|This Sleep is Sound Indeed|
|Summary:||Many of the wounded come and go from the Charlton tent after the retaking of Seagard. Anders even sits up in attempts to check on his old friend. And yet, through it all, the severely wounded Aleister sleeps.|
|Related Logs:||The Iron Eagle III|
|The Charlton Pavilion|
|A small area of mats where the sick are being cared for in the back of the Charlton tents.|
|Saturday, January 28th, 289|
"My gracious lord!…This sleep is sound indeed, this is a sleep that from this golden rigol hath divorced so many English kings. Thy due from me is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood…" — King Henry IV, Part II, Act IV Scene V
The initial chaos of coming into the tent, well, was barely organized. It all moved so fast. One minute, it was mostly peaceful and the next there was a whole group of people and a man on a tarp being carried into the room. Two strong men holding either end of the tarp, a young squire on one side, and Cordelya on the otherside, hovering over the bleeding wounds of an unseen body. "Bring him over there, next to the other pallet! Jael, I need your hands!" She commands. Poor Anders is going to have to wake up, or sleep through the chaos of mass bodily trauma. Corrie gets Aleister down onto the mat right across from Anders, probably on purpose, but her eyes are all for her newest patient. The next hour is spent, mostly, cleaning and stitching. The facial wound is bad, going bone deep, and she fears even stitching that shut. She's carefully covered it with gauze and bandaging, but there is that telltale scent on the air already. His chest did get stitched, as did the leg, but the bandages are already bleeding through again. Corrie used both Jael and Squire Joseph as assistants the whole time. Now, probably the turn of a clock later, Corrie is sitting on the side of Aleister's mat, carefully changing that bandaged wound on his face -again-. If she can't stitch it, she'll at least keep it clean. "…Aleister. Lord Aleister… please… please wake…" She crackles out, but he's not answered any of her calls yet.
Anders obviously can't and won't sleep through the fuss. He's had the idea there was a battle as the noise without had ceased, and now even louder, loud, raised voices announcing their arrivals back to the encampment. He lies flat, eyes closed, not making a sound, listening. He can smell the iron of blood, the smell of alcohol, and can hear the voices, recognizing them. The sound of his wife begging for Aleister's consciousness strikes him the most, everything considered. Finally, he opens his eyes, his voice a whisper, "How bad is he?" He still can't move his neck, can't look for himself, but he can assume.. and that's the last thing he wants to do.
Jael's hands are designed for fighting. For /inflicting/ damage, not repairing it. But she's following Corrie's instruction with grim cooperation, holding this or that, and even wielding bandages or needles when prompted. It can't be said that she has a healer's touch, but she is at least competent. It's only after she's finished that which she was tasked that she's trailing back toward Cordelya, lowering herself into a crouch on the opposite side of the injured man's mat as she uses a damp rag to wipe the half-dried blood from her hands. "Lady Corrie?" She is, after all, talking to an unconscious man.
As there still is no response from Aleister, Corrie shakes her head gently. "Jael, pinch his toes again, please. And make certain he has a pulse in that foot." Corrie instructs gently, having shown Jael the points to take a pulse more than once before. The Young Lady Flint is still very much in the business frame of mind of a chiurgeon, but it is fading as there is little more to be done over his wounds, and just the horrid waiting for him to wake. She doesn't meet Jael's eyes, or her husband's but keeps staring down into the greviously wounded Lord Aleister's sleeping, damaged face. Hearing Anders' voice, though, a slightly shuddering breath echoes in her throat and then Corrie calls back, "…I… I do not know… his chest and leg are bad, but not life threatening. The… damage to his head… it hit down to the bone, Andy… He won't wake…" Her voice is filled with heartsickness.
The pause before answering is certainly telling. Anders can hear the shuddering breath, the uncertainty. And the report of the injuries gives the man a moment of hesitation. He can't be of any real aid, short of yelling, "Aleister! Wake up!" His voice is stronger, but still holds that tone of pain underneath. "You need to wake up or I'll never hear the end of it from my wife!" It probably won't help, but it's the only thing he can think of.
Cordelya sighs omce there is no response to the pinching. "Jael… go back to the Flint tent. I have a small trunk there, it's got more supplies… Just bring the whole damned thing. The boys will know which it is…"
Pulses. Who knew a man had pulses on his feet? Jael does now, and after pressing her fingers in about four spots on the top of the man's foot, she's nodding slightly toward Corrie. There it is.
A slight wince flickers across Corrie's features as her husband yells, but his last comment actually brings the first little smile and almost laugh to her lips in, well… Days. It's a sickly sort of chuckle, but it's a laugh never the less! "…Oh, Andy…" She shakes her head to him, smiling sadly as she replaces a fresh bandage across the side of Aleister's head and wraps it in place. She then looks back to her husband. "I am certain I will stop worrying over it in a few years but yes… it would be wiser for all of us if he woke." As if that would matter to severe head trauma. But she has to try. She's yet to move back to her husband's side.
"Which is 'never'," Anders responds. He's feeling a little better. Each day a little stronger. His arms don't feel quite so heavy, and he can actually drink on his own. He's got the leverage. He can't see Aleister's form, but judging from Corrie's reactions, it's probably not good, even taking in his wife's tendencies into account. "Aleister!" He calls out again, his voice rising as far as he can without causing any serious pain in his neck. "It was bad out there." He knows it without asking. The Ironborn are dug in, and there's bound to be more injuries.. and death.
"Yes, I think… Not… not so bad as it could have been. But bad. I'm not certain. I stayed well, well back… didn't go until they sent for me, and it was just for him…" Corrie was GOOD. Really good, for her, even when she knew there'd be wounded, she stayed safe and away. She didn't stay with Anders, though. She's not been at his side since she was sent from the tent last night. Once she finishes securing that bandage around the side of Aleister's head, concealing most of his dark hair, she pulls away just enough to shift off the mat and over to Anders' side. Her chest aches miserably with emotion — for Aleister, for being sent from Anders, for all of them. "You… you are looking… well. Sounding well… Mistress Delacourt… must have a better hand than I." She admits faintly, a touch more shame underlining her voice.
Anders certainly doesn't want to go over the fact that battling the Ironborn wasn't easy; messy and dangerous business. "Good.. I'm glad to hear you stayed away and safe," is offered. It goes a good distance to alleviating some of his concerns. Not all, mind, but some. As she approaches and sits at his side, he presses his lips together. "She didn't do anything differently than you." Which reminds him.. "When do I get this board off? She couldn't give me an answer."
A lingering look is given to the unconscious Aleister, but Corrie knows she's done what she can for tonight. Changing another bandage would just be wasting supplies. So, the lady shifts more to her husband's side and looks him over. Very, very carefully she shifts the gauze and brace from around his neck. The swelling has gone down. It's almost a miracle to her. She blinks a sudden touch of happy tears away, nodding in approval. "Not… not yet. But… it's better. The swelling isn't near… near so bad… If you think you can keep yourself up, or lean against the tent post, I think we can move you enough to sit?" She shifts up towards his shoulders, kicking a leg up to straddle the mat above him. This would be a very awkward moment for Aleister to wake! But once she gets on the very top of the mat above her husband, she eases her arms beneath him and, very gingerly, begins to ease him up off the bed. She fully supports his back and head the whole way.
Anders lies quietly for the the check, and as the brace is removed to look, there's both relief that visits his face, and a little apprehension. He's been under painkillers for the injury, so he's probably a little more willing to risk than if he didn't. With the brace replaced, the Flint begins to move slowly; he's still weak, and he can feel the fact that perhaps this may not work out exactly how he'd like it to. Still, he tries; and he begins to rise with aid. It's too much, however, and weak muscles give out, and with a exclamation, can't maintain the position, and he falls backward again, towards his aid, his wife.
Well shite! Corrie is doing her best to take it slowly. Surely. Inch by inch. But sitting up slowly -actually- takes far more effort than just going up in one fell motion, so that might be why his atrophied stomach muscles give out before they're even halfway up. Corrie would like to support him, but she's just a frail slip of a thing. She gives a little yelp as he collapses back down into her, but she's very careful to quickly cradle one arm under his back and the other under the splint, so he doesn't bend anything as he falls. He's laying on her now, pretty much, her arms pinned beneath his body and above her skirts, but nothing is bent worse than it was before. "…Whoa…whoa. Alright… that's alright. Just breathe and we'll try again, yes?" She turns her head, pressing a small, reassuring kiss into his hair. At least it's a distraction from the ever growing concern that Aleister will never wake again.
Breathe.. breathe? Anders takes a deep breath, the pain creeping in around the painkillers. He hisses a breath between clenched teeth in exhale, "No.. not again." There comes the sound of frustration underlying his words, and he closes his eyes to the kiss, "It's not your fault." He reopens his eyes, and offers a tight, thin-lipped smile, "You're not hurt?" He needs to work out how to get her out from under him.. "Can you get up?"
"Not again? Darling… you will never get strong if you do not try. We just need to push… a bit faster. Doing it slow makes it harder. I will support the brace. You just… sit up. You have done it every day of your life, love." Corrie coaches him gently, doing her best to be the healer he needs and not the biased wife who he sent out of the tent. And if that means pushing him, well, all the better. "I will get up when you can sit up. I am not hurt, but I am keeping your brace in place. So, take a deep breath, focus your mind, and just -sit-." She commands him, a bit more severely. The conversation is certainly loud enough to jar Aleister, if his mind decides to come back to the earth out of the heavens at any point.
Anders counts softly, trying to clear his mind.. and it's not because of anything Corrie's done, but rather, to shore up his resolve, to pull himself out of this bout of self pity. "Okay.." he begins. "Try this again." He counts again, and after reaching three, he tries to sit up once again; the muscles of his stomach being forced to 'crunch'.. and with her aid, he's able to sit up.. and he gets a little dizzy… his hand reaching out to try and brace himself from the wave. "Cor.."
The smallest victories can seem like great triumphs in situations such as these. Cordelya guides his head up the whole way, doing her very best to ensure that the padded brace, hand made by yours truly, actually does it's job in an upright position as well. He will actually probably have to expend some effort to keep his head from falling forward, but he cannot move too much or turn, and that was her biggest worry. He's up, and it's a start! "Oh, dearest, I'm here… just breathe, it'll pass in a few minutes…I'm here…" She holds against his back, one hand supporting his head, but the other reaches out to take his hand and give him something solid and strong to brace himself against. Namely her, who has a good bit of strength to her when she's determined and the adrenaline is going.
Victory.. and as the wave of dizziness begins to pass, Anders blinks, and considers the position he now finds himself in. He's weak, he knows it.. and he hasn't eaten a thing in days— just taken fluids. Now, however, isn't the time. "It's.." Whew. "Aleister?" He does have that chance to see his friend lying on the floor. He's.. stunned. It doesn't look good, but a quick look to the other man's chest shows that it rises and falls.. thankfully. "Corrie.. I need to lay down again.. tomorrow? I'll try this again tomorrow.." And maybe try and walk? Maybe. Now, however, he has to work on how to lie back down without jarring himself.
Well, it's a start, at least, right? Corrie nods gently to him, kissing into his hair once more. "Of course. This… this was progress, Anders…. lots of progress, my dear." Laying back down is a bit harder, but she gingerly guides him back to the bedding, this time having just enough time to slip her slender body out from underneath his upper half. Last, but not least, she gently releases his head to the pillow that has been cradling him for a long time. "There… there you are. Just… rest. Sleep? Is the pain bad? I still have plenty of milk of the poppy…" Probably now JUST reserved for he and Aleister, at least from her private supply. She shifts her leg up and around behind him, so she can stand again. "We'll try again tomorrow. You're getting better every day." She smiles sweetly down to him, looking calmer than she has since he was injured… though Aleister is still given a furrowed glance. It is not all happiness yet.
"Let me see if I can sleep without it," though the thought of it is very tempting. Very easy to grow addicted to the feeling, the lack of pain, if he's not careful. He's back down on his back, thankfully, and he takes a deep breeath, and closes his eyes. "Take care of Aleister. We owe him a great deal." His life, and in this case, perhaps the care and skill of 'his' chiurgeon will begin to repay the debt. "Try again tomorrow." The small exertion took a great deal out of him, and he's more than happy to go back to sleep. "Be sure to sleep, my lady.."
Sleep. Eat. All those things Corrie almost always forgets to do, but she gives her husband a brief, reassuring nod. "I will try, once we are certain Aleister is on his way to healing. Now you rest." She soothes him back gently, fingertips brushing through his once more mussed hair. She then pulls up a blanket across his body, watching his eyes close before she shifts off of his mat and over to Aleister's side. The brief moment if victory she was feeling is quickly dashed as she looks down to her other unwaking patient. All is not happy yet…"Oh… Aleister… you must wake. Please… please…" She whispers softly to him.
A few hours after the battle and, though deaths were taken including the most revered Lord Mallister, most everyone is enjoying bittersweet victory. Well, other than the Flints and the Charltons. Both their lords are lain up so dearly that it's not certain if either will survive, but Aleister is far more questionable than his recovering friend Anders. Corrie, after briefly checking upon her husband, has gone back to Aleister's side and has not left since, damn the rumors flying around camp about them. She currently sits leaning over the man with a damp cloth, gently easing blood off of his face and from around the bandages which will, sadly, need changed soon again. She's not crying here, but she is not happy. She's sort of drifted into that state of silent numbness that most long sick bed vigils take after a while. She's been doing this too long as of late. "Aleister… you have a wife and a child on the way… a whole victorious group of men waiting to cheer you on. You must open your eyes and ready yourself for them, Lord… please…" She begs the unconscious man.
Jael is a fighter. A brawler. A rough and tumbler. All of these things have a way of drawing blood — her own, at times — but none of them involve wallowing in it. And that's just what's happening here. While the young Crannog doesn't look exactly queasy, nor does she look altogether pleased with her surroundings. She's dressed much as she was the night before, save the braid that's been redone to keep some of the shorter bits from the gore she's been thrust into. She's stripped down into leather breeches and vest, leaving toned arms otherwise bare. A scattering of scars make it clear just how familiar she is with the needle and thread, but none look particularly fresh. She is crouched near one of the tent walls, within speaking — and hearing — distance from Corrie, but silent up until now. "M'Lady, perhaps you should let him rest." A low murmur.
Still covered in the dirt and sweat of battle, and the blood of a few of the Islanders including the one that laid Aleister low, Markus trudges into the tent where the Lord is said to be resting under careful and attentive care. He's shed his armor but not his blade, and looks no more than a bit worse for wear.
Cordelya had well used the young squire, Joseph, for most of the initial treatments and hard work time over Aleister, but she sent him back off about an hour ago, back to his man with deep, deep thanks from herself (introduced as the Lady Cordelya Flint, despite her clothing), her Lord, and especially the mentally absent Lord Charlton. It's now far more into the night, but a sick tent truly never sleeps. She blinks drowsily up from her patient, a frown decorating her lips. "…I will once he proves to me he can wake, Jael… if… if he does not wake tonight or tomorrow… I… I am not certain what hope there is for the man." She confesses, her voice low and sick with worry. She then looks up to Markus, breathing a bit easier as she realizes he truly isn't wounded. "…Ser…it…it is good to see your face. Even as our circumstances grow… more worrisome.."
Jael's eyes flicker upward as Markus makes his approach, and linger on the newcomer as Cordelya makes her greeting. Her eyes have narrowed slightly as she looks the man over — assessing damage, perhaps? — before she offers a bit of a nod. There's a quiet sigh toward Cordelya, and a half-bare shoulder is raised in a shrug as she falls short of an argument.
Markus rubs at the side of his face a bit as he steps inside, and offers, "Better to be seen than not, after all that." He lets out a long-held breath, his gaze shifting to the silent Jael, whom he looks back at for a heartbeat longer than absolutely necessary, before he ventures over towards the Lady and her patient. "How is he looking?" Markus wonders, as he comes to stand over Aleister, his head tilting faintly to the side. "Been a spell since I saw two men go at it like they did, though believe it or not I think Volmark got the worst of it."
"I would hope the man is dead who did this to him… to them… or then he would not have gotten the worst of it. I can only do so much…it is in the Gods hands now and the weir is so far I do not know if they are even listening, sometimes…" Corrie admits, her voice a touch more harsh than she'd care for it to be, but it's been a long few days. She finishes washing that last of blood off of Aleister's face, but there is little else she can do for him until he wakes. Another round of firemilk in his headwound will be due in a few hours, but the last is still working it's course. "Anders… sat up. It…it's a start, though it exhausted him. I am far more worried for Aleister now…" She bites her lower lip as she admits that, about to say more when the tent flaps open again. Her eyes flicker over to the mostly unfamiliar Erik, but she dimly remmbers the man as having ordered the Squire to join them. Respectfully, she stands. "…Ser.." She bows her head to him. "Join us… I… have great thanks to you for the work of your squire. If it were not for he and Jael.." She nods to the odd, leather clad crannog at her side, "…I could not have helped the man at all, I do not think." Jael is also flashed a brief, reassuring smile.
Because there's so much reassuring about the smell of blood, sweat, and war. Jael manages to quirk a smirk back to Cordelya, though the expression falls short of truly sincere. She watches instead as the interaction begins to play out, an echo of words she's heard several times now in regard to the fallen Lord. Lords, as it were. The young woman is crouched near the side of the tent, near enough that one may still associate her with the sole person here who might have anything to do with a Crannogman. Poor Cordelya. "You fared well?" That is offered toward Markus, though she doesn't bother raising her voice beyond the murmur she's been using with Cordelya. One would probably need to be listening.
"The Ironborn is dead, we killed him. What he did to Lord Aleister was… unexpected." Erik says as his eyes looks over the fallen Lord who is now resting. The young Lordling's own damaged and gashed steel helm is held under an arm, the cut on his own cheek nasty with dried blood marring the man's features. "I am glad my squire could be of assistance, if he was found lacking or the cause of mistakes, please let me know."
"Ah, good to see you still whole, my lord," Markus calls over his shoulder when he spares a glance at the sound of the man's entrance. It's Cordelya though, whom he listens to closely, to hear her report on Aleister's status, and Anders' besides. "Aye," he assures her with a nod, "Lord Volmark is dead. I saw it so, and fool of me to have waited so long, but the men dueled, and I imagine the Charlton's honor would've been somewhat prickly had I inserted myself any sooner…" But his voice trails off at the talk between Cordelya and her fellow noble in the form of Erik Jast, just in time for Jael's question to catch his attention. "I did," he confirms, a touch quieter, his lips quirking faintly. "Someplace here I can wash up, you think?" He touches his temple, caked in some dirt and blood. "I'm a bit of a mess."
Cordelya arches a brow as she hears Jael's question in Markus' direction. While it was what she was worried about herself, Corrie is surprised to hear her silent friend dare to speak up. It's almost heartening. Perhaps the tough little crannogwoman has found a friend in these strange lands? "Of course, Markus… there is a basin, there. Use it, please… " She nods towards the basin of boiled water at the foot of the sick beds. It's been changed fairly recently, but it's still a touch cloudy from previous use. Corrie has Jael or Niamh change it out about once an hour to keep the water at least slightly clean. Then Corrie looks back to Erik, frowning a bit more as she realizes the blood on his face is his own, not another's. "Ser… you are injured. Here, come sit, please… let me see to it. There is little aught I can do for my other patients." The Flint lady admits with a worried, drawn smile. She steps up towards the basin with Markus, to grab at a fresh cloth and ready herself to clean Erik's wound. "…Forgive me, I do not think I know you, Ser. I am Lady Cordelya Flint… The Young Lord Anders' wife." She nods to the sleeping man with his neck braced. "This is my… companion, Jael Castel…" To the little lady, who shares a Crannog accent with Corrie. Reeds both of them, or at least from Greywatch. "…And it seems you know Ser Ilgrave here."
See? Blood everywhere. Something shifts almost imperceptibly in the youth as Markus actually responds, and of all things, there's the shadow of a smile as she watches the man. A pierced 'brow is arching as he makes his request, though anything she might've said is lost to Cordelya's response. So she nods instead, glancing between the Young Lady and the hedgeknight. While 'friend' may be questing a bit far with the little foreigner, she does seem to have taken more interest in this particular 'Ser' than she's shown the hoardes of men and women who have been milling around Cordelya in this Gods-forsaken camp. "Here, I'll help you." She's on her feet then — a seemingly fluid motion — and padding toward said bowl and rags in leather boots that seem worn enough not to make a sound. "Sit."
"And you as well, Ser Ilgrave, well fought once again with the result of dead Ironborn." Erik answers Markus with a grin to the other knight as bonds forged through war are easily made and harder to break. "And you decided correctly, Ser, it was an honorbound fight and Lord Aleister had the battle well in hand after the first exchange."
Erik then turns to Lady Cordelya as she beckons him to the seat, "Only a minor cut, M'Lady, nothing as serious as the Lords here." However, he does accept the invitation and slowly goes to the chair to sit as asked. "Ah, Lord Ander's Lady, I had fought with your Lord Husband at Alderbrook. A good man, good rider. I am Ser Erik Jast, second son from House Jast in the Westerlands." The young noble also introduces himself in return, nodding respectfully to Cordelya and then Jael. "Ser Ilgrave was also riding with the Flints at Alderbrook, that is where we first met."
"I…" Markus halts as Jael makes her way too to the basin, and directs an amused look in Cordelya's direction. He's not lost himself too far to gloom despite his surrounds. "Alright, alright," he tells the diminutive crannogwoman, dropping himself into a stool near the basin, resting an elbow on his knee. "Could use a spell off my legs," he tells no one in particular. At Erik's talk he pipes up and adds, "Fine with a lance, this here Westerlander. Though I've meant to ask what has you here in the Riverlands and not back home, what with Lannister surely calling the banners…"
For those up on court gossip, that may or may not be Ser Erik, Cordelya and Anders are still fairly newly wed. Three months, yet her tall slip of frame shows no sign what so ever of bearing a child yet. And there have been whispers of untoward things. After all, when Erik came in, Corrie was sitting on the side of Aleister's bed, not of her sleeping husband's. Speaking of Aleister — he is a mess. Chest heavily bandaged, as well as one leg, but it's his head that is truly the worry. Almost all his dark hair is concealed under heavy wrapped gauze and, already, more blood is beginning to peek through this fresh bandaging. It will need changed again soon. He sleeps still as death, only the faintest bit of breath moving his chest to prove he does not yet walk with the gods.
Cordelya leans over the basin, quickly washing her hands and then going over them with some alcohol from the skin she keeps on hand, quickly growing depleted. They will need distilled alcohol again, and soon. A brief smile is given to Jael and Markus, "Aye, Jael…if you could help Ser Ilgrave, then I can help Ser Jast here… and we'll all be ready for bed within the hour." She tries to make it sound more cheerful than she is. Finished cleaning her hands, she grabs that fresh cloth and douses it with a touch more of the alcohol, reaching up to Erik's face. "Turn towards the torch, Ser… this will sting." She cautions, before she begins cleaning the wound with that cloth. And STING it does! "…And aye, my husband is one of the best, even if the gods and ill luck felled him this combat. He will be riding again soon."
Jael looks content when the man follows her 'suggestion', and with the ease of one who has been forced to do this more than once today — and far worse — she's dipping one of the rags into the basin and padding her way toward Markus. What little propensity she'd shown toward speech seems lost again as the three begin talking of people she doesn't know, but the fact that she's reaching for Markus' face makes her rather difficult to forget. One hand goes to catch lightly at his chin, aiming to tip it upward, while the other begins to draw the damp cloth along the dirt and blood that cakes his features. Careful around any wounds, but showing little hesitance should his skin prove intact. Jael is nothing, if not to the point.
Whether Erik has heard of the rumors that have been spreading of late, he does not show or speak of it here as it is ill-advised to do so in the presence of the wounded. The young Lordling does look over to Aleister, wincing at the other man's state. "One needs to be good or he will not last long on the battlefield, or as a knight." He says with a grin to Markus for the Hedge Knight's compliments. As for the reason why he is here, the explanation is delayed as Lady Cordelya asks Erik to turn towards the torch which he does. As the alcohol damp cloth touches the wound, there is a visible wince for a moment at the sudden stinging but the young lord takes the pain without complaint.
He's a plyable patient, is Markus Ilgrave, when Jael lifts his chin and begins to work at his skin. He's rather unblemished beneath the dirt, sweat, and blood, only the sweat something he can claim as his own. "If he sat up so soon," he tries to get out around Jael's ministrations, "Then Lord Anders will be up and in the saddle before long, I reckon."
At least Corrie is kind enough to gently guide Erik into one of those folded cloth seats that often come with war camps. It gives her a better angle to work upon his face and keeps him off of his feet. She is meticulous, perhaps too much so, getting in every little crevice and rip of his wound. The stinging is enough to bring onion tears even to the strongest man's eyes. "…I'll have no festering under my care, Ser… I am sorry if this hurts…" But the Reed woman continues with her ministrations. She flickers a look to Jael and Markus, just to see how they are doing, but then she's back with her patient. "…I… would recommend stitching, it may reduce the side of the scar. BUt then, you battlefield boys like your scars." She tries to give Erik a reassuring grin. Markus' comment gets a nod. "I…I do hope so… with the swelling reduced as it is I… I being to have hope his neck is not broken, as I did fear." She finally confesses that aloud, when such fears have mostly passed. She'd never have said it before.
Ministrations is a nice word for it. Once she's contented herself that there are no wounds to be hesitant about, Jael is scrubbing away the filth with the forwardness of one who has cared for numerous brothers with a propensity toward mud. Not rough, exactly, but hardly the dabbing of a lady. In the end he's significantly cleaner than he began, and the hand that had tipped his head upward is going to settle more firmly under his chin, attempting to lift his face towards her for inspection. Conversation be damned. Eyes shine hazel with the nearness, and if they spend a bit more time studying his own than assessing her job with that rag, it's surely a matter of perception.
Markus is patient as he is scrubbed, and pliable enough to have his face drawn whichever way Jael seems to favor for the sake of examining him. And that too close look from her hazel eyes? Well, he doesn't seem terribly plussed, given how he matches her eyes with his. "Feels much better, thank you," he tells the woman, his lips curving at one corner. "That done, I ought to go find my tent, and get a bit of shut eye."
The eyes water but tears do not roll down the cheek as it is blinked away while the wound is cleaned and tended to by Corrie. "Do not be sorry, M'Lady. You have my thanks for your healing and I understand the importance of cleaning it to stave off infection." As for the option of stitches, Erik manages a grin, "Stitch if you wish it, I do not mind either way and I am sure a scar would remain."
"Good night, Ser Ilgrave…" Corrie calls gently after Markus, and though he oft knows how to steal her eye, tonight all of her focus is for her patients. Right now, for poor Ser Erik, who's lighter wound has been ignored for too much of the evening. Corrie leans quite close to him, indecently so for a noble lady, so they both can pick up each other's scents. She smells like herbs, grass, mint and woman, the fresh scents of a female herbalist and yet a noble who can manage a bath more than once or twice every few months. He, however, does not smell like festering. That had been her worry and why she got so near. She nods in approval to the wound and then reaches down for her little birchwood box of needles. "Then just a few stitches to ensure it is secured and heals fast. I trust you can keep it clean yourself…" And all those tools are dipped in the alcohol before she grabs one of the tiny, curved needles and threads it for his poor face.
Jael's hand lingers a bit longer than necessary where she holds his jawline, and it's not until Markus announces his departure that the girl is withdrawing entirely — a bit too quickly, in fact. There's a short nod, and with the nearness, the fact that something is going unsaid is a bit clearer than usual. "Ser." The title lilts with the Crannog's accent, giving it an almost wry quality, as she takes a few steps backward. Ignoring, for the time being, the conversation that's going on at her side.
Erik would turn and nod to Markus at his departure but he is busy keeping still for Corrie as she cleans and stitches the wound. "That would be excellent, thank you M'Lady." The news of the wound not festering due to not having been taken care of is welcoming news as infection is never a good battle to fight. "Well fought, Ser Ilgrave, till next time."
Markus clears his throat a touch when he parts Jael's company, and it's fair to say that the knight turns with a small smirk on his lips. "And you, milord," he calls, stopping to offer Erik and Cordelya a bow of his head. "My best to your husband, my lady. I will surely find you on the morrow," he adds. Jael gets a glance over his shoulder, and it seems that will be all for now, as he slips out of the tent to find his own.
"Good night, Ser." Corrie calls once more after Markus, but all her eyes are for the young Erik. She frowns, "Jael, if you are finished, bring that torch closer so I can do this work as fine as possible. The young lord here is too handsome to be left with too many vicious scars." Corrie teases Erik just a bit, doing what she can to keep hearts light. Once that torch is brought over, she very, very delicately pierces the skin in and out once! Then ties it off. The second stitch is also made as precisely fast as possible, but Erik will probably not remember Corrie's touch as fond and gentle. "There, ser. How does that feel?"
Jael is left staring after Markus for a moment, though there's nothing said as the man disappears out of the tent. Corrie is speaking then, and the younger woman is stirring back to movement as she goes to gather the torch in question. She pads closer to the pair, fire and all, and stops just near enough that the light can shine down on Cordelya's work. Like gruesome embroidery, that.
Erik would smirk if he wasn't afraid that doing so would mess up Corrie's stitching of the wound, "It feels good, M'Lady, you wield the needle as well as I wield a blade. Thank you." He would bring his hand up to feel the newly stitched wound but is smart enough not to since his hands are not exactly clean at the moment.
Whether Corrie has noticed Jael's lingering glances in the hedge knight's direction or not, it's not entirely clear since she's so focused on the young night beneath her fingertips now. She carefully dabs that alochol dampened cloth against his cheek, evaluating if another stitch would be wise, but she seems to be content with what she finds. She then lightly lays a bandage across the skin, securing it with that tacky paste around the edges which will dry and hold it on his cheek. "There you are. If you haven't a chiurgeon in your camp, come and see me tomorrow to have that bandage changed, Ser." She pats his unwounded cheek with her free hand in a motherly sort of gesture then draws back, her odd, elfin features trying not to look as tired as they are in the torch light. "Thank you, Jael… you've been invaluable in these past days."
"Mmm," is Jael's less-than-convinced… noise. That couldn't really pass for a word, after all. It's offered nonetheless, and whatever may or may not have been directed toward Markus, it seems the youth's attention is solely Cordelya's once more. The torch is tipped a bit to better the light's angle, and she lacks the decorum to truly smother her snort at the various
With the wound also bandaged up now, Erik finally reaches up to touch is gingerly before grinning again, "If I am unable to find someone to change it, I will be sure to seek you out. I will also drop by to check on Lord Aleister and your Lord Husband as well." he does slowly rise to his feet from the seat, feeling it is his time to depart back to his own tent, making sure the Squire has everything ready so he can rest easy tonight. "Thank you for your help again, M'Lady, and I will pray for the two recovering Lords."
The thanks from Erik brings a brief, if genuine smile to Corrie's small, odd face. "Of course, Erik… Gods, I ran down here hiding as small folk…" She motions to her dirty old skirt and homespun shirt, "Just so I could do this. While I am… grief struck at how many have been injured, and how dearly, I am glad that the risk I took has actually come to use. So… be safe. I…" Her eyes flicker back to Aleister, that grieving worry deepening in her gaze at his lack of stirring. "…I will let him know when he wakes." WHEN. Not If. She won't say that yet. "Be safe out there, Ser." And then she's turning back to Jael, motioning the woman back over to Aleister's side. Perhaps more firemilk is due. If anything will wake a man, it is that.
Jael does as bidden, padding closer to the Lady while maintaining a rather large berth of the stranger she's been caring for. The torch remains in her hand, casting a warm glow around the young woman. It also sends a bit of shadowing across her features, which does nothing but emphasize the slightly foreign angles.
As Jael brings the light nearer, Corrie gingerly sinks down to resting at Aleister's side. She rests one hand against his chest, the unwounded side, to confirm that lungs and ribs still slowly expand and contract with breath. She then shakes very lightly. "…Lord. Aleister. Ale… please… please… just open your eyes… You have slept plenty long…" She half begs of the man, desperation crackling in her voice. "Many have come to give you well wishes…it is impolite to sleep through company. What would your wife say?" She asks with a weak laugh, but there is nothing. She then shakes her head slowly to Jael. "I…I…do not know what to do…Jael… Gods…"
The torch is settled into one of the makeshift holders that have been set up throughout the tent, and Jael is moving to crouch once more — this time at Cordelya's side. "You'll done all you can do, Corrie," she assures. Promises, really. "Now it's a matter of waiting. He's in the Gods' hands now." A hand is raised in an effort to touch the backs of her fingers to Cordelya's cheek — a stroking touch, and one she'd likely loathe anyone else to witness.
Yes, they'd both be hesitant to show such tenderness with company, but neither of the lords are seeming to wake any time soon. So Corrie does not pull away, but allows Jael to brush fingertips across her too-cool cheek. It has been a night of exhaustion for Cordelya, and chances are she's not taken food or drink since this morning. Her focus is so intensely given to whatever task she has, especially when men are threatening to die all around. "Well, I shall be here as I wait… and pray to the gods for he and his family. At… at least he leaves an heir, if the worst happens. We shall have to be so gentle with the Lady Cherise… the poor woman… I hope her sleep is sweet for now…"
Food and drink. Those are the sorts of things Jael can do without much prompting, and she'd do just that, once Corrie was settled between her charges. The little woman would've disappeared into the night, and returned — perhaps miraculously — with a simple meal for both of them. After that, it's just a matter of keeping vigil. Waiting and watching. And then more waiting.