Before you examine the body of a patient...

It had been a quiet day in the infirmary. Tempest hadn’t had many of those in the last year or so, and she almost revelled in the silence. As a natural pessimist, though, she couldn’t help but cringe a little from the niggling sense of impending disaster. But her apprentices had performed their tasks flawlessly (or if not flawlessly, at least without serious mistakes), and nothing – or no-one – new had entered the infirmary for a number of hours. Those patients that Tempest deemed fit to return to work, or at least to their own homes, had been directed to do so, and only two beds still remained occupied. For the four Trainees that were working, that meant an easy shift of sitting around and gabbing. Tempest had other ideas. There were potions and lotions, pills and tinctures, ointments and pastes to make, never mind bandages and tourniquets to cut and fold. It was busy work, and she knew it as well as they did. The only reason they didn't complain is that instead of ordering them to do it, Tempest also joined them. In her mind, it was the only way she could ensure everything was done correctly, but they didn't need to know that.

She was in the middle of explaining the correct ratio of ingredients for a soothing salve to her newest trainee when a messenger burst through the door. The apprentices jumped up, flustered and concerned by the noise, but Tempest rose much more slowly from her seat. Her cool blue eyes pinned the messenger where he stood, and she folded her arms across her chest. ”What is the meaning of this disturbance?!” Her voice rolled low in her throat like faraway thunder – a tone she'd perfected so she could still scare incompetent Healers and stubborn patients without raising her voice and risking waking those that were engaging in some well-needed rest. He dithered for a second or two before drawing himself up to his full height and clearing his throat. He seemed to think twice about relaying his message quite as loudly as he'd intended, but he was still rather too loud for Tempest's tastes.

”King Ashwin requires your immediate presence at the Palace. His eldest son is ill, and he must be attended to, posthaste.”

Tempest had never had a royal summons before. Her father had, but he had point blank refused to leave the Forest. She wasn't entirely sure how her father had managed to relay this to the King without losing his head – or his wings – but apparently the former Head Healer would just send the best Healer he had to hand, and the King never had any reason to complain. Tempest didn't for a second think that she would be afforded the same behaviours, and she didn't even bother to try to push it. Aside from her wanting to foster a decent relationship with everyone that came to her for assistance (even if she did pretend to dislike almost everyone), she relished the idea of travelling to new places, and the Palace would check another off the list. As was standard, she couldn't leave without issuing a string of instructions, rules, demands and threats, all jumbled into one long sentence, but she was in the air and on her way within fifteen minutes of the messenger's departure.

Tempest only landed when sentries at the walls of the Palace compound shouted her down to identify herself. She was just as polite to them as she was to anyone else, figuring that it was her final opportunity to be even the slightest bit rude until the King was happy that his son was well enough that she'd be permitted to leave. The next few days could be difficult...

At the greeting, Tempest offered a stiff bow even as she gestured to the guards to pull the doors shut. As soon as she had stepped over the threshold of the room, she had been in diagnosis mode. The tone of his voice, though soft, didn't suggest any ailments to his throat or chest. She had little to say to his first comment, though, so she settled for returning his greeting. ”Prince Ashwin. I hear you are feeling under the weather.” It wasn't a question – if he was perfectly healthy, there was no reason for her to be there.

He looked well enough, if a little pale, but Tempest was unsure what his natural complexion was – perhaps this was normal for him. He seemed to be almost lost in the swaths of white fabric, the only points of colour being his eyes – which appeared to be clear and unclouded with pain. She took a couple more steps into the room, assessing the ambient temperature even as Cyril kept the majority of her attention. She placed her kit at the side of his bed and took the offered chair, moving it closer to his side. Perhaps that was a breach of etiquette, but Tempest couldn't care less. No matter how important a person was, she needed proximity to correctly and effectively treat them. As she sat, she raised her eyebrows at his assessment. ”If you are so sure of this, Your Highness, surely there would be someone here able to treat such a simple illness?” Her tone of surprise was moderated, and although she tried to remove the censure from her voice, she knew she hadn't been entirely successful.

Tempest couldn't help but smirk at the prince's apology, though. Shaking her head, her curls bouncing around her shoulders, her eyes danced with unreleased laughter. ”If you were well, m'lord, you would not require my presence.” Though his face was aristocratically devoid of any telling expression, Tempest almost thought that he might have been trying to make a joke – or at least lighten the mood a little – and she wasn't the type to pass up the opportunity. She could always apologise if she caused offense. ”I can assure you, Your Highness, that I have seen many in much worse states of undress.” She tried to deliver the comment deadpan, but she couldn't help the corners of her mouth twitching. A couple of seconds passed before she delivered her first request. ”Now if you could please uncover one of your wrists – it does not matter which – I would like to check your temperature and heart rate.”

Though Tempest couldn't be sure just how compliant her patient would be, she didn't really anticipate any trouble – he at least didn't seem to think he required a Healer, though the compliments were almost worth the few hours' flying she had done. She stood from the seat that she had just occupied, and took a step towards him. He seemed to require some response, so Tempest offered a small smile which looked in no way genuine – it was purely professional. ”They are just concerned for you, sire, as they have every right to be. It is better to be safe than sorry when it comes to matters of health.”

... be patient to learn his story.

Before you examine the body of a patient...

From his words, Tempest had almost expected a certain level of stubbornness. If she were to know just how ill or otherwise she was, she would not have had people poking and prodding her unnecessarily. Perhaps this was a matter of routine, more than anything – once he was pronounced well enough by her, his father would allow him to rise from his bedrest. Being a means to an end wasn't Tempest's favourite reason to be called from her infirmary, but it was common enough that she was only slightly offended. After all, it had been a fairly long flight.

The ease in his manner suggested that he wasn't at all concerned by her requests – further proof, if needed, that he had been subjected to these visits rather more times than strictly necessary. As the subject of many of her father's tests, Tempest was sure she would not have reacted the same way. Perhaps patience came with age, though from what she could remember of what her father had taught her about the Elven Royal family, the Crown Prince wasn't all that much older than her. Patience had never been her strong suit, though. All this flitted through her mind without so much as a by-your-leave. As focused as she was, other thoughts often had the audacity to find their ways into her head. She paid them little mind, though, as she tested the temperature of her own left hand on her right forearm. A little colder than usual, but nothing to flinch at. A tiny hesitation, and she rested her hand (or the back of her palm, at least) on the prince's exposed wrist. Four of her own heartbeats passed before she moved. His temperature seemed a little high, and his skin was slightly clammy – a common side effect of the body attempting to fight off a malady. Tempest offered the prince a small, non-committal smile. There were still a fair few tests she would like to do before she would pronounce his diagnosis.

Before he could lower his arm to the bed, or hide it again beneath the sheet, Tempest captured his wrist between her thumb and first two fingers. Her touch was barely more than a feather-weight, but she still kept it as brief as possible. Counting only occupied half of her mind as she inclined her head at his acquiescence. Of course she was right, that was no surprise. As he raised himself to cough, Tempest took a hasty step back, almost upending the chair she had vacated in an attempt to give the prince his space. As the spate passed, Tempest raised one eyebrow. ”A simple cold?” She queried, her expression slightly bemused as she rummaged in her pack. ”Perhaps you and your father could compromise and we could all be a little closer to the truth.” Though her words could have been perceived as being derisive, Tempest kept a professional tone, as little amusement as she could manage leaking into her voice. Where King Ashwin appeared to exaggerate any ailment, his eldest son seemed inclined to do the opposite. Though he wasn't currently exhibiting any dangerous or worrisome symptoms, his pallor and temperature weren't quite falling in line with the 'common cold' diagnosis.

She busied herself for a moment, adding a sprig of peppermint and a small capful of honey to a potion before answering the question. ”My journey was pleasant enough, m'lord. Aelfmenn has some stunning views.” Both true, and Tempest managed to bite her tongue short of offering other, less polite comments. She would say nothing, of course, about the stark, foreboding lines of the castle clashing with the natural forest that surrounded it, or of the incompetent guards at the gates. Perhaps she could be diplomatic after all, but the day was young yet, and she knew that she would tire quickly of being inside stone walls. Really, who made dwellings from such an unforgiving material?! Capping and shaking the bottle, Tempest glanced up at her patient. ”But do not trouble yourself to speak if it pains your throat to do so.” Though it was an order, her tone modulated the phrase into something approaching a suggestion – a strong one, but a suggestion nevertheless. She held the bottle within arm's reach of the prince. ”Two caps full of this every hour should sooth the cough.” She informed him, tucking a stray curl back behind her ear only to have it spring immediately back out.

Tempest smiled at the subject change. Religion. A divisive subject, and one that she didn't speak about often, or to many. She had been brought up knowing what the majority believed, but with a strong push towards believing whatever she wanted to. Her father had been one of the few that openly opposed organised religion, and although Tempest could understand the reasons he gave, his actions at times seemed a little drastic, and occasionally counter-intuitive. She was determined that if people were to have anything against her, it was on her own merit, not based on her belief system. So she let people draw their own conclusions from what she said, but she chose her words as she always did on this subject matter – very carefully. His question didn't seem to ask much, but her response could reveal much. ”The Pontiff is well. He has not visited the infirmary for many moons.” This was for good reason, but the question had made it sound as if the prince was asking after his health. Her smile widened a little as she spoke again. ”I will let him know that you asked about him. I'm sure he will be most upset to learn that you are not at your best. Perhaps he will visit?” This was unlikely, but if he was going to pry, then so was she.

Playing word games was dangerous, but could be fruitful. However, that was not why she was there, and she sent a puzzled glance over to the bed as she settled into the chair by his bedside. ”If you could, sire, please think back to the last time you felt truly well.... Compare that to how you feel now, and tell me what has changed.” The pieces weren't quite clicking into place, and Tempest was struggling to put her finger on where it wasn't quite right. Perhaps something he said would trigger her memory, as there was a niggling feeling that the solution was in some obscure thing she had read as a trainee.

... be patient to learn his story.

Before you examine the body of a patient...

Tempest simply nodded in response to the prince's thanks. She didn't need it, but it was nice to hear all the same. Nice to know that at least some members of the nobility had held onto their manners, where clearly others hadn't. Of those she had met, the Ashwin's were by far the most polite, but in some ways it was quite disconcerting. The less decorum they had, the less Tempest felt like she herself had to have, and those were much easier rules to live by. Here, Tempest almost felt trapped – there was very little she could safely say, and she only had a certain amount of patience. Lucky, really, that her patient was so obedient. He didn't question the contents of the vial, though she had fully expected him to, and she moved her head to cause a curtain of curls to cover the smirk that touched the corners of her lips as she saw the subtle movement of the prince smelling the concoction. If she was that way inclined, there were many things that could go undetected if the only test was to smell. Tempest thought briefly about mentioning this to him, but surely he had already been warned. Perhaps it had been more a reflex than actual concern.

Though her father and the Pontiff had never been able to reconcile their differences, and though Tempest wasn't exactly the most sociable of creatures, a strange thing had come about in the fact that she didn't actually hate the man. She disagreed with him on many things, as one could only expect from her, and she argued with him about almost everything, as was her nature, but if one took aside the religious contention and the piety that Tempest wasn't 100% sure was entirely genuine, the Pontiff was surprisingly likeable. She had had very few interactions with him, as he claimed that the only necessary cure for any ailment was prayer, but those short exchanges hadn't been the worst things in the world. To say that they spoke at all regularly was a lie, of course, but Tempest didn't need to reveal that information. She did allow herself a small smile and a chuckle at the prince's words. ”Perhaps not, Prince Ashwin, but never forget that if you are ever in need of a miracle, then the Pontiff is your first port of call.” She was poking fun at the Pontiff now, and if he knew of it, he would probably take offense, but that wasn't unusual where Tempest was involved. Really, she didn't care all that much what the man thought of her – he was only one of thousands, however important he may appear to some.

Tempest's brow furrowed at the answer. It was common, of course, for babies and the elderly to fall ill during the cold spell, but really Prince Ashwin should be at the peak of his health – he was a young elf, as far as their lifespans could stretch, and they weren't usually touched by such trifling maladies. She was loath to think that it was something as simple as a cold, and yet what else could it be? The young fae pursed her lips, her forefinger tapping on them as she considered. Almost entirely unconsciously, her wings fluttered, and she rose in her seat a few inches before realising and landing, flushing slightly. She tutted as if her wings had a mind of their own, but sitting still had never been her greatest strength. She thought better when she was moving. After a brief silence, Tempest allowed herself to speak. ”But how did you feel?” She was forgetting who she was in the presence of, in the wake of this little mystery, and her manners evaded her a little. ”Forgive me – allow me to elaborate, m'lord.” Which was the most telling symptom? What should she ask about first? She dithered for a second or two before settling on her first real question. ”Did you begin with nausea, or a headache? How did you know that you were unwell?” OK, so it was more than one question, but curiosity had never had trouble finding Tempest.

... be patient to learn his story.

Cyril looked upward in thought once more, trying to recall exactly how he felt but it was difficult. Just before he could speak as he tried to remember something, the door burst open, causing the prince to avert his gaze in that direction with surprise. His bright blue eyes were widened only a little, but they resumed their usual state once he recognized who had entered. They had a certain light to them as he entered. "Brother," he greeted with delight. He was glad to see him, even if it was by untypical circumstances. His eyes followed him as he walked, taking a seat at the end of his bed. He didn't know the true purpose of him being here for but it didn't matter too much to him for the moment. At his teasing comment Cyril gave him a curt smile. It wasn't a cruel joke, but one that could ruin both of their reputations nonetheless. The Head Healer was important, even if she wasn't elf, but most likely she could handle a joke. He turned his charm over to her, and Cyril decided to give him an answer, an introduction perhaps. "Morighan. This is Tempest, Head Healer of the Fae," he spoke, his glance sliding over to her as well. "She has come here upon the behest of our father." His gaze stayed upon her once more, before he then bolted upward in a small series of coughs again, however they were dying down thanks to the potion he received. Once he was finished, his head resumed its position onto the pillow once more, white hair billowing behind him looking slightly messier than usual. He looked upward at the both of them again. He didn't know if Morighan had heard the news or not, or even had known that she would come, but word would have gone around sooner or later.

"I am pleased to see you Morighan. Excuse my illness, it seems that I have fallen into a rather rough spell," his eyes turned to the healer, only for a moment, before to him again. "However I advise not to near too close, for I wish not for sickness to be upon you," the way he spoke sounded rather more archaic than usual, but it didn't come to his notice. Instead, he turned to the fae once more, resuming what he was going to speak of earlier. "Last I recall, it had begun with the soreness of the throat. Subsequent to this I believe the cough had arrived. Other than this I cannot be certain, as I am unable to recall," he said, smiling as he looked up at her. "Though I had only fallen to illness within these past few days," he said with reassurance. She was speaking of it as it were not some common cold as he thought he would believe, but he couldn't provide any more help that would come from his memory. It had exhausted over the last few days as well, but the prince thought that with rest his strength shall return. Her potion did help though, and he could feel its effects taking over. That much he would thank for her.