WHO: Alexandrie, Athessa, Bastien, Barrow, Derrica, Nell, and Poesia WHAT: A Very Riftwatch Summer Vacation WHEN: Late Solace WHERE: Churneau, Occupied Orlais NOTES: Violence cw etc. Bunch of details here.
The weight of what she endured is going to come crashing down onto Derrica sooner or later. She understands this, but she doesn't care to fall to pieces in front of Athessa and the rest of their party. As hard as it had been for Derrica, she knows it had been difficult for Athessa too.
It is hard to see people you care for in pain. Derrica knows this very, very well.
Her fingers twitch as Athessa's works. She's gentle, but the skin is still raw.
"Good." Her tone is also quiet, but to call it satisfaction would be a bit wide of the mark. Anger would be closer. Maybe even contempt for anyone who would dare cause such pain on someone so sweet. "I'd have half a mind to--"
Athessa pauses before the rest of that sentence can coalesce and turns her head to glance towards Poesia. That severed hand she has. Just the one. When her attention turns back to applying more salve to Derrica's burns, it's with a bemused smile.
While Derrica has been more discreet with her trophy, she doesn't care to try and talk around it. There's plenty of unflattering assumptions to be made between her and Poesia. The Seer with a severed hand. Poesia and her too-bright enthusiasm cradling dead flesh like a doll.
Derrica sighs, hand turning up to bare the scraped raw marks over the inside of her write to Athessa's ministrations.
"You aren't disgusted?"
Nell had been. Derrica doesn't necessarily blame her, but she isn't eager to try and broach the topic with her. Maybe after she's slept, when they've put some distance between the wreckage and themselves.
Athessa shakes her head, looking up briefly to alight her gaze upon Derrica's face — to see those eyes and let them see in turn that Athessa isn't being placating or false. No, she isn't disgusted.
"That'd be pretty hypocritical of me," she says, and bends down low to blow soft breath over the paths her fingers walked, a breeze against wet skin to relieve the radiant heat of the burns. A dry bandage follows, fresh cloth cut either from Derrica's cloak or Alexandrie's dress.
There's an implication there that Derrica is free to unravel. She considers it as she turns her hand obediently at Athessa's prompting, watching the marks disappear beneath cloth.
"I have a plan for that."
The plan is for there not to be flesh at all, but she'll need help with that. Leander will know. Or Ilias. But she'd rather ask Leander first before prevailing further on Ilias' good graces.
"Who?" she prompts softly. It's unmistakable. If they're trading stories about hands, someone had to belong to the ones Athessa claimed or wished to.
Of course she has a plan. Between herself and Derrica, it was always Athessa who acted on impulse (when she wasn't overthinking) and didn't stop to consider what might happen after.
She's rarely ever thought of after, because tomorrow has never been guaranteed. A glance confirms that nobody is close enough to overhear her when she speaks, which is a comfort even if Bastien and Alexandrie both already know the story.
"His name was Devigny," Athessa says. Thus far she's spared Derrica from having to know about him, about what he did and about the portion of Athessa's mind he's been lurking in for almost fourteen years. Perhaps for fear of being pitied, or out of wanting to be known as she is, not for how she was broken and cobbled back together with failing mortar and missing pieces. Maybe just because it's hard to talk about, no matter how many times she's had to relay it by now.
"He...raped me when I was sixteen. Dumped me at the Crimson Cat afterwards, probably figured I'd stay there and amount to nothing. Then a few months ago, I heard he was back in Kirkwall after a long time away in Orlais or something, and I went a bit mental," Embarrassment creeps into her expression, though whether about the going mental bit or just about talking about this is hard to say. At least her hands are steady, for once. "I staked out his place just to make sure it was the same guy, and for a week after to...I dunno. See if he was doing what he did to me to anyone else, see if I could stop someone else from becoming another me. And I thought a lot about what I'd do to him, if I could.
As Athessa speaks, the position of their hands reverses. Derrica folds Athessa's hands into her own, elfroot paste leaving fingerprints where Derrica touches. There is no comfort to fully offset what Athessa is telling her. The pain she is unveiling is heavy, and Derrica wants to soften it for her, even in some small way.
But there is one question she has, which seems almost a foregone conclusion:
"Is he dead now?"
Surely he is. Surely he is not still drawing breath somewhere when he has done such a thing.
"He is," the confirmation comes with a nod and perhaps a little bitterness, moreso than relief. Shouldn't she be relieved that he's gone? Athessa's fingers brush against Derrica's palm, her knuckles, the connection of their hands a tether that makes everything else seem far away, and she sighs.
"Not my doing, but...I really wanted to. Wanted to cut his hands off so he could never touch anyone ever again, to hold him down and pour wine down his throat so he'd die knowing how it felt."
A little chagrin tugs at the corner of her mouth and she looks at Derrica's face, at the pain and the concern, at all the things she must be feeling that Athessa can't even begin to put a word to.
"I would've taken that fucker's hands for you. In an instant."
cont. cw for rape mention also puts hands over timestamps forgive i lost this in my tabs
There is a moment of silence while Derrica processes that. The entirety of it is evil on such a personal scale. Someone had done such direct harm to Athessa, and Derrica's a little breathless with useless hate for this man.
She lifts a hand to touch Athessa's jaw lightly, expression resolving into a small smile.
"I know."
That is what they would have done for each other. Her gaze flickers to Poesia, remembering, but returning to Athessa's face. When her hand drops, there's two small prints of elfroot where her fingers had rest.
"They're gone now, and I hope they are suffering, wherever they are."
A succinct curse.
"Thank you," she repeats, softer. "I know all of this was hard for you."
Barrow had said as much, even if most of the conversations they'd passed in that dungeon were blurred by pain and fear.
Athessa laughs, quietly in case the hour is late enough for any of their party to be asleep or trying, and for the first time since Drakonis the smile that lingers after isn't tinged with aching.
"Again," she rolls her eyes, but it's all moved by fondness for Derrica. "I'm not the one who was just tortured for three days. You don't have to worry about me." Not that it's unwelcome to feel cared for, which feels like something she shouldn't allow herself to acknowledge. There is still concern over Derrica's injuries, over how she must feel inside and out after such treatment. All Athessa wants to do is hold her close, tell her she's safe now, take care of her until she's fully recovered.
"The only thing you need to worry about is resting until we get back and someone can actually heal you."
In Athessa's grasp, Derrica flexes her fingers slowly. Two different flares of pain answer the movement. All of Poesia's criticisms might be true, but the blend of fire and ice was not ineffective. She sighs a little.
"Maybe tomorrow I can patch myself up a little better," she says, partly to herself and partly to reassure Athessa. But even as she says that, she considers the other injuries. Barrow's joints. Poesia's everything.
"But you're right. I do need to sleep."
Her tone is reluctant. Part of her wants to simply sit up the entire way back, just in case.
"I'll stay with you," Athessa says softly. "Until it's my turn to be on watch."
It had helped her, after a different mission gone wrong in Orlais last year, to sleep next to (more entwined with) Derrica as a living reminder that she was a prisoner no longer. A steady heartbeat of you're safe, you're safe, you're safe. So it's the least she can do in return now.
Derrica's hesitation lasts no longer than a breath. Some part of her thinks that she's taking advantage, that she shouldn't, but—
It's hard to pass up this comfort. Whatever she's forcibly projecting outward, the past few days have been hard. When she does lay down, mindful of her burns and the ice-blackened patches on her shin, it's a help to have Athessa close at hand.
She doesn't tell Athessa not to bother. What she does is turn towards her, curling carefully on her side in towards where Athessa is sat.
"Thank you," is the last of what she says before drifting off to sleep
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It is hard to see people you care for in pain. Derrica knows this very, very well.
Her fingers twitch as Athessa's works. She's gentle, but the skin is still raw.
"He's dead."
Quiet satisfaction colors her tone.
"And the useless healer he had helping him."
no subject
Athessa pauses before the rest of that sentence can coalesce and turns her head to glance towards Poesia. That severed hand she has. Just the one. When her attention turns back to applying more salve to Derrica's burns, it's with a bemused smile.
"Are...I don't suppose those are his hands?"
no subject
While Derrica has been more discreet with her trophy, she doesn't care to try and talk around it. There's plenty of unflattering assumptions to be made between her and Poesia. The Seer with a severed hand. Poesia and her too-bright enthusiasm cradling dead flesh like a doll.
Derrica sighs, hand turning up to bare the scraped raw marks over the inside of her write to Athessa's ministrations.
"You aren't disgusted?"
Nell had been. Derrica doesn't necessarily blame her, but she isn't eager to try and broach the topic with her. Maybe after she's slept, when they've put some distance between the wreckage and themselves.
no subject
"That'd be pretty hypocritical of me," she says, and bends down low to blow soft breath over the paths her fingers walked, a breeze against wet skin to relieve the radiant heat of the burns. A dry bandage follows, fresh cloth cut either from Derrica's cloak or Alexandrie's dress.
"Concerned, maybe. About the smell."
no subject
"I have a plan for that."
The plan is for there not to be flesh at all, but she'll need help with that. Leander will know. Or Ilias. But she'd rather ask Leander first before prevailing further on Ilias' good graces.
"Who?" she prompts softly. It's unmistakable. If they're trading stories about hands, someone had to belong to the ones Athessa claimed or wished to.
cw rape mention
She's rarely ever thought of after, because tomorrow has never been guaranteed. A glance confirms that nobody is close enough to overhear her when she speaks, which is a comfort even if Bastien and Alexandrie both already know the story.
"His name was Devigny," Athessa says. Thus far she's spared Derrica from having to know about him, about what he did and about the portion of Athessa's mind he's been lurking in for almost fourteen years. Perhaps for fear of being pitied, or out of wanting to be known as she is, not for how she was broken and cobbled back together with failing mortar and missing pieces. Maybe just because it's hard to talk about, no matter how many times she's had to relay it by now.
"He...raped me when I was sixteen. Dumped me at the Crimson Cat afterwards, probably figured I'd stay there and amount to nothing. Then a few months ago, I heard he was back in Kirkwall after a long time away in Orlais or something, and I went a bit mental," Embarrassment creeps into her expression, though whether about the going mental bit or just about talking about this is hard to say. At least her hands are steady, for once. "I staked out his place just to make sure it was the same guy, and for a week after to...I dunno. See if he was doing what he did to me to anyone else, see if I could stop someone else from becoming another me. And I thought a lot about what I'd do to him, if I could.
"I wanted to make him suffer."
cw rape mention
But there is one question she has, which seems almost a foregone conclusion:
"Is he dead now?"
Surely he is. Surely he is not still drawing breath somewhere when he has done such a thing.
cont. cw for rape mention just in case
"Not my doing, but...I really wanted to. Wanted to cut his hands off so he could never touch anyone ever again, to hold him down and pour wine down his throat so he'd die knowing how it felt."
A little chagrin tugs at the corner of her mouth and she looks at Derrica's face, at the pain and the concern, at all the things she must be feeling that Athessa can't even begin to put a word to.
"I would've taken that fucker's hands for you. In an instant."
cont. cw for rape mention also puts hands over timestamps forgive i lost this in my tabs
She lifts a hand to touch Athessa's jaw lightly, expression resolving into a small smile.
"I know."
That is what they would have done for each other. Her gaze flickers to Poesia, remembering, but returning to Athessa's face. When her hand drops, there's two small prints of elfroot where her fingers had rest.
"They're gone now, and I hope they are suffering, wherever they are."
A succinct curse.
"Thank you," she repeats, softer. "I know all of this was hard for you."
Barrow had said as much, even if most of the conversations they'd passed in that dungeon were blurred by pain and fear.
timestamps? i don't know them
"Again," she rolls her eyes, but it's all moved by fondness for Derrica. "I'm not the one who was just tortured for three days. You don't have to worry about me." Not that it's unwelcome to feel cared for, which feels like something she shouldn't allow herself to acknowledge. There is still concern over Derrica's injuries, over how she must feel inside and out after such treatment. All Athessa wants to do is hold her close, tell her she's safe now, take care of her until she's fully recovered.
"The only thing you need to worry about is resting until we get back and someone can actually heal you."
no subject
"Maybe tomorrow I can patch myself up a little better," she says, partly to herself and partly to reassure Athessa. But even as she says that, she considers the other injuries. Barrow's joints. Poesia's everything.
"But you're right. I do need to sleep."
Her tone is reluctant. Part of her wants to simply sit up the entire way back, just in case.
no subject
It had helped her, after a different mission gone wrong in Orlais last year, to sleep next to (more entwined with) Derrica as a living reminder that she was a prisoner no longer. A steady heartbeat of you're safe, you're safe, you're safe. So it's the least she can do in return now.
gently sticks a bow on this??
It's hard to pass up this comfort. Whatever she's forcibly projecting outward, the past few days have been hard. When she does lay down, mindful of her burns and the ice-blackened patches on her shin, it's a help to have Athessa close at hand.
She doesn't tell Athessa not to bother. What she does is turn towards her, curling carefully on her side in towards where Athessa is sat.
"Thank you," is the last of what she says before drifting off to sleep