i tried to write your name in the rain

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle and YOU.
WHAT: A catch-all for the month.
WHEN: August.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: Closed starters in the comments - hit me up at matriarchal or demis#8828 on discord if you would like to do something with Gwenaëlle!

Comments

lex ; i'm not entirely here

[elegiaque]

Probably there are a number of things that announce Gwenaëlle before, "Excuse me?" from somewhere slightly behind Lex.

Footsteps; the particular rustle of a weighty gown's skirts against stone. Under breath muttering, picking her way through the space, the metal shift of chain that means her reading glasses are hanging from her waist and not resting on the end of her nose. Also, she cleared her throat.

Still - there's an excuse me, polite as you like. She's relatively sure, off the new arrival and Yngvi's more or less coherent description thereof, that she has the right person, but she follows it up with, "Lord Luthor?" rising a little at the end to make the name itself a question. Or the address; correct, but, you know, she's never met a lord of any kind who would be found near anvils. Or at least not to do work upon. Or, for that matter, many lords with whom Yngvi and Gunnar are apparently on first name terms with -

He could be any number of ways eccentric. She presses her hands together and rocks forward on the balls of her feet, restless energy that comes both from spending so much of her time sitting at Asher's side and from - not being there, and what if something happens while she's gone?

Probably this won't take very long, she reasons, and other people are there, and Guenievre is still there (she can think of no where safer for her to be than where Yngvi and Gunnar are, offhand, except maybe with Thranduil who is complicated), and it will be fine, she's wanted to do this, and she might be -

busy, later.

[goodforsaken]

Any sound that's not common to the environment would do it; usually he's capable of regulating those to background noise, but there are still variables he can't account for, so in this case the loose, messy waves hiding his face do come up before he's actually spoken to.

Immediately thereafter the raise of eyebrows. It's Lord Luthor, is it, meaning he either comes recommended by his own staff, or any of a handful of other uh...less savory sources he has perhaps had contact with, and consequently made highly illegal things for previous to this day. Either is an interesting prospect.

"Lord-anything is unnecessary," is. Like, how he chooses to greet this. Notably if she appeared to be a servant he probably wouldn't correct her, because uhhhhh a lot of the time nobility engenders inherent dickery that way. He pushes the hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand and promptly gets soot on his forehead; if he notices this it's irrelevant. "Since I don't see anyone holding a cheese plate. Is there something I can do for you?

[elegiaque]

"Alexander," she corrects herself, which is possibly more presumptuous than the wide variety of substitutions she could have gone with; if he's as used to certain dwarves as advertised, he'll live. "Lady Gwenaëlle Vauquelin."

He didn't actually ask who she is, just what she wants, but it seems both polite and necessary to establish that she isn't immediately inviting him to ignore her title. Even if she does sort of tilt her head when his arm comes up to push his hair back. (You don't see nobility in Orlais with biceps like that. Or at least not with them out, covered in soot.)

If the name doesn't give it away, the accent as she continues makes it fairly plain where she originated from; "I've been looking for - I need something ... 'smithed'." There's another little uptick; this is not exactly a vocabulary she's often called upon to use, is that the right word? You talk about 'smithing' things, so ... 'smithed', yes? Probably. She continues without waiting for him to weigh in on that - if it is the wrong word then it shouldn't be, it's very obvious what she's asking. "Yngvi and Gunnar recommended you to me. It isn't for the Inquisition - I can pay very handsomely. And for all the materials. Can you make a dragon with joints?"

At this point, Gwenaëlle mimes a dragon flapping its wings.

"A little one. Not too heavy for a child to move."

[goodforsaken]

Well, if that wasn't the actual last thing he was expecting to hear it was certainly low on the list; surprise makes him look both younger and like if he were wearing spectacles he'd be lifting them to peer at her. (Guess who fully intends to have reading glasses in this universe, by the way, because Lasik doesn't exist.) That he's sidetracked here is one reason he doesn't react more strongly to 'Alexander' rather than say, 'messer' as a midpoint; it's audacious, but not in a way he feels immediately obliged to hit back. (That audacity is 75% of the way he, personally, gets anything done, is completely immaterial.)

Really though, absorbing 'I was recommended to you by two of the Carta's more fascinating members, which has led you to believe I am the person to consult for a mechanical child's toy' takes up a lot of anyone's brain, even Lex's. Perhaps especially his since there's all this ...personal...ness ...happening. His life would be easier if people just gave him neatly organized lists of specs he could then ignore. But! He's never made one of those, and while the Inquisition can keep him as busy as he'd like and then some, he does have off-hours he could abuse.

"Could you repeat that? Your name, not the commission." He pronounces it carefully, but definitely like a Free Marcher. They go through this another three times before he's satisfied and repeats it back to her as perfectly it's going to get on the tongue of a Notlesian, adding, "The sampler platter of information you seem to have on me suggests you probably know I don't need the money. Does this child have material preferences, or can I do whatever I want?"

He's going to do that anyway. Also, pretend narrative earlier contained a reference to him putting down whatever he was making and stepping out of like, the path of any incoming sparks.

[elegiaque]

The time he takes to correctly pronounce her name is sufficiently gratifying that she makes a mental note to possibly let him use it; he carries on too quickly for her to remark on it, but that's - fine, since he is carrying on in such a way as to indicate he's going to do what she wants him to. And that he doesn't need her money was a consideration, and potentially a problem, but as she says in verbal shrug when he points it out; "It was worth a try."

Maybe he'd have been greedy enough?

But no, she can interpret 'can I do what I want' as 'I will make your child toy', and here they are -

"It's to be a surprise, Kieran doesn't know it's going to exist. I thought I'd defer to the expert on what would be the most suitable thing. I don't." She pulls a face; "I don't know metal things."

[fightingale]

It was as casual an invitation as a Spymaster and Advisor to an Inquisition can offer, which is (truth be told) not actually very casual at all. A suggestion of tea and cakes and an opportunity to thank Gwenaëlle for her assistance with Kieran while Leliana was sick and Morrigan was correspondingly distracted. It is tea in the study off the Rookery, rather than in the Rookery itself, and in the corner of the room lays a nug basket. The room smells of dusty books, lavender, and burning beeswax candles. And, now, a selection of tartlets in lemon and strawberry and caramel varieties, a mix of Orlesian and Antivan styles. Thank the Maker for Burly and his love of dessert.

She stands when Gwen arrives, heralded by the gently indignant caw of Baron Lucky.

"Please forgive the Baron," she starts, nodding to the bird peering suspiciously at Gwen from his perch. "I suspect he finds guests rather offensive. His re-training is underway,"

[elegiaque]

It doesn't feel casual, which is to say, it doesn't feel like an invitation she can decline. Not that she doesn't want to - she is cautiously interested in whatever this is about, not entirely persuaded to trust it at face value - but a healthy wariness of Leliana in general seems...healthy. It's probably not about writing more about elves again, at least, but -

"It's his space and not mine," she says, very reasonably, admittedly choosing the path to her seat that involves the least risk of crossing his. "I understand his feeling."

She finds most guests offensive, too. There's a reason, probably, that invitations to her own quarters are fairly rare for anyone that isn't Morrigan or Kieran.

[fightingale]

"I like to think it's my space," Leliana begins, just slightly wry, "but I understand your sentiment."

She picks up the teapot and holds it up, leaning toward the ornate teacup on Gwenaëlle's side of the table.

"Do you prefer tea or coffee?"

Would that this were some secret part of the Game, rather than a nicety. For some it might be, assessing the need for sharpness or calmness, but in her experience it takes rather more time and observation, and more importantly she suspects that Morrigan would not approve. That wouldn't stop Leliana analysing every motion Gwenaëlle makes but she might feel a little bad about it. The Game is easier than niceties.

[elegiaque]

"Tea." It's obvious in that slight pause that Gwenaëlle is trying to work out if the question is a test, and what the right answer is, and then if she cares. The slight edginess of her, though, is not only about Leliana but about her own absence from the healing tents; she keeps glancing not toward the stairs but the nearest window, as if she could see down and out, as if that would settle her restless fingers.

She knots them together in her lap; makes herself flatten her hands, looks down at the cups.

"Thank you," after a slight pause. She should be trying harder. "For inviting me."

[fightingale]

"Thank you for taking the time to attend me." The glances are not lost on her, and she is nothing if not well informed. "I am aware that your time is precious. How is Asher?"

Her concern is genuine, for all that she doesn't know him personally. It is never a good thing, to hear of someone suffering, especially one with whom one shares a cause so essential as the Inquisition. "Does his condition better?"

No, she suspects, but better to take an interest and give the girl time to reflect on something that matters to her, if need be.

the healing tents ; keep on dreaming, don’t stop breathing, fight those demons

[elegiaque]

Not absolutely all of Gwenaëlle's time at the healing tents is spent by Asher's side - for logistical reasons as much as anything else. He'd not see her put out, and she won't be, but time must be made for others to spend their time with him, to say their goodbyes or to pretend they haven't got to a little while longer. Sometimes she just ... needs the air, away from the oppressive quiet of what has been a death watch from its beginning, can give him no more stoicism without breathing in something else. She wouldn't have him feel he needs to comfort her again; she withdraws, sometimes, so that when she comes back she can still hold his hands and meet his eyes without flinching.

That's what she can give him. Her steadiness, her certainty, her patience.

She has been here before and it's never easy, but I didn't want her to be alone and so she didn't let her be. She doesn't want him to be alone, and - she knows him. How carefully he presents himself to a world he makes sure no one sees him care for the opinion of; if she can give nothing else then maybe a respite from the expenditure of that much energy. Gwenaëlle knows Asher, who and what he is, and needs no play-acting - he doesn't have to comfort her on his deathbed, he doesn't have to be anything for her but what he is. And if when Guenievre persuades her to return to her own bed she cries herself out, then -

it's hard, but hard things are necessary, sometimes. So she rolls bandages and puts together poultices the way the healers have told her to and looks at nothing in particular, because it's too early to be persuaded to bed but Guenievre had caught something in her eye and decided she ought to have some air.

[nonsibi]

Bellamy's familiarity with stuff like social calls and good manners is fairly limited. From a remote hut to the ranks of the Templars, to a warcamp of desperate mages, he has never had the opportunity to get any sort of refinement, but he still doesn't go to Gwen's private rooms. Hasn't been there since he escorted her to the healing tents, actually. And while he could have sent Gwen a note--his spelling and his handwriting are both of a better quality than his humble origins would suggest--he's elected instead to come down here to the healing tents and find her.

She's working, he's been told. People have seen her. She's a lady, she has a maid who accompanies her sometimes, and she's been hanging around the healer's tents, which is a venue that Bellamy is familiar with.

He actually admires that she's working. And as much as he's teased her about her status, there is something harder in Gwen that Bellamy appreciates. A little like Clarke, in that respect, but colder and haughtier and more willing to smile, even if her smiles have a studied pointy politeness to them. Octavia would either like Gwen or hate her. Probably the latter. They're too alike, in a way. And Bellamy misses his sister, more than he would say, thinks about her a great deal--worries about her, because she's somewhere he isn't, and he has a responsibility to her that he's forsaking to be here, and some days that thought alone stirs up a restlessness in him that's difficult to fight down. Like he's wasting his time here.

So he goes to make himself an obstruction in the healer's tents, because that's where Gwen is. He could go and train in the yard or something. Find something to keep busy with. Preparations for the missions to Orlais are underway, and he'll be riding out in the next few days. He could do any number of things, but instead he strolls over to where Gwen is working and leans up against a tent pole some few feet away, folds his arms over his chest and watches her rolling bandages.

"Nice work," he compliments, after a second. In case she's missed seeing him. "I thought you were just here to write stuff."

[elegiaque]

It takes her a moment to look up; she hadn't exactly missed that he was there, just maybe that it necessitated a reaction from her, her mind somewhere else. Her mind still in those tents, maybe, because she looks past him when she does - there's a long enough pause to be genuinely awkward before she says, "Technically, I'm not here to do anything except not die of the anchor-shard, I only decided I would write," which is pedantry that it must be said his version did not actually contradict, anyway.

She looks down at the bandages she's rolling and swallows, aware of Guenievre conspicuously not far from her, the sentinel shadows of Yngvi and Gunnar. Lowers her lashes and breathes out, clenches her fingers for a moment like she's quite literally reminding herself to sheathe her claws.

It's not as if she isn't pleased to see him. He'll be gone off to Orlais, soon; she is pleased to see him first, conscious of the spike of anxiety at the thought of what the Inquisition (and therefore the few people in it she cares for personally) might be walking into there and that there's nothing she can do about that they're going or what they'll find.

"I thought since I'm going to be here for a bit regardless," after another pause, "I might as well make myself useful."

[nonsibi]

"And you're not even part of the Inquisition."

Fair point on her purpose here. Bellamy observes her for a second longer--mostly her back, a little of her profile. Her hands, when they lift briefly into view with the actions of her work. Then he shoves away from the pole he's leaning against and goes to stand behind her, and grabs a bandage to roll, or whatever. He's not good at idleness even when he's mostly here to be a pain.

He's a little clumsy with his first attempt, but he watches her at it while he's working, to get a sense of the movement. They're not close enough for indecency or anything. She's got eyes on her; she's a lady. But they're at the same task. Proximity is necessary.

Anyways, more importantly: "Why here?"

[elegiaque]

At one point, she stops him with her fingers and corrects his method; efficiently, wordlessly. It's easier than immediately answering his question, which she - doesn't, for a while.

"Asher Hardie is dying," she says, eventually, after it's been long enough he might've thought she intended not to say anything at all. "I've been sitting with him. Keeping him company. And there are things that I can do," in the most level way, "that give the healers more time for their other patients."

The patients that aren't dying.

[thecookery]

Being in need seems to be the resting state for most everyone here, doesn't it? Whether it's supplies or care or simply a bit of space... and time, as much of it as they try to make, there's still never quite enough and it leaves the air feeling full with all the needing.

For Avery... well honestly, she's not entirely sure what it is she needs from this place. The sights and smells of the healing tents tend to bring up memories she doesn't care to dwell on, and it isn't even a part of her normal duties to come here. But every so often, she volunteers to bring the meals for patients too ill and healers too stubborn to seek them out on their own. Someone has to, so why not her? Other than her less than stellar bedside manner, that is.

Today, she's been here a short while already, distributing her cooking, and though she's noticed the distracted young woman also present of course, she doesn't approach until she's at least seen to those here she recognizes and knows need it most. And even then, there's a moment of hesitation, wondering if it's really such a good idea to disrupt her reverie.

"There's food," Avery does inform her eventually though, voice softer than usual given the circumstances but still as simple and straightforward as ever. "If you want it."

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle looks up when she's addressed - not before that, paying little attention to the comings and goings of those she doesn't recognise as related to Asher's situation and those she presumes to be servants and therefore effectively background noise - and it appears to take her a moment to register ... that she has been, and why.

"Thank you," she says, eventually, polite enough. "I'm not hungry."

--not because she has eaten, that would be sensible. But Asher lies dying a few feet away and she has been here every day, she sits up with him, she finds busywork, she does her sewing. She sits and waits and she doesn't let herself not acknowledge what it is she's waiting for, and it's a cold, quiet ache that moves her away from small things like wanting to eat a sandwich and seeking out company on purpose.

[thecookery]

Avery nods at the response, though she looks less than convinced. Reading the mood is far from one of her best skills, but in this case, even she isn't completely clueless.

Her first instinct is to turn and move on (perhaps after silently shoving some food into her hands anyway??), and she wonders if that might be the kinder choice in this case. But something keeps her in place and urges her to continue, "You've been here a while."

It's almost a question?

[elegiaque]

"I will be here for a while."

--more. Of a while. Probably not as long as she's already been, but they're not quite at the point of thinking in terms of hours and she doesn't want to start counting days; she's going to be here just as long as she needs to be. Her hands slow to a stop over the bandages, thinking on it, but she seems to notice and bends her head back to the task, lips pressed together.

A few months ago, she probably would've bristled at the casual address; that she doesn't now is as much because she's becoming accustomed to the disconcertingly egalitarian Inquisition as it is her distraction or, frankly, the alignment of the planets that means she isn't in the mood to test her claws on something that probably doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

Also, behaving rudely to someone with food is a quick way of having them do something to your food.

"I could - have something in a bit." Because Guenievre is looking, and she won't - say anything, but she'll keep looking.

Five years late

[justice_is_blond]

Losing someone isn't easy.

He doesn't know Asher, barely knows anything about Gwen, but this? This is something he knows. He's lost so many, and he's been the healer called far too many times in Darktown when it's too late.

What he also knows is that there are multiple ways to respond to impending loss, and rather than fall apart, she's pushing forward. He can't blame the people who do fall to pieces, but he'd honestly expected her to be one of those group. Instead she's finished the current batch of bandages and he can see that this is far from the first batch she's finished up.

"Would you like tea before you start on the next project?" It can help... or it can be too much time away from doing something, and sometimes one just needs their hands busy.

[arcaneadvisor]

It had been when she asked after stories of the rifters that she had found out about Gwenaelle being by the healing tents, and so she returns from Halamshiral far quicker than any others since that's always the case when the crow flies. Still, it isn't a crow that lurks since even Morrigan has tact, though at times there's a cat slinking around until she finds a time to catch the young lady alone.

After, she judges. She's been away for a time since she might not play the Game, might abhor it but she is here to help (Sabine's questioning still irritates her more than it should, a stone in her boot she cannot get rid of that rubs raw) though again she is needed her too. There are people she cares for here, and the caring of a witch is…

Well it's a different sort of thing. More encompassing, more possessive in a way. Furious and terrifying.

"Gwenaelle," she murmurs with a voice low and rough from her journey, stepping out of whatever shadows there are because it's Morrigan and there's always a dramatic entrance. "I came as soon as the word did."

[elegiaque]

It's startling on several levels to see Morrigan here - because she's in Orlais, isn't she, they're all in Orlais, because she just sort of melts out of shadow like something barely real and wild, and then because of what she says, words that take a moment to parse for meaning because they don't seem real or right. That she's come for her - walking across a castle is one thing, but to fly in another form across nations - it must be very easy, she supposes, it must be something she does often, it's just.

Gwenaëlle doesn't actually think about what she's doing until she's already buried her face in Morrigan's shoulder, wrapped her arms tight around her waist; because she needs to and because she wants to be sure that she's real and here and that she hasn't misunderstood. (She hasn't, she thinks - she couldn't wishfully think this hard, not even her.) She tries and fails to say - something, anything, to sound clever or interesting or just not trite, but the words stick in her throat and she presses her forehead against Morrigan's collarbones and stops trying, the tension with which she's so carefully folded herself up like a puzzle box a now tangible thing at this sudden lack of distance.

Guenievre, not yet a familiar sight to the witch, had half-risen and now stops, sinks back down, observes without expression how easily (her daughter) reaches for a stranger's comfort.

[arcaneadvisor]

Sometimes - a lot of times - Morrigan wonders if the stories of the many daughters of Flemeth are just the one daughter, at different points in time. The girls they were, the women they are, the women they will become, if that's something that Flemeth gives them (she might have said once that perhaps Flemeth did not give her life but just as a mother knows her child, a wise child knows their mother, and Morrigan knows she is Flemeth's blood and Flemeth's bone, and mercifully not whatever twisted thing that has seen her last so many ages of the world.) Shapeshifting is one of the better gifts, and Kieran is the other that allows her to open her arms easily as breathing.

Taller than Kieran, shorter than Leliana (more upright than Leliana was) but simple enough to gather her in, to croon nonsense for a moment because there is always that moment when the words don't make sense, when pain is a terrible wounded animal thing. When you only wish for it to stop. She was alone once. Hurting. Frightened. There is so much hurt, so much pain, and grief, and misery in the walls of Skyhold for these ancient stones to drink that she wonders what dwelt here in ages past to call it home, to preside over a place and pour power into it, if it fats itself still on it.

But there is Gwenaelle, and Morrigan's eyes darting to the stranger fast as a bird or a deer. "I heard that another had departed," she explains to give her a moment to collect herself should she wish it, "and of a friendship shared. You were there when Leliana was indisposed for Kieran, I wished to do what I could in return."

She still isn't good at saying she cares but she can be here, resolute in a way witches are.

[elegiaque]

"He'll be gone soon," Gwenaëlle says, wetly, to Morrigan's shoulder; it's another few moments before she can muster the composure required to let go and to straighten, but when she does her eyes are only a little brighter than usual and the glimmer of a wet smudge on her cheek will dry quick. "Soon. It's - all goodbyes, now."

It's both easier and harder than it was, with Annegret; easier because she isn't the only pair of hands, the only sore heart. Harder because she isn't the only pair of hands, the only sore heart - she wraps her hands around her own elbows, tight, holds so still it must be deliberate. She might rock herself, if she didn't. Everything she doesn't know how to say is a fist around her throat and she just -

"Thank you." For coming. That and only that, on its own, is more than she'd think even to ask for, much less expect to get; not that she wouldn't want, but she knows so well the back of people. The ease with which she sometimes feels forgotten. Solitude of habit, not preference - hesitating to ask for what she couldn't bear to hear no to. Hesitating to ask when no would be better, still, than only silence. Then- "I've. We've. Been helping a little, for the healers. I know a little. Nothing magic."

Obviously. She flexes her hand, though, remembers; now doesn't feel like the time to go into it, but Morrigan will hear, and soon.

[arcaneadvisor]

"Better to know," Morrigan says because isn't this what she does? Rips the caul off the eyes, strips away the illusions as easily as if casting dispel. Jonas was the first friend she'd ever made, and not knowing wherever he is now? It doesn't so much rankle, not with ten years, with their own agendas but he did a lot for her. "To be there."

This is one area where Morrigan is curiosly out of her depth; she had no time for grief during the Blight and never has she been close enough for anyone for it to ever to touch her. Always away, always apart. Watching it from a careful distance. The closest she came was Leliana and Leliana had been saved, snatched back as befits someone like Leliana who lives her life courting death and danger.

"I had no idea you would know such things," she admits, unable to keep the surprised note from her voice; Gwenaelle is not any young Orlesian lady yet that still doesn't seem a thing many of them would know. "Many of us learn such skills when we have no choice otherwise, and they serve us well. That makes it no easier, however."