Considering recent concerns about missing correspondence, and that admittedly humorous situation with Matthias finding an unsigned note and suspecting a prank.
She nods to Derrica's plan; the spell, the potion, the bandage.
"Need me to do anything?" A silly question, asked for silliness' sake. She knows the answer will likely be to sit still. "Strike a pose, perhaps? Pray to some deity for a blessing?"
"Hold your breath, and ask my great-grandmother for better luck next time," Derrica instructs sweetly, before putting her palm carefully over the scorch-closed slash.
It has to be uncomfortable to have any kind of pressure over that wound. But the cover of Dericca's hand gives way to a cool rush of magic, flowing from her palm across Athessa's skin. The discomfort ebbs, eased into nothingness beneath the glow emanating from Derrica's hand.
When she lifts her hand away, the angry, raw red of the slash has faded into pale scar tissue. Derrica sighs over the lingering mark, running a finger along the scarring check her work.
She does hold her breath, even if she doesn’t know who Derrica’s great-grandmother is in order to ask anything of her. Athessa’s own will have to suffice.
They sigh in unison, though for Athessa it’s simply releasing that breath. The discomfort doesn’t bother her, not with the knowledge that it’s Derrica’s hand covering the pain and soothing it away. Tracing the newest scar in Athessa’s collection of mishaps.
“You’re amazing, you know that?” It comes out before she can think not to say it. But why shouldn’t she say it? She’d feel the same about Derrica’s skill even without the swarm of butterflies in her stomach.
Inspection having apparently satisfied Derrica that nothing more can be done, her hand drops. The critical set to her mouth lingers, softens into a slight smile at the question.
"Isaac might have done better," Derrica cautions. He's older, more experienced, and he does good work. He might be able to fix this still, though Derrica doesn't speculate. She shrugs a little over the question, compliment sufficiently squared away.
"Not properly," she answers, looking back down to the little assembly of cloth and bottles in her lap. "I'd heard stories. She was a healer, like me. I might have taken after her."
A twitch of a smile, as Derrica looks back up at Athessa to add, "From what I heard, she'd have scolded you much more than I did."
A wince, imagining the sort of scolding that'd be. Sorry, great-grandma Rivain. Next time, she'll beg forgiveness properly.
"Phew. I guess I'm glad to have been let off so light, then," she jokes, though somewhat apologetically. She'd beg forgiveness of Derrica, too, if she'd hear it. Athessa un-bunches her shirt from her grip, getting ready to put it back on despite the blood and tear.
"I was supposed to take after my grandmother, I think. Or expected to, what with the whole...skipping-a-generation thing. What was your great-gran's name?"
"Adila," Derrica says, in the same breath as, "No, Athessa, don't put that back on."
The shirt needs to be washed and mended. There's probably someone in the village who would do that for them, but that doesn't do much for Athessa in the meantime.
"Let me lend you something. Just for your walk back to wherever they have you sleeping."
She, rather comically, freezes when Derrica tells her not to put the shirt on. Like she can't figure what the alternative action she's meant to take is.
"It's fine, really," she says, shrugging one shoulder. If she borrows something from Derrica, it'll smell like her, and she'll think about that the entire time she's wearing it, and—
She shakes out the shirt, which looks...not fine, actually. It looks like a shirt she got off a dead body. Grim. No wonder Derrica was concerned.
"Ah. I see why Great-Granny Adila would've scolded me, now. It looks worse than I thought."
If Athessa had been able to see the mark, maybe she wouldn't be so surprised about the shirt. But Derrica just nods, eyebrows raised for a moment before she pulls her rucksack towards her.
"I have a tunic, you can just—"
A break, while Derrica huffs her way through the contents of her pack. They're nearly the same size, but the loose, soft material of the shirt Derrica's thinking about will be more comfortable than some of her other potential offerings.
"Just so you don't look like you've murdered or been murdered on your way back. And so you don't ruin all the time we took getting the blood cleared off you."
Delicately avoiding mentioning that the blood was smeared all across Athessa's chest.
All the time Derrica took, she means. Guilt pangs hollow in her chest. Another joke, then, to ward it off:
"The man boarding us would probably just think me another ghost," she scoffs, lightly. "When he's not mistaking me for a servant he thinks I'm his long lost niece and tells me all about how haunted the guest wing is."
She folds her shirt so the blood is contained and hidden beneath the cleaner layers, but keeps hold of it with one hand. A reminder why she's here, an anchor to keep her from drifting too close. (It doesn't stop that magnetic lean, the tilt of her head, the slight parting of her lips even as a smile lingers there.)
"Do you think that's better or worse than being mistaken for a barmaid?" Derrica asks lightly. She feels some prickle of anticipation. The awareness of moments like this, when she could simply lean forward just so and change the trajectory of the night, has never been worrisome.
But it's Athessa, and Derrica can't be so careless. Besides, this is a shared room anyway, a saving grace for both of them as Derrica pulls out one of her spare shirts.
"Here. Try this? It should be more comfortable than something stiff with blood anyway."
"Depends on whether or not barmaids get free drinks," she says. Between ghost, servant, niece, and barmaid, she'd pick the ghost.
Derrica's shirt is roomier in the chest on Athessa, but fits about the same everywhere else. It's comfortable, and most importantly it's clean and not torn or bloody. (And, sure enough, it smells like her.)
"How's it look?" Asked as she flips her hair up over the collar so it doesn't get trapped beneath the shirt.
For a moment, Derrica doesn't say anything. She looks at Athessa, expression softening into a smile.
"You look good."
Which can be diminished any number of ways, especially when Athessa arrived covered in blood. But the sweetness of Derrica's tone lingers before she draws a breath, then stands, contents of her satchel clinking.
"I can walk you out, if you want. I need to bring some of these tankards back down."
Later on, that sweetness will be the reason Athessa thinks of Derrica, not the Venatori when she traces the pale scar on her chest. When she's back at the senile old man's estate, alone in the too-large, overstuffed bed and replaying the memory of this over and over and over again, she'll lay the shirt over her pillow and fall asleep thinking of that smile.
"Alright," she says, standing as well and setting about collecting her field leathers. The idea of imposing on Derrica even more would have her denying the offer, but— "Since you've gotta go down there anyway. Need me to carry any of 'em?"
"The plate?" Derrica prompts, having balanced three tankards accordingly in her arm. "If you have a spare hand."
If not, the plate's lived in their room for a day, it can stay for another. She lets Athessa head down the stairs first into small alcove between the bar, main room, and small backroom where the makeshift kitchen lives. Trading off the tankards, Derrica touches Athessa's elbow lightly as she turns to go.
"See Isaac about the scar when you can. He might be able to do better than I did."
Athessa catches Derrica's wrists and steers her back against the wall so they'll be out of the way when she leans in to kiss her. At first, her hands lift to cup Derrica's face, brushing her thumb against her cheek. Then, they plant flat on the wall beside Derrica's head so she can lean further against her. Her heart is hammering in her chest, her mind racing with thoughts of her and I need you and this will ruin everything.
Which is why Athessa doesn't actually do any of that.
In actuality, Athessa smiles at Derrica and shrugs.
"How could anyone do better'n you?"
Then, with minimal longing, bids her goodnight, and leaves.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Considering recent concerns about missing correspondence, and that admittedly humorous situation with Matthias finding an unsigned note and suspecting a prank.
She nods to Derrica's plan; the spell, the potion, the bandage.
"Need me to do anything?" A silly question, asked for silliness' sake. She knows the answer will likely be to sit still. "Strike a pose, perhaps? Pray to some deity for a blessing?"
no subject
It has to be uncomfortable to have any kind of pressure over that wound. But the cover of Dericca's hand gives way to a cool rush of magic, flowing from her palm across Athessa's skin. The discomfort ebbs, eased into nothingness beneath the glow emanating from Derrica's hand.
When she lifts her hand away, the angry, raw red of the slash has faded into pale scar tissue. Derrica sighs over the lingering mark, running a finger along the scarring check her work.
no subject
They sigh in unison, though for Athessa it’s simply releasing that breath. The discomfort doesn’t bother her, not with the knowledge that it’s Derrica’s hand covering the pain and soothing it away. Tracing the newest scar in Athessa’s collection of mishaps.
“You’re amazing, you know that?” It comes out before she can think not to say it. But why shouldn’t she say it? She’d feel the same about Derrica’s skill even without the swarm of butterflies in her stomach.
“Did you know your great-grandmother?”
no subject
"Isaac might have done better," Derrica cautions. He's older, more experienced, and he does good work. He might be able to fix this still, though Derrica doesn't speculate. She shrugs a little over the question, compliment sufficiently squared away.
"Not properly," she answers, looking back down to the little assembly of cloth and bottles in her lap. "I'd heard stories. She was a healer, like me. I might have taken after her."
A twitch of a smile, as Derrica looks back up at Athessa to add, "From what I heard, she'd have scolded you much more than I did."
no subject
"Phew. I guess I'm glad to have been let off so light, then," she jokes, though somewhat apologetically. She'd beg forgiveness of Derrica, too, if she'd hear it. Athessa un-bunches her shirt from her grip, getting ready to put it back on despite the blood and tear.
"I was supposed to take after my grandmother, I think. Or expected to, what with the whole...skipping-a-generation thing. What was your great-gran's name?"
no subject
The shirt needs to be washed and mended. There's probably someone in the village who would do that for them, but that doesn't do much for Athessa in the meantime.
"Let me lend you something. Just for your walk back to wherever they have you sleeping."
no subject
"It's fine, really," she says, shrugging one shoulder. If she borrows something from Derrica, it'll smell like her, and she'll think about that the entire time she's wearing it, and—
She shakes out the shirt, which looks...not fine, actually. It looks like a shirt she got off a dead body. Grim. No wonder Derrica was concerned.
"Ah. I see why Great-Granny Adila would've scolded me, now. It looks worse than I thought."
no subject
"I have a tunic, you can just—"
A break, while Derrica huffs her way through the contents of her pack. They're nearly the same size, but the loose, soft material of the shirt Derrica's thinking about will be more comfortable than some of her other potential offerings.
"Just so you don't look like you've murdered or been murdered on your way back. And so you don't ruin all the time we took getting the blood cleared off you."
Delicately avoiding mentioning that the blood was smeared all across Athessa's chest.
no subject
"The man boarding us would probably just think me another ghost," she scoffs, lightly. "When he's not mistaking me for a servant he thinks I'm his long lost niece and tells me all about how haunted the guest wing is."
She folds her shirt so the blood is contained and hidden beneath the cleaner layers, but keeps hold of it with one hand. A reminder why she's here, an anchor to keep her from drifting too close. (It doesn't stop that magnetic lean, the tilt of her head, the slight parting of her lips even as a smile lingers there.)
no subject
But it's Athessa, and Derrica can't be so careless. Besides, this is a shared room anyway, a saving grace for both of them as Derrica pulls out one of her spare shirts.
"Here. Try this? It should be more comfortable than something stiff with blood anyway."
no subject
Derrica's shirt is roomier in the chest on Athessa, but fits about the same everywhere else. It's comfortable, and most importantly it's clean and not torn or bloody. (And, sure enough, it smells like her.)
"How's it look?" Asked as she flips her hair up over the collar so it doesn't get trapped beneath the shirt.
no subject
"You look good."
Which can be diminished any number of ways, especially when Athessa arrived covered in blood. But the sweetness of Derrica's tone lingers before she draws a breath, then stands, contents of her satchel clinking.
"I can walk you out, if you want. I need to bring some of these tankards back down."
no subject
"Alright," she says, standing as well and setting about collecting her field leathers. The idea of imposing on Derrica even more would have her denying the offer, but— "Since you've gotta go down there anyway. Need me to carry any of 'em?"
put a bow on this pls
If not, the plate's lived in their room for a day, it can stay for another. She lets Athessa head down the stairs first into small alcove between the bar, main room, and small backroom where the makeshift kitchen lives. Trading off the tankards, Derrica touches Athessa's elbow lightly as she turns to go.
"See Isaac about the scar when you can. He might be able to do better than I did."
no subject
Athessa catches Derrica's wrists and steers her back against the wall so they'll be out of the way when she leans in to kiss her. At first, her hands lift to cup Derrica's face, brushing her thumb against her cheek. Then, they plant flat on the wall beside Derrica's head so she can lean further against her. Her heart is hammering in her chest, her mind racing with thoughts of her and I need you and this will ruin everything.
Which is why Athessa doesn't actually do any of that.
In actuality, Athessa smiles at Derrica and shrugs.
"How could anyone do better'n you?"
Then, with minimal longing, bids her goodnight, and leaves.