faderift | [closed]

They come on the heels of a long string of refugees, though they bear only a passing similarity to those other travelers and even the worst kind of month can't have changed them so fundamentally that they would be unrecognizable to the ferryman. It is not the first time that James Flint has returned to Kirkwall in the night wearing a second skin of sweat and road dirt, dressed in clothes that aren't fully his own (the coat he's wearing is blatantly Ander, all red tinged leather and braided patterns and likely taken from someone who no longer has any use for it), with a strange sword and a certain drawn set to his expression which suggests the presence of a long list of to-do's being actively ordered even now as the ferry slowly works toward the dark looming shape of the Gallows.

It's hot and humid. There is the thick stilled feeling of a storm in the air, but no trace of a thundercloud has yet to manifest at the horizon. It takes a long time for the ferry to beat its way across the harbor without any breeze to speak of. It takes a long time for him to cross through the Gallows' nested courtyards, and to make his way up the long series of stairs in the central tower. It isn't until he arrives at the door to the division office that he realizes he no longer has the key to it. That it was left. Or rather, that it had been taken from him and never returned.

For a moment, he simply stands in the empty hall and blankly regards the door. It's late; there will be no one left in the office. He will have to scrape down two flights and pray that Pizzicagnolo is still at work in order to produce a replacement key (and a replacement crystal, while he's so engaged) and then clamber his way back again to this very spot—

But before that, he tries the latch.

Edited 2021-08-13 04:06 (UTC)

The door is not locked.

An oversight on John's part, perhaps. It's late and he had been tired even before climbing the stairs. Habit has nearly always seen a door latched neatly behind him, except—

Except it has been long weeks of a particular kind of exhaustion, set into the bone, and it is not assuaged by an empty office, nor the books left behind in it, nor the blank sheet of parchment he has considered for days without setting pen to it. (To write a thing, even a shadow of a thing, draws it ever closer to being true. John knows this.) The windows are open, in hopes of drawing in a breeze. John's coat is draped over the chair. There is a book in his hand as he turns towards the sound of an opening door and says—

"Whatever it is, it might wait until tomorrow," to the tune of Get out, some flat impatience lying beneath impersonal politeness that anticipates Provost Stark or Matthias or even Darras, but does not anticipate any familiar face beyond that.

Edited (wedges in extra words) 2021-08-13 05:32 (UTC)

Drawn short just over the threshold and with his hand still on the latch, Flint cuts a strange yet familiar figure. The patterned leather coat is heavy on him; the falchion sword at his thigh cuts an unnaturally boxed shape compared to the more at home line of a saber or cutlass. He is dirty and tired and the arrangement of his hairline or some trick has become very stark as the hair on his head has begun to bristle or due to some trick of the lamplight.

What he is not is dead is a Hasmal interrogation room (which everyone must know, as Bastien will have reported as much by now), or dead in a ditch from the injuries suffered there (which, given the delay of their return must have been considerably more questionable), or even—if how upright he is managing to be is any indication—so worse for the wear as to have found the ordeal unbearable.

"Forgive me." No that isn't true. He seems strangely grey, haggard in the way that only someone growing old can achieve. "But it's a little late to hunt after a different room for the night."

Is this not the way of it with them?

These unremarkable reentries: on a sloping sand dune over a trio of newly-dead Imperium soldiers, turning towards each other covered in blood on a roadside, in a jungle over a shattered mirror, and now here, a few steps over the threshold of an office in a tower. Should this not have been expected?

John's knuckles have gone white over the spine of the book, still held unthinkingly as his attention narrows entirely to the man in front of him.

How rare it is, that he finds himself with nothing to say. There is a long moment of scrutiny instead, in which John marks the coat, the sword, the dirt and what lies beneath it. You catches in the back of his throat. It breaks instead on a laugh, punched out relief coloring the sound.

"We've managed it before," is not what John wants to say, but comes anyway, holding place as John looks at Flint, and feels the weight of so many weeks of uncertainty (and dread, a particular kind of dread) lift from his shoulders. When he speaks again, his voice dips over the words as he says, "But please, come in."

Stupid. But close at hand, near enough to what he means to serve until he finds the right words for such things.

The shock of that noise—his laugh—in the oppressively still evening is like cool air ruffling across the back of a too warm neck. It makes the line of Flint's mouth slope first up and then sharply down, following the path of some instant relief and impulsive ache like a bird might a wind current.

He closes the door behind him. The simple activity of it unsticks his joints; reminds him of their liberty and clears that tangled shape high behind his ribs. So he begins to shed the coat too, peeling out of the russet leather even as he crosses further into the room.

"Don't tell me you've taken to reading for pleasure in my absence."

Silver's pale knuckles; the spine of the book. Flint frees himself from a dead man's coat, laying it over whatever article of furniture is convenient while on the move, and slowly some slanted smile creeps in to replace it.

"I admit, I've been having some difficulty occupying myself without your company," is suffused with fond humor, a thing that comes so easily to him now in the wake of dispelled dread.

Attention drawn briefly back to the book in his hand, John's grip flexes momentarily tighter, then loosens. The prospect of opening the tome in question, of working his way through some borrowed text to pass the hours, is so far removed from the present moment. He glances down, gilt-marked cover turned up into the light to meet his examination then tipped back into shadow when his gaze returns back to Flint.

The pull of his smile is such a fine thing, all the more so for weeks where John had thought—

The sound he makes is low, a patient form of humor which must stand in for something similar to, It's astounding you thought I might be dead enough to take up a book. And by then what remains of the length of the room between them has been completely shortened.

The volume in question is taken from Silver's custody. Flint flips through it briefly, the whisk of paper sliding under his thumb like a bird ruffles its feathers. When he looks at him in that narrowed space, there is something sidelong in it. Some dry witticism lurking—

"Well. It seems my timing can't be so bad as all that. I wouldn't in good conscience recommend this one."

It's forfeited without hesitation. John had nearly forgotten he was holding it, would have remembered when his hand inevitably raised. Instead, his gaze falls to Flint's hands, watching the familiar motions of Flint's handling of the volume, noting the dirt ground into his knuckles.

Relieved of its burden, his hand opens, closes. John looks back up to Flint's face. There's some complimentary shade of amusement, warming to the well-tread patter of their conversation. Flint is well within reach, but John stops just short of reaching for him with his newly-freed hand.

"Then what would you recommend?"

What, not which.

There are easily a half dozen answers—a list of relevant titles which spring to the tip of his tongue and might in this moment be named as readily as if drawing the books themselves from some convenient shelf. Or he offer up 'A bath,' or some similar riposte. Some easy thing with which to draw off like a hot cloth applied to a fever whatever unspoken residual anxieties might still persist despite the instantaneous relief of opening a door and finding a most familiar face on the other side of it.

He closes the book. The sound of it in the large room laden with the barely contained detritus of Riftwatch's field work is very soft.

"I have missed you."

Like it's a thing which demands clarification, or as if he himself is surprised by it (though neither of those can be true).

Maybe John had been expecting some humorous turn in reply, rather than this. Stripped down to the bones, with nothing to obscure the sentiment, John finds himself momentarily caught off guard, something tender and raw drawn to the surface and laid very bare as he looks back at Flint.

His hand comes up, catches the dusty fabric of Flint's tunic to draw him in.

"Come here," is unnecessary, when John is already making the request with his hand. But inlaid in those two words is a very similar sentiment: I've missed you too. John's winding his way towards it, finding a way to say it without choking on all the emotion that would inevitably come with it.

He requires that request—a point of clarity drawn in sharp relief even if it's only two words. The great outlines of the things which lives past them is less vital; he's sharp enough to interpret the shape of them. And for that matter even Come here is indeed unnecessary, for the brush of Silver's hand in his shirt is fully comprehensible. But when has James Flint (or James McGraw for that matter) drawn close to anything unbidden?

The answer is easy: a half step, the confiscated book tucked thoughtlessly against his hip still between them, a hand moving to Silver's elbow. Does it matter what follows after? Not really.

Later in the private quarters adjacent to the division's office, Flint sits in a low backed chair and uses a jack to work his boot free. There is no article of his clothing which hasn't been splattered in mud or caked in dust or smells of anything but the stink of sweat collected from hot late summer days spent in desperate and nebulous circumstances. It is a relief to begin to shed them. To peel stiff socks away. To unlace the ties of his shirt front and unbuckle the heavy clasp of some dead man's sword belt.

(The falchion has been leaned against the wall, a nearly comedic reminder of what violence lurks beyond this room jauntily propped sharp point downward in the rug.)

"I see things haven't entirely gone to shit in our absence."

Shocking, says his long look. Flint wedges his other heel into the throat of the boot jack.

"It was a near thing," is all dry humor. John is turning a ring on his thumb, sat on the edge of the bed, watching Flint steadily. "When you see our incorrigible Ambassador you'll have a sense of how things were operating."

As in, with too few hands and under a great deal of strain. Byerly Rutyer looked as if he might collapse from exhaustion at any moment, though remarking on it would have done no one any good.

But it occurs to John that maybe the exact sequence and severity of events might not have found Flint and Yseult yet. John's attention seems to sharpen, expression shifting from easy humor as he asks, "Have you heard anything of what transpired in your absence on the road back?"

"We crossed paths with a contingent of the Imperium's forces in the Marches and later a string of refugees just north of there," is a yes, in as much as any news can either be won at the end of a sword's point or extracted from the distinctly battered and traumatized. To say that they are lucky Tevinter had concentrated their efforts on the Minanter and not made here for Kirkwall to capture the strait through the Waking Sea both goes without saying and seems like a fairly cynical assessment given the givens.

(Is it luck? No, likely not. There is some purpose in chasing the river and it cannot solely be to ease the way for trade out of Antiva or to choke the northern Marches.)

The second boot is discarded, dry mud chipping and scattering free from it.

"So you have the shape of it," is John's mild summation. There is a pause while he observes the boot, the dirt, Flint's hands handling the jack. Sorts through the different things he might say before settling on—

"Stark was directing Forces," comes with an unspoken luckily for you over the end of it. "I can't imagine the state your papers are going to be in when returned."

A problem for Matthias, really.

"The proximity changes things," John says, some of the levity passing from his voice. "I've been considering that it's become imperative to start breaking the grip the Imperium's established in certain areas."

Perendale comes to mind. Val Chevin. Is there anything left of Nevarra City to salvage?

The sidelong glance he flicks in John's direction in reply to Stark was directing Forces seems to resonate in the same key of that unspoken sentiment. Better disastrous papers than—

"Consolidating the front line to a more manageable length would seem to be in our favor, yes."

There is dirt worked in under his fingernails and ground into the crevices of his knuckles and palms. But with a crystal to hand, procuring enough hot water to fill the copper tub squashed into the corner hadn't been a wholly impossible task—a blessing, as making the trudge to the baths might have been.

"Has there been any news from Orlais or do things yet stand as they were?" This, as he removes the knife from his belt, the belt itself, and twists in the chair to open the lacing exposed at his hip.

"I imagine there's been some shift in numbers, but we've been stretched too thin to confirm it ourselves."

Only an educated guess. To accomplish what had been done in the Marches means something had to have been diverted, but exactly what such a diversion might encompass—

A mystery. John's hands turn, one over the other, a thumb pressed along scarred palm, watching Flint's fingers at the laces. He is as dirty as John had been, when he'd walked back to the Gallows himself that first time. He remembers too, the red line across Flint's palm from the rope handle of the bucket he had toted up to John's room then, to wash away dirt and blood while they appraised each other of what had changed.

"We might see about making certain of the circumstances there more easily now than we might have several weeks ago. Presently we're of little use in Starkhaven."

Ergo, they might make themselves useful elsewhere. A sentiment applied to the broad sweep of problems raging in Thedas, but also here, in this room, where John watches Flint's hands and feels some similar urge. To be of use.

Edited (more words) 2021-09-13 00:22 (UTC)

"If that's true, there's little reason to appeal to the Orlesian Army. With the Exalted March strung the whole length from Perendale to Starkhaven, they can make no move without the support or urging of either the court or—"

Here, a lapse. It may be for some tangle of lacing which must be snapped free, but more than likely it signals some pivot of his attentions. This is the beat in which some calculation of navigation is made and just prior to his commitment to the new course.

"Without access to the Minanter, trade on the Waking Sea will double," may as well be a non-sequitur spoken aloud. "If the Orlesian Navy were to recommit to the blockade at Val Chevin, the army might be persuaded to act in kind. Particularly if there were some suggestion that anyone blocked from trade on the river might feel compelled to support any effort to secure at least one channel through which to move goods west."

The tails of his dark sweat- and dirt-stained shirt are freed somewhere in there. Buttons at his cuffs are undone. Here, finally, Flint reaches up to take hold of the shirt's shoulders in order to peel it over his head. He gets only halfway through the maneuver, then stalls as something pops. He buckles faintly forward.

For a little while, the flow of conversation between them had been the same as any other day. Any other weighing of action, an accounting of what had been heard and what they might make of it before the discussion gave way to something less weighted, they had managed to affect such a thing in spite of the dirt, the sweat, the exhaustion in every line of Flint's body.

The impulse that had prickled in John's palms is drawn up to the surface as Flint stalls.

"Wait."

Something spoken quietly, holding space as John levers himself up from the bed. The movement is fluid, but not an instant thing, though John has grown to be very nimble on that crutch. The word is there as much for Flint's dignity as it is to create space for John to draw close enough to say, "Let me," as his hand settles at the bend of Flint's neck.

Not an invitation to cease in calculation and the navigation of forward routes, but an invitation to allow John to see the last of this though, the shedding of what borrowed skins had accompanied him on his journey back into Kirkwall.

He receives some low noise in reply. It's at one grunting placeholder for something more eloquent or less pained and the sound of relief in being awarded the opportunity to surrendering responsibility of the garment's management to some other set of hands. Even so, it seems like delicate work to extract the man from the dark fabric. The effort of raising his arms high enough to affect the successful removal tugs at something unpleasant, and when the fabric is finally stripped from him he breathes out in a hiss. Absently presses a hand to support his left shoulder. Remains bent faintly forward in that low comfortable chair—not quite resting his brow against Silver's hip, but near enough to it that the sentiment lingers like cologne in the air.

"You and I should see to it," he says after some sluggish delay. There is dirt and grime beneath the shirt, but if bruises were among his souvenirs from Hasmal then it has been more than long enough for them to fade into obscurity. "The only other person who might speak intelligently on the issue is Darras, but I somehow doubt he'll find the idea of making for Orlais very appealing at present."

He has a wife to make comfortable.

Here is some formless sort of story, some pain that illustrates what might have passed in the weeks of Flint's absence. John's palm comes down lightly over that same shoulder, the heel of his hand over Flint's fingers, as he chuckles at the implication: John Silver, speaking intelligently on any issue involving seamanship.

There is a space between them. John shifts forward to narrow it, realigning his balance on the crutch so as to make some silent offer as his hand warms against Flint's skin.

"Alright," is a foregone conclusion. Of course John would agree, even if the proposition didn't soothe some itchy, anxious held-over emotion. (John had suggested he go to Hasmal.) Yes, they will go to Orlais. His thumb sets against the hard line of Flint's collarbone. "Though we might consider holding our plans to ride out until you've washed off the evidence of your last errand."

His hmm of acknowledgement is a low and rumbling thing. Not a laugh—he has been reminded of the prickling pain in his joints and it's enough to mitigate a more full sense of humor—but certainly cousin to it as he allows his brow to come to rest against John Silver's hip.

Yes. Well.

The line of his shoulder is rounded. Silver's palm is a warm, square shape. The close hewn edge of Flint's hair at the nape of his neck has grown to a prickling bristle. It takes a moment, but after some quiet interim Flint's hand raises to set there at Silver's waist. Between it and the line of his forearm slung across the chair's arm, it isn't impossible to lever himself up and out of the chair.

"A week," he says, aching as he rises, and means more like two or three or however long it takes to see things here returned to order. "And then we make for Orlais."

Once upright: he looses the waist of his trousers further.

In the span of time between Flint's forehead settling at his hip and the disruption of that contact, John lets out a long-held breath. (A breath drawn in over six weeks ago, remaining caught there in his chest until now.) Had Flint remained, John's hand might have moved. As it is, his exploration is limited to a steady movement of his thumb at Flint's collarbone, easily drawn to a close at the upward motion.

John's hand comes there, to his elbow, first as he rises, then shifting along with the work of Flint's hands at the laces, over the flex of muscle at his forearm.

"A week," John choruses, meaning behind it clear to the point where no protest need be made on account of the extent of injury John has yet to fully understand. "Not by carriage, this time."

[closed]

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