John
And now the pain's different,
It still exists, just escapes different
And evades vision, makes the rain different
[makes the news boring, and my rage distant.](<

She had not set foot here since the end of January. 

Too heart-sick to even cast her eyes upon that doorway in which she had looked to silver in sunlight and understood *Everything*.

Months had passed. Full moons had shone bright. People had been hurt, their bloodied bodies carried here before dawn had even lifted over the town, to be lovingly and laboriously put back together by well-trained, hard-working hands.
How much study did it take, Marianne wondered, before your hands ceased to shake? Before you learned to bite your tongue and persevere in the face of scarlet and bone, regardless of whose body lay beneath your touch, clinging to life in spite of it all? 
Her admiration for the doctors and nurses in Briar Ridge knew no bounds. To rise as they did each morning knowing that the continued collective heartbeat of the town rested in their palms. To not allow the pain and fear passing through the ward's doors to bring them down... They were stronger men and women than she could ever be.

That was why, a year ago now, she had begun to write to the place. Envelopes containing rosewater-scented handwritten letters alongside neatly folded bills. *'For those who cannot afford the costs of their own care,'* She had written, *'consider their debts settled.'*
There had been a conversation, eventually, between Doctor Olander and herself, as the attacks upon the townsfolk mounted again and again. 
*"I have it covered,"* Marianne had said. 

And she had indeed, for a long time, had it covers. The letters ceased, but the payments did not. At least, until February, when in her grief, she had forgotten to send the money, and then a new doctor had come to town to replace the old. She had not yet met Nathaniel Ashworth - had hoped she would have no need to come to know him well.

The bloodshed had continued on, though, and she had known in her heart that the hospital still needed her. 

That was how she found herself, head bowed low, shoulders wrapped in a blush-coloured shawl, knocking at the door to the place and only hoping someone would be free to answer. She would not keep them long, if she could help it, but she had to make up for her absences. 

||
Miriam
Doctor Olander had talked of a *Mysterious benefactor* For their work, but it didn't take a scientist or a medical degree to parse out who in town could afford to *Benefact* Just 'bout anything. Besides, Marianne Wilburn had that distinctive handwriting, and the words were so pretty and the pages smelled like rosewater in such a way... Of course, she wasn't sure Marianne had been trying to hide her identity as much as Doctor Olander didn't want to draw attention to anything aside from the practice. Lorelai hadn't asked questions, and she certainly didn't go hunting down money when it had stop coming. 

It wasn't her place; and she had watched Marianne by Francis Estep's side as he'd faded from this world into the next. She thought it had been hard to watch people die in war, but she couldn't help but think that this was much, much worse. When it was war, you could detach yourself to a degree. They were men who died for their country; they knew what they were getting into. They cried for their mamas on their death beds; cried for their wives, girlfriends, children. All they mighta had was Lorelai in that moment as the light faded from their eyes. It had rattled her. But those men got packed up in wooden boxes and shipped back home, and Lorelai never had to look at their *Grief*. 

But it was unavoidable here. She watched Marianne Wilburn hold the hand of her lover as he died. Watched the procession of Esteps come to say their last goodbyes to their son, brother, cousin, friend. She watched April Abrams identify her husband's body in agonized screams, only to end up on the same table not a month later. 

The knock came before the doors were unlocked, and Lorelai tightened her apron before she scurried to the door. She flipped the lock and popped the door open; she was surprised to see Marianne Wilburn on the other side of the door. "Miss Wilburn," She said, voice real soft. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" She stepped aside, allowing her entrance.
John
Marianne couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief when it was Lorelai who answered the door, rather than the good doctor himself. To have a familiar face to come to was such a blessing, and *What* A woman Lorelai Roswell was. It was difficult not to feel immediately at peace in her company, despite the aura that hung around the hospital, despite the awful memories that crept into the edges of her thoughts as she stepped over the threshold. 

"Lorelai, it's good to see you again," She greeted quietly, mustering up a smile for the nurse. "I'm sure you're real busy, so I'll be sure not take so much of your time. I only thought I might come by and discuss a matter or two. Something... Perhaps sensitive, so if there's somewhere we could be in private for a moment? Though, don't fret - I'm quite well and in no need of your professional services, so to speak. Only a talk." 

Her words were a little clumsier than she might have liked them to be, but she got her point across well enough. She looked around as she spoke - the ward seemed blissfully quiet, with only a few beds having curtains drawn around them, and the low buzz of voices too few and too soft to make out at a distance. That had to be good - to have the place bustling and crowded with the wounded and their families was never a positive sign. 

"You see - I'm sure Doctor Olander made you aware of my, *Ah*, arrangement, with him, regarding... Well, regarding a lot of things. And I fear I have been failing to keep up my half of what was agreed, lately, and I should like to resume business as it were before."

||
Miriam
She shut the door behind Marianne as she entered the building; she really hadn't seen the woman come around since... Well, Francis, and she couldn't blame her a bit. She was sure merely stepping foot inside had conjured up some rather unsavory memories. Lorelai was perfectly suited to pushing those kinds of things away at this point in her life, but not everyone was. Not everyone was equipped to handle such tragedy, day in and day out. She'd grown used to it - though, admittedly, there were things lately that seemed to want to glue themselves to the back of her eyelids. 

Black blood. Ripped flesh. 

"You know, it ain't like you was obligated to it," She told the woman, folding her hands. "And don't feel too bad 'bout it, neither. I mean, we been doin' alright." Lorelai smiled, her hands squeezing together. "Though admittedly, if yer wanting to start back up with the business of it all, we would certainly appreciate it. Things have been gettin'...Strained, as of late." They couldn't keep up their stock of bandages. They were running out of rubbing alcohol and iodine like it was a pitcher of water on a hot day. Even the ability to get any semblance of clean sheets... Well, things had been hard. 

"Come, sit," She gestured off to the private office that Nathaniel used. He wasn't in at the moment, but it was a private place for them to talk, and she knew he wouldn't care much if they commandeered it for the moment. She shut the door behind them and took a seat in one of the chairs. "How have you been, Miss Wilburn?" She asked her. "Holdin' up alright, I hope?"