Difference between revisions of "Logs:Needlethorns at Twenty Paces"

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's cold out there, this afternoon, too cold to add to the dunes of snow out there already, cold enough that the foreign brownrider takes entirely too long about shiver-stepping her way into the infirmary. It's mincing, really, in a long woolen sweater buttoned beneath her riding jacket, its cuffs hiding all but her fingertips in a way that makes her seem even younger than she is. There's no blood, no obvious bruises, nothing to explain her presence except for, maybe, the bright daisy-petalled blue flower behind her ear.

It's not so busy in the infirmary, this afternoon - quiet enough that Madilla, manning the admissions desk, has her handiwork out, quilt patches in shades of green and brown being steadily attached to each other to create a whole. Unusually, she has a stool behind there to sit on, though the reason for that would be not hard to work out were the haven't-you-popped-yet? state of her pregnancy not hidden behind the counter. The sound of footsteps draws her attention up, quilt pieces dropped in an instant, but Val's lack of obvious injury, illness or misadventure draws a curious expression. "Can I he-- oh. Hello." Is it recognition? "Can I help you?"

Oh, and let's not forget the hand behind her back: lodged firmly like a little Napoleon, though one that isn't feeling up her chest. A look this way, a look that way, leads to the sound of the healer's voice and that-much-brighter eyes. Val saves the bright smile, the sun-on-snow bright smile, for when she's actually crossed to Madilla's counter to lean her elbows comfortably upon it. Elbow. The other hand's still behind her back. "Good, it's you," she tells the healer. "I felt I should report in. After you helped me, with that dangerous accident, wherein I almost lost my feet and had to totter here on stubs."

"Your poor stubs," agrees the healer, not able to keep her expression straight, and thus lapsing instantly into a bright smile of her own. "They healed up okay, then? No battle scars to show off?" An apparently social call is apparently more interesting than her quilting, which she reaches for, now, to fold and put away, needlepad, pins and thread stacked tidily atop the fabric patches. "It's always good to see people hale and hearty again."

"One or two," Val confides, eyes dancing the more for that returned smile of hers. "Though they don't nearly measure up to my other ones. Here, you should see," except before she can take off her boot and show the poor healer right then and there, she has to take her hand out from behind her back. A snowball? A snowball. Except rather than toss it, she sets it atop the counter, pokes her finger in it, and sets the survived-between-somehow flower stem into the resulting hole like an impromptu vase. It nods its pretty blue petals at Madilla. Surprise!

"I--" Probably don't need to see, maybe, but Madilla breaks off from response in order to watch Val in surprised curiosity as the brownrider creates her vase. It makes her laugh, amusement reaching all the way to her eyes: "That's lovely. Pretty and functional... as long as the occasion for snowball throwing comes up before it turns into a flower-puddle, instead." Beat. "Though I'm not sure the flower would survive the throwing." Alas!

Those eyes! Val's standing somewhat lopsided, one hand presumably reaching down to her boot though she doesn't seem to actually be doing anything with it, which means she's got a lopsided sort of so-charmed smile. "The question is," she jumps back in after a moment, "Would you rather keep the flower? Or pummel someone with snow?" That smile widens. "Just because you're a healer... a girl doesn't want to assume."

With nothing occupying her hands, now, Madilla pushes her chair back slightly to give herself more room to stretch uncomfortably. It's enough to show wasn't visible, earlier, if Val straightens: nine-plus months of pregnancy, in all their glory. "It's a difficult question," admits the healer. "Most of the time, I'd say the flower. But there are times... as weapons go, I approve of snowballs more than most."

Val doesn't straighten yet, though something about the shift in Madilla's expression, that discomfort... it refocuses her expression to something like puzzlement, even through the chatter. "Do you?" she inquires, now with both elbows on the counter, poised above the snowball-and-flower and evidently quite oblivious to the way the former has begun to melt. The present's delivered, after all. No more worries! "Which others do you like? Throwing needlethorns at ten... no, twenty paces?" "There's a certain-- romance? to that. Throwing needlethorns. Glamour, maybe, rather than romance, perhaps," Madilla allows, though her nose wrinkles. She's apparently oblivious to Val's puzzlement, concentrating instead on giving a proper answer to the question: it seems to require a great deal of intent thought. "By rights, I should probably stick to the traditional poison, but you'll find, I'm afraid, that I'm something of a pacifist when it comes down to the line."

"More glamour, I think, if you hide them in your beautiful hair until just the right moment," Val supplies before she subsides, content to watch whatever thoughts might visibly pass through Madilla's pretty little head. Madilla's possibly-more-round-cheeked head. "So... less traditional poison?" she offers. "Or do you mean... more like something to make them upchuck instead of actually dying?" Because that's romantic. Not to mention glamorous.

Distinctly more round-cheeked, yes. And puffy fingers, too, which settle, now, upon the counter in front of her, laid out flat as she grins at Val. "Ah, yes, I should have hairpins with attached needlethorns, hidden in plain sight," she agrees. "The-- throwing up, yes. I think making someone wish they were dead is more my style than making them actually dead. Though dead would be quieter, and I'd probably feel less obligated to help them, later." Sad, but true.

Which doesn't stop, doesn't so much as slow Val from smiling back at her, one of those warm we've-got-a-joke sorts of things. She looks relaxed, playful, though someone who knows her as well as Aleis does might have been able to discern a difference. Aleis, who's not here. "Is it. You intrigue me, Madilla. Do you exercise this trait of yours often? Is it saved for people who don't brush their teeth and come complaining to you of the ache?"

Madilla's reply is probably intended to be blithe and unaffacted, but she can't keep the laughter away: utterly unserious. "Oh, them, definitely. And the people who let their minor illnesses get worse because they can't follow the instructions they're given." She casts a glance at the melting snowball, now, but leaves it alone in favour of returning her attention to the brownrider. "But you'd better not tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."

Not following instructions: Val's eyes widen nicely at the healer and her example, and she claims with complete insincerity, "I wouldn't know anyone who would do that sort of thing. Except the fellow in that other wing, of course." When Madilla glances down a bit like that, she shifts slightly against the counter's edge, less self-conscious or for that matter snowball-conscious than arranging what would be her bosom if it weren't for sweater and leathers. Just a little shift. Hopefully the snowball is melting only a little, too, and not ready to drip onto any of the healer's notes that might remain after the quilt-makings were saved. "Not a single someone? It seems to me that it might enhance your reputation, or at least make the stinky-breathed less so, rather than..." The thing about leaning forward a touch to gauge Madilla's bosom is that, well. There's that belly that goes with it. Val looks, all of a sudden, quite genuinely shocked.

Sadly for Val, Madilla seems entirely bosom-oblivious, unless she's terribly subtle about sneaking peeks; instead, she laughs, apparently distinctly amused at Val's so obvious insincerity. She's withdrawn back to merely smiling, albeit with no less amusement, by the time the brownrider is leaning forward like that, already beginning to open her mouth to make a retort, only-- shock makes her raise her eyebrows, glance down. It can't be that she's forgotten, but the brownrider's reaction does turn her expression more rueful. "Surprise?"

Poor Val! Especially now, now that Madilla knows exactly what a sincerely-shocked Val looks like, though it's less a matter of any one individual feature so much as the combination, and has that in her armament to go with the poisons-just-not-unto-death. "Surprise," the brownrider agrees, and caught as she is, tips it over into ruefulness of her own... though exaggerated, some, the better to cover any possible wish-she-were-dead that lies beneath. Not quite as slowly, putting a better face on it to cover the rest of it all over again, "Congratulations to... you and your weyrmate, hey?"

It's hard to know what, if anything, Madilla is reading into Val's reaction, since she keeps her own fairly neutral. The congratulations, though, draw a broader smile, if combined with pinkened cheeks. "Thank you," she says, obviously pleased. "Though-- er, not weyrmate. Not mine, anyway. Will I make you laugh again if I tell you I'm having a baby with my ex-fiance's weyrmate?" Shock is so awkward. Laughter is better!

How about shocked laughter? Val's hand covers her mouth, not well, fingers fluttering slightly. "Really. How did you manage that? Are you pleased? You look pleased. That's wonderful." Somewhere in there, her hand managed to drop again. Now she curls her fingers about each other, rings showing up heavy and gold where they aren't shadowed by her cuffs. "And you're... due... soon?" Or are they twins? But Val's mouth remains in a little round oh, not quite asking that.

It seems to be an improvement. At the very least, Madilla's shoulders drop a little, relieved. "I'm pleased," she agrees. "You'd hope I would be, though, right? About something as planned as-- well. It had to be planned." One of her hands rises from the counter in order to slide down to that belly of hers, resting snugly atop it, fingertips tracing faint patterns. "Another couple of sevens," she confirms, then. "Soon. Any time, really, in theory."

Any time. It draws Val's eyes that much wider, dark lashes waving up, only to drift lower as she regards Madilla's hand. Touching her belly. Moving. Like it's not foreign at all. The snowball melts, unattended by Val at least. Even she must know that water could break, and puddle likewise. "At least you'd know what to do," she says. "Being a healer and all. Unless it's like knowing what Impression..." She bites her lip, just a little. "I hope it goes well." Now she's looking back at Madilla and her eyes again. "Friends of mine had to plan these things too, you know. Now they have three." She smiles, and likely it looks playful enough.

Meeting Val's smile (looks playful: it'll do), Madilla repeats, "Three. Not all at once, I hope. Though I don't know if I could go through all of that - the planning, I mean - more than once. I don't know. We'll see." She shifts again, her head tipping just slightly to the side as she continues to fight the losing battle of 'getting comfortable'. There's something thoughtful in her expression, though. "I hope it goes well, too. Thank you. I've delivered enough babies that-- well. I'm not sure it actually ends up seeming less scary. It's different when it's you. Maybe that does make it like Impression." She doesn't know.

"Well, if there's a choice between a baby and a man..." Val teases that out there to see what Madilla will do with it, with enough of a sly pause that she doesn't barrel right into, "I would say all at once, and one out her nose... except you're a healer and you'd know better." Unlike all those other people who would ask which nostril, no doubt! The brownrider leans back some, rolling her shoulders, fingers clamped onto the counter's edge as added support. "At least it should give you an idea for next time... if there is one, I know, I know. And in the meantime, perhaps it will console all the other women who imagine healers reclining delicately in their unstained gowns, until their babies teleport onto their bellies, all clean and brown and not slimy at all."

"I would have thought the two go together," says Madilla, of babies-and-men, rather straight-and-serious despite the question's delivery. "At least to begin with." Less serious, and more inclined towards playfulness, is her mock-sage agreement: "Of course. Everyone knows that one simply vomits a baby out, unless one has had the foresight to simply lay an egg-- they do get that right, I think. Dragons." Only that last bit? More thoughtful again. "Or the teleporting. I wouldn't mind that, either, though it'd still mean the awkwardness of carrying it around for most of a turn, first. Anyway, it all has to be worth it, because otherwise, women wouldn't do it more than once."

The brownrider tilts her head toward the healer, her braid falling over one shoulder, the look in her eyes less reflective than opaque. But then she's smiling again, made the brighter for the way her mouth is pursed, as though condensed into a round little o: vomit. She said vomit. Vomiting babies. And, "Plus or minus the odd spot of firestone, it's said." But enough of errant queens. "Perhaps they forget? Or they haven't a choice. Or it's the sacrifice we make so that there are enough hands to work the land."

Madilla's sad little shake of the head is accompanied with a genuinely sorrowful, "Poor Teris. She must feel awful about that." Despite that, she's cheerful enough when she adds, "But don't say all the rest of that. I'm allowed to have a little bit of false hope that it won't be so very bad, aren't I? Even if I know better. At least we're not hold women, having baby after baby until it kills us." Plus sides to everything, right? She plays, idly, with the edge of the quilt she was earlier working on, until green eyes slide back up towards Val. "But that's not so cheerful a thought. What brings you back to our spires, this time, anyway?"

"Do you know her, particularly?" Val thinks to ask in passing. A toss of her head swings the braid back, so that for the moment it might behave, and she half-teases, "You may have all the false hope you like." The more so for Madilla's being the kind of girl who can feel bad for a girl like Teris. "In fact, you may have all of mine. The babies, also... Is that for yours?" A nod points out where Madilla's fingers play, before she ever gets back around to whatever it is that Madilla had asked. Right, that: "I was going to show you my battle scars. Of course, there's also your ice, like no other ice in all the land. And possibly visiting for a Turn or three, if the stars align."

"She's going to be my baby's aunt," explains Madilla, which answers the question in only the most rudimentary of ways. "All of yours. Babies and false hope. Generous!" Reference to the quilt has her glancing back down at it, but not to linger: her gaze shoots up again, and this time it's Madilla's turn to be surprised - but perhaps not to the point of shock. "The quilt is for a-- a friend, I suppose. A gift. But, do you really mean that: visiting for a Turn or three?"

It's enough to get Val distracted, peering at Madilla's belly as though she could discern a family resemblance between the bump and this girl she may never have seen before. "If you'd rather one without the other, you're welcome to it still," she assures. "Not for her, then. For him?" Her brown eyes lift, smile, without wasting any of the expression on her mouth. "I do. More like three, if it works out that way, and it's starting to look like it might. In a wing, of course. Not your infirmary." She pats Madilla's counter: no, not even that small part of the infirmary, be reassured!

Madilla's smile is amused: how kind of Val, not to put conditions on the offer. And the belly-peering, too; she apparently finds that delightful. Or possibly charming. Or confusing. But amusing! "Not for--" she falters, as though she hasn't had nine months and then some to get used to an unknown pronoun. "The baby, no. I've already finished one for-- him-or-her." No 'it' for Madilla! "I'm relieved to hear that you won't be in here. Not that we couldn't put you to work, of course, but--," the word gets elongated. "I don't know. I imagine a wing would make you happier. I hope High Reaches does. In general, I mean." Which is genuine, accompanied with a firm bob of the head.

"No, no, not her-the-aunt, the... father?" Val guesses, elaborated upon by her, "I only know of so many men in your life, you must realize. Or women, for that matter. It could be your apprentice's aunt's cousin's cook, for all I know." As to the rest, it's funny how the gardeners' daughter's profile can look so aristocratic all of a sudden, glancing down her nose across the room that way. "I'm quite happy," she tells Madilla. "Even if you don't employ me as a test victim, for everyone to practice seeing where to stick those needlethorns in."

Madilla gets it, suddenly, the ah-hah moment visible on her face. "Ah! No - not for B'tal, either. One of the weyrlings. He used to be one of our apprentices, though, actually, as it happens." There's obviously more to the story, given the faraway expression on her face, but she doesn't share. Instead, watching Val, she tells the brownrider with a faintly self-mocking note to her voice, "I'm sure you'll quickly work out the ins and outs of the very complicated relationships in my life, if you're living here. Give it time. If it'll make you happier, I could offer you that test victim position... just to be polite."

"Close enough," the brownrider says grandly, and evidently it's close enough that she can not only look back but turn back, too. Her braid's back in front of her shoulder again. "Save your offers for when you're minded to be more than polite," she further says to the... nine-months-plus pregnant woman, which means that while there's a flagrant lift to her lashes, her teasing is otherwise light enough. Besides, she's busy looking. Looking back. She tilts her head. "Something bothers you. I should go, shouldn't I."

Her teasing seems to go mostly over the healer's head, all the same: she offers only smiles in response, and not especially enlightening (or enlightened) ones. But the last of what the brownrider says... she frowns. "Bothers me? No - no, you don't need to leave. I'm fine. It's fine. You're fine." She's gone pink in the cheeks, but her words are fervent enough. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to give you that impression. I enjoy talking to you. You're--" Something. Something unquantified, unqualified. Something... "Fun."

"No?" She doesn't? "But," she's... fun? This time, the smile's a slow one, though no less warmer for it, as Val reaches across the counter and what's left of the snowball, reaching for Madilla's hands. Even if there are pins. "I really should go. My boy's hungry, and he shouldn't eat here. But I'll be back. And in the meantime, be good to yourself, yeah? It's your job. I'll have you report back."

Madilla's hands lift just enough to clear any dangerously placed pins, even if she's a little surprised by Val's reaching. "That's an acceptable excuse, then," she decides, tipping her head forward. "I'll do that. Look after myself, avoid dangerous, painful things, and perhaps be half the size again by the time you see me next." Chin raised, she adds, "It was good to see you again. Thank you for the flower." And the... snow-puddle.

"Yes," Val agrees, nodding: yes, yes and... why not? "Or three-quarters. I'm not picky." And look, they both have their hands back after that warm clasp, Val stepping back, looking quite pleased with herself. Or Madilla. And/or. "You're quite welcome," the brownrider says, polite enough to make her grandmother proud, and turns to head back out the door. With a bounce in her step. And her braid, swinging. Goodbye, sweet healer! Goodbye, flower! Goodbye, snow-puddle! We knew ye well.