I did, thank you, Isaac. I found the table cleaned and ready for me, so I am sure Anders was convinced to offer me space. Thank you, for checking on me.
[One evening--after internal debate and an afternoon of wine, ostensibly for courage, but really just because he loves wine--Nikos decides, abruptly, to contact his cousin before she contacts him. Or before she is somehow used against him. His second cousin? Third? Fourth? What is a family tree but a morass, curated largely so those who care about title and inheritance can move about their pieces on the board.
He almost loses himself in that thought before he remembers. Sidony Venaras. Eight, nine, ten years younger. Nevarra City. He can picture the exterior of the Venaras home, Nevarran in its architecture and in the color of the stone used to build it, its gardens trim around it. His father, pointing it out to him as the carriage went past. Maybe he saw her at a holiday, a party, an interchangeable cousin bedecked in finery.]
All right-- [Heavily, like he's picking up a conversation when they never started a conversation in the first place--a habit of his, she'll find, if they take up any sort of regular correspondence--] --you're Sidony Venaras of Nevarra City. I'm Nikos Averesch. We're related, somewhere, somehow.
[ The sound of someone speaking through the crystal makes her jump, just a little, moving away from her books to pick it up. The voice is a little bit familiar, her eyes narrowing for a moment before she listens to it all the way through. She's not sure what to say at first, her eyes staring down at her table as she taps her fingers, thoughtful for a moment before she sighs.
It's now or never, she supposes, as snippy as this person seems. She could just ignore it, but that would be rude, and she has the politeness of her own heritage and parents to think about. ]
Cousins. I've been informed. [ A considering noise. ] Your brother is Kostos and I am to be his personal surgeon if words are to be believed. Do you need the same?
I know it has been a long time. I find I've lost count of how many months it's been since we spoke or since I wrote to you. I am uncertain if you have written to me I would not be terribly upset if you had not attempted to write to me. I understand that I did not leave things on good terms and the blame lies entirely at my own feet. I understand that I can be selfish at times, but over the last few days I have thought of little else than having my brother at my side.
I stitched flesh to the bone not three days ago. I have set broken limbs. I tended to burns. I have seen the inside of more bodies than I was ever able to do in Nevarra City. The people I am with are at war and I am their healer. I am their surgeon. I treated the soldiers and gave them kindness.
I broke my own ribs. A dracolisk burned my arm. Could you imagine that, four years before now? A battlefield with me, in aprons and silly shoes, stitching and mending men who have been giving their lives for a cause? It was novel. It was terrifying.
War is worse than I had ever pictured. Stories make it all seem quite heroic, but it's not, is it? I saw more death than I had ever imagined. I saw good men die, with their blood upon my hands. I heard them crying. I do not think I shall ever forget the days after that battle, nor the horror I still feel at the memories. I think the dreams will be rather haunting, actually. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can hear them whispering, as if they are coming for me. As if they are demanding repayment for my failings. I am not the surgeon I pretend to be - this was the first time I had truly worked on soldiers from battle! - and they must know. Those that I could not save will find me and curse me, I think. I fear that the most: knowing that my failures will have stolen their lives.
I miss you, so terribly. So much. There was no one for me to talk to when I felt as though I was shattering into pieces. There was no one to tell me that I might be well in the morning, that I was performing as I should, that I was marvellous. There was no one to lie in bed with me and tell stories so that the nightmares did not come. I realise now, with the years between us, how desperately I miss the comfort of someone who knows me as well as I know myself. I miss hearing your laughter, and I miss knowing that if I stumbled you would be there to gather me in your arms.
I do miss my brother. I miss you so much that I fear my handmaiden might write to you, so I swore that I would to soothe her poor bleeding heart. I never said I would send the letter, though, did I?
Wherever you are, dear brother mine, I do hope you are happy. You shan't read this (likely for the best, given your predisposition to worry horrendously for a woman who is more than capable of caring for herself!) but it makes me feel better. That's what is most important in this, isn't it? I feel better..
A man proposed marriage to me. Isn't that quite the scandal? So far from home and beyond mother's reach and yet a man still suggests that he might be a suitable match for me. His reasons are entirely selfless, which is a novelty in itself; I recall being taught that men would want me for my features and connections rather than my wit, but she and I both stand quite corrected. I shan't tell you his name - there's no need for some dour Mortalitasi to come knocking at his door and putting the fear of the dead on him.
I like him. I'd be displeased if something were to happen to him.
You will be quite content to know my wounds are healed, but that isn't why I'm writing. I'm not sure why I'm bothering, seeing as I don't intend for you to read a single one of these, but that's hardly important. I'm writing them for myself, as selfish as you have always known me to be, and thus I have no reason to act as though this letter holds much in the way of merit. I'm better, I do not wheeze when I walk and Anders has stopped trying to ply me with magic and tea. Everything is as it should be, I suppose, if one has a measure for such things.
There are always issues, though, aren't there? There are always things I want to say, things I want to mention, things that I am afraid to voice. I've spoken with a friend or two about some things and I feel as though my heart itself has been ripped from me, but I know how to repair the damage. I know how best to stitch the pieces of myself that are broken, but I'm afraid to admit the truth.
Have you ever been in love? Truly in love? Have you ever wished to spend all your time with someone? I've felt a confusing mix of it all lately, not sure how best to manage it, and speaking to others just makes me anxious. Me! Anxious! Perish the thought - I'd be clipped around the ear before I could even suggest it were our mother here to make note of it. I'm afraid of what it means to me, to admit what I feel in my heart, and I wish you were here. I'm scared of what it means to admit what I think I know, how it will change me, and I do not wish to be changed by something like this. I do not think that mother and father would love me more for it, even if I might never match their estimation of you.
You would make it better, I think. My friends - dear, dear creatures that they are - have tried, but they are not my brother. They cannot soothe me.
It's better that you're not here, I suppose. Ghosts wandering the halls, war, battle, death. I've seen enough of it to know that you're better off far from me. I'd loathe seeing your face anyway, it never was as handsome as it could have been.
The Gallows is not quite all in one piece in the aftermath of whatever occured there, but at some point in the days following and once the pattern of usual business reasserts itself, a man appears in the clinic. Or the undercroft. Or wherever it is physicians do their bloody work in this place.
This at least is the usual kind of apparation, made up of the typical combination of flesh and bone. At the sight of Sidony there, Marcoulf clears his throat. Eases his damp cloak back over his shoulder.
Sidony has found herself back to work with ease; the ghosts and spirits had done very little to bother her compared to her friends and blood relations, so she's not particularly on edge. Her books are open in front of her and she is making notes on some of the surgeries she completed during the battle not so long ago.
Lifting her head at the sound of a voice, frowning. Her quill gets placed down and she lifts herself to her feet, smoothing her dress down against her legs, arms crossing over her chest. It's likely immediately obvious that she is not particularly pleased with his address.
He's been back to the clinic a handful of times since they first spoke - to correct the set of his wrist, to have the scarring minded, to refresh his little supply of salves and so on -, but all of them brief interludes. Today, Marcoulf's arm is lashed down by a tightened strap. The numb curl of his right hand has been flattened and is in the process of having dried salve and dirt and the general grime cleared away in preparation for--
Well, he's thought enough about what's to be done that Marcoulf feels no strong inclination to give it much consideration now. Instead, his attention (made gentle and wandering in part by what he'd smoked before coming along to this appointment) is split between the bottle of alcohol near to his functional hand and the streak of daylight in the clinic's narrow window. It's a keen not-quite-spring morning, all of Kirkwall's gray having cleared briefly away from the sky as if in memory of some still distant summer.
"Will it take long to do?" It's a strangely mild question, divorced entirely from the visceral parts of what Sidony is about to begin and made milder still by the rolling syllables of Orlesian.
Sidony has done the best she can - she is determined to make sure Marcoulf is well taken care of. It would be unprofessional for her to do anything else. There's no reason for her to treat him badly, especially since he is one of the first patients that she has had outside the battlefields. She has given him what he needed, taken care of him, and been prim and proper the entire time without pause.
"Not terribly long, no." Sidony's smile is calm and settled as she looks at him, tilting his hand one way and another to examine in. She had spend a number of hours the day before checking her books to make sure she was doing to do this properly; she doesn't want to cripple him for life, after all, and it would do very little for her reputation to have something as simple as this go horrificly wrong.
"Make yourself comfortable and we can begin as soon as you're ready." She spends her time gathering her supplies, her little bag of surgical tools, some of the things she had bought from the strange Potion Seller in Lowtown and some things she had spoken to Colin about. It's clear she's more than prepared for him.
their severance is still fresh. perhaps if they were still greater in number, someone would have seen to it: the business of finding new crest; of names and arrangements, the little formalities of transition. of death. ilias would have been good at that.
in his absence it's averesch, or it's rutyer, or it's nothing — and no, it isn't. not at all. there's julius. cedoux. the ambassador. the scoutmaster, the provost: all the men and women ostensibly in charge. there are a lot of people who'd be better at this.
but isaac doesn't know nevarran peerage to know the relation; he doesn't know byerly to think him else than drunk. he does know that it sounded like a fucking fight in the central tower the other day, and that someone will need to get around to doing this before the word gets out another way.
there are other someones it should be. it just happens to be him. ]
Lady Portia Venaras,
It is with sincere regret that I must inform you of the death of Lady Sidony, in her service with the Inquisition.
I cannot pretend to know the depth of your loss. I had the honour to work with her, I was not among her confidantes. A sickbay is an unkind place: The work asks diligent hands, and a well-comported spirit. We could not have asked for a finer example.
It is an easy thing to be warm with a friend, attentive to an equal; rarer that one should extend dignity and grace to those already gone. Her patience with the dying can be matched only by the living she returned to us, men and women who would not wake and breathe today without her efforts.
A poor trade. But I do not think it one she would regret.
Remains were not recovered. [ there was the fingerbone. but that asks the question of how they knew it was hers, which asks the question of who took the fucking ring — ] Arrangements will be made to return her belongings to Nevarra; I have included a blade from her personal effects.
They are not often wielded with care. It was only that which I witnessed.
Condolences,
— Enchanter Isaac of Monsimmard
[ a scalpel is enclosed, carefully cased away so it's not just like a super sharp loose knife rolling around. the letter that doesn't get sent has more jokes about that. ]
[ She comes in bleeding—a slice down the back of her forearm, short and neat, pressed under a the sort of not-too-clean cloth that could be found lying around the training ground—but also smiling. It isn't bad. Left alone, it would probably heal just fine, leaving one of those pale scars, as if from cat claws, that disappears within a year or so.
However— ]
Hello, Lady Sidony.
[ —there are other benefits to seeking medical attention. ]
[ Sidony is dressed as primly as one can be when they are a surgeon; while her clothes are plainer when she is here, more cotton than silk, she still does go out of her way to seem fashionable and beautiful. Her head turns when she notes Osana's arrival and she hesitates, eyes going up and down before she steps forward.
Ah. ]
Good day. What has happened to you?
[ A raised brow comes hand in hand with Sidony reaching for bandages and a needle, just in case. ]
[Sometime after The Nevarran Affair, a woman is waiting in Sidony's clinic space. She's wearing a rather smart riding coat and has a fine pair of gloves in hand at her lap. When Sidony arrives for what must certainly be her regular hours, the woman is engrossed in a book of herbal remedies. Fitcher looks up she she arrives.]
Ah, the esteemed Lady Rutyer. I hope you don't mind the intrusion, but I have a proposal for you I thought best made in person.
Don't ask how he's managed it. Don't ask how he managed to avoid the Inquisition's throng of medical busybodies to this point.
"Won't close up right," The messy little gash in his side must be in fact, a day or two old, and still oozing through its bandage. "And you know how those places are —"
Lazar pauses, before lowering his shirt again. She probably doesn't know how the back room of that particular tavern goes. Rutyer or not, she's still a lady.
Sidony is not the type to scold, especially those she does not know particularly well, but it's obvious by the slight twist to her face that she's not exactly happy with the state of Lazar's side, her head tilted and lips pursed.
She's seen worse, but she's also seen much better as well.
"You should have come to see someone sooner," is all she says, at least at first, bustling around to gather things from here and there. It's a little gash, but the ooze suggests that it is close to if not already infected and she dislikes that. It's not something that is necessarily an easy fix if it gets worse.
"Stay still." In her hands is some kind of paste and on her face is an expression of supreme disappointment.
Athessa lays on the bed, draped in the post-coital afterglow of Sidony's latest lesson. That is, if they can still be called lessons; the curriculum is unstructured, based on whims, and at some point they unspool into simple enjoyment, at least for Athessa. She hopes it is the case for Sidony as well, but the body and mind can often be at a disconnect.
Athessa lets her head roll to one side so she can look at Sidony. Her fingertips draw lazy patterns on the nearest slope of naked skin. The dress code here is non-existent.
Sidony is comfortable herself, relaxed as she lets herself settle in the bed. Yes, she's a little warm and she knows that she will be craving a bath sooner rather than later, but she is content with the feeling of bubbling bliss settling into a rather pleasant ache.
The question does make her pause, eyes flickering open before she lifts her head to look at Athessa. It's clearly not a question that might lead to some grand romantic confession - that is not what the two of them are and Sidony is more than happy with that as it stands - but it's something.
"More than happy, if you're concerned," she frowns, lifting herself up a little. "Aren't you?"
[ However the goose hunt goes, manners compel Bastien to the same epilogue. He turns up in the infirmary a day or two afterwards, with a book tucked under one arm, looking friendly and much stubblier. ]
[ Sidony is half-reading a notebook, skimming pages here and there; the distraction is almost welcome and she offers a pleased smile and a turn of her head. ]
[ There are some niceties first. Bastien isn't so familiar with Sidony as not to show some respect for her status and for her time, inquiring about her wellness and making sure that he isn't interrupting anything more important.
But all of that would be less fun to write than what he's working his way toward, which is: ]
Your husband told me you are seeing someone, Madame—though not who.
[ Of her husband's lovers Sidony cannot deny her preference, so her tone and nature with Bastien is far kinder than she might be with others. The question, though, dents that a little and she sniffs, pausing. ]
I didn't realise my -- I did not think it was so worthy of note.
(this message comes a few days after satinalia, when abby has finally realised that the wine and the flower and the handkerchief were, in fact, for her:)
Thank you for the gift. Happy Satinalia.
(a slight pause, before she adds, almost in a rush:) Do you ever need an extra set of hands in the infirmary? I know my way around. I could help, if you wanted it for any reason.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
crystals;
[ introductions seem pointless when they've just been speaking ]
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crystal.
He almost loses himself in that thought before he remembers. Sidony Venaras. Eight, nine, ten years younger. Nevarra City. He can picture the exterior of the Venaras home, Nevarran in its architecture and in the color of the stone used to build it, its gardens trim around it. His father, pointing it out to him as the carriage went past. Maybe he saw her at a holiday, a party, an interchangeable cousin bedecked in finery.]
All right-- [Heavily, like he's picking up a conversation when they never started a conversation in the first place--a habit of his, she'll find, if they take up any sort of regular correspondence--] --you're Sidony Venaras of Nevarra City. I'm Nikos Averesch. We're related, somewhere, somehow.
Now it's been acknowledged.
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It's now or never, she supposes, as snippy as this person seems. She could just ignore it, but that would be rude, and she has the politeness of her own heritage and parents to think about. ]
Cousins. I've been informed. [ A considering noise. ] Your brother is Kostos and I am to be his personal surgeon if words are to be believed. Do you need the same?
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UNSENT LETTERS
AFTER THE GALLOWS HAUNTING.
After her 'death'.
action, post haunting;
This at least is the usual kind of apparation, made up of the typical combination of flesh and bone. At the sight of Sidony there, Marcoulf clears his throat. Eases his damp cloak back over his shoulder.
"Can you say when a healer will be here?"
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Lifting her head at the sound of a voice, frowning. Her quill gets placed down and she lifts herself to her feet, smoothing her dress down against her legs, arms crossing over her chest. It's likely immediately obvious that she is not particularly pleased with his address.
"Now."
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crystal message
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crystal;
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[ and for the foreseeable future? ]
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action;
Well, he's thought enough about what's to be done that Marcoulf feels no strong inclination to give it much consideration now. Instead, his attention (made gentle and wandering in part by what he'd smoked before coming along to this appointment) is split between the bottle of alcohol near to his functional hand and the streak of daylight in the clinic's narrow window. It's a keen not-quite-spring morning, all of Kirkwall's gray having cleared briefly away from the sky as if in memory of some still distant summer.
"Will it take long to do?" It's a strangely mild question, divorced entirely from the visceral parts of what Sidony is about to begin and made milder still by the rolling syllables of Orlesian.
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"Not terribly long, no." Sidony's smile is calm and settled as she looks at him, tilting his hand one way and another to examine in. She had spend a number of hours the day before checking her books to make sure she was doing to do this properly; she doesn't want to cripple him for life, after all, and it would do very little for her reputation to have something as simple as this go horrificly wrong.
"Make yourself comfortable and we can begin as soon as you're ready." She spends her time gathering her supplies, her little bag of surgical tools, some of the things she had bought from the strange Potion Seller in Lowtown and some things she had spoken to Colin about. It's clear she's more than prepared for him.
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letter; backdated to when everyone was still dead ofc
their severance is still fresh. perhaps if they were still greater in number, someone would have seen to it: the business of finding new crest; of names and arrangements, the little formalities of transition. of death. ilias would have been good at that.
in his absence it's averesch, or it's rutyer, or it's nothing — and no, it isn't. not at all. there's julius. cedoux. the ambassador. the scoutmaster, the provost: all the men and women ostensibly in charge. there are a lot of people who'd be better at this.
but isaac doesn't know nevarran peerage to know the relation; he doesn't know byerly to think him else than drunk. he does know that it sounded like a fucking fight in the central tower the other day, and that someone will need to get around to doing this before the word gets out another way.
there are other someones it should be. it just happens to be him. ]
Lady Portia Venaras,
It is with sincere regret that I must inform you of the death of Lady Sidony, in her service with the Inquisition.
I cannot pretend to know the depth of your loss. I had the honour to work with her, I was not among her confidantes. A sickbay is an unkind place: The work asks diligent hands, and a well-comported spirit. We could not have asked for a finer example.
It is an easy thing to be warm with a friend, attentive to an equal; rarer that one should extend dignity and grace to those already gone. Her patience with the dying can be matched only by the living she returned to us, men and women who would not wake and breathe today without her efforts.
A poor trade. But I do not think it one she would regret.
Remains were not recovered. [ there was the fingerbone. but that asks the question of how they knew it was hers, which asks the question of who took the fucking ring — ] Arrangements will be made to return her belongings to Nevarra; I have included a blade from her personal effects.
They are not often wielded with care. It was only that which I witnessed.
Condolences,
— Enchanter Isaac of Monsimmard
[ a scalpel is enclosed, carefully cased away so it's not just like a super sharp loose knife rolling around. the letter that doesn't get sent has more jokes about that. ]
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[ No hello. But look. He’s trying. ]
This is Kostos.
[ Trying so hard. ]
crystal.
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crystal.
What is Rutyer talking about?
[ Like, marrying her, obviously. But surely it's a joke. ]
crystal.
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action, in the infirmary, before the wedding announcement.
However— ]
Hello, Lady Sidony.
[ —there are other benefits to seeking medical attention. ]
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Ah. ]
Good day. What has happened to you?
[ A raised brow comes hand in hand with Sidony reaching for bandages and a needle, just in case. ]
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crystals, at some point that she's not being kidnapped;
[ not that it's been ineffective ]
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action;
Ah, the esteemed Lady Rutyer. I hope you don't mind the intrusion, but I have a proposal for you I thought best made in person.
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Esteemed? I should think not. [ Even if she does look a little smug. ] What did you have in mind?
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I'm back in the Gallows. At last. I'd be delighted to see you, but not before I've bathed - you'd divorce me on the spot.
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a vague point in time;
"Won't close up right," The messy little gash in his side must be in fact, a day or two old, and still oozing through its bandage. "And you know how those places are —"
Lazar pauses, before lowering his shirt again. She probably doesn't know how the back room of that particular tavern goes. Rutyer or not, she's still a lady.
"— Well, reckoned I should see an expert."
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She's seen worse, but she's also seen much better as well.
"You should have come to see someone sooner," is all she says, at least at first, bustling around to gather things from here and there. It's a little gash, but the ooze suggests that it is close to if not already infected and she dislikes that. It's not something that is necessarily an easy fix if it gets worse.
"Stay still." In her hands is some kind of paste and on her face is an expression of supreme disappointment.
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crystal; after this conversation: https://therookery.dreamwidth.org/200395.html?thread=21274059#cmt2
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[ Byerly sounds...drunk. ]
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action, NSFW ish - backdated
Athessa lets her head roll to one side so she can look at Sidony. Her fingertips draw lazy patterns on the nearest slope of naked skin. The dress code here is non-existent.
"How do you feel about what we do together?"
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The question does make her pause, eyes flickering open before she lifts her head to look at Athessa. It's clearly not a question that might lead to some grand romantic confession - that is not what the two of them are and Sidony is more than happy with that as it stands - but it's something.
"More than happy, if you're concerned," she frowns, lifting herself up a little. "Aren't you?"
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action, post-goose.
Madame Rutyer? Do you have a moment?
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I see no reason why not. A moment you shall have.
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crystal.
But all of that would be less fun to write than what he's working his way toward, which is: ]
Your husband told me you are seeing someone, Madame—though not who.
crystal.
I didn't realise my -- I did not think it was so worthy of note.
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crystal;
Thank you for the gift. Happy Satinalia.
(a slight pause, before she adds, almost in a rush:) Do you ever need an extra set of hands in the infirmary? I know my way around. I could help, if you wanted it for any reason.
crystal;
[ And, immediately - ]
Help will never be refused. What experience do you have?
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crystal;
I have a question for you. Well. Perhaps two questions. Only somewhat related.
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I would do my best to answer both, then, darling.
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