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

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.

[nonsibi]

His mouth tightens in a kind of weary amusement with her correction, but he follows her instructions without saying anything about it, some smart-ass comment stuck in his throat somewhere. It withers entirely, as does his sort of smile, when she finally gives him her reason.

With a little bit of subtlety, Bellamy glances toward the tents proper. It's not a gaze that lingers. He sets down the bandage he's working on and looks over at Gwen.

"Hey."

He's had people die on him. No doubt she has too. He's not so stupid as to think that maybe ladies are exempt from grief, even if it seems like something that can't touch so far. All the same, he looks levelly at her.

[elegiaque]

She doesn't immediately set down what she's doing, but - he doesn't pick the bandages back up again, and he speaks to her, and she doesn't know what to do about it. Finally, when she looks up, it's -

She wishes she didn't. It feels exposing.

"Hello."

...sure.

[nonsibi]

"You should go back in there if you want." There's a pile of bandages yet to roll and probably half a hundred other little tasks, because healers are always busy, barely time for tea, and if someone has hands to lend to a job they'll take them, usually without question.

And all of it is important, but there's things in the world that are more important. Perspective.

"Or take this with you, if you want something to do with your hands," before she can really protest; if it was him, Bellamy wouldn't sit quietly, couldn't sit quietly, would need more than rolling bandages, but. It's something.

[elegiaque]

"There are a lot of people who need to see him," she says, picking up an unrolled bandage and fidgeting with the end of it, pressing it in her hands. "Not just me."

And it's - harder than she wants to admit. She can do this. She's done this. She knows the shape of the silences and where to put her hands and when to be quiet and she doesn't need lies or comfort and she won't cry, but it is hard, sometimes, and she couldn't breathe.

Sitting out here rolling bandages because she couldn't breathe sitting next to somebody who won't, soon. There's a hot rush of shame at the thought; like it's so hard for her. She's not dying.

[nonsibi]

"Yeah, well, I don't care about them." Which implies exactly what Bellamy means: that in this, he's only interested in Gwen; he only cares about her, and what she wants. Inside a tent with a dying man or outside a tent with a dying man. Priorities get very narrowed down when you have a short list of people worth a damn, and somehow Gwen has gotten to be one.

"Go and sit with him. Or go for a walk if you have to get out of here. Or keep rolling bandages, whatever you want, but don't do any of it 'cause you want to stay out of a healer's way. You're a lady. I thought you knew how to be selfish."

He tempers his sentiment by holding out his hand for the bandage she's got clutched in hers. Or maybe holding out his hand for hers. Or both.

[elegiaque]

"Someone else's deathbed isn't the place to be selfish. And I'm not doing anything to stay out of the healers' way. I'm not in their way." The sharp way she'd started subsides and she curls her fist around the bandage, tight enough her knuckles whiten, before relaxing her grip (making herself relax her grip) and putting it in his hand. "No one's in their way, in there," she says, quieter.

"He's past that. I'm just - I'm here, anyway, and I need something to do, and it might as well be something useful."

Because if she just sits or walks or waits--

she'll go mad, she needs this, the busy-work in the times she isn't actively attending him.

[nonsibi]

He keeps his gaze fixed on her face, or what he can see of her face, anyways, thanks to angles and the fall of her hair, depending which way her face is turned. And when she puts the bandage in his hand, Bellamy's fingers curl up--to accept the little weight, and to close up around her hand too, in a brief pressure.

"Just make sure you're okay." Gruff advice, in contrast to the press of his fingers. He doesn't overstay there; he'll let her go if she twitches, or pulls away. It's a small gesture anyways, one that mostly goes on out of sight. "wWhatever that means, however you get peace."

Peace is such a fragile thing anyways. So is life. And dying--selfish was a bad word for it, maybe. But the dying are dying anyways. Saying that aloud would never come out right. Bellamy doesn't know Asher, cares only because Gwen cares, because--for whatever reason--he cares about her.

[elegiaque]

Birds of a feather, flocking together; these terrible children holding hands against shadows. Gwenaëlle's lips press together and she doesn't say anything about peace, or the likelihood of anyone sensible finding any -

she curls her fingers in his, and does not immediately let go.

Peace is imaginary, she thinks. Life is hard and, contrary to popular perception, so is dying. Everything is tiring and tiresome and then it ends and it doesn't, she is sure, mean anything. Not really. Is the Maker really waiting for them? It's hard to think so when shades haunt the Fallow Mire and Corypheus rips the world apart at its fucking seams. And now Asher, who is so strong, who couldn't pull his hand out of hers any more if she didn't let him.

"I'm fine," she says, but she still doesn't let go.

[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.

[thecookery]

"I'll make sure there's enough left," Avery says simply, and then returns to her work, making sure that everyone else who needs it is served as well. Including Guenievre, who even earns herself a brief conversation, unlike most of the others.

So it's actually some time later that Avery returns to Gwenaëlle's side, this time with food actually in hand, and goes so far as to take a seat nearby before offering it up. Apparently she has no plans to walk off again anytime soon. "Here."

[elegiaque]

A hint of suspicion in the glance that follows Avery to sitting, but not enough to stop her from accepting the plate that she's offered; she still isn't hungry, really, but apparently people need food to live. Or something. Dwelling on whether or not there is anyone who'd be concerned if she just didn't bother is a morbid thought that she decides not to have - and the easiest way to avoid finding out that there isn't is just to. Eat the food.

She picks at it a bit, lackluster, but -

"Thank you," because she was ... well. She wasn't raised correctly, but she certainly had etiquette lessons.

[thecookery]

"Sure." Um... yeah, sorry, this one wasn't raised correctly or given etiquette lessons.

Other than that though, Avery doesn't seem to... do much? She sits and watches the activity around the tents, occasionally glancing at Gwenaëlle herself. At one point she makes a quiet tsking sound when she notices a new sauce-stain on her old trousers and briefly rubs at it in vain?

She doesn't know how to deal with sad people other than feeding them! This pony has shown off its one trick, and now she's completely unsure of how to proceed!

"So," she tries eventually, "this is right mess, isn't it?"

[elegiaque]

At the best of times, Gwenaëlle is no better at being comforted than Avery is at offering it; prickly and difficult by temperament, reluctant to have her exposed nerves closely examined by anyone. By strangers, even less -

A long, incredulous silence follows Avery's well-intentioned attempt. Vague suspicion coalesces into something much chillier, and she answers, crisply neutral, "Yes, I might describe a man's decline into death as a 'mess'."

'If I were an asshole' doesn't really need to be said when she's wearing that expression.

[thecookery]

Unfortunately... or... maybe fortunately? This one must be either immune or completely oblivious to the unstated animosity, because Avery simply leans her weight forward and crosses her arms over her knees, not looking directly at Gwenaëlle.

"Doubt that," she says with a shrug. Not someone who dresses and talks like she does. "Still is one."

Death always is. Messy, that is. Especially when it's slow. It causes a big mess around it, and it turns people and things into messes, and then it's gone and all that's left is... well, you know.

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle counts backwards in her head, and then - more sharply, and without bothering to acknowledge anything Avery actually said to her in response,

"Do you want something?"

Both the food and the bandages have temporarily lost her interest, and she's sat back, frowning. There's very little about her to suggest that she might be inclined to entertain whatever it is Avery wants, but at least it would explain what's happening, probably.

[thecookery]

This time, Avery actually looks over properly at the sharp tone and returns Gwenaëlle's frown. "Not really... I just decided to take a bit of a break, and you were sat by yourself."

That's what people do in these kinds of situations, right? Exchange some words? Try to be, like... nice to each other or whatever?

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.