Logs:Getting Her Nose Back
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| RL Date: 13 January, 2012 |
| Who: Madilla, Val, Cadejoth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After Isyath's flight, after Val gets her nose broken, she goes to where everyone goes: to visit Madilla. Visigoth checks in on Cadejoth. |
| Where: Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 8, Month 10, Turn 27 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ali/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions, V'teri/Mentions |
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| Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr Two sets of double doors, one from the the inner caverns and a recently built set from the dragon infirmary, lead into the unnaturally hushed human infirmary. Despite fastidious cleaning, the scent of redwort and numbweed has long since soaked into every smooth-carved surface, along with other, subtler medicinal smells. Pristinely made cots are lined up against the walls; most of them are left open to view, but some in the back are surrounded by curtains for delicate procedures or critical patients. About halfway between the two entrances is the counter for the healers on duty; it guards the entrance to the storage rooms just beyond, their shelves and cabinets lined with meticulously labeled bottles, boxes, jars, and even vats of supplies. The Weyrhealer's office is also here, along with another side room for mixing up medicines and the like.
So there's only one witness when the door slams open, rebounding against the wall... only to slam shut for good measure past the heels of the pissed-off brownrider who's just stalked inside. A wad of fabric, maybe someone else's shirt, half-conceals her face. But really, could it be anyone else? It would be difficult to miss that door-slamming: Madilla glances up as it happens, gaze first narrowing, and then - then! - widening as she register Val, and more to the point, Val's appearance. The cot she's been straightening gets abandoned; she strides across the room in a determined hurry, hand reaching up towards that wad of fabric, but not touching, as she says, "Oh, Val. Come, sit down, let me take a look at that." "Fuck that," says Val, even though she's complying, even though that's why she's here. Even sitting, it's hard to let go, to let Madilla have a look at more than the blood that's dried in wrinkly smears upon her still-contorted face. It's hard to bend her elbow back down, and a hiss escapes her when the cloth threatens to stick. "Fuck nothing," says Madilla, in return, at her most gentle as she attempts to get that cloth pealed away completely. Though her brow furrows, it's not with more than basic concern: she uses a damp cloth to wipe, just very gently, at the blood stains, to get a better look. "I'll have to set it back straight. It'll hurt. Do you want some--" She hesitates. "Something?" "Tell me about it," says Val. Bitterly. She's wincing at even most delicate of touches, her breathing rough and a little bubbly, her knees tight together beneath the once-floaty and now rather tired skirt. "Something. Lots of something. Hate him." Madilla is sympathetic, at least, though she waits until after she's left and come back - with a bottle of dark liquid in hand - to ask, "Who? Who do you hate? Do you want to tell me about it, Val?" She pours a measure of the alcohol into a glass, along with something more medicinal looking, and hands it over, turning, then, to wash her own hands, and fetch some more water. "Pissant," is what Val says, like it's his name. Their names. maybe. She's quick to down the alcohol, quick enough to belie whatever civility she's heretofore shown around the journeyman... only to have the burn kick her even harder with that broken nose, her fist slamming reflexively against the table. And while that jolt might make it worse, there's some satisfaction there too: like it should have been his face. It makes Madilla jump, that fist, and the glance she aims back at Val, this time, is rather more wary. Perhaps it's a good thing she's behind her at the moment, fussing with a bowl of water to bring back to the table next to the brownrider. "I'll have it back in place in no time," she promises, as though that were the main thing on Val's mind, now, and not this pissant. "Hold still." "Give me..." The brownrider gets rid of the glass and makes to compose herself, no matter the minor jostling it will do to her: sitting squarer, arms around herself, hands tightening on her shoulders. Visigoth can't be happy about all this, but he wasn't happy before, and he's not here. She lifts her chin, braces: "Do it." It's the first time. Madilla waits, waits until the command is given, and then launches into action. She's done this before, at least - probably dozens of times, if this weyr really does live up to its reputation. It hurts, of course, but afterwards, the healer has ice wrapped in a towel to press on top of it, and a firm, "I don't see why it shouldn't heal straight." There's a growly raw note from Val's throat when it hits hard... and then her head's bent, part of that towel pushed over her swollen eyes to hide her tears. She nods once, jerkily. Finally, when she can get her voice stronger, "Thanks." Madilla can't, perhaps, help herself: unless Val pushes away, she'll rest one hand atop the brownrider's hair, soothingly. "You're welcome, Val. We'll hold the ice there for a little while, and then I'll tape it in place, so it doesn't move. You'll have battle scars, for a little while: a story to tell everyone else!" Beat. "Do you want some more whisky?" She twitches unhappily at the could-be maternal gesture, shifting against the hard bench. Her hand loosens, clenches against its edge. "Yes," she says. And: "Not going to tell anyone," like the very idea's stupid. Except: "I'll have to. Can't hide." Her knuckles are pale beneath abrasions, her rings hidden by the angle. "As much as you got, really." Pulling her hand away, Madilla gives Val a rueful smile. "It happens," she remarks. "You could turn it into a fantastic story, if you wanted. Unless it already is one? But--" She seems to think 'not', really, probably thanks to the brownrider's current attitude. The glass gets refilled: three parts whisky, one part whatever-the-medicial-but-is, and returned. One handed, so that, afterwards, she can lift the towel and get a look at Val's nose. And put it back into place, a moment later. "Wasn't K'del's fault," and could Val be any more defensive? "We just got there." Only then she's realizing what she's let slip, and even though it'll make the rounds soon enough... still. She shuts up and downs what's in the glass, whatever it is, not protesting at the change in flavor nor even at the examination. Much. "When will it go away," she says then, more tiredly. Madilla picks it up; there's no question about that. Her mouth widens into an 'o', and then narrows again, awkwardly. But she's a good healer-- she concentrates, instead, on answering, "It'll start hurting less soon. A couple of days and... it'll take a little longer than that to heal completely, but not too long. It'll be fine." She's reassuring, at least. "I'll tape it up in a minute. But the ice needs to stay on it a while longer. We don't want it to swell too much." Val acknowledges with what starts out as a nod and winds up as a wince, for all that the hard stuff is kicking into even her hard head. Her fingers steal up, light as spinner-steps along her hairline, as though she could survey the damage that way. "We don't," slight emphasis on the pronoun. "You're right." She's looking a little distant now. Madilla is silent for several long moments, even as she's pulling the towel-and-ice away. "Are you all right, Val?" Or perhaps it is just the hard stuff. The towel gets dropped, as she reaches for the aforementioned tape; still, she seems intent on waiting for a reply before going any further on it. "Of course I'm not all right." It comes out quietly, nothing like her usual flamboyance. "He's not supposed to touch me." She leans forward, letting Madilla do it, encouraging it. It's going to hurt. Visigoth's a low growl on the horizon: all right there, buddy? (Or... maybe just not as wrong.) (Visigoth to Cadejoth) In disgrace. Sulking. Missing-- mourning. And ice. So much ice. It spins through everything, winding the chains to silence: cold and hard. All right? No. But still: here. (Cadejoth to Visigoth) Equally quiet, for all that her fingers are busy as she does it, placing that tape oh-so-carefully across the bridge of Val's nose: "Who isn't?" The brownrider holds very still, except for once, where she licks her lips. She's still breathing through her mouth where she can. "He's not," she says. "None of them are." Here is supposed to mean all right but it's not, and this ice, Visigoth knows instinctively, is dangerous to come too near. Some is pure, while some hides... oh, all sorts of things within it, and all of it is a minefield and a trap and Cadejoth, he's caught up in it. The older brown doesn't quite dare go nearer right now. He watches it, though, how white and cold it is in the dark. Skin would freeze to ice-touched metal, and break. But he's waiting, outside, for when Cadejoth is freed. As though that could make a difference. (Visigoth to Cadejoth) Clearly, Madilla has no idea what Val is talking about - but this time, she doesn't press. "Okay," she says. And: "Here, hold the ice back over it for a little while longer? I'm finished. But I don't want you getting up and walking around just yet, if you would." It does seem to make a difference. Cadejoth may yearn to be free-- to be out there again, but he's not, and he won't be, and the knowing... it seems to soothe him. « It will be okay, » he says, simply, barely louder than a breath - as though he needs to whisper to escape Iovniath's continued wrath. (Cadejoth to Visigoth) And it's just close enough to okay that Val's reflexively taking the ice and starting to stand... making the healer's interjection particularly appropriately timed. She does stop, on the edge of the table as though it were a seesaw, for all that the corner has to be digging in. She's frowning, a little. "So I can dance, then, right?" Her voice has cleared even if her expression can't, tiptoeing around a joke. Not so funny: "Have you heard... anything?" It's not okay, but maybe it's just close enough to let Visigoth reply, just as quietly as the bronze: « It will, » he agrees, as though by taking that assurance he can give it back. From there, though... all there is to do is wait. (Visigoth to Cadejoth) "And accidentally crash into a wall and undo all my hard work?" it's a tease that isn't quite matched with a smile - not when Val has already asked that other question, which has Madilla ducking her head down unhappily as she wipes her hands on a clean towel. "No. But the whole weyr-- even down here, it was obvious something was wrong." "What was it like?" Val has to ask, after a clash of heels against table that mimics a wall, though lighter by far than even the door-slamming had been. Then she turns to clicking them against each other, three times and then a pause, three times and then a pause. She's still here, though. Not home. Waiting. Exactly what Cadejoth does best. (Cadejoth to Visigoth) "I don't know, exactly," admits Madilla, glancing up again. "Tension. At the back of my neck. We had Th'mark in here, and he explained what was going on; he was surprised that we could all feel it. It made me unhappy. Do you think he intended to?" "Make you unhappy?" Puzzlement: such a good distraction, even if there's a whispered curse when the ice cracks and shift, melting, beneath Val's hand. Madilla explains, quietly, "I didn't like the way it felt. I don't like-- the idea of there being that kind of unhappiness. It just makes me unhappy." Beat. "I'm sorry. If you're ready to go, you probably can, now. Rest, though." Maybe it's the permission that makes Val stay. She starts to shake her head, and in lieu: "I mean, do you think he... Th'mark? Meant to make you unhappy?" Her heels have pressed together, locking there, not scratching the leather against itself. She licks her lips again. It's a quick dry flicker of a thing, not sultry, despite the question that comes next: "Do you get the good parts, too?" Though surely not tonight. Madilla's "Oh," is muted. "No, I don't think so. We were worried; he explained. I think he intended it to be useful-- an explanation that would help." It clearly didn't. She gives the brownrider a hesitant glance, then, mouth drawing into what could almost be described as a smile, she adds, "None of them. No. Thankfully. I suspect that would have been most distracting." For Th'mark's probable rationale, Val tests out a cautious nod, as though full agreement with the healer is made. Only then Madilla goes on, and her mouth starts to round, until she admits with kind and perfect innocence, "I keep forgetting you don't understand. It must be so different, being..." head-blind? amputated? maimed? "...that way." She takes back the glass and licks along its rim, as though there might be a drop or two left behind. Madilla does not, this time, offer more whisky. That's healer whisky-- and clearly, Val is not about to die any time soon. If she's conscious of what Val thinks of non-riders, it doesn't show, although she does turn faintly pink all the same. "No, I suppose we don't. It's-- it is the way we are. I think it must be strange to have another voice in your head." Strange, yes. But also? Wonderful. "I couldn't imagine it another way," says Val with near-perfect truth, and also with a little uncomfortable wiggle. Her boots are resting against each other now, the ball of one nestled into the other's arch. Over the glass, even if it is an empty glass, "Do you feel bad when apprentices are Searched? Because they are, sometimes. Does it feel your craft made them be somebody and now it's all wasted?" Madilla's smile is fond, somehow, for the way Val speaks about it; it seems to make her happy. But for Apprentices? She shakes her head. "G'brion was an Apprentice, but he still is, really, just differently. I don't think the skills are ever wasted. And-- I think perhaps it's our duty to accept search, regardless. It's important." Duty, snooty. There's another little wiggle, a slightly less uncomfortable one this time, and Val sighs and tips her head at the neck, slowly and carefully and tip-sy. "I suppose. You're really nice, you know. Somebody in my old wing, back at Benden, his masters never ever wanted to see his face again. But maybe that was just because he was a jerk." Madilla leans back, resting against a table that, thankfully, is not actually on wheels (unlike a lot of things in this infirmary). "I-- thank you?" More cautiously, she adds, "I suspect some of them do feel as though they've wasted their time. I know it must seem unfair, when a gifted Apprentice gives it up. But I don't think that's fair, to think that. Perhaps I'm too nice." Val smiles sideways at her, just a little, the movement making a tiny dried fleck of blood fall off from where it had been left behind. "You're welcome... Madilla. I feel better too, you know." So very delicately, o very not properly, she puts the glass in front of her mouth to hide a yawn. "It's lucky for us you are, you patch us up when we get into... things. You don't ever have to be a master, do you? You're not studying us for a project to write us up to put us in the records to put in the Hall to put..." and then the lift of her voice just turns it into a question. Genuinely, "I'm glad." The rest makes Madilla blush-- pink at first, and then darker red, as, hastily, she shakes her head. "Oh, no, no. I'm a healer. I heal people, I don't want-- no. You've nothing to worry about on that front." "You're blushing, Madilla," said with such a languorous rise and fall and lingering upon ordinarily plainspoken words. "I like that. And I like not having to worry... about you." But any impact of those dark eyes must be further diluted by the black eyes, and by Val standing very cautiously and setting the glass down more cautiously yet. "You said I'm free to go." Which only serves to make Madilla blush more. Perhaps that's why, hastily, she agrees: "I did. And you should. You should-- rest. And look after yourself. Come back, if it swells too much. And in a few days, regardless, so that we can check up on it." "So that you can check up on my swelling," and Val doesn't even put any unseemly pause before that last word, though there's a curious curve to her mouth. "Good day, good night," and whichever it is, she walks out with the too-careful steadiness of somebody having to try too hard, now and again putting a hand out for balance. "You won't be out of work anytime soon!" floats after her, possibly reassuringly, only it's echoed by a mutter about where did she put her knife. Out of work? Hardly. That, at least, makes Madilla laugh. Left to her own devices, she keeps smiling as she cleans things up: easier, without people to worry about. |
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