faderift | [closed]

"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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