[ There's a stiffness to it, to be sure. In Byerly's best dreams about how this would go, he'd envisioned an almost impossible generosity - an enthusiastic, joyous flood of words, as if not a day had passed between then and now, as if she were still the sweetly loving girl she had been. It's certainly not that. But nor is it the cold rebuff he'd feared. Instead, it's - ]
My dearest brother,
I was very pleased to receive a letter from you. I was even more pleased to hear that you are doing so well. I am not surprised to hear that the Riftwatch admires you so much. I am sure you serve in this war both loyally and bravely. I am also glad to hear that you have such excellent companions who treat you well. I hope that you shall tell me much more of them and how you met one another.
I fear that there is no such excitement here. Or perhaps I am pleased to report as such. The war reaches here only in small ways. We have little sugar due to a lack of trade. As Elia's name-day was last month, and she was forced to have a tart made with treacle instead of sugar, the household is in some great disorder.
[ She talks a bit more here about her family. About her daughter, Elia, and her son, John. Her husband, a merchant named Thomas, who trades primarily in fabrics - linens and wools, good practical things. She talks about the garden she's sowing. It's all very surface-level, reporting rather than sharing. Rather akin to what would tell a very distant relation. But it's written warmly enough.
Finally, she concludes: ]
But perhaps you already know much of this. Gossip seems to flow northwards far more easily than it flows south. I pray you will respond with more - I should like to hear of your adventures.
[ Bastien takes his time. At the mention of treacle, the household is in some great disorder, his head drifts sideways to nudge against Byerly's arm and remains there, while his smile stretches wider with each sentence. Reserved, but warm. Not unlike the carefully restrained hope on By's face.
With only Byerly's comments on her and Byerly himself to build Nadine out of, he imagines this the last of several drafts, the words that remained after others were agonized over and discarded. Gone, a phrase that sounded too much like it blamed him for taking so long. Gone, a sentence that was too silly, because she is writing to an ambassador she can no longer claim to know well. Gone, a paragraph that was too hungry and enthusiastic, because she has something of Byerly in her. A little part that is afraid of hoping for too much until it is forced into her hands and she has been reassured thrice over that it won't be taken away. A little part that likewise senses fear in others and takes care not to move too quickly, the same way By has always been so patient in waiting for Bastien. Perhaps a little part that does feel abandoned or forgotten and hesitant to trust again—but with the door left open, if he'll come find her.
Perhaps Bastien is entirely off the mark. He looks forward to learning enough to know for certain, eventually. For now, as he finishes the last lines, all his relief and happiness bubbles up out of his chest and emerges as, ]
Byerly.
[ He is careful not to crease the letter as he pulls Byerly around, arm around his waist joined by a hand on his shoulder to drag him along in a quick, spinny, peasanty dance. He will be unreservedly overjoyed enough for all of them together. ]
[ Is a question. A question coming, perhaps absurdly, from Byerly, who can read intention or resistance or susceptibility in a penstroke when the letter is a diplomatic missive. In this - In this, he needs to stoop his head slightly and look Bastien in the eyes, anxious for some reassurance, even after that little peasanty dance has been concluded.
(An absurd request. Would Bastien be dancing if he didn't think it was good? But he needs those words.) ]
She doesn't seem - displeased by the idea. I feel as though - [ He gives a small motion of his head. ] You don't suppose she was just writing because she wanted sugar, was she?
[ Bastien lifts his chin to look back up at Byerly. ]
No. No, of course not.
[ Still oozing joy, but he can do it with less spinning: he moves his arms up, letter-holding hand draped over Byerly's shoulder, other hand on his beloved face, and beams at him. ]
It's good. It's great. She wrote to you! She wants you to write again. Look at everything she has given you to begin—her children. [ Byerly can't look; the letter is currently being held against his back, where Bastien's hand is dangling. But metaphorically. ] She could have kept them to a sentence at most if she wanted to keep you shut out of her family.
[ He lifts onto his toes to kiss By twice, once on each cheek. ]
[ But that's foolish. She doesn't want sugar. She wants to complain. Just the way that, back when they were children, she'd talk and talk about her schoolmate - oh, what was the girl's name - Anya, maybe? - and Byerly would offer suggestions for smoothing things over with Anya and Nadine would sigh irritably and it wasn't until years later that he figured out that she didn't want solutions. She wanted to be irritated and hear him listen.
This is like that. Right? She doesn't want something; she just wants her brother to listen.
Her brother.
He finds, suddenly, that his eyes are wet. He stoops all at once to bury his face against Bastien's shoulder. It's not until his breath hitches in a sob that he really realizes how...how much it all was, how intense the fear was in him. Like how you don't know how taut a muscle was till you unclench it.
It's not a full weep. It's a light one, just a few little hiccups before he gets control of himself again. But - oh, it's such a relief. ]
[ All of his jokes about wanting to be taller aside, Bastien is usually fine with his height. Right now, however, he would trade a whole finger (off his bow hand, at least) to be tall enough to fold By into his chest and be sturdy and comfortable to cry on.
But he does his best with what he has. Stays on his toes, keeps one arm wrapped around By's shoulder, kisses his ear, lightly scratches the hair on the nape of his neck. ]
It will be.
[ His enthusiasm has not waned, but in the face of the hiccuping, it's taken on a more subdued form. He alternates lowering his heels to rock on his feet, side to side—still a bit of dancing, but maybe more soothing in this form. ]
I'm so glad for you, my love. And what timing. I was five days away from meddling.
[ Curiosity - clean, clear, focused - cuts through the muddle of feeling. By raises his head off of Bastien's shoulder to look him in the face. Few besides Bastien would be able to get a look at Byerly when he's in this state: eyes still reddened, nose a little pinked from the emotional display, face unguarded. (And only one aside from Bastien might ever see Byerly like this when he's sober.)
His lip tucks up to the side, a hesitant, earnest little smile. ]
[ It's a sight that makes Bastien's heart swell—literally, he's pretty sure. He can feel it. And they were good tears, relieved tears, so there's no sorrow in the swelling. Just love for his face, the precious contrast of aristocratic features and open sweetness, and purring satisfaction at being allowed to see him so clearly. ]
I was going to write to her.
[ A kiss to Byerly's pink nose, and Bastien lets his feet flatten. ]
Once to let her know you'd written and it might have been lost along the way, and if that didn't work, a second time to tell her we'd both written and they both might have been lost, and then—three letters being lost would not be a coincidence. It would be the Venatori interfering. Trying to break our beloved Ambassador's spirit. So then I would go to Gwaren in person and deliver one myself.
[ Primly, very Orlesian, joking but not joking—and then more serious, with a hand up and a thumb on By’s cheekbone. ]
Anything for you.
[ Not something he’s said to By before. A line he drew, after Vincent—after he looked up from his years of infatuation and found himself with nothing to show for it but bloody hands. He didn’t think he’d ever offer anyone that again. He only is now, half teasing, because he’s so entirely certain that doing anything for Byerly means doing only good things, right ones, and not losing himself and his own dreams in the bargain. ]
Now you have to choose an adventure to tell her about. Something relatable—if you begin with the Herald’s spirit sending us prophetic dreams, she may think you have nothing in common anymore.
[ Something relatable. Something light. Nothing of his heartbreak, of his struggles, of his doubts. Nothing that would make her fear for his life - rather, something dashing but steadying. Odd as he realizes how much there is to choose from. ]
Did you ever think you’d end up like this?
[ The question is wry. ]
I was such an ordinary boy with such an ordinary life.
[ The two of them had been so ordinary together. ]
I hoped I would. [ Hungry, overlooked, refusing to clean boots for a living, clinging to a book of adventure stories. ] And I don't think you were ever ordinary.
[ He looks at Byerly's letter from Nadine again, quietly beaming with delight that it exists, before carefully folding it for him. ]
What did you want your life to become, when you were little?
[ He takes the letter with careful fingertips, pinching the creases delicately. He smiles down at it with an expression that's as wondering as it is fond. And then he turns the same expression up at Bastien, because - He'd never have had the courage for this without him. Without his pressing, without his love. He leans in and kisses him, then, lightly, without commentary; then he pulls back and considers the question. ]
I didn't really think about it.
[ Something almost embarrassing to admit to Bastien, who might well be someone nourished on dreams. His beloved might be able to forgo food, drink, and sleep, if he has ambitions to sustain him. ]
There was only one path open to me, really. Inherit the estate. Become its administrator. So there wasn't any point in imagining something different.
[ He closes an open book on the table—not that it makes much difference in the lightly organized chaos of the room—and slides his hand into Byerly's to pull him along through the door. This avenue of conversation has reinvigorated Bastien's semiregular pangs of regret for his part in trapping Byerly at a desk, so they're going to get lunch, and they're going to eat it outside. ]
You would have your piece of land, and your people, and that is all you would have to care for. Keep them fed, keep the wolves at bay–job done. The rest of the world wouldn't have to be your problem.
[ The letter is slipped into his breast pocket. His fingers interlace with Bastien's. What a pleasure it is to walk hand-in-hand with the man you love. No matter the world around them, no matter the difficulties before them, things are...good. ]
If I did, I don't recall it. I dreamed of heroics, to be sure, but always applied to where I was, to the people I was with. Until the moment I left, it didn't seem possible to me. To leave.
[ A reflective moment where he squeezes Bastien's hand. ]
It's funny, how the worst thing in your life can open up so much good.
[ Bastien wrinkles his nose at By, like aw, you, with no need for explicit assurance he's part of that good. That's what nearly two years of being sweetly adored will do to a man.
But, ]
I think you would have had it even without the bad first, mon étoile brillante. One way or another. You are too bright and too bold for the boredom to have gotten you. You would have gotten it. Or gotten out. No one had to be cruel to you to make it happen.
[ His shoulders curl in with his tickled little laugh. Maker. Talk about getting more than he deserves. ]
Maybe not.
[ And that's an awful thought. ]
I have never believed in soul mates—have you? People being meant for one another, I never thought it was sweet. I thought, how terrifying, not to have any say. Like in the stories when someone is pulled toward someone who is awful for them, over and over again. Or to think if you don't find yours, if you find someone else you like well enough instead, it won't be as good. Nothing you do will ever make it as good. That's awful.
[ He moves close enough to By to walk with his cheek against his shoulder, for a few steps. It requires slowing down. At this rate they'll make it to lunch by dinner. ]
But now it's hard to imagine I wouldn't feel you missing.
[ He hums thoughtfully. It's not something he's thought about too deeply, truthfully - But it makes sense that Bastien would have. Bastien is so much more thoughtful than By, after all, so much better-read, with the sort of mind that doesn't just absorb stories but pulls them apart, like a puzzle, looking at all the pieces. So curious. So he speaks of soulmates, and By just smiles with warm bemusement as he considers this perspective. ]
It also - Well. I think we've done quite a lot of work to fall in love with each other, haven't we? If we were just predestined, it would have been quite a lot easier. No need to fumble over all those pieces of armor.
[ A squeeze in response to feeling him missing. He feels the same. If he had taken that different path - He cannot imagine it being as good as this one. ]
He spends another five seconds thinking of the life Byerly could have had if his childhood had been kinder. In all likelihood there would be someone else for him, or two or three someones, who'd love him just as well. So it's good that it's only hypothetical. No one's ever going to hold those two Byerlies out in their hands and make Bastien decide which exists. He'll never have to know how selfish he would be. ]
You're right. We did it, not fate. If anything had been different...
[ He swerves away from being at all sad about it. It's made up. Made-up scenarios don't get to make him sad. ]
Maybe it would have worked if we both changed. A young lord oppressed by his responsibilities, and—I don't know. Maybe I would be a miner. [ Kaiten is a mining city; he won't be saying that part out loud in the corridors. ] Can you imagine the shoulders I would have if I were a miner? If you saw my mining shoulders across a market square, you would have to come touch them. You'd be powerless.
[ He bursts out with a delighted cackle. Then he lifts his free arm, and hoods his eyes, and - without breaking his grip on Bastien's hand - staggers forward like one ensorcelled. ]
Must...caress...Cannot help myself...
[ And then he reaches over and lovingly strokes Bastien's ordinary-but-still-very-nice shoulder. ]
[ In his Marcher accent, with a look that’s the precise combination of baffled and entranced that his simple miner counterpart would feel upon being caressed by a Fereldan lord with eyes like these. ]
—and then we could put in the work to fall in love, [ back to sounding properly Orlesian, and belatedly grinning at Byerly’s enchanted act now that he doesn’t need to act himself, ] and you could add me to your harem, and everything would be fine.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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My dearest brother,
I was very pleased to receive a letter from you. I was even more pleased to hear that you are doing so well. I am not surprised to hear that the Riftwatch admires you so much. I am sure you serve in this war both loyally and bravely. I am also glad to hear that you have such excellent companions who treat you well. I hope that you shall tell me much more of them and how you met one another.
I fear that there is no such excitement here. Or perhaps I am pleased to report as such. The war reaches here only in small ways. We have little sugar due to a lack of trade. As Elia's name-day was last month, and she was forced to have a tart made with treacle instead of sugar, the household is in some great disorder.
[ She talks a bit more here about her family. About her daughter, Elia, and her son, John. Her husband, a merchant named Thomas, who trades primarily in fabrics - linens and wools, good practical things. She talks about the garden she's sowing. It's all very surface-level, reporting rather than sharing. Rather akin to what would tell a very distant relation. But it's written warmly enough.
Finally, she concludes: ]
But perhaps you already know much of this. Gossip seems to flow northwards far more easily than it flows south. I pray you will respond with more - I should like to hear of your adventures.
Your sister,
Nadine.
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With only Byerly's comments on her and Byerly himself to build Nadine out of, he imagines this the last of several drafts, the words that remained after others were agonized over and discarded. Gone, a phrase that sounded too much like it blamed him for taking so long. Gone, a sentence that was too silly, because she is writing to an ambassador she can no longer claim to know well. Gone, a paragraph that was too hungry and enthusiastic, because she has something of Byerly in her. A little part that is afraid of hoping for too much until it is forced into her hands and she has been reassured thrice over that it won't be taken away. A little part that likewise senses fear in others and takes care not to move too quickly, the same way By has always been so patient in waiting for Bastien. Perhaps a little part that does feel abandoned or forgotten and hesitant to trust again—but with the door left open, if he'll come find her.
Perhaps Bastien is entirely off the mark. He looks forward to learning enough to know for certain, eventually. For now, as he finishes the last lines, all his relief and happiness bubbles up out of his chest and emerges as, ]
Byerly.
[ He is careful not to crease the letter as he pulls Byerly around, arm around his waist joined by a hand on his shoulder to drag him along in a quick, spinny, peasanty dance. He will be unreservedly overjoyed enough for all of them together. ]
Her dearest brother!
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[ Is a question. A question coming, perhaps absurdly, from Byerly, who can read intention or resistance or susceptibility in a penstroke when the letter is a diplomatic missive. In this - In this, he needs to stoop his head slightly and look Bastien in the eyes, anxious for some reassurance, even after that little peasanty dance has been concluded.
(An absurd request. Would Bastien be dancing if he didn't think it was good? But he needs those words.) ]
She doesn't seem - displeased by the idea. I feel as though - [ He gives a small motion of his head. ] You don't suppose she was just writing because she wanted sugar, was she?
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No. No, of course not.
[ Still oozing joy, but he can do it with less spinning: he moves his arms up, letter-holding hand draped over Byerly's shoulder, other hand on his beloved face, and beams at him. ]
It's good. It's great. She wrote to you! She wants you to write again. Look at everything she has given you to begin—her children. [ Byerly can't look; the letter is currently being held against his back, where Bastien's hand is dangling. But metaphorically. ] She could have kept them to a sentence at most if she wanted to keep you shut out of her family.
[ He lifts onto his toes to kiss By twice, once on each cheek. ]
Don't send her sugar.
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[ But that's foolish. She doesn't want sugar. She wants to complain. Just the way that, back when they were children, she'd talk and talk about her schoolmate - oh, what was the girl's name - Anya, maybe? - and Byerly would offer suggestions for smoothing things over with Anya and Nadine would sigh irritably and it wasn't until years later that he figured out that she didn't want solutions. She wanted to be irritated and hear him listen.
This is like that. Right? She doesn't want something; she just wants her brother to listen.
Her brother.
He finds, suddenly, that his eyes are wet. He stoops all at once to bury his face against Bastien's shoulder. It's not until his breath hitches in a sob that he really realizes how...how much it all was, how intense the fear was in him. Like how you don't know how taut a muscle was till you unclench it.
It's not a full weep. It's a light one, just a few little hiccups before he gets control of himself again. But - oh, it's such a relief. ]
Yeah. I'll write again. It'll be good.
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But he does his best with what he has. Stays on his toes, keeps one arm wrapped around By's shoulder, kisses his ear, lightly scratches the hair on the nape of his neck. ]
It will be.
[ His enthusiasm has not waned, but in the face of the hiccuping, it's taken on a more subdued form. He alternates lowering his heels to rock on his feet, side to side—still a bit of dancing, but maybe more soothing in this form. ]
I'm so glad for you, my love. And what timing. I was five days away from meddling.
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[ Curiosity - clean, clear, focused - cuts through the muddle of feeling. By raises his head off of Bastien's shoulder to look him in the face. Few besides Bastien would be able to get a look at Byerly when he's in this state: eyes still reddened, nose a little pinked from the emotional display, face unguarded. (And only one aside from Bastien might ever see Byerly like this when he's sober.)
His lip tucks up to the side, a hesitant, earnest little smile. ]
How would you have meddled?
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I was going to write to her.
[ A kiss to Byerly's pink nose, and Bastien lets his feet flatten. ]
Once to let her know you'd written and it might have been lost along the way, and if that didn't work, a second time to tell her we'd both written and they both might have been lost, and then—three letters being lost would not be a coincidence. It would be the Venatori interfering. Trying to break our beloved Ambassador's spirit. So then I would go to Gwaren in person and deliver one myself.
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Opening a southern front in the war, eh? Launching a charm offensive.
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[ Primly, very Orlesian, joking but not joking—and then more serious, with a hand up and a thumb on By’s cheekbone. ]
Anything for you.
[ Not something he’s said to By before. A line he drew, after Vincent—after he looked up from his years of infatuation and found himself with nothing to show for it but bloody hands. He didn’t think he’d ever offer anyone that again. He only is now, half teasing, because he’s so entirely certain that doing anything for Byerly means doing only good things, right ones, and not losing himself and his own dreams in the bargain. ]
Now you have to choose an adventure to tell her about. Something relatable—if you begin with the Herald’s spirit sending us prophetic dreams, she may think you have nothing in common anymore.
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[ Something relatable. Something light. Nothing of his heartbreak, of his struggles, of his doubts. Nothing that would make her fear for his life - rather, something dashing but steadying. Odd as he realizes how much there is to choose from. ]
Did you ever think you’d end up like this?
[ The question is wry. ]
I was such an ordinary boy with such an ordinary life.
[ The two of them had been so ordinary together. ]
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[ He looks at Byerly's letter from Nadine again, quietly beaming with delight that it exists, before carefully folding it for him. ]
What did you want your life to become, when you were little?
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I didn't really think about it.
[ Something almost embarrassing to admit to Bastien, who might well be someone nourished on dreams. His beloved might be able to forgo food, drink, and sleep, if he has ambitions to sustain him. ]
There was only one path open to me, really. Inherit the estate. Become its administrator. So there wasn't any point in imagining something different.
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Maybe that wouldn't have been so bad.
[ He closes an open book on the table—not that it makes much difference in the lightly organized chaos of the room—and slides his hand into Byerly's to pull him along through the door. This avenue of conversation has reinvigorated Bastien's semiregular pangs of regret for his part in trapping Byerly at a desk, so they're going to get lunch, and they're going to eat it outside. ]
You would have your piece of land, and your people, and that is all you would have to care for. Keep them fed, keep the wolves at bay–job done. The rest of the world wouldn't have to be your problem.
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[ The letter is slipped into his breast pocket. His fingers interlace with Bastien's. What a pleasure it is to walk hand-in-hand with the man you love. No matter the world around them, no matter the difficulties before them, things are...good. ]
I'd have died of boredom.
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Maybe so.
[ He gives their hands a little extra swing. If they look like schoolchildren to passersby—good. ]
You never wanted to run away and be a pirate? Or Rat Red?
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[ He tilts his head to the side and back again. ]
If I did, I don't recall it. I dreamed of heroics, to be sure, but always applied to where I was, to the people I was with. Until the moment I left, it didn't seem possible to me. To leave.
[ A reflective moment where he squeezes Bastien's hand. ]
It's funny, how the worst thing in your life can open up so much good.
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But, ]
I think you would have had it even without the bad first, mon étoile brillante. One way or another. You are too bright and too bold for the boredom to have gotten you. You would have gotten it. Or gotten out. No one had to be cruel to you to make it happen.
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But I might not have met you.
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Maybe not.
[ And that's an awful thought. ]
I have never believed in soul mates—have you? People being meant for one another, I never thought it was sweet. I thought, how terrifying, not to have any say. Like in the stories when someone is pulled toward someone who is awful for them, over and over again. Or to think if you don't find yours, if you find someone else you like well enough instead, it won't be as good. Nothing you do will ever make it as good. That's awful.
[ He moves close enough to By to walk with his cheek against his shoulder, for a few steps. It requires slowing down. At this rate they'll make it to lunch by dinner. ]
But now it's hard to imagine I wouldn't feel you missing.
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It also - Well. I think we've done quite a lot of work to fall in love with each other, haven't we? If we were just predestined, it would have been quite a lot easier. No need to fumble over all those pieces of armor.
[ A squeeze in response to feeling him missing. He feels the same. If he had taken that different path - He cannot imagine it being as good as this one. ]
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[ He's teasing, bright-eyed.
He spends another five seconds thinking of the life Byerly could have had if his childhood had been kinder. In all likelihood there would be someone else for him, or two or three someones, who'd love him just as well. So it's good that it's only hypothetical. No one's ever going to hold those two Byerlies out in their hands and make Bastien decide which exists. He'll never have to know how selfish he would be. ]
You're right. We did it, not fate. If anything had been different...
[ He swerves away from being at all sad about it. It's made up. Made-up scenarios don't get to make him sad. ]
Maybe it would have worked if we both changed. A young lord oppressed by his responsibilities, and—I don't know. Maybe I would be a miner. [ Kaiten is a mining city; he won't be saying that part out loud in the corridors. ] Can you imagine the shoulders I would have if I were a miner? If you saw my mining shoulders across a market square, you would have to come touch them. You'd be powerless.
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Must...caress...Cannot help myself...
[ And then he reaches over and lovingly strokes Bastien's ordinary-but-still-very-nice shoulder. ]
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[ In his Marcher accent, with a look that’s the precise combination of baffled and entranced that his simple miner counterpart would feel upon being caressed by a Fereldan lord with eyes like these. ]
—and then we could put in the work to fall in love, [ back to sounding properly Orlesian, and belatedly grinning at Byerly’s enchanted act now that he doesn’t need to act himself, ] and you could add me to your harem, and everything would be fine.
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[ Better and better. Dropping his own act: ]
Would I have a harem?
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