Post by indifferentred on Apr 7, 2015 5:14:11 GMT 10
Series: Two Steps Forward (Yazmín/Vedris)
Title: Second Time Around
Rating: PG
Event: Fantasy Fencing
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 1,097
Summary: His Grace has a second heart attack; Yazmín is grateful for magic.
She wants to scold him. She wants to grab him by his shoulders and shake him till his teeth rattle in his arrogant, foolhardy skull.
But neither of those things would be a good idea when he is lying on her chaise, struggling for breath, as Sandry clutches his hand, sweat pouring down her forehead, magic pouring into him. Veins and arteries, Yazmín supposes, must be very much like threads, connecting everything together…
A hard hand hammers at her door. “Dedicate Comfrey, thank Mila!” Yazmín exclaims as she lets the healer in. She gives her a tight smile and hurries past her, into the sitting room, exchanging a few quiet words with Sandry, who slowly rises to her feet and allows the Dedicate to take her place.
Yazmín takes her hand and pulls the girl to her side. Sandry looks up, about to protest, but Yazmín shakes her head. “You’ve done so very well,” she whispers. “My dear, you’ve been so very brave and you’ve probably saved his life, but let Dedicate Comfrey do her work now, hmm?” Sandry returns the nod.
The nightmare had begun about half a bell ago. Over tea, the Duke had complained of an ache in his arm; Yazmín had suggested sending for the healer, but he had firmly refused and cajoled her out of her worry. As he and Sandry had risen to leave her, however… all the strength had seemed to melt out of him and he had collapsed down onto the chaise again. Yazmín had shouted for the guards, who had run for Dedicate Comfrey, and then had stood and watched, helpless, as Sandry had kept her uncle from slipping away from them entirely, for the second time in as many years.
Now they watch, silently, as Comfrey sketches shining symbols over the Duke’s heart; Yazmín, well-versed in the art of mehndi, recognises several of them: strength, protection, calming, pain relief…
The ashy grey pallor of the Duke’s face begins to fade and Sandry buries her head into Yazmín’s shoulder; Yazmín wraps a comforting arm around her and kisses her cheek.
Her own eyes are fixed on Comfrey - they see when she begins to tire and she steps forward, releasing Sandry, unwilling to distract the dedicate, but at the same time, longing to help.
She doesn't know what prompts her to rest her hand on the dedicate's shoulder, but Comfrey's shuddering intake of relieved breath persuades her that it was the right thing to do.
At last, Comfrey sketches a final symbol - one for sleep - and withdraws her hands from the Duke's body. She stands and Yazmín removes her own hand; suddenly she feels very tired, and her legs quaver beneath her. Comfrey pushes her back into the armchair. "Rest. You let me use your life-force in healing His Grace, and that will take its toll now." She looks up at Sandry. "Perhaps some tea, Lady Sandrilene?"
"Will he be all right?" Yazmín and Sandry croak at roughly the same time.
Comfrey nods wearily. "Yes. Mila be praised, it was less severe than last time. He's been overworking?"
Yazmín nods, eyes bright with tears. "I've been trying to convince him to slow down - we all have - but you know what he's like…"
Comfrey brushes away droplets of sweat from her forehead. "Then someone ought to tell the man that if he doesn't slow down, he'll not live to do any work."
"What do we do now?" Yazmín asks.
"Well, he's not to be moved for at least two weeks," Comfrey instructs firmly. "If he tries to return to the Citadel before then, the journey will likely kill him. I'll send one of my apprentices to nurse him."
"Yazmín?" Sandry asks quietly from the doorway. Her meaning is clear. Yazmín shakes her head at the dedicate. "No, Comfrey, that's all right. If there's no magic involved, I'll be happy to nurse His Grace myself. Just tell me what to do."
Comfrey hesitates for a moment and then nods. "Very well. Once I've rested a little, I'll spell His Grace's charms again. He'll sleep for hours yet, but when he wakes, you're to give him this - " She delves into her healer's bag and pulls out a small packet of tea; even with her lack of magic, Yazmín can sense the power in it. "A teaspoon in a mug of hot water. It'll help his system recover. After that… it'll be a case of waiting and letting his body do the rest."
"But… he'll be all right?" Yazmín asks.
Comfrey nods. "I think so. But he should take this as the gods' final warning. Next time… he definitely won't be so lucky."
Comfrey's warnings are still ringing in her ears as she lies on the pallet on the floor next to her bed that night. One of His Grace's guards, sleeping down the hall in the guest bedroom, carried him up there earlier and Yazmín tucked him in like a child.
She has lit several sticks of incense to Yanna Healtouch, and watered her little shrine with her tears and now she is doing the same to her pillow. It is stupid, she knows - Vedris is alive and Comfrey is confident that he will recover - but she still cannot help thinking about what might have happened. If he had been alone when the attack had hit him. If Sandry hadn't been taking tea with them at the time. If Jenen had not run so quickly for Dedicate Comfrey. If the attack had been any worse. If Comfrey's magic had not been strong enough. She shudders and another tear slips down her cheek.
"Yazmín?"
She lurches up from the pallet, rubbing at the teartracks which streak her face, and looks over at the bed. His face is turned towards her and he is awake, although still drowsy. "Don’t move," she orders him firmly before he can say anything else.
He shakes his head. "Don't worry. I don't think I could even if I wanted to."
She gets up. "Dedicate Comfrey left some tea for you." From the small groan he lets out, she guesses that he is familiar with it.
As she reaches the bedroom door he croaks out, "Forgive me."
"For having a heart attack?" she asks incredulously.
"We had an appointment tonight," he reminds her. "The theatre."
She remembers. "It doesn't matter in the slightest. I'm just… just…" Her composure is washed away and she falls at the side of the bed, burying her face in the blanket next to him.
"Don't you ever scare me like that again!"
Title: Second Time Around
Rating: PG
Event: Fantasy Fencing
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 1,097
Summary: His Grace has a second heart attack; Yazmín is grateful for magic.
She wants to scold him. She wants to grab him by his shoulders and shake him till his teeth rattle in his arrogant, foolhardy skull.
But neither of those things would be a good idea when he is lying on her chaise, struggling for breath, as Sandry clutches his hand, sweat pouring down her forehead, magic pouring into him. Veins and arteries, Yazmín supposes, must be very much like threads, connecting everything together…
A hard hand hammers at her door. “Dedicate Comfrey, thank Mila!” Yazmín exclaims as she lets the healer in. She gives her a tight smile and hurries past her, into the sitting room, exchanging a few quiet words with Sandry, who slowly rises to her feet and allows the Dedicate to take her place.
Yazmín takes her hand and pulls the girl to her side. Sandry looks up, about to protest, but Yazmín shakes her head. “You’ve done so very well,” she whispers. “My dear, you’ve been so very brave and you’ve probably saved his life, but let Dedicate Comfrey do her work now, hmm?” Sandry returns the nod.
The nightmare had begun about half a bell ago. Over tea, the Duke had complained of an ache in his arm; Yazmín had suggested sending for the healer, but he had firmly refused and cajoled her out of her worry. As he and Sandry had risen to leave her, however… all the strength had seemed to melt out of him and he had collapsed down onto the chaise again. Yazmín had shouted for the guards, who had run for Dedicate Comfrey, and then had stood and watched, helpless, as Sandry had kept her uncle from slipping away from them entirely, for the second time in as many years.
Now they watch, silently, as Comfrey sketches shining symbols over the Duke’s heart; Yazmín, well-versed in the art of mehndi, recognises several of them: strength, protection, calming, pain relief…
The ashy grey pallor of the Duke’s face begins to fade and Sandry buries her head into Yazmín’s shoulder; Yazmín wraps a comforting arm around her and kisses her cheek.
Her own eyes are fixed on Comfrey - they see when she begins to tire and she steps forward, releasing Sandry, unwilling to distract the dedicate, but at the same time, longing to help.
She doesn't know what prompts her to rest her hand on the dedicate's shoulder, but Comfrey's shuddering intake of relieved breath persuades her that it was the right thing to do.
At last, Comfrey sketches a final symbol - one for sleep - and withdraws her hands from the Duke's body. She stands and Yazmín removes her own hand; suddenly she feels very tired, and her legs quaver beneath her. Comfrey pushes her back into the armchair. "Rest. You let me use your life-force in healing His Grace, and that will take its toll now." She looks up at Sandry. "Perhaps some tea, Lady Sandrilene?"
"Will he be all right?" Yazmín and Sandry croak at roughly the same time.
Comfrey nods wearily. "Yes. Mila be praised, it was less severe than last time. He's been overworking?"
Yazmín nods, eyes bright with tears. "I've been trying to convince him to slow down - we all have - but you know what he's like…"
Comfrey brushes away droplets of sweat from her forehead. "Then someone ought to tell the man that if he doesn't slow down, he'll not live to do any work."
"What do we do now?" Yazmín asks.
"Well, he's not to be moved for at least two weeks," Comfrey instructs firmly. "If he tries to return to the Citadel before then, the journey will likely kill him. I'll send one of my apprentices to nurse him."
"Yazmín?" Sandry asks quietly from the doorway. Her meaning is clear. Yazmín shakes her head at the dedicate. "No, Comfrey, that's all right. If there's no magic involved, I'll be happy to nurse His Grace myself. Just tell me what to do."
Comfrey hesitates for a moment and then nods. "Very well. Once I've rested a little, I'll spell His Grace's charms again. He'll sleep for hours yet, but when he wakes, you're to give him this - " She delves into her healer's bag and pulls out a small packet of tea; even with her lack of magic, Yazmín can sense the power in it. "A teaspoon in a mug of hot water. It'll help his system recover. After that… it'll be a case of waiting and letting his body do the rest."
"But… he'll be all right?" Yazmín asks.
Comfrey nods. "I think so. But he should take this as the gods' final warning. Next time… he definitely won't be so lucky."
Comfrey's warnings are still ringing in her ears as she lies on the pallet on the floor next to her bed that night. One of His Grace's guards, sleeping down the hall in the guest bedroom, carried him up there earlier and Yazmín tucked him in like a child.
She has lit several sticks of incense to Yanna Healtouch, and watered her little shrine with her tears and now she is doing the same to her pillow. It is stupid, she knows - Vedris is alive and Comfrey is confident that he will recover - but she still cannot help thinking about what might have happened. If he had been alone when the attack had hit him. If Sandry hadn't been taking tea with them at the time. If Jenen had not run so quickly for Dedicate Comfrey. If the attack had been any worse. If Comfrey's magic had not been strong enough. She shudders and another tear slips down her cheek.
"Yazmín?"
She lurches up from the pallet, rubbing at the teartracks which streak her face, and looks over at the bed. His face is turned towards her and he is awake, although still drowsy. "Don’t move," she orders him firmly before he can say anything else.
He shakes his head. "Don't worry. I don't think I could even if I wanted to."
She gets up. "Dedicate Comfrey left some tea for you." From the small groan he lets out, she guesses that he is familiar with it.
As she reaches the bedroom door he croaks out, "Forgive me."
"For having a heart attack?" she asks incredulously.
"We had an appointment tonight," he reminds her. "The theatre."
She remembers. "It doesn't matter in the slightest. I'm just… just…" Her composure is washed away and she falls at the side of the bed, burying her face in the blanket next to him.
"Don't you ever scare me like that again!"
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!