( closed ) No longer I can justify the bloodshed in his name

[fightingale]

WHO: Leliana & various closed threads (for now - open stuff later)
WHAT: Wicked Grace night goes horribly wrong and Leliana is kind of dying
WHEN: forward dated to the night of the 22nd, post-assassination attempt
WHERE: Leliana's creepy Rookery chamber place
NOTES:
1. Pretentious images in the main post and starters in the comments because I'm a bit ridiculous.

2. Content warning for attempted murder/violence/poison/all that implies.

3. Party style threading is welcome and encouraged, it might make it a bit easier to discuss side matters after the initial discovery.

4. This will probably open up for including other threads and stuff that can be forward dated, but initially just closed.

5. There will be some terrible poetry in here and I'm not even sorry; it is only one in a series that will be left around Skyhold and will be posted later. Belle, Jansen & Libby are beautiful humans for enduring my rambles.

Comments

[arcaneadvisor]

"Might one of you be so kind," it takes all her effort to stop her keep her hackles from rising entirely when she's here in Leliana's bed, when she could shake each and every one of them as if they were personally responsible as her voice is falsely kind, falsely cheerful, "to let me know the ingredients later? Herbalism is a skill of mine." Leliana would vouch for her, had she the voice she thinks and well they've been working together since she arrived, tis hardly a shock that she would want to know, that she might know something that could offer some sort of assistance when magic alone has done more harm than good.

One hand splays across Leliana's back where the scout might be able to guess but will not be able to tell where it is exactly, supporting her carefully, thumb rubbing small circles. There is no shame in leaning on a friend (or are they more than that? They didn't get a chance to speak on it, there was an interruption, an intrusion. She could scream that something has come once again and after this she will make time.)

"And perhaps she might not need to rest if others had done their jobs." That is for Leliana's ears alone, not some upjumped scout that will be realise the error of her ways later; ten years ago and the mouth might have been slapped clean off her face, but Morrigan has letters to be sent, and books to be fetched, and no one enjoys an infestation of spiders or tiny stinging flies. Her other hand finds Leliana's beneath the blankets to squeeze tightly. "They are repulsive, I am certain, but did we not survive Alistair's attempts at cooking?"

A little humour to get her through, a hand to squeeze if they are foul and another to help anchor her through it all. Leliana has seen Morrigan when she has been upset, frightened and worried for Kieran, ready to lash out, unsure and hesitant and offering out whatever she is to her. She can give her what she needs now and hope that it's enough, and hold her tight when the scout is gone again and she no longer needs to be the Nightingale again.

[fightingale]

If the scout hears Morrigan's request - she does - she does not acknowledge it. It is one occasion where Leliana might wince about the strict standards to which her scouts conduct themselves. Orders not from the lips of the Nightingale or some short life of alternates are to be disregarded, and for all that Morrigan is someone she has a great regard to, she is not upon that list.

The scout whose name Leliana is still struggling to recall bows to Leliana, respectful, before tilting her head back a little and very slowly pouring the contents of the vial down her throat. Leliana tenses, fingers clenching around the rumpled surfaces of bedsheets. Each vial feels akin to swallowing metal shavings, with how raw her throat is still.

By the time the second vial is done, she is hard pressed to keep from shaking, the strain of holding herself up even with Morrigan's help and with the pain of swallowing make her struggle. Pride is her downfall, now, pride mixed in with a stubborn determination not to give up, though in truth Leliana has no idea how to endure the third vial.

[arcaneadvisor]

It aches to see Leliana like this; even when she wept before there was always something strong within her, something made of steel. No one likes to be reminded of mortality and Morrigan cannot watch without intervening, opinion of this scout be damned.

"A moment," she tells the scout in a voice that brooks no argument, not with the way her eyes flash, as she adjusts herself in the bed to rise on her knees, one hand still holding Leliana's, another still supporting her. "You will not be defeated by a single vial. Nor will you be defeated by some imbecile with a penchant for terrible poetry suited to Val Royeaux."

There's a hint of nail when her hand squeezes, a different sort of pain to focus on even for a moment as she bends enough to look Leliana in the eye.

"There has been worse than this." That is not a comfort, and it brings Morrigan no joy to say it when they've been through all this before, when they've brought out the corpses and picked through them, let the ghosts wander between them as they will. "There was the Circle tower by Lake Calenhad and the horrors there where we were trapped within our nightmares. The werewolves and all that we found within the forests where Zathrian twisted nature against itself in his vengeance. Everything about the Deep Roads. The final battle where the Archdemon raged, the sky the colour of a bruise with every foul beast imaginable pouring through the streets of Denerim. You are the Left Hand of the Divine, Leliana, you will manage this," she murmurs more softly, and she cannot help but rest her head against hers for a moment.

She is trusting Leliana's scout to have some discretion in this, when she must close her eyes and take a breath before she arches a brow, waiting for Leliana to nod. One more moment and it will be over, and Morrigan can ease her back and talk nonsense or simply lie in silence with her until sleep comes, wishing that the first time like this could have been so very different.

[fightingale]

The scout does not quirk an eyebrow. She turns away, moves few steps, and folds her hands in front of her to allow the Nightingale and her-- friend some semblance of privacy.

Leliana, for her part, holds herself up as best she can. Proud, stubborn, strong - the nails digging into her skin are grounding, and though she is struggling, she nods. Morrigan is right. Morrigan knows her, in this. If anything was going to defeat a Bard of Orlais, let along the Nightingale, it would not be poetry. There is a smile, very thin and largely for Morrigan's benefit, but it is a smile all the same.

She is glad to rest her head against Morrigan's, even if only of a moment, before she nods. She nods, knocks on the bedframe to regain the scout's attention, and forces herself to sit up for the last vial. She will endure. She is the Nightingale, and she will endure.