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Something's just slightly off. Sonia's known him long enough to know a tell or two of his, but it doesn't quite occur to her why. She's too pleased to see Byerly to think much on it anyway, because it's been far too long, and letters are only so entertaining a substitute for the real thing.

"Oh, how neglectful of me -- I completely forgot to send the fanfare ensemble ahead," she says glibly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Whyever would she send word ahead when she could surprise him? She's aware that this isn't a pleasure journey, she knows that this is serious and dire and dangerous, but she always has permitted herself levity whenever the situation affords it. Sometimes more. She produces the bottle from behind her back with a grin. Straight from the Barra vineyards, of course. "I came well-packed, though -- all the essentials."

The sight of a Barra red would soften the heart of even a drunkard less committed to debauchery than Byerly. He takes it, and smooths down the label - purses his lips in appreciation - and then returns his attention to the situation at hand. His dearest sweet Sonia, here, traveling, when there's a damned war on. When Tevinter to the north is in flames, the Anderfels to the west are threatening vicious bloodshed - dear Sonia should be firmly in the south, thank you very much.

"How charming," he says. And then, far more direct than is his wont, he follows that up with, "And will you take my letters back with you when you return?"

Ah, there it is. Sonia gives Byerly a look with eyebrows raised. She will be having none of that, sir.

"Dearest Byerly," she says in a tone of mock appallment, "you reduce me to a mere courier? As if I'd make this journey for something so trivial. Keep your letters -- I came to serve."

Go on, Byerly, tell her how foolish she's being. She's waiting.

"Dearest Sonia," he says, a little bit more strain coming into his voice, "please do tell me. How, exactly, do you intend to serve?"

She purses her lips at him, her tone going airy. "Don't be mean, Byerly. It's only amusing when you're doing it to someone else. I'm here to put my diplomatic skills to good use."

"Your diplomatic skills," he repeats, and runs a hand through his hair. "Of course. Sonia, do tell me - when is the last time you engaged in a negotiation with a foreign power?" Never mind, of course, that that's not precisely his specialty, either.

"One must start somewhere," she says with lazily feigned modesty, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from her shoulder. "I could stand to learn a lot here -- far more than at court back home. And this is meaningful work, Byerly -- not just a carousel of noble gossip and petty politics."

Not that she doesn't like the party circuit -- obviously. But Sonia's always needed to feel useful, all the more desperately so as the world seems to come apart at the seams around her.

"Besides," she adds, a little reluctantly, "my father thought it would be prudent to send me away from home for a time."

He immediately hones in on that, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. All traces of amusement are gone from his face. He doesn't ask; rather, he guesses: "Your uncle, I assume."

She barely suppresses a roll of her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't know why he's gotten so agitated lately. Though personally, I think Da's overreacting a touch."

It comes out flippantly, but there's a more serious undertone to it, somewhat subdued. They had all suffered loss, but none so deeply as her uncle. It isn't as though she doesn't know how it feels, and maybe she's being uncharitable -- but he's just so unpleasant.

"This," she says, leaning in and tapping the bottle with one fingernail, "is too public a venue for a private conversation. Spirit me away from here, will you? Let's have a drink, and I'll tell you all about my incredibly boring family drama."

Byerly sighs, and pushes his hair from his eyes. "And I suppose," he says, looking at the bottle like it's to blame for all of this, "paying a burly and handsome soldier to haul you back to Ferelden would do no good." Then he raises his gaze to Sonia, and makes the appeal - "I'd even pay him a bit extra so you could take advantage of his burly handsomeness, if that proves incentive."

"Try tapping a drier well, Byerly," Sonia tells him archly, "that's a bit of a paltry bribe. But no -- I'm afraid you'd have to drag me back kicking and screaming, and imagine what a scene that would be."

She's so good at causing them, too. She pouts at him, clasping her hands in front of her as she takes a half-step closer. "Can't you pretend like you're at least a little bit happy to see me? I've missed you, you know."

Yes. Right. He leans in to kiss her cheek in greeting, and grasps her hand. She honestly is quite right - he might be worried for her, but that's no reason to be an ass or to make her feel unwelcome. His acquaintanceship with Sonia is not, perhaps, a traditional one - based more in their correspondence than a personal relationship - but, well, that's still enough to know her well. She is, in spite of her good cheer and kindly exuberance, a woman who has a sensitive heart. Making her feel unwelcome might be a way to drive her back home, yes, but it would also be too cruel even for his rotten soul. He cannot do that.

"And I you," he says. Then he steps back and executes a proper bow over her hand. "Grant me your pardon, dear Sonia. The dangers of wartime make even an even-tempered man such as myself rather high-strung and anxious."

Ah, now there's a warmer reception. She suppose she can't begrudge Byerly a little worry, but she's hardly a child anymore. He'll get over it, she's sure. She looks enormously pleased with him now, her eyes bright and warm.

"Consider it granted, dear Byerly," she says royally, and gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "Quite forgivable under the circumstances. I think a drink or two would do your frayed nerves some good. Shall we?"

"Drink? You needn't ask me...well. More than twice," he says. Then he offers his arm to her gallantly.

"Where would you care to go, dear Sonia? I would normally suggest the library, save for the fact that the library here is - quite irritatingly - crawling with people who have the most despicable hunger for reading. A high balcony, perhaps? So we might overlook the city, or perhaps the sea?"

"I do prefer an ocean view," Sonia says airily, slipping her arm around his with a grin. She pats his arm fondly. "I'm sure you'd only get us kicked out of the library, anyway. Or have you been banned already?"

"Rude," he comments mildly. "I've only been kicked out of one library. So it hardly counts."

But, dutifully, he leads her through the fortress and up the winding staircases, to a room overlooking the sea.

Edited 2018-09-17 00:04 (UTC)

Sonia lets out a little ha of a laugh, hitching the skirt of her dress up so that the hem only skims the steps. There's something very different about seeing Byerly this time -- not because of the place itself, but the way it's brought them here. She realizes consciously, for the first time since leaving Wildcrest, that she and Byerly haven't spent any significant period of time this close to each other since they were young.

"You never did tell me what you're doing here," she says, glancing out the window. It does make for quite the view. "What service have you offered the Inquisition? I'll have to admit, that part of your last letter surprised me. I always thought you tried very hard to stay away from this sort of thing."

"Ah," Byerly says. This is part of the problem, honestly, with her being here. He has no shame telling this story to people who know nothing of him. Or even...telling the story to those who know little of Ferelden, of his relationship to his family and their legacy. But Sonia knows it all. When he tells her this, she'll look at him with horror, and with pity.

But it's the story he must tell.

"I must admit," he says, "my concern was largely removing myself from the immediate environs of Denerim. I...ran into a spot of trouble."

"Oh?"

Well, this sounds like a story, and not, perhaps, one of the fun ones. Sonia seats herself at the little table by the window and tilts her head at him, gesturing for him to bring over the bottle.

"You? Trouble? Byerly, I'm shocked." Her voice is light, but her eyes on him are serious.

"Yes," he agrees lightly. "It's so altogether out of character for me, I know." He smiles cheerily at her, then says, "There was something of a squabble. Over a bill. A knife was pulled..."

It's perhaps still too early for the news to have gotten around. Perhaps he should be grateful for that fact. By doubts that Sonia knew the late Owain Underwood, son of the banns of Easterly Pole; he was a fellow with a bad reputation, a fellow who ran in Byerly's dissolute circles rather than her decent ones. But the word will spread in time. Byerly, who murdered a friend. Byerly, who really went too far this time.

"Well. Long story short, the Denerim city guard would sooner not see me any time soon, I think."

Sonia props her chin in her hand and listens, and her expression softens into deep, unbridled sympathy and concern -- the exact sort of hazard of telling her a tale like this. This is far beyond any indiscretion he's ever shared with her. Indiscretion. What a stupid euphemism for murder. What a stupid, stupid thought, to think of Byerly committing a murder, to think it and know he'd done it and just to imagine how much it must be killing him, because Sonia knows his unrufflable insouciance only goes so many layers deep. This really wasn't the sort of reunion Sonia was prepared for.

"Oh, Byerly," she murmurs sadly, almost quiet enough to mask the hitch in her voice. She doesn't really know what else to say.

And there it is, exactly what he didn't want. The thing is that Owain was a traitor. That part of the story will not, of course, be getting out, because it's crucial that it stay secret, but the man was a traitor to Ferelden and to his queen; he was selling out his home to chase the Venatori and their promises of wealth and success. Yes, true enough, Owain had once been a friend. Yes. But friend or not, he stopped deserving to live the moment he turned against his liege.

Obviously. Clearly.

But the thing is, sometimes, when By closes his eyes, he can still see the surprised oh that the man's mouth had made when the knife had slipped in between his ribs. He can still see the way his hand curled protectively over his belly. He can still see the man's dull eyes, half-lidded, the life gone. It's -

It's not relevant here.

"Oh, Byerly, nothing," he says with an easy laugh. He can always pretend. Even with her, he can pretend. "It worked out for me. I don't owe him any money any longer."

Sonia gives him a look of heavy exasperation, a short little breath escaping in a sigh. She feels just a little bit sick, unable to shake the thought or her overactive imagination dreaming up grotesque details. She doesn't know what bothers her more -- the thought of how awful it must feel to have taken a life, or the thought that Byerly doesn't feel all that awful about it at all. Her naturally stubborn inclination to see the good in everyone shies away from that latter possibility.

"Well," she says, sitting back in her chair and idly twisting her fingers in her hair, "you officially have better gossip in stock than I do. Or worse, rather, I suppose."

"I should be quite disappointed in myself if you were to outdo me, dear Sonia," Byerly responds. "I should have to kill two men."

He smiles at her, and then tosses back a mouthful of wine. And then he says, "Tell me of your latest scandal." Just a polite thing to do, of course. Nothing more than that. And he doesn't have a hint of defensiveness.

Murder. What a macabre subject. To Sonia it seems even worse than war, perhaps wrongly so. War is something that happens to people; murder is something that happens to a person. She takes the bottle back for a drink, letting the concern on her face melt away back to airy amusement.

"If you count heartbreaks for headcount, I might stand a chance," she says lightly, knowing full well that isn't even remotely true. She turns the bottle around to idly examine the label, her head tilted to the side. "I broke things off with that courtier from Redcliffe -- politely, you know, but he was getting a little bit puppy-eyed at me. I suppose I hurt his feelings, because apparently he's been singing my vices to all of his friends." She lets out a little laugh, sliding the bottle back to Byerly. "I feel a little bit bad for him. Imagine being so insecure."

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