faderift | Another day that ends in y

Benedict is still conscious, but in a sort of nightmare half-in half-out state wherein he lost not enough blood to pass out but is in shock to the point where he's completely silent and pliable. He's not used to experiencing pain, not in a substantial way like this, and he's near out of his mind with it.

Myr’s not unfamiliar with the state. He’d had occasion to support the walking wounded on their way to Kirkwall—to keep moving cloistered Circle mages who hadn’t any more experience than Benedict did with pain and shock. At least this time there’s no sound of a sucking chest wound. “Come on,” he encourages, gently as he can. “Not much further now. We’ve talented healers here. They’ll fix it.”

Truthfully he could be saying anything; the point is to keep up a thread of chatter to steady their nerves (mostly his own, if he’s honest).

They make rather a odd, grisly pair when they finally arrive in the infirmary’s doorway, preceded by the chime of a locator glyph: Benedict with nearly a foot of height on his solid elvish crutch and both of them spattered with drying blood from the wound in the younger man’s neck. (It’s still got that wad of cloth packed against it; there’ll be no removing it without help.) “Warden Anders?” Myr calls, once they’ve stopped. He’s guessing.

His name gets his attention. That it's Myrobalan calling it gets him to the door promptly, because he knows he's not going to be called for by that specific elf unless he was actually needed, and the sight confirms it.

"Andraste's knickerweasels, what... Here." He joins in with guiding Benedict to the bed, eyes on the neck wound. "Sit down, we have you. It's all right."

He's not certain it is yet, but it costs nothing and helps everything to say so. "Just relax here." The cloth is going to have to come out, and he knows that won't be pleasant in the least for Benedict. "What happened?" That's directed to Myrobalan as he starts to cast, focusing on the most internal of damage first.

Benedict looks at Anders like a lost puppy, more than happy to be told what to do when it means receiving help. He shakily releases Myr to sit on the bed, his shaking hand absently returning to the wound as though he's afraid he'll forget it's there and die.

"We'd a Venatori infiltrator. She'd marched him out of the dungeon when we caught up with her--and apparently had orders he wasn't to be taken back alive." Delivered without much emotion or editorializing as Myr takes his staff down from off his back, works his way toward a wall to stay out of the middle of things. "I did what I could to stop the bleeding while Ser Ashlock apprehended her. He'll be along shortly."

It's held out as a kind of peace offering; he knows well enough Anders won't like the idea, but better he not be surprised by a templar's sudden arrival.

He doesn't know how to read them wanting Benedict dead, and he's fairly certain he doesn't have enough information to even try. That's fine. It's not his job. Healing is, though the little bit of added news is unpleasant.

...At least he's getting a warning.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll get lost along the way," he says lightly. "Are you injured?" Myr's not acting injured, but Anders doesn't really have the time to look the elf over at the moment as he works on healing Benedict's wound.

"The good news," he tells Benedict, "for you, at least, is that your vocal cords aren't severed. Would you like a draft for the pain and discomfort that's going to come when we get the cloth out of the wound?"

No such luck for Anders or Bene, as the doctor-patient discussion is interrupted by a harried and anxious voice from Myr's crystal.

"Myr, are you all right? What happened with Artemaeus? Is he still alive? I don't know where I should meet you, I've just handed her off to the guards on duty--"

He expects that he'll be wanted back for the questioning, but that will take a bit of time to arrange, and he's not about to leave Myr to deal with the fallout on his own after an ordeal like that. Besides which, the prisoner isn't meant to be out of the dungeons without a templar escort--but that protocol feels like slightly lower of a priority, under the circumstances.

Edited 2017-12-05 19:33 (UTC)

Myr doesn't deign to comment on the suggestion Ashlock might get lost. "I'm not. She tried to run after she slashed his throat."

A look of brief discomfort and shame flits across his face as Anders makes mention of the cloth. "I'd," he begins, and then Simon's voice interrupts his would-be offer of help. (It's his mistake; he ought to fix it.)

Well. He'll handle that in a moment. For now, he takes up his crystal and speaks quietly to it.

"We've made it to the infirmary; he's still alive, I'm fine, and Warden Anders is seeing to him." The duty to warn goes both ways, after all.

Edited 2017-12-06 07:41 (UTC)

Sitting there timid as a child, Bene nods to Anders' offering of a draught. He's afraid to speak, and isn't sure he could anyway, still too deeply in shock. This is all happening so fast.

Anders steps away and quickly goes through the shelf on his desk, returning moments later with a draft he opens and holds to Bene's lips.

"You'd?" he asks Myr, voice neutral. He's going to pretend that the Templar doesn't exist unless he shows up, because life is a lot more pleasant that way.

Once the vial is emptied, Anders grabs a short stick and holds it out to Bene. "This is in case you need to do something as I'm removing the cloth. Crush it, set it on fire, freeze it, whatever you need. I've dealt with any number of reactions, though I'd prefer fire if you can avoid it."

The stick might be a little slobbery at one end. It might have been used to play fetch with a tiny mabari. He'll apologize to Lady later and find her a better one.

"Help with the cloth," Myr replies, releasing the crystal on its chain. "It was my fault." If he'd thought a little further ahead instead of reacting in a panic-- But there's no sense belaboring that point. Anders will let him assist, or he won't, and that will be the end of it.

"That's as good as we could've hoped for. I'll be there shortly."

The news is no more welcome to Simon, though the warning is appreciated--and ought probably to be unnecessary, were he not so distracted, because who else would be running the infirmary but the Inquisition's spirit healers, but he has other concerns on his mind as he hastens up from the dungeons as quickly as his strides can take him.

He dabs the sweat from his forehead with his sash as he walks in, unconcerned about the opinions of the two people in the immediate vicinity who can actually see him. He reaches promptly for the one who can't, clasping Myr's shoulder with fraternal concern and relief at finding him in one piece (though spattered alarmingly with blood, even if it isn't his.)

"Well done with the glyph, mate. I wouldn't have got her without it." He looks now to Benedict, meaning to assess his condition--and recoils a little at the sight of the embedded cloth, a few shades of color draining from his face. Maybe...maybe he won't comment on the healing job. He'll stick to praising the glyph.

Edited 2017-12-07 05:05 (UTC)

With his free hand, Bene takes the stick and stares at it like he's never seen one before and has no idea what to do with it. He just holds it for now, his other hand still pressing against the cloth, which is in no danger of going anywhere.
The first real reaction he gives to anything is when Simon enters, which causes the boy to recoil automatically. Templars mean one thing, and it's not good; if he hadn't been too distracted having his throat cut when Simon appeared on the scene before, he might now think to thank him. Oh well.

"Please," he's saying to Myrobalan before Simon comes in. Another set of hands guiding the cloth out while he heals behind it would come in handy, and he's about to ask how it happened when Simon's putting his hands on Myrobalan and Anders' eyes narrow.

"I'd thank you to not manhandle the mages, if you're capable of refraining, Ser. You're making my patient pull back in fear and he needs to stay still, and this is my workplace." His voice is stern now. He's not going to have a Templar grabbing a mage here, Loyalist or not. Anders would defend any mage against a Templar. ...Except maybe Vivienne. But that's not relevant right now.

What is relevant is the healing. "Start pulling it slowly, if you will, Myrobalan. I'll heal behind."

Myr's expression undergoes a very interesting transformation as Anders speaks up, from a flash of unguarded fondness in Simon's direction to something chillier, one brow ticking upward in mute incredulity. That certainly just happened.

He swallows back the first damnfool thing to come to his lips and quite deliberately pats the hand on his shoulder. "And she'd've still slipped us if you hadn't been there," he replies with unfeigned warmth. "They don't last that long."

Having bought himself time sufficient to be rational--and better, polite--he returns his attention to the matter at hand: "Ser Ashlock is a friend. I'm glad of him expressing his thanks through touch; I'm hardly in a position to see it.

"Now--d'you want me to wet this down to soften the scab before we do that?" He makes his careful way over to the sound of Anders' voice, feeling things out with his staff. "Though either way I'll need you to put my hand on it; Messere Artemaeus doesn't need me pawing his face on top of the day he's already had."

This, Simon reflects, is why he ought to let Myr handle things more often, because his firmly held do not engage policy with Anders would have been strained to the breaking point had his friend not intervened so smoothly on his behalf. Reassured enough by the defense to keep his cool, he swallows the sharp and angry retort on his tongue and retreats back near the door.

(It is not entirely for Bene's benefit, perhaps not even mostly, but that reaction is not lost on him, if only because he's staring right at it. Under the circumstances, it seems wisest and probably kindest not to make the kid's day any worse. Simon's well of compassion for him has not yet run bone-dry.)

"Your patient requires a templar guard regardless of the shape he's in--all the more so now that we know he's a target for Venatori attack. I've no plans to do anything but my job, as ever. He wouldn't be alive right now if I hadn't. Though equal credit goes to Serah Shivana, of course."

Edited 2017-12-08 07:23 (UTC)

Logically, the cloth has to move. Rationally, that can only be done if it is taken out, by the healers, probably with some pulling. But as soon as there's a hand on it, Bene's heart lurches and he begins to panic in the way that only a patient who's about to undergo something terrible can.
"No leave it, leave it," he whimpers, against his better judgment; any idiot can see that it has to come off, but the process of doing so is so completely the opposite of anything he wants to experience that just ignoring the problem seems preferable.

Simon gets the iciest look Anders can manage. Myrobalan might be fooled, but Simon is a Templar to his core. He's quite certain that Simon only saved Benedict because he'd be in trouble otherwise; there's been little to no actual care shown to the young mage. He might even have said something to that effect if Bene hadn't made a terrified noise.

"Breathe," Anders says, turning his attention back to his patient. "Benedict. Listen to me. If we leave it, the wound will get infected and it will get far worse. It could even kill you, with it being this close to your brain. It must come out, and I need you to breathe and relax or I will have to ask if Myrobalan can cast Sleep."

He can't. Entropy is something he simply cannot do, which only frustrates him when he can't make someone sleep like now. In the meantime, Anders is reaching over and carefully taking Myrobalan's hand, the hand that hadn't touched the Templar with something resembling affection, and guiding it to the cloth.

"If you don't mind wetting it, yes. I can focus more on the healing, then," he says in response to the earlier question from Myrobalan.

Anders turns his back to Simon, blocking the Templar's view of what is going on deliberately. Mage business should not be Templar business, but until Bene has more allies there's nothing to be done about the abusers' presence. He cannot shield every victim from Templars, but he can do his best for most of them.

"Not in my repertoire, I'm afraid." Actual regret colors Myr's tone (and a hint of well-buried unease); it would be much easier if either of them could simply put Benedict to sleep. (Though he's not sure he could, even did he know the spell--and he resists the urge to hunch his shoulders at the thought. There is something broken in you.) "But I'll do what I can, otherwise. --Hey."

This last is to Benedict, as he slides his hand down to rest briefly on the younger man's shoulder. "You've done so well this far," likely from shock, but it didn't hurt to give him credit for it, "you'll get through this. There's not many better healers in all the Inquisition than Warden Anders; he'll make this right. But if you need to scream, do it."

He'd had to, often enough; he's owed back some ringing ears, surely, especially when this mess is his fault. He gives Benedict's shoulder a sympathetic pat and walks his hand back to the cloth, starting in on the words of a spell. Ice to water is one of the more difficult bits of practical magic he knows, made easier by the fact it doesn't need to end up in a drinkable form this time--it's sufficient to pull frost from air to coat the cloth and scab alike. It might even numb the wound a little as it melts, which will be all to the good when he's got to start pulling the makeshift bandage off.

Edited 2017-12-08 09:17 (UTC)

It does not occur to Simon that his view is being blocked on purpose; the thought process that would make anyone find such a thing necessary to do is foreign to him. Neither does it occur to him to object. He's grateful to be spared the trouble of averting his eyes from a sight that would turn his stomach at best, blood and gore and the sickening visual of cloth slowly being worked out of raw lacerated skin--even the thought makes him cringe and shrink a little in his armor. Nobody deserves that, even for a worse crime than being a spoiled rich Vint.

Edited 2017-12-08 10:12 (UTC)

An involuntary, frightened sound leaves Benedict when Myr touches the cloth, and it's near impossible for him not to jerk away. Casting sleep would be ideal under these circumstances, and if Bene weren't still on magebane he'd probably do it himself. Instead, he has to stay awake and aware of every small motion, every sound and smell.
Despite Anders' reassurance, he loses his composure, his breakdown as much about the impending pain as it is about the whole situation.
Someone tried to kill him. Months spent cold, isolated, and miserable culminated in his throat being slashed, and now he's here, alive and in torment. For someone who's barely dealt with worse hardship than an unfluffed pillow, it's quite a lot.

He's not certain that killing the pain is enough here, now. Anders exhales, stopping his casting and resting a hand on Benedict's shoulder for a brief moment.

"All right. All right. Let go, Myrobalan." His words are quiet as he steps away, going to the desk and starting to pull ingredients out of drawers. "Benedict, I'm going to give you something to knock you out, if you'll take it. We'll get it out while you sleep."

Many of the injuries he sees in the Inquisition infirmary are due to combat, many of them born by people who would avoid admitting they're injured as if it's the most shameful in the world. He's grown heavily accustomed to that. Even in Darktown it's people who are ready to be treated, who have already been through a great deal. He's forgotten how young Benedict is when it comes to worldly experience.

Myr doesn't need to be told twice--not when he'd already frozen at the sound Benedict made, at the way the younger man pulled away from him. He draws his hands back and breathes out in a heavy sigh as Anders explains the game plan; it seems only sensible given how distraught their patient's become. Whether or not he's a spoiled Vint brat, he sounds utterly pathetic and it pierces right through Myr's soft heart.

"Ashlock," he calls, softly, "be my eyes here--is there a blanket I can get him?" Between the blood loss and the miserable southern weather, the poor bastard's likely freezing.

"I, ah--" Simon has no idea, never having spent enough time in the infirmary to know where spare stock of such things might be kept. He knows exactly how well poking around for one would go over.

"Only on the beds, that I can see--I'll fetch one that nobody's using, if it's all right--" He moves to do so, neither wanting to begrudge Benedict the necessary comfort or pull the healer away in the midst of his work.

Fortunately now past the point of caring who's here and who isn't, Benedict just nods to Anders, his hands shaking as they cover his tearful face, all vestiges of dignity siphoned away with his blood.

It takes a little fishing to find a sleeping potion that doesn't mix poorly with the painkiller Anders had already given Benedict, which means the only response Simon gets is a wave in the direction of the beds to grant permission. Shortly thereafter he's bringing back the potion and holding it to the shaking boy's lips.

"Here. You'll be out for some time, and when you return to wakefulness this will be attended to. Just breathe and drink." In any other crowd he'd make a joke about not doing both at the same time, but... this isn't the right setting for that.

Another day that ends in y

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