heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

She is not precisely ready to catch his questing hand, but she answers quickly enough to the shape of it: clapping gently on to his wrist so that he might do the same in return. With her other hand, Wysteria carefully collects the shape of the tunic. The blood on it is relatively dry; she thinks nothing of tucking it into her lap to avoid letting it fall into the sawdust where it might collect a thick coating of wood shavings.

"Tear it in half. Nonsense. What use is this knife otherwise? Really now, Ellis," is so mild a point of contention that it hardly qualifies. Yes, all right. Those are fine enough directions, though she hesitates to follow them under his grip on her has softened by enough degrees to indicate that her support has once more become optional rather than a requirement.

She makes quick work of deconstructing the tunic, and of fetching the water skin to wet it with. When she returns to Ellis and gets her first proper look at the damage done to him—

She sets her hand briefly in his hair. She kisses the crown of his bowed head. And then she carefully begins the attempt to salvage what she finds there.

In the course of her ministrations, Ellis' hand finds her hip again, briefly, before leaving her to her work.

Pulling the fabric free had reopened the gouges, fresh blood leaking to join what had dried in splotched imprints. Three misshapen punctures, ugly, already swelling; they're the kind of wounds that draw the eye. But there are bruises too, rapidly darkening to deeper, livid shades of red and tender to the touch. There's a kind of clever pattern to the injuries: evidence of something seeking vital organs, to disable and maim. It's only luck that the armor had kept him from a broken spine.

And then there is the old scarring, present alongside the new.

Ellis doesn't flinch, but the rhythm of his breathing becomes a kind of exertion, forcibly steady as Wysteria sweeps the sodden remainder of his tunic across his skin.

"Say something," he says. His knee has come up higher, shoulders bowing, some useless urge to curl in, away from the sensation. "Please."

What is there to say?

"I shouldn't have allowed you to climb onto that horse," is the first thing, prim and pointed as if the arrangement had been entirely her choosing. She continues with, "The next time I have cause to rescue you—and I have no doubt that there will be a next time—, I won't permit it. If you can't walk, then it is entirely cruelty to make you ride and from the looks of your ankle we are likely to be an inconvenience to our host for at least another evening. You might have said something, you know."

The scoffing sound she makes is complicated and frustrated. Not with him, but with the state of him. With how long it had taken to arrive at this point. With the wretched marks all over him and how those gouges ooze blood even after being gingerly mopped at and how black and blue and red and swollen he is. To say nothing of the evidence of prior injury which lurks there along with the new.

"It is very inconsiderate of you. To be so accommodating when you ought to be furious. Were our positions in this moment reversed I would be well sharp with you."

His head shakes over these things, this brisk list of things she offers to him in answer to his request.

"Wysteria," he says, and pauses after. As if that might be all there is to say.

There are objections he might make. But it would be so easy to get mired in the wrong thing, should he try to address all at once.

"I've no reason to be furious," is what he chooses. With her behind him, whatever expression she wears is hidden from him, and he can't touch her. It's not ideal. "This all looks worse than it is."

Which is true, in some respects. Bruises generally look terrible for days and days. And there is the technicality he is relying upon: Ellis can't speak to whether or not there is something fractured in his chest, only that he hasn't coughed up any blood in hours and is therefore unlikely to do so now.

"And you did rescue me," he reminds her. It's said with such tenderness, a kind of quiet pride mingling with exhaustion. She'd done something impressive. Ellis knows it's no small feat for her to use her shard that way. They both must remember that day on the road, when he'd thought her capable of it in the face of a far less dangerous situation than the one they managed to escape today.

"Yes, from an arrangement which I manufactured." It's a brisk agreement coupled with a veritable knife jab of a retort. Happily, the ministration of her hands at his back doesn't reflect the same sentiment. "If I hadn't unlinked the ring it's very likely this never would have occurred at all. We might have returned the whole set perfectly easily to the Gallows where it could be safely tucked into some box, stashed in the archives, and entirely forgotten about."

She wrings some of the (presumably blood tinged, though the warm light of the stove paints everything in shades of gold) water out into some patch of sawdust that they are unlikely to try sleeping in. To say that she is satisfied with the state of his back is ridiculous, but nonetheless she moves on to pluck through the curly strands of his hair in an attempt to locate that bloody graze she'd happened over earlier.

"Mister Timmerman"—their host—"Must keep elf root or some similar salve. Once you have been rendered into a slightly more respectable state, I'll go about requesting some."

Regardless of the reason she's put her hand into his hair, the sweep of her fingers is good enough that Ellis' eyes close, that he breathes out slowly and lets the words wash over him.

"Or unleashed there," is such a delayed responded that it would be easy to assume he'd conceded the point.

But surely it would have been worse if this had come to pass in the Gallows. Whatever had contained it inside the house wouldn't have been present there. (Whether or not they'd have been able to bring the rings beyond the door of that manor, well.)

"And I agreed with you, that we should unlink them," is some last passing objection before Ellis says, "I don't want to argue."

Possibly a mistake, to give up his position in a bid for—what? Silence? He'd asked her to speak, and still wants to hear Wysteria's voice. Ellis just doesn't want her to be saying such things, pinning blame where it does not belong.

"I'm not arguing," she argues. "I am merely respectfully pointing out that if I hadn't been so eager to experiment with something whose effects I was uncertain of that you wouldn't presently be in this condition. I don't expect you to understand. You're not a mage, and it isn't proper Thedas magic either. But I expect you to be appropriately short when someone has not been fully transparent with the details of a thing when it proves to be very dangerous."

Had she lied? Not really. But so much of the arcane in Thedas is dreadful and deadly. She ought to have guessed.

"I believe you have quite enough scars given to you by friends already." And. "I'm not insisting that you be unable to forgive me."

Edited 2021-09-03 21:41 (UTC)

The objection coalesces in his body first, the way his shoulders tense, muscles shifting enough that his breath grows unsteady in response to way the pain immediately flares at the minor movement. It delays him, but it doesn't derail what he means to say. (It overshadows the deeper tic of discomfort, at having been laid so bare under her hands.)

"I have no reason to be angry with you over an accident," is the first, mulish contribution. The stubborn quality of the rebuttal carries through, even with exhaustion coloring over the words.

Nevermind that Ellis would have held himself responsible, had their positions been reversed.

When he straightens, jaw tightening through the action, it dislodges her hand from his hair. Wysteria has existed for the whole of this conversation in his blind spot. Ellis readjusts to look at her, reaching out to try and draw her in as he tells her, "Do you require me to be angry before I tell you that you're forgiven?"

She is not averse to being drawn in, merely resistant. From the small squawk of objection, it seems entirely to do with the fact that he shouldn't be twisting about to effect it rather than outright objection. Indeed nce he has her, she allows it to happen with no more than a wrinkling frown in protest.

She is very serious when she says:

"I believe that is ordinarily the order of things, yes."

Rather than study her expression, Ellis puts his face in against her neck. It muffles the hitch in his breath, like the span of his palms against her hips settle any lingering unsteadiness there.

"I'll remember it for the next time, if there is a next time," is not a promise of anything. Even the if is rather on the optimistic side, considering what their field work tends to consistent of.

The mild fever has lingered, his skin still slightly clammy with sweat, forehead warm where it touches her skin. There's no reason to think he can dissuade her from retrieving the elfroot salve, or at least banging down their hosts door until some similar offering materializes.

There's a sigh, that might have been some further attempt at diverting her from the conversation, but nothing further comes. Just the idle shift of his palms along her sides, reassuring himself that she's in one piece, not scorched or singed or bruised or harmed in some way she'd not mentioned and he'd somehow not seen.

If doesn't have to seem so uniquely terrible but on some sawdust floor with a bloody bit of tunic in her head and his feverish forehead against his neck, it does sound that way. If, he says, and it doesn't sound like 'If we ever get into danger again' because that's a given. And for a moment, some spark of temper flares in her despite herself and despite the slightly uneven drag of his breathing. This would all be much simpler if he were just a little angry; it is far too easy to take him seriously when he is sincere. And so be worried. And so feel some jagged shape of guilt. And so—

She doesn't say Very well, only thinks it very loudly. She waits for a long time, giving to the impulse examination of his hands, and only when Ellis seems to settle does she set her free hand over one of his.

"I'm going to fetch something for you now. I'll see if a spare shirt can be had as well, so don't lie down just yet."

It's a slow parting, despite the necessity of it. (And the knowledge that Wysteria will certainly not be deterred for any reason.) The extent of her mercies must surely be the suppression of argument he'd all but felt in her body. So his grip loosens, and he lets her up, and listens as she makes her way across the yard to the house itself.

What a helpful thing it is, that Wysteria's voice carries.

By the time she's returned, Ellis has hooked his pack by one strap with his good ankle and drawn it over to him. In the space of time it takes Wysteria to extort some further hospitality from the good Mister Timmerman, Ellis has broken out their provisions. The sawdust has been blown away to make room for the spreading of a cloth, where he's set out the thick slabs of bread with crispy crusts, cuts of cheese and the little jar of jam alongside apples and grapes.

They'd both been expecting a picnic, and an easy return. But here they are instead.

"I've sent a message on to Tony," he greets her, having managed to hook his tone back towards even and steady rather than quietly pained. "So we can have dinner without interruption."

From the look on Wysteria's face when she comes bustling back into the workshop, a clean shirt and a pad of bandages over one arm and a pot of salve in the other, this spread is the last thing she expects to find. She stops fully just inside the door, flushing hot with residual temper (Mister Timmerman had been rather reluctant to surrender the shirt), and then charges on ahead.

"Good. You should eat something."

The shirt is draped over his pack. She promptly settles back in near to him, working free the pot's lid with the clear intent to see him slathered in elfroot salve and cinched tight with at least some attempt at bandages in the interim.

Truth be told, Ellis isn't hungry. Even good sense reminding that food will only speed the healing process doesn't make the idea of it any more appealing.

The only enduring desire is to lie down, and stop being aware of his body, or how close they came to dying, or the point at which he'd realized he wouldn't be able to protect Wysteria or kill that creature.

But he knows Wysteria needs to eat, and perhaps, having anticipated her reaction, is ready without missing a beat to tell her, "I'll eat when you do."

A hand returns to her knee, stretching back to her as he speaks.

"You're being very ridiculous," is her reply. And—"This may sting at first before it begins to grow numb."

The elfroot salve smells medicinal sweet and is slickly oily beneath the fingers. She applies is with the same care she'd minded those puncture wounds to begin with, not tentative just delicate because the work seems to necessitate it.

"You will eat, and then you will sleep and in the morning if you are well enough to ride then we will see if we can make it into the township and there find you a proper bed. Mister Stark will survive without us for another day or two. I'm quite confident of that fact."

His fingers flex over her knee, thumb pressing against the hard curve of bone beneath the cushion of her skirts.

With Wysteria's hands on his back, she must feel the way Ellis inhales at the application. Yes, it stings. Ellis is quiet for the first few moments, attention narrowing to the sweep of her fingers along his back. He has always known Wysteria to be capable of delicacy like this; he's seen her handling of her equipment. But it's a different thing, whenever Wysteria applies such a manner to him.

As she applies the salve, the tension bleeds slowly out of his shoulders. His thumb rubs small circles over her knee. The hitch of pain in his breathing eases.

"We'll eat together," he says again, firmly. A twinge of a smile accompanies it. "And we'll sleep together. I'll have none of it otherwise."

Whether or not they set out in the morning is an argument for later, the morning. Ellis can focus on the most pressing matters first, which conveniently do not center around his own injuries.

"For a man who claims to have no interest in arguing, you are being remarkably argumentative."

It is a testament to her concern that she doesn't poke him somewhere sensitive out of an obligation to have some form of revenge. Instead, ameliorated by the press of his thumb, she makes do with wiping the excess salve on the waist of his trousers (revenge enough) and then sees to looping the bandage about him while muttering a few further opinions. How he is absurdly stubborn, how she isn't even tired and will hardly be able to eat anything at all, and that it is outrageous how he should choose now of all hours to be so intractable—

She is angry, she thinks. Properly and uselessly so, for there is no productive direction to be furious in. She is angry at the softening curve of his shoulder because she is angry at the thing that made it necessary. And she is angry at that little jar of jam and the cheese and bread and the take he has had to take to clear away the sawdust because it should have all been done so much more easily than it has been.

The end of the bandage is made secure then tucked securely away. With a hand smelling of salve, she takes him by the chin and plants a sullen kiss on his bristly cheek. There. For Maker's sake, was that so difficult?

With a great deal of huffing and puffing, she stuffs a piece of cheese into her mouth.

The kiss is there and gone, too fast for him to turn his head and catch her mouth. That urge resolves into the tightening of his hand at her knee. The grasp holds there as his free hand pats lightly at the bandages looped around his chest.

"Thank you," is for the bandages, for the application of salve that's dulled the racing pain in his back down to something manageable enough that he can stretch to snare the tunic from where she'd draped it over his pack without pain stabbing at him. It stays drawn over one bent thigh as he reaches for a slice of bread.

It's just that he's reluctant to let go of her, even to pull on the tunic. Without the constant beat of pain, there's more space for the leaching pull of fatigue to crowd forward, accompanied by the full weight of how narrowly they'd escaped. When he looks at her, frowning and chewing and irritated, his expression is cracking open, revealing amidst all of this conflicting emotion.

That hand at her is so very—insistent is not the right word. And neither is desperate, though there is some air of both in it. Like he needs her to remain there with her knee between him fingers and thumb, either because it is supporting him or because—Because what? Because she might otherwise loose herself and draw outside the range of his reach?

That seems very unlikely.

Yet there is something like a wound in his face when she looks at him, she thinks. Discovering it there doesn't lessen her bristled temper. Only complicates it.

"What is it? Say what you're thinking of."

Oh, it's any number of things he might say. Ellis considers them as he looks at her, brow drawing into a slight—

Not a frown. Just contemplation, some serious edge ebbing into his expression but not displacing the raw, tenderness there. And in that is a thing that he has not said, but cannot be such a mystery to her. Wysteria is very insightful, at times. And it's been a long time since he has been such a mystery to her.

His thumb draws along the bend of her knee.

"I was afraid for you," he says, softly. "Of not being able to protect you, in that room."

Ellis' eyes raise to her.

"But you got us out, and you saved me," Ellis says, voice growing firm over the tail-end of that sentence, anticipating her disagreement. "I'm proud of you."

It makes her—

Frown more fiercely. And then look away to glare hard at the glint in the wood fore stove. She eats another piece of cheese.

"I'm quite cross," she says. "About having to leave so much of our things in that place. My field journal was in my case. And a very good book I was in the middle of."

That isn't why she's angry. Or isn't all of it, obviously. But it is preferable to discuss that than any alternative reason, and certainly preferable to addressing the hot flush flaring up the back of her neck.

"You're not eating."

At that prompting (or is it accusation?) Ellis' hand finally cedes it's grasp on her knee to tear the bread in his hands into quarters, the better eat in one bite.

"We'll have it all back," Ellis says slowly, watching her face intently. The glow of the stove is not so ideal for marking the redness creeping up from beneath her collarbone, but it's not impossible to discern some discontent in her.

He does refrain from saying it will be an easy thing to deal with. Easier, perhaps, if they return with mages and more fighters, perhaps those who can fire at range through the windows. Ellis means to suggest it, whenever they turn in a report on the matter.

But in the moment, after dipping the second piece of bread into the jam and consuming it, Ellis looks to her and says, "You're meant to tell me things too. Whatever it is you're thinking."

Ellis does not think she's only concerned with the lost equipment.

"I have been telling you all manner of things," she reminds him, and then busies herself with another piece of cheese. And a bit of bread. After, she brushes her hands off on her knees. After, she—

Looks back at him. She is bristling and red faced, jaw set and teeth clamped together to keep from allowing the line of her mouth to slant sideways. There is a clenching sensation high in her chest.

True to his word, Ellis has matched her bite for bite, but when she stops, it draws him up short before he could reach for anything else.

The flush to her face is not a trick of the light. Ellis marks this, silent. The first impulse is to reach out for her, and that's telegraphed in the shape of his hands, how his body turns further towards her in some minor, instinctive motion.

"Wysteria," is spoken very quietly between them in this room.

"You're meant to be angry because if it were anyone else who'd done such a thing to you, I would be furious with them," she blurts out, fierce and demanding and devouring of that delicate quiet.

"You're meant to be angry for that reason. Because it would upset me terribly to lose you in such a dreadful way, and I'm not foolish—I know we're engaged in a way and that at any moment some terrible thing could happen. But that is precisely why one should at least be able to trust that what is dangerous won't come from their partner in the work. You should be angry because if someone else does such a thing to you, you must tell them never to do it again because it's very important that you not be left in some ridiculous old manor or on some field or anywhere else. That is why you should be angry. It's why you must be."

Some of her fury and embarrassment and the demanding shape of her affections have come up in the form of hot tears threatening to spill. She impatiently wipes them away, sucks in a breath, and then glares at him.

"It is very unreasonable to be frightened for you, but I must be something. And I would appreciate it if you were to give the matter—yourself, I mean—the same care. That is all."

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