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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[coquettish_trees]

Regarde moi, Byerly.

Even in a dream where it may be that we made ourselves out of the pieces of ourselves we think ugliest for the enjoyment of some demon you were not like him.

What was it, in this dream, that caused you to capture me.

[bouchonne]

Some sort of resentment, deep down. I ought to have known that you weren't really involved with any grand force for elven liberation. I likely did know, in truth.

[ He can't quite meet her eyes, despite her command. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ She won’t push any farther. Instead she lets her grip loosen slightly and strokes his cheek once with her thumb. Still here. ]

I imagine the resentment had to do with my having hurt you very deeply and then making an attempt to have you killed.

Do you know why he chose me?

[bouchonne]

[ He shakes his head. But: ]

Pride. He wanted to demean people whose degradation would make him look grander in comparison.

[coquettish_trees]

And I had done nothing to him. He chose me because I was vulnerable: alone, young, inexperienced, overawed that he should even deign to speak with me.

Did you find it a light-hearted diversion to do as you dreamed you did? I cannot recall you laughing at my helplessness.

[bouchonne]

[ A hesitation.]

No. It was agony.

[coquettish_trees]

[ She nods slightly, strokes his cheek again. Then closes her eyes for a moment to put herself together carefully so she can speak the next without shuddering at it. Looks at him again. ]

You know well enough what Rolant does to helpless women who have done nothing. What do you think he would have done to one who had done him the injuries I had done you.

[bouchonne]

[ He closes his eyes and leans slightly into her hand. Though as he does: ]

I am sorry. You should not be the one comforting me. Let alone...suffering through thoughts of him to do so.

[coquettish_trees]

[ She shakes her head, lets her hands relax from holding to simply framing his face. ]

I am the one who hurt you. If you would rather another offer you comfort I shall understand, but... any balm I can be, I wish to.

[bouchonne]

It's not that I would prefer another. I simply - We were talking about you, not about me.

[coquettish_trees]

[ It is as soft as her hands: ]

If you believe I have ever thought you similar to him, then we are speaking of us.

[bouchonne]

[ He lets out a soft breath. Now, he raises his eyes to hers. ]

It is the same fear. You say that loving me makes you afraid, but what you're afraid of is a fear of your own vulnerability. That you could be hurt again by someone you trust.

[ By me. He hesitates, then, and admits: ]

I could not even think to compare, but - Leander terrifies me, and I know that some part of it is that he's like Richars. That some part of it is the shadow of another man. These things stay with you.

[coquettish_trees]

Yes. It is that.

The same fear, but not a fear of you. It is the openness necessary to love, and to be loved, and what I was taught that leads to.

[ Her eyes are doleful and sincere. ]

I will flinch, my Byerly. I will be afraid. But when I do, when I am, it is due to what is in me, not what is in you.

[ She smiles, small, and it matches her eyes. ]

Will it hurt you too much to see it, while I am letting myself learn something new?

[bouchonne]

[ He swallows, looks away again. ]

But it is something in me. Others have seen it. Many others. Even recently. Maker, Athessa - Athessa accused me, before, of - monstrous things. Jenny Lou. Others.

[coquettish_trees]

Oh.

[ It is soft and full of heartache for him, more breath than anything. Her hands move from his cheeks to take his and gently tug at them in an attempt to pull him back to bed so she can better hold him. ]

Come tell me.

[bouchonne]

It's foolishness.

[ Though he does allow himself to be pulled. ]

Nothing of note. Nothing I should wail about.

[coquettish_trees]

It is of note. You hold on to these things— or they to you.

[ She walks herself backwards with him until her legs hit the bed and she can sit, settle herself back against the pillows, and keep pulling to see if she can get him to settle against her. ]

What anyone thinks one should wail about has long been irrelevant to me, [ she sounds wryly self-aware rather than apologetic, ] I do it when there is wailing in me and I think that the proper order of things.

[ And soft again, for him. ]

But you may whisper instead, if you like.

[bouchonne]

[ A beat, and then a long breath out. ]

It shouldn't bother me. I profit when someone thinks me villainous. It's to my advantage.

[ He does allow it, lets himself be pulled back. There's stiffness in his muscles, but he leans lightly on her, like a hunting dog. ]

And when someone says, what a louse, what a useless drunken fool, it's amusing. But when someone says that -

[coquettish_trees]

[ She could guess, she thinks—what it is, why it stays—but instead she is quiet and waits to see if he will tell her instead. ]

[bouchonne]

[ He doesn't. The agonized humiliation is too much for him to speak it aloud unbidden. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ It is cruelty, she knows. Cruelty feared by women, that she knows at least Athessa knows, and the accusation that took a home.

Surely they could not have known when they spoke. Surely they spoke in anger, in fear of their own shadows, but to wear those shadows so often how could he not begin to believe that parts of them must be his. Especially when it comes from ones thought friends; ones he perhaps thought knew enough of him.

She turns her face into his hair and pulls his head gently into the press of her lips before murmuring there. ]

You could never. I know it as I know the sun rises. That there are two moons. That roses cut will wither, and if I drop a cup it falls. That is how I know.

[ His hair smells like the last fading notes of her perfume, and of his, and she holds herself to him and him to her. ]

But it is poison in you and you should say it if you can.

[bouchonne]

[ Her certainty is a balm, and it isn't. It soothes him, and it also makes him think, how have I fooled her? How is it that I've deceived her, that she thinks only well of me? How evilly, skillfully fraudulent is he, that he's able to mislead even a Bard? No liar is as skilled as he is, that he's managed to make her believe him good. ]

It was just...small things. Athessa thinking that I was proposing something truly dreadful when I was encouraging her to pursue Sidony. Jenny Lou thinking that my tumbles when I was a lad was me forcing our freemen into places where they couldn't refuse. It's -

[ He lets out a breath. ]

I don't think I even knew what screwing was yet, the first time I was accused of perversion.

[coquettish_trees]

Do not say they are small.

[ She shakes her head slightly, stirring his hair with the movement. ]

They are not small to you, and they are not small to me. It must have wounded you deeply to have someone say such a thing was part of you.

[bouchonne]

It shouldn't.

[ A strained attempt at a laugh. ]

If I cared what others said about me, then I'd certainly not be like I am.

[coquettish_trees]

But it is not merely others, it is those you have allowed yourself to care for, no? Those who you have shown that you are other than the self you have crafted to achieve your aims.

[ There are masks outside of Orlais; they are just not worn so openly, paraded about with such pride. It is the single kind thing that might be said of the Game: the players all know they are playing, that everyone is playing. No-one ever mistakes the mask for the man. ]