Obligations
by Wiebke Fesch
Same disclaimers and notes as Part 1.
-----CHAPTER 11-----
"The caste-training you've received has done much for you," Ashmael told Swift as they descended the staircase to the basement, "but a little practical knowledge and experience would assist you greatly as well." They arrived the bottom of the stairs and Ashmael flicked on the light switch.
"I agree," Swift said, following closely behind as Ashmael led the way down the hall. The basement was large, mostly filled with stored goods like administrative supplies and food, but also with leftover furniture, some of it remnants from the building's former inhabitants, humans, who of course had occupied the house before the Varrs. Furniture and goods, much like that found in the upper floors of Forever, Swift thought.
"I was just telling Seel," he continued, "that I've been thinking that myself." He decided to share the gist of the earlier conversation, which he'd told Seel to keep private. "I'm so much younger and I feel that I need to make up for it. Not just for this inception, but in general. This is a start, however."
"It is indeed, Swift." Ashmael had stopped before a heavy wooden door. "Here we are." He withdrew a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock.
The door swung inward. Ashmael found another light switch and flicked it on as he stepped over the threshold. The room was small and, except for a small table and sink, empty. The air was slightly musty but not unbearably so.
"A workroom," Ashmael noted. "I remembered it from our initial inventory. It should be just what we need." He stepped over to the sink and turned a handle. When the water had been running for half a minute, he checked the temperature. "Good. Hot water. We can use this to supply the tub."
"We need a tub then," Swift inferred. "For bathing?"
Ashmael shut off the water and turned, pacing to the other corner. "Not really for bathing, Swift. More like cleaning, scouring." He paused, running his forefinger along the wall and inspected it. "Dusty. This must all be sterilized." He looked back to Swift. "Althaia is very messy, Swift. Everything that is not needed -- old skin, old tissue, old fluids, is expelled. The sickness is powerful, nearly deadly. Blood, bile, vomit -- they will spray everywhere. It cannot be helped."
Swift was repulsed but tried to hide it. He did not wish Ashmael to know how relieved he was that he had never had to endure such a hellish experience. Feybraiah had been hard enough -- the night sweats, the itching skin, the maddening cravings -- but this Althaia was something altogether worse. Ranat's entire organism would be changed from one species to another. That such a thing was even possible was quite incredible, even though to Wraeththu it was a fact of life. This is how Wraeththu had begun. Thiede had done this thing to a human by accident and thus began the new race. Still, it was incredible and on top of that, incredibly frightening.
"Thank you for telling me this," Swift said, turning to examine the room further, although he didn't really have any purpose for doing so. Ashmael seemed to have all well in hand.
"You're welcome, Swift. Now I'll tell you what else we need." He gestured to the center of the room. There would need to be a bed, something low so that Ranat could avoid hurting himself when he fell. And he would fall. He would try to escape, would crawl to the walls, pound on the door, would flail about like a wild, wounded, mad animal. The bed should be low. If possible, there should be straps or cords for tying him down; it was sometimes necessary.
Aside from the bed there needed to be sheets, blankets pillows -- a dozen sets, for they would be covered in filth and need to be cycled out regularly. For the attendants there would be chairs. The table would stay; the attendants would use it to lay Ranat out for cleaning or while they removed him from his bed to change the dressings. For the bathtub there would be implements -- scrapers, pitchers, sponges, other small items. The attendants would also require medical supplies, a regimen of herbs, ointments, and bandages.
"Aren't there any drugs he can take, something for the pain?" Swift asked.
Ashmael said no. "They interfere with the process, unfortunately. Nothing internal can be taken. Ointments, yes, but nothing can be injected. There is a shot during the Harhune, to dull the pain of that cut and the initial shock, something to make the incepted sleep, but that is all. For the rest, there is no relief."
Swift studied Ashmael. There was a question he wanted to ask but it refused to be spoken aloud. It didn't matter, however, as Ashmael seemed to intuit it on his own.
"He won't die, Swift," he said, stepping close and placing his hand on Swift's shoulder. "It will be done well. Ranat is strong and he will fight to live. He will."
Swift clenched his jaw and swallowed. He hoped Ashmael was right. What if he wasn't? Impulsively, he grabbed the hand on his shoulder. "You promise me, Ashmael?"
"I promise I am telling you the truth and that we will do everything in our power to bring this inception to a successful conclusion," Ashmael vowed.
Swift appreciated the frankness and loosened his grip. "Thank you." He went to the table and took a seat on the edge. There was something else he wanted to ask, something tickling at the edge of his mind. "Ashmael, could you tell me about how it was for you?"
The question had obviously come as a surprise. Ashmael looked away for a moment before replying. "Terrible, Swift." He went to the wall by the sink and leaned against it. "Nothing like this. This is civilized, controlled. There is ceremony, a process. The boy will be cared for. It was not always this way, Swift." He drew in a long breath and exhaled. "Long ago, when I was incepted, it was a crude thing. For me there was almost no ceremony and then I was abandoned to endure the change almost completely on my own. At that time it was said that we had to cull the weak and that anyone who needed care during the change was not meant to be Wraeththu. I was lucky to have survived."
Swift was rather awed to have received such an answer. "Thank you, Ashmael. For telling me and for everything else." Glancing about, he thought to himself that despite the occasional feeling that he was too young, having such a strong group of senior advisors was a blessing. "Do you think you know everything we need?"
Ashmael nodded and went to the door. Swift followed, switching off the light. In a little more than 24 hours, the Harhune would begin.
TBC...
by Wiebke Fesch
Same disclaimers and notes as Part 1.
-----CHAPTER 11-----
"The caste-training you've received has done much for you," Ashmael told Swift as they descended the staircase to the basement, "but a little practical knowledge and experience would assist you greatly as well." They arrived the bottom of the stairs and Ashmael flicked on the light switch.
"I agree," Swift said, following closely behind as Ashmael led the way down the hall. The basement was large, mostly filled with stored goods like administrative supplies and food, but also with leftover furniture, some of it remnants from the building's former inhabitants, humans, who of course had occupied the house before the Varrs. Furniture and goods, much like that found in the upper floors of Forever, Swift thought.
"I was just telling Seel," he continued, "that I've been thinking that myself." He decided to share the gist of the earlier conversation, which he'd told Seel to keep private. "I'm so much younger and I feel that I need to make up for it. Not just for this inception, but in general. This is a start, however."
"It is indeed, Swift." Ashmael had stopped before a heavy wooden door. "Here we are." He withdrew a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock.
The door swung inward. Ashmael found another light switch and flicked it on as he stepped over the threshold. The room was small and, except for a small table and sink, empty. The air was slightly musty but not unbearably so.
"A workroom," Ashmael noted. "I remembered it from our initial inventory. It should be just what we need." He stepped over to the sink and turned a handle. When the water had been running for half a minute, he checked the temperature. "Good. Hot water. We can use this to supply the tub."
"We need a tub then," Swift inferred. "For bathing?"
Ashmael shut off the water and turned, pacing to the other corner. "Not really for bathing, Swift. More like cleaning, scouring." He paused, running his forefinger along the wall and inspected it. "Dusty. This must all be sterilized." He looked back to Swift. "Althaia is very messy, Swift. Everything that is not needed -- old skin, old tissue, old fluids, is expelled. The sickness is powerful, nearly deadly. Blood, bile, vomit -- they will spray everywhere. It cannot be helped."
Swift was repulsed but tried to hide it. He did not wish Ashmael to know how relieved he was that he had never had to endure such a hellish experience. Feybraiah had been hard enough -- the night sweats, the itching skin, the maddening cravings -- but this Althaia was something altogether worse. Ranat's entire organism would be changed from one species to another. That such a thing was even possible was quite incredible, even though to Wraeththu it was a fact of life. This is how Wraeththu had begun. Thiede had done this thing to a human by accident and thus began the new race. Still, it was incredible and on top of that, incredibly frightening.
"Thank you for telling me this," Swift said, turning to examine the room further, although he didn't really have any purpose for doing so. Ashmael seemed to have all well in hand.
"You're welcome, Swift. Now I'll tell you what else we need." He gestured to the center of the room. There would need to be a bed, something low so that Ranat could avoid hurting himself when he fell. And he would fall. He would try to escape, would crawl to the walls, pound on the door, would flail about like a wild, wounded, mad animal. The bed should be low. If possible, there should be straps or cords for tying him down; it was sometimes necessary.
Aside from the bed there needed to be sheets, blankets pillows -- a dozen sets, for they would be covered in filth and need to be cycled out regularly. For the attendants there would be chairs. The table would stay; the attendants would use it to lay Ranat out for cleaning or while they removed him from his bed to change the dressings. For the bathtub there would be implements -- scrapers, pitchers, sponges, other small items. The attendants would also require medical supplies, a regimen of herbs, ointments, and bandages.
"Aren't there any drugs he can take, something for the pain?" Swift asked.
Ashmael said no. "They interfere with the process, unfortunately. Nothing internal can be taken. Ointments, yes, but nothing can be injected. There is a shot during the Harhune, to dull the pain of that cut and the initial shock, something to make the incepted sleep, but that is all. For the rest, there is no relief."
Swift studied Ashmael. There was a question he wanted to ask but it refused to be spoken aloud. It didn't matter, however, as Ashmael seemed to intuit it on his own.
"He won't die, Swift," he said, stepping close and placing his hand on Swift's shoulder. "It will be done well. Ranat is strong and he will fight to live. He will."
Swift clenched his jaw and swallowed. He hoped Ashmael was right. What if he wasn't? Impulsively, he grabbed the hand on his shoulder. "You promise me, Ashmael?"
"I promise I am telling you the truth and that we will do everything in our power to bring this inception to a successful conclusion," Ashmael vowed.
Swift appreciated the frankness and loosened his grip. "Thank you." He went to the table and took a seat on the edge. There was something else he wanted to ask, something tickling at the edge of his mind. "Ashmael, could you tell me about how it was for you?"
The question had obviously come as a surprise. Ashmael looked away for a moment before replying. "Terrible, Swift." He went to the wall by the sink and leaned against it. "Nothing like this. This is civilized, controlled. There is ceremony, a process. The boy will be cared for. It was not always this way, Swift." He drew in a long breath and exhaled. "Long ago, when I was incepted, it was a crude thing. For me there was almost no ceremony and then I was abandoned to endure the change almost completely on my own. At that time it was said that we had to cull the weak and that anyone who needed care during the change was not meant to be Wraeththu. I was lucky to have survived."
Swift was rather awed to have received such an answer. "Thank you, Ashmael. For telling me and for everything else." Glancing about, he thought to himself that despite the occasional feeling that he was too young, having such a strong group of senior advisors was a blessing. "Do you think you know everything we need?"
Ashmael nodded and went to the door. Swift followed, switching off the light. In a little more than 24 hours, the Harhune would begin.
TBC...
