katabasis | inbox(v.2.0).

"Literate," is echoed in a chuckle. "I think we can say they've developed some appreciation to for the literary arts, if nothing else."

Appreciation.

Another word whose meaning is being stretched beyond its limitations.

"It's the least of their requests," John continues. Newly bandaged, Flint's hand is surrendered as John takes hold of the other. Examines the damage briefly, before repeating his work. "If we're lucky I'll get hold of another trunk of books. It'll occupy them for the whole of the coming year."

"A whole year in exchange for a cache of books. Maker, hands come cheap these days."

There's some rueful note in it, mostly unserious save some nip of irony. Imagine if men always were so easily satisfied.

The pressure of the bandage and the salve on the cuts in combination makes for a consistently dull, unremarkable sting. After a brief flex of fingers, with his second hand still subject to John's ministration, Flint makes to displace the resealed pot of salve to the little side table. He trades it for the list, twisting it round to get a look at the titles and what's written there prompts a low sniff not unrelated to a laugh. Andraste help the taste of fucking (metaphorically and otherwise) sailors.

"I'd wondered whether you might join them tonight."

The roll of gauze is allowed to drop into the space between them, joining the hems of that great furred mantle.

"I'd considered it."

Bandages secured, their loosely linked hands have fallen to John's thigh. His thumb is moving idly, back and forth along the edge of bandage where it overlaps warm skin at the heel of Flint's palm. This stretch of skin, unscathed by whatever abrupt landing Flint had come to on the ice, is subject to the brush of contact as John continues, "I had also considered ascending two flights more."

The motivation behind that exertion would be self-explanatory, surely.

Speaking of a sailor's taste—

(Silver must qualify as one whether he cares for it or not, whether he knows the difference between a halyard and a buntline or not.)

With the salve already doing it's work to blunt the sting of the opened skin, Flint raises the loosely linked collection of their hands and presses a kiss to the backs of John's knuckles.

"For the whisky bottle I keep in the cabinet."

Obviously.

"Among other things," John allows, because certainly they might have shared that whiskey in the course of time spent together.

But among other things is colored too by the attention paid to Flint's mouth, the lift of their linked hands. John's eyes linger there for a long moment before he tips his head towards the faint glow of the bottle in the window.

"We could certainly entertain the alternatives I have on hand before we go up."

Assuming they do ascend the stairs together. It feels a foregone conclusion, that John might turn out his lamp and gather the parcel in this room meant for the man beside him, and they leave side by side. Habit does trend towards the relative luxury of the side room of the Forces office.

His attention follows along the same line. It prompts the unravelling of their hands and a pat to John's thigh that has the same cadence as one Flint might afford that terrible Antivan mare (who has never required any reassuring) before he rises to fetch the bottle down from the windowsill.

"Dealing with the Carta now, are you?"

Presumably there is a cup or cups somewhere in the room that an experienced raider of personal property might successfully scavenge.

"The de Foncés," John answers.

Which may well come to the same thing, all aspects of that journey considered.

Regardless, there is a cup near to hand. Dented spectacularly, but still of good use. Clearly in use, as there is some glowing liquid already occupying it.

John is observing him, intent, examining the effect of Flint moving through the narrow space of this room as he continues, "Though there's a trio of very grizzled dwarves who I've had a passing acquaintance with who may well have ties."

"Ah, well," is in a knowing tenor despite the objective bullshit that follows: "You know what they say about trios of grizzled dwarves."

Flint returns to the bed and there makes himself comfortable to the extent that he reclines as horizontal as is possible across the width of the mattress while still retaining the ability to pour a measure of the luminous whisky into the battered cup. There is an air about it that implies a nearly instinctive familiarity with how best to arrange his limbs in the space.

(If he closes one eye and imagines the sway of the sea, this narrow room isn't markedly different from the close quarters of a petty officer's wardroom on a fleet little Tevine naval ship.)

The cup is passed over once it's been properly dosed.

"There's a public house in Qarinus that deals in this stuff." Or once did. "The Red Ribbon."

There is something in the way James Flint embodies a space.

There is something to the way James Flint embodies this space.

John is turning it over, feeling what reactions ripple outwards in response, as he accepts the offering. Their fingers catching over battered tin, John maintaining the contact long enough for a press of thumb over knuckle before taking hold of the cup.

"Have you a taste for it?"

Better than this strange-tasting, glowing liquor: the little ribbon given over with it, winnowing backwards in time. The past, there at the end of it. A tug away.

"My assumption is that then, yes, given how men in the service are ordinarily thrilled to drink anything that isn't three quarters squirming."

The contents of ships' casks being understood to be fucking awful. Surely there is a reason Flint's tastes in this particular field are so reliably rank; the sharper the alcohol, the less likely something is to be living in it. At the very least, there's nothing like a paint stripping scorch to obscure less palatable flavors.

"But I don't recall," he says. The glowing bottle has been tucked into the crook of his elbow. His hand returns from the cup to rub absently at the shadow of makeup black about one eye. "The Ribbon was better known for indulgences beyond its selection of dwarven liquors."

A significant look between fingers. That kind of public house.

John is familiar with this facet of life aboard a ship. Had his tastes run in the opposite direction in reaction to it.

A slanting glance in answer, the corner of John's mouth pulling up.

"I see."

Another sip, and the cup is offered. Or lowered, within easy reach, to the space between them.

Three quarters squirming indeed.

"So we might say that offering made a more lasting impression than mushroom-flavored liquor?"

Creeping fingers of a bandaged hand find their way to the cup, extricating it discreetly.

"We might say that. But clearly the one added to the general affect of the place."

He raises the pilfered cho in a gesture that's halfway toward a toast, then drinks a respectable measure from it. The contents earn only the slightest face—less critical and more merely assessing. In the end, the dented cup is passed back John's way regardless of what Flint thinks of the whisky.

"There was a woman there. Imelda. Renown for a particular thing she did with her tongue. But I'll confess that I never could get anyone to describe the act, or even saw a woman by that name despite how many sailors swore the reverse. I have my suspicions the whole thing was a fiction propagated by the establishment's master."

And presumably there were other ladies to be had with other tricks of the tongue to make up for the difference.

"Clever," is likely predictable.

Has John orchestrated something similar? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe not an exact match of the situation, but to weave a fabrication so enduring that it propagates itself even in the face of so little evidence—

Well, it's an admirable skill. It is an admirable skill to John.

In possession of the cup, John takes a slow swig. Lets the flavor sit, earthy and bitter.

"You know, I am near certain at least one of the books on that list features an Imelda."

Ha, ha.

Flint's amused snort is loud in the narrow room.

"Would that any one of us could be so enduring a fabrication."

To be remembered in the pages of a water-speckled bit of pulp, destined to be read-aloud at various points in the course of an evening by a pack of sailors—

There are worse legacies.

(Was John ever meant to be remembered at all?)

"Perhaps if we shared such awe-inspiring skill," is all humor. They have other virtues. John has certainly spent enough time embellishing them in Kirkwall's alehouses, not to mention the decks of certain ships.

"Though I imagine you've a headstart if you intend to make a habit of the paint."

This warrants a wearier grunt, long suffering. He doesn't deserve to have his holiday spirit mocked in so relentless a fashion.

"Don't ask what became of the mask." Lost. Or flattened, maybe, in whatever disaster had produced the skinned palms. Who can say?

Maybe all stories are like this past the margins of their publication—at loose ends, makeup smudged to nearly nothing and their ominous heavy furs masquerading as throws at the foot of beds in exceptionally narrow rooms. It's been a pleasant evening, so he finds the idea pleasant. Were the night colored by some other light, he might judge it otherwise.

The answering chuckle is low, thick and fond. All these things in combination are easily appreciated, just as Flint occupying the space alongside him is easily appreciated.

In the space that follows, John makes a study of him. Comfortable, or appearing so. Bottle in the crook of his arm. Remnants of his costume lingering behind. The looseness of his limbs, the weight of the day’s responsibilities shed. John tips the cup to his mouth, draining the last of it before returning it to Flint’s custody.

“I’ve something for you,” John says into the quiet between them, rather than a request for further libation. “But it’ll keep, if we intend to continue an upwards climb.”

Flint hums low, extracting the bottle from the comfortable crook of his arm to slosh a fresh half measure into the cup. This one he drinks—more smoothly now that he's braced for the low, earthen flavor.

"I don't mind the room." That it temporarily saves them the trouble of navigating stairwells is merely an added benefit. There's so much of his work lingering in the central tower, the division office stacked high with reports to be read and orders to sign and every possible task between those two points besides. The distance between here and there seems to legitimize the luxury of delay in a way a single closed door hardly does.

To say nothing of the comfort to be found in a narrow bed and close quarters, the night sharp beyond the cracked shutters.

"Though if you want your things tonight rather than wait on them, we may as well."

Suffice to say, he isn't carrying John's Satinalia present in his pockets.

"I expected you'd have more to say on the quality of the mattress."

Nevermind the reduced area in which they might insinuate themselves on this particular bedframe.

Though perhaps in contrast to Antivan goose feather, all other options pale.

"But if there are no objections, I certainly don't intend to force a relocation."

He'd kept his boot laced, remained more or less cinched together despite the hour and the apparent ease of his evening activity. It heralds some specific anticipation: they would resume their usual habit of spending the evening in the central tower. Regardless of how many stairs might be between John and that destination, and the hour in which they might be called to traverse them.

It goes unspoken: John is a patient man, and he will be content to wait for whatever gift Flint intends for him.

With a hand braced at Flint's thigh, John levers himself upright again.

Flint's low grunt for being used as a point off which to sway upward certainly doesn't qualify as objection, and neither does his clear intent to continue nursing the tin cup. The wrapped packet living in the sea chest a considerable number of stairs above them will apparently hold there for another day.

(He's slept on worse mattresses, even accounting for the fact that the ones here in the Gallows smell like stale misery.)

"I've been considering whether charging Byerly with acquiring one of those absurd feather filled things on my behalf would be worth the headache from whatever smart remark bound to come out of his mouth."

He's not looking at John—rather has busied himself with moving the shed fur mantle to the end of the bed—, but the persistent tip of Flint's temple in his direction is telling.

A humming consideration from the corner of the room, where John has opened his own chest to shift the contents one way, then another, before lifting out two parcels wrapped in dark red paper. Bound up again in twine.

"There are other avenues, if you'd like to avoid that particular headache."

Are they underhanded avenues? Perhaps.

Rising to his feet is a process. Graceless, or so it feels to John, despite the unthinking ease of the motions. The parcels are relegated to the foot of the bed, so John might have his hands free to split between crutch and chest. A benefit of the room: it's size makes maneuvering from one side or the other a simple task. He can return himself to the bed and take up the parcels to offer out.

Surely somewhere in Thedas there is a goose farmer besieged by a rift on their little goose farm who would be all too happy to trade feather down for the security of not having to dodge wraiths while grazing their birds. —Is a thing he thinks and doesn't say, though the absurd parody of Riftwatch's work plants the shape of good humor more firmly at the corner of his mouth.

Yes, there are probably ways to avoid Byerly's involvement in the matter entirely. As if that's even remotely a guarantee against the man's bullshit.

By the time John returns to the bed, Flint has finally shifted in the direction of sitting upright. The bottle is transfered from the rapidly disappearing crook of his elbow to the bedside table where it might helpfully pin that collection of pages in place as a ward against anyone being tempted to reference the papers in the immediate future. The tin cup follows. He's ready to receive whatever he's handed by the time John rejoins him.

"I'll give it some thought."

Speaking of consideration— A likely parcel is weighed in hand, edges felt up for the tell tale signs of a book's spine or cover board edges. What he finds garners a significant look in John's direction, Now what could this be?, before pursuing the edges of the wrapping.

Flint might have maintained that horizontal slouch, but John is too late to make the suggestion. Instead, they are sat side by side while Flint maps out the parcel itself and John lays aside his crutch. Here in the room, there are certain arrangements made clearly to accommodate, keep the tool close at hand for his benefit. There is no real thought to laying it aside, so he is free to observe the fullness of the expression on Flint's face and answer it with a slanting smile of his own.

Yes, the contents are easily guessed. The assumption is quickly confirmed, as the red paper is peeled away.

Couched in the torn parchment are two books, one large, one smaller, slimmer.

The former is hardbound, deep crimson leather of the cover embossed with a maze of intricate black geometric shapes framing the gold of the title. It is a rare thing, this volume, or so John had been told when he undertook the task of tracking it down for purchase. The wizened old woman at the shop had tutted over every step of the acquisition process. The poet herself is a famed Nevarran, her poems widely translated but her poetic dramas overlooked. Translations of these are an impossible request, the shopkeep had groused, but well-placed inquiries and the appropriate amount of coin had unearthed this: one volume containing two translated adaptions of well-known tragedies elevated through her verse, hope mined from despair and threaded through the structure of each piece, along with a third section added by the translator containing a single essay outlining the plays as they exist in conversation with each other, so changed and heightened beyond their original form by the poet's vision

Alongside it, a curated collection of her poetry gathered around the ideas of love as transformation, as a reshaping force, of what is remade through shared affections. The pages are tissue thin, rustle delicately beneath fingertips. Each poem's title is emphasized with that same intricate, looping linework. Not shapes, but similar geometry in the lines, the way the ink brackets and frames the lettering and borders the poem as it runs down the page. It is on the pages of this book John's handwriting slants an inscription: Allow these to hold place for me.

Edited (sorry i simply must change a single word ) 2022-11-17 17:13 (UTC)

It takes him some minutes to reach that inscription, briefly distracted by the larger of the two volumes—turning to some middle page to critically scan the translator's work. What Flint finds there must meet with approval; the low sound he makes is undeniably positive, fingertips sliding over the page edges with the tenderness of a touching a cheek. It's a fascinating find:

"I wasn't aware she'd written anything in this vein. Thank you."

He can struggle his way through some Nevarran, but this is another thing all together. Clearly, the translator has found their audience. He begins to turn back through yet more pages in search of notes or appendixes—these works in translation often have them, and the sight of that essay is welcome confirmation of his suspicions—, but before he gets too far, the second delicate volume is recalled and Flint folds the heavier of the two books closed so he might revert his attentions elsewhere.

The paper is very fine—so thin it might be nearly transparent in good light. So thin that the letters printed on them might show through to the other sides were they arranged in such exacting overlapping lines. The scratch of ink on the facing page is very, very black.

The shape of it sobers the shape and dimension of his pleasure—not unmaking it, merely stripping some of the easy, flexing humor that has lurked in the lines of his features these last minutes. (These last hours.)

It the length at which he studies the inscription unbearable, or is it just a given? At length, he thumbs past to the table of contents. This too is religiously surveyed.

"Did you read any of these?"

He must have. But Maker only knows how John Silver actually tracks down his candidates for additions to Flint's library.

That initial hum of approval is such a promising thing.

It is as John had said once before: the consideration of these texts was very much like walking on the bent iron prong of the boot, balancing on unfamiliar terrain. That this first reaction is followed by intent study is all the better. John might call it a success, at least in part.

He is weighing that in the stretch of quiet that marks Flint's examination of John's slanting notation. Lets it become a bulwark against the possibility that the smaller volume will be poorly received.

"Yes," John answers. "Once through, aloud, as you suggested."

Aboard the Walrus, behind a closed door. Long after coin had been exchanged.

"A reminder to myself that I manage better before an audience, among other things," carries some humor with it. This work hadn't caught him as it might Flint. As John hopes it might catch Flint. But it had come into clearer focus as he'd spoken. Reassured him of his purchase, though Joh continues still, "You seemed pleased with her first work."

And that book too had been selected to carry a specific sentiment, as much as the ring that glints from Flint's finger. It had only made sense to procure the collection that followed.

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

the world's shortest tag

+applause

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject