he's keeping busy as he's bleeding stones, his machinations and his palindromes.

[portalling]

WHO: Stephen Strange & you
WHAT: A sorcerer returns to being a doctor, although he never really stopped.
WHEN: Harvestmere
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Catch-all for the month and a spot to stash scenes; open prompt in the comments about his promotion to Head Healer, but feel free to toss wildcards or anything else in here, and hmu if you want something bespoke. ♥

Comments

[elegiaque]

His tangent could so easily lead into another — she's nearly starting it, we'd absolutely fucking never sell that to the mages — but he startles her into a laugh with at your first convenience and she flops backwards into the nearest pile of cushions in her conversation pit, pushing a hand through her hair.

“Ouais, sure, ” she says, gazing up at the ceiling and the finish on it that she'd spent several hours of her life going over the fine details of with the best that ducal money could buy. “I don't know if my uncle's was with all the others the Inquisition found, but he was missing for so long, probably not? Maybe?”

She squints her good eye.

“He showed up about when it was all kicking off. You'll have some of his records— Gervais Vauquelin.”

(Somewhere, there's a form he'd prepared for consenting to the study of a removed anchor limb.)

“I wasn't in the thick of it with mages, then.”

[portalling]

Stephen’s already dived back in and started rustling through the papers after her mention of records, his photographic memory having remembered the shape of the signature and the firm, solid print more than anything else. GERVAIS V.

“He and Wysteria would’ve gotten along. No wonder you two do,” he says, moreso thinking aloud, as he flips through the papers again. The copies of related records are an especial treat: four years old, and yet Tony’s voice rings through it as if the words were penned only yesterday. The sorcerer can’t help the ghost of a smile which flickers across his face.

He hadn’t meant to ask this particular question, but those tangents—

He looks back up, from her uncle’s writing to the angle of Gwenaëlle’s cheek, her gaze turned skyward. “Would you ever chop it off? Your anchor. You have one of the oldest, as you’ve mentioned, and as is exhaustively documented here.”

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle doesn't immediately move from where she's lain in cushions; doesn't immediately answer, so he could imagine that she hasn't heard him, or simply doesn't wish to. She's thinking of — we didn't always, you know, or any of the many other ceilings she's looked up at since her life changed, or all of those who came and went in the meanwhile. Not the rifters, but Thedosians— joined this cause and then left it, for whatever reason, to whatever end. Watching their retreating backs, or not, only hearing of it after the fact; all of them who could leave when she cannot.

“In the first year or so,” she says, eventually, “I wondered if Solas didn't already know how to remove the anchor without an axe.” A theory she has, over the years, largely kept to herself; it was a long time before she entirely let it go. (Now, she thinks: if he could have claimed that power for himself before he left, he would have done it.) “I thought— well, from the beginning, removing the anchor was never the most pressing goal of the Inquisition. When Trevelyan held the whole thing, alone, it was just. Hers to bear.”

Necessary.

“I thought in his position, I wouldn't tell anyone, either. Even now. What happens if everyone does that? My shard is one of the few strong enough to close most rifts alone. That hasn't become less pressing in the interim. It'd be...” She screws up her face, shaking her head though at this angle the gesture means little. “If it's the only option when we don't need them any longer— a conversation for then. It's one thing to allow that as an option for those who don't use them in the field.”

By her tone, more troubled than censorious, she's still not completely at ease with the idea of allowing that, voluntarily, though she adds conscientiously: “If it could have been cut out of that elf it killed, it should have been. And I'd rather have Poppell de Fonce down an arm than have us be down her, obviously.”

It just seems to her that perhaps those should be the only circumstances—

[portalling]

To Stephen’s irritation with himself, he realises he hadn’t actually been considering that angle. He’d instinctively been thinking about it in medical terms: the shard as cancerous tumour to be excised, to be cut out before it advanced too far and devoured too much of the body. Remembering Wysteria’s reasoning in cutting off her own arm: The anchor had become dangerous. They do that. They are quite capable of destroying the body they’ve been embedded in.

And what a dreadful shame it would be, if Mademoiselle Baudin were destroyed through it.

But in terms of a war: what does that do to their scrappy organisation, if they ever learn (if he ever learns) how to remove it safely without amputation? Both good and ill. It would remove the literal anchor keeping people here, and remove their only way of closing up rifts and holding their steadily-fraying world together at the seams. Like preventing incursions, and he thinks for the first time: perhaps that’s the difference between Thedas and the world a Stephen Strange had carelessly broken. Here are anchor-bearers, patching up the holes.

And this is what Gwenaëlle’s like: the sort of choice she makes, day after day, over and over, regardless of the cost. He gazes at her a little too long. Then he pushes through it, recapturing that thoughtful cast to his voice instead:

“I was thinking about it from the Head Healer standpoint, the how about we don’t get devoured by our own shards someday angle,” he says, “but, true. For now, we still need it faster than it’s slowly killing us. It remains a grim necessity.”

A beat, then adding: “But if the day ever comes that it does start going necrotic, please do let me know. Rather an eye or an arm than a life, as you say.”