Logs:Are You?
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| RL Date: 11 June, 2011 |
| Who: Phedre, Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Madilla struggles when faced with Phedre's anger. |
| Where: Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 13, Turn 25 (Interval 10) |
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| Visiting hours are limited in the infirmary, now that quarantine is in effect: the place has been transformed, with extra beds lining most of the walls, and one clear space near the entrance, far enough away that - hopefully - the infection won't spread further. Madilla stands near the doorway, a cloth mask over her face and a handful of similar masks gathered together in front of her, waiting for the next small group of visitors. It's hard to gauge her expression through the mask, but her eyes are worried; there are lines on her forehead. Footsteps come, predictably, with another group of visitors. Phedre, with a suspicious glance to the man who's leading them, walks at the very end of the small crowd. Dressed darkly, she clings tightly to the splash of crimson, blood-red that is her shawl, the ends held together betwixt pale fingers that twine in undeniable concern. For her soot-dark eyes look beyond the crowd to the beds. Upon one of the beds is a small form in the shape of her brother, Isidore. Her mother and father have come this time, too, and stand in a clump of murmured discussion. Phedre listens with only half an ear, for her eyes are upon her brother. Her expression, however, is stony, and in defiance of fear, she stands without her mouth and nose covered. Those dark eyes of hers look upon Matilda, and even she cannot help the question that comes coolly from her lips, "How is he?" Coolness that's from the strain of keeping together the composure that whitens the lines around her youthful eyes and corners of her mouth. Those masks get handed out to all the visitors, one after another. Phedre's question arrives just as the healer is reaching out to offer the young girl hers, and it causes her to stop part-way. "He's about the same," she reports, after a moment, flicking her gaze back towards the parents, the rest of the group. The news is not even that good for others-- other healers are already drawing closer, an older couple escorted towards one of the beds in tears. There's sympathy in Madilla's eyes, as she attempts to press the strongly herb-scented mask into Phedre's hand. "We're giving him the best care we can, I promise." Finally, Phedre relents and takes the mask given to her, pressing it over her nose and mouth so that only the roundness of dark eyes seem to swell up and take on a larger appearance than normal. "Are you?" Bitterness is a faint tinge to her words, though briefly her darkly lashed eyelids dip to look askance at those who are receiving even worse news than her family is. Like a dark fan against pale cheeks, her eyes close fully for a brief moment before her attention is captured by the healer. "I can't help but think he would be hale and hearty if we were home." Though the words ring hollow even to the girl's ears with the recent memory of the colossal storm that threatened their island. "What is... wrong?" The words are made hesitantly, pulled from a place of uncertainty that even she does not want to acknowlege. Madilla visibly winces at the sound of that bitterness, and though it's muffled through her mask, it does rather sound like she's trying to hold back a sigh. One hand looks as though it wants desperately to reach out and comfort Phedre, but she holds it back. Firmly, then, "Yes, we are. We're doing everything we possibly can for your brother, and for everyone else. It's--" She trails off, as though it's all too big to explain; her head shakes. "If you were back on the island, you'd-- no. I'm sorry. I wish I had something better to say. He's got a high temperature, and the illness has settled in his lungs. We're treating it, but he's weak - you're all weak. That's why it's taking you all so badly." Phedre stands stiff in the face of that compassion, crashing upon the rocky shores of a countenance not unlike her island. It limns the lines of her stance, however short-statured that may be, and only enhances the darkness of her eyes, the shadows that creep beneath the lower lids born of concern and stress. Madilla's near-stumble earns her a piercing stare from the girl, but Phedre merely nods. "At least I can see him," she murmurs, the stony relief of her expression softening at the sight of her sleeping brother. "Weak," though, is muttered darkly as an after thought. A half-step is taken from her parents, who are too absorbed in their own quietly murmured conversation and the sick child to pay attention to their teenaged daughter. This brings the girl closer to Madilla, eyes dark and hot with a passion that churns as deeply as the ocean. "Is that why you," despite her height, probably a relic of turns of malnutrition growing up, her eyes sweep over the healer, "keep us locked up like criminal heathens? Because we are weak?" One eyebrow quirks upwards, the challenge in the teen's voice undeniable. It is not necessarily Madilla herself, but the situation that has Phedre put off; it could also just be the girl, it is hard to tell with so many different influences. Despite the depth of Phedre's passion, Madilla's eyes show only compassion. Her hands are knitting together, now, gloved fingers twining between each other as she attempts to come up with suitable answers. "I wish I knew what I could say," she says, finally, her voice rich with emotion. "I don't like that you're all locked up - no more than you do, I promise. If it were up to me... but it isn't. I think they're trying to keep you safe. I /do/ believe they'll do right by you all. I got permission to change your food, and to bring people in here... if we really didn't care, that wouldn't have happened." She casts a glance over her shoulder at the full infirmary, then turns her gaze back at the girl. "I'm trying to strengthen you all. Get you used to our food. All of it. I promise I am." "Change our food," Phedre's bitterness slips fully into each word, a harsh thing to swallow. "Like pets." Slips of curly dark hair frame her face, though the bulk of her long hair is bound down her back into a braid that barely moves when she dips her head. "Are they?" Misgiving slips into her voice, a change from bitterness, to form a wary outlook that even Madilla's compassion cannot soften. "It is hard to swallow," she finally admits after a moment's silence, "that you," the quick look to the healer indicates that it's more of a general 'you', though the vote is out on whether or not Madilla is included in this or not, "lot care for us. Locked us up, escorting us for our basic needs. Next thing you know, we'll be wearing collars or eating from a dish." Torn from her brother's still form, Phedre's gaze once more locks upon Madilla, and if bitterness is a harsh pill that she endures, imploring would also be in the mixture of her expression, "Where and why can we not be /free/?" Madilla shut her eyes, looking genuinely as though she's about to cry. "I'm so sorry," she says, finally, her eyes still closed. "I know how it must look. I-- do, truly. I hate losing patients. I hate watching people suffer." She has to actually lift one hand to wipe her eyes, now, blinking back tears as she looks straight at Phedre. "I'm sorry that I can't do more. I don't make the decisions. I do believe they were made with good intentions, even if the actuality is not-- not ideal. I don't know what else I can say." A sea battered rocky shore does not miraculously soften, but can be worn to smoothness. Such is the countenance of Phedre worn to a weary sort of smoothness, caving enough to dip her head down once and then back up in acknowledgement. Of at least /Madilla/ is not the source of her ire, but it does not make a hard girl any /softer/ either. "A good decision would be one a man can live in himself, I should think." The pale fingers that cling to the darkly crimson scarf finally relent a little, loosening enough that the skin is not tight across the bones. "I cannot imagine your leaders coming into our quarters and living upon the spoils of their offerings." The acid, at least, has withered some from her tone, softened where her spine has not. "Leaving to their toilet when allowed, and returning upon a schedule. Captivity is what drives people insane." Some emotion crosses her expression, a new worry that heralds itself upon her expression like something shiny and new. "I understand," says Madilla, barely above a breath. "Or - I try to. I don't... if I can, I will try and make things better. I don't have much power around here, but I can /try/. I don't like seeing things like this." She's at least stopped crying, now, though her eyes are red and she's probably far from smiling. "The weather is better, now. The sun came out. Perhaps we can take you outdoors more often, too. And the guards-- I'm sure you don't need them." For one who has no authority, she talks about these measures with enthusiasm. "I will try. I promise." Phedre is not without sympathy nor the softness of emotion and for that she takes compassion on Madilla, despite talk of letting them out more freely now that it's sunny out. The barest hint of a smile touches at the corners of her mouth, the teen, for all her harsh maturity, is still a young girl. And it shows in the slight crumbling of her expression before it's shored up once more. "Please." Once again, the touch of imploring adds depth to the softly spoken word that is not at all pleading. "And," gratitude comes more slowly, pulled grudgingly from a place not visited often since coming to the weyr, "thank you for ..." Words fail and so a gesture is relinquished, the curl of fingers unfolding from the scrap of crimson cloth to gesture at her brother. There's relief in Madilla's expression, now, hanging about her eyes and in the smoother lines of her brow. She gives a firm nod to respond to that thanks, gesturing, then, towards the boy's bed. "He's awake, I think - do you want to talk to him? You can't touch him, but... it might give him some comfort." The infirmary has better blankets than the candidate barracks, and better pillows, too, though given what the exiles are used to, perhaps that won't make much difference. "He's going to be fine. I really believe he is. I can't promise it, but--" But she's hopeful: that, too, shows in her expression. Where compassion has left Phedre mostly unmoved, the offer to speak to her brother has that stony expression once more softening. "Thank you, we'd love to," she murmurs, stretching her arm out to tug on her mother's sleeve. Her parents are not as suspicious of their new-found "home" as their daughter, but neither are they entirely welcoming of their predicament either. To the offering of hope, it is taken with all the salted suspicion the girl has of this place and their predicament, but there is a flare that lights up the darkness of her eyes. It is a small glimmer that maybe the girl holds onto that hope with a dangerous intensity were it to puff out. With both her parents, she inclines her head, asking, "Do we just...?" The sentence is left unfinished, but the foot that steps forward makes intent clear. "Come," says Madilla, leading the way towards the boy's bed. She'll stop them well before they actually get to the bed - but it's close enough to see, and perhaps, more importantly, close enough for /him/ to see. "I'll leave you to it," she suggests, then. "Just don't move any closer. I'll come back to collect you in a few minutes." Phedre bobs her head, but her attention is already retracting from the healer to the beloved little brother. Even her parents have turned their attention to the boy who's feeble smile is nonetheless as disarming as any child of eight turns would be. Quiet conversation comes then with the high-pitched answers that come from the pure voice of a child, only slightly garbled by the coughing and the roughened voice of sickness. Still, all in all the family becomes absorbed with the contact -- however, non-physical it may be -- with their removed family member. Even Phedre is softened enough that her smiles are genuine, and the desire to reach out for her brother is strong, but she doesn't do it. Not with their "guard" standing where they were all brought in initially. Conversation moves from quiet intensity, to the softer cadence that soon trickles off. However long they are allowed, they stay. And when it is their time to go, they go. And Madilla will watch them off, her expression caught between thoughtfulness and something else - it would be easier to ascertain what it is, if she weren't wearing that mask, but she never removes it. Once they're out of sight, she sighs, heavily, and gets back to work. |
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