gillian. (chiburui) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-05-01 13:57:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !complete, !narrative, gillian goodwin |
Where the sun would set, trees were dead and the rivers were none.
Who: Gillian & the Goodwins.
What: The process of repair.
Where: Emillion.
When: Recently.
Rating: PG, mentions of injuries.
Status: Hideously tl;dr, don't even bother.
The Kranky Knight has been nearly abandoned, save for its two current patrons, of a sort. One resides behind the bar counter, taking stock of the alcohol and the number of clean rags, a neat pile folded beside a row of mugs and tankards. Her armor has been (slowly and gingerly) removed and collected in a stack along the countertop, as is the handful of gil she’d set down as an afterthought—some meager tip left for whoever inevitably comes back to this place (wagering that, by the end of all conflict, there yet remains a place to return to). Gillian diligently goes about constructing some semblance of a field clinic (been through much worse than this, she tells herself, though the circumstances she’s in tonight aren’t comparable to near anything else), cleaning and counting up the odd number of wounds she’s accumulated so far. Dried blood soils the white rags and turns them a muddy dark, and she tosses them into a trash bin near her boot, choosing to prop herself up sorely on a bar stool the longer she toils. Not all of the alcohol is spent on cuts and scrapes, but if there’s one trait that Gillian excels at it is discipline. Discipline in her actions, and restraint, and so she remains clear-headed and sharp-eyed, keeping her gaze wandering over to the doors at a set interval. A wounded, bloodied beast, left to keep watch through the night and lap at her wounds, she looks over, sometimes, toward the other patron of the tavern and affords herself enough self-discipline to not bother asking as to why. She’s not dead—the odds having been stacked, somehow strangely, in her favor this time. Instead, Gillian takes to the clinic and spends long days allowing her body to mend. Less impatient than some of the others with whom she has been holed up alongside in rooms and rows of narrow infirmary cots, it is still a grand relief to step back into the warmth of the sun at last. A number of city birds have perched themselves on the edge of the roof above, chirping out a song of farewell to those exiting the clinic. Not quite a heroic ballad of victory, she supposes (as if she has ever aspired to anything so useless as heroics). “Where’s your keys?” Alicia Goodwin, and Gillian looks over and realizes luck remains kind to her yet, is busy digging through a bag of her daughter’s belongings. Aside from a few bandages, the older woman has scrapped by admirably well, more so than the grown child limping her way slowly behind. Built from the same scrap of iron, it appears as if the trials of late hadn't been enough to shatter them all apart. Gillian allows herself a tired growl of a laugh. “Can’t be trusted to drive myself back, is it?” She reaches inside her jacket (her wrist twinges with a momentary spike of pain), and tosses them over. Stalking along slowly behind the other woman, it nevertheless feels to her like a relief. Her father is found waiting for them at Gillian's house—still standing, even if the fence once again needs repairs. Geralt sits on the stoop outside her door, crouched over with knees resting on elbows, smoking his pipe and watching the dogs run around the yard. As greeting, he affords the sight of wife and prodigal daughter with a puff of smoke, sigh or laugh ground up together to form a wordless, coughed out hello. "Why don't you go inside and put on a kettle?" Alicia is both kind and practical in contrast, holding the door open for Gillian (who grumbles a useless protest, she's not an invalid) and whisking everything quickly into some semblance of order. "Didn't want to muss up Gilly's kitchen," he grouses, hands moving up in a dramatic gesture—orders received and heeded. The older man gets up and wanders in the house ahead of the rest, leaving Edmond and Mercedes to bound over to Gillian, relieved at her return. The side of the shop is covered in canvas, the spring wind batting against it as if it were a sail atop a particularly damaged ship. Smashed through by something angry and large and likely now dead, the Goodwins have already taken to cleaning up the rubble. The careless destruction spread along the rest of the street is still visible. Broken cobbles, smashed windows covered up by residents now returned. The humes aren't the only ones finding themselves now on the mend. "Lucky Gilly," her cousin says, hauling up large pieces of stone and adding them to the wheelbarrow. His tunic is soiled with sweat and dirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Anders takes a moment to scratch at his chin and watch as Gillian sits on a pile of rubble. "Too beat up to help slave about with the rest of us." Gillian taps her katana's sheath at the ground in a gesture akin to argument. She's already been forbidden from taking full part in the work, and instead has spent hours inside, looming over papers and contacting potential contractors for the reconstruction. Tiring chores all the same, she considers, more to do along with that of the Lions. "Some of us were out defending the city," Gillian says, not quite a snarl. The two act like children most days and now, in the aftermath of fighting and chaos, proves hardly any different. Anders scoffs. "Oh, is that how you're telling it aye? Because from what your father's been saying, it sounded more like—" Not a syllable more is uttered before the blade is sent singing in the air, and the samurai chases him back inside the shop and slicing at the canvas in the wake of his retreat (an awkward effort, her body not quite returned to its once peak condition). Geralt doesn't bother to look up from his own pile of rubble, merely mumbling something under his breath and taking a hard spit at the ground. She's exhausted, and not at all accustomed to her body feeling so heavy. The fighting took a lot out of her, she notes with disapproval, leaning over the wooden slab counter in the family kitchen and listening as her mother tends to the stove. A stack of forms rests at one elbow, more backlog for her to take care of, another headache starting to form. The smell of tea alleviates it, slightly. But she's been sitting silently in her spot too long, and eventually, conversation rouses again. "Saw a boy on the street," Gillian says, just as if she was about to lance a raw wound. There's no one else in the room, save for the two, and she wasn't intending on approaching the subject with the others. Alicia looks over one shoulder, her spoon resting at the edge of the pot. Stilled from all previous motion, she listens. "Couldn't have been more than fifteen, sixteen, I'd wager. Not much challenge for those monsters I'd picked apart myself." "Are you wondering..." Alicia turns from the stove, stepping around the topic hesitantly, but by the time she's made it over to the table her daughter's already wrapped the wound in a fresh set of bandages—hidden again from view. "I wasn't." She rises from her chair stiffly, intent on collecting herself another cup. Gillian goes through each room, each square foot of property to assess the possible damages in her absence. Things altered in the time apart. She's been lucky here, at least, and regardless of everything outside her door, the inside seems to have remained just as it was. The clattering of footsteps echoes down the hall as the dogs move from one room to the other. A note on her kitchen counter reassures her that Therese will be by again next week, just as ever, to clean while Gillian's away. Even Kiernan, she suspects, will return to inhabit the upstairs. The order here seems to have remained undisturbed. But Gillian spends her evenings awake and roaming the halls, still restless, a ship buoyed to nothing. She brews tea in the kitchen and and leans back on the counter. Near one hand sits her communication device, alight with a new list of messages. She wonders to herself, for a moment, nearly reaching out. But Gillian has enough self-discipline to dismiss it for now, to turn back to the stove as the whistle atop the kettle spout begins to hiss. |