[Like a flag flying, the livery is impossible to overlook, and pleasing to see not only for its shape but its meaning; for having seen what came before it that day; for knowing something of what resides beneath.
Leander is still, his cloak slowly warming.]
It remains to be seen whether his is a friendship worth cultivating—you'll have my report either way.
[The sidelong look Leander receives in reply is the driest form of humor—Just what I always wanted; more paperwork—, unspoken and nearly untransmitted if not for the faint quirk of an eyebrow as Flint takes the ring into his possession. His study of the thing is brief, weighing for a moment the ring's size. It's briefly compared to the ones he wears already, the black and red stones and various metal band work, and then dismissed out of hand either because the recovered piece of jewelry is meant for better things or because the color of the inset stone isn't easily reconciled with his collection.
An envelope is fetched from some desk drawer. The ring is sealed inside it.]
It occurs to me that I've considerably extended the length of your day after a night which I imagine didn't afford much in the way of restful sleep. You can go if you like.
[How rarely is that sentiment worded as an offer over an order?]
[A fine spike of fondness, unexpected, for the comparison of rings. This storybook pirate—
Leander needn't wonder what he would think of it. Would he be surprised? Yes, and then no. Concerned, absolutely—for he is ever worried of what Leander will do, as much as he might deny any responsibility. Would he try to warn Flint away? How would such a meeting look?
Pleasure spreads warm for the thought of it, for the rings, for the evening's memory of a terror-gasp and the tenderly sculpted impression of his hand now worn by a Kirkwall fence.]
I think I'll stay.
[And how rarely is Leander's intent not couched in etiquette?]
[With a flicker of approval, the sealed envelope wearing the lump of its contents like a snake does a meal is tucked away into the desk.]
I seem to recall you losing a wager as well.
[He nods to the hook near the mantle which as good a place as any to hang a night-cold cloak. After a few more moments spent closing open logs, ordering and putting away various papers and reports until the controlled chaos of the desk has been checked, Flint rises from it and moves to loot a book from one of the half dozen likely shelves.]
My spy in Carastes sent word. He says there's renewed trade out of Orlais passing through Tevinter and to Seheron by way of the port there.
[And everyone knows the Imperium exports only bodies to Seheron, be they slaves or otherwise.]
[Leander emerges slimmer from the cloak's silhouette, takes care to see that it hangs without any rumples, smoothes down the sleeves.]
That ought to be lively.
[Whether it's there he's sent or elsewhere, he has plans to visit Minrathous.
Now a moment's pause to examine his hand, to brush a bit of something from the palm, before his posture settles again into a relaxed and ready shape. (The wolf's patient eyes gleaming at firelight's edge.)]
[That much is true regardless of anything implied by dreaming. A port city, acting in some sense as a gateway to the far north? Neither so close to the Magisterium to warrant politeness or so far removed from the heart of the Imperium to reduce its baser habits?
Lively is one word for it.
At length, he draws a book from its place on the shelf and moves to join Leander by the fire.]
But I don't imagine you'll be there for long. Disrupting trade in Carastes does us little good compared with identifying those organizing the flow of it and finding some means of encouraging them to divest.
I shall do my utmost to inspire them to generosity.
[And linger long enough, one hopes, to impress his own brand of encouragement on some bodies there. The time for playing at being small is nearly spent; by way of this journey will he at last begin his Becoming. He has decided.]
The test will be to avoid inconveniencing you in doing so.
[His gaze falls upon the book, head tilts in gentle mimicry of its angle. His hand opens toward it (slim fingers, knobs of knuckle).]
[Evidently so, confirms the brief hook at the corner of his mouth. The book is passed over without preamble and Flint makes to shed his coat.
The slim book is somewhat battered, its edges rounded from the wear of handling. The spine has been bleached illegibly pale in comparison to the stretched canvas covers, and the image of a fish stamped onto the front has lost all but the barest hint of the leaf which once might have painted it as lustrous against the blue backing. It has either been well loved, or was some fourth hand find, or a combination of the two. The title page says Παραπόταμος. The pages which follow it are all laid out in the strict stanzas of some classical verse.
Flint folds his coat over the back of one of the chairs pulled in close enough to benefit from the fire. A footstool is shifted over.]
[Spoken as his thumb rounds the softened corner of the cover and lifts it carefully open, turns the first page—or two, or three—in search of any inscription.]
That is, unless you'd rather watch me sleep.
[A soft sigh of material as he lets the slim block of pages slip past his thumb, dips his head to scent what wafts forth. A random selection, then, running his hand down the page to no line in particular for a sample of the text while the commander picks whatever drink he will.
Murmuring,]
I wish you'd given me leave to practise this beforehand. [Looking up when Flint's body draws near again,] Ah, thank you.
[Having now received it, with deliberate avoidance of fingers, naturally he must immediately (and quietly) smell the cup he's given.]
[That had left plenty of time to have practiced reading aloud at any point between now and then, he doesn't say.
Instead, he takes his own glass of wine—the same low, faintly sweet stuff in Leander's cup—and retires to the made ready chair. The foot stool apparently requires further adjustment from the toe of his boot before it's fit for its intended use.]
But I can only assume you've been busy learning your lockpicks. Slowly, [is a reminder as his heel settles in its place, punctuated by a nod to the book.] We've discussed the deficiencies of my ear when it comes to parsing the language aloud.
[It's not about the words, more their cadence—but the metre seems even enough at a glance, anyway. Things not worth arguing aloud. That little jab is better for what it is, with only the shade of a sideways glance to come after it. As if he hasn't been reading between then and now, please, what do you take him for.
He tastes the wine, finds it inoffensive initially, more enjoys its settling in among his tastebuds.]
Slowly, then. To start. [A polite cough to prepare: two hitches in the throat, mouth closed.] I'll ask your forgiveness in advance for any deficiencies of the tongue.
[He doesn't smile, but gives the page below a lofty look, with his eyebrows raised just enough—nor does he glance the commander's way, or wet his lip. He knows his voice is pleasing; he knows the language like someone who loves it. He knows the way he is, stood there next to the fire, a cup in one hand and a book spread between his fingers and thumb, is tinder enough.
And the commonalities between them (different materials, similar shapes), and his willingness to bend (but only so far), and the very dangerous thing they're about to do (the thrill of secrecy and potential in it), those are the sparks.
[On the Minanter goes ever kind of mortal creature. Like a recitation of the work of distantly remembered kings unfolds the fisherman and the men of the stockyards, and children who barely hardly the shape of the Necropolis' shadow for they live so fully inside of it. Everyone in the world wants, and the verse knows this in the way the river flows: naturally.
Mostly it is, at its center, a poem very pleased with it's own cleverness. It delights in detail as a flayed fish loves salt. The rise and fall of the unfamiliar constants is like a texture under the fingertips, separating this room from everything it is otherwise attached to in the way each portrait drawn in the verse is distinct. And Leander has a pleasant voice. It's an easy rythm to settle into.
He listens, one foot propped up on the stool and his elbows hooked patiently at the arms of the chair with the cup of wine balanced between them. It has been a long day, and there is something sentimental about being read to—
He listens to the shape of a language that is part sound and half meaning, nursing his drink, and is content to let Leander decide when he is finished.]
[Leander reads, and reads, and soon leaves the mantle to pace serenely as he reads, as though he himself were wandering, while the city unfurls in a cascade of detail so immediate the smell of the river ghosts through his sinus. Though it seems automatic, a habit, his body never leaves a comfortable field of view.
A break, unhurried, while the wine does its work, his pale slate eye never leaving the page. While his tongue barely glints at the corner of his mouth, he seems to read ahead in silence, then rolls a smoothing sound through his throat and resumes.
More than once, a smile threatens to surface among the speaking shapes. Finely sculpted lips, hewn and polished teeth. Now and then, the sliding offset of his jaw. His voice delivering the verse as fluid smoke. The crisp edge of his presence softening, stroke by stroke, as ice softens beneath the hand.
Time slows, dozes; the world winds down into words; the words themselves wind down, until the first book has run out, and Leander's voice cedes to silence. He turns the page, again reads on for some seconds, only for himself...
and looks up, at last.
A soft pat, cushioned by air, as the book closes in his hand.]
[Like a curtain drawing closed across a window previously indulging an eye which has risen from work and roved absently toward some distant visible shape, the soft thud of the closing book recalls the immediacy of the room. There is the fire in the hearth, and the faint whistle of air which passes through a gap in a window's frame, and the bolted door and the empty cup balanced on his thigh. Still now, Leander's outline has become crisp again.
Without straightening, from where Flint has settled deep into the armchair—
He studies him for a moment, and so for a brief window is equally susceptible to inspection. At some point during their exploration, both the line of tension held sharp across shoulders and the sparking humor hiding behind his whiskers has faded somewhat.]
It didn't sound like you needed much preparation.
[And, as if the two were somehow related:]
I don't have to tell you that Carastes will put you well out of the reach of any reliable friend.
[His shape, redefined, comes nearer the chair, in part to impress its height on the man seated there. Cup in one hand, book in the other. Darkly dressed in the firelight.]
No, you don't.
[Close enough, now, to offer the book back to its owner without needing to reach very far. The gesture pulls his cuff to the knob of his wrist, where his simple bracelets are tied—braided cotton floss in dull red, dark grey, and one a shade in between that looks older than the others. The slim silver ring on his thumb is new. (The piercing weight of his focus is not.)]
[Low in the chair and cast in Leander's shadow, some flickering thing passes briefly through the wrinkles at the corner of Flint's eye and along the slanting line of his mouth. It's some trace dissatisfaction—a nameless thing that prickles briefly sharp—, and has been smoothed over by the time he slips the book between his thigh and the chair's arm.]
[When that nameless thing rustles, on impulse, he nearly gives chase. The ridges of his teeth are smooth and hard against his tongue, his mouth watering. The stillness of him so complete he hardly blinks. Still, but not stiff—he has relaxed into it.
It's a trace thing. An invisible adjustment—as if Flint is suddenly aware of his own shape in the world again after a series of minutes wherein he'd comfortably forgotten it.
He doesn't adjust the cup where it's balanced on his leg; the urge to do so is dismissed as unnecessary.]
That I've enjoyed our conversations, and suspect I'll notice their absence.
[Because, yes. Leander does have a way of making unexpected friends for himself, doesn't he?]
[In response to it, Leander might make himself smaller—crouch at the arm of the chair, or sit by Flint's legs and lean there like a pet—but he enjoys this vantage, the picture it makes, and there is more honesty in resisting nearness. (In wanting to be reached for instead of always reaching.)]
So will I.
[Seconds of quiet, settling comfortably, while he considers. It can't be the wine, he's only just lifting the cup now to finish it—]
I've not lain with anyone else since our first. [Let him imagine the reasons why.] Is that something you'd like to keep?
[The point he'd failed to make to either Rutyer or Yseult is that there had been a kind of truth in those dreams. That the details weren't worth remembering, but the sentiments might be. Not as the smoke of an undiscovered fire, but as the dry end of summer where the poor handling of a spark or lamp might light one.
And the truth is, he is sending a man who dreamed himself into something very dark out into a place designed to reinforce that impulse. Carry this hot coal in your palm, Leander. Would it not be prudent to encourage a sense of control over that?
A log in the fire pops loud. The spark of it glints at the corner of his eye.]
Given how everything else will be well beyond me, I should say yes. [Should. Isn't. He is frank about it.] But I've little interest in being another person who thinks it's their responsibility to restrain you. Take your pleasure. I would only warn you that the Imperium loves nothing more than to make a shackle out of the things most ready to give it.
[Instead of the cup, he gives Leander his hand. Or his hand, a thing so well worn that even keeping a chair high in a tower hasn't yet contrived to soften it, intercedes to take a thing that wasn't being offered.]
Leander. [Is like the firm shape of his thumb.] Tell me why you asked.
[Still; caught. Not trapped, but surprised, and calm in the creep of uneasy pleasure that spreads after it.
He's watching the hand, the skin's long-weathered texture, freckled creases, suggestion of fine golden hairs in firelight—and only the hand, not the rings that adorn it. Their hands, together. Contrasting masculine forms. His own fingers, no longer light as birds' bones—this healthier strength cultivated in the months since the cave—but still slim in comparison.
He takes his time in answering.
(A vow consigned to flame, rough edge of a door beneath his hand, dark eyes bright and hard. Cutting himself free of their tangle, leaving them both clumsy for the lack of its binding. You are not a possession anyone keeps.)]
To measure the extent of my usefulness by offering something of little advantage to you, but valuable to me. I was curious what you'd say. [Tilting his head, reflective,] It's been a while since anyone's held my hand.
[His hold on him is sturdy, though lacks the sharpness of a demand. It is like the soft mouth carry of a fanged hunting dog. Enveloping, and ready to give.
(If Leander is studying their hands, then Flint is watching the half of his face which is cast in shadow—how the space widens or narrows with that faint tilt.)
There is a callous along the side of the thumb pressed into the heel of Leander's palm.]
I want to understand the conclusions you've drawn from it. Is your curiosity satisfied?
[Had Leander been there for that game of swords he and Rutyer had played in the courtyard? The turn in that bout—the second round when he'd come for Byerly with all the grace of a machete hacking?]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[Like a flag flying, the livery is impossible to overlook, and pleasing to see not only for its shape but its meaning; for having seen what came before it that day; for knowing something of what resides beneath.
Leander is still, his cloak slowly warming.]
It remains to be seen whether his is a friendship worth cultivating—you'll have my report either way.
[He does enjoy writing a note now and then.]
no subject
An envelope is fetched from some desk drawer. The ring is sealed inside it.]
It occurs to me that I've considerably extended the length of your day after a night which I imagine didn't afford much in the way of restful sleep. You can go if you like.
[How rarely is that sentiment worded as an offer over an order?]
no subject
Leander needn't wonder what he would think of it. Would he be surprised? Yes, and then no. Concerned, absolutely—for he is ever worried of what Leander will do, as much as he might deny any responsibility. Would he try to warn Flint away? How would such a meeting look?
Pleasure spreads warm for the thought of it, for the rings, for the evening's memory of a terror-gasp and the tenderly sculpted impression of his hand now worn by a Kirkwall fence.]
I think I'll stay.
[And how rarely is Leander's intent not couched in etiquette?]
We've some plans to firm up, do we not?
no subject
I seem to recall you losing a wager as well.
[He nods to the hook near the mantle which as good a place as any to hang a night-cold cloak. After a few more moments spent closing open logs, ordering and putting away various papers and reports until the controlled chaos of the desk has been checked, Flint rises from it and moves to loot a book from one of the half dozen likely shelves.]
My spy in Carastes sent word. He says there's renewed trade out of Orlais passing through Tevinter and to Seheron by way of the port there.
[And everyone knows the Imperium exports only bodies to Seheron, be they slaves or otherwise.]
no subject
[Leander emerges slimmer from the cloak's silhouette, takes care to see that it hangs without any rumples, smoothes down the sleeves.]
That ought to be lively.
[Whether it's there he's sent or elsewhere, he has plans to visit Minrathous.
Now a moment's pause to examine his hand, to brush a bit of something from the palm, before his posture settles again into a relaxed and ready shape. (The wolf's patient eyes gleaming at firelight's edge.)]
That was my impression, anyway.
[In the dream.]
no subject
[That much is true regardless of anything implied by dreaming. A port city, acting in some sense as a gateway to the far north? Neither so close to the Magisterium to warrant politeness or so far removed from the heart of the Imperium to reduce its baser habits?
Lively is one word for it.
At length, he draws a book from its place on the shelf and moves to join Leander by the fire.]
But I don't imagine you'll be there for long. Disrupting trade in Carastes does us little good compared with identifying those organizing the flow of it and finding some means of encouraging them to divest.
no subject
[And linger long enough, one hopes, to impress his own brand of encouragement on some bodies there. The time for playing at being small is nearly spent; by way of this journey will he at last begin his Becoming. He has decided.]
The test will be to avoid inconveniencing you in doing so.
[His gaze falls upon the book, head tilts in gentle mimicry of its angle. His hand opens toward it (slim fingers, knobs of knuckle).]
Is this my penance?
no subject
The slim book is somewhat battered, its edges rounded from the wear of handling. The spine has been bleached illegibly pale in comparison to the stretched canvas covers, and the image of a fish stamped onto the front has lost all but the barest hint of the leaf which once might have painted it as lustrous against the blue backing. It has either been well loved, or was some fourth hand find, or a combination of the two. The title page says Παραπόταμος. The pages which follow it are all laid out in the strict stanzas of some classical verse.
Flint folds his coat over the back of one of the chairs pulled in close enough to benefit from the fire. A footstool is shifted over.]
What would you have to drink?
[Maker forbid Leander tax his voice.]
no subject
[Spoken as his thumb rounds the softened corner of the cover and lifts it carefully open, turns the first page—or two, or three—in search of any inscription.]
That is, unless you'd rather watch me sleep.
[A soft sigh of material as he lets the slim block of pages slip past his thumb, dips his head to scent what wafts forth. A random selection, then, running his hand down the page to no line in particular for a sample of the text while the commander picks whatever drink he will.
Murmuring,]
I wish you'd given me leave to practise this beforehand. [Looking up when Flint's body draws near again,] Ah, thank you.
[Having now received it, with deliberate avoidance of fingers, naturally he must immediately (and quietly) smell the cup he's given.]
no subject
[That had left plenty of time to have practiced reading aloud at any point between now and then, he doesn't say.
Instead, he takes his own glass of wine—the same low, faintly sweet stuff in Leander's cup—and retires to the made ready chair. The foot stool apparently requires further adjustment from the toe of his boot before it's fit for its intended use.]
But I can only assume you've been busy learning your lockpicks. Slowly, [is a reminder as his heel settles in its place, punctuated by a nod to the book.] We've discussed the deficiencies of my ear when it comes to parsing the language aloud.
no subject
He tastes the wine, finds it inoffensive initially, more enjoys its settling in among his tastebuds.]
Slowly, then. To start. [A polite cough to prepare: two hitches in the throat, mouth closed.] I'll ask your forgiveness in advance for any deficiencies of the tongue.
[He doesn't smile, but gives the page below a lofty look, with his eyebrows raised just enough—nor does he glance the commander's way, or wet his lip. He knows his voice is pleasing; he knows the language like someone who loves it. He knows the way he is, stood there next to the fire, a cup in one hand and a book spread between his fingers and thumb, is tinder enough.
And the commonalities between them (different materials, similar shapes), and his willingness to bend (but only so far), and the very dangerous thing they're about to do (the thrill of secrecy and potential in it), those are the sparks.
And so he simply begins the verse.]
no subject
Mostly it is, at its center, a poem very pleased with it's own cleverness. It delights in detail as a flayed fish loves salt. The rise and fall of the unfamiliar constants is like a texture under the fingertips, separating this room from everything it is otherwise attached to in the way each portrait drawn in the verse is distinct. And Leander has a pleasant voice. It's an easy rythm to settle into.
He listens, one foot propped up on the stool and his elbows hooked patiently at the arms of the chair with the cup of wine balanced between them. It has been a long day, and there is something sentimental about being read to—
He listens to the shape of a language that is part sound and half meaning, nursing his drink, and is content to let Leander decide when he is finished.]
no subject
A break, unhurried, while the wine does its work, his pale slate eye never leaving the page. While his tongue barely glints at the corner of his mouth, he seems to read ahead in silence, then rolls a smoothing sound through his throat and resumes.
More than once, a smile threatens to surface among the speaking shapes. Finely sculpted lips, hewn and polished teeth. Now and then, the sliding offset of his jaw. His voice delivering the verse as fluid smoke. The crisp edge of his presence softening, stroke by stroke, as ice softens beneath the hand.
Time slows, dozes; the world winds down into words; the words themselves wind down, until the first book has run out, and Leander's voice cedes to silence. He turns the page, again reads on for some seconds, only for himself...
and looks up, at last.
A soft pat, cushioned by air, as the book closes in his hand.]
no subject
Without straightening, from where Flint has settled deep into the armchair—
He studies him for a moment, and so for a brief window is equally susceptible to inspection. At some point during their exploration, both the line of tension held sharp across shoulders and the sparking humor hiding behind his whiskers has faded somewhat.]
It didn't sound like you needed much preparation.
[And, as if the two were somehow related:]
I don't have to tell you that Carastes will put you well out of the reach of any reliable friend.
no subject
No, you don't.
[Close enough, now, to offer the book back to its owner without needing to reach very far. The gesture pulls his cuff to the knob of his wrist, where his simple bracelets are tied—braided cotton floss in dull red, dark grey, and one a shade in between that looks older than the others. The slim silver ring on his thumb is new. (The piercing weight of his focus is not.)]
You know I can make friends anywhere.
no subject
Good. You'll need them.
no subject
Instead, softly, a question rarely asked:]
Tell me what you're thinking.
no subject
It's a trace thing. An invisible adjustment—as if Flint is suddenly aware of his own shape in the world again after a series of minutes wherein he'd comfortably forgotten it.
He doesn't adjust the cup where it's balanced on his leg; the urge to do so is dismissed as unnecessary.]
That I've enjoyed our conversations, and suspect I'll notice their absence.
[Because, yes. Leander does have a way of making unexpected friends for himself, doesn't he?]
no subject
So will I.
[Seconds of quiet, settling comfortably, while he considers. It can't be the wine, he's only just lifting the cup now to finish it—]
I've not lain with anyone else since our first. [Let him imagine the reasons why.] Is that something you'd like to keep?
no subject
And the truth is, he is sending a man who dreamed himself into something very dark out into a place designed to reinforce that impulse. Carry this hot coal in your palm, Leander. Would it not be prudent to encourage a sense of control over that?
A log in the fire pops loud. The spark of it glints at the corner of his eye.]
Given how everything else will be well beyond me, I should say yes. [Should. Isn't. He is frank about it.] But I've little interest in being another person who thinks it's their responsibility to restrain you. Take your pleasure. I would only warn you that the Imperium loves nothing more than to make a shackle out of the things most ready to give it.
no subject
Hardly a revelation. It lands like a familiar cinder, nonetheless, a memory unremarked upon through the mechanics of his body.]
I've never known a place that didn't. [His open hand asks for the captain's cup.] And you'll have my work.
no subject
Leander. [Is like the firm shape of his thumb.] Tell me why you asked.
no subject
He's watching the hand, the skin's long-weathered texture, freckled creases, suggestion of fine golden hairs in firelight—and only the hand, not the rings that adorn it. Their hands, together. Contrasting masculine forms. His own fingers, no longer light as birds' bones—this healthier strength cultivated in the months since the cave—but still slim in comparison.
He takes his time in answering.
(A vow consigned to flame, rough edge of a door beneath his hand, dark eyes bright and hard. Cutting himself free of their tangle, leaving them both clumsy for the lack of its binding. You are not a possession anyone keeps.)]
To measure the extent of my usefulness by offering something of little advantage to you, but valuable to me. I was curious what you'd say. [Tilting his head, reflective,] It's been a while since anyone's held my hand.
no subject
(If Leander is studying their hands, then Flint is watching the half of his face which is cast in shadow—how the space widens or narrows with that faint tilt.)
There is a callous along the side of the thumb pressed into the heel of Leander's palm.]
I want to understand the conclusions you've drawn from it. Is your curiosity satisfied?
[Had Leander been there for that game of swords he and Rutyer had played in the courtyard? The turn in that bout—the second round when he'd come for Byerly with all the grace of a machete hacking?]
no subject
For this question his smile finally makes good on its threat, though he pulls it back before it can achieve its full width.]
Never.
[His closest fingers need only curl to meet a wrist, and so they do, dragging slow across softer skin. Tendons and tributaries.]
Did you think I asked because it seemed like what you'd want to hear?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)