Hangovers and Hurricanes (March 3010) - [Darelle]
May 21, 2018 11:07:51 GMT -5
Post by Adelais on May 21, 2018 11:07:51 GMT -5
The day was dragging as if it was sent from the Dimholt itself, and Adelais worked in quiet grumbles all the morning. Curses peppered from her lips, though she had done well to mostly avoid the young ones’ ears. Inga had heard some, though had kept her tongue bridled on the matter and continued to her duties about the Hall.
The woman had dried, at least mostly, by the afternoon, for the wood fire that kept the winter’s chill from the beds and patients also pulled at the moisture of the air. Adelais still looked a mess, though; her hair was unkempt in its braid, puffy and stringy in places. Her neck was bright red in blotches, a fact that the healer had been reminded of many a time over for the length of the day. Her clothes were rumpled, her face pale for the pain of her head.
The events of the night before seemed to be stuck, repeating in her mind like a chorus of regrets and shames. Flashes of the night before: Swithin’s bright smile, the way his beard and curls gleamed in the firelight. The way she had liked it, despite the fact her heart should have been staid and true to one who had asked it of her long ago. The feel of his skin, of sitting in his lap.
She could feel her cheeks warm as certain memories filtered to the top of her recall, though equally as quickly she would chide herself and utter a curse under her breath, chasing the pleasant feeling away for a more fitting anger. For years—years—she had been loyal to Faramund, thinking on him nightly as she drifted off to sleep, visiting his grave where he lay whenever she ventured to the evermind to see her family.
He was family.
He had been almost hers forever.
Now, though, the bed linens needed changing, and she stood pulling the sullied, bloody ones from the mattress, face set in a frown as dark as a summer thunderhead. She could not wait to leave, to be home; it seemed the day was dragging on for hours longer than it should have been possible. Perhaps tomorrow she would go to Faramund, make apology, seek amends…
“Oh,” Inga remarked quietly from where she was setting the fresh sheets down. Adelais barely spared her a glance, yet she could note the girl’s attention was drawn from to the window. “That redhead is heading this way…”
“What?” Adelais snapped, wheeling so fast her head nearly felt as if it were spinning. Swithin had tailed her all the way to the Hall that morning, much to her chagrin; if he had come back, so help her Béma. With a quick step she peered out into the bright sunlight of the late afternoon herself.
It was not Swithin, though, that was marching up the street. “Son of a warg,” Adelais hissed, spying the long, silken locks of fire and the angled, angry features on the willowy form heading for the front door. “Inga, tell the girls to mind the scalpels and knives. Quick.”
Darelle was not unknown about the Hall; many a story had circulated amongst those who were taken by gossip and news. Broken vases, thrown knives—the woman was as mild as her hair was bright. Still, Adelais had never seen her quite this worked up before and heading to the Healing Hall.
Truthfully, she did not wish to go to the door; her head yet ached in a dull throb, and she was unsure if she could stomach any screeching and yelling. A glance about, though, revealed her as the closest Healer.
Unfortunate.
With a sigh, she turned, planting herself as best as she could in wait. The door was going to fly open in but a moment, and with it was going to come a woman who burned with the brightness of dragonfire.
The woman had dried, at least mostly, by the afternoon, for the wood fire that kept the winter’s chill from the beds and patients also pulled at the moisture of the air. Adelais still looked a mess, though; her hair was unkempt in its braid, puffy and stringy in places. Her neck was bright red in blotches, a fact that the healer had been reminded of many a time over for the length of the day. Her clothes were rumpled, her face pale for the pain of her head.
The events of the night before seemed to be stuck, repeating in her mind like a chorus of regrets and shames. Flashes of the night before: Swithin’s bright smile, the way his beard and curls gleamed in the firelight. The way she had liked it, despite the fact her heart should have been staid and true to one who had asked it of her long ago. The feel of his skin, of sitting in his lap.
She could feel her cheeks warm as certain memories filtered to the top of her recall, though equally as quickly she would chide herself and utter a curse under her breath, chasing the pleasant feeling away for a more fitting anger. For years—years—she had been loyal to Faramund, thinking on him nightly as she drifted off to sleep, visiting his grave where he lay whenever she ventured to the evermind to see her family.
He was family.
He had been almost hers forever.
Now, though, the bed linens needed changing, and she stood pulling the sullied, bloody ones from the mattress, face set in a frown as dark as a summer thunderhead. She could not wait to leave, to be home; it seemed the day was dragging on for hours longer than it should have been possible. Perhaps tomorrow she would go to Faramund, make apology, seek amends…
“Oh,” Inga remarked quietly from where she was setting the fresh sheets down. Adelais barely spared her a glance, yet she could note the girl’s attention was drawn from to the window. “That redhead is heading this way…”
“What?” Adelais snapped, wheeling so fast her head nearly felt as if it were spinning. Swithin had tailed her all the way to the Hall that morning, much to her chagrin; if he had come back, so help her Béma. With a quick step she peered out into the bright sunlight of the late afternoon herself.
It was not Swithin, though, that was marching up the street. “Son of a warg,” Adelais hissed, spying the long, silken locks of fire and the angled, angry features on the willowy form heading for the front door. “Inga, tell the girls to mind the scalpels and knives. Quick.”
Darelle was not unknown about the Hall; many a story had circulated amongst those who were taken by gossip and news. Broken vases, thrown knives—the woman was as mild as her hair was bright. Still, Adelais had never seen her quite this worked up before and heading to the Healing Hall.
Truthfully, she did not wish to go to the door; her head yet ached in a dull throb, and she was unsure if she could stomach any screeching and yelling. A glance about, though, revealed her as the closest Healer.
Unfortunate.
With a sigh, she turned, planting herself as best as she could in wait. The door was going to fly open in but a moment, and with it was going to come a woman who burned with the brightness of dragonfire.