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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[bouchonne]

Oh, Maker.

[ Byerly sighs and leans back in his chair. His hand drops down so that he can give Whiskey a good scratch between the ears. ]

What's the boy done?

[archademode]

A commendable job.

[Watching Byerly sink down into that chair is...well, it's relatable, really. They both know the man well enough to understand his own disastrous tendencies.

Which is exactly why Gabranth thought this meeting necessary in the first place.]

His assistance in extinguishing the Stormrider was invaluable; the man's spellwork proved to be its own discreet advantage. And in regards to your own area of expertise, I believe his efforts to sway the Orlesian nobility proved more than adequately sufficient.

[You know how this goes, Byerly, this is praise.]

[bouchonne]

[ Oh. Well. That's a surprise. Byerly is caught mid-exasperation. ]

Really? I suppose the first isn't a surprise, though the second -

[ Hm. ]

Have you told the boy your estimation of his performance?

[archademode]

He is well aware, though his opinion— as my own— matters little compared to those in need of trustworthy assets.

[There is a steady pause there, hazel eyes lidding for a beat in thought, all too obvious now without a helmet to mask the sight of his own unsubtle tendencies.]

His standing is poor, as I am sure you yourself already understand. He does not advocate for himself, and so mired by that dread, he does not willingly act as often as he ought for Riftwatch's own benefit.

I intend to remedy this.

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly's head tilts very slightly to the side. When he speaks, his voice is still rather droll - his voice is always droll - but so much less so that he actually nearly sounds like a normal person. ]

And how will you do so?

[archademode]

He is willing. He lacks his own fundamentals. They either were not instilled in him, or not properly enforced, but I intend to see that set right, as any fractured bone must be.

I believe he is a good man, Byerly. He need only the opportunity to prove himself as such.

[And so, with nothing else left to say but the bottom line, he adds, his own chin dipping to level off where his stare meets Byerly’s own:]

By force. As it was in Orlais.

[bouchonne]

[ Uh. ]

What, are you going to beat it into him?

[archademode]

[See Gabranth, this is why that endlessly grim Magisterial aura gets you into trouble.

Still, without that helmet in place it’s easy to see just how quickly he recoils from the suggestion, his own brow knitting.]

—no.

An absence of leniency. Nothing more. [And look at that, he’s flustered now, his lips twisting into a thin line, his stance shifting slightly like an animal unsettled.]

He cannot be permitted to simply abstain from work that would challenge him.

[bouchonne]

[ And almost all of the archness is gone now, leaving behind a man who looks rather tired. Almost sad. ]

How much do you know of the boy's background?

[archademode]

...too much, I fear.

[He glances towards the desk out of the corner of his vision, still half-resting the whole of his weight across his heels, as if frozen by the sight of that visible sincerity where it resides in Byerly's features. It is difficult to gauge how much should be spoken, particularly to a man that Benedict reports directly to, but—

Perhaps given the nature of all that has been wrought, Benedict’s past is already more than transparent.]

[bouchonne]

Then you should know that strict discipline will likely not elicit the response you desire.

[archademode]

Do not mistake it for unkindness.

[Gabranth hardly cuts a softer figure to begin with, and he certainly doesn't now, with the way his brow is quickly threaded throughout with stubborn tension: that bullish determination to make things as he would have them, rather than what they are.

—but then, chasing the steady ease of a slow exhale (carried entirely on the back of Byerly's own candid, unmasked expression), he forces it away. Those pale eyes lower, fixing themselves on some distant, neglected corner of the room yet coated in dust. His voice almost thrumming with a low, subtle sincerity. All pretense gone. All ferocity absent.

If they are both so invested, then there's no need to fight this.]

He suffers. It cannot be unmade without— [The words don't come, or they don't fit right across his tongue, and he's never been good for this, but he does try now.] I would ask nothing of him that I would not give of myself.

So I ask you, with all due sincerity, Lord Rutyer: place faith in him. Treat him as you would a man in need of something to prove, rather than one in need of protection.

[bouchonne]

[ His hand comes up in a quelling gesture: ]

Byerly. Or simply Rutyer if you must. Not lord.

[ But: ]

The boy does need protection. There are some - some, even, in the leadership of this organization - who have no love for him and his history of wavering loyalties. They would enjoy him suffering the consequences of taking risks.

[archademode]

Yet he must take them. [The heat that rises along the back of his neck— tightening his posture— is some tangled mix of scolding for his own misstep in falling back on dated compulsions despite having already been warned away from them, and the desperate certainty in this: he has lived that life.

He feels that anguish no less, even now. And it does not diminish.]

He is a boy no longer. Time seeks him out with increasing fervor, and if he is not yet strong enough he will buckle beneath the strain when it lays waste to his protection.

[What use are wards when they wear thin? What use is armor if it holds no strength? A cub sheltered will only ever remain so, and the world is far too cruel to abide its presence for long.]

I swear to you, on my life, I will let no harm befall him.

[bouchonne]

Come now, Judge Magister.

[ Byerly's smile is crooked. A brief foray into cynicism - or, more accurately, a return to his usual form in the midst of all this earnestness. ]

You know that you can't make that oath. Harm befalls others no matter how passionately we promise their protection.

[archademode]

[What is he to say? 'I know better than you?' Here, in this world, where he’s so fresh in his footfalls and Byerly is not, between the two of them he can think well enough to know which of them makes the better advisor.

Yet his heart aches for it all the same.

His eyeline lowers, drawing away from tension into something thready and unreadable, lashes fitted over his eyes and maybe it is fortunate indeed that Byerly’s privileged enough to see his face, as it shows enough in tangent with that weary hum of a voice to promise his concession is not made lightly.]

Not in my experience.

[But few can say they’ve died for the guarantees of another, and fewer still can promise it would work again. He'd spent the whole of his breath and his luck on Lord Larsa already; Benedict might indeed fare poorer for it under similar circumstances. And so:]

But I’ve overstepped once more, it seems. You know the man better, and you’ve kept him in your shadow throughout, and I’ve no right to question either motive or means when the end result speaks for itself.

I disagree because I cannot help my own nature. I hope you’ll think no less of me for it.

[A pause, and then, righting his posture to harden back into its usual, iron-cast poise.]

I formally withdraw my protestation. Keep only my commendation for Lord Artemaeus’ work, and do with that knowledge what you will.

[Much as he knows Byerly dislikes the formality of lordship, he has to endure one last bow before that helmet is fitted in its rightful place.]

I bid you a fair evening, Byerly Rutyer.

...and thank you, for safeguarding him.

[bouchonne]

Hold on.

[ By lifts his hand, a gesture to bid him halt. His eyes are narrowed - not in disapproval, just in evaluation. ]

Argue with me.

[archademode]

[He's already turned to take his leave, one foot poised before the other, halting at an awkward spacing— before that helm tilts just slightly over the rise of his own shoulder.]

...what?


[???Byerly? ?

Is this a trap??]

[bouchonne]

I'm a fool. [ He says that easily and without shame. ]

So it's useful when an intelligent fellow with convictions argues with me. He can correct my lack of knowledge. So argue with me. If you have the truth of it, I'll learn.

[archademode]

[He’d anticipated spending the whole of his afternoon as sullen as spent ash. This— as so much of what Byerly seems to manage effortlessly— utterly displaces those designs. And for it he needs a moment longer to regain whatever mindset he’d lost.]

He wishes to change. It pulls at him like a thread laid bare.

[Benedict forgive him for speaking so plainly of his private pains.]

He lacks momentum, guidance, clarity— the means to understand where he falls short, and a deepset fear of that failure. It is a rot, that. It will not heal if he continues on as he does, for the man nearly shattered before me in confession this morning.

He will break, in time. This much I believe.

[bouchonne]

What makes you think he hasn't already broken?

[ By's head tilts to the side. ]

He betrayed us, then betrayed his country to rejoin us. If that pressure wouldn't grind a fine young bough into splinters, I don't know what would.

[archademode]

Consider the break unclean, if so.

For he did try. And he did succeed, however brief, in putting right his own missteps. [To feel guilt is one thing, after all. But to risk life and limb for those that matter, to want to make amends, and thus denied that opportunity to embrace the sting of that moment rather than burying it in indolence— these are hints of something worth grasping, he thinks.]

There was no need for him to fight that dragon, regardless of my own designs in bringing him. Fear froze him, urged him to flee for his own sake, and yet despite opportunity he chose action.

And do not think it was a matter of my influence, for before the battle we'd argued, and cut short our acquaintances.

[bouchonne]

[ Hm. ]

Unless the dragon took the form of an woman with an astonishing rear end who's draining the blood of her slaves to do magic, I don't know if that displays the sort of courage he's been lacking in the past.

[archademode]

[Well it’s not the description of the Magister he’d expected, but...filed away all the same.]

When one learns to walk, it is not by way of making running leaps.

More opportunities to prove his worth would likely strengthen his resolve. He would not lack for a safety net throughout, for all those who he's so won over.

[bouchonne]

Tell me about the opportunities you imagine.