faderift | [open] seven times I went down

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[open] seven times I went down

WHO: Teren von Skraedder and anyone brave enough to visit her
WHAT: Teren got the veritable shit kicked out of her in this debacle. She is convalescing. Angrily. (she doesn't know how to do it any other way)
WHEN: After the shardbearer rescue plot.
WHERE: Camp Shady, more specifically her tent
NOTES: she's mean, also tw for some icky injuries

Teren is like a cat, and when she's suffering, she hides it under her otherwise sunny exterior and continues to go about her life. Generally this works out for her, but after a long and uncomfortable trip back from Nevarra, all she wants to do is go to her tent and collapse. She appears back in the Warden camp with a distinctive limp, a bundle of torn leathers, and cuts, bruises, and abrasions on every expanse of skin visible outside her modest and practical traveling clothes.
Greetings to her fellows are little more than a grunt and a wave as she looks right past them, staggering along and gritting her teeth until she can go lie down again. This she does, arriving at her and Blackwall's tent to find it half-empty, all of his belongings vacated with no notice.
Typical Gordon.

She takes to her bedroll and proceeds to not come out for over a day, and even then it's only to boil some water by the cookfire before she withdraws again.

She's Fine

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He watches her limp in to her tent and half-stands when she waves. The implication is she doesn't need him, and while he's not sure about not following her, he won't press.

Of course, when she doesn't come out until late, Anders decides he's not going to assume. He follows her back to the tent and clears his throat.

"Teren? May I come in?"

"You may not," comes the answer from within, brusque as always but lacking some of the power, followed by the sound of her wearily lowering herself onto the bedroll again. She knows what Anders will do, he'll come in here and fuss. And there is nothing Teren hates more than fussing.

He sighs heavily.

"Teren, you're hurt. I saw how you were moving. Please let me in." It's less a request this time. She's his superior officer, to be certain, but he has some leeway as the Warden's only spirit healer. "I can sit out here all night."

"I'll have none of that Fade nonsense in here," she warns him, the sentence half-dwindling with a sigh as she relaxes back, "it'll heal on its own, the way it's meant to." Magic makes her too nervous: if it can't be touched or controlled by her own hands, it has no business interacting with her body.

He exhales, a little annoyed. He's a mage. He is 'Fade nonsense.' Pride battles his desire to help... And for one loses.

"Then I'm going and getting my kit and coming in with bandages and potions. It's either or, Teren. Pick which you'd prefer."

She's silent for a little bit too long, then snorts. "You're being ridiculous," she mutters, deciding not to acknowledge the irony of that statement.
"Go on then, I can hardly stop you."

He just barely refrains from asking if he's really the one being ridiculous, opting instead to head to the room he shares with Nate and getting his emergency kit. Magic was so much more useful, but there are always going to be these sorts of patients.

A few moments later he's back and tapping on the entrance of the tent. "Are you ready for me to come in?" She's probably not undressed, but he'll at least give her one more warning. And the he's barging in. "Telling me to go away isn't going to work, I should note."

Whether he's brave or just sort of foolish is up for debate, but at some point Alistair stands outside of Teren's tent and says, helpfully and not at all obnoxiously, "Teeeeeeren."

Ugh. UGH
She's not undressed, and in fact hasn't moved much, instead trying to sneak in what sleep she can while he's away. When he asks if she's ready, she brusquely states "no," to the tent ceiling, knowing perfectly well it's fruitless. But she has no other defenses at her disposal, not while laid out.

At the familiar sound of Alistair's keening, Teren grimaces and throws a pillow over her own face. Perhaps if she plays dead and doesn't answer, he'll go away. Not that thinking she's asleep has ever stopped him before, but a woman can dream.

"TeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEren."

There's no hope.

"I'm counting to fifteen," he says, "and if you're indecent when I come in, I'll know it's intentional and you're trying to seduce me. One, two..."

As he counts, her mind races. Can she sew the flap shut that quickly? Not like this. Does she have anything to knock herself out? Besides tea, no, and that'll take longer than fifteen seconds.... does she have anything to knock him out? She casts her gaze frantically around the tent interior. Nothing. A diversion? Exploding powder? Bollocks, she wouldn't be able to get it outside, where's Kaisa when she needs her?

Actually it's probably better that Kaisa isn't here.

"... three, four—"

He sticks his hands through the tent flaps to demonstrate that he's counting with his fingers. This is complicated somewhat by the fact that he has a small, clear glass bottle of dark liquor in one hand. He counts as high as he can, anyway, until he's holding the bottle with only his thumb and a single finger, then makes a circular and so forth gesture with his empty hand.

"Eight, nine, ten... I'm bored."

He sticks his torso through the flaps, but not yet his feet, because he isn't entirely sure that Teren isn't asleep. Or dead.

"I brought whiskey."

She's not either thing, but she has resigned herself to his presence... which is now considerably more welcome after what she sees in his hand.

"You should've just said so, fool boy," she huffs with a curt beckoning gesture, "get in here, then." Her face actually softens a little between winces as she lies back, finally coming to rest with her head and shoulders propped up and the rest of her laid flat.
She at some point must have mustered the werewithal to change out of her tattered leather armor and into a fairly unimposing linen ensemble, and between that and actually having her hair out of its tight bun for once, she almost looks human. Up her arm and the right side of her neck are a series of ugly burns and abrasions, the kind caused by extreme temperatures rather than weapons.

Anders breathes in and out slowly. Some patients...

"Maybe you should have thought of that before getting hurt." He ducks in after that, kneeling next to her and setting down his kit before opening it up. "Tell me the worst of it, and I'll start there."

The stinging scent of distilled elfroot permeates the air as he pours some of it onto a clean cloth; yes, she's probably cleaned her wounds, but he's going to do it again anyway. Not being able to use magic leaves him blind and this is how he can make sure there's nothing he's missing.

An irritated sigh leaves her when Anders lets himself in, but Teren isn't entirely in a position to stop him. Upon closer inspection, he may notice the burns and abrasions making their way up from her right wrist to her cheekbone, one eye swollen nearly shut between that and the heavy bruising all over her visible skin. Of course, there's more, but she's not about to invite him under her clothes.

In anticipation of what will undoubtedly be the healer's horror, Teren scoffs. "Golem made of bodies," she sighs, "spitting acid, tearing off its own limbs to beat us with them, tossing me around. No bones broken, somehow. But this," she gestures to the visible scarring, "this was from the mages. Our mages." They'd sent a miasma of blizzard and fire tearing into the golem, which had had two passengers at the time. Avery had missed the worst of it. Teren had been stuck.

She's a mess, closer up, and Anders longs to heal the burns and eye especially but she'd said no. He takes another slow breath in and out before leaning forward.

"This is going to sting a little initially before the pain numbs, but burns especially need to be tended to, Teren." Anders reaches for her hand, ready to start getting to work. "If you change your mind about magic, say so. I could... I could do so much more for you. And I understand. Mages caused the wounds, you're stressed by that."

Not going to say afraid. Not to Teren, no matter how much fear seems to be involved here.

"But I'm here to help, and help alone."

It's not just mages. Healers in general make her nervous, a fear she's held since childhood and which likely only got stronger as she got older.
"No magic," she stubbornly repeats, allowing Anders to take her hand with a wince and a shudder of pain. She's had small burns before, but never from wind and ice as well as fire. Or acid. Like the excruciating acid burn that covers almost her entire left leg, keeping her exhausted and waspish, which she has been hoping to will away into nonexistence. It hasn't worked so far, but she's obstinate.

"No magic," he echoes as he starts gently dabbing upward. His jaw tightens at the shudder, but there's nothing he can do. ...Or maybe there is.

"Would you drink a potion? I've one that will ease the pain, but there was magic in its making." His magic, to be specific. Much of what he carries he's made; he knows the quality for certain like that. "Or I've a couple of willowbark strips you could bite, if nothing else."

It's difficult enough to ignore the injuries when they're not being touched, and now their presence consumes her mind. She grinds her teeth, squeezing her eyes closed. But she'll keep her resolve: any spy worth her salt can get through a torture session without folding.
"--willowbark," she gasps, far more breathily than she'd like.

Alistair grins on his way in. It's not a grin without caveats--he's tired around the eyes, less so than at the height of the Calling business but more so than's normal lately, and the edges of his smile dip at the sight of her, looking so vincible. That isn't how this works.

"For you," he says, sinking down to sit cross-legged on the ground and uncork the bottle, which he offers with a wiggle. "All for you. I got drunk yesterday. Have to alternate, you know. No repeats of when we met."

Vincible? Not her, certainly.
Okay... maybe a little.

She winces as she takes the bottle, still in a great deal of pain but trying not to show it. "Drunk?" she asks, with a careful raise of one eyebrow, "we can't have that. What was the occasion?"

Alistair nods his head toward the emptier half of the tent, where Ser Blackwall no longer is staying, which has left him in the uncomfortable position of being sort of, arguably, with the way things traditionally work, in charge.

"I can't--" he starts, and there are two ends to that sentence: can't be in charge is one of them, obviously, but can't ask not to be is the other, because the Nightmare's who will you hide behind now still occasionally echoes and winds its way around his neck and tries to choke him.

This is very overdramatic. He's fine.

"I was thinking you and Howe could, uh--" Help, help, please help. "--but that means you can't die," he says, "or lie in here healing as slowly as possible out of stubbornness, because you can't make me deal with him alone. You can't. I'll fall asleep every time he talks."

Teren looks concerned, and then exasperated, then some combination of the two. "You can," she says irritably, but as soon as he starts complaining, she can't help but laugh. Of course, laughing is extremely painful right now, so after one chuckle her face is pinched and her posture tense as she works hard to still it.
The spell passes and she rests back with a tired sigh, as displeased about the state of things as he is. "I'm not going to die," she assures him hoarsely, "...well, I am, but not from this. Not yet." One bony hand moves from holding the bottle to drape over her aching ribs, and she shakes her head.
"...I'll help you. But don't be a fool." Her head angles toward him as she scrutinizes his face. "Don't start drinking again. ...and don't make me laugh, it's awful." It's possible she'll have a drink to recognize Blackwall's absence, but no one else needs to know about it. And it won't be quite the same, since he always had the best whiskey. Selfish tosser, he better come back.

He sets aside the cloth hastily, finding the willowbark and pressing three strips into her hand.

"One strip at a time, until it's nearing enough. I'll wait until it's had a chance to start working." He hates hurting the people he cares about, and Teren has fallen into that category. "It won't take away all of the pain, but it will help."

There's no way willowbark could truly defeat the pain of burns and what treatment they need. Anders just wishes there's more he could do.

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[open] seven times I went down

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