[ 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}
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.