Logs:Deeper Burns
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| RL Date: 16 April, 2015 |
| Who: Zadkiel, Keysi |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Zadkiel visits the infirmary to have his bandages changed. Two serious personalities have a serious conversation. |
| Where: Infirmary - High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 6, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Azaylia/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. Some days have passed since the bazaar. While the Weyr still mourns, the wounds - both emotional and physical - seem to be healing. The same is true of the Igenite with the once-blistered arms. The blisters are still there, but they're bandaged; Zadkiel has, if nothing else, been diligent about seeing them replaced and the injuries examined. For all of his seeming reluctance at the time of the disaster, he has become something of a model patient for those who have had to deal with him. Thus it is is now, as Rukbat reaches the peak of its path, that he ventures not to get his midday meal but, instead, detours to the infirmary to have those injuries seen. They let her work. They had to. The healers of the infirmary are still steadily buzzing around, far too busy to suggest any recent good tidings for the Weyr, and the heavy smell of numbweed mixed with burnt flesh despite hours of scrubbing to ward it off does not help the atmosphere. There was no room to let a healer of four turns experience be on leave, even if for a very good reason. And Keysi gave them nothing to suggest she wanted any leave. She wants, needs, to work. And even now she's skipped the midday meal in favor of giving some others their own break. The candidate is seated at the entry desk, a writing utensil being directed rather furiously across the pages of some medical record log. Two other large piles of records sit next to her, stacked in such a way as to prop up the elbow of her writing hand, easing the efforts of the muscles they require. His approach is soundless - but his presence is something else entirely. Zadkiel approaches the entry desk and leans forward a little, just enough to steeple his fingertips at the edge of it. He looms and that looming is ominous. The bandages encasing his forearms are in plain view, faint stains of fluid seepage evident. Scars twist on the flesh from his elbow up; old scars that sketch out a life history that spreads along shoulders and beyond. "These need to be changed," he intones, with a dip of his chin. "When there is a Healer free to do so." He knows well just how busy some of them are. A glance past the desk says plenty; the smells and sounds say much more. His gaze descends to Keysi once more and his brows knit, forehead furrowed. Something clicks. Then: "You should get something to eat soon." The ominous shadow that falls upon the desk does not seem to change the speed at which the girl writes, or the composure of her seated poise. The line the apprentice was working on is finished, before the utensil is set down with a soft click on the table, and her steel grey, intense, studious eyes are drawn upwards. She lingers, of course, on his arms- not persuaded to stare by the scars themselves, but by the strike-through of serous fluid through his bandages, and the condition of the skin just beyond them. Shortly, Keysi looks up at him as she stands from her seat, the visible skin of her own arms seen as she moves is evidently riddled with softer and less frequent scars than his, a more recent wound on one upper arm just beginning to darken into one. Not as obvious, indeed, but not feminine-smooth by any means. "I was wondering when I would cross paths with you here. I was told that you've been quite compliant with your rechecks." Her expression neutral, difficult if not impossible to read. One hand lifts from the table to motion beyond the desk towards the cots behind her, awarding his passage. "Have a seat, I'll get the wraps." The girl is paused for a moment by his furrowed expression and his change of subject, "Have you eaten yet?" The question returned, the sternness light but still present in her unfluctuating voice. He watches. He waits. Zadkiel is, throughout the process, unmoving. When she finishes her work, his gaze sharpens and fixes more keenly on her. That newer wound is especially noted and filed away; the time for curiosity will come. Later. There's a faint click of tongue against teeth. A mild snort. She stands and, finally, he moves. He pushes back from the desk and his shoulders roll bac&k into a posture that exudes a sense of paradoxically ready relaxation. "If I can avoid another fight with infection," he replies dryly, "I will do so." As for his arms, he lifts them just a little, rolling them so she can see their fully bandaged expanse. "Some blisters have burst," is a matter-of-fact admission and partial explanation. Unpleasant, to be sure, but not nearly as terrible as the situation could be. Her motion to the cots is met with a shallow dip of his chin and the Candidate moves to claim one. He sits, elbows on thighs and hands dangling between his knees, while he watches her. "No. I will see if there is anything left after the others have eaten their fill - and fed their grief." The observation is not unkind. It's matched with a slight pull of his mouth to one side and a crinkling of his features that threatens to give way to some other emotion. That threat doesn't come to pass and neutrality reigns once more. Instead, he sucks his teeth and muses, "It is a hungry thing, grief." "Always wise to pick your battles." Keysi, approving of his reasoning if nothing else, collects her supplies from a nearby cabinet with a methodicalness that speaks of how many times the process has had to be done. The stock in and of itself appears low, the rows of bandage material sparse, the many jars of various salves and pastes nearly licked clean, their walls barren of all but a few lingering remnants. She doesn't seem concerned in the amount she takes onto her tray, though, and finds just enough of the appropriate ointment chosen from the array. The healer sets herself on a nearby stool, her tray placed on the instrument table arranged next to his cot. Her hands, roughened with well-earned calluses, are held out slightly as she looks up to meet his gaze and study his features, "May I?" An indication that she's about to start, more than a thoughtful request. The neutrality of her expression, the intensity of her eyes lowers a little, eases a little, though her voice remains quietly even, "The Weyr, it's people. They've been through a lot. Lost a lot. Eating is a staple." She thinks better on that, then adds after a moment, "Sort of. I guess with the availability of certain things in question, it's not the most stable of staples." Did she find some sort of dark humor in that? Perhaps. There's the slightest of a wrinkle at the corner of her eyes, though it never manages to amount into a smile and soon dissolves. Curiosity would win over appropriate healer behavior, and to her fellow-candidate she offers the question, "What happened? Did you pull someone out, or get caught in the fire?" His gaze tracks after her all the while. The collection of tools, the ointment, the supplies - or lack thereof. She sits and Zadkiel's attention - green and unabashedly intense - locks onto her. Eyes seek eyes to hold, at least until that question is asked. He straightens and offers both arms with a grunted, "It is your job. You do not have to ask if you can do what you need to do." She can pick which to work on first; the other will just drop and wait its turn. The Igenite sucks his teeth and turns his head away for a moment while she speaks. There's a forced swallow and a definite sense that something is being bitten back. Nostrils flare and he snorts softly, a slight shake of his head following as if to clear things up. Then it's right back to her, his expression reasonably neutral but with a twist of something else there. Something unreadable. Then: "Let them eat snake." Dark humor turned darker, perhaps. Maybe he's utterly serious. It's difficult to tell. When revealed, his arm - and, truthfully, both of them - are burned enough for blistering. There will be scars, but not so severe as for some; scars on top of scars in his case, but at least these ones might fade over time. Patches are healing nicely and there are a few ruptured blisters that ooze. Her questions are met with a queerly melodic sound - a hum-grunt that conveys thoughtfulness of some sort. "I saved two," he finally said. "One before this." He lifts his free arm. "Another after. The other- I think he is still here. Twisted ankle or broken leg. Can't remember." Shoulders rise and drop helplessly. The intensity of his gaze grows dark and his chin drops, just enough to give the impression of hooding his eyes. "It was not enough." Storm-grey eyes meet with his green ones in that moment, searching them for the time that equivocally intense, studious, fierce gaze is held. Keysi would break that fixation in order to take his closest arm into her hands and begin to unwrap the bandage material with a fleet and fluid adeptness that suggests practice and some certain degree of skill. That deftness however wouldn't spare him the discomfort of having the final layer pulled away from the tender skin beneath. The only noticeable remnant of that prior segment in time was the wisp of a hesitation her fingers had prior to beginning her otherwise methodical task. Keys holds his hand in her hands, some fabric remaining looped between her fingers and palms to soften the touch to his damaged skin, as she- with a gentleness that all together doesn't seem to fit the seriousness that envelopes her nature- pronates and supinates his hand and arm to see the extent of the burns and their progress towards healing. A warm-soaked cloth is taken and wrung out from a wash basin found nearby and draped around his arm. She lets that arm rest before starting to unwrap his other. "I'd bet-" She pauses to toss the dirty bandages aside, "If I took a survey of opinions, that would not be the top choice of comfort food." A brief glance up at him follows that, as if teasing, though her even expression so stoically remains. If she knows the lad he describes, she doesn't give any indication of it. But, something does flicker in those eyes of hers, the clouds threatening to part, and the shifting of her weight on her seat is a cover for it, "It's never enough." There's a pause that seems almost uncomfortable before she continues on, "But you gave your skin for them.. Did all that you could." She wraps that arm too, with a second cloth and lets him have that one back as well to soak. "Quite the experience you've had since you've come. I suppose you're more than ready to get home." It might be a question, but she lacks the inflection in tone to make it so, and she studies him after she speaks. "Though there are a number who are glad you are here." He is a model patient. If Zadkiel feels discomfort, no trace of it is reflected in his face - or, more specifically, his eyes. His pulse is steady. His respiration is calm. He watches her, rather than the unwrapping itself; no doubt, he's seen enough of his arms and their state to care overly much about what they look like now. When she moves his arm, she'll find it moves easily; the sinewy muscle beneath is relaxed, all the way through to his fingers. Indeed, he's utterly relaxed despite a situation that would leave so many tense and anxious. "No," he agrees. "I suppose not. But the hunting of them - that works out the frustration. The anger." And that's where he'll leave it, his tone mild enough. Wherever she puts his arms, that's where they'll remain. Pliable in her grip. Easy. Her next words elicit a curious sound - a click, click, click of his tongue. Rapidfire. "Not enough," he asserts again. "Skin grows back. Not much of a sacrifice." His jaw tightens for a fleeting moment, the light in his eyes grown hard - too hard for a young man of his years - and then it all clears up. His mouth twists to one side and his gaze briefly drops to study his towel-draped arms. "At least there is that, when this is over," he finally says. His head lifts just that little bit to look at her again. "And perhaps the eggs will hatch more quickly." A beat. "Or perhaps they will choose not to hatch at all." He draws in a breath, holds it, and releases it slowly. His spine straightens and he settles in. It's that last that elicits a flat, "Are there." No effort is made to sculpt it into a question. He will not state the obvious - two lives he saved might certainly be glad - nor does he dig deeper. That flat half-question will suffice. "You would cause the quickest extinction of the pests with that sort of therapy." There's amusement there, somewhere, again with the slightest of wrinkling at the edges of her eyes that fades before it has a chance to progress. "I've not done enough of that, and my own injuries have kept me off the bag." Intending a punching bag, though she makes no further effort to describe it. "Aye, it does grow back. Never as resilient as before, but it does grow back." Evidence of reluctance is found in that agreement, followed by a subtle but growing change at his words on sacrifice. They award him something else in her stern stare. A fiery intensity simmering just behind them, a hint of her brow furrowed. A nerve ever so slightly plucked. "Any further sacrifice and you will fail to fight the battle tomorrow. You've only so many limbs to lose." After enough minutes have passed, she reaches for his arm again without loss of that methodical control, to unwrap it. To dry it with a soft towel, patted lightly instead of rubbed. The towels are tossed aside. And as she just begins to apply a heavy layer of the odorous but cooling salve across his skin, she's drawn to his green eyes again, searching them slowly, "That would be devastating for the Weyr." Keysi says, her voice still even but each word slow with an edge, "Although... we've not had the best run of good events. It would be quite the finale." As if the last was not enough. She looks down as she continues her work, that suggestion of fire vanished, the girl lost in a moment of her thought as well as ensuring no area missed by the cream. "What makes you think they may not hatch?" The healer is either too consumed by her thoughts, or chooses not to elaborate on who may miss him if he leaves. There's only a low snort of a sound, a near-chuckle for that observation. But it lives and dies in that moment, amusement there and gone in less than the blink of an eye. "Make up for it when you're healed," is half-suggestion and half-presumption. Zadkiel wiggles his fingers experimentally, but not so far as to stretch the healing skin overly much. That stops swiftly enough, either at the shift in her tone or the particulars of her words. He leans slightly forward, green eyes - searing in their renewed intensity - seeking to meet hers. To hold, unblinkingly, while he replies, "Better to lose a limb than a life. If that is what it would have cost to spare her, I would have paid it." His voice is low, but dangerous in its own right; his seriousness is a heavy thing, pulling his brows into a furrow. It doesn't pass quickly, that mood, and she'll find traces of the darkness when next she searches his gaze. His limbs retain the same pliability as before for the sake of ointment application. The process is observed in a peripheral sense; the brunt of his attention is for her - only for her. "It would be. But could you blame them if that were the case?" Her question is met with a grunt of the not-so-melodic sort. "The sands here are cursed." It's a simple enough statement, but he elaborates a moment later with: "How much of the world outside reaches into those shells? Perhaps the grief is so great that they feel hatching is futile. Perhaps only a few will hatch. Perhaps they all will, in spite of all that has happened. Perhaps they will even hatch early, in defiance." His mouth twists and he leaves those words to hang while he lapses into silence. "To spare her... yes." Keysi says low and controlled, and through bitten down teeth. She adamantly tacks on, "But no use in regretting not being dismembered for a cause that may or may not have been avoided." There's more to that statement in an undertone unreadable, as if it's more personal than she's spinning it for his sake. A roll of bandaging material is retrieved from her tray, the first foot unrolled and then rerolled to loosen the elasticity before beginning the process at his palm to wrap his fingers, then subsequently travel back up his arm. It's methodical, if not soothing in repetition, her movements careful but quick. However, it may be obvious to one watching her so closely that she could be going significantly faster. Could be. She listens to the Igenite's thoughts with her steely eyes downcast but not truly focused on her task at hand, though she would appear to be by any stray eyes from afar. "I would not blame them." Her reluctant agreement comes first with an inkling of unease that is swiftly covered with an unnecessary motion to grab a bandage clip from her tray in premature preparation. "I cannot imagine to watch the Weyr continue to fall apart beneath our feet without a fight." A lapse of silence follows amidst finishing one of his arms, tacked in place with the previously acquired clip, and then whatever expression was daring to weaken her indifferent facade is cast aside with a resolved certainty. "I've no doubt they will hatch." The statement is clear as she looks up to meet his green eyes with the intensity of her own. "They must hatch. Dragons rose in the face of great tragedy and grief, widespread over Pern. In all the stories, they brought hope and survival. They have a job to do that here now, too." "That is not the thing that I regret," is Zadkiel's deadpan response. He holds his arm steady throughout the bandaging process, save when she needs to move it for her purposes. If he notices her speed - or lack of it - he says nothing. Green eyes study the process in a peripheral sense, much as before; aware, but not allowing it to consume his attention. This is not the first time he's had to endure treatment, nor will it be the last. The acquisition of the clip is noted in a different way; there is but a faint contortion at the corner of his mouth, then: nothing. A vague noise sounds at her next comments about the Weyr, a sound that carries no weight at all - and, yet, still hangs heavy. In a gesture that is, surely, a familiar one by now, the Igenite sucks his teeth. His thoughts on the Weyr remain where they probably belong. Instead, it's her assertion that finally stirs him to speak again. His eyes meet hers easily enough, cool as his now are. "In all the stories, they had a reason to fight on." The bandaged arm drops, his elbow coming to rest on his knee. "What is their reason now? For the clutch to be fractured between two Weyrs in the wake of a tragedy? To endure the bitterness that so many Candidates feel about the idea of leaving here to go to the place I call home? What kind of hope would they bring to those who are sent to Igen against their will?" Regardless of whether his other arm is bandaged or not, the hunter tenses. Ready to rise. "It would be different if Thread fell and we all had a reason to work together. They would have their purpose - and we would be too busy to care. But not now. A dragon cannot fight against politics." He draws in a breath and lets it out sharply. "Perhaps they will hatch. But I will not hold my breath." The wrapping continues as Keysi retrieves another fresh bandage roll, repeating the process of undoing the beginning coil's elasticity, and following its lengths along the contours of the muscles of his other arm. She's cognizant of his increased tension, and her motions quicken to a more rapid, even more efficient manner to attempt to complete her duty before he may rise. "But it is that- tragedy- that they've hatched in spite of, if not because of it, in the turns they've existed. This is not the first Weyr to experience strife, nor will it be the last. Political or otherwise." There's a pause as she cleans her fingers of some wayward salve with a clean towel nearby which is then transitioned to being draped across her thigh. "You are right," Her even tones remain unchanged as if indifferent to the subject despite the content of her expressed thoughts, "In that it is not something that will bring us together like having a common enemy. But they must hatch. Else the Weyr will lose much of what it has left." Whatever that is, she leaves it with no further intention to explain. "You are finished." The severity of her eyes lingers on him only a moment longer before dropping away. Perhaps it was to break that tension, or perhaps it was wholly for the objective of cleaning that she looks away to the pile of old bandages and towels that were discarded amongst the process. She squats beside the cot to begin collecting everything, and the vehemence behind those controlled words- and of course much more so, her eyes- is replaced by the mechanical instructiveness of a healer. "Another change in three days unless you're concerned of something." A beat ensues before she adds, maybe with something at the very edge of her hardened, nonfluctuating surface that could possibly suggest a softer substance deep beneath, "You know where to find me." She'll have just barely enough time to finish. No sooner than the clip is placed than Zadkiel is uncoiling to his full height. "Never said it was," he observes flatly. Silence slides in on his side while she cleans her fingers, while she speaks, while she cleans. In this, perhaps, they are strange reflections of one another: calm and cool and collected, though his eyes betray a flicker of something else that can't quite be contained. But, his tongue is as controlled as the rest of him - and the energy around him is far from clinical or mechanical. Controlled, yes, but in the same way that predators are. At the dismissal, he does not immediately depart. He lingers to observe her while she collects her things; lingers to hear what the words don't express. Instructions are answered with an inarticulate hum-grunt that's strangely melodic. Wordless acknowledgment; unquestioning assent. His diligence will continue, that much is all but promised. The weight of his regard, thus far unrelenting, finally lifts and he half-turns in preparation to go. It's that last that gives him a scarce, half-second's pause. He angles a look her way, with one corner of his mouth twisting up in a smile. Pleasant? Unpleasant? It's all a matter of perspective. And what more is there to say than "Aye. I do." before he takes his leave? Ah. Of course: A low-purred "Thank you." |
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