Post by Deleted on Dec 7, 2011 7:29:05 GMT 10
To: Lisafer
Message: I'm sorry I couldn't make this fluffy, but the last line demanded to be written...
From: rosa
Title: Afterthoughts
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,684
Wishlist Item: 2 - Crane in his greenhouse
Summary: The final, triumphant end of an epidemic is not exactly triumphant at all. Character death.
Also posted here as part of my Crane/Rosie series
The sun rose, rays refracting pure gold off Dedicate Crane's greenhouse and making it sparkle like a precious jewel. Along with the work rooms and healing wards of the Water Temple, and the ever-busy hub, the greenhouse was one of the centers of activity. It buzzed with chatter, most of it nervous, no matter how much its occupants tried to calm themselves before what promised to be another exhausting day of work.
Only one thought - one phrase - seemed to pierce that chatter, uniting disparate conversations: perhaps today, they would find the cure. In the absence of proper signs, the workers could hope.
- : -
The moment Dedicate Crane strode into his workroom, he knew something had changed overnight.
Rosethorn was so fixated by the wells laid out atop his workbench that she did not even poke fun at his tardiness. Her sardonic quips, every bit as sharp as he could hope for in a verbal sparring partner, had been the one reliable anchor throughout the epidemic (who would have thought, First Dedicate Elmsbrook, teacher and mage, of all people), disdain for his greenhouse and all, and its in absence, Crane was not sure if he was struck by vertigo or by hope. Probably both.
"Do you see this too?" Rosethorn, he noticed, had certainly decided on hope, but her lips were pressed together as if trying to hold it back, because disappointment was too common and too painful.
He was at her side in an instant, or in an eternity, almost afraid of taking a look for himself. A childish fear. Crane forced his eyes down.
"We must refine the senior women's section," he murmured, pointing to the relevant well with an elegant, trembling finger.
Rosethorn said nothing. She turned her face to his, and glared.
"And the broad diagnostic powder obviously needs more work," Crane added.
"Crane." There was a note of warning in her voice, now.
"I see it," Crane said. Indeed, all wells but one had a thin film over the top, wriggling and discomforting to the touch of his magic, but rendered almost unthreatening.
"Good," Rosethorn murmured, as though the confirmation were menial and necessary only to her pride.
They looked at each other. Neither seemed quite sure what to say to do the moment justice, and give it a streak of personal accomplishment. It was the first epidemic the two had cracked without a guiding hand from more experienced colleagues. Crane did not know if there was anything to say.
"But this one," Crane said, switching back to a professional mindset, "will not be sufficient."
"I have eyes, Crane," Rosethorn said tartly. "The others."
Every category had proven successful EXCEPT the one that held their teacher's. But it still enclosed almost everyone in the population.
Crane nodded. He crossed the room in an instant, yelling for Osprey, who arrived in time to receive a list of long, detailed instructions. Crane shut the door behind her without a second glance.
- : -
Rosethorn's assistant was making careless mistakes again.
He had twice added more drops than he ought to, spoiling the entire tray, and worse, had forgotten to notify others of his mistake. That, or he simply had not noticed it, and Crane was not sure which horrified - terrified, if he were entirely honest - him more. No. It was entirely unacceptable, when they were so very close to discovering the final piece of the puzzle. When no one else provided a guiding hand, and Crane and Rosethorn were forced to work every step out themselves.
"I want him out," Crane told his partner.
Rosethorn did not even look up from tweaking her newest combination, replacing grapefruit with tangerine. "Then make him leave."
He narrowed her eyes at the unveiled disinterest -- Crane was used to being the one who did not care about his assistants. "You are his teacher."
Her choke probably hid a snort. "Not by choice."
Crane shook his head and turned away. Just one more chance.
- : -
"Out!"
- : -
His hands were beginning to blur before his eyes. That was the first sign Crane had that, perhaps, putting off the ritual cleansing and staying in the greenhouse was not the best idea.
Even Rosethorn had gone home. Maybe she was, as she had always claimed to be, the smarter one. Crane thought it more likely that Rosethorn had returned to Discipline for comfort, because there would be someone there waiting for her.
Dedicate Crane was NOT envious.
He was, he told himself, too busy to be envious. And that would be immature.
Crane could almost hear Rosethorn's cackled "Exactly!" but pushed the thought aside. There was too much to do; he was not being immature because he didn't have the TIME to be.
His hands were still shaking.
"Master Crane." Osprey had returned from her errand. The cheer that seemed indomitable was gone, and her expression, if repeated, would give her deep wrinkles well before her time.
Crane waved a negligent hand in acknowledgement, too busy frowning down at his work to answer.
"Master Crane," she said again, voice taking on an edge of desperation, "the greenhouse needs cleansing."
"I know," Crane said. "I scheduled it myself."
"You need sleep," Osprey continued.
Crane did not respond, until her hand nudging his shoulder jerked him out of spell. Furious, he brushed the tentative touch off, snapping, "Remove your hand!" before realizing she'd already done so. He glared at her, preparing to fly into rage, and, for once in the day, shout rather than command, except - Crane did not generally lose control. He did not shout with unbridled emotion.
He was too tired with the strain of full responsibility.
"I need sleep too," Osprey told him, earnest, "but I can't leave you here." She returned his gaze levelly, anger rolling off like oil though she was no doubt exhausted too.
So Crane went.
- : -
He did not visit his sick teacher the next day, but walked straight to the greenhouse, scrubbing and cleaning as the other helpers, who made their process run smoothly - Crane knew that every person played their part, even if their faces were distinct only because some had angered irritated him, while others had not - averted their faces to keep from staring. Even Rosethorn looked vaguely surprised that he did not wait, but she said nothing.
(Osprey grinned at him from outside the enclosed offices where he and Rosethorn labored, not wary, in the least, despite his anger the night before. Very few were able to understand his particular behavior patterns, and Osprey was the newest. Maybe he would keep her on.)
The breakthrough, when it came in late afternoon (lunch only a distant memory, dinner and sleep feeling out of reach) made him jerk in surprise. Crane waited until his composure was intact, then went over to Rosethorn's table, where the mixture glistened with blurry, undulating colors. It was familiar, but not precisely identical, to the previous pattern that coughs and chills had brought, a few years ago - a little changed. The sickness floated on top, buoyed away by the power of their medicine.
"The elder female category?" he croaked out.
Rosethorn nodded. She did not try to change the subject, like he had the day before. "We need to get it out now."
There was no arguing. A scribe, who Crane had banished the day before on account of being unbearably incompetent, returned to make neat copies of the formulation, then left without another word for the two. Crane and Rosethorn focused on making enough to soothe the sickest in the Water Temple's healing halls, and buoyed by triumph, Crane threw open the glass doors to tell the other workers of the success.
It was, he noticed, very quiet when everyone turned to him. Rosethorn's fingers, whorls pressing into his sleeve, made him fall silent and glance questioningly at her.
Crane looked around again. Most of the activity of that morning was gone - had ceased, by all appearances, that morning - and some of his staff were huddled in groups, murmuring quietly. Most had not even turned when he entered the outer workroom, but many of those who did had faces either entirely, painfully bare of emotion, or just as painfully red and blotchy and full of it.
Osprey was one of the last to look at the two of them. She said only three words. "First Dedicate Elmsbrook."
"When?" Rosethorn asked.
"This morning."
"You did not think it relevant to tell us?" demanded Crane, drawing a glare from his assistant.
"The healers told us, she'd ordered us not to," Osprey said. But it was very clear, from the way she looked down, for an instant, who had been responsible for actually enforcing that order.
Tomorrow, Crane knew. Tomorrow he would be angry. Right now, Crane would fix his mind on the cool, smooth logic that there was no chance, that the gods would no be so cruel, to let her slip away simply because her students had proven able to tackle an epidemic without her guidance. (But it had not been without her guidance, considering how many words she had for the two when they visited; and they had not been successful, because without her, they had been too late.) It was foolishness, not to be indulged in.
The plants in his greenhouse were wriggling, if they could, and trying to burst restraints if they could not. Crane couldn't tell if it was because of him, or Rosethorn, both so suddenly removed from the situation that he only realized that they'd been given seats when they were sitting on them.
- : -
Winding Circle ran more determinedly than ever before, as though each person were driven by a single, overwhelming intent. The day was too short; there was no time to stop and feel just how deep the sorrow ran, when there were batches of medicine to prepare, and distribute.
But busy or not, the sun had dropped beneath Winding Circle's walls, and only the chirping of crickets mingled with the melancholic chants.
And within the shifting, interlocking shadows, the temple was mourning.
Message: I'm sorry I couldn't make this fluffy, but the last line demanded to be written...
From: rosa
Title: Afterthoughts
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,684
Wishlist Item: 2 - Crane in his greenhouse
Summary: The final, triumphant end of an epidemic is not exactly triumphant at all. Character death.
Also posted here as part of my Crane/Rosie series
The sun rose, rays refracting pure gold off Dedicate Crane's greenhouse and making it sparkle like a precious jewel. Along with the work rooms and healing wards of the Water Temple, and the ever-busy hub, the greenhouse was one of the centers of activity. It buzzed with chatter, most of it nervous, no matter how much its occupants tried to calm themselves before what promised to be another exhausting day of work.
Only one thought - one phrase - seemed to pierce that chatter, uniting disparate conversations: perhaps today, they would find the cure. In the absence of proper signs, the workers could hope.
- : -
The moment Dedicate Crane strode into his workroom, he knew something had changed overnight.
Rosethorn was so fixated by the wells laid out atop his workbench that she did not even poke fun at his tardiness. Her sardonic quips, every bit as sharp as he could hope for in a verbal sparring partner, had been the one reliable anchor throughout the epidemic (who would have thought, First Dedicate Elmsbrook, teacher and mage, of all people), disdain for his greenhouse and all, and its in absence, Crane was not sure if he was struck by vertigo or by hope. Probably both.
"Do you see this too?" Rosethorn, he noticed, had certainly decided on hope, but her lips were pressed together as if trying to hold it back, because disappointment was too common and too painful.
He was at her side in an instant, or in an eternity, almost afraid of taking a look for himself. A childish fear. Crane forced his eyes down.
"We must refine the senior women's section," he murmured, pointing to the relevant well with an elegant, trembling finger.
Rosethorn said nothing. She turned her face to his, and glared.
"And the broad diagnostic powder obviously needs more work," Crane added.
"Crane." There was a note of warning in her voice, now.
"I see it," Crane said. Indeed, all wells but one had a thin film over the top, wriggling and discomforting to the touch of his magic, but rendered almost unthreatening.
"Good," Rosethorn murmured, as though the confirmation were menial and necessary only to her pride.
They looked at each other. Neither seemed quite sure what to say to do the moment justice, and give it a streak of personal accomplishment. It was the first epidemic the two had cracked without a guiding hand from more experienced colleagues. Crane did not know if there was anything to say.
"But this one," Crane said, switching back to a professional mindset, "will not be sufficient."
"I have eyes, Crane," Rosethorn said tartly. "The others."
Every category had proven successful EXCEPT the one that held their teacher's. But it still enclosed almost everyone in the population.
Crane nodded. He crossed the room in an instant, yelling for Osprey, who arrived in time to receive a list of long, detailed instructions. Crane shut the door behind her without a second glance.
- : -
Rosethorn's assistant was making careless mistakes again.
He had twice added more drops than he ought to, spoiling the entire tray, and worse, had forgotten to notify others of his mistake. That, or he simply had not noticed it, and Crane was not sure which horrified - terrified, if he were entirely honest - him more. No. It was entirely unacceptable, when they were so very close to discovering the final piece of the puzzle. When no one else provided a guiding hand, and Crane and Rosethorn were forced to work every step out themselves.
"I want him out," Crane told his partner.
Rosethorn did not even look up from tweaking her newest combination, replacing grapefruit with tangerine. "Then make him leave."
He narrowed her eyes at the unveiled disinterest -- Crane was used to being the one who did not care about his assistants. "You are his teacher."
Her choke probably hid a snort. "Not by choice."
Crane shook his head and turned away. Just one more chance.
- : -
"Out!"
- : -
His hands were beginning to blur before his eyes. That was the first sign Crane had that, perhaps, putting off the ritual cleansing and staying in the greenhouse was not the best idea.
Even Rosethorn had gone home. Maybe she was, as she had always claimed to be, the smarter one. Crane thought it more likely that Rosethorn had returned to Discipline for comfort, because there would be someone there waiting for her.
Dedicate Crane was NOT envious.
He was, he told himself, too busy to be envious. And that would be immature.
Crane could almost hear Rosethorn's cackled "Exactly!" but pushed the thought aside. There was too much to do; he was not being immature because he didn't have the TIME to be.
His hands were still shaking.
"Master Crane." Osprey had returned from her errand. The cheer that seemed indomitable was gone, and her expression, if repeated, would give her deep wrinkles well before her time.
Crane waved a negligent hand in acknowledgement, too busy frowning down at his work to answer.
"Master Crane," she said again, voice taking on an edge of desperation, "the greenhouse needs cleansing."
"I know," Crane said. "I scheduled it myself."
"You need sleep," Osprey continued.
Crane did not respond, until her hand nudging his shoulder jerked him out of spell. Furious, he brushed the tentative touch off, snapping, "Remove your hand!" before realizing she'd already done so. He glared at her, preparing to fly into rage, and, for once in the day, shout rather than command, except - Crane did not generally lose control. He did not shout with unbridled emotion.
He was too tired with the strain of full responsibility.
"I need sleep too," Osprey told him, earnest, "but I can't leave you here." She returned his gaze levelly, anger rolling off like oil though she was no doubt exhausted too.
So Crane went.
- : -
He did not visit his sick teacher the next day, but walked straight to the greenhouse, scrubbing and cleaning as the other helpers, who made their process run smoothly - Crane knew that every person played their part, even if their faces were distinct only because some had angered irritated him, while others had not - averted their faces to keep from staring. Even Rosethorn looked vaguely surprised that he did not wait, but she said nothing.
(Osprey grinned at him from outside the enclosed offices where he and Rosethorn labored, not wary, in the least, despite his anger the night before. Very few were able to understand his particular behavior patterns, and Osprey was the newest. Maybe he would keep her on.)
The breakthrough, when it came in late afternoon (lunch only a distant memory, dinner and sleep feeling out of reach) made him jerk in surprise. Crane waited until his composure was intact, then went over to Rosethorn's table, where the mixture glistened with blurry, undulating colors. It was familiar, but not precisely identical, to the previous pattern that coughs and chills had brought, a few years ago - a little changed. The sickness floated on top, buoyed away by the power of their medicine.
"The elder female category?" he croaked out.
Rosethorn nodded. She did not try to change the subject, like he had the day before. "We need to get it out now."
There was no arguing. A scribe, who Crane had banished the day before on account of being unbearably incompetent, returned to make neat copies of the formulation, then left without another word for the two. Crane and Rosethorn focused on making enough to soothe the sickest in the Water Temple's healing halls, and buoyed by triumph, Crane threw open the glass doors to tell the other workers of the success.
It was, he noticed, very quiet when everyone turned to him. Rosethorn's fingers, whorls pressing into his sleeve, made him fall silent and glance questioningly at her.
Crane looked around again. Most of the activity of that morning was gone - had ceased, by all appearances, that morning - and some of his staff were huddled in groups, murmuring quietly. Most had not even turned when he entered the outer workroom, but many of those who did had faces either entirely, painfully bare of emotion, or just as painfully red and blotchy and full of it.
Osprey was one of the last to look at the two of them. She said only three words. "First Dedicate Elmsbrook."
"When?" Rosethorn asked.
"This morning."
"You did not think it relevant to tell us?" demanded Crane, drawing a glare from his assistant.
"The healers told us, she'd ordered us not to," Osprey said. But it was very clear, from the way she looked down, for an instant, who had been responsible for actually enforcing that order.
Tomorrow, Crane knew. Tomorrow he would be angry. Right now, Crane would fix his mind on the cool, smooth logic that there was no chance, that the gods would no be so cruel, to let her slip away simply because her students had proven able to tackle an epidemic without her guidance. (But it had not been without her guidance, considering how many words she had for the two when they visited; and they had not been successful, because without her, they had been too late.) It was foolishness, not to be indulged in.
The plants in his greenhouse were wriggling, if they could, and trying to burst restraints if they could not. Crane couldn't tell if it was because of him, or Rosethorn, both so suddenly removed from the situation that he only realized that they'd been given seats when they were sitting on them.
- : -
Winding Circle ran more determinedly than ever before, as though each person were driven by a single, overwhelming intent. The day was too short; there was no time to stop and feel just how deep the sorrow ran, when there were batches of medicine to prepare, and distribute.
But busy or not, the sun had dropped beneath Winding Circle's walls, and only the chirping of crickets mingled with the melancholic chants.
And within the shifting, interlocking shadows, the temple was mourning.