Difference between revisions of "Logs:The Beginning of the End"

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.

It is an autumn night, 22:48 of day 22, month 11, turn 18 of Interval 10.

Once a sight unusual to see in here, the past few weeks have found the Weyrwoman to be a periodic, if deliberately not-so-frequent visitor to the infirmary. It's just after dinner when, standing just within the entreeway, a hand poised flat against the door as if to dart off if not spotted quickly, Satiet waits. Though she might be adept at schooling her features, the fluttering of thin fingers against wood and the pale sallowness lining her jaw betray either nerves or yet another symptom of her condition: cramps, fatigue, and indigestion. Pale eyes train to a spot on the far wall and that sharpish little chin lifts just a fraction higher when two aids pass by with quizzical looks.

The infirmary is mostly quiet, at this time of the evening, it being too early for those seeking bedtime medications, and to late for those stepping in on their way back from the day's duties. Delifa is lingering over some paperwork at the counter, keeping herself busy while she stands on duty, but it's Madilla, coming down the corridor from, presumably, the Living Caverns, who notices Satiet first. "Weyrwoman!" she says, coming up behind the older woman, concern instantly setting itself in upon her expression, and in her tone. "Come in, please." /Now/ Delifa looks up, brows narrowing just so.

Those fingers, tapered and thin, flutter, paused by the door when Madilla not only greets her but directs her. Oh, the desire to flee. How easy it could be. But then those fingers lift to flutter aimlessly in mid-air first before the arm drops to her side. With a parting ice-blue shot for those aids who've long since passed by, Satiet unbends herself from the entranceway and takes that first step towards the apprentice healer. "I don't think-," begins the woman, the odd inflection of uncertainty coloring her nominally frosty intonation. "The teas aren't working." To Delifa, not Madilla, goes this accusation.

It's Delifa who answers her, too, coming around the counter and towards the doorway, her gaze trained upon the Weyrwoman. "We can try and make them more potent, but--" The Journeywoman is not known for her uncertainty, and the frown set upon her features is equally unusual. "There's been no improvement? Has there been any change, in your--" Again, she breaks off, head shaking. "Come through to the office, Weyrwoman. We'll talk things over." Madilla stays silent, but her expression is clearly intended to be soothing, encouraging.

A pause, just the slightest catch of her breath halts any biting retort that might fall from her lip, thus betrayed by the sudden sharp intake of breath and the quick narrowing of her pale eyes. The breath than exhales slower, and the pale eyes, made large with a little bit of effort, train onto first Delifa then her apprentice. Satiet's first few steps are more shuffle than anything more. There are words she -wants- to say hovering about parted lips, but she's silent until they've entered the journeywoman's office and the second that door closes, words blurt forth, "Am I pregnant?"

Madilla hesitates, as though she's not sure if she's supposed to follow or not, but Delifa beckons her in, and it is the Apprentice who shuts the door behind them, moving to sit off to one side: the student, learning. "No, Weyrwoman," says the Journeywoman, gently, as she encourages Satiet to sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk, with a wave of her hand. She, herself, settles on the other side of the desk, watching. "I don't believe you're pregnant. Have you had any new symptoms, since last we spoke? Is it getting worse, or is the tea simply not improving it?"

If Pern had religion, surely the next words out of Satiet's mouth would be 'thank God', but as there isn't and Faranth isn't a likely substitute, the weyrwoman merely exhales a relieved sigh, that, for the moment forgets she has symptoms that are now unexplained. Unfazed by Madilla's presence, perhaps the younger woman's attempts at encouragement and comfort are actually working, for instead of Delifa, Satiet's distant relief eventually rests on the apprentice. "I- I can't remember the last time I've wanted to eat anything. Or when I last ate for that matter." Wry humor colors her voice, a smile shaping her lips as pale glazed eyes finally focuses on the teenager.

It's a slightly reluctant smile, at first, that Madilla extends in an effort to match Satiet's own, as if warring between sharing the relief, and not being unfairly comforting. "You should eat, Weyrwoman," she says, in a soft voice, her eyes imploring, though the smile remains cautiously in place. "Even if you're not hungry. Your body can't run, without sustenance." Delifa's expression is more solemn, a tight-lipped almost smile. Gently, she notes, "Having ruled pregnancy out, Weyrwoman, we do need to move on to other possibilities."

"If I could keep food down, I might try it more often," replies Satiet, dry. "I don't think sustenance does me much good when it comes back up." In the lighting of the office, shadows throw the weyrwoman's thin face in sharp relief when it cants back to regard Delifa, relief suddenly schooled. Her, "Yes?" inquires for information superficially while drawing her intonation away coldly and sharply from being at ease; as if she doesn't really want to hear what those other possibilities might be.

"Blended fruit," suggests Madilla. "Perhaps with some wheatgerm in it?" She tilts her head towards Delifa, to confirm this idea, and the older healer gives a slow nod, though she looks as though she's biting a comment back. The Apprentice, too, bites back further words, as the Weyrwoman turns her head; she exhales deeply, hands twisting uncomfortably in her lap. Delifa is in no way cowed by the change in Satiet's demeanour, and ticks symptoms off on her fingers, each in turn. "Lack of appetite, vomiting, the way your skin looks... And the tea I made up for you did no good. /And/ you're a drinker. I realise you don't want to hear this - no one does, of course - but I think we're looking at something far more serious."

Blended fruit. Wheatgerm. Right. A fleeting glance grazes across Madilla's face, before dropping to spy the uncomfortably twisting hands. Hearing her symptoms listed aloud, particularly the last not-quite-symptom, but fact elicits a tremor across Satiet's features - a tic about her mouth. "Please, do go on, journeywoman," in a voice that desires anything but, and those slender, thin fingers flex, drawn into a loose-held, controlled fist.

Madilla's hands still, with Satiet's gaze on them, but it's too late; she schools her expression into something bland, which still doesn't quite hide her discontent, though she keeps her gaze lowered. Delifa clears her throat, eyes seeking to meet Satiet's directly, unflinchingly. "It's your liver, Weyrwoman. Here." She indicates on her own abdomen, drawing away from the desk to show it better. "We don't know a lot about how it works, but we do know that heavy drinking can cause enormous damage to it, and that's what your symptoms illustrate, to me."

"So-." Still drawn to Madilla's hands, Satiet nonetheless speaks stiffly to Delifa. "I'll stop drinking." It's that easy.

Madilla's hands squeeze, unconsciously, into little fists. She has her eyes on Satiet, now, ignoring the look on Delifa's face, the half breath that signifies her discomfort with this conversation, a discomfort that Madilla shares. The Journeywoman shakes her head. "That will give you more time, Weyrwoman, but--" She takes in a deep breath, releases it. "Your liver is shutting down. We can't stop that, we can't reverse it." Madilla's eyes close, her head lowering into a gesture that, on another world, might suggest prayer. Delifa continues, softly, "I'm very sorry, Weyrwoman."

The loose-held fist tightens, even as Madilla's own hands squeeze and unable to look to Delifa, Satiet instead pins her focus, her hopes onto the younger woman. The apprentice. Was this moment wholly unexpected? Given her general avoidance and nervous ticks, it's unlikely she's caught by any measure of surprise. And yet, those pale eyes, liquid and glassy, pin onto Madilla, until she's able to ask, quieter, "What's your opinion, girl?"

The weight of Satiet's gaze upon her draws a faint stiffening of Madilla's shoulders, though she doesn't otherwise react until the question is phrased. Then, and very slowly, she lifts her head, green eyes meeting icy blue. "We've been over it, Weyrwoman. Journeywoman Delifa and I." Her voice is more confident than the rest of her posture suggests it ought to be: serious, expressive, but confident. "I wish I had something different to tell you. If you stop drinking, though, we can slow the process. And, perhaps... You might wish to visit the Hall, and talk to one of the Masters. For your peace of mind."

The last thing on Satiet's mind at the moment is visiting healers or mitigating her drinking. The last thing the dark-haired, pale-eyed woman is likely thinking of is anything other than the end result, slowed down or not. And with this in mind, the glassy tremor in her Madilla-directed gaze spills a few drops out of the corner of her eyes, her hand quick to lift to wipe and fold in her lap. Hands clasped, her knuckles whitened, Satiet gets to her feet slowly. "Thank you," is spoken evenly, with controlled serenity. "I've taken enough of your time. I-, I have- I have a turnday to attend to." Her teeth press into her lower lip and she spares the slightest, polite smile for the healers. "Good night."

No doubt it is Madilla's inexperience that draws her into rising to her feet, as Satiet does; Delifa stays where she is, lips pursed, clearly aware of what the reaction she's seeing is, but aware, too, that the patient is probably simply not ready for more. "Please, Weyrwoman," says Madilla, hands clasped together in front of her. "There are ways we can help. Make this-- easier. And you'll need to - to talk things out. If you need someone... healers are good listeners. Please..." She's begging, hopeful and desperate at once. "Let us help you with this, Weyrwoman."

Stalled on her would-be exit, Satiet turns slowly to look to Madilla rather than the door, and in humor, attempts to find some way not to cry. At least not be emotional in front of /people/; in front of strangers. "If I'm dying," a beat skips, the dreaded word finally finding breath, and is filled by a swallow, "I'd like to spend that time with the man-, the people I love." Her dark hair swings forward as she flashes a self-mocking smile, "Don't believe everything you hear, apprentice. I do have people to love. Later." She'll deal with this later.

Madilla's face seems to freeze, for a moment, and then it relaxes, as, very slowly, she nods. "Of course you do, Weyrwoman. I wouldn't--" Breaking off, she shakes her head, looking suddenly awkward and embarrassed. "Of course. Good night, Weyrwoman." Now, Delifa, too, rises, echoing the sentiment in her own clear alto.

It's only when she gets at the office door that she recalls something. Some sense of self-preservation, though not in any normal way. There, Satiet's thin frame pauses, her hand lifted to brace herself briefly against the door's knob, and she turns. A slim shoulder rotating followed by pale eyes on the verge of some emotional struggling. "I trust that both of you will keep your patient's confidentiality and not speak of this with others?" Her expectancy that they will, particularly with her sharp reminder, then causes her to exit without awaiting a response, perhaps not wanting to hear anything other than what she wants to.