And it won't enslave them, at least, which is some kindness. [ More concretely: ] And there are still parts of Ferelden underpopulated from the Blight. A few Banns wouldn't mind a few more hands.
And they won't make serfs of them. [ Was that already covered by won't enslave them? Orlais says no. ] That is one of the things on my list of reasons to like living in Ferelden. After you, and the stew.
[ Half true, on the truth-o-meter, but it's not meant as a real statement anyway. It's half a joke, half a compliment; he leans over their beloved dog to kiss Byerly on his beloved cheek. This part of life is easy. ]
Do you think I was wrong about him being dangerous? [ For clarity: ] I would love to be.
[ He doesn't sound troubled, as his his attention turns to Whiskey and carefully pushing the side of her mouth up into half a smile. It's just good to keep humble, that's all. ]
Good. I will like him without caveats. I mean, he is a little moody and given to dramatics—but you know I appreciate that in a person.
How do I say no to those faces? Hmm. It was nearly ten years ago—
[ And he explains, using a storyteller’s flair and more words than I want to write, how they were both sent to the same Duchess’ manor house for the same extravagant party—Bastien as part of the entertainment, Yseult mysterious and beautiful on the arm of a Baron—in pursuit of the same lockbox. How they stumbled upon one another in the search agreed to cooperate, both planning to do no such thing when it came end. A few detours into daring heist shenanigans. Some minor arson that turned significant; the complete destruction of the mansion that year is fairly well-known.
It ends in a standoff, surrounded by fire, with the lockbox in Bastien’s hands and Yseult making the case that its contents would hurt a great number of people in his employer’s possession, but not in hers. ]
And it couldn’t be a lie, because that is the worst lie appeal to a Bard—that people will be hurt. People are always hurt. I let her have it, though, [ is how it ends. ] That is why she likes me so much. I’ve tried telling her it was only because she was so pretty, but she thinks I was doing the right thing.
[ Bastien nods and scratches Whiskey under the chin. (So ruined, his life. Completely terrible.) ]
I'd never failed on purpose before. It's not done. It's the only reason anyone could ever trust a bard to do anything—we don't back out, we keep your secrets, all of that. We can decide not to take a contact, but once we take it, it is not up to us anymore. Like, [ with a lazily mimed bow, ] a loosed arrow.
But when I had made that choice once, it became a choice every time, and I—
[ He shakes his head. He didn't quit on the spot. He lasted another few years. But it wore him down, he's trying to communicate with a sigh alone, for every wrecked life and stabbed back to feel like something he could decide to prevent after all. ]
And now here I am, working for pennies. [ He tugs gently on By's goatee. ] Excellent benefits, though.
[ It's a nice story. It's also one that gives Yseult far too much credit. If Bastien was willing to sacrifice the job for idealism, it wouldn't have been because of some pretty words (even assuming, of course, that the words were pretty; Yseult isn't much of a sweet-talker). It would have been because he was already on the point of that decision and just needed an excuse to tip over it. A butterfly's moment of change is not when it emerges from the cocoon; the change is that process over those long weeks, beginning at the start of the cocoon-building process.
But a nice story - Well, it's more fun to tell a nice story than it is to tell an accurate one. ]
And to be fair, have you ever met a truly happy rich man?
[ He doesn't live in fear of Byerly realizing what he is—or what he's been, at least—and recoiling in horror. By already knows. And if he ever is caught by surprise by the details, Bastien trusts him to hold on instead of letting go. So it isn't precisely relief Bastien feels, whenever he talks about it without getting the sense that Byerly and his good, heroic heart are disturbed or judgmental. But it's something. Awe, maybe. Such a strange thing, to be able to lay his flaws out for examination without any real fear. ]
Maybe that is the secret. Foolishness, at any income.
Quitting? [ He's still laughing at Whiskey's magnificent wingspan, between the words. ] No. For a lot of reasons. [ Among them: ] Could this ever have happened if I hadn't?
[ A shrug is not the right answer, he's pretty sure, but it's what he does. ]
I don't know. The killing, yes, but I think it would have happened with or without me. Most of it. I wish I hadn't been the one to do it for my own sake, because I think it takes something out of you that you don't get back, when you do something like that. But if I had never become a Bard at all, they would still be dead, and I would be—I don't know.
[ Making a fuller apology, one that clearly need not be made, given Bastien's cheerful engagement with the question: ]
I know, I know. This is like talking to - Do you recall Rafael, that student who'd hang around with us? Always questions like this. Insufferable.
[ Then: ]
It's hard to say, at times. It's like you said, isn't it - We might make decisions, but the world around us will compensate. Things will happen even if we step back from them.
[ Bastien hums and stretches out on the floor, head resting on Byerly's shin, half-fencing Whiskey in with the rest of him. ]
Well, that's—
[ Depressing. ]
I don't think that is true for everyone and everything. It's about how much power we have, isn't it? The Empress can make decisions the world won't undo. I could have, [ with some reluctance, because he doesn't enjoy marinating in guilt the way some people might, ] saved one of them. Really saved them. But it would have been the last contract I ever had. Someone else would have been hired for the rest of them.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ He starts curling up that ear again. Whiskey lets out a heavy, contented sigh. ]
The plan is to bring them down to Ferelden, by the by.
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Your idea? Do you think Ferelden will be kinder to them?
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[ Har har. ]
And it won't enslave them, at least, which is some kindness. [ More concretely: ] And there are still parts of Ferelden underpopulated from the Blight. A few Banns wouldn't mind a few more hands.
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[ He tugs on Whiskey's ear in demonstration. ]
Not that it's an easy life for a freeman, mind. But then again, it's not an easy life for anyone in this world anywhere.
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[ Half true, on the truth-o-meter, but it's not meant as a real statement anyway. It's half a joke, half a compliment; he leans over their beloved dog to kiss Byerly on his beloved cheek. This part of life is easy. ]
Do you think I was wrong about him being dangerous? [ For clarity: ] I would love to be.
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[ Byerly reaches up to tap that spot where Bastien laid a sweet little romantic peck on him. Maker. ]
I think he may be the sort of man who is only dangerous to evil men.
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[ He doesn't sound troubled, as his his attention turns to Whiskey and carefully pushing the side of her mouth up into half a smile. It's just good to keep humble, that's all. ]
Good. I will like him without caveats. I mean, he is a little moody and given to dramatics—but you know I appreciate that in a person.
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Yseult.
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Yes, yes, Yseult. The other day she had a temper tantrum and raised her entire eyebrow at me.
[ Whiskey's nose twitches, so he leaves her mouth alone, determined not to annoy her with affection. ]
We met dramatically enough that she doesn't owe me more excitement.
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Do tell.
[ Byerly rests his chin atop Whiskey's head as he gazes up at Bastien. ]
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[ And he explains, using a storyteller’s flair and more words than I want to write, how they were both sent to the same Duchess’ manor house for the same extravagant party—Bastien as part of the entertainment, Yseult mysterious and beautiful on the arm of a Baron—in pursuit of the same lockbox. How they stumbled upon one another in the search agreed to cooperate, both planning to do no such thing when it came end. A few detours into daring heist shenanigans. Some minor arson that turned significant; the complete destruction of the mansion that year is fairly well-known.
It ends in a standoff, surrounded by fire, with the lockbox in Bastien’s hands and Yseult making the case that its contents would hurt a great number of people in his employer’s possession, but not in hers. ]
And it couldn’t be a lie, because that is the worst lie appeal to a Bard—that people will be hurt. People are always hurt. I let her have it, though, [ is how it ends. ] That is why she likes me so much. I’ve tried telling her it was only because she was so pretty, but she thinks I was doing the right thing.
[ She’s right.
And for some dramatics of his own: ]
Anyway, she ruined my life.
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I'd never failed on purpose before. It's not done. It's the only reason anyone could ever trust a bard to do anything—we don't back out, we keep your secrets, all of that. We can decide not to take a contact, but once we take it, it is not up to us anymore. Like, [ with a lazily mimed bow, ] a loosed arrow.
But when I had made that choice once, it became a choice every time, and I—
[ He shakes his head. He didn't quit on the spot. He lasted another few years. But it wore him down, he's trying to communicate with a sigh alone, for every wrecked life and stabbed back to feel like something he could decide to prevent after all. ]
And now here I am, working for pennies. [ He tugs gently on By's goatee. ] Excellent benefits, though.
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But a nice story - Well, it's more fun to tell a nice story than it is to tell an accurate one. ]
And to be fair, have you ever met a truly happy rich man?
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[ He doesn't live in fear of Byerly realizing what he is—or what he's been, at least—and recoiling in horror. By already knows. And if he ever is caught by surprise by the details, Bastien trusts him to hold on instead of letting go. So it isn't precisely relief Bastien feels, whenever he talks about it without getting the sense that Byerly and his good, heroic heart are disturbed or judgmental. But it's something. Awe, maybe. Such a strange thing, to be able to lay his flaws out for examination without any real fear. ]
Maybe that is the secret. Foolishness, at any income.
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[ Byerly makes Whiskey's ears flap like the wings of a bird. They're big enough to actually stir up a gentle breeze.
Then, less flippantly: ]
Do you regret it all?
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Not quitting.
[ A little flap. By's eyes settle on Bastien's. They're gently curious. ]
What you did back then.
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[ A shrug is not the right answer, he's pretty sure, but it's what he does. ]
I don't know. The killing, yes, but I think it would have happened with or without me. Most of it. I wish I hadn't been the one to do it for my own sake, because I think it takes something out of you that you don't get back, when you do something like that. But if I had never become a Bard at all, they would still be dead, and I would be—I don't know.
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[ He sets his back against the wall, idly scratching Whiskey's head. ]
Apologies in advance. This is so insufferable. - Do you think free will is real?
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Do I think anything real? [ But more seriously: ] Yes. I do—believe in free will, I mean. It would be too awful otherwise.
Do you?
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I know, I know. This is like talking to - Do you recall Rafael, that student who'd hang around with us? Always questions like this. Insufferable.
[ Then: ]
It's hard to say, at times. It's like you said, isn't it - We might make decisions, but the world around us will compensate. Things will happen even if we step back from them.
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Well, that's—
[ Depressing. ]
I don't think that is true for everyone and everything. It's about how much power we have, isn't it? The Empress can make decisions the world won't undo. I could have, [ with some reluctance, because he doesn't enjoy marinating in guilt the way some people might, ] saved one of them. Really saved them. But it would have been the last contract I ever had. Someone else would have been hired for the rest of them.
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But in the long term, the next Blight will still come. In time, the Maker will return. In time, everyone will die.
[ Not something he necessarily believes - that anything doesn't matter, just because there are some inevitabilities. But for argument's sake. ]
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