faderift | closed.

Ellie doesn't lean away, but she does shut her eyes, the better to buck up under the pain. Her face feels like a mess even if it was mostly just her nose that took a beating. Could've been worse. The dirt and blood come away readily into the cloth, and Ellie doesn't flinch.

Her mind's still feeling like a fucking tangle, like she's on the verge of needing to find a small, quiet space to crawl into, a place to fall apart like she hasn't since Joel's voice came through the communicators a world away.

Instead she rubs her thumb over the side of the basin over and over until it stings.

"Not really?" she says, in full honesty. She doesn't know where to begin, how to even START to explain. It feels monumental and she's just... tired. She's so goddamn tired.

She's torn between being grateful for Derrica's understanding, and a little pissed off at it. She knows that if she doesn't give an explanation, she'll just clean her up, heal her up, and send her on her way. And she deserves to fucking know, even if she'll let Ellie get away with being a closemouthed shithead. Even if she won't hold it against her.

Ellie kind of wishes she would hold it against her. It would make this easier. Why did kindness make everything harder?

"One of the Rifts... spit out somebody I knew."

The expression on Derrica's face crumples into concern.

"And they did this to you?" comes as Derrica's hand closes over Ellie's on the rim of the basin. Loose grasp, easily shaken away. She's paused in her ministrations, cloth pressed beneath Ellie's jawline.

But she stops at that question. She doesn't say: We should speak to Commander Flint or Tell me their name

She waits. One question. An obvious one, maybe. But Ellie can decide what's to be said in answer to it.

"Yeah. I mean, I did worse."

Ellie shrugs, though the answer's obvious enough, and the corner of her mouth twists. Derrica's genuine care and concern feels like an itching in her blood, and even though she's older now, even though she's shaken free of some of her bad habits, today's been fucked up enough to get to her.

"Don't-"

It comes out more sharply than she intended, and Ellie takes a deep breath, lets it out. She doesn't want to be an asshole to Derrica, she doesn't deserve it. She likes her. Maybe that's the real problem here, stacked up with all the hundreds of other very fucking real problems. She likes this place. She likes the people here. She almost likes who she is, here.

For a second Ellie almost cracks. Almost. But she pulls back on it, shuts it down.

"We called a truce. We're not gonna drag Riftwatch into our shit. It's between me and her."

Don't has Derrica drawing her hand back from the basin, cloth fluttering indecisively at Ellie's throat as Derrica works through what exactly Ellie might be objecting to.

The return of the damp cloth is very tentative. Derrica's eyes don't leave Ellie's face, studying her first for a flinch, and then to try and parse what she's said, what this might mean going forward.

If someone is going to hurt Ellie this way again.

"Okay," Derrica says, softer. There's a pause then, while Derrica weighs up her questions.

The blood comes away from Ellie's skin, leaving streaky trails of water in the wake of each swipe of the cloth. Derrica dips it back into the bowl, wrings it out, and returns to her work.

"Tip your head up," she instructs first, and then, "You can talk to me about it, if you want. Or I can talk to you about something else."

Whatever Ellie needs right now, beyond a healer.

"Sorry," Ellie mumbles, and makes herself drop her guard, the defensive set of her shoulders. The tension in her jaw. She leans forward, into the touch, and lets her eyes fall shut.

It's not the touch she's rejecting. If anything, that's what she is most readily starting to accept. She tilts her chin up, gives a soft hiss as Derrica moves over the more tender bits of her face. There's not a lot of surface damage, mostly just awful bruises. With the blood gone it's clear it all came from her nose.

It starts up again a little, as they clean away what's dried on, but it's sluggish.

Ellie retreats into her own thoughts, struggling to find a way to explain, to- make this make sense. To separate the facts from the way they upended her life, her sense of self.

"She... killed somebody," Ellie says, thickly. "Somebody I cared about."

It seems insane, distilling it all down to those words. Summing up everything that took her apart in just a few sentences.

"And then she left me alive."

It seems, for a little while at least, that Ellie's choice is simply not to talk at all. And Derrica isn't inclined to press her into conversation. When her hand returns to the tray, it's carefully adjacent to Ellie's, near enough to almost initiate contact if Ellie prefers.

The blood comes away under the light sweeps of the cloth. Derrica's attention had settled on the injuries as they became clear to her, considering how well they'd lift away. There's a flicker of surprise when Ellis speaks, that immediately crumples into alarm, then concern. Her fingers slide along the rim of the basin until her knuckles are nudging against Ellie's in a small, instinctive urge towards tactile comfort.

On purpose? catches in Derrica's throat. Does it need to be asked? What could it be but intentional based on what Ellie has said? There's purpose in the latter statement. To be left alive, that's a specific kind of choice.

And for the two of them to fight like this, that's not the kind of anger that comes from an accident either.

"I'm sorry," comes as soft as ash, painfully sincere, as Derrica's eyes search Ellie's face. "I'm so sorry, Ellie."

It is a terrible thing to be the one left alive. Derrica knows this by heart, and she is sorry to find that they share it.

In the wake of having said the only, empty thing that comes to mind, Derrica casts about for what comes after such a confidence.

"Who were they?" she says, then clarifies, "If you can talk about them."

Ellie's fingers clutch back at Derrica's, momentarily needing, like she'll fall off the face of the earth if she doesn't. Slowly, she settles, lets her eyes fall half shut as the blood comes away. The words always stick in the back of her throat, even if she's more used to saying them now.

Some days the grief is larger than her, and today would have been bad, even without Abby tearing it all open again.

"... Joel," she says, her voice soft. She presses her lips together, breathes slowly out. It's not steady. Get it out, Dina used to say. Like her memories of him were food poisoning.

And Jesse, the nasty voice in the back of her mind adds. But that was your fault.

"We kept each other safe. And he taught me how to stay alive. Everything he knew. He was all I had, for a long time."

For a few moments, Derrica has nothing at all to say. Blood has crusted along Ellie's jawline, splattered down her throat to soak her tunic. It holds Derrica's gaze as her hands work, returning to dip the cloth and bring it back damp and dripping to swipe along Ellie's jaw as she says, "I'm sorry," a second time.

Dairsmuid was a different thing entirely, but there are familiar notes between it and what Ellie is speaking of.

"How long ago did it happen?"

Not so long, Derrica would guess. She recognizes the way Ellie holds her grief. Maybe Derrica had looked very similar, after she'd fled Rivain, trying to hold herself together when it felt as if her limbs had been ripped away. Maybe this is a fresh wound, for Ellie. Maybe Ellie would also need years before the raw ache of it dulled enough to bear.

"Two years."

The words congeal like blood in her throat, and she has to swallow it down. Years and she still remembers it, sometimes, better than she remembers his eyes. On the bad days at least.

Today is a bad day.

It's difficult to see what's around her, so Ellie just stares down into the bloody basin, letting the water drip off her face like it'll hide anything at all.

"But the place I came here from, with the gods? He was alive again. For a little while."

Meaning she'd lost him all over again, the moment she came through the Rift.

The work of the cloth pauses. It remains, soft pressure at Ellie's jaw, as Derrica looks at her downturned face.

What Ellie's describing doesn't sound like a reprieve. But it's no wonder that she seems to be stripped raw. A half-healed wound torn open again is a very specific kind of agony. There aren't words for it. And not for the first time, Derrica wishes there were something, anything, that might provide comfort.

Her thumb runs back and forth over Ellie's knuckles, soothing, as she says, "Would you go back to that place, if you could?"

The sting of the cloth is distant, and Ellie shuts her eyes, not quite able to meet Derrica's. It's almost humiliating, being so vulnerable. It's difficult to let herself need this, especially when any breath of kindness threatens to crack her apart. She wonders if there'll be a day when it doesn't feel like stealing.

It makes her angry with herself.

Ellie shakes her head, but is at a loss for words when it comes to explaining why.

"Even when he was there- I'm not the same person he knew."

Joel would have insisted otherwise, but they both knew the truth. He'd taught her everything he knew, including all the things he'd never wanted her to be. It hurt him, every time he saw it, and he was shit at hiding it.

Maybe with time they could've repaired things, rebuilt themselves. Found out who they were now. But that was time they didn't have, and it was a world that wouldn't have allowed them the space.

"... and she was there, too."

Ellie swallows.

"Abby."

A flicker of shock crosses Derrica's face at the name, thankfully unseen.

It's an assumption, one that she immediately questions, but it seems impossible that Ellie's speaking of anyone else.

But the buzz of questions subsides, pushed away because this isn't about Derrica's curiosity. It would be a kind of prying that would do harm, and Derrica can't bring herself to engage in it. How could she dig her fingers into Ellie's wounds, try to draw out answers Ellie wasn't ready to give?

"Ellie," Derrica begins, stops, draws a breath. She lowers the cloth to the basin. "Ellie, are you and she going to be able to stay here together?"

The Gallows is a massive structure, but it feels small most days. Riftwatch overruns itself. And what would that be like for Ellie, trying to share space with someone who had dealt her this kind of wound?

"Were you...you and he, were you able to be there with her in that other place?"

Ellie's expression crumples completely, and it takes her a moment to pull herself back together. Derrica's question is a good one, a vital one, and it's the one that she's been avoiding thinking about.

"... I don't know," she says quietly, truthfully. The thought of waking up and seeing Abby's face every day, skirting around her, hearing her voice, it all seems like a special sort of hell.

... but they've avoided each other for this long. She met her in the city, not in the Gallows.

"But I could have killed her today. And I didn't."

Ellie breathes out, trying to straighten her shoulders, swallowing hard. "Joel said he talked to her, back there. And that they were done."

Edited 2021-08-23 05:44 (UTC)

Derrica's thumb rubs back and forth over Ellie's knuckles, silently soothing, as she examines Ellie's face. The bruises have come up, livid and dark, and the absence of blood doesn't alleviate the severity of the damage. And Ellie is miserable in a way that has nothing at all to do with whatever pain must come from those marks. Derrica's brow knits into an empathetic frown as she takes it all in.

"Done," Derrica echoes, uncertain of the meaning. It has a different ring to it than what Ellie had described arriving to with Abby here. "Is that why you stopped yourself from killing her today?"

"No."

This is difficult. Because it's something that Abby -- this Abby -- doesn't know and will never remember. She swallows again, painting the taste of blood along her tongue, copper and salt. Her face feels hot despite the water, her eyes stinging, and not just from the swelling.

"I just..."

Ellie trails off, looking down into the murky crimson surface of the water in the basin, and the way Derrica's holding her hand. Her knuckles are crisscrossed with scars, some long healed and layered over with fresher ones.

Her missing fingers.

"It wouldn't fix anything," she whispers.

"It wouldn't fix me."

Fix.

That word sticks. It isn't the right word. Not for something like this. Ellie looks down and Derrica watches her, trying to parse what she means to say before she slowly curls her fingers beneath Ellie's. She lifts one hand from the basin, lacing their fingers together.

"It's not the kind of thing that you fix," Derrica says quietly. "Nothing fixes something like this."

Seven years since Dairsmuid, and Derrica still feels that loss. She still chokes on rage when she sees templars, hears people praise the Chantry. She doesn't know that such an anger will ever go away, or that she'll ever stop feeling grief over all that was taken from her. It comes back, no matter how long it's been.

"But you grow around it. It will always be a part of you, but I promise, it won't hurt like this forever."

No promise of a timeframe. How could Derrica know? How can she pretend her life is any measuring stick for Ellie's? How can she compare their losses? There's no science to such things.

"Have you ever seen a wounded tree?" sounds nonsensical, but nothing about Derrica's expression indicates that she's joking.

Everything she's saying are things that Ellie knows; smart, good advice. It may even eventually help, but now and in the thick of it, it doesn't seem like anything will ever heal up. She's had years now, and still wakes up screaming. A sound or a smell will still put her back in the moment. She's violent, far more than she needs to be, and still jumps when people touch her when she's not expecting it.

She knows Derrica's trying to help, but Ellie's world is still cold and colorless. Without her anger to keep her burning, everything just tastes like ashes, and she has to live amidst the ruin of what she fed to the flames.

Some part of Ellie is still holding out for the moment that Derrica realizes she can't help her, and moves on. She's terrified of it, but holds it inevitable.

It's stupid, yes, and self-sabotaging. And she knows it. It doesn't stop her from feeling it.

The thoughts pause, though, at Derrica's question, and Ellie frowns, focusing on her again as the water drips down her face.

"... yeah?"

Having draped the cloth over edge of the basin, she lifts her hands after one final squeeze to Ellie's, then rinses them briefly in the water. Shaking the stray droplets from her fingers, she raises her hands in silent appeal as she begins to speak.

"I've seen some, in Rivain, when I was younger. They were so old, maybe older than my mentor," Derrica begins, choosing her words carefully because this is not the moment for a diversion about Circles, about the people she's lost. "And you could still see where they'd been hurt, whether it was a woodsman with an axe, or a fire, or disease. There were wounds there that were older than I was, from years and years ago."

The silent appeal: Is it alright if I touch your face?

It's unmistakable, but Derrica's hands hover, refusing to make contact without a nod from Ellie.

Ellie lifts her head up to meet Derrica's eyes, listening to the sound of her voice as much as the words she's saying.

Every time they touch there's less hesitation. It's hardly noticeable before Ellie leans silently forward, bringing herself within reach with a small nod. Just a tip of her head.

Her face feels overwarm, already starting to swell. Her eyes itch, but she makes herself focus on her instead of everything else.

A nod in return, but even so, there's still a beat of hesitation before she cups Ellie's face in her hands. It's a deliberately loose clasp. Ellie can easily shake her off, at any point. Derrica's as attentive to the possibility that Ellie might need to break away as she is to Ellie's injuries.

"You couldn't tell exactly how bad the damage was," she says instead, her thumb moving carefully across Ellie's damp cheek. She's studying Ellie's face but not exactly studying Ellie's face; her attention has shifted to the injuries, halving her focus on Ellie's expression. "But even with the deepest gouges, cuts that you might think would have made them weaker or caused them to rot or fall in a storm..."

A trailing pause. Derrica draws a breath. A cool wash of sensation spreads outward from her palms. Her thumbs stroke again over Ellie's cheeks.

"They grew anyway," she says, a little winded. The sensation doesn't falter. Ellie's pain dulls by degrees, dialing down to nothing. "And the scars became just another part of them."

It takes years. This Derrica doesn't say. Ellie knows that, surely.

The clasp is loose, but cool, soft. Steadying. Her hands feel good on her feverish skin, though Ellie's chest feels tight.

It's been a long time since she was regularly touched. Touch in New Amsterdam meant being laid bare, meant minds and memories and emotions spilling over. Brushing up against Ellie's deluge of thought was regularly too much, even for the people that cared enough to brave it.

There is safety in the quiet, and the brush of Derrica's thumbs is so tender, the corners of Ellie's mouth twitch and draw tight as the pain ebbs slowly away. Gentled by touch and the sound of her voice. Ellie slowly breathes out, every ache and hurt easing like she's bleeding out poison. The relief is dizzying.

Ellie wonders just how long she's carried herself tightly, to accommodate old injuries, afraid to put her full weight anywhere.

"Dunno if it works like that with people," she mutters.

You think this is easy? comes the echo, and Ellie tries to shake it off, but the memory's so close to the surface.

Bruises fade. Bone knits back together. With the majority of the blood cleared from Ellie's face, it's almost as if nothing happened at all. The chilly flow of energy ebbs away, though Derrica's hands remain.

"It does. I promise."

All this pain that Ellie's carried hasn't broken her apart. There's strength in that, whether Ellie sees it or not.

There's quiet then. It's not that Derrica hadn't marked the way Ellie carried herself, but the shift between how she knows Ellie to hold her body and the way she relaxes now is so stark that it hurts to observe. Derrica had intended to reach down to her wrist, but she lingers, the light sweep of her thumbs continuing even though the spell has ended.

"It just takes time," she tells her, softer. More time than Derrica could say. She still feels the slice of grief every time she speaks of Dairsmuid, even after seven years have passed.

Even if Ellie can't believe it now, at least not in her case, the words are soothing. She wants to believe them when Derrica says them, especially because she knows that Derrica has hurt too.

Nobody who speaks this way, who tries so hard to be kind, has had it easy.

Ellie's eyes settle completely shut as Derrica strokes her cheeks, letting her breath out in a sigh of relief, her breathing slowing. There are some levels of pain that just become a part of you. Ellie hadn't realized just how much everything hurt until it doesn't.

She lifts both her hands, rough and scarred, and puts them on the back of Derrica's wrists, curling her fingers lightly over her skin, pressing gently with her thumbs. She just keeps them there, keeps the contact, eyes shut. Like she can draw out this moment of comfort before self-consciousness catches up with her, and she tries to deflect.

It's not as if Derrica hadn't had some inkling as to how deeply Ellie had been hurt. But it is painful to assess the depths of that hurt, grapple with the breadth of it as Ellie's eyes close.

There is nothing to do but hold on to her. Derrica thinks of several different things, considered and discarded as the unfaltering repetition of her thumbs across Ellie's cheeks.

"Do you want to stay?" Derrica asks, after some time. "I can give you something that isn't bloodstained, and you could stay if it will help."

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OOPS

MY BAD

you're fiNE i was just speedy

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