Logs:Let Them Eat Tarts
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| RL Date: 12 October, 2012 |
| Who: Leova, Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Leova and Madilla escape together, only partially to celebrate the former's turnday. But they're not very good at just enjoying themselves. |
| Where: Beach, Southern Continent |
| When: Day 15, Month 13, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Anvori/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
| Beach, Southern Continent A sweeping vista of water can be viewed from this strip of soft, white sand. Gray cliffs rise at the back of the stretch, their faces craggy and pitted with the erosion of driving rain, wind, and centuries of tidal forces. The sea is a turquoise blue where it laps at the beach. The sea floor slopes gently out for a long ways before a sudden drop off a few miles out into darker waters. The sand is littered with the flotsam of most beaches, colorful shells and smooth rocks, seaweed and forgotten debris left up at the high tide line. This little slice of beach practically breaths tranquility. There's a beach, down Nerat way, with white sand and craggy, weatherworn cliffs... and just after a hope-against-hope blink into existence to ascertain that weather's indeed wearing those cliffs further, that the sea is not turquoise but struck into rain-lashed gray, Vrianth vanishes again. This time it's to that beach's counterpart down South, with high cliffs and white sand and warmth, but Leova gives the ocean a wistful glance all the same. Her green spends little enough time on that, shaking it off with the rain from her wings, her descent lighter for Madilla's sake. The sun glints off the sand, off the water, off the wicker of the picnic basket sandwiched between them. "Pity," says Madilla, once she's safely on the ground and able to communicate without shouting. "But one beach is as good as another, I suppose. Thank you, Vrianth." She's prosaic - and besides, seems genuinely pleased to be somewhere other than High Reaches, wherever that might be, for a few hours at least. Abandoning boots and coat to a tidy pile, the healer turns her attention to the picnic basket, and to the blanket she spreads neatly onto the white sand. "We're not the only people to face bleak weather, for all that it feels that way sometimes." Travesty! says the turn of the greenrider's head, but still she chuckles. "You're welcome," she says for Vrianth, leaving out whatever else the rangy dragon's included. There are straps to remove, after all, and quickly. A quick peek at Madilla's followed by, "Do you really think so?" It's almost imploring, a little. A little more than almost, even. "They can remind me, but they're not the same. ... Imagine how it must have been on the exiles' island, without the windbreak." Finally she loops up the leather, finally Vrianth goes splashing into the ocean. /She/ doesn't look back. Madilla spreads that blanket just so, crawling along the top of it so that she can reach each corner in turn, which keeps her expression hidden from the greenrider. She's smiling, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes - and perhaps that's why, when she sits up again, the glance she aims at her companion is more thoughtful. "It's hard to imagine how they survived so many winters," she admits, frankly. "It sounds awful. For me..." Her smile is encouraging, this time, "I'm just happy to be somewhere warm. It's still a lovely spot. Besides, we have jam tarts, and as Lily tells me often, everything is improved by jam tarts." "Wonder if they're any more glad that they're off, now," Leova says by way of agreement. "Doubt it." She's got a one-shouldered shrug for it, though, amenable to be encouraged, whether to remove her outerwear or to sit. She does both. "Ah, jam tarts. I do like jam tarts. I suppose Via would like it if I saved her some." Her expression hasn't exactly changed, there, nor has her voice. Although generally inclined to think the best of everything, Madilla's expression says what she doesn't put into words: she doubts it, too. While Leova removes her outerwear, the healer continues to busy herself, this time by opening up the basket to explore the goodies inside. Even so, she's got time to give Leova another glance, brows knitting together carefully. "I'm sure she would. But today? We come first. If we decide to stuff ourselves full of tarts, well, that's our business." "Madilla. Madilla." Leova's got such a smile for her friend, somehow playful amid the weariness, and she twists one way and then the other to crack her back before settling down. "I didn't want to admit it," she admits, that smile slipping. She recovers it: "Full of tarts. All the tarts. We'd half be tarts, then. How many tarts did you bring? And... when did you even start, telling people that?" The smile Madilla aims at Leova, the smile she uses to reply to much of that with, is not far off angelic. "When did I start a lot of things. When did any of us, really. Oh, Leova." But despite the way she says that - that exclamation that is both full of affection and full of unquantified heaviness, she's got nothing much more to add to it. Instead; "There's at least half a dozen in here, and some little cakes as well. I didn't ask for it all, I promise: I just said I wanted a picnic, and... the kitchen staff have always liked me." She seems almost guilty for it, too. "As well they should!" Leova's quick to reply. "Maybe we could save one for Delifa, then. Just not the girls, and not the boys." She sighs, smiles again, and slides onto her stomach with a near-wriggle. "Don't want to put the healer to work, saving us all from indigestion, after all." There's only a little pause, a subtly concerned pause. "How is she, anyway." "I'm sure they'll all get plenty at Turnover, after all," agrees Madilla, who, despite her rummaging, hasn't actually rescued any of the tarts from their basket prison - and now leans back on her knees, abandoning the basket altogether. "She's sick." The way she says it make sit sound like it's not something she's spoken out loud about. "At least she's admitted it, now, and-- it's long and slow. Not today, not tomorrow. Perhaps not even next turn." And Leova pales. "What is it? Can you say? I hope it doesn't hurt..." and surely there's another woman in their thoughts, a woman gone these ten Turns. Madilla has to swallow before answering - she has to look guilty and apologetic, too, as she aims a glance at Leova. "It's not... her liver. I don't think anyone really knows what it is, except that the symptoms match... she says she's not in pain. Not much. But Delvana is only nine, and... I didn't mean to talk about this. We're dealing. When the time comes, I'll take over the Infirmary." And now Leova sits up, if only so she can pull her knees up, hugging them. Her inhale is more audible than the fragment of breath that she lets loose. Then, "Of course," she says. "I won't tell." She's still pale. "'Not much.' I hope she'd tell you, if it were otherwise. I... but of course she can get to everything she needs." Madilla's cheeks puff out as she inhales, and deflate only slowly when, finally, she needs to let that breath go. "Yes," she confirms. "She can. It's a hard thing, knowing that the option open to-- others is less available to her. But I know she'll do what she needs to. We'll manage." But she's staring off into the distance, now, and her expression is unquestionably troubled. "But you. And Via. And Anvori. You're all well?" "It's fine," Leova says of her own family. If she's no longer quite so pale, shadow's collected in those amber eyes. "But Delifa. At least she has you to take care of her. But there will be so much on your shoulders, too." And then, all at once, "It's worrisome. The changes, The protests. It worries him too, whether it's safe." For Delifa, and all that is to come, now, Madilla can only nod. But it's that last thought from Leova that has her turning her gaze back again, studying her friend with green eyes that contain such seriousness. After another exhale: "It is. It's not... at least everyone knew what to expect, with Tiriana. Now, I don't know what people will do. Do you think there will be more? More trouble. Is it safe." "I don't know." It's bleak. Leova's found herself looking at Vrianth againt, distant, out there in the water like her own sinking island. "I don't have a head for larger things, just now. I keep looking at the calendar." Sinking, and swimming. Vrianth. "I don't like to think of what /she/ would have thought. Of it all getting to this." "Would she have let the exiles Stand-- no, perhaps it's just that she would have mentored Iolene." Madilla's glum tones are nonetheless thoughtful, and if she's picking at a loose thread in her skirt, well, it's only because it gives her hands something to do. "Nothing is as it used to be. It's never been this... it bothers me, too. I wonder what K'del thinks." Leova's quick headshake is instinctive, but then actual thought twitches one shoulder towards an uncertain shrug. For the mentoring, "Yes," that at least she can agree with, no question. "I wonder, too. I wonder... perhaps, were you, or Delifa, to visit him... a healer. It must be so difficult, though I don't know that there's anything you could /do/. Do people talk about it much, when they come in?" Madilla's brow is furrowed, and her gaze too focused on her skirt, still, for her to watch Leova's reactions. Instead, she listens, exhaling a long, low breath that is much more like a sigh than perhaps she intends it to be. "Sometimes," she allows. "Before Rielsath went up, it was all 'if only Rielsath had risen first'. Now... it's worse. I'll go and talk to him." It's as she says that last that she straightens, shoulders back, tone turning more determined. "As a friend. We all need listening ears." That sight, Madilla in action, it brings Leova a relieved smile. "Just don't bring him tarts," she says. "Because those are ours." Though if it would fix matters, surely he could have a whole kitchen full. She's quiet then, gaze sweeping over the rippling surface of the water, relaxing when the green re-emerges even if it's only to dive again. Eventually, "We should be able to relax here." "No tarts," promises Madilla, allowing a note of levity and a not-quite-solid smile, though neither seem inclined to linger. She shifts, now, drawing her legs out from beneath her and into a crossed position, instead, her skirt smoothed over them in a gesture that she gives more attention than is really warranted. "We should. But... we don't, do we. There's always something. I feel as though we used to be better at this." "Before children, before men," Leova reminisces, rolling her gaze back Madilla's way. "Not that I'd toss mine back, mind. If I could," and her smile's a touch secretive and oddly sweet. "Today, though... Vrianth's getting closer and she's not due, but she should be soon, and I can't exactly wear cloths 'just in case,' if you see what I mean. Although it would be worth waddling if it would work." Madilla's head lifts just in time to catch that smile, and it seems to hearten her in a way the rest of the conversation, thus far, has not. In reply, her smile is genuine, and warm, and unfaltering. "No," she agrees. "I'd not change things, either." She seeks out Vrianth with a turn of her head, her nod marking reply to that latter remark. "The cycles of life continue," she remarks, levelly. "On and on and on, despite the politics and the problems." The cycles of life get a roll of Leova's eyes that has less to do with direction and more to do with grumbling. "Tarts, please," she says more than asks, only then she sinks back to give her friend big eyes worthy, perhaps, of Milani. And if Madilla doesn't oblige her, she'll do it herself, and it's a little way before she asks, "Do you feel... pretty?" Between Milani and her own daughter, Madilla is well-used to these big eyes, but not immune to them: with a grin, she rolls back onto her knees again to fetch out those tarts and provide one (with accompanying napkin - of course!) to the greenrider. She's considering the remaining half of her tart when that question comes out, and it surprises her, sending her gaze flying back up towards Leova, and turning her expression thoughtful. "No," she says, after a moment's pause. "I've never thought of myself that way. I don't mind, though. I'm-- Why?" Leova, by now, is engaged in dipping her finger into her own tart and licking it off, the sort of behavior /never/ to be tolerated in one's own daughters. When one isn't the father, at least. "Oh, I don't know. You are pretty, you know." Her glance at Madilla could be as matter-of-fact as her tone, only she's smiling. "It's only... getting older, and all. Fairly certain I could turn heads even now. Find it fairly offensive, though, that I should have to try. Which is silly." Madilla is pleased by the compliment, despite her claims, but it's Leova's explanation that has her tipping her head to one side to consider the other woman. "You could, and I suspect you do," she tells her, simply. "Even without trying. Why do you feel you need to? I admit," and her own smile is rueful for it, now, "I may not have an Anvori to go home to, but I'm content enough not trying all the same." "I don't need to, I've been trying and trying not to... oh, I don't know." Leova plucks at her sleeve. "Part of me likes these horrible clothes, by now, doesn't know what I'd wear if I didn't." She catches herself patting her sleeve instead, and hastily wipes her fingers on the napkin instead, with a guilty look at Madilla. "And my man's no help, sometimes we go out gussied up to a crossroads hold and have a bit of fun there, but I think he likes unwrapping what the rest don't see even more. Oh, I don't know. Anyone else would be happy, happy, happy." She's got a brighter smile for Madilla. "Especially after these tarts. Now, when was the last time you had a new Gather dress?" There's no reproof in Madilla's expression - not for the sleeve-patting, and not for the admissions that accompany it. Nor, however, does she seem to have much to say, for all that her lips part and her breath escapes. "I think," she says, finally, and in a slow, careful voice, "that you should be able to wear what you want, and feel how you like, and... But nothing's that simple, is it. It's not bad, to not be happy, happy, happy. It's not. We feel the way we feel. We can't change that." The Gather dress goes unanswered: the healer is too focused upon Leova. "Maybe I can, now," Leova says like she's agreeing, only it's also a little desolate, there within the brightness she's kept about her like a blanket. "In the meantime, though, I feel safe in saying that we can change how we feel, with another bite of tart, and then perhaps a dress: one of the scalloped bodices, perhaps? A lavender would be lovely with your eyes." Madilla has her eyes on Leova, still, and there's no doubt that she's conscious of that desolation. But she's too polite, even in these modern days, to push a topic that has been pushed aside, and so she smiles and agrees, "Tarts do do wonders, I agree." It's the tart that she lifts to her mouth, new; it disappears in careful bites, all of which is concluded with, "I do like lavender. Some of those new dresses I've seen are lovely. Pretty things are... unnecessary, perhaps, but still... nice." "We could eat plain sliced meat in plain unspiced pies every day, and it wouldn't be necessary to have them any other way. Except in that they would drive us mad," Leova says with a one-cornered smile. "We could also wear plain undyed unbleached... well, yes. There's a lot to be said for nice." But unlike Madilla, she'll save one carefully-wrapped bite of tart for later. Even if it gets crushed, even if it gets stale, even if it's not the same... it's something. Just in case. |
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