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"Did you ever feel like he was avoiding you or only being your friend out of pity?"
Maybe that's a bit too specific to her situation to apply to Baz and Vincent, but it wouldn't be the only difference between her relationship with Derrica and his with Vincent. For one, Derrica isn't about to marry someone and have children that Athessa will have to entertain like some kind of weird unrelated auntie.
Maybe that's a bit too specific to her situation to apply to Baz and Vincent, but it wouldn't be the only difference between her relationship with Derrica and his with Vincent. For one, Derrica isn't about to marry someone and have children that Athessa will have to entertain like some kind of weird unrelated auntie.
"No," he says, then shakes his head, and looks sorry. "No, but we did not have to live in the same building or work together. By then he did not even live in the city. He had to invite me or come see me on purpose."
A very different situation.
"But I would be very surprised if she was only your friend out of pity. She might feel like she is hurting you and feel sorry about it, but not is not the same thing as befriending someone out of pity."
A very different situation.
"But I would be very surprised if she was only your friend out of pity. She might feel like she is hurting you and feel sorry about it, but not is not the same thing as befriending someone out of pity."
A sigh deflates her slightly, makes her smaller than she already is, and she sets talk of pity aside for now. She looks at her hand, at the lines Bastien traced, the same lines Derrica had traced many times before while they sat and they talked and they knew nothing of the mess they'd find themselves in mere months later. Fingers curl into a loose fist and her hand drops to her lap.
"We said we wouldn't avoid each other," she says, unsure whether it's a defense or an indictment. "She said she was sorry for doing that to me, and we agreed, back at the start, that we wouldn't do that again. She said she had to do better, to try to figure out what's best for us, but—"
But that was months ago. That was after Churneau, and since then how much effort has been spent on trying to find where they fit in each other's lives? Athessa has been trying and failing to ignore the way she feels about Derrica, trying and failing to be a good friend, to leave off any compliments or topics that stray too close to flirtation or memories of what they used to do to pass the time together.
Athessa sniffs, but doesn't allow herself to cry any more tears over this. Not now.
"—It feels like this isn't as important to her as it is to me."
Translation: It doesn't feel like I'm as important to her as she is to me.
"We said we wouldn't avoid each other," she says, unsure whether it's a defense or an indictment. "She said she was sorry for doing that to me, and we agreed, back at the start, that we wouldn't do that again. She said she had to do better, to try to figure out what's best for us, but—"
But that was months ago. That was after Churneau, and since then how much effort has been spent on trying to find where they fit in each other's lives? Athessa has been trying and failing to ignore the way she feels about Derrica, trying and failing to be a good friend, to leave off any compliments or topics that stray too close to flirtation or memories of what they used to do to pass the time together.
Athessa sniffs, but doesn't allow herself to cry any more tears over this. Not now.
"—It feels like this isn't as important to her as it is to me."
Translation: It doesn't feel like I'm as important to her as she is to me.
He could tell her what he thinks she'd like to hear. It's easier. And people are rarely angry with you for giving them bad advice if it's the advice they wanted. If he loved her less, he would.
But he doesn't love her less, so he slides off the desk and holds his hand out to her again. This time to pull her up, if she'll let him. There's no good way to hug someone sitting in a chair.
"It might not be," he says. "It's—fucking miserable—" Like she said to him, after Vincent died. "—but sometimes that is how things go."
But he doesn't love her less, so he slides off the desk and holds his hand out to her again. This time to pull her up, if she'll let him. There's no good way to hug someone sitting in a chair.
"It might not be," he says. "It's—fucking miserable—" Like she said to him, after Vincent died. "—but sometimes that is how things go."
Fucking miserable is right. Athessa will let herself be pulled to standing, posture loose, gaze settled low and her features cast in quiet misery and resign.
"I hate it," she says, though her tone doesn't begin to sound as petulant as the words themselves might otherwise be. It wouldn't be unreasonable to expect It's not fair to be the next thing she says.
"I hate how much it hurts and how hard it is to let go."
"I hate it," she says, though her tone doesn't begin to sound as petulant as the words themselves might otherwise be. It wouldn't be unreasonable to expect It's not fair to be the next thing she says.
"I hate how much it hurts and how hard it is to let go."
"Oh, you will be."
Her limp-armed leaning is fine. He keeps his arms around her shoulders and rocks side to side, just a bit, in the faint suggestion of a dance. A slow and sad one.
"Not all the time. No one is happy all the time. And maybe not today or tomorrow, because you're hurt and sometimes you have to feel it. But after that. A little bit at a time, more and more. You'll see."
Her limp-armed leaning is fine. He keeps his arms around her shoulders and rocks side to side, just a bit, in the faint suggestion of a dance. A slow and sad one.
"Not all the time. No one is happy all the time. And maybe not today or tomorrow, because you're hurt and sometimes you have to feel it. But after that. A little bit at a time, more and more. You'll see."
Athessa grumbles. Not words, just general sounds of displeasure at being displeased. She grumbles and she leans and heaves a great sigh.
"Somebody ought to outlaw feeling like this," she says, muffled by his shirt until she turns her head to speak into open air. "At least then I could pretend to be roguish instead of a disaster."
"Somebody ought to outlaw feeling like this," she says, muffled by his shirt until she turns her head to speak into open air. "At least then I could pretend to be roguish instead of a disaster."
Left on Bastien's desk, a book of Marcher folk tales following the adventures of a mischievous traveling musician. Each new story is prefaced with a boldly-sketched illustration. A folded piece of parchment set inside the front cover, bearing an unsigned, scribbly note.
This book came into my possession, and I thought you might enjoy it.
Edited 2021-01-09 07:05 (UTC)
Whaddya reckon?
[ They're out and about in some town or another; maybe it's Kirkwall, maybe they're on assignment in some sleepy little snow-dusted hamlet between there and wherever, but the location doesn't matter. The game is the same. They pick a person and tail them for a short while, volleying guesses about who they are, what their story is, what they're doing and why, and if they're incredibly lucky they might find the answers along the way.
More often they're left with more questions or a loss of interest. ]
I still say she's too twitchy to be waiting for a date. Maybe she's paying someone off?
[ They're out and about in some town or another; maybe it's Kirkwall, maybe they're on assignment in some sleepy little snow-dusted hamlet between there and wherever, but the location doesn't matter. The game is the same. They pick a person and tail them for a short while, volleying guesses about who they are, what their story is, what they're doing and why, and if they're incredibly lucky they might find the answers along the way.
More often they're left with more questions or a loss of interest. ]
I still say she's too twitchy to be waiting for a date. Maybe she's paying someone off?
The book inspires some brief paranoia and a handwriting-comparison investigation, but the latter solves the former. Mostly. Enough to return the paranoia to its usual level of white noise.
He respects the unsigned nature of the note by not responding straight away. But a few days later, when Ellis crosses through the dining hall while Bastien's tucked near the fireplace with the half-finished book, he looks up from it long enough to smile and mouth thank you.
He respects the unsigned nature of the note by not responding straight away. But a few days later, when Ellis crosses through the dining hall while Bastien's tucked near the fireplace with the half-finished book, he looks up from it long enough to smile and mouth thank you.
[ Athessa fidgets with her own drink, pivoting it this way and that against the table's surface. She's just sitting here chatting with her friend, that's all. Not even looking at that woman. ]
Her clothes are nice, but kinda outdated, aren't they? Maybe she's in debt and keeping up appearances. Could be that she's paying a collector. [ That makes her think of another angle, but... ]
If she were prominent enough a figure that her son could be ransomed we'd probably know her somehow, wouldn't we?
Her clothes are nice, but kinda outdated, aren't they? Maybe she's in debt and keeping up appearances. Could be that she's paying a collector. [ That makes her think of another angle, but... ]
If she were prominent enough a figure that her son could be ransomed we'd probably know her somehow, wouldn't we?
The silent gratitude is acknowledged, but Ellis doesn't opt to join him at the fireside. There is no expectation for anything more than the small confirmation that his instinct had been correct and the stories are at least an enjoyable diversion.
Some days later, a pamphlet appears wedged between writing implements on Bastien's desk. It's slightly crinkled, but presentable, imparting a brief, light comedy about a trio of Fereldan fisherman towed to Llomerryn by a Cetus in their little fishing boat and the subsequent haggle to get themselves passage back via pirate ship. In the margin—
Some days later, a pamphlet appears wedged between writing implements on Bastien's desk. It's slightly crinkled, but presentable, imparting a brief, light comedy about a trio of Fereldan fisherman towed to Llomerryn by a Cetus in their little fishing boat and the subsequent haggle to get themselves passage back via pirate ship. In the margin—
In case you've finished with the book already.
Bastien reads it twice and laughs at different parts each time.
A day later he browses a bookstand with an eye out for something that shouts, I would make an excellent gift for a reticent Grey Warden who's very kind to his friends and a better dancer than expected. He spends some time staring at an Orlesian-authored introduction to Fereldan fashion, wondering if its tone might be funny or only insulting, and ultimately leaves it in the pile.
So when he sits down across from Ellis at breakfast, it's empty handed save for his bowl of porridge. Bastien considers him in smiling silence for a moment—another form of thank you—then asks, "Do you read a lot, Warden?"
A day later he browses a bookstand with an eye out for something that shouts, I would make an excellent gift for a reticent Grey Warden who's very kind to his friends and a better dancer than expected. He spends some time staring at an Orlesian-authored introduction to Fereldan fashion, wondering if its tone might be funny or only insulting, and ultimately leaves it in the pile.
So when he sits down across from Ellis at breakfast, it's empty handed save for his bowl of porridge. Bastien considers him in smiling silence for a moment—another form of thank you—then asks, "Do you read a lot, Warden?"
A beat of stillness, Ellis' eyebrows raising at the appearance of Bastien. He'd folded scrambled eggs into a piece of toast, but now seems to hesitate over raising it to his mouth.
"I do," he answers. The toast hovers, and then returns to his plate, before Ellis continues, "Did you like the pamphlet?"
"I do," he answers. The toast hovers, and then returns to his plate, before Ellis continues, "Did you like the pamphlet?"
Bastien doesn't look at the toast, interrupted; he only nods with slightly-sleepy-eyed enthusiasm and begins recounting his favorite parts. This amounts in practice to an abbreviated retelling of the entire story, with a few Orlesian mispronunciations of Fereldan names and places along the way.
"—and I am glad Angus came out of it with the gold," he says at the end. "When the other two tried to trade him to the pirates behind his back? Poor fellow, not even knowing how terrible his friends are."
He's been gesturing, in a subdued sort of way, with a spoonful of porridge. When he touches it to his mouth, the waving-around has made that lump predictably cold, so he recoils a little and drops it back into the bowl.
"Do you know if it is an old story someone copied down? Or something new?"
"—and I am glad Angus came out of it with the gold," he says at the end. "When the other two tried to trade him to the pirates behind his back? Poor fellow, not even knowing how terrible his friends are."
He's been gesturing, in a subdued sort of way, with a spoonful of porridge. When he touches it to his mouth, the waving-around has made that lump predictably cold, so he recoils a little and drops it back into the bowl.
"Do you know if it is an old story someone copied down? Or something new?"
There's some commonality between Bastien's approach here and the way Wysteria enters a conversation that Ellis will find a little funny after the fact. And, mispronunciations aside, Ellis is quietly pleased that Bastien enjoyed the story. The book had felt like a gamble, and so had the pamphlet. It had been difficult to tell if Bastien cared very much for books at all.
"It's new to me," Ellis answers, turning his plate to silently offer the second, untouched piece of toast to Bastien. Possibly also cooled by now, but potentially less objectionable than cool porridge. "I haven't spent enough time in Fereldan towns to know exactly what's being recited these days."
The urge to ask isn't there someone else you'd rather eat breakfast with? hasn't fully passed, but it strikes Ellis as rude enough that he refrains from asking.
Instead, diplomatically: "How does it compare to the stories that come out of Orlais?"
"It's new to me," Ellis answers, turning his plate to silently offer the second, untouched piece of toast to Bastien. Possibly also cooled by now, but potentially less objectionable than cool porridge. "I haven't spent enough time in Fereldan towns to know exactly what's being recited these days."
The urge to ask isn't there someone else you'd rather eat breakfast with? hasn't fully passed, but it strikes Ellis as rude enough that he refrains from asking.
Instead, diplomatically: "How does it compare to the stories that come out of Orlais?"
How strange and entirely accidental, that Bastien’s approach might somehow echo that of a known successful Ellis-befriender.
He considers the toast for a moment, so tempted he leans forward a few degrees in preparation for moving his arm to take it. But then he shakes his head. A fellow with Ellis’ shoulders surely needs all of his own food. And once Bastien swaps his cooled spoonful for porridge fresh from the bowl, it isn’t so cold.
“I think... in Orlais the same story would have been written so the Cetus was not a freak accident. Someone would have insulted it first, so it dragged them away on purpose, or one of them would have wanted to hitch a ride to see where it lived. We do not have many popular stories about things happening to people just because sometimes things happen—unless someone has set out to make that point, and then they have to make it five times in the same story to make sure we notice.“
He hasn’t eaten his new slightly-warmer spoonful of breakfast yet, and he isn’t actually trying to go hungry for a comedy bit, so he does that now.
He considers the toast for a moment, so tempted he leans forward a few degrees in preparation for moving his arm to take it. But then he shakes his head. A fellow with Ellis’ shoulders surely needs all of his own food. And once Bastien swaps his cooled spoonful for porridge fresh from the bowl, it isn’t so cold.
“I think... in Orlais the same story would have been written so the Cetus was not a freak accident. Someone would have insulted it first, so it dragged them away on purpose, or one of them would have wanted to hitch a ride to see where it lived. We do not have many popular stories about things happening to people just because sometimes things happen—unless someone has set out to make that point, and then they have to make it five times in the same story to make sure we notice.“
He hasn’t eaten his new slightly-warmer spoonful of breakfast yet, and he isn’t actually trying to go hungry for a comedy bit, so he does that now.
Edited 2021-02-11 14:02 (UTC)
A minor delay in Ellis' answer, as he did not time his two bites of toast properly. This is more or less the scenario he was trying to avoid, even without a real grasp on whether or not Bastien cares very much about etiquette during a meal.
"If you ever come across a good example of it, I'd like to read it," is the reply Ellis offers up after chewing and swallowing. It's not much of an answer, but the interest is sincere, even if Ellis follows it with—
"You don't need to feel obligated to do this. Spend your breakfast with me."
Just in case Bastien feels somehow beholden.
"If you ever come across a good example of it, I'd like to read it," is the reply Ellis offers up after chewing and swallowing. It's not much of an answer, but the interest is sincere, even if Ellis follows it with—
"You don't need to feel obligated to do this. Spend your breakfast with me."
Just in case Bastien feels somehow beholden.
Bastien’s eyebrows go up first, like he needs a moment to process that, and then a smile follows behind while he swallows his mouthful.
“Reparations for the occupation,” he suggests in a thickened accent. Somehow his face looks more Orlesian too—the angle of his head, a tension in his eyebrows. It falls away when he shakes his head. “No. I’m grateful, but if I felt obliged, I would just buy you a nice candleholder. But if I’m bothering you—?”
“Reparations for the occupation,” he suggests in a thickened accent. Somehow his face looks more Orlesian too—the angle of his head, a tension in his eyebrows. It falls away when he shakes his head. “No. I’m grateful, but if I felt obliged, I would just buy you a nice candleholder. But if I’m bothering you—?”
"No," is truthful, even amidst lingering, prickling anxiety. This conversation is a little like trying to navigate in the dark, but Ellis hasn't felt the need to escape it. Though that might not carry as much weight as it should, considering Ellis' near infinite patience.
"This is better than a candleholder. I wouldn't know what to do with one."
A small quirk of Ellis' mouth, almost a smile. Some unspoken joke about Ferelden is lingering in the space at the end of that sentence.
"I'd like to read something you enjoyed. If you have a favorite."
"This is better than a candleholder. I wouldn't know what to do with one."
A small quirk of Ellis' mouth, almost a smile. Some unspoken joke about Ferelden is lingering in the space at the end of that sentence.
"I'd like to read something you enjoyed. If you have a favorite."
(post this whole kerfuffle)
[ Later in the day— ]
I want to apologize. For any discomfort I caused you. And for...
[ It's halting, but not begrudging. More like she's trying to pull the words out as if they're a blade lodged in her that has to come out before the wound can be dressed, but knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less.
She takes a breath and starts again, somewhere else. ]
Despite my desire to have this not be so, I believe... it will be some time before I am able to be present with the two of you together if I am to refrain from doing... that. And since I do not wish to ruin the potential for your being affectionately ambushed whilst working, perhaps it... would be for the best if I were to return to the library for my own.
[ Later in the day— ]
I want to apologize. For any discomfort I caused you. And for...
[ It's halting, but not begrudging. More like she's trying to pull the words out as if they're a blade lodged in her that has to come out before the wound can be dressed, but knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less.
She takes a breath and starts again, somewhere else. ]
Despite my desire to have this not be so, I believe... it will be some time before I am able to be present with the two of you together if I am to refrain from doing... that. And since I do not wish to ruin the potential for your being affectionately ambushed whilst working, perhaps it... would be for the best if I were to return to the library for my own.
[ In the intervening hours, Bastien has become fine, the way he would be fine nearly anywhere with nearly anything. Putting a fistful of flowers on the shelf in a dingier-than-hoped-for tenement and saying there, that’s better—that sort of fine. There’s a pause, while he digests all of that, but then he sounds as conversational as if they were discussing the weather: ]
If that’s more comfortable for you, of course, but I—
[ But he’d miss her company. But it’d hamper his search for some solid sense of connection that doesn’t first thread through another person.
He exhales. ]
We could banish him. Would it bother you if I went up to see him, if you could guess that was where I was going?
[ The last few words lose some of their surefooted pleasantness as he wonders if it would bother him. If seeing her go out the door and knowing Byerly was off-limits until she reappeared—and knowing every minute he spent with him himself was a minute she couldn’t—might make him keep count of the waking hours in a way he hasn’t felt any need to do with the nights.
He hopes not. But he wonders. ]
If that’s more comfortable for you, of course, but I—
[ But he’d miss her company. But it’d hamper his search for some solid sense of connection that doesn’t first thread through another person.
He exhales. ]
We could banish him. Would it bother you if I went up to see him, if you could guess that was where I was going?
[ The last few words lose some of their surefooted pleasantness as he wonders if it would bother him. If seeing her go out the door and knowing Byerly was off-limits until she reappeared—and knowing every minute he spent with him himself was a minute she couldn’t—might make him keep count of the waking hours in a way he hasn’t felt any need to do with the nights.
He hopes not. But he wonders. ]
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