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𝒇𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒃𝒐𝒙
SENDING CRYSTAL
PASSING NOTES
IN PERSON
PASSING NOTES
IN PERSON
The name does give her pause, and she eyes the Warden with an expression a step between alarm and suspicion for a long moment before beginning to move again.
"The events of the Pass were reported on in detail by Messere Porthmeus. As far as I know, his report is open to access by any member of the organization. It's unlikely that I will be able to elucidate the matter any further for you."
Unlikely, but not impossible, depending on what precisely he wants to know—she's not refusing to answer any questions, just making clear she may not provide anything he couldn't get elsewhere. As they walk, they pass the storeroom Strand spoke of, and Ness's steps don't so much as slow. There is one office guaranteed to be empty at the moment, which will be a mite more comfortable than a storeroom.
For him, anyway.
"The events of the Pass were reported on in detail by Messere Porthmeus. As far as I know, his report is open to access by any member of the organization. It's unlikely that I will be able to elucidate the matter any further for you."
Unlikely, but not impossible, depending on what precisely he wants to know—she's not refusing to answer any questions, just making clear she may not provide anything he couldn't get elsewhere. As they walk, they pass the storeroom Strand spoke of, and Ness's steps don't so much as slow. There is one office guaranteed to be empty at the moment, which will be a mite more comfortable than a storeroom.
For him, anyway.
"Is an archive one account?" Rhetorical. "Warden Siorus also gave a report,"
Under the brush of new eyelids, translucent and horizontal and better at home on a frog.
"Which is why I've traveled such a distance for yours." They're past the room he'd staked, and he marks it; and he follows. "Indulge me the repetition."
Porthmeus had wanted expertise, and Strand was nearest to hand. But he isn't a scholar, he doesn't own a library, or a breadth of connections; anything but sour blood and a dead man's notes. Porthmeus wanted the Wardens' expertise. The Wardens want theirs.
Under the brush of new eyelids, translucent and horizontal and better at home on a frog.
"Which is why I've traveled such a distance for yours." They're past the room he'd staked, and he marks it; and he follows. "Indulge me the repetition."
Porthmeus had wanted expertise, and Strand was nearest to hand. But he isn't a scholar, he doesn't own a library, or a breadth of connections; anything but sour blood and a dead man's notes. Porthmeus wanted the Wardens' expertise. The Wardens want theirs.
Despite her determination to appear cool, unflappable, professional, especially in front of new recruits... Ness can't help a twitch of her eye and a sharp, then measured inhale at the Warden's blatant appeal to her vocation. The implication that she should want to talk about this to him, that if she doesn't she isn't really devoted to her principles—
She doesn't say anything. She leads Strand to the Quartermaster's office and shuts the door behind them. The bookshelves, now empty, stand against the wall. The dark, heavy desk which floats in the middle of the room still holds a handful of paperwork, ledgers and logs strewn haphazardly over the surface. Against the rear wall, various trunks and crates crowd each other next to an over-full shelf of linens and uniforms. Even devoid an occupant, there is much for one to look at in the Quartermaster's office.
Ness's eyes are drawn unerringly to a faintly-visible stain on the floor, where no one was able to scrub her blood from the flagging. She crosses to it and crouches, presses her hand to the stone and whispers a spell.
When she straightens, the stone beneath her palm sparkles incongruently clean on the dirt-strewn and scuffed floor.
"What, precisely, would you like me to say, Messere?"
She doesn't say anything. She leads Strand to the Quartermaster's office and shuts the door behind them. The bookshelves, now empty, stand against the wall. The dark, heavy desk which floats in the middle of the room still holds a handful of paperwork, ledgers and logs strewn haphazardly over the surface. Against the rear wall, various trunks and crates crowd each other next to an over-full shelf of linens and uniforms. Even devoid an occupant, there is much for one to look at in the Quartermaster's office.
Ness's eyes are drawn unerringly to a faintly-visible stain on the floor, where no one was able to scrub her blood from the flagging. She crosses to it and crouches, presses her hand to the stone and whispers a spell.
When she straightens, the stone beneath her palm sparkles incongruently clean on the dirt-strewn and scuffed floor.
"What, precisely, would you like me to say, Messere?"
She smears at the blood, and he's busy at the work he'd hoped to avoid, seeing that no one else on the crowded floor will overhear. But whatever she gets out of this place, the decision itself will do.
"You came upon a pool of corrupted lyrium," Brine, grey, a jog to memory. "How did the Darkspawn behave around it?"
That much was absent from the written account. Assured of the door, he does up one sleeve. Another: The veins gnarl black up his wrists, branches wired about a tight line of scar.
"You came upon a pool of corrupted lyrium," Brine, grey, a jog to memory. "How did the Darkspawn behave around it?"
That much was absent from the written account. Assured of the door, he does up one sleeve. Another: The veins gnarl black up his wrists, branches wired about a tight line of scar.
She flicks her eyes over his arms, thinks of ceremorphosis—but makes no comment, betrays no hint of trepidation.
"I regret to disappoint you, Warden, but there was hardly an opportunity to observe their behaviour before the melée began. I can't offer any more insight on the topic than Warden Siorus might have."
She may sound dry as the Hissing Wastes and resentful of his insistence on the topic at all—but she's considering, too, because not being able to answer the exact question he asked doesn't mean she has no information to offer at all. Ness hums, mind on the treasure-seeker's diary, the state of the village, the children trapped in their cellar, how it all culminated in the Deep Roads. There is a story that can be spun by putting each piece of the whole together, a puzzle of Darkspawn and lyrium—but it requires so much conjecture, assumption, inference.
"It's hard to say anything about the events of the Pass before we arrived there with any certainty," she says eventually, sighing, "but what we saw did suggest a Darkspawn raid was what finally left the village abandoned, and that the Darkspawn who conducted the raid were mutated by the lyrium in the same manner as we would discover native Thedosians could be.
"But they left no bodies, Warden," she says quietly, "I don't think they killed a single person. We fought mutated humans below the Deep Roads right beside the Darkspawn."
"I regret to disappoint you, Warden, but there was hardly an opportunity to observe their behaviour before the melée began. I can't offer any more insight on the topic than Warden Siorus might have."
She may sound dry as the Hissing Wastes and resentful of his insistence on the topic at all—but she's considering, too, because not being able to answer the exact question he asked doesn't mean she has no information to offer at all. Ness hums, mind on the treasure-seeker's diary, the state of the village, the children trapped in their cellar, how it all culminated in the Deep Roads. There is a story that can be spun by putting each piece of the whole together, a puzzle of Darkspawn and lyrium—but it requires so much conjecture, assumption, inference.
"It's hard to say anything about the events of the Pass before we arrived there with any certainty," she says eventually, sighing, "but what we saw did suggest a Darkspawn raid was what finally left the village abandoned, and that the Darkspawn who conducted the raid were mutated by the lyrium in the same manner as we would discover native Thedosians could be.
"But they left no bodies, Warden," she says quietly, "I don't think they killed a single person. We fought mutated humans below the Deep Roads right beside the Darkspawn."
Strand settles on a crate. Watches her think. There's a familiar wind-up to these things, the way that a riddle's spun and unspun. Pleasure in seeing a thing done well: When you need an expert, you seek one.
"Unusual," As she'll have read enough to know. The Wardens keep their secrets, but the waste laid by Darkspawn is written across book and battlefield. Half this city was once Ferelden. "Even the old, the young?"
Even the men, he does not ask. Some things can be kept within the Order.
"The Taint —" Forearm extended, he taps fingers over black. "— Runs through every Darkspawn. It's how they communicate, it's how Corypheus moves them. And if you're correct, something else has found a way to interfere."
"Unusual," As she'll have read enough to know. The Wardens keep their secrets, but the waste laid by Darkspawn is written across book and battlefield. Half this city was once Ferelden. "Even the old, the young?"
Even the men, he does not ask. Some things can be kept within the Order.
"The Taint —" Forearm extended, he taps fingers over black. "— Runs through every Darkspawn. It's how they communicate, it's how Corypheus moves them. And if you're correct, something else has found a way to interfere."
Ness is back in the infirmary, but not due to any horrendous medical peril this time: it’s a regularly-scheduled appointment, for ongoing aftercare and to check in on her stump. She’s in a chair with her elbow resting on its arm, while Stephen pulls up another chair to sit sideways to her.
They’ve been waiting for the wound to finish healing over fully; it takes time, always more time than one expects, and the infection had set them back. There will be bandages to unravel and replace with clean ones, and tightly-wound fabric compressing her limb to pull loose.
“How has it been feeling?” he asks, cutting straight to that professional demeanour; the mask that Ness well-recognises by now as him being in Doctor Strange mode, not Stephen, her friend.
It’s been a strange time, no pun intended. He’s a little more stilted around her than usual, oddly stinging from his perceived failure. In the aftermath of the amputation and her infection, he had been sterner about ensuring the girl stayed in the infirmary to rest; even after she was discharged, he hasn’t been plying her with quite as much work as before. More coddling than usual.
He doesn’t really know what to do with that feeling, either.
They’ve been waiting for the wound to finish healing over fully; it takes time, always more time than one expects, and the infection had set them back. There will be bandages to unravel and replace with clean ones, and tightly-wound fabric compressing her limb to pull loose.
“How has it been feeling?” he asks, cutting straight to that professional demeanour; the mask that Ness well-recognises by now as him being in Doctor Strange mode, not Stephen, her friend.
It’s been a strange time, no pun intended. He’s a little more stilted around her than usual, oddly stinging from his perceived failure. In the aftermath of the amputation and her infection, he had been sterner about ensuring the girl stayed in the infirmary to rest; even after she was discharged, he hasn’t been plying her with quite as much work as before. More coddling than usual.
He doesn’t really know what to do with that feeling, either.
Edited 2025-05-25 01:45 (UTC)
Focused as Ness is on Stephen, important as his friendship is to her, she has not missed the change in his treatment of her. He was never quite permissive, always exacting, a man of high standards who expected as much of her as himself—but he has not been strict with her either, has always been willing to indulge cleverness over blind adherence to rule or convention. Despite never being her boss in any real sense, Stephen has always had some kind of work for her, questions for her to ponder over to encourage critical thinking, curiosity, ingenuity. He's been a teacher and a friend to her as much as a colleague.
Now Ness sits next to her doctor, neither friend nor teacher, and she knows the demotion is nothing but her own fault. His medicine is not faulty, his mind could never fail them, so she must have been the one to ruin her own recovery. She was a bad patient, she made him look foolish, made him rely on magic over science. He resents her for it, and who can blame him?
Certainly not Ness.
"It's sore," she reports, dutiful, determined. She'll earn it back, she'll convince him to trust her again, "tender where it was stitched together.
"I've kept notes," in a small book which she offers him now, precious paper converted from an Oghman's Book of Remembrance to a collection of notes on her residual limb and its state since their last appointment—tenderness to touch, color, scarring, soreness of the bone and whether she's experienced phantom sensation. Detailed, deliberate, down to the minute notes.
Now Ness sits next to her doctor, neither friend nor teacher, and she knows the demotion is nothing but her own fault. His medicine is not faulty, his mind could never fail them, so she must have been the one to ruin her own recovery. She was a bad patient, she made him look foolish, made him rely on magic over science. He resents her for it, and who can blame him?
Certainly not Ness.
"It's sore," she reports, dutiful, determined. She'll earn it back, she'll convince him to trust her again, "tender where it was stitched together.
"I've kept notes," in a small book which she offers him now, precious paper converted from an Oghman's Book of Remembrance to a collection of notes on her residual limb and its state since their last appointment—tenderness to touch, color, scarring, soreness of the bone and whether she's experienced phantom sensation. Detailed, deliberate, down to the minute notes.
Stephen glances down at the offered book, and then tilts his head to the nearby table, gesturing for her to set it down there within reach. Because he focuses on finishing his current task first: unwinding the outer fabric they’ve been using for compression, and soon enough there’s the sensation of pinched skin and muscle finally getting to breathe, the pressure easing, tingling with sudden absence.
Beneath it are the other bandages, the ones in direct contact with the wound and which he’ll be changing; but now he swivels to pick up the book and read through the notes before proceeding. He cracks it open, blue-green gaze tracking through each line of slightly-wobbly offhand writing, not rushing his study.
“Hm. Good chronicling,” he notes while partway through, still taking it in.
Beneath it are the other bandages, the ones in direct contact with the wound and which he’ll be changing; but now he swivels to pick up the book and read through the notes before proceeding. He cracks it open, blue-green gaze tracking through each line of slightly-wobbly offhand writing, not rushing his study.
“Hm. Good chronicling,” he notes while partway through, still taking it in.
Residual limb freed, skin bared to breathe, Ness carefully flexes her bicep, gently rolls out her shoulder and lifts her arm. She has to be careful not to tense them too much, not to stretch too far—she's still liable to set her healing back weeks if she overexerts herself—but it feels good to move, even this little. As Stephen reads, she does the few stretches he's allowed her, then begins gently massaging the skin near the end of her stump.
"I know every little thing matters," she says, eyes on her work, "even if it seems irrelevant to me. I tried very hard not to fall into that trap, you know, like you warned me. The body is an interconnected system."
Anything significant enough that affects one part could have seemingly-unrelated effects elsewhere. There's referred pain, and the effects of an overtaxed immune system, and so many other things she doesn't fully understand, but Stephen warned her, and she listened.
"Is there anything you'd like to see the next time we do this? I tried to catch everything I could think of."
Everything except her emotional state. That couldn't be important, certainly, who cares how she feels about the thing she did to herself, or the stress of everyone's opinions on it, whether anyone believed the lie, the friendships she may have lost—that's all for her to worry about, irrelevant to her physical recovery.
"I know every little thing matters," she says, eyes on her work, "even if it seems irrelevant to me. I tried very hard not to fall into that trap, you know, like you warned me. The body is an interconnected system."
Anything significant enough that affects one part could have seemingly-unrelated effects elsewhere. There's referred pain, and the effects of an overtaxed immune system, and so many other things she doesn't fully understand, but Stephen warned her, and she listened.
"Is there anything you'd like to see the next time we do this? I tried to catch everything I could think of."
Everything except her emotional state. That couldn't be important, certainly, who cares how she feels about the thing she did to herself, or the stress of everyone's opinions on it, whether anyone believed the lie, the friendships she may have lost—that's all for her to worry about, irrelevant to her physical recovery.
And he’s not strictly speaking the best person to assess this particular element: Stephen always defaults to the bare logistics, physical symptoms and measurable effects.
But he’s been around here long enough to think, Riftwatch probably needs a therapist. Just, y’know, not for him. So he hesitates, a crooked finger pressed to the page to save his spot in the middle of the the meticulous documentation of everything except her emotional state.
“And how are you feeling?” he asks, hammering right on it. Because he remembers the bleak statistics: “Over thirty percent of amputees experience depression. It’s a common after-effect.”
But he’s been around here long enough to think, Riftwatch probably needs a therapist. Just, y’know, not for him. So he hesitates, a crooked finger pressed to the page to save his spot in the middle of the the meticulous documentation of everything except her emotional state.
“And how are you feeling?” he asks, hammering right on it. Because he remembers the bleak statistics: “Over thirty percent of amputees experience depression. It’s a common after-effect.”
Ness opens her mouth,
then closes it again. Her hand stills in its massage, and she frowns, unfocused, at the floor. It's a question she hadn't anticipated, and didn't prepare for. What comes out of her mouth, then, is unrehearsed, and truer for it.
"I'm alright. Not depressed, anyway. It was—by itself, it's a choice I'm happy to have made. That you trusted me enough to let me make it, and... to have some measure of ownership over my body, my appearance, again. I didn't choose my ears or my eyes or my skin, but I chose this."
It hasn't been easy to adjust to her new state, certainly, but she's had practice accepting changes to her appearance ever since arriving in Thedas. In some ways, it's easier to look in a mirror now than it has ever been in the months since her arrival: this body is hers, now, not a loan or a figment or something done to her. She chose it, and she molded it into the form she wanted. The round ears are hers, the peachy hue is hers, the blue eyes are hers—just as much as the stump of her arm is.
No choice happens in a vacuum, of course. There's more to her feelings than that. But it is true, and she looks up to catches Stephen's eyes and smile, to share it with him.
then closes it again. Her hand stills in its massage, and she frowns, unfocused, at the floor. It's a question she hadn't anticipated, and didn't prepare for. What comes out of her mouth, then, is unrehearsed, and truer for it.
"I'm alright. Not depressed, anyway. It was—by itself, it's a choice I'm happy to have made. That you trusted me enough to let me make it, and... to have some measure of ownership over my body, my appearance, again. I didn't choose my ears or my eyes or my skin, but I chose this."
It hasn't been easy to adjust to her new state, certainly, but she's had practice accepting changes to her appearance ever since arriving in Thedas. In some ways, it's easier to look in a mirror now than it has ever been in the months since her arrival: this body is hers, now, not a loan or a figment or something done to her. She chose it, and she molded it into the form she wanted. The round ears are hers, the peachy hue is hers, the blue eyes are hers—just as much as the stump of her arm is.
No choice happens in a vacuum, of course. There's more to her feelings than that. But it is true, and she looks up to catches Stephen's eyes and smile, to share it with him.
Edited 2025-05-26 04:11 (UTC)
He listens and nods, a little reassured. It was the same sort of reasoning he’d propped up alongside this whole affair. Everyone ought to have the choice to do what they wanted with their own body; unless it was every single shard-bearer in Riftwatch, in which case, they shouldn’t.
Complicated. The whole thing was complicated.
But Ness smiles at him, and therefore Stephen manages to muster up a faint matching smile in turn, glad of it.
“Good,” he says. “It’s… I mean, the physical recovery is important, of course, and your notes are exhaustive on that point, I can’t think of any room for improvement there. But your psychological state does matter too. This was a large, permanent decision and I’m aware it didn’t go exactly the way we planned.”
So.
Complicated. The whole thing was complicated.
But Ness smiles at him, and therefore Stephen manages to muster up a faint matching smile in turn, glad of it.
“Good,” he says. “It’s… I mean, the physical recovery is important, of course, and your notes are exhaustive on that point, I can’t think of any room for improvement there. But your psychological state does matter too. This was a large, permanent decision and I’m aware it didn’t go exactly the way we planned.”
So.
"I—yes, I know," she averts her eyes again, chagrined, "and I'm sorry for it, Doctor. I'm trying very hard to make sure I don't fail you again. I'm following all your rules and instructions this time—which I was already doing, I wasn't being lax, I swear—"
Hang on, deep breath. She's talking too much, it's making her look worse. Ness sighs and reins herself in.
"I'm being very careful now, Doctor. I don't know what I did that ruined everything before, but it won't happen again. I'm sorry I let you down."
Hang on, deep breath. She's talking too much, it's making her look worse. Ness sighs and reins herself in.
"I'm being very careful now, Doctor. I don't know what I did that ruined everything before, but it won't happen again. I'm sorry I let you down."
He arches an eyebrow, surprised, setting the notebook down against his knee. There were still other things needing doing with the arm, checklists to mark off, but this question is suddenly more important as he catches on her words —
“’Ruined’? You didn’t ruin anything, Ennaris. These things happen.”
“’Ruined’? You didn’t ruin anything, Ennaris. These things happen.”
"Well, yes," because it's not as though she thinks Stephen is infallible, obviously, he's the smartest person she knows and the most competent but he's still only human, but, "but this is done regularly where you're from, isn't it? And it goes well more often than it doesn't. And you know what you're doing. So if it failed, it was something I did."
Obviously. Stephen couldn't have done anything wrong, this is his area of expertise. This is what he does. Not the amputation itself, of course, but the medicine, knowing how to keep wounds clean and safe from infection. He couldn't have fucked it up.
"I feel—I really feel awful I made you turn to magic, truly. I'm sorry, Doctor. I know I'm apologizing a lot. I'm sorry for that too."
Obviously. Stephen couldn't have done anything wrong, this is his area of expertise. This is what he does. Not the amputation itself, of course, but the medicine, knowing how to keep wounds clean and safe from infection. He couldn't have fucked it up.
"I feel—I really feel awful I made you turn to magic, truly. I'm sorry, Doctor. I know I'm apologizing a lot. I'm sorry for that too."
There’s so much to address and tackle here that it takes him a moment, arranging all his thoughts in order before he responds, methodical and point-by-point as they tend to.
“I turned to magic about five years ago, Ennaris,” Stephen says, cracking into a faint smile, an attempt at assurance. “I’m not some anti-mage bigot; it’s hardly a thing I’m opposed to. I love magic. Like, famously.”
(Did it sting with envy, however, that it had been Isaac wielding the surgical precision of his healing abilities to carve the infection out of his patient? Yes. Always. Still—)
“This is done regularly where I’m from because modern-day first-world Earth has more sterile hospital conditions, better antibiotics to fight infection, better tools to handle the surgical procedure to begin with,” he says, patiently. “The fact that this went badly reflects more on the world that we’re in, rather than anything else.”
And, the thing that he doesn’t speak aloud: his own lenience in letting them do it this particular way, perhaps. A traumatic amputation over crushed bone was so much riskier than a clean, straight amputation on a healthy limb. (He thought he would be able to handle it. Too arrogant as ever, Doctor.)
“I turned to magic about five years ago, Ennaris,” Stephen says, cracking into a faint smile, an attempt at assurance. “I’m not some anti-mage bigot; it’s hardly a thing I’m opposed to. I love magic. Like, famously.”
(Did it sting with envy, however, that it had been Isaac wielding the surgical precision of his healing abilities to carve the infection out of his patient? Yes. Always. Still—)
“This is done regularly where I’m from because modern-day first-world Earth has more sterile hospital conditions, better antibiotics to fight infection, better tools to handle the surgical procedure to begin with,” he says, patiently. “The fact that this went badly reflects more on the world that we’re in, rather than anything else.”
And, the thing that he doesn’t speak aloud: his own lenience in letting them do it this particular way, perhaps. A traumatic amputation over crushed bone was so much riskier than a clean, straight amputation on a healthy limb. (He thought he would be able to handle it. Too arrogant as ever, Doctor.)
Turning to magic from choice is different to being forced into it by circumstance and they both know it—I'd take preference for the doctor, she'd said, and then she'd put him in a position to swallow his pride and ask for help with the thing that should be his area of expertise. Of all his talents and interests, medicine has seemed the thing in Thedas most truly his, the thing Stephen alone could provide insight and expertise on, and she'd forced him into a corner: relinquish his table or lose an agent.
Ness narrows her eyes, head tilted consideringly to the side. The face she wears is familiar to Stephen by now: it's her rolling for insight face.
"You don't believe that any more than I do," she says after a moment, "not really. It's just the right thing to say when someone's failed this badly."
It's the kind thing, the thing a friend would do—but ever since the operation Stephen has been her doctor, not her friend. Playing the role he doesn't want to fill anymore because she cost him something valuable, something vital. Wouldn't she hate it, were she in his shoes? Wouldn't she disdain the person who wounded her identity that much?
Ness huffs, tossing her hair away from her face and looking Stephen in the eye. Her hand balls into a fist on her lap, anxiously crushing a handful of her apron.
"I don't need coddling. I did this wrong. It almost failed, and it was my fault. I would prefer we acknowledged that than this... distance." What started as a firm admonishment tapers into a self-conscious murmur, her eyes turning from flinty and determined to searching— "I miss my friend."
Ness narrows her eyes, head tilted consideringly to the side. The face she wears is familiar to Stephen by now: it's her rolling for insight face.
"You don't believe that any more than I do," she says after a moment, "not really. It's just the right thing to say when someone's failed this badly."
It's the kind thing, the thing a friend would do—but ever since the operation Stephen has been her doctor, not her friend. Playing the role he doesn't want to fill anymore because she cost him something valuable, something vital. Wouldn't she hate it, were she in his shoes? Wouldn't she disdain the person who wounded her identity that much?
Ness huffs, tossing her hair away from her face and looking Stephen in the eye. Her hand balls into a fist on her lap, anxiously crushing a handful of her apron.
"I don't need coddling. I did this wrong. It almost failed, and it was my fault. I would prefer we acknowledged that than this... distance." What started as a firm admonishment tapers into a self-conscious murmur, her eyes turning from flinty and determined to searching— "I miss my friend."
"The old, the young," the siblings, fused into a single being, monstrous and wailing and confused, "everyone."
It's a conclusion which has occurred to her before—there was something different about these Darkspawn, priorities which did not match what she'd read of those of an Archdemon or Corypheus himself, but far as she is from an expert Ness has been unwilling to linger on them. Instincts validated, she unspools that thread again, considers its implications, supporting evidence, possible conclusions, pacing the floor.
"The men we hired to bring us to the Pass," she says, "the brothers—they were not visibly Tainted, nor were they mutated. But when we came to the nest, they were clearly affected by it. They attempted... well. It's in the report, what happened there."
No reason to rehash it—to possibly tell the Warden more than he is meant to know—she will have to reread the report, to see what story they have committed to posterity.
"They weren't Tainted. But they were maddened, terrified, and driven to a goal. Something had a will in that room, and it bent both a nest of Darkspawn and a village of humans to its ends."
It's a conclusion which has occurred to her before—there was something different about these Darkspawn, priorities which did not match what she'd read of those of an Archdemon or Corypheus himself, but far as she is from an expert Ness has been unwilling to linger on them. Instincts validated, she unspools that thread again, considers its implications, supporting evidence, possible conclusions, pacing the floor.
"The men we hired to bring us to the Pass," she says, "the brothers—they were not visibly Tainted, nor were they mutated. But when we came to the nest, they were clearly affected by it. They attempted... well. It's in the report, what happened there."
No reason to rehash it—to possibly tell the Warden more than he is meant to know—she will have to reread the report, to see what story they have committed to posterity.
"They weren't Tainted. But they were maddened, terrified, and driven to a goal. Something had a will in that room, and it bent both a nest of Darkspawn and a village of humans to its ends."
Stephen hesitates. He’s still holding some of the clean new bandages, not even having gotten far enough to the point of re-wrapping, trapped in this part of the conversation instead. This was supposed to have been a quick methodical checkup, in-and-out —
And perhaps that’s all part of it, the way he instinctively retreats into his professional shell, a common defense mechanism. It hadn’t been a conscious choice for him to withdraw and pull away from her — the man occasionally had blind sides the size of Nebraska — but it’s there nonetheless, Ness pressing squarely on that wound and calling it as it is.
“What if we compromise,” he says softly, that faint smile still there at half-mast, “and agree that it is both our faults?”
And perhaps that’s all part of it, the way he instinctively retreats into his professional shell, a common defense mechanism. It hadn’t been a conscious choice for him to withdraw and pull away from her — the man occasionally had blind sides the size of Nebraska — but it’s there nonetheless, Ness pressing squarely on that wound and calling it as it is.
“What if we compromise,” he says softly, that faint smile still there at half-mast, “and agree that it is both our faults?”
She holds his eyes still, searching, lips softly pursed. It feels no more true than saying it's all his fault—but she'd allow him the lie if it brought him back close enough for them to actually talk.
"If I say yes, can I pass time in your office again? Can we re-start our lessons?"
"If I say yes, can I pass time in your office again? Can we re-start our lessons?"
“If,” Stephen says, as stubborn as a dog with a bone, “you can also admit that you didn’t ruin anything. These things happen. I’m… alright, yes, I’m feeling sore that I failed you, but it’s not about the turn to magic. Magic’s great. We need more magical healers, honestly. But it’s that I, personally, did not have the skills nor the magic to save you when I needed to.”
Dryly, “And for someone with a saviour complex, that rankles. But it is not your fault. And— well.”
He folds his hands around the roll of clean bandage. Admitting it feels like peeling his skin off, but he forces himself to do it, words pressed through a breath, a sigh: “Besides, I miss having you in my office, too.”
Dryly, “And for someone with a saviour complex, that rankles. But it is not your fault. And— well.”
He folds his hands around the roll of clean bandage. Admitting it feels like peeling his skin off, but he forces himself to do it, words pressed through a breath, a sigh: “Besides, I miss having you in my office, too.”
They're just as stubborn as each other, a match for pig-headedness as much as curiosity and intellect—but whatever objection she might have to his demand is cut off by the one-two punch of the dryness on saviour complex and his unexpectedly sincere admission. She blinks, once, twice, eyes wide on his, and her lip wobbles for a moment—
Ness looks down, breathes deeply through her nose.
"Alright. I didn't ruin anything."
Harder to believe than to say, but saying it is the first step, or so she's read. She raises her stump to him for wrapping, heroically avoiding sniffling or hugging him or anything that could possibly make this any harder for him.
Ness looks down, breathes deeply through her nose.
"Alright. I didn't ruin anything."
Harder to believe than to say, but saying it is the first step, or so she's read. She raises her stump to him for wrapping, heroically avoiding sniffling or hugging him or anything that could possibly make this any harder for him.
The work is a welcome distraction, a chance to catch their breath and let him focus on the task. Stephen unravels the bandages around her stump, sets the fabric aside, and then carefully examines the elbow-turned-stump; more meticulous than usual, more on edge about any signs of this going wrong again. He looks for any inflammation or thready red veins. Tests some of her sensitivity, a gentle touch against the skin to feel if it’s hot to the touch.
He delays a moment to let Ness examine her own wound (with a strict warning to not press too hard, remembering experiments with a particular cuff), letting her indulge whatever clinical curiosity she has, getting to map the progress of the healing.
Once they’re both satisfied, he starts to replace it with clean bandages, concluding, “It’s looking good. No signs of infection, and healing well.”
He delays a moment to let Ness examine her own wound (with a strict warning to not press too hard, remembering experiments with a particular cuff), letting her indulge whatever clinical curiosity she has, getting to map the progress of the healing.
Once they’re both satisfied, he starts to replace it with clean bandages, concluding, “It’s looking good. No signs of infection, and healing well.”
"Am I still on track to be able to wear a prosthetic in a few months?"
Ness looks at her elbow-stump, craning her neck to try to see the skin more clearly. It's easier to poke and prod and learn about it that way than to try to see it, but that's not stopping her—and hey, you know what—
"Can I—" she wiggles her fingers at Stephen, and gives his mind a polite little psychic knock. She can't see her stump clearly, but he can!
Ness looks at her elbow-stump, craning her neck to try to see the skin more clearly. It's easier to poke and prod and learn about it that way than to try to see it, but that's not stopping her—and hey, you know what—
"Can I—" she wiggles her fingers at Stephen, and gives his mind a polite little psychic knock. She can't see her stump clearly, but he can!
Edited 2025-06-14 02:00 (UTC)
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