==== December 20th, 2013
==== Prymelia, T'ral

==== Prymelia rushes to the Infirmary when she hears of weyrlings returning injured.

Who Prymelia, T'ral
What Prymelia rushes to the Infirmary when she hears of weyrlings returning injured.
When Five months and six days until the 12th Pass (Give or take, yanno, five months and six days. COME ON! Predicting this stuff isn't SCIENCE!)
Where Southern Weyr

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infirmary.jpg

Infirmary
Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master.


The infirmary is bustling. Tight faces, concern and concentration, quick movements, fast strides. Moans of the injured and exhortations of their loved ones rise above the murmur of the Healers as they tend wounds that have not been seen for hundreds of years. T'ral is sitting on a gurney, stripped to the waist, left arm held up, hand behind his head. He's wincing down at a Healer who examines a long twisting gash along his ribs.

When Meadow had begun kicking up a fuss, Prymelia had done her best to soothe the agitated little flitter but nothing had helped and not moments later, the tiny little green had blinked Between. And then the news broke across the Weyr - Thread, falling over the Keroon Gather grounds. Terror had sliced deep and cold as nightmares became reality. The next thought had driven that knife even deeper. T'ral! With her heart in her mouth, she'd quickly slotted into wherever she was needed: Running out pitchers of water and food, helping to carry supplies for the healers to triage stations. And then the dragons had started keening, a sound that burned to the very heart of her. Dragonpairs had gone Between, never to be seen again. Esanth!? With focused determination, she'd concentrated on the tasks at hand, until finally dragonpairs had started returning home and a young drudge had barreled in, ashen-faced to announce that weyrlings had been injured. Dropping everything, Prymelia had rushed to the Infirmary. Please let him be hurt, please him be hurt. The mantra ping-ponging through her mind over and over again because injured, meant alive!

Running at full tilt, sandals skid and arms flail as Prymelia comes to an abrupt halt just inside in the Infirmary. Breathing hard it takes her but a few moments to identify a certain bluerider and she's off again, at a pace more respectful of those going about their duties but no less hurried. "T'ral," his name a soft moan of relief and anxiety both and then she sees it, the twisting slash along his ribs and hands press to her mouth to stifle the sob that lifts up. She wants to touch him, to hold him, to reassure herself he's really alive and going to be okay but there's a Healer in the way and so instead, she hovers shifting from foot to foot just behind the man, hazel regard glued to the bluerider's exhausted features.

At the sound of Prymelia's voice, Prymelia! T'ral's head snaps up, he takes a deep breath an- "Sit still, please," the Healer peering at his wound 'suggests.' He'd seen her only that morning, but it felt like an age ago. A sob dies in his teeth, chest tensing, as he- "Sit. Still." The Healer looks up at T'ral and then over his shoulder at Prymelia. That calculus is not hard to do. Straightening with a dusting of hands and a tug to order his garb the Healer proclaims, "It's superficial. No sign of infection yet. I'll send an apprentice to clean and dress it." T'ral clears his throat, lowering his arm, wincing. He gives the man a hoarse, "Thank you, Sir." The wound doesn't feel particularly minor, but after what he'd seen tonight, it was. It so, so was. He slips off the table awkwardly, arm held over his side in a protective fence. He walks the few steps to Prymelia and scrabble gropes into a one-armed hug, face buried in her neck. "Jiamoth is…" his voice hitches with a sob, "She's hurt bad."

The more distress T'ral exhibits, the tighter the control Prymelia has to lash about herself so that she doesn't simply shove the Healer aside and throw her arms about him. By the time the man declares his wound to be 'superficial' - WTF is that supposed to mean!? - the knuckles of hands wound tightly together are bone-white. "I can do it," the young woman says of cleaning and dressing the bluerider's wound. Anything to be useful and ease T'ral's pain. Taking a step closer, he surprises her by meeting her halfway. Immediately arms wind about him. One around his neck, fingers curled tightly about the nape of his neck and then other about his waist on the opposite side to the raw slash of score. And there she remains, holding on tight, trying to breathe while suppressing the tide of emotion that batters against the hatches so tightly closed against its invasion. Jiamoth, Cerise, the pair of names are put together from having met briefly at the graduation ceremony's after-party. There's a pang of concern but she doesn't really know the greenpair. "Esanth?" Prymelia asks, worry thick in the whispered query.

The Healer looks up surveying the controlled chaos of his domain. He turns an appraising eye on the young woman. A flicker of recognition, he squints, "Ah, yes." She knows one end of a numbweed paddle from the other. He looks at the rider and back at the girl, "Are you sure. It won't be pleasant." Cue screams from two separate locations. The Healer's mouth is a flat, grim line. The question is for both of them. T'ral gives a tight nod. At Prymelia's response the Healer moves on, pointing at a supply station nearby where numbweed, redwort… scrub… brushes. T'ral grits his teeth. He winces as Prymelia's arm -however careful she may be, the wound is a long one- tugs at skin the wound. He blinks away tears and lifts his head at her query after Esanth, "Nothing. No, I mean, he didn't get hit. But… he's-" how to explain his dragons most un-dragonlike regard of Jiamoth? "Jiamoth is in bad shape." Because that explains it. "I need to get back to him." He hitches, wincing and looks off, presumably towards Esanth.

"It never is," Prymelia replies to the Healer in a flat tone of acceptance for the task at hand. Delivering the few babies that she had under her mother's guidance had been a messy business, as had assisting in removing an arrow from an idiot that had walked across the paths of her brothers when they'd been out hunting. In T'ral's embrace she presses a kiss to his neck and then carefully disentangles herself and moves them toward the gurney he'd just hopped off. "First we get you fixed up and then you can and go see Esanth." She tells him a no-nonsense voice before moving off to collect redwort, numbweed, bandages and two empty bowls. Returning these are set out on a small table stationed next to the treatment area. There's a solemn nod of understanding for how badly Jiamoth has been injured. "And Cerise?" Prymelia asks, calm as can be in the eye of the shitstorm while she scrubs her hands with redwort.

T'ral closes his eyes. He shivers. Then swallows, eyes opening. Bleak. He shuffles to the gurney and hops up, sitting very straight. Awkward. His brow furrows, "I think he's …okay. For now." Meaning, he's not causing problems. T'ral abruptly puts the butts of his hands over his eyes, head down, breathing ragged. "We were supposed to have more time," to himself. He takes a deep, raw-edged breath, eyes rolling in worry. Prymelia turns back, supplies in her hands. Cerise… "I don't know. She collapsed. I don't think she was hit." His jaw clenches. "I saw the tangle headed right towards them." He draws another hitching breath and scrubs at his eyes. "I couldn't do anything."

Hands scrubbed to within an inch of being raw, Prymelia pauses taking up a wad of clean cloth, hazel regard latching intently to T'ral. She can't have any way of knowing what he's gone through, but she can be the rock in the storm. Fear, panic, confusion, all such unhelpful emotions are firmly shoved aside, only compassion allowed to remain. Dropping the wad of cloth into the bowl of redwort to soak, she steps in closer between the V his knees create where he's perched. Gently hands are set to either side of his jaw. "T'ral, look at me," there's a pause until he does so, her chin dipping to find his eyes. "You did the best you could." Firm in her belief there. "You all did." Hands slip away in a light trail of fingers that then go on to capture his chin between them. "What you do now, is take a deep breath and tell me about the costumes at the Masquerade Ball." A distraction if you will. Turning back to the redwort, hands are given another scrubbing, the wad of cloth lightly squeezed and then with a quietly murmured, "This is going to hurt," she gets to work first irrigating the raw wound with dribbles of the disinfectant - must sting like a bitch - and then carefully swiping away any debris and bits of cloth clinging to the wound it.

Jaw clenched, T'ral is looking everywhere but at Prymelia. Or even at the infirmary. Thread falls. Dragons flame. Riders are hit. Friends. Dragons. Shouting. Screaming. Prymelia's hands on his face snap him back, he blinks, sucking in a breath and panting it out. 'Look at me.' He does, eyes wild and scared. Sinking. She's talking, steady and calm and… "Wh- the costumes?" He watches her scrub her hands, absently noting that she does so as one who'd long practiced the technique. Right. She trained with a midwife. It hurts. It hurts a lot. At another prompt to describe the costumes, "Ah… Yules was wearing one of your masks. Agh." He grunts, "The leaves and bark one." He tenses at a particularly vigorous scrub, clenching his teeth and, "I had a cape and… a black ma- this is stupi-nngh!" He pants. "Someone, Nika maybe, stuck ribbons in my mask," he huffs, a faint twitch of a smile. "Uh… Cerise," his breath hitches, "Cerise was wearing the mask you made. She looked beautiful." His leg starts tapping -Cerise, blue and shivering slips from Jiamoth's neck- nervous energy without an outlet. "And…" his breath comes shallower -Jiamoth's leg a ruin of blood and bone and- leg tapping harder, "Ah…" He swallows, "H-hannah wore silver." He grunts, wincing, looking down.

Each pant and grunt of pain coming from T'ral slices through her as surely as if it were her own, but she continues on with dogged determination. Although she's never seen threadscore before, Prymelia has been on the cleaning end - gross - of an infected wound and seen the high fevers that go with it. "You were wearing ribbons?" She latches onto that bit, forcing a little smile to appear. "I hope they were pink." Gentle tease, dull at the edges but an effort made. Another last rinse of redwort and then she's taking up a clean towel and lightly patting the entire area. "Nearly done, love," she murmurs unaware of the exact tumble of words as she turns and takes up the pot of numbweed. A frown creases freckled features. A paddle's going to HURT and her fingers will numb up if she goes for the direct approach. Ah. Solution. Another wad of clean cloth is taken up and dipped into the noxious smelling stuff. Smearing it liberally across tanned skin, she forces conversation back to less horrific topics though it treads dangerously close due to the shocking events that followed. "Were the harpers good?" Gingerly over ribs and down around his side she goes, constantly dipping and applying over skin that she'd spent hours exploring when… She'd come so close to losing him. Breath hitches. Keep it together! "Were there any Tosses danced?"

"Different colors," T'ral remembers flinging them out of his face as he tore his mask off. Everyone's eyes wide in shock, determination, fear. A moment frozen, etched. His side is a raw-throbbing jangle of hot pain, clean, but so exposed. 'Nearly done, who?' T'ral blinks, mind quieting for the first time. Breathing stilled. He looks at Prymelia, she's turned away, stained fingers, mussed hair, lashes lowered as she frowns, figures. Another -brighter- moment frozen, etched. He brushes fingers over her cheek as turns back and sets to work, dabbing the numbweed. Smiling vaguely pushing hair behind her ear. The numbweed works quickly and slowly, slowly, T'ral relaxes. He'd not even realized how tense he'd been. "They were very good." Best that bribes could buy, was the scuttlebutt. A toss? Oh, yes. "There was. Nika and an Igen rider made quite a show." A beat, "Atmanth got hit. Nika's."

With head bowed and working so closely over a landscape of muscle and bone now familiar to her, Prymelia is all too painfully aware of just how tense with pain he is. Tightened abs, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Shock. Shock could be dangerous and quickly she darts a look upward, trying to assess how close to that brink he's hovering. A brush of hand, fingers that tuck tangled strands behind her ear. And her heart lurches. Setting the numbweed and saturated wad of cloth down, she reaches for a bandage and a bundle of gauze but doesn't immediately start to wrap it in place. Rather she allows for a pause for the numbweed to take full effect. "Aye, and thirteen died," the report she'd heard echoed in a heavy tone. "But you're still here, and so is Esanth and Yules and Desmeth and E'don and Qian and D'tri and Chorz and even…" a short pause in which she latches an intent look to navy blue eyes, "Cerise and Jiamoth. It was horrible and terrifying and horrifically unexpected but you're all still alive and you will all heal." Ready to fight another day. Fear for the lives of those she's grown close to knots a queasy chord in her stomach and nausea rushes up threatening to overwhelm. Stand firm. Breathe. Your only concern is for your patient. Her mother's words slip into place, echoed the first time she'd witnessed the miraculous gore associated with childbirth.

"Twenty-six." T'ral draws a shuddering breath. "We lost twenty-six. Counting Igen's." He pauses, looking down, solemn. Please don't let it be twenty-seven. But she's right. T'ral nods slowly. His foot taps again, nervous energy. "Please hurry. I need to be with Esanth."

Twenty-six, including Igen. Igen. A cold finger drops down her spine. Her family, some of whom had been at the Gather. How had they faired? What were their damages, their losses? Eyes squeeze shut, the What If demon banished to a corner, she gets back to work, gauze lightly spread along the raw wound, the noxious unguent providing enough of a barrier so as to prevent it sticking as the injury begins to heal. The Healer pops back in and spying gauze, inserts himself into the process, peeling the first layer back to look at the treated wound. He purses lips appreciatively, "Good work." He squints at the trader, "You. You can stay." He looks at the rider, "You, you're done. Come back if the wound gets hot or if it changes in any way. The Healer moves off, making rounds. Prymelia smoothes the gauze back into place. Holding it in place with one hand, Prymelia carefully wraps his ribs and abs. Tying the ends together, she takes a step back to run a critical eye over her handiwork. It's not up to a Journeman's standards but it'll do the job. Satisfied, she moves back in to supply a shoulder for T'ral to lean on. "Come on, let's get you to Esanth." For one can be sure that she plans to stick close to his side until there's another task or errand that needs running.

Wound numbed and wrapped, supported and tended, T'ral doesn't really need a Prymelia-crutch for walking, but she's most welcome to stay tucked under his arm for however long. Warm and close and bright and … T'ral sighs. As close to at ease as he's been. Esanth is a shivering bundle of anxiety that T'ral has been steadily soothing. The dragons in the infirmary are helping, but it's time for T'ral to take Esanth off to a ground weyr and sleep. If they can. Hopefully Prymelia would stay. T'ral finds himself saying something that he's been saying a lot lately. "Thank you, love." And something new too.

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