Dance of the dead

[Altias_Bromn]

Hours passed, and still he remained at her side. Silent. Ever vigilant. She slept fairly soundly for a time, only the small sounds of discomfort which would be expected with wounds like hers.

When finally he was certain she was fast asleep, he would take up the rag, left near the nearly too warm water, wetting it. Painfully slow movements, drawing the cloak away from her tortured back. The rag would be gently dabbed at the wounds, cleaning them as best he could without removing the scabs which had begun to form.

After he had done what he could, he sat back once more, waiting. Unsure what he was waiting for, but surely something else would happen. They had not had a single day pass of late without incident, why should tonight be any different?

Toward the dawn she twitched, then a low sound, akin to a growl. The movements became more intense, the noises more like words, but in the language she spoke which he did not understand. For a moment he did not know what to do, helplessness washing over him as he watched the nightmare take hold.

Teeth chewed on a lip raw from lack of moisture, hands clasping and unclasping in his lap.

"Bugger this." Muttered under his breath as he rose.

The governor would move to sit on the edge of the bed, moving as gently as he could, across her sleeping form, until he rested against the wall. Her face contorted in what appeared to be pain, but she was so hard to read, it could have been fear.

Finally, throwing caution to the wind, he lay down next to her, face to face, putting one hand gently at her hip, below the damage that had been done just above it. The other hand would move to stroke her cheek gently. He would remain there until the nightmare passed, and the morning was upon them. Most likely, she would wake and break his nose. For now, he simply did not care. She needed him, whether she would admit it or not. And he would be there.

[Carnath-Emory]

Remembering nothing, her sleeping mind constructed its own recollection of the incident, something to fill the gap between Before and After.

The ride had been a long one, but not unpleasant. Born to the hostility of icy storms and biting winds, she'd relished the warmth that had left them sweating. Hours had passed, filled with the dull thud of hooves upon dusty earth, and she'd smiled at the beauty of sun-dappled forests. In time, they'd come to the village, and found horror in place of the Perfection they'd sought: the great iron gate was sealed with a living chain, savaged flesh that gibbered and moaned. Carving it open had granted them entry, at the Traitor's bidding, and he'd fled as the teeming horrors descended upon them --

No. Wrong. And: "Mason," she breathes in her restless sleep. It is a hissed curse, a fervent condemnation.

The ride had been a long one, but then they'd often ridden together in those early days, long and hard through fields that yielded little grain, across rocky earth that was dead beneath the winter ice. These journeys were the most Perfect pleasure she knew, dizzying with whispered promises, with the heady taste of freedom. There was no finer time, and when she woke that night it was to the taste of cotton, and with the life half-smothered from her. Breath grew stale in her desperate lungs, and his flawless face was bright in her mind: Vargan Chernevog, the Black Dog, the devil-prince who was the salvation of her family's fortunes --

No. She twists in her sleep, sharp pain flaring across her back, but there is a gentle touch to her cheek, a wordless whisper to soothe her before she can wake.

The ride had been a long one, but not unpleasant, and she'd relished the warmth that had left them sweating. Hours had passed, and days as well, for their destination was distant Orvere, her ambition was Jorn Lundstroem, the prince who would carve out his own kingdom, and see her dead as he did it, and masonry tumbled from the sky as the earth shuddered and groaned --

No.

There'd been no ride at all, that black night; there'd been only the dragon's call, and Beast Stealth to gather her up when she stepped from the tavern's safety. He'd spirited her away and done brutal, Perfect work on her flesh, and even through the worst of it, she'd chewed her lips to bloody ribbons rather than cry out --

No, as she twists and fights against gentle hands, an unfamiliar body's warmth that nonetheless urges calm upon her.

-- and they'd ridden but an hour through the Spring's gentle warmth, with a basket of food for their lunch, and lanterns against the coming darkness. They'd talked the night away, and she'd smiled often with the pleasure of his easy company, the benign warmth of this impossible third-born son.

No. Because all the wishing in the world cannot bring back those days. But still, this is a kinder recollection, however it might leave her aching; she wakes gently, with a lover's name on her lips, and her body warm in his embrace.

Almost. Burning eyes squint to resolve the man's features. Recognition is a slow, inexorable thing, but nose and eyes and the set of lips resolve gradually into the Governor's face. And his touch upon her cheek, and his hand at her hip, and she thrusts herself back in a confusion of shock.

"What?" As she clings to the edge of the narrow cot, pain flaring bright and sharp across her savaged back, the shirt a tattered ruin that she clutches to her chest. Memory falls on her like a hammer: her head aches because it was clubbed, her back burns because they'd carved at it with their delicate knives, and this damp chill is a trickle of blood down her spine from wounds that her struggles had re-opened. "What," again as she stills herself, on realising this. Won't wear their scars for them, no, not she -- and here is Bromn, with his cold words and quiet intent, Bromn who was supposed to have returned to the tavern, but has surely lain here the entire night instead.

There are worse ways to waken. But she's precisely the sort of fool who doesn't realise this.

[Altias_Bromn]

The pre-dawn hours had passed slowly. Ariane's body responding to so many different dreams, Altias could not even begin to imagine., Through it all he had wiped her brow, whipered soothing words, stroked her cheek. He was a perfect gentleman. He did not hold her close, though perhaps that was more due to the fact that he was fearful of hurting her than anything else, her back a mass of bloody letters.

As she awoke, she looked almost happy, for a moment. In the seconds it took her to realize that his face was not the one she had expected to see, he saw the fury rising in her. There was a moment of true panic, as he realized he had no way to get down from the bed, save *over* her. Well, he had anticipated this. With a slow smile, one hand rising between them, he offered:

"Just give me a chance to explain before you break my nose. It is awfully hard to talk through all that blood, you know."

There was a want to tell her why he had stayed, why it mattered. but somehow he doubted that anything he said would matter right now. The rage in her eyes spoke volumes. He was not wanted there, not like this, and he would pay for it, regardless of his reasoning. At best he'd get his face punched again. At worst...his presence there would do more damage than he had sought to prevent.

[Carnath-Emory]

And for the most part, she'd remained oblivious to his ministrations. Doesn't it always go this way? The finest of intentions count for little, if they go unrecognised. But memory and awareness have fallen upon her with equal weight; wits that the clubbing hadn't completely addled are assembling the moment into some sort of explanation. Her head aches because they'd clubbed it. Her back pains because they'd savaged it. Her shirt is torn, because they'd needed access to her back -- not for any more base reason, and certainly it wasn't Bromn's doing. Why he's slept by her, however, is less clear: it's a small bed, after all, it must have been awkward at best. But he'd surely have been exhausted after his journey to the tavern. He may simply have returned to be sure of her safety, and drowsed off...

All of these thoughts flood her in a single, chaotic rush that leaves her staring at the man; this is not one of her finer moments. He speaks reason, however, which is more than he'd been capable of the night before, and slowly she pulls herself into a more stable sprawl upon the thin bedding. His proximity is... strange, alarming. It is not a thing she'd have thought plausible, had a friend mentioned the possibility of it a week ago. It is, however, a thing that she can surrender to for now, painfully aware of her shirt's ruin -- sheets had been an impossibility, of course; her back is a single, open wound from shoulder to hip. He is faced with a woman who is at least willing to listen, despite something like fear in her eye. Her concession to his wishes is a resting of her cheek back upon the small pillow, a slackening of her tense shoulders.

He has, this once, a captive audience.

[Altias_Bromn]

As she relaxed for a moment, he had to fight the urge to smile. Small victory, but not one he would be able to enjoy. She had been so easy to talk to, so simple to calm as she rode the waves of the dreaming from one doorway to the next. Now, here in the waking world, things were far more complicated...they always were.

"I stayed, because whether you want to admit it or not, you needed me. You were exhausted, lonely, and scared. As I was too. There is so much we do not know about what happened yesterday, I couldn't just leave you here all alone."

"I meant to stay out in the hallway...well, because I was hurt, and I was angry. But after you went to sleep, I decided to come in, sit by the bed, like you did for me. I washed your back, I was careful, it seemed to help, for a time."

"Eventually, you started dreaming. Ari, they weren't good dreams. You seemed terribly upset. I did the only thing I knew how to do. It's what our mother did for us. I just stayed so you wouldn't be alone."

A small smile, a wink, before he dropped his gaze again.

"I would have sung to you...but I like you too much to torture you so."

[Carnath-Emory]

She is, in all, more reasonable and pleasant company when unconscious. That's the simple fact of the matter, as she'd have told him willingly, if he'd asked. But then, it's not the sort of thing that really comes up in conversation. Still, she has made some effort, if not only for his own sake: there had been considerable pain, and stillness eases that, keeping her shoulders from tugging the gashes open again. Such ease runs contrary to all her wishes -- for escape from this room, from his proximity; for a mirror in which to see the extent of the damage, and stitches to help its healing -- but her core is simple practicality, and she concedes to it as ever.

Unfortunately, this 'explanation' does little to help matters.

"'Needed'," comes the gasped interjection into the middle of it. And: "Angry!" some moments after, jaws clenching afterwards, to seal away the harsher objections. There are more important things to consider, after all. The stitches. The mirror. Something better to wear than this torn, bloodied shirt. Mikhail, who she must visit before he can deliver that unnecessary letter to her sister; it would not do, to have Quincy panicked for nothing. But still, the explanation continues, worsening by the moment, and her self-control is not unflagging. Reputation demands certain things of her.

"You -- " No. It is unjust to start with accusations. So: "Thank you," she continues instead, and in earnest, for he's earned at least that. "For cleaning it." Which she'd never thought to do, too shocked at the discovery of just what had befallen her. "And for -- "

No. Damned if she'll say that much. Not when he goes on, and on, not when he talks of anger, of hurt -- and what could have possibly sparked that in him? There'd been some harsh words the night before, yes. She'd spoken a little... sharply, perhaps, yes. And yet...

"I. I sleep poorly, I always have. My mother reckoned it an ailment of the blood. But Altias, that was long ago. I have not been a child for nine years, nine, and I will not suffer to be coddled like one now." Murmured words, all of them, however heated near their conclusion, but her voice doesn't rise further than that. It may be the simple proximity of the man which keeps the volume from her voice: one does not yell, when pressed face-to-face with another. But there's no preventing the colour which lingers in her high-boned cheeks -- or one of them, at least; the other is blackened with bruises still.

"But 'needed' -- no. I grew beyond that long ago, as all children do. It is a -- " Weakness, she'd been about to say, and judges that too harsh; too true. "-- liability. One that I can ill-afford. You think too well of me, I fear. You mistake me for something that I am not."

Something, say, other than the living extension of a sword.

"So. Thank you. Are you able to stitch this for me?"

[Altias_Bromn]

"How right you are..."

He left the words hanging as he went in search of the correct tools to stitch her back. He was no doctor, but he could sew very well, and had learned field medicine uner his father's heavy hand. With Duke Bromn, you did it until you got it right.

Upon his return, Altias wore an expression which could best be described as something between pouting and glowering. Turning the chair backward, he pointed to it, so she might sit with her back to him, as he sat on the bed. The rag was picked up again, dipped in the water, so he could wash her back.

As she settled, he washed. As she waited, he pulled the flask of clear liquid from his boot, pausing for a moment to decide whether or not he should warn her first.

"This is going to hurt."

This much he managed, he assumed her answer would be something in the key of "I can handle it", so he dumped a goodly portion of the bottle down her back, strong spirits were good for killing things, he'd heard.

Without much pause for painful reactions, he began his work.

[Carnath-Emory]

This is not the response that she'd expected. But then, hadn't it been Bromn himself who'd insisted that she would do well to assume nothing, in regards to his nature? He'd spoken in earnest, and she'd believed him -- and this is exactly what she gets for forgettting that matter, however briefly.

Still, his displeasure is unmistakable. There is some awkwardness in leaving that narrow bed, limbs to be untangled, sheets to escape; she manages it with held breath, with care not to give her damaged spine a beating in the process. It is a small, bright agony. But when he returns, she's pulled herself up to stand, however stiffly, and finds her seat upon the chair he'd procured. Gingerly, the torn shirt is rearranged to bare her back from neck to the base of the spine, while still concealing her chest. That even this can be managed with what's left of the tattered silk is a wonder for which she is not ungrateful.

Teeth clench, as he washes her torn flesh with that precious water, but there is a kindness at the heart of the pain: that this is familiar ground. How often had they sat so in the barracks, miles and oceans away from here, to see to each other's wounds? She and all the others, for they'd been a large company, in the days that war had been a flourishing industry. It had been a comfortable camaraderie, a--

His words prompt a reflexive stiffening, a visible tensing of the lean muscle that lines her back. Not that this does her little good, for without further warning there comes the furious burn of something potent upon her skin: a woman, even one of her meagre imagination, could well picture it sizzling and searing in the wounds. There comes a hiss of breath, indrawn between clenched teeth; there comes a curt jerk of a nod, silent answer to that warning. That there's worse yet to come -- for he's not even started the stitching yet -- pleases her little, and yet...

He's furious. This is obvious even to Ariane. But if it will lend some speed to his hands, steal the gentle squeamishness from them, then it will work in her favour this once. Best to have such bloody work done swiftly and over with.

[Altias_Bromn]

Strange, he had hoped that somehow that moment of pain would make him feel better. Something shocking, but not damaging, like when someone slaps your cheek. Sadly, it did little but make his weak heart nearly regret it. Nearly.

In stoic silence he began the immense task before him. She had been cut from her left hip to her right shoulder, the words so carefully cut that it was nearly simple to stitch them back together. Ari was lucky, all the original flesh was there, they had not actually removed any of her skin.

"It is not as bad as it could have been."

This was all the words he had to offer in nearly three hours of carefully work. The needle was thin and sharp, his hands calm and skilled. He suspected that after the first few passes of the needle it became an almost meditative process for her.

When it was finished, he rose, setting the small blade, the needle and the thread on the bedside table. Off came his shirt, it was tossed on the bed behind her.

"Take it, you need something to wear. Use the knife and the thread. Make it fit you, make it comfortable and cool."

His tone bore no argument, she could argue all she liked, but he was not going to be taking it back. For a moment he felt awkward standing there half naked in front of her, but then realized she probably wouldn't notice.

"You know...you women confound me. I am suddenly not surprised I've never tried to date one before. Confusing, complicated creatures. Everytime I think I have done the right thing, it turns out to be exactly what I should not have done."

"I am honestly going to go back to the inn, Ari. If you need me, send one of the guards. I'll come back if you wish me to, but I will not stay and do little more than upset your further. I should have simply asked you if you wanted me to stay last night, we could have avoided all this."

A moment of quiet pondering.

"From now on, I shall assume nothing. If you want me to do something, you are going to have to let me know. It is apparent to me that I can no more read you or what you want or need than I could a book written in your native tongue. I am tired of making a fool of myself by trying."

With a soft shrug of his shoulders he would turn away, giving her the peace and quiet which seemed so damned important to her.

[Carnath-Emory]

It would be kind to say that Ariane was stoic in the face of suffering. It would be kind to say that not a sound escaped her, not a twitch of protest throughout the ordeal, that -- like the grand, shining heroes that feature in every bard's tales, veritable bastions of courage and dignity! -- she'd stiffened that upper lip, sitting resolute and defiant of so petty a thing as pain.

It would be kind, but not accurate.

She'd kept the reflexive shiver restrained, as cold liquor splashed across her naked back, yes. And in the first minutes of his work, she keeps quite motionless, having known worse pain in the past -- far worse -- and being of a mind to present him a stilled canvas upon which to work. It would not do to twitch and ruin Bromn's careful stitching. This study in self-control lasts for perhaps the first half-hour of his work. And besides:

It is not as bad as it could have been.

The human physique is a strange thing. In short doses, her tolerance for pain is quite high: she'd barely gasped, through the torment she'd suffered at Stealth's bidding, and that savagery had left her half-dead. The majority of her life has been spent wandering from one battlefield to the next, and with all the injuries that go with such habits. Broken bones had been set, dislocations set right, torn muscle sewn closed -- and she'd ground her teeth through all of them, drunk what wine they'd given her, rising to fight again the day after. But this is another matter entirely, one not of intensity, but duration, pain that simply does not end. Throughout the first hour, her hands clench white-knuckled on the edges of her seat; by the time the second's elapsed, a thin sweat coats her chalky skin. Here and there, there's a silvery glitter to it. But:

It is not as bad as it could have been.

The wounds were made with a painstaking precision: they're not the savage frenzy of gashes that she'd first assumed, the day before. His hands are steady, his stitches deft and careful. She may yet emerge from this ordeal unscarred. He does good, quick work, but there is still this matters of hours, the pain growing a little larger with each delicate stab of the needle, until it is an enormity that her mind cannot comprehend. Defiance fails her: there is no human way in which to defy a thing of such scope. It must finally be surrender which will keep agony from overwhelming her senses, an acceptance of its nature, of its inevitability, so that really,

It is not as bad as it could have been.

When the work is done and Bromn steps away, it is a quiet and still thing which he leaves seated on that chair, chalkily-pale, breath coming slow and shallow. He speaks something which escapes her completely, at first, sound coming dimly, as if from a distance; there is a flutter of motion to her side, half-glimpsed through the hang of her hair, for her head had bowed long ago and not yet risen. And women... 'confound' him. Ah. This does not seem the time to mention the difficulty she has in forming friendships with anything male. Bloodless lips remain sealed, head lifted just sufficient that she may regard him through the tangle of her own butchered hair. Words, and more words yet. She perceives them only dimly, through the cloud of her own wariness of action, of even thought, in this moment when the world is so very strange, and she trusts her reactions so very little.

"You did everything right." Quietly spoken, as he turns away, and it's true enough. Or mostly true, or almost true; there are no certainties for her at this moment. "You see why I speak little. It never works." And there he goes. There is a retreating back for her eyes, and a quiet room for her ears, and she can just maybe move her arms a little, if she's careful and grits her teeth, so really... there have been worse times. This one's not as bad as it could have been.