open

[bouchonne]

WHO: Byerly and Kitty and thou or even you
WHAT: Open post!! open post
WHEN: The month of KINGSWAY
WHERE: EVERYWHERE but mostly in Kirkwall and in the Gallows
NOTES: Warning: chatterboxes

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[bouchonne]

So then we return to my earliest proposal.

[ He reaches out with his long arms and, easily, taps the tip of her finger. Which quite wrecks the ferocity of her gesture. There are few things worse than a small, slight woman being booped. ]

Stop playing at any of this at all.

[elegiaque]

( there is something comical about the way her nose screws up like a rabbit and she slaps at his hand—probably better not to comment, though, considering.

emeric gave her a velveteen rabbit when she was small, never thinking. it's sort of funny, in retrospect, but the sort of joke that you laugh about to yourself, and then don't repeat because the worst thing isn't that they don't laugh, it's the pity. )

I'm doing it my way, ( with a mulishness that emeric was never stripped so bare to without first the application of hard liquor. ) It might be shit and it might not work, but it is at least my way.

[bouchonne]

Are you?

[ He cradles his hand to his chest, mock-nursing it after that terrible blow. ]

"I am unlike you," cries day to night, "in every way." But the thing is, my lady, they're merely opposite. And the opposite of a thing is still that thing. To truly break away from the night, daytime must become a river, or it must become a dream, or it must become a dog barking at a frog. Do you see?

[elegiaque]

No!

( an annoyed groan, tilting her head back, her braid tumbling over her shoulder and the loose curls at the end bouncing. if she were standing and not on horseback (and not still limping without support), she might turn in an angry little circle, adrift— )

There is no fucking winning. I can't leave, if I could leave I wouldn't leave because I have things to do, ( and people she cares about, ) I've never been good at any of those things so I'm not trying to be any more but trying to stay out of its way isn't good enough either, and I can't even abandon it the way that would be sufficiently ideologically pure for you because I married a dirty great elf who is at any given moment up to his fucking balls in seventeen different fucking intrigues, so I have to...find some kind of balance, and I don't see why burning it all the fuck down isn't an option.

( she slaps her hand down on percy's backside, prompting an offended sound and a few steps, but not more than that; this is not an inquisition mount, unfamiliar with her rider, but a beast well acquainted with her mistress's temperament.

and dramatics. )

I am doing my fucking best. Fuck you.

[bouchonne]

But you're making so many mistakes, milady.

[ He lifts his hand to his mouth, then, smoothing down his mustache. His gaze is steady and intense. He plays at the Game, yes, but he's not an Orlesian; he does not do intrigue for the sake of intrigue, does not play for the sake of playing. There's always something more to it for him. ]

So very many mistakes. You're doing harm to yourself and to others in your confusion and frustration and unhappiness. Do you think the world truly allows you any leeway for those mistakes?

[elegiaque]

I am well fucking aware it does not.

( and that's what makes this worse—she can't argue with his premise, it's not unfair. she isn't good at this. she makes mistakes. hadn't thranduil told her as much himself? hadn't her own maker-damned husband told her he has to keep secrets from her because they both know she can't—

but it was never for lack of trying. didn't she owe them that? hadn't her mothers given up so much for her; didn't they deserve her best effort? her life was not her own to squander, it was their every sacrifice embodied and she had been a poor trade. a waste. everything they built for her slipped through her fingers because so much had always relied upon no one looking, and she had raised herself up here, cocky. trusted her father's confidence one last time. )

I don't need you to tell me any of that. You're not telling me anything useful.

[bouchonne]

Actually -

[ His face softens, abruptly, in a smile. ]

Actually, it does. Forgiveness comes as easily and as inevitably as the tide, dear lady.

[elegiaque]

( gwenaëlle, who is certain she's never forgiven anyone, stares at him as if he's speaking an alien language. perhaps one from beyond a rift. )

[bouchonne]

[ Which draws a laugh from him. He grins, and shakes his head. ]

Dear heart. If you stopped trying to drown yourself in the sea, perhaps you would notice that the water was only waist-deep. - Shall we ride on? I weary of this view.

[ He kicks his mare into a jaunty trot. ]

[elegiaque]

( it drowned everyone i loved—

even in her own head it sounds like something he would only laugh at again. she stares furiously after him for not nearly long enough before she wheels poor beleaguered percy around to follow.

sulking. )

[bouchonne]

[ He fills the silence. Quite easily. He is chatty indeed when it suits him. ]

Ah, is that - ? That plant there. Is that blooming hawthorn? I can never remember whether that's pleasant when eaten, or whether it's poison. I expect that'll kill me someday. Do you ride this way often?

[elegiaque]

( curtly, )

No.

( it's been quite rare since the shift to kirkwall her to go out other than for the express purpose of reaching a destination; this is, probably, the first time it's ever happened. )

To Sundermount, sometimes.

[bouchonne]

Do you not ride for pleasure?

[ He blinks at her in mock-horror. ]

Dear lady. No wonder you've gone so pale and sickly-looking. Doesn't your lord husband see to your health? Make sure you take the air?

[elegiaque]

I don't know if you've noticed, but we are in Kirkwall.

[bouchonne]

And...?

[elegiaque]

And the pleasure of riding is in leaving Kirkwall.

( like, duh. )

[bouchonne]

Bilious lady of my heart, Kirkwall holds innumerable pleasures. Tell me - have you ever gambled?

[elegiaque]

( what an irritatingly, impolitely accurate description of her. )

You're mixing me up for my lord. Taller, more irresponsible.

[bouchonne]

[ He looks over at her, eyebrows raised. ]

Never? Not even once?

[elegiaque]

( relenting— )

Not for money.

[bouchonne]

Ah-hah.

[ Delighted - ]

What did you wager?

[elegiaque]

( without batting an eye; )

Sexual favours.

[bouchonne]

[ He laughs, delighted even further. ]

Good for you, my lady. Well. I can assure you that there is pleasure in the wagering of money, too. Would you like to try?

[elegiaque]

Not with my money, I wouldn't. ( blandly. the little harridan that she is, her eagle eye on the household accounts, tearing strips from emeric over his wasteful profligacy—

he had never wagered more than he could afford. she had never entirely agreed with his opinion of 'worth it'. )

[bouchonne]

Then wager with mine.

[ An absurd offer, given the patchwork and threadbare appearance of this fool. But he seems quite sincere. ]