch over them, her hands still steady, still ready.