What possible reason would I have to make this easy for you?
[Is said aloud before he can close a hand around it. He keeps that steadying hand on the desk as he forces his legs to carry him sluggishly around it.]
[He gets to the far corner of the desk and there must pause, one hand planted and the other hovering near but not touching his side. A calculation is occurring, plain on his face - the door or Byerly -, only it is painfully slow to progress. He could do neither and the pain in his side would melt away again. He could just not.]
[He has his hand planted flat and braced. He doesn't sway into the contact, though the impulse of revulsion breaks up under how easy it would be. He can sense the window to that place - the different study, that different time, those different people - closing, and giving to Byerly's hand might somehow catch it before it's fully shut.]
My intentions? [Spat. Or close to it. Trying to cut with the wrong side of a knife.] My intention is for you to be concerned over what they might be. To breed enough uncertainty in you that you hesitate.
[ It would be easy to let his hand drift lower. To wrap his fingers around that throat, to dig his fingertips into the place the man's pulse jumps. A slower heartbeat than the paranoid fuck has likely ever experienced before, under the force of this drug. ]
The possibility [he growls, knowing naming this thing strips it of its power, and changes it into something that much more dangerous] would have been enough.
[ In his chest, something eases and loosens. The wild, irrational fear (that's led him to do this wild, irrational thing, this thing he's going to regret later) calms. The thumb of his right hand comes out and strokes at Flint's cheek, feeling the rasp of stubble under the soft skin. He's a handsome man, when he's not a figure of dread - such eyes on him, startlingly sharp even through the poppy-haze. ]
[He's figured that part out already, he realizes. Because why else would Rutyer ask after his wife's safety if he didn't anticipate some future where it might still be in question. It makes him laugh, a sharp exhaled sound as he sags against the edge of the desk and finally sets a hand to his tender side.
Stay that way, Byerly says, as if that's possible now. With respect to the young woman? Maybe. But with regard to everything else? How does this not change? Does he seriously think that he will leave here and that nothing will happen? Flint laughs. It's funny.]
[ And Byerly studies the handsome, weary lines of Flint's face a moment. And, in response to that laughter, his assumptions about its root cause, he sighs, and gathers himself. ]
By now you've deduced a few things, belike. About myself, and perhaps even about who I represent. Or perhaps you haven't, Northerner that you are...
[ His hand drops away from Flint's face, coming back to smooth down his own mustache. The habitual look of dissolution and distraction is gone, leaving Byerly's face looking sharp and focused and intense. ]
I have been charged with my true employers to serve Riftwatch. This is something that the Scoutmaster knows, by the way, so don't think that you can carry these tales to her and earn accolades for rooting out a spy; the ones who matter are already aware. Ending this war - and doing so in such a way that the South is defended and sheltered, that we don't repeat the desperation and misery that followed the Blight - is my primary directive.
I tell you this so you understand, Captain McGraw, that I am not a man on his own. It may seem it when you look at the stumbling, mincing drunkard, the disinherited fop. But I am one of many, a member of a network that is quite capable of acting even if one node falls. So if you come to me in the middle of the night and choke the life from me - if Sidony Venaras is discovered missing - honestly, if Sidony finds herself catcalled when she visits the harbor - then that lovely network of mine will disperse all necessary information to all the people who need to know it.
And that information will be about Captain McGraw, Tevinter agent provocateur. You have a great love, it seems, one you have told me about this evening: your great love is the prospect of freedom, and your role in seeing it come. I will twist your story, and the story of all who ever served with you, to have you remembered as enemies of liberty. I will make suspect everything you have ever fought for. The blows you have struck, the successes you have found, will all be twisted in the eyes of those who might rise up to make a better world; your fight will instead be seen as a lie, a deception, something to never be trusted. Your only legacy will become ensuring that these people who might shake off their chains instead will become mistrustful of anyone who would wish to lead them.
It wouldn't give me pleasure. You're a beautiful dreamer, my Captain. The sort that makes my heart ache. But... [ He lets out a breath, shrugs one shoulder. ] My oath-sworn duty is to defend my beleaguered home with all the power in my narrow shoulders and simple mind. And my honor-bound duty is to protect family and comrades.
And so: if you interfere with that, James, my lad, then I will fucking ruin everything you have worked for.
[ He reaches out, finally, for his glass of wine, and takes a tiny sip. Something to relax him just a bit. ]
[It sounds strangely like exactly what he's been waiting for. And what it inspires in low, churning senses is two prizes running at diverging directions in the dark - to strangle him here before what exists in this room leaves it, gambling on the potential that whatever Byerly has been passed heretofore can be made unworthy of remark. That this can be fixed here and now; and something else. The sense this makes and how satisfying it is to understand it.
Leaning hard against the edge of the desk, his hand against ribs is close to the knife in his belt. The proximity of it buzzes like a live thing. He studies Byerly and his closeness and his It wouldn't give me pleasure, and the grim smile he gives him is equal parts ragged and involuntary.]
The story you told yourself about me - the one about the man who gives himself away. [How do you make two opposing things travel in the same direction?] It's strange that it's just yours.
[There should be no give in him for that. Not under these circumstances. But: an exhale, rounded like something gentle and pained under the curve of his hand pressed to ribs.]
[ By's eyes lift to meet Flint's. He hesitates. Under normal circumstances, he'd assume that was a lie to mollify him, something to bring his guard down. But it's difficult - near-impossible - to lie under the drug's effects. Yet - it seems too easy. Has the immovable object been moved? Is it possible? ]
And to what will this understanding lead, my dear Captain?
[Now. This is the moment where with one hand he catches Byerly by the collar and draws the knife with the other.]
I haven't decided yet. [He says instead because it's truer than the knife is.] I suspect it depends on what you make of this opportunity, knowing you will never be afforded it a second time. Whether you pick the fight in this room or the one outside it - I will resolve it.
[ Ah. The air goes vibrant; his vision sharpens as he hears the drawing of that knife. By has no fondness for injury, but it is a tragic irony of his life that he never feels quite so grand or alive as when there's a knife drawn and pointed at him.
So he smiles, enjoying the clarity. ]
I told you, Captain. All I want is your friendship. Treat me as an equal, safeguard the South, and keep your pirate fucking hands off me and mine. That's all I want to make of this.
I've no doubt you'd win in a fair fight, that is true - but I hope by now you know that I am without honor or pride, and my fights are never fair.
[ He reaches out and caresses Flint's wrist. How fierce a creature he is, to try to kill even through the drug's euphoria. How astonishing his wells of determination. A man could fall in love. ]
[Of the two, his grip on Byerly is the steadier; it would take more effort than sits at his fingertips just now to manage anything beyond a barely serviceable hold on the knife while he pours himself into the task of twisting cloth between his fingers.]
Then let us agree. [Knuckles pressed to Byerly's warm throat, an unresistant point to the meandering touch at his wrist, there is yet something even and untroubled in his temper - a kind of bizarre satisfaction for this instant, with all its stark shapes. Maybe it is the drug. Or maybe it's because the implication, not the cut, is the weapon here and they are both aware of it. Or because recognizing what Byerly is will make all of this easier.] That from here we both go forward trusting what we know the other to be.
[The line of his mouth thins, goes crooked. It's a grim kind of gratification, punctuated by the release of the collar and the flat of his hand instead setting there where shoulder and neck meet, callous rough thumb easy at the base of Byerly's throat. The knife's still there, but what would be the point in holding him to it?]
You don't really think there's anything I could say that would validate this any further, do you?
[Something small shifts in his face, but it's a distant shape and has no bearing on the flat quality of his hand. His palm has the same square pressure. His thumb does not dig where it sits. He doesn't twist his fingers away. It's as much a wall, retaining distance, as it is anything else.
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You shit. How the fuck do you think you're going to explain this away?
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[ By doesn't stand. Flint won't make it far, even if he has the wherewithal to try. ]
If you don't fight it, you might enjoy it, my dear.
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[Is said aloud before he can close a hand around it. He keeps that steadying hand on the desk as he forces his legs to carry him sluggishly around it.]
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[ By folds his hands together and watches, a small smile on his face. ]
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Does Yseult know?
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[ He stands, then, finally, and crosses to Flint. Puts his hand gently on his cheek. And asks in a very low, very gentle voice - ]
What are your intentions with the lady Sidony Venaras?
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My intentions? [Spat. Or close to it. Trying to cut with the wrong side of a knife.] My intention is for you to be concerned over what they might be. To breed enough uncertainty in you that you hesitate.
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And that is all?
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Then let us have it stay that way.
[ Another stroke of his thumb. Softly: ]
It is not poison, Captain. Merely a drug.
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Stay that way, Byerly says, as if that's possible now. With respect to the young woman? Maybe. But with regard to everything else? How does this not change? Does he seriously think that he will leave here and that nothing will happen? Flint laughs. It's funny.]
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By now you've deduced a few things, belike. About myself, and perhaps even about who I represent. Or perhaps you haven't, Northerner that you are...
[ His hand drops away from Flint's face, coming back to smooth down his own mustache. The habitual look of dissolution and distraction is gone, leaving Byerly's face looking sharp and focused and intense. ]
I have been charged with my true employers to serve Riftwatch. This is something that the Scoutmaster knows, by the way, so don't think that you can carry these tales to her and earn accolades for rooting out a spy; the ones who matter are already aware. Ending this war - and doing so in such a way that the South is defended and sheltered, that we don't repeat the desperation and misery that followed the Blight - is my primary directive.
I tell you this so you understand, Captain McGraw, that I am not a man on his own. It may seem it when you look at the stumbling, mincing drunkard, the disinherited fop. But I am one of many, a member of a network that is quite capable of acting even if one node falls. So if you come to me in the middle of the night and choke the life from me - if Sidony Venaras is discovered missing - honestly, if Sidony finds herself catcalled when she visits the harbor - then that lovely network of mine will disperse all necessary information to all the people who need to know it.
And that information will be about Captain McGraw, Tevinter agent provocateur. You have a great love, it seems, one you have told me about this evening: your great love is the prospect of freedom, and your role in seeing it come. I will twist your story, and the story of all who ever served with you, to have you remembered as enemies of liberty. I will make suspect everything you have ever fought for. The blows you have struck, the successes you have found, will all be twisted in the eyes of those who might rise up to make a better world; your fight will instead be seen as a lie, a deception, something to never be trusted. Your only legacy will become ensuring that these people who might shake off their chains instead will become mistrustful of anyone who would wish to lead them.
It wouldn't give me pleasure. You're a beautiful dreamer, my Captain. The sort that makes my heart ache. But... [ He lets out a breath, shrugs one shoulder. ] My oath-sworn duty is to defend my beleaguered home with all the power in my narrow shoulders and simple mind. And my honor-bound duty is to protect family and comrades.
And so: if you interfere with that, James, my lad, then I will fucking ruin everything you have worked for.
[ He reaches out, finally, for his glass of wine, and takes a tiny sip. Something to relax him just a bit. ]
How's that sound?
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Leaning hard against the edge of the desk, his hand against ribs is close to the knife in his belt. The proximity of it buzzes like a live thing. He studies Byerly and his closeness and his It wouldn't give me pleasure, and the grim smile he gives him is equal parts ragged and involuntary.]
The story you told yourself about me - the one about the man who gives himself away. [How do you make two opposing things travel in the same direction?] It's strange that it's just yours.
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[ For just a moment, his lashes lower. For just a moment, he feels a twinge of sorrow for what has been lost. ]
Monsters look for monsters.
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Then it seems we understand one another.
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And to what will this understanding lead, my dear Captain?
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I haven't decided yet. [He says instead because it's truer than the knife is.] I suspect it depends on what you make of this opportunity, knowing you will never be afforded it a second time. Whether you pick the fight in this room or the one outside it - I will resolve it.
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So he smiles, enjoying the clarity. ]
I told you, Captain. All I want is your friendship. Treat me as an equal, safeguard the South, and keep your pirate fucking hands off me and mine. That's all I want to make of this.
I've no doubt you'd win in a fair fight, that is true - but I hope by now you know that I am without honor or pride, and my fights are never fair.
[ He reaches out and caresses Flint's wrist. How fierce a creature he is, to try to kill even through the drug's euphoria. How astonishing his wells of determination. A man could fall in love. ]
But I don't want to be the storm that wrecks you.
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Then let us agree. [Knuckles pressed to Byerly's warm throat, an unresistant point to the meandering touch at his wrist, there is yet something even and untroubled in his temper - a kind of bizarre satisfaction for this instant, with all its stark shapes. Maybe it is the drug. Or maybe it's because the implication, not the cut, is the weapon here and they are both aware of it. Or because recognizing what Byerly is will make all of this easier.] That from here we both go forward trusting what we know the other to be.
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What will you swear to me on?
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You don't really think there's anything I could say that would validate this any further, do you?
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[ By's hand comes up to touch the hand at his throat, caressing it with more daring sensuality. Not an incidental contact, but a deliberate one now. ]
Every man has something sacred. Swear to me on that which is sacred to you.
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This doesn't belong to you, it says.]
Then I swear on my home.
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Tevinter?
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