|Do You Know Where Your Wife Is|
|Summary:||Anders finds his bride in another man's tent. Less scandalous than it sounds.|
|Related Logs:||Firemilk: The Revenge|
|Oldstones Tent — Army Encampment|
|Use your imagination.|
|09 January 289|
It's late into the night, well after Corrie dismissed herself from the Flint encampment upon news that Gedeon was in trouble with a festering wound. Neither her sworn nor her maid returned either, so that's probably a good sign. Now, however, almost the whole tent seems to have fallen asleep. Rowan doozing in a chair down the way, Senna across the tent in a cot. Corrie's guard is out front the flap and her maid dozing in the corner. Gedeon, of course, is well asleep in his protected, warm cot… And Corrie is, as ever, on the floor. She's stretched out beside his cot, leaning against it, where she probably was keeping vigil but now her head has fallen like some broken doll and she's resting lightly on the edge of Gedeon's blanket, mostly asleep as well.
Of course Anders is in search of his bride. Not having returned to their pavillion, he'd slept fitfully until finally deciding that there was no rest to be had. After a quiet hail to the camp before entering it in order to declare 'friend' in the challenge, the Young Lord Flint continues to where he imagines a severly injured young knight would rest. First tent, he's wrong.. and then to the next.. and— ah ha! He gazes upon the tableau, a scowl creasing his face before the first steps are taken into the tent, fully expecting to be challenged.
At the moment, there's no one awake to challenge him, though Gedeon is hurting enough that his sleep is light. The sound of footfalls snaps him awake, and he turns towards the flap and the figure slipping inside. Prone, bandaged, his hand still reaches for his pillow and the dagger tucked beneath it. "Who goes there?" he growls softly.
Cordelya really didn't intend on falling asleep, really. She was supposed to keep guard over his fever, but as it actually seemed to be wearing off just a hint and his breathing became easier, so did her's and, well… Things happen. The slight breeze that comes with the opening of the tent flap, when it had been so wonderfully warm inside, is the first thing to tell her something is wrong. She stirs, just a hint, shifting her legs beneath the large pool of burgundy fabric that is the heaviness of her dress. She then turns her head, frowning…"Gedeon?" She asks of the no longer sleeping knight behind her, before looking up. Into her husband's face. Oops. She gives him a slightly drowsy smile. "Andy… forgive me… I suppose we were all exhausted from the day… Ged… how are you feeling?" Her body shifts, not standing yet, turning just enough her palm can reach to check his forehead, the side of his cheek, and his sternum's temperature.
And there's the challenge, but from the darnedest places.. the stricken figure that lies upon the cot at first. Anders shakes his head slowly and exhales, "Lord Ser Anders Flint. Checking on Ser Rivers and possibly tearing his bride, Lady Cordelya Flint away from Rivers' sick bed." He waves at the dagger attempt, seen as he takes another step into the tent. "You'll only hurt yourself, Ser Rivers.. but it's good to see that you're feeling better."
Anders sees his wife stirring now, and the first name she utters is Rivers'? And familiar at that. Anders clears is throat, and oops is right. And then.. 'Ged'? "I see.." He pauses, then, "How is your patient?"
"Oh," Gedeon murmurs, "Good." Because he can collapse back down in the bed and swallow a moan for what all that moving cost him. To answer Cordelya's question he says, "As if my guts were full of stinging nettles." The fever is still there, perhaps slightly higher, or perhaps it was just the exertion of moving.
Still half asleep and not even realizing she might have said something worrisome, the feel of Gedeon's fever against her fingertips does most certainly worry her. She draws herself to her knees at his bedside, where she actually started this vigil, and then gently pushes herself up. "Relax, Gedeon… I'll get you some water. The fever is still strong but… I think that is a good thing… " She pauses, lifting the blanket that covers his bandaged chest and breathing in deep. "..The smell is barely there, if at all. That is reassuring. Just… just relax." She reassures him. Then back to her husband. She moves past him, pressing a brief kiss to the corner of his mouth before going for the skin of clean water. "He is… mending. I think. I should not have fallen asleep, I need to watch that fever. Senna was with him all last night, so I said I'd keep watch this evening."
And again, his lady wife answers to Gedeon before him.. and Anders crosses his arms before him, watching the slip of Cordelya wisp past him with a kiss given. If the Young Lord Flint was a jealous man, the scene before him would concern him a great deal more than it does. That's not to say, however, that other emotions aren't at play. "If my opinion was asked, I would suggest that he be sent back to Stonebridge to mend. A camp that will move in days isn't the place." He pauses, then, "Senna? Who…" If he met the lady?, mistress?, he certainly doesn't remember her. "The Ironborn that was on you, ser, thought of nothing else but you. It took your lord and myself to make him see reason."
It's unlikely Gedeon has been able to do much by way of seduction with a deep would to the belly and a fever, and he seems unawares of Anders's displeasure at the scene. "Then I owe you and Lord Valentin my life, quite possible. As well as your wife's care. Thank you, both." He presses his lips together at being sent back to Stonebridge, but offers no thoughts on it just at the moment.
The water skin is brought back to Gedeon's side, though Corrie's motions are gentle and protective, they aren't the loving sort Anders recieves for her. They're almost more… Motherly? Elder sisterly? She leans over, coaxing Gedeon to drink some. "Here, drink, then you can discuss war." She states almost sternly, wanting some hydration in him before he falls back asleep. Then it is to her husband again. "Senna… Mistress Delacourt. The first woman I've seen as good with herbs and a bandage as myself." And she nods to the sleeping figure in the far corner. Finally, she finds herself gazing between b oth of them, a slight sigh on her lips. "I hesitate to move him until the fever's broken, and at that point he will be well enough on the mend he'll probably demand to go with you all. You men can be so damned stubborn. But… it is not my choice."
"You're welcome. Thanks enough, Ser Rivers, is to heal. I don't care to have to have taken my attention from the main battle over a dead man." But… Days? To sit a horse and swing a sword?" Anders shakes his head and flexes the tight skin on his right hand, where the scratch was gained from battle. "As I said, it's not for me to decide." Unless he takes over the Vanguard.. "Mistress Delacourt.." He still can't place the name, but with the added gesture, he twists around to look.. and nods slowly. "I see. Then you're not needed here?" Even as he says it, Anders knows it's wishful thinking. "If you remain, then I will return to my bed in an attempt to gain sleep. I am glad things go well.. but be aware that I may have you depart on the morrow," to Cordelya. "Good night.." He turns now, and makes his way from the tent and back out.. and to his home pavilion.
Gedeon accepts the water, taking small swallows until the pain of doing so is greater than his thirst, and which point he offers the skin back. He's quiet as the pair of them speak back and forth expect to say, "The wound itself, once it's purged and closed, should heal quickly. Good night, Lord Flint. And you, Lad Flint," he continues once Anders is gone, "should find a better place to sleep than the floor."
Cordelya tends to his drinking more than she does her husband. Patient comes before marriage, in her mind at least. The departure of Anders, however, earns a slight frown that only deepens as he says he is sending her back on the morrow. Her head tilts a bit, studying his back as he goes, trying to figure out if he's actually unhappy with her or not. She then shakes it off. "If I am needed here, I will stay. No worries about that, Gedeon." Impetuous little bint. She looks back to him then, settling the skin aside and shifting to fold down the blanketing so she can actually change his bandage properly. "Ah, I needn't sleep. That little doze was more than enough. Senna needs her sleep. I shall stay the night. And the floor is perfectly comfortable, in truth. I rather like sitting there. Close to the ground, the earth…"
"The bloodied roses," Gedeon finishes as he sinks gingerly back into the bed, pants softly. He sucks in a slow, careful breath, pressing a hand over his face for a long moment. "You are an interesting individual, my lady."
Cordelya softly, but earnestly, laughs as he says she is interesting. "Oh… I wouldn't say that. Far from it… Just a bit more practical than most. Growing up at Graywatch will do that to you." She admits in soft, almost husky voiced whispers, not wishing to wake any of the others but she is more than happy to keep him company and help somewhat distract him as she cleans her hands in the disinfecting pot then goes to set up some fresh bandages. Finally, she peels back his old ones, tender as can be. Her straw thin, long fingers are almost made for such fine manipulations.
Still, there is a soft hiss and a flinch as the bandages peel back, his skin still burning slowly as the firemilk continues to work. Gedeon clears his throat and holds still, letting Cordelya work. "Will it?" he asks, his voice strained. "Having never grow up there, myself, I couldn't say."
"Will it what? Heal?" Corrie leans a bit closer, actually smelling the wound since the darkness of the tent isn't letting her seem much, and scent would tell her more anyway. It already does smell fresher. Bloody, bodily, but not sickly. "The stink is gone. That is an excellent start. I… am not going to disturb it, since the firemilk still seems to be working it's magic…" She reaches for clean bandaging she set out, carefully resting it across the wound. "You know, you're lucky to take your injury early on, while we have plenty of supplies and more than enough hands. Smart man." She winks at him. "
"Will it do that to a person, growing up at Greywatch," Gedeon corrects, exhaling a thready sigh of relief when the bandages are done and there's a promise of no further meddling. "I would have been smarter not to get injured at all," he says wryly.
"Oh." That'd make sense. Corrie's mind tends to not split overly well, especially when she's caring for a once-dying man. But, the bandage is back in place and her thin hands are carefully pulling the blanket back up to his chest and shoulders, not quite tucking him in, but ensuring he will be quite warm throughout the fever. Better to burn the left over festering out of him! "I suppose so. We… we don't get much outside help at Greywatch. We don't truly want it. No maesters, no knights… we take care of ourselves along with our gods and the swamp and that is enough. You learn to make do. Learn much of what the world is truly about, and it is not gilded thrones and silken petticoats."
"All depends on where you're born, I suppose," Gedeon murmurs, drawing the blanket up a little higher, shivering with the fever, "what the world is like and what it's made of. Most of us never get much past the circle we start in."
Cordelya finishes ensuring her own hands are clean, again, before she settles back onto the floor next to Gedeon. She does seem serious in the fact that she prefers to sit next to the ground and will do it whenever she can get away with it. She rests her head slightly against the blankets at his side, looking up to his handsome, if sweating with fever features. "No… I suppose not. Most would say I was lucky to get free, to see the world." She takes a breath, almost trying to convince herself of it, "I… I -am- lucky." If homesick. Another slight sigh brushes her lips and she studies him closer, "And you… you grew up here?"
"You don't sound as if you believe that," Gedeon points out, closing his eyes and doing his best to be still and restful. "I grew up here. Right in Stonebridge, until I was fifteen. Visited the Roost every few months. I knew much of this little bit of the Riverlands, though little beyond it."
Cordelya isn't quite going back to sleep, even if she too is relaxing. She keeps pale green eyes open, focused on him, looking for any signs the fever is getting too high, tremors or the stiffeness of a possible fit. She'll keep studying him the night through for it, even if she probably should be in her new husband's bed. "Then you traveled, though? Did you fight in the last war? My husband… he has many stories of the war." She smirks a bit. "How he earned this own knighthood." The great northern knight! And then her mind slips back to Graywatch, and she tries not to frown. "…I have not seen my home since weeks before I wed. I… simply miss it."
"Then perhaps your new husband will take you there, when this mess is done," Gedeon opines with a small shiver. "Gods, even shivers hurt," he mutters, "how is that fair? I fought at the Trident, if that's what you mean. And many battles after, when I traveled. I cannot say any of those stories are fit for telling, though."
Cordelya smiles a bit more, "Mm… war stories are always worth telling, Ged. Adventures… Things I shall never do but in my dreams. I know there are horrid, dark things as well. But still, the stories are fought and earned nobly. So they are worth telling. That is how history is kept alive. Not in books." She murmurs softly, her voice a touch distant with dreams and memories of her own favourite stories. And then something he said actually catches her mind. "…The pain is that bad? Do you wish more milk of the poppy, Gedeon? I have some. Gods, I should have offered already. I am sorry…"
"More?" Gedeon asks. "Any would be… good. I thank you, lady." He draws in a slow and careful breath. "Forgive me, my lady, but your words are spoken exactly like a person who has never seen a battlefield. There is little nobility in war, there is only surviving and nit. Winning and not. Many of the adventures I have had, I should not wish on any other."
Cordelya's eyes shoot wide as he comments about 'Any' being good. "…What?… The maester didn't… Give you any? Gods! Gedeon!" She huffs out, momentarily sick and worried in shock over that news. "…You… Gods, you should have said something… I… I am sorry, dear gods I am sorry, here…" She shifts over, grabbing her pack again, scrambling for the skin she has with the milk in it. She truly has come prepared. As she hunts for it, his commentary about the battles drives her a touch quiet. "…You are… no doubt, right. Yet it is something I will.. never be able to learn, and that bothers me."
"It only bothers you because you can't learn it," the Tordane bastard opines, watching as Cordelya fetches down the skin and pours. "If you did learn it, it should bother you that you bore witness to such. Either way, something is lost. But of course, you won't believe me until you experience it for yourself and understand."
Cordelya carefully prepares a small cup of the milk for him. A half dose, really, just enough to help him sleep and through the worst of pain. There is a certain irony in the fact that Corrie doesn't believe in overmedicating her patients, but she doesn't. She brings the tin cup over to his lips, "Here… do you want to do it, or shall I, Ged? And… you are probably most correct. It still bothers me. I… dislike not knowing things. Not being able to understand my husband… or what my patients… are suffering."
"I can manage my lady, thank you," he murmurs, her proper title a stark contrast to that very familiar 'Ged'. Gedeon accepts the little cup, swallowing down the contents in a single gulp before easing back down into bed. After a moment, there is a deep sigh of relief. "Oh, gods, but that's better," he murmur wearily. "Your argument is ridiculous, by the by, unless you think we men are all the less for not knowing what it is to wear gowns or birth children. You can't know every inch of the world, my lady. The empty spaces are as necessary as the filled ones."
Cordelya smiles a bit more, "Of course… Ser." She reminds herself, the protectiveness of a caregiver having transcended propriety for a while. "I am sorry… For the familiarity. It is no doubt improper but… Propriety is better served in courts, not in a sickbed." She admits simply, the excuse given without true regret. It makes sense to her. She relaxes a hint again, accepting the tin cup back to be cleaned come the morning. The supplies are replaced in her small pack and jade eyes flicker back up to his slightly more relaxed face. "…Of course I do not think you less… but I do think it important to strive to learn everything one -can-. Even if it is just the stories to pass to one's children and grandchildren. If it was not for such stories, passed down for thousands of years, we would not know any of our origins, much less more recent histories."
"We don't know them, anyway, we only know the stories that are told, and storytellers are inclined to lie," Gedeon murmurs, his words slowing as he becomes drowsy. "I am not greatly concerned by the familiarity, my lady, but should your husband come by again, I've no doubt he would prefer to see less of it."
Cordelya half frowns, looking towards the tent flaps again, "Oh, my husband understands. He knows I am just taking care of you. He… he's not a jealous man." That pulls the frown even deeper, as she admits it with almost a bit of shame, "Though I don't suppose I'm much to be jealous over…Ah well." She reaches up, brushing some hair back from his forehead carefully and just touching at his skin, checking at that fever one last time. "Not all story tellers. Not when it is history and tradition. Some day I'll tell you a story of when the Andals came to Westeros… When the children had to run north… Though it is a sad story, in the end. Not all the children had legs to run."
"He's a man, my lady, and that is more than enough. I assure you he was not pleased to find you here, sleeping as you were, casual with me as you were." He pauses to yawn as she touches his hair. His forehead is still hot. "Well," Gedeon murmurs, beginning to ease properly down into sleep, "if they hadn't legs… you'd best… give them wings." And then his breath becomes quiet and steady. The breathing of a man asleep.