Of Tombs and Politicians.

[Carnath-Emory]

The aspect of an invalid's plight that is most often overlooked is the well-being of their caretakers. It is quite possible for a family-member to exhaust himself, seeing to the cripple's needs, and exhaustion begets frustration, impatience, which in turn beget --

Ah, but the next points in that cycle are well-known, and need hardly be detailed here.

Suffice to say that, knowing this, she has not clung exclusively to Quincy's bedside, has not kept within that small room to the exclusion of all other pursuits. The challenge has been to complement Darrin's hours with her own, so that each will find some time for rest, and so far they've done well enough.

Her motives are not entirely selfless. There are things she cannot do, things she cannot speak to her sister, in the elf's presence; she does not quite trust him with Quincy's wholeheartedness.

But this is how these last days have passed: a series of quiet rituals -- the brewing of the spiced tea that Sera Darkblayde had favoured, the simmering of the rich stew that is so well-liked in the cold of Northern Dauntless. Even broth, spooned between her sister's lips to no avail at all. My mother taught me this, she'd whispered, that late, late night. She would boil the bones and marrow until she stank like a kitchen wench, and her braids were down about her shoulders. She boiled and stirred at it for hours, until her cheeks were red as any scullery girl's -- my mother, Sera of our House -- and eight minutes after it was done, they'd swallowed it all down and gone away. That was what my mother taught me.

Some things can only be spoken to ears that cannot hear.

She had brushed Quincy's hair, as she slept that lasting sleep, until it was a glossy counterpoint to her broken face. She had wiped the spilled broth from her chin, and whispered I will weep if you don't wake, I will, I will...

And Quincy hadn't. And she had. To no avail, like everything else.

But early in the morning, when Darrin had finally succumbed to a sleep of her own, and tea freshly brewed for when he woke, she'd left that tomb behind her for a while. With bruises dark on her jaw, and lips ruddy with healing cuts, she'd taken herself to another door entirely -- and, this time, knocked more gently.

"It's me," she'd said, to forestall any fears that Bromn might have had, for she'd learned that this much was necessary. As necessary as the conversation which will follow. Because some things must be spoken to ears that will hear.

However reluctantly.

[Altias_Bromn]

Crimson had begun to fade, leaving in its wake what could almost be a smear of plum jam. The bruises a dark purple, slipping softly toward brown. He could smile again, without blood running anew, that was pleasing. Hawkish nose had nearly returned to it's natural size, a tiny bump at its bridge the only real evidence it had been broken.

Chainmail tunic and doeskin breeches were laid out carefully on the bed, freshly polished knee boots before it. Altias sat at his dressing table investigating the slowly healing damage to his face. A hunter green blouse covered him to the knees.

"Well, let no one say you are not colorful, old man."

A joke at his own expense was needed, he really did look a sight. A silver hairbursh was raised, drawing it slowly through the lengths of blaze-colored tresses.

~"Take them, Tias, I want you to."

"I can not, Tressa, she gave them to you. She wanted you to have them."

"Nonsense. If she would have know...everything, she would have left them to you. Besides, they won't let me have them in the Sisterhood. Trappings of vanity, and all that. They can help you to remember. To remember us both."

"I won't need them to remember you, I'll see you soon."~

Amethyst gaze dropped to the matching silver mirror atop the dressing table, with it a slender silver comb. They had been mother's. When she died, Nanny had given them to Tressa, since she was the only girl. Tressa had always been wise beyond her years, she had always known how Altias...was. Tressa had kept them, all those years, until she was taken away to join the Sisterhood.

Altias had not seen her but twice in the 15 years since she had gone. And then only because she had run away. Garrison came for her, when she had come here to Myrken to find Altias, and took her back home. He knew that he might never see her again.

A smile then, though it was wrought with sadness. Fingers carefully following the brush, removing tiny snarls, as he watched his face in the mirror again. Avel had always wanted to brush his hair, though he had never let her. He feared someone so young handling the precious items.

Hands began to weave the inricate braid which had held those tresses away from his features these last few weeks. Four hammered silver rings nestled beside the hand mirror, waiting to hold it all in place.

Strange, how things worked out in the end. Once more friends with Lamai, the woman who had done this damage to his face (and ribs and sternum), and somehow he had lost something with Ariane. Somehow pushed her farther away than she had been before. He almost felt as if they had gone back to when she was his bodyguard, and nothing more.

A gentle rap at his door brought him back from his exploration of self, a cant of his head as the visitor identified herself. He rose from the table, unlocking the door, before settling at the table once more. Fingers tried to find their place within the braid, but it was lost, so he began again.

"Come in, Ariane."

His body turned in the chair, as hands continued to work at his hair, the shirt covering him as a nightshirt might.

"How can I help you?"

[Carnath-Emory]

She almost hesitates to open that door, for two of the things she'd wished confirmed had been, the moment that he'd answered her. He lives. His sanity remains intact. It's almost enough, and in the years before Vornheim had encouraged her to demand more (she hates the word even now), she'd have felt free to leave.

Remarkable, how a chance encounter can distort the path a person's life will take. It's happened three times, over the two decades of her life, and she has good cause to regret each occasion.

But good student that she is, that door is opened to reveal Bromn-at-leisure, and looking not so battered as she'd expected. Or as decently clad, but there's nothing to be done for that now, and he can hardly be faulted for her own intrusion into his privacy. The grey eye averts a little, as she presses her back against the door; it closes with a thin click, serving as backrest for her half-slouch.

"You cannot."

A dreadfully bleak statement, which she must temper with a shake of the head lest he misunderstand: after all, it wasn't in search of aid that she'd come knocking at his doors. Lips still into a flat line, as her gaze lifts to his once more -- oh, damned if she'll glower at his floor all evening -- and this can be managed without staring at the rest of him, green and crimson and bruised all over.

"I thought it necessary to explain a thing." Clumsily as ever, it seems, with no sister to find the words for her. "You said -- "

No. She will not make this into an accusation. That was never her intent. Words! A maze of mirrors and razor-edges...

"That is not what I mean. This is: I do not 'babysit' -- that is the word?" She continues with hardly a pause for him to confirm it. "I am no more that, than streltsy." For which there exists no common translation, but then it's hardly relevant to the matter at hand anyway. "We have misunderstood each other. So."

That halting speech once more, besieged by pauses that might be mistaken for hesitation: she must choose the words carefully. It helps little that the confusion of previous evenings clouds her mind even now: those kisses, the talk of Lamai, the horrible strangeness of Heldenbrand. A woman with more love for the spoken word might have questioned and answered until matters made sense. This one, though, remains incapable of that.

"So." Lips purse, thin, smooth over into the placid mask once more: repeating herself, and vexed at the fact, but this is hardly the time for such concerns. She cannot afford that he will read them wrongly from her face, and confuse matters even further. "Although we share common enemy and aims, you must consider our agreement ended."

There. With hope that the message is not butchered beyond comprehension, she is already turning to reach for the door, with a "Thank you" murmured beneath her breath.

[Altias_Bromn]

"Ariane."

His voice was calm, smooth, nearly gentle. His head canted deeply to one side as he watched her, every word absorbed.

"Do not touch that door. Please."

The last offered so she would not think it so much an order as a plea.

"Stay right there for a moment, if you would."

With her turned to face the door, he would rise from his chair, snapping up the breeches on the bed, and hopping about until he managed to get them on both legs, before pulling them up and tying them. Had Ari been looking, it maight have been almost comical, even in this somber moment.

"Please, come and sit down."

He was gesturing toward the vacated chair at the dressing table, as he settled on the bed. Eye contact was avoided, as she seemed uncomfortable enough as it was. Again the unfinished braid was left hanging, lopsided and slowly unravelling, forgotten for the time.

"I know that these matters are not easy for you to speak of, but I must try and understand. What arrangement is it you speak of? I thought you had long ago left my service. Is it my training? Is that what this is about? Have you become too busy? "

The questions seemed to rush out of him, a bite of his lower lip, a gentle shake of his head.

"Let us begin slowly. What arrangement do you speak of, and why must it end?"

It was a time when he would have looked to her, tried to find the answers in her gaze. This time, he felt that might be the worst thing he could do, for both of them.

[Carnath-Emory]

Her hand pauses just short of the door, hovers there a moment before dropping back to her side. Is she accustomed to heeding orders, or does Bromn's calm simply appeal to her? Impossible to say, particularly with her back to him, but she remains a docile thing: her head tilts forward, brow rested against the coarse wood, back turned. She can make certain guesses from the soft series of thuds behind her, however, and there's a twitch to the corner of her mouth, an instant's small and silent amusement. Such things are possible, when there are none to see them.

In time, she turns as requested -- oh, the very image of quiet obedience! -- and the seat is taken for her own. The slouch leaves her, spine straightening, weight unevenly balanced upon her booted feet. An educated observer might believe that she intended at any moment to leap forward and attack the man; an experienced one would make a better guess.

He does not meet her eyes. Is this casual air feigned? She doesn't care to guess at such things, for she lacks the necessary experience with the man to make those guesses worth anything. It might be. It wouldn't much surprise her. Politician...

But here is a crack to her composure, when finally he speaks: a flood of colour to her cheeks, a reflexive duck of the head to hide it, wide eye fixed upon the floor beneath her, and squeezing closed the moment after. Oh yes. She had misunderstood. Breath slows as she thinks, as she forces the return of calm. When her head lifts, it's to fix a skeptical frown upon the man.

"I... do not. No, that is not right," as a line of thought is dismissed as swiftly as it had begun. "I will train you as we agreed, if you feel in need of it still." Thank Darrin for that much: if not for his presence, she'd have time neither for this visit, nor a single student. Let alone two. "That is not -- "

Words! Oh, for nimble lips and a mind fit to drive them...

"No. As I said: I have misunderstood you. I -- yes, of course, I had left your service, when your ma -- " Hells. "When Avel made that necessary." Better. "I had thought -- "

That all of this was obvious.
That you were in need.
To put my life in place of yours, which is the more vulnerable and vital.

"I cannot say it rightly. I had feared you in need of a guard once more, but with the training you can endure, it will not be necessary." With a small inclination of the head, a nod of assent, she returns her gaze to him at last. "Of course. You see? A misunderstanding, and not an important one." Remarkably, a mild smile briefly lights her features.

"As to that training: when you've time for it, you will find me in my sister's rooms, two doors from yours, and across the corridor. The door is not difficult to identify." If only because there's been such a flood of folks stepping in and out, over these last days.

"There. Is there anything else?"

[Altias_Bromn]

"I do not so much desire training, as I would like someone with your skill to spar with. I respect you Ariane, admire your skill."

He was rising then, as if he would approach her, but instead turns toward the window in his room, lacing his fingers at the small of his back. The braid has given up the fight, and once more his silken hair flows loose around him.

"You owe me nothing, just so that we may be clear on that. I will of course pay your for your time, unless you would find it distastful to do so. "

Altias knew she would have no trouble asking for payment if she thought it was appropriate. Ariane was very no-nonsense when it came to black and white things like money, or so he had witnessed. Of things of a more emotional nature, it was different, and he could sense that he was making her very uncomfortable these last few weeks.

"I do not want a guard, Ari. I want a friend to fight beside me. Someone I can trust. Someone I can depend on. I do not want you to risk your life for me. There will be risks, certainly, but I hope that we will take these risks together, for Myrken...and for friendship."

He would not turn to face her, could not. For fear his mask of calm would crack, or worse still she might see through him. The smile she had offered had lightened his heart. Perhaps she did not despise him afterall, but still she thought him a hopeless fop. There was little he could do to change that, save risking another punch in the face, this time from a woman near his own size.

"I do not mean to be such a trial for you, Ariane. Oft times I feel like I make you very uncomfortable, and I do not wish that. I will not bother you, if that is easier for you. If you do not wish to remain, you are, of course, free to go. I am here, if you wish to stay."

Try as he might, he could simply not be cold to her. Always a little emotion would slip out between the seams. It was that emotion, that weakness, that sent her running. He was certain of that.

[Carnath-Emory]

Bromn has, with those simple words, spun their relationship in a very new direction. The change is as dizzying as Heldenbrand's torrential shifts of mood, its implications equally as potent, and she is silent for a time as she contemplates. He provides a comfortable distraction for her eye in the meantime: with his face turned away from her, the man is easy to observe.

Heldenbrand could kill her in an instant, could snap her spine with little effort.
Starr could destroy her with a thought, a heartbeat's magicking.
Vornheim could not, and nor could Quincy, and this makes all the difference in the world.

This is the essence of what she must consider now: his transformation from ward to equal, and all its ramifications. Some suit her well. Many do not. But there's nothing to be done about it now, the mistake having been her own faulty assessment of his strengths; she had assumed them to be sprung of mind and heart alone. It is not outright disaster: something can be salvaged from this, if only the perennial lesson on the folly of assumptions.

"You cannot possibly pay me for such a thing. I would learn as much from it as you." Oh, no qualms about it if he were a student, but this notion is ridiculous. One does not pay a friend for nothing but his companionship. Or hers, as the case may be. It's clear that he holds strange opinions on such matters, however: after all, what could she possible have 'owed' him? That statement is ignored, as befits such nonsense.

And as simply as that, the confusion clears, the dizziness pushed to the back of her mind, to contemplate further when she has returned to the grieving peace of Quincy's room. Half-held breath is expelled in a single, brigher exhalation, spine straightening once, as she regards... his back, as it happens. Crimson and green. Who'd have thought the colours could complement each other?

"If that is what you wish," she continues after he's spoken again, "then it shall be so." To what degree that is possible, but -- no. No, and, she must remind herself again, no: this is not the man she'd claimed under her protection, when Heldenbrand had first come upon them. 'Equals', he has requsted, her respect for the man demands that she accept that. And yet. And yet...

You are not allowed to die, do you understand me?

It could be a clever display of falsehood, all of this. It could be deception, of the sort she'd plied quite successfully -- and necessarily -- upon Vornheim in the past. But this assumes (that error again!) that he has sufficient experience of her to know how to --

Bah. She will tangle her thoughts into knots if she continues so. It's something to think upon later, when she has the leisure for it. Something on which to question Quincy, her silent, unhearing oracle. For now:

"You... are no 'trial', S -- " No. Inappropriate to call him that now, even if she can't quite bring herself to speak his given name. "You are not. Nor do you discomfort me, save for when -- " Only to lapse into silence again: honesty has forced that much from her, but pride will not permit her to finish the sentence. Rather: "As you have said, I know very little of you. In time I will perhaps learn more, and come to understand... many things," she finishes a little lamely, hands shifting in mute helplessness upon her lap.

Like a kiss from a man whose self-proclaimed tastes should not allow for that.
Like Lamai and Nathaniel.
Like this abrupt shift from ward to warrior; the only obvious explanation is that she's injured his pride -- or his masculinity.
Like those words he'd spoken to Heldenbrand -- who, unfortunate creature, had suffered for them in Bromn's stead. But then, the guilt had as much been his. He had agreed...

"You do not bother me," she continues finally, with a hint of sharpness to her tone: let him hear this much clearly, at least. "Else I would not sit here now, nor speak with you at any other time. You see?" And with a small nod then, for the man whose weakness ... is no weakness at all.

[Altias_Bromn]

Violet eyes wandered the horizon, what he saw beyond the window was anyone's guess. Truth? He saw nothing at all. He simply listened, trying to gauge her reactions to his words through her voice, since her features revealed little. Always that impassive mask, so carefully crafted. The rare times when it would slip, even for a moment, well, he lived for those. Those were the real Ariane, he was certain of it...wasn't he?

There was a twitch of a smile on his own passive features as she hesitated, twice, in the same breath. First, she did not call him Ser, something that was more than unusual, it might have been a first. The smile however was drawn from the second portion of that thought.

"Nor do you discomfort me, save for when -- "

Save for when he what? Argued with her? Watched her? Kissed her? He fancied the thought that perhaps it was the latter, but honestly it was more likely the former.

"You can call me, Altias. Tias if it suits your tastes. I do consider you my friend, Ariane, my friends don't call me, Ser. Well, except for you, and you really don't have to."

Slowly he turned from his place at the window, though only to lean back upon its sill as he faced her. One hand would brush back through his lusterous hair, resting within for a moment, holding it back from his features, as if in thought. How did one properly express their need for another's help without appearing a child? How could he go to her and ask for her assistance, her teaching, and not seem weak? He did not want to seem weak to her, not after everything she had done for him already.

"I am glad that I do not bother you. To be honest with you, Ariane, I rather enjoy your company, as silent as it can be at times. But then the silence does give me time to reflect, and of course to blather on about myself, which I seem to have a bit of a gift for."

There was a moments pause, as he lifted his gaze to her, a smile there, laughing at himself once more. Though the gaze was once more lowered, that she might not suffer under the weight of it.

"I...still have a lot to learn in the ways of the blade. Nathan...it had been many years since I had studied under him. Not since I was a young boy. We were only granted enough time for a few practice lessons before..."

Altias is turning back to the window then, solace in its emptiness. Protection from her gaze should the tears fall again unbidden, as they often did when he spoke aloud of Nathaniel.

"...before the Baie took him from us. I kept up with him, but onlt just enough. And let's face it, he was becoming an old man. I should have been able to best him."

A soft chuckle, thinking of all the times he had teased the older man about just that. Still, he had never been able to win a fight between them. Not cleanly. He had cheated enough times, but never had he won honestly. Nathan had always told him that the tactics Tias had used on him would never work on someone who did not find him attractive, and certainly there was someone in the world who would not find him so.

"I do want to learn from you. Your style is different than Nathan's. I could learn a lot from you. When it comes to fighting, Ariane, there is no doubt that you know more than I. You've shown me that is true more times than I can count."

Of course what springs to his mind is Ariane diving into the crowd behind him, trying to drag him away from chasing the Baie. If only they had been able to stop him...then...

A shake of his head, a sound not unlike a choked cry, before he is in control again.

"You spoke of your Sister's room."

A glance over his shoulder, a curious look.

"Quincy?"

[Carnath-Emory]

His friend. The Governor's friend. There are traps in such thinking, pitfalls that she has reason to be wary of. After all, hadn't she considered Kerrak precisely that? Kerrak, who'd elevated himself from Captain to Councilor, and had blades at her throat the week next. A month and more later, the recollection still chafes.

But this is Bromn: oh, one as changeable as the wind and less predictable, but Bromn nonetheless, whatever he might say of friendship and wants. He reminds her of this with every word, with his very posture, with the crimson hair without which she'd have lost him in that crowd, years ago. So:

"Ari," corrects a woman who's 'My Lady' to Kerrak only when he's furious, and 'Ariane' only to the most casual aquaintances. This is certainly more fitting, certainly more comfortable, and a half-smile tugs at her lips when he turns back about, to be met with a small nod of her head. There's safety in that much, at least, and perhaps comfort as well. Nevermind that when he speaks once more, it's only to confuse her over again.

'Blather'? Someday, some clever scribe will write down a great list of the words that he knows, and the way they're said, and the meanings of each, and conversation will be made far easire for the likes of her. Now there's a thought to broaden that smile for a moment.

"I... do not speak well. You know this now, I think, yes?" Commentary is forestalled, as she continues. "So I prefer that you speak, for that there may be less confusion." A moment's pause follows, in which to consider that -- and him, now that he turns back about to face her; the words seem somehow unjust.

"You speak of interesting things."

That is an improvement to them, and an honest one, which he warrants by his very nature. But now he speaks of Nathan -- Nathanial, she corrects herself, who she'd known as nothing more than a ruined corpse. 'Old man'. A lover then, and while there is curiosity, for Lamai had spoken of this one too, this is not the time to indulge it, there having been sorrow enough in this past week already. Another time, perhaps. Or not at all. Discretion is the essence of her nature, and she is not ordinarily inclined to pry. But he moves to easier ground soon enough, and in turn she slowly eases that posture, sinks back a little in the seat, shifts the balance of her weight to one better suited to comfort, than combat.

"I will learn. Both we shall. That is the way; there is no avoiding it, and I would not want to. But you must not learn things inappropriate to your weapon, this shamsheer. The schiavona cuts, yes: it is edged. But its first purpose is the thrust -- as with the rapier, you see?" The movement is sketched with one arm, fingers stretched straight as if to imitate the blade they'd ordinarily hold. "You cannot do that with your shamsheer, it would be dis --"

But when he speaks again, it's to drive the words from her lips, and the inclination to shape them. She swallows once, hard. He'd been shaken by his talk of Nathaniel, and had returned that favour to her.

"Yes. She -- " Sleeps unendingly, perhaps does not even dream. Cannot be roused by any means, not pleas nor tears nor threats. Lies so very still that, were she claimed by death tomorrow, at first we would not even realise, for there would be no change. "She has suffered some injury. Her care requires much of our time."

D'Rael. Had Darrin summoned the good doctor? If not, it will fall to her, who will not permit her sister to rot in that sleeping silence without D'Rael's aid.

If that is even within his power to grant.

[Altias_Bromn]

Without hesitation he is pressing himself away from the window sill once more. Not another word falls from his lips as a large worn pack is drug from beneath his bed. A faded bag, made from simple natural colored muslin, long ago stained various shades of browns and reds.

Practiced fingers untie the flap, digging within, tossing out this bottle and that, to land on the bed, unneeded.

"No. Not this one. Too strong. Bitter. No. No. No. Oh, where is it?"

Finally a few bags, pouches and bottles were set aside from the rest. A stone bowl with a stone pestle is taken from another bag within the first. It is aged, chipped in places, carved of a smooth black stone. He seemed unaware if Ari was watching him, caught up in this new task.

"Lavender, to calm, soothe, help with dreams. Chamomile, reduce anxiety, reduce nightmares. Passionflower, balance and relaxation."

A moments thought, before he looks up at Ari.

"Has her bleeding been controlled?"

It would be bad to add the Willow bark for pain if she was still bleeding badly. He sets the mortar aside, begininng with some new project while he waits for her to answer.

"Could you hand me one of those silver rings on the dressing table? Too much hair in my way. "

He began work on what might be the ingredients for a poultice. Another bowl, similar to the first, comes from the same smaller bag. Bags of herbs are examined, discarded or set aside in the same nearly frantic fashion.

"Parsley, comfrey, ginger. Some pepper seeds..."

Continuing to pour over the herbs which now surrounded him on the bed, he seemed lost in his new found purpose.

[Carnath-Emory]

Very little could have surprised her more than this does.

But then, this just demonstrates the depth of her recent confusion. She'd reckoned him a healer at heart, when first they'd met; his foolhardiness, on encountering the Baie amidst that panicked mob, had made her certain of it. The man is at his very best when involved in the service of others, be it the township as a whole, or a peasant about to be trampled by panicked hooves, and it was this very trait which had brought her into his service initially.

Perhaps it's the abruptness of this new-found purpose which startles her so. He is a changed man, with no more patience for gazing through windows or reminiscing. He is almost driven, and it prompts her to rise from her own chair, pacing restlessly for several steps, sharp glance turned towards his work.

She should not interfere. The killer of the pair, she has no business inserting herself into his deliberations, his sorting through herbs and equipment. But such is his sober haste, his quiet urgency, that she cannot quite make herself still. His eagerness is infectious.

To the bed she strides, to sink into a loose crouch by its corner, decorum forgotten. Fingertips trail over the smooth contours of the stone bowl, recognising the purpose of that item, at least. It's worn, chipped with use: oh, he knows what he's about with this -- or the one who'd given it to him had. One of the smaller bags is caught up, sniffed at briefly, and replaced with a wrinkling of her nose; through all of this, a frown lingers, although there's not a hint of malice to the expression.

"It has been: there was a smear of new blood upon her cheek the day before this, but nothing else. She... accepts food, if fed carefully. Tea, sometimes." A moment's guilty pause. "We are cautious to let it cool." Now, they are. Initially, she'd been willing to sear the woman's tongue, if it would just wake her. Which it hadn't, of course. Just like everything else.

Back up to her feet then, at his request, and hasty about it: there is no tarrying here. The desk is sorted through, a ring of fine, hammered silver tossed onto the bedcovers before him, where it lands with a brief bounce.

"Her leg is sorely broken, her jaw shattered: I had not thought that might be fixed without magical means." There's a sneer in her voice, at that last, defiance of her own reluctant desperation. "But... this," with a wave of one hand towards the clutter he's assembled upon the bed. "Can it -- " And silences herself as swiftly as that. Better to let the man work without distraction.

[Altias_Bromn]

A moment of pause, as nimble fingers drew masses of wild hair into a tail, then secured with the silver ring. A shake of his head, to test the hold. Satisfied he returned to the task before him.

Ari's actions were noted, all of them. Her investigation of some of his tools brought a small, warm, smile, though it was most likely missed as her attention was elsewhere.

"If the bleeding has stopped, or slowed so that her bandages are not soaking through on the hour, we can safely add the willow bark tincture to the tea. It will help with any pain she may be feeling, as well as any fever. Be aware that just because she shows no outward sign of pain does not mean she does not feel any."

The tincture is taken from the pile of useful ingredients and set beside the first mortar. The pestle, made of the same heavy dark stone, is drawn up, as the crushing of the herbs within is begun. The heady scent of lavender and chamomile are the first to rise from the bowl. As each flower head is broken a new wave of scent wafts free. The passionflower, being dry, does not possess the same powerful scent, instead it provides a subtle bottom note to the fragrance.

"This will serve as the base for the tea. Its primary purpose will be to ease any ..."

A pause. How could he word this as not to cause Ari any undue concern?

"...discomfort in her current sleep-like state. If she is dreaming...this will help them to remain pleasant, and her sleep to be as restful as it can be in her condition. The tincture should be added to the brewed tea, about 10 to 20 drops in a cup. Use your judgement. If she seems in obvious pain, use 20."

As he spoke he continued to crush the herbs, slowly, methodically grinding them to the correct consistency for a good strong tea. A gesture toward the other mortar.

"The other herbs we will use to make a paste fit for either a direct poultice on areas we can not wrap, or a cloth poultice, for her leg for example. You will want to check them every few hours. Some redness is common, but watch for swelling, or what may look like a rash. If this occurs, her skin is reacting to the pepper seeds, or the ginger, and we will need to remake the mash without those items."

Another pause at her half finished sentence. The grinding ceases for a moment, a glance toward Ari, then a warm smile.

"I give you no promises...Ari. All I can do is, what I can do. This is what I know, and I am willing to give what I can to help Quincy. If it does not...then I truly am sorry. "

[Carnath-Emory]

"It has." As simple as that, and no second mention of that ruddy smear she'd found upon her sister's cheek: it had been anomaly, after all, and with no nearby wound to have caused it. "We bandage for the bones and the healing, not to keep back the blood."

Her understanding of medicine is medieval at best.

But the use of willow bark is a thing with which she's familiar, and there comes a nod for his mention of it: she'd boiled that for Thorn and Quincy both, on occasion, and drunk deeply of it this morning, for sake of what burns hadn't yet healed. A woman could wonder, on mornings such as those, if Roschen is really worth the trouble they'd gone through to rescue him.

"Much of it, then: add as much of the willow as you deem safe. If she can feel pain, it must be considerable, for her injuries..." Back into silence, she lapses then, unwilling to volunteer further details on that matter. The sight had been sickening; Quincy's silence had been moreso. Her nose wrinkles, as flowers and herbs alike are crushed beneath the pestle, head averted in what he will hopefully not mistake for distaste towards his words.

"Her pain," she continues finally, "has not been 'obvious', although we watch her closely for that. She simply sleeps, and swallows soup if we're careful, and tea as well. We cool it." She's repeating herself now and, in realisation of the fact, shake sher head to dismiss the topic entirely.

"Are there -- is there anything she must not consume, having drunk of this? The tea we give her, it is brewed with cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, ginger -- pepper seeds, as you described." This last with a wave of the hand towards what he grinds even now. "It is sweetened with honey, and heals nothing, but is simply -- " she must struggle with the word a little "-- restorrytive. Or so Sera Darkblayde vows. So we need not fear for the ginger or pepper, for there has been no change to her since first she drank of that brew."

No change. None at all. She'd almost wished for that much, for some sign that there was life within that small body still. They checked daily, hourly, to see that she still breathed and, obscenely, to see if a heart still beat within her chest.

And sometimes, the worst times, even these things seemed little consolation at all.

Another shake of the head dismisses that thought, as well: it is the weariness speaking, the fatigue which leaves her eyes a little redenned, and lends a pallour to her skin. Only a fool would give real heed to such thoughts. Her grey eye squeezes closed again, remaining so for a time, before snapping wide to fix upon him once more, when he speaks anew. There is some sharpness in her tone now, a hushed fervour, as the words spill fast from her cut lips:

"No. You do not apologise. You did not beat her close unto death. You did not break her bones and spill her blood. You did not leave her broken on that bed, trapped in a sleep from which she cannot waken. I will not hear such a thing from you, who wish only to help."