Sleepless (Tilly & Rydia)

[minisamus]

The most fascinating thing about ‘their’ room was how hot it was, like the inside of kiln, only smaller (as if that were possible). All four sides of the room were identical, both beds were identical; the ceiling was uniform as were the walls, and since there was nothing else in the room except a lamp on a small wooden table, and some drawers (also the same) there was nothing else to compare.

 

Rydia had noticed, however, several differences between the occupants of the beds, herself and the girl named Tilly. She enjoyed conversation; Tilly did not. She found the warmness of Tar Valon quite enjoyable; Tilly did not. Where Rydia was content to bathe in the warmth of her blankets and the leisure of not having to tend a night fire, Tilly was shifting and wheezing and rolling almost constantly. Tilly was a cat against a scratching pole without any cuteness; she was a cat scratching prized furniture.

 

It was getting annoying.

 

Seriously.

 

Rydia was patient. Trapping was all about patience . . . and being able to wander off and leave your devices to fulfill the role you knew they would fulfill. This? This had Patience right over there, but was torture, like luring a wolf with a bleating goat, while holding the goat up to your ears. With its hooves in your eyes.

 

Scritch. Scritch. Shuffle. Ruffle. Murmur. Wumphf.

 

Rydia lay there a time, counting scritchs, anticipating the wumphs and shuffles, picturing murder. This was less than ideal. There was no name for how less than ideal this was because no one had ever experienced it before. There was a pillow under her head, and she was becoming more and more aware how easy it would be to smother Tilly. And how fast.

 

And how satisfying.

 

At last she sat up, exasperated, gripping her blankets and willing them to be Tilly’s hair.

 

“Tilly?” she asked.

 

“yes?” came Tilly’s reply, in her voice so small it doesn’t require capitals.

 

“Are you quite all right?”

 

“umm . . . yes.”

 

“Great. Now without the lie?”

 

“can’t sleep.”

 

“A lot of that going around.”

 

“Any particular reason?”

 

“ummm”

 

“Oh please, please put me out of my misery; I am dying to know.”

 

Tilly rolled over in her bed to face her, Rydia was painfully aware of this.

 

“it’s the scars” she whispered conspiratorially, Rydia thought. It was hard to distinguish.

 

Tilly was shy, not stupid; this could become an issue. A little honesty now might save deterioration. Or worse. Rydia’s tone was testy. They weren’t friends, not yet, but Rydia was the only girl she knew and a measure of environmental bonding was taking place. Make no error, need not fix.

 

Tilly sighed, “I got sick when I was younger; it left scars. the heat, the dry, they make me itch. I itch so bad.” Bad would have been followed by an exclamation point from any other speaker.

 

“This can’t be the first time you’ve encountered this . . .” Rydia put her annoyance aside to hint subtly.

 

“no, it’s not. it isn’t. but they took everything away.” And although from the sentence you probably cannot imagine an emotional inflection, it was now Tilly began to cry. She didn’t sound that different, but against the safety of her pillow her face was all scrunched up and there were tears in her eyes.

 

This left Rydia to fill the gaps, and because she was a sensible girl it was not so difficult. Tilly’s body was causing itself more irritation than it was causing her, and whatever ointment or treatment Tilly had was gone along with everything else she’d brought with her. This probably would not have happened had Tilly spoken up, but Rydia was beginning to understand that’s not how Tilly operated.

 

“All right, I have an idea” Rydia said. “I’m going to come over there and give you a jolly good scratch. I know a lot about naked skin . . . but admittedly I’ve normally removed it first.”

 

"umm . . . could we not?”

 

“Sure. There is also the scenario where I beat you to death with my slippers.”

 

“your bed or mine?”

 

“Yours will be fine. I need to stretch my legs anyway.”