CLOSED | ressurrected,

[poleaxed]

WHO: i saw goodie proctor delphian talking to the devil poleaxed
WHAT: jone and tsenka have some things to iron out
WHEN: nn...now.
WHERE: the gallows courtyard
NOTES: probably swears

Is Bede dead or alive?

The thoughts been haunting her more and more lately, and every event, it seems, only feeds the fire. Now, one of his ex-lovers has shown up. Bede and a women? He'd sworn off them, last they'd talked, but he was also twelve at the time.

And, you know, so was she.

There are a lot of things people think are true about twins. That they can guess each other's thoughts, know each other's locations. The worst part about that is that it isn't true. Especially in Bede's case. What was going on behind those eyes of his, almost the same color and hue as hers?

She may never know. The thought bids distraction. She doesn't want to think of this, where the conclusion is like dangling your heart over a knife. Yet she can't argue that the woman she's promised to meet, the woman approaching now, clearly knows her brother better than her. You are who you are as an adult, not a sniveling child, afraid and covered in dirt, carried away from a Templar on promises of regular meals.

She doesn't like that memory. Jone forces it to the back of her mind. She'd rather talk to Tsenka, the funny little elf with the sharp tongue. Jone sits in view of the training yard, drinking from a clay jar of warm beer. She waves Tsenka over, and offers her a jar for herself.

"I reckon we have some catching up to do," she says, "more'n I thought."

Comments

[delphian]

Lighting her pipe, Tsenka leans back on her elbows and— remembers. Leaning back the same way between Bede's knees, her arm slung around his thigh, listening with half an ear to what he was murmuring to her under the crackle of the fire. Staying by it as late as she could manage, convincing him it was romantic to sleep under the stars when she couldn't stand the idea of walls around her and anything between her and the sky. The sound of his laugh. That they didn't only fight.

“Tevinter did a.. I don't know what's real, sometimes, what I remember.”

She says it plain, not like the vulnerability she must know it is.

“But I remember we were all right. I'm glad it means something.”

[poleaxed]

She nods, taking that in slowly. A magic so vile it fucks your memory? Jone didn't know, before this moment, that such a thing existed. And yet, it clicks perfectly into her view of the world. Of course such evil things have been dreamt up.

"When you were captured-?" She can't bring herself to ask. Was he captured? No, the elf would've said. A chatty sort, she is. Usually. Jone reaches out, a solid hand on Tsenka's shoulder. "Glad you're here. S'all I should've said."

Nice save, huh.

[delphian]

The way she leans into the weight of Jone's hand is no more than it seems; a woman who spent her life surrounded by the people closest to her, who grew used to being able to reach for them, isolated for years and not touched with kindness til her escape. She feels raw, still, uncertain of how to get back what still feels lost.

Marcus has enough people (and dogs) in his bed, he doesn't need her fussing over sleeping alone now; there's just not been anyone else to turn to, either. Thinking of Bede underlines how alone she still feels, even now. In the ways that matter most she isn't, and it matters, but there's much else not rebuilt.

“They threw me in a hole I thought I'd die in,” she says, “and I stayed there a long time. The Gallows don't look half bad, after that. I was glad it was only me.”

(She doesn't know if she'd have held out, if they'd had leverage over her.)

[poleaxed]

Jone has never been thrown in a hole. Jone has never been locked away. But she has been powerless, and she dealt with that by finding someone to be responsible for, and taking on every physical strike she could in order to protect them. The part of her mind that will always be searching for the sticky warmth of that version of home finds another crevice of humanity to slide into. This woman needs someone. Jone pulls her, without much evident effort, into the shape of a one-armed hug. She is solid muscle where Bede was lanky confidence. It must be an entirely different sensation. It's all she can give.

She pats Tsenka's shoulder, gentle, slow.

"Braver than both of us, now," she says, voice calmer than it is soft. "You got out. All that matters."

Jone will recognize, later, the way her loyalty twisted into a new shape.

[delphian]

How much it means to be drawn in close—easy as you like, natural as anything—is a thing for which she isn't entirely prepared. And a strange thing, for a moment, because it's true: Tsenka needs someone. Needs people, needs a whole to feel a part of, and Tsenka's people have always been Tsenka's kind.

Not elves; mages. She doesn't dislike it, it isn't unwelcome, only there's a pang of guilt in accepting it, her own derisive words ringing in her ears across memory. What did Bede need a sister for? What'd he need with someone who wasn't like them—who among them had not been taken from or given by their families? Didn't he have family, now? Weren't they enough?

Tsenka had doubted the devotion he'd implied. Had been cruel about her doubt, when it suited her to be. Even now this is a small kindness that could still be taken away, but that instinct offers it in the moment knocks her down a peg, all the same. She recognizes the humble pie for what it is, swallows it, decides to rest her head on Jone's shoulder and does it.

“Aye.”

A wreath of smoke blurs the air around them.

Soft, steely, “That's so.”

[poleaxed]

The wind, of course, blows the smoke into Jone's face, but that hardly matters. Tsenka seems better off, if only momentarily.

"Supposed to be watching the recruits, I am." She still has some humor to spare, and it colors her voice. "See anyone promising?"

Lately, or right now. Jone's been distracted, these last few weeks.

[delphian]

Tsenka flexes her hand — split knuckles could have any number of causes, but in this instance she opened them on that Templar, Orlov, and there is a bleak humor in the brief impulse to suggest he takes a hit well.

She does not. She decides to admit (more generally, not by that lout),

“Been impressed by more of what I've seen than I thought I would. And you have to like a fellow who leads with needing a drink.”

[poleaxed]

Jone wrinkles her nose. "Don't train 'em in pickup lines. That's confidential.

She knows what role she needs to play, here. Jocular, confident, deflecting worry. It's like slipping on an old coat, well worn and comfortable.