“Pulse is good, lungs are clear. Seems you haven’t picked up pneumonia or anything while you were shivering in a dungeon,” Strange says after a moment, giving his half-distracted verdict, retreating the stethoscope so his hand’s no longer half-plunged down Benedict’s robes. He had indeed noticed that scar.
And perhaps someone more polite and more tactful would know not to ask about that sort of thing, something so obviously gruesomely violent, but —
“What happened there?” he asks, matter-of-fact, with a gesture of his chin towards the other man’s neck. He’s curious. How Benedict survived it is, perhaps, the more pertinent question for the Head Healer.
As soon as the fabric came down, Benedict had mentally prepared himself for the question, and he offers a tight, humorless little smirk in response.
"My induction into Riftwatch was not without contention," he says drily, "...my mentor at the time had thrown in with the Venatori, and betrayed them when we were brought here. They didn't like that."
Pensively, he runs his fingertips over the scar.
"An unpracticed healer," he continues with a weak little laugh, "healed the tourniquet right into the wound. It had to be undone and redone."
“Ouch,” Strange says on autopilot, wincing in sympathy; in a way, the botched healing sounds even worse than the initial injury. (His perfectionist nature rankles at it. Like a surgeon leaving a goddamn tool still inside a patient, needing to open them up again.)
There’s always so much history here that he’s always trying to suss out the shape of, the Inqusition and Riftwatch with all their long scabbed-over wounds, literal and figurative alike. He tries to picture it, the context.
“So the Venatori tried to execute you for treason?” he asks.
Strange's reaction is a little bit funny, for whatever reason, and Benedict's mouth turns up at the corners-- not disrespectfully, but there's something about seeing such an honest response that's charming, in its way.
"More that they didn't want us talking," he explains, with a shrug of one shoulder, "not that they had much to worry about. I was barely in the loop anyway. But still a loose end."
There’s a casual tilt to Benedict’s shoulder, a kind of affected nonchalance which belies the dreadfulness of what he’s saying. How fucking awful, to have your throat cut when you didn’t even have the knowledge to make the effort worth it. Just— what, another cog in the machine?
It feels like Strange should say more here, but he also can’t bring himself to keep parroting condolences nonstop. How many times can he say I’m sorry that happened, when the words already taste like ash on his tongue; when the young mage himself seems to be trying not to make a big deal out of it, either.
Tentative, then: “So— I’m assuming there’s no love lost between you and Tevinter, still.”
With the kind of deep breath that might precipitate a laugh, Benedict pauses, then lets it die on his lips; his expression is frozen in thought. He's obviously thought about the answer to this question before, but never had to say it aloud.
"I miss it," he admits, "perhaps that's an unpopular sentiment. But what's being done to it, what's-- been done for years," he narrows his eyes thoughtfully, "it's a bit like, I don't know, learning your favorite pastry has always been made from insects. It's corrupted."
“I don’t have anything to compare it to, but— I could see that. Your own home turning against you, and knowing there’s a worm in the apple for years.”
Having to see your own people become your enemy, fighting and killing them and having them kill your colleagues in return. Typically Strange tries to find some common thread, but he simply can’t relate to this part. But there are still things to pique his curiosity: Tevinter, Minrathous, a gleaming city full of mages and magical wonders. What it was supposed to be, before Corypheus sunk his hooks into it.
So this next question has nothing to do with medical treatment, is simply genuinely curious, a sympathetic stab in the dark: “Maybe it’s unpopular, but you’re allowed to be homesick. What do you miss most?”
Benedict is at risk of losing himself in thought entirely when Strange interrupts him, yielding a little smile that verges on grateful. It's rare to be asked of the positives, even when there are so few left.
"The seaside," he answers almost immediately, "my family home overlooks the Nocen Sea. Miles of golden sand and water like a cool bath, parties and open-air markets with the best food and wine you can imagine."
So nothing like Kirkwall, with its sharp rocks and sewage and freezing water and mouldering alehouses.
"The closest I've seen to it was in the Rialto Bay," he adds, with a little smirk and shake of his head, "but it's not the same." Nothing can compare to an openly magical civilization.
Golden sand and water, parties and open-air markets. It’s such a different picture from their present-day scrabbling and striving in wartime, and Strange finds himself unexpectedly wistful, listening to Benedict and imagining it. The way he himself looks back on New York, on endless conveniences and everyday luxuries and portalling himself to the tropics for a nighttime swim.
“I’ve heard Rialto’s nice. Skinny-dipping in the warm ocean, that sort of thing.”
Adding, contemplative, “I’d have liked to see Minrathous. Properly, before all this, I mean. The way it was supposed to be.”
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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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no subject
And perhaps someone more polite and more tactful would know not to ask about that sort of thing, something so obviously gruesomely violent, but —
“What happened there?” he asks, matter-of-fact, with a gesture of his chin towards the other man’s neck. He’s curious. How Benedict survived it is, perhaps, the more pertinent question for the Head Healer.
no subject
"My induction into Riftwatch was not without contention," he says drily, "...my mentor at the time had thrown in with the Venatori, and betrayed them when we were brought here. They didn't like that."
Pensively, he runs his fingertips over the scar.
"An unpracticed healer," he continues with a weak little laugh, "healed the tourniquet right into the wound. It had to be undone and redone."
no subject
There’s always so much history here that he’s always trying to suss out the shape of, the Inqusition and Riftwatch with all their long scabbed-over wounds, literal and figurative alike. He tries to picture it, the context.
“So the Venatori tried to execute you for treason?” he asks.
no subject
"More that they didn't want us talking," he explains, with a shrug of one shoulder, "not that they had much to worry about. I was barely in the loop anyway. But still a loose end."
no subject
It feels like Strange should say more here, but he also can’t bring himself to keep parroting condolences nonstop. How many times can he say I’m sorry that happened, when the words already taste like ash on his tongue; when the young mage himself seems to be trying not to make a big deal out of it, either.
Tentative, then: “So— I’m assuming there’s no love lost between you and Tevinter, still.”
no subject
"I miss it," he admits, "perhaps that's an unpopular sentiment. But what's being done to it, what's-- been done for years," he narrows his eyes thoughtfully, "it's a bit like, I don't know, learning your favorite pastry has always been made from insects. It's corrupted."
no subject
Having to see your own people become your enemy, fighting and killing them and having them kill your colleagues in return. Typically Strange tries to find some common thread, but he simply can’t relate to this part. But there are still things to pique his curiosity: Tevinter, Minrathous, a gleaming city full of mages and magical wonders. What it was supposed to be, before Corypheus sunk his hooks into it.
So this next question has nothing to do with medical treatment, is simply genuinely curious, a sympathetic stab in the dark: “Maybe it’s unpopular, but you’re allowed to be homesick. What do you miss most?”
no subject
"The seaside," he answers almost immediately, "my family home overlooks the Nocen Sea. Miles of golden sand and water like a cool bath, parties and open-air markets with the best food and wine you can imagine."
So nothing like Kirkwall, with its sharp rocks and sewage and freezing water and mouldering alehouses.
"The closest I've seen to it was in the Rialto Bay," he adds, with a little smirk and shake of his head, "but it's not the same." Nothing can compare to an openly magical civilization.
no subject
“I’ve heard Rialto’s nice. Skinny-dipping in the warm ocean, that sort of thing.”
Adding, contemplative, “I’d have liked to see Minrathous. Properly, before all this, I mean. The way it was supposed to be.”