Peony Min (blackmagicks) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-11-24 14:30:00 |
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Peony did not generally rush, nor did she frown -- she moved through life at a steady, calm pace with the nigh unshakeable certainty that what needed doing would be done in its own time and that everything happened for a reason. Not so this afternoon, however -- her cloak was clutched closed at her neck (she had not taken the time to find a cloak pin to fasten it) with one white-knuckled hand and she arrived at the Lindwyrm Hall dormitories out of breath, for all that she knew that five or ten minutes in either direction would ultimately make little difference if her suspicions proved correct. The fervent prayer came to mind, not for the first time this afternoon, entreating Faram that she be incorrect in this case. She wanted to believe she was being foolish, to feel ashamed of her uncharacteristic panic when she looked back at it this evening. She wanted to be wrong. But circumstances being what they were, she did not think she was. Still, she took a moment to straighten her clothing and to run her hand over her hair before she knocked on Pyr’s door in the dormitory; the last thing she wished was to worry him further before anything was certain. Finally, taking in and letting out a deep breath, she raised her hand to knock. Pyr had been sitting on the bed, ready to go out and trying not to fidget, since Peony had messaged him to say she was coming. When the knock came, he stood up to open the door instantly, with barely a wince when his muscles complained. If there was something positive about Councilor Cassul’s hellish training, it was how used he’d become to being sore all the time. “Hi,” he greeted. He couldn’t help the dread when he saw Peony looking like she’d rushed out the door. She was holding her cloak closed with her hand, rather than one of the pins he’d seen her wear other times. He’d thought she was overreacting when she’d sounded so upset over the network, but even if that was the case, it didn’t do anything to set him at ease. “Are you okay?” he asked. The end of the sentence disappeared into a cough. “I am fine,” she answered, the words automatic even as her look of concern deepened. “Please do not concern yourself.” The cough was not shallow; his shoulders shook with it as she watched. “It’s cold outside,” she said, her tone gentle even as she told herself, sternly, that it was unseemly for the adult in the situation to lose her composure. But he was just a child, and he was ill, and if she was right… One thing at a time. “Take your coat,” she instructed. A pause, then, “Have you eaten?” He looked pale and wan and not at all healthy. There was no time for something like lunch now, but she had read in Cormac and Sabina’s notes about loss of appetite, and if he was going to have the best possible chance of recovery, someone would have to ensure that he kept his strength up so his body could fight the illness. Pyr nodded and went to retrieve the coat. He’d put it on at first, thinking it would be best to leave at once to avoid worrying Peony even more, but his skin felt far too hot to keep it on for even a full minute. “I ate a couple of hours ago,” he said. “Bacon and eggs. And a few cookies.” His head hurt, but food was the one thing that ranked higher than napping on his priority list, and so he’d trundled down to the kitchens despite how tired he felt. He was a little relieved to see a couple of people coughing into their sleeves down there—at least he wasn’t the only one who’d caught a cold, he supposed. “Let’s go, then,” he told Peony. She seemed worried, so as much as he hated going to the healer, he decided it would be best to get it over with soon so she’d feel better. “Yes,” she agreed. The sooner they took care of this matter, the better. One way or the other, it would be best to know. Outside the guildhall, the hovercab she had taken was, fortunately, still waiting. She had rushed from its confines so quickly, she could not be certain she had asked the driver to wait, but it seemed that luck was with her. She opened the door and ushered Pyr inside. “Thank you for waiting,” she said as she took a seat and closed the door. “The central clinic, across from the Mages’ Guild tower, please,” she added; there was a local clinic for the district, of course, but she preferred to have Pyr seen by Cormac or Sabina -- or, at worst, someone they had personally trained. As the car began to move, she turned to her brother and said, hesitantly, “I hope you will forgive my… forcefulness. Faram willing, all will be well.” It was almost like one of those memstones Sky and he liked to watch, when the hero got into a hovercab and told the driver, follow that cab! Pyr would have found it fun and exciting if it hadn’t been for the way Peony was acting. He had never seen her lose her calm—but now, she seemed to be outright panicking. He grew more anxious by the second, seeing her so worried. An hour ago, he had been certain he only had a simple cold—perhaps a little more severe than usual, but he’d chalked that up to the possibility that the cold virus thing was just stronger in Valendia. Now, seeing Peony’s face, he was starting to doubt. “Peony.” The driver led them at breakneck speeds over the streets of Emillion, and the urgency unsettled Pyr further. “What’s going on?” She considered not answering, or talking around the truth, perhaps prolonging the time before she had to tell him. And she still had hope, however faint, that the white mage would alleviate her fears. But she was not behaving in her usual collected manner, and it was clear by his face that he was becoming worried, too. She was silent for a few moments before tentatively reaching out for his hand, hoping that he would not pull away. (He did not.) “Faram willing, it is nothing,” she repeated, as though saying it enough would make it so. “But… there is an illness, in the Outlands. And now, perhaps, in the city.” Her voice very soft, she finished, heavily, “It has killed many people. I would… never forgive myself if you were to become one of them. Perhaps I am worried for nothing, but I cannot chance it.” The meaning of her words did not quite register at first; what she was saying, it seemed far too surreal, something that happened only in books. But the worry on her face was very real. There was an illness. People had died from it. And Peony thought he, Pyr, might be infected. He opened his mouth to ask—everything, anything, he had no idea what to ask, but surely she had to be wrong. It had started like a mere cold, and yes, it was getting worse, but— Pyr looked down at their linked hands and, horrified, asked, “How does the illness spread?” The hovercab stopped. “We’re here,” came the driver’s voice from the front seat. “Thank you.” Paying the driver and opening the door kept her from having to answer. Fortunate, because the only answer she had -- we don’t know -- would do neither of them favors. She kept his hand in hers though, as they entered the clinic. She had been here often enough over the last week that she was recognized immediately by the staff, though she did not see Cormac when she glanced about. An older white mage approached them moments after they had cleared the door. “How can I help you, Councilor? Today’s reports aren’t ready yet, but --” The small shake of Peony’s head had her stopping mid-sentence. In this environment, surrounded by other mages, so many of whom looked to her for guidance, she was better able to compose herself; when she spoke, her voice was even. “Another possible case,” she said. “He has recently been in the Outlands and appears to be experiencing the early symptoms.” The white mage’s eyebrows rose at the sight of their linked hands, but she wisely said nothing. “Yes, of course. Come with me, young man.” The clinic, the white mage, the use of Peony’s title—they made everything much more real. Pyr looked at his sister, uncertain, before letting go of her hand and following the white mage into the cubicle. “Don’t look so tense, now,” the white mage asked, the corners of her eyes crinkling with a smile, deepening the laugh lines on her face. “What’s your name?” Pyr answered, not taking his eyes off the small kit she’d taken out of a cabinet. “Rest assured, I am not about to torture you, Pyr. Though I suppose some of these do look quite intimidating, do they not?” She nodded at the tools inside the kit. Her demeanour reminded Pyr a little of his grandmother, but still it did little to cull his anxiety. “Do I have this new illness thing?” he asked as she measured his heart-rate. “You will have a lollipop if you calm down and allow me to conduct the necessary tests.” There was no anger or annoyance in her voice, only kindness, and Pyr relaxed in spite of himself. The whole thing took a few minutes, and after, as promised, she handed him a red lollipop with a smile. On one hand, he wanted to protest that he wasn’t nine years old anymore, but on the other hand, he did like lollipops, and so he took it and pocketed it. Before he could ask about the results of the test, the mage slipped out of the cubicle. Peony, who had put herself to work, at least partially to distract herself and help with the passage of time, looked up from the box of potions she was unpacking when she heard someone call her name. As it turned out, words were unnecessary; the look in the older woman’s eyes told her everything she needed to know. She lowered her gaze and took and released a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said. It was hard to feel gratitude, but she said it anyway. “I will have a week’s supply of potions and directions for additional care prepared with his discharge papers.” The older woman’s voice was unfailingly kind, low, and soothing. How many people had she said this to today? “Thank you,” Peony said again. “I will ensure that the instructions are followed. As always… please let me know if there is anything I can do to assist your efforts here.” She paused, then added, “I will send someone for the reports this evening. I do not think I will be available.” And that was all. There was nothing else to say. She made her way back to the examination room stopping in the doorway to look in on Pyr, who had risen from the cot and looked… weary, certainly, and still so very small, but not like someone who had just been diagnosed with a deadly illness. Appearances could be so deceiving. It was a day, it seemed, for uncharacteristic actions; without thought to speak a word or request permission, Peony stepped into the room and folded her arms around the boy, holding on just a bit too tightly. “It will be all right,” she murmured. “I am not going to let anything happen to you.” “I’ll pass it on to you,” he protested, but his voice was small and muffled. More than anything, he didn’t want to pass his germs onto Peony, but he could not bring himself to pull away. It would be okay, he told himself. He wrapped his arms around his sister and hugged her back. |