#oddly enough at least once when I had a high fever & was half-awake & half dreaming my mental narration went into rhyme & meter in the

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 2 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M (for language) Warnings: Bereavement, canon-typical injury and violence Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

Life Is Pain

"What ... where are we?"

Her tongue felt thick, too thick to form words properly. She wasn't cold anymore; no, she was hot. Too hot. Dry, painful heat that radiated from her head. She could smell incense, a soothing smoke that calmed the panic rising in the back of her mind. Her eyes opened slowly, feeling sticky with grit, her surroundings swimming into focus.

"Easy," a gentle voice told her, a young woman coming into view. "You're safe now."

"Wh-where's Ria?" Rory tried to ask, certain she was indecipherable. But the woman seemed to understand her just fine.

"Your sister is here," she told the injured woman, soft fingers turning Rory's head gently by the chin to her right so she could see Ria. "She is alive, as are you."

Her best friend was lying in a bed close beside this one, her head bandaged, apparently asleep. But the woman had called her Rory's sister. And this was not a hospital, she realized, letting other details filter into her foggy mind. Grey stone walls, candles for illumination; the mattress beneath her felt hard and oddly spiky. And the woman herself ...

Now Rory really focused on her, there was something terrifyingly familiar in the way she was dressed. She was no nurse, that was for certain. The red and white robe was alarming in itself, but the glimmer of candlelight on the golden sunburst that adorned that robe almost stole the breath from Rory's throat. Familiar, in that she had spent hours interacting with characters dressed just like that. Terrifying, because they weren't real.

She groaned suddenly. "What happened?" she heard herself demand. "Where are we? Who are you peop -" Her question broke off as she tried to move - between the stabbing pain from her side and head, and the rolling wave of nausea, it was a wonder she didn't pass out all over again.

"Hush," the woman told her, firm but kind. "What do you remember?"

Rory frowned, wincing as the expression tugged painfully at a tight sensation at her hairline. "There was ... snow," she said, straining to remember anything more. Well, anything she could say out loud. If this wasn't some kind of crazed fever dream, then talking about cars and burgers would likely end with her cut in two by the nearest templar, terrified that she was an abomination. "Something hit me ..."

"Do you remember why you were in the mountains?" the woman asked, still in that gentle tone.

"Going to ... somewhere?" That was a guess, but it seemed to do the trick. "I-I don't even know what year it is."

"I will tell you," the kind woman promised her. "But first ... are you in pain? Do you need to use the pot?"

"Pot?" As soon as the word left her lips, Rory guessed what she meant. No modern plumbing in Thedas. "Um ..."

Embarrassingly, the answer was yes, and the process of getting that done was not at all pleasant. Quite apart from the pain in her side, just the act of sitting upright brought the nausea to the fore in spectacular fashion. But despite the fact that her patient had just vomited copiously over her lap and was now crying uncontrollably as she apologized, the gentle woman just folded the soiled layer of her robe over and helped Rory to sit on a smoothly-carved commode, drawing a screen about her so she could make use of the facilities with at least the illusion of privacy. That done, Rory was helped back into the bed, thoroughly ashamed of herself, lying back with the unsettling thought that this couldn't be a dream. Who throws up, cries, and uses a medieval chamber pot in a dream?

"There now," her astonishingly tolerant carer said when she was settled again, her robe already changed for a clean one, though Rory noted with some disgust that she had not washed her hands. "I'm Sister Carys, and you are in the Chantry in the village of Frosthelm, in the Ferelden Frostback Mountains."

"I... don't know Frosthelm." Rory frowned thoughtfully. That wasn't a named village in the games, that she knew of. She hadn't read the books, or played all the D.L.C., but she was pretty sure this was new information.

Sister Carys smiled. "I would be very surprised if you had," she assured her patient. "Frosthelm has only stood these past ten years. It was established as a stop on the Penitent's Path to Haven, which is where you were going, of course."

"Of course," Rory heard herself say weakly. Did she say Haven? Why the hell would I be going to Haven? It's totally destroyed. She'd watched it happen countless times in the third game, after all.

"The date is 14 Solace, 9:41 Dragon," Carys went on, seeming not to notice the sudden shock in her conscious patient's eyes. "There is to be a great Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, between the rebel mages and templars, mediated by Divine Justinia herself. As I understand it, you and your sister were traveling with the Right Hand of the Divine and her party when the avalanche cut your convoy in half."

Perhaps it was just as well Rory was feeling so weak. The only sound she could manage was a horrified grunt. All the screaming was inside her head. Just the date was enough to tell her how screwed she was. 9:41 Dragon. Conclave. Justinia. The third game was just about to start. Oh, sweet merciful gods, let this be an insane fever dream. I don't want to live this shit-storm! Everything she knew, everything she'd played multiple times ... it didn't go well for the nameless cast. Between the Conclave and Haven and Adamant and the Arbor Wilds ... She heard herself whimper pathetically.

"Calm yourself," Carys tried to reassure her, assuming that her shock was fear for her companions on the road. "There were no fatalities. Indeed, you and your sister were the worst injured. A little ironic, given your conscription as healers."

"Conscription?" Fucking hell, did some idiot decide that I'm part of the sodding Inquisition?

"Recruitment, then." Carys considered her for a long moment. "You don't remember any of this, do you?"

Sensing a get-out clause, Rory started to shake her head, stilling the motion hastily as her temples throbbed. "How badly were we hurt?" she asked, uncertain why she was playing along. This was nuts. Completely, utterly insane. Things like this just didn't happen. The Modern Girl in Thedas was a fan-fiction trope, for gods' sakes!

Carys frowned at her question. "Moderate head injuries, both of you," she said in concern. "You have several cracked ribs on your left side, but no open wounds, thankfully. You're conscious and coherent. Your sister, however ..." She trailed off uncertainly.

"What about Ria?" Rory demanded, as forcefully as she could manage in her weakened state. Her head turned, seeking out the still form in the next bed. "How long have we been out of it?"

"Ria was awake and talkative until yesterday afternoon, though the content of her speech was less than reassuring," the sister told her worriedly.

I'll bet it was, Rory thought sardonically. Cars and hospitals and accusations of abduction by cosplayers, probably. But that wasn't her main worry. "Did she fall asleep, or did she pass out?" she asked Carys with intense concern.

"As I understand it, she fainted between one word and the next," Carys began, visibly startled when Rory lurched to sit up, heedless of pain and nausea.

"What?" Even an "unskilled" carer like Rory knew that was bad, but apparently not so the healers of Thedas. "Hasn't anyone tried to wake her up?"

"We thought it best to let her sleep -"

"Bollocks to that, she's not asleep," Rory snapped, panic and pain destroying her manners with the urgent need to be sure her best friend was still alive. She'd only seen someone die from a head injury once; she did not intend to see it again today. "Wake her up. Wake her up now, or I'll do it!"

Apparently bowing to whatever skill these people thought she had, Carys rose hastily, turning to lay a gentle hand on Ria's fingers, calling her name softly. Rory rolled her eyes - that wouldn't wake Ria even if she was only sleeping. Stifling a harsh cry of pain at the fluctuating agony in her side, she threw the blanket off her legs, swinging her feet to the icy stone of the floor. Breathless already but high on adrenaline, she pushed herself to stand, lunging forward as her knees buckled to land excruciatingly hard beside her friend's bed.

"Ria? Ria, wake up!" Unlike the sister, there was no softness, no gentleness in the hand Rory laid on her friend's shoulder, nor in the tone of her voice. She was loud and she was forceful, and she went straight for the techniques she had been taught were illegal at home to try and rouse her friend. "Sister Carys, I need something I can press down on her fingernails. A quill or a stick, anything!"

If it wasn't the Chantry's practice to take unexplained orders from patients, Sister Carys showed no sign of it, fleeing out through a heavy wooden door as Rory focused her sudden fury on her unconscious friend. She pinched earlobes, rubbed her knuckles hard on Ria's sternum, tried everything she could think of to elicit a response. She knew what was supposed to happen; it had happened often enough under her hands in the emergency department where she had worked for four years. The patient was supposed to jolt awake, complaining loudly at the painful wake up.

"Come on, don't do this to me," she begged, feeling her fear taking hold as Ria consistently failed to respond to the pain she knew she was inflicting. "You can't leave me alone, you're the only person in this fucked up dream who knows me. I can't dream you dying, I can't."

The door behind her opened with a bang, heralding the sound of Sister Carys babbling to someone else about her patient's sudden mania before being shut out once again. Footsteps tapped against the flagstones, but Rory ignored them, reaching for the candle that stood nearby. She couldn't reach it, the tenderness in her side a torment that had her frustrated, letting out a tearful curse against the world in general and her own uselessness in specific. Ria lay still, pale and unmoving, oblivious to everything Rory knew to try. Her pulse was weak; her breathing shallow and slow. Both were signs Rory didn't want to read.

"Here." A gloved hand came into her peripheral vision, holding the candle she'd failed to reach by herself. There was one more symptom she could check, one more sign that would tell her if her horrible, terrible dream was turning into a nightmare.

Barely acknowledging the owner of that hand, she seized the candle, holding it close to Ria's face as she pried first one, then the other eyelid open. And what she found opened whole new vistas of despair to her. Both pupils were blown, one wider than the other, her best friend's blue eyes turned black with that unnatural dilation. Neither one reacted to the light of the candle directly beside them. Even if she'd had access to a C.T. scanner, or a surgical theater, Rory wouldn't have known what to do. She was a basic, bog-standard care assistant; not a nurse, and definitely not a doctor. In this place, where there was nothing that might even be considered basic medicine back home, Ria was gone. Unless a mage were to walk in and relieve the pressure on her brain ... but there was no point hoping for that. Rory couldn't save her.

"I want to wake up now," she heard herself say, the words seeming to come from some great distance beyond herself. "Let me wake up. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be alone!" Unbidden, her hand came down hard on Ria's pale cheek. "Don't you leave me! Don't you dare leave me!"

She drew back to strike again, only to find her wrists caught in strong hands that would not allow her to take out her shock and grief on a dying woman. A low voice was speaking into her ear, the words lost beneath the roaring in her ears as she struggled against the grip that was holding her together ... until she wasn't struggling anymore. She sagged between the body that held her and the bed that held the body of her friend, tears streaming from her eyes as she screamed out her loss, her fury, heedless of who heard. If this was a dream, it wasn't letting her go; if it was real, she was completely alone. And that was something she could not stand.

She was vaguely aware of other voices, other hands, pulling her away from the stillness of Ria's form. A cup at her lips, that low voice telling her to drink. Perhaps it was poison, her despondent mind hoped, longing to wake up or die, whichever was best. She didn't want to be alone, not again. She drank.

She woke, briefly, hours later, to find another fresh cup at her lips and the feeling of worried eyes on her as she drank again, succumbing willingly to the sleep that reached out to claim her. Twice she woke, and twice she drank, each time wondering if this time the dream would end.

When consciousness at last returned, it found her still in the Chantry infirmary. The pain in her head had eased, the bandage removed from her temple to let the jagged gash there heal naturally. Her mouth felt furry, coated with something unspeakable that made her grimace as she swallowed. Slowly, her eyes opened, feeling the certainty settle in her soul as she looked up at the vaulted stone ceiling above her. Thedas was real. There would be no waking up from this dream that had proved its deadly dangers with numbing cruelty. The thickness of the padding on her side had been reduced, but the pain was still there with every breath she took. Definitely cracked ribs.

Aware of someone watching her, she lowered her eyes from their contemplation of the ceiling to bring her gaze to rest on ... someone she hadn't been expecting to see yet. Holy crap, but he was handsome, even in this awful light. But right now, she didn't care. The delectable, adorable Commander Cullen Rutherford was sitting beside her bed, and she felt nothing. Because the bed beside hers was empty.

He watched her head turn, her eyes focus on the vacant pillow scattered over with petals of Andraste's Grace, and answered the question she could not bring herself to ask. "Two days ago," he said softly. "We thought it better for you not to see the pyre."

Rory stared at the empty bed, aware of a numb chill in her soul. So that was it. She was alone again. First her parents, and now Ria. Everyone always left, one way or another. "So what happens now?" she asked, her voice tiny and hoarse in the silence, grateful he hadn't offered her any platitudes.

Cullen sat forward. "Now you heal, and honor the commitment you made to us," he told her solemnly. "We leave for Haven tomorrow. I expect you to be with us."

Haven. Where someone else's story would begin, in the wake of her friend's ending. Where death and destruction would reign within the year, and too many lives would be lost for one evil being's pride. But it was a purpose, wasn't it? They called her a healer. She might not be a nurse or a doctor back home, but here she could make a difference, maybe. Basic infection control, for one thing. If she stayed with them ... she wouldn't be alone.

Dull and aching, she met his solemn expression with blank calm. "Yes, commander."

[yamisnuffles]

Oooh baby gimme some of that sugar, ♞: Caring for each other while ill with Quinn and Astrazia

This went on unnecessarily long and includes a made up disease because I could only get lost in wookieepedia for so long. Set after the original SW story content.

Quinn was at Astrazia’s side half a second after she stumbled and her full weight was in his arms before she could fall. She pushed at him feebly in an obvious attempt to stand under her own power. Quinn shook his head.

“My lord, I cannot advise that. You should let me take you to the medbay for immediate treatment.”

“I’m quite alright, Quinn,” she insisted when she finally managed a wobbling step away from him. “I haven’t been sleeping well recently, is all. So if you would just stand aside-”

In theory, as the acting medic aboard the ship, Quinn should have had the final say over any patient on board. In practice, a Sith’s word was final. Against his better judgment, he did as she asked and stepped out of the way. She held her proud head high but barely made it another half dozen steps before stumbling again.

This time when Quinn caught her, he also peeled off one of his gloves in order to feel her forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re burning up.”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

She shook her head and said something more. Whatever she meant to tell him, however, was lost in an unintelligible mumble. Her usually sharp eyes took on a distant quality and then she tumbled down. Or, she would have, had Quinn not been ready. He tightened his grip on her so that she barely sagged before her weight was supported and then swept her up into his arms.

He was halfway to the medbay when he ran into Vette.

“What happened? Is she okay?” Quinn merely arched an eyebrow and Vette threw up her hands. “Alright, alright. Stupid question. She’s not now, but will she be okay?”

That was a more difficult question to answer. Quinn frowned thoughtfully down at the unconscious Sith in his arms. Once in the medbay, he carefully deposited her down on the exam bed and then grabbed a nearby datapad. He quickly typed out a list of goods, stopped, and then added a few more items. He held the list out to Vette.

“You have access to… secondary channels to procure goods, correct?”

“Yeah, believe it or not, dealing with you Imperials isn’t always so great. It’s all paperwork and bureaucracy and hey, maybe we’ll enslave you as payment for this deal.”

Quinn pushed past his annoyance with a huff. “Yes well, if you could procure these items, I believe our lord will be fine.”

“Mr. By The Book telling me to go to the Black Market? I didn’t think I’d see the day.”

“Quickly, Vette.”

“Right. Be back before you know it.”

Vette snatched the datapad from him and departed with a mock salute. Once she was gone, Quinn sealed the doors and then commed Jaesa. “My lord is indisposed at the moment and I must put the medbay on quarantine for the time being. Until that time is up, you are in charge of the ship.”

“I understand.” Then, after a beat, Jaesa added, “Quarantine? Is it something so dangerous?”

“A precaution, only. Let me know when Vette has procured the ingredients needed for a cure.”

He cut the line to prevent further questions. Time was of the essence. He’d seen a particularly brutal breakout like this while he was stationed on Balmorra. Aeslexian Fever. If he was correct in his hurried diagnosis- and with Astrazia’s abrupt downturn in health, coupled with the high fever and loss of consciousness, he was fairly certain- not just Astrazia but the whole crew could be at risk if he didn’t act fast.

In a proper facility, there would be little risk, but this was far from a proper medical facility and he was far from a proper medic. He was capable enough in combat to keep his lord well, but this was a dire situation quite apart from the norm. His limited skills likely wouldn’t have been enough if not for his experience in Balmorra. Imperial Intelligence had managed to intercept vital intel from a Republic combat medic that gave them an effective treatment regimen. That particularly detestable doctor didn’t need to know Quinn would now be in his debt.

He started by drastically lowering the temperature in the room. He took a sample of her blood and ran a diagnostic that confirmed his diagnosis. Then, for what little good it would do, he wet Astrazia’s brow with a cool, damp rag. The sensation was enough to bring her eyes fluttering back open. Her gaze drifted about the room and then sharpened and settled on Quinn.

“Not a word about being right, Quinn.”

Her voice was so weak that Quinn felt his throat tighten in response. He spoke only when he was sure of himself. She couldn’t know how worried he was. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She closed her eyes again but he could tell from her breathing that she was still awake. “I can feel your fear,” she said. “How bad is it?”

“I’m only worried because I have to rely on Vette. This far into the outer rim, there is no way we’d get what we need through Imperial channels.”

She smiled faintly. “Then I’ll be just fine.”

Quinn would never understand Astrazia’s faith in Vette, as capable as the twi’lek had proven herself over the years. However, in this instance, he found it oddly comforting. He believed in Astrazia, so if she believed in Vette, he would too. At least this once.

He replaced the cloth periodically to make sure it was still cool. Astrazia didn’t speak again. She seemed soothed for a time but then fever dreams took her and she was fitful. When she cried out, Quinn had to remind himself that it was likely the nightmares that caused her distress rather than any real pain. The fever would weaken her but it was largely painless until the final stretch when organs started to fail. With luck, she would never reach that stage.

He felt the ship jump into hyperspace and silently urged on Vette. He hated waiting at the sidelines. Even if he trusted Vette with his own life- which he decidedly did not- there wasn’t a being in the galaxy that he would bet Astrazia’s life on, except perhaps Astrazia herself. It maddened him to think she could be laid low by a disease likely spread to her by one of the lowborn thugs from the last spaceport they visited. She had bested the strongest Force users of their time. She could not be felled by something so… common.

Quinn wished he had advanced his medical training. He was sure their was a proper cure for the fever other than the solution cobbled together with whatever the resistance had been able to get their hands on. But he didn’t have time to research and, as Vette had pointed out, bureaucracy would hold things up in any case.

Minutes turned to hours. All he could do was wait and try to keep Astrazia comfortable. He folded one of her hands in his own and pressed it to his forehead. He’d rarely felt more useless. It was a torment.

“Stay strong, my love,” he whispered.

He awoke with a start, unaware of having fallen asleep in the first place. It took him a moment to understand what had woken him. His head was resting against Astrazia’s chest and for one drowsy moment, he thought the beeping he heard was somehow her heart. Then, finally fully awake, he realized it was his comm.

“Vette?”

“What’s this about a quarantine? Anyway, got the stuff you wanted. Should I come in, or…?”

“No, I would rather not take any unnecessary risks. I’ll meet you at the door.”

He reluctantly left Astrazia’s side and opened the door. As instructed, Vette was there waiting. She craned her neck to try to get a view inside the medbay but Quinn blocked her line of sight with his body. He took the offered satchel and promptly closed the door once more.

“You’re welcome,” Vette called from the other side.

She had a few more choice, non-Basic words to offer him that he was sure were curses but he was also sure he didn’t care. He would thank her later. For now, he had more important matters to attend to.

He pulled up the information he’d readied earlier, including his extensive notes from Balmorra, and set to synthesizing the crude but effective medicine. In went a number of foul smelling roots and herbs, along with- of all things- a portion of shed colicoid exoskeleton. The resulting concoction was a slurry that look every bit as awful as you would expect, given the ingredients, and smelled worse. Quinn could only imagine that it tasted repugnant, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was results.

He portioned out enough doses to bring Astrazia back to health, as well as a bit for each of the crew to make sure everyone stayed healthy. With some reluctance, he roused Astrazia to give her the first dose.

Once awake, she immediately wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tell me, I need to drink that.”

“I’m afraid so, my lord.”

She sighed. “Well, help me up, then.”

He propped her up, as requested, and then tipped the cup into her mouth. She drank it in one dutiful gulp and then stuck her tongue out.

“Absolutely vile,” she gagged.

He lowered her back down and ran another cooled cloth over her clammy forehead. “You should rest. I’ll wake you when you need to take your next dose.”

Astrazia grimaced. “Feel free not to wake me, then. For that matter, if it’s a choice between death and more of that revolting stuff, I choose death.”

“I know you’re joking, but I wish you wouldn’t.”

She opened her eyes just so she could wink at him. It was less of a reassuring gesture than it might have been if she wasn’t so feeble. “I’ll be sure to pull through, just for you, Malavai.”