[closed]

[katabasis]

WHO: Silver, Flint
WHAT: Two pirates scouring Kirkwall's bookshops in the service of important diplomacy work.
WHEN: Early Drakonis
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Doing their JOBS.

It is their fourth stop. They've wound their way through the more prominent Hightown booksellers, having worked their way from out of the company of skittish shopkeepers anxiously overseeing the systematic scrutiny of their shelves by two alleged pirates and into the clutches of what can only be described as Kirkwall's most peevish old bat:

"I don't care who you think you are; you can't be here this long without purchasing something," she'd wheezed at them in the cavernous old place, one hand trembling at the head of her cane and the other arm wrapped around a ginger cat with large blinking eyes.

Which is why they now own a collection of romance novels with increasingly unlikely love interests, including but not limited to a Chantry sister and a shapeshifting witch, between them. It's also why they're being left alone now to pick through the labyrinthine shop's back room, wading through unorganized stacks of used titles, and--

Choking on dust, mostly.

"Have you considered simply copying the book instead?" This said into his sleeve while scrubbing a thick layer of grime from one of the room's upper shelves.

Comments

#blessed

[katabasis]

His hand is careful across the book, fingers spread over the speckled cover - grey dust on his fingertips and drifting thick in the air from the disturbed shelves.

"If you have questions, you're welcome to them."

[hornswoggle]

"How long are we going to continue in this fashion?"

There are more delicate ways to phrase it, but John opts for blunt, looking up at Flint haloed in motes of dust. The pretense of rare novels is momentarily forgotten.

[katabasis]

"And what fashion is that?"

Which sounds like the quiet flex of a heel beginning to dig in.

[hornswoggle]

All the reply he receives for a moment is a withering look. The implication: you know. John doesn't dignify it with spoken protest, just lets it hang between them before he speaks again.

"If we are to continue in our partnership, if I am to be of any use to you here, then we must find some way to reconcile this."

This covering so much space, the fracture that has split between them.

[katabasis]

There is a sharp line being drawn in that. He is very still in response to it - somehow it defines the distance, provides a ruler by which to measure it.

"We." That is for making space and measuring it with as well. "I'm sorry. I was unaware you felt any desire to reconcile with any of this."

[hornswoggle]

"It has become clear to me that we must."

That their discussion aboard the Walrus in the wake of their return from Nevarra had not been enough. The strain has not resolved itself.

And perhaps some of this is John's own discontent exacerbating the situation, robbing him of patience. If things had gone differently when Nevarra fell beneath waves of the dead, or if circumstances had provided John with a clear path to some utility, he may never have raised this question.

[katabasis]

A soft noise, not quite like a scoff but breathing close to it - some point of well exercised irritation coming high enough to cut through the surface he has spent so much effort designing to sit between them. That thin book is summarily removed from its place on his knee and is set onto the lower shelf.

"You know where I stand in this. I said--" A pause, a glance shot down the length of the store room. There is no sign of their doddering old chaperone, though her orange cat is there at the end of the stack watching with fascination all the dust being stirred up. In a low, even tone that will not carry, Flint continues, "You know what was said. If you require clarification, it has more to do with your position than mine."

[hornswoggle]

"Yes, my position."

It is a struggle to consider only this moment. Only their partnership.

"I cannot divine whether you attempt to protect me or if you no longer find me a suitable ear for your concerns. But either way, I am of little use to you if I am kept in the dark."

No matter how many times he repeats himself, the fact remains that he is a liability. All the utility in the world doesn't change that.

And it's simpler to look at all of this in those terms, rather than revisit their earlier conversation.

[katabasis]

But since when has Flint let go of the opportunity to revist anything?

"Kept in the--" He bristles, catches himself. It's like a dog with something squirming in its jaws, a kind of forced moderation uneasily straddling the line between a trained soft mouth and the instinct to snap, crunching, down. "You wanted to be kept there."

[hornswoggle]

"I wanted us to go on as we had been. Partners. Not stashed in the hold."

That turn of phrase is getting away from him a little. All of this has gotten away from him a little, perhaps from the moment he'd made the decision to disable the Walrus. Had that been the tipping point? Had it been before that? Had it come after? Perhaps there was no specific moment but just a series of little compromises that had ended up here, in this tiny, dust-covered shop looking up at Flint in the midst of conversation that grows more absurd by the moment.

[katabasis]

"You don't get both."

--is snapped back, a bone crunch of temper that doesn't wholly belong to this room, or to this conversation. Or it does, but it has been dragged around behind him for long enough to have picked up all variety of sharpened edges.

"You're asking for me to be somehow transparent and simultaneously be blocked from view. How would you have me do that? When Speaker Fabria and his fellows are well acquainted with the issue and may indulge in the answering of questions. How would you have me preserve you from the obvious scrutiny that might arise were I to include you in whatever business I do with Riftwatch's mages? Which is what this position, the one I am holding for the sake of our mutual interests, presently demands."

Some line in his face goes still, then rapidly narrows to close around any vulnerable feature.

"Do you not trust me with it? Is that what this is?"

[hornswoggle]

"You can't be serious."

As John pushes upright, crutch taking his weight, the haphazardly balanced box at the edge of the table tips. The resulting thud is followed by a whispery spill of yellowed paper. Their sole feline observer hisses in answer.

"You can't imagine that if I didn't trust you implicitly that I would have remained here."

The larger objections wait, momentarily stayed by the absurdity of that suspicion.

[katabasis]

In some other circumstance, it might prompt a step forward. In this one - despite a lifetime of companion ways taken in the dark and in high weather with a ship rearing through trough and over wave -, the ladder checks him.

"You think this is a waste of time."

[hornswoggle]

"I think you've shut me out."

John asserts this without missing a beat, because he cannot broach the idea that this has all been for nothing. He is here. They remain here. John knows they cannot leave empty-handed. How can he say that he fears they've wasted years and jeopardized their partnership for nothing?

[katabasis]

Is it reassuring that the answer is some diverging line leading away from that point? That he refuses to give the subject even the merit of his attention. Or does that mean it matters more than whatever this is, on account of John Silver and his penchant for bending backwards to avoid any painful thing?

"I have shut you out? What has changed? We came here to achieve a shared end, and that is what I have been working toward. You know this. Part of that is now balancing the interests of the rebel mages while beating back the suspicion of three people who would rather I disappear down a dark alley. I was honest when I said I would protect your secret, but you knew when I said so that it would be me weathering the consequences. And you were happy enough then to let it be done. So what more do you want from me? To apologize that I'm not your fucking wife?"

[hornswoggle]

"Happy? I was happy?"

That single, incredulous response bursts from John before he can stop it, and what follows is clamped down upon before it too can be put to voice.

There are other objections, old fears that crowd and choke him. What John understands consequences to be are vastly different than what Flint invokes here, but John cannot speak them aloud. Perhaps he wouldn't be able to even if they were truly alone.

He stops himself. Draws a breath. Swallows against the sharp, bitter impulse to snap.

"I'm not asking for apologies. I'm asking that you halve the burden."

But there is still the sense of the world coming apart beneath his feet, as if he'd been stood upon a shattering deck all this time and only just realized the danger of being plunged into the sea.

[katabasis]

He isn't blind. No one could honestly accuse him of that. He can recognize when he's made a wound. The trouble is, he doesn't know what flinching is. Blood seeks out blood, and an open gash warrants the searching press of fingers - some follow up, whether it be in the form of a further slashing cut or the application of pressure.

"So your fingerprints can be left all over it and followed by anyone with half the mind to do it? Yseult is some kind of assassin, capable of and willing to put a knife to our throats given reason to do it"—pitch hissing lower—"Byerly Rutyer a fucking Ferelden spy, who already thinks he knows something.

"Has it not occured to you, with all your faith in me, that there might be some purpose in what I've chosen to do?"

Nearly two years they have been playing this delicate game. Two years they have been holding disparate pieces together through the force of their effort. There is a bitter, heady kind of relief to try snapping something into pieces instead.

[hornswoggle]

The cat has fled. The whisper of paws and swish of tail are all John catches as he takes another step forward. Dust and grit swirls, disrupted by the motion as John moves to the foot of the ladder. Another conversation comes to mind: John sat on his haunches, looking up into Flint's face, I don't want to be a pirate.

"We are partners in this endeavor."

Is this a truth or an aspiration? Say a thing too many times at once and it rings false. John knows this. But still he says it again, waits for the world to acknowledge it properly.

"They assume it of us already. Why shouldn't my fingerprints be there?"

Held back: Do you know how completely I have been able to hide myself?

What use would it do to call attention back to the truth that had created this fracture in the first place?

"I'm telling you there is a way forward that does not see you carrying the totality of this endeavor on your shoulders."

[katabasis]

It's different. The line which can be drawn from their partnership to Nascere is distinct from the one which points directly to Silver, to whatever he is. It is closer to the path Rutyer has already charted once - 'And that information will be about Captain McGraw, Tevinter agent provocateur,' - and might easily do so again. It is different because he cannot tolerate the threat of it. It is different because this line, this direction, is somehow more delicate than All I want is freedom in Nascere, safe from the Qun and Tevinter and whomever else might come for its throat, and all the moving parts necessary to achieve that. Let Yseult, Rutyer and Thranduil have that if they care to dig for it. But twisting this piece of it into something unrecognizable— the possibility is so sour on his mouth.

His heel is hooked hard against the ladder's rung. He is trapped here, in this elevated point.

"I will see us through this," is what a zealot prays or someone with their guts in their hands says. If you say something enough times, it can become true. "Trust me."

[hornswoggle]

"I do."

What else can he say? It is the truth. John offers so few of them freely, and he does not withhold this. His trust is a foregone conclusion. It stretches beyond the tie he'd made to this man and this war with a sacrifice of blood, bone and flesh. John feels the snare of it more acutely with each passing day.

"But you cannot say I am protected by leaving me in a dark room and hoping those who circle us will take no notice."

[katabasis]

The thought of It worked once before, crosses his mind - a house on an island, a place meant to be preserved - and then slides away. It is at best a partial truth, and he can feel Miranda staring at him from somewhere between the rows of dusty books about them with all the penetrating demand that her simulacrum in the Gallows hadn't quite effected.

(There are smudges on his knee where he has set his dusty hand - a series of ghost-like thumb and finger prints against dark fabric which call out the restlessness inherent to all of this.)

"I understand what this must look like to you," resolves so evenly that it is dangerous. "Given the nature of our business, and with all the theater by which it is accomplished, and how we have a natural reliance on what is said and not said by who and to whom, I can see how you could believe it possible to exist in two states. To be both safeguarded and equal in this work. I once thought something similar."

That there could be two men with his same shape, and that the bloodier of the two could be put away in a time and place of his choosing.

"But the sooner you recognize that is a story you're telling yourself, the sooner we can decide how best to move forward from this."

When has anyone in the whole history of the world been both sheltered from and capable of changing it?

[hornswoggle]

"Then tell me. What story should I tell myself to make this palatable?"

What makes all of this easier to bear? Is there some lie that will make Kirkwall feel less like forced isolation?

[katabasis]

"The truth."

Is such an unyielding way of putting it.

"That either you can be satisfied with trusting that I can see us to the other side of this, that I'm acting in the interest of this partnership; or that you can be here, exposed to the details and made more vulnerable because of it. The indecision between the two seems to be weighing on you."

[hornswoggle]

It's a bad bargain, John thinks. The observation is almost passive, just a detached notation registering in the back of his mind. No matter what he chooses, the fracture deepens.

"Come down from there."

John is careful with his tone. There can be no large gestures, no rise in pitch.

In some way, this is a moment to stall. Where is the third option? What cudgel can he grasp for to redirect the iron of this choice?

[katabasis]

And so he does, for a moment as if he is biddable or has nothing at risk in this: the fixed heel of his boot coming unhooked from the ladder's rung, dusty hands pat clean against his thigh before they are turned to the task of descending the ladder.