In which pointy instruments are wielded...
Who hasn't wanted to stick a knife in Sefton at some point? Finally, Neiran's the lucky one who gets to do it.
Or, in which Sefton manipulates Neiran's reactions even while they discuss his death, Penny throws a hissy fit, Neiran makes an important realisation about two people in the same room as him, and Sefton commits incriminating things to writing. Fun and games for all! I award Neiran five squids, my highest accolade, for making surgery fun.
Sefton's olive skin prevents him looking too pale, but it doesn't stop him looking unwell. There's something unnatural about the Headmaster's complexion as he makes his way into the infirmary -- he doesn't make it that far in, halting by the door, and lifting one hand to rest it against the frame. And he stands, and waits for attention, eyes half closed, swallowing.
It's an assistant fussing with some bandaging that notices the Headmaster first. She gapes for a moment, hesitates, and then turns and dashes for an attendant Journeyman. The closest figure with a Journeyman's knot is a tall, lean one, dressed head to toe in black. Neiran looks up from his hidework in surprise as he finds hands fluttering at his elbow. Irritation quickly subsides, replaced with attentiveness as the woman's demeanor suggests something awry. He looks towards her indicating gestures, straightens instinctively when he sees the Headmaster there. The peculiarity of his appearance registers on him only a moment later. Abandoning whatever it was he was doing, he approaches - brows raised already in polite and silent inquiry, thin hands folding together in front of himself. "Headmaster." A pause. "You...do not look well. How may I be of assistance?"
"I do not feel well," Sefton informs his student, his drawl undiminished by whatever urgency the situation may hold. "I leave it to you to tell me how you may be of assistance, but --" He pauses, and swallows, eyes closing for a moment. "I have a great deal of pain, here." One hand lowers to rest on his abdomen, just to one side. "It has moved a little, since it started, and increased the last couple of hours." Another pause, and he opens his eyes to fix his dark gaze on Neiran, though it's dulled. "And a fever, I think." His mouth twists to a faint smile, related to the amused, slightly mocking smile familiar to so many of his students. "I hesitate to jump to conclusions, but it would be ironic if..." He elects not to finish his sentence, fingers tightening around the doorframe where he supports himself.
Neiran's eyes flicker across the other man's features while he speaks, inviting himself to scrutinize and analyze the extent of his pallor, the focus of his gaze - all are clues for diagnosis and assessment, morsels he picks apart with more interest than any of his meals. When Sefton tells him the particularities of the pain, the corners of the Journeyman's mouth waver, almost pulling down into a frown, though it's aborted just in time. "I see," he replies. "I hesitate to jump to conclusions as well, but the locality of your discomfort and the obvious distress it is causing you necessitates swift action." Nothing to be said of irony. "If you will come with me, we shall attempt to identify your problem." If it were any other patient, it's likely the healer would offer his arm as a matter of courtesy, but he hesitates to presume with Sefton. "Do...you require assistance in moving to the cots?" A vague hand-gesture indicates the farther-off cots are their destination, the ones with the privacy a curtain affords.
Sefton waits out -- permits, invites -- his student's inspection, and his fingers tighten on the doorframe once more at the prospect of movement. The hand that indicated the location of his pain lifts to his face for a moment, and it's only after it's brushed across his forehead to push back his curls that it becomes more evident that a faint sheen of sweat lurks there. "I do not," he replies, words curt for the first time, though it's a moment before he moves. Then he swallows, eases away from the door, and makes his way slowly, but steadily towards the consulting area indicated.
The Journeyman nods, his precaution in asking justified by the Headmaster's stubborn self-reliance. He turns to precede him, walking with slow steps and a hampering of his usual long-legged gait. If he's not needed to physically assist the Headmaster, he can at least do one thing - frown disapprovingly at anyone who tries to make this into a spectacle by staring at their procession. It's up for debate how many, patient and coworker alike, are actually cowed by his disapproving expression, but at the very least some measure of respect is extended towards the Headmaster, and the sting of watching eyes is only faint for the long walk from the entrance tunnel to the cots at the back. He pulls aside the curtain to make way for Sefton, an air of uncertainty gathered around Neiran while he watches the future lord of Fort Hold. After another sweep of his eyes, he announces, "I wish to place the senior Master on your case, Headmaster. I will return shortly. If anyone happens to offer you any refreshments, please deny them." The significance of that - a surgeon asking his patient to keep his stomach empty - is no doubt not lost on the man from Boll, but Neiran doesn't waste time in waiting to see if it sinks in. Unlike himself, without waiting for acknowledgment he turns and goes rapidly in search of the Master, leaving Sefton alone.
For once, the Headmaster's foremost concern is not the perception of others. Then again, perhaps it would be as fair to say that, as usual, Sefton's first interest is himself. He eases down gingerly onto the cot, and doesn't bother to acknowledge the information provided by Neiran. Indeed, his gaze doesn't even flicker upward. He's too busy staring at his boots, and evidently deciding that swinging his legs up onto the cot represents too much effort -- or too much pain -- to be justified.
Neiran isn't gone long, by the judgment of the infirmary timepiece, but how long that seemed to Sefton is another issue entirely. Nevertheless, his quick steps bring him back towards the cot in due time, without any Master shadowing him, his hands clasped together just a little more tightly than usual. His expression is grave, inasmuch as his features express. In fact, this kind of solemnity is the one expression his mien seems designed for. Without preamble, the Journeyman states, "the Master is completely indisposed at the moment, Headmaster. If it were something negligible, believe me when I say that I would do everything in my power to bring him here, and that he would come out of duty you you, Headmaster. Unfortunately...that is not a possibility." He lifts his eyes from his study of the Headmaster's boots, to look the man in the face.
Sefton listens without lifting his head, and swallows once more. When he speaks, his words are as low and even, and as lazily drawled as ever. Perhaps habit holds them there. "That being the case, Neiran," he replies, "I do hope you will not consider it an imposition if I ask you to either do something about this yourself, or find me somebody who will. Conversation is low on my list of priorities, at present."
"Yes, Headmaster." The response is crisp, and Neiran's shoulders straighten with it. The apologetic student just received a firm backhand from the professional healer in him, and it's that that steps to the fore, now. "I am the most senior attendant on this shift. I believe we would best not delay to retrieve someone else." He turns and draws the curtain closed, cutting off the view of the infirmary interior with a sharp swish of fabric. There's little opportunity for conversation in the next quarter of an hour; Sefton is prodded at, asked to lay on his side and bend his knee up to his chin, and perform all kinds of subtle gymnastics geared towards establishing what's already suspected - that there's localized abdominal pain, stemming from the appendix. It's after asking Sefton to cough and watching the man for any wincing that he sheds his mantle of studying silence to ask, "when was the last time you ate or drank anything, Headmaster? And what was the nature of it, and in what quantities?"
Sefton doesn't have it in him to make another jab at this point. He's silent for a moment after Neiran speaks, letting his breath even out after the slight acceleration that Neiran's diagnostic efforts have prompted. "Breakfast," he supplies, after a moment. "A mug of tea, and a pastry. I didn't pay attention to what sort, Aida brought it up. I felt unwell at lunch, so I had only a glass of wine." A weak smile, still faintly amused. "Which sufficed to quieten her down." Beyond the infirmary, the living cavern is beginning to buzz with the earliest of the evening diners, past which the Headmaster must have come to gain entry to this place.
No doubt the Journeyman makes note of the Headmaster's capacity for humor even at a moment like this, but he doesn't remark on it. His brow doesn't even lift. "Headmaster, it displeases me to have to say this, but it is my professional opinion that you submit to an exploratory surgical exam." He draws in a long, measured breath, unlaces his fingers from their matched set, and continues. "I would like to be able to advise you to fast in preparation, and to wait and see if the situation does not resolve on its own. Given the circumstances, however, I would not feel entirely comfortable with that approach. There are a few possibilities for the source of your discomfort, among them appendicitis. The consequences of waiting on acute appendicitis due to a hesitant diagnosis can be fatal." His mouth opens, he has plenty more he could say; but he stops himself there, to wait for his patient and Headmaster's brain to catch up with his, and register the impact of what he's proposing. As always, Neiran watches his expression, dark eyes fixed on Sefton's face.
Sefton's expression has a lot of practice at staying blank, but it might be that already he's retreating inside himself, and disengaging with the outside world. His mouth tightens a fraction, and his gaze lifts properly so he can meet Neiran's eyes. "You would not feel entirely comfortable," he repeats, sarcasm creeping into his low drawl. "I would not feel entirely comfortable with being cut open, Neiran, and that is also something that might be fatal."
Neiran nods, slowly, accepting Sefton's response after a moment's pause. "If you wish a second opinion...from one whose proclivities do not extend towards surgical matters, I will endeavor to quickly bring a colleague in to assess." Lest it be thought he's a little too eager with the scalpel. "I understand your reticence. I hesitate to suggest the dramatic course for any patient, but particularly one of your standing. However, I cannot diagnose your problem with any certainty without examination, and if you forgo that procedure the diagnosis may make itself clear, and then it will almost certainly be too late." Another breath in, and out slowly. "There are associated risks with any surgical procedure, as you have noted. It...may be a small comfort for you to be aware that I was the primary surgeon involved in bluerider T'zen's abdominal surgery. He made a full recovery, and his case was quite severe." He refrains from further comment after that, and folds his hands again. His eyes are a little rounder than usual, as if by staring at the Headmaster he can convince him -persuade him silently - that he's right. You need to be looked at. Trust me. And, underneath those impressions, a smaller thread: I can do this.
There's very, very little to be read from the Headmaster's nearly black eyes as he rests his gaze on Neiran's face, and he takes his time in choosing his words. "You premise that something is wrong, and as you have no other way of discovering it, you propose to take a look," he settles on, finally. "If you recommend this, and I allow you, and it is for nothing, you understand the damage this will do to your reputation? Or indeed, the damage that will result if you kill me?" His mouth quirks one more time. "Which is what you will be considered to have done if I die during or after surgery, regardless of inevitability."
"Yes, Headmaster. I fully understand." There can be no doubt that he does; he's still wearing that grave expression, and he looks at the man's boots briefly. "I am...attempting not to dwell on the magnitude of it lest it cause my emotions to negatively impact my judgment, Headmaster. But I would like to point out that the results of my examination suggest a very high likelihood of appendicitis, or something else severe. I know it is said of me that I am too quick to resort to surgical means, but I would not risk anything in this situation if I did not believe that waiting has as high a possibility of causing your death as going forward. I would be comfortable allowing you to wait an hour, at the very most, and report again your symptoms. If they have not alleviated by then, I would strongly suggest again you allow us to examine your internal systems." His eyes flick between the man's face, his boots, and rest on his face again. "This...I do not wish to poke about simply for the sake of it, or to gain the satisfaction of labeling your symptoms, Headmaster." His brows at last purse over the bridge of his nose, his resolve to remain expressionless finally giving way. His mouth sets determinedly into a thin line.
Sefton blinks once, slowly, then resumes his study of his student's face. "I would like writing materials please, Neiran," he drawls after a moment, finally making an effort to heft his boots up onto the cot, so he can lean back against the wall at the head of the bed.
The Journeyman seems to understand. At least, he does not question the request, but inclines his torso in a half-bow and disappears beyond the curtain, wordless. Those with nothing better to do will no doubt add note of his singular paleness and vacant-eyed look to the mounting gossip surrounding Sefton's infirmary visit already. Before fetching the asked-for items, the healer permits himself a quick glass of cold water, and a brisk wash of the hands and face with that same chill liquid. When he comes to Sefton's bedside again he has the requisite writing surface and utensils, and a flat, wooden board with a half-cusion adhered to its underside for the Headmaster to balance comfortably on his lap and write. Neiran's color is back, even if only a side-effect of the wash with the crisp water. "I will leave you in peace to write," he murmurs, passing the items to Sefton. "If you experience any shift in your discomfort, or an increase in severity, please call me right away. I...would also like to ask if you have made your decision, so that I might prepare for the procedure if you will go through with it."
Sefton accepts the journeyman's offerings, and settles them on his lap, making ready to write. "I cannot see that there is much of a decision to be made," he replies, his attention on the page before him. "I will require only a minute or two to record what I must. My affairs are already substantially in order. That seemed prudent, High Reaches having proved as dangerous as it has, the last couple of turns." His gaze flickers up, and even now, he's self-possessed. "I will be ready before you are, I should think."
Neiran takes stock of his Headmaster's self-possession, and he can only bow again and retreat in the face of it to try and grasp his own more firmly while he assembles everything necessary. As soon as he starts accumulating suturing thread and surgical instruments onto a cart, the surreptitious musings of the infirmary population are confirmed. The acquisition of the surgical instruments themselves is the most easy task, one that Neiran executes briskly. It's a comfort to him, really, lining up his tools, keeping focus away from the identity of the man he'll be using them on. By the time he's selecting the best possible Journeymen and assistants available to help in the operation, he looks almost like he did before Sefton entered.
For his part, Sefton has little to do by way of preparation. There will not be, it is apparent, any requests that particular people be fetched for potential last words, or fond farewells. Instead, he writes ten lines in his flowing hand, waves the paper gently to dry it, then folds it into three. It's set down beside the writing implements, and after that, the Headmaster has nothing more to do than gaze up at the ceiling, eyes half closed, and attempt to keep his breathing shallow and even.
The wheels of a cart approach, more than one pair of footsteps. There's a rustling at the curtain. "Headmaster." Neiran slips inside, a glimpse of three or four others crowded around the cart behind him visible before the fabric settles again. The Journeyman has his sleeves tied at the elbow, his forearms stained pinkish with the first of many antiseptic redwort washes to come. "I have assembled everything necessary. Have you ever experienced complete fellis sedation before?" A hand raises, lifting to show a phial clasped between the pad of thumb and forefinger, full of liquid. Not all of it fellis, of course, but the required tiny dose suspended in the minimal amount of carrier liquid usable.
"No," Sefton answers briefly. "I have been fortunate in my health, thus far." One hand lifts, so he can tap the folded sheet of hide. "If necessary, please pass this directly to the hand of my brother Kelar, and to no other, no matter how that request might be phrased, or by whom. I prefer to think I shall have it back from you very soon." With that business taken care of, he lifts his hand carefully, gingerly, to rake back his hair from his eyes, then extends it for the phial. "I am at your disposal," he murmurs, not without a hint of irony.
"It is my hope that I will not meet your brother under those circumstances." His lips say as much, but Neiran's eyes say he'll complete that task if it falls on him. He passes along the phial, courteously removing the lid so Sefton can toss back the knockout elixir in one gulp. The flash of alcohol can hide the bitter fellis, but only at first; the bitter aftertaste wins out strong, in the end. "You will experience drowsiness. Please simply allow yourself to fall into the stupor as it develops. Rest assured that a series of tests will assure the maximum state of your obliviousness before we proceed, and that the area will be numbed locally, as well." He'll wait just long enough for Sefton to have swallowed that dose and maybe absorb what's been said before he murmurs something more, clearly not intended for the waiting attendants outside to hear: "Headmaster, I...wish to express that...despite what evidence to the contrary I may have suggested in our past interactions, I...admire many of your traits." Lest he think that's some kind of precautionary farewell, he straightens and adds a little starchily, "you reminded me of that. Just now. That is all."
Sefton doesn't hesitate, knocking back the contents of the phial with all the ease of the seasoned drinker of strong stuff. Then he sets the little vessel down beside himself, and sits in silence for a moment to hear Neiran's next words, his tongue running along his lips to catch any escaping drops. "That is almost the least comforting thing I could hear at this point," he murmurs, words low. "I advise you to focus on your own admirable traits, just now. In fact --" and his lips quirk, though he's already visibly affected, making an effort to speak clearly -- "perhaps that is the advice with which I would leave you under all circumstances."
"I wasn't presuming to try and comfort you," the Journeyman replies, his words only a murmur. But a light gesture of his hand dismisses any notion that he might intend to argue about it. "Thank you," he replies, more clearly. "Of course I will do so." Neiran pauses, and surveys the Headmaster's lips as he makes efforts to speak. "I advise you to lay down." And Neiran folds his hands and waits, steeling himself with more ease as the Headmaster slips under. Addressing a body is so much easier than addressing a person.
Sefton's last communication, if is to be that, is eloquent. And entirely wordless. He simply fixes Neiran with a long, steady gaze, and then does as he's instructed, moving carefully and gingerly, hissing once between his teeth, so that he can lie down properly. After that hiss, his breathing eases, and begins to slow, and not long after that, his lashes flutter once more, and are still.
The esteemed and admired Headmaster is allowed to lay still for a few moments, and then the operation team and their arsenal of supplies is brought in, the curtains closed to the outside world. The procedure itself is not too long, progress made gingerly, but quickly. The amount of redwort used to cleanse each layer of the cut would be considered obsessive to some, excessive to the rest. With textbook-driven perfectionism, the Journeyman surgeon slices on, utilizing his scalpel as little as he can. At some point it becomes clear that his target is the Headmaster's appendix, and he goes after it with a thoroughness and delicacy that extends the operation's time considerably. When at last the swollen thing is deposited in the waiting pan, Neiran remembers to breathe. He allows himself the one long exhale, and he's not alone in sighing in preliminary relief. With the bacteria-laden parcel out of the body cavity, things are now less dire. Relief doesn't get in the way of ensuring the proper care in closing the cavity, however. Neiran's hands are stained almost red with blood and redwort from his repeated dousings by the time he's finally sewing skin together. Three hours later, and the curtain draws shut on a room cleaned and empty but for Neiran and the Headmaster, the scent of iron and redwort heavy on the air. The dose of fellis was considerable; it's nearly another hour before the Journeyman decides to quit watching from afar, and see if the Headmaster might be near waking. He takes Sefton's pulse, and lowers the man's wrist ever so gently back down again. He picks up the cool cloth on hand, brushes the Headmaster's curls back with hesitant fingers, and dabs his forehead just barely. The Journeyman seems transfixed by something, and he breaks his solemn study of the man's visage only to glance surreptitiously at the curtain, reassuring himself that no one is close by, and there's no crack between the curtain's edges through which someone might glimpse his vigil. Assured, he places the cloth aside, but remains standing at the head of Sefton's bed. His hand lifts. One red fingertip gently touches down on his forehead, followed slowly by the rest, until after a handful of sedated heartbeats, his cool, red palm slides its entirety upon the Headmaster's brow. If Sefton were to open his eyes now, he would feel that hand there, and see Neiran looking down on him, the healer's other hand lifted to his own mouth - fingertips touching against and struggling to diagnose what's beneath them: The smallest of insecure smiles.
How lucky for Neiran that Sefton wakes slowly. His lashes flutter, lifting once -- surely not enough time to see -- or perhaps just enough time -- then lower again. Then lift once more, before the light entering registers, however dim. He screws his eyes shut in protest, and tries to turn his face away from the light with a soft noise, low in his throat.
Now that the tense crisis has passed, awareness of the surrounding world can start to creep back in, accompanied by the sounds out in the infirmary. Penny isn't the first curious student to loiter around the area, but she's certainly the most determined. Her voice is distinctive enough to be heard over those of the pair of infirmary aides currently on duty arguing with her. "If you'll just sit back down--" "I've been sitting here for an -hour-." Penny's not shouting by any stretch of the imagination, but her voice is quite clear, with tension making each word quite impactful. "I've -told- you over and over. I am a friend of his family, and if they hear some rumor before I can bring them the truth, you'll have Lord Boll here as soon as he can reach his watchdragon, and do you -really- want to deal with him instead of me?" Someone familiar enough with her, however, would be able to tell that she's starting to unravel, having to work harder and harder to keep from shouting, or wailing, or whatever that little throb in her voice foretells.
If Neiran were to snatch back his hand, it would confirm some measure of guilt. His hand leaves the Headmaster's forehead even as his half-born smile slowly dissolves itself with the realization that he'll be regarded again soon. He clasps his hands together, returning to the guise of patient, outside observer. He opens his mouth to say something, only to be overruled by Penny's perfectly-timed outburst. His mouth closes, as do his eyelids, the latter given a brief squeeze. "Headmaster," he interjects at the first possible interval, "the operation was a success. It was appendicitis." 'As I suspected' doesn't need to be spoken; it's written in his confidence. "I hear you have someone who wishes to visit you, but I cannot advise that at this moment. I will see to prescribing you some pain medication shortly." For the moment, though, he whisks himself to the curtain. The rest of the infirmary is treated to a peek of the healer's red hand, and his white face with a few stray bits of hair framing it. His expression is steady, and his eyes seek out the source of the racket. Neiran attempts some kind of eye contact, a slow shake of the head and a frown to say 'no' across the distance - but all he's likely done is announced which bed Sefton is in.
Sefton's registering something. There's a faint frown at the sound of Penny's voice, and he tries to swallow with a throat that's too dry to manage it. He has a better try at opening his eyes again, and turns his head tentatively to track Neiran, curls falling into his eyes. "Pain medi--" he tries, his hoarse voice a far cry from the usual, lazy drawl of his tenor. Then, registering that Neiran is peeking out, he tries again. "She'll --" But there's no point in that, and he subsides, with another noise of discomfort.
The aide deserves a promotion, really, at the way he keeps trying. "Look, you can't see him, he's in the middle of--" But Penny's seen Neiran emerge, and apparently she's been told already that the Headmaster's condition has involved surgery, because her face grows marginally paler as well at the sight of his red-stained hand. "Oh, jump off the Stones," she advises the infirmary aide, pushing past him to go toward Neiran. "Don't even try that," she advises him tightly as he shakes his head, though she keeps her voice low with what seems to be a phenomenal effort. Now that it's Neiran, she's not trying quite so hard to hold herself together, and it shows in her expression. "Is it--" Her eyes are creeping toward the alcove from which the healer emerges. "Is he-- is--" But she doesn't finish, seems incapable of finishing, staring now at the curtain as if it might somehow protect her from whatever terrible thing she expects to hear in reply.
Neiran does his level best to keep the curtains pinned closed around him, sealing himself between the two layers of fabric. "He is doing very well. It was appendicitis," he says, voice low enough to suggest that he's not yet comfortable with announcing this to the Weyr at large. "I believe he will recover, but there is still the risk of infection. A risk which I would like to keep to a minimum by restricting his early contact with outside, potentially un-sterile and disease-carrying agents." In case Penny doesn't understand, he fixes a level gaze on her: That could be you. "I need to retrieve some things from the infirmary proper. When I leave this spot, will you respect my wish that you refrain from visiting the Headmaster?"
Penny gives very little reaction, to the casual observor, upon receiving that news. Her eyes close for a second as a muscle stands out in her jaw. Appendicitis. Doing very well. She stays that way for a second before she opens her eyes again. "Of course," she says, wearily, lifting a hand to her forehead as she takes a step backward, her arm curling round her midsection as if recoiling from some physical blow. Another glance at the closed curtain, she swallows, waiting for Neiran to go about his business. She'll only wait a few seconds after he leaves before slipping into the alcove, staying at its perimeter with her back to the curtains she closes behind her. Eyes are rather large, and she's not looking her best, hair rumpled from running frustrated hands through it; she's merely staring at the man in the bed, not speaking, motionless.
The man in the bed is waiting for her, his head turned towards the curtains, eyes half closed against the light she lets in when she parts them. His voice is hoarse, throat dry, and his words are slow as he makes an effort to form them as he usually would. "Sweetness," he murmurs. "I was expecting you."
"I will return momentarily," the Journeyman says, stepping through the curtains. His lack of suspicion towards Penny is revealed when he walks away without so much as another once-over or a narrowing of the eyes. He manages to get as far as the healers' area - and even gets a drawer open - before he looks back and sees Penny has ducked inside. The drawer is shut a little firmly, and the Journeyman marches back to the private area, brushing the curtains aside without pause. "Do I present myself in such a way that my requests seem only flimsy suggestions with no possible consequences, to be disregarded on a whim?" The spleen is audible in his voice, even though it's more of a low hiss, a rare glimpse of temper. Once the curtains have finished fluttering in his wake, that temper sizzles rather quickly as the healer is left in silence, looking between Penny and Sefton.
The sound of Sefton's voice, rather than reassuring Penny, seems to be even more alarming than his appearance. She draws back a little, against the curtains, one hand going to her mouth. She gives a little shake of her head, apparently all she trusts herself to do without losing the veneer of control she's clung to since she first heard the wild rumors rampaging around the Weyr. She makes no move to approach him, continuing to stare. Neiran comes in, and no doubt she registers his presence, for she edges around the side a little, away from the opening of the curtain, but she neither looks at him nor answers him -- his annoyance might as well be directed to the air.
"Sweetness," Sefton repeats, as though his healer hadn't materialised and hissed protectively. His eyes want to close, and he lets them dip shut for a moment before his lashes lift again, and his hand stirs from his side to move -- gingerly, experimentally, as though he's not sure whether this will hurts -- to extend just an inch or two in Penny's direction. No further attempt at words, but he finds, still hazy, a faint hint of a smile for her.
For a moment Neiran might have dismissed the energy flowing between the two as his own paranoia, some manifestation of possessiveness of his patient. But Sefton's reaction leaves no doubtful shadows; everything has flown into light. No doubt past interactions, conversations long forgotten, are now being illuminated, draped over by a new layer of understanding. He stares at a neutral spot on the far wall, forcibly keeping himself from looking between them again and again. Finally, some sense of prudence prompts him to action, and he slips outside of the curtains again, silent as an eel. He failed to keep Penny out of the enclosed area, and what he's witnessed has evidently made him uncomfortable. No harm in going back to fetch what he needed to fetch in the first place.
"No, I'll--" Penny swallows, but finds she can't drive the traitorous waver out of her voice with such a simple remedy. "I'll contaminate you, I can't--" But what she can't do is ignore that movement of his hand, responding to it as if it were the strictest of orders from him at his healthiest. She moves away from the curtain at her back, drawing near his bedside, reaching out almost involuntarily-- fingertips touch his hand, and her expression wobbles precariously for a moment. Just a moment, though, and her fingers seek to twine through his, curling round his hand and tightening there. She licks her lips briefly, trying to cope with a throat that's gone dry, murmurs softly, "Sef." It isn't the most poetic thing she might say, but she's obviously not feeling entirely eloquent. Neiran's exit gets even less notice than his arrival.
If Neiran has now come to an understanding, that understanding would be illuminated by bright lights and fireworks, were the healer to see the smile Sefton now levels on the smith who stands beside his bed. "Look, and see for yourself," he murmurs, still hoarse. "Then put on your brave face, and go back outside. Can you do that for me?" His fingers are weaker when they tangle through hers, and make a mess of the effort, so that after a couple of attempts he stops, and lets her take over instead.
Penny gives a more vehement shake of her head, before turning so she can settle onto the side of the bed, careful to do so gently, and draw his hand up to rest the back of it against her cheek. "Stop patronising me while you're--" Her jaw clenches again, and she drops her eyes to the bedclothes for a second. "You're so pale," she says. "Sefton, don't--" She just makes a frustrated kind of sound, bowing her head and instead pressing her forehead against his hand. "Some of them were saying you were dead."
"I am not dead," Sefton observes in his hoarse drawl. "I am, however, in considerable pain. In a moment I should like some water, and whatever it is that Neiran plans on dosing me with." His hand moves a little, so his fingers can try and brush her skin. "People will see, Sweetness. Neiran already has."
"I don't -care- if people see!" But evidently Penny doesn't mean the outburst, for after a second she lifts her head, lifting her other hand to wipe it across her eyes. The considerable pain mentioned will move her where the threat of revealing their affair to the Weyr will not, however. She forces her grip to loosen around his hand, turning it so that she can leave a kiss against his palm, lingering just a second. "You do -everything- that Neiran tells you to do," she says, intently, eyes seeking his again. "No matter how tedious. You don't get out of bed a second before he says you may. If you take infection and die, Sefton, I'll--" She hesitates, wildly searching for some sort of threat to wield against him, expression momentarily a little bit fierce. "I'll... I'll marry your -brother-." She stands again, starting to move for the door and only letting go his hand when the limited reach of her arm forces her to do so, and then she whirls with the intent of hurrying out to find Neiran and the pain-numbing drugs he brings.
Without rustling the curtain to warn of his return Neiran comes bearing a skin of some liquid, and three tincture bottles in the other hand. Lovely timing - he finds himself nearly whirled into by Penny. He startles, and nearly lets the skin fall from his fingers. It's a fumbled save. But the important things, the tincture bottles, remain in his firm grasp. The Journeyman looks at the smith levelly, and says nothing as he steps around her to deliver the medication to Sefton. "I will require you to open your mouth so I may drop the tinctures directly to the back of your throat. Afterward, I will give you a small portion of this beverage."
"You set me an excellent example as regards obedience," Sefton murmurs, his fingers curling against her skin. "You know when you were small, we thought you and Rali --" He finishes with a smile rather than the conclusion of the sentence, carefully easing his hand down beside him on the bed as she releases him. And then Neiran is present once more, and he's making another attempt at speech. "I feel like a child being bribed with sweets," he observes to his healer, sounding a little more like himself, though his throat is still dry, his voice still hoarse. "I do not dare hope that is alcoholic. If this will put me to sleep, I should first like to see you destroy the letter I gave you. If you please."
Penny cannot quite restrain the gasp of surprise at being nearly run over -- or, as the case may be, nearly running someone else over -- after such an intimately quiet moment inside the alcove. And this time, she can't ignore Neiran's arrival the way she did five minutes ago. She responds to that level look of his with a steady one of her own, chin lifting stubbornly as she steps aside so he can make his way to the bedridden Headmaster. She lingers in the alcove, having retreated back to the curtains again, watching with the same rather wide-eyed stare of before, made rather fearful by the grave circumstances. The mention of Rali doesn't even earn Sefton a smile, and she merely watches the procedings. At the mention of a letter, though, she gives a bit of a twitch, eyes moving from Sefton's face to Neiran's for the first time since she's retreated. They narrow just a little.
"Herbal, unfortunately," Neiran informs Sefton, apparently recovered gracefully from nearly being ploughed into by his classmate. "And none of these tinctures are sweet. I am told they all taste horrendous, so I will attempt to avoid your tongue." He pauses in the act of unscrewing the lid of one bottle when the Headmaster gives him instructions to destroy the letter. It's possible that he temporarily forgot of its existence, in the focus of the operation and the giddiness - or whatever emotion temporarily enlivened the pallid Journeyman - upon its success. He withdraws the hide from an interior pocket of his cassock, stares at the folded thing as if for the first time. He employs his pinkened fingers in shredding the sheet, collecting the leavings on an empty stool. "When I leave, I will ensure them a place in a hearth when no one is observing," he promises. That taken care of, he returns to the business of unscrewing the tincture lid. While raising the dropper, he seems to remember Penny's still here. She gets a passing look, a brush with the eyes and little more, before he focuses again on the amount in the dropper hovering a ways above Sefton's mouth.
"Bring something in here with which to burn it," Sefton replies, and hoarse or otherwise, he firms his voice enough in that moment to make it a clear order. "Once I have swallowed this --" He declines to choose an epithet, and instead obediently opens his mouth. Already his eyes want to close again, in the wake of this conversational effort.
Penny's interest is hard to miss, as her eyes inevitably move from Neiran's face to the letter, flinching a second time as he shreds it, and then shifting from the bits back, inevitably, to Sefton's face, watching his eyes close. She hesitates, and then clears her throat, softly. "Surely inhaling smoke at the moment is not a good idea, Sef." With an obvious effort, her voice is only slightly strained with the tension in her expression.
Neiran does his best to miss Sefton's tongue, but with three tinctures to dispense a lot of drops from, it's inevitable that he'll get a taste. He's quick with the drink, providing a few mouthfuls of what tastes like cold herbal tea before he sets the skin down with finality. "She is correct. That would arouse suspicion and further inquiry." He manages not to give a pointed look in Penny's direction. "If you wish to see them thoroughly disposed of, I can bring a basin of water in which to drown them. I believe reading the writing is now impossible already, but it will surely be if these pieces are soaked in water." He moves toward the curtain, lingering there for response.
Sefton's eyes are closed now, and his voice is weary, though it's firm. "Now, if you please, Neiran. Water will suffice." He waits until the sound of footsteps informs him that the healer is gone, before he speaks again. "Restrain yourself, Sweetness, and do not steal a piece. I should like to see you tomorrow."
Penny's lips purse for a moment, staring at Sefton's closed eyes suspiciously as if suspecting him of seeing her stealing glances at the torn-up letter. But whatever suspicions she might entertain, that last statement earns a quick burst of protest. "Tomorrow! But--" She halts herself with an effort, and glances at Neiran, as if for confirmation that she has to wait until tomorrow to see him.
Neiran returns, bowl of water in hand, and promptly disposes of the pieces into it. Presumably he'll deal with the whole mess later, when Sefton's asleep - and after he's gotten some, himself. "The Headmaster requires rest now." His opinion of possible visitations in the future is expressed only in a grim sort of glance in Penny's direction. We'll discuss it later. "Thank you for your concern. Please leave." The words themselves may present as cruel or biting, but the gentle manner in which they're said suggests that he's being genuine, on some level, but mainly wants his patient to have the quiet he needs. As for himself, after a vigil of an hour or so more, he'll find himself asleep, slumped in the sole chair tucked into the corner of the alcove.
In the wake of Neiran's blunt words, Sefton manages to open his eyes one more time, so he can look across to Penny with an obvious effort, and find a small smile for her. "You had best tell the weyrleaders," he observes, though to whom that's directed, it's not clear. The effort of conversation has overtaken him, and after his dark gaze slips away to check on the contents of the bowl, he allows his eyes to close once more. His breathing deepens almost immediately.
"I'll find Roa," Penny says absently, apparently taking that command for herself. She's watching him again, now that he's falling back asleep. A few seconds before she casts a glance at Neiran to find that little stare of his, and though for a moment it looks like she might argue with that peremptory order, she merely closes her mouth again, and glances back at the Headmaster once before disappearing through the curtains.
----------------------
Like a DVD, his log comes with extras!
Firstly, for those who want a mental image of Neiran smiling with relief that he didn't kill Sefton:
http://pbfcomics.com/archive/PBF053AD-Lord_Gloom.jpg
And then, after Neiran realises something's going on (has been going on for a long time) between Sefton and Penny, the following OOC banter, which I don't think I'll ever get out of my head again.
Neiran says, "Hmm, skip me?"
Penny says, "What, you mean you -don't- want to pose Neiran's brain exploding?"
Neiran presently eats a bowl of glass to clear his head.
Sefton says, "Then who would dissect it, if he was exploded?"
Neiran's hands have their own brains.
Sefton says, "Not touching that."
Penny says, "Yeah, really, I don't even know."
Neiran winks at the camera. That one goes on the blooper reel.
Neiran says, "Oh god. Can you imagine, LE being a TV drama, and the characters...falling out of character and making tons of stuff that winds up on the cutting room floor?"
Penny cracks up.
Sefton says, "That is just the best mental image ever."
Neiran says, "Throwing down scripts and whatnot. XD"
Penny says, "And forgetting their lines. Neiran's actor stumbling over those long speeches and yelling at the writers after each scene."
Penny says, "Damned MEDICAL JARGON."
Neiran dies. God yes. "Can't this guy ever take a goddamn breath?! I need a smoke." *background laughter*
Or, in which Sefton manipulates Neiran's reactions even while they discuss his death, Penny throws a hissy fit, Neiran makes an important realisation about two people in the same room as him, and Sefton commits incriminating things to writing. Fun and games for all! I award Neiran five squids, my highest accolade, for making surgery fun.
Sefton's olive skin prevents him looking too pale, but it doesn't stop him looking unwell. There's something unnatural about the Headmaster's complexion as he makes his way into the infirmary -- he doesn't make it that far in, halting by the door, and lifting one hand to rest it against the frame. And he stands, and waits for attention, eyes half closed, swallowing.
It's an assistant fussing with some bandaging that notices the Headmaster first. She gapes for a moment, hesitates, and then turns and dashes for an attendant Journeyman. The closest figure with a Journeyman's knot is a tall, lean one, dressed head to toe in black. Neiran looks up from his hidework in surprise as he finds hands fluttering at his elbow. Irritation quickly subsides, replaced with attentiveness as the woman's demeanor suggests something awry. He looks towards her indicating gestures, straightens instinctively when he sees the Headmaster there. The peculiarity of his appearance registers on him only a moment later. Abandoning whatever it was he was doing, he approaches - brows raised already in polite and silent inquiry, thin hands folding together in front of himself. "Headmaster." A pause. "You...do not look well. How may I be of assistance?"
"I do not feel well," Sefton informs his student, his drawl undiminished by whatever urgency the situation may hold. "I leave it to you to tell me how you may be of assistance, but --" He pauses, and swallows, eyes closing for a moment. "I have a great deal of pain, here." One hand lowers to rest on his abdomen, just to one side. "It has moved a little, since it started, and increased the last couple of hours." Another pause, and he opens his eyes to fix his dark gaze on Neiran, though it's dulled. "And a fever, I think." His mouth twists to a faint smile, related to the amused, slightly mocking smile familiar to so many of his students. "I hesitate to jump to conclusions, but it would be ironic if..." He elects not to finish his sentence, fingers tightening around the doorframe where he supports himself.
Neiran's eyes flicker across the other man's features while he speaks, inviting himself to scrutinize and analyze the extent of his pallor, the focus of his gaze - all are clues for diagnosis and assessment, morsels he picks apart with more interest than any of his meals. When Sefton tells him the particularities of the pain, the corners of the Journeyman's mouth waver, almost pulling down into a frown, though it's aborted just in time. "I see," he replies. "I hesitate to jump to conclusions as well, but the locality of your discomfort and the obvious distress it is causing you necessitates swift action." Nothing to be said of irony. "If you will come with me, we shall attempt to identify your problem." If it were any other patient, it's likely the healer would offer his arm as a matter of courtesy, but he hesitates to presume with Sefton. "Do...you require assistance in moving to the cots?" A vague hand-gesture indicates the farther-off cots are their destination, the ones with the privacy a curtain affords.
Sefton waits out -- permits, invites -- his student's inspection, and his fingers tighten on the doorframe once more at the prospect of movement. The hand that indicated the location of his pain lifts to his face for a moment, and it's only after it's brushed across his forehead to push back his curls that it becomes more evident that a faint sheen of sweat lurks there. "I do not," he replies, words curt for the first time, though it's a moment before he moves. Then he swallows, eases away from the door, and makes his way slowly, but steadily towards the consulting area indicated.
The Journeyman nods, his precaution in asking justified by the Headmaster's stubborn self-reliance. He turns to precede him, walking with slow steps and a hampering of his usual long-legged gait. If he's not needed to physically assist the Headmaster, he can at least do one thing - frown disapprovingly at anyone who tries to make this into a spectacle by staring at their procession. It's up for debate how many, patient and coworker alike, are actually cowed by his disapproving expression, but at the very least some measure of respect is extended towards the Headmaster, and the sting of watching eyes is only faint for the long walk from the entrance tunnel to the cots at the back. He pulls aside the curtain to make way for Sefton, an air of uncertainty gathered around Neiran while he watches the future lord of Fort Hold. After another sweep of his eyes, he announces, "I wish to place the senior Master on your case, Headmaster. I will return shortly. If anyone happens to offer you any refreshments, please deny them." The significance of that - a surgeon asking his patient to keep his stomach empty - is no doubt not lost on the man from Boll, but Neiran doesn't waste time in waiting to see if it sinks in. Unlike himself, without waiting for acknowledgment he turns and goes rapidly in search of the Master, leaving Sefton alone.
For once, the Headmaster's foremost concern is not the perception of others. Then again, perhaps it would be as fair to say that, as usual, Sefton's first interest is himself. He eases down gingerly onto the cot, and doesn't bother to acknowledge the information provided by Neiran. Indeed, his gaze doesn't even flicker upward. He's too busy staring at his boots, and evidently deciding that swinging his legs up onto the cot represents too much effort -- or too much pain -- to be justified.
Neiran isn't gone long, by the judgment of the infirmary timepiece, but how long that seemed to Sefton is another issue entirely. Nevertheless, his quick steps bring him back towards the cot in due time, without any Master shadowing him, his hands clasped together just a little more tightly than usual. His expression is grave, inasmuch as his features express. In fact, this kind of solemnity is the one expression his mien seems designed for. Without preamble, the Journeyman states, "the Master is completely indisposed at the moment, Headmaster. If it were something negligible, believe me when I say that I would do everything in my power to bring him here, and that he would come out of duty you you, Headmaster. Unfortunately...that is not a possibility." He lifts his eyes from his study of the Headmaster's boots, to look the man in the face.
Sefton listens without lifting his head, and swallows once more. When he speaks, his words are as low and even, and as lazily drawled as ever. Perhaps habit holds them there. "That being the case, Neiran," he replies, "I do hope you will not consider it an imposition if I ask you to either do something about this yourself, or find me somebody who will. Conversation is low on my list of priorities, at present."
"Yes, Headmaster." The response is crisp, and Neiran's shoulders straighten with it. The apologetic student just received a firm backhand from the professional healer in him, and it's that that steps to the fore, now. "I am the most senior attendant on this shift. I believe we would best not delay to retrieve someone else." He turns and draws the curtain closed, cutting off the view of the infirmary interior with a sharp swish of fabric. There's little opportunity for conversation in the next quarter of an hour; Sefton is prodded at, asked to lay on his side and bend his knee up to his chin, and perform all kinds of subtle gymnastics geared towards establishing what's already suspected - that there's localized abdominal pain, stemming from the appendix. It's after asking Sefton to cough and watching the man for any wincing that he sheds his mantle of studying silence to ask, "when was the last time you ate or drank anything, Headmaster? And what was the nature of it, and in what quantities?"
Sefton doesn't have it in him to make another jab at this point. He's silent for a moment after Neiran speaks, letting his breath even out after the slight acceleration that Neiran's diagnostic efforts have prompted. "Breakfast," he supplies, after a moment. "A mug of tea, and a pastry. I didn't pay attention to what sort, Aida brought it up. I felt unwell at lunch, so I had only a glass of wine." A weak smile, still faintly amused. "Which sufficed to quieten her down." Beyond the infirmary, the living cavern is beginning to buzz with the earliest of the evening diners, past which the Headmaster must have come to gain entry to this place.
No doubt the Journeyman makes note of the Headmaster's capacity for humor even at a moment like this, but he doesn't remark on it. His brow doesn't even lift. "Headmaster, it displeases me to have to say this, but it is my professional opinion that you submit to an exploratory surgical exam." He draws in a long, measured breath, unlaces his fingers from their matched set, and continues. "I would like to be able to advise you to fast in preparation, and to wait and see if the situation does not resolve on its own. Given the circumstances, however, I would not feel entirely comfortable with that approach. There are a few possibilities for the source of your discomfort, among them appendicitis. The consequences of waiting on acute appendicitis due to a hesitant diagnosis can be fatal." His mouth opens, he has plenty more he could say; but he stops himself there, to wait for his patient and Headmaster's brain to catch up with his, and register the impact of what he's proposing. As always, Neiran watches his expression, dark eyes fixed on Sefton's face.
Sefton's expression has a lot of practice at staying blank, but it might be that already he's retreating inside himself, and disengaging with the outside world. His mouth tightens a fraction, and his gaze lifts properly so he can meet Neiran's eyes. "You would not feel entirely comfortable," he repeats, sarcasm creeping into his low drawl. "I would not feel entirely comfortable with being cut open, Neiran, and that is also something that might be fatal."
Neiran nods, slowly, accepting Sefton's response after a moment's pause. "If you wish a second opinion...from one whose proclivities do not extend towards surgical matters, I will endeavor to quickly bring a colleague in to assess." Lest it be thought he's a little too eager with the scalpel. "I understand your reticence. I hesitate to suggest the dramatic course for any patient, but particularly one of your standing. However, I cannot diagnose your problem with any certainty without examination, and if you forgo that procedure the diagnosis may make itself clear, and then it will almost certainly be too late." Another breath in, and out slowly. "There are associated risks with any surgical procedure, as you have noted. It...may be a small comfort for you to be aware that I was the primary surgeon involved in bluerider T'zen's abdominal surgery. He made a full recovery, and his case was quite severe." He refrains from further comment after that, and folds his hands again. His eyes are a little rounder than usual, as if by staring at the Headmaster he can convince him -persuade him silently - that he's right. You need to be looked at. Trust me. And, underneath those impressions, a smaller thread: I can do this.
There's very, very little to be read from the Headmaster's nearly black eyes as he rests his gaze on Neiran's face, and he takes his time in choosing his words. "You premise that something is wrong, and as you have no other way of discovering it, you propose to take a look," he settles on, finally. "If you recommend this, and I allow you, and it is for nothing, you understand the damage this will do to your reputation? Or indeed, the damage that will result if you kill me?" His mouth quirks one more time. "Which is what you will be considered to have done if I die during or after surgery, regardless of inevitability."
"Yes, Headmaster. I fully understand." There can be no doubt that he does; he's still wearing that grave expression, and he looks at the man's boots briefly. "I am...attempting not to dwell on the magnitude of it lest it cause my emotions to negatively impact my judgment, Headmaster. But I would like to point out that the results of my examination suggest a very high likelihood of appendicitis, or something else severe. I know it is said of me that I am too quick to resort to surgical means, but I would not risk anything in this situation if I did not believe that waiting has as high a possibility of causing your death as going forward. I would be comfortable allowing you to wait an hour, at the very most, and report again your symptoms. If they have not alleviated by then, I would strongly suggest again you allow us to examine your internal systems." His eyes flick between the man's face, his boots, and rest on his face again. "This...I do not wish to poke about simply for the sake of it, or to gain the satisfaction of labeling your symptoms, Headmaster." His brows at last purse over the bridge of his nose, his resolve to remain expressionless finally giving way. His mouth sets determinedly into a thin line.
Sefton blinks once, slowly, then resumes his study of his student's face. "I would like writing materials please, Neiran," he drawls after a moment, finally making an effort to heft his boots up onto the cot, so he can lean back against the wall at the head of the bed.
The Journeyman seems to understand. At least, he does not question the request, but inclines his torso in a half-bow and disappears beyond the curtain, wordless. Those with nothing better to do will no doubt add note of his singular paleness and vacant-eyed look to the mounting gossip surrounding Sefton's infirmary visit already. Before fetching the asked-for items, the healer permits himself a quick glass of cold water, and a brisk wash of the hands and face with that same chill liquid. When he comes to Sefton's bedside again he has the requisite writing surface and utensils, and a flat, wooden board with a half-cusion adhered to its underside for the Headmaster to balance comfortably on his lap and write. Neiran's color is back, even if only a side-effect of the wash with the crisp water. "I will leave you in peace to write," he murmurs, passing the items to Sefton. "If you experience any shift in your discomfort, or an increase in severity, please call me right away. I...would also like to ask if you have made your decision, so that I might prepare for the procedure if you will go through with it."
Sefton accepts the journeyman's offerings, and settles them on his lap, making ready to write. "I cannot see that there is much of a decision to be made," he replies, his attention on the page before him. "I will require only a minute or two to record what I must. My affairs are already substantially in order. That seemed prudent, High Reaches having proved as dangerous as it has, the last couple of turns." His gaze flickers up, and even now, he's self-possessed. "I will be ready before you are, I should think."
Neiran takes stock of his Headmaster's self-possession, and he can only bow again and retreat in the face of it to try and grasp his own more firmly while he assembles everything necessary. As soon as he starts accumulating suturing thread and surgical instruments onto a cart, the surreptitious musings of the infirmary population are confirmed. The acquisition of the surgical instruments themselves is the most easy task, one that Neiran executes briskly. It's a comfort to him, really, lining up his tools, keeping focus away from the identity of the man he'll be using them on. By the time he's selecting the best possible Journeymen and assistants available to help in the operation, he looks almost like he did before Sefton entered.
For his part, Sefton has little to do by way of preparation. There will not be, it is apparent, any requests that particular people be fetched for potential last words, or fond farewells. Instead, he writes ten lines in his flowing hand, waves the paper gently to dry it, then folds it into three. It's set down beside the writing implements, and after that, the Headmaster has nothing more to do than gaze up at the ceiling, eyes half closed, and attempt to keep his breathing shallow and even.
The wheels of a cart approach, more than one pair of footsteps. There's a rustling at the curtain. "Headmaster." Neiran slips inside, a glimpse of three or four others crowded around the cart behind him visible before the fabric settles again. The Journeyman has his sleeves tied at the elbow, his forearms stained pinkish with the first of many antiseptic redwort washes to come. "I have assembled everything necessary. Have you ever experienced complete fellis sedation before?" A hand raises, lifting to show a phial clasped between the pad of thumb and forefinger, full of liquid. Not all of it fellis, of course, but the required tiny dose suspended in the minimal amount of carrier liquid usable.
"No," Sefton answers briefly. "I have been fortunate in my health, thus far." One hand lifts, so he can tap the folded sheet of hide. "If necessary, please pass this directly to the hand of my brother Kelar, and to no other, no matter how that request might be phrased, or by whom. I prefer to think I shall have it back from you very soon." With that business taken care of, he lifts his hand carefully, gingerly, to rake back his hair from his eyes, then extends it for the phial. "I am at your disposal," he murmurs, not without a hint of irony.
"It is my hope that I will not meet your brother under those circumstances." His lips say as much, but Neiran's eyes say he'll complete that task if it falls on him. He passes along the phial, courteously removing the lid so Sefton can toss back the knockout elixir in one gulp. The flash of alcohol can hide the bitter fellis, but only at first; the bitter aftertaste wins out strong, in the end. "You will experience drowsiness. Please simply allow yourself to fall into the stupor as it develops. Rest assured that a series of tests will assure the maximum state of your obliviousness before we proceed, and that the area will be numbed locally, as well." He'll wait just long enough for Sefton to have swallowed that dose and maybe absorb what's been said before he murmurs something more, clearly not intended for the waiting attendants outside to hear: "Headmaster, I...wish to express that...despite what evidence to the contrary I may have suggested in our past interactions, I...admire many of your traits." Lest he think that's some kind of precautionary farewell, he straightens and adds a little starchily, "you reminded me of that. Just now. That is all."
Sefton doesn't hesitate, knocking back the contents of the phial with all the ease of the seasoned drinker of strong stuff. Then he sets the little vessel down beside himself, and sits in silence for a moment to hear Neiran's next words, his tongue running along his lips to catch any escaping drops. "That is almost the least comforting thing I could hear at this point," he murmurs, words low. "I advise you to focus on your own admirable traits, just now. In fact --" and his lips quirk, though he's already visibly affected, making an effort to speak clearly -- "perhaps that is the advice with which I would leave you under all circumstances."
"I wasn't presuming to try and comfort you," the Journeyman replies, his words only a murmur. But a light gesture of his hand dismisses any notion that he might intend to argue about it. "Thank you," he replies, more clearly. "Of course I will do so." Neiran pauses, and surveys the Headmaster's lips as he makes efforts to speak. "I advise you to lay down." And Neiran folds his hands and waits, steeling himself with more ease as the Headmaster slips under. Addressing a body is so much easier than addressing a person.
Sefton's last communication, if is to be that, is eloquent. And entirely wordless. He simply fixes Neiran with a long, steady gaze, and then does as he's instructed, moving carefully and gingerly, hissing once between his teeth, so that he can lie down properly. After that hiss, his breathing eases, and begins to slow, and not long after that, his lashes flutter once more, and are still.
The esteemed and admired Headmaster is allowed to lay still for a few moments, and then the operation team and their arsenal of supplies is brought in, the curtains closed to the outside world. The procedure itself is not too long, progress made gingerly, but quickly. The amount of redwort used to cleanse each layer of the cut would be considered obsessive to some, excessive to the rest. With textbook-driven perfectionism, the Journeyman surgeon slices on, utilizing his scalpel as little as he can. At some point it becomes clear that his target is the Headmaster's appendix, and he goes after it with a thoroughness and delicacy that extends the operation's time considerably. When at last the swollen thing is deposited in the waiting pan, Neiran remembers to breathe. He allows himself the one long exhale, and he's not alone in sighing in preliminary relief. With the bacteria-laden parcel out of the body cavity, things are now less dire. Relief doesn't get in the way of ensuring the proper care in closing the cavity, however. Neiran's hands are stained almost red with blood and redwort from his repeated dousings by the time he's finally sewing skin together. Three hours later, and the curtain draws shut on a room cleaned and empty but for Neiran and the Headmaster, the scent of iron and redwort heavy on the air. The dose of fellis was considerable; it's nearly another hour before the Journeyman decides to quit watching from afar, and see if the Headmaster might be near waking. He takes Sefton's pulse, and lowers the man's wrist ever so gently back down again. He picks up the cool cloth on hand, brushes the Headmaster's curls back with hesitant fingers, and dabs his forehead just barely. The Journeyman seems transfixed by something, and he breaks his solemn study of the man's visage only to glance surreptitiously at the curtain, reassuring himself that no one is close by, and there's no crack between the curtain's edges through which someone might glimpse his vigil. Assured, he places the cloth aside, but remains standing at the head of Sefton's bed. His hand lifts. One red fingertip gently touches down on his forehead, followed slowly by the rest, until after a handful of sedated heartbeats, his cool, red palm slides its entirety upon the Headmaster's brow. If Sefton were to open his eyes now, he would feel that hand there, and see Neiran looking down on him, the healer's other hand lifted to his own mouth - fingertips touching against and struggling to diagnose what's beneath them: The smallest of insecure smiles.
How lucky for Neiran that Sefton wakes slowly. His lashes flutter, lifting once -- surely not enough time to see -- or perhaps just enough time -- then lower again. Then lift once more, before the light entering registers, however dim. He screws his eyes shut in protest, and tries to turn his face away from the light with a soft noise, low in his throat.
Now that the tense crisis has passed, awareness of the surrounding world can start to creep back in, accompanied by the sounds out in the infirmary. Penny isn't the first curious student to loiter around the area, but she's certainly the most determined. Her voice is distinctive enough to be heard over those of the pair of infirmary aides currently on duty arguing with her. "If you'll just sit back down--" "I've been sitting here for an -hour-." Penny's not shouting by any stretch of the imagination, but her voice is quite clear, with tension making each word quite impactful. "I've -told- you over and over. I am a friend of his family, and if they hear some rumor before I can bring them the truth, you'll have Lord Boll here as soon as he can reach his watchdragon, and do you -really- want to deal with him instead of me?" Someone familiar enough with her, however, would be able to tell that she's starting to unravel, having to work harder and harder to keep from shouting, or wailing, or whatever that little throb in her voice foretells.
If Neiran were to snatch back his hand, it would confirm some measure of guilt. His hand leaves the Headmaster's forehead even as his half-born smile slowly dissolves itself with the realization that he'll be regarded again soon. He clasps his hands together, returning to the guise of patient, outside observer. He opens his mouth to say something, only to be overruled by Penny's perfectly-timed outburst. His mouth closes, as do his eyelids, the latter given a brief squeeze. "Headmaster," he interjects at the first possible interval, "the operation was a success. It was appendicitis." 'As I suspected' doesn't need to be spoken; it's written in his confidence. "I hear you have someone who wishes to visit you, but I cannot advise that at this moment. I will see to prescribing you some pain medication shortly." For the moment, though, he whisks himself to the curtain. The rest of the infirmary is treated to a peek of the healer's red hand, and his white face with a few stray bits of hair framing it. His expression is steady, and his eyes seek out the source of the racket. Neiran attempts some kind of eye contact, a slow shake of the head and a frown to say 'no' across the distance - but all he's likely done is announced which bed Sefton is in.
Sefton's registering something. There's a faint frown at the sound of Penny's voice, and he tries to swallow with a throat that's too dry to manage it. He has a better try at opening his eyes again, and turns his head tentatively to track Neiran, curls falling into his eyes. "Pain medi--" he tries, his hoarse voice a far cry from the usual, lazy drawl of his tenor. Then, registering that Neiran is peeking out, he tries again. "She'll --" But there's no point in that, and he subsides, with another noise of discomfort.
The aide deserves a promotion, really, at the way he keeps trying. "Look, you can't see him, he's in the middle of--" But Penny's seen Neiran emerge, and apparently she's been told already that the Headmaster's condition has involved surgery, because her face grows marginally paler as well at the sight of his red-stained hand. "Oh, jump off the Stones," she advises the infirmary aide, pushing past him to go toward Neiran. "Don't even try that," she advises him tightly as he shakes his head, though she keeps her voice low with what seems to be a phenomenal effort. Now that it's Neiran, she's not trying quite so hard to hold herself together, and it shows in her expression. "Is it--" Her eyes are creeping toward the alcove from which the healer emerges. "Is he-- is--" But she doesn't finish, seems incapable of finishing, staring now at the curtain as if it might somehow protect her from whatever terrible thing she expects to hear in reply.
Neiran does his level best to keep the curtains pinned closed around him, sealing himself between the two layers of fabric. "He is doing very well. It was appendicitis," he says, voice low enough to suggest that he's not yet comfortable with announcing this to the Weyr at large. "I believe he will recover, but there is still the risk of infection. A risk which I would like to keep to a minimum by restricting his early contact with outside, potentially un-sterile and disease-carrying agents." In case Penny doesn't understand, he fixes a level gaze on her: That could be you. "I need to retrieve some things from the infirmary proper. When I leave this spot, will you respect my wish that you refrain from visiting the Headmaster?"
Penny gives very little reaction, to the casual observor, upon receiving that news. Her eyes close for a second as a muscle stands out in her jaw. Appendicitis. Doing very well. She stays that way for a second before she opens her eyes again. "Of course," she says, wearily, lifting a hand to her forehead as she takes a step backward, her arm curling round her midsection as if recoiling from some physical blow. Another glance at the closed curtain, she swallows, waiting for Neiran to go about his business. She'll only wait a few seconds after he leaves before slipping into the alcove, staying at its perimeter with her back to the curtains she closes behind her. Eyes are rather large, and she's not looking her best, hair rumpled from running frustrated hands through it; she's merely staring at the man in the bed, not speaking, motionless.
The man in the bed is waiting for her, his head turned towards the curtains, eyes half closed against the light she lets in when she parts them. His voice is hoarse, throat dry, and his words are slow as he makes an effort to form them as he usually would. "Sweetness," he murmurs. "I was expecting you."
"I will return momentarily," the Journeyman says, stepping through the curtains. His lack of suspicion towards Penny is revealed when he walks away without so much as another once-over or a narrowing of the eyes. He manages to get as far as the healers' area - and even gets a drawer open - before he looks back and sees Penny has ducked inside. The drawer is shut a little firmly, and the Journeyman marches back to the private area, brushing the curtains aside without pause. "Do I present myself in such a way that my requests seem only flimsy suggestions with no possible consequences, to be disregarded on a whim?" The spleen is audible in his voice, even though it's more of a low hiss, a rare glimpse of temper. Once the curtains have finished fluttering in his wake, that temper sizzles rather quickly as the healer is left in silence, looking between Penny and Sefton.
The sound of Sefton's voice, rather than reassuring Penny, seems to be even more alarming than his appearance. She draws back a little, against the curtains, one hand going to her mouth. She gives a little shake of her head, apparently all she trusts herself to do without losing the veneer of control she's clung to since she first heard the wild rumors rampaging around the Weyr. She makes no move to approach him, continuing to stare. Neiran comes in, and no doubt she registers his presence, for she edges around the side a little, away from the opening of the curtain, but she neither looks at him nor answers him -- his annoyance might as well be directed to the air.
"Sweetness," Sefton repeats, as though his healer hadn't materialised and hissed protectively. His eyes want to close, and he lets them dip shut for a moment before his lashes lift again, and his hand stirs from his side to move -- gingerly, experimentally, as though he's not sure whether this will hurts -- to extend just an inch or two in Penny's direction. No further attempt at words, but he finds, still hazy, a faint hint of a smile for her.
For a moment Neiran might have dismissed the energy flowing between the two as his own paranoia, some manifestation of possessiveness of his patient. But Sefton's reaction leaves no doubtful shadows; everything has flown into light. No doubt past interactions, conversations long forgotten, are now being illuminated, draped over by a new layer of understanding. He stares at a neutral spot on the far wall, forcibly keeping himself from looking between them again and again. Finally, some sense of prudence prompts him to action, and he slips outside of the curtains again, silent as an eel. He failed to keep Penny out of the enclosed area, and what he's witnessed has evidently made him uncomfortable. No harm in going back to fetch what he needed to fetch in the first place.
"No, I'll--" Penny swallows, but finds she can't drive the traitorous waver out of her voice with such a simple remedy. "I'll contaminate you, I can't--" But what she can't do is ignore that movement of his hand, responding to it as if it were the strictest of orders from him at his healthiest. She moves away from the curtain at her back, drawing near his bedside, reaching out almost involuntarily-- fingertips touch his hand, and her expression wobbles precariously for a moment. Just a moment, though, and her fingers seek to twine through his, curling round his hand and tightening there. She licks her lips briefly, trying to cope with a throat that's gone dry, murmurs softly, "Sef." It isn't the most poetic thing she might say, but she's obviously not feeling entirely eloquent. Neiran's exit gets even less notice than his arrival.
If Neiran has now come to an understanding, that understanding would be illuminated by bright lights and fireworks, were the healer to see the smile Sefton now levels on the smith who stands beside his bed. "Look, and see for yourself," he murmurs, still hoarse. "Then put on your brave face, and go back outside. Can you do that for me?" His fingers are weaker when they tangle through hers, and make a mess of the effort, so that after a couple of attempts he stops, and lets her take over instead.
Penny gives a more vehement shake of her head, before turning so she can settle onto the side of the bed, careful to do so gently, and draw his hand up to rest the back of it against her cheek. "Stop patronising me while you're--" Her jaw clenches again, and she drops her eyes to the bedclothes for a second. "You're so pale," she says. "Sefton, don't--" She just makes a frustrated kind of sound, bowing her head and instead pressing her forehead against his hand. "Some of them were saying you were dead."
"I am not dead," Sefton observes in his hoarse drawl. "I am, however, in considerable pain. In a moment I should like some water, and whatever it is that Neiran plans on dosing me with." His hand moves a little, so his fingers can try and brush her skin. "People will see, Sweetness. Neiran already has."
"I don't -care- if people see!" But evidently Penny doesn't mean the outburst, for after a second she lifts her head, lifting her other hand to wipe it across her eyes. The considerable pain mentioned will move her where the threat of revealing their affair to the Weyr will not, however. She forces her grip to loosen around his hand, turning it so that she can leave a kiss against his palm, lingering just a second. "You do -everything- that Neiran tells you to do," she says, intently, eyes seeking his again. "No matter how tedious. You don't get out of bed a second before he says you may. If you take infection and die, Sefton, I'll--" She hesitates, wildly searching for some sort of threat to wield against him, expression momentarily a little bit fierce. "I'll... I'll marry your -brother-." She stands again, starting to move for the door and only letting go his hand when the limited reach of her arm forces her to do so, and then she whirls with the intent of hurrying out to find Neiran and the pain-numbing drugs he brings.
Without rustling the curtain to warn of his return Neiran comes bearing a skin of some liquid, and three tincture bottles in the other hand. Lovely timing - he finds himself nearly whirled into by Penny. He startles, and nearly lets the skin fall from his fingers. It's a fumbled save. But the important things, the tincture bottles, remain in his firm grasp. The Journeyman looks at the smith levelly, and says nothing as he steps around her to deliver the medication to Sefton. "I will require you to open your mouth so I may drop the tinctures directly to the back of your throat. Afterward, I will give you a small portion of this beverage."
"You set me an excellent example as regards obedience," Sefton murmurs, his fingers curling against her skin. "You know when you were small, we thought you and Rali --" He finishes with a smile rather than the conclusion of the sentence, carefully easing his hand down beside him on the bed as she releases him. And then Neiran is present once more, and he's making another attempt at speech. "I feel like a child being bribed with sweets," he observes to his healer, sounding a little more like himself, though his throat is still dry, his voice still hoarse. "I do not dare hope that is alcoholic. If this will put me to sleep, I should first like to see you destroy the letter I gave you. If you please."
Penny cannot quite restrain the gasp of surprise at being nearly run over -- or, as the case may be, nearly running someone else over -- after such an intimately quiet moment inside the alcove. And this time, she can't ignore Neiran's arrival the way she did five minutes ago. She responds to that level look of his with a steady one of her own, chin lifting stubbornly as she steps aside so he can make his way to the bedridden Headmaster. She lingers in the alcove, having retreated back to the curtains again, watching with the same rather wide-eyed stare of before, made rather fearful by the grave circumstances. The mention of Rali doesn't even earn Sefton a smile, and she merely watches the procedings. At the mention of a letter, though, she gives a bit of a twitch, eyes moving from Sefton's face to Neiran's for the first time since she's retreated. They narrow just a little.
"Herbal, unfortunately," Neiran informs Sefton, apparently recovered gracefully from nearly being ploughed into by his classmate. "And none of these tinctures are sweet. I am told they all taste horrendous, so I will attempt to avoid your tongue." He pauses in the act of unscrewing the lid of one bottle when the Headmaster gives him instructions to destroy the letter. It's possible that he temporarily forgot of its existence, in the focus of the operation and the giddiness - or whatever emotion temporarily enlivened the pallid Journeyman - upon its success. He withdraws the hide from an interior pocket of his cassock, stares at the folded thing as if for the first time. He employs his pinkened fingers in shredding the sheet, collecting the leavings on an empty stool. "When I leave, I will ensure them a place in a hearth when no one is observing," he promises. That taken care of, he returns to the business of unscrewing the tincture lid. While raising the dropper, he seems to remember Penny's still here. She gets a passing look, a brush with the eyes and little more, before he focuses again on the amount in the dropper hovering a ways above Sefton's mouth.
"Bring something in here with which to burn it," Sefton replies, and hoarse or otherwise, he firms his voice enough in that moment to make it a clear order. "Once I have swallowed this --" He declines to choose an epithet, and instead obediently opens his mouth. Already his eyes want to close again, in the wake of this conversational effort.
Penny's interest is hard to miss, as her eyes inevitably move from Neiran's face to the letter, flinching a second time as he shreds it, and then shifting from the bits back, inevitably, to Sefton's face, watching his eyes close. She hesitates, and then clears her throat, softly. "Surely inhaling smoke at the moment is not a good idea, Sef." With an obvious effort, her voice is only slightly strained with the tension in her expression.
Neiran does his best to miss Sefton's tongue, but with three tinctures to dispense a lot of drops from, it's inevitable that he'll get a taste. He's quick with the drink, providing a few mouthfuls of what tastes like cold herbal tea before he sets the skin down with finality. "She is correct. That would arouse suspicion and further inquiry." He manages not to give a pointed look in Penny's direction. "If you wish to see them thoroughly disposed of, I can bring a basin of water in which to drown them. I believe reading the writing is now impossible already, but it will surely be if these pieces are soaked in water." He moves toward the curtain, lingering there for response.
Sefton's eyes are closed now, and his voice is weary, though it's firm. "Now, if you please, Neiran. Water will suffice." He waits until the sound of footsteps informs him that the healer is gone, before he speaks again. "Restrain yourself, Sweetness, and do not steal a piece. I should like to see you tomorrow."
Penny's lips purse for a moment, staring at Sefton's closed eyes suspiciously as if suspecting him of seeing her stealing glances at the torn-up letter. But whatever suspicions she might entertain, that last statement earns a quick burst of protest. "Tomorrow! But--" She halts herself with an effort, and glances at Neiran, as if for confirmation that she has to wait until tomorrow to see him.
Neiran returns, bowl of water in hand, and promptly disposes of the pieces into it. Presumably he'll deal with the whole mess later, when Sefton's asleep - and after he's gotten some, himself. "The Headmaster requires rest now." His opinion of possible visitations in the future is expressed only in a grim sort of glance in Penny's direction. We'll discuss it later. "Thank you for your concern. Please leave." The words themselves may present as cruel or biting, but the gentle manner in which they're said suggests that he's being genuine, on some level, but mainly wants his patient to have the quiet he needs. As for himself, after a vigil of an hour or so more, he'll find himself asleep, slumped in the sole chair tucked into the corner of the alcove.
In the wake of Neiran's blunt words, Sefton manages to open his eyes one more time, so he can look across to Penny with an obvious effort, and find a small smile for her. "You had best tell the weyrleaders," he observes, though to whom that's directed, it's not clear. The effort of conversation has overtaken him, and after his dark gaze slips away to check on the contents of the bowl, he allows his eyes to close once more. His breathing deepens almost immediately.
"I'll find Roa," Penny says absently, apparently taking that command for herself. She's watching him again, now that he's falling back asleep. A few seconds before she casts a glance at Neiran to find that little stare of his, and though for a moment it looks like she might argue with that peremptory order, she merely closes her mouth again, and glances back at the Headmaster once before disappearing through the curtains.
----------------------
Like a DVD, his log comes with extras!
Firstly, for those who want a mental image of Neiran smiling with relief that he didn't kill Sefton:
http://pbfcomics.com/archive/PBF053AD-Lord_Gloom.jpg
And then, after Neiran realises something's going on (has been going on for a long time) between Sefton and Penny, the following OOC banter, which I don't think I'll ever get out of my head again.
Neiran says, "Hmm, skip me?"
Penny says, "What, you mean you -don't- want to pose Neiran's brain exploding?"
Neiran presently eats a bowl of glass to clear his head.
Sefton says, "Then who would dissect it, if he was exploded?"
Neiran's hands have their own brains.
Sefton says, "Not touching that."
Penny says, "Yeah, really, I don't even know."
Neiran winks at the camera. That one goes on the blooper reel.
Neiran says, "Oh god. Can you imagine, LE being a TV drama, and the characters...falling out of character and making tons of stuff that winds up on the cutting room floor?"
Penny cracks up.
Sefton says, "That is just the best mental image ever."
Neiran says, "Throwing down scripts and whatnot. XD"
Penny says, "And forgetting their lines. Neiran's actor stumbling over those long speeches and yelling at the writers after each scene."
Penny says, "Damned MEDICAL JARGON."
Neiran dies. God yes. "Can't this guy ever take a goddamn breath?! I need a smoke." *background laughter*