Logs:Not Allowed To Get Angry
| |
|---|
| RL Date: 23 March, 2009 |
| Who: Anvori, Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Anvori seeks answers; Madilla tries. |
| Where: Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 4, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Satiet/Mentions |
  |
| It's been a busy day in the Infirmary, and there are still plenty of people about, many talking quietly, one-on-one with one of the healers, a few standing in small groups, talking amongst themselves. Madilla is on duty at the counter, triaging as necessary based on actual illness or injury, and those who just need to talk. She looks tired, leaning her forearms on the edge of her side of the counter, staring mostly off into space. Into this, Anvori walks in, his once sure-footed steps a little sluggish and weary lines visibly creased about his eyes. About him hangs the stench of alcohol, and what might be nice, dapper attire, is currently wrinkled to match his rumpled hair. Despite the fact that his steps and some measure of awareness must have brought him thus far, now that he's finally at the infirmary's entrance those hazel eyes look a little baffled, empty as they skip across the clusters of people to fall on the one person alone. It's towards Madilla and that counter that he begins to walk, stopping just shy of running into it. "You're a healer?" is asked, uncertain; as if Madilla's knot and the age she appears doesn't quite jive. Despite the impression Madilla gives of being unaware of her surrounds, the entrance of yet another person turns and lifts her gaze. She gives Anvori a long, appraising glance, considering him carefully before she confirms, her voice low, "I am. Apprentice Madilla. Is there something I can assist you with?" She straightens, lifting one hand to twist an escaped curl behind her ear. "A moment of your time?" Past the mourning, the tired, the general taxing toll of the day, Anvori aims a tepid smile towards Madilla, unable to quell nature completely even under these circumstances. He takes a small step back, away from overcrowding that counter and the healer behind it, and then leans forward slightly, to plant his hands on the top. "I'm her brother." As if that should say it all. "I know-," his hands come off the counter to delay any protests or excuses she might give, "Records are confidential. But I need-. I need something." Madilla's nod begins before he's gotten further than his request for her time, though it falters uncertainly as he explains who he is, some of the colour fading from her cheeks. Her knuckles whiten. Although she opens her mouth to speak, she waits, patient, until he's finished talking, at which point she hesitates visibly. "I'm so sorry for your loss," she murmurs, lifting her head so that her eyes focus instantly upon his. "I--" Another pause. Then, a slow nod. "She's been-- she /was/ sick for some time. For months. But there was never anything we could do; I don't know if even knowing sooner would have helped. I don't think so." He listens, if not unkindly, a little impatiently, and that impatience blurs the general affability of his features. It squints his eyes in a pained look and causes his hand to lift to rub against the very tip of his nose. His smile dissipates about the edges, and yet still maintains itself (for the most part). Then, that lifted hand about his nose waves itself in front of Madilla. To stop her. To stop what she's saying. "I'm sorry. I know that. I knew that. I- You-. Seventeen years-." Several misstarts end in nothing, and in an attempt to regroup himself, he takes in a deep breath, then smiles once more. A quiet, tired smile. "She told us a little while ago. I need... something to tell our mother. Was it very painful, you think?" Because while Satiet might lie, healers can't and healers would /know/ the extent of it all, right? The flush in Madilla's cheeks marks her embarrassment about presenting information he already knows, though her gaze doesn't falter, and her expression, otherwise remains as it is: calm, yet so terribly tinged with sympathy. She presses both hands against the smooth wood of the countertop. "I'm glad she told you. I didn't know if she would. It--" She seems reluctant to deliver the answer to his question, her hesitation marked with the low exhalation of breath that precedes her words. "Yes," she says, finally, plainly. "I imagine it was. Though she-- escaped the worst. At least her end was peaceful. On her own terms." If she says it enough, perhaps she'll believe it. Anvori echoes, "On her own terms." It's dubious. It's dull. But in the end there's a soft exhalation, a sigh of reluctant resignation. "She was like that," he reflects, his body leaning more into the counter as his hand falls to brace himself, then roll to lean against his elbow. It'd almost be teenager-like: after school soda shops and flirting with girls. "Everything on her own terms. Terrifying really." That there elicits a more genuine version of his smile. "Admit it, you were scared of her even when she didn't have the strength to chase after you with a dead fish." It's with a rueful twist of the lips that Madilla forms her smile, though for most occasions, it might be classified as only a variation on a frown. She listens, her head tilted just slightly, still watching him closely as he reflects. Maybe that smile becomes slightly more genuine, slightly, at his last comment. Certainly, what she has to say is agreement: "Always. She was... /something/. So much presence. /Force/. But she was... she ate lunch with me, when I'd just arrived at the weyr, and she was nice, when I was so overwhelmed. I liked her. I respected her." His lean deepens with his imparted confession, the faintest hazel-eyed twinkle emerging at a memory long past, "I was too. Sometimes. But don't let her know that." Meant as a joke, it nonetheless falls flat even to his own ears and the flicker of a genuine smile that showed falters and that emergent twinkle disappears behind a watery veil. Anvori's head ducks, chin dropping to his chest and he looks down at his boot-to-stone scuffing toes. "I just-. I just needed to know if she was in pain. If-, she should've just-. If she-, earlier." Again, several misstarts then ends in a blurted out, "If it would've been better if she'd done this earlier. Just, you know. Needed to know." The flicker of something in Madilla's expression, at that attempted joke doesn't last, and her face settles back into that hesitant uncertainty, in it's wake. She presses her front teeth into her lip, then slides them back, her nod very slow for his blurted statement. "I understand," she tells him. "The needing to know, that is. Not--" What it must be like, presumably, but she doesn't continue that far. Akwardly, "How it must feel." "Frankly, m'dear," Anvori states, disentangling himself from the counter and taking a step back away from Madilla, "It sucks." Such eloquence in slang. He's found out all he wants to know, or perhaps he just needed to talk to -someone-. Whatever the case may be, the trim man doesn't smell any less alcoholic for this chat, but looks marginally less baffled by life moving on. Hazel eyes somber, he extends a hand to the healer, "Thank you. My family thanks you, and your journeywoman. She wanted me to let you know, she thanks you, for you all, for your silence." The slang seems - not precisely to /shock/ Madilla, but perhaps to surprise her, eyes briefly wide. Whatever it is that goes through her hand, she reaches out with both hands to take his in hers, squeezing for a moment, and nods, though she can't seem to meet his gaze, now. Guilt? Uncertainty? Impossible to know; her expression is unreadable. Her grip doesn't linger, and her words are few: "I'm sorry we couldn't do more. Our thoughts are with all of you, all your family." His grip doesn't linger either in that firm shake, but not for lack of wanting; if only for the tactile evidence that other people exist in the world. "She told us we weren't allowed to get angry." It's said in the: and how do you deny a dying woman her last wish, sort of way. Two knuckles rap against the counter and he looks ready to go: "Try to have a good night, apprentice Madilla." Her hands come back to rest upon the countertop, and she looks, for a moment, almost amused. "That sounds like something she would say," she says, nodding slowly. And then: "I will try. I'm not sure-- look after yourself." Clearly, she can't quite bring herself to wish him the same. "Please." The turn of her phrase tempers that curve to his mouth and for a moment, the briefest second, he might cry. But he doesn't. He is Anvori, after all, and any crying he might do wouldn't be in front of a gathering of people. "Thanks." Then, he's gone on slow steps through that door and out into the quiet, mournful movements of the lower caverns. Life goes on, after all. |
Leave A Comment