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.
To his credit, he has the good sense to look abashed. After a stilted moment: "Forgive me."
He judiciously doesn't say the rest of what he's thinking. 'You don't really look the part.' Which is true. Most healers are walking scarecrows of some design. She's a young and pretty little thing in a pin neat dress who looks like she might be most at home sitting in a window seat with a book of poetry open on one knee. Though to be fair, ladies often look so.
Marcoulf clears his throat, lingering near the doorway still.
"Would you have time, then? Or would some other hour be better."
Sidony watches, staring him down before her head lifts, tilted, eyebrow raised, an acceptance of his apology even if she doesn't make any motion to say anything in response.
She knows, of course, how she looks; she doesn't seem the part of a surgeon or physician, doesn't seem as though she would have any knowledge of the makeup of the human body, but she has experience enough. Well studied, well taught, educated, and with a battle under her belt - she does know what she is doing.
Her hands do not shake any more.
"I have the time." Pushing herself away from her desk, she motions. "How might I help?"
There is maybe another, very brief, instance of hesitation. Then he discards it. Even if she doesn't know what she's doing, what risk is there really? Marcoulf shifts forward out of the doorway begins to peel the heavy winter mittens from his right hand.
"I'm having trouble with this still. It was treated briefly at Montfort, but--" A shrug.
The problem is immediately obvious as the hand is slipped from the wool. It's bulky, the palm and wrist bandaged between two stiff pieces of leather and wound in a bandage. He unwinds the cloth bandage, discards the leather panels, the mottled gauze under them, and produces the naked hand for her inspection. Even now, weeks later, the wound is ugly and half healed. It's all bruising and knotting scar tissue, pockmarked from where it was initially sitching shut, red tinged and swollen and stained from the salve he's been religiously applying. From the look of it, he'd caught some sharp edge with the side of his hand. It's probably sheer luck that the blow didn't take his thumb with it.
"This finger especially." He pinches the end of his forefinger.
It doesn't take much time for her to realise she's going to need her bag; she picks it up and brings it over, placing it down. It doesn't look quite as new as it used to - there are stains, dirt and blood, from the battlefield, and when she opens it up with a snap the tools look far less clean than they might have done. New, still, but used, some dulled and in need of sharpening.
It's an attempt at a bandage and Sidony frowns, moving over and immediately reaching to look at it, motioning for him to put his hand out flat. It means she can get a better look at it. It looks like it could use some restitching - it seems as though that this was done in haste, and needs to be set again.
But, first, frowning, she settles down and makes herself comfortable.
"What trouble are you having? Tell me what, exactly, you would like me to do."
Let no one say Marcoulf de Ricart doesn't follow direction well. He arranges his hand as requested, though there's clearly some tenderness about the palm and the laceration itself. His two small fingers he presses flush to the table. The rest sit at slightly awkward, half bent angles.
"There's some..." A pause, hovering thoughtfully. "--Do you speak Orlesian?"
It's good that any issues he might have had are softened now and Sidony accepts it without any more words. There's a touch of awkwardness, admittedly, but it doesn't bother her - she's seen and experienced worst than this. Lifting her head, she watches him for a moment before she sighs.
In Orlesian then: "I've lost some of the feeling. It's numb here and here." He touches the back of his hand, pinches his first finger. "And my grip's no good. It's fine if it's temporary. I don't expect it to be immediately well. But it must be fixed."
He's considerably less halting and careful in Orlesian.
It's easy for Sidony to respond in kind, slipping into another language with a single breath, not pausing for a single moment. She's a natural - there's a slight lilt to her accent, still Nevarran, but she's adept enough.
"I'll clean it first, I think, and then we can attend to the stitching. Has there been any sign of infection? Clearly you have been using some herbs, but I'm not sure what effect they might have had." Reaching out, she touches the finger, squeezing around the bone gently.
"At first, yes. But it was poulticed until the heat and swelling went away." Mostly away. It's red and angry today, but how much of that is from the cold and a morning's work?
Nonsense though. If he cared for more things to pack the wound with, he'd have returned to Etienne. Her squeeze of his finger feels distant like it's happening to someone else's hand.
"Something better to apply is well and good, but I can't say what it will fix."
Perhaps there was too much paste; it wouldn't be the first time overuse of a healing aid might have done more harm than good. Sidony deliberately takes a napkin and some water and begins to clean up the wound, touch delicate and soft despite the sharpness of her features and the tilt of her head.
"I think there might be some nerve damage. I could attempt surgery and see if there is something I might be able to do to bring the feeling back to the fingers."
Her touch is careful, and besides it mostly doesn't ache. Stings in places, true, but that bothers him less than the places it doesn't. Hurt means healing. Nothing though--
"Cut it open again, you mean." He doesn't sound skeptical. Just slow. Selective. He pale though, the series lines of his face gone slightly crooked. "Have you done it before?"
"It might be necessary, to make sure that the insides have not been permanently damaged." Sidony says it gently but coolly; her job is to inform and treat, not to make men think as though their wounds are better than they are. Her fingers keep tracing over the line of his hand, but his next words make her purse her lips, finally lifting her head to look at him properly.
"I have completed many surgeries, ser, but I can ask another healer to aid you and leave myself for the treatment after if you prefer."
It's only just closing, some small part of him thinks. It's a voice he's made purposefully distant, pointedly difficult for his thoughts to catch (that's a lie; it haunts him in the evening when he's tired and his fingers have gone from tingling to aching. He thinks about it in the morning as he struggles with his shoes. Hold that sword properly now, says that voice and it sounds nothing like himself. What good are you otherwise?).
Anyway.
His assessment is equally cool in the moment. The hand between them could belong to some other poor bastard. "How much would it cost to have it done?"
It's not going to be an easy kind of surgery, she knows that; it's going to be painful for Marcoulf, intense and risky. He might lose all the feeling in his hand - he might never be able to grip a weapon again. It's an obvious concern for him, Sidony is sure, and her eyes flick over his face before she leans back and picks up a fresh set of bandages. It makes sense for her to wrap up his hand before she gives it back to him.
Slowly, she looks up at him, frowning.
"The Inquisition pays me and I have enough of my own. It won't cost you a thing."
Something flickers in the wan, narrow lines of his face, but it's hard to say what it is or what it says. His mouth has gone briefly thin and lopsided, his hand all light on the table before her.
"If you don't carve it open again--" A pause. When he continues, it's in that heavily accented Trade. "Will it stay this way?"
There's a moment of pause, hesitation as she leans back, considering; lifting her head, she draws her fingers away. It seems such a silly thing, but men and soldiers are like this - treatment is difficult and frightening, especially with no promise that she might be able to do something to fix it in the end.
"Most likely." Careful, managed, accent soft. "I cannot promise that the body will be able to repair itself completely on its own."
Soldiering may indeed have everything to do with it. After all, even should the best of terms come to pass, the Inquisition will not be here forever. If they lose, maybe they all die on some battlefield or with their heads cut off to put placed on spikes all along the Imperial Highway as the whole world goes sideways. Fine. But if they win, all those men and women under the Inquisition's banner will be left to their own devices as it always is with wars and fighting and the aftermath of them. That is how it was in Orlais (save for those pressed into more service), and it is how it has been after every Exalted March, and how it will always be.
If he isn't selling his sword then-- nothing occurs to him. Maybe there had been some evening since Ghislain where he'd laid in bed and considered some strange future where Magni keeps her forge and he breaks his back putting shoes on horses beside it, but there had been no doing that before any of the this and if things stay as they are between Lakshmi and Magni then there will be even less reason after. So no, he has already decided that he needs that hand to survive this. More importantly, he eventually he will need it to keep him fed and clothed if he does.
What other choice is there? So in Trade still: "Would waiting until Drakonis make what you would need to do more difficult? I've work that needs doing and pulling me from the rotation for it may take some planning."
Sidony had spoken to many of the soldiers on the battlefield; all of them had been wary of what treatment might mean for them, what could happen as a result, their fears of the danger and the consequences of it. It doesn't come as a surprise to her that someone like this man might have the same fears - a soldier is a soldier only for as long as he can carry a weapon and hold himself in a fight. She has no experience of such fears herself, of course, as she is young and more intelligent than people credit her for, but she can understand the reticence.
She gives him a few moments as she puts her things away, makes sure her hands are clean and dry, makes sure that everything is put back in its proper place because that is what she must do. Her desk is tidy, her tools are clean and in the right place, and when she turns back to look at Marcoulf her expression is steady and gentle. There's no point causing him more uncertainty.
"No." She lifts her shoulders, casual and careful. "I do not think it would become impossible for me to treat in so short an amount of time. All you need do is come and tell me when you would like for it to be done."
As her back is turned, the soft clink of tools returning to their places, he studies the back of the hand with its new bandages. He hates the look if it. The purple under the forefinger and thumb's nail is the color of a ripe red plum.
Once the girl - and she is that, even if she is a healer - has turned back around, Marcoulf has already begun easing the wrapped hand back into its thick mitten.
"Then I'll call next month," he says, businesslike and curt. "What name should I refer to you by?"
There's a rather gentle urge to dismiss the mitten, to say something about it, but it's not her place to comment on what he does or does not do. Instead, she smooths down her skirts and watches him, waiting. She's never been very good at this part of the job, the part where she has to make idle conversation or say something gentle to make them feel better.
The truth is easier, she thinks. Let them know just how dangerous and painful their treatment might be, even if they might not like to hear it.
"Of course." A nod of her head. "Sidony Venaras, if you please."
Luckily, the man before her hardly seems to be looking for a kind word. Instead, he gives her a curt nod, punctuated by some slightly shift in the line of his shoulders. It's maybe the smallest bow ever imagined. "Ricart. I appreciate your time, Mademoiselle Venaras. I won't take any more of it."
And just like that, he draws the edge of his cloak forward over his shoulder and turns for the door. He's gone as abruptly as he'd appeared.
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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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
He judiciously doesn't say the rest of what he's thinking. 'You don't really look the part.' Which is true. Most healers are walking scarecrows of some design. She's a young and pretty little thing in a pin neat dress who looks like she might be most at home sitting in a window seat with a book of poetry open on one knee. Though to be fair, ladies often look so.
Marcoulf clears his throat, lingering near the doorway still.
"Would you have time, then? Or would some other hour be better."
no subject
She knows, of course, how she looks; she doesn't seem the part of a surgeon or physician, doesn't seem as though she would have any knowledge of the makeup of the human body, but she has experience enough. Well studied, well taught, educated, and with a battle under her belt - she does know what she is doing.
Her hands do not shake any more.
"I have the time." Pushing herself away from her desk, she motions. "How might I help?"
no subject
"I'm having trouble with this still. It was treated briefly at Montfort, but--" A shrug.
The problem is immediately obvious as the hand is slipped from the wool. It's bulky, the palm and wrist bandaged between two stiff pieces of leather and wound in a bandage. He unwinds the cloth bandage, discards the leather panels, the mottled gauze under them, and produces the naked hand for her inspection. Even now, weeks later, the wound is ugly and half healed. It's all bruising and knotting scar tissue, pockmarked from where it was initially sitching shut, red tinged and swollen and stained from the salve he's been religiously applying. From the look of it, he'd caught some sharp edge with the side of his hand. It's probably sheer luck that the blow didn't take his thumb with it.
"This finger especially." He pinches the end of his forefinger.
no subject
It's an attempt at a bandage and Sidony frowns, moving over and immediately reaching to look at it, motioning for him to put his hand out flat. It means she can get a better look at it. It looks like it could use some restitching - it seems as though that this was done in haste, and needs to be set again.
But, first, frowning, she settles down and makes herself comfortable.
"What trouble are you having? Tell me what, exactly, you would like me to do."
no subject
"There's some..." A pause, hovering thoughtfully. "--Do you speak Orlesian?"
Many well-heeled young ladies do.
no subject
Not judgemental, just accepting.
"Of course. Please, when you're ready."
no subject
In Orlesian then: "I've lost some of the feeling. It's numb here and here." He touches the back of his hand, pinches his first finger. "And my grip's no good. It's fine if it's temporary. I don't expect it to be immediately well. But it must be fixed."
He's considerably less halting and careful in Orlesian.
no subject
"I'll clean it first, I think, and then we can attend to the stitching. Has there been any sign of infection? Clearly you have been using some herbs, but I'm not sure what effect they might have had." Reaching out, she touches the finger, squeezing around the bone gently.
"I can give you something better."
no subject
Nonsense though. If he cared for more things to pack the wound with, he'd have returned to Etienne. Her squeeze of his finger feels distant like it's happening to someone else's hand.
"Something better to apply is well and good, but I can't say what it will fix."
no subject
"I think there might be some nerve damage. I could attempt surgery and see if there is something I might be able to do to bring the feeling back to the fingers."
And then more paste to heal.
no subject
"Cut it open again, you mean." He doesn't sound skeptical. Just slow. Selective. He pale though, the series lines of his face gone slightly crooked. "Have you done it before?"
no subject
"I have completed many surgeries, ser, but I can ask another healer to aid you and leave myself for the treatment after if you prefer."
no subject
Anyway.
His assessment is equally cool in the moment. The hand between them could belong to some other poor bastard. "How much would it cost to have it done?"
no subject
Slowly, she looks up at him, frowning.
"The Inquisition pays me and I have enough of my own. It won't cost you a thing."
no subject
"If you don't carve it open again--" A pause. When he continues, it's in that heavily accented Trade. "Will it stay this way?"
no subject
"Most likely." Careful, managed, accent soft. "I cannot promise that the body will be able to repair itself completely on its own."
no subject
If he isn't selling his sword then-- nothing occurs to him. Maybe there had been some evening since Ghislain where he'd laid in bed and considered some strange future where Magni keeps her forge and he breaks his back putting shoes on horses beside it, but there had been no doing that before any of the this and if things stay as they are between Lakshmi and Magni then there will be even less reason after. So no, he has already decided that he needs that hand to survive this. More importantly, he eventually he will need it to keep him fed and clothed if he does.
What other choice is there? So in Trade still: "Would waiting until Drakonis make what you would need to do more difficult? I've work that needs doing and pulling me from the rotation for it may take some planning."
no subject
She gives him a few moments as she puts her things away, makes sure her hands are clean and dry, makes sure that everything is put back in its proper place because that is what she must do. Her desk is tidy, her tools are clean and in the right place, and when she turns back to look at Marcoulf her expression is steady and gentle. There's no point causing him more uncertainty.
"No." She lifts her shoulders, casual and careful. "I do not think it would become impossible for me to treat in so short an amount of time. All you need do is come and tell me when you would like for it to be done."
no subject
Once the girl - and she is that, even if she is a healer - has turned back around, Marcoulf has already begun easing the wrapped hand back into its thick mitten.
"Then I'll call next month," he says, businesslike and curt. "What name should I refer to you by?"
no subject
The truth is easier, she thinks. Let them know just how dangerous and painful their treatment might be, even if they might not like to hear it.
"Of course." A nod of her head. "Sidony Venaras, if you please."
no subject
And just like that, he draws the edge of his cloak forward over his shoulder and turns for the door. He's gone as abruptly as he'd appeared.