ways_infirmary | (no subject)

A tall, thin - rather too thin - girl walks into the infirmary, holding her back stiffly.

White hair. Right.

"You are Dr. Ford?"

"I am," she says, looking up.

"... is your name Mary, by any chance?"

"Yes. I am Mary Lennox."

She is trying to look dignified; mostly she looks awkward.

"I received your note."

"I'm glad you came," Kim tells her, rather gently.

"Would you like to sit down?"

There's a chair beside the nearby empty bed; Kim indicates both.

Mary eyes the chair, and then sits in it. You could easily balance books on her head; illness or no, her posture is excellent.

"I suppose I ought to tell you my symptoms."

"You're right, we'll need to talk about that, but there's time," she says.

"When did you first start feeling unwell?"

"Perhaps two weeks ago; I did not much notice it, at first," Mary says, and then, lest there be a misunderstanding, "I am not so very unwell at all. Only tired, and sometimes it is harder to breathe than it ought to be - and I have been losing weight."

This last is an especial sore point.

"Okay."

Mildly said. As Kim looks her over, she takes in the yellowish cast to her complexion, the hollowness in her cheeks, and the abundance of scratches and contusions and -- are those bites?

"You mentioned in your note that you had reason to think it might not be natural -- can you tell me more about that?"

A beat.

"I can tend to some of those scrapes while we talk, too."

"I have an enemy," Mary says simply. "Something like this it is quite possible, I suppose, that she would have been able to do - in which case I do not know if a doctor should be able to help

Beat.

"- the scrapes are quite unrelated."

And SUPER EMBARRASSING to talk about, seeing as how they were delivered by a five-year-old - possibly a supernatural five-year-old, but a five-year-old all the same - so Mary would prefer not to, thanks.

"We can take care of them anyway," Kim assures her.

She starts assembling a few supplies on a metal tray -- gloves, gauze squares and cotton swabs, a mild antiseptic solution -- and as she does, she asks,

"What kind of enemy?"

And given what the note had said, is it Mary's own enemy, or Galadan's?

Matter-of-fact: "A witch of the Dark."

And probably one or two other things besides - but what, Mary doesn't know.

She's keeping an eagle eye on Kim and her preparations, both out of wariness and curiosity. She still has not abandoned the thought that she has had several times over the years, that learning medicine would be extremely useful.

"A witch?"

She carries the tray over and sets it on a stand by the bed, one designed for just such purpose, then puts on her gloves and beckons for Mary's hand.

"Did she cast a spell on you?"

There's absolutely no hint of skepticism about her tone, and the look in the clear gray eyes is sharp and intent on Mary's face.

One thin shoulder rises in a shrug.

"It is possible. I know she is able to poison - all sorts of things."

"... poison?"

Kim's hands still, just for a moment.

"She did not touch me," Mary says, with precision, "or have me eat anything. I do not know if she needs to, though. She is a witch."

"I see."

Two weeks ago, or very nearly, according to what Mary has told her. Every traditional antidote or remedy for poison that she knows would be completely ineffective now -- well, unless this is a case of heavy metal contamination, which Kim thinks is very unlikely.

Two weeks. And a child growing slowly sicker.

"Does Galadan know her?"

Mary hesitates, then shakes her head.

"They met, once. He knows who she is thanks to me - I have been her enemy a very long time," she adds, with a sudden sharp look at Kim. "Since long before Galadan ever came, or I ever knew him."

This is Mary's issue. Not Galadan's.

"I do not think she knows who and what he is."

"That's probably just as well," Kim tells her.

A pause. She sets down the last of the now-soiled gauze pads, and reaches for a bandage or two to dress the deeper lacerations.

"...From what you said in your note, it's pretty clear that you know some things about Galadan -- your tutor, you said? -- who he is, and his background."

A beat.

"Did he happen to mention how he and I know each other?"

"He said that you had been in Fionavar," Mary says, her chin coming up - defiant, defensive - "and that you were a Seer - the Seer of Brennin, he called you - and that you were very much not his ally."

"Mmm," she says, taping the first bandage over a bite. "He's essentially right, of course. I am the Seer of Brennin, and we were on opposite sides during the war."

A beat.

"I don't know that I'd call him an enemy now, though."

"He is very different now than he was then."

Mary's gaze is steady on Kim; she is talking to her - how else? - like an equal.

"And he will not fall back again into being as he was. I will make certain of that, and other people will, too. But people do not always forget that they are enemies because the other person changes. Being someone's enemy is usually about what they have done as much as what they are like."

"Mmm," Kim says again.

Silence, for a second. Clear gray eyes meet Mary's own gaze directly.

"You like him very much, don't you?"

"We are friends," Mary answers her.

The statement is not a simple one.

"Okay."

A part of her observes, wryly, that Dave would quite likely be on the verge of exploding about now.

Beat.

"Is that why you thought I might not want to help you?"

The chin jerks up again. "I thought there was a chance of it."