Healing WoundsIndex | Time Under Chaos | Game Logs | PreGameLogs | Healing Wounds Participants: Amba, Helena (Continued from Sparring with Circumstance) As Helena handed Amba the case, their fingers met, and looking up into Helena's eyes, Amba smiled. Then working the hidden catch, she took the top trump out of the case, and turned it over. Looking at the forbidding image of Helena's father, Amba concentrated on its image, waiting for Lord Torren's contact. His face materialised into its living form almost at once, and he looked grave. "Bring her through," he ordered. "Immediately." Amba was surprised that he knew what had happened without her explaination—surprised, but very much relieved. "Take Brogan's hand," Amba said to Helena, before placing her own on her friend's shoulder. As the tournament field and its pandemonium disappeared to be replaced by another location, Amba couldn't help but be on guard as she looked around—too much adrenaline was still coursing through her system. "Lord Torren," she said bowing in deference. "I didn't..." she started, but remembering that he already knew what happened, stopped her concerned rambling, backing up enough for Helena's stepfather to reach her side. She looked on, wondering if he would use sorcery or shifting to heal her—she knew the theories behind it, but as of yet, had not seen them in practice. They were at once in the lab where Torren had tested their blood—and a bevy of small, anxious demons had taken Helena and set her on the top of the work bench which seemed to be covered with some sort of purple moss. Even as they set Helena gently down, it seemed to put on a spurt of growth, not just cushioning her but holding her firmly in place. Torren had taken up what looked to be some some of glass lens, oval in shape, a hand-width broad. He was using this to survey Helena's wound, not standing close, but calm, measured. And grim. "Did either of you see any sign that the blade was enchanted?" he asked abruptly. Such weapons were, of course, strictly forbidden in the sword dances. But that didn't stop people trying to use them. Helena looked at Torren as best she could with her head held fast by the purple moss. "It...seemed normal enough at the time..." she replied uncertainly. Her stepfather's dire expression was starting to unsettle her. "No, sir," Amba said, equally uncertain. Torren set the lens down to one side. "Well, there's no aura, which is a good sign. I wouldn't want to leave something trapped inside you. Now ... " He reached out his hand towards Helena's stomach; his middle finger seemed elongated, and had a dim golden glow. Two of the demons moved forward, chittering quietly, and began to pull the ragged remains of her shirt back from the wound. Torren paused and looked at Amba. "Perhaps you would like to find her Highness and inform her that the wound was not as grave as was feared?" he said. At the mention of Helena's mother, Amba paled. She had not met the woman, but what she had heard of her made Amba think that she would not be as hospitable as Lord Torren had. She quashed these thoughts though, saying, "Yes, I can do that." Looking down towards Helena once again, she smiled, before heading out to find Princess Fiona. "Good luck," Helena told Amba with a sort of gallows humor. Amba passed out of her line-of-sight and Helena sighed, sorry to see her go. She felt light-headed, and tired, and her wound burned and stung. (Split to Facing the Gallows) "It's not bad?" she asked Torren, looking for confirmation. "No, it's not bad," said Torren calmly. "I can heal it completely—without any trace of a scar. But I am wondering whether I should—or if leaving an imperfection in your flesh would remind you of a problem in your emotional structure that you need to correct." Helena looked at her stepfather silently for a moment. He was going all calm and dispassionate on her, a sure sign he was gearing up to deliver a lecture, one she was pretty sure she knew the topic of and one she was pretty sure she didn't want to hear right now. Unfortunately for her, she was a captive audience. Literally. She tried to lift her arm from the purple moss. She failed. "Were you watching the match?" she asked, hoping the answer was no. "Of course," said Torren. "I always watch your matches when I can. Was it pride or vulnerability that laid you open to injury, do you think? Or something else?" Helena felt her face flush. "He's an ass and he deserved what he got," she replied angrily. "I'm just sorry I wasn't the one to give it to him." "Why weren't you?" asked Torren. It was perhaps something of a rhetorical question; doubtless Torren already knew the answer. His elongated nail pricked against her skin. Her belly twitched in response. Breath quickening, she once again struggled against the purple moss, but the moss held tight. "I didn't trip him," Helena replied, not looking at Torren. "He fell on purpose. But I didn't say anything to the judge, though I could've had him disqualified. For this I get lectured?" She turned her gaze to him. "Why won't you heal me?" she asked him accusingly. "It hurts..." "I am healing you," said Torren. "But, as you know, wounds are harder to heal when the victim cannot shift in response to the efforts of the healer." Helena glowered, though the expression did not seem to be directed at him. "And don't avoid my questions. Why weren't you the one to punish him as he deserved?" She said nothing for a long moment. "I let him provoke me," Helena finally admitted quietly. "I let him provoke me and I responded in anger and pride and it affected my judgment. I know. I know." Torren gave a nod of acknowledgment. "However, you now have to decide on what your strategy will be to avoid a recurrence. Because, believe me, that will now be seen as your weakness—and all your opponents will attempt to attack you there." Helena's jaw worked as she thought about this. She knew he was right. It didn't mean she wanted to accept it. "I know we've been over this before, but..." Helena trailed off, visibly upset. She took a moment to get her voice back under control. "Both Amba and Lord Merlin are half-Amberite and they can shift. I should be able to as well. I can—you remember the incident with the pear—I just can't consciously control it. "Isn't there something you can do? Some drug or procedure that would serve like a...a catalyst? So I could gain conscious control?" "Yes," said Torren, "and it would be seen as a typical underhand gyvie trick. Careful! You really don't want my finger to slip at this particular moment." Helena closed her eyes. He was silent for a moment, intent on his work, before he spoke again. "I must say I found Merlin's to be a more elegant solution." "What is that?" She didn't open her eyes. "He was something of an outcast, despite his proficiency as a shifter. And he turned it on its head—he made it a badge of honour to be associated with him, with the gyvie. I believe he had a badge made... Of course, he had his brothers to support him. But you already have quite a following—people who support you and look up to you because of your skill on the field. The problem is, young lady, that you are marching so determinedly forward that you fail to notice there are a not insignificant people prepared to follow wherever you lead." Helena opened her eyes and looked at Torren. After a moment she asked, "What happened to him, Father? Merlin? How did he go from all that to the state he's in now?" "I don't know," said Torren. "Some people, of course, say that it is all Mandor—he drugs or enchants him to keep Merlin under his will. Myself... I don't think that Mandor is so crass. I wonder...if what Merlin has become is not the worst that Mandor can do, but the best. "However, we weren't talking about Merlin, who is far away on the other side of the Universe. We are talking about you and your problems. Stop trying to change the subject and tell me instead what you propose to do in order to gain my permission to set foot on a sword dance square again." There was a hint of amusement in his last words, but a serious intent behind them. Torren was clearly concerned. Helena exhaled forcefully. "All right, I will change my priorities concerning the Dance. I will not compete in order to prove myself to others, as there is nothing to prove. I will compete in order to do the best that I can, my primary goal only to better my own performance." She paused and made a face. "That sounds so...maudlin. Vapid. Inane. I can't go there." Helena closed her eyes and exhaled again. "All right. I can promise not to let myself get riled again by derogatory comments. I will calmly kick their ass in the Dance rather than going berserk and kicking their ass. Will that suffice?" "As words, no. As deeds, yes." The moss was beginning to twist and wither away from her. She struggled up as soon as she was free, hating the loss of control she felt while restricted by it. "You will allow the demons to carry you to your room and prepare to rest there for the remainder of the day," he said, turning away to wash his hands in a small bowl of violet water which one of the demons held up to him. "Amba and your mother will doubtless visit you ... " He turned to look at her again. "Understand, Helena. Both your mother and I are aware of the risks of the sword dances. We had that in mind when you begged to learn the art—and we accepted it. But if you behave recklessly or foolishly, we will take steps to protect you—do you understand?" "Yes, Father," she replied, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. "I understand."
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