|Summary:||As everyone packs up to leave the Frey tourney, Day looks in on a bruised Benedict. Strictly for medical purposes.|
|Related Logs:||Melee At The Twins, A Delicate Brute|
|Tent — Frey Tourney Grounds|
|Dirt floor, a stump, somewhat-packed things|
|26 May 289|
The morning after the dance is for packing and leaving, also, possibly for hangovers. Ser 'Benedict Lawson' is in the process of the first, in preparation for the second, though it's unclear if he's sporting the third. He moves a bit gingerly as he packs up the tent, but he's got a fine number of large, dark bruises that might do just as much to make him sluggish as a pounding headache would manage.
A slender, feminine form blocks the light from the open tent flap — and then there's her voice, by way of greeting, "There's a rumor circulating that your squire is concerned about your bruises," says Septa Day, her hair neatly pinned and smock tidy, ready to commence with the traveling ahead. "Though by the look of you, he might be just a little over-protective. Nothing broken?"
Nicodemus lifts his head, looking over at the tent flap and the slender woman standing just outside it. His brows lift a little and he rubs a hand down his side as if to check for broken ribs this very moment. "No bones broken," he answers.
"Good," says Day, matter of factly. She clasps her hands before her, lifting her chin a bit to eye his preparations. "Where are you off to, then?"
"Kingsgrove," Nicodemus replies, tucking the last of his clothing into a pack and shrugging into his leather jerkin. "You? Back to Stonebridge?"
That gives her a moment's pause. "Kingsgrove," she says, letting it serve as both an answer and an echo.
"Mmm," Nicodemus agrees, shrugging his pack onto a shoulder with a wince, though he can't much head outside with Day standing in the doorway.
Day eyes the wince. "You really haven't had anyone look at them, have you?" she asks, a trace of exasperation in her tone. "Bruises won't kill you, but they will slow you down. What if we're accosted by bandits?" She turns to go. "I'm going to fetch my basket. Don't go anywhere."
"They're just bruises, I've had darker than these before. If we're accosted by bandits, I won't feel them." Benedict pauses. "We?" But the septa has already darted off to fetch her supplies.
She returns in short order with her basket of herbal and chirgeonical wonderment, inviting herself in and rummaging for her salves. "Let's have a look at you, then," she says, all business.
The knight sighs softly before dropping down on a stump that serves well enough as a seat. "This isn't necessary," he points out before removing his pack, his jerkin and his shirt. He's got a wide spread of bruises across his belly and ribs, and a welt along the side of his neck. A few bloody knuckles as well as some purpling at one temple, though mostly his hair hides it. And dangling around his neck is a necklace of far too delicate make for a man the simple pendant that of three interlocking circles, each resting on it own silver 'leaf'.
"It doesn't hurt to have them properly looked after," says Day, rolling up her sleeves and washing her hands before kneeling to examine him. Her reputedly pointy fingers can be exceptionally gentle, when she has a mind to use them so. She gently probes the edges of the black and blue marks. "So what business have you at Kingsgrove, then?"
Nicodemus holds still for the septa's ministrations, stoic enough to keep any discomfort he feels to himself. "Going to have a word with my lord father. See if he'd allow me back, after all this time."
Day doesn't react — outwardly, anyhow. She keeps herself keenly focused on her work, lifting the delicate pendant — her pendant — away and over his shoulder so she can apply salve to his bruised chest. "Why now?" she asks. "King Robert is still on the throne. None of the reasons you left us have changed."
"Maybe it's just taken six years for me to realize I was an idiot," Nicodemus murmurs, his head tilted down so he can watch Day watch her work.
Her hands pause momentarily, then move on to press gently on another bruise. The frowns. "That one's not going to go down on its own," she murmurs, unwrapping one of the blades she keeps sterile. "Can you explain?"
"Excuse me, what are you doing with that?" Nicodemus asks as Day unwraps that blade. "Explain which part? I expect there's a lot of them, but it would help to know where you'd like me to start."
"I'm going to cut out your heart and eat it," says Day, deadpan. "Goddess sake, don't be such an infant. One of your bruises has bled into a pocket and clotted. It just needs to be drained." She cleans the area with a cool astringent, elaborating, "You said maybe it's taken you six years to realize you've been a fool. Surely you must have some thoughts on what you were foolish, regarding."
"I wasn't being an infant, I was only asking. Everybody's wanted to damage me, but you're the first to bring a weapon," Nicodemus teases, still eying the scalpel with a hint of wariness. "Leaving. Not coming back sooner." He quiets before, a bit more softly he adds, "Leaving you." Studying a wall of the tent, he finishes, "Locke's the only reason I can't regret it entirely."
"So love and family are more important than who is on the Iron Throne?" Day offers as a summation. "Take a breath," she warns, then makes a small cut — the knife is so sharp there's almost no pain.
"I should have put my duty to all of you before my duty to honor or a felled king," Nicodemus re-summarizes. He watches the blade move to his skin, but there's no drawn breath, and no flinch, as he's cut.
The blood doesn't flow freely — what escapes is sluggish and dark. Day applies pressure around the small wound, expressing globs that resemble black currant jelly. "Yes, you should have," she says softly, wiping the area clean before applying pressure again. "I'd like to meet Locke. He must be a remarkable boy."
"Well, that's disgusting," Nicodemus murmurs bemusedly for the slime Day works out of his arm. "What would have happened if you'd just left it in?" For his squire, the knight smiles softly, fondly. "Yes. He is."
"It's only blood," Day laughs softly, wiping more of the goo away. "It's just what happens when it can't go anywhere. And it's hard to say. Sometimes the body'll just break it down and it does away, like a bruise. Sometimes it won't, and they can become larger. I don't know that it's ever killed anyone, but big ones can wind up reducing your mobility as much as a broken bone." She flushes the emptied wound with astringent, which stings a bit, then gets out her needle and thread.
"Mmm," Benedict muses, watching as the septa works. One eye squints a little for the astringent, but he doesn't twitch or protest. "Well, thank you, then."
"Better safe than sorry," says Day, threading her needle and stitching the small wound up neatly. "Better to get them when they're small. Small wounds heal faster, faster healing means there's less chance of festering and whatnot." Her needlework — on flesh, at least, is delicate and even. "'Whatnot' is a very specific chirgeonical term, you know."
"You've become quite chirgeonical, I see," Nicodemus replies. "What with the cutting a man open and sewing him shut again. What other terms would you teach me?"
"I've had abundant practice these past years — and during the Greyjoy rebellion, mercifully brief as it was. Kingsgrove was left relatively unscathed, but I was there for Seagard." She finishes her stitching, then bandages the small wound. "Kitt managed to convince me that it was too dangerous to continue following to the Iron Islands, and that Rosie needed me more. I'm not sure it was the right decision, but — everyone did come home safe again, thank the Seven." As for increasing his vocabulary, she smirks, lashes lowered as she cleans and packs up. "Well, that blood from your arm, we call that 'goo,' us professionals."
"Goo? Really? Not 'jelly'? It somewhat makes me think of jelly. Unappealingly." He studies his arm and the stitches therein. "I was there, too," he adds a bit more somberly. "Seagard."
"Of course not 'jelly' — we chirgeonical types can't afford to be put off our breakfast, you know," says Day. She pauses at that revelation, then carefully repacks her basket. "I can't say I'm surprised I didn't see you there. It was — chaotic. I'm just grateful I managed to keep track of the boys."
"I'm grateful you didn't decide to join them in battle," Nicodemus muses wryly. "Always full of surprises, you. It was never clear where your thoughts were heading, next."
"I never did learn how to use the martial staff," sighs Day, both wry and wistful. "I should do that, perhaps, someday. In case I'm ever accosted by brigands again and you're not there to save me."
"I'll be there, now," Nicodemus offers quietly. "Well, allowing that all those who rightly want to add further bruises let me keep all my limbs and vitals."
Day gazes down at her basket, silently. Finally, she takes a breath. "We're all going home now, you know." She glances up at him. "Have you thought about how, and when, you'll tell Rosie?"
"No. I didn't," Nicodemus replies. "Should it be better if I arrived before you or after? I… well. I've thought about it. I haven't come to any ideas that were actually any good. She must hate me. I promised."
"You promised us both," agrees Day, reaching up to right the pendant so it rests against his chest. "You didn't break it. You're just… a bit late."
Nicodemus watches her as she adjusting his pendant. Her pendant. His fingers flex, and if they might like to reach for the septa, they curl around her charm at his throat, instead. "Too late?" he asks her softly.
Day breathes out softly, the sigh fraught with heartache. "I… don't know," she answers, honestly. She lifts her eyes to meet his. "I don't know," she says again. "Time will tell, I suppose. But…" She blinks back a sudden welling in her throat and eyes, standing swiftly and kissing his forehead. "Welcome home, Nic," she whispers, and with her basket, moves to swiftly depart.
Nicodemus nods once for 'I don't know', and again for the second, watching Day in silence. His eyes close for that brush of lips across his skin, and he draws in a soft, shaky breath as the Septa makes a hasty retreat. Then, tugging his shirt and his jerkin back on, he returns to packing.