[ It feels like a poultice on a wound. Because poultices hurt like hell when they're first put on, stinging and throbbing and agonizing, and this is, too. Or perhaps it's not a poultice, perhaps that's not right - perhaps, more accurately, it's a surgery, with Bastien examining those wounds, holding them up to the light and finding all the little bits of shrapnel that need pulling out.
But it's healing. It won't cure anything; infection could still set in quite easily. But his regard maybe makes it easier. Him and Alexandrie both just - they cut away things that fester. Or perhaps point out healthy flesh that he'd mistaken as gangrenous.
Maker, no, he's not a poet. Bad metaphors, all of them. ]
You are - [ He presses those very fingers against Bastien's chest. His heart. ] It is miraculous, I think, that you were born with eyes this keen, and trained to use them to see human weaknesses, and yet you turn them instead to strengths. [ A slight pause as he looks for the words. ] You've remained kind. A hero's labor.
[ It'd be horrible to protest, after Byerly was so quiet and patient all through his speech and didn't once try to correct him. So Bastien doesn't. He only tries to explain: ]
I started too old. She would never have given me a second look if I hadn't looked younger than I was. The clay had started to dry.
[ They're not his words. There was only so much progress she could make with him, she said; he might be good, if he worked hard enough, but he'd never be great. At the time it'd made him hungry. Ravenous. Willing to stretch until he snapped, stitch himself together, and stretch and snap again. But— ]
I'm glad now.
[ He puts his hand over By's to hold it against his skin. ]
[ By's smile, canted up towards Bastien, is half flirtatious and half genuine. ]
But it sounds like the origin of a hero to me. Standing steadfast against his training - absorbing those skills, but retaining his heart. Because his heart is just too strong.
[ Bastien’s looking at the ceiling first, thinking vaguely about the plausibility of that, but the movement of Byerly’s head brings his attention down, and the flirtation in his smile sharpens Bastien’s. ]
Strong enough to rescue a respected old rival from a high tower? [ He pulls Byerly’s hand up from his chest to kiss the backs of his talented fingers. ] Where he is kept by his cruel new master: the Marquis Rabat-Joie d’Obligation.
But for a night they could escape, before the Marquis catches up with them. Flee ashore. Remember the joys of gambling in a smokey room and getting a hand job in a back alley on a clear night.
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But it's healing. It won't cure anything; infection could still set in quite easily. But his regard maybe makes it easier. Him and Alexandrie both just - they cut away things that fester. Or perhaps point out healthy flesh that he'd mistaken as gangrenous.
Maker, no, he's not a poet. Bad metaphors, all of them. ]
You are - [ He presses those very fingers against Bastien's chest. His heart. ] It is miraculous, I think, that you were born with eyes this keen, and trained to use them to see human weaknesses, and yet you turn them instead to strengths. [ A slight pause as he looks for the words. ] You've remained kind. A hero's labor.
no subject
I started too old. She would never have given me a second look if I hadn't looked younger than I was. The clay had started to dry.
[ They're not his words. There was only so much progress she could make with him, she said; he might be good, if he worked hard enough, but he'd never be great. At the time it'd made him hungry. Ravenous. Willing to stretch until he snapped, stitch himself together, and stretch and snap again. But— ]
I'm glad now.
[ He puts his hand over By's to hold it against his skin. ]
no subject
[ By's smile, canted up towards Bastien, is half flirtatious and half genuine. ]
But it sounds like the origin of a hero to me. Standing steadfast against his training - absorbing those skills, but retaining his heart. Because his heart is just too strong.
no subject
Strong enough to rescue a respected old rival from a high tower? [ He pulls Byerly’s hand up from his chest to kiss the backs of his talented fingers. ] Where he is kept by his cruel new master: the Marquis Rabat-Joie d’Obligation.
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[ He smiles privately to himself. ]
Twists him up in a geas that makes him throw himself also at hopeless causes.
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But for a night they could escape, before the Marquis catches up with them. Flee ashore. Remember the joys of gambling in a smokey room and getting a hand job in a back alley on a clear night.