27 Cylus, 724
.
Two days after a terrible incident at his friend’s apartment- one that turned superlative at the end of the night- Kotton found himself put back together, all of the broken pieces glued into an original piece of art. But Kotton was no art. He wasn’t a masterpiece. He was a foul attempt at creating something upstanding, if in reminiscence of brilliance. He was practise or worse- he was scrap paper- something you pitch in the trash as a rough draft rather than a final copy.
But his friend had given him many specs of modicum and had even offered a chicken pot pie all without the knowledge that Kotton was a bloody vegetarian. Nevertheless, the young man accepted the gesture and instead of eating, gave to a random homeless women several blocks from his place of residence.
His body ached for the first several days. The day following the disaster, he spent sleeping in until supper time, when the sun had almost made its conclusion against the sky. The second day? Well, he was determined to return back to his routine, tired of feeling sluggish and unproductive regardless of the pain that tingled up his right leg and pestered his left shoulder.
Most would argue that he wasn’t in a healthy state of mind to attend work, but Kotton believed that getting back into the swing of things was just what the doctor ordered to help relieve himself of any residual sorry thoughts. Distraction- that’s what he called it. He was going to distract himself by focusing his energy elsewhere.
The front stairs into the physician’s office were a tad bit slippery- frost coating them with a lacklustre attempt at tripping any inattentive soul. Such stairs should be cursed, but the exercise was the only thing that kept him motivated as he made his way to the highly-cast doors of the establishment.
“Good mowning,” he greeted the receptionist at the front desk. He didn't pause for a response before directing himself toward the hallway where all other healer’s went about their day.
“Azberdiel,” came a stern voice from in front of him. It was startling to say the least, only because his attention was focused elsewhere. The voice was loud enough to echo off the walls and into the young man’s deafened ears, forcing him to drop all cognizance on any other duty than the recipience of direction.
“Y-yes, siw?” he stuttered, turning his body to the side.
“You’re late.”
He most certainly was not, but he kept his disagreement to himself and formulated an apology regardless. Since when had he ever been late apart from his very first day? Absolutely anyone could get lost in such a building as this. And to end up on the room for therapy, well, it was funny actually-
“Worick is waiting for you with a patient a few doors down,” his superior declared, handing him a folder with several papers stuffed inside.
“Yes siw,” Kotton spoke once more, apprehending the folder with mild hesitation.
“Her mother is complaining of her daughter having a fever,” he continued as if telling him was more important than Worick shedding the news. Maybe he was making strides in the office, proclaiming his capability in a world filled with more than just scribes.
“Yes siw,” Kotton repeated, watching as the man finalised his glare and continued on his way.
Once down the hall and to the right as was written on the first most piece of paper documented in the folder, Kotton found the room with the mother and daughter. He saw as soon as the door had opened a slightly irritated Worick.
Had he truly been that tardy?
Worick sighed at Kotton’s presence before beginning his observation of his patient. Kotton slowly and quietly closed the door behind him before taking a spot at the far wall of the observation room. He didn't want to make any more interruptions than he already had.
“What seems to be the problem?” Worick asked, the obvious answer already on his mind. But Kotton knew he took pride in showing consideration and warm heartedness to all of his patients regardless of who they were or where they came from.
The mother put her hand on her daughter’s forehead and explained to Worick that she was abnormally warm.
Nodding his head in acknowledgment, Worick sat down on a black chair and rolled it over to the side of his patient. He felt her forehead for the abnormal heat her mother had been concerned about and threw his head to Kotton before eliciting a subtle nod. She was correct. Her daughter had a fever. And Kotton took no time at all in marking this observation in his journal, finally feeling more comfortable now that the attention was no longer on him.
Although, after he had written down the observation, Kotton found no pause. The young girl’s hands were unnaturally red in certain areas.
“Wowick-” he started, flicking his eyes down to her hands.
His friend caught on to what he was trying to indicate.
“Mrs.-“ Worick began.
“You can call me Biena.”
“Biena,” he continued, “I believe that your daughter has an acute case of irritability.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, bewilderment replacing her expression of concern.
“It means that your daughter has a rash, not a fever as I had initially assumed.”
“Is that bad?” The look of concern remained glued to her face, but her eyebrows had now scrunched themselves together, a crease manifesting between her eyes.
“Not if we treat it right away,” he assured her, swivelling in his chair so that it faced toward Kotton.
Kotton knew what to do in the case of a rash. Once when he was little, his father had noticed that his legs had strange red splotches on them. His father’s face had contorted into such an expression of worry as the woman's had this very moment.
“What’s wrong?” Kotton had asked him.
“You have a rash,” was his father's simple response. No sympathy came from his voice, which wasn’t unusual. He wasn’t one to comfort or cuddle, but to instill such business instead.
“Is that bad?” Kotton had asked, the exact same question as his current patient’s mother had asked Worick just now.
“It shouldn’t be,” Kotton’s father had told him. He couldn’t see what his father was doing until he came back to him with a few choice ingredients from his personal medicine bag.
“What are those?” Kotton had asked, fear hinting at his voice.
“These are the things that are going to kill that rash.”
Would killing the rash in turn kill him? Why did his father use such unnecessary hostility in his tone of voice? Was he going to be alright? All of these thoughts had swarmed through his brain at the time, and as he watched his father perform the smashing of grainy substances in a bowl before the mixing with a pasty substance, he grew timid. That was until the slather of the final product onto his legs.
“It’s cold,” young Kotton had remarked.
“So?”
He had shut his mouth after his retaliation.
Coming back to the present, Kotton’s attention was re-focused on the duties Worick had executed. There was a salt cure that began with the crushing of dried leaves found in the tropical regions of Idalos. He didn’t know where exactly they were located in the world, but on the shelf, he knew exactly where to look.
Kotton hadn’t watched Worick acquire the correct canister, nor the positioning of the leaves in the mortar, nor the movements of the pestle against the base, but he was able to observe the resulting mixture.
The half-blood documented Worick adding oil and his movements to scrape the improvised, formulated cream out of the bowl before the inevitable usage of a coin sized portion. This portion was, without further question, used to swab the extent of the rash.
Turning back to the young girl with gorgeous blue eyes- eyes that reminded Kotton of an old friend- Worick rubbed, and continuously did he rub the cream onto the affected areas.
“You should be all better soon,” Worick announced, a boyish grin hinting at his lips. It did not quite his eyes. They still seemed tired, Kotton noticed. He would have given a grand smile, a reward, he supposed, for having accomplished something so special.
“Are we all done? Will she get better?” the mother queried, her eyes never leaving her daughter’s. Kotton focused on her gaze.
“Yes ma’am. I seem to have taken care of the rash in the way I can. It should clear up soon, but if you have any more trouble, come back and see me, okay?”
The woman nodded her head and also to her daughter before offering her hand to help her up and out of the patient’s seat.
The words ‘thank you so much’ were mouthed, a small token Kotton was able to read and send into the lofty compartment deep within his heart.
Leaving the room and following Worick who thus followed the party, Kotton unfortunately happened to run into two clerical individuals who were conversing with one another about entirely trivial things.
One of them caught Kotton's sense of ‘evesdropping’ and turned to with a sneer. It was remotely scary to witness and made Kotton doubt his subconscious decision to 'listen in' on such a conversation. He turned to leave finding it most favourable to remove himself from the situation, but alas, wasn’t that lucky.
“Hey you,” growled one of the men, tugging on Kotton’s shoulder with a ferocious grip.
Kotton turned, an excuse already resting on the tip of his tongue. “Siw-?”
Out of nowhere was Worick and he placed a steady hand across the chest of the intimidator, moving himself so he was standing in front of whom he was protecting and the other.
“Do we have a problem?” he asked, his voice dripping with the crispness that could only be mimicked by the Vhalar's fall of leaves.
Kotton couldn't understand much of the confrontation, all he was able to recognise were the quick shaking of heads and swift turns of bodies as a retreat was in process.
Kotton smiled. Thanks, Worick, he acknowledged mentally. He knew he could rely on him to have his back even during silly squanders amongst shifts. Perhaps he was a man of few words but many gestures. Whatever the case may be, Kotton was glad to have him as a friend.
But his friend had given him many specs of modicum and had even offered a chicken pot pie all without the knowledge that Kotton was a bloody vegetarian. Nevertheless, the young man accepted the gesture and instead of eating, gave to a random homeless women several blocks from his place of residence.
His body ached for the first several days. The day following the disaster, he spent sleeping in until supper time, when the sun had almost made its conclusion against the sky. The second day? Well, he was determined to return back to his routine, tired of feeling sluggish and unproductive regardless of the pain that tingled up his right leg and pestered his left shoulder.
Most would argue that he wasn’t in a healthy state of mind to attend work, but Kotton believed that getting back into the swing of things was just what the doctor ordered to help relieve himself of any residual sorry thoughts. Distraction- that’s what he called it. He was going to distract himself by focusing his energy elsewhere.
The front stairs into the physician’s office were a tad bit slippery- frost coating them with a lacklustre attempt at tripping any inattentive soul. Such stairs should be cursed, but the exercise was the only thing that kept him motivated as he made his way to the highly-cast doors of the establishment.
“Good mowning,” he greeted the receptionist at the front desk. He didn't pause for a response before directing himself toward the hallway where all other healer’s went about their day.
“Azberdiel,” came a stern voice from in front of him. It was startling to say the least, only because his attention was focused elsewhere. The voice was loud enough to echo off the walls and into the young man’s deafened ears, forcing him to drop all cognizance on any other duty than the recipience of direction.
“Y-yes, siw?” he stuttered, turning his body to the side.
“You’re late.”
He most certainly was not, but he kept his disagreement to himself and formulated an apology regardless. Since when had he ever been late apart from his very first day? Absolutely anyone could get lost in such a building as this. And to end up on the room for therapy, well, it was funny actually-
“Worick is waiting for you with a patient a few doors down,” his superior declared, handing him a folder with several papers stuffed inside.
“Yes siw,” Kotton spoke once more, apprehending the folder with mild hesitation.
“Her mother is complaining of her daughter having a fever,” he continued as if telling him was more important than Worick shedding the news. Maybe he was making strides in the office, proclaiming his capability in a world filled with more than just scribes.
“Yes siw,” Kotton repeated, watching as the man finalised his glare and continued on his way.
Once down the hall and to the right as was written on the first most piece of paper documented in the folder, Kotton found the room with the mother and daughter. He saw as soon as the door had opened a slightly irritated Worick.
Had he truly been that tardy?
Worick sighed at Kotton’s presence before beginning his observation of his patient. Kotton slowly and quietly closed the door behind him before taking a spot at the far wall of the observation room. He didn't want to make any more interruptions than he already had.
“What seems to be the problem?” Worick asked, the obvious answer already on his mind. But Kotton knew he took pride in showing consideration and warm heartedness to all of his patients regardless of who they were or where they came from.
The mother put her hand on her daughter’s forehead and explained to Worick that she was abnormally warm.
Nodding his head in acknowledgment, Worick sat down on a black chair and rolled it over to the side of his patient. He felt her forehead for the abnormal heat her mother had been concerned about and threw his head to Kotton before eliciting a subtle nod. She was correct. Her daughter had a fever. And Kotton took no time at all in marking this observation in his journal, finally feeling more comfortable now that the attention was no longer on him.
Although, after he had written down the observation, Kotton found no pause. The young girl’s hands were unnaturally red in certain areas.
“Wowick-” he started, flicking his eyes down to her hands.
His friend caught on to what he was trying to indicate.
“Mrs.-“ Worick began.
“You can call me Biena.”
“Biena,” he continued, “I believe that your daughter has an acute case of irritability.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, bewilderment replacing her expression of concern.
“It means that your daughter has a rash, not a fever as I had initially assumed.”
“Is that bad?” The look of concern remained glued to her face, but her eyebrows had now scrunched themselves together, a crease manifesting between her eyes.
“Not if we treat it right away,” he assured her, swivelling in his chair so that it faced toward Kotton.
Kotton knew what to do in the case of a rash. Once when he was little, his father had noticed that his legs had strange red splotches on them. His father’s face had contorted into such an expression of worry as the woman's had this very moment.
“What’s wrong?” Kotton had asked him.
“You have a rash,” was his father's simple response. No sympathy came from his voice, which wasn’t unusual. He wasn’t one to comfort or cuddle, but to instill such business instead.
“Is that bad?” Kotton had asked, the exact same question as his current patient’s mother had asked Worick just now.
“It shouldn’t be,” Kotton’s father had told him. He couldn’t see what his father was doing until he came back to him with a few choice ingredients from his personal medicine bag.
“What are those?” Kotton had asked, fear hinting at his voice.
“These are the things that are going to kill that rash.”
Would killing the rash in turn kill him? Why did his father use such unnecessary hostility in his tone of voice? Was he going to be alright? All of these thoughts had swarmed through his brain at the time, and as he watched his father perform the smashing of grainy substances in a bowl before the mixing with a pasty substance, he grew timid. That was until the slather of the final product onto his legs.
“It’s cold,” young Kotton had remarked.
“So?”
He had shut his mouth after his retaliation.
Coming back to the present, Kotton’s attention was re-focused on the duties Worick had executed. There was a salt cure that began with the crushing of dried leaves found in the tropical regions of Idalos. He didn’t know where exactly they were located in the world, but on the shelf, he knew exactly where to look.
Kotton hadn’t watched Worick acquire the correct canister, nor the positioning of the leaves in the mortar, nor the movements of the pestle against the base, but he was able to observe the resulting mixture.
The half-blood documented Worick adding oil and his movements to scrape the improvised, formulated cream out of the bowl before the inevitable usage of a coin sized portion. This portion was, without further question, used to swab the extent of the rash.
Turning back to the young girl with gorgeous blue eyes- eyes that reminded Kotton of an old friend- Worick rubbed, and continuously did he rub the cream onto the affected areas.
“You should be all better soon,” Worick announced, a boyish grin hinting at his lips. It did not quite his eyes. They still seemed tired, Kotton noticed. He would have given a grand smile, a reward, he supposed, for having accomplished something so special.
“Are we all done? Will she get better?” the mother queried, her eyes never leaving her daughter’s. Kotton focused on her gaze.
“Yes ma’am. I seem to have taken care of the rash in the way I can. It should clear up soon, but if you have any more trouble, come back and see me, okay?”
The woman nodded her head and also to her daughter before offering her hand to help her up and out of the patient’s seat.
The words ‘thank you so much’ were mouthed, a small token Kotton was able to read and send into the lofty compartment deep within his heart.
Leaving the room and following Worick who thus followed the party, Kotton unfortunately happened to run into two clerical individuals who were conversing with one another about entirely trivial things.
One of them caught Kotton's sense of ‘evesdropping’ and turned to with a sneer. It was remotely scary to witness and made Kotton doubt his subconscious decision to 'listen in' on such a conversation. He turned to leave finding it most favourable to remove himself from the situation, but alas, wasn’t that lucky.
“Hey you,” growled one of the men, tugging on Kotton’s shoulder with a ferocious grip.
Kotton turned, an excuse already resting on the tip of his tongue. “Siw-?”
Out of nowhere was Worick and he placed a steady hand across the chest of the intimidator, moving himself so he was standing in front of whom he was protecting and the other.
“Do we have a problem?” he asked, his voice dripping with the crispness that could only be mimicked by the Vhalar's fall of leaves.
Kotton couldn't understand much of the confrontation, all he was able to recognise were the quick shaking of heads and swift turns of bodies as a retreat was in process.
Kotton smiled. Thanks, Worick, he acknowledged mentally. He knew he could rely on him to have his back even during silly squanders amongst shifts. Perhaps he was a man of few words but many gestures. Whatever the case may be, Kotton was glad to have him as a friend.