February 17th 1889 — The Hog's Head

It had been October when he had first glimpsed her. The third, to be precise, as Cyrus Westerman always was—at least where dates were concerned. With his affliction, he could not afford to let the calendar get away from him, for the best outcome of doing so would be a stint in Azkaban.

Of course, he had not been certain. Rather than a true familiarity, it had been only  an echo of one, fleeting, as she had left the main room of The Hog's Head quite swiftly, and Cyrus, torn, had not pursued her. He had seen her again on the fifteenth, this time from behind; on the twenty-ninth from across the road; and then not at all in November, for he had not had occasion to visit the Head (largely because he was avoiding the potential of her).

But the turn of the year had seen him resolved: if the young maid was, indeed, who he believed her to be, Cyrus owed it to her to...do something. After all, her fate had been in his hands, and he had squandered it.

So he had watched, here and there, throughout January, and by the fifth of February was altogether certain that the Head's "Leila" was his own Miss Scott, a witch he had not seen in half a decade, and had never anticipated seeing again. Now, as he sipped at his ale from his vantage point by the dirty front window, Cyrus knew he could watch no longer. As her petite frame moved from the door to the back room to proceed up the stairs, the healer followed, his chair scraping against the wooden floorboards as he stood, abandoning his lunch, to peruse her as quietly as the creaking of the stairs would allow.

Reaching the landing with the quiet chatter of downstairs behind him, he hesitated and then—

"Miss Scott."

Leila Scott/Elias Grimstone

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

She would have liked nothing better than to curl up in the sagging, flea-bitten armchair in her shabby front room and cat-nap all day, if she could. But she couldn't afford another day off this week. So instead she was trudging around the Hog's Head doing her chores more mutely than usual, and planes away in her head from the jovial banter down in the pub.

Her legs protested weakly as she climbed the stairs, but Leila gritted her teeth and made for the airing cupboard on the landing, to dig out some fresh sheets for the beds she had to make up. She had scarcely put her hand on the door handle when a voice said her name behind her; Leila's shoulders jerked up in surprise. She'd been too out of it, then, to have even heard the footsteps.

Gritting her teeth a little harder, to force herself through what was plainly about to be someone demanding something of her, be it fetch me a drink from downstairs, or a my headboard needs dusting, there's a good girl or a rat's pissed in my shoes again from one of the guests or maybe her boss, or else someone who had only come to gawk, Leila turned around.

It took everything she had not to flinch in shock a second time. Her eyes widened in astonishment, her head reeling and a strange lump taking form in her throat. There wasn't much, day to day, to remind her of her former life any more. But this man's face had managed it, propelling her back five years in an instant; simultaneously, somehow, to her very first week at the hospital, and to the day those dreams had been dashed - which left her with a dizzying feeling in her chest and an unpleasant churning in her stomach, as though she had just apparated too far.  

"Healer Belby," she blurted out, her mouth working faster than her mind.

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Belby.

He turned the name about in his mind, round and round. Though he had borne it for three decades, it did not fit right on his shoulders, altogether alien to the man—if he could be considered that—that had become Cyrus Westerman. Ephraim Belby had been a devoted husband, a doting father, and a wizard with a strong proficiency in the healing arts, one who held his head high in all matters and was cautiously optimistic about each new dawning day. Which of those traits could the Westerman boast as anything more than a shadow of what they had once been?

No, Cyrus Westerman was a pining ex- husband, a distant father, and fully a wizard no more (though, admittedly, still a healer). He lurked on the periphery of day to day life for fear he would be recognized for what he was, and saw each day as yet another obstacle to overcome. It was, frankly, a sign of cowardice that he still stood breathing at all.

The later could not be reconciled with the former.

"It's Westerman, now," he answered her, tone devoid of emotion, his shrug tasked with—and failing at—conveying all he did not say. About Miss Scott herself, he had more questions than answers, but where to begin now that she was all but a captive audience?

Leila Scott/Elias Grimstone

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

Wrong. He promptly corrected her on his surname. Wrong on both counts, she assumed: he couldn't be a healer any more, that much she remembered, that much she knew. The hospital hadn't let her do even a week more of her internship, after the incident. How would they have kept on a healer - even a formerly respected one - the world knew to be a werewolf?

Leila wasn't sure whether it was a comfort to see him, or not. He was living proof that she was not the only person bad things had ever happened to, not the only undeserving victim of the universe. But then, he was also a living reminder. It was almost like looking at a distorted reflection of herself, this thing they had in common. (A bit rich of her to call him the distorted one, she was aware.) She couldn't look at him and not think about it.

So she settled her gaze on a safe patch of air beside his ear, and tried to settle the feeling too. "Westerman, then," Leila echoed, unconvinced. "Maybe I should have done that too," she remarked with a flippant air. Her own name stung with sourness sometimes in her mouth. (But it was about the only part of her identity she still had left - though none of her family would attest to that, anymore.)

She wondered what had happened to his family. Whether they had turned him out like hers had her, or he had left them for another reason, she supposed they would be the Belbys, still. She doubted there was any use asking after them.

"What are you doing here?" She asked instead, too fast. It didn't sound quite careless enough.

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   Cyrus Westerman

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Yes, the wizard thought, you should have.

Changing his name had not saved the shambles of his marriage (one he himself had broken), nor restored the fragmented shards of his life so that they resembled something worth living. It had, however, brought with it a level of ease, which he wore about him as he moved through the underbelly of society. Westerman was asked no questions and formed no lasting ties. He was free of that much of Belby's burdens, at any rate.

"I—" he began before hesitating. Was there a polite way to state that he had been watching her, had come here to see her, for motives even Cyrus himself was not entirely aware of yet? He realized with a fleeting moment of relief that she did not, at least, appear to bear any overwhelming malice towards him.

"I saw you here, or at least I thought I did," the wizard offered at last. "I suppose I was...curious."

Leila Scott/Elias Grimstone

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

So he wasn't just enjoying all the luxury of a stay at the Hog's Head, then, Leila thought sardonically. Instead, he was here for her. Which made no real sense either, to be honest. They had not known each other well beforehand, not really, only professionally: and they had both been different people then. There was only one thing that united them, but it was not the sort of thing that could unite people: being like this cast you out, forced you to fend for yourself, alone. Thrown to the wolves was almost the wrong expression. It was the wolves that needed pity.

She wasn't sure pity was what she wanted. And what good, exactly, was dwelling on this thing that united them going to do? What good was Mr. Belby's - Mr. Westerman's - curiosity to her?

Thinking of some way to answer, and some excuse not to fold her arms, Leila turned, briefly, to the linen cupboard and gathered a pile of folded bedsheets into her arms instead. Once she had gathered herself as well, she nudged open the door to one of the unoccupied rooms, deciding if they were going to talk (even this kind of stilted, painful small talk), they might as well do it somewhere that was not the landing of a seedy inn, where some drunkard might barge through at any moment. And after all, if she was supposed to indulge his curiosity, she might as well do it while making some progress with her job.

She inclined her head jerkily, a gesture that he was welcome to follow her, if he pleased, and carried the stack of pillowcases and sheets in to dump them on the bed there. "You wanted to see which of us was worse off these days?" She returned, starting to strip the pillows with a scathing force. "Well, here you go. I hope you're not going to tell me I look well."

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Cyrus hesitated a moment before trailing behind her. Rather than step across the threshold, he lurked in the door frame as though keeping a metaphorical barrier between them.

"You don't," he replied honestly, taking little offence to her words. However he felt about his circumstances, her circumstances, the world of polite pleasantries and white lies was long behind them both. "I suppose I only wanted to see...wanted to know what had become of you. Call it a morbid curiosity."

One with a veneer of guilt.

Leila Scott/Elias Grimstone

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

She could help but snort at his answer. She'd asked for it, she knew, but he hadn't bothered to sugarcoat it. Different, then, to both the bedside manner she'd observed him use on patients and the approach he'd had as her superior. He was different, somehow, to how she remembered.

But at least he was being honest. Morbid curiosity, hmm.

Leila didn't suppose she owed him anything, really, and could very well keep her mouth shut and go on about her day, ignoring him there in the doorway until he left. He wasn't forcing her to share anything. She had not made a habit of sharing anything, in the past five years.

She leant over near the headboard, prising up the old sheet from the corner. She might not owe him, but there was an aching urge, still, to know what had happened to him in these years past. And how could she air her own questions if she did not appease his?

"I tried leaving," Leila explained, a forced lightness in her tone. "But it's... not exactly something you can run away from, is it?" Her glance darted towards him for a moment, in order to offer up a bitter shrug. "Have you - been here?"

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No, no it wasn't. Given the high publicity of their accident, Cyrus was still very much under Ministry of Magic scrutiny. He doubted very much that he could escape it all, even if he wanted to. Besides, the wizard had abandoned his family, but he did not think he would ever have it in him to leave them completely, as selfish as it was. For a moment, he wondered if Miss Scott still kept in touch with hers, but thought it imprudent to ask.

"The slums, yes," he answered simply. "Ever since I left the hospital, more or less. Healing, well, it's enough for a comfortable living—at least, if one redefines comfort."

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

The slums, he said. She could not quite remember how well off the Belbys had been, beforehand, but he had been a well-established healer; had had a wife and children, she was sure; must have been at least as comfortable as her own family had been. So the slums were new. His "comfortable" life drastically redefined. If his family - the Belbys, or the Westermans, whatever they called themselves now - were with him, then they were still suffering those ill effects, too. For a split-second, Leila began to think at least, at least her family had not had to suffer with her... but she shook it off as though it had come from a stranger, clenched her jaw, and wished that she had gotten to drag her resisting parents all the way down into the muck with her, and could show them all the bitter comforts of the Hog's Head.

She left the bed in all its half-unmade chaos to gaze at him anew, though, her work forgotten. "You're still healing?" She repeated in total disbelief, forgetting to be belligerent or impassive for a moment. Yes, she had called him Healer Belby, but she hadn't really thought - she was sure the hospital had fired him - who would trust him to heal them now?

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He could hear the disbelief in her voice, accompanied by what he thought might be hope—but perhaps he was projecting, assuming instead how he would feel in her shoes. And, he supposed, it did seem ludicrous now that she had pointed it out.

"Not at the hospital," he hastened to clarify. "I daresay, though, that you can imagine how many are eager to accept healing for a few knuts fewer than they would pay somewhere more...formalized."

Cyrus had long seen his work as a cut above what had previously been available to his particular clientele. Sure, he had to overlook the origins of a stab wound now and again, but all parties involved in his enterprise were rewarded in the arrangement. His solitary line of work was, in the healer's mind, not dissimilar to the services a midwife or hedgewitch might provide: a small, but useful, service.

Healing, he wanted to add, was the last thing that kept him out of the darkness—dark moods, dark thoughts, dark actions. But no, they hadn't been close enough all those years ago for him to divulge something so personal; they certainly were not after so much had passed.

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

Leila inclined her head at him. She supposed that made sense. She'd seen enough of the slums and of poverty to see the sorts of people who might need his help, might be grateful for it. It was not equal to his former life, she was sure - she had dreamed often enough before of becoming assistant head of a ward, even healer-in-charge one day - but at least it was...

She had meant to pick up the sheet again, but just sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly too overwhelmed to focus on two things at once, even if the other was a mindless chore.

"Maybe from you," Leila said slowly, doing her best to repress a sigh. The feeling came out in a little involuntary shrug instead, as if she might pretend in it she was not impressed. See, even if she changed her name, hid the scars on her face as well as she could, escaped being recognised as the werewolf she was - even then, she had only been an intern. Hadn't gotten very far with it, either, before... So she wasn't qualified. Didn't know enough. Patched herself up by trial and error more these days than from any memory of the things she'd been taught or the books she'd read. That had not been an option for her. She hadn't had a lot of options.

But she was glad for Mr. Belby.

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"Yes," he echoed after a moment. "From me."

It was stated as a matter of fact, without any apology. Ephraim Belby had trained in three different departments to develop the skills that now kept Cyrus Westerman afloat. Still, the healer knew—even without seeing her here, now—that Miss Scott's journey had been altogether different from his own, and so too was the path she would walk in life. Her scars from the event were as clear as day upon her features.

His were mostly emotional.

A beat, and then, "Are you alright?" Cyrus asked, gesturing at the splendor around them. "Safe and fed, at any rate?"

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   Leila Scott

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

She was. She was glad for him. It would have been a worse waste, if he hadn't made something of his former life.

So why was there suddenly a surge of sorrow in her chest, grief scratching the insides of her throat dry? There had been plenty of time to come to terms with this loss. What was she supposed to do with the sorrow now? There was no use in it.

Leila stuffed it down, grabbed one of the pillows and stuffed that down inside a new case too, just so he wouldn't keep looking at her. He was looking around the room now, a room that was just as desolate as the rest of her life, and although she knew he couldn't judge, she still felt - less. Like she had so little to show for herself, she may as well not be here at all.

"Fine," she said grimly, punching the pillow once or twice to fluff it, as if they weren't all moth-eaten and and least a decade old. "I'm fine." Safe - safe enough. Locked up on full moons, and could fend off the worse types this inn saw even in her human state. Fed: yes. "Living the dream." She worked for her keep, had gotten good enough at saving to last a long while, and in worse conditions than this. She had been worse. "I -"

She cut herself off before she cracked, and in haste, grasped at anything else she could say. "And - and your family?" It had been the one thing she hadn't been going to ask about - some kind of unspoken agreement not to - but she would rather him have to flounder than her. "Are they well?"

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   Cyrus Westerman

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"I have heard nothing to the contrary," Cyrus answered after several moments too long. Looking at the young Miss Scott, the healer didn’t think he could say aloud that he had chosen to leave a supportive wife and children when she herself had clearly not even had the option. “It is not the life I would have chosen.”

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

He’d heard nothing to the contrary. Then they were not with him; he and his family were not on speaking terms. Bitter comforts. He was alone, then, like they were all doomed to be. She didn’t pick apart his stretching pause, tried not to delve too deep into whatever he was thinking. Similar sorrows, but not the sort to be shared.

“‘Course not,” Leila agreed, blowing out a breath. She brushed a flyaway strand of hair off her face, skirting over the place the werewolf’s claws had caught her, and turned to smile wryly at him. “Who would?”

Bundling the room’s old bedsheets into her arms, she paced back towards Mr. Westerman in the doorway. “It’s never clean, this place,” Leila informed him lightly, to change the topic, if only to say they had spoken about something that wasn’t so achingly personal. Pointing out the obvious, she knew, but it cheered her to complain about the inn, warn people away. “Rotten place to stay.” Not that he’d have to. She didn’t even know whether he would set foot in here again, after this. Had he gotten what he’d wanted from her?

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   Cyrus Westerman

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