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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.
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.
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.
https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/000/804/876/aa3.jpg
No, he nearly says. He didn't take notice of a key, though he'd hardly been in the apartments so long as all that. If it's there, perhaps its in some drawer or pocket or tucked away behind a particular book on one of the room's many shelves. If that's so, hopefully the details will come swimming back to save them mounting a search.
"Do you not have it on you?"
HAHAHAHAHAHAH
He hadn't carried it with him to Granitefell. This he can be certain of it; the memories of preparation for the journey overlay each other without variation. He had not brought the key along with him.
There is a book on a high shelf in those apartments, rarely consulted but not fated to be discarded on the off chance it may someday demonstrate use. There is little reason to start a search anywhere else, apart from the notion that he might have put the key directly into Flint's hand this time, rather than concealing it himself.
Relieved of the management of the bottle, John tears a chunk of the bread from the loaf. Considers his own cup.
"Did we ever discover how they orchestrated the ambush? Or was it as simple as predicting our reactions?"
no subject
It'd been cleverly done. He might almost respect the man behind it if not for how fucking bitter the whole thing had been.
"I'd be curious to know if everyone on that side is having the same conversation we are now."
Well— A flicking glance across the table to John. Perhaps not precisely the same conversation.
no subject
"If they recall the resounding victory that's been tugged from their grasp, I imagine it's prompted some discussion."
Time magic, Julius had said. Would the Venatori work out that's what came to pass, how it was utilized to undo what had been orchestrated?
"I'm sorry," is an abrupt tack away from the dispassionate contemplation of their enemies, how they may or may not be grieving their defeat. His hands have settled, the bread abandoned on its wooden platter.
Is the feeling he has been carrying with him today so different than that miserable stretch of time in which he was obliged to adapt to the absence of his leg? There is some comparable quality here; the way two realities run alongside each other, the way John's awareness of what's missing is impossible to ignore. And here too, Flint is a fixed point in these swirling currents. John looks across the table at him, a conversation coming to him in echoes, resolving so slowly in the wake of John's acclimation to his present state.
no subject
His hand doesn't so much hover over the cup as it does rest there, palm across the mouth of the vessel and fingertips hooked. If he lets it—and it would be easy to let it—, that drowning sensation that had found him on the Gallows' stairwell might easily flood in and over him here as well. So rather than wait for it to find him—
"Did I tell you what was done to me in Hasmal?" is a hypothetical question. Yes, he has. They were captured and kept in a basement awaiting passage back to Tevinter. They were asked questions. They escaped. But also: no, he hasn't. A dozen fine white scars that hadn't been on his person prior to being captured. An absent prospensity toward rubbing the joints and sinews in one hand.
This is a question they both know the answer to, and so it really must be, Do you want me to tell you now?
no subject
Not that night, when the business of reunion had felt so urgent. The shape of it came later, the scaffolding explanation upon which John set those new scars, the ache in his hand, and observed the shadows they cast.
Had he needed the details laid out for him? Maybe not.
Here and now, he looks across the narrow table to Flint for a long moment before his eyes shift to take in the room around them. Dwarves, dragging a barrel into the crowd. Their overlapping objections and demands. The churn of activity holding what seems to be all the attention in the place. They are two humans in a corner, and perhaps not worth more than the cursory glance.
Perhaps it would have been better to solicit Emleyn's back room. To put coin in the hand of the first unoccupied boatsman they came across to shuffle them back to the Gallows. But they are here now, and the question has been laid, and John looks back to meet Flint's eyes as he answers, "You hadn't."
Invitation. The question hadn't been raised for no reason, even if the invocation of Hasmal raises more immediately the recollection of a rocky beach, a canvas tent, a fire burning itself out in the sand.
no subject
"Ayaz Tagaris, a Magister. I never worked out whether his purpose there had been to capture us, or whether it was unhappy coincidence. Either way, he was the man responsible for our capture, and charged with extracting whatever information could be had from us until some blood mage could be brought up either from out of the Marches or from deep in Tevinter to see the questions reduced to obligations."
It is loud enough here that these things practically constitute as private regardless of how many bodies are in close proximity to them. They might as well discuss some secret of the war itself and be trust it to travel no further than the edge of their table. Anyway, he is speaking to John and not to the room, and the difference is significant enough to separate the one from the other.
"Tagaris made up for the deficiency with some measure of creativity. Putting a body in a bath, and turning the water to ice. Broken knees, broken fingers; healed knees, healed fingers, and the whole thing done over again."
(A knife in Yseult's gut, leaving her to bleed and shiver in the dark. This, somehow, feels too private to mention. He isn't discussing Yseult, or how tired she'd looked when the survivors had first returned from Granitefell.)
"I realize," he says, turning his thumb up from the edge of the cup. It's halfway to an open handed gesture. Occasional imagined ache or no, the joints remain dexterous enough. "That it's possible for the ghost of a thing to linger even where it logically no longer belongs. It will pass."
sorry too many words
In the passing hours, John has thought very little about where the recollection of this undone death will live in his own body. The shadow of his split palm has ached the entire time, a convenient point upon which to hang all the memories that came after.
(How death came to him: parts and pieces, wounds rebounding back to him as Marcus Rowntree split the earth and ignited a volcano. John hasn't been able to look at this directly.)
Will it linger? Will his death linger the way the pain in his years-absent leg sometimes appears? Will he be seized in a rictus of agony as the phantom of a wound reminds him of a thing that's been undone? Will it be easier to assuage that pain if it radiates from living flesh instead of phantom limbs?
Will it pass for Flint, who perhaps received what salvageable pieces of John were toted back to Kirkwall? Rings, necklace, the detritus carried within his pockets, the cracked crutch that he'd taken to the ground with him? (It has not yet occurred to him that his corpse had been carried back.) Is there any way to undo the finality of that business? What it would have been, to receive that news?
Beneath the table, John lays the deep ache in his palm over Flint's knee.
"I know."
This is not contradiction. It is recognition. Pain doesn't pass. It carves a place for itself, puts down roots.
"I'm sorry," he says again, a repetition for the reality that hovers at the edge of this table: that John died, and Flint had to bear it.
puts them all in my pocket
Anyway, it isn't as if these past weeks have been the first time they'd done this. It's only the most concrete.
His, "You might consider breaking the habit," is light enough to suit the room.
no subject
But maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe the shape of that unspoken, suppressed feeling would be known to John, even in a dark room.
"But I have so few hobbies," is light too, a matched tone as if they are not talking about death and the way it has dogged their steps. The different ways it has clutched at them.
Flint has an assortment of scars to mark the occasion of his escape from Hamsal. John's reprieve from Granitefell is an absence instead; there is nothing to mark it but the thing he finds at the edges of Flint's expression now.
"We might make a list of how else I could occupy my spare time," John suggests, watching a dwarf wobble wildly atop the unsteady barrel. The song has progressed to shouting, stomping feet. John's palm remains where it has been set, though the warmth of Flint's knee doesn't quite chase the ghostly pain from his palm.
no subject
"Here I was thinking that I'd sold you on the merits of a good book." The leaded cup is fetched up. Before draining it, he adds, "Failing that, I'm sure there's some poor Hightown bastard you could be persuading to part with their money."
no subject
It is a cushion, a buffer drawn between them and the recitation of the types of torture performed in captivity, the unspoken spectre of John's death, these things that wait so patiently at the edge of the table.
More easily called forward—
"Perhaps after we lay a hand on the key to my trunk, or otherwise."
Otherwise.
Between two pirates, how long can a lock truly remain latched shut?
no subject
When the bottle is righted, he says without thinking, "It's under the lamp on the mantel."
Which is not something he'd known until— some days ago. A minute ago. But is true. It has been placed there for temporary safe keeping with the expectation that a better place be afforded it so it might be kept with a second set of keys made to fit the division office's lock and the apartment's door beyond it—
But that had been days ago, surely.
no subject
This too snaps disparate impressions into place, more memory than fragment: whose hand lifted the lamp, the conversation in which they came to the conclusion of what would be set where for safekeeping while a second pair of keys were procured to set on the ring.
John knew these things this morning. It is not new to him, except that it is new in this moment.
His cup is empty. His opposite hand settles around the cool metal, traces the patterned grooves and dents set into it. The air around them is warm and John is alive; he'd been on the road to Granitefell for a number of hours before turning back. He'd thought of it so little since.
"Yes," he agrees. "I remember."
Like he recalls the business of toting that trunk up the stairs. What bits and pieces he had collected in the days after, and what he had chosen to leave behind.
"Did I ask, or did you?"
Is the answer as simple as the memory John has no question about: a rocky beach, as the tide rolled in and the fire guttered just beyond the opening of the tent and John had said—
The beginning of the thing, perhaps. But something had come after, he is certain.
no subject
He remembers sitting in the Gallows chapel when Yseult had come back with all the dead. He remembers being stood in the infirmary side room turned impromptu morgue, and the sensation of reckless irritation that had risen up in him at the behest of all those corpses. All this, and for what?
Did John ask, or did he? He tears a piece from the bread. The mouth of the cups are made wide to accommodate the shape of fingers and knuckles so as to encourage dipping these scraps into the wine, and so he does that.
"Does it matter?"
no subject
No. Yes.
A year ago now, sat together as the gray dawn gathered outside the Gallows Tower, John's expression in response to some similar sentiment: I can't imagine that you you've failed to grasp—
Maybe it is similar to the flash of reaction now, what moves across John's face like a lightening strike. Some old, deep gouged wound illuminated and returned to shadow in the span of a breath.
No, it doesn't matter. Yes, it does matter. These are both true. John reaches for his cup at long last.
"I imagine the end result was the same, regardless of who raised the possibility."
No one could mistake John Silver's old room as bare, but all of import had been shifted from it. The work of the magic Julius had described had not changed that fact.
I see that back of the head icon you terrorist
No. Yes.
For fuck's sake. Nevermind, Flint does take a brisk sip from his cup. He should have solicited something stronger from the tap. Maybe that would have seen things settled things in the interim.
"Apparently."
And then, bluntly because the sensation in his belly has quickly snarled into a knot with no visible loose end to begin untangling it with (who proposed it, and why then, and how intolerable will it be to have the thing anywhere where someone else might observe it)—
He looks at him. Prompts, "So?"
winks
Halfway to proposing they take their leave before they're obliged to find out what follows after the present slate of implications about the dwarven houses, his attention is pulled back at the clipped nature of the question.
"So?" John returns, an echo to draw the thing out, whatever is near to being said. To draw the nature of the question into focus, though John might guess at it now.
no subject
(He doesn't think of Petrana, furious in her grief, or any similarity between them. He only senses the twinge of impatience and how sharp it must be to cut up through everything surrounding it. The volume in the public house has risen considerably in just these last minutes.)
"So, what is your opinion on the arrangement?"
no subject
Had they been adjacent to rowdy dwarves? Had they been on horseback? On the balcony at Emlyn's? Were they splitting a better bottle between them? Had John proposed it or had he?
These are trivial questions, perhaps. Maybe it is even unnecessary to linger over them, when the outcome is so clear. The arrangement must have worked; it has been some weeks of lost time, weeks in which they must have settled upon the thing and seen it done.
What is his opinion?
(Again, the susurration of the tide, the low-voiced requested passed between them: Stay. Does it not apply here?)
A minor lift of John's palm: Peace.
"I can see no reason to reverse it," comes slower, as John weighs out the jokes that might have been closer to hand if the moment did not feel so frayed. (Some mournful observance of extra stairs, the much maligned mattress, and so on, all familiar ground that may have inspired some good humor in better circumstance.) "When it has served us well enough for weeks thus far."
A careful, hedging sort of answer. The kind of answer that treads in a protective circle around some deeper truth.
no subject
If he'd suggested it—he thinks he must have—, how had John answered? Not like this, surely.
He drinks another mouthful of wine.
"It might have been done yesterday."
(No, that's not right. The bruise on his shin from carrying the trunk has gone.)
no subject
It might have been done yesterday, perhaps. But that assertion does not fit with what little John has of the past weeks.
What had he said? If he had been asked, how had he answered? If he had asked, how he had put it?
There is a terrible kind of pain in making himself so vulnerable, John thinks. To ask to stay, rather than inviting someone through the door. It feels not unlike prying open a closed door.
But then, he had put a key into Flint's hand long ago. Further back than a handful of weeks.
In the raucous not-quiet that fills the space after that proposition, John looks at him. His hand has remained, set over Flint's knee, his own cup more or less untouched. There are no scars on him, if the absence of slash over his palm is any indicator. Like so much else, the past weeks have been swallowed into a void.
"I said yes," John says, something that becomes both an internal accounting and a reminder of an undeniable truth. "Or I asked, and you said yes. And we saw it done."
These are the things they know for certain, surely.
no subject
Fine. It had not happened yesterday. Fine. There is a hand at his knee and it's meant to be both reassuring and connective. He knows this too.
"Drink your cup," he says. "We should have this and a second bottle. We're meant to be celebrating."
No one is dead. Everything is in order.
no subject
But John remembers dying. It had come to him like a blow in that parlor, an abrupt wave of recollection dragging him down into the depths of that battlefield.
There is no longer one singer, but many. Boots stomping on the floorboards. Beer slopping over tankards lifted and lowered in near synchronization. Somewhere, the men must be engaging in some similar revels. (What do the men remember, if anything at all?) His thumb presses hard against the edge of Flint's kneecap.
What does he think in this moment? That the crowd has taken on a suffocating quality. That there is something he should say that he has known for a long time, that had caught in his throat on that field.
(Stay, he had said in the molten quiet of that tent.)
"We might entertain the idea of procuring that second bottle in a different location," is another suggestion once removed from a truer request as his opposite hand finds his glass. "Perhaps less likely to see you wearing the contents of someone's cup."
no subject
He would prefer not to show his teeth tonight, particularly not at the man across the little table from him. So yes, maybe they should go (though his coat is hardly so delicate as all that; it has survived worse than a tankard of beer being splashed down a shoulder and sleeve).
"Fair enough."
He lapses then to tearing the what remains of the modest loaf in half so they might each have a hock of the bread. His cuo is drained a second time. While the din of the house thumps along, the contents of the bottle is portioned out briskly between. He makes no further remark about the trunk in his quarters, or how or why it came to be there. Not here.