Why don't you get along? You can tell me. I will try to pretend you are talking about someone I don't care about—and anyway, I don't care about her because I think she is perfect. No one is.
Similar to Colin, I fancy. Starting off by doing me the injury of seeing me incorrectly. And then taking no time to find lenses to correct her vision. [ Another shrug. ] I told her of my peculiar little vocation, and she told me I was a liar. I think. Or maybe she does believe me, and simply gives no shits, because not a single question was asked. And she tells me it's my fault, because I am a liar.
I suspect, truthfully, that she may simply want me to solve her problems for her. Which I'm all right with, in truth; I simply would prefer her to be honest about that, rather than trying to veil it with I want to be your friend.
[ Thoughtful. Despite his promise to pretend, it's obviously hard not to think of the Athessa Byerly is talking about as the one who recently listened to his troubles and kissed his forehead goodnight. But he tries. ]
You know, she did the same thing with me. Not all of it, I mean, but when I told her I was a bard. No when or why or how, then or in all the time I have been training her. Which is fine with me. I don't particularly want to tell her. But I expected to have to at least do some evasion, and no. I think it is just how she is.
Indifferent? [ A shake of his head. ] She was demanding to know why I was such a liar, and when I told her, she barely even acknowledged I'd given her an answer. Blacksmith, why are your hands so rough? No, that makes no sense, give me the real answer.
You should have made it about your childhood. Once you told the truth to a Chantry Sister and she switched you for it, so you learned it was best to lie, and now whenever you begin to speak the truth you see that willow branch.
I don’t know. Perhaps some of it is indifference. She has been frustrated with you lately, so I’m sure she isn’t approaching everything with an open and generous heart.
But I think she is also—different, than we are. She shares herself easily. I think she expects other people to do it, too. Like—
[ Damn it. Another. ]
—how some people think an open door is an invitation to walk inside and sit down, and others will stand outside waiting to be invited. We need the invitation, but she might think we are the strange ones for standing outside the door.
All of that is fine, I should say. But - [ Well. ] I suppose my mind just always goes back to that moment when she thought I was asking something truly awful of her. How easily she came to that conclusion. And how inevitable it seems that she will find her way there again.
[ He’s already provided the only explanation for that he can think of—that life is hard for women, etc.—so he doesn’t repeat it. ]
The only thing she has said to me about you recently is that she doesn’t think badly of you, and she finds it frustrating that you think badly of yourself, and she hoped if I told you she doesn’t think you’re wretched you might believe it.
I told you that you could. [ He nudges Byerly’s arm with his foot, where it’s still propped on the arm of his chair. ] And you can.
Anyway, she is not only my friend. I am supposed to be training her. I think she might have even told me about—that incident, when she said that about your wife? The first day we agreed to work together. She told me she had said something to upset you and wanted advice on how to repair it, but she didn’t know why or remember what she had said to cause it.
We are working on it. So it is good for me to know.
Did you know she and Alexandrie are the same age? It took me some time—I knew how old both of them were, but it still somehow did not seem to me that it was the same number.
That it is difficult for you to be comfortable with someone again once they have accused you of something awful, that you were telling the truth about your job, that it was significant for you to tell her about it at all and you felt brushed off by her response.
[ He finishes not-quite-all of the hot chocolate—some can be cold chocolate in a few more minutes, also good—and sets it aside to retrieve some already-rolled cigarettes from his desk. ]
She asked me for advice on getting people to talk about themselves more recently. You could be good practice.
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Why don't you get along? You can tell me. I will try to pretend you are talking about someone I don't care about—and anyway, I don't care about her because I think she is perfect. No one is.
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[ A breath out. Then a shrug. ]
Similar to Colin, I fancy. Starting off by doing me the injury of seeing me incorrectly. And then taking no time to find lenses to correct her vision. [ Another shrug. ] I told her of my peculiar little vocation, and she told me I was a liar. I think. Or maybe she does believe me, and simply gives no shits, because not a single question was asked. And she tells me it's my fault, because I am a liar.
I suspect, truthfully, that she may simply want me to solve her problems for her. Which I'm all right with, in truth; I simply would prefer her to be honest about that, rather than trying to veil it with I want to be your friend.
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[ Thoughtful. Despite his promise to pretend, it's obviously hard not to think of the Athessa Byerly is talking about as the one who recently listened to his troubles and kissed his forehead goodnight. But he tries. ]
You know, she did the same thing with me. Not all of it, I mean, but when I told her I was a bard. No when or why or how, then or in all the time I have been training her. Which is fine with me. I don't particularly want to tell her. But I expected to have to at least do some evasion, and no. I think it is just how she is.
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Indifferent? [ A shake of his head. ] She was demanding to know why I was such a liar, and when I told her, she barely even acknowledged I'd given her an answer. Blacksmith, why are your hands so rough? No, that makes no sense, give me the real answer.
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Alas, dear Bastien, not all of us have hearts that can be satisfied by telling a tale like that.
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I think—
I don’t know. Perhaps some of it is indifference. She has been frustrated with you lately, so I’m sure she isn’t approaching everything with an open and generous heart.
But I think she is also—different, than we are. She shares herself easily. I think she expects other people to do it, too. Like—
[ Damn it. Another. ]
—how some people think an open door is an invitation to walk inside and sit down, and others will stand outside waiting to be invited. We need the invitation, but she might think we are the strange ones for standing outside the door.
I am not sure the Dalish even have doors.
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Metaphors.
[ Then a sigh. ]
All of that is fine, I should say. But - [ Well. ] I suppose my mind just always goes back to that moment when she thought I was asking something truly awful of her. How easily she came to that conclusion. And how inevitable it seems that she will find her way there again.
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[ He’s already provided the only explanation for that he can think of—that life is hard for women, etc.—so he doesn’t repeat it. ]
The only thing she has said to me about you recently is that she doesn’t think badly of you, and she finds it frustrating that you think badly of yourself, and she hoped if I told you she doesn’t think you’re wretched you might believe it.
But I know it is not that easy.
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Maker, I'm sorry. I'm just sitting here and speaking badly a friend of yours. At length. A bit of an asshole move.
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Anyway, she is not only my friend. I am supposed to be training her. I think she might have even told me about—that incident, when she said that about your wife? The first day we agreed to work together. She told me she had said something to upset you and wanted advice on how to repair it, but she didn’t know why or remember what she had said to cause it.
We are working on it. So it is good for me to know.
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What, going to teach her to only be hurtful intentionally? I think that'd be a good lesson.
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[ There’s a bit of regret to it, but it’s hard to look rueful when one’s toes are being wiggled. ]
Or if Alexandrie can—we are splitting the task. I was not confident in my ability to teach feminine wiles.
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Did you know she and Alexandrie are the same age? It took me some time—I knew how old both of them were, but it still somehow did not seem to me that it was the same number.
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That can't be right.
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They will both be thirty next year.
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It's absurd.
Anyway. ]
Do you want me to talk to her? I won't say a word if you don't want me to.
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[ He finishes not-quite-all of the hot chocolate—some can be cold chocolate in a few more minutes, also good—and sets it aside to retrieve some already-rolled cigarettes from his desk. ]
She asked me for advice on getting people to talk about themselves more recently. You could be good practice.
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