0001-03-20 - Trial By Fire

It's difficult to miss Alendis when she arrives, but nor does she wait to be sent in: she bypasses the apprentice on duty with not much more than a passing nod, and carries on through in search of someone more senior quite as if she owns the place-- though the infirmary is, perhaps, disputed territory: neither craft-owned nor weyr-controlled, but somewhere betwixt the two. "Journeyman Reem," she says, having tracked the healer down at her desk. "A moment of your time?"

It's not as if she waits for the response, though, having already helped herself to a chair opposite.

The apprentice is perfectly happy not to have to engage the goldrider. While his head remains bent over his book, it’s safe to assume that he’s straining to pick up the ensuing conversation. Curious minds always want to know. There’s enough distance, though, to give a modicum of privacy. Healers treasure discretion.

“Yes, of course.” Reem promptly sets down her quill and picks up her klah instead. “What can I do for you?”

"Two things, I suppose. Possibly more, but we'll see what comes up as we go through the first two, shall we?" Alendis is in one of her usual skirts, and now crosses one leg over the other, her foot idly jiggling.

"We're flying 'fall over Keroon tomorrow. Is everything prepped and ready? Last time was..."

Fall has been catastrophic; there's no two ways around that. The dip of Alendis' chin acknowledges this, without her needing to put it into words.

Reem’s face probably says it all, even before she opens her mouth. There’s a palpable downturn in her expression, from politely attentive to anxious and unhappy.

“We’re running low,” she says bluntly, looking Alendis straight in the eyes. “We’re fine, for normal times, but...” These are far from that. “We need more fellis, more equipment for sutures. As it stands, we’re set to run out in the next few weeks, if it keeps going like it is.” If the riders don’t improve.

She takes a deep breath, looking down now to collect herself. “I sent a letter to the Hall after the last time. Told them where we’re at and said we need another set of hands. They said to find a couple more apprentices.” Oh, how bitter that last sentence is. “Said resources are stretched thin for all of us, and that until the next shipment, I’ll just have to get better at rationing.” Between the lines, the message is clear: Reem just isn’t that good at her job.

"Well, shit," says Alendis, though she doesn't sound wholly surprised.

"That takes me to my second point, at least in part. There's Lanelle, of course." Their junior is, of course, partially healer-trained, even if she was then healer-rejected, washing out of her apprenticeship. "And another one of our weyrlings, Nashi, has I think a similar use of training. Use them? Lanelle's going to be learning more dragonhealing, of course, but hands are hands, and we can't afford to waste any we've got. She can help oversee supplies, too."

None of this really makes Reem feel any better, but she nods to the proposals. “I’ll talk to them—or maybe you could send them in to me?” Having a dragon, after all, facilitates communication. “Maybe if you wrote to the Hall and requested another journeyman, or even a master, they’d take it more seriously.” Though Reem doesn’t sound hopeful.

It's probably not particularly intended to make Reem feel better. If anything, it's nothing but bald, blunt truth. So's this: "The wings suck. The Hall may have accepted that thread is falling, but no one particularly likes having to give more of anything. This whole Pass business screws everyone, and everyone in turn likes to blame us." That's not Reem's fault, of course-- and maybe that's why Alendis attempts a smile.

"We'll get better at this. All of us. Nothing like a bit of trial by fire, right?"

Reem tries to smile back, but it’s a thin, anxious thing. “Just so long as it doesn’t burn us to a crisp.” She gives her hands something to do by rearranging those hides, straightening the edges of the small stack. A deep breath. “If you decide you want to request someone to replace me, I won’t be offended.”

"Do you want to be replaced?" Alendis asks, by way of return. She's watching the younger woman; appraising her.

Reem sits back. She looks struck by the question, even if it comes out of her own suggestion. “No,” she finally says. “But I wish I had more experience with this. Not just treating fevers and delivering babies. Nothing prepared me for this.” For a full triage wing, riders screaming in pain, wounds raw, trying to assess internal damage when there’s blood spilling out and covering her hands, while someone else desperately needs her attention now. “I don’t want to be replaced. I want to be the Healer the Weyr needs. And if I’m not, then it’s my job to get out of the way for someone who is.”

Alendis' reaction is an unlikely, if rueful, laugh.

"I think we all wish we had more experience with this, Journeyman Reem. I don't think anything could prepare us for it, and that's the honest truth. But," she inclines her head in a short, sharp nod. "You want to do better. That's a start. We do, too. So that will help, too. Time will tell if it's enough, though of course, it has to be, one way or another."

This time, Reem’s response is just a sharp, determined nod. Another deep breath. “Can I send you a list of what we’re lowest on? Maybe we can convince the Holds to share, while we’re waiting.”

Alendis does not look particularly hopeful, but she nods. "Send it along. Morag may be able to charm them out of something. And perhaps after tomorrow... Keroon's the big issue, really. At least Lord Fu-- Laurent," she corrects herself, as if very nearly forgetting that Reem is at the weyr but not of the weyr. "Won't be able to deny reality anymore, right?"

Reem doesn’t even try to hide her smirk. She can fill in what Alendis doesn’t quite say. “Not if he wants to save his precious racing stock. I’ll check with the traders, too. Their routes are going to be pretty limited now, but you never know what they can rustle up.” Or by what means. “Even if they’re delayed, could come in handy down the line.”

Alendis presses one hand into her crossed leg, as if to force her foot to stop jiggling: by force of will, if not force of actual physical pressure. "Good," she says, sounding a little surprised, but far from disapproving. "Anything will help. Everything will help. I suppose, if we need to, there's the southern continent... do you know much about propagation of fellis plants?"

“Not much,” Reem admits. “I mean, we all had to help collect and distill it. I know how to do that. Never lived in the kind of climate it takes for growing, though. But it can’t be too hard.” Right?

"Hmm," says Alendis. "Well, it may yet come to that, and if it does... perhaps we can find a farmcrafter somewhere to help. Not that it'll help the other issues, but it might be a start."

She seems satisfied with the idea, as loose and unstructured and no doubt deeply flawed as it no doubt is. It's more than she had when she walked in here, anyway. "Thank you, Reem."

Name! Reem has graduated to a name and no title!

“We’ll never have too much in the way of painkillers,” Reem responds wryly. “If only.” As anxious and stressed as she’s been throughout this conversation, her smile now seems genuine. “Of course. It’s what I’m here for.” And hopefully, Alendis won’t come to regret that.

Alendis nods-- and if she's not jumping for joy, at least there's some satisfaction there, and perhaps the faintest amount of relief. It's going to be okay.

One way or another.