faderift | player plot | when my time comes around, pt. 5

Entry tags:

player plot | when my time comes around, pt. 5

WHO: Everyone!
WHAT: Everything's fine and we're going to have feelings about it.
WHEN: August 15 9:49
WHERE: Primarily the Gallows! But potentially anywhere.
NOTES: We made it! You are all free of my tyrannical plot grasp! There is a final OOC post with some notes + space for plotting here.

This is a timeline where, some mild chaos aside, things for the last month have carried on as normal. Riftwatch hasn't lost anyone at all. There were no funerals. The work continued. The late afternoon of August 15 may find people at their desks, in the midst of meetings or debriefs, in the library, in the sparring yard. Or maybe afield, seeing to errands or meetings or missions somewhere else in Thedas. Maybe, if they are particularly unlucky, they are deep in conversation with an ally or embroiled in combat with an enemy agent at the precise moment when the magical connection between two realities closes and the diverging timelines snap together into one existence.

At that moment, everyone forgets what it is they were just doing. Instead they remember what they might have been doing in the world where a third of Riftwatch's number was lost, despite their hands suddenly occupied with the normal business of handling pens or swords or books they don't recall picking up.

For the always-living, it may feel as though they have been magically transported somewhere new mid-thought. For the dead—the formerly dead, the might-have-been dead—it will feel as though they have just woken up. Perhaps they'll have a vague sense of a dream they now can't recall, in between their last conscious moment amid the blood and screams in Granitefell and awakening just now in a quieter world, or perhaps they'll have a sense of nothing at all.

For a few hours, the worse world will be the only one anyone can remember. Over time, memories of the other world—the only one that really exists now—will filter in, competitive with other memories in a way that might require everyone to double or triple check whether they wrote a letter or completed a mission in that timeline or this one. But the memories of death and dying will never fade into anything less real.

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No details. All right. He can do that. Just - just a little further, and then he can collapse. A little further, a single boat ride, and then a few steps to be out of sight of the water, and then he can - do whatever it is he needs to do to stop himself from feeling like he's drowning.

"Artemaeus," Byerly says. His eyes fall on Benedict's face, and then flick away at once. That strange expression will break him if he lingers on it too long. None of that, he decides. "Good to see you well. Your shopping was - " He stops in the midst of extending his hand in greeting. "Ah, your parcels...?"

By the time Benedict is close enough to them both that they can get a proper whiff, it's undoubtedly clear what he's actually been up to (at least in the form of smoke on his clothes and drink on his breath), but he had the decency-- and vanity-- to clean himself up at least in appearance, with his hair combed sleek and his clothing tidy and unrumpled.
But he really doesn't have any parcels, and his look turns slightly guilty when Byerly notices: in a self-effacing way, of course, since there's no reason for anyone to come chasing after him about his dalliances, and he has no reason to apologize for them.

"Didn't, ah, find what I was looking for," he lamely replies, giving a toss of his head as if to rid himself of the uncomfortable conversation, paying no more mind to Bastien than if he were Byerly's silent valet.
"You look well."

Byerly’s silent valet gives Benedict a brief once-over, cataloging visual details to accompany the aromatic ones, and—valet-like, you know—hinges the arm By has been holding onto around to rest a hand on his back. Silently.

"Ah," says Byerly, and even disoriented and distracted he can recognize the universal look of yes, I've been fucking. If circumstances were different, Byerly might tease him about it; things being what they are...

He lets out a breath. "Yes, I - suppose I look better than the..." He trails off, having overestimated his ability to say something lighthearted about the whole thing without falling into hysterical laughter or sobs. Fortunately, he stops himself before his control goes, and looks over at Bastien a little helplessly.

"Would you two be able to keep up the chatter with the ferryman? I might need to feign a headache or - something. I am sorry."

With his brow creasing slightly at Byerly's weakness, Benedict's first instinct is to look away immediately, to stop perceiving him out of some combination of kindness and discomfort. But he nods, murmuring a quiet "of course," as he glances once again to Bastien.

Edited (don't operate heavy machinery or tag while sleep deprived) 2023-08-30 17:51 (UTC)

Bastien is not glancing back. He’s looking at Byerly, searching his face with an expression a little too sharp-eyed to be purely sympathy. A little calculating. Not in a nefarious way. What he is calculating is only: “You could pretend to be queasy? Lean over the edge.”

That will hide his face and excuse both silence and any number of noises or shaky breaths.

But he tries to soften the Bard-ness of it all by offering a fretful little smile, too, and, “I’ll rub your back.”

While Benedict talks to the ferryman, sure. Or falls overboard into the harbor. Bastien doesn’t care.

"Ah," says Byerly, and nods. An elegant solution, especially since one of Byerly's great skills in life is pretending to be queasy. It was, in fact, one of his great assets as a spy. Two people, chatting in a bar in the late afternoon, would often ignore sloppy, hungover Byerly Rutyer retching in a corner - harmless fellow.

So By stoops over, the posture looking particularly ghastly given his leanness and height, and puts his hands on his knees. As the ferry pulls up, he lets out a miserable-sounding belch (because of course Byerly Rutyer can belch on command), and visibly needs Bastien's help to get on board.

"Bad oysters, I think," he explains, and then leans over the side of the boat, turning his face towards the water, letting his expression go unguarded once it's hidden. Maker willing, Benedict will successfully distract the ferryman with some idle chatter.

Sympathetic though he may be, the belch is enough to bring out Benedict's Disgusted Face, which still somewhat remains by the time they're boarding. He understands that he (AND Bastien) were asked to keep the ferryman distracted, but it occurs to him now that he's never spoken to this man in his life, and the ferryman looks equally confused when Benedict suddenly pays attention to him.

"So," Benedict says after an awkward pause, very much in the manner of someone unaccustomed to acknowledging The Help, "how's... ferrying."

True to his word, Bastien settles down beside Byerly and rubs up and down his back as if to try to soothe his disagreeable stomach.

He is not so focused on that task that he can’t raise his eyebrows at Benedict’s astounding small talk skills. He catches the ferryman’s eye—noblemen, right?—but the ferryman is good enough natured to be suppressing a bewildered smile, not a salty snarl, when he rises to the task of answering that question.

“Very ferryful,” he says. “More ferryful than yesterday. If the trend continues I’ll be at maximum ferryness by the end of the week—but more likely there will be a lull. That’s usually how it goes. Crests and troughs, just like the waves. ”

So Bastien looks charmed, because that’s what he would do if Byerly had never died and time had never been fractured, before returning to worrying (to a reasonable degree, for all appearances, the way one ought to worry about someone who’s had bad oysters) toward the back of Byerly’s head.

Even for Byerly, that penetrates the fog hanging about him - he takes a look momentarily over his shoulder. How's ferrying? He furrows his brows at Benedict, wondering for a moment if the boy has completely forgotten how to talk to a human being.

Do service workers count as human beings?
Benedict shrugs incredulously back at Byerly, not sure if it's what he wanted or not when the ferryman starts answering in the manner that he does. Could be worse, he could have to carry the whole conversation himself.

"No more turtles, I hope," he remarks, and immediately takes on a look known well to those close to him: I shouldn't have fucking said that, is written all over the tension in his face.

Bastien dedicates half a second to wondering whether Benedict is being passive-aggressively awful on purpose to get out of being responsible for this conversation, or if he really is so hopeless.

During that half a second, the ferryman’s bemused smile is faltering.

“There won’t be anymore turtles,” Bastien says without looking away from Byerly. “Jonah—“ is not a worrisome name for a ferryman in a world without the Bible, thank you “—how’s your uncle? Feeling better?”

"Ah, no," says the honest Jonah, "still gouty as ever. But he likes to complain, so, I suppose he's happy in his own way."

And then, perhaps as some subtle revenge against Benedict's faux pas, he nods to the young man, saying, "That's what rich living will get you, you know."

For his part, Benedict does look genuinely contrite, and his glance at Bastien is even a little grateful for swooping in-- but then he remembers a certain thing Bastien said, and his expression hardens again.

"Sorry," he mutters to Jonah, gives his head a little shake, and digs around for a cigarette that he can smoke to keep his hands busy; he's walking around and talking fine ("fine"), but he's definitely still in need of some sobering up.
Realizing that he would have to use magic to light the damn thing, and that he doesn't even carry matches for this reason, Benedict opts to fiddle with the unlit cigarette and look out at the water rather than shove his entire foot in his mouth again.

Bastien, magicless, goes nowhere without the fire-starting runestones they've been issued—but he doesn't offer it. Obviously. He manages a convincing little laugh for Jonah, then some convincing little response, then another, even though he what he really wants is to focus on the solid warmth of By's back under his hand and stare at the back of his humidity-dampened, uninjured neck until everything feels more real.

By the time they reach the ferry's slip at the Gallows, Jonah is saying, "—took weeks to get the smell of fish out, so we called her Tuna for years," while he stands to handle ropes and bring them in close enough to climb out. "I ought to call her that again, now that I think of it. See what her face does."

"Please," Bastien says. He stands, climbs out onto the dock, and offers his hands down to help poor oyster-stricken Byerly follow. "And report back. I want a full reenactment."

Jonah says, "Aye-aye."

Which all seems to answer the question of whether the ferryman has any idea anything is amiss. But then, once they're out of his boat, Jonah starts singing to himself; the first line is maaaybe I'm going maaad. Which could either be a song Bastien has never heard before, or one he is making up on the spot to narrate the fact that he was, half an hour ago, under the impression that the Ambassador was dead.

Byerly is tempted beyond words to join in with the song. Maybe I'm going mad, maybe I'm going mad, but it won't be so bad, once I'm well and truly mad, sings Jonah, and By couldn't agree with the sentiment more. If he's cracking, let the cracking happen to completion. Let his sanity go completely.

It's not so many steps up the dock. Not so many more to a place sheltered from the water and from curious eyes. Each one feels like it's being taken through heavy sucking mud, but each one happens, one after another, until finally they are within the confines of the Gallows and Byerly can lower himself gingerly to sit upon the ground and lift his hands to clutch at his hair and turn his face towards his knees.

"Fuck," he whispers, and trembles, and breathes hard, but doesn't know where to go from there. All the panic and terror and grief and confusion finally have space to be vented, now. But he'd thrust the cork into that bottle so hard that now he doesn't know how to loose it. All he knows how to do is stare blindly down at the ground, paralyzed, hoping that Benedict or Bastien will slap these feelings out of him.

On the contrary, it gives Benedict pause when he sees Byerly curled up so helplessly. He fully understands why, in the burgeoning part of his brain that has been taught to feel empathy, but it's an uneasy sight nonetheless, and apart from shoving a pillow under the Ambassador's head and bringing him a steady stream of coffee, Benedict has never been in the business of comforting him.

But he's not going to just stand there (and standing still, especially after being on the ferry and after what he's imbibed over what he can only gather was a very short time, is not a tenable plan), so instead he moves with a distinct sway to sit beside Byerly. He doesn't touch him, doesn't say anything, just looks at the ground and exists there. Perhaps it's not the best anyone can do, but it has to be for him, for now.

Edited 2023-08-31 18:04 (UTC)

Something in Bastien doesn't want to move. It wants to watch, inhibited. It wants to get hung up on Benedict's irritating presence, use the fact that there's an a audience as an excuse for staying distant and contained for that much longer, the way he once used Alexandrie's. It wants to tell By they have to go a little further to find even more privacy, like a closed door and no Benedict, before he's allowed to fall apart.

But over the last couple of years, something else has gotten stronger than the inhibition. Hardy enough to even acknowledge that Benedict matters to By, cares about him, and might be a helpful presence.

He crouches in front of Byerly, then tips forward out of the crouch to kneel with a knee on either side of his. He holds his jaw in both hands.

"Hey," he says. "Tout va bien, By. You're here. We're here. Look at me—" with encouragement from his hands, trying to raise Byerly's head. "You remember everything?"

Tout va bien, tout va bien. If Bastien is saying it, it has to be so. Bastien doesn't lie about the things that matter. Not to Byerly. Not lately. They got most of their lies out early, the two of them, and now he wouldn't tell him anything untrue.

"This is - unmanly," chokes Byerly, who sashays everywhere he goes and likes to wear gowns and yet still can't escape from this expectation of himself. Can't help but hate himself for this fear. But it's Bastien and Benedict, and so the shame is muted, more than it would be for others; the implicit apology hardly lingers.

And he looks up, his red-rimmed eyes meeting Bastien's. He clutches desperately at Bastien's wrist. "I remember it. I remember...what it felt to die, and then - and then I was in de Tolly's parlor. I - Did you - Were you all right? Both of you? They didn't - " He swings his head around just far enough to see Benedict, though he can't turn his face far. "They didn't come after you as well, did they? Maker, tell me you both lived."

The word unmanly pierces directly to Benedict's core, and he hates how well he understands: being one of the least manly people alive and still tying one's worth to masculinity, because… well, that’s what growing up rich gets you. He frowns, clenches a hand like he's about to pat his shoulder, but refrains when Byerly clutches at Bastien.

"We did," he says quickly, glancing to Bastien and back, "we both lived. We helped bring you back."

Edited (period tried to be ellipses >:C) 2023-09-01 00:46 (UTC)

“We were fine,” Bastien agrees.

He’ll mention his lost hearing some other time, when it will be romantic or funny. Or just when it won’t be one more thing to add to the overwhelm causing By’s panicky sentence fragments.

“Except for missing you.”

Maybe that’s the point where he would cry, if they were alone. But tending to By with an audience/co-tender is one thing. Crumbling himself would be another. The wall holds.

At a delay, he softens his hold on one side of By’s face. The side nearer to Benedict, specifically, to allow a little more movement to look in his direction. But only a little.

"Ah," Byerly says, and that heartache gives some small vent to the chaos in him. Loosens the cork so that a bit of the frothing misery can spew forth. His eyes well up, and he squeezes them shut, and he feels a little more real.

But, with his eyes closed, he turns his blind face towards Benedict. And he whispers, "Thank you."

But then, immediately afterward: "I can't believe I was so stupid. To not see it coming...I - Did Yseult make it out?" The question seems suddenly vitally urgent. His eyes come open once again, and he looks Bastien full in the face, expression pained. "Did she pass along my message?"

"How could you have seen it coming," Benedict whispers with sympathetic incredulity, in a stop talking madness sort of way, but he falls silent again when Byerly refers to Yseult and a message. He doesn't know what that means, glances at Bastien and gives a little shrug.

Bastien doesn’t return the look or the shrug, because he’s busy with a fresh burst of distantly feeling as if he betrayed Byerly by—

“She offered to, but I said no. She said I already knew, and I.”

The explanation of what exactly he thought and felt will have to wait, because now he’s glancing at Benedict, buttoning up his feelings and face again for his presence.

“Benedict told me about your letter,” he offers as a redirect, because it is not so private, and because it makes him feel less guilty. “A bit of it.”

In another circumstance, Byerly would not have been so easily led. But he is in these circumstances, and so he cannot follow up on that I said no. Instead, he looks at Benedict, and says, "Ah. Yes. The letter. I - " Wasn't planning on having to look you in the eye after saying those ludicrously sappy things. "Apologize for the sentimentality of it."

Then he looks back to Bastien. It's strange how guileless he is in his assumptions. The world-weary cynic, for whatever reason, doesn't think that either of these two would have suffered from any sort of base or petty emotions and would work as a team. Perhaps simply because of an underestimation of the effect his death would have, but perhaps it comes out of trust in them.

"Did you take on leadership?" Then, to Benedict, "And Artemaeus - did you manage to find some allyship with Flint? Did you secure a new place?"

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