[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.]
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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.