Ahh. Of course. What does the half-Orlesian have to say about Orlais—that must have been tiresome.
Were you this restrained as a boy? Knobby-kneed and lustful and, [ with a slightly less mangled imitation of By’s accent than when he goofily failing to put in any effort, and a perfect imitation of his tone, ] not really political?
[ It comes out quieter than before, his expression changing by a fraction of a degree into a gentler interest. Not intentionally. It's a flood of care, seeping through the unguarded corners of his face as he's reminded of little By being unable to do anything to control his father's irrational hatred or the sudden withdrawal of his mother's love.
Bastien pauses his little game long enough to pull Byerly's hand up to his mouth, to kiss his knuckles.
Then it's back on. ]
You grew out of that quickly, I hope—thinking you were ignorant. But before long you were a spy who needed everyone to think you had no thoughts in your head, so they might try to fill it for you.
[ And this is half playing the game, but also half truthful - ]
I am ignorant. Every noble is.
[ That softness, that little kiss, those kind eyes, get a little caress, a touch of his hand to Bastien's thigh. He doesn't entirely know what brought it about, but he's grateful for it nevertheless. No one looks on him as charitably as Bastien looks on him - and it's nice, isn't it, to have someone who sees only the best in you. ]
Nobles more than most. We don't know what it means to plant or sow, or to make things, or to truly rely on nothing save your own determination. A noble can never understand the plight of the truly impoverished, because he always has the coin of his name to barter with.
[ Such a rare thing in a noble, to not merely admit ignorance, but to believe the things they don't know matter. Bastien smiles an appreciative little smile. Not surprised, but pleased. Proud. All the noblemen in Thedas—all the men in Thedas—and he's caught the best one.
Game, though. ]
And a vagrant does not know what it means to manage a household or raise a fighting force. That should not bar either of you from having opinions.
[ Bastien brushes his fingers against By’s neck where his head tilt has left it more exposed, just once, like someone who can’t help touching a painting. ]
I wasn’t any good at living by them. Definitely not at working by them. I always thought I might be someday. When I had enough money and collateral to survive it, then I would do something that mattered. Maybe tear the whole rotten Game apart. But always later, when it would be more realistic. I was as rotten as any of it.
[ And then he quit. It wasn’t unrelated. ]
But I had things I believed in. Like believing in the Maker while you sin.
[ That's - not the answer he was expecting. What did he expect? He supposes an answer along the lines of I forced them down. I didn't permit myself to feel anything. But that's never been Bastien. Bastien has never tried to destroy his soul. Even in winter, he tended his garden.
By feels the urge to kiss him. It's against the unspoken rules of their little game, of course. But he can't help but press a quick kiss to Bastien's lips.
Then - back to it. ]
Perhaps that's the difference between a Bard and a spy. The latter job demands...emotional monogamy, perhaps.
[ Bastien smiles in the wake of the kiss; they are both terrible at this game. At this round of it, anyway. He’s sure they could be better if they really committed. ]
Monogamy. [ There’s extra Orlais in that scoff. Playing, and also making fun of himself—with a tiny inner seed, as there often is in self-deprecation, of real embarrassment. ] How common.
Loyalty and obedience are the all the belief some people need—but not you, I think, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur. You love your country for its good parts, but you do not measure everything in the world by how it benefits your Queen.
[ But: some. Byerly himself...Is he ashamed of it? He doesn't think so.
A small confession, outside the bounds of their game: ]
I can't count the number of times I've been reprimanded for exercising...excessive creativity. [ The number of times he's gone off mission when he's seen something that pricks at him. The number of times he's caused trouble by getting distracted. ]
But I don't know that soft-heartedness is political.
[ Excessive creativity. Bastien’s smile stays mild and aloof, but he quite obviously bites the inside of his lips—hiding a wider, delighted, admiring grin, but not hiding that he’s hiding it. ]
No. I suppose it isn’t.
[ He plucks and fidgets at the collar of Byerly’s shirt with a distracted distance, like he’s flirting with a stranger in a smoking parlor. ]
But it could be. If you see patterns in who needs your compassion, and you wonder what it would take to make it stop happening.
I don’t know. Tradition? Pride, wanting to be sure there is someone you will always be better than? Economics. Needing labor you can starve and overwork to be able to afford the life you want, and needing to believe that you aren’t wrong to do it. I have known men—and women, of course—to mistreat someone first, then hate them second.
[ He’s used it to his advantage, is what he means, on the occasions he needed a person with those inclinations to despise someone. Perhaps to despise him. ]
I suspect because every time they see them they feel some disgust they refuse to look at directly. So it becomes this person disgusts me, rather than I disgust myself.
[ And how much of that had Bastien absorbed? And how much of it had been in the course of his job? Not all of it; that's for certain. A little Marcher boy with the wrong accent...
A pinky hooks in Bastien's buttonhole. A little tug. I love you. Cleverest man I know. You outshine the diamonds of the court. ]
[ One of his hands folds over By’s, where it tugged his button hole, and squeezes it.
The other, with less heartfelt sincerity, puts fingertips to Byerly’s jaw and chin to tilt his aloof coquettish head into hard-to-escape eye contact. ]
You truly have never thought, in anger or pity, if I was in charge, then…?
[ He flutters those dangerous eyelashes at Bastien. ]
And then I think about what it would be like if I were. Everyone taking my good intentions and deciding they dislike them just because they dislike me.
[ A puff of air escapes Bastien's nose, playful frustration at being stymied again. But then, on second thought— ]
I am going to count that as a political opinion. That's the fundamental question of politics, isn't it? Who should be in charge?
[ Perhaps this is cheating. But if he wins this game, they both win, as is hopefully made clear by the fact that he marks down his point by unbuttoning the first of By's many buttons. ]
[ He hooks his fingers over the next button in line. By's pushed back on this before; it's not false humility or a passing demurral. So: game paused. His face and his voice are different, with the act set aside. Warmer and more intimate. ]
Because I'm not. [ His hand comes up, rubbing lovingly at Bastien's knuckle. ] When I was at lessons at the local Chantry, I was routinely shown up by the merchant's sons and fishermen's daughters. I'm cunning enough, but I'm not smart in the way that you are. I hate reading. And you should see me at sums - I never come up with the same answer twice. And whenever someone from the Research division starts talking to me about what they're doing, I nearly panic.
[ Bastien’s smile is fond, his eyes serious above it. ]
I don’t have the first idea what any of them are doing, either. And why should we? Mages and rifters and Valentine de Foncè—I don’t mean they aren’t brilliant, some of them, but they understand all of those things because they’ve spent years learning to. Or they got spit out of the Fade with ideas about magic gloves. One of the two.
And the things I like to read don’t make anyone smart. Not more than going to the theater. And—
[ Sums, fishermen’s daughters. He shakes his head a little and climbs out of the quibbly weeds. ]
I can’t play like you. I’m not sure I’ve met anyone who can. Not just the technical proficiency. The improvisation. The feeling. It is like you speak another language—which you also do better than me. I know you grew up on Orlesian, but you didn’t grow up on Antivan. I watched you learn bard sign in an evening that took me weeks, maybe months.
I’ve watched you pull together information, the sort that matters for what you are doing. How you focus in. And arguing with people the way you like to, spinning them up and letting nothing pass. That takes a quick mind.
And I think there is such a thing as moral intelligence, which, [ with affectionate sternness, ] I refuse to argue with you about. I’m right.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Were you this restrained as a boy? Knobby-kneed and lustful and, [ with a slightly less mangled imitation of By’s accent than when he goofily failing to put in any effort, and a perfect imitation of his tone, ] not really political?
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Politics is too complicated. When you start talking about politics, people start hating you or liking you for reasons out of your control.
[ And By's game has always been carefully controlling people's fondness for or hatred of him. Cultivating feeling with care. ]
Not that the knobby-kneed pervert was cognizant of why the subject made him uncomfortable. He thought of himself as simply ignorant.
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[ It comes out quieter than before, his expression changing by a fraction of a degree into a gentler interest. Not intentionally. It's a flood of care, seeping through the unguarded corners of his face as he's reminded of little By being unable to do anything to control his father's irrational hatred or the sudden withdrawal of his mother's love.
Bastien pauses his little game long enough to pull Byerly's hand up to his mouth, to kiss his knuckles.
Then it's back on. ]
You grew out of that quickly, I hope—thinking you were ignorant. But before long you were a spy who needed everyone to think you had no thoughts in your head, so they might try to fill it for you.
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[ And this is half playing the game, but also half truthful - ]
I am ignorant. Every noble is.
[ That softness, that little kiss, those kind eyes, get a little caress, a touch of his hand to Bastien's thigh. He doesn't entirely know what brought it about, but he's grateful for it nevertheless. No one looks on him as charitably as Bastien looks on him - and it's nice, isn't it, to have someone who sees only the best in you. ]
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[ A prompt more than a statement. Patient. ]
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Nobles more than most. We don't know what it means to plant or sow, or to make things, or to truly rely on nothing save your own determination. A noble can never understand the plight of the truly impoverished, because he always has the coin of his name to barter with.
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Game, though. ]
And a vagrant does not know what it means to manage a household or raise a fighting force. That should not bar either of you from having opinions.
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But being a spy, on the other hand...
[ He tilts his head to the side. And, a bit of a challenge: ]
Did the Bard ever have convictions?
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[ Bastien brushes his fingers against By’s neck where his head tilt has left it more exposed, just once, like someone who can’t help touching a painting. ]
I wasn’t any good at living by them. Definitely not at working by them. I always thought I might be someday. When I had enough money and collateral to survive it, then I would do something that mattered. Maybe tear the whole rotten Game apart. But always later, when it would be more realistic. I was as rotten as any of it.
[ And then he quit. It wasn’t unrelated. ]
But I had things I believed in. Like believing in the Maker while you sin.
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[ That's - not the answer he was expecting. What did he expect? He supposes an answer along the lines of I forced them down. I didn't permit myself to feel anything. But that's never been Bastien. Bastien has never tried to destroy his soul. Even in winter, he tended his garden.
By feels the urge to kiss him. It's against the unspoken rules of their little game, of course. But he can't help but press a quick kiss to Bastien's lips.
Then - back to it. ]
Perhaps that's the difference between a Bard and a spy. The latter job demands...emotional monogamy, perhaps.
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Monogamy. [ There’s extra Orlais in that scoff. Playing, and also making fun of himself—with a tiny inner seed, as there often is in self-deprecation, of real embarrassment. ] How common.
Loyalty and obedience are the all the belief some people need—but not you, I think, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur. You love your country for its good parts, but you do not measure everything in the world by how it benefits your Queen.
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[ But: some. Byerly himself...Is he ashamed of it? He doesn't think so.
A small confession, outside the bounds of their game: ]
I can't count the number of times I've been reprimanded for exercising...excessive creativity. [ The number of times he's gone off mission when he's seen something that pricks at him. The number of times he's caused trouble by getting distracted. ]
But I don't know that soft-heartedness is political.
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No. I suppose it isn’t.
[ He plucks and fidgets at the collar of Byerly’s shirt with a distracted distance, like he’s flirting with a stranger in a smoking parlor. ]
But it could be. If you see patterns in who needs your compassion, and you wonder what it would take to make it stop happening.
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And so those who feel fiercely that their political calling is to oppress the elves...Where do their politics come from?
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[ He’s used it to his advantage, is what he means, on the occasions he needed a person with those inclinations to despise someone. Perhaps to despise him. ]
I suspect because every time they see them they feel some disgust they refuse to look at directly. So it becomes this person disgusts me, rather than I disgust myself.
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A pinky hooks in Bastien's buttonhole. A little tug. I love you. Cleverest man I know. You outshine the diamonds of the court. ]
So emotions turn into politics there, as well.
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[ One of his hands folds over By’s, where it tugged his button hole, and squeezes it.
The other, with less heartfelt sincerity, puts fingertips to Byerly’s jaw and chin to tilt his aloof coquettish head into hard-to-escape eye contact. ]
You truly have never thought, in anger or pity, if I was in charge, then…?
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[ He flutters those dangerous eyelashes at Bastien. ]
And then I think about what it would be like if I were. Everyone taking my good intentions and deciding they dislike them just because they dislike me.
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[ love you, think the world of you, want to learn everything about you and then learn it all over again, like a favorite song ]
—am very objective.
[ As objective as he is immune to those eyelashes. ]
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[ Another, equally true confession: ]
I also think about how I would want a smarter man than me in charge.
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I am going to count that as a political opinion. That's the fundamental question of politics, isn't it? Who should be in charge?
[ Perhaps this is cheating. But if he wins this game, they both win, as is hopefully made clear by the fact that he marks down his point by unbuttoning the first of By's many buttons. ]
Someone smarter than very smart, you say.
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Flatterer.
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[ He hooks his fingers over the next button in line. By's pushed back on this before; it's not false humility or a passing demurral. So: game paused. His face and his voice are different, with the act set aside. Warmer and more intimate. ]
Why don't you think you're smart?
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Because I'm not. [ His hand comes up, rubbing lovingly at Bastien's knuckle. ] When I was at lessons at the local Chantry, I was routinely shown up by the merchant's sons and fishermen's daughters. I'm cunning enough, but I'm not smart in the way that you are. I hate reading. And you should see me at sums - I never come up with the same answer twice. And whenever someone from the Research division starts talking to me about what they're doing, I nearly panic.
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I don’t have the first idea what any of them are doing, either. And why should we? Mages and rifters and Valentine de Foncè—I don’t mean they aren’t brilliant, some of them, but they understand all of those things because they’ve spent years learning to. Or they got spit out of the Fade with ideas about magic gloves. One of the two.
And the things I like to read don’t make anyone smart. Not more than going to the theater. And—
[ Sums, fishermen’s daughters. He shakes his head a little and climbs out of the quibbly weeds. ]
I can’t play like you. I’m not sure I’ve met anyone who can. Not just the technical proficiency. The improvisation. The feeling. It is like you speak another language—which you also do better than me. I know you grew up on Orlesian, but you didn’t grow up on Antivan. I watched you learn bard sign in an evening that took me weeks, maybe months.
I’ve watched you pull together information, the sort that matters for what you are doing. How you focus in. And arguing with people the way you like to, spinning them up and letting nothing pass. That takes a quick mind.
And I think there is such a thing as moral intelligence, which, [ with affectionate sternness, ] I refuse to argue with you about. I’m right.
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