| The Struggle for Sanity |
| Summary: | Cordelya continues to treat Aleister, while Anders tries to anchor the man's sanity with words and Markus stops by to deliver a gift. |
| Date: | 30-Jan-2012 |
| Related Logs: | The Iron Eagle III & This Sleep Is Sound Indeed &A Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Waste |
| Players: |
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| Some Random House |
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| A random house, secured for the ill |
| 30-Jan-289 |
The sun sets upon another day and the fire burns in the corner of the small house taken by the Charlton entourage. An iron pot hangs upon iron stakes to keep the water warm, and there are irons in the fire, just in case they're needed. The sound of voices rises outside; the beginnings of the evening's revelry and it's only going to get louder.
Within, the pair of injured nobles lay; one into the healing process and the other, only beginning, though that could be doubtful should one feel the fever that has begun to rage. Anders has mastered a new trick in order to bypass the fact that his neck is immobile and can't be moved— he rolls onto his side. And it is in that position that he lies now, a hand out to prevent himself from rolling back inadvertantly. "Aleister… can you hear me?" He's concerned about the other man's restless sleep; that isn't a healing sleep, and even he can see that.
While it is true Cordelya is spending an inordinate amount of time with the restless, injured Aleister, it's not because she's found herself besotted with the man — it's because she's rather worried he's boiling his brain and has run out of treatments to give him. The fever sleep might be a bit better than the restless, half crazed ranting of before, but the tent is beginning to smell of sickness — and it's not from Anders. Cordelya picks her head up from where she had been studying Aleister, turning towards her stirring husband now. She shakes her head. "…He was awake earlier… lucid a few minutes, at least… I think. I think the firemilk was a bit much for him… " She sounds somber, quietly professional, but she cannot entirely hide the deep worry behind her voice. Especially from her husband who knows her quite so well.
*
Of course Corrie is spending all that time with Aleister.. Anders would expect nothing less. After all, she'd slept beside a bastard, and as far as the Flint's Young Lord is concerned, his friend is a great deal more deserving. "I'd rather hear his rambling voice than nothing," he responds. "I know.. I heard some of it last night when he woke." But he hasn't heard it all, obviously— it's gotten worse? He grunts as he shifts, and makes to push himself up bit by bit— without his wife's aid. He can do it, and he's not looking for attention. He wants his life back, his motion, and dammit, he's going to work and get there. "Nothing for the fever?"
*
"I've Einar off getting some leeches. I didn't want to resort to them, but I'd rather use them before it gets worse. If anything will possibly help, we must try it." Cordelya insists quietly. Poor Einar, on a leech run! The thrilling life of a squire. Her fingertips reach up, the back of her hand lightly resting across Aleister's forehead, and then the upper of his chest. She's still opened his shirt, at least, but hasn't done anything to otherwise ease the fever. "But he needs to burn it out from the inside now… So nothing to cool him down, no. The fever is the body's way of fighting also." She counsels gently, soft, intelligent voice confident in her words. She then looks over to Anders, especially as he starts to get up. He can see the initial push in her body, a whole twitch of her form, as she wants to get up but forces herself to hold back and let him do it on his own, "Slow, love…"
*
Poor Einar, indeed. The life of a squire shouldn't be thus, and he'd given it a great deal of thought in his 'sick bed'. Anders grunts in the effort to get himself sitting straight up, and once he's up, he weaves a little, dizzy. He hasn't really eaten anything since stricken, and he's lost weight. It can be seen in his body, his face. Once he's more stable, he seeks to take a deeper breath, filling in his lungs, and finds that he can.. and he releases before he looks to his friend, lying prone. "Nothing to cool him." If it were in the North? Out, into the snow! "Damned southern lands. No snow. Not even cold," he grumbles. "Aleister, you hack.. wake up. It's me."
*
In the span of seconds, a multitude of emotion bursts forth from Aleister, starting with a scream that quickly shifts into that of a hissed gasp, only to be followed by a low, ragged chuckling sound. A hand lowers to his waist and when fingers grasp at nothing but air, rather then the handle of a weapon, the man's eyes snap open only to flit from side to side, not coming to rest on any of the people in the room. Regardless, his lips part so that he can murmer, "Whe… where am I?"
*
Her husband's motions are distracting Cordelya for now, pale green eyes focused on the bed across from Aleister, instead of the patient below her. She still restrains herself from going to him, but it's a struggle. She gives him a bit of an encouraging smile as he does actually manage to sit straight and keep himself up. "We should get you food, Andy… gods, look at you… all skin and bones now…" Her worry is just redoubled as she realizes just how much body and muscle her husband has lost just in these few days. But she has no time to worry as Aleister suddenly comes awake at her side and starts flailing. She reaches down, trying to gently catch his hands so he doesn't throw himself from the bed or tear any of his stitching. "Aleister! Lord… it's us… Anders and Corrie… we're here, just breathe, calm, Lord… please calm…"
*
Anders has seen this, yes.. last night. The confusion, disorientation, and he's concerned. Probably moreso than Corrie simply because he has no idea what to do in the least. "Aleister.. you're in a small house in Seagard." The Young Lord Flint is sitting up, though his neck is still bandaged. He's got scars elsewhere, but nothing that even remotely comes near his neckwound. He's wrapped still with his neckbrace that is tucked behind him, halfway down his back to give his neck some support. But, he's sitting up, and under his own power; and now it can be seen that he's lost weight. It can be seen in his chest, his face. Outside, the revellers are just beginning; a manic celebration of life in the face of death. Within, the darkness really makes no difference as the patients sleep and have slept on their own schedules. "Aleister.. you're safe."
*
As his hands come to be caught, it takes Aleister a moment to place the voices. And then a moment longer to put together the words that have been spoken. With the fever racing and random fits of sleep claiming him, it's clear the man isn't actually getting any rest. Beadlets of sweat coat his brow and face and a shift of his eyes has him trying to focus upon the voices, "Anders .. Corrie .." Though the words come, there's a hint of a question that lies beneath their surface and as his eyes close and a breath comes to pass, he's murmering, "Northerner.. Cordie .. Safe? .. Is it done? Is the fighting finally over?"
*
Cordelya gives Aleister's fingertips the briefest, most gentle of squeezes, trying to be as reassuring as she possibly can before she delicately releases him. For a few moments, she's fairly certain he won't hurt himself or anyone else. She shifts off his mat, standing and moving for that boiled water to douse a cloth in it so she can at least clean his face. "Yes… the fighting is over. You fought valiantly but you took a bad wound… You're in a fever… " She murmurs as gently as possible, her voice low and soft, the utter definition of calm. With her patient awake, she actually manages to hide all concern and fear. SHe's in control and will help him!
*
Hard boots sound on the floor, not the dainty steps of a healer or servant, scurrying the way or that, but someone more substantial. Markus has to blink a bit as he steps into the room, his eyes adjusting to the light indoors, before he can sketch a look about, and primarily at the two wounded lords. He shifts a bundle beneath his left arm before he bows his head and shoulders, and says, "I hope I'm not interrupting…"
*
"You look like hell, friend," Anders begins. Of course, the Flint looks like he could use a shave and a meal— or five himself. "We're done, Aleister. Fighting's over and we won." How many more times will he have to repeat that for the Charlton? As many times as he has to. "We're safe here. Terrick's Roost is safe. We're done." For the time being. "Now stop trying to think— I swear by the gods that you think too damned much. Stop it."
Cordelya is given a studying glance, checking to see how she's handling the strain and stress. What's passed in the last few days with him will be unspoken between them for the time being, but the subjects will be broached. Most certainly. Shifting in his seat once again, Anders twists around slowly and gingerly, looking for a tunic, or something, to put on. "Do I have a tunic?"
Markus' entrance earns the knight a glance, and a weak smile soon after. "Ser Markus.. you're not interrupting. Perhaps another voice with the power of reason will aid Lord Charlton.. to help him navigate through the fog of his mind."
*
There's no look to the squeeze of his fingertips that Cordelya offers, a sign that perhaps the sensation doesn't breach through the fog of pain that no doubt rages through his head. Another sigh escapes his lips as he tries to give his head a slight shake, the action drawing a wince of pain and a quick halt of the movement, "Wounded? … But I was winning .." It would seem that parts of his memory break through and when Anders speaks, his eyes flit in the direction of the man, "My head is aswim, Northerner. Bits and pieces of things coming to light .. having trouble telling what's real and what's not." And then, another voice, though he can't turn towards this one. "Ser Markus?" Clearly a question as to whether the Charlton Knight knows this man or not.
*
Cordelya looks up from her place at the pot of heated water, over towards the flaps as she sees Markus. He actually gets a genuine smile out of her, one of the first in a while, as he's about the only man whom she cares for and doesn't fear for his life right now. "Mar… Ser Markus, good evening. It…it's a little bit of chaos here, I fear…" Corrie confesses to him, before she wrings out the warm compress and crosses back over to Aleister's side. "Aleister…let me see your face and neck. At least this will get some of the sweat off…" She reaches down, leaning over, just trying to tend to the man and his injuries as the men discuss… Well… Masculine stuff. Like war and fighting.
For Anders, in the main, or any who might actually deeper study Cordelya than a passing gaze, she too is looking hollowed out. She's not lost a dramatic amount of weight, but her cheeks are thin and her eyes hollow. She's holding up, but is walking that fine line of exhaustion that they all are, no doubt.
*
For his part, Markus seems as if he is doing pretty damn well, all things considered. "My Lord Anders… good to see you're good enough to be worrying about someone else," he notes, his lips spreading in a momentary, if wide grin. It's Aleister whom gets the better look from him, a touch of assessment in his cool eyes. "We are not well acquainted, my lord. I was the fellow hanging on the periphery for you and Lord Volmark to finish your dance, if you recall."
*
"Aye, you were winning, and like always, the bastards seem to have an unholy alliance with the Drowned Guppy," Anders gives a strong reply. "You had him.. and he got a shot in against your head. Good thing, that.. it's your hardest spot." No mistaking the Flint's Young Lord is concerned, but he works to keep that out of his voice. Still, sitting up is taxing his own strength; soon enough, he'll be lying down again. But not yet. He'd nod in Aleister's observiations, but.. he can't. Instead, he simply grunts his acknowledgment and begins again, "I know, and I'm here to let you know what's real and what's not. Right now, I'm here, Corrie's here, and Ser Markus. That's all. No shadows, no shades." As to what role Markus played in the last battle, Anders really doesn't know, honestly..
Anders catches Corrie's familiarity fumble, but doesn't think anything of it. The Young Lady is tired, obviously— exhausted, to look at her, and there's nothing he could do or say that could make her understand her own frailty. Much to his annoyance and chagrin.
"Ser Markus.. good to see you're unharmed." Anders gives the man a long look, studying him before he turns away to hear exactly how the pair may know each other. There's a little more information, anyway..
*
There's an ever so slight tilt of Aleister's head when Corrie approaches with that cloth and the movement obviously signifies his acceptance of the treatment. Afterall, there's not much else that can be done at the moment to refuse such a thing. Anders' words draws a flit of the Knight's eyes, a faint frown coming to crease his lips as he allows his eyes to close. For a moment, he's simply quiet, features twisting and contorting into winces and furrows of thought and after a moment, his eyes open again. That mere moment of thinking seems to have drained him, for the color fades from his features and his eyes seem a little less brighter then before, but when he speaks, it's with a clarity that hasn't come since he first awoke. "A lucky blow … I remember now. Caught me off guard, somehow. I remember the hit .. the falling and then nothing but darkness." A pause is taken and then an almost apologetic, "Forgive me, Ser Markus. I fear my mind works against itself. I presume it is you that I have to thank, for the fact that I still live?"
*
Markus lifts a glance over at Anders, smirking faintly. "I figured my lord would not take kindly should I end up right beside him on the stretcher," he points out, indicating Cordelya with his unencumbered hand, "No matter the excellent care I'd find myself in…" But Aleister's attempts to remember are met with the sell sword's attention once more. "I rather think you've got yourself to thank for that, my lord. I just did my part to make sure Lord Volmark finally accepted the fact that you'd had him dead a blow or two previous." He drums his knuckles on the bundle under his arm, which rings with the sound of metal. "In fact, I brought a little something to cheer your spirits, my lord." His brow climbs. "If I may?"
*
There's something that looks like wary relief in the Young Lord's face as Aleister remains lucid for these few minutes. It may not be much, knowing his his friend burns with fever, but it tells him, at least, that the man is in there. "That is more than I knew, Aleister.. and now, rest.. and take what strength you can from it." Anders is simply so far out of his element, other than a line to be thrown. If it gets bad, he's not sure even how useful he'll be.. or any will be.
Anders is getting tired, but he pushes himself to stay upright and alert, and awake. He's hungry, thirsty.. but he won't take from his friend's minstrations. Instead, there's a foot moved, a leg, and a tentative stretch to place his foot upon the floor. It's only a moment, however, before he withdraws it. He's smart.. if he falls, it'll hurt like hell, and he's got no interest in feeling that kind of pain. Not right now, no thank you.
"You are correct, Ser Markus. I'd much rather someone be on their feet. Mind, I would hope that person was me, or at least would include me.." There's something of a lopsided, weak smile in that, and Anders listens to the rest; what he thinks of Markus seems to be up and down. There's the familiarity, but then there's the 'nobility'.. and all things considered, he can work with what he believes is a detriment. He would admit, if asked, to being curious as to what was in the bundle..
*
"A lesser man would have taken the credit for himself, Ser Markus. For that, you have my thanks." A soft breath comes to be taken, as if speaking with clarity is a chore for the man. Now, his eyes flit in the direction of Anders, a hint of a smile crossing his lips, though there's no real light to that smile. "Rest is not something that comes for me, Northerner. When my mind falls and sleep claims me, it's as restless as the night before a battle." Now, his attention reverts to Markus, regarding the knight for a moment as a hand lifts to give a weak gesture, "What is that you have brought, Ser?" Brows furrow again, eyes partially lidding as a faint twitch begins in the corner of one eye. Those who had stayed with him through the days might come to realize that he's losing whatever measure of control he was able to muster.
*
Ever observant, sometimes inhumanly so, Cordelya all too well recognizes that slight twitch in Aleister's eye. She frowns, soothing that cloth down his chest and freeing him of at least this round of fever sweat. It'll no doubt return in a few moments. "You have probably a minute at most, gentlmene… we're losing him to the fever again." Corrie states flatly, her voice all cold business. She's practically as good as a Maester right now, really. She then brings that cloth up to his throat and the side of his head that isn't bandaged. "Aleister…stay with us. Focus, man, come on." It's almost a command from her!
*
There's no showman's flair to Markus' reveal, drawing the drape off the rather battered helm in his hands, that clever eyes could see was once meant to be shaped as a Leviathan. The piece is the signature helm of one Lord Volmark, cleaned of brains, blood, hair, and flesh, but otherwise much as Aleister left it — caved in from a few mighty blows of the Charlton's hammer. "A token to remember your victory by, my lord," he says, as he moves to set it down beside the man, and well within reach. "And, I hope, a reminder that you're a man capable of conquering much that would seek to diminish him." He takes a step back at that, and the twitching in his eye and Cordelya's warning causes him to frown. "Perhaps I should go…" he says, looking to Anders as if expecting a cue from the Lord of Flint's Fingers. "I did not mean to cause…" He's not as familiar with Aleister's comings and goings as the rest, just yet.
*
Anders knows all too well what that means, the coming storm of sanity.. and the loss thereof. His expression grows worried even as he smiles at the gift that Markus brings. "Well done, Markus." Now he's doing it— the familiarity! Still, it was a kindness done, and one that speaks well of the man in his measure. Perhaps, one day, when this is done, he'll offer the man a job in his court.. once he steps up to take his seat in time. "Well done." It's certainly not the knight's fault, however, that the tempestuous seas seek to throw Aleister overboard once more, and he holds up a hand quickly, "It's not you, ser.. if anything, soon enough your gift may serve as an anchor for him.. if you wish to depart, you may do so.. if you wish to remain in order to bear witness .. only to those who are trustworthy, you may do so.. but do not believe for a moment you caused this." Just in case.
Anders takes a deep breath and begins to lie down again. He's reached his reserve of energy, and he pulls his feet up, slowly and deliberately, his hand coming out to steady him as he makes his way first onto his side. "Then take your rest in a drugged state, man.. you can't remain awake and vigilant, assuming an attack at all times. You must sleep and let your trusted people guard your sleep." And he's more than willing to take his own advice, finally.. at least now. Not that he'll take it again…
*
Although Cordelya and Anders words no doubt register with Aleister, he's having trouble keeping things focused, what with his mind trying to take control from him and as such, his eyes stay entirely upon Markus. When the helm comes to be revealed and then set down beside him, a single hand moves to trace fingertips over the outline of one of the caved in sections as he offers, "Thank you, Ser Markus … this means much for me." It's geninuely said and a slight smile, one with warmth, hints upon his lips for a moment. His eyes shift down to the helm and it's then that something snaps, for the lord is shriking back on the mat a touch, his eyes lifting upwards to Markus as they begin to narrow, "You … you were sent here by Rygar, that fucking cowardly excuse of a Lord, weren't you? He fears the Charltons .. fears that we're going to crush his pitiful house during our ascent in power .." Now, his lips begin to curve into a smirk as his hand balls into a fist, coming to lift and then crash down upon the steel of the helm. "Run back to your Lord, sevant. Tell him that I will crush him when the sun begins to crest upon the horizon. Tell him that I will expose him for what he is. A cowardly, sniveling old fool." He stops suddenly, his body stilling as eyes close as a ragged, gasping breath is taken. Then, there's a softly murmered, "Sorry .. can't hold it together .."
*
Cordelya braces herself for it. She partially knows what's coming, but not how bad it might be. She sits near Aleister's side, ready to reach out any moment and cling to him incase he'd try to truly escape or go beyond mad. Fortunately, it's not the case here, but her small hand lingers close on his shoulder, a steadying influence even through the madness. She looks up to Markus for a moment, apologetic, studying his reaction to the brief fevered fit. However, when Aleister comes back to them, Corrie looks down. "Aleister… drink some milk, before you sleep again… it will help you sleep…" And over to her husband. "And you. You need to each something, if small, then YOU can sleep…" She needs more hands!
*
Markus' mouth begins to part around something at the man's rather unexpected outburst, but he seems to at least somewhat notice it for what it is, his mouth closing and his eyes narrowing. "Perhaps it is better that I leave," he says, with a glance betwixt the Lord and Lady both that he serves. "If I'm needed, I am not hard to find." He takes a step back and offers a crisp bow of his head and shoulders, and makes to turn and leave.
*
"Aleister.." Anders' tones aren't as soft and soothing as Corrie's, but it's meant to act more as an anchor— something that the lucid part of his friend can navigate to. "There's no friend of Rygar here." And that's the Gods' honest truth. And as there's that moment when Aleister peers through, the Northern lord exhales, his expression relit in concern. "Listen to Corrie.. have some milk to sleep." His gaze flickers towards his wife, his expression remaining.. the same. There's no change when he shakes his head. The time is passed for him; perhaps he'll eat in the morning, because he is simply too tired now. His exertions have left him fatigued. So where once he was lying on his side, Anders rolls onto his back before he calls out, "Markus.. Ser.." if the man pauses, at least, he's not seeking the knight to return.. simply to listen. "Thank you." And that is a rarity to come from him..
*
Corrie mentally curses as she seems to have missed the window for feeding her husband. Tomorrow, then. "Good night, dear…" Corrie calls over to Anders, but cannot focus on him for the moment. Who knows how long that small window of lucidity will last again with Aleister. She's practically vaulting over the mat towards the pack of herbs, pulling out that corked bottle, which holds the milk of the poppy in it. She gives Markus a nervous, apologetic smile, lost for words to the man. She, instead, kneels back at Aleister's side. "Ale…here… drink, please. It will help you rest…It's Corrie here. No friend of the Nayland's at all. Drink."
*
The tall knight does stop in his retreat, and turns a glance over his shoulder that he might look at Anders when he speaks. "Thank you, my lord," Markus intones, respectful. "Please, mend well. Your presence is missed amongst your men. Good eve." And then he is out.
*
Lucidity is a fleeting thing for Aleister and each moment that it comes, he struggles to make it last. It's hard to tell whether he makes any headway with it, but the moments seem to come a little more frequently .. but then again, when it fades, the mans outbursts delve deeper into unexplained paranoia. A necessary tradeoff, perhaps. Markus words of departure cause the man to wince and he offers a fleeting, "Thank you .. Ser Markus." Then, to Anders and Corrie, he's giving a shake of his head, albeit a slight one. "I fear the dreams that will come with sleep." Twitch. A faint pressing of his lips together and then his eyes narrow as his hand lifts to swat at that bottle, though the movement is languid and slow. "Poison! Help! Guards!" Again, the man shrikes back a bit. "Who sent you!? It was that bastard Gedeon, wasn't it? He seeks everything that does not belong to him. First Stonebridge. Now Hollyholt! I tell you now, he will rue the day that he crossed paths with me!" It's by the grace of the Seven that he doesn't try and get up and run away. Or, it could simply be the sheer pain that keeps him anchored to the mat.
*
The swatting of her hand wasn't entirely unexpected, Cordelya jerking her palm up and putting the thumb across that precious milk, so nott oo much of it sloshes out of the bottle's neck. She swears lightly, "Anders, keep talking to him!" She commands her husband as she turns her body closer to the unfleeing Aleister. It takes a good bit of doing, but between her and her husband, they can probably at least calm Aleister enough to get some milk of the poppy down his throat. She wants him out cold for when she puts the leeches on his head anyway, which will be as soon as Einar returns. Once he's down, Cordelya then moves to Anders. She insists on just a bit of stew down his gullet before getting him into rest as well. It's almost an hour later by the time all of this has happened and she finally gets to collapse into a folding cloth seat between them, huffing out an exhausted sigh.
