lionel baines. (chivalries) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-11-30 20:44:00 |
|
|||
Miles entered the Cathedral with trepidation, practically tiptoeing as he slipped into the makeshift infirmary and joined the hurried rush of people. The white mages’ eyes skimmed over him: not pale and sweating from fever, not weak, not stumbling in on his last legs, and thus not worthy of their concern or attention. (Which was just how he liked it.) He wound his way through the halls, a rat in a series of tunnels, asking around until he eventually found Lionel’s bedside. It was where the poorer denizens of the city were forced to take refuge, prevailing upon the church’s altruism rather than expensive private clinics or care at home (Miles had seen the nobles summoning house calls, and felt his teeth itch). “This is a disgrace,” he announced, dragging up a chair to sit beside his brother. “I’m paying for you to have better treatment immediately.” It was all huster and bluster, all sound and fury (signifying nothing). The corners of Lionel’s mouth twitched into a weak smile. True, he was sectioned off with the poor, but between visits from Almalexia and Amos, he received more attention than most. Not it made much of a difference: the mage was deathly pale and feverish, his dark curls stuck to a forehead that was slick with sweat. Still, there were few complaints from the man—it was only when he slipped into fever dreams that his ill health overrode his optimism. Blinking up at his brother with unfocused eyes, he cleared his throat until he could manage a hoarse response. “I’m fine right where I am. Father Luscini is looking after me.” “Father Luscini has a lot of sheep to look after.” Miles’ hands were splayed between his knees, his body tense and bent in this rickety little chair. At least Lionel had namedropped an actual mage rather than Faram—the mime’s skepticism for the religion of this house ran deep. “How are you feeling?” Miles finally asked, the rote question required of such moments, as if he were reading it off a script and struggling with the role. His brow furrowed, seeing Lionel looking so thin and frail. It wasn’t a normal sight. “I’m fine,” he lied, a matching mechanical response. What was he supposed to say? Lionel hated burdening others with his problems. He would spare his brother both the lengthy list of symptoms and his growing concern over his own mortality. There was a pause as he shifted on his cot, struggling to find the right words for a question Miles couldn’t answer—but Miles always had ways of knowing things others didn’t, right? “Has there been any news,” he began, slowly, his throat tight with pain, “of a cure?” “There has, actually!” The mime tried to sound airy and chipper; the words crumbled to ash in his mouth. “One of your councilors wrote about it. There’s a mission mustering up to send people after some sort of cure in the mountains. Lots of plucky heroes banding together, triumphing through adversity and so on. All of ours thoughts, hopes, prayers, etc, are with them. So don’t worry. Everything’s well in hand.” (With none of his personal involvement, of course.) “Ah.” It was promising news, but Lionel’s frown deepened. His hands flew to his face, scrubbing it as he let out an exasperated groan. “I should be with them. Not—like this.” He knew his brother didn’t share his altruism, wouldn’t understand his exasperation, but Miles was the only person he was (ever) willing to complain to. “Well, undoubtedly. It seems entirely your sort of thing.” Miles fidgeted. He glanced at the other beds nearby, where other patients coughed and rolled and sweated and slept. His skin crawled. “Look, I’m serious about the payment thing. I could probably afford a clinic for you, if you like.” As if on cue, Lionel started his own coughing fit—loud rattling coughs that caused his chest to ache. His whole body convulsed with them, and he curled in on himself as if he were twenty years younger. “No,” was the first the he managed to choke out, firm and unyielding. “I need to be here.” The mage reached for the cross around his neck, finding some soothing comfort in the cool metal. Lionel slipped into scripture with practiced ease: “‘It may be that Faram will look on mine affliction, and that Faram will requite me good for his cursing this day.’” “What the hell does that even mean?” The surge of irritation led to him blurting the question out, and a second later Miles seemed to regret his choice of words. There was no need to take a reeking shit on his brother’s faith, particularly in this time of need— He fidgeted again, this time rocketing to his feet. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I understand.” He didn’t. “I, erm—I have a thing. That I need to get to. But get your sleep and…” What did sick people do? “Drink your fluids?” It was a lame effort and he knew it. Discomfited, thrown off-guard by the shade that was once his brother, Miles sped his way out of the room and down the hallway and into the landing, where he ran facefirst into Amos Luscini. “Miles,” the priest offered mildly, raising his eyebrows in the direction from whence the mime had came. Amos had heard of the man’s arrival (in the wake of the plague, he reflected with quiet glee, there was little that went on in these walls that he was not immediately informed of), but that had not been more than a half hour before. “It is a pleasure to see you.” “Er, yes.” The two pale, dark-haired men stared at each other. Luscini didn’t blink often enough for Miles’ liking. He’d had enough years seeing the priest at the House of Faram to come to this conclusion. “Hello.” Miles eyed the exit longingly, his pale eyes flitting over the other man’s shoulder. The priest, in turn, regarded the mime with a bloodless smile. “You have been to see your brother then?” Amos said. “Visiting hours shall be ongoing for quite the while yet.” “I have a thing,” Miles said vaguely, mind panicking and shutting down. Guilt was every Pharist’s trademark weapon, and the entire visit had thrown him askew and off-kilter, his usual suave charisma snuffed out. “Conflicting engagements. But I’m stopping by when I can. You’ll do your best for him, won’t you?” “A most pressing affair, I am certain,” the priest agreed. “I shall do, of course, everything in my power for your brother. Rest assured.” A corner of Miles’ mouth twisted, his irritation rankling further. Was he imagining that passive-aggressive dig? The blandness of the priest’s tone made it impossible to tell. (For a human chameleon, this was particularly aggravating.) In the end, he chose to disregard it. “Best of luck, will keep you all in my prayers,” Miles said, a little too brightly. And before Luscini could level another bemused eyebrow-hook at him, the mime had disappeared around the corner and down the stairs. |