faderift | CLOSED | one minute you say we're a team

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CLOSED | one minute you say we're a team

WHO: Darras & Yseult
WHAT: A random courier mission
WHEN: Before news from Tevinter
WHERE: A road into the Vinmarks
NOTES: Pirate language probable. Maybe giant spiders. Who knows.

[ It's not exactly a glamorous mission, which is fine. The problem--Yseult thinks to herself but does not say when she is handed the assignment--is that it's also not a good use of her skills. Yes, the agent needs to be met in the pass midway from Wildervale, the message needs to be collected and delivered the rest of the way to Kirkwall. But surely they could send someone else, like an actual messenger, or anyone with two legs and a brain, and not a highly-trained spy? At first she'd thought perhaps there must be some other dimension to this, some suspicion about the courier, or some potential threat. But no. This is the Inquisition, and as it turns out their rumored egalitarian leanings are both very much true and also seem extend even to their internal assignment structures. It's all very different than she's used to.

So her horse is not the only one champing at the bit to get going and get this over with as she waits just outside Kirkwall's northern gate. Even this early, the road toward Wildervale is busy, merchants and farmers coming and going, wagon traffic stirring up dust to make the already-sweltering day even less pleasant. Her horse is a big grey mare who immediately ate every green thing in reach and has now taken to snorting impatiently, head tossed as much as the reins tied to a tree branch will allow her. Yseult leans against the trunk out of biting range, arms crossed, squinting at the gate. "Someone from Forces will meet you," she was told at the last second, over her protests (not in so many words) that sending two skilled agents was even worse than wasting one. But it seems there have been reports of animal attacks, and they are taking no chances.

She doesn't expect to see Darras, and even shades her eyes with a hand to be sure (as if she could mistake him). She doesn't expect him to come towards her, either. What are the chances, after all, that out of everyone in Forces, his name was pulled? And that he actually turned up to do the work? Slim, but here they are. She pushes off the trunk and lifts her hand in a little (awkward, ill-advised) wave. ]

Good morning.

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[He makes a noise of disgust--or disappointment, perhaps--or something between the two, but whatever its motivation, he turns away from her, pushes a hand over his mouth, as if to shut himself up.

The motivation to stay shut up does not last long, not after what she's said.]

And why is it my way that's got to be the wrong one. Why is it I have to be judged by your standards, by your morals, and-- If I start to believe in saving the world, do I have to turn my back on everything I care about? My ship, my crew--none of them are anything compared to you, none of them have ever been anything--but they've seen me through, they've saved my arse as often as I've saved theirs. And so what. They can just die, for what they are? They can be hanged, poisoned, imprisoned--and I'll learn to be all right with that, because nothing I've done can be justified, nothing they've done, can be--

You think you know it all. You think the world fits in to your narrow definitions. All those rules, all those standards--well, it doesn't. It doesn't. People do things, because they have to do things. You are who you are because of the things that you've done. Are you proud of them all? I'll never know, 'cos you pull a sheet over it all and call it justified. You kill people, but you've got backers, so it's all right.

It's fucked. And the next time you console yourself with that, remember that you were tipping poison into the wine of people I knew. Real people. Some of them I even gave a shit about. Some of them were decent--by my standards, yeah--but all of them deserved a better end than that.

Because your way is wrong! [ Yseult bursts out, a rare raising of her voice, anger spilling over. They're not hidden away in a cabin now nor a room in the Gallows, no one listening at the door. She reins herself in anyway, volume immediately lowered again, even if the intensity remains, tilting her forward, jerking an arm out of their cross to stab a finger at the ground. ]

I am who I am, Darras, because of men like you. I exist because you exist. If it weren't for you and your precious crew and your 'decent' pirates and all the other men like you who think you can go about taking whatever you like from this world no matter who you injure in the process, I wouldn't need to be what I am. I wouldn't need to do what I do. No one would. If you want me to stop then you stop first.

Because of men like me?

[He raises his chin, as she snaps at him. Holds his ground, not a single sign of a flinch about him. There's a kind of bravery to it, hearing what she says, what she thinks of him, and not showing the wound, even if he feels it. It's like any injury. You feel it once, it's never so bad the second time.]

But you know me. Not a pirate. You know me. Am I so bad?

[ That's the question, isn't it? The one she wrestles with still, the one that keeps her up at night. The worst of it is there's no answer that she doesn't feel sick thinking. ]

Yes. [ That one definitely feels worst, but she says it firmly, like it doesn't hurt her just as much. ] Yes, you are. I didn't want to see it, because I know how good you can be. And I thought that the way you cared for me meant that you couldn't truly be as selfish as you seemed. I thought it was a part you were playing, like Nina, something you put on because you felt you must but hated the way I hated being her. But it isn't. That's real, that's something you are, and something you will keep being even if you give up the Fancy. And I can't look past it anymore.

[ She begins to scuff a toe in the ground but stops herself and straightens, arms folded, looking him straight in the eye. ]

You can either decide to be a better man, or we're finished. For good. That's all there is.

[Across the brief space that separates them--the hard-packed earth of the road, scattered with leaves and fallen twigs, the debris of the forest--Darras looks at Yseult.

That one hurts. And it's harder to pretend it doesn't, even if he's nearly heard it before from her. She's said, it parts and pieces. They've been here before. They'll be here again.

Unless she means it. The thought flickers, unbidden. Darras goes on looking at her.]

But you'd still love me.

[ She doesn't roll her eyes, but the swing of her head, the sigh, suggest it a little bit. She shuts them instead, just for a moment, at the end of her rope. ]

That's not the point.

[ Yseult drops her arms and turns away, heading back to her horse and untying the reins from the branch, stepping back into the saddle. She stops before heading back to the road, not quite looking at him. ]

I'll hand in my notice to my employers. If you'd really try, I'd give up working for them. The Inquisition is different, or I could freelance. Choose the jobs myself. But if you're never really going to change, if you'd just go through the motions and keep bringing us back here, please just go now. I can't keep doing this.

[ She doesn't wait for a reply, giving her horse a little kick and riding off, back to the road. ]

[It is the point. It's always been the point. Love, the winning hand, over everything else that would keep them apart. Romantic, like something out of a story. He ought to be more jaded to it, but she's spoiled him, all these years.

Only she doesn't give him time to make that point, not with what comes next. It's a version of what they've talked about. The Inquisition, an unwelcome bedfellow, yeah, and Darras would still say, will they let you hand it in, would she be allowed to quit--but that's more of the same. She'll not like that any better than the rest of it.

And he cares. Maker damn him for a fool, but he cares. The road goes back the other way, back to Kirkwall, to the harbor. He could get out a message, call back the Fancy and be on her decks in the next fortnight. Why should he change, when he's the man she fell in love with? Why shackle himself to something he doesn't care about, and what woman would ask that of him?

But he loves her. It's no less true now. Tempered, maybe, complicated and brackish and shot through with pain. Still love.

Angry, Darras grabs the reins of Horse and undoes them from where the beast is lashed. He's clumsy again, in mounting up, but he gets it in time. Perhaps not as quickly as Yseult might have expected, so she might be left twisting in the wind for a few moments, riding alone. Then he's behind her on the road, but keeping his distance, his pace deliberately slow.]

[ She doesn't look back for a while, until long after he's made his way back onto the road and begun plodding along in her wake. There's relief in seeing him there, but not enough.

The road slopes up from here, gently at first but growing steeper by the mile as the head up into the mountains in earnest. The pace necessarily slows, the horses taxed by the ascent. After an hour or two they reach a sort of peak, though really it's a flat section between the peaks, mountains blocking much of the sky around them, though they grow even taller off in the distance. Rock walls begin to close in the road on one side, further off on the other, across a sort of high valley. There's a village here, little more than a waystation and trading post, a few shepherds, but that's where their message will be waiting, and Yseult turns off, pulling up in front of the shop/tavern. ]

[It seems almost unbelievable now, that they ever shared pleasant conversation on this trip. If their fight hadn't stolen back over them like a bloody ghost, he might have told her about what he thought of the mountains, from this close angle, riding into them like a pawn pushed across the face of a map. About how riding the downward slope of the hills makes him think of the worst waves during a storm, the swell and then the sudden pitch, as the world drops out from beneath. The purple flowers that grow on the roadside, as the trees begin to thin out. Tough, weedy stems that stretch long beneath the nodding heads. Something like them used to hang, dried, in bunches, at the little apothecary in the village.

Dull, and sentimental. Darras glares at the flowers in particular each time he sees them, as if to wither them with a look, for daring to exist. He keeps after Yseult all the same.

In the village, he has no choice but to pull his horse alongside Yseult's. Wordless, and still clumsy, he swings himself down. Nearly gets his boot trapped in the stirrup, but saves himself, in the end. His little huff of breath is almost a laugh, as he stumbles. It's the closest they've come to conversation since she ended their argument.]

[ Still not that close, as Yseult doesn't say anything. She's waiting in the narrow strip of shade created by the overhang of the roof, but steps out of it once Darras is off his horse and heads inside. She assumes he'll follow, and assumes also that he was given the same information she was about where and how to collect the message.

It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust as they step into the dim interior, shadows heavy except where the series of small windows cast stark bright squares of sunlight onto the floor. Yseult lingers, blinking, for a moment before heading to the table the instructions described, in the corner between a window and a pile of sacks of feed, and waits for the barman to come take their order. ]

[Darras does follow her, because he's got no choice but to follow her. His eyes are quick to adjust, accustomed to coming up to white sunlight after being belowdecks, or down in the hold in the stinking dark, when he was younger. This isn't even that bad.

The table has two chairs. Cozy, like. Darras thinks about sitting elsewhere, maybe standing up at the bar until the business is concluded. But perhaps there's meant to be two of them. Perhaps if it's just Yseult, alone, the message will never come.

So he sits with her, too. Because he has to. It's like existing in an echo, a simple stupid action he's done thousands of times, and nearly half with her.

The barkeep ambles over, a towel thrown over his shoulder. He's bald and clean-shaven, but sports a pair of thick muttonchops like broom bristles affixed to his face.

What'll it be, he says, expectantly.

Darras holds his tongue and looks at Yseult instead. Expectant.]

[ He sits and doesn't say anything, which is really the best Yseult can hope for at this point. The barkeep's muttonchops are unmistakable, so she says do you have any Hasmali red? It's perfect for this weather even though it really is not at all, and the barkeep's eyes widen slightly but he replies no, but there's a fresh barrel of Rialto white and Yseult shakes her head and says we'll just have lager and they both manage to look--if not natural, on his end, then at least entirely serious the whole time as if they're not speaking secret coded passphrases that seem silly and unnecessary in the middle of the day in an empty, well-lit room.

The barkeep heads off to collect the message (and possibly also the beer? who knows) and Yseult looks out the window and says nothing, fingers knit together on the table in front of her. ]

[Darras is only half-listening as Yseult and the barkeep exchange their doubletalk. He doesn't quite roll his eyes, but the impulse is there. It's not that he's not used code before. He has; of course he has. This all seems so showy. And that's coming from a pirate.

Once the barkeep has gone, and once he's confirmed, surreptitiously, that she's looking the other direction, Darras sneaks a look at Yseult.]

Lager?

[--He says, eventually.]

[ Her eyes are aimed out the window but Yseult's focus is much further away, made most obvious by the way it snaps back when Darras speaks. She's slower to turn her head anyway, and doesn't come all the way around to making eye contact.

A little shake of her chin, one shoulder lifted. ] I didn't choose it.

Yeah, I could've guessed that.

[He knows her drink preferences, what she does and doesn't like. You're not given much option in a tavern, but a taste can be developed anyways, and lager isn't Yseult.

But of course it isn't. In this moment, she's not Yseult. She's an operative, someone working on behalf of an organization. The same organization that Darras is here with, more or less--whatever the circumstances, however he came to be here and whatever it means that he is still here.]

Drinking lager is just doing what it takes, I s'ppose.

[It's kind of a joke. But also very real, which strips some of the humor from it, some of what would make it pleasant.]

[ (She especially does not like warm beer. On certain beaches in Rivain, hedge-mages encase kegs of the stuff in ice, and she has been known to drink a few pints like that in the shade of a cliff or a stand of palms. But even then it's not her first choice.)

On a better day, she'd take it for a joke, despite knowing he only half means it. Today, she exhales, almost a sigh but too restrained, and turns back to the window. The inside of her lip gets caught between her teeth for a moment, jaw tight, and then she smooths her expression back out and says nothing. It's bait, and she won't rise to it. ]

[She doesn't take his bait. And no matter how angry or cruel he is feeling, Darras can't pick a fight with her over nothing. He can't keep after Yseult if she gives him nothing to engage with, no thread to pull to unravel the tapestry that hides the truth of her work.

Silence sucks at their heels, an inescapable mire. It is nothing like the comfortable quiet they used to enjoy. Half-asleep, with her head on his chest and bedsheets tangled about them. On the rocks at low tide, down at the beach. Repairing the well, cutting wood after one of the sparse trees fell after a big storm--all these little domestic scenes that are so far away as to belong to someone else. Yseult, in the cabin of the Fancy, looking out the window at the wake, and the sunset blushing at her skin.

Darras watches her chew at her lip. He thinks, again, about kissing her.

He looks at the table.

The message comes to them presently, delivered with the lager. Darras doesn't see it. A slender tube, inserted into the handle of the beer mug. The barkeep sets down the drinks and gives them a little turn, so the handles are facing them. To Darras, it seems unnecessary. A weird tic.

Enjoy, says the barkeep, with a bow.]

Edited (oops angry when i meant sad) 2018-09-11 21:11 (UTC)

[ Yseult notices it too and knows where to look, thumbing the message free and into her palm, flashed once at an angle only Darras can see, to let him know, then out of sight again in the space of a heartbeat. She drinks once for show, but there's no one about and she's been given no order to linger just in case, no reason to think this meeting observed, so one drink only and then she rises, finding a couple coins from her purse to leave on the table.

Their horses are still waiting just outside, and she has nothing to say as they exit back into the sun, or as they mount up, or at any point in the long, hot ride back to Kirkwall. ]

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CLOSED | one minute you say we're a team

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