The whiskey did exactly what it was supposed to. Darin wasn’t terribly aware during the procedure, though that meant she didn’t squirm, twitch, or protest as Ridahne stitched her back together. She was good with a needle. She did alright with cloth and leather, but skin? What she did with it and a needle was nothing short of poetry. She’d been tattooing for decades and it was only a short hop to stitching flesh. Her hands were steady, careful, accurate, and she did not hesitate. Every once and a while Ridahne stopped to look at Darin and make sure she was conscious (or mostly conscious anyway) though she didn’t have much reason to worry.  When she was finished, the elf took a little wooden jar from her pack and, dipping her fingers into the sweet-smelling amber-green goop inside, she smeared some liberally on the wound before wrapping it in clean linen. She cleaned up, leaving the jar out on the floor by the fire, and settled Darin into the bed and under the covers. “There,” she said. “Good as new. That salve will keep the wound from getting infected. As long as you don’t pull out my stitches, you’ll heal up in no time. Rest now. You look like you need it.” 

Eventually, when the room was silent except the crackle of fire, and except for Darin’s very unaware form, Ridahne was alone. It was the first time she had been alone since she’d met Darin, and she had a quiet moment to reflect. The Gardener. She’d actually found her. After months of false hope and disappointment, Ridahne found her. What had felt like exile now had a purpose again, a reason. She could see the hope of redemption within her grasp and a few tears actually escaped her honey eyes from all the swirling emotion inside her. She could go home, she could see Hadian and his new wife. She’d be there when they had children. She could never be an Eija again but she could take up the family tradition of fishing, or she could try and apprentice under a master tattooer. She had a good hand. She could see Ajoran again. They could—

No. No, he would be better off without her. He had his career to think of, his reputation, his whole life. She would not be the one to to drag him down. Though she would be pardoned and allowed to have citizenship again if she succeeded in protecting Darin, what she had done could never be forgiven or forgotten. High treason was not so lightly thrown aside and she would never be seen the same again. Not with her Ojih declaring what she had done. It didn’t matter if it was paired with a redemption mark. The original was still there and always would be. Ridahne was probably the most hated person in all of Azurei at the moment. How could she ever go home, no matter what good she did? She could practically feel the hope sliding through her fingers like cold sand. Whoosh. Gone. No, no matter what her vision had told her, there was no redeeming herself now. If only people understood WHY she’d done it. If only…

Silently, Ridahne took out a wooden box from her pack—her tattoo kit. It was ornately decorated and carved, and it’s contents were clean, orderly, and well kept. And with a single bone needle she stretched out her right leg and began to continue an unfinished design that she began four months ago at the start of her journey. She would add to it for as long as this chapter of her life wound on, bit by bit, one tiny dot at a time. Ridahne always enjoyed tattooing when her mind was mired in confusing or difficult emotions. The pain helped clear her mind, drawing her focus into her work and the sensation of the bone needle getting poked in once, twice, ten times, twenty, fifty. And the act of creating something, doing something beautiful and worthwhile made her feel just a little less grim. 

In the dark, silent hours of the night she stopped, smearing it with the same balm she’d given Darin. It was made mostly of honey, which did wonders to fight away infection, and the herbs and oils added to the mixture only improved it. The fragrance it gave off was sweet, pungent, and somewhat floral. It was the scent of her childhood. From treating cuts and scrapes to caring for her first Ojih tattoo, it had always been a part of her life and somehow made her think fondly of her mother. 

She did sleep eventually, though she always had a light ear and woke a few times to drunken footsteps in the hall outside, though the night remained uneventful. When Darin awoke, she would find Ridahne on the floor under a blanket, sleeping on her stomach with her kinked hair down and spilling across her neck and face. Ridahne had learned long ago to sleep on her stomach, as it was easier  and more comfortable when wearing a knife harness. There had been a time where she didn’t sleep armed, but that was before she was trained and after that she just felt naked without them. It wasn’t even so much that she felt unsafe, especially when she still lived in Azurei. It was just that she was so used to having them on her at all times that they did become a part of her. That was the key to Azurei blade training—familiarity.