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.
[ How strange it is to hear all that. Of all the things he's confessed, this is a strange one - an odd little pocket of hurt. Remembering the exasperation of the Chantry mothers as they tried to get him to sit still and focus, remembering the way he'd slip away from class to get a respite from it all. The way that climbing trees and chasing frogs had turned into idle gambling, mouthfuls of moonshine, kissing fishermen's daughters under their blouses. Slipping a hand down the trousers of the merchant's sons. Getting caught. Feeling the terror and thrill of knowing his father would be in one of his rages.
So much trouble would have been averted if he'd been smart enough to sit still.
But - Bastien had said it, hadn't he. It's funny, what we do without understanding why. ]
If you'd had school, if you'd had the proper books when you were a boy -
[ His voice is low and a little rough. He touches Bastien's cheek and leans his forehead against his. ]
You do understand it, the things they say - I've listened to you, the way you ask questions. Even if it's not all at once, you start to understand these fantastical ideas. If you'd just had their advantages, you could run rings around them. I want to spit in their eyes when they talk to you like you're simple.
[ And this isn't a refutation of the kind things Bastien said. Instead, if anything, it's a...complement to all that. ]
I'm smart enough to know how brilliant you are. And I'm smart enough to listen to you. I'd have everything I'd need to be a king if you were with me.
[ Bastien doesn’t beam at By; he glows, the brightness coming from somewhere deeper. For the praise. For the fact that By let Bastien praise him without putting up a fight. ]
I would need you, too. I need you now.
[ Maybe not in the desperate way of romance novels—which he’s never found romantic himself, all of that if you leave me I’ll die business. He’d live. But he’d live worse. He’d be less than he could be.
Bastien gives him a kiss, deep and urgent in a way that's less take off your clothes and more please understand how much you mean to me, and caps it off with a shameless nuzzle that would probably make the peanut gallery gag. ]
You'd be a wonderful king. I would hate watching you do it, because you would never sleep, and you would tear yourself to pieces wondering if everything you did was good enough, but you'd be wonderful. And I'd be a fantastic concubine.
The best. I'd dress you in the gauziest things. And have you whisper to me about who we need to focus on helping.
[ Which - have they done king and concubine yet? Definitely one to introduce into the rotation. But it's not quite time to get distracted by that; they're still in the midst of sincerity. ]
[ Bastien doesn’t jump back into playing a stranger—still familiarly close, eyes still full of adoration—but he does celebrate that confession by undoing another button. ]
[ Bastien takes a second to check his face. Ghost-hunting. But he can’t see anything haunted under the joke.
So he goes on— ]
Do you think there is a difference between them? Inherently, I mean, between nobles and commoners.
[ —with a little caution. If he weren’t so certain that Byerly thinks of him as an equal, he wouldn’t ask at all. Wouldn’t invite him to say something that might hurt that badly.
But there is still a chance he might say something that hurts a bit. ]
[ He needn't have been afraid. Byerly's answer is unhesitating, as certain as he would be if he were commenting on the salinity of the sea. ]
The only true difference - aside from the education afforded to nobles, of course - is that bloodlines come with certain reputations. And power comes from belief. If people believe you can lead, they follow. But those sorts of tales don't belong to nobles alone - King Calenhad himself came from common stock. Do you think there's a difference between them?
[ Bastien smiles, not so much relieved as feeling foolish for being nervous, and shakes his head.
Although, ] I think I used to. Not directly, but more like—you know how sometimes you will think someone is better looking than you—
Theoretically. [ He taps Byerly on his chin. ] If you can imagine yourself in the shoes of someone who is not the most beautiful man in Thedas. Then you might think someone is better looking than you, deep down, but on the surface you think, please, he is nothing special. His nose is crooked. And look there, I think that is a boil. And if he says to you he is better-looking, that is worse, but if he says you are better-looking, that is also worse, because clearly he’s an idiot or humoring you or both, so…
[ It’s only now that he realizes he just, in this very conversation, brought up inbred droolers. ]
[ Bastien’s cocky smile lingers, but his cheeks turn faintly pink, the traitors. When he realizes that they have, he rubs his thumb and fingers over them, like he can wipe it off, and averts his eyes to nod. ]
I trust you.
[ He could argue about most handsome, except of course it’s subjective. All he could ever want is for Byerly to think so.
He leans in and up to By’s ear. Whispering is silly, but it’s easier. ]
With all my heart, for all my life.
[ Sealed with a peck on the cheek.
Then he needs another scrap of bread immediately, to replenish his strength after the Herculean feat of saying that sober and fully-dressed and in the daylight, and he needs to keep moving along. ]
It was only a metaphor, though. I’m not worried about—it is just, not everyone sees it the way you do. They say someone like your Calenhad, he came from common stock, alright, but he became a king because there was something special about him, and all his children after him, and now that we are not all barbarians we have found all of these special people with their special blood and elevated them to where they belong.
[ With all my heart. For all my life. These are things he can gather and save, like coins for a miser. Never to spend, only to hold, to take out and admire when the echoes in his head sound too unkind. ]
One might argue we're still barbarians.
[ Not because that's a counterargument; just to amuse Bastien with his wit. ]
But anyone who thinks that...I've known men of the nobility who do live that word, nobility, but I've known many more who are vain, base, stupid, greedy. And I've known a mix of the same amongst commoners. Anyone who really thinks there's a difference, a meaningful difference, is a fool. Which only goes so far, of course - because a man can be a fool and still have power, you can still be at the mercy of fools - but they're a fool all the same.
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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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So much trouble would have been averted if he'd been smart enough to sit still.
But - Bastien had said it, hadn't he. It's funny, what we do without understanding why. ]
If you'd had school, if you'd had the proper books when you were a boy -
[ His voice is low and a little rough. He touches Bastien's cheek and leans his forehead against his. ]
You do understand it, the things they say - I've listened to you, the way you ask questions. Even if it's not all at once, you start to understand these fantastical ideas. If you'd just had their advantages, you could run rings around them. I want to spit in their eyes when they talk to you like you're simple.
[ And this isn't a refutation of the kind things Bastien said. Instead, if anything, it's a...complement to all that. ]
I'm smart enough to know how brilliant you are. And I'm smart enough to listen to you. I'd have everything I'd need to be a king if you were with me.
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I would need you, too. I need you now.
[ Maybe not in the desperate way of romance novels—which he’s never found romantic himself, all of that if you leave me I’ll die business. He’d live. But he’d live worse. He’d be less than he could be.
Bastien gives him a kiss, deep and urgent in a way that's less take off your clothes and more please understand how much you mean to me, and caps it off with a shameless nuzzle that would probably make the peanut gallery gag. ]
You'd be a wonderful king. I would hate watching you do it, because you would never sleep, and you would tear yourself to pieces wondering if everything you did was good enough, but you'd be wonderful. And I'd be a fantastic concubine.
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[ Which - have they done king and concubine yet? Definitely one to introduce into the rotation. But it's not quite time to get distracted by that; they're still in the midst of sincerity. ]
So perhaps I am, occasionally, a bit political.
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[ Bastien doesn’t jump back into playing a stranger—still familiarly close, eyes still full of adoration—but he does celebrate that confession by undoing another button. ]
Does the Kingdom of Byerlia have a Landsmeet?
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[ That's lighter than it usually is when Byerly gets anxious about the prospect of going mad. He doesn't really mean it. ]
At which point I suppose we'll have no nobles left, and will have to elevate the commoners.
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[ Bastien takes a second to check his face. Ghost-hunting. But he can’t see anything haunted under the joke.
So he goes on— ]
Do you think there is a difference between them? Inherently, I mean, between nobles and commoners.
[ —with a little caution. If he weren’t so certain that Byerly thinks of him as an equal, he wouldn’t ask at all. Wouldn’t invite him to say something that might hurt that badly.
But there is still a chance he might say something that hurts a bit. ]
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[ He needn't have been afraid. Byerly's answer is unhesitating, as certain as he would be if he were commenting on the salinity of the sea. ]
The only true difference - aside from the education afforded to nobles, of course - is that bloodlines come with certain reputations. And power comes from belief. If people believe you can lead, they follow. But those sorts of tales don't belong to nobles alone - King Calenhad himself came from common stock. Do you think there's a difference between them?
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Although, ] I think I used to. Not directly, but more like—you know how sometimes you will think someone is better looking than you—
Theoretically. [ He taps Byerly on his chin. ] If you can imagine yourself in the shoes of someone who is not the most beautiful man in Thedas. Then you might think someone is better looking than you, deep down, but on the surface you think, please, he is nothing special. His nose is crooked. And look there, I think that is a boil. And if he says to you he is better-looking, that is worse, but if he says you are better-looking, that is also worse, because clearly he’s an idiot or humoring you or both, so…
[ It’s only now that he realizes he just, in this very conversation, brought up inbred droolers. ]
Maybe sometimes I still do that.
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[ By runs his fingertips along Bastien's cheekbone. ]
Do you trust me when I say you're better-looking?
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Say it, [ he teases, fishing as shamelessly as if By'd never complimented him before, ] and I'll let you know.
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[ Byerly's gaze on him is deeply, intensely loving. ]
Beloved, wonderful in every way.
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I trust you.
[ He could argue about most handsome, except of course it’s subjective. All he could ever want is for Byerly to think so.
He leans in and up to By’s ear. Whispering is silly, but it’s easier. ]
With all my heart, for all my life.
[ Sealed with a peck on the cheek.
Then he needs another scrap of bread immediately, to replenish his strength after the Herculean feat of saying that sober and fully-dressed and in the daylight, and he needs to keep moving along. ]
It was only a metaphor, though. I’m not worried about—it is just, not everyone sees it the way you do. They say someone like your Calenhad, he came from common stock, alright, but he became a king because there was something special about him, and all his children after him, and now that we are not all barbarians we have found all of these special people with their special blood and elevated them to where they belong.
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One might argue we're still barbarians.
[ Not because that's a counterargument; just to amuse Bastien with his wit. ]
But anyone who thinks that...I've known men of the nobility who do live that word, nobility, but I've known many more who are vain, base, stupid, greedy. And I've known a mix of the same amongst commoners. Anyone who really thinks there's a difference, a meaningful difference, is a fool. Which only goes so far, of course - because a man can be a fool and still have power, you can still be at the mercy of fools - but they're a fool all the same.
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