'Give to one all the happiness he would have if it were our choice, and to the other all the happiness he would have if it were his.'
[ Alexandrie smiles, small and soft, and tilts her head. ]
It was a different 'we', than 'you and I, his friends'. A different care for the 'he' who thinks himself deserving of his own ill thoughts than 'he, my friend'.
[ Hands settling in her lap, she lifts a shoulder. ]
I did not know, right away, but it stayed in me long enough that it sent me looking through my memories under a different lens.
[ Bastien winces, in a playful way, as if someone’s caught him sneaking somewhere he shouldn’t be but also won’t be in any real trouble over.
Beneath it, relief. That it’s only Alexandrie’s keen instincts. That it’s something he could have plausibly denied, if he’d been of a mind to, and something that begins and ends with her. Not what he’d worried it might have been—those reckless, indulgent minutes spent with his head on Byerly’s chest in the firelit dark of camp, spotted in the jungle and carried back to Alexandrie in Kirkwall along a chain of whispers that he’d now have to feel foolish and ineffective for failing to hear.
Still, ]
Mince alors, I am slipping. But I suppose it is fine, this once, since things have worked out as they have and you will not be breaking glasses or sending assassins.
[ There’s more he’d like to know, if he could know anything he liked. But even if it wouldn’t be needy and pathetic—has he said anything, eugh—he wouldn’t ask her, because if their positions were reversed he wouldn’t answer.
So instead he finishes his little coffee and settles forward in his chair, ready to share her crystal if she’s ready to use it. ]
You must not feel too poorly— perhaps you are not slipping; perhaps I am getting better.
[ Exaggeratedly batted eyelashes, her self-satisfaction every bit as playful as his wince.
But he is right. She is neither breaking glasses nor sending assassins, and so if it were anything it would be much as a sparring match between friends.
And he is right, too, that she wouldn't answer. Those thoughts are Byerly's to speak... and hers to unrelentingly stick Bastien in the back like an uncomfortable chair over until he gets up to find out for himself.
So instead, the crystal. A quick twist, and to it: ]
On— Lady Alexandrie de la Fontaine, [ pause, ] Lady Sonia Barra, Lady Sidony Venaras.
[ She looks at him, mirthfully aggrieved. ]
Really the sending crystals have a shameful disrespect for the bonds of marriage—
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[ Alexandrie smiles, small and soft, and tilts her head. ]
It was a different 'we', than 'you and I, his friends'. A different care for the 'he' who thinks himself deserving of his own ill thoughts than 'he, my friend'.
[ Hands settling in her lap, she lifts a shoulder. ]
I did not know, right away, but it stayed in me long enough that it sent me looking through my memories under a different lens.
no subject
Beneath it, relief. That it’s only Alexandrie’s keen instincts. That it’s something he could have plausibly denied, if he’d been of a mind to, and something that begins and ends with her. Not what he’d worried it might have been—those reckless, indulgent minutes spent with his head on Byerly’s chest in the firelit dark of camp, spotted in the jungle and carried back to Alexandrie in Kirkwall along a chain of whispers that he’d now have to feel foolish and ineffective for failing to hear.
Still, ]
Mince alors, I am slipping. But I suppose it is fine, this once, since things have worked out as they have and you will not be breaking glasses or sending assassins.
[ There’s more he’d like to know, if he could know anything he liked. But even if it wouldn’t be needy and pathetic—has he said anything, eugh—he wouldn’t ask her, because if their positions were reversed he wouldn’t answer.
So instead he finishes his little coffee and settles forward in his chair, ready to share her crystal if she’s ready to use it. ]
no subject
[ Exaggeratedly batted eyelashes, her self-satisfaction every bit as playful as his wince.
But he is right. She is neither breaking glasses nor sending assassins, and so if it were anything it would be much as a sparring match between friends.
And he is right, too, that she wouldn't answer. Those thoughts are Byerly's to speak... and hers to unrelentingly stick Bastien in the back like an uncomfortable chair over until he gets up to find out for himself.
So instead, the crystal. A quick twist, and to it: ]
On— Lady Alexandrie de la Fontaine, [ pause, ] Lady Sonia Barra, Lady Sidony Venaras.
[ She looks at him, mirthfully aggrieved. ]
Really the sending crystals have a shameful disrespect for the bonds of marriage—
( continued here )