Obeisance Barrow (
thereneverwas) wrote in
faderift2025-05-16 03:34 pm
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Entry tags:
[open] I'll return one day
WHO: Barrow + you
WHAT: catch-all
WHEN: post lyrium detox
WHERE: mostly the Gallows and surrounding areas
NOTES: open starters are in the post body and bespoke ones are in the comments, hmu if you want one, etc
WHAT: catch-all
WHEN: post lyrium detox
WHERE: mostly the Gallows and surrounding areas
NOTES: open starters are in the post body and bespoke ones are in the comments, hmu if you want one, etc
out & about, OTA
One could be forgiven for thinking nothing has changed. Not long after his time in the infirmary ended, Barrow had made his return to the training yard in the mornings: he busies himself there, offering training and maintaining the weapons and being something adjacent to his usual self. The distance is, however, noticeable at times, when his banter is a bit delayed. Or maybe his smile doesn't meet his eyes, or he stares out at the horizon for a little too long in the middle of a drill.
Nearly every evening now he's in the Loose Noose, nursing an ale for hours as though he's periodically forgotten about it. When once he might have played solitaire, lately he just sits and stares at nothing. Sometimes he smokes, letting the cigarette burn all the way down to his lips before he thinks to ash it.
infirmary, OTA
There's work to be done in the wake of his time in the infirmary, and Barrow finally dredges up the courage to address it. He arrives one day with his toolbox and, without offering much conversation, proceeds to go about mending... everything. He starts with the worst of it: the door to the private room, the bed that took the brunt of his and Lazar's altercation, then makes his way down to smaller details, things he may have left unfinished in his initial restless busyness when he'd first gone off the lyrium.
If spoken to, he speaks, and is even friendly, but his overall bearing is awkward. Uncomfortable. Apologetic, if one squints. Maybe he shouldn't be here, but he wants to make it right.
for Sennara
Why does this ever seem like a good idea? It's never a good idea. But here he is, all his limbs like lead, and he may as well enjoy how his mind has quieted for the time being.
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Everyone knows, too, that they didn't really go. The war party sailed off, and others stayed, quiet for the fear of their neighbors. There are still Qunari here, and tal-vashoth too, and the distinction rarely so clear as Par Vollen would like.
So when the grey man taps her shoulder, she follows. He's taller than Barrow, but half as broad; works the door on nights he isn't studying Qunlat.
"Thank you," This bar is far from Riftwatch, and that's more reason to know their faces. "Go now."
He does. She considers Barrow across the little table: Looks like shit lately, when he looks like anything at all. She knows the place that his eyes go, Ashaad dwelt there often in those final days.
Barrow's back heaves. Still alive, still here. Sennara lifts a tankard to sniff — nose wrinkling — and pours the dregs over his head.
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"Oh," he grunts, in greeting. Hello. What can I do for you.
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Isn't his to own. Mug clanks down, and so does she.
"Enough of this," This isn't the kind of place that gives out napkins, so there's no rag to toss or wipe his eyes. It's just them, and the soggy table, and a crowd ready to pretend blindness. "This ends tonight."
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"What," he says dully, "you gonna kill me?" Is that hope? It couldn't be: more like the ever-present desire for the easy way out, whatever will stop the cycle of misery and, maybe, finally quiet his mind.
He died in Granitefell, didn't he? It didn't take. Wouldn't that have been better than what's in store?
cw insensitivity about suicide and mental health stuff from here on
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"What's it you want," he slurs wearily, making no move to extract himself from her grip-- what are you even doing here and how is it your concern, he'd ask if he had his wits about him, but for the moment it seems she simply appeared out of the aether to get in his face.
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A starting point.
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“Life,” he says, breathlessly. Can’t she see, can’t anyone see it’s all he fucking wants?
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Altogether different from surviving.
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"I'm going to lose my mind," he breathes, and can't control how his face contorts from the despair of it. "Forget everyone, forget myself."
training yard
She's there this morning training with her spear, and gives him a nod of acknowledgement when she sees him organizing the weapons.
"Do me a favor?"
loose noose.
"Barrow," in greeting.
He takes a seat, not at Barrow's table, but on top of the table adjacent to it, feet on the chair and mug on his knees. He's less animated than he often is. His attention is steadier. He is doing little to disguise the fact that he's here to be serious,
eventually.
"I witnessed a murder today," he offers first, because they don't have to leap directly into it.
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Even if he doesn't smile, it's a somewhat tender look Barrow reserves for Clarisse as he looks at her over his shoulder, pausing in his work for the moment.
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"Yeah? Lots of blood?"
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He'll stop soon. Probably. If he doesn't, it's Barrow's fault for rewarding bad behavior with a chuckle.
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"I wasn't going to," he admits-- he's begun to relax a little bit, ever comforted by the art of bullshitting.
training yard
Barrow’s back but he’s not really back. He seems distant and distracted, not really here. He barely even notices when Astrid’s next to him in the yard until she elbows him in the side, sharp.
“You wanna help me practice something cool?” she asks, readjusting the enchanted gauntlet on her left wrist.
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Ashaad doesn't know her face, his old name. Doesn't own despair.
"What do you want to remember?"
infirmary
She understands why he's here, and that he probably wants to do all the chores himself and self flagellate the entire time but facts are facts: many hands make light work. Plus he owes Abby, in a way. To try and put a stop to any protests before they start she adds, "C'mon. Sooner it's done sooner you're out of Strange's hair."
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"Do I," he agrees, pleasant in his lazy manner, warming to the distraction.
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His sister's face, the names of his cats, how to get home. Everything.
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"--sure." Sighed out after a deep breath, he relents without ever really arguing, but doesn't look happy about it all the same. If nothing else, Abby makes a good point about Strange, whom he hasn't run into yet and hopes not to.
"Hold this," he requests, directing her to the new door jamb he's about to attach.
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some of the energy seems to leave him, even as his expression remains warm. "Dunno that I'd describe Lazar as romantic," he adds, with an unspoken Something. Guilt, maybe, or dread, or a feeling he can't put his finger on. He hasn't seen Lazar since he was in the infirmary.
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"Say it," She isn't looking for words. He doesn't breathe like a man who has words — "What you want to remember. Use your voice."
As infants do.
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"People," he manages, "my people. My life."
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His people. Their life. Alone, they make the emptiness real,
"They remember too."
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"Can't do this here," he abruptly decides, passing the back of his hand under his nose as surreptitiously as possible for someone who can barely stand, and lurches out of his chair.
He can hold himself up, at least, but swerves dangerously as he glances back at Sennara on his way to the door. He doesn't mean to leave her behind, she can come if she likes, but he is leaving.
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Clarisse is gesturing to one of the roughly human-looking dummies that are scattered around, indicating that she wants it back on the other side of the yard. Could she just move it herself? Yeah, obviously. But she feels like maybe Barrow wants to get back to Just Being Normal, and what's more normal than being asked to do stupid manual labor around the Gallows?
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"Yeah, sure." Shuffling toward the target, he hefts it with a grunt and begins to carry it as directed.
"How're you holding up?"
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It's a long walk to the docks. He won't make it alone.
The usual crowd hang about outside. Smoke and laughter, marinated in evening nausea. Someone clutches their face, rocks back and forth on the cobbles and moans. In this part of town, this time of night, eyes follow Barrow; track the wobble of his step. Few men are dangerous unconscious.
From the corner of her eye, she watches a shadow peel free.
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He stumps his way down the harbor toward the ferry, periodically remembering Sennara is there and glancing back at her-- occasionally he offers a little half-smile of acknowledgment, and perhaps apology. She doesn't have to be here, but she is.
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“Hmm. It’s alright, you won’t need to actually hit the targets or anything. Mostly it’s just having the movement, ‘cos I want to focus on the catching.”
The catching?
She’s passed him the two blades (runes stamped on their hilts) and then moved sideways across the sparring ground until they’re facing the same direction, looking at the row of targets. She twists the enchanted gauntlet on her wrist, and then holds it up for Barrow to see: “This makes ’em fly back into the gauntlet so they can be thrown again. I’ve practiced a bit but it’s hard to do both throwing and catching when I’m, like, afraid it’s gonna fucking fly back in my face, so I was thinking, if I get someone else to do the throwing then I can prioritise and make sure I’ve got the other part down pat first.”
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Easy.
"How much more do you have to do?"
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He angles himself toward the target, checking Astrid's stance as well to ensure he's positioned where she needs him.
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"Dunno," he admits, finally looking at Abby, his eyes automatically checking over the bridge of her nose, "as much as there is." This place will be flawless by the time he's done with it.