MOD PLOT ↠ ALL SOULS WHO TAKE UP THE SWORD

[faderifting]

WHO: Nearly everyone
WHAT: Retaking Val Chevin
WHEN: Late Firstfall into early/mid-Haring, 9:47
WHERE: Val Chevin, Orlais
NOTES: Generated injuries here! CWs for violence, slavery mentions. Use content warnings in your comment subject lines as needed.

THE BATTLE

The battle begins just after dawn, once the distraction at the harbor has drawn as much of the enemy force to that end of the city as possible. Bombardment (magical or otherwise) is fruitless while the elvhen shield artifact continues to magically reinforce the walls and gates, but a Riftwatch team is on its way and will soon have disabled it. In the meantime, while the enemy's attention is focused on the harbor the assault begins. The first waves of soldiers are sent up ladders to try to fight their way over. Some make it, and fight their way along the battlements to try to reach the gate below, in hopes of unbarring it from within even before the shield is broken. The attacking force very nearly manages a lightning-quick victory, numbers pouring over a section of the wall left unmanned by the harbor distraction. They might have managed it when, suddenly, a rush of magic descends down onto the walls, physically, enough to blow their hair back and everything, and a glowing dome spreads over the city—essentially an enormous magical barrier.

Those at the tops of ladders suddenly find their blows absorbed by the magic rather than landing on the overwhelmed guards along the wall, while the defenders' blades still pierce through from within. The tide quickly begins to turn in favor of the Tevinter defenders. Some of the attackers are caught already within the walls when the barrier drops, and without more following behind them are quickly outnumbered, either killed or forced to flee deeper into the city to try to avoid capture. There is traffic jam at the top of the wall as forward progress abruptly halts, and at least one ladder accidentally falls in the resulting confusion, taking a dozen or so attackers with it. Attacks from the walls above now rain down with impunity as the attackers attempt to force their way through the barrier, reasoning that all barriers break eventually and it's just a matter of applying enough force. For a short period that feels longer, the battle stagnates, all the damage being taken by the allied forces, the Tevinters on the wall able to regroup and reinforce their ranks.

It takes longer than anyone had planned but finally the Riftwatch team inside the city is successful and the barrier dome dissipates as abruptly as it had appeared. A cheer goes up, flagging morale restored, and the assault takes on renewed intensity. Without their magical protection the gate is no longer unbreachable. Rams are aimed at it and magical force as well, protected by archers and more mages, with assistance from some griffon riders above. The enemy throws down scalding stones, oil, even Antivan fire, but their force is stretched thinner and thinner, and more and more attackers make it over the walls to harry them back. Finally the gate splinters, and the armies of Orlais and the Divine stream into Val Chevin.

The Tevinter and Ander forces don't give in that easily. They make a stand in the central square of the city, fighting on the steps of the Chantry and the lip of the great fountain itself with its four leaping seahorses. They retreat through the streets, broken up into smaller groups, some barricading themselves inside a building, others seeking to hide in a home, more running, or looking for chokepoints they can defend, mages tearing stones out of walls to block pursuit. Some of the people of Val Chevin, sensing an end to the occupation at last, join the fight, driving soldiers out of their homes and shops with pitchforks and butcher's knives, raining trash and debris down on them from windows, calling out warnings and directions to friendly forces, offering water or aid where they can.

By mid-afternoon, it's over. Some of the occupying force have managed to flee into the countryside or into one of the few ships remaining intact in the harbor. Many more are dead. The remainder, perhaps as many as a thousand, are gradually cornered at various places around the city and give themselves up. Not all surrenders are honored--some, particularly Orlesians and locals caught up in the fighting, are eager to dispatch the enemy occupiers once and for all and unless someone intervenes may ignore the laying down of arms. Stragglers still attempting to hide or escape are rounded up throughout the day (some even later), tracked down by searchers or turned in by locals.

THE "SAFE AND SECURE" SHIP

Anchored at what is believed to be a safe distance just up the coast to the northeast of the city, Riftwatch's shipboard base of operations provides a landing and launch area for griffons, triage for wounded, and on large tables and boards a collection of detailed maps of the area and of the city and its various districts on which action is tracked as crystal reports come in. Some are assigned to shifts manning the crystals: taking in reports, asking questions, soliciting aid, sending griffon riders where they're most needed. Others analyze the information provided, plot it on the maps, or coordinate with allied movements. Supplies are doled out from the ship as well, from spare weapons and armor to food and water, grenades, lyrium potions, healing poultices. Though the breeze only intermittently carries the sounds of battle out here, the ship is still a buzz with activity throughout the day.

Disaster doesn't strike until the afternoon, when a group of Tevinters fleeing the city manage to commandeer one of the remaining mostly-intact ships and somehow make it out of the harbor despite not entirely knowing how to sail. They straggle out into the bay, catch the wrong current, and are suddenly on top of the Riftwatch ship. Though smaller and already beginning to sink, the Tevinter vessel manages to tangle itself with Riftwatch's anchor cable, and the couple of mages on board make a doomed attempt to trade up for the bigger, more seaworthy model. They fail, but not before managing to do some serious damage to Riftwatch's ship, sufficient to sink it as well.

A hasty evacuation follows by griffon and longboat. The ship sinks rapidly, leaving just barely enough time to get all the wounded ferried to shore and still come back for the healthy before they go down with the ship.

THE AFTERMATH

IMMEDIATE NEEDS

First things first: the wounded from the battle need to be attended to, including not only those from Riftwatch's ranks, but also members of the Orlesian military, local civilians, and Tevinter and Ander prisoners—though opinions vary about whether or not to provide them with any assistance. The Orlesian military has supplies and surgeons, and Riftwatch will be welcome to either seek care or help provide it in medical tents that are set up on the outskirts of the city even before the fighting has fully concluded. During this first evening, this area is not a peaceful place to be, filled with shouts and moans and blood-spattered people darting between emergencies. Even with Riftwatch's help (and magic), resources are stretched thin enough by severe injuries that those who look like they're going to survive without help might be turned away to deal with their pain and cosmetic concerns the old fashioned ways: finding elfroot sprouting up between the cobblestones to chew on, or gritting their teeth and getting over it.

Throughout the night, paranoia persists about the possibility that belated reinforcements—or, worse, a dragon—might arrive to prolong the battle. Soldiers keep watch along the walls and at some forward locations, and Riftwatch's griffon riders are sent to observe the portions of the occupying force that fled north and ensure there's nothing amiss. Nothing seems to be, but continuing to lightly harass the Tevinter and Ander forces to hurry them on their way and keep them from pausing to ransack anything won't hurt.

In the morning, back in Val Chevin, those who look strong and uninjured are enlisted to help with clearing debris from the places where the fighting was heavy and magical enough to collapse walls and roofs or topple statues, or else loading bodies onto carts bound for the pyres outside the city. By mid-morning plumes of smoke streak the sky. The bulk of the damage and death is concentrated on the docks, where the dreadnought crashed and where the initial smash-and-burn fighting took place. Meanwhile, throughout the harbor, griffons will prove useful in examining the water for concentrations of floating bodies—which need to be fished out to avoid a walking dead problem in the future—or debris that's potentially either useful or dangerous. Given what the dreadnought assault team reports, there's also a careful search for any red lyrium-infested sea creatures in the harbor, but while other pens like the one that contained the very large red lyrium octopus they encountered, all have been destroyed in the chaos and no other beasts are spotted.

TAKING STOCK

Over the course of the week, supplies arrive by land and by sea from across Orlais—some from the government, some from charitable patriots who put together donation drives as soon as they heard the news. About eighty percent are practical and useful: winter shoes and clothing, flour and preserves and other long-lasting foods, bolts of fabric, apothecary supplies, a few dairy animals and chickens. The usefulness of the rest varies, including a crate of used toys (labeled FOR THE SWEET PEASANT CHILDREN), an assortment of expensive hats that were in season last winter, and collections of plain masks and face paints in case Tevinter was cruelly forcing anyone to go barefaced. Riftwatch is given leave to distribute these to people as they find needs to meet.

The surviving Orlesian civilians who have been trapped in the occupied city for the last two and a half years haven't been as starved or brutalized as popular imagination may have assumed, but the experience has been plenty miserable. Outside of a few public executions, agitators and those who fomented rebellion against the occupiers have by and large disappeared more quietly. Due to its collective general experience with the Tevinter language and magic, Riftwatch is given the fairly depressing task of sorting through the cells and torture chambers in Val Chevin's central keep, where records and other evidence of executions remain. It's enough to determine who died and how. Some had quick deaths; others were tortured or used for blood magic rituals. A handful appear to have been removed from the city and sent north to be held in Tevinter instead. Relaying the specifics to family members will generally be the responsibility of Orlesian officials, but family members eager for information may corner Riftwatchers coming or going from the fortress to press them for details.

Over the next couple weeks Riftwatch is also called to assist with handling other remnants of the Tevinter occupation, such as translating documents, evaluating evidence of blood magic, and sorting through relics and enchanted objects accumulated by the Venatori. Among the things left behind is a trove of elven artifacts seemingly extracted from nearby temples. None are as powerful as the shield; most seem to be completely unmagical cultural relics.

Elsewhere, many locals were evicted from their homes to make room for Tevinter occupiers. While Orlesian officials sort through claims to those homes, including several contentious competing claims, Riftwatch is sent into them to sort through what the enemy left behind and make sure they're safe for their occupants to return to. In many they find the ashy remains of hastily burned private documents and a variety of fairly mundane magical objects: spoons that stir themselves, hats that are always cool on the inside, candles that light and extinguish in response to clapping.Each is the work of a bound spirit that can be released or destroyed—or left to continue its eternal work, if someone wants to pocket an object rather than restore it to its original inanimate state. Throughout the city, there may also be opportunities to reunite grateful civilians with appropriated belongings ranging from fine art to beloved old horses.

Orlesians aren't the only ones in the city in need of assistance. A small number of Tevinter slaves—exclusively those performing menial tasks, as far as anyone can tell—remain in the city now that their masters have been killed or captured. With the Orlesian populace and military inclined, on average, to consider them threats and collaborators, Riftwatch's intervention on their behalf is necessary. Interviewing them and checking their stories against witness accounts and Tevinter records, to ensure none of them are Venatori mages or gleeful torturers in disguise, will allow Riftwatch to vouch for them confidently. They may also be able to find sympathetic locals willing to shelter and hire those who would like to remain in the city, though there aren't that many who do want to stay.

Throughout their time in the city, Riftwatch representatives are asked to report what they find regarding the treatment of the locals and any practice of blood magic. While Orlesian officers ask for Riftwatch members to give this information to them directly, it's quickly clear that it's likely to influence Orlais' decisions about how to deal with the thousand-odd Tevinter prisoners. Individuals identified as responsible for atrocities are being tortured or executed, especially if they're unlikely to have or provide information, and there is nothing ensuring the entire group won't be ultimately executed after the dust settles. With that in mind, Riftwatch receives instructions from the Division Heads to instead bring the information to them so it can be compiled, double-checked, screened for any individuals Riftwatch may need to question themselves, and delivered with a diplomatic touch.

GOING HOME (OR NOT)

Approximately a week after the battle, as the majority of Riftwatch is preparing to leave, Empress Celene and members of her retinue arrive in Val Chevin. They're greeted by a restrained military parade and less restrained enthusiasm from the civilians, who will line the streets to catch a glimpse and celebrate the symbolic return of the city to full Orlesian control. Riftwatch's attendance is not mandatory. Most of the organization leaves that day to return to Kirkwall and their other work. However, a small number remain behind for a few more days, overseen by the heads of Diplomacy and Forces, to provide administrative support while the Ambassador and Commander liaise with the Empress' people about their plans for the Tevinter prisoners. As thanks, they might be invited to endure a few stifling fancy dinners.

Comments

[tender]

The touch stalls her, but only for a moment. Derrica gives her a small smile before going to her knees. Her movements are slower. Everything still aches, though to a far lesser degree than they had before Richard had done his work.

And not a single ache she has takes precedence over scorched mess Ellie has brought in with her.

"Force magic," Derrica tells her, a little absent as her attention falls to Ellie's boot. One hand hooks into the laces, glancing up at her as she begins loosening the straps. "I didn't have a barrier up."

Though Derrica's not sure a barrier would have done anything for her. The spell had hit so hard—

"I'm going to help you," is a foregone conclusion, certainly. Could anyone expect otherwise from her? Even exhausted and bruised, whatever Derrica has left is for easing Ellie's pain.

[notathreat]

Ellie winces, just picturing it -- or maybe the wince is from the gentle tugging Derrica's doing to the laces of her boot. Ellie's face is sweaty, her hair and upper lip. Pale from the pain.

"Jesus," she mutters, focusing on Derrica's face. She feels floaty from the pain, now that she's been given permission to feel it. It fucking sucks.

"You sure?" she asks, her voice tight. Her life's not in danger, and Derrica must be pretty tapped out if she hasn't seen to her own hurts. She hopes that she's not overdoing it to help her, but already knows she is.

Her fingers fumble on the laces and straps, helping. Her fingers shake but keep going, accustomed to the pain. She handled the aftermath of her hand, she cared for her arm, she can handle this.

The boot comes away along with a palm-sized patch of burned skin. Ellie's boot is splotched with blood, and more as they pull the leather away. Ellie pushes through it, swearing loudly, but doesn't stop until it's off and she's weaving slightly in her seat, gasping.

"Aw, fuck," she whispers, her voice ragged as she looks at it. "That's gonna be a wicked scar."

[tender]

You sure is answered only with a brisk shake of her head. Yes, Derrica is very sure. It would be shameful otherwise, to hold in reserve any ability she had to ease another person's pain.

And this is Ellie.

Derrica hisses softly at the sight of the wound. One hand catches hold of Ellie's calf, while the other catches up Ellie's hands in her own.

"Sit back for me," Derrica tells her. "I'm going to try to ease the worst of it, and we'll get elfroot for the rest."

It's an ugly wound. Derrica knows that Ellie's right; it's going to be a wicked scar regardless of what Derrica can do for her. Maybe it would be a wicked scar even if Derrica were at her full strength, even if Isaac were here to step in where Derrica couldn't.

But dwelling on that is only a fruitless delay. Derrica breathes out, hand gentle at Ellie's calf.

"Trust me," she says, both reassurance and request. Ellie is pale with pain, and Derrica can at least help her with that part of this.

[notathreat]

Ellie laughs ruefully under her breath. She should've known better than to ask. But she does exactly as Derrica says, easing back enough to give her breathing room, even if her leg is tense in Derrica's hands, and sweat is beading on her upper lip.

"You bet," she whispers back, letting her eyes fall closed, and swallows hard past the hurt.

She breathes out, as the magic takes hold. It feels cool against the burn, goes deep enough to relieve the worst of the hurt. Shuddering with relief, Ellie goes slightly limp against the blankets, squeezing Derrica's hand.

"Fuck, that's good," she whispers, her voice hoarse and a little slurred, her breathing evening out.

The pain's still very much there, but it's no longer screaming or unbearable.

[tender]

Trust.

It matters more sometimes, with people who don't have magic. Ellie is a rifter and she is different than anyone Derrica will ever meet in Thedas, but Derrica still knows that magic can be a difficult, frightening concept.

So it matters, when Ellie permits her this.

And so Derrica bends closer as she does, letting go of Ellie's hands so she might hover one palm over the worst of the damage. The wash of cool green light comes with a sibilant whisper, shadows clinging closer around Derrica as if drawn in by the little display of power. It eases the angry, red-raw patch left behind by the removal of Ellie's boot.

And then, at the light begins fading, Derrica leans close, blows softly over the skin to seal in the spell.

Then rests her forehead at Ellie's knee, catching her breath before saying, "It'll be better once we put some salve on it, and get it wrapped."

And then Ellie might be able to rest peacefully, rather than while gritting her teeth against pain.

[notathreat]

It looks almost like the magic of the Fade, like the tears in the veil.

Ellie associates magic with dreams, with the laws of reality bent and shaped. She has magic herself even if it's a blunt instrument compared with Derrica's prowess. Ellie's was a gift while Derrica herself is a conduit.

For her it's fascinating as well as terrifying, a tool as useful as any knife. Sharp and liable to nick the unwary, but a fearsome defense and offense, and endless in versatility.

Ellie reaches out to touch Derrica's hair, brush it back from her face, a silent thank-you. She realizes too late how blood and soot-streaked her fingers are.

"Got some wraps and salve in my pack," Ellie says, wriggling it off as best she can from her angle. "So we can save the supplies here."

[tender]

"And avoid walking around the tent to beg some from the other healers."

Theoretically an errand Derrica wouldn't have too much trouble accomplishing, but she's reluctant to leave Ellie. This is a fortunate turn of events, and she's more than pleased by the readiness of supplies.

Straightening, Derrica watches as Ellie opens the flap of her pack.

"I should try to be more prepared as well."

Though Derrica had never carried a pack with her. She'd always fought under conditions where she was situated directly near supplies, or capable of repairing wounds herself. That's been shifting more and more during her time with Riftwatch. It's worrisome, and she'll have to make changes. But for now—

"I'll put the salve on for you."

Just in case Ellie was getting any ideas about exerting herself. The smudges from Ellie's fingertips remain at Derrica's temple, undisturbed. Derrica is only marginally cleaner, the benefit of having swam to safety and fighting a relative distance once she'd joined the fray, but the lingering traces of sweat and smoke and dirt can be found on her clothes, bare skin where her tunic slips to reveal where she might have skidded into the dirt and caught herself on one elbow.

[notathreat]

"It'd help. You never know when shit's gonna go upside down, and all you've got is what's on you."

There's been plenty of times in Ellie's life where that's been true, but she hands over the supplies anyway, braces up to let Derrica treat her. There's a healing potion in there too, but she's saving it for something superbly shitty. It says something that this isn't it.

"Cities are easier," Ellie says. She's not sure why, whether she's just filling the silence, or giving herself something to say while Derrica works, so she won't think about the pain.

"You can scavenge just about anything you need."

[tender]

Here, one little pot of salve. Here, a little sachet of wrappings. Derrica lays the latter across one thigh. She adjusts her seat, the better to pinch her pot between her knees. Her injured hand is allowed, at last, to come to rest in her sling.

"No one stops you?" she prompts, softly, as she cracks the cover free. The scent of the salve rises between them. Sweet, not so far removed from the smoke they'd shared before.

Even with Derrica's work, the wound is still a furious red. It will be very tender to the touch, Derrica knows. Scooping out a small glob of salve, she starts carefully, all light touches, to begin spreading it across the stretch of the burn. A sympathetic wince is working across her face. Derrica has weathered burns before; she knows what kind of pain they cause.

[notathreat]

Burns are the worst kind of pain, acid just a slight bump above it. Ellie thinks that mage fire might rival it. Derrica's magic seems to have counteracted it, taken it back down to mundane burns, but maybe it's the memory that makes it sting so bad.

She gives a soft hiss under her breath before relaxing as the salve sinks in, cools the burn further. She lets her eyes flutter shut, lets the elfroot salve work its magic. Feels like heaven after everything -- though Ellie knows she's far from getting to truly rest it. She'll take the momentary repreive.

"Not back where I'm from," she explains in a murmur, realizes she hasn't talked about it much. "Most everywhere's depopulated. It's mostly ruins now, but you can still find supplies here and there, if you're willing to tangle with the infected to get to them."

Ellie sighs, her shoulders starting to relax. She blinks her eyes open, half-smiles at Derrica.

"Here, they just never see me."

[tender]

"I'm glad of that."

It's a useful skill. And it will protect Ellie. Vanishing from sight is a good way to escape, and Derrica thinks that Ellie is one of the few members of Riftwatch who understands the value of turning and running from a fight gone terribly bad.

Her palm very, very lightly smooths the dollop of salve further and further down the stretch of burn. She alternates, one smoothing swipe of her fingers giving way to softly blowing over the newly applied salve.

"I want to ask you a question, but I think it might be complicated. We could talk about something easier, if you want."

[notathreat]

The foot is such a vulnerable place, it almost seems to hurt more. But Ellie sighs, relaxing incrementally as Derrica does he work, soothing the pain away to a dull buzz, making it almost comfortably tolerated. It's a gift, one that Ellie knows the full value of. Makes her want to give something back, even if she knows that nothing can really make up that gap.

"Never know until you ask," Ellie murmurs, opening her eyes- but she already knows that no matter what Derrica asks, she's unlikely to keep it from her.

"What is it?"

casually cross-references 3 other threads

[tender]

Oh, what a thing it is to be on the receiving end of such trust.

She is aware that Ellie is more open with her now that she had been when they'd met. And Derrica means to honor that, which is why she is quiet for a few moments more, carefully dipping her fingers into the jar to apply another thin layer of salve.

"It sounds like you come from somewhere very harsh," Derrica says slowly, fingers moving very, very lightly over red-raw skin. "I want to know more of what it was like for you there, but not if it's too difficult for you to speak about."

Like most things, Derrica is more than willing to be patient in the hopes that someday, her friends would be ready to speak to her about any given topic.

same tho

[notathreat]

The salve's doing good work, and Ellie just breathes, letting herself float while Derrica tends to the burn. It does feel better. Much better.

The question is a surprise, because on some level, Ellie had thought that she'd told Derrica more about her world than most- but when she thinks about it, that's still very little. So the expression that crosses her face is more thoughtful than anything.

"It's not," she confirms, shifting, trying to order her thoughts. "It's just that people get..." she pauses, searching for the right word. "Upset, when I talk about it. But for me it was just how things were."

Ellie pauses again, thinking of how to lay it out.

"My world's what would happen if there were no Grey Wardens," she says softly, "and the Blight just... overran everything. We don't have Darkspawn, but we have Infected." Ellie traces her fingers along her tattoo, the moth, the ferns, and the extensive scarring underneath it.

"It's a fungal infection. We don't know what started it, but once somebody gets it, it grows spores all over the brain, and just... kills everything they were. And it only takes hours. Days, at the most. But they go berserk, and they don't know anything but trying to kill and eat. If one bites you, you don't make it."

Ellie glances down at the bedsheets.

"I wasn't born yet when the outbreak happened, but Joel was. He said when he went to bed, things were normal... and then just hours later, the world turned into hell. Hundreds of thousands of people, just... dead. And what the Infected didn't kill, everyone else panicking and turning on each other did."

The solemnity of it is undercut by the way Ellie talks about it, with the weight it's due, with a haunted look in the back of her eyes, but with the cadence of someone who has long accepted a horrible reality.

"Everybody who survived that night just did anything they could to keep surviving. The government tried to set up QZ's. Quarantine Zones. And they got a couple of them going in the big cities that were hit later than others. It went to martial law real quick. Rations, work assignments. Most people going hungry, impossible to make ends meet if you weren't breaking the law somehow. And if you got caught, you'd get executed right there on the street. As shitty as the QZ's are, if you don't live in one of them, you're on your own. And if you're on your own, you're a tough son of a bitch or you're dead."

Ellie unpacks the bandages slowly, mostly to have something to do with her hands.

"We call bandits hunters, because that's what they are. They hunt other people. And some do worse than that."

Ellie rips a bandage into strips.

"I grew up in a QZ. In a military preparatory academy. It's where they stick all the kids who don't have parents. They raise them up to be soldiers. If I'd stayed there, I would've been one by the time I was sixteen."

[tender]

There is a weight to every single word Ellie says.

Harsh, Derrica had theorized. And it is harsh, only Derrica couldn't have guessed at the exact degree of it, what kind of suffering Ellie had emerged from. Somewhere in the course of Ellie's recitation, Derrica's fingers had come to a loose rest around her ankle. Looking up in Ellie's face, listening to the ripping of the fabric as Ellie speaks, Derrica wants to offer some kind of tangible expression of sympathy but this—

There aren't words. Or if there aren't, Derrica can't find them.

"But you left," she says instead, reaching for one of the newly torn bandages. "With Joel?"

It doesn't really need to be said. Of course Ellie was tough. She'd survived so much, and she was still here, with her bad jokes and sweet smile. It would have been easy for that to be lost along the way.

[notathreat]

There aren't words. Never are. It's something of a relief that Derrica doesn't try. She wonders if this will make her look at her differently. It's probably a given, but that was inevitable.

"Yeah." Ellie hands over one of the bandages, holding onto the rest for easy access, making sure they won't drop them onto the floor.

"I'd just turned fourteen, and..." Ellie trails of, and for the first time, her expression does crumple a bit, at the edges, but she presses on. "I was doing stupid kid shit. I snuck out with my best friend. We were too loud. There were some Infected that had breached the QZ, and they found us. And we both got bit."

Ellie rubs her thumb over her arm, absently.

"I made it. She didn't."

I made it, she says, in defiance of earlier. Everyone who is infected dies. But not her. Somehow, not her.

"I couldn't go back to FEDRA. They'd kill me the second they scanned me for bites. So I went to Marlene. She was an old friend of my mom's. She had... some people she worked with. And she thought that maybe, what happened to me might be the key for finding a cure. But she was hurt, and she couldn't take me herself. And there was no way I'd manage to get out of the QZ to meet up with her people on my own. So she hired Joel."

She presses out a breath, almost a laugh.

"He was a smuggler. But I guess he'd never smuggled a kid before."

[tender]

The tying of the bandages is a slight dilemma. Derrica considers Ellie's calf, breathes in, and then slips her arm from the sling.

"I'm sorry. For your friend."

It doesn't sound like enough. But it's something. Derrica can't let that loss go unacknowledged.

She should be attending to the bandages, but she lifts her right hand, hovering over Ellie's fingers where they trace over her tattoo.

"Is that where?"

cw: injury, referenced self-harm

[notathreat]

Ellie shakes her head as Derrica slips her arm free of the sling, reaching out for her -- and their hands meet. She pauses, soaking in the words, and lets her hand rest on the back of Derrica's, guiding it down to the uneven texture of the skin. It's slick, burned, warped from scars and healed ink. The burns are deeper, much deeper, than the ones on her foot.

"... yeah," she breathes, after a second or two. She still can't acknowledge the loss directly- all these years and Riley's death still hangs heavily over her, still makes her sick with guilt.

"It looked... gross," she says, haltingly. "Scars from the bites, and then... spores, and cysts, and..."

Ellie trails off again.

"Anyway, it would've been trouble if anybody saw it. So I- burned it off. A long time ago."

+ that

[tender]

This is an old wound. Nothing Derrica can do would smooth the damage here unless they were to reopen it. And there's no reason to propose such a thing. The pain Derrica wants to ease is set deeper, woven into Ellie's marrow.

Her fingers move lightly over the stretch of burns. She flattens her palm over it without flinching. It's an ugly wound, but Derrica's never been particularly squeamish.

"Alone?" is the part that gives Derrica pause. It feels like a foregone conclusion. This must have been something Ellie did by herself, and that shouldn't have been.

[notathreat]

"Yeah."

It's a fucked up thing to admit, but. At the time it had seemed so necessary. Joel had hammered it into her that she needed to keep herself safe, to keep it hidden. That if they fucked up being in Jackson there were no second chances. There had been close calls. She hadn't wanted to risk it, and it had made sense at the time.

"Joel was really upset."

And sick with guilt, she knew. He'd never really forgiven himself for feeling like he drove her to it. He hadn't meant to. He'd never wanted her to go through something like that, but...

"He was always protective of me. He'd have done anything to keep me safe."

There's a curious gravity in Ellie's words. A haunting, buried deep.

[tender]

"He loved you."

Observation. Statement of fact.

There are things Derrica could say that are comparable. First Enchanter Rivella had loved them all so much she had died in the Annulment, likely destroying as many phylacteries as she could. And so many other Enchanters, sacrificing themselves trying to protect children? They might have had the power to flee, if they'd cared less for their charges.

But it doesn't feel quite the same. The weight in Ellie's voice says something else.

Derrica's thumb strokes gently along the edge of the scarring, over lines of ink.

"Who did this for you? Joel?"

The ink. The lines of greenery covering up the mark beneath.

[notathreat]

"Yeah," she says in a whisper. "He did."

The corner of her mouth pinches in, and she blinks fast. Takes a deep breath, and lets it out. Yeah, he loved her. He'd loved her so much it had eventually killed him. She strokes her fingertips over the lines of ink, and slowly shakes her head, giving a soft sniff, but smooths over the feeling. Takes a breath.

She can handle it. Today.

"No, this was Cat. She's an artist, and I have a high pain tolerance." Ellie gives a small, crooked smile. Good memories.

"We didn't work out, but. She did awesome work. This was after we settled in Jackson."

[tender]

Of course Ellie has a high pain tolerance. Derrica's smile pinches a little, fond exasperation.

She'd rather none of her friends knew one way or another whether their pain tolerance was high or low. But that's not realistic, so Derrica lets it go. Another life, where they aren't at war and where Ellie came from somewhere different and Holden wasn't carrying the world on his shoulders and Loxley wasn't so at ease about the cost of a lost fight. A pretty dream.

Derrica turns Ellie's arm up slightly, towards the light.

"It's pretty," she tells her, though it's a complicated compliment. Derrica doesn't believe scars are things that needed to be hidden, but none of her scars are like Ellie's.

One last pass of her thumb, fingers bumping against Ellie's in their shared examination of her skin, before Derrica returns to the more pressing injury: the business of looping bandages very carefully around the salve-shiny burn. Her shoulder twinges through the work, but the motion remains steady.

[notathreat]

"Thanks," Ellie says softly, turning her arm to better let her see. The moth is something she's drawn over and over again, nearly a talisman now.

"... back when I still had my fingers, I played the guitar. Joel taught me how. And this moth was on the fretboard of the guitar he gave me once we were safe."

Ellie pauses again, watching the movements of Derrica's hands. After a moment's thought, she reaches out, holding the wrapped bandages in place so she can go slower.

"Do you have... anything else? That you wanted to know?"

[tender]

The urge to reach back, take her hand and lace their fingers together, stops Derrica's work for a beat. She considers it, and then considers whether or not it would be a kind of pressure, invasive despite her best intentions. And so instead, her face turns up to Ellie for a moment, fond and tender, before she accepts another length of bandage from her.

"Yes," Derrica tells her, serious despite the quirk of her mouth. "But I think I've asked enough of you today."

It's taxing to speak of what's been lost, or of what hardships have been survived. Derrica knows that. Her gaze is cast down, attentive to the weave of bandage over Ellie's wound. The gauze is laid loosely over the injury. Just enough to protect, not pulled tightly enough that removing it later will be a hardship.

"You should ask me something, in exchange," is a little bit teasing. "While I finish this. Something you want to hear."