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Entry tags:
(closed) when the violence
WHO: Strange and Stranger
WHAT: Congratulations, Stephen! You’re the lucky recipient of a Tranquil in need of medical assistance.
WHEN: After Gwen & Cedric drop Herian off, potentially with time jumps if we feel inspired.
WHERE: Infirmary
NOTES: Tranquility (lack of agency/emotion), discussion of the Rite/torture, medical stuff/needing to deal with a gross injury.
WHAT: Congratulations, Stephen! You’re the lucky recipient of a Tranquil in need of medical assistance.
WHEN: After Gwen & Cedric drop Herian off, potentially with time jumps if we feel inspired.
WHERE: Infirmary
NOTES: Tranquility (lack of agency/emotion), discussion of the Rite/torture, medical stuff/needing to deal with a gross injury.
As the doctor sees to his other patient, Herian sits. Franklin has calmed since they arrived at the Infirmary, the small dog having kept a careful eye on Cedric and growled any time his steps carried him too close to the Tranquil.
It was a new behaviour, not observed save for when she was subject to the Rite. The past while he has been leaning against her leg, occasionally moving to rest his front paws and muzzle on her lap. She is scratching behind his ears whenever the doctor returns, speaking to him softly. Petting him does nothing to soothe or comfort her, but she knows it settles him, and that his care is her responsibility.
On that count, the corgi’s state is better than Herian’s. Her skin is grimy, boots worn and ill-fitting, so it is perhaps apparent that her proper boots were taken at some point before her arrival. More stark than all that is the Sunburst brand burned into her forehead. Not clean and centred, but angled and partly wrapping about her right temple. Jagged, almost, indicative of struggle. The burns have been left untreated for at least a couple of weeks, by the looks of things, the skin livid with infection.
Herian looks to the doctor when he arrives. “What information would best assist you?”
no subject
There had been an observable intimacy to the way the Head Healer had huddled with Gwenaëlle at the side of the room and she’d filled him in, their heads bent together. In terms of problems she’s ever dropped into his lap, this is a new one, but at least wrapping the templar’s ankle gave him enough time to mull it over and get his poker face together. (Said poker face is nothing compared to Herian’s.)
As the others leave and Strange finally turns to his second patient, he takes her in. She’s not even wearing proper shoes: they’re half falling apart, god knows what muck and grime and literal shit she’s stepped in on the way. He makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat, looking at her. That infected brand. Knowing, in an academic way, what it means.
Information. Facts. He can deal with facts. Be specific, he thinks, bleakly.
“How long has it been since you received this burn?” Strange asks. “How have you been taking care of it since? Do you have any other injuries? And do you know if you have a fever? May I—” He reaches to press the back of his hand to her neck, the other less-injured side of her forehead.
cw surprise (entirely non-sexual) nudity
A rifter, evident in how he moves and speaks, even without the telltale shard. He may not understand.
“You need not ask. The weave of instinct and emotion has been severed; Tranquil are to obey.”
That essential weave, the thread making up the tapestry that allows each person to navigate each moment, is severed. The loosened threads falling away, come apart, and as the thread it holds no shape and no meaning.
“Assess as you see fit, I will comply.” Whatever procedure or action he deems necessary is deemed command.
She thinks a moment on his other questions, trying to find the information needed. Not all is certain.
“The date of its occurrence is unknown to me. I cannot speak accurately to days, but have slept… seventeen times.” Herian’s pause is only to see if she can speak more accurately, inspecting her memory, but she cannot speak to that.
“My orders were to reach Riftwatch in Kirkwall.” Not to clean or seek treatment for the injuries. Much as they might hurt, they do not spur action.
As for the question on other injuries, Herian undoes the fastening of the simple, ragged dress. She stands, letting the cloth fall away and shucking off her shoes so she stands naked, save for undergarments.
Her feet are blistered and raw, large areas of bruising are fading to sickly
yellow, but more concerning might be two wrapped injuries with dressings that have clearly been allowed to turn rancid and not changed for far too long. One is at her outer thigh, covering a slash up towards her hip, another masking a piercing wound to her abdomen. This was more efficient for his assessment.
also reaffirms that cw for gross injuries, Seriously We Mean It
And then Herian starts unfastening the dress. He makes a startled panicked noise with his hands half-raised, oh dear god put your clothes back on, this is not how he ever thought he’d meet Cosima’s former fiancée —
But Strange understands a moment later, as the fabric falls away and he sees the yellowed and peeling bandages, dirty with old dried blood and pus. Seventeen days, and her orders did not involve wound care. His jaw tightens like a vise.
It takes effort, to take that raw anger and hammer it into something more productive. To stop caring about the how and why of it all (what the fuck kind of rite leaves someone unable to take care of themselves unless directly ordered to?), but he redirects that energy now, focusing instead on the what. What they’re dealing with right now, in front of them. Seventeen days, and that untreated burn is looking ugly, and the blade wounds even worse. They’re likely festering beneath those dirty bandages; possibly necrotising.
“Thank you,” he says, crisp and neutral. Or as crisp and neutral as he can manage. “I’m going to heat some water, get some bowls and cloths. You need to clean the wounds — your feet, too — and then I’ll set new dressings. We’ll start with the abdomen and leg, and then check on the burn.”
one more reiteration of the gross injury warning and then just assume it’s possible any time
“You’re angry.”
The abrupt change in manner, from that slight flail to the crisp control. It has echoes of the storm that used to rage under her skin so often. So much regret and rage that she tried to twist into a driving force to do better. Chaotic, compared to her present state. Looking down at herself, she begins to peel away the dressing, revealing greying and even some black flesh at the edges of the wound, some attached to the dressing and coming away in strings that cling to the foul dressing. Part of the wound seems to boil beneath the surface.
She stares at it for a moment.
“Be you obligation-bound to share the details of these injuries with other parties?”
no subject
With a snap of his fingers and a spark of magical fire, he lights a small stove at the back of the room, a kettle set over a flame rune to help it heat up faster. And then he turns and sees… that horrifying sight, yes, the guess of necrosis was correct. There’s the glint of white in the wound. Small white things, moving. Christ.
He takes a deep breath. Until now, he thinks, he has been extraordinarily lucky. Even with the recent spate of injuries at Riftwatch, his tenure as Head Healer has been fairly tame until this.
“I’m not bound to share, no,” Strange says. While the water heats and he gathers clean cloths and new bandages, that mask of professionalism settles into place.
“Only if something in your behaviour indicates that you might be a direct threat to yourself or others, or perhaps if a division head needs to know if you’re fit to be in the field. There’s a concept, in the world I come from, of doctor-patient confidentiality. I’m a doctor. You’re my patient. The details of your injuries will remain confidential, between us.”
no subject
She looks at the wound and her expression remains impassive as she takes it in, assesses. “I did not— grasp the urgency the discomfort indicated. This is like to impact the timeline of when my utility can be implemented.”
Unmoving, she trains her gaze on Strange. There are things she remembers, as distant as they are, the significance and meaning obscured by a blanket of fog.
“My past self would not wish to cause any distress to Cosima.” Well.
“No further distress. I… She?” A look, to see if Strange makes any indication that either means of self-reference is easier to process, “Held her most dear, had deepest regret and shame for hurts past. Cosima knowing of this would cause her unhappiness, even if she had come to hold Herian-that-was in contempt or ambivalence.”
It is complicated to articulate.
“It would not do to inflict sorrow. Better that be confined to the chaotic tempest that preceded the Rite. I request that you spare her any distress you can.”
Franklin whines, and curls up on the pile of Herian’s dress, exhausted.
no subject
That professional mask already flickers a little once Herian mentions Cosima. He looks at her. Tries to decide what to say, how much to stick his foot in it (a thing he abhors doing).
“I consider Cosima a friend. I don’t think she holds you in contempt,” he says, cautious but vague. No need, he thinks, to mention how what he already knows about this very personal, extremely not-work-related topic. And he does say you: not her, not Herian-that-was. For whatever it’s worth.
“She’s a division head now. Provost of Research. So I might mention the timing of your recovery, broadly, but I agree that she doesn’t need to hear specifics.”
(That perpetual curiosity needles at him. The fact that Herian wants to spare Cosima’s feelings in this: what does that mean? Does that prove anything about the kernel of the knight-enchanter still buried inside this Tranquil? He never knew her; he can’t actually tell.)
no subject
Simple facts, as she sees them. “The first day we met she spoke of her desire to help Thedas, even then, when Rifters were so broadly condemned. She is worthy of admiration.”
Herian looks at her hands, aware Strange will disapprove if she starts working on the wounds with them in their current condition, and moves toward the heating water.
“I cannot feel what I know to be objectively correct. Even to smile would be a falsehood.” Said quietly, as she turns the thoughts over. “Will my presence be harmful?”
no subject
And while this topic isn’t the safer territory of logistics and practicalities, the you need to irrigate that wound and we’ll extract the debris, he feels vaguely duty-bound to answer it. To offer some information in return, even if he’s stilted while broaching something so hideously complex as someone else’s feelings. (Ugh, feelings.)
“FYI, I don’t profess myself to be an expert in this either. What’s happened to you, I think that’ll be painful to see. The…” He gestures to Herian’s forehead, that livid ugly burn, the raw flesh, the Tranquility visually stamped upon her.
“But your presence itself, just being here at all, I don’t think that’s harmful. We’ve lost a lot of people recently. I suspect that knowing you’re alive will be a comfort.”
no subject
“BRB; acquisition of a hat is most pressing.”
Flat and quiet, and even so perhaps some small sense of who she once was is evident. It is all foggy, turns of phrase that once delighted her seeming to evade her if she reaches for them.
“Was that usage correct? I understand the manner of the Tranquil is disquieting.”
Her expression remains impassive as she starts washing her hands, dirt running from them immediately. This has all her focus, now, as she picks up a scrubbing brush and works at her nails, so that her hands might be cleaned proper. For a few moments that is where her attention is caught. Scrubbing, scouring.
“Things must be dire, indeed, if that can be deemed a comfort.”
no subject
“Nailed it,” he concludes. “And yeah, it’s been a rough month and a half over here too. You might have noticed the Gallows reconstruction; both of the residential towers are out of commission. So any news of an old loved one present and accounted for and returned, even if it’s… complicated, is presumably good news.”
He’s meticulous about washing his hands, even if it takes longer without indoor plumbing and his fingers still tremble. He’s already making mental notes to himself for followup: fetching someone with steadier hands if Herian requires re-stitching, and likely Isaac for a bout of magical healing later. Once they’re done, he gestures her to sit down on the bed again, and to prop herself up while he hauls over a bucket and several bowls, clean rags, bandages, a rudimentary first kit.
“What’s our little canine criminal’s name?” he asks as he prepares and the corgi’s head turns, continually tracking its mistress’ movement across the room.
no subject
Her contemplation is paused with the question, looking to her companion as she dries her hands. He’s not in as fine a condition as he was three weeks ago, but his care has been a priority on their travels.
“Franklin,” she replies. Without hesitation, “do you intend to see him punished?”
Criminal has connotations, after all, and he had bitten a member of Riftwatch.
“Provost Niehaus,” more appropriate than Cosima, given all that is past, less implication of intimacy or presumption, ”would consider him family, a loved one returned without complication.”
A moment, as she takes one of the rags and arranges it across her lap, more convenient for the doctor to deposit any collected organisms onto as they are removed.
“His safety and care are my responsibility. I cannot object to Riftwatch’s orders, but neither can I abandon my duty to him.”
Now it is apparent Herian has been situated, Franklin stands and trots the short distance and sitting between her leg and Strange’s (partly on her foot, and maybe on the doctor’s, depending on proximity).
He licks her shin, just once, before snuffling at the New Human’s trousers.
no subject
He does look down, though, as the dog noses at his trousers. “Franklin was just being a Very Good Boy and protecting his mistress from harm, weren’t you?” With his hands newly-washed, he doesn’t reach down to pet the dog; that’ll have to be later.
Instead, it’s this: soaking a rag in water, setting another bowl and a bigger towel along the edge of the bed. This is going to be messy. He steels himself.
“This is going to hurt. I’m going to flush out the wound with liquid, and it’ll sting,” he warns. And once it seems like Herian is ready, he starts pouring water first, irrigating the site, before he switches to a lightly acidic liquid. He doesn’t usually go in for this — similarly, the idea of rubbing alcohol on wounds is one of those pop culture misunderstandings to aggravate a doctor — but the maggots do need to be stunned into a stupor and then flushed out, first dousing them in the mild acid and then cleansing the wound with a continual slow stream of clean water. He swipes them away as they come roiling out, his mouth set in distaste as he brushes the organisms into a tin bowl.
He washes out the wound as gently as he can, but it’s still bound to ache; loosening dried blood, scabbing. And what a small, ugly, horrible favour: it seems they’d chewed through most of the dead flesh, meaning the healers don’t need to carve more out of her. Which is good, since he doesn’t have the hands for surgery anymore.
no subject
Identifying humour was going to be an obstacle to clear communication, but knowing Franklin was not currently endangered meant the matter could be swept aside to focus on her immediate situation.
As much as it might hurt, none of it registers on her face. No wince or recoil, or even distaste; Herian observes his work with the same flatness that another might reserve for watching someone very slowly file paperwork.
“Will I be restricted to the infirmary while this heals?”
no subject
“Not restricted as in confined or bedridden, since you’ve been up and about and on your feet already. But you should take it easier. You should sleep on a bed here for a while, instead of outside in the courtyard, since who knows what grime’s out there. I recommend additional healing with one of the mages as well; perhaps Enchanter Isaac.”
Strange uses a gentle soap for the skin around the wound, getting rid of any accumulated grime, and luckily there’s not any deeper debris. With the stab to her abdomen mostly clean, he reaches for fresh bandages and starts to wind it around her. This is more intimate than the open skulls he’d once had to work with (you could barely even tell there was a person behind those drapes), but the touch across her bare stomach is still clinical, impersonal. She’s paperwork.
“For all of these, make sure you — or someone at the infirmary — changes the dressing every day or two. Sooner, if the bandages seem to be wet. Don’t wait seventeen days again, for god’s sake.”
Strange wonders, for a second, if anyone can give a Tranquil orders or if there are only certain people they answer to. Regardless. He’s the Head Healer; this is exactly the sort of context where he feels fine giving orders.
no subject
“Understood.” She cooperates with however she might need to move to assist, and holds herself completely still when required. As statue-like as her motionlessness and manner might be, and how hard that could be to read, Strange may yet be able to tell this has been registered as an order to obey.
“What of training? Limited as my use may be, training lends versatility to where my aid will be valuable.”
To keep running and practicing is necessary to serve Riftwatch well, but if his orders forbid it, she cannot defy him. “For all that I was a mage, my strength is sufficient to clear rubble.”
no subject
None of this, strictly speaking, used to be Doctor Strange’s wheelhouse. Once upon a time, he’d handed his patients the standard hospital printout on aftercare and surgical recovery, then ideally vanished from their life. He hadn’t had to worry about whether or not they’d be able to climb stupid Gallows stairs or go to the training yard. They’d been intellectual puzzles for his knife to solve; they hadn’t been people the same way as the Riftwatch colleagues he had to see day-in and day-out, and now bandaging his friend’s former fiancée —
“Let’s say one week,” Strange eventually concludes. “No heavy lifting for a week. It’s already been some time since the initial injuries, but you don’t want to rip these open again.”
And that brawn is curious. With Herian bared down to smallclothes, he’s gotten an excruciatingly good look at blood trickling across corded muscle and a surprisingly hardy frame. “What’s your training?” he asks; still lightly conversational, frank and forthright, even if all of this context is entirely fucked. “You do seem stronger than other mages.”
no subject
In case of fighting Templars, in essence. Even capability and skill could not overcome greater numbers, like some small fishing boat in a vast storm.
Herian’s gaze lifts from the work at her injuries. “Aye, that’s so. Of the party I travelled with, I remained the last standing. Most of my companions were doomed even before they were cut down.”
Compassionless and matter of fact, tone more befitting discussing the condition of the roads than the loss of life.
no subject
He knows objectively, factually, that they’ve been severed from their emotions, but knowing it is so very different from seeing it first-hand. There’s the type of stiff upper lip and compartmentalisation where someone does have a reaction but is doing their level best to tamp it down — he’s well-familiar with that particular coping mechanism himself — but that isn’t what this sounds like. Herian is blank, flat, unbothered.
“And you truly don’t feel any kind of way about it?” he finds himself asking, morbid curiosity digging, wanting to know. A beat, then he adds, contextualising, “You’re the first Tranquil I’ve ever met.”
cw ref violence / traumatic injuries
A Rifter, and one meeting his first Tranquil. Providing him with insight may be helpful to his further duties under Riftwatch.
“Tranquility is intended to be used only in particular circumstances. Primarily as a means of protection and security for mages who fear possession, or who do not wish to endure the Harrowing. A mage’s emotions are what makes them alluring to demons and spirits; if they should become possessed by a demon, the destruction to follow could devastate entire villages. The Rite of Tranquility severs us from the Fade, and thus our magic, our emotions and the ability to dream.”
Herian pauses, thinking a moment. Not a hesitation, no, only turning information over before she continues.
“I took the hand of one of the assailants in the attack, I killed two others. In the moments before my Tranquility I bit the cheek of one of them and tore away flesh.”
This is said with the same even manner, that evenness and quiet.
“While I feel nothing of it now, I know that a fire burned in me that day, and that I judged their deaths unjust. Perhaps the knowledge of my past emotions can reassure you that they were mourned.”
no subject
If he concentrates to remember, he can still hear Julius’ words buzzing in the back of his skull, when they last discussed Tranquility. Abominations are a real danger that I still think Thedosian mages need to consider how to handle. But scaring children into murdering part of their own personalities is nothing like the way.
In other conversations, Strange has perhaps struggled with granting sympathy; he’s not known how to give comfort to those he doesn’t know well, and has been stilted and awkward with it. I’m sorry this happened to you would be a pointless sentiment to offer now, and he knows it.
So instead, he focuses on the practicalities, scrapes out more dead flesh, wipes away more accumulated grime until the wound on her leg finally runs clear. Cinches another bandage around her thigh; this one’s easier to affix than the one around her stomach, less likely to slip as she moves.
“Well,” he says, eyes on his work, “I know you and I are strangers, but there’ll be people in Riftwatch glad you weren’t among that number, and that they won’t have to mourn you as well. Welcome back, Knight-Enchanter Amsel. Are you planning to officially rejoin?”
no subject
Like stories of those stripped of their titles for negligence, for falling short. She was no longer capable. How would that work?
There is so much that hangs about her, like some most of dust in a shaft of light. She can’t grasp it, only watch it float.
But he had asked a question.
“They ordered me hence to serve as a warning. To ward Riftwatch or others against sentiments of mage and Rifter freedoms, and condemn even the Chantry as brittle.” She obeyed in coming here, yes, and she has not grasped fully at the implication, the concern that would immediately have set her against her own presence, if she had her feelings, her full self.
I am was sent here as a message sparking fear, then I will not be present has not been fully realised, even as she skirts about the edges of it.
“If the trials of my presence do not outweigh my use.”
no subject
And there’s much to consider in her information — the warning for Riftwatch, this dangerous new threat, all of which sounds like a division head problem, likely for Forces.
But. Strange scoots his chair back and wipes his hands with another clean rag, rinsing them off and eventually setting the bloodied rag away in a bowl. The burn on her forehead still needs tending to, but at least the more concerning injuries have been taken care of. And first…
The man raises his hands for review, to make a point. The fingers are horrifically scarred and crooked; Herian has perhaps noticed a tremble as he cleaned out her wounds, nothing to do with nerves or self-consciousness, just a fundamental physical unsteadiness. Enough to handle this basic work of cleaning and bandaging, but if they’d needed forceps or needles today, he’d have needed to fetch Gwenaëlle back.
“My hands were ruined in an accident years ago,” Strange says, with an echo of her own flat affect. “But before that, I was a doctor in a world much like Provost Niehaus’. My title is doctor of medicine, and specifically, I was a surgeon: I used a knife to cut into my patients and fix the complicated broken things inside them, very carefully. I can’t do that anymore, obviously. Can’t stitch a simple cut, either. But I’m still a doctor. I earned that title. I spent the years of study and practice and learning; I still know all the things I know, and that can be passed onto others who still have the steady hands and the knife. So, to the point: yes, I think you can still be called Knight-Enchanter. They can’t take that away from you.”
no subject
“My mother was a healer in Starkhaven’s alienage. Not of advanced academics, as you are, but holding generations’ of knowledge and years of experience.”
A steady hand was necessary even without application of the knife; precision and care took many forms. Preparing tinctures, assessing injuries, measuring doses.
“If you require hands to assist you, I am well-suited. I am precise and without inclination to squeamishness.”
She does not smile, but holds up her hands.
“Combat requires control and care. I know not if I can wield my skills on the battlefield so well as I once did, without the rush of grasping for survival. Should I be of greater value hence, it seems a logical path.”
Still, she pauses. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Though she cannot feel gratitude (or the doubt or dread that might have made the reassurance meaningful), she can recognise the intention.
no subject
“That’d be great, actually. The infirmary can always do with more hands, especially if your mother taught you anything about mixing poultices or ointments or potions. I admit that that’s not my original area of expertise, although I’ve been studying up on Thedosian texts.”
Deep breath, as he finally looks more closely at the side of Herian’s head. The raw red skin of an unhealed burn, that ugly brand seared into her flesh, burned deep with weeping blisters and limping its way toward only half-hearted healing. That starburst isn’t dead-center in the forehead like he’s heard it should be with Tranquil; this one looks more like the branding iron had slipped. (As if, say, the target was moving and thrashing.)
He bites the inside of his cheek. Considers. Mentally presses down that leaden weight further. He has a job to do.
“On that note, about grasping for survival. To prevent any future injuries like this… Are we able to give you standing instructions? Preserve your own life if there’s an outside threat to it. Preserve Riftwatch’s safety, if someone is telling you to act against it. For example.”
CW discussion of historical abuses of Tranquil / sexual assault
Perhaps her brow would be furrowed, before the rite.
“The Tranquil are not stripped of all will, nor is our personhood stripped away. We are known for obedience and passivity, and yet, the ability to make decisions is not removed. If… a dam is built, even as downstream runs dry, the beds remain. Without water, it is no longer possible to swim or fish in the river, no matter how diligently you might try.”
She looks to see if he is following. She would expect so, he is capable. “We may know that an experience is negative or dangerous, but the feelings that bring our reactions to the fore are no more. This is one reason for objections to Tranquility; truths have come to the fore about abuses of the Tranquil in the Circles. Violence and sexual abuse have become inherent to discussions of Circles - the very grounds we stand in now were infamous for it. The Tranquil as viewed as easy victims - we may recognise that an event would be traumatic if our emotions were intact, but, whether due to the lack of fear alone, or being cognisant that compliance is the path of least resistance, they obey and move on.”
There is a void, but she knows what might have been there in the past. A little like standing in a warm room, and looking out upon a violent storm. She could be aware of the cold and lashing rain, but she could not feel it.
“In the past, this topic would have filled me with rage for the acts of the Templar, and shame for the high regard I held the Circles in. I would have burned with it. I might not be able to answer these questions or provide assistance, for the ferocity of it.”
So much to say, and all of it so flat, and with her staying so still. She still has not answered his question.
“The Knights’ leader, Maël, ordered me to Riftwatch. I had no reason to disobey, and the mental fog was all the more dense with the brand so freshly rendered. It was an objective to hold to when all else was stripped from me.”
She exhales, looking to Franklin. He’s still leaning against her leg, almost appearing to be dosing off.
“My knowledge of Riftwatch, and my past loyalty to it, are both reason enough to guide whether or not orders are obeyed or requests fulfilled. Specific rules may assist in some instances, but I would not obey another of Maël’s orders should he issue it. Does that clarify?”
no subject
Hearing it laid out so coolly and impassively despite the gruesome subject matter and its implications, there’s another deeply unhappy twist in his gut. He so clearly remembers his fierce reaction discussing this only a few weeks ago, bristling and seething at the very thought of it, of a younger Gwenaëlle once having wanted to make herself… this.
Why would you ever want to diminish anything of what makes you so uniquely you?
Strange’s mind is spinning, but he shuts those metaphorical doors, turns those keys, bricks off those compartments. Her gaze has drifted downward to the dog; he reaches out and impassionately tilts Herian’s chin up again, to the side, so he can figure out what to do about the burn. It’s bad, but not quite as bad as the rest. Her cleaning it regularly and tying her hair back ought to be enough, he thinks. Maybe some more gauze.
“That clarifies, thank you,” Strange says, voice somewhere on autopilot despite the quiet horror of it all. That pragmatic part of his brain had been considering threats, vulnerabilities, liabilities. But it sounds like she isn’t an active security risk, and Riftwatch takes whatever tools it can get. They can all be put to use, or find a new way to be of use. He’s been adapting. Another set of hands in the infirmary truly wouldn’t go amiss.
He hands her another wet cloth. “Clean your forehead — gently, and stop if it hurts — and I’ll be back with an ointment.”
And then he’s up and moving again, crossing the room, searching the supplies on shelves to find the right jar; various mixtures Derrica had taught him.
The abruptness isn’t a lack of care. Simply that these practicalities are safer to consider.
no subject
She carries out the task mutely, carefully, although she pauses when Franklin starts. His eyes are bleary and tired, but he shuffles after the doctor with a quiet “woof” of reprimand. He’d been using that foot as a butt brace, and without it his snooze was interrupted. With a little huff, he circled next to Herian a few times before dropping down and resting his head on her foot.
“Are there other questions I can answer for you?”
Herian resumes her efforts, endeavouring to focus on the pain to honour the request. “And I have a request to make, if I may.”
no subject
More practicalities, logistics, tidy gears turning tidily onwards, even as he returns with a jar of healing ointment: moisturising and cooling, good for soothing and numbing that raw throbbing burn.
“And of course. What is it?”
no subject
Herian does not fidget. Does not twist the cloth between her fingers as concern manifests, or clench her jaw to subdue a flare of emotion. She only sits, posture very correct, expression impassive.
"That could wrest her focus from where her duties demand it, or sap her energy, through no fault of her own. My past self did not return to Riftwatch, for the very concern that even without intention of setting expectations upon her, I would be bringing all the complexity and turmoil of my presence to the one relative safe-haven for Rifters that exists in Thedas. She would be trapped hence, while I, who was free to go where I wished, could have made a choice more considerate. Now that choice does not exist. I must be here, as must she."
Is she explaining this well? Perhaps not.
"Prioritising her well-being is not logical for its own sake, for all that I am aware of our past significance to one another. However, she is a skilled researcher and her ability to perform her duties for Riftwatch must be deemed a priority, especially given her posting as Provost. I would like to compose a letter to relieve her of any sense of obligation she might have, in the wake of receiving the news."
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But it also all seems sensible-ish on the surface. Plainly justified, rationalised, and he doesn’t know enough of the situation to identify all the cracks; he can’t find specific fault in it. He’d stayed away from Christine, too, when it had been too painful or simply too complicated to face her.
He remembers the way Cosima had described it: We still couldn’t put the pieces back together.
And he could leave this entire topic be, but if he’s going to be playing glorified mailman, he finds himself asking anyway: “Relieve her from the obligation of… what, seeing you? Helping you? Mounting a revenge mission in your honour to get back at the people who did this?”
Even with his professional mask in place, even with these dire subjects on the table, there’s a perpetual faint sardonic edge to the man, the ghost of dry humour in his voice.
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"Do you say that to make mockery, or to relieve your discomfort with my candor?"
The question she can answer momentarily, but this has her attention, presently.
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But those doors are still closed, just enough, that he masters his expression. So the corner of his mouth twitches. Self-aware. Called-out. Might as well be honest; it’s better than Herian thinking he’s making fun of her.
“The latter,” Strange admits, after giving himself a single beat. Forcing himself to be painfully plain in return: “But also, in general. I’ve a bad habit of deflecting most situations with humour. Got me in trouble with my sorcery teachers for a while. I’d do the same thing discussing this or, I don’t know, the breakfast selection in the kitchens. I’m sorry. It’s not meant to give offense, and it doesn’t mean I’m not taking you seriously.”
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She might have exhaled a rueful laugh, in times past.
"Like the Provost, you are captive in proximity." It seems unlikely he'd run from the room when there was a patient still in the midst of receiving treatment.
"I asked to know that I could amend my behaviour, not to prompt apology. If explanations concerning past circumstance and emotions put you ill at ease, then I will see to it you are spared. I have no wish to cause discomfort, only to support Riftwatch's functionality and avoid misunderstanding."
Misunderstandings lead to such messy situations, after all. "As for the Provost, she should not feel obligated to spend time, energy or emotion on my presence. She is a person of great compassion and kindness. There is no logic in her suffering for the fate of a person who cannot feel, and who held herself in the forge of negative emotions when she could. If a letter might reassure her of that, it is my duty to make the attempt."
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An imprint left behind, a footprint in the sand, a fading echo.
“I do find it necessary to point out that being ill-at-ease or uncomfortable is sometimes useful or necessary,” Strange says. “Cauterising a wound. Or scraping out that dead flesh, a few minutes ago. Pushing someone out of their comfort zone. I was tremendously uncomfortable the first time I discovered the existence of magic.”
Which was a tame way of describing his brain splitting at the seams and his entire worldview collapsing, propelled through dimensions and planes simply because his teacher wanted to teach him a lesson, knock him down a few pegs.
“But— I do see what you’re getting at. Regardless. If you want to write her a letter, I’ll make sure to drop it off for you. She spends a lot of her time in the Provost’s offices now, or sometimes out in the courtyard.”
Information offered up on a platter. Y’know, just in case Herian does want to eventually seek her out. Or avoid her. Either way.
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It would be bittersweet, in other circumstances. To remember Dahlasanor and her kin, especially. That forest that grew in the bones of the old Chantry, the desperate effort to serve as a bridge of diplomacy between the Chantry and a group she had no love for, the reduction of that grove to ember and ash. The fragile understanding that eventually took root, but the forest was gutted by fire, Sina’s life by the shard, and Herian’s connection to any of it by the brand. No regret for her ill temper and distrust of the Dalish, nor mourning of a young life lost.
At least Strange may not know all the context, just how disconnected it all is, when she goes on;
“Thank you. I lack the requisite stealth for a discrete delivery at the best of times.” And with her feet sore and body patched up, it is not the best of times. No need to alarm Cosima with antics.
“Have you parchment to hand that I might commandeer?”
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almost funny in a bleak sort of way, and he half-laughs, a small choked noise that he bites down at the last moment. I lack the requisite stealth for a discrete delivery at the best of times. “I don’t know you well, Knight-Enchanter Amsel, but I’m starting to get that impression,” Strange says mildly. He reaches up, finishes gently smoothing over the thin layer of ointment on her forehead, closes the jar again and wipes off his hands.
Scrounging is done quick enough, rustling around at the physician’s desk at the back, before he returns with parchment, quill, ink, a patient’s breakfast-in-bed tray she can use as a writing surface.
“Parchment supplies have been low, we’ve been reusing paper when we can,” he explains, “but these are fresh for you. I imagine it’s best to have this particular letter not scribbled on the back of miss Baudin’s inventory sheet.”
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How can one be uncertain when the feeling of uncertainty does not accompany it? Un-persuaded might be more accurate. The analysis of her own state may come to consume too much energy if she allows herself to focus on it so.
"That is a reflection of your worry. Logically, this does not merit such a use of resources. The message will be no less jarring for being on fresh paper."
But by the same token, Cosima is the Provost. Respect is due, and the intention of it is to make the matter less painful. Adding a different type of grit does not mean that it will not sabotage efforts to reduce friction.
"I will trust your intuition in this." A moment passes, and then—
"Is there a place I can bathe and acquire clean garments? Navigating based on past familiarity seems most like to lack efficacy." Given the destruction, and so on. "Using my present wardrobe would be counter to protecting the cleanliness of the wounds."
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More rustling, more scrounging through cabinets, before he deposits a folded pile of fabric on the end of Herian’s bed: some slippers and loose flowing button-up robes. Not the paper-thin hospital gowns of modern New York, more like a light dressing-gown, but it’s as close to the concept as he could get here.
Please put on some clothes.
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All matters seen to, she commences her tasks.
Alas, poor Doctor, the letter writing is prioritised over either the bathing or getting dressed. It would be silly to put a clean robe on when she is in such a state, and any time prior to the writing of the letter is time that she might pass the Provost's path before its delivery.
Franklin snores.