Page 165: Fucking Agrimony
Fucking Agrimony
Summary: The morning the Ironmen attack, Patrek helps Belle who helps Hardwicke.
Date: 29/12/2011
Related Logs: Among the Pines and Nettles
Players:
Belle Patrek Hardwicke 
Entrance Hall — Terrick's Roost
The Entrance Hall is more than two dozen feet high with ornate columns hefting the fresco ceiling above all. Plush seating is arranged around one side for visiting nobility while the other has less comfortable slab stone or wood benches for the peasantry. Alcoves dot the walls for more private discussions and sworn Guards patrol this hall at all times and especially during court. Several hallways and doorways lead off to different areas of the castle with a spiral staircase carved neatly into one corner that winds its way up.
29 December 288

The entrance hall of Four Eagles Tower is crowded and chaotic after the Ironborn attack, the huge, high-ceilinged space echoing with the clamor of refugees and the occasional, wretched cry of a wounded soldier. One of the hall's many hearths and the area around it has been conscripted as an apothecary, the air around it pungent, medicinal and over-warm. It's here that Belle Beckett can be found — creating poultices, potions, rendering milk of poppy, grinding feverfew. She looks weary, her dress torn and dirty, face smudged, damp locks of hair clinging to her temples, despite the golden mass of it being twisted back into a rare, prim bun. She appears lost in the rhythmic grind of mortar and pestle as she works dried roots down to a fine powder.

There has been much to do to keep the walls strong and the ironmen on the other side of the gate, but it seems Jerold's squire has been given a rest from the tasks and duties he's been carrying out in assisting Lord Jerold. Or, judging from the reluctance with which the boy enters the entrance hall, glancing back at the continued rush of armed men busy outside, perhaps he's been ordered to rest. Certainly, he's looking pale and exhausted, his curled hair dark and plastered to his head when he removes his helm. He makes his way through the crowd of people, spying Belle near her hearth, grinding away. His clinking would announce him another time. Perhaps now it's just lost in the other sounds of the space. "Mistress," he offers, "I didn't get the chance to thank you for your help, before."

Belle looks up, large blue eyes blinking without recognition — but only for a moment. She drops into a deep curtsy in the next instant, head bowed. "My lord," she greets the young Mallister. Still bent low, she glances up through her lashes, a faint — if tired — smile playing about her lips. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize who you were, earlier, when I knocked us all into a heap."

"Would it have mattered?" the boy asks, tucking his helm under one arm. "It brought the gate down. Thank you. Please, stand up. Your work's more important than courtesy." He shifts a little in armor that's become heavier as the hours pass. "I'm to drink water and rest for thirty minutes before I can go back out again. But, um, is there any way I might help? While I'm resting?"

She stands, tilting her head to regard the young lord, looking for a moment like she might weep. It's a brief lapse, however, and she quickly gets a hold of herself, pressing her lips together and breathing in deep. She nods. "Sit," she instructs, clearing a basket of dried poppies off a chair. She hands him a large flagon. "Drink this and tell me what it tastes like."

Patrek obliges, with a flicker of worry for that moment of near-crumbling, plopping into the offered seat and setting his helm by his feet. He peels his gloves off, setting them on his lap before he accepts the flagon and gives it a cautious sniff. Then, eyes warily on Belle, has a small swallow. He licks his lips and has another. "Doesn't taste like anything."

The faint shadow of dimples bracketing her lips, Belle nods. "Good. Keep it up." Turning back to her table, she examines the consistency of powder in her mortar, then adds it to a pot slowly bubbling over the fire. "Slow sips," she advises, stirring the thick brew. She glances at the boy, smiling softly but in earnest now. "I'm Belle, my lord."

Patrek peers over at her, his lips lifting a little despite his stern, "You didn't need to trick me. I would have drunk it, anyway." He has another sip, waiting moment before chasing it down with one more. "Patrek," he offers in turn, "but, um, I guess you knew that, already." He has another swallow from the flagon before he asks, "What is it you're making?"

"I never can manage to do things the simple or straightforward way," admits Belle, smiling without remorse as she returns to the table, unrolling a length of cotton gauze and cutting it into squares. "I'm afraid I have a contrary nature." As for what she's making, she scoops a dark, wet paste out of a bowl and begins placing an even dollop on each gauze square. "These are poultices to stanch bleeding. Over there — " she gestures back at the pot she just added to, "that's for infection — drawing salve. And here," she wipes her hands and peers into another bowl, giving the contents a little shake. The slosh. "Poppy seeds, soaking to be rendered for the milk." She pushes back a lock of damp hair with the heel of her hand. "Now if I had a fucking clue what I did with the agrimony…" she mutters, glowering briefly at her chaotic, impromptu workshop.

"You'll never find a husband that way," Patrek opines from behind his mug, though coming from a lad his age, the sentiment is likely something he's overheard from his mother or one of her ladies and regurgitated. But he peers with interest at each item shown, even if some of the smells they give off make his nose wrinkle. And then he grins broader than he'd like at 'fucking clue,' not so experienced with swears that hearing them isn't a notable event. "Sorry, miss. Agri-what?"

"You're probably right about that, sweeting. Good thing I'm an old widow." But about that thing she's looking for — "Fucking agrimony," Belle repeats, catching the boy's grin out of the corner of her eye, and impish enough to find swearing funny for its own sake, herself. She kneels and sorts through the baskets and bushels stored under the table, muttering to herself, "Fucking boneset, fucking feverfew, fucking vervaine… aha!" She holds up a basket of dried plants with tiny white flowers. "Here we are." She deposits the basket in Lord Patrek's lap. "As long as you keep steady at the water, you can help by separating the buds and blossoms from the plant."

Patrek bites his bottom lip, this is Serious Work, but even so he's giggling by the time the fucking agrimony is actually located and set in his lap. He has another gulp of water before setting the mug down for now so he can set his attention on the little white buds. Setting out a dry cloth, he begins carefully removing the little white flowers. "How funny that something so small can be so important," the boy murmurs. Then, "You're not really a widow are you, mistress? You look far too young."

A quiet, rumbling groan sounds from Hardwicke's cot nearby. He's been in a haze from the milk of the poppy, but after only acquiescing to a small amount, is lifting back into consciousness. He turns his head, not quite lifting it yet, to peer blearily over at Belle and Patrek nearby. After a focused attempt to clear his head, he mumbles thickly, "Don't know she won't marry."

Crouched by the young lord to demonstrate how best to separate blossom from stem (while keeping the former whole), Belle nods, gazing at the basket of herbs a moment. "Such tiny things can change the world," she agrees, musingly. His subsequent question and observation make her smile — even blush a little. What woman wouldn't be pleased with that? "Hush, my lord, you'll turn my head," she scolds teasingly, standing and brushing off her skirts. "I am a widow," she affirms a moment later, without undue drama, though there's a faint melancholy about her smile. She turns back toward the work table, cutting more gauze. "Five years on. My husband died at the trident."

At the groan from the waking knight nearby, Belle looks up immediately. She gathers up another basket — this one containing a variety of bottles and pots and sundry — and goes to perch carefully on the edge of Hardwicke's cot. A bowl of water and a clean cloth are already staged nearby, and she uses these to gently cool and clean his face. "Who are you talking about?" she asks him gently, teasing. "Surely not Belle Beckett. She asks far too many questions, that one, and is always laughing."

Patrek watches Belle's fingers as they work, his own moving to mimic the motions to better tug the little flowers off the stems. There is a shy, delighted smile for 'turn my head'. It seems the young lord is not too young to be charmed by a pretty lady. He looks over at her as she speaks a little further of her husband, nodding somberly as she names the place of his death. "Then he died a hero, mistress," the boy says. He twists around as a gruff voice intrudes on the water-drinking and flower-plucking. "Captain Hardwicke," Patrek says with another smile as Belle moves to his cot, "How many did you fell before your arm was cut?" Clearly, from Patrek's tone, he's anticipating a large pile of bodies.

"I would," Hardwicke mumbles indistinctly as Belle begins to wipe his brow. He seems aggravated by his own grogginess as he sucks in a slow breath through his teeth. It comes out in a rough huff as Patrek speaks. "Not enough," he replies gruffly.

Belle's hand — and the cloth in it — pause at Hardwicke's mumble. About a dozen expressions flit over her features in that instant before she schools them to neutral, though she's left flushed. "I'm going to check and redress your wound," she tells Hardwicke, smoothing back his hair. "Then give you something more for the pain."

"We'll get the rest," Patrek says with a firm nod even as his fingers work to remove a few more tiny, white flowers from their stems. After the one bunch is stripped, he has another gulp of water before starting on the next. "We got the gate down," he adds, with a touch of pride, "Mistress Belle and I."

Hardwicke rumbles a low noise of protest. "I don't want anything more for the pain," he says. "I have business." He turns his head to look at Patrek. "Did you," he says. "I'm sure you — performed well."

"Not so well as I'd have wished, though I thank you, ser," Patrek replies, his gaze back down on the agrimony. "I need to become stronger." His lips lift a little as Belle speaks. "I suppose you'd best heed her, ser. Never did find that prybar again in the commotion, after."

"You are not in charge here," Hardwicke mutters to Belle, but he lays there still enough as Belle unwraps his arm. The Maester did an admirable job of patching it, naturally, so at least there's no sign of infection. He draws in a breath, but manages not to sound any noise aloud at the dull pain. "You are young," he tells Patrek, voice drawn taut. "You are still small."

Belle narrows her eyes slightly at Hardwicke, then returns them steadily to her work. She cleans the wound with an astringent antiseptic that stings like the Stranger's spit — and completely fails to warn him. Possibly maybe a little on purpose. Oops. So much for bedside manner. "Any complaints about the care you receive from me may be rendered to Lady Muirenn or Maester Constantine," she tells the captain, primly, beginning to re-wrap the wound with a fresh poultice. "Who both saw fit to leave me in charge in their absence." That might be a little exaggeration. But they didn't leave her NOT in charge. And they did leave her. So.

"The gate wasn't willing to make a concession," Patrek says, "and I doubt the Ironmen that would have poured in would have much cared, either," he adds down to the agrimony. "I'll get stronger." His gaze lifts to peer over at the pair of them as he has another gulp of water.

This earns the first hint of the audible when Hardwicke takes in a hissed breath at the stinging astringent. "They will be," he growls in a manner that is disagreeable, but not actually terribly threatening. It's enough to distract him from poor Patrek for the moment.

Accordingly, Belle is not terribly threatened. But she is piqued, and rolls her eyes — also accordingly. She glances at Patrek a moment. The boy, at least, is given a smile. And a wink. Lest the snipping and grumbling between her and the captain make things awkward.

"Sound like you're already married," is all Patrek has to say about the snipping and snapping. He swallows his smile in another gulp of water.

"Don't think this wound means I can't make sure you end up in drills all day if I want," Hardwicke says warningly to Patrek. His expression stills, going blank for a quiet moment. Then he asks, "Any news of Lord Revyn?"

Belle draws a soft breath, hands hesitating for the second time — the reason now, however, very different. "Yes," she says, quietly and with a reluctance that presages the words that follow. "He… Lord Revyn — he died. Very bravely." She swallows, carefully tucking in the end of the bandage. "I'm sorry."

"Lord Jerold's put me to use helping to secure and fortify the walls," Patrek says, "though you may take my drilling up with him as you like, ser." His slightly-cheeky smile fades, though, at the mention of Ser Revyn, gaze lowering. "Warrior walk him home," he murmurs softly.

"I saw it," Hardwicke says quietly. "I saw the blow. I saw him fall. But I hoped—" He falls silent and turns his head once in an aborted shake, his gaze sliding away from them.

Easily as she's irritated with the gruff knight, it's just as easily forgotten. She smooths back his hair again, bending to kiss his temple. "I am sorry," she murmurs, soft and earnest. She moves to his unwounded side, sliding an arm around his shoulders. "Sit up," she gentles. "Just a little. I know you're probably not hungry, but it's important you drink some water."

With the last of the little buds plucked, Patrek swallows the remains of the water before sliding to his feet. He refills the flagon from a barrel set out near the hearth, bringing it over to offer to Hardwicke. Or to Belle to give to Hardwicke.

Fumbling as he is in the remains of his haze, Hardwicke tries to catch Belle's hand, at least for a moment, to hold it between his own callused fingers. Then he takes in a breath and obligingly works to sit up. It's the lingering haze of opium more than the main that sludges his movements, but he manages well enough. He even attempts to reach for his own water, but who knows if he's allowed to water himself.

"Thank you, sweeting," Belle murmurs to Patrek as the young lord brings the replenished flagon. She does let the opium-addled knight have a go at drinking on his own, though the arm not about him is ready to assist. "Slowly," she reminds him, though with all the scars Hardwicke wears, he likely knows this drill.

'Course," Patrek murmurs, returning to the hearth to tug his gloves on and pick his helm up. "I think it's been long enough. I best go back out and see what Lord Jerold needs of me. Thank you again, mistress," he offers Belle a crisp bow. "Captain."

Hardwicke does drink slowly, so there's at least no necessity to berate him on that point. He takes a few sips before a gulp and then finally tries to set it aside, or maybe into Belle's hands. He doesn't seem very inclined to lay back down. "My Lord," he says in focused reply to Patrek.

Belle — slowly and making sure Hardwicke is good on his own for a moment — stands as the young lord prepares to depart. She drops another low, graceful curtsy, then rises to kiss the boy softly on the cheek. It's possible she might whisper something in his ear. Then, dimples on her cheeks and laughter in her eyes, she draws back to let him go.
Belle whispers: Be very fucking careful, sweeting.

Patrek regards Hardwicke solemnly, though he goes a bit pink when he earns a kiss from Belle. Whatever she whispers in his ear calls up another of his wide grins, even as he tugs his helm back on. "Aye, mistress," he promises before clinking his way back to the door and out into the courtyard.

Hardwicke scowls in a manner familiar enough to perhaps even be reassuring. He is not too injured to be grumpy, at least. "You'll give him ideas," he grumbles when the boy leaves.

The Nayland handmaid watches the young Lord Mallister go, then glances at grumbling Hardwicke with a fond smirk. "He's a sweet boy," she notes, settling beside the knight and slipping her arm around him again — whether he needs it or nay. Her free hand seeks his. "It's rare to find a young man of privilege and title to genuine and unspoilt." She sighs with a touch of melodrama. "Alas. Were I but a decade younger. But our love can never be."

Hardwicke stubbornly stays sitting up: if he isn't allowed to be up and about, he will at least be this, dammit. "He is an eager boy," he says, his tone not making it clear whether this is compliment or censure. His fingers squeeze warmly against the anchor of her touch. "I am — sorry, Belle," he says quietly after a pause.

Belle threads her fingers through Hardwicke's, murmuring against his temple, "For which part? Saving me from being raped and murdered by Ironborn? Fighting valiantly? Not dying?" She tsks. "You do, indeed, have much to answer for."

"You were here for me," Hardwicke says simply. He lets out a slow, restrained breath.

"Of course I was," Belle replies, just as simply. "Where else would I be?"

"Stonebridge," Hardwicke says. "Safety."

"Yes, that would have been a fine trick — swim up the stream of Ironborn," Belle says, dryly. She shakes her head gently, careful not to jostle him. "It never occurred to me, really. Perhaps I would have done, if you'd left me there. But… probably not. My first thought after shoving you out the door was to get everyone I could into the cellar — I expected them to burn the town down. Now they're saying the enemy's set up headquarters in the Rockcliff, though… so that would have been a disaster."

Hardwicke is silent for quite a stretch of time, turning his head to rest his cheek against her hair. "You might not have been at the Roost at all," he points out quietly, but then he seems to drop the debate. Instead, he tells her, "I am glad you're safe, Belle."

"I'm glad you're safe, as well," she whispers, closing her eyes and turning her face against his chest for a moment. Listening to his heart beat. "So very glad." Then, incapable of leaving a tender moment alone, she adds, "Despite that you weren't wearing my amulet. Churl."

"I had it with me," Hardwicke argues back, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and causing vibrations against her cheek where she leans against him.

"Did you?" She sounds surprised, but pleasantly so, and amused. "Why carry it and not wear it, contrary creature? Leery of contact poison?"

"I don't know," Hardwicke grumbles. "But I had it. It was in a shirt pocket with your stupid letter." He is so romantic.

Belle blinks, tipping her head back and looking up at him. "You were carrying my stupid letter, too?" Cue the pupils of those big blue eyes contracting into tiny heart shapes.

Hardwicke scowls again, as if instantly regretting telling her. "Well," he says. "You — said things. In it."

Belle blinks, bemused, touched, and — as ever — on the verge of laughter. "Yes," she agrees. "I did say things. With words." She nods. "That's what words are for."

"You are making fun of me," Hardwicke observes disgruntedly.

"A little," Belle admits, tracing a fingertip down his cheek, smiling beautifully. "But adoring you at the same time."

"Aye, well." Hardwicke struggles for something to say. (Story of his life.) Finally, he decides upon, "You — do that."

Dimples deep, Belle asks, "Say things? Make fun of you? Adore you?" She nods again. "All true. I can offer nothing in my defense."

Hardwicke considers a beat, then says, "Yes." His rough-worn thumb grazes slowly along the delicate skin along the back of her hand.

"Yes," Belle agrees softly, settling her head against his chest once more and closing her eyes.

He settles his good arm carefully about her shoulders, gliding a thumb up and down her arm. "I'd take worse," Hardwicke tells her quietly. "Belle. To keep you safe."

She shuts her eyes all the tighter, tucking her head down, hiding against him. "I'd rather you didn't," she whispers, lashes and cheek suddenly damp against him.

"I know," Hardwicke tells her soberly. "It's the way of things." He smooths a hand along her bound hair. "You'll stay here," he tells her. "Until the roads are safe. Gods only know when that will be."

"I'll stay here," she agrees, wiping her cheeks and taking a steadying breath. "You'll have no argument from me, there." Belle lifts her head and puts on a smile for him. Brave face. "Someone has to look after you, after all."

Hardwicke snorts quietly, though without much fervor. "That is not what I meant," he says in a dry tone.

"I know," responds Belle, resting her forehead against his and brushing his nose with her own. "But it's what I meant." Her fingers curl softly at the nape of his neck. "I'd do worse, to keep you safe."

"Belle, I—" But he doesn't say. Hardwicke exhales a sigh and sets his cheek against her hair, his expression creased and exhausted.

She turns her head and kisses him softly, smoothing his hair. "You should rest," she whispers.

"I'm fine," Hardwicke insists stubbornly, though he seems to have no particular goal in mind other than — not resting.

Belle laughs — as she's wont to do — her smile broad and warm and deeply fond. "Hardwicke?"

"What?" he grouches back in anticipation of further orders to take care of himself.

She draws back just enough to look in his eyes. "Yes."

Hardwicke exhales slow and slightly defeated. He is loathe to say it, but eventually he does: "Fine." After a beat, he negotiates, "But if I am asleep, you will wake me if any of my men come for me. Or if anything happens."

Belle kisses his forehead. "I promise," she says. "But that's not what 'yes' meant."

Hardwicke narrows a gaze on her as he tries to sort through possible meanings. "What, then?" he finally asks, a bit grouchily impatient.

She kisses the bridge of his nose, and then his frown. "When you figure out the question," she says, "that's what the answer will be." There's a BLOOP and a spattering sound from the hearth. "Fuck!" she laughs, springing up. "My salve's boiling over." And she hurries to see to it.

"Wait—" Hardwicke starts to say, his expression clearing as if maybe he's come into some idea of what the answer — what the question — might mean. But she's already up and gone, and he doesn't try to call her back. He watches her as she moves about her work, though, tracking her with a quiet, appreciative gaze as she moves about the hall. Even after he reluctantly lays back down, it's a long time until he stops.