Tending to F'min


F'min.jpg Mohria.jpg

Date: September 20, 2010
Location: F'min and Mohria's Weyr
Synopsis: In the depths of F'min's illness, Mohria and Riordanth tend to him and Voldrath.
Rating: PG
Logger: Mohria

The heat and humidity are oppressive, and Mohria has the weyr as open as she can make it to try and coax in breezes. The rain pounds down outside, cooling things off a little bit, but hardly enough to be comfortable. Back in the bedroom, she replaces another damp towel over F'min's face, her brows furrowed with a permanent scowl of concern. Crispin is down in the brat caves, like he's been ever since F'min really got sick, and Riordanth perches on the ledge in the rain, staring at Voldrath. Watching.

For the moment, both are quiet. Voldrath twitches his wing, and then settles again.

F'min licks his lips. "Hungry," he murmurs. Stirring, he pulls the covers to the side. "Hungry. So very hungry." he lifts a hand to his head.

Mohria makes sure he doesn't remove the cloth from his forehead. The room is pitch black, and she feels her way around like a blind person to find the bowl of warm broth at the bedside table. "Here, darling," she whispers, sitting gently on the edge of the bed and lifting a spoon to his lips. Her voice betrays none of her concern, only soothing and quiet.

F'min pushes the spoon away from his lips. "Hungry," he repeats. "Must… get food." He doesn't try to take off the cloth, but he does try to get up. "Wherry, nice fat wherry," he murmurs. On the ledge, Voldrath flicks his tail fitfully. "So very hungry."

Mohria shakes her head, resting a firm hand against his chest to keep him down. "No, F'min. Have some broth. There's some wherry in the soup. Taste it," she encourages, once more putting the spoon to his lips and dribbling some broth against them.

F'min doesn't have enough strength to push against her hand, and lays down again. "No… haven't eaten in days. Need food. Need herdbeast." He shows signs of serious fretting, and the fretfulness is being telegraphed in the twitching of his dragon's tail, and a rattle of the wings. "Hungry, starving…"

Mohria shushes gently. "Shhh, F'min. You ate earlier, I promise. Eat now." She digs in the bowl until she feels the weight of meat in the spoon, putting it to his lips so he can feel. "Here."

F'min is not happy. "No… no food… haven't eaten. No wherry, no herdbeast, no fish. No food. For days." He turns his mouth away from the spoon, pushing it away. "So hungry…" he whimpers. "Need to eat." On the ledge, Voldrath stirs, and his thoughts are tinged with the images of wherries and herdbeasts, and water. "Thirsty." F'min adds.

Riordanth suddenly slips off the ledge and into the rain, winging down towards the pens. He strikes fast, making a swift kill of a small wherry which he's able to carry back up to the ledge and offer to Voldrath with a soft croon. Inside, Mohria gently adjusts the cloth over F'min's eyes.

At the smell of blood, Voldrath wakes up. The wherry is snapped down in two, maybe three bites.

In the weyr, F'min starts to settle back down in his bed. "Wherry, better," he mumbles.

Mohria looks in the direction of the ledge and whispers, "Bless you, Riordanth, for thinking straight." The blue slips off the ledge once more and returns with a barrel of water. And then he's gone and then he's back with another herdbeast. Small ones, since the little blue has trouble carrying the bigger ones. Mohria stays perched on the edge of the bed, fingers gently running through F'min's hair. "Darling? F'min?" she asks, testing his mental state.

F'min is falling back asleep, what had woken him up is now subsiding as the brown on the ledge voraciously chomps down on the feast brought to him by the blue. "Better," he murmurs to Mohria. "Bubbly wherries, most delicious." His words are slurred and slow as he pulls the covers back over him. Perhaps he shouldn't be cold, but he clumsily tugs at them nonetheless.

Mohria tucks the covers around him and sighs softly, staring down at the place she knows F'min's face to be. She switches out the cloth for another one. "I love you," she whispers to him. "Please don't leave us alone…" That's her worst fear, second only to losing Riordanth.

"Wouldn't dream ov'it," F'min mutters in his sleep. There's a moment of silence. "Rauzath'd give Voldrath extra sweeps again…" Then he's drifting back into sleep again.

Mohria chuckles softly, looking lovingly down at him. She kisses his hair and continues to tend to him into the night, catching snippets of sleep where she can.

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