Logs:Consulting Madilla
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| RL Date: 25 March, 2014 |
| Who: Madilla, Telavi |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: In the months following K'zin and Rasavyth's accident, Madilla provides Telavi a listening ear. |
| Where: Telgar Weyr / Madilla's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 2 - Day 5, Month 5, Turn 34 |
| Mentions: Delifa/Mentions, H'kon/Mentions, Jinja/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions, Lilabet/Mentions, Quielle/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, Raija/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated. |
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| The first time Telavi went into High Reaches' infirmary, after the accident, it was to see Jinja. She showed up looking tired, and if she wasn't her impeccable self, at least the crown braid into which she'd arranged her hair was irreproachable. Had Jinja heard, she'd asked. She could still take her and Sionetta to the Keroon Gather like they'd planned; it's not like it was going to take long for K'zin to put himself back together. Except it did. Jinja had heard - of course she had. There may have been something a little overwrought in her manner - such tragedy! such woe! - but it's genuine enough as sympathy and understanding; whatever Telavi needs. And if she needs anything... Madilla's present-but-not-present, then, just a figure around the edges who aims a glance at Telavi just once, rather more quietly understanding. Lilabet's understanding, too, when it comes up with her, but then, she's her mother's daughter (and her father's, too). It was Lilabet who passed on the message from the Weyrhealer, phrased as less than what it is: "Mama says she's thinking of you." It's at Telgar, though, and not High Reaches, that words are shared. Madilla's been a regular visitor, and today she's been consulting with the healers behind closed office doors. It's with solemn eyes that she lets herself out, bypassing K'zin himself in order to head for the bowl: she did her visiting earlier. Telavi's just arrived, slid down from Solith but not yet gone anywhere, her forehead tipped against the gilt-green hide; the rain's let up, though her cap is still beaded with water from their descent through the clouds. When she turns, it might as well be right into Madilla for all of the distance between them, given the startled recognition in blue-today eyes; she lifts a hand in greeting, though she doesn't actually call out. There's been enough of that. It's colder, out here, than it is in Telgar's infirmary (dragon or otherwise), and Madilla wraps her coat close around her as she steps into the bowl. It's Telavi's hand that alerts her to the greenrider's presence and lifts her chin into an acknowledging nod; it's also what alters her path, sending her moving in that direction rather than towards the caverns and any potential ride home. "Telavi," she says, bypassing a puddle without even needing to look at it, once she's within easy conversational distance. For all Telavi knows, Madilla might be able to walk across that puddle without getting her sturdy boots wet. She stays put a moment, but with the combination of her name and walking towards her... Tela moves to meet her weyrhealer partway, if not halfway. "Imagine meeting you here," she murmurs, bringing up a hint of a smile to go with it. "Imagine," agrees Madilla, with her own ghost of a smile, caught beneath the more serious, more thoughtful, expression she's been wearing on her trek thus far. She could, now, give a status report on the patient; she could, but she doesn't. Instead, she tilts her head just slightly to the side, considering Telavi with tired-looking green eyes. "How are you holding up, Telavi?" Forestalled from immediately asking, Telavi doesn't so much close her mouth as reshape it into an automatic, "Fine." There's a moment's pause; she demurs now, "As this sort of thing goes. I mean.... How is he?" In Madilla's opinion, not Telgar's healers whom she's asked and will ask again. Madilla's too polite to rush straight into disapproval following that automatic response, though there's definitely something in her expression that suggests more obvious approval as the greenrider continues - sympathetic approval, at least. "It's difficult," she suggests, "when there's nothing concrete you can do to help. He's... there's no change." Her gaze slides, inexorably, towards the guest weyr, and then back to Telavi. "It's not good, but it's also... it's just going to take time. A long haul." Even if it's the same answer Telavi had gotten from Telgar's healers yesterday, her eyes still drop as she hears it again, her gaze sliding sideways before it can touch her toes; there's something tremulous to her lower lip before she looks back at Madilla, attempting briskness. "Then it's just as well I've a lot of sewing to do." And if she doesn't wind up having to rip most of it out, as she had in the earliest days, it's because-- conscious of the cost of thread, if not her time-- she's taken to more forgiving projects. Some are even for the caverns. Emotions, many-layered and complex, play out upon Madilla's expression and even the way she holds herself, in the wake of that answer, though it is empathy that sits most clearly within that gaze. "It's good to keep busy," she agrees, aiming to keep her tone neutral. Then: "If you need anything, Telavi... even just a listening ear, someone to vent at, please. My door is always open. Now, or later." Because, after all, if he's as sick as this now, there's going to be a long, long later. Telavi looks at Madilla, and she summons up a smile, and does she have any inkling of just how long it might be? "That's sweet of you," she says. It lends her certainty: "Thank you. I'm sure he'll pick up sooner over later, though; it wasn't like when we were weyrlings, and he was so run down, this is just sort of," she waves a hand. Secondhand? "The cold, people catch things in infirmaries, I suppose... but is there anything else, ma'am?" this with a preliminary step towards the infirmary proper and the guest weyr just beyond. "Or... do you need a ride back?" There's a furrow to Madilla's brow, like there's something more she'd say but has decided against (there's being realistic, after all, and there's crushing the spirit, and the healer is not generally inclined towards the latter). "I'm sure he will," she agrees. "In time. I-- no, there's nothing else. No, go on: make your visit. I'll catch one of the Telgari riders." One hand waves the greenrider on, though before she makes another move herself, she adds, "Look after yourself, Telavi." For all that Tela had offered that ride, she can't not look relieved when Madilla turns it down, the slightly abashed upturn to her mouth self-aware of that much if not, necessarily, of that so-useful denial. Her, "Ma'am," is practically cheerful. How long it lasts once she's inside, though, once she's sitting with feverish K'zin, sewing when she's not bringing a warmed brick when he shivers or fetching cool cloths for his forehead when he's hot... well, she does what she can. Sometimes she talks with him-- to him, really-- maybe even more truthfully 'in his direction,' the quiet words focused at first and then rambling into diversions, continuing as long as she can pretend it's doing even a little good. Sometimes it doesn't; she has to stop, then. Sometimes she drifts off to sleep, in the tossing-and-turning 'silence' or in mid-sentence. However long she hopes for a reply or just waits for one, for something approaching coherence... as the days go by, it's less waiting for anything at all and more... just what she does along with everything else. Then the fevers break; then, it turns into something different; and then, nigh halfway into that second month, she's made to darken Madilla's door. They've seen each other between then and now, of course, and on at least one occasion been concurrent visitors at the bronzerider's bedside. Madilla hasn't pushed her offer, but it hangs there even unspoken, written in her expression, and in the soft way she checks up on the greenrider's wellbeing. Madilla's sitting not behind her desk, in her office, when Telavi arrives, but at the little seating area, her soft shoes abandoned upon the floor so that she can curl up atop her own legs as she grades the papers her apprentices have written. The door's open, though, letting in the low susurrus of the infirmary proper: the weyrhealer is available. Is Telavi expected? Something about the way she hovers at the doorframe suggests she might wonder; certainly she's refurbished after midmorning's arrival and the intervening hours spent with various tasks and a nap, her hair just so-- if perhaps not as glossy as she might like-- and her lips pinkened, a subtle dusting of powder intended to conceal the darkness beneath her eyes. Surely that can't all have been just for Quinlys. "Ma'am?" She slips inside on the strength of that one word, though she stays by the still-open door. "Telavi," answers the healer, expression serene as she glances up from her papers, head turning so that she can consider the greenrider at the door directly. Is she expected? Perhaps not in the two-o'clock-on-tuesday sense, but there's no surprise in Madilla's expression. "Tea? You can save me from the execrable work some of my apprentices seem determined to turn out, quite as if they had no ambitions towards promotion at all." She gestures towards the seating area, adding, "Close the door, if you like." Telavi does like, though she closes it quietly, a whisper of door into jamb; a bit of a flush has risen upon her cheekbones beneath the fine powder. "Thank you," she says before she moves to sit; her posture's ladylike, her back a straight, balanced curve, even if it's also less natural than her wont and more... stiff. All of this Madilla has noticed, though her expression's not changed. As Telavi moves to join her, the healer stands, gathering up her papers to set them aside, and moving to the little hearth to set up the kettle and the tea things that go with it. She's silent while she does that, but after she's finished her gaze returns to the greenrider and she says, "I haven't made it to Telgar in a few days. How is he?" That greenrider's lashes lower before they lift again, Tela glancing up from her folded hands. "Still over the fever," she readily-- gladly-- reports. "But... how much longer will the rest last? The muzzy head, they say much of that's fellis, but," that trails off again, this time into uncertain silence. "He's been very sick," says Madilla, gently and not in any way chiding, not unless a person is determined to take it that way. "And the need for sedation certainly can't be helping," except for the pain, obviously, but that's not where the healer's thoughts are focused. "It's natural, I think, that he wants reassurance. We're most of us not at our best when we're unwell. But," and this time she sighs, gaze dropping towards the rag rug on the floor beneath her soft-soled shoes. "That doesn't make it easy to deal with, does it?" Telavi's posture actually relaxes somewhat at Madilla's initial words, and further as the healer goes on, to the point that she allows herself to lean the small of her back against the chair's and then curl forward a little; her gaze strays towards the fire before it returns to Madilla herself. "And it is natural for him to get it, it isn't-- it's not that we ought to hold back 'for his own good' or something, is it?" The question presses, even before she can try to answer. "It's not..." Madilla pauses, hunting for the right word, and ultimately seems to settle one, "ideal, of course, but yes, this is how it needs to be. It's difficult, with dragons and riders." That twist in the corner of her mouth acknowledges the two sides of this: Telavi-the-rider, Madilla-the-healer. If she has doubts - if she would treat this differently - she's doing a decent job of keeping that from her expression. "But it's difficult for everyone, I think," she concludes. Telavi-the-invulnerable, she'd no doubt like to think, for all that just now it's not just her expressive face alone that's pained; "That's good, then. I wouldn't want to," she really, really wouldn't want to, "make things worse." She glances again towards the fire, blinking rapidly until, a deep breath later, her expression smooths towards porcelain. "Leaving is hard." The not-yet-boiling water doesn't really need an attendant, and yet Madilla turns her gaze towards it anyway, checking in (just in case?). "Last turn," she begins, in a casual kind of tone, making it sound quite the non-sequitur, "H'kon and I adopted Raija. She's only two, now. Just little. And when she arrived... I was the only one she wanted. Ever." That's when she glances back towards Telavi, expression abruptly wry. "Leaving is always hard. Being that person for someone... of course it's hard." That has Telavi looking at the healer, puzzlement drawing her brows together in a deepening vee-- Madilla, talking about her own matters instead of what's important at hand, imagine! Listening, though, it clicks; she blushes, there under the powder, perhaps as much for catching herself at it as for what's important at hand. With a slight toss of her head, though, Tela says lightly, "Not that I have to worry about that. That man," is reason enough to turn up her nose. "Though... it's not as though we have to change nappies, either. That does sound hard for you. How did you even manage?" All this. "With an awful lot of patience," answers Madilla, as she sets out the tea pot - not yet filled - and measures in some tea from one of the boxes sitting there upon the shelf. "And some private tears of frustration. Of course," and she smiles, "K'zin isn't likely to scream the weyr down when you leave. But it's not dissimilar, is it? He's an adult, of course, but right now, during all of this, he's also not." Tela's color comes and goes, if still partially muted; now-- at tears-- it rises again until even she can't help but laugh, a small, tight laugh for screaming. Rather than agree, exactly, she murmurs, "There's a reason I try to have his"-- That Man's-- "shift right after mine." She admits after a moment, her voice slowing as it lowers, "Sometimes I feel... lazy, just lying there, not stitching even. But then... it's not often we're able to help someone so directly, is it? Even if it doesn't last, it--" and then she's blushing again because, "I don't, I mean. I suppose you do." Being a healer and all. Ostensibly, Madilla's attention is focused upon the tea; ostensibly, she's not paying Telavi's attention any mind. She is, of course, though, and she's listening, too. "Mm," she agrees. "I'm sure you're doing him a lot of good, being there. It may not feel like it, sometimes, but it certainly does help." The water boils. Madilla's hands busy themselves with it, as she adds, "There's certainly satisfaction in knowing you're being helpful. I feel it." Telavi doesn't so much reply in words as dip her head, studying her fingernails as closely as though suspecting some sort of a snag. "Is Raij-- your little girl better now, then?" "Better than she was," is the answer, accompanied by a tired-looking smile. The tea-pot is transferred to the table, along with the cups; Madilla leaves it to steep, settling back into her chair, hands pressed lightly to skirt-covered knees. "She smiles, now. She sleeps through the night more often than she doesn't. It's a relief." Smiling; the curve of Tela's lips doesn't quite make it there, somehow wistful. "Do you know, he even... smells different?" is very quiet. Madilla allows her gaze to meander back towards Telavi, resting upon her only lightly: this is no searching glance. "Infirmary-smell?" she wonders, albeit idly, not really looking for an answer. "It's strange, how important smell is. How used to a certain combination of scents we become. How... foreign a person can seem, without it." The lift and fall of Tela's shoulder demurs; different. But, "Yes," she agrees with a stifled sigh. "But so much better than when he was feverish." Not only is he feeling that much better now, there's less sweat! With a sideways glance at Madilla, she asks, "Does she smile at H'kon?" "Give it time," murmurs the healer. "He'll come home, eventually, as good as new." But eventually... eventually is definitely not now. "She does now. It took them longer, to work out their relationship. It's not surprising: we took her away from everything and everyone she knew. She's had a difficult time of it." Eventually. Telavi sighs, more audibly this time, drawn out into quietude. "Where is she from?" she wonders. "Did... did you have anyone to talk to about it? What with H'kon..." ...having his own issues. For the first time she touches her hair, bringing the simple braid over her shoulder so she can brush her fingers down its tip, drawing it to a delicate point like a paintbrush. Eventually. Madilla's expression is sympathetic, at least. "She's the distant relative of a friend," she answers. "Which helped, because it meant... well, she understood, at least." Of H'kon, she makes no comment. Let the internal intricacies of her relationship with the brownrider remain just that: internal. The tea is evidently steeped enough - Madilla pours, sliding one of the delicate cups towards the greenrider. "One of the things it taught me, all of it, is that it's important to take care of yourself, even when other people's needs seem so overwhelming." One sign Telavi's off her game: the pronoun throws her for a moment, and then she nods for understanding, understanding that much at least; then, though, there's a muted gleam in her glance towards Madilla for the lack of H'kon. And of course the healer would have to pass her the cup right before bringing that up; there's a pause before Tela straightens up again and takes the tea, careful, careful. "Mmm," she says. Carefully. Has Madilla noted that gleam? It's not as though she's not been paying attention to Telavi's expression, though there's no specific acknowledgement of it: her expression is quite calm, quite placid. In lieu of immediate comment, the healer claims her own cup, leaning back in her seat and letting the steam waft towards her nose. There's something fruity about this particular tea, layered beneath more floral scents. Telavi inhales those scents, silently, and if she's measuring them against G'laer's special tea's-- either way, the drink appears to pass muster; then again, even if it hadn't, would she turn it down from Madilla's hands? Her own circle the cup, their nails less even and buffed and prettified than what had been usual, a bit of roughness to her knuckles and the pads of her fingers: still even, still prettified, just less so. After a little while she sips, shallowly. "You're still working with Quinlys, aren't you?" ventures Madilla, after a few moments more, having blown lightly upon the surface of her tea though she's not yet taken a sip. "At least, with no weyrlings, you've one less thing to need worry about." "Officially. And it's such a relief," as talking at last might ordinarily be for Telavi, though today she's quiet for a few more moments and even when those pass, she speaks slowly. "There's... not a lot for me to do, between you and me: going through files, mostly, recopying a few with updates. We're talking about different ideas for teaching, ways for teaching, and that's fun." Once the report's done, she adds more wonderingly, "Do you like that? When you do it, I mean?" Madilla's interest in what Telavi has to say seems genuine enough - certainly, she nods in all the right places, and seems thoughtful, considering, by the end. "Teaching, you mean? Or thinking of different ways to approach it? I do." Though it's a somewhat measured affirmative, one that's clarified further when she explains, "My Masters would be interested in having me teach in a more full-time capacity, but that's not my preference. I'd rather it be an adjunct to the actual healing I do. Of course," and she smiles, "I seem to spend more time on administration than with patients, these days." Telavi's initial nod, extended with a tilt of her head, includes both. She listens, leaning forward slightly at teaching versus actual healing-- and then she pauses; "I shouldn't keep you, then," she murmurs, starting to set down her cup. Not that she's come anywhere near even finishing her tea, much less the rest. "Telavi." Madilla's not using 'mom voice,' or even 'healer voice,' though it's a close run thing: certainly, her tone discourages disagreement. "You haven't finished your tea, yet, and there is nothing in my in-tray that's so terribly pressing. And besides: people are always more important than paperwork." Telavi retains that cup after all, but-- with a sidelong glance at Madilla-- tips it just enough to let its contents sway in a circle, as though to suggest they both know she could drink it quickly. As it is, when she sips, it's not so quickly as all that... yet. "What would you like to talk about now?" "Telavi." It lacks the emphasis, this time: it's quieter, and somehow sadder, not as though Madilla's disappointed, but at least as though she's concerned. "You never signed up to be caregiver. It's not easy at the best of times. Is there anything I can do to help?" Telavi watches the tea, watches it go around and around some more, though she doesn't visibly move the cup: like dowsing, maybe, for words. "I don't know," she says after a time, a quiet time, her gaze still downturned. "I'm--" her shoulder moves, but the nascent shrug evaporates. "I don't have a real idea of what you could do. This is... new." Madilla is silent throughout, watching Telavi but only barely, over the rim of the tea that otherwise has the most of her attention. "Mm," is what she says, finally. "I can tell you all the standard things about looking after your own mental health, and being willing to take breaks and step away when you need to... but we've covered some of that. I can listen. Judgment free. And," she sets down her tea cup, though it's still largely full, "if there's a day when you simply cannot stand to be there, let me know, and I can fill in." "'Mental health,'" Tela murmurs, a bare breath after Madilla, as though this were a new thing somehow. For the offer, "Thank you." She sips her tea and then, only then, looks up. "I don't know." Still. "I do take breaks." Quinlys. Friends, sometimes. Running around with Savannah. "I sleep a lot. There, you know," if shallowly so, attuned to him in case she's needed for something other than her warmth and her presence and her touch-- or, occasionally, within a sleep so deep that Solith has to work to wake her. "A lot, a lot." "Sleep is a curative. A restorative. I'd be surprised if you didn't sleep." Madilla's tone is mild for that, her hands pressing into her skirt-covered lap. "For now, it's your presence, more than anything, that's helping him. Later..." But she trails off from that. "It's always more difficult, as they get better. Closer to better, that is. It's best to be prepared for that, and to know that help is out there, if you need it. I'm sure Telgar's healers will be watchful. And," she smiles, "as I said, I'm here." Telgar's healers: they and their interferingness immediately earn a moue from Telavi, though the murmured, "They insisted I visit," is only after the visitee has had her say. "I don't see why it would be harder, except someone making sure they don't overdo... it must be so hard for you, dealing with people you don't even," Tela puts her teacup at slight risk here, her hands' gesturing evocative if neither entirely specific nor consistent, and finally winds up with, "really, really like lots." Not to risk Madilla's tender ears. As serious as so much of this conversation is, Madilla can't help but smile for that so terribly non-specific remark, something knowing hovering about her eyes. "There are difficult aspects to all stages of illness and recovery," she murmurs. "And with patients, there is a... natural distance. You're caring in an entirely different capacity, though I won't say it's necessarily easy, either." Not by half. There's no claim of being good at distance from Telavi, not in this particular instance, not now; she does glance at Madilla through her lashes and attempt to sip discreetly at her tea. "Is there anything else you'd like me to know, ma'am? While you have me at your mercy." In earlier times, her cheek might have hinted at a dimple. Madilla takes up her tea again, sipping at it before she's willing to say anything more. "No," she says, finally. "No, I don't suppose there's more, not now. We could certainly talk further about what may lie ahead for K'zin, but... just know that if you have questions, or if you need anything, you know where I am." She's so serious in that quiet, contented way of hers. "Yes. Yes, please," is Telavi's near-immediate reply, barely able to wait for where-Madilla-is, something about her attentiveness suggesting a forward lean for all that her posture doesn't change. And if she doesn't have to come back with questions or needs, so much the better. And so Madilla explains, quietly and carefully; she warns about the dangers of having been on fellis for so long, and the possibilities of long, drawn-out recovery periods. She's serious, but soft rather than blunt: she's intending to prepare and not scare the greenrider, if she can possibly help it. Of course, as she concludes, it's entirely possible that all will go well-- that K'zin will be fine, better than fine. But. But. As time marches on, it's increasingly clear that that is not quite the case. Madilla doesn't specifically reach out to Telavi; she's still visiting, and she's certainly still receiving regular reports from Telgar's healers, but she makes no move towards the greenrider. It doesn't mean that she's not expected, though; indeed, it's entirely possible that Madilla's staff have all been warned to expect her, with specific instructions to send her straight in. It's out of sequence; she's not supposed to be here, is Telavi, she's supposed to be at Telgar still. That's the schedule. But here she is, sent straight in despite the hour, Solith shifting uncertainly on the ground outside rather than up to drowse with her fellows the way she likes to do. The greenrider's hair is scraped back, the once-curling tendrils before each ear dangling limply; shadows smudge beneath her eyes as though by some careless finger, while the bones of her face seem brittle as hardened sugar. Momentum takes her past Madilla's threshold, and there it drops her. Inside, Madilla's not at her desk, and not sitting on either couch or chairs: no, she's fussing with the kettle that has just now boiled, quite as if she has some sixth sense about visitors. The sound of Telavi's arrival has her turning, and though she sucks in a breath for the greenrider's appearance, she doesn't seem surprised. "Come and sit," she says, quietly calm. Telavi does come in and Telavi surely does sit, knees together but not quite upright, listing toward the arm of the couch. "You did warn me," she says lightly. Or, at least, she'd probably been aiming for light and airy instead of this bruised sort of gratitude that keeps her following the healer's movements. "A warning is never, I think, enough to truly prepare a person," murmurs Madilla in answer, and yes, the look on her face - and the sound of her voice - holds far more knowing and sympathy than it possibly could if she weren't personally affected by the situation. "I'm sorry. I'd hoped it wouldn't be like this." She has tea, though: tea, the answer to all things. A mug of it is offered towards the greenrider, pushed into her hands in a way that could almost be described as 'forceful.' So of course Telavi takes that mug, possibly even taking that near-forcefulness for granted with it, and obediently she drinks; she does have to blow on it a few times first, she has that much self-preservation left in her. Her head stays bowed, the steam soft on her skin. "I'm sorry, to run in like this. It's just, every time he starts out being nice, I keep hoping--" "--that it's real, that it's him, that he's turning the corner." Madilla's voice is very quiet when she completes that sentence, and her expression is solemn. Her hands, now emptied, go back to the tea: she has her own mug to fill, and then to hold, as she sinks into a seat opposite the greenrider. "You've nothing to apologise about." She nods and then she nods again, jerky, involuntary. Her hands are pale about the warm mug, but then they were before. When Madilla continues, it jolts Telavi into, "But it's only been two, not even two and a half months." Two months of not having any idea of just how long it would be, two months and change that seemed interminable, but still, only that long on the calendar. "I... I just..." The mug wobbles. Madilla sucks in a breath, but there's no judgment in that, nor in the troubled look in her eyes. "Two and a half months can seem an eternity," is her answer, more placid than her expression suggests it ought to be. "Say it, Telavi. Anything you need to." Why had Telavi pulled back her hair, anyway? She twists her head this way and that and still the ponytail doesn't loosen, doesn't swing forward like even a tattered veil. She still hasn't looked up. "He wants and wants," she says, very low, "and it's so hard to say no. I hate saying it, I hate it." She hasn't the pharmacy in her pocket, but she could try, it would be so easy to. She knows people, here and elsewhere. Even if she failed, she could tell him she tried. For a moment, Madilla's eyes close, as if by this she intends to block out the mental imagery - memory and imagined events, entwined. But she's a healer: now's not the time for her to feel, no matter how much she may want to, or how close to bubbling over those feelings are. Instead, she draws in a breath, opening her eyes again, and watches Telavi. "In a way," she says, so very lightly, "it must almost seem easier. Give in, and then he's happier, and things are easier." "Yes. Yes," hopelessly quiet. Telavi holds the mug tighter to her, doesn't drink, can't drink. There have been no rumors from her lips, not of this. She moistens her lips, and even if it'll dry them out more in the long run, just now it feels that little bit better and that will have to do. It lets her speak. "Give in or walk away." She keeps holding the mug. "Did it... anything like this... ever happen to you?" Madilla's own mug is rested lightly upon the bump that her knee makes beneath her skirt, insulated by the sturdy fabric. "No," she answers, on the exhale. "Or... well. My mentor. I don't imagine you ever met her. She was the Weyrhealer before me." Her voice is quiet, tone aiming for neutral, as if this might somehow be comforting. Confirmation comes in Telavi's gaze even before the slight shake of her head. She touches her hair, tucking one of those tendrils back behind her ear as though that would better help her hear. "She died. Three turns ago, now. A long illness; she wasted away, and by the end there wasn't much we could do to ease her pain." Softer, now: neutrality is more difficult, as Madilla continues. This, clearly, is a loss that still sits close. "It's not the same, of course. But..." Now Telavi's even paler, if that's possible. K'zin's not-- but first, "I'm so sorry." It's very quiet, her soft Bendenite voice heartfelt. The lessening neutrality doesn't seem to faze her; if anything, it makes the elder woman's situation more approachable. Madilla manages, after a moment, to smile, though it's a rueful kind of smile, and sad - so sad. "Thank you," she says, genuinely, though there's still a note of wryness to that: accepting sympathy is always difficult. "It's difficult to feel helpless. That's what I remember most. And that, I suppose, is where the similarities lie." Telavi sighs, and for all that she must try to not have it be audible, she may not succeed. "I hope... you weren't alone, were you? And she didn't get-- awful? I, I-- you know already, but Jinja says he's not so hot anymore so why do I care," which isn't tattling if Madilla already knows, right? and besides, she's sort of sympathetic some of the time, "and K'del's his weyrleader on top of everything, and all my other friends-- even Quie doesn't know this and she's in the same wing, and--" She glances down at her mug as though remembering it's there, and finally drinks, one big gulp. "I wasn't alone," confirms Madilla, expression softening slightly with whatever it is she's remembering from that - nonetheless awful - period in her life. Her mouth has already twitched, just once, for that comment on the subject of her apprentice, though it's serious, otherwise, as is her slow, careful nod. "It's lonely," she agrees. "And even those things you can talk about... it's difficult, making sure it doesn't come across as a play for sympathy. I remember trying to avoid reference to it, even with..." She trails off, abruptly. Another gulp, shallower this time, rapidly followed by another and another, leads to the first inklings of color reentering Telavi's cheeks. She even sits forward at that play for sympathy-- if not yet on the literal edge of her seat, at least all ready to emphatically agree-- until... everything slows. "Even with?" Softly. This time, Madilla forestalls her own answer by lifting her own mug for a sip-- and then a second, the second rather larger. A hint of pink lurks about her cheeks, now, and when she answers, she's just a little bashful. "Even with H'kon," she explains. "But that was new, then. Brand new." It's a lovely distraction; not only does Telavi's gaze soften, it's-- for once tonight-- not as though she's about to cry. Except no, then she does, but when her eyes glisten it's with happier tears that don't yet fall. "Of course," she murmurs. Then she's blinking, blinking fast. It's a little embarrassing, for Madilla, to have caused even happy tears; her expression's a little awkward, just for a moment, and then she says, "But people can be supportive, even without knowing the details. When they know you're hurting." Yes, but that would require communication and consideration and all sorts of crazy things. And also, not hanging out with inveterate gossips. "Mmm," says Telavi, uncomfortably. "And," continues Madilla, quite as if that 'mmm' never happened, "You have me. I can even give you a hug, if you think it will help, even for a moment." Her not-quite-smile is self-effacing. "And it will get better. Easier for you, and for him, too. I promise." Telavi sits up quickly at the woman's first words; surely she's above all that, Lilabet is probably above all that. Only then she's blinking again and somehow her empty cup has gotten itself set down somewhere and she's starting to stand because yes, she would like a hug and-- and-- and-- there will be crying. Down goes Madilla's cup, despite not being empty, and then she's rising, her arms open wide and welcoming. They're the same height, more or less, but her shoulder's nonetheless in an easy position for crying on; and she has all the patience in the world. Telavi could try just about anyone's patience when she sets her mind to it, or even sometimes when she doesn't, but right now she's not trying and she's not even talking. At least, not much, not more than dribs and drabs of scattered words soaking Madilla's shoulder: 'awful,' and 'guilty,' and then how it's not even her dragon messed up and her stomach keeps hurting, it hurts, amidst other what-ifs and worries and guilt and how it's going to rain tomorrow again and... she winds up trailing off into more weeping and it isn't pretty at all. Luckily, Madilla is not interested in pretty. She may not even be specifically interested in words, though she's certainly listening. Mostly, she makes murmured, soothing noises, and just holds the greenrider. She's here; everything will work out. Everything will - eventually! - be fine. Telavi, not a fan of 'eventually.' Telavi wants now, at least for the good things, but-- the holding must help, even beyond just plain running out of tears; finally she sighs, a raggedy sort of thing, and gives a liquidy sniff. She's never had a mother, wouldn't know what to do with one if she had one, but this... this helps. Madilla helps. And what would also help is, "...a handkerchief?" The skills of a mother are transferrable. So, too, are the skills of a healer. Being both, and more importantly, being the kind of person she is, certainly stands Madilla in good stead. She's also, as it happens, the kind of person who keeps handkerchiefs on her person; today's is still clean, a piece of finely embroidered fabric that she draws from out of a pocket, offering it to Telavi. "You'll need more tea, now," she guesses. "Or just water?" Telavi's nod is definite if not unambiguous; after a moment of sorrow for the poor helpless embroidery, she dabs her face and blinks and then.... hopefully it's a big handkerchief, the way she makes use of it now. Murmured afterwards, very softly, "Thank you." What use is a small handkerchief to anyone? Industrial sized, that's the way to go with these things. Madilla draws back, now, though she gives Telavi's shoulder a squeeze as she does so. "You're welcome," is her answer, offered equally softly, not much above a whisper. For now, she fills a glass, setting it down upon the table. Telavi sits; she drinks her water; and in all these things, she does as Madilla asks. It'll be later that she thinks to hope that Jinja wasn't listening at the door. Quietly, gently, Madilla talks of trivialities; she shares an anecdote of Raija's antics, and how that handkerchief, the one Telavi has used, is Lilabet's work, and how proud she is. She won't mention K'zin, and nor will she make any effort to hurry the greenrider away: she has, it seems, all the time in the world. |
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