[ easy enough instructions to follow, and thank god for that, because the last thing that nick wants to do is delay thing by getting lost. with a quick promise to be there soon, nick hangs up. he briefly considers sending a message to...someone, just to let them know where he's going, what he's attempting, but in the end he thinks better of it. there's been too many terse words tossed back and forth because of this exact situation, and it's just another potential delay.
nick turns up quickly — not portal quickly, but as fast as any person could be expected to cross the house. blessedly sober, he's thankful for that too as he knocks the door by the described bust, tugging the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands, followed by shoving them into his pockets, as he steels himself for--whatever it is that nick is about to find himself a witness to. ]
Aemond, I'm so sorry.
[ is how he starts, because honestly--what else is there to say? ]
Save it for whoever I might kill in the next days.
[ he should be kinder to nicholas. he should be more vulnerable, or at least allow the truth of it to seep out and gain some sympathy. mother would use it, weaponise it against those who might dare say this offence has been earned, or deserved, or justified for the crimes done by their side. but they aren't home. this isn't westeros. the people here are are fools who would vote against each other out of some misguided feeling or sentiment.
aemond cannot split his thoughts apart this way. this is not useful to their cause. this is not useful to her.
he's kneeled on the thick carpet, lone eye fixed on his mother's paling skin; the smeared blood over her closed eyelids is his doing. ]
[ on another day the dismissal might have pulled nick up short — probably not enough to leave, but he might have said something at least — but not right now. right now, aemond's mother is dead, and frankly, that probably earns him the right to be as short with anyone as he wants. especially when he sees the body.
there's no hiding the fact that nick pales a little at the sight, and he's got even more questions running through him at the sight. how did this happen, what or who did this, could it happen again? but they're questions for a different time, too, at least once he's dealt with the immediate problem. it's not strictly in his scope, exactly, is the thing. dealing with the dead clashes with nick's systems in a way that's probably going to leve him queasy later, but that doesn't mean that he's any less capable. ]
Do you- [ he clears his throat, crossing over to stand next to aemond, and he swallows before he speaks again. ] ...a, uh, washcloth, would be helpful. I can't get rid of the blood.
[ a washcloth — aegon takes it upon himself to find one, and aemond is for once glad that his brother is adept at making himself unseen when he wishes to be. years of sneaking out of the red keep, evading his minders, losing his guards just for the joy of it; it comes handy for this one instance, in aemond's mind.
perhaps everything has a purpose, however trivial it seems. a butterfly flaps its wings in a garden somewhere in essos, and that leads to a storm on the shores of dorne, creeping north.
aemond notices nicholas paling, and his gaze softens the barest amount. ]
We can clean up after. Her body just can't be like this, when we bring her back. She—
[ not was. even over the dead body, it seems too--final. another 'i'm sorry' weighs heavy on his tongue, useless as it might be, but he has the good sense to keep this one to himself. instead nick drops down to kneel next to aemond and does his best to ignore the way that the sticky blood slowly soaks into the knees of his jeans, as least he'd seen fit to wear something longer than shorts for once, another small scant blessing.
the damage is extensive, that much is obvious, and nick takes a moment to assess everything that he can see. he's not sure that it will be as quick a fix as he might normally manage, dead flesh just doesn't want to listen to him as much as the living tends to, but he knows that it's doable, at least. ]
Can I...
[ it might be a little reductive to ask, considering aemond asked him here only to fix her wounds, but nick asks as he holds a hand out towards the body all the same, pausing to check in before his palm comes into contact with the torn flesh of her gut. ]
[ brought back within her, he can't bring himself to say. several emotions flash across aemond's face: a fiercely potent grief, an old anger rising, a deeply abiding hopelessness. death was always coming for their house, but aemond had never thought it would touch his mother of all people. not her. her andal blood should have protected her from this. she should not have died.
aemond swallows bitterly, and nods his permission. ]
If you must do anything, just do so. I will not question you.
[ truth be told he needed the moment to steel himself as much as anything else. it's not that nick has never witnessed this level of violence before, but it's hardly an experience that he has come across much. just once, actually, one particularly awful night that nick mostly does his best to forget. he's not used to this by any means, but nick does his best not to let his fingers tremble as his hand finds contact with the cooling body in front of him. there is a lot of damage, but he has to get to work.
it's a little late to stay unbloodied, but nick adjusts his position a little, rolls both his sleeves up to his elbows, and gets to work. it's grim stuff, his mouth is set in a tight, permanent line and he quickly gives up any pretence that his hands aren't shaking, but he's careful and efficient all the same. nick's hands are gentle as he picks up parts of this woman's body that decidedly should have remained inside, even if nothing really feels gentle enough for the kind of task he's undertaking here. ]
Do you know any prayers?
[ nick doesn't know why he asks, except for that the silence feels intense in a way that nick doesn't quite know how to grapple with. nick doesn't know aemond very well, but he has the distinct impression that if he doesn't want to answer, he will make his feelings known well enough.
in the mean time, even that train of thought helps with the distraction, as he works towards scooping everything back into the cavities of her body, torn open violently and viciously. this was a cruel way to die, it would have been painful, and slow, but nick doesn't remember any of the old prayers of his own, that he might be able to run over in his mind if aemond doesn't speak any of his aloud. he doesn't know how to pay respects to this woman that he never met alive, except to do his best to give her back a body that doesn't look quite so tormented. ]
[ prayers — his mother has a great number of them to her. softly, aemond answers: ]
I do. Of her faith, I know many of them.
[ alicent hews to her faith in moments of distress, in moments of need and grief and hurt. when duty had fled and abandoned her to the neglectful and greedy men in her life, faith had remained steadfast in her hands. aemond wanted to know the warmth of the faith once, because of her. when he was a child, he wished to see what his mother sees when they visit the sept — wanted to see how the seven gods light her way, what truths she sees in the candle flames.
in the years since, aemond has learned one thing from gods: they mean shit in the face of violence and death. the gods certainly never gave his mother any comfort.
but he prays, all the same. prays to the warrior for justice, to the smith for strength, to the father for truth. prays to the mother for mercy, to the maiden for kindness, to the crone for wisdom. and to the stranger, aemond prays for his mother's soul. that they might protect her until she might return to them, whole but changed.
there is a pause, after, before aemond— sings. slower than its marching rhythm, low and quiet, serious in the performing of it. an old valyrian prayer for sending the dead into dragonfire, to meet again in the afterlife soaring through the skies freed of mortal chains.
andi somblien issa satï ja. i am one with the sky.
alicent is a mother of dragons. she deserves the fire. ]
[ the work isn't easy but it's more bearable with the sound of aemond's voice in the background, giving nick something to focus on that isn't the sheer, overwhelming violence of what happened in this room. there's a reverence to his words that seems--right, for the moment that they've found themselves in now. by the time nick has managed to get all the strewn parts of alicent as close to back in place as he can manage on his own, aemond has started to sing.
it's enough to give nick pause for a moment, hands hesitating before he sits up a little straighter, wipes his hands quickly against his sweater for lack of a better option before reaching out again. this isn't nick's moment for sadness after all, he doesn't know the person in front of him — he barely knows aemond, really — but there's no denying the tragedy of it all. he's her son, and the impermanence of death doesn't ake the moment any less horrific.
( he's reminded, briefly, of august and the bloody mess that he'd found, and how close they were to being in this very same situation, but now isn't the moment to think about that either, so nick just swallows and starts again. )
there's no visible indication that what nick is doing now is magic, still kneeling and hunched over the body, hands pressed gently to the less damaged parts of her torso to help the magic flow a little easier. the only indication that anything is happening at all is the slow knitting together of flesh, starting at the deep wounds closest to where his hands lie. ]
You might not want to watch this part.
[ he makes the suggestion carefully, quietly. it's not that aemond has given nick any impression that he is at all squeamish, but frankly, it's not exactly a pretty process on the living. nick doesn't know what this might look like on the dead. ]
[ aemond shakes his head with a sharpness that hurts to see. ]
I must see it. We must bear witness.
[ aegon is here, somewhere. he's barely cognisant of aegon returning, dropping some towel and deep bowl and with him another bottle of drink, though untouched. they have to watch. this is their mother. their queen. the woman who has stood by the kingdom in their father's place when health took from viserys both body and mind.
witnessing the ugliness of her death is the least they could do. ]
It is our duty as her sons to see her through this.
[ it's not nick's place to say whether or not that's a good idea, so even though he pauses for a beat, watches aemond's answer closely, he ultimately nods all the same. still— ]
You can look away, if you need to.
[ just to put it out there. the thing is, nick knows theoretically that he can do this, the same way that he understands innately that he cannot do a thing with metals, precious stones, the same way that he understands that he'll never be able to harness the power of demonic energy for his own abilities, without ever having had to try. some things are just true to nick, as clear as the sky is blue and the grass is green. nick knows that he can knit these wounds back together, he just doesn't know what it's going to look like when he does.
he can't split his focus between restoring alicent and making the process look palatable though, not when this is already going to require all of his concentration. already he can feel the body resisting him, the lack of life in her cells slowing his progress. foreign bodies push themselves out of deep wounds, blood weeps out of the jagged cuts as if they were freshly made. edges of flesh pull themselves together as if stitched by an invisible hand, the torso underneath his hands churns as organs find their way back to their correct places again. nick breaks a sweat, just a little, but he doesn't stop. at least not until he has to.
there comes a point where nick has to sit back on his heels, looking over the body with a frown. alive, this might have proven something of a challenge, but nick would have been able to heal it all eventually — but dead, the very cells that make up a body fight him at every step. scars still twist across her body where the open wounds had once lay, and if nick wishes that he had...more. enough to erase any trace of the violence that happened here. but no one will thank nick if he pushes himself any further. ]
I'm sorry, I think... [ nick tries his best to drag the back of his hand over his forehead in a way that won't smear any of the blood onto his face, but he can't tell how successful he is. ] I think that's the best I can do.
[ his best is more than aemond or aegon could ask for. more than they could have expected in a place like this, where friends are rare and allies true even more so. he'd noticed nicholas start to pale halfway through his efforts, as if his own abilities are fighting him from within — given what he's learned of magics, he thinks he's got the right of it on most accounts.
magic is not to be trifled with. aemond knows the weight of what he's asked. ]
And you've done remarkably. House Targaryen gives our thanks.
[ he gives nicholas his own handkerchief, so that he might use it to wipe himself clean before he must depart. this next part is for he and aegon alone. ]
Please speak to no one about what you've done until then. For your safety, most of all.
[ this is a great power. a terrible, horrifying power in the wrong hands, even if he doubts nicholas is the type to wield it for brutality. aemond reaches for him and wipes the sweat off his brow, then presses a small kiss to the top of his head — as a grateful lord might for a loyal commoner. ]
Go. Please. I will find you later, Nicholas Ó Broin.
[ he takes the handkerchief with a small nod, even though what he really needs is a shower, preferably several hours long and hot enough that he can't feel his skin anymore, but he recognises the gesture for what it is at least. he's careful in the way that he wipes the worst of the blood off of his hands, gentle reverence in all his movements even now. the work might be done, at least as much of it as nick can be responsible for, but there's still a dead woman at his side and grieving sons with him.
it's horrific, frankly, what happened here, but it isn't the time for questions. aemond is pragmatic enough that nick feels safe in assuming he would have been alerted to an imminent threat — anything else can wait, for now. rising back to his feet, nick hesitates for just a moment before he reaches out to squeeze aemond's arm, a gentle pressure just above the elbow, a quick little comfort before he lets go again. ]
I'm really sorry this happened to her.
[ the words are offered as gently as the contact, quiet enough that they don't demand a response. nick doesn't wait for one anyway, this next part isn't for him. he just lingers long enough to offer the words, and the touch, and then he leaves, to let her sons tend to the process of cleaning alicent up. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
→ action
nick turns up quickly — not portal quickly, but as fast as any person could be expected to cross the house. blessedly sober, he's thankful for that too as he knocks the door by the described bust, tugging the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands, followed by shoving them into his pockets, as he steels himself for--whatever it is that nick is about to find himself a witness to. ]
Aemond, I'm so sorry.
[ is how he starts, because honestly--what else is there to say? ]
no subject
[ he should be kinder to nicholas. he should be more vulnerable, or at least allow the truth of it to seep out and gain some sympathy. mother would use it, weaponise it against those who might dare say this offence has been earned, or deserved, or justified for the crimes done by their side. but they aren't home. this isn't westeros. the people here are are fools who would vote against each other out of some misguided feeling or sentiment.
aemond cannot split his thoughts apart this way. this is not useful to their cause. this is not useful to her.
he's kneeled on the thick carpet, lone eye fixed on his mother's paling skin; the smeared blood over her closed eyelids is his doing. ]
Tend to her, please.
no subject
there's no hiding the fact that nick pales a little at the sight, and he's got even more questions running through him at the sight. how did this happen, what or who did this, could it happen again? but they're questions for a different time, too, at least once he's dealt with the immediate problem. it's not strictly in his scope, exactly, is the thing. dealing with the dead clashes with nick's systems in a way that's probably going to leve him queasy later, but that doesn't mean that he's any less capable. ]
Do you- [ he clears his throat, crossing over to stand next to aemond, and he swallows before he speaks again. ] ...a, uh, washcloth, would be helpful. I can't get rid of the blood.
no subject
perhaps everything has a purpose, however trivial it seems. a butterfly flaps its wings in a garden somewhere in essos, and that leads to a storm on the shores of dorne, creeping north.
aemond notices nicholas paling, and his gaze softens the barest amount. ]
We can clean up after. Her body just can't be like this, when we bring her back. She—
Have you met her before?
[ have you seen a dead body before? ]
no subject
[ not was. even over the dead body, it seems too--final. another 'i'm sorry' weighs heavy on his tongue, useless as it might be, but he has the good sense to keep this one to himself. instead nick drops down to kneel next to aemond and does his best to ignore the way that the sticky blood slowly soaks into the knees of his jeans, as least he'd seen fit to wear something longer than shorts for once, another small scant blessing.
the damage is extensive, that much is obvious, and nick takes a moment to assess everything that he can see. he's not sure that it will be as quick a fix as he might normally manage, dead flesh just doesn't want to listen to him as much as the living tends to, but he knows that it's doable, at least. ]
Can I...
[ it might be a little reductive to ask, considering aemond asked him here only to fix her wounds, but nick asks as he holds a hand out towards the body all the same, pausing to check in before his palm comes into contact with the torn flesh of her gut. ]
no subject
[ brought back within her, he can't bring himself to say. several emotions flash across aemond's face: a fiercely potent grief, an old anger rising, a deeply abiding hopelessness. death was always coming for their house, but aemond had never thought it would touch his mother of all people. not her. her andal blood should have protected her from this. she should not have died.
aemond swallows bitterly, and nods his permission. ]
If you must do anything, just do so. I will not question you.
delayed cw: death + gore oops i forgot
[ truth be told he needed the moment to steel himself as much as anything else. it's not that nick has never witnessed this level of violence before, but it's hardly an experience that he has come across much. just once, actually, one particularly awful night that nick mostly does his best to forget. he's not used to this by any means, but nick does his best not to let his fingers tremble as his hand finds contact with the cooling body in front of him. there is a lot of damage, but he has to get to work.
it's a little late to stay unbloodied, but nick adjusts his position a little, rolls both his sleeves up to his elbows, and gets to work. it's grim stuff, his mouth is set in a tight, permanent line and he quickly gives up any pretence that his hands aren't shaking, but he's careful and efficient all the same. nick's hands are gentle as he picks up parts of this woman's body that decidedly should have remained inside, even if nothing really feels gentle enough for the kind of task he's undertaking here. ]
Do you know any prayers?
[ nick doesn't know why he asks, except for that the silence feels intense in a way that nick doesn't quite know how to grapple with. nick doesn't know aemond very well, but he has the distinct impression that if he doesn't want to answer, he will make his feelings known well enough.
in the mean time, even that train of thought helps with the distraction, as he works towards scooping everything back into the cavities of her body, torn open violently and viciously. this was a cruel way to die, it would have been painful, and slow, but nick doesn't remember any of the old prayers of his own, that he might be able to run over in his mind if aemond doesn't speak any of his aloud. he doesn't know how to pay respects to this woman that he never met alive, except to do his best to give her back a body that doesn't look quite so tormented. ]
no subject
I do. Of her faith, I know many of them.
[ alicent hews to her faith in moments of distress, in moments of need and grief and hurt. when duty had fled and abandoned her to the neglectful and greedy men in her life, faith had remained steadfast in her hands. aemond wanted to know the warmth of the faith once, because of her. when he was a child, he wished to see what his mother sees when they visit the sept — wanted to see how the seven gods light her way, what truths she sees in the candle flames.
in the years since, aemond has learned one thing from gods: they mean shit in the face of violence and death. the gods certainly never gave his mother any comfort.
but he prays, all the same. prays to the warrior for justice, to the smith for strength, to the father for truth. prays to the mother for mercy, to the maiden for kindness, to the crone for wisdom. and to the stranger, aemond prays for his mother's soul. that they might protect her until she might return to them, whole but changed.
there is a pause, after, before aemond— sings. slower than its marching rhythm, low and quiet, serious in the performing of it. an old valyrian prayer for sending the dead into dragonfire, to meet again in the afterlife soaring through the skies freed of mortal chains.
andi somblien issa satï ja. i am one with the sky.
alicent is a mother of dragons. she deserves the fire. ]
no subject
it's enough to give nick pause for a moment, hands hesitating before he sits up a little straighter, wipes his hands quickly against his sweater for lack of a better option before reaching out again. this isn't nick's moment for sadness after all, he doesn't know the person in front of him — he barely knows aemond, really — but there's no denying the tragedy of it all. he's her son, and the impermanence of death doesn't ake the moment any less horrific.
( he's reminded, briefly, of august and the bloody mess that he'd found, and how close they were to being in this very same situation, but now isn't the moment to think about that either, so nick just swallows and starts again. )
there's no visible indication that what nick is doing now is magic, still kneeling and hunched over the body, hands pressed gently to the less damaged parts of her torso to help the magic flow a little easier. the only indication that anything is happening at all is the slow knitting together of flesh, starting at the deep wounds closest to where his hands lie. ]
You might not want to watch this part.
[ he makes the suggestion carefully, quietly. it's not that aemond has given nick any impression that he is at all squeamish, but frankly, it's not exactly a pretty process on the living. nick doesn't know what this might look like on the dead. ]
no subject
I must see it. We must bear witness.
[ aegon is here, somewhere. he's barely cognisant of aegon returning, dropping some towel and deep bowl and with him another bottle of drink, though untouched. they have to watch. this is their mother. their queen. the woman who has stood by the kingdom in their father's place when health took from viserys both body and mind.
witnessing the ugliness of her death is the least they could do. ]
It is our duty as her sons to see her through this.
no subject
You can look away, if you need to.
[ just to put it out there. the thing is, nick knows theoretically that he can do this, the same way that he understands innately that he cannot do a thing with metals, precious stones, the same way that he understands that he'll never be able to harness the power of demonic energy for his own abilities, without ever having had to try. some things are just true to nick, as clear as the sky is blue and the grass is green. nick knows that he can knit these wounds back together, he just doesn't know what it's going to look like when he does.
he can't split his focus between restoring alicent and making the process look palatable though, not when this is already going to require all of his concentration. already he can feel the body resisting him, the lack of life in her cells slowing his progress. foreign bodies push themselves out of deep wounds, blood weeps out of the jagged cuts as if they were freshly made. edges of flesh pull themselves together as if stitched by an invisible hand, the torso underneath his hands churns as organs find their way back to their correct places again. nick breaks a sweat, just a little, but he doesn't stop. at least not until he has to.
there comes a point where nick has to sit back on his heels, looking over the body with a frown. alive, this might have proven something of a challenge, but nick would have been able to heal it all eventually — but dead, the very cells that make up a body fight him at every step. scars still twist across her body where the open wounds had once lay, and if nick wishes that he had...more. enough to erase any trace of the violence that happened here. but no one will thank nick if he pushes himself any further. ]
I'm sorry, I think... [ nick tries his best to drag the back of his hand over his forehead in a way that won't smear any of the blood onto his face, but he can't tell how successful he is. ] I think that's the best I can do.
no subject
magic is not to be trifled with. aemond knows the weight of what he's asked. ]
And you've done remarkably. House Targaryen gives our thanks.
[ he gives nicholas his own handkerchief, so that he might use it to wipe himself clean before he must depart. this next part is for he and aegon alone. ]
Please speak to no one about what you've done until then. For your safety, most of all.
[ this is a great power. a terrible, horrifying power in the wrong hands, even if he doubts nicholas is the type to wield it for brutality. aemond reaches for him and wipes the sweat off his brow, then presses a small kiss to the top of his head — as a grateful lord might for a loyal commoner. ]
Go. Please. I will find you later, Nicholas Ó Broin.
no subject
[ he takes the handkerchief with a small nod, even though what he really needs is a shower, preferably several hours long and hot enough that he can't feel his skin anymore, but he recognises the gesture for what it is at least. he's careful in the way that he wipes the worst of the blood off of his hands, gentle reverence in all his movements even now. the work might be done, at least as much of it as nick can be responsible for, but there's still a dead woman at his side and grieving sons with him.
it's horrific, frankly, what happened here, but it isn't the time for questions. aemond is pragmatic enough that nick feels safe in assuming he would have been alerted to an imminent threat — anything else can wait, for now. rising back to his feet, nick hesitates for just a moment before he reaches out to squeeze aemond's arm, a gentle pressure just above the elbow, a quick little comfort before he lets go again. ]
I'm really sorry this happened to her.
[ the words are offered as gently as the contact, quiet enough that they don't demand a response. nick doesn't wait for one anyway, this next part isn't for him. he just lingers long enough to offer the words, and the touch, and then he leaves, to let her sons tend to the process of cleaning alicent up. ]
🎀 done.