[The rush and bang of the door is surprise enough that the mage's focus, and thus the light, is diminished, and his eyes briefly wider beneath a scowling brow—the habitual diagnostic pause while they flick here and there—but he has stopped, and his weight set back, giving of space.
(For far too long has he been the crushing squeeze; his hand is yet frozen in that shape.)]
None of it. All of it. You wanted me thinking of you, and I have been. It's the same seed I'd've planted; that there was a place to plant it at all was my own failing. [Leaning in tall, through a sliver of teeth,] Now let me pass.
[His hand and toe remain wedged as they are, stubbornly fixed. If there is a part of him which shrinks under a mage's command, it has long been winnowed into a shape so narrow that it isn't impossible to put it away. To refuse the impulse. No, says his heavy hand.]
That isn't what I wanted, [is snapped back; in the moment it doesn't feel like the lie that it might have an hour ago. He doesn't advance by a step—there is nowhere to go—but the sensation of it is there in the line of his arm and the sway of his shoulder.] What I wanted was for you to know I was thinking of you and what you ought to have. Is that so unbelievable?
[For a Circle mage—for a man wearing a knife-punch scar on the back of his neck—that phrase lands a particular way.
To his minor credit, Leander doesn't laugh, but his voice briefly flutters with it—some scraped edge gleaming fresh, his eyes newly backlit. He doesn't back away, or even seem to consider it. Flint's aggressive shape, though it fills what little space is left, daunts him not at all.]
Go on. Tell me, James, what you think I ought to have.
More than what other people here would give you credit for.
[He doesn't flinch in the face of that brittle, snarling kind of humor. Instead his response is like an animal's open jaw searching out a grip--snapping at something he believes has the density to sink teeth into.]
Respect. Trust. Not to have your purpose questioned every time you lift a finger in service to this fucking war. Think of what I'm asking of you. What I'm risking for it. Would it not be simpler for me to trust Yseult with this work? Why award it to you if not to prove something on your behalf?
[The bite lands, and he bears it in dreadful stillness, the crystal's blue light in his fist—not active, but charged, pure energy humming inside.
The elements of this are themselves attractive. Respect. Trust. To be given a thing in confidence that might have gone to someone else—that should have gone to them. A dangerous secret, the most beautiful kind, in his hand and charged. The urge to destroy it is immense, a mouth gaping wide around them both, black and starving. Something must go in.
His brow relaxes; his head takes an angle of whetted curiosity, ready to slip in sharp.]
Why? Do I remind you of something, James? [This can't be for him—no one gives selflessly. His voice settles soft.] Or someone?
[His hand at the door comes momentarily away, the briefest departure so it might curl into a fist and then is forced down again. Not heavy enough to be marked with any sound, but with enough lash down restraint in the thing to imply the desire. Don't just stand there, it demands, as if it were possible for a limb to be frustrated by the rise and fall tempo of—]
What difference does it make? I know that to give the appearance of either only to snatch them away the moment they become inconvenient is the mark of a fucking coward. It serves only to isolate those willing to demand better from a thing. Is it not something to— [Like a jerk on a line, he checks himself. More firm, less sharp; they are so near to the door and someone passing at this hour might hear the shape of voices.]
When this is finished, should we in fact go to Minrathous and carry down Corypheus. Tell me, have you given any thought to what you will have after?
[The movement of that hand, the hand becoming a fist—oh, it brightens him, like firelight's gleam on a blade, all too fleeting. Isn't that what everyone wants? To be spoken to in their own language? He could respond with such eloquence—
But instead he stands back, after a glance to where a gap between door and frame would be, hearing the necessity in that change of timbre. If this could be spoken through silence, too, they might share a moment of fluency: that he could own everything and still have nothing; that through him snarls a void which nothing can fill.
And for reminding him of that, Flint may have his own words back.]
[It should sound like being denied something. But in that space against the door made artificially close by Leander's desire to pass through it and be away, it is like rewarding that snapped tight jaw with a taste of blood on the tongue.
Strung taut, but so sure that it sounds almost patient:]
Because if you haven't considered it, I want to know if it's because it truly doesn't matter to you or if it's that someone taught you not to.
[Leander's grin suddenly splits his face like a wound full of teeth.]
What is it you're looking for—a way in? And you think a moment of condescension will reveal it? How simple I must seem to you.
[He's backing away from the door, step over step, his wake magnetic, heavy, his mouth relaxing.]
What I want is beyond my reach, so I will satisfy myself in the meantime. Tomorrow I will leave for Carastes, and from there I will take as much as I'm given, and more than that, and more, until the wound I've made closes around me and I become indistinguishable to them. And then I will eat them from the inside.
I don't know that any of it matters. But it's what I've decided.
[Is there even a question as to whether he will let Leander step away? Or does he allow himself to be pinned there by all those teeth, by the violence in that intent? Or is maybe there something in it that wounds, an unidentified cut which stays him and later he will find by the realization that he's begun to bleed?
Stood at the door, bracing it still, Flint watches him. Something leaps high behind his ribs and clutches. The frustrated shape of it makes him grimace. Condescension, he'd called it and the urge to take Leander by the scruff of his neck and shake him for it is—
He sets his teeth, retracts the toe of his boot and moves his hand to the door's latch.]
It was a real question. I did want to know.
[The door is pulled open. Go on then.]
Edited (Dont try to line edit right after a nap i tell u what) 2021-05-24 01:45 (UTC)
[It should be satisfying, that look, the strained relenting, but the open door—open, now that he's stopped trying to leave—something about the shape of it is wrong.
What does Flint want that he doesn't already know? There is no after. There is nothing for him but what is already familiar: relation and dismissal, turning over one another endlessly. There is violence. There are secrets. There are looks like the one he's just been given—and worse ones, should he allow anyone to see him. Adaptation. Becoming.
He comes to the door, carrying a light in his hand. Softly, lest his voice carry down the hall,]
There. You see? You've answered it yourself.
[A sound at waist level, like wet wood bursting in the fire, the minuscule creak and crackle of spreading ice. His fist opens; the community crystal falls to the floor, now only a stone.]
[The sting of it sits between the ribs—wounded pride or the distinct iron taste of failure. It would do him good to ignore it. To set it aside. If he is to send Leander a half a world away on the hope that he will be loyal to a thing he has no reason to love and a choice few for undoing it—if that is the only point in this, it would benefit him to make some last effort to reshape this before turning him loose. He might still in this last moment find a lie or some small touch that could do that service for him. He's quite certain of it.
But he'd see it now, wouldn't he? Notice, if he were to suddenly bend. No, he's made enough of a fool of himself and can't tolerate the idea of showing more of the thing.
So.
There are worse things to take to Tevinter than resentment. It's practically a kindness to prepare him in such a fashion.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
(For far too long has he been the crushing squeeze; his hand is yet frozen in that shape.)]
None of it. All of it. You wanted me thinking of you, and I have been. It's the same seed I'd've planted; that there was a place to plant it at all was my own failing. [Leaning in tall, through a sliver of teeth,] Now let me pass.
no subject
That isn't what I wanted, [is snapped back; in the moment it doesn't feel like the lie that it might have an hour ago. He doesn't advance by a step—there is nowhere to go—but the sensation of it is there in the line of his arm and the sway of his shoulder.] What I wanted was for you to know I was thinking of you and what you ought to have. Is that so unbelievable?
no subject
[For a Circle mage—for a man wearing a knife-punch scar on the back of his neck—that phrase lands a particular way.
To his minor credit, Leander doesn't laugh, but his voice briefly flutters with it—some scraped edge gleaming fresh, his eyes newly backlit. He doesn't back away, or even seem to consider it. Flint's aggressive shape, though it fills what little space is left, daunts him not at all.]
Go on. Tell me, James, what you think I ought to have.
no subject
[He doesn't flinch in the face of that brittle, snarling kind of humor. Instead his response is like an animal's open jaw searching out a grip--snapping at something he believes has the density to sink teeth into.]
Respect. Trust. Not to have your purpose questioned every time you lift a finger in service to this fucking war. Think of what I'm asking of you. What I'm risking for it. Would it not be simpler for me to trust Yseult with this work? Why award it to you if not to prove something on your behalf?
no subject
The elements of this are themselves attractive. Respect. Trust. To be given a thing in confidence that might have gone to someone else—that should have gone to them. A dangerous secret, the most beautiful kind, in his hand and charged. The urge to destroy it is immense, a mouth gaping wide around them both, black and starving. Something must go in.
His brow relaxes; his head takes an angle of whetted curiosity, ready to slip in sharp.]
Why? Do I remind you of something, James? [This can't be for him—no one gives selflessly. His voice settles soft.] Or someone?
no subject
What difference does it make? I know that to give the appearance of either only to snatch them away the moment they become inconvenient is the mark of a fucking coward. It serves only to isolate those willing to demand better from a thing. Is it not something to— [Like a jerk on a line, he checks himself. More firm, less sharp; they are so near to the door and someone passing at this hour might hear the shape of voices.]
When this is finished, should we in fact go to Minrathous and carry down Corypheus. Tell me, have you given any thought to what you will have after?
no subject
But instead he stands back, after a glance to where a gap between door and frame would be, hearing the necessity in that change of timbre. If this could be spoken through silence, too, they might share a moment of fluency: that he could own everything and still have nothing; that through him snarls a void which nothing can fill.
And for reminding him of that, Flint may have his own words back.]
What difference does it make?
no subject
Strung taut, but so sure that it sounds almost patient:]
Because if you haven't considered it, I want to know if it's because it truly doesn't matter to you or if it's that someone taught you not to.
[Who made you this way?, he'd asked.]
no subject
What is it you're looking for—a way in? And you think a moment of condescension will reveal it? How simple I must seem to you.
[He's backing away from the door, step over step, his wake magnetic, heavy, his mouth relaxing.]
What I want is beyond my reach, so I will satisfy myself in the meantime. Tomorrow I will leave for Carastes, and from there I will take as much as I'm given, and more than that, and more, until the wound I've made closes around me and I become indistinguishable to them. And then I will eat them from the inside.
I don't know that any of it matters. But it's what I've decided.
[We did.]
no subject
Stood at the door, bracing it still, Flint watches him. Something leaps high behind his ribs and clutches. The frustrated shape of it makes him grimace. Condescension, he'd called it and the urge to take Leander by the scruff of his neck and shake him for it is—
He sets his teeth, retracts the toe of his boot and moves his hand to the door's latch.]
It was a real question. I did want to know.
[The door is pulled open. Go on then.]
no subject
What does Flint want that he doesn't already know? There is no after. There is nothing for him but what is already familiar: relation and dismissal, turning over one another endlessly. There is violence. There are secrets. There are looks like the one he's just been given—and worse ones, should he allow anyone to see him. Adaptation. Becoming.
He comes to the door, carrying a light in his hand. Softly, lest his voice carry down the hall,]
There. You see? You've answered it yourself.
[A sound at waist level, like wet wood bursting in the fire, the minuscule creak and crackle of spreading ice. His fist opens; the community crystal falls to the floor, now only a stone.]
I'll send word after landfall.
no subject
But he'd see it now, wouldn't he? Notice, if he were to suddenly bend. No, he's made enough of a fool of himself and can't tolerate the idea of showing more of the thing.
So.
There are worse things to take to Tevinter than resentment. It's practically a kindness to prepare him in such a fashion.]
See that you do.