faderift | [Open] The Boys Are Back In Town

Sidony has stopped and perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps that is why she is so adrift now - there is nothing to anchor her now. She had her work, but the joy of her work has been broken with images of broken arms and bloody limbs.

"Anders." People here are so out of shape by the titles she gives them. It's not the first time she has been corrected and Sidony is beginning to imagine it might not be the last time. Her nose wrinkles, her head finally turning to look over at him, drinking in the shape of someone familiar.

"... Yes. Thank you, that would be kind."

Apparently who he is isn't one of the problems here. That lightens his mood enough that he can give her a small smile as he tilts his head to indicate his desk and the stools there.

"Have a seat and give me a moment." The small jar of honey takes a few moments to track down, it has a habit of wandering, but once he's retrieved it and found a second mug Anders rejoins her. "Here we go. It should still be warm."

It isn't. But that's also quickly fixed with a little fire applied to the outside of the pot and then he's pouring the slightly-bitter-for-sitting-there brew for them both.

"May I call you Sidony?" Someone who addresses him as ser to be proper, rather than distant, might want to be called something else. He should ask. Especially considering how he hadn't been... exactly the most friendly at the start of their previous conversation.

Sidony's views on mages does not necessarily mean that she has a problem with Anders. She loathes the fact that her expertise is sometimes shunned with magical healing around and she's envious of the power and strength that they have, the kind she feels as though she had been denied since birth. It's a lack of fairness, but it's something she can't dwell on now.

Settling down, Sidony rests her hands on her lap, frowning at he wall. She's felt out of sorts since the battle, since the blood and gore and worse on her hands, and she doesn't know how to manage it properly. She wants to reach out and have that same excitement she had when she'd first arrived, but.

Taking the mug is easy, even if there's a sour taste in her mouth.

"You may." It's not as if she can be offended by it. She's so far from Nevarra now that being titled as 'my lady' seems a vague and distant memory. All she can do is look up at Anders, her fingers brushing over the mug and her eyes downcast. "A name is inconsequential now, isn't it?"

That's not something he's ever heard from someone highborn. Most of them hoard their names like a chicken brooding over her eggs and Maker forbid you use the wrong one. It means he studies her a little more now, thinking less about her arm and more about how she may be adapting, or not, to what's going on.

"It's not," he says gently. There is an irony here, the man without his given name assuring a woman who likely has twenty that names matter, but it's only briefly reflected in a twitch of his lips.

"We lost." It rests there for a few moments, as he holds her gaze, but then he continues. "The battle. We lost the battle, but we have not lost the war. And what will give us opportunity to win that war is holding on to what and who we are, and what we fight for. We need to work together as individuals. The front doesn't need fifty Sidonys, or a dozen Anders, but it does need one Sidony, and one Anders, and one of all of the people there because we all bring something different. And we all bring a little bit more of a chance."

It's not as if she's earned much of a right to be called by any real name. Sidony Venaras is a lady by birth, true enough, but she has done nothing to earn her blood. She is not yet married, has not published a book, has not fought and won honour in battle of a match of wits. She had fled home and come to the Inquisition like a startled maid and she feels a touch sour about it now, realising how silly she must seem to the grand majority.

"Either way, you might call me by my own. Most people here do not seem to stand on such formality." By most she means two, but that seems like a great deal for a woman who had come from a world of curtsies and gentleness, a woman who had been born into richness, fashion and attitude. She uses it as a game, but if her game does not work here then what might she do?

Grim, she looks up at Anders.

"I did my job." She says it with a spark of finality, hands tight around her tea. Her arm is sore, her ribs are fit to break again at any moment and she does not yet feel clean, but she is sure of myself. "I cared for the people on that battlefield and I stitched so many wounds I felt my fingers might fall off. I am not concerned with my place here nor the importance of it - people need surgeons, need doctors. I am not afraid." Isn't she? The words even taste like a lie.

He nods to her granting him permission to use her name again and listens to the rest before shaking his head.

"I am. I've fought Darkspawn armies before, I've been chased before, I've lost before, and it doesn't compare to what just happened." For a rare moment it's safe to be honest. "I'm frightened. I neither want to die nor to be bound to a demon." Again. "I don't want to lose anyone else. But we are at war, and we will lose more patients no matter how well we do."

She's young. Or he's old. Maybe both. Either way, he doesn't want to break her down.

"You did well, Sidony. Lives were saved because we had you, and few fields are like... like that. Most of the work ahead will be easier, but I've found a little fear serves people well. Now. Is the tightness around your eyes stress, or are you in pain?"

This is not the answer she was looking for, clearly, and her eyes narrow as she stares at Anders, wondering at his point. Does he want her to be afraid? Does he want her to be victim to her own uncertainties, buried in the depths of realising just how far adrift she is from the skill and talent of other surgeons? She has been assured of her title for bare months and so many others have more skill, more training, more practice. Her concern was with studying, and now she feels as though she has been drowning, too far to breach for air.

For a long moment she simply stares at him, lips pursed. It is foolish to admit weakness, she knows that. It had been pressed into her since she was very young by a mother who, somewhere in her heart, wanted the best for he child. Do not let anyone know you are weak, you are afraid, you do not know something. Do not let them know because they will use it against you, and the world is harsh enough for women at times. People would already disregard her, being noble and beautiful - they would not think her intelligent.

But, she tells herself, but. Anders is not calling her slow or dim. He is admitting a fear she shares, and some of the tension falls from her shoulders. There are tears in her eyes and she thinks absently to the letter she wrote to her brother that she never intends to let him read; those that I could not save will find me and curse me, I think. I fear that the most: knowing that my failures will have stolen their lives.

War is worse than I had ever pictured.

Breathing out, Sidony places her cup to one side and turns to face Anders properly, lifting her head. Let him know she is afraid - she might not say it, but the wetness to her eyes and the shake of her hand might be enough. Let him know I am afraid of war, that I am afraid of death, that I am afraid that I have failed. He may keep that secret for I will let no one believe him if he speaks.

"I broke my ribs and my arm was burned by a Dracolisk. Neither was correctly treated on the battlefield."

Edited (IM SORRY I SWEAR I CAN SPELL WORDS) 2018-12-02 19:56 (UTC)

The tears say he's been heard, and there's no need to belabor the point.

"Next time I'd try pushing someone else at the Dracolisk," he quips before setting his cup down as well. "Someone big and bulky who wears a lot of armor. That's what they're made for. I'll let you in on a secret - if it's a Templar, that gets you bonus points."

Anders gets up briefly to scoot his stool a little closer. "Ribs first, I think. If those heal too much in the wrong way on their own you'll have an issue you'll feel for the rest of your life." She probably already knows that, but he can as easily stop talking a patient through their injuries and what he's doing as he can stop Corypheus single-handedly. "Which ribs? Let's make certain they're meeting at the right angle again."

A breath, a blink, and they're gone. Years of maintaining her image means that tears are trained - to be of use, or to be forced away. There is no use in crying here.

"I would have, were there any errant Templars around." Everything she says is so sour. Were it anyone else, were they with any real company, she would speak highly of the Templar order, fluttering her lashes and smiling coyly. She knows there is little point in playing that game with Anders, a shrug of her shoulders as she reaches down to press her fingers along her ribs, careful and sure of herself.

"Second, third and fourth true rib at least," her eyes glance to him, daring him to comment on her knowledge of the human body. "I set them as best I could and I was offered some comfort from a mage, but they were not truly mended. I do not know if the first rib has been damaged as I could not feel it properly."

He meets her gaze easily. She'd worked in the tents on the field and he's not going to challenge her, though he's definitely going to put more weight on the 'she's young' side of the scale, taking it from the 'he's old' side. Though that she says she'd shove a Templar into danger also counts for her at the same time. He's biased.

"It seems as if your true ribs have played you false." Gently he probes at the ribs, finding the breaks and nodding to himself before casting. "Not too badly, though, I think. The early work was done right."

It's a gift back after that clear challenge. He might not have liked how Isaac made his point, weeks ago, but the other mage was right in the end.

Parental intervention in her study had not been enough to shame Sidony into truly stopping. Even when she had been taken from her tutors and she had been dismissed from their side she had found a way, getting her brother to bring her books - when she was talking to him - and urging the teachers she was closest with to bring her texts to study. She knows the human body and now she has the experience to match it, no matter what anyone might accuse her of.

"I splinted them myself," she admits, a peacock with the slightest of compliments. "There was no time for anything else when people were dying and the magical healers were needed elsewhere. As long as I could work it was suitable."

Bowing her head, she watches Anders through careful eyes, examining his hands. Magic makes it so easy, she thinks, jealous all over again. Magic makes her feel so useless in comparison.

For his part, he looks past her as he heals. Experience has taught him that people don't like their eyes met while he's casting, and staring at a woman's chest, even with his lack of interest, never goes well. Unless the woman is Isabela, a thought that stirs up a momentary pang of missing the pirate. Perhaps one day the seas will bring her back.

Now, though, he finishes and draws his hands back, taking a breath before picking up his tea again. It's not effortless, healing. There's a little added pinch to the tiredness around his eyes.

"Did you apprentice to someone?" he asks after a few moments spent resting. He's meeting her eyes again, curious about how she got here.

Sidony does not seem particularly concerned where his gaze might land; she is aware of the nature of his relationship, the ring gives that away, and she is almost terrifyingly accustomed to using what she has of her body as a merit rather than a hinderance. Let him look if it means that he will be softer with her, that he will be charmed with her. Let him look if it earns her more of what she wishes and desires.

Lifting her hand, she reaches and presses her palm flat against her ribs. Better. Healing magic is not a perfect art, she knows that as well as anyone, but at least she can breathe surely once more. At least she does not fear her lungs are damaged beyond repair.

"I did not. I had a number of tutors to care for my education." She sips her own tea, staring at the cup. "My parents wished for me to be well learned."

[Open] The Boys Are Back In Town

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