“He was my father,” Bastien says, “so one or two. But d’accord—maybe they will tell one story, singular, especially if it was a dramatic birth? Mothers like to tell children about that. Remind them what they went through to get them here.”
Bastien leans over the edge of the boat to look at the water and doesn’t say you’ve been doing a fine job so far, because he has a weird feeling that would just make the lad self-conscious.
“I am sure you will be a minor character, in the background behind the mother’s labor pains and the father’s panic—but a good one. And the baby will grow up knowing a mage was good to them—perhaps? It was magic, yes?”
"There was some, yes. The people of Darktown are pretty used to mage healers at this point. That clinic's been open for about fifteen years now, always staffed by a mage. They don't really ask questions once they've seen you save a life."
Colin doesn't say the name of the mage who opened it, who trained him and left the clinic in his hands. Doesn't seem like a good idea.
"Sister Sara helps! Sometimes Lady Rutyer, too. A lot of people come because everyone's always sick, with the chokedamp and poverty combined. You know, this is the most I've ever talked about myself in a single conversation."
“People like to talk about their areas of expertise,” Bastien says, “and they are usually experts on themselves. Once I asked the late Marquis of Alyons about his childhood and he talked for three hours without needing any further questions or input from me—which was nice. I needed the break.”
“I can understand that,” Colin says with a weak chuckle. “And, I don’t know. Talking about myself, I feel put on the spot. And I’m not good at it. I’ve lost friends.”
There’s no outward sign. He’s a professional. But inwardly, Bastien considers realigning his understanding of the situation. Gifts, advice from Athessa. Colin not liking to talk about himself but doing so for a fairly long period of time anyway, without making or taking any opportunity to change the subject.
Altogether, it’s within the realm of possibility—not a certainty, especially when they aren’t in Orlais, but a reasonable chance—that Colin wants something. Something other than getting to know each other.
Which would be fine. Bastien would prefer to be told outright what it is and maybe paid for it, all things equal, and if Athessa knows he might have liked a warning, but he’s not offended by the possibility. People usually want something.
He dips his hand deeper into the water, waves rolling over high enough to wet the cuff on his shirt sleeve, and says, “That is always hard.”
If Bastien were to ask, he might find he is neither wrong nor right, exactly. But my friend told me to make friends with you before she has a funeral for her clan isn't a great conversation starter.
Colin's eyes are on the water as it forms like gathered silk at the edges of the boat.
Bastien inhales deeply, as if preparing to confess something somber, then says: “No, not really.”
He doesn’t usually have many friends, first of all, and secondly, he generally proceeds with telling people anything serious about himself like someone walking on ice, listening, careful not to put too much weight where it might cause a crack. But I was just being polite would probably not be the best thing to say to someone this skittish, however good-humored the delivery. So.
“I have seen it, though. I once saw a poor man exiled from his entire social circle for overestimating how much they were prepared to know about his marital problems.”
"Unless she uninvites me," Bastien says. It's news to him that Colin is coming, but he doesn't act like it, in case it might insult him not to have been mentioned yet. "I am trying to wait until she's worked everything out to start panicking about what I should wear. Hopefully she will tell us."
"I was a bard," he says—repeats, actually, but he says it like it's new—"so: music. Now it is a hobby instead of a profession. I think I like it better that way." The ferry is nearing the docks, so he starts gathering himself to climb out of it, straightening up and checking around the bench to make sure nothing's fallen out of his pockets. "Have you ever sold your art or your food?"
He has to pause there—for the ropes and the rowboat sliding wood-on-wood against the slip, for thanking the ferryman and sending well-wishes to his family, for climbing up onto the pier and giving a quick but enthusiastic hello and how are you to a familiar dockworker on his way past.
With with that all out of the way, he says to Colin, "Perhaps if things go well for everyone in the end, you can be a healer and churro salesman, ouais? Ailments cured and snacks provided, all in one."
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"I don't, um, I don't like thinking about that. I get nervous when people talk about me. I get nervous talking about myself."
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“I am sure you will be a minor character, in the background behind the mother’s labor pains and the father’s panic—but a good one. And the baby will grow up knowing a mage was good to them—perhaps? It was magic, yes?”
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"There was some, yes. The people of Darktown are pretty used to mage healers at this point. That clinic's been open for about fifteen years now, always staffed by a mage. They don't really ask questions once they've seen you save a life."
Colin doesn't say the name of the mage who opened it, who trained him and left the clinic in his hands. Doesn't seem like a good idea.
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Sort of.
He’d still take an answer.
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Who knew?
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“By not talking about yourself?”
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Altogether, it’s within the realm of possibility—not a certainty, especially when they aren’t in Orlais, but a reasonable chance—that Colin wants something. Something other than getting to know each other.
Which would be fine. Bastien would prefer to be told outright what it is and maybe paid for it, all things equal, and if Athessa knows he might have liked a warning, but he’s not offended by the possibility. People usually want something.
He dips his hand deeper into the water, waves rolling over high enough to wet the cuff on his shirt sleeve, and says, “That is always hard.”
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Colin's eyes are on the water as it forms like gathered silk at the edges of the boat.
"That's happened to you?"
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He doesn’t usually have many friends, first of all, and secondly, he generally proceeds with telling people anything serious about himself like someone walking on ice, listening, careful not to put too much weight where it might cause a crack. But I was just being polite would probably not be the best thing to say to someone this skittish, however good-humored the delivery. So.
“I have seen it, though. I once saw a poor man exiled from his entire social circle for overestimating how much they were prepared to know about his marital problems.”
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"This wasn't over anything you don't already know. I don't just...talk forever. Unless it's about food."
He hesitates.
"Athessa says you're coming to the funeral."
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"So. You know I paint and cook. Do you have an art? A discipline?"
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He has to pause there—for the ropes and the rowboat sliding wood-on-wood against the slip, for thanking the ferryman and sending well-wishes to his family, for climbing up onto the pier and giving a quick but enthusiastic hello and how are you to a familiar dockworker on his way past.
With with that all out of the way, he says to Colin, "Perhaps if things go well for everyone in the end, you can be a healer and churro salesman, ouais? Ailments cured and snacks provided, all in one."
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And it sort of does, even to him. Occasionally he wonders if he really wants as peaceful a life as he strives for.
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link included for cia spies not because i think you need it