Darras' gaze snaps over to Yseult again, sidelong, and for a moment it looks like he might refuse, or ask why, or some other useless question to answer what seems like it might be a useless request from her. What good would it do, and what would it matter.
But he ought to trust Yseult. She's all that he has, in this moment or in any other, really. So he lets himself sink into the touch of her hand, and the warm weight of her arm, lets himself fit to her, easy.
"I knew Bane the longest," he says, after a moment. "Knew him before the Aliss, even. I liked Jerrick best. Didn't take anything seriously. Morton was older than all of us, sharper and cleverer. Not enough. But cleverer, still. And Donal was big and broad and pretended at being dour. Deadpan. They were good men, honest in their way. Jerrick would swindle a Chantry sister if he thought he could get away with it, but he'd leave coin at whatever Chantry he saw next, like as if to make up for what he'd done. Not that many of them where we were, usually, so he wasn't hurt too badly for his peculiarity."
It does lift some of the weight, saying aloud these things. Not all of it, but some. The bones on the floor are turning to dust anyways, age and time stripping them of their familiar shapes. And the door looks duller, somehow. Still got that glow. Not as bad.
"Bane had a son in Antiva City. Used to bring him round when we'd put in to port there. I thought of finding him, but I don't know what I'd say. He was just a boy anyways, and like as to forgot Bane quick when he stopped coming by. Morton was best on watch. Climbed like a bloody monkey. He was older, but he wasn't old. Didn't let anything at all slow him. Donal did his fishing with a spear. A neat trick. He'd learned it off his mother, he told us. They'd lived in some wild spar of land. I don't know," and he breaks off suddenly, leaning forward with a hunch of his shoulders, not quite enough to shake off her hand, "what else is there to say? It's all just pieces of them."
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But he ought to trust Yseult. She's all that he has, in this moment or in any other, really. So he lets himself sink into the touch of her hand, and the warm weight of her arm, lets himself fit to her, easy.
"I knew Bane the longest," he says, after a moment. "Knew him before the Aliss, even. I liked Jerrick best. Didn't take anything seriously. Morton was older than all of us, sharper and cleverer. Not enough. But cleverer, still. And Donal was big and broad and pretended at being dour. Deadpan. They were good men, honest in their way. Jerrick would swindle a Chantry sister if he thought he could get away with it, but he'd leave coin at whatever Chantry he saw next, like as if to make up for what he'd done. Not that many of them where we were, usually, so he wasn't hurt too badly for his peculiarity."
It does lift some of the weight, saying aloud these things. Not all of it, but some. The bones on the floor are turning to dust anyways, age and time stripping them of their familiar shapes. And the door looks duller, somehow. Still got that glow. Not as bad.
"Bane had a son in Antiva City. Used to bring him round when we'd put in to port there. I thought of finding him, but I don't know what I'd say. He was just a boy anyways, and like as to forgot Bane quick when he stopped coming by. Morton was best on watch. Climbed like a bloody monkey. He was older, but he wasn't old. Didn't let anything at all slow him. Donal did his fishing with a spear. A neat trick. He'd learned it off his mother, he told us. They'd lived in some wild spar of land. I don't know," and he breaks off suddenly, leaning forward with a hunch of his shoulders, not quite enough to shake off her hand, "what else is there to say? It's all just pieces of them."