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fade rift. inbox.
for private scenes and correspondence.
non-urgent crystal messages will be responded to by letter at his earliest convenience.
for private scenes and correspondence.
non-urgent crystal messages will be responded to by letter at his earliest convenience.
at some point on the trip home
(It's the Inquisition. There will always be plenty of teeth.)
Almost nostalgic, when she pulls back from the mass of carts and mounts, lets her mule fall into step beside him —
"Your brother," Less than nostalgic. No one else is watching, eyes to road and their own private dramas. A sharp breath: What is there to say of Emeric? She shakes her head, trails off, and into another thread of thought. "I need tell you something. It is not kind."
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It was good, he thinks. Some part of it was good, seeing him, even if he knows now how much more there always was to see than Emeric wanted him to. True of them both, he might suppose, but Gervais is a different animal entirely. And, looking at his brother deep in his cups, bloody and tired, he had not imagined himself seen, either.
Emeric goes to war. The Comte, their last Comte, goes to war. That man who would take no healing that Gervais couldn't hide beneath feigned drinks and his distraction, goes to war. He heard some of what was said between father and daughter, enough. He thinks: what kindness would there be? and something of that weariness is there in his sidelong look.
Quiet. Waiting. A hand moving from his reins to his own thigh nearest her when reaching further would be awkward and draw attention but some gesture must be made. Tell him, then.
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"I'd a project; attaching names to the red forces," Lost causes. Beasts, to hear others tell of it, and tell her they always do — "Bodies. Effects. I'd lists."
Emeric is a lost cause. In his own words, by his own measure; soaked through with too much liquor and history to not reflect some fraction of familiar image. The cheekbones, perhaps, or his jaw. (Torn kunckles in hers.) A beast,
That's what they call it, when the dog runs mad.
"I spoke with Werner's mother," She isn't looking at him. "It is what she knows."
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He keeps his composure because he always has; the tells are smaller than that, barely there at all. That he doesn't exhale. His gaze does not drop but turn steadily forward, back to the road. He imagines what he would say, if speaking were something he did with ease, and his thoughts echo only the same silence as ever back to him. Better that the boy's mother mourn a monster than see one in his shoulders, his shadow? He can't quite make himself think it. Makes room for some sense of relief: finds only that he feels some dim sense of it in its absence. That it doesn't come is more comfort than if it did.
He killed two men.
He killed a bastard and a boy.
He had never thought, in truth, that he'd not ever be called to account for it.
His fingers twitch on the reins. He thinks, in a bright voice that will never make it out of his mouth, I've changed my mind, I'm going with my brother to the fucking front, and he says:
“Th-th-thank you for. For. For telling me.”
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Comic. Out of place. Averie would have liked it.
"There was no one else to tell."
No family left to lie to. Should never have done it — no, should have done it the moment he walked in (the fear he'd walk out again). A year, and precaution has so quickly curdled to threat. Half the country again in and out of flame, and there's little reason to think any looking to the Spire's survivors. Save for his name; save for her position. Time ever crawls to collect.
"I," Fumbled. She tries again. "I cannot go on pretending it of them. Of you. I need,"
The words are too intent. Draws back, conscious,
"I need to know what happened. I need to know how."
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He observes the part of himself that nearly becomes angry with dispassionate coolness. It has never done him any good before; he allows it no reign now.
“Why.”
Just that.
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Because you know who I've killed, Isn't going to help this. Because I lied for you,
He never asked for that. At last:
"He told me that you drowned him." As though it's not insane to add, "That you drowned him, after the knife."
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A dead man who he did not drown told her literally anything.
“Wren,” he says, and then: “Wh-what?”
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Her hand rises, presses to her temple. Eyes shut.
"It told me. It wore his face, but he'd eyes in his head, Gervais. He never has his bloody eyes."
Jaw works, releases. Don't make a scene. Not above water, not with others about.
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No part of him wants to have this conversation. No part of him wants to say what will end it, because he doesn't know if that will be the end of it, but Maker knows it will fester if he doesn't. It has festered in his silence, that much is plain, unknown to him—should he have known? He feels as if he should; cannot be sure if that's truth or overactive sense of responsibility.
He is responsible for those deaths. That he should never have been put in the position of being so—
Yet he was. And he is. He could have fled bloodlessly, the opportunity was there. He chose to ensure he would not be followed.
“Kn-kn-kn-knife. Mine.” Not Werner's, but the blade to which Gwenaëlle carries a twin, hers dropped once in front of Wren from nerveless fingers. He took Werner's, a practical man by nature, but he hadn't wielded it. He imagines, distantly, that that may matter to her. He touches his fingertips to his throat, meeting her gaze. “It—it, it, it was fast. Th-they stood close to-to-t-t-t-to-together.”
An exhale.
“Th-th-their, ah, ah, their b-b-bodies—I, ah. I could not, not tell you. Where the ravine.”
The first few weeks and months blurred, indistinct; what direction he'd been traveling in, what direction he'd traveled from. Those moments run hot with blood are burned into his mind, but the rest...
Gervais couldn't find where he left them if he wanted to. He doesn't.
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Speak. She ought to speak.
"Your knife." An echo. Perhaps she means thank you, only she doesn’t mean that at all. Thank you is for letters and handshakes and salons. The false bones of courtesy. "Fast."
His knife. Can’t say whether it should be better — any better than Gwenaelle’s own fingers curled about the grip, and doesn't that prove she’s the nerve for it? They’ve both the nerve for it, may they not again need it. Her posture slips in place,
"It called itself Grief." After a fashion. Hardly her first demon; but the first of its kind, "It must be terrible, to meet so often in the Fade."
What are quiet dreams to a mage?
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He thinks he might be no more equipped to speak on it further if he were better equipped to speak at all.
Least of all on his dreams.
It's a blindly done thing, how he reaches out abruptly to press her knee with his hand—a warm weight, curving familiar, intended reassurance. Reassurance because the next thing he does when he releases that grip is press his knees, urge his horse forward, riding ahead.
The road is scattered enough with Inquisition agents that he doesn't need to go far to be alone, and still surrounded.
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Right. She settles back in, grinds teeth against lip to ignore the irritated snort of the creature beneath her. Brushes fingers against its shorn mane. The spine of new stubble before hands, heat.
Don't leave, and the space between request and command is the chance to. Leave, but come back.