Only a Flesh Wound

Xanadu Weyr - Infirmary
The infirmary here is intended for human care. It is regularly scrubbed spotless and smells of disinfectant, redwort and other herbs that are - if sometimes strong - preferable to the scents of sickness. Cots are lined up against one wall, with a set of curtains that can be pulled to give some privacy to the occupants of the cots if they so desire. They're mostly used for examinations of patients and the treatment of mild injuries that won't require long term care; near the back are some more private areas with folding dividers.
There's a number of cabinets that stand off against another wall, instruments and medications stored against when they will be needed, and a back room holds those supplies seldom required.
A desk with chair is set just off of the doorway to the caverns, meant for the healer to sit and catch up on record keeping after a long day's work or await patients. If things get too busy, the patients can do the waiting on a set of uncomfortable chairs set nearby. The other doorway comes directly from the clearing, wide enough for a team to carry a stretcher through.

So okay, listen. Maybe Ila'den absolutely-freaking-did corner Fioreyla. Maybe he did have her flown back down from Fort Weyr (where she was attending other duties at the time) specifically so that he could cage her in a corner, with arms against the walls, and that much-too-big-body looking a sight all SHIRTLESS as he attempted to negotiate R'hyn's return home. As much as he wasn't trying to be that scary, it's also Ila'den, who is just… always that scary. Kind of. All the time. LISTEN. The point is that Fioreyla did not complain or say a damn word about how she, in finding herself literally back against the wall and running out of space to curl in on herself, went against every single healer instinct and broke every single healer's oath to STOMP ON HIS BARE FOOT REALLY HARD (except it wasn't that hard because HAVE YOU MET FIRE) in order to escape. AND THEN SHE NEVER LOOKED BACK, not even when she stamped a big fat 'RETAIN UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE' on Heryn's papers. You can imagine that it only put Ila'den more off to see apprentices telling him no days later (after one other spectacular confrontation with Fire, which ended in the tiny healer literally running away). Today she can't run. Today she's standing at the front desk filling out papers for patients that don't belong to her and ordering more medicine to stock Xanadu with (despite the fact that this is certainly not the infirmary she's posted to) just to make sure that what R'hyn needs remains in steady supply. That's where Ila'den finds her, where the hulking beast of a man moves with that quiet that's only upset by the hint of a limp, where Fioreyla realizes what's happening only when a hand comes down on the desk much too close to her person and she, blinking at the intrusion, looks up to find Ila'den there. DEER IN HEADLIGHTS. He's smiling, she's looking like she might have a proper victorian fit and faint, and then she's stammering out, "M-M-Mister I-Ila'den, s-sir." Fire takes a step back, and Ila'den moves a little bit forward. Fire's breath comes a little faster in response, adrenaline already seeping into every pore as that pad of papers gets hugged to her chest as if it might SHIELD HER FROM THIS MAN. She stops herself in the middle of taking another step back, decides halfway through submission that she's the damn healer and so opts instead to try and square her shoulders, to adopt a posture and demeanor more befitting her profession and rank. She fails. Miserably. "W-what can I… what can I help you with?" And NOW Ila'den is leaning forward, poking a finger gently into her paperwork. "You know exactly what you can help me with, little bird." All husky rasps with a hint of burr. "T-The answer is still no." At least she sounds a little less mousy when she says it. It's Ila's answering growl that has her cowering just a touch, bringing her shoulders in towards her body and dropping her chin a fraction of an inch without actually backing down. "Why?" Ila'den asks. Insert Fire opening her mouth as if she means to answer, then being distracted by the appearance of another, turning to an apprentice with a question, to answer the young man SIDE-EYEING ILA only to get cut off by Ila'den's fingers on her jaw, never grabbing, but certainly turning her face back to his in a motion bordering aggressive. For Ila'den, that next, "Why?" is gentle, but even at his kindest, Ila'den is not a gentle man.

Fioreyla might not have complained, but the walls have ears. The curtains have eyes. The very floors whisper beneath the soundless tread of worn black boots. There are no secrets, not for a figure prone to public demonstrations, bolstered by false confidence, driven by needs so selfish that they feel justified ripping safety from the hands of some in the efforts to deliver them to another. Sohzen is not deaf. He is not blind. And most importantly, he is not mute. "Touch her again," is spoken with cold conviction, with the total dispassion of a coroner to a corpse, chillingly detached from emotion. It is the voice of one unused to making such threats, dry and jagged, every last sentiment wrung from its depths, leaving a wasteland of empty, soulless grit in its wake. It is a voice that is kept silent because that is swifter, safer, the necessary choice to assure he makes it home at night to the only thing he has found that matters, that has some worth in a life found amply lacking. "Touch her again," repeated with the nicking press of a point to the skin at the base of the dragonrider's skull, a promise as deadly as words. And yet, this is as forgiving a threat as one such as Sohzen might give — instead of slaughtering the bronzerider where he stands, or curling to press one cool, dry palm to Ila'den's forehead in preparation to slam him back on the length of his blade, he instead stands loose, relaxed, body withdrawn from the extension of his arm. A beat. Two. And then pointed pressure is gone in a rustle of black silk, blade's sheathing emphasized by the sharp snick of a clip at his wrist being set back into place. A pair of careful steps moves him just far enough to one side to be able to see Fire behind Ila'den's bulk, dark eyes lingering on her for mere seconds (hello, Fioreyla) before returning to the man barring him from reaching the mother of his children. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON.

Well, one thing is certain: that apprentice who came to ask Fioreyla a very important question is quick making themselves scarce, clearly drawing the line of bravery somewhere between wolfish bronzeriders and soft spoken lions. As any good man might do, he abandons Fioreyla to her fate, pretends not to see the tooth of a lion pressed to the neck of a wolfman, or hear the words imparted in threat, in warning, in challenge. Thankfully, Ila'den is not stupid enough, or egotistical enough, or arrogant enough to disregard frigid warnings from somebody he didn't even hear until it was damn near too late. Muscles go taut with anticipation, his jaw works in agitation, that grey eye cuts to the side in a way that translates aggressive impatience, but it's not until Zen's blade is at his neck that Ila'den's posture stiffens, that he growls. Slowly, Ila'den brings his hands away from Fire — from his own body — to splay fingers and turn palms up, to hold them elevated near his hips and no higher as he waits, a coil of tension just waiting to hear that tell-tale snick, to feel the pressure abated from the base of his skull, to waits until Sohzen's no longer so directly at his back that he might tilt his head and… glance over his shoulder. "Ah," comes softly from the bronzerider, the man whose lone eye echoes a fury of sound outside: a dragon, roaring in outrage, furious and too damn close without so much as broadcasting the why to other weyr-cohabitants. "It's you." A beat, as a predator faces down an apex predator and, much in Ila-fashion, doesn't seem to be cowed by the fact that Zen could have literally just killed him where he stood, could have run him through and watched him choke on his own blood and Ila'den would have never known until he was trying to hold his neck together and slipping in his own wet. He doesn't touch Fire, but instead of giving her space, Ila'den puts one hand down on the desk damn near her body again, leans into it as he forces tension to dispel, puts himself much too close to the healer who draws back just enough to protest his proximity without words. But Ila'den is not Fioreyla's focus at this moment. No, the tiny healer who should definitely be in bed because she definitely just recently had a baby and she definitely had a medical hiccup after giving birth is staring at Zen with wide violet eyes (with wonderful dark circles beneath them). "Hi, Sohzen," comes on a squeaky whisper, breathy, as if Fire can't quite breathe around so much tangible tension — as if she is only just now, since patching together a man she found bleeding out the first time, beginning to understand that Sohzen is, in all actuality, a very, very dangerous man. Ila'den looks down to Fire, then shifts his body — not to give the healer more space, but so that he can watch the both of them at the same time, his movements slow, measured, as he turns his back, for now, towards the protection of the healer's desk. "Sohzen," Ila'den tries the name on his tongue, lifts his brows and then cuts a look down to Fire again. "So he's the one that…" Fire manages to pull her gaze away from Zen, away from where her eyes still see home and light and trust and everything good to the man she blinks at as if startled to find him beside her all over again, at the hands making a rounded motion near his stomach that Fire is uncomprehending of at first and then — she flushes. "Ah. So he is." A beat, a lift of brows towards Zen. "How did that happen?" Ila'den asks, shameless, as if he is not IN THE LEAST BIT THREATENED because this is how an Ila do. And Fire, in true Fire-form, does what she does best when she's cornered mentally: she rattles off facts. That is how a Fire do. "I-intercourse is good for your psychol-logical health and also for your i-immune function. In fact, it's p-proven that intercourse helps to relieve pain." Ila'den's mouth ticks at the corners, a raspy, amused, "Does she do this during sex too?" aimed for Sohzen, and Fire turns a deeper shade of red. But perhaps because Sohzen is there, Fire stands her ground, even when Ila'den drawls, "So you have sex with him to help relieve his pain? Is that your sworn duty as a healer?" Fioreyla stares, stares at this man who is too damn close, who practically asked her if she was a whore in not so many words and — "The answer is no. R'hyn may not go home." And Ila'den's hand slams down on the desk, reaches to rip that pad from her hands and throw it, scattering work across the floor as he snarls, "And I asked why the fuck not." As if Zen is not there, as if there was no threat TO HIS PERSON just seconds ago, as if Fioreyla actually flinching backwards and bringing her hands up as if she means to defend herself from a strike and then trying to recover when nothing comes by squaring her shoulders isn't DAMNING ENOUGH. RIP ILA. THIS IS IT. THIS IS HOW IT ENDS. But hey, man. He didn't touch her.

It's for the best the young healer makes tracks - there's sudden commotion from the bowels of the infirmary that will no doubt demand his attention, a second roar taking backup to Teimyrth's lead, brighter, brassy, but no less likely to roll up the length of spines with a sharp, primal thrill. Sohzen feels nothing; he feels nothing because he is nothing, not in the face of dragons, in the face of their riders, indeed in the face of any creature that must needs breathe to survive. He is a vessel for tarnished skills, one that cannot manage to muster enough self-interest to fear Ila'den's tension or hulk, to wither beneath Fioreyla's look of dark dawning realization, to do anything other than stare Ila'den down, his simple lack of motion a direct antithesis to the bronzerider's attitude. Even when careful, Ila is expressive. Sohzen drinks it in, eyes empty black pools that observe and absorb and visibly calculate things that are in no way kind, plan a hundred deaths, a thousand exits, the many ways to haul Fioreyla to safety whilst sparing any in his path. Well. Maybe not any. Voices echo down the hall, male and female snarled and pitched together to make them difficult to separate, and Sohzen adjusts to account for their potential arrival with a shift of stance, a rustle of fabric. Then Fioreyla speaks his name, and Zen blinks, eyes tensing at their centers before he dares a look down at the exhausted healer. "You should be home by now." There's no accusation in his tone, wouldn't be even were he capable of such a thing in this moment — instead it is colored faintly with resignation as Ila speaks his name, as though this were the beginning note of a melody he's long familiar with, a song and dance he's repeated again, and again, and again until his body's response to that first grating hum is to respond to its thrall. By. Not doing anything at all. It's possibly frustrating, the drone-like patience with which Sohzen continues to regard Ila'den's provincial humor, dark eyes flat, body loose, arms draped casually at sides, for words are just that: words, ugly and ill-intended as they might be. It isn't until the dragonrider moves — moves with aggression and intent — that Zen obliges to do the same, black silk set in motion about his narrow form as he closes distance with swift, measured steps, drops with little warning, and swings one leg wide in an attempt to take Ila'den's bad leg out from under him. He does not wait to mark his success, instead ignores the screaming of every single cell to finish the job, stepping sideways to place himself between Fire and rider with a deadly-quiet, "Because she said no."

"I have a p-patient," Fire answers, looking suddenly even more exhausted under the admission of why she's not where she should be. "And you should be t-too," comes even softer. But it's not disappointment or anger or affront at what could very easily be perceived as hypocrisy. It's guilt, as if, by virtue of not being able to hand off a case to equally or more capable hands, Sohzen is here now. Facing this. Because of her. "I'm okay." But is she? Because SUDDENLY SHE'S GETTING PAPERS KNOCKED OUT HER HANDS AND HER WE — HU — PERSON IS TAKING OUT A MAN'S BAD KNEE. It doesn't take much to take Ila'den down — not when the already ruin of one leg is used to press an already expert advantage. But Ila'den crumbles under the sudden loss of balance instead of truly falling, slams onto his good knee and keeps himself from going sideways by slamming fists into the ground. It's instinct that has him lunging forward as if he means to catch Zen around the middle, to take him to the floor with him. And Fire moves. Because what is death to a person who feels its presence intimately; what is death to one who is so intrinsically aware of its imminent inevitability? It takes a fraction of a second for Fire to stare death in the face, to think about Firenze and Hozier and Sohzen; it takes even less time for her summon a, "NO!" with more conviction, more fury, more authority than what she has ever been capable of in her life. She surges forward, ducks under Sohzen's arm and possibly gets tangled in billowy silks but doesn't let it stop her from throwing her arms out in front of Zen and slamming her back in against his middle, to lock violet eyes with grey and not even flinch as that one eye gets closercloserclosercloser too close. Now. Now her eyes squeeze shut in anticipation, wait for the wind to leave her lungs, for pain to spark behind her eyes and burst from between her ears — but the blow never comes. Instead, Fioreyla feels breath on her face and, after blinking her eyes open, finds Ila'den staring at her, almost nose to nose. Then he's not there. Then he's moving backward, off of his knees, onto his butt, onto his back. He just… lays there, spread eagle on the floor of the infirmary and staring up at the ceiling like the rage is seeping out of him every single time he draws in a breath. "Well, at least I know why you -" SMACK. Ohp. Didn't we tell you? Fire moved again. And now she's standing over Ila'den looking furious. And then… and then startled, as if that opened hand still poised after hitting him doesn't belong to her. "Oh F-Faranth. M-M-Mister I-Ila'den I-I—" Goodluck with that one. RIP.

It's entirely possible Sohzen has not had anyone stand up for him in a very, very long time — it's the only possible explanation behind his fullbodied freeze, the rhythm of death's dance broken as Fire flings her body before his. Surprise — honest-to-Faranth surprise — colors features pointed not at his opponent, but down at the tiny redhead before him instead, posture that of an animal caught facing its top predator. It is poetic bordering on pathetic that in this metaphor, it is Fioreyla that is his undoing more assuredly than it is any threat Ila'den might possess. His guard is down. Confusion runs rampant. She's struck a discordant note and his mind simply cannot span the gap between the motions it knows and the ones it wants (wants? what are wants?) to take. He settles on stunned immobility, possessing not even the wherewithal to stop Fire from pouncing on the supine dragonrider, delivering a sharp smack that, by all accounts, should violate the accords of their agreement. It is only this realization that bids Sohzen move, uncharacteristically sloppy in the way long arms curl about the healer's middle and pull, aiming to yank her back out of the bronzerider's space by brute force. Dark hair spills over to mingle with hers, back hunching, chin snapping up, gaze nigh on feral as the disturbance in the hall finally actualizes, a hulking mass of humanity spilling forth into the light to take the distinct form of R'hyn and not one but the two apprentices it takes to keep him upright as a thundercloud gaze full of fear and righteous fury skims the scene. "What." A step of his good leg, which causes his human crutches to skitter to keep him from upsetting a most delicate balance. "The fuck." Eyebrows raise, head tilting at a someone talk fast or all your heads are gonna roll angle it's never quite lost from turns spent as weyrleader. "Is this." He lets silence descend in the wake of unholy wrath, broken only by the quiet patter of blood spilling from his arm to the floor in slow drips, IV cheerfully ripped out in favor of getting here sooner. Sohzen dares not speak first in the face of visible agony in the dragonrider's form. Instead he takes deep breaths against Fioreyla's back and squints dark eyes, recalculating the odds.

There is no resistance; perhaps an intake of breath when familiar arms are around her person in a way that's completely foreign to her — a stumble before feet come off of the ground and come back down in enough time to be surrounded by Sohzen — by his hair, by his smell, by the shelter he creates with his body from where she watches in absolute horror as Heryn arrives to bleed all over her PRISTINE FLOORS. What HAPPENED? "The kitten has claws," Ila'den drawls from the floor, husky and raspy, tone lilting with amusement despite thinly veiled anger. It comes in tandem with Fire's sudden stammer of, "N-n-n-no. No." From where she is safe against Sohzen, those arms come out as if she might just physically will R'hyn to stay put by sheer power of will. "This is — you stay right there." And then she's turning, she's shifting in Sohzen's arms to bend her body against his, to capture his face between gentle (trembling) hands as a broken, breathless, "Look at me," comes from her. If he looks, if he doesn't look, it doesn't matter. Fioreyla is abandoning every single ounce of inhibition that she has to press her lips to his chin, to his lips where she breathes another, "P-please look at me." Not at them. Not over there. "I-I'm okay. I'm…" a shift, another press of her mouth to his, harder this time, communicating something that she can't right now: that she loves him, that she is sorry, that she… is proud of him and… and that she needs him to trust her. Just this once. "Please." It's almost desperate, so soft as to maybe never have been, but violet eyes are blinking slowly open, jumping to look between darkened hues to see if he's even listening to her. And then it doesn't matter, because unless Sohzen physically stops her, Fire steps around Ila'den as the dragonrider moves to sit up and all that TINY, UNIMPRESSIVE FURY is focused on R'hyn. "No," she tells him, squeaky and tiny and much in the same manner one might scold a VERY DISOBEDIENT PUPPY. "This is a-absolutely unacceptable. Y-you have to lay down. You c-can't be up. Y-you —" A beat, a look at apprentices and then back to R'hyn as timid Fire flees and Journeyman Fioreyla, trauma healer takes over. "Broken bones get stressed under weight when they're not ready to have weight on them and yours is n-not ready. You could make the fracture worse; you c-could splinter bone and do a lot more damage if that gets into your s-system. I —" It's Ila'den who rasps laughter and grits out, "I'll explain to you when you lay down, baby, but if you don't go, she's not gonna stop." A POINTED LOOK FOR FIRE, and then a glance for Zen. "Besides, I think our resident badass over here is married to her, and might take it personal if you don't." But it's not beyond Fioreyla to make threats, because even though Ila'den cuts her off, she continues with, " — will knock you out and h-have the apprentices carry you back if you can't behave." SHOTS FIRED.

R'hyn squints at Ila's tone, ignoring a wave of pain-induced nausea to survey his fallen weyrmate. Raging sarcasm does little to calm the visible bristle lining his shoulders, does not stop him from taking another shaky step forwards (fuck you and your 'stay,' small fry), but it does mollify him enough that he stops there, gaze riveted on Ila's form before it sweeps up to watch Fioreyla turn in Sohzen's arms. Fire is right to insist, has likely felt the hard shift in her lover's body as it tightens under Ryn's regard, black eyes meeting blue-grey like a storm front pressing against the black of night, each seeking to swallow the other by sheer will. The crouched assassin has no intent to look away, to be drug from the summation of all R'hyn's weaknesses in the neverending sweep of dark eyes but then — then Fioreyla is pressing kisses to his chin, to his mouth, saying please, and despite a conflicted twitch of lids and a slight notch of his brows, he can deny her no further. Black lowers to meet with violet, a slight press of lips all the answer she'll get as she skips off to bark at dogs twice her size. Sohzen maintains his felinic facade, circling to keep the redheaded healer in the best path between him and the nearest exit, watchful to a fault. It should by all rights be amusing to watch her throw knowledge at a man who should know better, but Zen is not smiling. He is not laughing. In Fire's absence, he's back to being nothing at all. Less than nothing. A ghost. R'hyn, meanwhile, surveys her with edged amusement, entertained by her personality as he always has been, always will be, but nevertheless furious about the present state of affairs. "Why is my husband on the floor?," he asks, and the quiet of his voice is almost as scary as the whiplash cracks of two minutes ago. It sets Sohzen's teeth on edge, has everything but slow, measured breaths going still, waiting. R'hyn notices, notices Zen noticing, peels lips back from his teeth in a show that would be alpha dominant if only he weren't being supported by two people who thought this a better idea than letting him continue to drag himself down the hall alone. Drip. Drip. Drip. And finally that grimace turns into a sideways grin, an attitude learned over far too many turns bubbling to the surface along with a dismissive laugh that clips once, twice, before fading away. "Yeah, well, you're probably going to have to do that, anyways. Carry me back," he adds with a swiftness, stormy gaze narrowing at Fire as though to say back, you needle-ridden beast. "My left leg is starting to tingle and while I don’t know what that means, I'm pretty sure it isn't good." Welp.

Fire is far too focused on R'hyn's stubborn PIGHEADEDNESS to really heed the fact that Sohzen moves as her proverbial shadow. Then that question comes: R'hyn asks about Ila'den, Fire flinches from that tone as if she's been struck and looks back, back to Ila'den who is being exactly zero help (unless something can be divined from that raise of brows and his own aggressive baring of teeth) as he looks between weyrmate and Sohzen, aggression returning tenfold. Fire stammers out an, "I-I… h-h-he… it's…" Now her eyes are following R'hyn's, because he's not looking at her anymore, //is he? He's looking at Sohzen, and she saw the way that Ila'den was looking at Sohzen, and so Fire does the only thing she can to protect the most important person in her world: she panics. From a pocket of healer robes comes sterile gauze, and Fire's closing the gap between her and R'hyn to SLAP IT ONTO HIS ARM with much more enthusiasm than she intended because she's panicking. "I will p-put you on the ground if you don't get back in that bed." And yes, she's trying to make herself as big as possible, keeping that pressure as she goes up on the tips of her toes and tries to LURE GREY-BLUES TO SEE THE SERIOUSNESS IN VIOLETS. And then… and then she loses all of that, "I-I m-mean… p-please." Squeak. And then R'hyn is talking and Fire's brows are knitting, her gaze is shifting between his and some of her color fades. "H-he's going to p-pass out if we don't get him to lay down. R'hyn, look at me please. Take d-deep breaths. Sohzen, M-Mister Ila'den. Please." ASSIST. SHE NEEDS YOUR HELP. Because SUDDENLY HE DON'T LOOK TOO GOOD, and maybe Ila'den heeds her tone, because his gaze snaps back to his weyrmate and he's already working to get back up onto his feet, to move towards Fire and R'hyn, to HEFT UP HIS WEYRMATE much to Fire's chagrin as she stammers out a, "N-n-no! No. No, you cannot carry him that way, M-mister Ila'den put him down immediately." And then, a little more desperately, "S-Sohzen, please."

INSERT CLEVER R'HYN COMMENT HERE, mostly because he isn't capable of making one himself. Fioreyla is correct in her assertion of his physical well-being, the bronzerider looking faintly alarmed when suddenly his body gives out, when it takes Ila'den holding him up to keep from hitting the floor outright, clammy hands catching at his weyrmate's forearms at the last second. "Ow," is the most intelligent thing he can think to say, and it's inexplicably funny to him. He giggles because it's the only way his brain can cope with what his body is feeling, head reeling as he offers another dopey, "Ow." Because no, that is very real pain he's feeling under there somewhere, the sudden absence of words in the normally-talkative rider a red flag, if there weren't enough to read already. Sohzen takes it all in with a distant, wary posture, the kind that sees the need for compassion and, from it, can only deduce that this is a trap. His denial for Fire's insistence is already on his tongue, lips pulled back, teeth bared as he makes to tell her no but… But something. There is something that he sees, something that he feels in that blackened, withered heart that has teeth clicking together, tensing in a slow grit, every inch of his posture speaking to how very little he likes this as he moves to assist. It is the bare minimum. It is the careful lift of limbs and form under Fioreyla's direction, executed to a fault and then immediately abandoned in favor of being as far from the aggressive bronzeriders as the room will allow. He settles quietly onto a chair, body tense, hands folded in his lap, attention riveted and unblinking, threat inherent as Fioreyla works to save one stupid man’s life again: one wrong move, and he might well finish the deed himself. It does not come to that. It does not go further than the infirmary, and the cells of the weyr thereafter, and then… then Sohzen is content to leave Xanadu Weyr behind without a backward glance, another piece of his life cut off in favor of one of the few things that truly matters to him.

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