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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.
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.
no subject
But the reality is this: the earlier assertion of happiness sliced like a dagger, and this further assertion of comfort is salt thrown across the gash. The weight of sacrifice does not settle easily onto his shoulders, would not even if he were truly untouched by the endless isolation of his present position.
"I did not want this."
Again, the old refrain. One more entry in the long list of events and circumstances he had tried uselessly to avoid.
"You're angry with me."
The statement is almost resigned. He should have said that first, knowing they would end here anyway.
no subject
Isn't that true? He thinks it must be. That if he wasn't, every part of this - not just the argument, but the demands of the work and what has become necessary to invest in - would feel less severe.
no subject
It is of some comfort to John that he can divine the place where anger gives way to something more complex in Flint's expression. But that doesn't leave him with any path forward. He knows the root of both anger and concern.
After all these years drawing breath and walking this earth, John has not yet found a way to rip out the part of himself that creates trouble. What sacrifices Flint makes in the name of safeguarding it adds a new layer to John's misery. He'd suspected, but confirmation brings no real peace.
"My well-being, and our goals, all come to nothing if your time spent in those rooms wears you past the point of tolerating the situation at all. I'd thought at the least I could offer assistance with that."
But it's useless. It's repeating the same offer in hopes of trying to find some new combination of words that will push past the impenetrable wall Flint has constructed. Maybe there's some truth he could offer (that he's miserable, that he's grown tired of this city and this organization, the kind of truths he cannot ever say aloud) that would rattle Flint enough to sidestep his rationalization, but John deems the risk too high. He's already been truthful enough about privately held facts for a lifetime.
no subject
"This is not a question of what I can tolerate," he says, gesturing with the growing collection of papers. The upended box is righted. "This is about how I have been asking what exactly it is that you're so troubled by and how you still haven't given me an answer which includes you in it."
no subject
If he cannot frame this in terms of the effectiveness of their partnership, of how useful John can be with Flint withholding information, then how does he frame it?
"It's a simple answer, really."
So simple John doesn't know how to speak it aloud.
"I can't tolerate our present circumstances."
Two concise statements, so narrow as to not betray the full scope of John's feelings on their situation.
no subject
There in the shop's dusty, ill-lit back room, the shape of Silver seems somehow folded shut. As if there is very little to study, nothing to look at and find an answer in. He looks anyway, and his attention is bright in the way that burned things sometimes are.
When he does speak, Flint says, "We're not having this conversation here," and dumps the collection of papers back into their box.
no subject
"Alright," he answers.
In this moment, he misses Madi so acutely it's hard to draw breath. He'd slipped with her as well, though he can't recall if that moment had felt like this one. The details are lost to him now.
But he does wonder (if only because it's a tactic he would certainly fall back on) whether the objection to venue is just a way to divert any further discussion altogether.
"Where? A tavern? The Walrus? Your office in the tower?" John's tone is forcibly light as his hand blindly settles on the dusty shelf to his left.
no subject
There is that lifetime of labor in motion - how promptly he making his ascent and sees the overloaded shelf put right. When next he descends to Silver's level, it's with that slim volume in his possession. Flint pushes it into his hands.
"Pay the woman. I'll see you outside."