Solo For I Stood Up

[Philomena]

Winter 63, 512 AV
Wright Library, Zeltiva
--------------------------

The upper level of the library was not empty. On the contrary, Minnie suspected many professors had taken refuge there silly because they wanted to stay as far from the plague lottery below as possible. But, where Minnie sat it was empty - because Minnie sat there. The word - that Dr. Lefting had her hand bandaged, and smelled of camphor and astringent, and looked pale and feverish - had circulated through the University. She got a bit of pity, perhaps, in people's eyes. She had the pleasure of not being too insistently invited to the salons and dinners of the West Wing social schedule. And any loneliness was incomprehensibly small, swallowed by the hollowness left in her heart. She closed her eyes and almost felt she could hear the little doll-fingers stroking at her heart. But then she opened them, to look at the book:

"Azianth: Studies in Predictive Orthography"

It was a tediously written, but interestingly thought out volume, though, not being a linguist, Minnie knew parts of it were far over her head. Still, literature was an integrative field, and a researcher learned to glean what it could even from subjects with which it was poorly acquainted. Several other books lay out across the table: "Qalayan Linguistics", which presented a good low level introduction to the linguistics of writing, and "Predictive Orthography", a book Minnie had taken, but had found to be less than helpful. Then, last, the book which was quickly becoming her favorite: "A Bibliography of Mysteries: Studies in Azianth", which, quite simply, listed all the papers, articles, and books on Azianth as of five years ago when it had been compiled, with short documentary notes on, more often than not, why they had been proved entirely wrong. The notes on "Studies in Pred" were only slightly less discouraging: "While the approach that Drs. Howell and Yuhil present is interesting and would bear further studies, the conclusions are clearly debunked in the later work of Howell and Urilia (H&A 509 - 'Shortcomings of Predictive Orthography').

She had already read, felt the excitement of, felt the shortcomings of and discarded four other approaches - one that used comparative orthography to try to make parallels with older texts of Eypharian, for example, or another that attempted to overhaul the whole idea by reading the lines from left to right rather than right to left. Minnie sighed, and wished for fifteen minutes with Bethany Edgetower. She didn't need the whole grammar laid out, just… a hint would be nice.

"Predictive orthography would supposit that such a character would be unusual, due to the awkwardness of the stroke, and yet, it is quite common on the tablets. This suggests a consonantal shift, more than likely, as a vowel shift would be more subtle in most tongues."

The sheer number of guesses couched in that confident-sounding sentence made Minnie frown, but she penned a few notes in her wax tablet. Then, wrote beneath, "Archaeology - were any other artifacts found nearby? Way of life may point to symbologies of importance, if the language is pictographical." She wasn't even really sure if pictographical was a word - but then, these were only notes, she figured. How to find that? The newer works focused heavily on the tablets. Minnie supposed that this was likely because these far more experienced archaeologists and linguists had gone down the path she now considered, and abandoned it for a lack of results. But, then, scholarship had a funny way of leaving little blind spots. She sighed, and pushed herself to standing, weakly, leaving her books carefully in place, but taking up her satchel. She had begun to feel shakier on her legs, and carried with her a walking stick - nothing beautiful, a gnarled, round-headed stick she had purchased from the castoffs of a carpenter near the docks, and had had a lead plug inserted into the head of it. The man had looked at her with a terrible pity, and told her not to worry about paying for it. He had given the man the loaf of University bread she had been carrying for lunch. She wondered after she left, if he had eaten it, having seen it in the hands of a plague victim. Perhaps he'd broken it into a soup, to dispel the miasmas in it.

She leaned hard on the stick now, with her one good hand, the other held limply over her neckline. The pocket was empty now - she smiled to remember that it was, just a little, but the habit remained. And she stumped down the aisle toward one of the wrought stairwells, and slowly, gingerly, pecked her way down the steps. She hadn't thought it was possible to feel so terribly old. The fever aches were maddening when one stood.

[Philomena]

Minnie panted a bit, gripping the shelf as she talked to the young library assistant. The boy, she knew somewhere in her heart, was simply inexperienced, too young, just another kid looking for tavern change. But it did not matter to her now, she was frustrated.

"Listen… listen, Mr…"

"Norris, Doctor."

"Mr. Norris, I… understand the library has policies, I just…"

"I … can't tell you, ma'am. You can leave a note for her…"

"Mara Capinsal. Ask any of the old hands. They'll tell you. We were roommates in college, we've known each other longer… than you've been alive."

The boy frowned, wrinkled his brow, and mumbled, "Look, I… I'm not saying this, and its just what I heard. But you know she was sick. I think she's home, now… you know. Like, for good, probably. I'm… real sorry."

Minnie looked hard at the boy for a moment, but said simply, "I have a table upstairs, with books on Orthography. You'll kindly have the clerks leave it for me, I'll clear it up tomorrow."

The she took her stick in her hand, and determinedly began stumping out of the library.

[Philomena]

Minnie leaned on the doorframe with her bad hand. She was pale, and tired - Mara lived up-hill from the library, almost to the Wain Market and the Pass-road. Minnie gripped her stick in her good hand, and with the lead-plugged head rapped heavily on the door.

"Mara, I… I'm just going to come in, I…"

She gave up and from her back drew a latch-key, and opened the door with it, glad, for the first time, that Mara had talked her into trading keys. She pushed open the door, and looked inside.

It was dim. One candle lay by the bed, beside an older woman, who sat knitting quietly in the dark.

"Who," the old woman said, "Are you, and why are you in my daughter's house?"

Minnie blushed, and gripped her stick, leaning on it, "I… Ms… Mrs Capinsal, I… we have not met. I'm Dr. Lefting, your daughter is… we are old acquaintances. I had heard, that she … she was sick."

"Sick!" The woman snorted, tired and irritated, "Sick? Oh, did you bring her some chicken soup? She's not sick. She's dying. Like the rest of this damned city. Dying. My only child."

"I'm… I'm sorry… can she… is she awake?"

The woman waved a hand irritably, dismissively, "Who knows? Her eyes move. She doesn't speak. Take her. Watch her for a few minutes, if that's what you want. I will walk. A mother is not meant for this nonsense."

The woman stood, then, dropped her knitting irritably, and left. Minnie felt a wave of embarrassment, perhaps a touch of self-loathing. But she stumped over to the bed.

Mara was breathing in a slow, labored way. Her eyes were half-open.

"Mara, I…. "

Minnie stopped. There was no reaction. She frowned. She felt embarrassed, awkward, ashamed for feeling embarrassed. She took Mara's hand, but only gingerly. It felt cold, and too limp. The skin felt waxy and heavy.She remembered the feeling of the skin at the Funeral just a few weeks before, and shuddered.

"Mara, I'm sorry. I know… I… I will…"

This was wrong. Mara was kind, even generous. but they were not demonstrative. Minnie remains,d had always remained, to Mara a chum. There were probably a thousand better people to visit her. Minnie sighed, and stared at the hand, limp within her own. She felt foolish, guilty, and very tired - why, she thought had she even come? Mara didn't need her. Mara needed someone grander, someone who could speak to her, someone who knew her and loved her better than the breezy affection of long acquaintance.

The body - she could hardly think of it as Mara, now - took a deep rattling breath, and exhaled. Mara, who was nearly a foot taller than Minnie, looked suddenly so small and frail.

//You're here, now, Minnie. There's now point thinking how stupid you were to come. You've been with a sick person before, cared for them.//

Minnie looked down, at the sick woman, at her pallid sweaty face, at the dry, spittle flecked lips, at the swollen eyes, and the pang of that thought bit at her, bit of Gypa. She knew, now, why the mother had been so irritable and angry. She knew, too, why Mara hadn't spoken of being sick to her - it was more than simply the depth of their friendship. In some ways, the plague, Minnie thought, was far worse than a war. For a war killed instantly, or quickly. The plague took you and shook you about and made you think about for a week, a month, before it finally let Dira come.

Minnie gently squeezed the woman's hand, just as Mara had squeezed hers not long ago at the funeral, when Minnie had spoken. Mara did not even move. And very slow, very low, with her own illness-wracked voice, she grated out a pale, unartful lullaby.

"Lullay, my sweet, Lully, the night is dark. But I will keep the curtains shut.
Lullay, my friend, Lully, don't fear the shadow. For I will watch your side…"

The face did not move, but for the slight wobble of the lips, through another rattling breath. But the hand in hers, ever so slightly, squeezed her fingers

[Delirium]

Experience Rewards

Philomena :

Experience

Research	3xp
Intimidation	1xp
Singing	1xp

Lores:
Mara's death - plague
Researching linguistics in books and writing

Notes: I think I talk enough about how much I love your threads so... Enjoy the grades ^_^

If you have any queries with the grading, pleas don't hesitate to PM me