run boy run

[foundmyselfagain]

WHO: Gareth and YOU
WHAT: Gareth adjusting to being back from his surprise extended stay in Tevinter
WHEN: The week or so after the rescue
WHERE: Around the Gallows
NOTES: Probably gonna be talk about trauma and how not to deal with it, gareth being gareth, etc etc

i. work

Gareth is a ghost.

He is, however, a ghost with a job, and while his superiors (Salvio? Thranduil? Whatever) would probably be willing to give him a few days off to get over the whole...captive thing, he would prefer to have something to do. Something to occupy his mind, his hands. He's had plenty of time to sit around in a small room.

So he idles around the library, or more accurately, lurks, fidgeting with books in the background, rearranging them, making sure everything is where it should be. He stays away from anyone else, stays silent, and close to the shelves, as though he can make himself invisible simply by not speaking or getting too close to anyone.

When not at the library, he's in one of the vaults, or poking around at one of the old, dusty corners of the cellars of the Gallows, inventorying and tidying. There usually isn't much company in these places, which means anyone who comes here will probably be trying to seek him out to speak.

ii. night

He doesn't sleep much. Dreams provide little comfort, and there's always an unpleasant lurch when he first opens his eyes, wondering if that cell will greet him again.

So, he makes his way to the shore, book in hand. Because, if you're not going to be doing something for a few hours, you might as well read. If the moon doesn't provide enough light to read by, he simply raises the hand with the anchor shard in it, soft green light spilling over the pages.

iii. break
[[ooc note: closed to close cr only!]]

At some point, something in him snaps. Something that had been repressed since he was first captured, waiting to come out, snarling and angry and hurting. He doesn't wait for the Gallows to fall again to let it out, and takes his staff into the training room, hoping to burn that energy on something constructive.

But it isn't enough. Each time his staff makes contact with the training dummy, he imagines a new face, the Venatori, Corypheus, even the ones who broke him in the first place. Templars, Meredith, even Orsino, and it's not enough, he has to hurt them more, give them that yawning pain that he had to live through, that he had to relive, that seems to never leave him.

Fire and thunder break out, sizzling across his staff at first, and then growing stronger as he lashes out with all the mana he can muster, until it runs out and Gareth, with one final swing to the now rather singed dummy, falls to his knees, panting. It doesn't feel better. Not like hurting the Templars did, during the war. Like seeing the people who sought to strike him down fall to their own comrades sword. But he's supposed to be better now.

He doesn't feel better.

Comments

iii

[champions]

She had thought to reach for his shoulder, to comfort him, but after captivity what else might a reaching hand mean? What had hands always had the potential to mean for mages? A beating, a shove into a cell, so often punishment and rarely comfort. Comfort was one of the rights reserved for those without magic.

Marisol contents herself to crouch before him. Of course she was watching, and of course she had followed him, because Gareth needed (deserved) a watchful eye and protective presence.

"Stand up, little brother." Quiet and gentle, but firm all the same.

[foundmyselfagain]

Marisol is, as usual, quite correct. Touching him without notice isn’t the best plan, and the last person who’d tried it has the Venatori magical suppression to thank for not being immolated.

The look he shoots her is sullen, eyes rimmed in red, shoulders shaking with each unsteady breath. “It’s not fair,” He whispers it, though Marisol is close enough to hear. And then he does rise, staff still clutched in his hands. “It’s not fair,” He repeats, louder, firmer. “That—That I have to live like this. That I have to carry this.” These scars, the burden of wrongful action inflicted on him. Even now, he’s not whole, because of them, because of what they did.

It’s not fair.

[champions]

"I know."

It isn't fair. An intelligent young man with so much potential, so much kindness and art and goodness in him, beaten again and again into submission. First by Templars, and now by Tevinter, by the very people she had dreamed (foolishly, so foolishly) they might find refuge in.

He might be sullen, but she could not blame him for that. She holds out her hand in offering for him to take, so she might help him up. "You won't carry it alone. If you wish it, I will carry it with you. And I will find other ways to try to protect you."

[wythersake]

Where are you? In a field that will burn soon, crouched amid the struggling green. When?

"Gareth,"

They’re in the Gallows now, and time’s a thorny question. Isaac unpeels himself from the doorway (best not loom), pace and volume measured to announce his presence. He doesn’t close the distance, stoops down instead some feet away. A greasy bag trails from his hand, forgotten. Breakfast and diversion seem abruptly less relevant.

It’s been a day or two; he hasn’t come running. Gareth has a roommate, and companions, and a cat — he has, possibly, need of some privacy. If Isaac looked those reasons in the eye, he might find something nearer to guilt,

So he doesn’t. There’s enough to see here.

"Have you cut your nails?"

This is a nonsense question; it isn’t. An attempt at focus. The staff might be a safety blanket, that doesn’t mean he wants it in those hands. The door's unlocked and open behind them. Dust motes filter through the late morning sun, around curls of ash and dissipating smoke. It’s a beautiful day. It’s a beautiful day, and they’re in the Gallows.

[foundmyselfagain]

He’s surprised, and he’s not. Startled might be a better word. He hears Isaac, more grateful than he wants to admit for the care he takes to be heard. But his question is so odd that it can’t help but bring Gareth to look at him, puzzled, and then inspect his fingernails. It’s hard to properly drown yourself in your emotions, when you’re trying to figure out what your fingernails have to do with anything.

“Nnno?” More a question than a statement, and the staff is put down, so Gareth can show his hands. They aren’t the dirty, grubby hands of a rebel in the middle of a war, as used to camping as fighting. Nor are they quite the mess they were a few days ago, before he got to the baths. But they bare the wear and tear of a rough life, and tremor slightly when held out like this. He’s pretty sure that’s new. Overexertion, probably. Or terror that hasn’t quite left his system.

“Why?”

[wythersake]

Wood knocks against stone; the staff's down. If Isaac had his way, he'd toss it out entire (the dummy's wrecked, the door is open). But there are limits.

It's like reassembling a puzzle to find the pieces have shifted, and he's forgotten the fit. So Isaac sets down the bag — look, we've both disarmed — takes the excuse to shift closer and squint. The quaking's not good, but it isn't unusual in someone pushed.

"Did mine too short," Trimmed to the quick. He extends his palm in invitation to take. Skin wears with the hairline cracks of frequent washing, healed over again without thought. A waxy sheen from the bag; beneath the char, it smells like bread. "Can't pick anything up."

The heat of the summer has begun to recede, and the breeze from outside carries the rattle of teeth. His eyes fix steady in place. Gareth's paying attention now, no sense in pretense:

"What do you hear?"

When are you?

i.

[heirring]

Libraries ought to be places of refuge. They're meant to be quiet, serious affairs - places of study where a person can really put their head down and be single minded about their work without worry that anyone will fancy interrupting them. That's probably the entire point of a library, honestly. You know - next to the shelf upon shelf of books part. But rules are, as they say, meant to be broken and that apparently means shattering the persistent quiet of this place.

Not that she means to be rude of course. In fact, the blonde woman seems to be trying very hard indeed to both juggle a stack of books without dropping any of them and hiss her questions out in as low a tone as possible. She is however definitely cornering him in an otherwise remote section of the library, which gives him very few escape routes as she whispers in sotto voce:

"Yes, hello. So sorry to interrupt. I don't suppose you could point me in the direction of any old magical theory book, could you? I'd prefer something written by a mage of course, but anything at all would do. Oh, in Common. Trade? I don't seem able to read anything else, unfortunately."

[foundmyselfagain]

Well, he can’t really blame her for being here, or speaking to him. The library is open to everyone, and here he is, clearly someone involved with it. It’s not like this (chatty, loud) stranger knows anything except the obvious: She has a question, he is likely to know the answer.

Still, he doesn’t acknowledge her immediately. First, he finishes his task, carefully putting books in their proper order, the only proof that he even notices her in the way he bodily leans away, willing to press against the shelves if it means getting some space. Even after that, he takes a few moments, staring at the books as he contemplates the question. It’s only after he’s had a good think about it that he gestures (as his movement is somewhat restricted).

“Over there. Look for titles written by people with ‘Enchanter’ in the name, but most everything written about magic has been authored by mages. No one else really cares, unless it’s regarding how to stop us.”

[heirring]

Strange, how every librarian or clerk she's ever known seems to have that exact same habit of leaning away from her when it comes to a few questions and a little light conversation. It must be a very particular kind of person who finds themselves at this sort of work, she thinks, and charges on valiantly.

"'Enchanter.' Of course. Thank you so much for you help." She exhales it all in one breath, and turns promptly to leave him to his books and his book-adjacent duties and whatever else attendants in libraries do. Only after a split second, a single step, Wysteria pivots back around with a smart click of her heels.

"I'm sorry, did you say 'us'? Earlier. In reference to mages, I mean." She pitches her voice very low. "Are you one?"

ii.

[exequy]

Kostos hadn’t hugged him, when he came back, but for a moment it had been a close call, with hands on both Gareth’s shoulders and a locked-up jaw. Then the moment passed. Since then he's only watched, quiet and distant, waiting for a break that is coming, soon, but that he won't be there to see.

Instead he's in their shared room, wondering if Gareth is avoiding him in particular, worrying that maybe he's actually decided to die after all, diving into worst case scenarios because that's what he does best—and then he's on the shore, because the glimmer of the anchor was visible when Kostos walked to the dock to look across at the city and try to think how to get over there to look for him. He's still quiet, and he still keeps some distance, but he sits close enough to cross the threshold into friendly.

“Nell wanted to go back for you,” he says. “She had a dozen rescue plans. They were all terrible.”

Only the second part is hyperbole. They were all bad, all long shots, but not all terrible.

The terrible part is the unspoken thing between those sentences. Nell wanted to go back for him; Kostos wouldn’t let her. He couldn’t have held her back, not physically, but she listens to him, and the ice that filled his rib cage when the crystal went silent seeped out into his arguments. Gareth had been caught. Gareth might have already been dead. Adding another body to the pile (already thirty deep) wouldn’t help anyone.

Anyway, isn’t an apology. Apologies help nothing. Kostos isn’t sure what it is. An offer, maybe. Permission to be angry.

[foundmyselfagain]

Kostos is an Ema’s knot of twisted and opposing emotions, opinions, and thoughts, with only a (un?)lucky few privileged enough to see the end of that rope, and try to tease it a little more loose. Which is why Gareth understands. Kostos feels guilty, but he’s not. He doesn’t like the decision he made, but he knew it was the right one.

Gareth understands, and it doesn’t help.

“Do you want me to tell you that you did the right thing?” His voice is quiet, thoughtful, as he raises his eyes from his book, to meet Kostos’. “I don’t think you do. I don’t think that would make you feel any better.” And so he doesn’t, eyes turning back down to his book, fingers fidgeting with the edge of a page. “Maybe if I were angry at you? Yelled at you, told you that you were no better than the Templars, or the Venatori. Then you could be mad right back, argue your reasoning, whatever you said to Nell that convinced her to leave me for dead. Then you could stomp away, flush with righteous anger over it all.”

He’s not sure if that’s what Kostos really wants, if that’s what would make him feel better. But it seems plausible enough.

“The worst option would be, I think, apathy.” Here, he leans over towards Kostos, eyes shining too bright and too intent. “Where I just looked at you and said, calmly,” He says, calmly. “That it doesn’t matter to me, that you’ve already left me once, and why would I care if you do it again? Why would I expect anything more from you? And because it’s the worst option, maybe that is the one you’d prefer.”

[exequy]

Kostos almost gets mad anyway. For a moment his face darkens with an argument—one started years ago and never properly finished, because he stormed away in the middle of it—that if he says that he won’t cross a line, that he can’t cross a line, and they cross it without him, how is it he’s the one who’s leaving them behind?

And after that moment, after he’s realized that that isn’t the point and isn’t worth dredging it up, his face remains dark, just because of how much he hates anyone telling him what he feels. And he hates the look on Gareth’s face. He hates that they left him. He hates that he still knows they had to. He hates everything that’s happened, ever, to everyone but right now especially to Gareth, and that’s too much, so.

So he looks back out at the water. It’s black, at this hour, moonlight only on the edges of the waves. He doesn’t have to wonder; they wouldn’t have been friends, him and Gareth, if not for the war. Even if they’d been in the same Circle. Even if there had been no Circles at all. It’s a friendship shaped out of blood, and maybe, if it washes away, that will be a sign of some kind of progress.

Maybe.

“You’re half right,” he says. “That is the worst.”

ii

[mousquetaire]

He's on a guard shift when he sees Gareth wandering. At first he's not sure who it is, and so he goes to investigate with one hand on his sword. Then, as he gets closer, he sees the familiar shape of him - the boy who'd gone to Benedict's home with him, the boy who'd afterwards been lost in Tevinter.

His hand falls from his sword, and he approaches instead. His own anchor shard is covered by his gloves, but he takes not of Gareth's, and understands that he's reading. D'Artagnan gently clears his throat, not wanting to startle him.

"Trouble sleeping?" he smiles at him, though his expression is cautious. "I don't mean to intrude. It's rare to see anyone reading at this hour."

[foundmyselfagain]

Gareth looks up at the noise, blinking. Not startled, but wary--though he calms when he sees who it is. The guy who looks similar to Benedict, who went with them to that utterly strange trip to Benedict's house. It feels almost like a fever dream, now.

"D'Artagnan, right?" He shrugs at the question, eyes turning back to the harbor. It's quiet, few ships about at this time of night. "Yeah. I have a roommate, and I don't want to keep him up, just because I can't sleep." There are other things there, awkwardness between them, unwillingness on both sides to admit just how badly he's handled what happened. But he's certainly not going to dump all of that on this man.

"I used to belong to this Circle," He continues, eyes still on the water. "Years ago. They didn't let us on the shore, then. Afraid we'd swim off, or get a boat to smuggle us away. But now I can sit here all I want. Swim off, too, I suppose. Probably a bad idea, though."

[mousquetaire]

"The water doesn't look that friendly."

Feeling somewhat uncertain, d'Artagnan moves around to sit beside him. He has a generally bad impression of Circles, despite never having seen for himself what they were like. He's motivated to keep it that way.

"Perhaps if they'd given their membership less reason to flee, they wouldn't have had to worry about it. People can be very short-sighted."

Looking out to sea himself, he can't say the thought of jumping in really appeals. If there was a real threat of that, it wasn't prompted by anything good.

i

[altusimperius]

When he's not doing his own work, Benedict tends to spend time in the library doing whatever research suits him at the moment. On one such time he sees a familiar face, one he hasn't seen since... well, since they got him out, but they hadn't spoken much, either there or on the way home.
"Cup of tea?" he calls out with a little wave of his hand, beckoning Gareth over to his table.

[foundmyselfagain]

Bene is a welcome sight. Someone...not quite normal, but close to it. More importantly: a friend. So, he answers the beckoning with a silent nod, moving over to the table and taking a seat. He should...probably say something. Silently staring at the tabletop is probably kind of weird, and he doesn’t want Benedict to think he’s being weird—though, overall, it might be a bit late for that.

“...Thank you, by the way.” Or, he can just babble about the subject that ever looms in his thoughts. That’s always an option. “For helping. I never got to thank you for it, when we were...there.” No need to get detailed with that subject. “You...didn’t have to. But you did. I appreciate it.”

[altusimperius]

Gareth is quiet, and Bene can't really blame him. The situation in Tevinter was traumatic for most everyone involved, including himself, and often he can't even bring himself to think about it.
He can only hope Gareth was in decent shape, but after the whole world was turned inside out, he can't be certain.

"...don't mention it," Bene replies with a smile that's small but warily genuine. He'd had to lie to people he's known his whole life-- and not that there isn't always all kinds of lying and mischief at court, but it mattered this time. Strangely, he finds he doesn't regret it.
"Erm..." How to even...? "...how are you?"

i

[keenly]

“Gareth.”

Colin did indeed come here specifically to see his friend, and so did someone else. That someone else is baa-ing in the healer’s arms, large black ears pointed forward. Cats are not supposed to baa, in Colin’s opinion, but he has gotten quite used to this one. The cat wriggles out of Colin’s arms and darts forward to wind between Gareth’s ankles. He had been quite standoffish to Colin, but he can hardly complain. He was fed and played with, wasn’t he? But Colin is not his person, so Colin can’t complain either.

[foundmyselfagain]

"Hey, Colin—Ghast!" Gareth likes Colin and all, and is glad to see him, but when he sees that terrifying cat-demon, his face lightens in a way it hasn’t since he came back to the Gallows. Kneeling down and scooping the cat up, he spends a few seconds attempting to kiss a cat that is very busy rubbing its face on his face, and making weird cat-demon noises.

But Colin hasn’t been forgotten, and Gareth turns back to him, a smile on his face.

"You helped me and my cat? You really do have the best customer service. No wonder you’re the only store in the Gallows." It’s a stupid joke, and Gareth doesn’t manage much more than a huff of a laugh, but at least an attempt was made. "...Really, though. I can’t thank you enough."

ii. night

[sclavus]

Considering Vane lives, eats and sleeps on the ships (typically the Walrus - it's the more valuable of the ones the have access too, and Flint's captain's quarters are nice and cushy), thus he's in the area Gareth retreats to at whatever hours of the night. Charles likes the quiet of the docks at night, the lull of the waves and creaking wood of the ship hulls, the rattle of pulleys and rigging and billowing sails. He's lying on the fore deck, smoking and watching the sky, when a bright, unnatural green light catches his attention out of the corner of his sight.

It's difficult to make out, so Vane takes an unlit lantern before making his way out, wanting the darkness to hide in should it be a sign of something hostile, but in the end, it's only the silhouette of what looks like either a short haired girl or a young boy bent over a book. A Rifter, that is. Ah. Not so much a threat. Once he's about ten yards away, he takes a match to light the lantern, and paces over to set it next to the stranger.

"Might work better."

[foundmyselfagain]

When a light suddenly appears in the middle of the gaping darkness, Gareth jolts, body tense as he turns to see who it is. There’s a glint of metal in the sickly green light of his hand as he reaches next to him. Not aggressive just yet, but the kind of wary that comes from expecting the worse, because he’s already seen it happen.

And Vane, who is built like a brick shithouse, certainly seems like a potential threat to him, if the other man had the mind for it.

But he doesn’t seem to have the mind for it right now, and Gareth relaxes slightly. Okay, so probably not a Venatori or other miscellaneous kidnapper (unless they were really ramping up their PR department).

"Thanks. That is a bit brighter, isn’t it?" It’s said with a cheery tone, like this is somehow surprising.

[sclavus]

It's okay, broski, Vane's used to his looking like a brick shithouse (and having the most intense resting bitch face in the history of piracy) being the main influence on most of his first impressions. Usually it's pretty valuable, but sometimes, you get the problematic moments. Thankfully, the moment passes, and there's a cheery tone that greats him, Vane still perplexed over what this boy is doing out here to begin with.

"Uh huh." Yep. It's bright. Lanterns are cool like that. The other inhibitor of the quality of Vane's first impressions: his extremely muted social skills.

"You know they got libraries for doing shit like this, right?" Are they open 24/7? Surely there are better places to read than hanging out at the docks at ass o'clock at night. What are you doing, child?

ii

[justice_is_blond]

He's just made the last boat and comes ashore slowly, tiredly. When Nate's off on an errand it's hard to willingly walk into the Gallows. It's beyond hard. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares up at them, only realizing he's not alone after several moments of watching. Gareth.

"...Would you mind company?" Sitting out here is preferable, really, especially if there's another mage around.

[foundmyselfagain]

Gareth looks up at the voice, blinking when he sees that it's Anders. He doesn't answer right away, turning the question over in his head a few times, face contemplative.

"Sure," He finally says, with a shrug and a gesture to the sand around him. "I can't guarantee it'll be exciting, or that I'll be great company, though. I'm just..." A shrug. "...kind of hanging out here. Don't want to wake Kostos up."