Waiting Is.

[Carnath-Emory]

Suffer me to cherish you
Till the dawn is in the sky...


Hours had slipped away to the throb of her sluggish heart. Wine had quietened a mind which had threatened panic, tea soothing a throat burned ragged by her own cries. It was fatigue of the flesh to which she finally succumbed, her mind still racing with the ramifications of that night; with fear. "My Nightingale," he'd said. "My little wren." Offering everything, demanding nothing, and she'd been left with the sense of a debt yet unpaid.

Her sleep had been restless. Gripped by the unknown, she'd struggled and fought against her sheets.

The next day had followed with little change. Behind her eyelids was seared the memory of Kylerryth's flawless features, his monstrous beauty that had been nothing short of Perfect. It was a word she and her sister had come to fear, years ago. And what of Quincy herself? Quincy who'd almost clawed the eye from her head, Quincy who'd fought with that collar, with metal that had glowed as if it were molten, livid with life --

But this was nothing but speculation. In the absence of fact, of certainty, she'd been left with little but that: for the first time in years, Ariane Emory had given herself over to disquieted brooding. Her mind had grasped at scraps of recollection, had indulged in baseless assumption, in alarmed guesses. She had, briefly, wished to have been born something other than atheist, so that she might pray blessings and hope upon a Bromn who'd stirred only briefly, weakly, during the violence which had befallen the Rememdium.

All these things had come and gone in the first hours of the morning's light. That had been the length of her necessary wait, for a woman eager to bruise and maim and butcher -- and prevented by such things by the oppressive darkness, by the need to wait yet longer. Four days, Dhrin had said. Or one, if they make haste.

For that much longer, he is permitted to live. And so, fool woman, is she.

It was to this end that she'd spent the morning's palest hours preparing. Supplies, folded garments; the necessary things for a journey of indeterminate length. A question for the pretty barkeep who'd served her that morning -- and a satisfactory answer, one which ensured that it was the correct door upon which she hammered now. Dhrin is her aim, Dhrin who guards his remedies so jealously, Dhrin who will lead her to their source, Dhrin of the malachite eyes -- a fine foil to the blazing emerald of Kylerryth, the gentle violet of Bromn. A woman could almost regret the oath that she'd sworn to that Governor so many months before. But perhaps she could also take some pride in its fulfillment.


...Whether I be false or true,
Death comes in a day or two.


Courtesy of Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Mariposa".

[Altias_Bromn]

Black.

Hours of deep, soothing, cleansing, peaceful black.

Pain exploding across his skin, spreading like the slow burn of molten rock as it changes the face of the very world around it. Slowly cooling, easing into a comfort that very nearly allowed the black peace to smother the sensations once more.

Voices.

Soothing, angelic, twisting, turning, until violence would write their sounds with an edge of determination, of desperation. Hope became need. Wish became demand. Gentleness became fury.

Silence.

Once welcomed, now cold, empty,lonely, terrifying. Whispers trying to lead him home, rush away, distorted by fear and anger, fall silent.

A single hand remains to sooth his heated brow. One who's voice whispers both salvation and damnation, a face he has not the strength to see.

Heat.

Glowing, searing, healing.

Cold.

Wet, nourishing, bitter.

All are gone then, save for one who must remain, for his soul will allow no less. Methodical, clinical, helpful, as a doctor must be.

Void.

Emptiness, silence, terror.

[Thadius Dhrin]

In the darkest hours, just before dawn, Thadius had returned to the Rememdium, entering as if he belonged there. The doctor was not with Altias at the time, most likely taking a much needed moment of quiet, perhaps even sleep. The man certainly needed it, Thadius had found him a bit cranky upon their first meeting.

Great care was taken over the next hour or so. More salve was layered on to the governor's burning brow. His face and hands washed and left moist for as long as the heat, devestating even at this ungodly hour, would allow. As the man, so close to consciousness, would try and speak, sips of cold bitter tea were instead put to his lips. It was moisture, despite its horrid flavor. The governor obediently swallowed every drop.

"Soon you will return to us, Altias Bromn. The black is slowly leaving you, and for that we are grateful. The Nightingale has agreed to allow me to take her to my home, where I can show her the cure for the poison that has caused you so much suffering. In case someone else should suffer your fate."

The governor fussed a bit at this, a calming hand would rest on his brow, the moist rag so soothing that thoughts of objections were forgotten in favor of that moment of peace.

"But we know no one else will suffer from this poison, don't we, Altias? That man killed your attacker. Her knife was knocked away when the brute threw her lifeless body away like a broken doll."

Slowly the angelic man leaned down to press a kiss to the governor's brow. Tossled tresses of crimson brushed back from the ivory pale flesh of the sleeping man.

"Regain your strength, Altias Bromn. They need you. We All need you. I'll take wonderful care of your lady friend. I promise this will be a trip she will always remember."

And with that he is rising, leaving the salve and the tea on the bedside table. Certainly the doctor would have no trouble finding it. A few more days and Altias would be healthy as a horse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morning would find Thadius in the Inn's common room. A cup of tea delicately cradled in his left hand, a slender piece of charcoal in his right, rapidly jotting thoughts on to the parchment rolled out on to the table in front of him.

Platinum locks were plaited tightly away from his face, then rolled carefully and secured with silver pins to create a high bun atop his head. A bit, frilly , for most men, but then he wasn't most men, and it was simply too blasted hot to care. His body was covered only with a simple cotton tunic of pale green, hemp and leather sandles on his feet.

Apparently the man was set to travel, the long pale silver silk bag rested against a table leg, the long wooden tube of water had been joined by a second identical to the first.

Notes about the condition of the governor were hasitly written as he waited for Ariane to find him. He would wait one more hour for the Nightingale, and then he would abandon the quest, for there would be no need to go without her.