- Messages
- 11
- Character Biography
- Link
Wet, muted coughing filled the air, shattering the uneasy stillness of the room. The thin man fought to breathe, clutching at his aching ribs and oddly bloated stomach. Foul green mucus and vomit dripped from the corner of his mouth into the chamber pot beneath his head, followed by thick, syrupy tears oozing from the corners of his bleary eyes. Some missed the target, splattering onto his worn leather boots—not that he particularly cared. Frankly, Edward didn't really care anymore about anything but his own suffering.
The tiny shack had but two rooms. In the other, Roxanna reclined uncomfortably in a weathered old rocking chair, arms resting in her lap, the dark circles of sleepless worry etched deep beneath her closed eyes. Her hands clenched reflexively as another muffled bout of agonized hacking split the air from the other room, a muscle twitching in her cheek ... but there was nothing more she could do. They didn't have the money for a proper healer, and her own rudimentary knowledge of herblore wasn't nearly sufficient to handle this dreadful affliction that had so stricken her husband.
That only left one option.
Edward had been loath to resort to this; stubborn, prideful old fool, thinking he could tough it out. But that was a week ago, back when he was still capable of going through the motions of labor as a dockhand; now he couldn't even make it to the door of his own home. She should have done this days ago. Roxanna opened her eyes, sitting up straight, a new set in her jaw. "Silas!"
The wiry, mop-haired boy at once looked up from the table in the center of the other half of the room, though he didn't stop idly tapping the tin spoon in his left hand against an all-too-empty wooden bowl. It was something to do, after all. "Yes, mum?" His eyes displayed a pleading hope that she would send him elsewhere; that she would let him get out of this stifling shack, and away from the sound of his father's incessant suffering, if only for a little while.
"I can't leave your father, so you'll have to go." For a moment she almost reconsidered as she said it; the boy was only twelve! But it wasn't like they had a choice anymore. "I need you t'run to the Ashrose—you remember where?" She waited for the quick nod of assent before continuing. "Good; remember, be careful not t'hang around or let the guards give you trouble. Tell 'em your father's sick, and we need help; and be ready t'lead 'em back here, alright?"
Silas nodded obediently, his wide eyes betraying both anxiety and desperate hope. Practically everyone in Alliria knew of the Ashrose Apothecary and the mysterious young woman who dwelt there, and not without cause: if anyone could help them, the Blind Healer could. Standing up and half-running to the door, he grabbed an oversized patchwork jacket—a hand-me-down from his father—and darted out into the gentle, somber evening rain with all due haste.
In the child's absence, the spoon lay unused on the table, not even the rhythmic clinking of his fidgeting left to break up the monotony. There was only silence; silence and the dreadful, incessant coughs and retches coming from the other room.
Slowly, Roxanna slumped forward, burying her head in her hands. Even what little hope the prospect of the Blind Healer's aid gave her wasn't enough to ward off her growing despair, and she wanted nothing more than to give in to it and let herself weep; perhaps then she might achieve some catharsis, at the very least. But it was not to be.
She was too worn out even to cry.
Another one. The third this week.
Soothing, bittersweet incense swirled throughout the dark room. It wasn't enough to stop the coughing, but it at least helped to ease the pain. The comfort of a proper, soft bed rather than Edward's own ramshackle cot was a plus as well, and for the first time in days, he'd actually been able to escape the waking world, albeit only into an uneasy, restless sleep. Roxana had protested at moving him here, but the protests hadn't lasted; it was hard to dispute concrete results, after all. Besides, it was deceptively difficult to argue with Ysilia—something about her apparent youth and equally-apparent ill health always left one feeling guilty after giving her a hard time.
The spread quickens. Faster than it ought. And still no closer to a cure ...
The Blind Healer showed no outward sign of her inner frustrations as she stepped outside the room, her examination now complete. Behind her, Alan gently closed and latched the door, the hinges squeaking as he did so. Placing a slender hand on the hulking manservant's arm to guide herself, Ysilia made her way at a characteristic unhurried pace toward the iron-bound doors at the end of the hall.
The blood. It is a bile of their very blood.
Alan reached forward and pushed the door to the courtyard open with another screeching of unoiled hinges. Ysilia flinched and pulled back slightly, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering. It wasn't all that cold, but the gentle, misting rain—which had carried on well into the night—brought with it a certain chill, and the frail alchemist was more than a little sensitive to such things. Steeling herself, the blind woman shuffled forward, putting her hand back on Alan's arm, before the two stepped out into the night.
There was work to be done.
The tiny shack had but two rooms. In the other, Roxanna reclined uncomfortably in a weathered old rocking chair, arms resting in her lap, the dark circles of sleepless worry etched deep beneath her closed eyes. Her hands clenched reflexively as another muffled bout of agonized hacking split the air from the other room, a muscle twitching in her cheek ... but there was nothing more she could do. They didn't have the money for a proper healer, and her own rudimentary knowledge of herblore wasn't nearly sufficient to handle this dreadful affliction that had so stricken her husband.
That only left one option.
Edward had been loath to resort to this; stubborn, prideful old fool, thinking he could tough it out. But that was a week ago, back when he was still capable of going through the motions of labor as a dockhand; now he couldn't even make it to the door of his own home. She should have done this days ago. Roxanna opened her eyes, sitting up straight, a new set in her jaw. "Silas!"
The wiry, mop-haired boy at once looked up from the table in the center of the other half of the room, though he didn't stop idly tapping the tin spoon in his left hand against an all-too-empty wooden bowl. It was something to do, after all. "Yes, mum?" His eyes displayed a pleading hope that she would send him elsewhere; that she would let him get out of this stifling shack, and away from the sound of his father's incessant suffering, if only for a little while.
"I can't leave your father, so you'll have to go." For a moment she almost reconsidered as she said it; the boy was only twelve! But it wasn't like they had a choice anymore. "I need you t'run to the Ashrose—you remember where?" She waited for the quick nod of assent before continuing. "Good; remember, be careful not t'hang around or let the guards give you trouble. Tell 'em your father's sick, and we need help; and be ready t'lead 'em back here, alright?"
Silas nodded obediently, his wide eyes betraying both anxiety and desperate hope. Practically everyone in Alliria knew of the Ashrose Apothecary and the mysterious young woman who dwelt there, and not without cause: if anyone could help them, the Blind Healer could. Standing up and half-running to the door, he grabbed an oversized patchwork jacket—a hand-me-down from his father—and darted out into the gentle, somber evening rain with all due haste.
In the child's absence, the spoon lay unused on the table, not even the rhythmic clinking of his fidgeting left to break up the monotony. There was only silence; silence and the dreadful, incessant coughs and retches coming from the other room.
Slowly, Roxanna slumped forward, burying her head in her hands. Even what little hope the prospect of the Blind Healer's aid gave her wasn't enough to ward off her growing despair, and she wanted nothing more than to give in to it and let herself weep; perhaps then she might achieve some catharsis, at the very least. But it was not to be.
She was too worn out even to cry.
Another one. The third this week.
Soothing, bittersweet incense swirled throughout the dark room. It wasn't enough to stop the coughing, but it at least helped to ease the pain. The comfort of a proper, soft bed rather than Edward's own ramshackle cot was a plus as well, and for the first time in days, he'd actually been able to escape the waking world, albeit only into an uneasy, restless sleep. Roxana had protested at moving him here, but the protests hadn't lasted; it was hard to dispute concrete results, after all. Besides, it was deceptively difficult to argue with Ysilia—something about her apparent youth and equally-apparent ill health always left one feeling guilty after giving her a hard time.
The spread quickens. Faster than it ought. And still no closer to a cure ...
The Blind Healer showed no outward sign of her inner frustrations as she stepped outside the room, her examination now complete. Behind her, Alan gently closed and latched the door, the hinges squeaking as he did so. Placing a slender hand on the hulking manservant's arm to guide herself, Ysilia made her way at a characteristic unhurried pace toward the iron-bound doors at the end of the hall.
The blood. It is a bile of their very blood.
Alan reached forward and pushed the door to the courtyard open with another screeching of unoiled hinges. Ysilia flinched and pulled back slightly, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering. It wasn't all that cold, but the gentle, misting rain—which had carried on well into the night—brought with it a certain chill, and the frail alchemist was more than a little sensitive to such things. Steeling herself, the blind woman shuffled forward, putting her hand back on Alan's arm, before the two stepped out into the night.
There was work to be done.