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}
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.”
no subject
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."
no subject
(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.