faderift | (closed) when the violence

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(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.

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?”

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Complying to the orders of Riftwatch’s Head of Healing would be the logical course. That will best allow her to recover and commence work.

“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.”

He considers that question, fingers pausing only slightly before he finishes tucking those bandages into place, then scoots further down the bedside to start examining the slash on Herian’s thigh. Wash, rinse, repeat, scour.

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.”

“Swordsmanship and hand to hand combat. Improving my capabilities as a Knight-Enchanter, and as preparation for any instance where my magic were inaccessible. Failure to be so prepared would have been folly or negligence, following the annulment of my Circle.”

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.

Strange’s mouth twists.

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.”

“For true.”

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.”

So Herian had fought this happening to her. Had in fact tried to prevent it with the last weapons at her disposal, tooth and claw, scrabbling and biting. Some other leaden weight settles heavier in his chest, his stomach.

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?”

“Can I be called Knight-Enchanter when I lack the magic to summon my spirit blade?”

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.”

It’s almost certainly easier, that Strange has no personal experience with the Herian-that-was. He has nothing to directly compare her against and be too-aware of the lack: he’s only met this person in front of him, and he works with what he has.

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.”

Herian listens, absorbing the information in silence. It requires consideration, as she weighs up the significance of the doctor’s own experience and how it matches her own.

“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.

Strange nods, but doesn’t overtly address the gratitude, not knowing what to do with it either. (The irony of it, two people trying their level best to rationalise their way through other people’s feelings—)

“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.”

“I am not without will,” she says, slowly, mapping it out. “To my knowledge, at least, the Tranquil can have will, though would depend on the person and circumstances.”

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?”

Edited (clarittyyyy) 2024-06-04 08:27 (UTC)

I would have burned with it, she says, and he remembers another time and another conversation on Tranquility: a broken chair, wood smashed on the floor, Gwenaëlle’s hot tears.

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.

The doctor operates with a clipped efficiency that reminds her acquaintances long departed. Old teachers, past healers. Enchanter LeBlanc had counted amongst both. There is no sense of nostalgia or longing to accompany the memory, only a shroud that keeps her separate from truly experiencing it.

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.”

“Not as of yet. Others in leadership will have followup questions about the people who did this to you, I suspect. But if I think of anything else, I’ll come and ask, or send you a— oh, we’ll have to get you outfitted with a crystal again,” Strange muses, practically thinking out loud to himself.

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?”

"The abruptness of my arrival and my condition are like to cause distress to the Provost. The nature of our history and her care for others makes that news like to leave her with a sense of obligation and lay an undue burden on her."

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."

Edited (words ) 2024-06-06 02:19 (UTC)

There’s explaining it or explaining it well, and then there’s Stephen Strange’s innate kneejerk godawful reaction to just recoil from all of this intimate knowledge. A kind of panicked voice in the back of his head: Must we? Surely there’s someone better-qualified to hear this.

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.

While amusement is beyond her, she can recognise humour, the potential intentions that can lie behind it. Insult, releasing tension, to overcome desperation in dire circumstances. She is silent a few moments as she considers it.

"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.

For all that her voice is neutral, it still feels like walking facefirst into a brick wall. Given complete free rein to react, he’d probably want to scrub at his face and let loose some kind of audible eurrhrghh at having been read so brutally effectively, despite everything.

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.”

Edited 2024-06-06 04:16 (UTC)

"You cannot offend me. Self-reflection is rarely an easy or enjoyable prospect, so I thank you for the transparency, even so."

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."

Edited 2024-06-06 05:03 (UTC)

He wonders, distantly, if Tranquil can love, or if that’s burned out of them too. Presumably they can’t. Presumably Herian would say no, but he imagines (or likes to imagine) he can still hear a vestige of it in the way she describes Cosima; the esteem still present, if not the same as whatever fondness it’d once been.

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.

“You speak it true. When first I attended the Inquisition, before the Kirkwall branch was formed and splintered into Riftwatch, I held the Dalish with bitter contempt. As much discomfort as their proximity brought, so too did it force me to reconsider my prejudices.”

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?”

It’s—

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.”

Herian looks at the paper overlong.
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."

“Ah, yes, of course. The communal baths in the towers are out of commission, but there’s temporary bathing facilities outside. And as for clean clothing—”

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.

"Thank you."

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.

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(closed) when the violence

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cw ref violence / traumatic injuries

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CW discussion of historical abuses of Tranquil / sexual assault

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