the most dangerous woman of all is the one who refuses to rely on your sword because she carries her own
She'd met doctors before. Their tendencies were all pointedly purposeful, probing and offering a perfunctory beam. Most doctors she had met seemed weary of their projects, orbs as somber as gunmetal and a center saturated with apathy. Reasonably, the intense devotion that propelled them into the profession withered as the years ticked by like seconds on a timepiece; paint on an aged house bleached from the sun following years of vibrancy. Would the years wear on Lasairian's soul too? It must've been painful to preserve a life and then for all the credit to go to a faraway god in the style of an unheard orison. Just as it must've been unmanageable when it was impossible to save a life- to receive criticism on top of self-assigned guilt that decayed like an open wound feasted upon by maggots.
Medics weren't the delicate ballad of birds in the skyline or the beautifully painted heaven at dusk. They weren't the swinging of hips to delightful songs or plummeting in love. No not at all- medics were clear air and fresh water. They were the thick, fertile loam and the syrupy spring rain that bred the next generation of germination for our gut to devour. Medics truly were things we didn't know we needed or loved so dearly until they disappeared. It was just too easy to die of infection, disease, ailment. Underappreciated, the medics were. From these thoughts was born unalloyed recognition: "Thou art kind to care for your brethren in such a way." The very lips that spoke this compliment smiled respectfully now (that spark of initial fear and shock now subsiding with the passing seconds).
And Maerys knew that should he ever grow tired of his rank, the warriors would accept him gladly. After all, doctors knew where to poke and prod to end a life with minimal effort.
Maerys is promptly drawn from one succession of thought and propelled into another as Lasairian mentions the library... row after row of neatly lined up books with their thick spines facing outward. Fastened with leather, the chapters must be cracked and dry with wear, perfuming faintly of grit and age. They must lie patiently, their pages brittle, eagerly waiting for someone to flip back their covers and indulge in the knowledge they have to offer. Each one's assertions invite further conservation, a fresh perspective, and perhaps even a unique variety of wisdom and understanding. Books are the preservation of their creator's philosophy, a timeless glacier of evaluation that would otherwise be as fleeting as a faint zephyr over the grassland. Though she had yet to tour Delumine's library, she felt that it must be no less eccentric and whimsical than the others she had seen (at least she hoped not).
"I wouldst misprise to keep thee from thy studies." The absolute last thing the femme wanted to be was an inconvenience to the stud. "I mean not to hinder thee," she continues unobtrusively. "Shall we walk, Lasairian?" The inquiry flutters in the space between them for a note before Maerys begins walking, her cranium motioning for him to join her at her side.
