[It's lucky timing. From the looks of things—the coat over a nearby chair back, the saddlebags slung across one shoulder into which he's presently stuffing a collection of tightly rolled parchment tubes fit for fixing to a raven's leg—, Flint isn't long for the office.
Here though, he pauses. Straightens, a hand rising to secure the saddlebag first in its place and then moving to cinch closed it's flap. His examination of Byerly there in the doorway, all faux indolence, is brief but hardly cursory.]
Congratulations.
[This thoughtless motion of hands, all telegraphed momentum and it's accompanying shred of impatience is the most scattered he has seemed in— those undone weeks, no longer relevant to anyone. He'd appeared remarkably steady through those. But what would Byerly, who was a corpse then, know about any of that?]
[ Byerly's wry gaze flicks down to those saddlebags, the question in them clear enough. Under other circumstances, he might take time to draw the story out of Flint - to let the man reveal some truth about himself, something more interesting and more lasting than merely where he's going to. But the man seems in a hurry, enough that By doubts he'll have the patience for it. And also, life is short.
So, a guess: ]
Planning a bit of travel? Perhaps with a certain previously-dead companion? [ With curly hair and a practiced skill at participating in the three-legged race? ]
Messere Silver has plenty enough to see to here in Kirkwall. Meanwhile, I've apparently some business planned in Ostwick.
[Something about its harbor defenses in light of various marauding red lyrium sea creatures, maybe? No. But it would be an easy suggestion to make should he be required to dig one up.]
I'll be away two days. Three, at most. [He is turning the saddlebags across his shoulder. There is space still in the other bag into which to squeeze the two slim books waiting at the edge of the work table to be packed.] Rowntree and Barrow can be trusted with the Gallows in the interim. I assume the rest of you can make the most of the celebratory atmosphere without my help.
[ How very curious. Byerly's head tilts slightly to the side, his eyes trained on Flint's face. ]
Urgent business, it seems. What unfortunate timing - to be reunited with your friend right when the Flint of this world had somewhere he needed to be.
[ Is it flight, perhaps? Not terribly hard to imagine that, either, though even Byerly doesn't have the gall to suggest it aloud. The stoic man, so overwhelmed with feelings about his revived lover(?) that he must run to another city altogether to escape from them. ]
[A certain flexing of the brow suggests, What can be done; apparently time marches on even in these most bizarre cases. But what he says is—]
I wouldn't trouble yourself over it. The man makes a habit of cheating death. I'm relatively confident I'll have another opportunity to do the thing properly.
[(Maybe Flint's hair is shorn so close to avoid dealing with all the grey hairs.)
With the books crammed into their place, he buckles the flap on this side of the saddlebags are well. Turns, but only to face Byerly rather than to fetch his coat from the chair back. The assessment he makes of the man leaned there in the doorway is more brutally direct.
It would be rude, he decides, to tell Byerly that he looks like he's clinging to a ledge by the fingernails.]
[ Byerly's surprised, in turn, that Flint knows about Bastien. Not that he knows Bastien exists, obviously, but he seems above paying attention to who's in love with whom. By supposes he should be flattered.
The temptation to say all this aloud, maybe with a hysterical laugh, is strong. By some miracle he resists it. ]
Bastien? Try Whiskey. She nearly took my face off with her tongue. [ And then, because Flint almost certainly isn't keeping track of pets' names - ] That's my dog, not a new lover. But I shan't be leaving the Gallows any time soon.
[A low hum of assent, a flickering look of measurement, and then Flint does turn to fetch his coat from where it's folded across the chair back. It's heavy waxed linen, a grim grey verging on black, patterned with a great deal of stitching and knotwork about the shoulders and neck rather than any weave of the fabric. It is, by and large, a very sober looking garment. The business in Ostwick must be serious, then.]
Matthias should be able to tend to the rota duties and the paperwork. Should anything change, send word.
[ The smile doesn't fully reach Byerly's hollowed eyes. His hands don't stop trembling. Perhaps it is that fragility that lets Byerly say this - or perhaps he says it in spite of the fragility. ]
Just, before you go, I wanted to say - You're a good man, Flint. We're lucky to have you. Just in case you ever doubt it.
[Byerly Rutyer is a fool for sentimentality. He'd decided this some time ago, had marked the impulse, and once or twice has made to use it like a chip in a tiling stone for wedging in a lever and shifting the heavy block of the man's sensibilities this way or that.
So later, after he has climbed to the griffon eyrie and has saddled his animal of choosing and is clipping himself in to the saddle, Flint will be irritated to have been at all caught off guard by this sentiment.
He turns abruptly toward the door at the man in it, briefly seeming to have forgotten the urgency of his trajectory in favor of planting himself there in the long room in order to weather the shock of the compliment.
Then he folds the coat across his arm, the motion mechanical as a dwarven clockwork.]
This sets a poor precedent. The next time we disagree on something, I'm going to strongly consider whether killing and resurrecting you to knock some respect back between the ears isn't a viable solution.
[ He's pleased by this response, and by this wit. Perhaps he ought to try being kind more often. Though, to be fair, too much kindness might dull its effects, like how you can build up immunity to toxins over time - a large part of the pleasure is the way that Flint has been taken aback. ]
Just as long as you manage the second part of the process.
[ And he offers Flint an odd little gesture of camaraderie - a bump of the knuckles against the man's bicep. Less than a slap on the shoulder, but more than nothing. ]
[He gets a grunt of acknowledgement—either for the well wishes of the bump of knuckles—for his trouble, Flint's hand rising briefly to adjust the lay of the saddlebags across his shoulder.]
Good luck with keeping everyone alive in the interim.
[Which is as heartfelt a goodbye as Byerly is likely to get as Flint brushes him back from the Division office's doorway and into the corridor where he may pull the door shut in their wake. He's for the stairs after—not down toward the ferry slip and the stables, but up toward the griffons.
And this would seem to be the last of the brief exchange, only Flint pauses there on the bottom before ascending out of view. He twists half back.]
You might consider a frank conversation with Bastien as to what you're doing any of this for. He left when you died, if he hasn't said so already.
[ The lack of surprise confirms well enough that Bastien has indeed said so already.
(What a strange turn of phrase. When you died. It makes Byerly want to laugh, but he suspects that it would come out sounding a bit alarming.) ]
We speak on the subject often. My beloved's heart pumps idealism, to be sure, but the prevailing passions of this place are not his. The movement of great men, instead of the defense of the common one. [ A casual shrug, but Byerly's eyes are trained on Flint's face, searching to see how much this resonates: ] So he fights for me. And I for him. And he fought a whole dragon.
It seems as if Flint might turn fully back from the invitation of the upper stairwell and face the shape of that sentiment. And then his hand simply rises and adjusts the lay of the saddlebags across his shoulder.]
I'll see you in a few days' time.
[And then he does turn—toward the upper floors rather than away, the scuff of his boots sure on the step.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Here though, he pauses. Straightens, a hand rising to secure the saddlebag first in its place and then moving to cinch closed it's flap. His examination of Byerly there in the doorway, all faux indolence, is brief but hardly cursory.]
Congratulations.
[This thoughtless motion of hands, all telegraphed momentum and it's accompanying shred of impatience is the most scattered he has seemed in— those undone weeks, no longer relevant to anyone. He'd appeared remarkably steady through those. But what would Byerly, who was a corpse then, know about any of that?]
no subject
[ Byerly's wry gaze flicks down to those saddlebags, the question in them clear enough. Under other circumstances, he might take time to draw the story out of Flint - to let the man reveal some truth about himself, something more interesting and more lasting than merely where he's going to. But the man seems in a hurry, enough that By doubts he'll have the patience for it. And also, life is short.
So, a guess: ]
Planning a bit of travel? Perhaps with a certain previously-dead companion? [ With curly hair and a practiced skill at participating in the three-legged race? ]
no subject
[Something about its harbor defenses in light of various marauding red lyrium sea creatures, maybe? No. But it would be an easy suggestion to make should he be required to dig one up.]
I'll be away two days. Three, at most. [He is turning the saddlebags across his shoulder. There is space still in the other bag into which to squeeze the two slim books waiting at the edge of the work table to be packed.] Rowntree and Barrow can be trusted with the Gallows in the interim. I assume the rest of you can make the most of the celebratory atmosphere without my help.
no subject
Urgent business, it seems. What unfortunate timing - to be reunited with your friend right when the Flint of this world had somewhere he needed to be.
[ Is it flight, perhaps? Not terribly hard to imagine that, either, though even Byerly doesn't have the gall to suggest it aloud. The stoic man, so overwhelmed with feelings about his revived lover(?) that he must run to another city altogether to escape from them. ]
no subject
I wouldn't trouble yourself over it. The man makes a habit of cheating death. I'm relatively confident I'll have another opportunity to do the thing properly.
[(Maybe Flint's hair is shorn so close to avoid dealing with all the grey hairs.)
With the books crammed into their place, he buckles the flap on this side of the saddlebags are well. Turns, but only to face Byerly rather than to fetch his coat from the chair back. The assessment he makes of the man leaned there in the doorway is more brutally direct.
It would be rude, he decides, to tell Byerly that he looks like he's clinging to a ledge by the fingernails.]
I'm surprised Bastien's let you out of his sight.
no subject
The temptation to say all this aloud, maybe with a hysterical laugh, is strong. By some miracle he resists it. ]
Bastien? Try Whiskey. She nearly took my face off with her tongue. [ And then, because Flint almost certainly isn't keeping track of pets' names - ] That's my dog, not a new lover. But I shan't be leaving the Gallows any time soon.
[ Unlike some people. ]
no subject
Matthias should be able to tend to the rota duties and the paperwork. Should anything change, send word.
no subject
[ The smile doesn't fully reach Byerly's hollowed eyes. His hands don't stop trembling. Perhaps it is that fragility that lets Byerly say this - or perhaps he says it in spite of the fragility. ]
Just, before you go, I wanted to say - You're a good man, Flint. We're lucky to have you. Just in case you ever doubt it.
no subject
So later, after he has climbed to the griffon eyrie and has saddled his animal of choosing and is clipping himself in to the saddle, Flint will be irritated to have been at all caught off guard by this sentiment.
He turns abruptly toward the door at the man in it, briefly seeming to have forgotten the urgency of his trajectory in favor of planting himself there in the long room in order to weather the shock of the compliment.
Then he folds the coat across his arm, the motion mechanical as a dwarven clockwork.]
This sets a poor precedent. The next time we disagree on something, I'm going to strongly consider whether killing and resurrecting you to knock some respect back between the ears isn't a viable solution.
no subject
[ He's pleased by this response, and by this wit. Perhaps he ought to try being kind more often. Though, to be fair, too much kindness might dull its effects, like how you can build up immunity to toxins over time - a large part of the pleasure is the way that Flint has been taken aback. ]
Just as long as you manage the second part of the process.
[ And he offers Flint an odd little gesture of camaraderie - a bump of the knuckles against the man's bicep. Less than a slap on the shoulder, but more than nothing. ]
Travel well, Commander.
no subject
Good luck with keeping everyone alive in the interim.
[Which is as heartfelt a goodbye as Byerly is likely to get as Flint brushes him back from the Division office's doorway and into the corridor where he may pull the door shut in their wake. He's for the stairs after—not down toward the ferry slip and the stables, but up toward the griffons.
And this would seem to be the last of the brief exchange, only Flint pauses there on the bottom before ascending out of view. He twists half back.]
You might consider a frank conversation with Bastien as to what you're doing any of this for. He left when you died, if he hasn't said so already.
no subject
(What a strange turn of phrase. When you died. It makes Byerly want to laugh, but he suspects that it would come out sounding a bit alarming.) ]
We speak on the subject often. My beloved's heart pumps idealism, to be sure, but the prevailing passions of this place are not his. The movement of great men, instead of the defense of the common one. [ A casual shrug, but Byerly's eyes are trained on Flint's face, searching to see how much this resonates: ] So he fights for me. And I for him. And he fought a whole dragon.
no subject
It seems as if Flint might turn fully back from the invitation of the upper stairwell and face the shape of that sentiment. And then his hand simply rises and adjusts the lay of the saddlebags across his shoulder.]
I'll see you in a few days' time.
[And then he does turn—toward the upper floors rather than away, the scuff of his boots sure on the step.]