Fantasy Exploring the Rift

[Syntra]

Lady Anabelle was sick.

That alone, of course, wasn't surprising-- illness was one of those inevitabilities, whether you were rich or poor. An aspect of being human, more or less. (Where there was flesh, there was weakness, and that was the source of all evil-- the breeding ground for depravities. That, at least, was what they had taught her, and what Theresa had come to believe over the years. Humanity suffered from an inherent weakness, and-- well. That was the reason they had to help one another, wasn't it? To offset that somehow.)

It was also hardly unusual, of course, that the Hemsworths had called for her. Unlike the poor folk, nobles tended to seek out her services often-- even when they weren't needed, in fact. (Sometimes, Theresa suspected it was a twisted pastime of theirs to look for problems where there weren't any, and to convince people who had way better things to do of their own truth. To waste her time, in other words. On the rational level, Theresa knew it probably wasn't true-- knew that they were just scared for their loved ones' fates, and had the means to reach out for help. Still, it was hard to silence those thoughts at times. What conclusion was she supposed to come to, really, when they called her because one of their daughters was a little paler than usual? Just, ugh. Let her outside a little more and maybe that wouldn't be a problem! Not like she was an expert or anything, though. Duh.)

If the letter was true, though, that wasn't one of those cases. No, this seemed... actually interesting? More than just interesting, if she were to be honest. A lot of these symptoms were straight up bizarre, and Theresa furrowed her brow as she read through its contents once again.

Fever. Now that was a fairly common symptom-- one that pointed at nothing at all, in fact, for it accompanied every sickness under the sun. Nothing out of ordinary here, really. Shortness of breath. A respiratory ailment, then? Or so she would have supposed, at least if it hadn't been for the night terrors and speaking with the dead. That, uh, wasn't something she encountered often. It also wasn't possible, as the God separated the world of the living and the world of the dead quite diligently, but if nothing else, she didn't think that the Hemsworths were lying to her. No, the messenger seemed too solemn for that. Whatever it was, they believed their version of the story. Now, was it actually true? Theresa had her doubts regarding that, but she supposed she would find out soon-- since they were expecting her in about half an hour.

It was afternoon, and a sunny one at that. An ideal day for a walk-- or it would have been, in fact, had it not been for the mysterious plague. (God's punishment, some said. Theresa, though? Theresa doubted He could possibly be this cruel, this unfeeling. She had never seen anything like this in her entire career, and hoped she never would again. The vileness burrowed itself deep beneath one's skin, and gnawed and gnawed and gnawed, until there was scarcely anything left. Shit, burials were a formality at that point-- you know, since the priests had nothing to bury.) At any rate, most people preferred to stay indoors now if they could, to the point the town may very well have belonged to ghosts. Soon, it will, Theresa thought grimly. If we don't do something. She planned to visit three other families after she was done with the lady, actually-- to check up on the sick, and record the progress of their treatment. (...or to record how close they were to dying? No, Theresa reminded to herself. I cannot think like this. Such mindset solves exactly nothing.)

And so she walked, her heels clicling with every step, and soon enough, Theresa found herself standing in front of the Hemsworth manor. Well, that, and also in front of her old friend. (... or former friend? God, was it complicated.) "Cassandra?" she raised her eyebrow, not even bothering to hide her surprise. "What, pray tell, might you be doing here?"

 

[Chordling]

Lady Anabelle was sick indeed.

- - -

Pale skin. Dark hair. Long ominous robes. Were it not for the green eyes that gave an image of life to the young woman's complexion, Death itself might have addressed the letter Cassandra received those few days ago. The whole event was ironic, really. Nobility always scoffed at her attire, her behavior, and her beliefs, that was until they cried for her help. Consider them lucky for Cassandra's generosity. They would all rot away to dust if fate were to her own design. But it wasn't. She knew better than to contest against god's will, even if she had strayed a little from His methodologies. Cassandra was not afraid to show a pure form of disdain for the undeserving social class in her expression when she arrived at Hemsworth Manor. It was something she worked on during all of those years of prejudice.

Cassandra considered throwing the letter out at first based on how boring it seemed. Fevers and shortness of breath were doctors' chores. Acclaimed occultists had no interest in playful ailments. The only thing that might have been worth her time was the night terrors and claims of communication with the dead. Cassandra would have to contain her fascination if she were able to witness that. Typically, rituals had to be performed in order to speak with the deceased. It had been centuries since the occultists last recorded someone contacting the afterlife in a simple sleeping state.

The young occultist took her time walking to the manor. For once, the weather was pleasant, and Cassandra would take any advantage of optimism she could during a time like this. Streets were vacant ever since the unusual plague disturbed their little town. People hid themselves in their home from fear, not really knowing how or what the plague could do to the human body. Cassandra couldn't help but wonder, could this have been related to the recent plague? It turned out to be a silly concern. She looked over her shoulder towards the sound of clicking heels. Theresa had approached the Hemsworth Manor.

"I am here based on the contents of this letter," she replied. Cassandra pulled the ivory paper from a small side pocket only to show the doctor. "There's a level of confidentiality I have to keep. I'm sure you understand."

 

[Syntra]

...a letter? The same kind of letter Theresa herself had received, possibly? Good god. To think that the Hemsworths were so desperate as to contact an occultist! (Not that she judged the other woman, of course-- people were welcome to do whatever they wanted, as long as they didn't hurt anyone else in the process. If they wished to waste their precious time on the Earth by... by pretending to be able to speak with spirits and the like, it was their prerogative. Still, what did this say about Theresa herself? Or rather, about the Hemsworths' opinion of her skill? That she-- that she was on the same level as Cassandra? Alright, that was mildly insulting. More than mildly, actually, since medicine was a respectable craft, thank you very much, but-- no. No, Theresa had no time for arguments now. What did it matter that she was also there, truly? The insult was bitter, yes, but it wasn't like Cassandra would stand in her way. Effectively, this didn't really translate into anything, and-- well. Maybe, maybe she was also vaguely glad to see her. ...what? It had been so, so long, and surely even doctors had the right to occasional sentimentality.)

"This letter, you mean?" Theresa raised her eyebrow and waved the document in the air. "If this is about lady Annabel, then we are here to solve the same issue." Probably because of the night terrors and claims of communication with the dead? Which seemed like utter nonsense to Theresa, mostly because the letter had also mentioned fever. Just, had these people never dealt with a feverish person before? Of course the lady would spout nonsense! That was what delirious patients did, and ascribing any sort of importance to it only proved you were delirious as well. Delirious, as well as delusional. Sigh. Why oh why did she have to be faced with such incompetence first thing in the morning? "Oh well," she smiled, trying her best to be diplomatic about the whole affair, "let us see what the problem is, then. Frankly, I don't believe you'll have much to do here, but if they invited you... What can you do, huh?" ...maybe her best wasn't really enough, though.

Either way, it didn't take long for a maid to emerge from the mansion-- a young, tiny thing, barely a child. "Umm. The esteemed doctor and the famous occultist, I presume? We have been expecting you. Come, come," the girl ushered them in. The mansion, of course, was like countless other mansions, in that it was nonsensically large and ornate. (Commonfolk would likely be impressed, but Theresa? Yeah, growing up in a similar place had desensitized her towards such wonders.)

"Would you prefer to see the young lady right away, or is there something you wish to investigate before that?" the girl asked. "I, uh," she turned to the occultist, starry-eyed, "heard you liked to... liked to do aura readings first. Is that true?" And at that, Theresa had to bite her lip to avoid bursting out in laughter. Because, yeah, alright-- that was Cassandra's place, obviously. Impressing children!

 

[Chordling]

Cassandra put her letter back into the side pocket of her robes and turned back to face the decorated door of the manor. It was clear to Cassandra already that Theresa had nothing productive to say to her. It made Cassandra boil inside that society just loved to mock her and Theresa was in on their jests. Cassandra let her eyes trace the delicate patterns on the doors of the manner to remove her thoughts from unnecessary negativity. What Theresa thought of her should not matter anymore. She wasn't the one Cassandra was tending to after all. It was the sick Lady Annabelle- in case that had not been mentioned. Theresa and the Hemsworth could judge her but at least the Hemsworth wanted her here.

The immaculate doors swung open and a petite girl greeted them inside. The home was filled with luxurious furniture and decorations all of which Cassandra tried to admire as they were lead through the entrance. Carpets stretched along the area of every room. Curtains hung from every window; each and every one of them were drawn to block to obscure the view of spying eyes and the rays of the sun. A small tabby cat stretched with a small yawn from her slumber on a couch cushion and approached the incoming guests with light, padded steps. Soon, Cassandra noticed that there was not just one, but three small felines roaming the manor. It was refreshing to see these small signs of life in rooms darkened like dungeons. Cassandra ignored whatever it was that Theresa decided to say. She already knew it didn't deserve her energy based on the tone of the other woman's voice.

"Please take us to see Lady Annabelle," Cassandra directed to the miss.

"Right this way please," the young lady obliged rather quickly possibly to avoid any further awkward exchanges between the doctor and the occultist. The women were guided up a handcrafted staircase made from strong cherrywood. They were greeted by Mr. Hemworth once they reached the top. He offered to shake hands with the women and couldn't seem to thank them enough for answering his letter. The lady of the house would be sleeping in a separate chamber from his own. His fear of a contagion overpowered the guilt and the love he had for her. Mr. Hemsworth led the women down a long hallway without further delays and showed them the door to where the ill Lady Annabelle rested. The door before them seemed inviting and Cassandra thought they were about to be allowed inside until Mr. Hemsworth spoke and broke her assumption.

"Which one of you is the esteemed doctor? I would like to have her speak with the lady first."

 

[Syntra]

Yes, yes, Theresa rolled her eyes, I get it, you're happy to see us. Now, can I PLEASE meet the patient? Or are you hoping that I'll be able to heal her telepathically? Because, uh, that wasn't how this worked. Perhaps Mr. Hemsworth thought such things were possible, at least judging by his decision to hire Cassandra as well, but no, actually. None of her colleagues had invented a method that would allow them to eschew direct contact with the patient yet! (Of course, Theresa knew what this was about-- knew it very well, even. To an aristocrat, every interaction with people of any importance was a dance, and all the steps needed to be performed at the right time. A greeting? Check. Exchanging pleasantries? Check. Empty chatter? Check, check and check. Usually, she tended to be tolerant of these quirks-- there was a meaning in them, after all, even if those untrained in the art of etiquette usually couldn't spot it. It wasn't about what was being said as much as it was about these things being said in the first place; that alone implied a great deal of respect. And Theresa? Well, of course that she enjoyed being respected! Not when a patient was suffering in the next room and they were wasting their precious, precious time on this, though. God, give me the strength to withstand this.)

Perhaps that impatience was the reason why she didn't question Mr. Hemsworth's decidion at all-- or perhaps she thought that he regretted hiring Cassandra, now that he saw her and her ridiculous attire. Or maybe it was a combination of both? Well, that hardly mattered. "That would be me, I believe. Theresa Moore. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. And yes, naturally, I shall examine your lady wife. Now, if you'll excuse me?" As always, Theresa's tone was stern, but polite-- she sounded like someone you wouldn't want to argue with, and most people had the good sense not to do that. (Cultivating such a reputation was more important than it seemed at the first glance, really. It had saved her a lot of grief, especially when it came to communicating with some of the more stubborn patients-- a lot of workers, men especially, had to be straight up strong-armed into following her advice, and the best way to avoid these drawn out arguments was to be too scary for them to resist her treatment to begin with.)

Not caring about Cassandra's role in this mess in the slightest, Theresa entered the patient's bedroom. "Lady Annabelle?" she asked quietly. It would be better for the woman to be awake during her examination, really, but if she was asleep-- well, everyone knew that some rest could often do more for a patient than ten doctors. No, in that case, Theresa wouldn't try to wake her up. Still, if her eyes were open... A few questions wouldn't hurt her, surely. More than that, they would help her establish the trust that was necessary for her to get closer to her patient. This, after all, was a noble lady, not some serving girl. Certain behaviors were to be observed around her, or she would never cooperate fully. "My name is Theresa Moore-- it's a pleasure to meet you, truly. I'm your doctor. I heard you haven't been feeling well lately?" As she spoke, Theresa dragged one of the chairs closer to her bed and sat down.

Meanwhile, Mr. Moore looked as if he had no idea what to do with himself. Theresa's department seemed to have triggered something in him-- this nervous, almost boyish persona that had been hiding under the surface. "Miss Abbey, is it? I am... thankful you have come, truly. The esteemed doctor as well, of course, but... um. How do I say this? Is it-- is it true that there are items that have been tainted by dark spirits?" Well. That was awfully specific of him, wasn't it? How very, very curious.

 

[Chordling]

A soft moan escaped the ill woman's lips. It was so quiet. Lady Anabelle even had a hard time telling whether she made any sound. Her eyes were open at a bare sliver as she tried to identify the voice which entered her dark abode.

"Doctor," she managed to wheeze. The air from her words struggled to scape that she had to cough. "Doctor," her voice cried again but she couldn't find the words or the energy to describe the pain she was in. Everything about the illness took away her ability to express anything. The soft covers on her bed only made her fever feel like an inferno. The drawn curtains were all that she could stare at. No other human, even her own husband, dared to enter the space for anything beyond physical care. Lady Anabelle couldn't stop thinking back to the time when someone forgot to remove her chamber pot. The bedroom smelled of her own human waste for days. It was an unforgettable experience and she knew her first plan of action would be to fire the worker responsible for their neglect if she ever got over the illness that had plagued her body. Lady Anabelle couldn't say how long she had even been sick for. Time wasn't something that mattered to her anymore. Her body forced her to sleep even if she didn't want to and meals were at the discretion of her hindered appetite. But how could Lady Anabelle be so rude to think only of herself when there was a new guest in her room, the doctor. The noblewoman turned her head closer to Theresa when she pulled over a chair to sit near her. Lady Anabelle would have procured a smile if only her body would allow her to.


Cassandra let out a silent huff when Theresa made her leave to tend to the patient and rested herself in the nearby chair while she waited for her own turn. It felt odd just waiting especially knowing Theresa for years. It was like waiting for your chance to play with a new toy. Her head drooped over her folded hands collected in her lap as she pondered. Then Mr. Moore spoke again. His voice broke through her stream of thoughts Cassandra would be ashamed to admit that were not even related to the condition of his wife's health. The man's voice was a low hush. It was obvious that what he had to say would cause controversy if other people of his stature overheard him.

"Dark spirits and items do exist," Cassandra began to respond, "but I have never been in the presence of one before. Not too many people have as far as my studies are aware of. Why do you ask?"

 

[Syntra]

Oh, god. Mister Hemsworth really hadn't been lying in that letter of his-- lady Annabelle looked... not good, to put it mildly. As if death itself had touched her. No, it didn't just touch her. The grim reaper is sitting on her shoulder, and he's sharpening his scythe. (Theresa, of course, wasn't superstitious. Only feeble-minded ones clung to such delusions, probably in a vain attempt to explain that which they couldn't fully comprehend, and that obviously wasn't her case. No, she knew better. Even so, to some extent, Theresa did believe that she could sense it when death approached. Was it god's gift, perhaps? Or maybe just deep familiarity? She had spent years snatching patients from death's jaws, after all, which meant she knew what it looked like. Those early signs, seemingly so innocent? Theresa saw them, and recognized them for what they were. Harbingers of doom.)

Still, the grim thoughts didn't reflect on her face. Quite the contrary, in fact. To an outside observer, Theresa looked calm, perhaps even slightly bored-- since, you know, there was no point in stressing the patient out even further. Every doctor worth their salt knew that a patient's mindset could speed the healing process up tremendously, so why sabotage it? Especially since dark thoughts could worsen their condition, too! "Yes, a doctor. Your doctor. I am here to help you, lady Annabelle," Theresa said, her voice quiet and soothing. Judging by the look of her face, her fever must have been great-- which she was able to confirm easily via touching her forehead. "Hmpf. Have they bathed you in cold water, my lady? Your servants should do it every day, perhaps even twice or thrice. It won't be pleasant, true, but it will help. You must not stay in such a state for long, you see-- the heat is bad for your body, much like real flames." As if to emphasize her words, Theresa rose from her chair, pulled something out of her trunk and stepped closer to the bowl full of water standing in one of the corners. (...what was its purpose? Was the lady supposed to drink from it? How neglectful! Either way, Theresa probably shouldn't complain about it-- since, without that bowl, she would have had nothing to soak the bandages she was holding in.) Once they were sufficiently wet, she approached lady Annabelle once again and put them on her forehead. "There, there you go. I promise you'll feel better soon," Theresa smiled gently as she sat on her chair once again.

"Now, lady Annabelle. Can you describe your symptoms to me? Fever, naturally, but what else? And how they have been treating your condition so far?" Would she be able to answer her questions in a satisfactory way? Theresa had no idea, but finding out could tell her something about the nature of her ailment. If she could no longer speak coherently... well, that would certainly point to a certain conclusion as well. It wouldn't necessarily be a conclusion she liked, granted, but it would be something-- an indicator of what to focus on with her treatment. And, really, what else could she possibly hope for? It wasn't like illnesses had the decency to introduce themselves to her and offer the cure on a silver platter. Oh no, no, no. As always, Theresa had to work for her diagnosis.

Meanwhile, Mr. Hemsworth only seemed to grow more and more restless. "A-ah. I see. This is exactly what I was afraid of." He turned around to face the window and looked at the streets below, clasping his hands behind his back as he did so. (Was he searching for something, perhaps, or did he just hope to escape the weight of Cassandra's glare? It was difficult to tell, really.)

"There is a reason I hired you as well, Miss Abbey," the man began, his voice hoarse. He suddenly sounded older, too-- as if Cassandra's statement alone had stolen a few years of his life away from him. "My wife... she started associating herself with certain people. Suspicious folk, as far as I am concerned. I allowed it, for she didn't have many friends, though... Well, perhaps it is nothing. It probably is, in truth. I just can't help but think there is a connection of sorts, however, because she fell ill shortly after she accepted this... this strange gift they gave her."