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The Infirmary
Situated within the beautiful greenery of the gardens of Eisheth, along the coastline not too far from the harbour and in view of the Citadel that guards the entrance to the port of Marsilikos, is the infirmary, a one storey building of white stone and simple architecture that has been enhanced with classical elements, as if inspired by the buildings of ancient Hellene culture. Traces of columns, half-worked into the walls can be found on all sides of the infirmary. An archway frames the sturdy oak door of the entrance, white stone worked with impressive masonry skill into a bas-relief, depicting a female in robes holding a roll of bandages and a vial of sorts to the left and a male healer to the right with a scroll in one hand, while the other is lifted in lecturing gesture, as if he were giving a medical diagnosis.
The hall beyond is agreeably cool during hot summers and kept warm in cold winters, through a large hearth that governs the center of the long wall to the right. It is here in this hall that the majority of patients will be treated immediately, and so there are a number of curtains that divide the space into areas with cots. In times of need, the space can be stacked up to hold two dozen beds. The vicinity of the gardens allows for the soothing tranquility of nature to become part of the process of recovery, chirping of birds, wisps of casual conversation reaching those inside through the line of arched windows that sit higher up at the walls. It also serves a source of lighting during the day, whereas a number of oil lamps at the walls are lighted during evenings and nights.
Close to the entrance, there is a door to the left that leads to the infirmary's office, where records of patients are being kept, along with other book keeping of supplies and the like. Another archway opens from the hall into a hallway, where secluded rooms are provided for harder cases, long-term treatments and those of higher standing and the wish for more privacy. These chambers are plain yet well kept, immaculately clean, with sheets of the more comfortable beds being changed regularly. In each chamber, an arched window offers light during the day, and a pair of two chairs offer seating to healers or the occasional visitor a patient may receive.
With every passing day, as Philomene appears to be out of any immediate danger and when questioned about the pain stubbornly lies, the amount of opiates added to her water are slowly reduced. On the one hand this means that she's no longer quite so glassy eyed when she is awake, and she's no longer sleeping quite so much or, as happened at least once on Thursday, ceasing to breathe altogether until the acolytes of Eisheth were able to remedy that particular oversight. On the other hand, it means she's no longer sleeping quite so much, and despite vehement denial, the pain is considerably more significant and the scowl on her face is pretty much a permanent fixture.
The acolytes have long since taken to avoiding this particular private room of the infirmary as much as possible. They don't get paid enough to deal with a grumpy Philomene.
Andre has asked a few times to see the Vicomtesse de Gueret, but this is the first time he is actually allowed to enter. Perhaps the acolyte enjoy the thought of someone else taking the flak for a change. Andre is dressed formally in fine garb mirroring the colours of Brabant and he is carrying flowers. "Mylady.", he greets politely, once he's stepped into the doorway, waiting to be invited in.
Philomène takes her time and a few shallow breaths before allowing her gaze to settle on her visitor. Her chest is still heavily bound, and she's been stripped of her usual clothing in favour of a plain linen nightgown. There's still a certain steel in her eye and a wholly disproportionate amount of pride in the way she lifts her exquisitely sculpted chin. "Come," she decides, having given him the once over.
"Thank you.", Andre says politely and offers the flowers up to her to either take or hand over to someone to find a vase. Or toss them. He takes a seat by the bedside, usually occupied by healers or doting relatives but presently unoccupied. "I'm sorry I did not come sooner, Mylady, but they would not let me see you. I'm glad to see you recovering well. How are you feeling?", he asks in the same tone of polite conversation.
"And why," Philomene rasps out, flicking her hand vaguely towards the small table at the other side of the room where one might expect to see flowers, fruits, gifts and cards, but is in this case spotlessly clean and empty of anything. "Why are you here now? I feel like the arse end of a Menekhet sandal after a camel kicking competition, how do you think I feel?"
Andre places the flowers where she indicates, perhaps taking note of the absence of any kinds of gifts so far… or not. He tries hard but fails to not smile at her description. "I'm sorry to hear that.", he finally says when he has his face under control again. "You do sound as spirited as everyone says you are. I do not know if you recall, but it was me who brought you to the healers, so naturally I am concerned for your well-being.", he continues then.
Philomène lapses into silence for a few moments more. Perhaps because breathing makes speech more of an effort than usual, or perhaps because she's too busy eyeing the man suspiciously. "Not," she admits drily, "my finest showing. Too many years. Too out of practice." There's a long pause, then a grudging, "My thanks." There. Gratitude. Take it or leave it.
Andre acknowledges the gratitude with a simple "no big deal" inclination of his head. "I must confess, I was rather surprised.", he admits, but then falls silent while he tries to seek the right words. "I cannot help wondering, Mylady… have you spoken to the city guards already? Are you… prepared to admit that you drew first?"
"To. Admit." Philomene echoes, the words clipped, precise, and more than a little scathing. She closes her eyes for a moment as though to draw strength from that act, then fixes an imperious glare on the young man. "Need I really remind you, foreign as you may be, that we are at war?"
"I am aware of that.", Andre replies, his own tone stiffening slightly. "Yet, she did nothing to provoke you. In fact it is not even certain that she IS Skaldic. She might as well hail from Gotland or Vralia or one such place. Would it not be better for everyone if the matter was quietly dropped?"
If the last words were chilled, these ones are absolutely icy. "Fuck. Off." Philomene grits her teeth and shifts enough in the bed to prop herself up on her elbows, the effort of which causes a clear sweat to form on her brow. It's another few moments while she steadies her breath before she's able to glare at him again. "That thing threatened me. If you're a sympathiser, fuck off home. You're not welcome."
Andre sighs a little as he realizes that nothing is to be gained here. "You threatened her.", he points out, "And if I'm a sympathiser, I'm a sympathiser of justice." But he already gets to his feet to make a departure before the woman agitates herself into fresh misery.
"You're a subversive," Philomene spits out venomously. "You come here with your anarchist, treasonous ideals, defending the vermin, seeking to undermine everything we stand for. I hope you fucking rot."
Andre's eyes widen at that, torn between terror and laughter and then clears his throat. "Please do calm down, Mylady.", he suggests stifly, "You'll do yourself another injury. Shall I send a healer to give you something?"
"They can bring me a blade to cut out your filthy, traitorous tongue," Philomene responds in a low hiss, wincing as she's forced to lower herself back down. "Go home, Skald-lover."
"I shan't agitate you further, Mylady.", Andre says politely and bows deeply. "Yet, I wish you a speedy recovery of physical and mental health." And he's off, out of the room, presumably telling a healer that the lady needs a calming drink.