katabasis | inbox(v.2.0).

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.

Once through, aloud. It sparks a rough, uncut measure of pride behind the ribs. If he were to twist and set either book farther aside, or reach for the tin cup on the bedside table, he's confident that he'd somehow feel it there moving in his chest.

The sound of Flint's assent is very low. Yes, he has enjoyed that first little book.

His thumb shifts to the gutter of the opened book of poetry. The pages rasp delicately under the touch, threatening to crinkle like onion skins. The urge to close this book and put it directly inside his coat where it might live in the deep pocket tucked in close at his side is absurd. So instead, he turns the little book. He offers it to John.

"Would you read one now?"

For all his claim as to the benefits of an audience, and even his offer so many months ago to do just this, John has a moment of—

Not hesitation. Not reluctance.

But a moment's pause to observe the weight of the moment. That they are sat in his quarters, this narrow room where John has declined to host any other person in his entire tenure. The book held in his hands, and the print contained within and the words he'd put there himself, what they are all meant to mean. The way he wants them to be received.

It is habit still, to rise to his feet. (The stomping is long gone, an impossibility even if the poem lent itself to it.) Leaning over his crutch, John flips through the pages without consulting the table of contents. He doesn't pretend there is any uncertainty as to which he might choose. There is a poem, the one that had stuck in his throat when he'd read it first in the cabin with the ship tilting beneath his feet.

There is no need for affectation, for the mimicry and exaggeration that accompanies any selection from the ever-growing library of smut the Walrus men might put into his hands. This poem needs nothing but John's voice, rising and falling over the flowing sequence of verse, three pages of language as delicate as the paper printed upon, sparse phrases rich in John's mouth.

This is not a performance. There is no polish. There are only the phrases and words John lingers over, the ones that he allows to ring and hang in the air. The picture the poet wishes to paint and the way John lifts the brush, intent, eyes lifting from the book to find Flint's over and over, then hold there on his face as John winds his way to the poem's end.

The book is closed over his thumb. Question and invitation. Flint had said one. John would give him a second, a third. John started at the last page. Yes, there are so many others he might have started with, but none so immediate as this poem, these words. This offering made in lieu of what John feels beating his chest in so many moments they are together. Not his own words, but near enough to the heart of the things. They resonate still in the air as John looks at him.

Rarely does he think of the voice as an instrument in the sense of something played rather than as a tool wielded. He is not a musician. He is not a writer. He is the son of a ship's carpenter, and for all that the man in question may have been a little more than a stranger there must be something ancestral in words as wedges and the cut of the adze. The rhythm of a voice is the mark-making of red oker on timbers rather than any other method of notation.

It's possible his ear is simply primed to hear it otherwise tonight; no, this is not a performance but it's been a night of songs so haphazardly played that any series of clear notes in arrangement has more musicality by contrast. And it's true that sometimes John Silver speaks in small rooms and quiet places and it bears no resemblance at all to the tenor of the auger, but a string vibrating. It produces a tone to fill a room as that whisky can a cup—lapping here at the edges of a battered container, leaving a dully glowing high water mark that will resound for a short time like even after its drunk down.

Like all good music, he can feel it on the back of his neck and under his boot soles. Sat there on that narrow bed, Flint watches him as he reads—not an attentive audience, but that animal he has played at being tonight paused and keen. His eyes are very pale in their field of smudged charcoal, and the draw of his breathing even as the book is closed.

Nevermind that these books and the things in them are ones John may have no natural predilection for. It matters that he keeps choosing them anyway.

"It's a rare talent," Flint says, the line of his mouth slanting toward approval behind his whiskers as he raises a hand to collect back the book. "That thing you do to make every language your native one."

Here is the confirmation, the outcome of all that study and haggling: Flint rendered still and observant, expression falling to good humor as John's thumb lifts and the book is closed properly.

The hopping step forward John takes to return the book to Flint's hand is unnecessary. This is not a large room. John had not gone very far to make his recitation. But still: the step is taken, space between them narrowing to a scant distance, weight reallocated on the crutch, the book delivered back into Flint's custody.

"I've had some practice at it," hedges around an answer he might have given years ago: It came naturally. Things that hew too close to what else John comes by naturally; there's no need to invite that any nearer than it already is.

"There are others, if you care to hear them."

Nearly a whole book's worth of others, he imagines. So the little volume in question is tucked carefully alongside its stockier sibling.

"We've a whole year ahead of us."

That they do.

It's an unexpectedly weighted sentiment, with the words of the poem lingering in the quiet of the room. With Flint sat comfortably here, occupying this space.

John's hand lifts to the swirl of paint at his temple. Observing Flint's expression as much as taking stock of the remnants of the night's festivities on his skin.

"Are you intending to keep this?"

The tilt of his face is a small thing, upward as much as it is in toward the scuff of fingertips.

"It doesn't suit me as well during the day."

And speaking of the coming year, presumably he has used up every ounce of the time allotted to him in which he may be witnessed experiencing any measure of fun by the general company. No, like the painted wolf's mask which has already evaporated, the charcoal will disappear back into whatever mysterious ether from which it was originally plucked. In the morning, all things will be as they should again.

"Though I mean to make use of the fur."

Fucking southern winters.

The flex of grimace on John's face comes and goes, immediate, reflexive answer to that unspoken statement.

Fucking southern winters indeed.

"There's water in the pitcher," is what's said aloud. John's thumb sets to Flint's cheek, holding his gaze.

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the world's shortest tag

+applause

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writes a brick followed immediately by 3 lines that's PACING or something

variety is the spice of life i hear

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