I'm now on AO3! My username is hinotorihime there as well, and while I will still be most active here, I'm going to start crossposting (also doing some minor revisions along the way ;) ) as a backup and a way to make my fic more available – I know some of my friends prefer AO3 to FFnet and it seems to be a really nice format over there so!
Anyway, have some silly nyo!Po to make up for... well, for the last time I wrote LietPol ^^;
Spring. It meant slightly receding cold and wet brown grass and mud, but it also meant a good deal of herbs she couldn't get hold of any other time of year, so Viltė put up with it. A healer and midwife had responsibilities, after all, regardless of how much she wanted to just curl up in bed and not.
She kicked aside a clump of soggy rotten leaves and gathered her skirt up around her knees.
"Oh!"
A brown and green snake slithered onto the path and stopped, looking up at her.
"Hello, brother," she murmured. The snake regarded her, then began to coil its way into the underbrush. Viltė heard a hiss and an outraged squawk from the bushes.
Oh well. The skirt could be washed. She lowered herself to her knees and met the bird's eyes. It looked wild, pained, and also extremely irritated, golden eyes rolling back in its head and soft red-gold feathers glinting in the weak sun.
"Aren't you beautiful?" Viltė said softly. "Now what's wrong? Oh, I see. Your wing isn't supposed to bend that way, dear one. Let's get you fixed up. There you go, good girl." She kept talking as she slowly worked her apron under the bird, ignoring the tiny whimpering chirps and settling the plump body into her covered hands. The bird snuggled down and cooed. Her steps were slow on the way home; she didn't want to jostle the broken wing until the bird was safely settled in a basket by the fire.
"Oh, see? You're a smart one, you are. Can you be brave for me too? This will hurt, little one, but only for a little, and then your wing will feel better and you can sleep. Okay?" Bandages: she kept thinner, shorter ones for this exact purpose, and the bird chirped indignantly but kept still while Viltė splinted the delicate bone. It pecked at her hand affectionately when she was done.
"Sweet girl, pretty girl." She petted the feathered head. "Now, time for bed."
She woke up halfway through the night with an awful feeling of weight on her chest. She gasped, trying to overcome the paralysis of sleep and get her lungs working again; shifted, and heard a low moan.
Viltė flung her arm out and scrambled for a match. "Who—?" she demanded as the light flared up, revealing a bleary-eyed, blinking, and very naked girl sprawled across the other side of the bed.
"What the hell?!"
"Ugh, put that out…" the girl mumbled. Viltė grabbed her slim wrist and yanked her upright.
"Ow! Owowowowstop—"
The cries were genuinely pained; Viltė let go and the girl pulled her arm toward her bare chest, cradling the wrist and glaring.
"Who are you, what are you doing in my house, what are you doing in my bed?"
"It was cold over there," the girl whined. "I figured you wouldn't mind, you seemed pretty nice. Only the wrappings came off when I changed and I couldn't get them back on…"
Viltė glanced over at the pile of blankets that had been dragged across the floor; slowly, she said, "You're—you're that bird?"
"Yeah, now fix me again, please."
Viltė sighed and shook the match out. "Let me light a proper lamp and I'll have a look."
The lamplight was much brighter and unfortunately made the girl's state of undress even more apparent. Viltė yanked open a drawer and picked a shirt at random.
"Put that on first," she ordered, shoving it toward the girl, who took it with a confused expression.
"How come?"
"Because I said so," said Viltė shortly, in no mood for explaining human dress customs at—she glanced at the clock—a quarter past one in the morning. The girl sullenly pulled the shirt over her head, emitting little squeaks of pain every time her arm moved, while Viltė took down a roll of (human-sized) bandages and a long splint.
"Here, give me your arm—wing—"
It was pushed at her ungracefully. The unnatural bend was even more apparent now that the limb was bigger and not covered with feathers.
"This will hurt."
"Again?"
"You were so good the first time. You can handle it again."
The girl bit her lip and looked away while Viltė splinted the break.
"So what are you, exactly?"
"Hm… I guess you would call me a firebird?" hummed the girl. Viltė must have looked confused, because she added, "'cause I'm a bird, and I was born in fire—"
"Yes, alright," Viltė said hastily. "And you're human—human-shaped—now. Okay. That… doesn't make sense but alright."
The girl made a face. "Are you done?"
"Almost." Viltė pulled one of the bandages taut. Possibly a bit tighter than necessary. "There. Now go lie down and be quiet."
"Can't I sleep with you? It really is cold…"
"It's not that cold."
"I am literally a bird made of fire. I don't have feathers anymore. It. Is. Cold."
"Can't you change back?"
The girl pouted.
Viltė threw up her hands. "Fine! But stay on your side of the bed."
"Okay!"
"And no snoring!"
"Okay!"
She woke up again just before sunrise. The girl had been right; it was cold. Especially with no covers.
She glared spitefully at the unmoving, blanket-stealing lump.
The firebird-girl was a late sleeper; Viltė had most of her work done by the time the girl woke up and demanded food.
"Bread and honey is all you get. I already cleaned up."
"Oh fine." But she ate the bread greedily, and drank a glass of milk in one huge gulp while Viltė finished packing her bag.
"I suppose," Viltė said a little grudgingly, "you'll have to stay here for the six weeks until your arm—wing—oh, whatever—heals. You don't have anywhere to go while you're like this, and you can't fly until your wing's better."
"Yup." The girl sounded far too complacent about this turn of events—which reminded her:
"Do you have a name?"
"Nope!" said the girl cheerily. "Never needed one."
"Well, I can't keep calling you 'girl', so pick something."
"Umm…" The girl looked around the house and brightened. "What's your name?"
"I'm Viltė."
"Ooh, that's pretty! Can I—"
"No." Viltė cut her off bluntly. "You can't have my name; it's mine. Anyway, it would just be confusing." She glanced around herself. "Er… a lot of women are named after flowers? Or saints?"
The girl hummed, licking honey off her fingers, then pointed at one of the paintings on the wall. "Who's that? She looks badass."
Viltė squinted. "Mary Magdalene, I think? Yes, that's Mary Magdalene. She's the patron of repentant sinners, and... women of… ill repute." Her eyes trailed up the girl's still-bare leg. The shirt was unlaced and coming off her shoulders.
"I like it," the girl declared.
"What, Mary?"
"No, the second one. I wanna be Magdalene… Magdalena!"
She resumed her honey-licking, small pink tongue flickering in and out like a cat's.
"Alright then, Magdalena. You're smaller than I am so we'll need to take some of my clothes in for you."
"This fits fine," Magdalena protested. The shirt slid farther down her shoulder.
"You are not wandering the house in that for the next month. My house, my rules. Come here, I have dress with ties that should work for today." She rummaged in the dresser for a bit. "Here it is. I outgrew it ages ago, but I loved it so much I never threw it out." She held up the russet-colored overdress, and Magdalena's eyes grew wide.
"It's so pretty," she breathed. She held out a hand for it.
"Not so fast! Shift first, and then I'll show you how to do up that shirt properly." She thought of brilliant golden plumage glinting on the forest floor, and in a burst of generosity said:
"I think I have some ribbons, too. You can have them if you'd like."
"Ribbons?" Impulsively, Magdalena threw herself forward and planted a kiss on Viltė's mouth, leaving the other woman spluttering and red-faced.
"Gimme that, I bet I can figure it out!" she cried, grabbing the thin shift away and pulling it awkwardly over her head and splinted arm. Viltė sighed and pulled herself to her feet to help her. There was honey, tacky, all over her lips.