"Mn," They still cut an unusual sight. Last glances: Ilias, sleepy-eyed and gutting a horse. Leander, subdued as beneath Alexandrie's needle. Something to ask Ilias after —
No. Something to do himself.
"The Commander will need to bandage his side for a time," Beneath sodden shirt and jacket, Isaac's seen belatedly to his own. A lesser break, and more thoroughly-mended. Fortunate. "It seems a fool's errand to suggest he not strain."
The path is short, framed by rock and wide scrubland beyond. They'll make fields soon, civilization, but for now the night is cloudless; unlittered by smoke or human silhouette. Two moons lilt in sway, distant as the cackle of hyenas.
Isaac twists a cigarette between the ends of his fingers, pinches a spark. Takes in the scene, a drag, before turning in offer:
Is the discussion of Flint's injury meant as a reminder? John doesn't know enough of Isaac to divine whether or not the levering of how close they'd come to seeing Flint dead in the road is a lever against John's urge to—
The thought trails away into unformed, panicked considerations. Isaac cannot know that John weighs his chances of vanishing into the night against his partnership, against what he and Flint (and Madi) have painstakingly built over this past year. He breathes out hard, grip shifting on his crutch.
"No. No one knew."
What is the use of a lie? There had been so little ambiguity in the road. Leander had seen. John had felt all three of them; he cannot delude himself into thinking that had not felt him in return.
"I don't need to tell you I'd prefer to it to remain that way, as much as is possible now."
An old discussion of Tevinter: He'd told Yseult then — means it now — I don't know what it is, to be a mage there. An apple out of reach, motivation alien to those that worm at his core. Why hide what one might wear openly? Why disguise so obvious a profit?
Something others would use. Perhaps he knows a little, in the end.
"You'll forgive me for venturing you've received little instruction."
A smile twitches across John's face. Could he? Better to John meant having done all that was necessary on that road without having it lead to this moment, this conversation.
Divulging any answer at all needles at the past he'd so completely severed himself from. It is a different kind of agony than what Flint had grazed so long ago. John doesn't have the luxury of simply walking away from this conversation. If he does not manage this, it will be a danger to him going forward. John can't have that.
"I'm sure the meager teaching I received doesn't compare to what you and our traveling companions benefited from, no," John answers. "Though I wager I know a few tricks that they don't share in a Circle."
His travels have granted him that much, even if John doesn't see this ability as a clear advantage. Magic is always a risk. It is almost always furtive and dangerous.
"But I assume you didn't ask me here to discuss my lack of education?"
"Certainly. That business with the blood would have been your head."
A level glance; he hands over the cigarette. John isn't the only one with secrets, and no way to say whether he knows Isaac's even qualify. As much a danger to draw attention to them as to leave them in question. Better to embrace the shadow of the blade: What he does is lawful, for when could he have broken it?
"I'm in no hurry to flush you," As a fox or pheasant. "There's no purpose. Until this war is done, every one of us is apostate. But this isn't the last corner we'll be caught in. Your education is a matter of mutual concern."
There is a pause. John's eyes find Isaac's. He thinks, but doesn't say: It would have been my head either way.
No reassurance to be found in what follows. John's expression twists in grim amusement as he takes the cigarette, consider the implication. Isaac will keep his secret until the end of the war? That puts John in an exceptionally tight corner.
"Between the four of us, I'm not the only one dabbling in things that could have cost me my head."
A shot in the dark, but it's safe to assume someone's up to something they shouldn't be. Whether it's Isaac, or Leander, or Ilias, there has to be something. But even as he says it, he grits his teeth over the recklessness of it. It's a desperate gamble. He's afraid, and it's making him careless. It's making it hard to see anything in this moment other than Isaac wrenching open wounds John had cauterized years ago.
"So you're offering to see to that yourself." John continues, flicking ash from the end of the cigarette. "I admit, that isn't exactly where I expected this conversation to go."
"If you'd prefer, I can level some absurd threat." He doesn't acknowledge the talk of dabbling — throwing Leander under the cart wouldn't promise much in the way of his own discretion. "Paste up posters about town: Extra, extra. The Vint's a witch."
The splay of a hand, ironic. No doubt Kirkwall whispers of their guests already.
"I can't say how your friend will take this," How much Flint even witnessed. "But I know how mine will. Let Ilias look the other way, allow Leander a bit of leverage. And you and I will keep this cockup from escalating."
Yseult has shown no inclination to their interests; Rutyer, Thranduil dismissed outright. Fazon too much too qunari to quite trust. To whatever ends the Commander has indulged this little venture, he remains the closest they have to an ally. There's an opportunity.
It's a choice that isn't a choice. If John says no, then everything falls apart. He isn't willing to allow that, and he isn't willing to disappear. (He is unwilling to try his chances killing three mages more skilled than he.)
So that leaves this. Being indebted, being known.
"You know I have a vested interest in that," John says finally, looking down, flicking ash again from the tip of the cigarette. "Alright."
For the moment, this is all there can be: acquiescence.
"I'll admit, I was envious," He tells Isaac, offering back the cigarette. "Between you and the Speaker, it was quite the display."
And John saw. Even if he is not entirely sure of how certain things were possible, or what they could even be called, he had seen. Maybe if this night had gone another way, they could have had a wholly different conversation.
"Which part?" He knows perfectly well. "The bit where the horse threw me, or when his trampled the Commander?"
He smokes, lets the night linger. At last,
"In Montsimmard, there was a vault they'd painted. Some Tranquil, I never heard the same name twice. Magnificent. Blue, and purple; gilded constellations. Half the Southern sky." Isaac shakes his head. "I discovered the book much later — the one she'd copied it from."
(Internal note: make Mhavos find him a book about Montsimmard)
That's all there is to be said about it for the moment. They have an arrangement, and providing they make it all the way back to Kirkwall, John can assess the situation then. He has to suppress the urge to try to demand something more, some reassurance of secrecy that will ultimately mean nothing at all.
They go back. Flint is still asleep. Ilias has finished gutting the horse. Leander is by the fire. One can almost pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened, apart from almost everyone being covered in blood and the gutted horse.
Time to pray for a speedy and uneventful journey home.
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no subject
No. Something to do himself.
"The Commander will need to bandage his side for a time," Beneath sodden shirt and jacket, Isaac's seen belatedly to his own. A lesser break, and more thoroughly-mended. Fortunate. "It seems a fool's errand to suggest he not strain."
The path is short, framed by rock and wide scrubland beyond. They'll make fields soon, civilization, but for now the night is cloudless; unlittered by smoke or human silhouette. Two moons lilt in sway, distant as the cackle of hyenas.
Isaac twists a cigarette between the ends of his fingers, pinches a spark. Takes in the scene, a drag, before turning in offer:
"Did he know?"
no subject
The thought trails away into unformed, panicked considerations. Isaac cannot know that John weighs his chances of vanishing into the night against his partnership, against what he and Flint (and Madi) have painstakingly built over this past year. He breathes out hard, grip shifting on his crutch.
"No. No one knew."
What is the use of a lie? There had been so little ambiguity in the road. Leander had seen. John had felt all three of them; he cannot delude himself into thinking that had not felt him in return.
"I don't need to tell you I'd prefer to it to remain that way, as much as is possible now."
The unspoken question: What will that cost me?
no subject
An old discussion of Tevinter: He'd told Yseult then — means it now — I don't know what it is, to be a mage there. An apple out of reach, motivation alien to those that worm at his core. Why hide what one might wear openly? Why disguise so obvious a profit?
Something others would use. Perhaps he knows a little, in the end.
"You'll forgive me for venturing you've received little instruction."
no subject
Divulging any answer at all needles at the past he'd so completely severed himself from. It is a different kind of agony than what Flint had grazed so long ago. John doesn't have the luxury of simply walking away from this conversation. If he does not manage this, it will be a danger to him going forward. John can't have that.
"I'm sure the meager teaching I received doesn't compare to what you and our traveling companions benefited from, no," John answers. "Though I wager I know a few tricks that they don't share in a Circle."
His travels have granted him that much, even if John doesn't see this ability as a clear advantage. Magic is always a risk. It is almost always furtive and dangerous.
"But I assume you didn't ask me here to discuss my lack of education?"
no subject
"Certainly. That business with the blood would have been your head."
A level glance; he hands over the cigarette. John isn't the only one with secrets, and no way to say whether he knows Isaac's even qualify. As much a danger to draw attention to them as to leave them in question. Better to embrace the shadow of the blade: What he does is lawful, for when could he have broken it?
"I'm in no hurry to flush you," As a fox or pheasant. "There's no purpose. Until this war is done, every one of us is apostate. But this isn't the last corner we'll be caught in. Your education is a matter of mutual concern."
no subject
No reassurance to be found in what follows. John's expression twists in grim amusement as he takes the cigarette, consider the implication. Isaac will keep his secret until the end of the war? That puts John in an exceptionally tight corner.
"Between the four of us, I'm not the only one dabbling in things that could have cost me my head."
A shot in the dark, but it's safe to assume someone's up to something they shouldn't be. Whether it's Isaac, or Leander, or Ilias, there has to be something. But even as he says it, he grits his teeth over the recklessness of it. It's a desperate gamble. He's afraid, and it's making him careless. It's making it hard to see anything in this moment other than Isaac wrenching open wounds John had cauterized years ago.
"So you're offering to see to that yourself." John continues, flicking ash from the end of the cigarette. "I admit, that isn't exactly where I expected this conversation to go."
no subject
The splay of a hand, ironic. No doubt Kirkwall whispers of their guests already.
"I can't say how your friend will take this," How much Flint even witnessed. "But I know how mine will. Let Ilias look the other way, allow Leander a bit of leverage. And you and I will keep this cockup from escalating."
Yseult has shown no inclination to their interests; Rutyer, Thranduil dismissed outright. Fazon too much too qunari to quite trust. To whatever ends the Commander has indulged this little venture, he remains the closest they have to an ally. There's an opportunity.
no subject
So that leaves this. Being indebted, being known.
"You know I have a vested interest in that," John says finally, looking down, flicking ash again from the tip of the cigarette. "Alright."
For the moment, this is all there can be: acquiescence.
"I'll admit, I was envious," He tells Isaac, offering back the cigarette. "Between you and the Speaker, it was quite the display."
And John saw. Even if he is not entirely sure of how certain things were possible, or what they could even be called, he had seen. Maybe if this night had gone another way, they could have had a wholly different conversation.
no subject
He smokes, lets the night linger. At last,
"In Montsimmard, there was a vault they'd painted. Some Tranquil, I never heard the same name twice. Magnificent. Blue, and purple; gilded constellations. Half the Southern sky." Isaac shakes his head. "I discovered the book much later — the one she'd copied it from."
Thumb-to-finger again: the light wicks out.
"I'm in the Infirmary most nights. Find me then."
no subject
(Internal note: make Mhavos find him a book about Montsimmard)
That's all there is to be said about it for the moment. They have an arrangement, and providing they make it all the way back to Kirkwall, John can assess the situation then. He has to suppress the urge to try to demand something more, some reassurance of secrecy that will ultimately mean nothing at all.
They go back. Flint is still asleep. Ilias has finished gutting the horse. Leander is by the fire. One can almost pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened, apart from almost everyone being covered in blood and the gutted horse.
Time to pray for a speedy and uneventful journey home.