Waiting Room Whispers

Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Rance » Tue May 21, 2013 5:25 am

"It is just a busted nose," she said to Cherny with exaggerated disdain as they sat in the anteroom of the Rememdium. It was well past sunsleep, and yet, accidents happened even outside of the sun's watch.

But a broken nose was not an emergency. It was not a father's finger accidentally severed by the learning axe of his young son as the two chopped evening wood. It was not a half-charred face obtained from a bit of experimental magic, as evidenced by the red, leathery cheek-skin of the young woman sitting four seats away. The white-gowned wellsmith had told the seamstress and her young companion "It will be some time," so together, they sat and watched the harvest of farming accidents and clumsy decisions.

With a twist of bloodied cotton still hanging from her left nostril, the seamstress leaned to Cherny. "What do you think happened?" she asked as she discreetly nudged a finger in the direction of the burnt lady. Occasionally, she dragged her sweater-sleeve underneath her nose, smearing flakes of brown, dried blood along the sweat-stained cuff, having such little regard for her own clothes that they were nothing more than dabbing-cloths and washrags.

Cherny's vinegar compress had done just fine, she wanted to tell him; she did not need a wellsmith to look at a broken nose, no matter how grievous the new bulge to the bridge or the angle at which it bent.

"While we wait," she said, interrupting a quietly-hummed song, "maybe we shall talk of -- of a thing."

The next words she spoke more softly, as if to preserve his pride.

A secret shared between brother and sister. A pact long before declared on the threads of a borrowed apron: I will keep you safe.

"The Black Man. I heard he came to you. I heard he scared you."
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Cherny » Tue May 21, 2013 9:17 am

"It's broken bones. They, they need looking at, or they mend all crooked. Arms or legs or, or noses." Repeated again, just as she's repeated her protests against wasting the wellsmiths' time. "If it, if you don't get it fixed it'll end up like this" Pressing his own nose to one side with a fingertip. "and you, you'll only ever be able to walk in circles." On account of following a nose that's been whacked out of line, you see. Makes perfect sense. He does a fairly good job of keeping a straight face as he makes this doleful pronouncement, and is distracted in the next moment by her indication of the blotch-faced lady. He grimaces in sympathy before offering his hushed answer.

"Tripped with, with her tea, maybe." A faceful of scalding liquid perhaps, or an unexpected gust of steam while leaning over a soup-pot. Hard not to stare, either way, though he turns his attention hurriedly back to the seamstress as the seared lady glances in his direction.

A thing. That's enough for him to offer her a dubious look, all lofted eyebrows and skewed lips; but when the true matter of it is spoken his features settle into more of a frown. He shrugs as if the subject is something unpleasant that's alighted upon his shoulder.

"It was a mess is, is all." A confusing flurry of events spanning no more than a half-dozen heartbeats. "He's a, a devil. Not a man."
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Rance » Tue May 21, 2013 9:45 am

"It will not end up like that," she responded, blowing out a huff of breath that sent a little tendril of black hair fluttering like a suspended lakeweed. "But if I do, guess who I will have to blame for planting the thought in my head." A stern finger pushed against his shoulder once, twice, strong enough that had he been standing, perhaps he would fall right over.

They both watched the woman. Her skin was like wrinkled rawhide. It was moist, damp, occasionally catered to by a bloody rag clutched in a shaking hand. Tripped with, with her tea, maybe.

Perhaps a man had kissed her and she had hated the sensation of his tongue -- it was like pork-grizzle, tasted of his rancid breath -- so she ran, tripped over the stone of a campfire, and had fallen into the cinders.

Maybe her husband was a blacksmith, a good fellow who loved his drink and the body of his wife. What if he had drank a little too much, had gone to her to make a baby and she had not wanted it, and he had gotten so upset, he heated a flat of iron in his coals until it was angry and red and put it to her flesh. She screamed, she thrashed, and the skin cooked like--

"Tripped with her tea," she said, rubbing the side of her head. Then, she distracted herself with her claim-sibling's discomfort. He turned into leather, a pack-mule with too much of a burden across its shoulders. Caliir on a long trip. Silent, stoic, not willing to admit that there was something. But as Cherny looked at her and spoke, she tapped a finger against the brooch still pinned to her sweater. Its relief was that of a little twist of vine and a fine tiara, leaves and jewelry fashioned out of metal like they were meant to be the same.

"What kind of mess," she asked, a timid hand crawling up his arm to touch his shoulder. "Will you tell me? Will -- will you tell me what happened with him, Cherny. He came to me too. Like a devil. Like a--"

The pads of her fingers tightened on his shirt, soothing, supportive.

"Like a bad dream."
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Cherny » Tue May 21, 2013 10:09 am

What kind of a mess. An awful kind of a mess, and one smudged and blurred with the days between into a smear of impressions. He gathers his thoughts for a moment, speaking quietly against the dropping of eaves by others in the waiting room, and gives every impression of hurrying through his account to get it out of the way.

"Catch was, was arguing with the- with Sera Agnieszka. She's on the, the council." Or something associated with them, anyway; the distinction was unclear from the boy's point of view. She was government. "He was going to, to hit her with the, the axe we got him. He wanted to. But he'd've got in, in proper trouble for that so I was, I was trying to stop him." That had been the main concern, in the moment - less concern for Sera Agnie, who he presumed could handle herself, and more fear that Catch would be suffer dire consequences for making the attempt.

"Then, then he showed up - and was, was saying that stuff again. That I'd turn out bad." Fierce resentment in his features at that, an angry look to the seamstress as if defying her to agree with the Black Man's predictions. As if she would.

"So I, I told Catch to hit him instead. So he'd not hit Sera Agnie. Catch, Catch hates him too, even more than Sera Agnie, so he, he threw the axe at him." And that was that, his tone implies, an air of finality that marks the end of a story - or what he'd like to be the end. Moving on, then, with a little too much haste, to the seamstress' own encounter. "What, what'd he say to you?"
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Rance » Tue May 21, 2013 5:21 pm

Anger broiled in his eyes. She did not look away. She did not deny him his abhorrence. Nor would she let him be convinced by a devil's silver tongue.

Her first response was to reach up and rest her thick hand on the crown of the boy's head. She clasped his scalp as if it were a leather ball, then roughly drew him close, pressing a kiss against the top of his hair. "Turning out bad is an impossibility, Cherny. Let no errant words from some false-philosophizing man tell you otherwise. Bad is not in you. You are glass, clear straight through to the wonderful heart."

His story coalesced as flickered images in her mind -- Agnieszka, Catch's rage like Black Smoke, the devil, a grand axe for a Good Citizen, the crackling heat of tension like static before a storm. And Cherny. Wanting the right thing. He was a pulse, and everything else was cold and lifeless in the eye of her mind, unpainted busts frozen in a desperate moment. Except for him reaching out, trying to make a change--

I told Catch to hit him instead.

"Think of it as if it were all just a thrown rock, Cherny. A little pebble, Catch and his axe." The seamstress never looked away from him, but pinched her callused fingertips together as if she clutched an invisible stone between them. "Just this big. You ever know if in the air, it could be harmless, or if it could be dangerous. But -- but that's where your role becomes special."

She bent back her arm, then gave a sidearm toss of the imaginary stone. She glanced off along the floor of the Rememdium's waiting room, even arching a gloved palm above her eyes like she were blocking the sun from them just to watch the path of the tossed stone. What, what'd he say to you, Cherny asked, but she silenced him with a finger pressed to her lips.

"Watch the stone. Watch it," she whispered. "Think of -- of Catch and his axe as if they are that little tossed stone.

"Heavy as your heart may have been to tell Mister Catch to do so such a thing, do you know what you did?" his b'letta asked him, the lingering pebble metaphor left purposefully truncated for the moment--

"You might have saved that woman's life."
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Cherny » Wed May 22, 2013 3:51 am

His gaze follows the movement of her fingers, flicking only briefly to her bruised features before gamely following the flight of that imaginary stone. He knows throwing, knows how such projectiles arc through the air, knows the force with which they strike.

"It, it hit him. And his, his guts fell out but he didn't die." Or even scream, as he should have, as anyone would have on seeing their entrails splash onto the tavern floorboards. It's a point of conflict in the boy's thoughts, whether or not he's glad that the Black Man walked away from a blow that might have killed another man.

"And he was, was saying I made a choice and... and all the other stuff, like before. Like he was right." And that was the troublesome part, the disturbing part, they thought that in that moment he'd started along a path which he'd vocally rejected, in defiance of all his intentions. "I, I could've got Catch to, to hit something else, or to not hit anything." Maybe. Possibly. It would've been more of a challenge, though, met with more resistance. This had been a nudge, a distraction, turning the addled man's ire aside with a couple of words. It had been a choice.
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Rance » Wed May 22, 2013 4:12 am

"You made a choice," she confirmed, but there was scarcely sound to her words at all, just breath, never wavering.

"You might say to yourself you could have stopped him, but could you?" she asked. "We know our Catch, Master Cherny. You know him. Love him as you might -- as we might -- he can be d'ouvala't--" a word she used as a place-holder before her hands circled in front of her, and she tried to mill the proper phrase from the air, "--he can be an inevitable force. Very little a boy can do to move a mountain when its mouth is already erupting with flame.

"But what you did was interrupt that stone in mid-air, in its already sure flight. It was going to hit something. You saw this. Yes? You recognized it; you made a choice to divert its path. You cannot always stop a sure thing. No simple person can curve a stone when it is already thrown straight. It could have hit one tree, the Councilwoman, but instead it hit another. It hit that devil because you chose it."

There were no unsure stammers in her words, for while she often repeated statements in her growing grasp of the Standard, she did not seem so reckless here. All deliberate, all directive and chosen.

...his guts fell out but he didn't die.

"Why do you think you chose that," she asked. "Why will forth that tiny gust of wind to breathe against the pebble, turn it almost imperceptibly?" Her tarnished-steel eyes begged him for his honesty.
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Cherny » Wed May 22, 2013 12:09 pm

"I, I could have." Could have stopped him. Could have calmed him, or at least stalled him long enough to persuade him away from bloody axework. "He listens to, to me." Not in the same way that he heeded Gloria's glass words which inspired irresistable obedience. Cherny's croaked words gave Catch something else - wise counsel where otherwise he had only his own disordered thoughts to guide him. He lent a bright-eyed cleverness that warned the addled man away from dangerous paths, looked ahead, helped him, kept him from trouble and blame.

"I could, could've said, that's only for, for cutting wood, or good citizens don't do that or, or something." There were other options, but none of them had beaten that first impulse, the idea that had fallen so readily from his lips when the Black Man had appeared. Why, Gloria asks, and the mill-boy has to think on it for long moments, wooden soles scuffing restlessly on the floorboards.

"I didn't want Catch to, to hit Sera Agnie. He'd've got in trouble - bad trouble, so that people could, couldn't just say oh, well he's not right in the head and forgive him." Catch gets away with a lot, is forgiven a lot - or if not forgiven then at least grudgingly tolerated. "The sort where people'd get angry and the, the Governor would have to put him in a hole. So I didn't want that."

That had been his main fear, his main concern in that moment when Catch had turned his gaze upon the Wormwoman, scarred hands tightening with murderous intent upon the axe handle. But there had been something else, something that it takes a moment for him to admit, voice quieter when he next speaks.

"And I wanted him to, to go away." The Black Man, a deeper crease to the boy's frown as he says him. "He's a devil and, and needs to be gone." Gone, by which he means dead.
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Rance » Wed May 22, 2013 2:04 pm

"You were protecting him," she reminded her brother as he pored over explanations she had inquired after, but that were necessary. Her admiration for the boy was boundless. As dull, as witless as her eyes might often seem, they would never judge him. Her hands would always be his, rough and dark as they were.

"He listens to you, Cherny, but don't be fooled to -- to think that Catch is always of a mind to hear. You know him so much better than I do. But even I am aware there are simply times wherein what makes him go will not listen to reason. Like when he is obsessed over the Eight, or the Wormwoman." They were phrases of which she'd been familiar, but the definitions were vague and misunderstood, the poetry of words that had yet to be interpreted.

She reached out the toe of a wide wooden clog and pegged it gently down on the top of his shuffling feet. The softer consonants in her voice were muddy from her broken nose.

"You cannot simply stop a thrown stone. But you did what few others could and directed it mid-flight toward what -- what it would hurt the least." A phrase less in praise of the Black Man and more in recognition of what results it would not yield: A mauled councilwoman; an imprisoned Catch staked out in the Sands and given to the mercy of the Glass Sun to burn him, boil his guts like stew. "If you dare let that chin lower, t'oddah, for simply wanting to keep safe those you love, for directing the unavoidable and the frightening in a way that is both admirable and human--"

The severed sentence turned to a severe smile, a punctuation to her playful portent.

"You are not the only one who wants him gone, Cherny. I wish that he would die."
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Cherny » Thu May 23, 2013 3:51 am

"It's what he, he was talking about, though." Lifting a foot to press his shoe atop hers atop his own, the game bringing a faint curl of a smile to his lips. "Making choices and, and getting used to... choices like that." There was sense in being able to make them - to decide, in a moment, how to find the best result. Or the least-worst result, this being Myrken. But it was uncomfortable, unpleasant.

"You're not meant to, to wish people dead." Frowning, trying to resolve this principle with a wish that the Black Man had caught that axe with his face, had fallen in on himself and collapsed in a roil of greasy smoke. Something like that, something easier than the wet impact of metal and yielding flesh and the splatter of guts on the floor. "And, and next time he mightn't be there or, or it might be someone else I don't like but, but who'd get really hurt. It's not a thing to, to get used to."
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Rance » Thu May 23, 2013 4:43 am

"You're not meant to, but you're also not meant to stand idly by and watch the ruin of those you love. But that we speak of it right here, right now, Cherny, means that you are not used to it.

"If you were -- if ever you could be, which is so vastly unlike you -- we would be discussing your favorite new stitch, or the tea I like the least; you would be sharpening your little sword or wondering how exactly you might convince Mister Catch to squeeze the devil's dark brains from his skull.

"But that is not you. You are not used to it. You never will be. I know this."

It was not always meant for siblings to agree. It did not mean that they must go at one another with tooth and nail like mindless beasts, but instead that there would be moments like these, where not even her gentle touches could reconcile the conflict that roiled in him. She read it in his eyes. She sensed it in the tension of his shoulders, the way he put heaviness on his words.

The unpredictability of life fighting against the granite teachings of the chapel. The convictions turned into a shield.

Cherny hid behind them. She would never blame him for that.

"I will wish him dead," she clarified, "because for as often as -- as I have seen a living thing harm a friend, or toss a blade among children, I have never seen a corpse do such a thing. Here, in Jernoah, anywhere. Is it wrong that I think that way," she asked him, though whether it was a question meant to challenge his thoughts or to solidify her own was not discernible. "Is it?"
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Cherny » Thu May 23, 2013 12:58 pm

"I'll wish him in a, in a hole. With, with iron chains, where they only feed him trough water and, and mouldy bread." Justice, of a sort - not execution, no, but locked away where he might not cause further harm, where he might think on his ways and come to realise how wrong they are. A fair compromise, yes. There's some spite in there with the detail of mouldy bread, but the boy might be forgiven that much at least.

A longer pause for thought, then, fingertips drumming lightly on the seat beside him in lieu of the scuffing of pinned feet.

"I'm not, not used to it yet." A doleful correction, with perhaps an edge of contrariness to it, stubborn argument for its own sake; he'll never be used to it, she knows this, and such assurance grates against his own uncertainties and doubts, perhaps envious of her conviction. He has his lessons from chapel, yes, but they're simple, clear-cut, unambiguous in a world that grows more smeared and blurred and messy by the day.

"But I, I might be. If, if Catch keeps trying to hit Sera Agnie, or if, if I have to hurt people to stop them hurting - hurting people I care about." Years, months, weeks from now, acts which might once have been desperate and reluctant becoming commonplace, casual. "And, and then it gets easier. So I hurt people who, who get in my way, or who annoy me or, or because I'm bored." They've met people like that, they know people like that, to whom violence has become a thoughtless thing, a first reflex rather than last resort.

"Maybe Elliot was, wasn't always an ass. He, he'd say oh, back then i was a, a stupid kid," A mocking imitation of the older boy's deeper voice and farmer's vowels. "I know better now, Knee, you've got to, to be a thieving ass or Myrken'll eat you alive. But he's wrong." He's got to be wrong. "But he, he's got used to being a, an ass, so he can't tell any more. It's like that."
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Rance » Thu May 23, 2013 4:13 pm

"There are some places where iron chains are more cruel, Cherny. There are some places where the iron cannot stay strong forever."

It was Jernoah speaking, her dormant and inbred fascination with death, for she had grown up--

playing in streets where Jernosta blades flashed in the burning sunlight and cut down men in the gutter, where fellows took office -- and with it, an oath to die at the conclusion of their term; where young choir-girls were asked to take the skirts off that young rat'vak child, we are going to give her to the Nameless, we are going to fill these little troughs with her blood and soak the sands and the whole time, the whole time you are going to sing, that's such a good girl, sing and watch, sing and watch, hit that note just like this--

"It is not cumulative, Cherny. You speak of death as if is smokeroot, that you might sample it and the euphoria it brings, like it is unavoidable that you will want more. But that is a myth. Death, killing, hurting, it may seep into the cracks in a fractured heart and spread them wider -- but not unless that heart is already weak. The devil's got scarcely a heart at all. A cup, if you will, that he wishes to fill with the pain of others. That is his heart.

"But yours is no cup. It is a little white diamond. I see no cracks in it. I see no nicks in the surface."

He was so small in that moment. He was so tiny, fragile, and she was large, protective, Jernoan. The seamstress wanted to wrap him in her arms, bury his face against the meeting of her shoulder and put the world at her back. She wanted her words to be magic to him, but they dribbled through her fingers as if they were wet sand. He would grow. He would be a militia-man, or a miller, or a strategist; he would blossom into something beautiful or wonderful or absolutely boring--

or something with a leather-beaked nose and plague behind its glass eyes, an Uncle, a silent statue, a Gatherer, a corpse--

"Catch will keep trying. She is the Wormwoman. Whatever that may mean," she said. "And Elliot -- Elliot," the girl added, shaking her head.

Her fingers crawled out, then, to touch his cheek -- careful, as if he were a fragile statuette, hot to the touch. "Bad deeds do not always stick to the heart like oil. I know it. I -- I've killed a man. But sometimes bad deeds are not so awful. Sometimes, in the moment, they are just. You saved Sera Agnie's life. You protected Catch."

"Your mother would be proud of you."
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Cherny » Fri May 24, 2013 12:49 pm

"It, it's not like that. Not liking it." Frustration in his hoarse voice, frowning as he struggles to describe it better, to make it clearer. He can't quite meet her gaze, instead addressing a spot on the floorboards a few yards distant.

"It's like, like... like working with needles. First time you, you stick your finger it hurts and, and bleeds, and you fuss about it. Next time you flinch and" A sharp sucking of air between his teeth. "because it, it hurts. Then next time you, you frown and grumble at being clumsy."

She's given him this lesson herself, taught him not to fear the needle, dismissed thimbles as something relied on by inadequately skilled embroiderers. Encouraged him to prick his own fingertips to become inured to the needle's sting.

"And you do it enough times you, your skin gets hard, and you don't even feel it any more so, so you don't care about it." A toughening, callouses of the heart instead of the fingers, armour against Myrken's horrors. To ensure that the heart is strong enough to do what must be done to survive.

Her words are kind, the sentiment behind them is understood and appreciated for all that he has to disagree with the words themselves. He leans into her, bony shoulder resting against her meaty arm, head turning into the touch of fingertips to his face, seeking that comfort.

Your mother would be proud of you.

He thinks on those words, rolls them around in his mind like a sling-stone in his palm, feeling the shape of it, the weight. The truth.

"I, maybe. Probably." He allows, a compromise. Maybe she would be - would have been - and the thought has him breathing out a quiet sigh, shifting within that oversized patch-coat as if to settle it more easily across his narrow back.

"There, the birds round the pond've got babies now. I, I've been putting out food for them to, to take back." Scraps and offcuts from Many-Fights' meals, for the most part, bits of fat and meat. The millpond crows had learned his routine, and he'd taken to leaving them out a platter of pieces cut finely enough for hungry little beaks. "She, she'd like that, too. Taking care of, of things."

But then meaning sinks in, something she'd mentioned almost casually as part of her efforts to reassure him, but which jarred on second consideration. Dark eyes lift at last, curious, perhaps wondering if he'd misheard.

"What, what man?"
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Re: Waiting Room Whispers

Postby Rance » Fri May 24, 2013 6:20 pm

"You are assuming that everything is like stitches. That all things apply to all people the same way. Some people, they would prick their finger and never pick up a needle again; some people may do a harm and never do so again."

He tilted against her, put his meager weight into her, and she reciprocated by brushing some of the dark hair from off his brow. Once, when her friendship with Mister Catch was young and new, he had asked her Are you g-g-going to be Ser Eater's mother, as if such a thing could be worn like a tiara-vine brooch on the lip of a sweater collar. The burnt-faced girl had been forgotten -- her only concern was Cherny and his conflicted heart. She wrapped a sturdy arm around him, giving him her sunborn warmth and her quiet strength. Those hands, those arms, which had given Son a beating and had been warned against being too violent, held him as if he were a brittle wishbone. They were confident for him; they refused to let him believe he could not rely upon her.

"Maybe," she whispered. "Probably," repeating his words, before adding: "Definitely. I bet she watches you from the stars and tells all the other stars, That is my son; that is my boy, and makes them jealous to know that they could have never made a man as fine as you will be."

She believed those words. Their honesty was steel.

What, what man?

An invisible stone caught in her throat. Clogged her. Filtered pressure throughout her veins. Her tongue became a swollen lump in her mouth, inarticulate and clumsy. She explanation pattered out of her like droplets of blood from a needle-skewered fingertip.

"It was -- it was in Jernoah. He threatened me. I was twelve. I was scared. I gave him my trowel in his guts. They said the Nameless sent him; they said he was holy, and--" a fracture in her voice, a thread-thin hint of weakness as she recited words she had been told, "--You cannot sing songs with the other girls anymore; you have got to show us your wrist for what you have done."

Her fingers dug, jabbed, ground into his shoulder-skin as if she might break him. Her knuckles faded nearly to white beneath her bronze skin.

And, and then it gets easier. So I hurt people who, who get in my way, or who annoy me or, or because I'm bored.


Maybe if she'd something else, not a slate, but a knife, a sharp thing, it would have been easier when the devil had come for her and Rhaena--

"Birds and their babies," she said, a new topic. "Can we go see them," the seamstress asked. "Can one day we go see them. Can I watch you taking care of things?"
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