faderift | [open]

That does seem to be the agreed upon resolution, she thinks. Which is, as far as occupying a sickbed goes, fairly reassuring. How very strange it is to go from being the least notable figure of a would-be funeral to the focus of a near constant vigil. She might almost be tempted to be pleased for herself, only the draught is beginning to wear thin and the pain in her hand is coming back to her and that necessitates a certain myopia.

(Also she missed the Duke's party, and so what is the point of anything?)

"I'm surprised he agreed to such a thing. Mister Ellis is so squeamish." No, that's not the right word. But he will surely understand what she means.

"But it's a very fine idea should you wish to avoid a Circle. If there's been any scholarship to identify unique properties we might have other than the anchor, I've certainly not seen it. Well—beyond the disease. You might consult Miss Niehaus on the subject." A tired inhale and exhale; it's remarkably difficult work to carry on in the habit to which she is accustomed. "To be certain of your escape."

Her hand retreats from Thot's chicken leg haunch.

"I believe I would prefer someone other than Ellis to do it. And not Lady Rutyer either."

Niehaus is one of the science Rifters. There’s a vulpine slant to the look he catches her with from the corner of his eye -- lingering resentment, a thread of distrust from beneath the boot of Wysteria’s wasting away. Guess he’ll die.

There’s no venom to it, naturally.

There’s no venom in him at all. Elfroot smoke has replaced his internal workings entirely.

“Mister Ellis is squeamish about the fragility of people he cares for,” is a necessary distinction to make nonetheless. Squeamish is the right word. And so too, apparently, is Wysteria. He shifts in his lean, one heel bent up against the foot of his stool. “Why not Lady Rutyer?”

"She has no magic."

(Poor Sidony Rutyer, having the thing she dreads most spoken aloud in such a cavalier fashion.)

"Which is all very well any good for scrapes or anything where there is no alternative at all, but I would very much prefer not to be entirely reliant on being sewn up like a stuffed bear. And also I dislike her. She's much too pretty."

It’s clear in the wary buffer of his silence that he is not making any promises about ensuring Wysteria is the prettiest girl in the surgery. Smoke curls behind his teeth after a shorter toke, giving him space to navigate away from the multitude of implications here (is he not too pretty??) and back towards an imagined scenario better optimized for survivability.

It will need to be a coordinated operation: hands to sever, hands to heal, hands to hold her down for as long as she’s awake.

“Sidony’s skill is undeniable,” he says. “Are you concerned she’ll steal away the attention of your attending healer?”

"Surely skill is hardly the point." This, a little sullenly as she tips her face toward the cat ouroborosed at the crook of her neck and shoulder. It's only the smallest moment however. Then her attention tilts back to him; the oven mitt of Wysteria's left hand raises by a half degree off the bed.

"Would you like to see it?"

Anything to avoid further discussion of Sidony Rutyer, who is oh so very skilled.

If she turns her face too far she is likely to be rewarded with the careless plant of a webbed foot across her nose, or the rasp of a tongue dragging dry under her chin.

It feels irresponsible to argue with Poppell in this state.

So, after still another silence, Dickerson unfolds up onto his feet, stiff in the knees and the wedge of his shoulder where he’d been leaning.

“Please don't remove it yourself,” he says, by way of might as well. He will assist, the light not quite poor and his beard not quite bristly enough to mask the steel of resolve catching taut at the back of his jaw. He adds also, with a pinch to indicate he intends to put out the narrow stub of his joint: “You should take the rest of this.”

This is medical advice.

Edited (dont look at me) 2021-09-22 08:16 (UTC)

"Monsieur Chapdelaine or the Brother may be cross with me," is evidently ample reason to follow alternative medical recommendations for a young lady who has rapidly become quite cross with being told what to do by a cadre of hovering men, for Wysteria's other hand—soon to be her only hand—reaches out to take him up on the offer.

At least this particular hovering man is a novelty by comparison.

"Here is the bandage edge," she says, turning out her oven mitt to expose the tacked end of the bandage. "And there is ordinarily—yes, there. That pitcher and bowl on the side table. A little water will help to dissolve whatever of the plaster doesn't come easily away."

“I won’t tell them.”

He sees the joint seated securely in her grasp before he crosses away to tip pitcher to bowl, leaving her to partake at her own pace. There are rags, also, a long glance spared back across Wysteria’s bedding to Ellis asleep nearby as he wets a cloth and wrings it.

The lead bandage is found with her help once he’s returned, the bowl placed on his stool, the rag over its edge. A flick of water ensures an easy start. He sets to peeling with care taken to bump her as little as possible, pressing to lift gently under her elbow where needed.

“Are they treating you well?”

Giving her something to complain about while he works is as methodical a maneuver as the rest of it.

Edited 2021-09-27 17:14 (UTC)

"They are treating me like I'm an infirm old woman and a child both, which is very dreadfully boring and not at all encouraging besides. Have you ever been forced to lie abed for long periods of time, Mister Richardson? I dislike it immensely. The last time I was ill for such a long time, I at least had a window to look out of. And it was winter, which is the correct time to be sick for one always wants to be wrapped up in blankets then anyway. It should be disallowed to fall sick while it's still so warm out."

Her arm is amenable to being unwrapped, and for a young lady who almost certainly makes no habit of smoking, Wysteria only coughs a little around her first acrid puffs from the joint before she falls into a pattern of chattering along for a sentence or two, sucking down some smoke, and then continuing along in a stream of smoke. Her father had smoked cigars, and had been an extraordinarily poor influence.

"Brother Gideon has no patience at all, and assumes me to be a much worse patient than I am. And Monsieur Chapdelaine is far too quiet."

In summary: as far as methodical maneuvers go, this one is more or less successful. It certainly distracts her from the minor shifting about of her limb as its uncovered. There is a distinctly fetid quality to what lays beneath the bandages, only some of which may be attributed to the crusty poultice which has dried there. The limb is fish belly pale, and from the nauseous green gash in her hand extends a vivid line of infection up the length of her forearm. The ominous brightness stands in stark contrast to the ashy quality of her fingertips.

He glances to her while she speaks, empathizes with the tilt and pinch of his brows, agrees with a low mm on the subject of winter confinement and so on. Engaged, until he peels to uncover the gash in her hand, the ashy pallor of her fingertips. He swallows more tightly then, breath locked out for a long moment, lungs stoppered, cloying sickly warm behind his ribs. The line of infection, dead or dying tissue. Rot.

Pause, reset, resume. He breathes in, short and sharp to disturb the drift of her smoke.

“What was different?”

The dried poultice should go; he wets and squeezes the rag one-handed, strangling herb-sudsy water grey back into its basin.

“About that rift,” is a necessary clarification, probably, given the prelude. “Do you remember anything?”

"This last one? Oh nothing at all. I have the measurements—well, they're in my field kit, which is in my room. But it was all highly regular according to the thaumoscope's measurements. We encountered Venatori there, but that might be for a dozen reasons."

There are young ladies (and no doubt many other sorts of people) who would at this point avoid examining the dreaded part of themselves in full daylight. —Full-ish daylight. Wysteria, with the snub of the joint between her fingers, sits up by the uncomfortable half degree necessary to do so. She turns her wrist faintly in an effort to track the extent of the infection along the length of her forearm. She'd not been able to convince either the doctor or Brother Gideon to let her have a very good look at it.

There’s an abortive micromovement to the way he turns slightly more towards her, as if it’s crossed his mind to stop her from sitting, from taking a closer look. He just never quite follows through to reach for her, the rag in his fist pitter-pattering runoff to the floor, impotent between her and the rarmod of guilty tension that’s keeping his back exceptionally straight.

Instead, after a moment of review, he reaches to catch carefully under her elbow, lifting the hand and wrist into better light. He sneaks a wary glance across her to Ellis as he does so, measuring the depth of his slumber.

It is her arm.

“I’m referring to the rift beneath Kirkwall. You collapsed, after closing the seam yourself.”

Edited (weird word choice) 2021-10-04 23:54 (UTC)

"Oh, that."

It's an absent reply, her focus briefly held by the shape of the limb raised up where she might easily observe it. It does look poorly, doesn't it? Something about the anchor lit pallor of the fingers, Wysteria thinks, is especially dreadful.

"The Fadeiation measurements were quite high, but that is to be expected. There must be a concentration of raw lyrium there. Which would follow, given the presence of the Deep Road passage which the Carta told us of, and which Valentine and I mean to explore. No," she says, clumsily lowering her elbow so she might note whether it's at all involved with the inflamed flesh. "I suspect the rift had very little to do with it. Or at least, that it would be impossible to isolate the blame to that specific instance. It's far more likely that it has to do with repeated exposures. Madame de Cedoux, Madame Baudin, Monsieur Thranduil—I believe I've closed far more rifts than any of them. Will they remove the elbow, do you imagine?"

He’ll see the arm laid back to rest once she’s satisfied her curiosity. The better to see to the poultice in earnest, his cloth applied wet to soften the crust. It will be easier then to lift and mop the remainder away.

Work work work work work work.

There’s plenty of room for an answer in a space that is instead filled by the wringing and rinsing of wet cloth. He's mum on the subject of exposure. Skeptical, perhaps. Thot gazes up at him, upside down and reversed, as if she’s also waiting for the answer to this latest question.

“If they must.”

It's difficult to say whether that answer, once it comes, satisfies or disappoints her. With her examination complete, Wysteria has allowed herself to ease back into the pillow—fitting shoulder and neck back around Thot's assortment of right angles as what remains of the clay poultice is mopped at. Her attention has wandered a little in the rhythmic quiet. To her other hand on the top of the blankets, and Ellis' sleeping form, and the door to the infirmary, and then back again.

She turns her face to Richard.

"What do you think we are? Rifters, I mean."

The answer is briefly clear on his face, caught out by the unexpected pushpin of her turning to ask him. It catches behind his teeth, creases his brow with a wry indifference that makes him look older than he is. The nature of their existence here doesn’t matter.

Most of them will vanish and be forgotten, as dozens of their predecessors have.

It would be deeply insensitive of him to say so.

“In keeping with your theory, I believe we are collected from elsewhere in the Fade by a desperate entity searching for help in the war against the blight’s unmaking of this world.”

The time he takes to answer with his hands paused mid-scrub could be wholly attributed to careful thought. Both answers are true, and he’s comfortable enough in that to resume his work.

“We’re here to serve a purpose.”

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