WHO: Alexandrie, Athessa, Bastien, Barrow, Derrica, Nell, and Poesia WHAT: A Very Riftwatch Summer Vacation WHEN: Late Solace WHERE: Churneau, Occupied Orlais NOTES: Violence cw etc. Bunch of details here.
Perhaps she will learn to play after all, if only to provide accompaniment. "We started avoiding each other. I thought I was giving her space, she thought she was giving me space, but that just made everything worse when we did see each other."
Athessa looks up at Bastien, realizing that he likely doesn't know the context for this, that she never told him about what their conversation outside the wall made her realize. Never told him about the rest, either. Why does that feel like deception?
"Love isn't something either of us signed up for! We just wanted to enjoy being with each other now and then. So when I realized how I felt we both decided it was better to stop, but then my feelings didn't stop. Still haven't, obviously."
He could tell her about Vincent. How the only space that was enough was not seeing him at all, and even then, with months between thoughts of him, a glimpse of someone plucking at their bottom lip while they read could send him right back.
Or he could tell her about his bardmaster, teaching him how to work through pain. It hurts is for children, panic is for dead men. Pain is information. Identify the source, identify the damage, identify the worst that could happen and whether it's worse than what will happen if someone sees you wince. Your skin is asking you to stop it from splitting open, but your skin can't always have what it wants.
Or he could kiss her forehead—which is what he does—and lean his cheek against her hair while their fingers move. "I'm sorry, Fauvette. I would stop it for you if I could." Four notes, and he adds, "Is there something stopping her? I know sometimes people are just not interested—in love, I mean. Is that it?"
He would hate to think of Derrica as a stupid blind idiot, given how sweet and competent she seems, but if it's Athessa in particular she can't love, he's willing to.
"I don't--I don't know," she swallows hard when an involuntary tug of emotion pulls the corners of her mouth down and tears into her eyes. That conversation has played over in her mind more times than she cares to admit but she can't remember Derrica's exact words. The fear that Athessa has been carrying around is that Derrica can't love her, same as Ciara, perhaps even the same as Deimos. That she's been rendered unloveable by cruel circumstance.
Don't cry, don't cry, tears soaking into the bandage would be a biiiiiitch.
"I hope that's it," she whispers, because her voice won't come out any louder. "Otherwise it--I--" Yep. That stings.
Bastien makes the sort of shh sound that's soft and meant for comfort, not sharp and meant for truly hushing someone. "You should ask her," he says. "You do not have to storm in demanding an explanation, but—there is nothing wrong with telling someone you want to understand them. And the worst answer you can imagine will not be worse than lying in bed a year from now and imagining it. I promise."
Athessa heaves a shuddering breath and places her fingers beneath her left eye to disrupt the flow of salt into her wound. If she can't stop the tears full-stop she can at least spare herself a worsening of that bitter sting.
"I'm scared," is the quiet admission, not out of need for reassurance or the desire to be known, but so the words might drift out to a comfortable distance and she might adjust her approach to be less of a suicide mission. "Afraid I've cocked it all up already, that in trying to save our friendship I've actually killed it. I don't want to lose her even if she can't love me back, I just..."
It isn't as simple as just. She just wants her to be happy? Or does she want to contribute to that happiness? Can she ever hope to? Does she just want her to be safe? The world is a dangerous place even without Corypheus's dark shadow looming. Especially for mages, especially for elves. Matthias sees a wealth of possibility in uncertainty, sees hope as a torch to carry out into the darkness to light the way and try. And here Athessa is, cowering in a little cage and afraid to leave it because it's familiar and she knows where to find sure footing.
And then she laughs. It comes out as an awful, gasping sound, a hybrid of self-loathing. "I killed a magister. Killed a guard captain. Had a castle wall fall on me, for fuck's sake. But that's what terrifies me."
That laugh cracks him open. It’s a small crack, but wide enough for, “I have only been in love the once,” to slip through.
If it’s balanced on the edge of untrue—if there’s any thought spared for a hand gripping his too tightly in the humid, rustling dark—it doesn’t show in his voice.
“It took me six years to tell him. In that time I’d had a dozen knives to my neck,” as a figure of speech, because now is not the time for an actual inventory of blades and arrows and poisons, “but it was still...”
Terrifying. He glances down at what he can see of her face and her tear-damming fingers without moving his cheek from her hair, then shifts and roots around to produce a handkerchief. It’s dirty, but only from actual dirt.
“I think you are very brave,” he says. “Scared or not.”
Six years. How could anyone be in love for six years without tearing apart at the seams? Perhaps Bastien doesn't feel the agony of it as acutely as she; more likely he's just better at hiding it. Athessa dabs at her eyes, her face already plenty dirty from actual dirt, what's a little bit more?
"And you're strong," she says, "and too nice, putting up with my nonsense so much." She never used to be this much of a crybaby.
After a few good, deep breaths and a moment of appreciating Bastien being near, the flow of tears is staunched enough that Athessa can start to peel off her sodden bandage. No point in keeping a wet bandage on a fresh wound and risk any traces of poison seeping deeper into her flesh and blood.
He shakes his head at too nice and through the rest of that sentence, but otherwise he stays quiet, letting her recenter. Recentering himself. The fissure seals, with regret as a bond, and he picks up the melody with his fingers again.
"A fight?" he echoes when she breaks the silence, sounding bemused.
"Instead of crying all over you," she explains, though it's possible that the mental leap only makes sense to her. With the bandage removed and set aside, her tears held at bay for the moment, she can take up her half of the duet again for a few chords before interlacing their fingers and bringing his hand up to kiss his knuckles.
The caress of cool night air on her face is a welcome balm, briefly offering respite from the angry radiating heat from the wound. "Maybe not a fight, actually. Maybe dancing."
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Athessa looks up at Bastien, realizing that he likely doesn't know the context for this, that she never told him about what their conversation outside the wall made her realize. Never told him about the rest, either. Why does that feel like deception?
"Love isn't something either of us signed up for! We just wanted to enjoy being with each other now and then. So when I realized how I felt we both decided it was better to stop, but then my feelings didn't stop. Still haven't, obviously."
no subject
Or he could tell her about his bardmaster, teaching him how to work through pain. It hurts is for children, panic is for dead men. Pain is information. Identify the source, identify the damage, identify the worst that could happen and whether it's worse than what will happen if someone sees you wince. Your skin is asking you to stop it from splitting open, but your skin can't always have what it wants.
Or he could kiss her forehead—which is what he does—and lean his cheek against her hair while their fingers move. "I'm sorry, Fauvette. I would stop it for you if I could." Four notes, and he adds, "Is there something stopping her? I know sometimes people are just not interested—in love, I mean. Is that it?"
He would hate to think of Derrica as a stupid blind idiot, given how sweet and competent she seems, but if it's Athessa in particular she can't love, he's willing to.
no subject
Don't cry, don't cry, tears soaking into the bandage would be a biiiiiitch.
"I hope that's it," she whispers, because her voice won't come out any louder. "Otherwise it--I--" Yep. That stings.
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"I'm scared," is the quiet admission, not out of need for reassurance or the desire to be known, but so the words might drift out to a comfortable distance and she might adjust her approach to be less of a suicide mission. "Afraid I've cocked it all up already, that in trying to save our friendship I've actually killed it. I don't want to lose her even if she can't love me back, I just..."
It isn't as simple as just. She just wants her to be happy? Or does she want to contribute to that happiness? Can she ever hope to? Does she just want her to be safe? The world is a dangerous place even without Corypheus's dark shadow looming. Especially for mages, especially for elves. Matthias sees a wealth of possibility in uncertainty, sees hope as a torch to carry out into the darkness to light the way and try. And here Athessa is, cowering in a little cage and afraid to leave it because it's familiar and she knows where to find sure footing.
And then she laughs. It comes out as an awful, gasping sound, a hybrid of self-loathing. "I killed a magister. Killed a guard captain. Had a castle wall fall on me, for fuck's sake. But that's what terrifies me."
no subject
If it’s balanced on the edge of untrue—if there’s any thought spared for a hand gripping his too tightly in the humid, rustling dark—it doesn’t show in his voice.
“It took me six years to tell him. In that time I’d had a dozen knives to my neck,” as a figure of speech, because now is not the time for an actual inventory of blades and arrows and poisons, “but it was still...”
Terrifying. He glances down at what he can see of her face and her tear-damming fingers without moving his cheek from her hair, then shifts and roots around to produce a handkerchief. It’s dirty, but only from actual dirt.
“I think you are very brave,” he says. “Scared or not.”
no subject
"And you're strong," she says, "and too nice, putting up with my nonsense so much." She never used to be this much of a crybaby.
After a few good, deep breaths and a moment of appreciating Bastien being near, the flow of tears is staunched enough that Athessa can start to peel off her sodden bandage. No point in keeping a wet bandage on a fresh wound and risk any traces of poison seeping deeper into her flesh and blood.
"Maybe a fight, next time. For variety."
no subject
"A fight?" he echoes when she breaks the silence, sounding bemused.
no subject
The caress of cool night air on her face is a welcome balm, briefly offering respite from the angry radiating heat from the wound. "Maybe not a fight, actually. Maybe dancing."