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WHO: John Silver + Petrana de Cedoux
WHAT: Country Roads Take Me Home.mp3
WHEN: Last week of Wintermarch into early Guardian
WHERE: Free Marches, Fereldan, etc.
NOTES: Best friends road trip at long last.

There is an open gash at John's temple, a split begun over his left eye curving into his hairline. It has since painted half his face in blood, the flow of it only staved off after one Imperial soldier had slapped a stinging handful of salve into the wound.

Incidentally, how John had come to: with someone else's hands on his face and the sharp, antiseptic prickle of some vaguely medicinal paste smeared over the wound.

As far as collected injuries, this is the most annoying of the lot. The best to settle his focus on, while John watches their captors crow over their acquisition and pass wine skins back and forth around the fire. His hands twist idly in their binding, testing the limitations as he tempers his own fury at the stupidity of the situation.

They are very much at ease. John can't blame them. A cripple parted from his crutch is hardly worth concern. Petrana is not a battle mage. Leaving the pair of them shackled and bound to posts at the edge of their camp is hardly unreasonable.

"How many are there?" John is asking quietly. "I count eight."

They have done him a favor. He is bleeding. He has pain to spare, to trade for what they might use to get themselves out of this. But it goes without saying: they'll need to pick their moment carefully.

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“Before there was a palace, there was a tent, an infant and a handful of mercenaries, and I find very little surprises me any more.”

Words almost immediately disproven, of course, when she skims the letter in her hands— her fingers clench around it a moment, before she smooths them purposefully, rereads to be sure of what she's seeing.

“If they have enough,” after a moment, quieter, “they could mitigate the issue of distance.”

"Small blessings."

They might not have enough for that, but they have some.

"I would have said the island was Nascere three years ago. But I recall it being broken beyond habitation when we left it. We'd have to consult a different map."

If Photios was only part-way, if there were an island upon which they were attempting some other opening—

"It may be the location of a gate."

“For them,” rather darkly. Anchor-shards in Venatori hands—

“We will need more to go on than the complaints of a soldier who knows only his orders,” she says, a beat later. “Dieu, my kingdom for a map of Tevinter now,”

their route back to Kirkwall is important; this may be far moreso.

“But we will need to pursue this. And if it is a gate—”

Nothing good could come of Venatori leading shardbearers to it.

"I know."

Even in the dream, John recalls more worry as to the experimentation on shardbearers, on what Holden had been used for, than this. But times had changed. The dream had been limited by the Herald's scope.

And now they have this, some small warning.

"They can be intercepted, if there is a stop before they're taken to that island. But it would benefit us to chase it down to whatever extent the Scoutmaster deems wise."

Nevermind what Stark would have to do, if there were any way to locate shardbearers once they'd arrived.

“We should bring this to her directly,” she says, “as soon as we're able. Photios is certainly a start.” A direction to pursue; a point on a map they could begin tracking travel around.

The phrase wagon of anchors feels altogether too numerous and too casual for her comfort.

An exhale— “And here I had thought we might have a moment to enjoy accomplishing something,” a careless, implicit inclusion of John Silver himself in the we that might have been satisfied with the pieces they had moved into place for Starkhaven.

The papers rustle between them, John's hand turning in silent agreement to the first point. Of course, they should speak with Yseult directly. Perhaps even before they see anyone else.

Perhaps.

But to the second statement—

That warrants some mild scrutiny, a gathering of John's attention to a specific point rather than divided between the disparate topics bounced between them at any given moment. He knows we to be a weighted word. He cannot find himself entirely certain of it's deployment in the moment.

Of course, he could assume she is speaking of the Chantry Mother. A different sort of victory. However—

"It is quite the accomplishment, regardless of what presents itself after," John agrees, easy over the words. Wary of the inclusion there, before it is further clarified to him.

His reserve on the matter puzzles her in a way that she makes no pretense of or effort to hide— studies him in turn, in response to that scrutiny, her brows slightly pulling together and her head tilted. After a moment,

“Marcus did mention,” a little doubtfully, “that Commander Flint seemed less pleased than we had taken for granted in the moment. I cannot say I expected it to be a matter on which we wouldn't be aligned,” has an element of honest query to it — it is not immediately obvious to her the way in which this needs clarification.

That it does: obvious. Where it is she's lost him: far less so.

This might be a statement met with some humor, in different circumstances.

The papers spread between them crinkle only slightly as John folds the lot, passes them to Petrana for safe-keeping. His hand remains extended, a silent request for the water skin sitting at her side.

There is so much blood on his face. He can start there.

"Would it surprise you to hear we are neither of us much fond of surprises?" is so lightly delivered that they could be speaking of something a minor as a party or change in draperies.

This on the heels of an ambush, an unexpected underscoring of the point.

Natural and automatic to pass him the water when he reaches for it, but she can't entirely read his mood and it only deepens her dubiousness—

“A windfall, surely,” she objects, instantly, to any sort of characterisation comparing this experience and that one. “And did you ever use our office, you'd not have been surprised,” is true as well as gently batting back some of that seeming-humour. “But I don't know how much sooner you and he could wish to be informed of it than immediately, John, having not been in our office.”

All misgivings and uncertainty aside, the throbbing in his head and the ache in his body and the jittery thrum of exertion that comes in the wake of using his ability as he had—

This light scolding makes him laugh. Recalls Petrana informing him of the desk, the space intended for Master of Information. (The laugh hurts his head, but its' easily cast aside.)

"We surely crossed paths in the weeks prior," he posits. "I haven't been absent from my desk for that long."

Petrana's open bewilderment is a picture — shocked into a rare display of truly and utterly unfiltered reaction. He could not have said anything to startle her more if he had suggested that he expected her to open a vein and communicate with him psychically, and for several moments she simply gropes for a response.

Finally,

“John, we had a conversation in my office,” it's her office when he's being insane at her, “during which it became immensely clear that there was no purpose to that conversation without having spoken with Fiona. There was perhaps an hour where, had you caught me as I fetched my things, I expect I would have simply bade you come with us. Upon our return from speaking with Fiona, we went first directly to Julius that we might explain what had transpired and pressgang him into dealing with Rutyer,”

there's no point making any bones about what that was, not with him, even if she is clearly perturbed right now,

“and after that, to each of the division heads.”

The more she speaks, the tauter her voice becomes; there is real hurt in her at what feels like the worst kind of accusation, the worst assumption of her character from the person in this place she has, save only two, trusted the most.

“I trusted,” with deliberate emphasis, “that you would understand the value of what we had done and be able to capitalise on it at once. And until this moment I had no reason to think I had been wrong.”

Weeks. Has the man taken absolute leave of his senses.

Edited 2023-03-19 06:55 (UTC)

Were Petrana's confusion not so palpable, John might harbor some measure of doubt.

He had taken for granted that there had been a plan in place. They were gambling, would there not have been discussion for some time beforehand? (That John and Flint have made decision on a similarly rapid timeframe is surely a very different matter.) His understanding of Petrana's approach was of strategy, some measure of consideration. The kind of thing that requires some run up time.

Apparently not.

And while he doesn't doubt her, it requires a reorienting of his understanding. This newly discovered gap in his knowledge of her at this point in their friendship feels much like the queasy lurch of a ship's deck beneath his feet upon collision.

"There is no question of the value," John tells her, sweeping aside the concept briskly. Of course they'd understood. "My concern was to my trustworthiness, and how I might have lost it in your eyes."

Of course, John understands why they would have avoided directly telling Flint. But John was, surely, an easier option to relay such a thing to.

A moment ago, she would have trusted him with anything. Had trusted Flint a great deal, too; the thought of needing, for any reason, to keep matters with Starkhaven from him had never entered her head and still does not, oblivious to that specific element of calculation on their part. The brisk and businesslike way he speaks to her now is a splash of cold water through her shock and it straightens her spine—

he has lost a great deal of her trust, right now. It is disorienting in the extreme to step out into air and find herself falling; the absence of a comfort that she had come to take for granted, that she had implicitly relied upon near unthinkingly.

“This has been remarkably effective,” she says, her jaw tight with the effort of holding her composure in a way that is— not unfamiliar to him, but never before a thing he'd caused. “I will not soon forget it.”

A misstep.

John knows it. The waterskin is in his hands still, unopened. It is a little like watching a disappearing act, the way she recedes from him. Yes, he knows it. Has admired the armor of it.

Finds being the recipient of it to be less than enjoyable, unsurprisingly.

"Petrana," is a kind of appeal, lower and quieter, colored by what is certainly a shared exhaustion. "Forgive me."

It is still beyond his understanding, such an act occurring on impulse. But it matters less than the tightening of her jaw does in this moment, the stiff recoil from the familiarity they have habitually shared.

For a moment, Petrana says absolutely nothing. For another. A beat longer, her mouth pressed into a tight line, as if she might stubbornly deny him not merely her forgiveness but even anything else—

“That you would think this of me and not even speak it!”

There is a flex of her hands that suggests, strongly, that if he had not taken the waterskin he would have found himself wearing it. For the best; he has had enough strong knocks, and is in no state to be the first man in Thedas to find out just how stroppy she can become in high temper.

“That you would allow me to blunder, foolishly, taking for granted our friendship— to walk stupidly into such a thing because you have imagined yourself the great victim of my trust—”

The rest of what she says is not completely comprehensible to Thedosian ears, even should he have acquainted himself with Orlesian at some point; she is not speaking Orlesian, and Lamorran is not completely interchangeable. She says something at one point that sounds suspiciously like the language she commands her dog in, though she's never said it to the dog in that tone,

she points a finger at him,

“I have done nothing but trust you, at every turn. I was certain that there could be no danger in bringing this to you. I have advocated for you and for James—” they are intimates when she is angriest, “—only to be so insulted, by my own dearest of friends, as if this were Anders all over again—”

oh, it's like that.

She thinks about taking the waterskin from him so she can throw it at him.

Anger is better than absence; through it John can parse the fracture, consider how he might mend it.

Even so, for the better than when John shifts the waterskin it is placed on his far side rather than within her reach. They have little in the way of supplies, and what they have in that waterskin must be split between scraping the blood from John's face and seeing them back to the road.

"Petrana," is the first attempt at finding footing, making space within the flow of her anger.

There is a particular truth that John will not offer, because he is aware it will not be well-received, or seem to be shifting blame. (Not so long ago, he and Marcus Rowntree sat around a campfire in waterlogged Seattle, talking about mages. About John, who circled the identity from a distance.) Instead, he straightens, shifting his weight to lean towards her.

"Petrana," a second time, imploring. "Listen to me."

Of course, she could go on. He is a patient man. He is capable of waiting, if there is more she has yet to say.

“Is what you ought to have said to me before you decided to accept the basis of your lack of faith in me as simple fact!”

—she's not quite done.

“Listen to you! Now, shall I, when you had no questions for me but to have already made up your mind to believe the worst and only quibble over my motivations! I cannot imagine the picture of me that you must have— what spoiled thing you must have taken me for, to laze about for weeks over a matter of such urgency to no purpose but wasting precious time that Starkhaven did not have if this were even possible to debate amongst ourselves a thing we could simply ask the woman— to have held back from my own allies for no reason but what, petulance? Womanly secretiveness?”

She takes a breath, as she hasn't.

“What an incompetent, cruel fool you have thought me. And now you would have me listen to you.”

Edited 2023-03-19 08:33 (UTC)

"Petrana," a third time, now reaching for her hand. "I have never thought you incompetent, or cruel. Certainly not a fool."

Riftwatch has it's share of fools. Even before they were anything at all to each other, John had not taken her for such a person.

"Will you let me explain?"

Petrana jerks her hands into her lap, but she doesn't move any further away from him and she does not, immediately, continue snapping at him like an infuriated spaniel.

“Speak, then,” curtly.

Before him, a handful of differing hurts. Some do not come from John; they are wounds made by others, and he has aggravated them.

What he must account for here, in the midst of all this fury—

"You must know how highly I regard you. When I considered you may have withheld your plan from me, I trusted there was a reason. Not a petty or a foolish one, but a reason that had merit compelling enough for you to act on it. One I believed I would hear, when the time was right."

Which may well have been this day regardless, if not for the ambush and subsequent delay.

"You don't truly imagine I believe you are any of the things you have spoken of?"

Some effort goes into making this answer measured, and not a great deal more sound and fury—

what she settles upon, finally: “It is immensely difficult to credit, instead, the notion of something so self-evidently absurd and unnecessary.”

Self-evident to her, certainly.

“Nor, in truth, why under the circumstances in which we found ourselves there would be any justification, further, for taking weeks to deliberate on a thing as simple as putting one question to one woman. If there were a thing that should have warranted that, I couldn't imagine you would have somehow not been equally aware of it. How am I meant to reconcile those things?”

"Because I would have taken the time."

A type of trade, opening himself to the application of those descriptors.

By the narrowing of her eyes, Petrana would much rather continue to be vexed with him than allow herself to be coaxed down from this— but it does get through. Especially because it is her honest response to say,

“Well, had you done so, I would have called you a fool,” with a some exasperation. “I suppose I would have tempered it,” a begrudging allowance, “but you must see the appalling waste that would have been? To take weeks where you can do nothing only to agonize over whether or not you will even ask a question?”

A brisk shake of her head, “We did not go to persuade Fiona. We were not machinating to arrange her into a favourable— you must see how what she's chosen had to be only her choice. The only thing that could have taken weeks to do would have been wringing hands, and if I had any concerns about speaking of it when it was no more than an idle idea to division heads, it was certainly not James that I thought would wring his hands over it.”

"Well, it is the job of the quartermaster to wring hands over things that may not necessarily require it."

Ha, ha. (What exactly does John Silver know of the formal duties of quartermaster, when his service as one has been so unique as to render all traditional explanation useless?)

But in this, he considers the explanation. Finds truth in it, because a lie would be absurd. She is describing an impulse to him in such plain terms that even though he finds it unexpected, he can't say it doesn't align with all else that has passed between them tonight.

"I didn't imagine our approaches differed to this extent," is speculative. Not doubt, not second-guessing, only considering this new facet of her and comparing it against himself. They have been aligned in so many things that the incongruity of this feels more noteworthy than it might have otherwise.

“I did not think it merited different, and the results would bear that out— we could do and plan nothing unless there was something to be done and planned, and that was in Fiona's hands entirely, none of our own. I have found Yseult to be an eminently sensible and capable woman, and took for granted that we would be aligned in seeing the benefits— Stark would leave such things to his colleagues and Rutyer,”

well, Rutyer. She spreads her hands.

“We discussed the idea amongst ourselves, the three of us, and it seemed so absurd not to simply ask when we'd Marcus right there, a rebel mage who'd fought under her, that we could simply through him go to her. Had I thought at all of whether or not we should speak with anyone beforehand, and I did not see any sense in it when it was no more than a conversation between us three, my only concern might have been that Rutyer could not help himself but disdain the work of those he so little respects and I have long found it easier to go around him than inconvenience him with his responsibilities.”

It is more than she's said even to Derrica and Marcus on the matter of what they had done, and what they might or might not have spoken on — there had been no debate or deliberation on this point, specifically. It had seemed clear that they were either aligned or did not consider it; she had taken for granted the same, with Flint and Silver.

Finally, “I have never had the luxury of time. A delay has always been a decision, most often the decision to relinquish the outcome entirely, and rarely with any wisdom. In Sulleciel and in Thedas— it is well, I agree, when there is time. A gift.”

Not something to take for granted; not something that every decision would allow.

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