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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
WHAT: Open post!! open post
WHEN: The month of KINGSWAY
WHERE: EVERYWHERE but mostly in Kirkwall and in the Gallows
NOTES: Warning: chatterboxes
[ Starters in comments!! Feel free to tag in or start your own thread it's groovy ]
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[ it is a feeling unlike any other. ]
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[ Here to the Inquisition. Not here to this fountain with her. All right. ]
Did you anticipate seeing none of it when you came here, dear Lexie?
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I did. In the way one anticipates the very first time they are laid down by a lover, or somesuch other that is incomprehensible before its advent.
[ one hand picks idly at the other's palm. ]
The ballads do justice to neither.
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Bards are liars by profession.
[ He leans back, sprawling out casually, resting his elbow on the fountain's edge. ]
You'll see more before this war is through. And it will be people you love, people to whom you are indifferent, people you hate...And you will find how curious it is, to keenly feel the loss of those you hate. Things are taking a turn for the worse, you know. It's going to get much, much worse.
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[ She looks up at the trees and finds them foreign and separate of a sudden. Watches the breeze in the leaves with the idle curiosity of an outsider. ]
We are so used to the cycle. The land receives, it blooms, it yields, it sleeps; wakens to receive again, to bloom. This, each day. This, each year. Every year. Some harder than others, some kinder. It is difficult to imagine that instead, perhaps soon, there may be no such thing.
[ She leans back, thumbing a thoughtless pattern of wetness onto the stone. ]
Instead there will be only blood and churned up mud in the lavender fields of my home. The people of Perendale will cry to an absent Maker to cease the growth of the corruption that drives Corypheus's armies within them and helplessly fuel the grinding march and murder of their countrymen.
And the same thing, perhaps, will happen to all homes.
[ A wryly raised eyebrow. ]
But Gwenaëlle says I must not be so melancholic, for it is tantamount to inviting such losses.
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[ And then, with his signature lightness of tone, even amidst the darkness of the topic: ]
When the darkspawn came to my home, in the midst of the Fifth Blight, I had thought there'd be no end to it. That everything I'd known would be trampled under their feet. But it wasn't. We lived to kill and abuse each other another day.
[ He'd tried to seek his own end out there. But he was, perhaps, the lone person who had trouble figuring out how to die in the Blight. By the time he'd found his way to the battlefield, it was over. What a fool. ]
Perhaps we'll get through this, too. To wreck each other again. All for the cycle of abuse and hatred to begin once more.
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His tone is light, but... ]
There is lavender in there as well, mon bouffon triste.
[ Arrayed as they are, it is simple for her to lean over to kiss his forehead; it is done as lightly as one can and still have the gesture retain such a distinction. She sighs quietly through her nose as she withdraws, smiling again as she lifts her feet from the water to turn and place them in the grass. ]
Come out of the fountain. You shall catch cold, and I do not wish to be blamed for it.
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[ He flutters his eyelashes at her. He makes play like he doesn't understand why she's kissing him so gently. He makes play like it doesn't twist something in him. Where was this kindness when he was young and broken to pieces? - But no; it was there, then, too. He mustn't pretend that, merely because the end of the affair was so cruel, the beginning was as well. ]
Shall I carry you back?
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No.
[ Not now. Not when it would not be only laughter and game layered upon game to be in his arms again. It is too short a step from there to "I cannot have you standing soaked on my doorstep," to "Marceau, find him a robe," to slowly spreading her fingers over the map of his skin in the warm flicker of candlelight to see what time had changed. Or, at least, to wanting to.
Would such a thing be so bad? The thought that it would fits strangely in her, but it is there nevertheless.
And so, gently repeated as she stands: ]
No. If things are to become worse, I must practice being able to endure and triumph over such terrible things as walking through Hightown with squishing slippers.
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It does occur to me that being able to triumph over death and destruction and being able to triumph over wet slippers might be independent of one another.
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[ He is lovely in a way that nearly hurts, and his eyes are in a way that does; she hasn't a single shred of doubt that whatever time they passed in dalliance would be brilliant (albeit perhaps calamitous). But she has already decided, at least tonight, and even if everything else has changed—in the world, in them—Alexandrie remains an unyieldingly stubborn woman.
She takes a step towards the servants, then turns back to look at him with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. ]
I think them inexorably linked. I suppose time will tell which of us is correct.
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[ He wriggles just a little bit closer to her, close enough that he can kiss her feet, one after the other. Then he finally exerts himself to rise, pushing himself from the fountain and stepping out. Then he bows to her, one hand behind his back, the other extended to her to take to steady herself as she steps forward. ]
Ma cherie.
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Perhaps she lets the moment linger a bit too long, after. ]
I am— [ "pleased to have seen you again", she is going to say, or "pleased you are here". Neither is quite right though, there isn't anything quite right, and so she finishes with nothing at all save a simple farewell. ]
Bonne soirée, Byerly.
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[ His eyes crinkle in a smile. And he straightens up as she passes. ]
May the stars shine brighter for your return home, milady, as their fiercest competitor retires for the night.