Bastien nods, fingers curling over the jewelry. He'll look at it again later, of course. Scrutinize the make. (It's small and delicate. A woman's? Whose?) But not with Ellis watching and waiting for him. He undoes a few buttons on his vest with one hand until he has space to slide the ring and its chain into a safe inner pocket.
"I'll keep it safe," he says.
He snaps his fingers at his side to get Whiskey's attention while he fastens the buttons back up, one-handed as well.
And the question is stalled, set aside as Ellis comes down to his haunches to whistle softly for Whiskey's attention.
There is a moment where Ellis considers the whole truth of the task he's taken on. And then he considers Bastien, and pares down the enormity of it to something far less weighted.
"I've an errand to the north," is not untrue, just lacking a fuller picture. "I've always able to travel unnoticed, but these are unsettled times."
So is an errand in the north. Bastien's curiosity is piqued, a creature lifting its head and sniffing the air, but he only reaches crossbody to pat Ellis on the broad shoulder with his dominant hand.
"This is why people find Wardens so attractive," he says. (Do people find Wardens so attractive? Surely some of them do, in between resenting and/or not seeing the point of them.) "All that mystery."
All this gravity—but perhaps the scale has to be adjusted, since it's Ellis, routinely grave. Perhaps he's going north to see about a horse.
Bastien doesn't really think he's going north to see about a horse.
But he smiles a little, like he's not worried, and resumes escorting the dog toward the nearest garden. "If it is unfair, I will be the first person to tell you so," he lies. "Go on."
Prompting Ellis to rise to fall in step with Bastien, as he encourages Whiskey along. It's a handsome dog. But that's something to discuss once all has been settled.
"I've an envelope I'd like you to hold for me. If I don't return, I'd ask you pass it on to the Provost and he'll manage the rest."
And this is a particular kind of motivation: to return so Bastien never need pass along the envelope, and Tony need never open it to find two letters with his name and Wysteria's written very carefully along the folded edge. It's unfair. Unfair to Bastien, unfair to Tony. But Ellis can think of no better way.
Nevermind how strange it is to have grown to trust an Orlesian this way.
The words are light and careless, even though he feels neither. He feels—something.
It isn't irritation, exactly, so much as a prickle of fear that manifests as petulance and the urge to say that yes, having heard the request, it is unfair, and he's opting out of any participation in this clearly foolish affair, and he would like to speak to Ellis' manager.
He is very good at not acting on urges. Instead he asks, "Don't return after how long?" And it doesn't sound anywhere close to irate by any normal measure, but for him, it's a tiny bit flat and a tiny bit clipped.
It prompts some quiet scrutiny, though what possibly could Ellis find? Even in the relatively short length of their acquaintance, he's found Bastien to be more or less impenetrable outside of a few, rare occasions.
"If I don't return before First Day," seems a fair estimate, which is then amended to, "If you've not heard from me before First Day."
A bid to account for travel time more than any other delay. It's followed briskly by, "You'll not open it, if I give it to you?"
Bastien takes a breath, watching Whiskey vanish around a corner. She knows the way. Keeping mysterious personal letters unopened for three months is asking a terrible lot of his willpower. Not so much he couldn't do it—again, good at not acting on urges—but it'll mean consenting to three months of an itch he isn't allowed to scratch. Maybe a lifetime of it, if Ellis doesn't come back and the unopened letters disappear into the Provost's custody.
"Do you know what I am?" he asks. It isn't rhetorical, not a no in the form of a question. Only curiosity as to how informed Ellis' willingness to take his word for it is.
It strikes Ellis as an odd question. Ellis, who has spent very little time considering anyone else's business, has only considered Bastien so far as to note that he's Orlesian and—
"A musician?" is not devoid of humor. Ellis has some sense that this is not the answer.
Bastien grins and huffs, as much of a laugh as can cut through the tangle of his mood, with a fair enough tip of his head.
"A bard," he says, which could only be a synonym if not for the context. "So I can give you my word I won't open it, but maybe you should give me a copper and call it a contract." He sounds cheeky, not potentially insulted by the prospect. "Just to be safe."
Ellis has a copper in his pocket. He could give Bastien a handful of coppers, and call this arrangement sealed. But instead—
"I don't think I need to."
Maybe Ellis should have guessed at this truth. But he hadn't suspected, and it doesn't change anything about how he feels now. And the letters likely don't say anything Bastien doesn't know, or hasn't guessed about Ellis and Tony or Ellis and Wysteria.
Probably. It would be very heartwarming if an expression of trust were more binding than a coin, but they'll just have to see. He's not in the habit of keeping promises to dead men in particular.
"Aye," Ellis answers, in the process of fishing the closed packet from the inside of his gambeson to turn it over to Bastien. "And the Scoutmaster as well."
It is Yseult's particular expertise, after all.
Ellis flips the packet over in his hands. There is a wax seal holding it closed. He runs his thumb over it, before holding it out to Bastien.
"I don't intend to tell anyone beyond who already knows."
Bastien nods, holding the letter at his side without examining it. He'll have several months to do that. Now he ought to say something. Be careful, or I'll set aside books for you, or I'll set aside books for you and if you don't come back for them I will throw them all into the sea, so think about the poor books before you do anything stupid.
He stays quiet. They aren't that close, he decides just now. Friendly, more than friends. On the cusp—so how convenient Ellis is doing this now instead of next year. Next year it might have mattered.
He'd like to think it is the kind of burden that will be easy to set aside, that Bastien will hand off that envelope in his absence and think little more of it. But Ellis knows better. Which is why, after the silence has stretched for a few moments, he offers—
“Oh, don’t be,” Bastien says, emerging from his quiet, contemplative distance not quite immediately, but rapidly. Like tossing on a coat of good humor and a hat of indifference upon realizing he’s underdressed.
He lifts the letter out in front of him, held up vertically against his palm, and flattens his fingers to try to balance it on end. It would be easier without the airflow from walking, but he manages it for a few seconds.
“It’s the least heavy thing I have been asked to hold all week.”
It would all be very believable, had Ellis not come across Bastien beneath a tree in a courtyard and sat alongside him quietly there.
But Ellis had seen him there. And he does not believe Bastien when he says this is an easy thing Ellis has asked of him.
His hand catches Bastien's elbow, holds on for a moment to stall their movements while Whiskey goes snuffling on ahead of them. His grip flexes there, sturdy and firm without bruising pressure. Ellis should say something. A better apology. A promise to return. Something.
But no. All he has to offer is the expression on his face, intent, creased with worry, as he says, "Thank you, then. For holding them both for me. I'll try to see to it that you needn't carry them for very long."
"Pas de problème," Bastien says, with apparent sincerity that is still somehow distant—if only by contrast, in a way that would be unnoticeable to people who had never seen him come any genuinely closer and couldn't tell the difference.
(It isn't, to be fair, entirely down to Ellis. Of the three people Bastien has let closest since he came here, one recently and willfully fucked off without an explanation or good-bye; another, less willfully and more recently, was presumed dead for several weeks. Ellis merely has the misfortune of being the first caught on the threshold, where Bastien believes he can push him back out and bar the door behind him.)
He pats Ellis' hand on his elbow, not too breezily, not with condescension. It lingers a little, before he steps aside in a way that will pull his arm free unless Ellis is stubborn about it.
"I do expect you to bring me something, though," he says. "From the north. An interesting leaf, at least. That is my fee."
What a familiar urge, to claw back what he has given away and with it whatever harm has been rendered. It visits him often, these days.
"There are not many leaves, where I am going," Ellis says. His hand loosens. Bastien is free to draw away, and retreat. Ellis remains where he is stood, watching him. "But I'll try to locate one, for you."
He does not say again Thank you. He does not say I'm sorry. Instead, he leaves Bastien with this. A promise of something, to be delivered upon his return.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
:)
And it might be lost, if he had to carry it with him to Weisshaupt. Ellis isn't sure what he will have to shed in the course of his time there.
"I promised someone I would safeguard it. I hope you would keep hold of it in my stead, until I come back to reclaim it."
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"I'll keep it safe," he says.
He snaps his fingers at his side to get Whiskey's attention while he fastens the buttons back up, one-handed as well.
"Where are you going?"
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And the question is stalled, set aside as Ellis comes down to his haunches to whistle softly for Whiskey's attention.
There is a moment where Ellis considers the whole truth of the task he's taken on. And then he considers Bastien, and pares down the enormity of it to something far less weighted.
"I've an errand to the north," is not untrue, just lacking a fuller picture. "I've always able to travel unnoticed, but these are unsettled times."
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So is an errand in the north. Bastien's curiosity is piqued, a creature lifting its head and sniffing the air, but he only reaches crossbody to pat Ellis on the broad shoulder with his dominant hand.
"This is why people find Wardens so attractive," he says. (Do people find Wardens so attractive? Surely some of them do, in between resenting and/or not seeing the point of them.) "All that mystery."
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Or does Ellis just assume that's the case, because he asks so few prying questions? (Observations about attractiveness go unacknowledged, as usual.)
But in the wake of that—
"There's something else. But it feels unfair to ask of you."
Or anyone else. But Bastien, for several reasons, is who Ellis has settled on for this particular task.
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Bastien doesn't really think he's going north to see about a horse.
But he smiles a little, like he's not worried, and resumes escorting the dog toward the nearest garden. "If it is unfair, I will be the first person to tell you so," he lies. "Go on."
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"I've an envelope I'd like you to hold for me. If I don't return, I'd ask you pass it on to the Provost and he'll manage the rest."
And this is a particular kind of motivation: to return so Bastien never need pass along the envelope, and Tony need never open it to find two letters with his name and Wysteria's written very carefully along the folded edge. It's unfair. Unfair to Bastien, unfair to Tony. But Ellis can think of no better way.
Nevermind how strange it is to have grown to trust an Orlesian this way.
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The words are light and careless, even though he feels neither. He feels—something.
It isn't irritation, exactly, so much as a prickle of fear that manifests as petulance and the urge to say that yes, having heard the request, it is unfair, and he's opting out of any participation in this clearly foolish affair, and he would like to speak to Ellis' manager.
He is very good at not acting on urges. Instead he asks, "Don't return after how long?" And it doesn't sound anywhere close to irate by any normal measure, but for him, it's a tiny bit flat and a tiny bit clipped.
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It prompts some quiet scrutiny, though what possibly could Ellis find? Even in the relatively short length of their acquaintance, he's found Bastien to be more or less impenetrable outside of a few, rare occasions.
"If I don't return before First Day," seems a fair estimate, which is then amended to, "If you've not heard from me before First Day."
A bid to account for travel time more than any other delay. It's followed briskly by, "You'll not open it, if I give it to you?"
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"Do you know what I am?" he asks. It isn't rhetorical, not a no in the form of a question. Only curiosity as to how informed Ellis' willingness to take his word for it is.
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"A musician?" is not devoid of humor. Ellis has some sense that this is not the answer.
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"A bard," he says, which could only be a synonym if not for the context. "So I can give you my word I won't open it, but maybe you should give me a copper and call it a contract." He sounds cheeky, not potentially insulted by the prospect. "Just to be safe."
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Ellis has a copper in his pocket. He could give Bastien a handful of coppers, and call this arrangement sealed. But instead—
"I don't think I need to."
Maybe Ellis should have guessed at this truth. But he hadn't suspected, and it doesn't change anything about how he feels now. And the letters likely don't say anything Bastien doesn't know, or hasn't guessed about Ellis and Tony or Ellis and Wysteria.
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Probably. It would be very heartwarming if an expression of trust were more binding than a coin, but they'll just have to see. He's not in the habit of keeping promises to dead men in particular.
"Does the Provost know about your errand?"
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It is Yseult's particular expertise, after all.
Ellis flips the packet over in his hands. There is a wax seal holding it closed. He runs his thumb over it, before holding it out to Bastien.
"I don't intend to tell anyone beyond who already knows."
Which now includes Bastien, apparently.
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He stays quiet. They aren't that close, he decides just now. Friendly, more than friends. On the cusp—so how convenient Ellis is doing this now instead of next year. Next year it might have mattered.
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He'd like to think it is the kind of burden that will be easy to set aside, that Bastien will hand off that envelope in his absence and think little more of it. But Ellis knows better. Which is why, after the silence has stretched for a few moments, he offers—
"I'm sorry. To have asked."
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He lifts the letter out in front of him, held up vertically against his palm, and flattens his fingers to try to balance it on end. It would be easier without the airflow from walking, but he manages it for a few seconds.
“It’s the least heavy thing I have been asked to hold all week.”
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But Ellis had seen him there. And he does not believe Bastien when he says this is an easy thing Ellis has asked of him.
His hand catches Bastien's elbow, holds on for a moment to stall their movements while Whiskey goes snuffling on ahead of them. His grip flexes there, sturdy and firm without bruising pressure. Ellis should say something. A better apology. A promise to return. Something.
But no. All he has to offer is the expression on his face, intent, creased with worry, as he says, "Thank you, then. For holding them both for me. I'll try to see to it that you needn't carry them for very long."
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(It isn't, to be fair, entirely down to Ellis. Of the three people Bastien has let closest since he came here, one recently and willfully fucked off without an explanation or good-bye; another, less willfully and more recently, was presumed dead for several weeks. Ellis merely has the misfortune of being the first caught on the threshold, where Bastien believes he can push him back out and bar the door behind him.)
He pats Ellis' hand on his elbow, not too breezily, not with condescension. It lingers a little, before he steps aside in a way that will pull his arm free unless Ellis is stubborn about it.
"I do expect you to bring me something, though," he says. "From the north. An interesting leaf, at least. That is my fee."
put a bow on this y/n
What a familiar urge, to claw back what he has given away and with it whatever harm has been rendered. It visits him often, these days.
"There are not many leaves, where I am going," Ellis says. His hand loosens. Bastien is free to draw away, and retreat. Ellis remains where he is stood, watching him. "But I'll try to locate one, for you."
He does not say again Thank you. He does not say I'm sorry. Instead, he leaves Bastien with this. A promise of something, to be delivered upon his return.