contact part deux

[bouchonne]

if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message

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[dissolving]

"Have to explain how you shrunk," He writes down stilts, underlines it for effect (flashes phoenetic Orlesian in the process) - "Blood magic, maybe."

His expression narrows a little. Curious:

"How close does she know you?"

Is she looking for Byerly Rutyer, or the former Ambassador?

[bouchonne]

Hmmmm.

[ He deposits Rat Red back on the bed, then slips in under the wonderfully pre-warmed blankets. He thinks about the fight they'd had, over animals in the bedroom, and feels such gratitude that Bastien let him have his way on this, and he kisses his neck in unspoken gratitude.

Then, back to the smut - ]

He better have. It's cowardice to make the evil love interest actually simply misunderstood. Make him evil, make her evil. No noble suffering, only ignoble suffering.

[ Byerly, it should be noted, always finds some reason to complain about stories where evil prevails. He never complains about that directly - of course not - but there's always some other flaw in the story that keeps him from enjoying it. And by some odd little coincidence, he doesn't tend to find those faults in stories where good wins (though he does heartily complain about the cheesy ending). ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien accepts the neck kiss with a hum, pleasantly oblivious to its motivation. ]

Let's find out.

[ He slides an arm around to keep Byerly against his side, holding the book open with one hand while he starts reading the relevant part aloud, interspersed with paraphrases of some of the unnecessarily long parts.

He's not the only one in the room who wants a cuddle. Here comes Rat Red in search of a lap (and fingers to bite) (and perhaps also the cover of the book? please?) (or sleeves!). A moment later, Whiskey sighs from her place nearer the fire place, heaves her big bones and sea of skin off the floor, and clambers onto the foot of the bed to snuggle into the valley between their legs with her head on By's thigh and her great sad eyes fixed on her attention-hog of a little sister.

Bastien rubs her shoulder with his knee, pausing to huff— ]

She's not going to tell us here. Tease.

[ —and flip ahead in unrepentant search of the answer. ]

action.

[cozen]

[ The conversation is still ongoing when Bastien joins Byerly at the docks, Kirkwall-side. He hasn't run—no need to draw attention from the locals—but he's walking briskly, no casual slouching stroll, with a bag and both dogs collected from the house. ]

I brought you some clothes in case they don't let us leave today.

[ He hands Whiskey's lead, needed to keep her from hounding off after smells in the city and leading them on merry chases after her quarry (sausage vendors), to Byerly. Rat Red is in the crook of his arm. He folds his other to rest a hand on Byerly's back, up between his shoulder blades. ]

You couldn't have known it was something this serious.

[bouchonne]

I could have. I should have.

[ He takes Whiskey's leash. His fingers clench tightly around the woven cloth. ]

How often is it something innocuous in this bloody place?

[cozen]

Sometimes it is.

[ He would like to say it will be fine, Benedict is fine—but he has a personal policy against telling Byerly lies. ]

And this was not something anyone imagined we needed to watch for.

[bouchonne]

Maker.

[ He presses his eyes shut. He draws Whiskey's leash in close to him. Then - ]

I hope it was quick. I hope he did not...linger. Trapped. Expecting us to come save him.

[cozen]

[ There's nothing to say to that that isn't horrible, one way or another, so Bastien doesn't try. The ferry is nearby, but a minute or two off yet, so Bastien shifts Rat Red further out of the way to move closer without squishing her. He has to lift onto his toes to even begin to be able to pull Byerly's face into his shoulder. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly is awkward in his grip. The angles are strange, with the little terrier in the way, with Bastien still laden with their things. But he's heartfelt. His fingers dig in. He presses his face against Bastien's warm shoulder. ]

Maker, he didn't deserve this.

[cozen]

No, [ Bastien agrees into his neck. ] He was a good man. He had tried very hard and come very far. And he knew that you cared about him. If he had time to hope we would come for him, he had to know the whole time you would do everything you could.

[bouchonne]

Maker. I was so proud of myself, helping to pull you out of that situation at Halamshiral. And all the while, Artemaeus was -

[ The ferry is approaching. Byerly pulls himself up straight. ]

It’s just all so - ignoble. For him to have gone through everything he went through, only to lose to a demon.

[cozen]

[ Bastien doesn't smile, exactly, but he does get more affectionate around the eyes. His hero—Byerly should be proud. Bastien is grateful. This doesn't erase that.

He has to let go of Byerly to get into the ferry. To put Rat Red on the floor for a moment, to help hoist Whiskey in while she does very little to assist. If he'd been in less of a hurry he'd have asked Franz or Percy to come stay in the house with her instead.

But it's manageable, and by the time they've settled onto a bench, Bastien's had time to think: ] It could have been very noble. He might have put up a magnificent fight. He might have done something to sabotage the imitation—maybe that is why we could tell something was a bit wrong at all.

[bouchonne]

[ That idea brings some solace to Byerly. Solace, in this case, brings pain with it, enough that he needs to take up Rat Red in his hands and pretend to be very invested in inspecting her, so that she might lick his face with enough energy that any and all tears are cleaned up before they have time to fall.

It's a few minutes of sailing before he's pulled himself together. He lowers Rat Red down to his lap again. ]

Had you - forgiven him?

baby's first sending crystal message

[quaestionespatris]

[is this thing on, he can't even tell--oh, there it goes--]

Byerly..!

[a panicked hiss,]

What's happened--what's happened to Benedict? Where is he? Is anybody looking for him?

[bouchonne]

[ Oh.

Fuck.

Byerly freezes a moment, his mind absolutely gone blank, utterly unable to think of what he could possibly say here. ]

He -

[ Is almost certainly dead. ]

Is...missing.

[ Maker. Could he have said that any worse? ]

[quaestionespatris]

[denial is a river in... well, it's a river, somewhere. Tavi waits for Byerly to say something clever and reassuring, and refuses to confront the yawning pit of grief preparing to swallow him whole.]

Missing. Missing, [repeated like he's expecting the word to change itself into a satisfying answer instead,] missing, what does that mean, missing? Where did you last see him?

[more importantly, and with aching desperation,] Tell me what to do, tell me how I can help.

[bouchonne]

[ That's the worst question that Tavi could possibly ask. Byerly struggles to think of some busy work for the boy. Comes up blank. ]

I - do not know. How you can help.

[quaestionespatris]

[silence. there's the muted sound of some bustle of activity in the background; he's in the library, not that it matters.]

Is he--

[he can't say it. he has to say it.]

Byerly, is he dead?

[bouchonne]

[ Maker help him. He's a good liar. He's a practiced liar. He was a professional spy. And yet the thing that comes out of his mouth is the miserable truth. ]

I - believe that he is. Yes.

[quaestionespatris]

Oh.

[it's a deceptively mild and ordinary-sounding 'oh'--before it catches in his throat, anyway. Tavi sits on the other end of the connection in complete silence while this realization upends all the stupid, naive little hopes and dreams he'd nurtured in his stupid, naive little heart over the last forty-eight hours. no point in playing games of 'what if?' and 'maybe this time' anymore, is there?

he clears his throat, pushes his hand across his face. tries to get his shit together, he's not a child--]

...Okay. Okay, has anyone--do you know if anyone is looking for a body?

[not his body. keep it impersonal. it helps.]

[bouchonne]

No. I don't think they are, as of yet.

[ I am sorry. I am so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry. ]

It is a matter of not knowing - We do not know what a demon would even do with the body of someone it imitated.

[quaestionespatris]

[it was a childish dream, anyway.

depression has its hooks into his heart, but the fatigue and brain fog haven't settled in yet. he stares at the books open in front of him without seeing them.]

I could try to ask. [a pause, before he clarifies,] The Fade spirit who helps me. I could--I could try to ask it. Sometimes it doesn't understand, but--

[maker, this is hard. Tavi swallows, presses his sleeve to his eyes.] I don't know what else I can do.

[bouchonne]

The…

[ That’s almost strange enough to knock him from his melancholy. ]

The what, now?

[quaestionespatris]

The spirit, [he repeats, like that will help. a beat, and he goes on,] I'm a spirit healer, that's... that's my vocation. Was my vocation, anyway.

[bouchonne]

I thought that name, spirit healer, was a little more… [ Hm. ] Metaphorical. You actually have a spirit that follows you around?