He has no answer for the questions outside a glance in John's direction while he wipes the bowl clean and begins to stow his tools back into their kit. It's not simply because no answer will be satisfying, but in part because he doesn't know one. If the shape of a spell is different on each man who wears it then particulars of its sensation and experience must be too. Maybe John will see where they're headed or he'll learn some secret of how to reach what they need between them. Or maybe he will know some part of the things Flint thinks or dreads in the dark. He may dream what Flint sometimes does: of a finch escaped from its cage whose black eye stares at him with the feeling of whatever part of Miranda is still left in the ground of that waiting island. Or maybe that black eye will belong to the Maroon Queen or her daughter or someone else who only John would recognize.
If there is anything similar or secret in what they will see, there can be no telling until it comes to pass.
--But the second thing, the one beyond this. That warrants some answer (and examination, but not in this instant and only because he won't be able to help himself from it). He pauses in the task of scratching the last dark flecks of blood from the knife blade and looks at John squarely.
"Oh?"
Of course he knows. Not since the beginning, no, but there is an uneasiness to the world around John Silver which he has long known the look of. At first he'd mistaken it for some omen, a manifestation of his own blatant disregard. But the truth of it is something more simple and strange. If there is latent power in every article of the world - the soil and shoots of grass and the ocean's salt evaporating into the air - it can only sit against John's skin, not be drawn out of it. He is an inert shore against which magick might somehow drive itself against and be broken.
He tucks the knife back in its place though hardly looks away.
Flint's answering acknowledgement isn't enough to hook the whole truth from John's throat and draw it out. Self-preservation wins out, as it always does. He has given over so much of himself to Flint. Even what he's been given in exchange isn't enough to soothe the fear that he's caught in a current, drawing him towards deep water.
"You aren't the only one who knows the old traditions. Our...enemy might say they're above dirty superstition, but in the hold of their ships they'll have someone who can weave protection for them out of thin air."
Among other things. Disgust catches in his throat. John's hands closes into a fist, watching the ring gleam on his finger as the blood streaks his skin. He thinks of the way the world could be warped. It's not as hard as the stories say. Two men, a little blood, a little metal, a little fire, and it would all come to pass just as Flint envisioned it.
They sent me to find it all. They used me to root out the knowledge they needed before they set it all to the blade and the flame.
Maybe someday he'll give Flint that truth. But not today.
"I know a way to steal that from them. If you're interested."
And John knows because he'd used those spells once, to break the wards and safeguards of people like them. There's no poetry in this. It's just the wielding of something blunt and ugly; all John can hope for is to use it without enough for to shatter the cycle along with everything else Flint is changing around them.
Something in his expression flickers open, though he continues to stow and wrap the bundle.
Interested? He almost laughs. "Let's hear it."
Not just because they can use any advantage available to them (they could), or because he's surprised by their enemy dabbling in the old traditions (he isnt - though how Silver knows is another matter). But because if John can do what he's implying-- Well, why hasn't he done it before? Not that he's doubting him. If the man says he can do something, there's some merit in believing him. Only that there have been a dozen instances since they met where the things on Flint's agenda have relied or been supported by luck charms and spells, by blood pressed into oak and poured into the sea. Why never bend those?
'You shit,' he thinks. He cinches the kit closed again by its leather cord. The ring on his hand flashes in the lantern light and the urge toward humor lingers there in the crooked line of his mouth.
Admitting this truth aloud lays him completely bare. Flint has always had the uncomfortable gift to see John. Maybe he never saw what John was capable of, but he'd seen John's machinations. There had been no chance of taking Flint unaware. Even as John leans over the table, bloody cloth clutched in one hand, he suspects Flint isn't half as surprised as another man would be.
"You told me what you were, before you were Captain Flint," John begins, stalling by habit. "Well, poetically, you're not the only one with some experience with our enemies."
The finer details die in his throat before John can put voice to them. He isn't as brave as Flint. He can't spill his demons out so easily. He'd intended to up until this moment, and finds he can't drag the old wounds out into the open.
"I can break every spell they spin. I'm good for...sensing that kind of power," John admits, breaking with a tense smile as his fingers curl into a fist. The ring is warming to his skin. "I'm sure that doesn't come as any surprise."
Reading people the way he did was a natural gift. But the ability to see the way power was woven through the world? That was a different sort of boon.
There is nothing left for his hands to do. The kit with its knife and metal filings, bundles of sweet yellowed grass and dried garden herbs and ash flakes and black stones with white marks carved into them lays closed and secure under his fingers. Maybe John feels those things too. Maybe those things with their waiting, murmuring power are bare to him too. Some of the satisfaction has slid sideways from his expression now. He studies him plainly for the span of a second, though standing under the hanging lantern as John sits lower from it paints some inscrutable shadow in the corners of the other's man's face.
It doesn't - surprise him. He's been canny from the beginning. But John's clarity, his fixation on his ability to snap those bonds, must raise the question:
"Because I'm fairly certain you're not going to turn me over to them."
It's a very general "them." John trusts Flint can differentiate without needing John to delve into all the different factions who would be happy to chase John down and harness him to do their bidding. He presses his palms to the table, traces the grain of the wood with his fingertips while he lets that simple, honest statement settle.
"And as we've already begun the process of tipping the scales, tipping them a bit more between the pair of us can't hurt."
The time where John could have simply walked away is past. He'd have done this without telling Flint, perhaps. But they've shared a fair number of secrets at this point. John doesn't need to shroud himself in shadow to spin out his will anymore. Flint's brought him into this. John feels he owes him the same in return.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
If there is anything similar or secret in what they will see, there can be no telling until it comes to pass.
--But the second thing, the one beyond this. That warrants some answer (and examination, but not in this instant and only because he won't be able to help himself from it). He pauses in the task of scratching the last dark flecks of blood from the knife blade and looks at John squarely.
"Oh?"
Of course he knows. Not since the beginning, no, but there is an uneasiness to the world around John Silver which he has long known the look of. At first he'd mistaken it for some omen, a manifestation of his own blatant disregard. But the truth of it is something more simple and strange. If there is latent power in every article of the world - the soil and shoots of grass and the ocean's salt evaporating into the air - it can only sit against John's skin, not be drawn out of it. He is an inert shore against which magick might somehow drive itself against and be broken.
He tucks the knife back in its place though hardly looks away.
no subject
"You aren't the only one who knows the old traditions. Our...enemy might say they're above dirty superstition, but in the hold of their ships they'll have someone who can weave protection for them out of thin air."
Among other things. Disgust catches in his throat. John's hands closes into a fist, watching the ring gleam on his finger as the blood streaks his skin. He thinks of the way the world could be warped. It's not as hard as the stories say. Two men, a little blood, a little metal, a little fire, and it would all come to pass just as Flint envisioned it.
They sent me to find it all. They used me to root out the knowledge they needed before they set it all to the blade and the flame.
Maybe someday he'll give Flint that truth. But not today.
"I know a way to steal that from them. If you're interested."
And John knows because he'd used those spells once, to break the wards and safeguards of people like them. There's no poetry in this. It's just the wielding of something blunt and ugly; all John can hope for is to use it without enough for to shatter the cycle along with everything else Flint is changing around them.
no subject
Interested? He almost laughs. "Let's hear it."
Not just because they can use any advantage available to them (they could), or because he's surprised by their enemy dabbling in the old traditions (he isnt - though how Silver knows is another matter). But because if John can do what he's implying-- Well, why hasn't he done it before? Not that he's doubting him. If the man says he can do something, there's some merit in believing him. Only that there have been a dozen instances since they met where the things on Flint's agenda have relied or been supported by luck charms and spells, by blood pressed into oak and poured into the sea. Why never bend those?
'You shit,' he thinks. He cinches the kit closed again by its leather cord. The ring on his hand flashes in the lantern light and the urge toward humor lingers there in the crooked line of his mouth.
no subject
"You told me what you were, before you were Captain Flint," John begins, stalling by habit. "Well, poetically, you're not the only one with some experience with our enemies."
The finer details die in his throat before John can put voice to them. He isn't as brave as Flint. He can't spill his demons out so easily. He'd intended to up until this moment, and finds he can't drag the old wounds out into the open.
"I can break every spell they spin. I'm good for...sensing that kind of power," John admits, breaking with a tense smile as his fingers curl into a fist. The ring is warming to his skin. "I'm sure that doesn't come as any surprise."
Reading people the way he did was a natural gift. But the ability to see the way power was woven through the world? That was a different sort of boon.
no subject
It doesn't - surprise him. He's been canny from the beginning. But John's clarity, his fixation on his ability to snap those bonds, must raise the question:
"Why now?"
no subject
It's a very general "them." John trusts Flint can differentiate without needing John to delve into all the different factions who would be happy to chase John down and harness him to do their bidding. He presses his palms to the table, traces the grain of the wood with his fingertips while he lets that simple, honest statement settle.
"And as we've already begun the process of tipping the scales, tipping them a bit more between the pair of us can't hurt."
The time where John could have simply walked away is past. He'd have done this without telling Flint, perhaps. But they've shared a fair number of secrets at this point. John doesn't need to shroud himself in shadow to spin out his will anymore. Flint's brought him into this. John feels he owes him the same in return.