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contact part deux
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
[ Bastien nods, letting that information settle. Not despicable. Pitiable. But he only cares so much about the pains of a woman he’s never met, and both roads lead to Byerly unkempt and hungry and standing as a battered wall around his sister, with no wall of his own.
He curls his arm up to scratch By’s scalp and smooth his hair in turns. ]
My father was sick as long as I knew him. [ Offered as a little packet of incomplete understanding. Not the same thing at all, but he’s at least familiar with the concept of a parent stinking and unmoving in bed. ] Something in his lungs. But it came and went.
Did she ever have good days? Or was she just lost to you?
He curls his arm up to scratch By’s scalp and smooth his hair in turns. ]
My father was sick as long as I knew him. [ Offered as a little packet of incomplete understanding. Not the same thing at all, but he’s at least familiar with the concept of a parent stinking and unmoving in bed. ] Something in his lungs. But it came and went.
Did she ever have good days? Or was she just lost to you?
There were good days. Which was the real bitch of it. Easier if you've no cause to hope. When she seems more alert when you play music, well, then - then you think to yourself, if you just play better, maybe she'll stay. But that's not how it works.
[ A long sigh. He presses his head up into Bastien's fingertips. ]
What of your mother?
[ A long sigh. He presses his head up into Bastien's fingertips. ]
What of your mother?
She was—fine. She was...
[ They're old lies, now told without thought or emphasis, with past tenses and offhand before she dieds and uncorrected assumptions. It's telling the truth that takes thought.
But he does, with a touch of sheepishness, while his skritching moves to the hairline behind By's ear. ]
She is probably still alive, too. But as I remember her, she was tired. And tough. Once she beat her employer's son in the face with a ladle because he pinched her. That is what I heard, anyway.
[ They're old lies, now told without thought or emphasis, with past tenses and offhand before she dieds and uncorrected assumptions. It's telling the truth that takes thought.
But he does, with a touch of sheepishness, while his skritching moves to the hairline behind By's ear. ]
She is probably still alive, too. But as I remember her, she was tired. And tough. Once she beat her employer's son in the face with a ladle because he pinched her. That is what I heard, anyway.
No, [ with a little laugh, and then more seriously: ] No, she never worked anywhere for very long.
[ He’s still mulling the thought of a young Byerly practicing his violin, believing being good enough might bring his mother back. At least he kept loving it even when it failed him. That’s something. But not enough, so Bastien gives into the impulse to twist around and get an arm around his middle. ]
Was your father only a bastard to you? Or to all of you?
[ He’s still mulling the thought of a young Byerly practicing his violin, believing being good enough might bring his mother back. At least he kept loving it even when it failed him. That’s something. But not enough, so Bastien gives into the impulse to twist around and get an arm around his middle. ]
Was your father only a bastard to you? Or to all of you?
My father is a bastard to everyone. Even other bastards don't like him.
[ He gives a soft, grim laugh. ]
A penny-pinching misanthrope. I doubt he's left that rotting old house in two decades, but that certainly didn't stop him from feeling he had the right to pass lordly judgment on anyone and everyone. He didn't just hate me - he just hated me the most.
[ He gives a soft, grim laugh. ]
A penny-pinching misanthrope. I doubt he's left that rotting old house in two decades, but that certainly didn't stop him from feeling he had the right to pass lordly judgment on anyone and everyone. He didn't just hate me - he just hated me the most.
Maybe that says something good about you.
[ He smiles a little, out of respect for Byerly's ability to laugh, but it's an equally grim smile, and it fades. ]
I'm sorry for asking. I mean—I am glad to know. But I thought maybe she died and you had good memories of her. It must have been awful, to have everything happen as it did while she was still there and not doing anything about it.
[ He smiles a little, out of respect for Byerly's ability to laugh, but it's an equally grim smile, and it fades. ]
I'm sorry for asking. I mean—I am glad to know. But I thought maybe she died and you had good memories of her. It must have been awful, to have everything happen as it did while she was still there and not doing anything about it.
[ He pinches Bastien's earlobe - too gently to be a real reprimand, but a little scoldingly nevertheless. ]
Don't apologize. You know as well as I do that talking about oneself is the greatest bliss of all. All you need to do to get most people talking is to ask. I always want to be asked, and so very rarely am - something to do with people assuming they know me soon as they look at me.
[ A moment, then - ]
There were good memories. She taught us music. She laughed. She hated my father, too. There's a reason I like it when you speak Orlesian to me.
Don't apologize. You know as well as I do that talking about oneself is the greatest bliss of all. All you need to do to get most people talking is to ask. I always want to be asked, and so very rarely am - something to do with people assuming they know me soon as they look at me.
[ A moment, then - ]
There were good memories. She taught us music. She laughed. She hated my father, too. There's a reason I like it when you speak Orlesian to me.
[ With an obliging switch to the language in question: ]
Three reasons. It is also more melodious and the language of the Maker.
[ But with nothing to feel sorry for, apparently, and more interest in this than in back-scratches, he does some further shifting and squirming as required to sit pressed side-to-side. ]
I have always marveled a little at how good your Orlesian is. Did she speak it with you a lot?
Three reasons. It is also more melodious and the language of the Maker.
[ But with nothing to feel sorry for, apparently, and more interest in this than in back-scratches, he does some further shifting and squirming as required to sit pressed side-to-side. ]
I have always marveled a little at how good your Orlesian is. Did she speak it with you a lot?
She spoke it with us exclusively. I spoke Orlesian before I spoke Trade.
[ By grabs Bastien's wrist and positions it where it pleases him, physically draping his arm across By's shoulders. ]
Even now, it feels so much more correct to swear in Orlesian. Trade curses just don't have the same weight. Also, the Maker is a rotten bastard, as has been well-documented, so I don't think that's something to boast of.
[ By grabs Bastien's wrist and positions it where it pleases him, physically draping his arm across By's shoulders. ]
Even now, it feels so much more correct to swear in Orlesian. Trade curses just don't have the same weight. Also, the Maker is a rotten bastard, as has been well-documented, so I don't think that's something to boast of.
A rotten bastard with high standards and great ear for music.
[ When his arm has been put where it’s wanted, he gives a little squeeze and traces circles on Byerly’s bicep with his thumb, without having to wonder if it’s welcome, which is another thing to marvel at. ]
Does your father speak it too? Or did you get to have a secret?
[ When his arm has been put where it’s wanted, he gives a little squeeze and traces circles on Byerly’s bicep with his thumb, without having to wonder if it’s welcome, which is another thing to marvel at. ]
Does your father speak it too? Or did you get to have a secret?
I never once heard him speaking it. Likely he knew some - it's the singular madness of Fereldan nobility, that one must detest the Orlesians but still aspire to their tongue and their fashion and their food - but not enough to converse.
[ He settles in against Bastien's side. ]
How long did it take you to learn Trade?
[ He settles in against Bastien's side. ]
How long did it take you to learn Trade?
Not long.
[ Maybe he didn’t keep track. Maybe he absorbed it from the city’s bilingual traders and shopkeepers without paying attention. Maybe—
This is the problem with having people you don’t want to lie to. You have to tell them the truth.
So he makes a noise between a sigh and a groan, a wordless joke about his own reluctance, and says, ]
I spoke Trade first. My bardmaster had to tell everyone in the house to tackle me if they heard it come out of my mouth, for a while.
Don’t say you could have guessed. It will hurt my feelings.
[ Maybe he didn’t keep track. Maybe he absorbed it from the city’s bilingual traders and shopkeepers without paying attention. Maybe—
This is the problem with having people you don’t want to lie to. You have to tell them the truth.
So he makes a noise between a sigh and a groan, a wordless joke about his own reluctance, and says, ]
I spoke Trade first. My bardmaster had to tell everyone in the house to tackle me if they heard it come out of my mouth, for a while.
Don’t say you could have guessed. It will hurt my feelings.
[ By pats Bastien, like a reward for honesty - though it's a deliberately awful pat, all open hand on his face smacking him awkwardly. One cannot, of course, be too sincere with that sort of thing. ]
I most certainly could not have guessed. Did your mother not speak Orlesian?
I most certainly could not have guessed. Did your mother not speak Orlesian?
[ Bastien laughs at the patting—and it’s odd, to genuinely laugh while balanced on the edge of what he used to be sure was a deep, dark secret. But maybe it isn’t. Yseult took it in stride. Of course, Yseult is unflappable even compared to him, and a Marcher herself. Maybe Byerly, who has never been Orlesian enough for Orlais or Fereldan enough for Ferelden, is in a better position to understand the knot this sort of thing might put in the pit of a young Royan’s stomach. And an old one’s.
Regardless, he’s laughing. He nips ineffectively at the finger closest to his mouth. And while he’s answering— ]
Neither of them did. They were Marchers.
[ —he realizes he isn’t really the least bit afraid of Byerly’s reaction. Even if there’s teasing, it wouldn’t be the sneering kind. ]
But I was born in Val Royeaux, so I still get to cackle and plot occupations. It is my birthright by soil.
Regardless, he’s laughing. He nips ineffectively at the finger closest to his mouth. And while he’s answering— ]
Neither of them did. They were Marchers.
[ —he realizes he isn’t really the least bit afraid of Byerly’s reaction. Even if there’s teasing, it wouldn’t be the sneering kind. ]
But I was born in Val Royeaux, so I still get to cackle and plot occupations. It is my birthright by soil.
[ He gives a mock ooooh of pain as Bastien nips at him, and shakes out his hand. As he does, he reflects that it's odd he didn't know this before. Why didn't he know this before? Bastien certainly didn't tell him, he's certain of that. Why not? For a moment, his mind leaps to scandalous possibilities - a family of brigands, on the run from Marcher law...
But - no. Bastien hides his name, too, and Byerly is nearly certain that there's no ring of the mythic or the wicked to that name. If By dug, he wouldn't uncover the secret history of a blood mage, or a god cloaked in mortal form. Sometimes, there doesn't really need to be a reason. Sometimes, you just don't want to be yourself. Especially not when you were once a child who slipped in Orlesian words when you didn't know the Trade - or vice versa - who got knocked down by the village kids for being different. And especially when you didn't have the privilege of noble blood protecting you from kicks following that knock-down.
They're different people, he and Bastien. Byerly trumpets all the ways in which he's despicable and low and hatable, taunts others with them. Maybe Bastien hides the things that have hurt him. Probably a safer strategy in the long run. ]
As it is my right to rise up to resist you, tyrant. [ His voice is light and amused, as unconcerned as if Bastien had said my parents were both left-handed. ] Which part of the Marches did they come from? If they ever told you.
But - no. Bastien hides his name, too, and Byerly is nearly certain that there's no ring of the mythic or the wicked to that name. If By dug, he wouldn't uncover the secret history of a blood mage, or a god cloaked in mortal form. Sometimes, there doesn't really need to be a reason. Sometimes, you just don't want to be yourself. Especially not when you were once a child who slipped in Orlesian words when you didn't know the Trade - or vice versa - who got knocked down by the village kids for being different. And especially when you didn't have the privilege of noble blood protecting you from kicks following that knock-down.
They're different people, he and Bastien. Byerly trumpets all the ways in which he's despicable and low and hatable, taunts others with them. Maybe Bastien hides the things that have hurt him. Probably a safer strategy in the long run. ]
As it is my right to rise up to resist you, tyrant. [ His voice is light and amused, as unconcerned as if Bastien had said my parents were both left-handed. ] Which part of the Marches did they come from? If they ever told you.
[ Bastien smiles. It’s an odd sort of relief, the kind that’s mixed with the disappointment of feeling a bit silly, like searching with increasing panic for a key and finding it in your own pocket. But it’s still a relief, and the kiss he presses into Byerly’s hair is a silent merci. ]
Kaiten.
[ Not even one of the big important ones. It doesn’t make it onto most maps. It isn’t all that far from Kirkwall, though. ]
Don’t tell anyone. [ Goes without saying, perhaps. ] Except, you know, if it is a matter of Fereldan security, that is fine. Or if you would like to make fun of me behind my back with Yseult. She knows. I was betrayed by one of those spirits in the Crossroads. Yours was much cuter than mine.
Kaiten.
[ Not even one of the big important ones. It doesn’t make it onto most maps. It isn’t all that far from Kirkwall, though. ]
Don’t tell anyone. [ Goes without saying, perhaps. ] Except, you know, if it is a matter of Fereldan security, that is fine. Or if you would like to make fun of me behind my back with Yseult. She knows. I was betrayed by one of those spirits in the Crossroads. Yours was much cuter than mine.
Well, I'm much cuter than you, so that makes sense.
[ The corner of his lip quirks up. ]
I was betrayed by a spirit to Yseult, as well. Much earlier. When there were hallucinations of people we'd known. I was followed around by my spymaster, and she looked up and said, say, I know that fellow. Do you suppose that, secretly, Yseult is some sort of maleficar?
[ It's nice. A little secret, capably negotiated. Bastien is so guarded - he knows so much less of Bastien than Bastien knows of him. So each piece feels precious, and every time a secret is told safely it's a relief. ]
[ The corner of his lip quirks up. ]
I was betrayed by a spirit to Yseult, as well. Much earlier. When there were hallucinations of people we'd known. I was followed around by my spymaster, and she looked up and said, say, I know that fellow. Do you suppose that, secretly, Yseult is some sort of maleficar?
[ It's nice. A little secret, capably negotiated. Bastien is so guarded - he knows so much less of Bastien than Bastien knows of him. So each piece feels precious, and every time a secret is told safely it's a relief. ]
[ Bastien wobbles his head in an agreeable way at the first part, then laughs at the second. ]
She is the last person anyone would suspect of it, so perhaps that means she should be the first person we suspect. You know, I still have no idea who she works for? It could be a shadowy cabal of mages.
She is the last person anyone would suspect of it, so perhaps that means she should be the first person we suspect. You know, I still have no idea who she works for? It could be a shadowy cabal of mages.
[ His snickering fades out, rather than stopping abruptly, but then he's quiet for a moment before he says, ]
A little pack of them. It wasn't like you and your sister, though. I had my first job when I was seven, and then... Sometimes, when the weather was good, I would not see them for weeks. Our mother, the walls, our father, the cobblestones.
[ Sing-song, not quite singing, and it sounds better in Orlesian. Notre mère, les murs, notre père, les pavés A line from a song about cheerfully tragic orphans. Pay no attention to the parents behind the curtain. ]
How old was your sister, the last time you saw her?
A little pack of them. It wasn't like you and your sister, though. I had my first job when I was seven, and then... Sometimes, when the weather was good, I would not see them for weeks. Our mother, the walls, our father, the cobblestones.
[ Sing-song, not quite singing, and it sounds better in Orlesian. Notre mère, les murs, notre père, les pavés A line from a song about cheerfully tragic orphans. Pay no attention to the parents behind the curtain. ]
How old was your sister, the last time you saw her?
Do you ever think about visiting?
[ Bastien leans his cheek against Byerly’s head. ]
Or just having a look and not talking to her. Highever is not so far. [ He uses his free hand to draw a slightly angled line from an invisible Kirkwall to a spot beneath it, across the sea. ] I am learning the map, see?
[ Bastien leans his cheek against Byerly’s head. ]
Or just having a look and not talking to her. Highever is not so far. [ He uses his free hand to draw a slightly angled line from an invisible Kirkwall to a spot beneath it, across the sea. ] I am learning the map, see?
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