(121-04-29) Firelight
Summary: Ser Tameron Sand and Lady Hellan Stark share a quiet moment as the rest of the camp celebrates the day's victory.
Date: April 30, 2014
Related: None posted

The thrill of battle culminated in victory, though the slaughter (and capture, but mostly slaughter) of the wildlings was not without some small cost to those who hunted them. Tameron Sand was among the injured, needing to have his side stitched and an arrowhead removed from his shoulder. Both wounds have been cleaned, closed and wrapped, though Tameron accepted nothing for the pain. Not even the wine and brandy that some of the wounded (and hale) are imbibing as night has fallen and food is cooked. The dornishman sits, instead, at one of the smaller fires, alone for the moment. He holds a cup of water which he lifts, now and again, to take a small sip. Mostly, he watches the flames.

A wave of presence rolls in from his left; a shadow growing long then short, subtle mingled scent of wool and leathers familiar around the camp, but also a note of something inexplicably clean and earthy like pine needles or some inelegant flower— and wine. "They are insufferably loud over there," is described without apology. Hellan glides past Tameron with a sweep of her long cloak and sits on the other side of the small fire, urging the log she sits upon closer to it. From a distance, Lady Hellan would look as strongly held together as she oft does; up close is another matter, to those who bother to pay her mind. There's something distant and half-focused about the woman, yet it lends a more relaxed flow to her movements. She outstretches both pale hands to the fire, fingertips reaching. She hasn't looked up since sitting, but seems to know who's there: "I heard someone say the Dornishman doesn't drink wine."

"Perhaps tomorrow we will lose and they will be quieter," Tameron offers, gaze lifting to watch Lady Hellan as she seats herself. It lingers on the woman's face in the firelight, the way the shadows and the yellow light reveal that distant, hazy look in her eyes. As for the wine, he only shrugs, neither confirming nor denying the statement of that someone. The cup is lifted again, and he has another sip of water. "I prefer a clearer head."

Hellan turns her hands over, bearing the backs of her long fingers to the heat. Remarkably empty hands, absent the drink that's flowing around the camps, but she doesn't seem to have been drinking water earlier, as Tameron … though nothing about the woman screams inebriated beside that faint cling of alcohol on her person, even with her haze. "And sharper pain," she points out, glancing up above a lick of flame, briefly trying to focus on recalling the young man's injuries but losing interest in the effort halfway. She watches her hands twist and turn slowly with abrupt focus.

Tameron is quiet as he considers the woman on the other side of the fire, her empty hands, and then the way her focus stumbles down onto them. "It is not a preference you share," he observes quietly.

Hellan's silence stretches on up to the point where it seems like she hasn't heard, is ignoring him, or forgot that he spoke. Then, simple as that: "Yes." Her hands curl in and she sets her elbows upon her knees. Thought and fire-light carve her features, marking and darkening her brow. "It is." Another pause, another threat of going distant until she lifts a hand to gesture; it falls slowly nearly as soon as it's begun. "But pain, Ser Tameron— " she begins, imparting wisdom as she sees it; drifting in tone and bitter, yet a smile's on her lips. Or maybe it's a shadow. "If you are in pain long enough … severely enough, your head will not be so clear. But you'll still be in pain, you see. Perhaps in a few more battles, you'll be reaching for the wine. More than that."

"No," Tameron replies, his focus resting more squarely on Hellan than the fire crackling cheerfully between the Dornishman and the Stark. "I will not." It is said with the confidence that only the young possess, but the certainty holds another element as well. The sort of surety that comes from experience, be it real or imagined. "But I do understand your position, Lady. I have known others who have shared it."

Hellan's head lifts to observe Tameron more clearly, judging by default; clearly she thinks him young and inexperienced in true pain, yet even in whatever state the Stark lady is in, she seems to sense something a little more in his answer and dwell upon it. As she stares, she starts to drift: her eyes go from keen to faraway like sand falling through an hourglass until there's nothing there but glass. Nothing but glass, her eyes, staring.

She's quiet awhile.

"You were covered in blood," Hellan states, disjointed from all else; the distant, calmed way her voice turns makes her words almost fond, but it's simply an illusion of this state she's in.

And what can be done when your evening's companion drifts in and out of the tangles of her own mind? Nothing but be patient, enjoy the warmth of the fire and pick up the strings of conversation as they are dropped, if one is so inclined. "That happens, on occasion," Tameron allows with a small nod.

A faint shiver, or tremor, moves one of her hands and she moves it closer still to the fire. In earnest, it's not so freezing outside of its warmth. She's kept more layers than most. A haze; a blink. "Where did you learn to fight?" she questions Tameron, blunt but for Hellan, conversational.

"I squired to Ser Osric Dayne," Tameron replies, leaning forward to hold his own hands out to the fire. "We fought on the marches when there was fighting to be done."

"Osric," Hellan repeats like the name ought to mean something but it doesn't, not to her; the search of her memory comes up short of current events. However, she regards Tameron with an out-of-place suspicion that narrows her gaze and creases the corners of precise eyes; her head even tilts an inch, getting a new angle on the Dornish knight in the fire-light.

Tameron regards Hellan for a long moment as she stares so hard at him. And then he leans away, into the shadows at his back. "I should look in on my squire. Good evening to you, Lady Hellan."


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