Genesis

[Luvadros Orthilia]

Spring 23, 512 AV This was not what he'd expected, nor what he'd hoped for. After years of study and private guidance, he'd finally acquired permanent employment at the Place of Purging, finally taken a significant step toward pursuing his actual goals rather than just blundering along with everyone else down this path of eventual extinction. True, things calling themselves Symenestra would continue, perhaps even flourish for untold eons to come, but how long could they continue introducing foreign blood before it had a significant impact? How long before they were just a pale subset of humanity with slightly longer cuspids and more fragile skeletal structures? Quite some time, granted, but he meant to see the path his people followed shift away from any such eventuality. Better to all die out than to gradually breed themselves out of existence. In reality, however, little that he'd been tasked with moved him toward these lofty aspirations in the least. Talented as Luvadros was for his age—in his own (over)estimation, at least—and despite the fervor with which he sought higher assignments, he still found himself doing work only marginally above that of the inept assistants who ran about slapping bandages on things. On some level he understood that he was being placed where he was needed, that taking care of the relatively minor issues of small lacerations and fractures was a key role, however menial the tasks, and that he was going to have to climb the ranks just like everybody else. A much more dominant portion of his mind felt he was being discriminated against for his well known Esterian leanings and already he was growing resentful. Accordingly, his mood was somewhat less than cheery when he stalked into the room, sending the assistant who'd led the patient in scurrying with a glower. Barely sparing a glance for the woman before moving closer to see if he could readily identify the problem, he recalled being told something about a possible sprain or the like, but could not immediately tell. Taking a step back and allowing an impatient sound to click from his throat, he coolly snapped, “Remove your wrappings,” giving no indication that he meant to grant any privacy. Of course, he might've only meant on the injured limb. “Where are you injured and what did you do?” At least this time it was a question instead of an order, even if it was delivered in the same cold manner. Deep violet eyes rested at last on her face, though from his brusque posture and the rapid tapping of one foot on the ground, it was apparent he wasn't really looking at her, simply waiting for her to comply and answer.

[Nissabella Rose]

Still dressed in her jewel-toned dancer's bindings and clutching a swath of the same gemstone-bright silk with white-knuckled hands, Nissabella winced as she shifted her weight on the examining table. She had come straight from the Cobweb after a foolhardy attempt at an aerial technique too advanced for her. The resulting headlong plummet could have been fatal, but for the netting that caught her. Even then, her right leg had folded under her, and her knee gave a sickening pop accompanied by a crimson lance of pain. Despite her protests, her teacher had immediately ended the lesson and rushed her to the one place in Kalinor that Nissabella detested most, the Place of Purging. Between the pain in her knee and ankle and her teacher's dire warnings of permanent damage, though, she had no strength to resist. Being naturally sallow, Nissabella could hardly go paler, but white spots of pain showed on either side of her mouth as she gingerly massaged her swollen knee. The cold stone of the examining table felt like ice under her, making her muscles go tight. Even its chill, though, didn't bite as deep as the frigid voice of the young doctor who stalked into the room and barked a few curt orders to the assistant and Nissabella. "It's…it's my knee, that's why I'm here," she stammered nervously, blinking to keep the tears of hurt and distress from falling. "It was from trying out the cocoon pose that I saw Mistress Kanasa showing a group of Spiderlings the other day, using a foot lock to secure myself to a hanging cloth and then…" She gasped then as her knee spasmed suddenly and fell silent until it had passed. Waving a thin hand dismissively, Nissabella murmured in a quieter voice, "Ne…never mind the pose. I had a bad fall, and it's thrown out my knee.M…my teacher said it's probably dis…dislocated. Even my ankles are hurting from the extra load on them now." Obediently, she leaned forward and began unwrapping the bindings around her right leg to show him the injury. The silk wrappings sighed apart as she undid the many laborious knots that had taken her an hour altogether to fasten this morning, revealing angry red inflammation around her ankle and knee. She drew in her breath as she peeled the last brightly-colored strip from the top of her knee and tried to suppress a gasp of pain as she stretched out her lower leg farther for the doctor's inspection. At length, Nissabella summoned the strength to raise her head and look the doctor in the eye, as though daring him to say anything brusque about her injury. As her golden gaze met his deep violet stare, Nissabella's eyes suddenly went wide and then narrowed. Given the standard low rate of injuries from dancers of the Cobweb school, as well as her aversion to the place where surrogates came to die, she hadn't expected to recognize any of the doctors here. The violet wells of his eyes and the scowl on his face were oddly familiar, though. Somehow, she felt as if she had seen him before, not very long ago, but the memory was vague and faraway. Seen him sitting across a room from her, speaking passionately…speaking about…about what? She lowered her eyes before he noticed her staring at him and gave him a sidelong glance instead. It was a good distraction, taking her mind a little off the pain in her knee and ankle. He really did look familiar, but Nissabella simply couldn't place him at the moment. "H…have you treated me before?" she ventured. "I'm Nissabella, of the Rose Web, if that helps."

[Luvadros Orthilia]

It was with no comforting nod or expression of understanding that Luvadros regarded the young woman as she began hesitantly explaining her injury. Indeed, his scowl only deepened as she wasted time on details of her frivolity. The rigid-minded physician had lost much appreciation for the arts or those that practiced them in recent years, so focused had he become upon his more pragmatic studies and goals. In his younger days he'd often attended performances at the Cobweb with his elder siblings, and thus understood her vernacular well enough, even if he hadn't a clue what exactly this cocoon pose entailed. Thus it was not confusion that had one eyebrow steadily canting up as she rambled on, merely steadfast irritation. Her pained gasp seemed to draw out no concern, perhaps leading one to question why he'd chosen such a career in the first place since he appeared utterly devoid of compassion. Mostly he was still waiting for a more helpful explanation of what she'd done to herself and for obedience concerning his instructions. She didn't seem nearly disabled enough to require his aid in undressing. The pain had cut short her overlong recounting, however, and at last she told him what he needed to know, accompanied by what he took to be a very amateur diagnosis. Those always annoyed him. “Indeed?” he rhetorically asked with thinly veiled scorn. “And what esteemed medical instructor has she studied under for years, I wonder.” The frown that followed these words was actually directed internally, some part of the man recognizing that he was being impetuous and unnecessarily harsh. The dance instructor had likely witnessed numerous leg injuries over the years and might in fact be able to give preliminary assessments more accurately than he could. Still, there was no way his pride would allow any admission of this nor a retraction of his acerbic words, so he pressed on, moving closer to examine the knee and surrounding tissue, speaking more softly, or at least less hostilely. “You should have avoided putting any weight on the injured leg. Endeavor to keep off of it for now.” Glancing up at her as she asked after their history and introduced herself, eye contact was maintained for only a moment before his attention returned to her bared injury. “I'm quite certain I'd have remembered a clumsy dancer with a propensity for stammering,” he muttered offhandedly as he frowned at her knee. Evidently he didn't feel quite badly enough to refrain from caustic language completely, though his tone at least remained neutral.

[Nissabella Rose]

All of Nissabella's acquired distaste for the Place of Purging and those who worked within it flared up at the young doctor's impatient, irritable, and above all insolent manner. It didn't in the least bit help her remember whom he might be, but it did remind her of how much she hadn't wanted to come here, even with her leg throbbing and aching fiercely. A hot flush suffused her cheeks when he dared impugn her well-meaning dance teacher. By the time he bent over her knee and insulted her stammering and dance abilities, Nissabella was seething with indignation. It was a wonderfully cleansing emotion, leaving no room for pain or fear and lending her a burst of fiery energy to counter his icy impoliteness. "I suppose you're right," she retorted, crossing her arms defensively across her chest. "I'm sure I would have remembered a doctor who prefers to waste time insulting his patients than treating them. What's your diagnosis on my injury, O Worshipful Doctor?" She was about to go on, to tell him that she had never visited the Place of Purging for any dance-related injury before. In fact, she hadn't stepped foot in the infirmary since she was six years old and her mother had brought her here because of a worrisome fever. She was not a clumsy dancer, merely an ambitious one who had gotten a little carried away this morning and forgotten to take the usual precautions. Before she opened her mouth again, though, Nissabella wondered if she was taking it a little too far. The doctor's advice about keeping her weight off the leg did sound sincere and beneficial, and perhaps she could understand how her stammering would get on his nerves. Besides, she had made a mistake and surely a little admonishment was the least she deserved. A hint of contrition crept into her mood, cooling her temper and making her swallow the sharp words on the tip of her tongue. Just as Nissabella began formulating an apology, though, another spasm of pain shot up her injured leg and the dancer bit hard on her bottom lip to keep from crying out. Tears sprang to her eyes, which she was sure the acerbic young doctor couldn't miss seeing. Nissabella was immediately furious at her own weakness, an emotion that was only strengthened by the intensity of the ache in her knee. When she saw the doctor's scowling face through tear-blurred eyes, it was too easy to redirect her anger toward him. "Oh, come on!" she spat out. "Aren't you going to do more than just stand there and cast slurs on me? You're a doctor, right? Shouldn't you be helping me?" Before Nissabella could stop herself, the next words emerged in a torrent of bottled-up revulsion. In this place, it was hard enough to hold back her Esterian tendencies in normal circumstances; in the throes of pain, the dancer was too far gone to restrain herself. "You're a doctor at the Place of Purging, no less! You've probably got a surrogate in the next room to murder in cold blood by forcing the innocent foreign woman to deliver a baby that she never wanted and that's going to kill her in the womb! Well, come on, man! You're probably in a hurry to watch some woman suffer a horrible death! Hurry up and treat me, why don't you?"

[Luvadros Orthilia]

Elongated hands beginning to reach for the young woman's knee to see what he could learn of the injury's severity, his focus was redirected upward again by her verbal counterattack. A brief snort was his only reply, not bothering to answer her reproachful question since she hadn't yet given him the opportunity to fully examine the injury, making any diagnosis he could give premature. Bending forward again and motioning for her to scoot back on her seat so that she could keep the leg straight without having it rest only on air, he reached for the knee once more. Still he'd barely placed his fingertips to her skin when a light shudder ran through her, too soon he believed to have been caused by his touch but his hands were withdrawn regardless. Tears became apparent in her golden eyes, leading him to frown once more. This was not the sort of thing he'd wanted to be doing at the Purging anyway, and thus far it was not going at all how he'd have liked. As she shouted at him once more, questioning his very profession, he stood with a sort of condescending stoicism until she drew a breath, at which point he interjected with no dearth of haughtiness. “Are you quite fini-?” But evidently she was not. Nothing else she'd said had yet had any success in shaking his cold superiority, but this accusation clearly had an effect. The physician's entire body stiffened, his face growing paler if such a thing were possible. Only three days earlier he had participated in a surrogate's delivery. The web to which the child belonged would not approve of attempting a caesarean, risking the child in a pointless attempt to save the mother, and despite himself Luvadros agreed. He didn't like the harvesting by any stretch, but he was no more willing to endanger a Symenestra child to save a human woman than any of the other doctors were. Yet fruitless as he knew his efforts to be, he'd still tried to save her afterward, but of course by then a quicker death was about all the mercy he could supply. Her body had inevitably joined countless others, shattered on the cavern's distant floor. Despite the rigidity of his form, Luvadros was shaking as he stared at the impudent girl. Already he could feel his cuspids lengthening as his body unconsciously prepared for an altercation. “You have no right...” he began in a harsh whisper. Snapping his jaw shut once more before any more could be said, he fought for control. Nothing impassioned him like the issue of surrogates, but it was quite a new experience for him to be accused of siding with the mainstream. It should have been hilarious in its absurdity, but stacked atop his most recent failure to make any difference, the entire thing had an irritatingly potent, even devastating effect on his emotional well-being. With a jerky little shake of his head, the issue and accusation was willfully pushed to the back of his mind, haunted eyes growing steely once more as he bent forward and lightly gripped her lower thigh. Offering only, “Keep it straight; tell me when the pain worsens,” in an even, empty tone, he began pressing the pads of his fingers into the skin, almost like a gentle massage as he tried to feel for any abnormalities and get some idea of where the pain was originating. Mindful of his claws, he worked his way down past the knee to the uppermost portion of her shin and calf, nodding to any affirmation she gave and seeming for the moment to have deliberately forgotten about any unprofessional conversation they'd engaged in.

[Nissabella Rose]

Nissabella felt a bitter stab of triumph when the young doctor's body stiffened and trembled as her last accusation struck his ears. It felt good to startle that look of disdainful superiority off his face, even for a moment. In a way, though, she felt ashamed that she, who considered herself an advocate on the side of the surrogates, had thrown a surrogate's suffering in the doctor's face just to provoke a reaction out of him. Even with her knee in pain, it was beneath her. She lost the triumph, though, when the doctor clenched his jaw tightly and got his temper under control again. From the way he bent over her leg and gently but firmly felt along her thigh, Nissabella judged that he must know his business quite well, after all. As quick as it had come, her anger receded, leaving another emotion in its wake: remorse. All her life, the dancer had always been undone by her emotions and hot temper, and even this supposedly routine appointment at the infirmary had turned out to be no different. From furious scorn, Nissabella now lapsed into reluctant cooperativeness and held still as the doctor coolly proceeded about his business. "No problem," she said through gritted teeth in answer to his instruction to keep the leg straight, "I can't move it at all. My knee just doesn't feel like it works anymore." She drew in her breath a few times and winced as he probed carefully at the swelling. "There," she told him as he pressed into her knee, "and there, the pain is very bad. Ooh! There, too. That hurt." Unlike his manner, his fingers were warm and considerate, and she had to admire how he deftly avoided pricking her at all with his claws, considering Nissabella had shredded her share of dancing silks during training. Now and then, she fancied that he made some sort of noise to himself. It might all have been her imagination acting up, but she couldn't help worrying every time the doctor took a particularly deep breath, paused over a particular spot, or minutely shook or nodded his head. A dozen times she opened her mouth, wanting to ask if something was the matter, and a dozen times she forced herself to close it again, not wanting to hear that frosty voice of his that couldn't help but inflame her. As his interrogative probing moved down to her calf and shin, Nissabella shook her head to indicate that she felt no particular pain there. When he reached her ankle, she pressed her lips together. "It doesn't hurt," she said aloud. "It just feels sore. A bit tight." Again, Nissabella felt another jolt of worry. The emotion was heightened by the intense pain in her knee, which had yet to dull throughout the doctor's examination. The fact that the pain wasn't going away at all made her even more anxious. She made a tentative motion to prod her knee herself, but stopped at the last moment, unwilling to endure another agonizing spasm or another scolding from the doctor. Instead, she raised her head and asked fearfully, "Is...is my knee going to be all right? Will I be able to dance again?"

[Luvadros Orthilia]

Though his focus was kept on his examination, testing both the sensitivity of the injured limb and seeing what he could tell about any potential dislocations or tears, there was a portion of his mind dwelling on what she'd said and what he could infer from it. Partially to ensure he didn't miss anything and also because he was still privately furious enough with her to be unwilling to speak in any terms beyond strict doctor-patient, the analysis was minor and faded every time she confirmed stronger pain. He also missed the repeated near-questions, his eyes fixed on what his hands were doing, though he'd have ignored them anyway. Straightening and taking a step back, her gaze was met with his own cultivated calm as obvious worry bled into her voice. Whether his apparent lack of concern was a good sign and signified that it was nothing serious or simply indication that he didn't care one way or the other was not immediately clear, and given their relationship so far it could have gone either way. After only a moment of further contemplation of what he'd learned he gave a curt little nod. “From what I can tell, the bone does not seem to have been pushed out of place. I believe you've partially torn a ligament, however, causing the pain and swelling.” Turning away to rummage a bit through the room's supplies, he continued in the same factual tone. “It will need time to rest in order to heal. I'm going to immobilize it. It may take up to a month, but you're young; full recovery is likely.” Having found the gently curving metal strip and undyed bandages he'd been looking for, the doctor turned back and began wrapping the knee, lifting her leg lightly by the ankle to avoid unintentionally bending the injured joint. Gaze again falling to his work, he added offhandedly, “As to your future dancing capabilities, I make no guarantees. It depends largely upon the dubious issue of any such ability up to this point.” That was a good sign. The return of his snark meant he'd begun returning to a comfortable state. Placing the metal splint against the back of the knee once enough bandage had been wrapped to keep the cold metal from contacting skin, the long tip was spiraled around several more times to hold everything in place. As he worked, he finally returned to a subject he found far more pertinent than the reason she'd actually come. “I take it you do not approve of the surrogates. Would you see our people die out, then?” There was no judgment in his tone, no implication that she was a fool, merely curiosity.

[Nissabella Rose]

Nissabella breathed a deep sigh of relief when the young doctor told her she would likely recover fully from her injury and began wrapping bandages around the leg to help it heal. A torn ligament did sound ominous, but not nearly as horrible as the various scenarios that had flickered through her mind when she heard her knee go pop beneath her. After worrying that she had broken her leg or lost the use of it entirely, the news that her leg would mend with a little time and bandaging was music to her ears. So sweet was the tune, in fact, that she managed to restrain her temper with only a little effort when the doctor made what he undoubtedly thought was a clever denigration of her dancing ability. She did, however, fix her gaze on his face, willing herself to memorize his features and mannerisms. If she ever came back to the Purging with another injury, Nissabella wanted to recognize this conceited fellow and ask for another doctor at once if she had the ill luck to be assigned to him again. The dancer also swallowed the request on the tip of her tongue for a soothing poultice or medication to dull the pain in her leg. From what Nissabella had seen of this doctor, she had the feeling that he would not only refuse her, but would also purposefully tie the bandages painfully tight, use the coldest metal splint he had, and poke some sharp instruments into her on top of it all. Besides, she told herself soberly, one day she might very well experience an agony far more awful and consuming than this. No poultice would help her then. She had to be strong now, so that she would be just as strong then and not weaken when her time came. With her thoughts already dwelling upon the future, Nissabella was startled when the doctor abruptly asked her about surrogates and the Symenestra. Had he known what she was thinking? Even stranger, for once his tone lacked the hauteur with which he had been addressing her all this time, on a question that many others had flung and would continue to fling mockingly or accusingly in her face. "I'm surprised that you credit me with enough intellect to answer a deep question like that," she replied dryly. Her voice softened, though, as she reflected on his question. "Of course I would never want to see our people die out. I know that we have to produce children for our kind to survive. My own mother used surrogates to give birth to my brother and me. Only…" She shook her head distractedly, trying to fight the loosening effect that the pain had on her tongue. "I suppose I could never blame another woman for preferring to use surrogates to carry their children. Life is sweet, new life is sweeter, and death is bitter and cold. But I would rather die than ever make use of one myself. I know, I know," she added, raising her hands slightly in a defensive gesture. "I've heard it many times. Only a fool would think that way, or care about a stranger more than myself or my race, or believe that it harms us all in our hearts and our blood more than it helps us. Only a dimwit would think that it goes against Viratas' will. You don't need to say it. I know all the words to that song by heart, trust me; everyone I know has sung it to me a hundred times before. But you asked, and you have heard my answer, such as it is." Nissabella's head sank low as the ache in her leg took its toll. Her voice was so low that the doctor would have to lean forward to hear her ask, "Is there anything else you wanted to know?"

[Luvadros Orthilia]

On some level, the arrogant doctor found a degree of empathy as the dancer let out a heavy breath in relief at his prognosis. He could well imagine how devastated he would be if some foolish step on his part condemned him to abandoning his medical career, particularly since he'd only just started it. The relatability was short lived, however, as he quickly reminded himself that while he toiled for the welfare of their entire society, she gyrated on a stage. It was not the same at all, and none but her would suffer were she forced to select a new path. This brought him some comfort in the face of her earlier accusations. What, after all, did the opinion of a solitary performer matter? Quite a lot, he was forced to answer, when that opinion lies parallel to my own. Setting aside any apparent dislike she held for him as irrelevant, he instead focused more precisely on her expressed beliefs regarding surrogates. Convenient, since she was even then replying to his inquiry concerning them. Almost. Luvadros stared blankly in response to her dry acknowledgment of his low expectations, but he did not then confirm them. To do so might derail any further answer she was about to give. Occasionally the rapacious snark could be reined in when he really wanted something, and he really wanted to know her thoughts on this Remaining respectfully silent as she carried the answer a bit further than he'd expected, he busied himself completing the splint about her knee. Tying it off securely, he took a shorter bandage and began tightly compressing her ankle as well. He did not believe it injured to nearly the degree the knee was, more likely just sore from the added tension caused from holding her leg in an unusual way. Still, it was not as though they suffered a deficit of strips of fabric in Kalinor, and he could afford to be thorough. “How interesting,” he replied ambiguously, but honestly when she finished. Or at least he'd thought she'd finished. Bent over her foot to ensure the ankle was wrapped properly, his ears barely registered some final mumbling, drawing his gaze back up to her face. For a moment he stared, trying to work out what she'd last said, but he simply hadn't heard her well enough. Likely some disparaging remark that had no bearing on the conversation, anyway. Quietly shrugging it away, he instead stood looked back to his work, double checking everything while he stated factually, “I do not recall offering to sing.” A few light tugs and squeezes were given to her bandaged joints, ensuring they were secure as he considered all she'd said. At last he did look to her face once more, countering with little regard for how his words might be taken, “Cowardice in the overwhelming majority of our women is understandable, but this does not excuse it. Fear of death may drive one to nearly any action, but it does not validate the action” Perfectly aware he was calling her mother a coward after what she'd revealed about her own birth, he was saying much the same about his own, as the existence of his brother and sister clearly stated. Half-brother and sister, he corrected himself silently, though he knew it didn't really matter. Though he did agree to several points she'd made—he certainly believed it harmed their blood to be perpetually thinning it, nor did he think the practice of surrogates was sanctioned and mandated by the divine—there were many questions still remaining. His direct treatment of her injury completed, however, he wasn't sure he could justify just standing around and speaking with her. Maybe there was a way. “I can brew a draft that will dull the pain slightly and help the healing process, but it will take some time,” he explained. “Would you care to wait, or shall I have it sent to your dwelling later this evening?” Quickly he clarified his own desire, doubting she would elect to stay without some reason. “I would prefer you remain that we may continue this discussion, but it is your prerogative.”

[Nissabella Rose]

"I'll stay," Nissabella replied, perhaps a little too quickly. Trying to cover her eagerness for the healing draft the doctor had offered and hoping she didn't sound too desperate, she added in a more measured tone, "I don't expect I'd get very far if I tried, in my present condition. Not unless someone carted me home in one of those transport baskets along the black cords, that is. So, I'm happy to wait and sit here for a while. It seems like it'd save everyone some trouble." She clenched her jaw as another flower bud of pain blossomed at the top of her knee. They were coming less frequently now, though, she noted when the spasm passed. The doctor's firm, snug bandages were probably helping with that, keeping her leg securely immobilized even against the subtle, involuntary tics and twitches of her own muscles. Inspecting the wrappings around her knee and ankle, Nissabella concluded that the doctor had done very nice work indeed. Her mood ameliorated by the prospect of a pain reliever as well as the doctor's surprisingly receptive attitude toward her views on surrogates, Nissabella considered making a jest that if the doctor ever wanted to leave the Place of Purging, he could probably find employment at the Cobweb as a costumier. Looking sidelong at his unsympathetic expression, though, she decided against it. If it weren't for his perpetual sneer, she thought the young doctor might almost be handsome. It was probably just as well that he wasn't, though; handsome men tended to leave Nissabella timid and tongue-tied, which would only have made this situation worse. As she continued to study his face, Nissabella again couldn't shake the impression that she had seen him before. It was like a tickle in the back of the throat that she couldn't dispel. Aware that she had fallen silent, the dancer hastily shook her head. "Besides," she ventured, "if you want to keep discussing surrogates..." Pausing on the last word, Nissabella made a face to emphasize her strong feelings on the subject. She continued, looking curiously at the doctor as she spoke, "If you're not too busy brewing the pain-relieving concoction, or preparing to do it, may I ask what your opinions on the practice of surrogacy might be?" Hesitantly, she went on, "It's just that, from what you said, it sounded as though you don't entirely approve of using surrogates to reproduce either. I want to make sure I understand you correctly, though. It's not very often that I hear someone saying something that actually sounds close to my own ideas, except when I attend a meeting of..." Abruptly, Nissabella stopped there, cutting herself off before she could say any more. Intriguing though the doctor's terse remarks had been, she was loath to betray more about herself or her fellow free-thinkers and dissenters than she absolutely had to. True, the doctor seemed to be growing more sympathetic the longer she stayed in his company, but that was no reason to publicize her Esterian sympathies so carelessly. "When I attend a meeting of my friends," Nissabella finished lamely. "So, if you don't mind, I'd like to hear your thoughts on the matter, too."