[ CLOSED ] Scarce the blessing from on high

[filotimo]

WHO: Byerly, Flint, Madi, Silver
WHAT: A Princess Returns From The Dead
WHEN: mid-August
WHERE: Kirkwall/The Gallows
NOTES: Bad news from Nascere is followed a week or so later by an unexpected arrival.

Two things, all the world among,
Help the lover to attain
All that doth to Love belong:
E’en desire the good to gain,
Hope that makes the coward strong.
Both within my bosom lay.
No, ‘twas in my stricken soul
That they lurked to take away
My desire to reach the goal.
Hope hath fled and will not stay.

Comments

[bouchonne]

I see.

[ Hm. ]

I confess, I did not know that Nascere was involved in efforts as...noble as that.

[filotimo]

Perhaps because you see it as nobility, rather than necessity.

[bouchonne]

You do not see the fight for freedom as a noble endeavor?

[filotimo]

I do not see the value in debating the morality of it. To do so suggests the privilege of choice.

[bouchonne]

Plenty do choose not to.

[filotimo]

But I do not. My people do not. And, it would seem, the pirates of Nascere do not.

[ It isn't that she trusts the pirates themselves; she knows better than to go that far. But she trusts Flint, and she trusts Silver, and so long as their goals align they can do anything. ]

[bouchonne]

I suppose not.

[filotimo]

[ Madi allows for a few silent moments to carry them a number of steps forward on their journey before asking: ]

Would you say you know him well?

[bouchonne]

[ heh heh heh heh. intimately. ]

Does anyone know the man well?

[filotimo]

[ She shakes her head. ]

There are times when I think not even he can make such a claim.

[ But how can one wield a weapon so effectively without knowing it? Its edges, the chips in the steel, its weight, where it balances and where it topples. ]

[bouchonne]

Well, of course. No man actually knows himself. Indeed, I think people are most ignorant of themselves.

[filotimo]

He who knows others is wise. He who knows himself is enlightened.

[bouchonne]

Are you wise? Enlightened?

[filotimo]

Far from it, [ She has read books by men who claim enlightenment, but that doesn't impart the quality. ] All I know is what is expected of me, and that I must rise to meet it. Or die trying.

[bouchonne]

What's expected of you? [ He ventures a guess: ] Courage.

[filotimo]

[ A whisper of a smile. ] That is part of it.

[bouchonne]

I look forward to finding out what the other parts are.

[ He bows her into the Gallows. ]

It will be a lengthy climb to his office, I fear. I hope you have your wind.

[filotimo]

[ It has been nearly three years since she's seen either Flint or Silver. She can wait however long it takes to climb these stairs. ]

I hope you have yours.

[bouchonne]

Scarcely.

[ With a little laugh - ]

Every day I brave these stairs, and every day it's an agony. Please do not think little of me as I gasp and sweat.

[filotimo]

Even giants gasp and sweat, Lord Ambassador. After you.

[bouchonne]

[ And so this particular giant pushes his lanky form up the stairs, as he's done many times before, as he'll do many times again, leading her up to the Forces office. The first few flights are accompanied by idle commentary, pointing out this-and-that about the Gallows; after those first steps, he falls silent, concentrating on not breathing too unflatteringly hard.

Finally, they get to the office in question. By raps on the door and finds it open; then he bows her inside. ]

[katabasis]

[The office which lies beyond that door is in so many ways indicative of its occupant's relationship to the organization it helps oversee. The furniture is nearly without exception a mismatched assemblage of relics left from the division's previous head or whatever happened to be convenient to hand to replace what was taken when she'd left; the heavy desk nearest the widows is a demonstrations of trying and only partially succeeding in controlling an administrative nightmare, its surface papered in variably ordered stacks of missives and reports and miscellaneous letters being held down against whatever scant breeze might pass into the room by whatever collection of books, instrument filled cups, and ugly paperweights (the products of ill-advised Satinalia gifting gone horribly awry) could be scrounged for the effort. A second, smaller desk twice as overflowing with miscellany has been unceremoniously jammed between two records shelves. A mediocre painting of a familiar ship in a cheap frame, a series of books forgotten on the mantle, and a sword hanging from a chair arm are the only immediately personal items of note to hand. All of it is evidence of a man who has slid slowly, even unwillingly, into the role of a person who inhabits an eighth floor tower office rather than a ship's cabin or some tavern's back room.

At the center of the room is a great table upon which rest a series of maps and open chart books - a war table reproduced in miniature. It's over this table that Riftwatch's Commander is bent, his attention consumed by a ledger in which he's doing quick work and his face in the shadow of the hand he's supporting his brow against while he writes.

The rap is distinct. He starts to say,]

This had best be important, Rutyer. Otherwise, kindly fuck off until—

[and then stops. Fixed in place, with a thumb still pressed to his temple, the ready (weary) irritation peels back from his face like a shedding skin. Flint stares at her without comprehension.]

[filotimo]

[ The minutiae of the office's decor can be appreciated some other time, when the hour is not so late and no-one is at risk of unwanted vulnerability. For now, Madi steps through the door ahead of Byerly, halting her apprising glance when it finds the man she expects in a position she should have expected. ]

Thank you, Lord Ambassador, [ she turns her head to address him over her shoulder. ] I can take it from here.

[bouchonne]

[ Oh ho. Now that is an interesting face on the Commander's part. Byerly very, very much does not want to disappear.

So instead - ]

Just a moment -

[ He pants. He is out of breath in truth, but exaggerates it for his advantage. ]

To catch my wind. Forgive me. Carry on.

[ And he braces a hand against the doorframe, breathing heavily. ]

[katabasis]

[A reliable man on a fast horse had been sent North days ago; it will be days yet before they might might even begin to hope for news to make its way back from Antiva (on a raven's wings, or otherwise). Indeed it would be weeks yet - if ever -, he had assumed, before they could hope to have anything nearing a complete picture on what had occurred on a small island in a Northern sea. He had been prepared to wait them, not to hold off seeing to the business of arming a ship and men and arranging his reasons for why

(—why he is leaving; where he is going; under what circumstances he might return. There are pirates in Llomerryn he should have courted years ago who might be somehow persuaded to—)

but to reserve a place for the possibility that one most vital detail might yet make itself known. And here it is. Something which had been buried in the ground, whose last whereabouts had been known by just two men.

Without being fully conscious of it, he has risen to his feet and crossed the distance between them. But Flint's hand finds the door rather than the woman just inside it, and as his attention slides to Byerly it sharpens until it is the most dangerous thing in the Gallows.

His breath can either be found more comfortably elsewhere, or here minus the luxury of the continued use of his fingers (or anything else which might by some unhappy accident be caught in a closing door).]