[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.
[ Byerly's voice is a low murmur. He supposes he should have expected that, but - The idea of forsaking your homeland is so foreign to him that it honestly wasn't even thinkable until Flint said it. If it were him, he'd still be starving for his native land, even from Nascere. Much as he had when he'd been in Orlais...Every day of his self-imposed exile, he'd craved Ferelden. How does one get to the point of forgetting it? Of considering someplace else home?
Of course, Tevinter is a shitpile. So he can't really blame Flint. ]
[He steps forward then. It's not lethargic, just deliberate - narrow space made narrower. Hands don't grip to hold, they're just firm there across Byerly's collarbone and at his wrist. And though he nearly a span shorter than the other man, moving slow from the drug and the ache in his chest, there is no question of his certainty. Maybe that's the poppy too - the unearned sense of security, the strange confidence that if he has let things go, Byerly has been made to pay something for them. Regardless, he sounds very low and sure:]
To be clear, Messr Rutyer. If at any point you turn your attention from ending this war to the dissection of my part in it, if you find yourself inclined to threaten me, if you attempt anything like this again or if I find you asking too many questions whose answers are none of your concern, then I will be forced to assume that my trust has become disposable to you. Do you understand me?
[And the bottle, left there on the desk. And Byerly's glass, practically full still.
It takes effort to make his way across the room to the door and bolt it. When he returns to the desk, it's to fetch up the abandoned glass. The wine's drinkable.]
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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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[ Byerly's voice is a low murmur. He supposes he should have expected that, but - The idea of forsaking your homeland is so foreign to him that it honestly wasn't even thinkable until Flint said it. If it were him, he'd still be starving for his native land, even from Nascere. Much as he had when he'd been in Orlais...Every day of his self-imposed exile, he'd craved Ferelden. How does one get to the point of forgetting it? Of considering someplace else home?
Of course, Tevinter is a shitpile. So he can't really blame Flint. ]
I accept it.
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Good.
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Perhaps you should let go of me.
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Return the crystal.
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I could use it to make you a few new friends.
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Oh, dear Captain, that sort of thing is a reward for me, not a punishment.
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To be clear, Messr Rutyer. If at any point you turn your attention from ending this war to the dissection of my part in it, if you find yourself inclined to threaten me, if you attempt anything like this again or if I find you asking too many questions whose answers are none of your concern, then I will be forced to assume that my trust has become disposable to you. Do you understand me?
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[ But - message received. He drops the crystal into Flint's pocket. ]
There's no malice in it.
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[You fuck.
He unhands Byerly.]
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[ He steps back, then, and straightens his lapels. And, cheerily - ]
I could give you a dose. If you'd like. To loosen someone's tongue someday. Or a poison? I'm honestly quite well-supplied, if you have any desires.
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Get the fuck out, Rutyer.
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Nothing for your side? What I can supply is a bit better than what you'll find amongst the basic infirmary kits.
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Give your best to my wife.
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It takes effort to make his way across the room to the door and bolt it. When he returns to the desk, it's to fetch up the abandoned glass. The wine's drinkable.]