Another Cycle of the Moon

Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby Rance » Sun Sep 14, 2014 4:59 pm

"I wanted to see you outside of the Rememdium. I truly don't mind it there, but..."

Gloria Wynsee lifted her left arm from the lap of her dirty skirts. The striped stocking worn from stump-edge to elbow was black with the unusual tar of her sweat. Peering over the truncated limb's lumpy edge toward the physician, she added, "Hemlock and henbane. I think of vomit. I think of old pain."

She sat in Mercy Tirel's room at the Broken Dagger, the folds of her loose dress hanging over the sides of the chair. The swollen curve of her pregnant belly left the rest of her seeming diminutive in comparison -- otherwise, Gloria had always been a barrel, a stocky plug of a girl whose shoulders were thicker than most women's thighs. Her neck, a meaty column stuffed in a too-starched collar, suffered marks of unwashed dirt. Eyes like pale gray stones watched the other woman, daring to practice ingenuous bravery despite their nervous flitting, dancing, and shifting.

"Sometimes I still feel my fingers. Sometimes I reach out for -- for things, try to grasp, flex, squeeze. And then I remember they're gone."

Under the shade of her bonnet, where the room's dim candlelight dared not venture, she glanced down toward her belly. She couldn't see her feet; she wondered if they too were gone.

"I do care about the baby, Menna Mercy. I'm no fool. I'm -- I'm no child. I do. I need to know if it will be well, if it's grown as it should, if I'm suitably prepared."

A breath. A whisper.

"I'm scared to be alone when it happens."
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby girl » Tue Sep 16, 2014 1:45 pm

After getting the pregnant woman, near to bursting at this point, settled down into the only available chair, the physician goes about the business of seating herself. Her options are limited, but she settles upon a leather trunk that was, at least up til now, quite sturdy. Once seated, she flashes the other woman a gentle smile, encouraging. The truth of her feelings of the Remedium leak out, and the physician merely bobs her head twice, solemnity pervading the action.

She speaks after licking her lips, voice earnest and warm, “I understand. I'm actually quite happy to have a visitor—you're the first, you know.” Another little smile laps at the corners of the woman's mouth. It's as if the statement is a verbal reminder that she's supposed to be a hostess, and she rockets from her seated position, leaving the trunk squeaking noisily as she pushes away from it. Her words come in a breathy, apologetic rush, “I'm so sorry. Are you thirsty? I have water...and mint.” Such measly offerings bring color to the woman's cheeks, she suddenly embarrassed of her happy poverty.

There's talk of feelings, of extremities and digits long since severed, and the physician just nods slowly, one shoulder rolling. “That ghostly feeling is a common one. I can't imagine how bereft it must make you feel, upon realization.” She recognizes that she's said too much, and the physician, too often more-than-keen to perpetuate eye contact, is looking away, down at the worn floorboards to her left. In her embarrassment, fingers twist in the bulk of skirts of dusty, mossy green.

It is lucky for Mercy, then, that Gloria is unafraid of shouldering most of the conversation. She lets the girl speak, tell her of the baby, tell her of her fears. It is when this sort of talk surfaces that Mercy can slip into her other persona. This new persona is the one she wears behind the doors of the Remedium; Physician Mercy is smooth and calm, filled with a quietly brewing sort of grace, fed on the absolute surety that she knows what she is doing.

Mercy crosses the small distance between them, if only to offer a physical modicum of comfort, a hand placed on the crook of the other woman's elbow, fingers alighting there like a bird, conveying a sense of solidarity. “You won't be alone, Gloria,” the physician intones, voice modulated and reassuring.

“I will be there, I promise. It is very rare that childbearing is a speedy process. You will know when it is coming. And together, you and I will wait for the baby," She pauses here, for a moment, mouth curving into a pleasant and easy expression, before that gentle tone rings out once more. " Some women are in their labor for more than a day. But I will be with you every step, I promise.” Everything about the physician in that moment, from her countenance to the way she holds herself speaks volumes of self-assurance and empathy, all warmth and sunshine.

She extends her hands, then, stretching towards the woman's swollen midsection. “May I?”
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby Rance » Tue Sep 16, 2014 3:45 pm

"Water and mint sounds delightful," she said.

She watched Mercy the way a child might observe shining point of fascination. Her eyes never pulled away, but instead desperately adhered themselves to the image of the other woman: the physician, in all her moss-green skirts, was a pillar of confidence constructed on foundations that had been keenly designed and appropriately controlled. She helped people; with herbs and poultices and salves, she healed people, ushered them away from death--

And dumbly, like a guttering candle too foolish to forget its dying wick, Gloria asked, "How does it tell you it's ready? Do you get a feeling, or get struck with some sense of foreboding? Or does it just--"

--happen?

Mercy lingered close enough that her skirts crushed against the seamstress' hard-knobbed knees. Fingers cradled her bent elbow. At the inquiry, her head bobbed with permission. Her belly beneath the wrinkled folds and strained kirtle was firm, stretched nearly to its limits. Occasionally, between the girl's short breaths, a pop, a nudge -- half-formed elbows and too-sharp knees shifting, wriggling, impatient, stubborn, alive.

"I sing her songs I've learned at the chapel," Gloria said. "I read poems from books until my voice goes hoarse. I apologize to her for -- for all the times my mind's too cruel and I think I hate her; I tell her I don't want to die. I beg her to be kinder to me than I was for -- for forcing her to live.

Mercy's face had answers written on it, and Gloria squinted to try to translate the invisible glyphs engraved in the lines of the physician's face.

"You'll be with me the whole day? Or two," she said. "Or ten. As long as it takes?"
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby girl » Mon Sep 22, 2014 2:19 am

She has a purpose of a sudden, and that purpose is providing Gloria with a drink. And so the role of physician is sloughed off for the moment, and the mantle of hostess shrugged on without a hitch. The physician has a pottery pitcher and a pair of glasses that she'd purchased after much haggling, in the hopes that she would ever eventually have a guest to entertain. She busies herself with the crushing of mint, the layering-in of water, and then the task is completed. An imperfect, handle-less pottery vessel is proffered to Gloria, the girl behind it fair to beaming, impressed with her own domestic prowess.

And then the conversation winds on, and Gloria is rendering questions that, had the girl some sort of maternal social structure, she wouldn't even need to ask. This fact isn't lost to the physician, and a sort of half-frown filters over her mouth.

That expresssion of unhappy sentiment is obliterated a moment later when she moves to actually address the issue, voice soft and encouraging as she states, “There will be pain. Your body will experience gripping pains that will come like waves. The waves will get more predictable, your water will break, and then it will be time.”

She explains these things in the least ominous way she can, trying to ward off that sense of foreboding that circulates with the thought of childbirth. As an afterthought, Mercy adds: “The birth of a child is a beautiful thing, Gloria. Your body was made for it, and you will do it well,” A cheering smile covers her mouth, then.

It seems to Mercy that Gloria is trying to placate her, or more likely herself, confessing her crimes by recanting the atonement she's performed. The other girl merely bobs her head, playing the part of absolving priestess while feeling for the baby. She catches flashes of bony appendage here and there, joints brushing her palms almost as if the baby knew where she might be touching. The crown of the the child's head is fully articulated to Mercy's nimble digits upon further gentle probing. Another smile of reassurance, and the girl reseats herself across from the anxiety-riddled seamstress.

“I will be with you all the time it takes to see both mother and babe safely through the storm.”
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby Rance » Mon Sep 22, 2014 10:31 am

The single hand -- the four digits that remained, rather, with her right ring-finger being nothing more than a round, single-knuckle nub -- took the clay vessel. Her arm trembled. The brown, uneven bones of her teeth scraped against the hardened pottery as she, rabid for the drink in a way she had refused to show, drank, drank--

Wiping wet lips with the stocking-wrapped stump of her left arm, Gloria said to the physician, "It's -- it's good," as if mint could mystically enhance the taste of boiled water. But it could; it could bring peace to the hard, brackish flavors inside that pottery. "Thank you. For the water," Gloria told her. "For helping me."

Mercy's hand was a reassurance against her belly. The billowed expanse of her broad nest of a stomach suffered the movements of its occupant: Mercy pressed, feeling for shape, development, structure, and the seamstress -- observing like a distant spectator -- shifted. She blew out a faint breath, a discomfort at both the sensitivity and the wonder of the process.

"It's nothing but something at the same time, isn't it? A thing that exists but isn't yet ready to exist. That's how I think of her. And I know it's a girl; I know from the Dream, from the futures planted inside my brain. She'll be hale. Won't she? Strong and -- and able. Happy, too. Won't she be?"

Mercy sat back. Across from her, perched still on the chair, Gloria peered down into her clay cup, spitting words into it because they hadn't any other place to go.

"I prayed for -- for someone to help me. I said under my breath, I don't know how to do this by myself, and then you came. Wonderfully odd and -- and beautiful and confident and knowledgeable, foraging yellowroot at the treeline, remember? The One God or the Nameless nudged you this way. I'd die if not for you, and that's what I believe."
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby girl » Sat Sep 27, 2014 10:45 am

Gloria is given reprieve from Mercy's piercing gaze in the stead of fully-devoted medical attention to the mild examination of mother and child. Though the woman notes that rapacious thirst, she does not remark upon it, figuring the source was nerves or the product of excess vampirism from the rapidly developing being inhabiting the seamstress' womb. When she takes that seat again, it is with attentive silence that she sits, waiting for the true meaning of Gloria's visit to shake out.

“She will be hale and hardy—you have treated her well, Gloria. And I wholly believe that she will be a happy child,” the physician says. Though they may sound like empty platitudes, the words are intoned with a gentle sort of fierceness, speaking of the steadfast belief beneath them.

Gloria's next words give the physician pause, and she wonders for a moment if the woman truly did invoke her—conjure her arrival on the wings of premonition. The thought is smiled at, but ultimately pushed to the side. Coincidence is just as good a validation as premeditation, as far as the physician is concerned. Lips are pressed together as she works up a response, the smile hammered out into a thoughtful line. That compliment is finally parsed, after her abandonment of the idea of some fate or magic behind her arrival to Myrken, and the flattery brings a sort of prickling, pinkish pleasure to her, coloring the tops of her cheeks, straightening her spine.

“If anything, I was meant to find you just as much as the reverse,” the woman finally finds the courage and words to try and sum up her thoughts, her voice hushed and reverent.
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby Rance » Sat Sep 27, 2014 12:35 pm

No, none of them were empty words. Gloria did not believe the physician capable of misdirection through verbal nuturing. The woman was honest and wore an honest smile; the woman was honest and -- to all of Gloria's stunted knowledge -- had been infused with an integrity that only wellsmiths could bear, from the bounty of her layered skirts to the pristine color of her skin.

Gloria believed her; Gloria believed in her.

She stood -- a laborious task aided by a palm pressed against chair-spine -- and carried herself through candlelight toward the physician, it now being her turn to approach. Gloria squatted before Mercy to allow her to look up at the other woman's face. Kneeling, the portly seamstress was a withered flower grown from the billowing halo of her own filthy skirts, the pregnancy hanging between her knees like a blister, a foreboding.

Her dirty fingers lifted, the sleeve drawn back, to clasp Mercy's chin. Abuses, poor judgment, and history wrote untold stories in her skin: a missing ring-finger, a twice-broken nose, a stocking-wrapped stump of an arm hanging between her thighs. Though Gloria Wynsee was but an adolescent, her pale, Sun-scoured eyes desperately looked into the physician's for a covenant she was loath to seek.

"I know you'll tell me not to fret, that I'll be well in your care. And I trust in you, the way I trust that -- that nights will always be followed by days. But I know, like any girl knows, that we're destined to -- to suffer the whims of the little creatures we're made to bring into this world.

"Can you promise me," Gloria said, "that if I die in the process, you'll find her a good home? A mother who loves her? A place far from here where -- where blood is not spilled and children are precious and safe?"

Maybe this is why prime powers brought us together. Not to aid me, but to guide her.

"Please say you will, even if you don't know you can. I needn't ever know the truth. I just care to believe."
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby girl » Fri Oct 03, 2014 2:16 am

Mercy watches, solicitous, as Gloria goes through the laborious motions of pushing from seated to standing with the added weight of an active baby on her frontside. When the woman finally gets to her feet, the physician lets out a small puff of air that she hadn't been aware she was holding, a respiratory vestige of her worry for the seamstress.

That particular brand of worry resurfaces as the pregnant girl approaches, and then sinks down before her, skirts rustling. As she starts to go down, Mercy reflexively reaches hands out to catch the woman's elbows, pitching forward just a little in her haste, seeking to counterbalance or provide stability, really anything to keep Gloria from ending up toppling to the floor. Dark eyes trace the complexities of her compatriot's face with increasing worry and, not for the first time, she idles upon the obvious disparity between their upbringings, though she dares not comment upon them.

Gloria locks her hand around Mercy's chin, and desperately seeks for some assurance. Once again, the physician is thrust into a role that she has played well for many years, through truths and deceptions alike, and she shoulders it without a hitch. She waits for the girl to finish her plea, and then begins the process of anxiety assuaging.

She speaks, then, and her voice seems to be crafted out of comfort and satin, modulated to appeal. "Gloria, if for some reason the fates see fit to rob your child of you, I will do everything in my power to assure she has all the comforts you seek for her," she pauses, then--not in the vein of hesitation, but to compose her thoughts.

"You can trust in me. But you must try to worry less. The baby can feel you fretting," Mercy cautions, attempting to derail the conversation from the grim track it has taken. She smiles then, an attempt at bolstering the young woman.
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby Rance » Fri Oct 03, 2014 2:30 pm

The response was enough.

Gloria, at the physician's words, deflated with a breath, kneeling in the pooled tatters of skirts. Her fingers surrendered the physician's cheek and then crawled down to find the woman's bent knee.

"She knows when -- when I'm worried. She spins and flinches; I want to hold her. Do you know that? I want to hold her and I only have one hand to do it."

Her mouth opened, the obnoxious simulacrum of a laugh. Digits clenched around the starched breadth of the physician's skirts. In the faint flicker of the candle, this place reminded Gloria Wynsee of a chapel: her knees ached under her weight, but she was glad for the tired agony of them, giving here her dedication and happiness to the woman who knew so very much about bodies and minds, health and healing. Tired eyes traced down Mercy's gown, toward the patterned kirtle, and she began tracing the smooth arabesques of fabric underneath one of her fingers, fingertip gently digging into Mercy's kneecap -- finding, amid stitches, a comfort, an old memory.

"How," Gloria asked. Her voice had become wet and heavy. Cheeks gleamed like finely-polished copper. "How do you keep all your broken pieces in order, Menna Mercy? I look at you and -- and you're proper, you're perfect, you're wonderful. I wish I'd all -- all your smarts and composure packed in a little basket that I could carry around and help people out of. I do. I do..."

Her shoulders begin to bob. Her head lowered against Mercy's thigh. The girl, without sound, sobbed.

"I know you're shattered, too," she whispered into bunched fabric. "How do you hide it? How do I get to be like you?"
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby girl » Sat Oct 11, 2014 7:12 am

“You're holding her now, Gloria—and when she comes you WILL hold her. You will hold her in the crook of your arm. When she is not so small, you will be able to hold her with just one hand, and then she will hold you,” the physician responds, her words fervent and whispered. If she could will some of her own confidence to the other woman she would have.

Gloria kneels before her, and the healer leans forward, one hand to shoulder, fingers pressed just beyond the edge of the blade, a gradual but comforting expression of warmth, of compassion, of camaraderie. Gloria's tearful inquiries are met with a certain crumpling from Mercy; the physician's shoulders sag slowly, the carefully contrived composure that she wears like armor slipping just a little.

“It's all a ruse, isn't it? You just learn to pack it all in, to hide everything away from the world. That way others can never see your weaknesses,” Mercy intones, still bent forth over the sobbing girl in her lap. Fingers move to caress her hair, slipping daintily through the tangles, working them with all the care one would have for strands of gold. There was no good advice to give the scared girl who had collapsed at her feet, just comfort.
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby Rance » Sat Oct 11, 2014 4:53 pm

Fingers touched her hair, trying to coax calmness from them the way an instrumentalist might pluck the strings of a dulcimer or lute. The girl's mane was a bramble-patch of oily black peppered with wild sprawls of gray where the Glass Sun had burned the life from her curls. Where other girls prided themselves on smooth hair, hers was a coarse underbrush that had rarely seen either the teeth of a comb or the whiskers of a brush. From beneath, her strained eyes became wide pits, listening.

You just learn to pack it all in, to hide everything away from the world. That way others can never see your weaknesses.

Mercy's shoulders withered, the starched blooms of dress-sleeves catching the girl's attention, reminding her of blossoms trying to reach for the daylight. The younger woman's fingers dragged across the kirtle of Mercy's dress, hissed along the fabric as they lifted, clasped the side of Mercy's head as if she was touching a thin-shelled egg.

And this was her ruse now: that tears dried, that she sustained her strength in the face of upset. Her forehead, as dark as creamed tea, pressed against the physician's so that the only things that existed were their eyes.

"I can see it," she said. "Your weakness. Not for how it makes you vulnerable, but -- but for how it makes you human. You hold your spine like a fencepost and your chin high up, like a lady. But you can't fool a liar, either. I see the Mercy under the professional, and -- and I tell myself, she's here because of my prayers, she's here because you need her.

"I tell myself, Gloria, she's here because she needs you as well."

Trembling digits brushed hair off Mercy Tirel's brow.

"With one hand, I'm going to hold her. She's going to hold mine. And should you ever need it, I'll hold yours, too."

Nothing else was said. Bleak tears etched canyons in the dirt and perspiration on her face. Her cheeks crinkled with an intrepid smile that dared think itself magnificent. Before Mercy could say anything, could deny, could bring down the veil again and hide, Gloria turned and swept -- muddy skirt-hems flaring, protruding stomach a point over which her whole body seemed to bend -- toward the door to the physician's room.

At the threshold: "Thank you for never hesitating. For being my friend."

Footsteps drummed in the corridor.

Gone.

* * * *

Night lasted so long. The occasional pair of footsteps passed in the hallway, some drunk and uncaring, others accompanied with laughter that led to horseplay in nearby rooms or to headboards knock, knock, knocking against the panelled walls. Gloria Wynsee had left hours before, and yet morning refused to dawn as the autumn midnight seemed to stretch on forever, forever--

However Mercy Tirel spent the remainder of the evening, however, a thing came to be:

Frantic knuckles blasted thunder against her door when the rest of the world seemed to sleep.

A knock.
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby girl » Wed Oct 15, 2014 4:01 am

From behind the physician's door sound those shuffled and muffled tones that accompany the rousing of a person from sleep: the crease and rustle of bedclothes tossed away, the scrape and bump of the uncoordinated movements of a body still weighed down by the dregs of drowsiness. In the darkness, shoulders hunch reflexively at the sudden onslaught of cold and she manages, in the low light, to find a wrap. Sleep-clumsy fingers twist the dark blue fabric around her shoulders and upper torso, the closure secured by her left hand, buried within the wrap's triangular tails.

Mercy casts an eye to her desk, at the candle that rested atop the wood, and then back towards her bed. Lips press together, and a sigh is exhaled through her nose, the candle abandoned for the noble act of considerateness. In the closeness of the darkness the physician ambulates towards the door, right hand cast out in front of her blindly, each step shuffled conscientiously to prevent any furniture-based injuries.

Cold bare feet register the change in the feel of the ground beneath them, leaving the frigid boards behind for the scratchy turf of well-worn carpeting. The pale rectangle outlining the door looms just before the woman. Her right hand reaches out, lighting upon the handle and, face leaned close to the crack in the door, the physician stage-whispers a query to the person lurking behind it.

“Who is there?”

There is no malice in her voice, no annoyance at the loss of blissful sleep, just a sort of sluggishness not normally exhibited. Another glance is chanced over her shoulder, unseeing.
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby Rance » Wed Oct 15, 2014 10:40 am

Only hours had it been--

Hushed excitement answered Mercy Tirel's inquiry, the breath required to say words simultaneously smothered behind a girlish trill, afraid to awaken the surrounding patrons but ready, so ready, to shout.

"Mercy," the voice hissed. "Menna Mercy, open the door. It's Gloria. It's the most wonderful thing; it's the most beautifully, miraculous, fantastic thing."

Her accent -- foreign, particular, careful to enunciate each and every syllable -- splashed across the portal as if the young woman's mouth was right up against the wood. Her silhouette's flicking shadow intercepted the radiation of light that spilled around the physician's door.

"I thought we'd never find her."
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby girl » Thu Oct 16, 2014 9:59 am

Gloria is standing before her door in a state of excitement that the physician has not in the course of all their interactions yet experienced. Well, Mercy imagines that she is standing, though it is entirely possible that—considering the fervent tone Gloria has employed in her whispers—that the pregnant woman might be dancing behind that veil of wood.

Either way, the necessity and happiness in those words has the physician cracking the smallest of sleepy grins and moving to pull the door aside, at least enough to admit the pale moon of her face between door and jamb, framed by a wild halo of dark and tangled curls, and then the rest of her night-clothed and wool-wrapped body.

“What type of discovery has put you in such a state as this at this late of an hour? Who have you found?” She had many questions, but these were the first and most pressing of the lot.
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Re: Another Cycle of the Moon

Postby Rance » Thu Oct 16, 2014 10:22 am

Who have you found?

And there it was--

The young woman on the other side of the door beamed with excitement and affection as the physician answered. Her face had never worn such a wild, wonderful mirth. The look veiled her with something like warm, resplendent Sunlight. All the crescents of sleeplessness had been chiseled out from under her eyes, all the slumping weight on her shoulders liberated. As Gloria Wynsee stood there, draped in the usual dusty simplicity of commoner's garb, she held--

"I found her."

In the crook of the seamstress' plump, handless arm was a bundle, a cocoon. Amid those wraps was a fat, pale-skinned face that stared at the world out of two listless oil-drops. Two grasping, desperate hands flexed and clutched at the rough fabric. The diminutive lump of a child had a gaze transfixed not on Gloria, not on Mercy Tirel, but on the flickering wonderment imprisoned within the fires that danced in the corridor's sconces.

Bathed in the hallway's light was an adolescent mother and her swaddled progeny. And Gloria gave to the child a fingertip to suck, that she might soothe its wet gums like any mother should.

"Finally," the Jerno whispered--

(and in the air, the smell of old shillings, or the edges of long-unwashed knives -- no, no, not that exactly; the aroma was...)

"I thought you'd lost her for good, Menna Mercy. But she's right here. She's right here!"
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