Matilda Hawthorn at the reception, rescuing a vase with jonquils from a young Ranger @Ercassie
It was too fine of a day to spend indoors. That much was obvious to
Matilda who sat alone at the large round table that stood at the centre of the study of the Houses of Healing. More than once the nurse looked up from the books and scrolls neatly lined in front of her and gazed at the window toward the serene gardens. She firmly believed that
De Materia Medica should be read in the gardens, or at least in the apothecary. After all, the
pharmakopoiia was about medicinal plants and the medicines that could be obtained from them. However, the librarian of the Houses of Healing did not share the golden-haired nurse’s opinion regarding the preferred reading spot for natural history and medical books.
Thus she was stuck in the study, reading medical text, on a too fine of a day to spend indoors. Nonetheless, she persevered. One did not easily come by the perfect combination of having the study to herself, access to various medical texts and enough time to read and study. She was not going to squander this opportunity just because it was warm outside, the sun was shining and it was such a pleasant day…
Matilda sighed and continued to read.
“It has green leaves similar to the plane tree, but smaller, closer to those of spondylium, more jagged, darker and somewhat rough. The stalk is rough, and the flowers white, inclining to purple, and in clusters. The roots underneath are thin and black, hanging (as it were) on an onion-like little head, which also has use. It grows in rough high dry places. (…) It purges the intestines from above, driving out phlegm and bile, given alone (or with scammony and teaspoonful or 30 grains of salt). It is also boiled with lens and broths that are taken for purging. It is good for epilepsy, depression, delirium, arthritis and paralysis. Given in a pessary...”*
A loud noise from the direction of the reception, like something crashed from a height, jolted her and had her on her feet.
Matilda rushed out of the study, her dim-grey nurse’s uniform swishing about her. At no point did it occur to her that the loud noise coming from the reception was something benign, for example,
Ralph or
Miriel dropping a reference book by accident, or someone knocking the vase with flowers from the counter in their haste… As she rounded the corner to reach the reception an incident involving an injured elven grandmother, who was not anyone’s grandmother, and a broken vase did come to mind. She quickened her steps hoping that she would not find another injured person and a shattered vase with flowers and water mixing with the blood of the injured…
As she reached the reception the loose bun her hair was in unravelled, the golden locks falling down her shoulders. She had no time to think about her hair as she stood frozen to the spot for several heartbeats, her cornflower blue eyes taking in the sight before her. A young man in a ranger’s uniform, her age or thereabouts, with shoulder-length dark hair almost frozen in the act of reaching a parchment managed to knock down the vase with jonquils. The polished surface was now covered with water that spilt from the knocked vase, while the jonquils laid messily on the table, their petals drenched. The table looked like a messy crime scene and
Matilda bit her lip to prevent a laugh that threatened to bubble to the surface.
Moving forward with some urgency, for the sight of the drowning flowers moved her, she reached the table and scooped up the flowers before lifting the vase and returning the jonquils in it. The dark-haired young ranger stood where he was, looking sheepishly at the flowers and then at the nurse,
Matilda walked over to the reception in search of a dry cloth. As she looked around she tried to remember where had she seen the clumsy lad before. His features look familiar, and he could have been a patient at one point or another. Or he could have accompanied a patient to the Houses. She paused for a moment, her hand grasping the cloth, the thought about accompanying someone jogged her memory.
“Unalmis,” she said out loud as she stood up clutching the cloth in her hand. The young ranger turned to her, surprised that she called his name. “Addhor’s son,” she continued speaking as she smiled with delight. She walked over to the table remembering
Ian telling her how the carpenter’s son burst into the Houses of Healing like a wildling in search of his father. As she used the cloth to soak up the spilt water she took an opportunity to properly look at
Unalmis. The young ranger looked more uncomfortable than injured and he was certainly not accompanied by his father. Her gaze went to the drenched jonquils and her smile widened remembering another amusing detail. “Return my affection,” she said pointing at the flowers. “That’s the meaning behind the jonquil flower,” she explained for
Nal’s benefit as he still looked confused. “Are these for Naela?” she asked feigning surprise, for she knew that the vase with jonquils stood at the reception this morning when she came in. The bright yellow flowers made her wonder if they were sent to
Miriel, or did she chose them herself, simply because they looked beautiful. “Should I go fetch her? The flowers are a bit drenched, but I’m sure she’ll appreciate the gesture and return your affection just as you intended…” she said with a mischievous smile, her eyes sparkling with humour.
OOC: *The following quote is from Dioscorides'
De Materia Medica
~*~
Study, NPC Quintus de Scardena with the Master Healer @Pele Alarion - a response to Pele's post from February 8th 2021 (originally posted on April 3rd 2021)
The Master Healer acknowledged his greeting and offering in quite a clever way, Quintus took note of that, the amusement and pleasure about the situation visible on his face. His storm-grey eyes softened, their colour shifting from cool to warm as he set down the tray with the tea and biscuits with extreme care. “Be a mirror,” he reminds himself as he discretely observes the Master Healer. “Be a mirror when you meet a knife; be a mirror when you meet a stone,” the sentence finished in his mind in Iskandar’s familiar voice; calm, low and strangely musical.
Quintus smiles at the memory of his friend, a healer and an ashik, and remembers the many conversations they had in the Houses of Healing and other places in Minas Tirith. Some even in this very study, as they went through medical books and discussed different approaches to medicine, various schools of thought, traditions, theories and practices. About the men and women who came before them and those that would come after them. Predecessors and successors.
Two healers born in different parts of Arda, trained and practised in different schools of thought and tradition, but still forming strong bonds of friendship, companionship and brotherhood. Like different trees in a forest whose roots and branches intertwine, grow stronger together by creating a complex ecosystem and preserving all life. Over two decades of friendship between the unorthodox Gondorian healer and the Samarkandi physician, an exile who found his new home in the White City and then left it almost a decade ago and went North, the farthest he had ever been from the city of his birth, to find a new one.
“I can accommodate the exchange of words, unless you want to involve me in a fundraising event for the Houses and make me dance through the city streets for the purpose,” Pele’s voice filled with laughter interrupts his meandering through the poetic halls of his mind. He joins in her merriment, laughing as his mind provides the vivid image of the scene she described, filled with poetic humour. He shakes his head amused as he watches Pele move the books and writing implements from the chair to the desk so he can sit down.
“I am ready for a conversation,” the Master Healer formally declares after she snatched a pepper-honey biscuit shaped like a tree making Quintus laugh again as she made herself comfortable in the armchair and watched curiously. Still smiling he takes the earthenware mug filled with tea that is no longer steaming, but it’s still hot enough to warm them both while they speak and places it in next to the Master Healer. He takes the other mug in his hands and makes himself comfortable in the chair opposite her. He is silent for a moment as he guides the mug to his lips and takes a sip of tea, musing on the opening verse for this conversation.
“Poetry is for the desperate, and for people who have grown old enough to have something to say,” he thinks as he slowly drinks his tea. He is certainly old enough to have something to say, not yet desperate… But the conversation he wants to have with the woman sitting opposite him needs to be a kind of poetry, contemplated and formulated in such a way that the conversation feels natural; springing forth from the ground like a seedling long planted now waking up and rising as it felt the call of the sun. Smoke and mirrors and refracted light, and the weight of history in a glance.
“I must confess,” he starts in earnest, deciding on an opening line. “That although the idea of dancing healers on the streets of Minas Tirith,” he speaks with the seriousness of a grandfatherly figure considering a scintillating idea a grandchild brought him. “Sounds like something that the people of our fair city would reward with large sums of money…” he pauses for dramatic effect, but the way his eyes light up and fill with unhidden laughter give him away. He notices the look on the Master Healer’s face and laughs merrily.
“Fear not, mistress Pele,” Quintus told her, although he can see that Pele realised he was teasing her and is chuckling along with him. “If the Queen and King accept my proposal regarding the funding of the Houses of Healing we will not have to worry about fundraising events,” there is hope in his voice as he thinks about the magnitude of his proposal, the paradigm shift it will cause. “From this barren soil will grow new flowers. They will be hard-won flowers – fragile petals well defended by our hands, with parasites beaten away, warmed by the sunlight of our hopes…” he pauses again, shakes his head lightly realising his mind has taken him again to the paths of poetry and philosophy. Quintus de Scardena, a healer and a philosopher.
“Please forgive me, Pele,” he offers his apology for diving into the sea of philosophical thought with a slightly embarrassed smile. “My wife, Valeria, keeps telling me that I have become more prone to philosophical musings as I grew older. As always, she is right,” he says with a soft and fond smile as he thinks about his wife. “However, this is a good opening as I am going to get to ask you about your new apprentice, Naela,” he says eagerly seizing the new line of enquiry. “Shaela’s granddaughter if I’m not mistaken… Tell me about the girl, what do you think of her and her skills so far? It’s good that we have young people willing to apprentice again…. The War left its marks on these Houses, not just on the patients we treat, but on our ranks as well…”
OOC: The coffee coloured (#6F4E37) and italicised lines are quotes from Arkady Martine's works
A Memory Called Empire and
A Desolation Called Peace.
~*~
Recovery room – Nessa with Tom and Eril @Baphởmet - a response to Frost's post from February 13th 2021 (originally posted on April 6th 2021)
CW: there is mention of miscarriage in the second paragraph of this post. If you do not feel comfortable reading that, please feel free to skip it.
It feels surreal to watch the man whose heart had stopped yesterday (“Did all of this happen yesterday?” Nessa wonders), who almost died in her care, swim back to consciousness. Consciousness brought pain, a bloom of chemical fire, life reasserting itself. She watches the man (Eril, Tom’s father) she had brought back from the entrance of the cavern, from the brink of death, by using the skills Quintus had taught her in these very Houses. The skills passed by her mentor, skills she had not used since the War ended and April became the cruellest month.
She pushes the painful memories of her miscarriage away, anamnesis awoke by the spaces and scents of the Houses of Healing. At a glance, this recovery room is similar to the one she was in, the colour of the walls almost identical, but slightly off. Similar furniture differently arranged. Almost the same, but not; different enough so she can function, hold herself together until echoes of memories pass over her and through her. They will always be with her, those flowers of pain and remembrance, rising to the surface when sight, scent or sound awakens them from slumber. For now, she takes those recollections, cradles them in her arms like a child, her child that was lost, sacrificed on the altar of War’s end, forlorn hope… She holds them, examines them in her mind before she carefully puts them away, lays down her burdens in a safe and distant corner of her mind.
Nessa divides her focus between breathing and Eril. Slow, steady and calming breaths as she observes her patient, notices his surprise and confusion as he turned to her. She wonders if he remembers who she is; if he remembers exactly what happened to him? If he’s just now starting to realise the seriousness of his condition and how extremely lucky he was? He was at the threshold of the cavern that leads to the Halls of Awaiting, a flip of a castar, a move left instead of right and he could have entered those caverns and venture beyond everyone’s reach. Forever. Until the world breaks again and is remade new.
He seems aware of it, the seriousness of his condition, as he starts speaking, saying her name uncertainly asking for confirmation that he remembered it. She nods and he continues speaking, his voice sluggish from disuse and affected by the pain. Still, he perseveres. He keeps talking and she smiles at him as he thanks her before she helps him up and gives him a glass of water. It’s wondrous that he is awake and speaking and she is grateful that he lives, for the spark of chemical fire in him. The change this event caused in him. What he says next astonishes her.
“I have something to ask of you, Mistress Nessa. I do have a great debt to pay to you and the House of Healing, and an apology for my… behavior,” as he speaks his cheeks flush red, embarrassment visible on his face. Still, he perseveres. “I would like to make it up to you. Do… do you have any work around here you think I would be qualified for?”
She watches him for a long time, silently contemplating his question. As she thinks about his condition she unconsciously focuses on her heartbeat, strong and healthy, her thoughts matching its rhythm. Before she answers she takes a chair and arranges it so she’s facing Eril, while Tom’s sitting on the bed next to his father.
“You needn’t worry about finances,” she starts slowly with the easiest part as she sits down on the chair her hands primly folded in her lap. “The cost of your treatment and recovery has been covered by an anonymous benefactor,” her lips quirk in wry amusement. Pro anima mea. “You had a heart attack,” she says carefully, the expression on her face grave and her voice sombre. “That means that for a moment your heart stopped beating and I had to intervene to keep you alive,” she explains as simply as she can and pauses so Eril can digest this information. “Chest compression, the procedure I used to restart your heart, doesn’t always work. The heart is a mysterious organ, so many things about it are unknowable to healers…”
She pauses, again, thinking about Eril’s condition and his desire to make amends by working in the Houses of Healing. The room is quiet, the adults and the child lost in the seriousness of the situation.
“You and Tom both need to rest and recover,” she says after a long while. “If you want to live Eril, and when I look at you I see that you want to, you will need to change your lifestyle,” she looks him in the eyes as she tells him this and sees a determination to change, to be better, to do better. She nods in recognition of his desires and will to change and continues. “To manage your condition you will need to take precisely dosed medication every day, for as long as you live… These concoctions are not easy to make; one of the ingredients is a species of foxglove, which can be poisonous in high doses,” she stresses a note of warning in her voice. “However, all things are poison, and nothing is without poison. The dosage alone makes it so a thing is not a poison,” she cites Paracelsus’ adage from memory.
“Taking into consideration your condition, your family situation,” she says thoughtfully looking at the father and son, both her patients. “The medication you will have to take… Perhaps, a good start would be for you to see and learn how an apothecary formulates and prepares materia medica,” she suggests. “Unfortunately due to my long absence from the Houses, I am not aware who is currently the Master Pharmacist. Quintus de Scardena, the senior administrator, will know. He is the one we will need to approach with this idea if this is something you would like to do. You don’t need to give me your answer immediately, think this through. Besides, you and Tom need time to recover before you embark on a new adventure,” she tells them with a smile. “Think and talk about it, use this time to rest and make plans. If you need more information before making a decision the staff and the library of the Houses of Healing are at your disposal.”
~*~
Matilda Hawthorn - out and about the Houses of Healing - a response to Fuin's post from February 18th 2021 (originally posted on April 11th 2021)
A quick exchange of knowing glances and nods between the golden-haired nurse and the young healer was all that was needed before Matilda exited the treatment room with brisk efficiency. As she carefully closed the door to the treatment room, leaving their wisely mischievous and adventurous patient in Nessa’s care, she walked swiftly down the hallway passing the closed doors of treatment rooms as she headed towards the healer’s quarters and the storage area. Her dim grey nurse’s uniform rustled as she walked, the soles of her practical and comfortable shoes making the softest of sounds in contact with the stone floor.
As she reached the end of this passage and before she took a turn that would take her to the healer’s quarters she paused for a moment, thinking. Unconsciously she reached out and placed the palm of her hand on the stone wall of the hall and closed her eyes letting the low hum of background vestigia of the Houses of Healing envelop her like a palla made of the finest cashmere wool. She could, of course, go to the storage room by herself, talk to whichever clerk was on duty there today, fill out the necessary paperwork for the allotment of a wooden wheelchair for transporting a patient… A rather mundane and routine task…
But where was the fun in that? A small mischievous smile lit up the golden-haired nurse’s face as she opened her cornflower blue eyes, her hand still pressed on the stone wall. A sense impression of laughter radiated from the wall, an echo of whimsicality, a memory of that sound once heard at this very spot. She let her hand slowly slide from the wall and vestigium, the imprint magic left behind, faded away into the unseen. She moved again, taking the turn that would lead her to the healer’s quarters, her walk purposeful, following the rhythm of a melody she hummed as she moved.
It didn’t take her long to get to the desired destination and find who she was looking for. The lads were at their usual spot, sitting on the wooden benches ‘round the sturdy table on which mugs and bowls filled with nuts and dried fruit stood. They were talking, their voices filled with merriment. She rapped her knuckles gently on the door frame and the four of them stopped their conversation and turned to look at her. Fred, she noticed unsurprisingly, suffered no permanent damage from being teased by 3 women in various stages of amusement. One of them being a rather mischievous seven thousand-year-old elf-maid.
“Alright lads,” she greeted them as they watched her curiously while she entered the room.
“Hullo ‘Tilda. Have more elf ladies whose bathtubs need to be filled?” asked Darren while the others chuckled.
“Or are you here to pick up Fred?” Ian chimed as he poked Fred in the ribs. “That new patient of yours sure took a liking to him.”
“Oi!” Fred let out a noise of protest as the room dissolved into peels of laugher more suited to young schoolchildren than the staff of the Houses of Healing.
“Unfortunately for you lot, and especially for poor Fred here,” Matilda said as she struggled to maintain a professional demeanour. “Alas, I have no more elf-maidens whose bathtubs need to be filled at the moment,” she watched their faces as she spoke and she detected hints of disappointment. It wasn’t every day that elves visited the Houses of Healing, even though the Queen of Gondor was an elleth herself. “But I do need help with a wheelchair,” she said with a beatific smile.
“Whaddaya need help with a wheelchair for?” Fred grumbled and received a slap over the head from Ian. “Oi! What was that for you fleeging dimwit?!”
“Tilda doesn’t need help with getting a wheelchair,” Ian explained while rolling his eyes. “She can get the bleeding wheelchair herself, it's fairly simple and she’s a smart lass,” he looked at her pointedly and she acknowledged his point with a nod of her head.
“I thought I should stop by on the way,” Matilda replied and shrugged her shoulders. “Check to see that poor Fred didn’t suffer a stroke,” said and the lads chuckled at Fred’s expense. “You did look like an overcooked lobster for a few moments there Fred…”
“Like you know how an overcooked lobster looks like,” Fred muttered indignantly under his breath as he reached for his mug.
“I can and I do read you know,” she retorted shaking her head in exasperation. “Right, looks like you haven’t suffered any brain damage, well any more damage at least,” she said her sentence drawing out more laughter. “I’ll leave you to it, carry on,” she told them and with a nod of her head turned and exited the room.
Matilda walked swiftly across the hallway, her pace settling in a steady rhythm and thought about which route she should take to get the patient from the treatment room to the recovery room. Getting Fuin from one building to another in a wheelchair would not be a problem, even if they took the scenic route through the gardens; and something told her the elleth would like to see them and spend some time there before getting settled in the recovery room. Fuin’s weapons were the things that caused a frown to appear between Matilda’s eyebrows. Granted a bow, quiver, sword and dagger were not exactly an arsenal, but the nurse had a feeling that Fuin would be reluctant to have others handle her weapons. Perhaps if the sword and dagger were stashed in the quiver like flowers in a pot and if the elleth carried said quiver in her arms like a bouquet of very sharp and deadly azaleas… And if the bow was slung over the chair…
The sound of footsteps behind her, which were rapidly approaching, snapped her out of her musings and as she quickly turned around she almost collided with Ian. He placed his hands gently on her upper arms to steady her and moved them when he saw she was alright. She took a step backwards so she didn’t have to crane her neck to see him. She never thought of herself as a short woman, but when one encountered very tall people who towered over you…
“Are you alright?” he asked her concern evident in his golden-brown eyes.
“Yes, you just startled me,” she admitted with a sheepish grin and a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Is something the matter?”
“Thought I’d take you up on that offer to help,” he replied with a lazy smirk and she lifted her eyebrow in a questioning manner. “You and your pretty young healer friend might even need the help.”
“That pretty young healer is pretty married,” she told him tilting her head to the side and looking at him.
“A man can look,” he replied neutrally, shrugging his shoulders, that smile still in place.
“A man can look,” she agreed. “It’s not a crime,” she said dismissing the topic with a wave of her hand. “If you’re going to help follow me, hopefully, it won’t take too long and we get this thing rolling.”
Ian chuckled at her choice of words and fell into step with her. As they walked to the storage area they talked about mundane things – life in the White City, their work in the Houses of Healing, his family, mutual friends and acquaintances, her progress with Rohirric… The conversation flowed easily between them, they were co-workers and knew each other for a long time. He was good company and the walk to the storage area was as pleasant as it was swift.
From the storage room to the treatment room to tend to @Revered Grandmother
As Ian told the others getting a wheelchair from the storage was a simple procedure. She filled out the necessary paperwork, in triplicate, while Ian and the clerk on duty got the wooden wheelchair and inspected it. As she signed the forms she was glad that Ian chose to come. He was right, she could do all of this by herself, it was easy and straightforward, but it was nice to have help. Each party finished their work at the same time and after Matilda thanked the clerk she, Ian and the wooden wheelchair exited the premises with Ian pushing the wheelchair.
She thought of saying something as put his hands on the back of the wooden wheelchair and started pushing, not even bothering to ask if it was alright, but decided she didn’t want to waste her breath or time debating who would push a wooden chair on wheels. If he wanted to push the thing let him push, at least the chair was empty. They continued their easygoing conversation on the way to the treatment room, the flow of words broken only when they greeted another member of staff. Soon they reached the treatment room where Fuin and Nessa were and once again Matilda knocked on the door and waited until she heard Nessa’s voice granting them entrance. She opened the door, smiled widely and made a cavalier after you gesture to Ian. He let out a snort of laugher, ducked his head to hide it and rolled the wheelchair into the room, Matilda following.
“Your carriage is here Lady Fuin,” she gestured to the wheelchair with a flourish as she teased the elf-maiden who was looking at the chair with interest.
“And so is the horse, apparently,” Ian deadpanned and she laughed merrily and heard Nessa joining in.
“We have the means of transporting Lady Fuin from to the treatment room,” Nessa said after a while, her voice now thoughtful. “I suppose you will be taking her through the garden?” she asked Matilda and the nurse nodded. “That is sorted then. Now we need to decide about our warrior’s weapons,” the young healer said as she and the nurse exchanged looks; they both thought of the same problem. “Do you have any suggestions Lady Fuin?” Nessa asked turning her to Fuin and waiting for a suggestion from her patient.