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[He can't answer for a beat, blindsided by the question: is there? his back tenses again, palpably— but it's fractional, uncertain, and it eases as a brief silence ticks by.]
Not...an obvious one.
[It's difficult to tell whether treating this as some kind of poison or venom to identify is making the entire thing better or worse, but standing like a marble statue with his hands at his sides is rapidly becoming not quite enough in a way he couldn't articulate if he tried.]
Which means if there is one, 'tis insidious indeed.
[There is, after all, a very distinct difference between "not one" and "not an obvious one". So he takes a quick survey of the room, with its bath and its cushions and its fragrant pink flowers, and kicks a few of the pillows until they're positioned in such a way that they roughly resemble a floor mat.]
Steel yourself. In a moment I'll let go, and when I do, lie down here and close your eyes. I'll put myself next to you and keep full silent, so you can simply do whatever sets the ache to rights. All right?
[Now there's no question about it in Estinien's mind: treating this damned thing clinically is making it much worse.]
You needn't act as though I'm made of glass.
[It comes out just a little rougher than he means it to; he grits his teeth at himself and shifts his weight, changing tack.]
Let's— say we go about it as though this hells-cursed place has naught to do with it, and it's no different from some frozen night in Garlemald, and we're the luckless fools sharing a shelter for one.
[Pure convenience, and no more damnably gentle talk.]
[...Well, Twelve be praised, now there's aught he can work with. Less tipped toward impersonality yet more skewed toward...well, not just mere practicality, but a sort of mutual understanding. Huddling together for warmth, bare to allow their garb to dry from its accumulated snow —
Aye, he can work with that.
And work with it he does: taking Estinien up on his demand not to be coddled by releasing him without fanfare, and instead going to work rearranging the various cushions and blankets the way a survivalist might build a rudimentary shelter against the elements. That the end result is a narrow fit for two men of their respective sizes is simply a lack of materials to do otherwise, clearly. They'll have to huddle close together to keep from freezing. There's simply no other way about it.]
Well, hurry up and get in, then. These gusting winds go straight through a man to his bones.
[In other words: yes, we can play that game, full certain.]
[Estinien squints at the haphazard nest, unsure, in hindsight, what he was expecting. Not that he could argue if he wanted to: the vague need to feel someone else's skin against his own is rapidly becoming a burning all-over ache— not pain, not really; but not something he can ignore for much longer, either.
Still, he thinks crossly, staring at the makeshift shelter: they should've gone back to his room, after all.]
A man ought've spent more time in Coerthas, in that case.
[It's the first thing that comes to mind to stave off an awkward silence as he settles onto his side, casually stretching his arm across the cushions.]
This man was once dropped into the Dravanian wilds entirely in the altogether, so he's had his fill and then some.
[He says, dryly, as he likewise finds a place in the little nest that just Happens™ to have him nudged up against Estinien, within easy reach to be —
Well. Not cuddled, obviously. But to maximize the sharing of body heat. Against the Coerthan chill. Obviously.]
The prospect of attempting to cross the Western Highlands was rather an unpleasant one. Given how fond I am of all my fingers and toes, to say naught of more sensitive bits that take unkindly to being bared to the elements.
[This is absurd and horrible. It'd be better if he did want to take Thancred to bed; at least there'd be none of this awkward pretense and forced friendly banter.
Estinien has a loosely-curled fist between them, at first, but that doesn't sate the damned curse; so he shifts to press against the line of Thancred's body fully— and it's so good, so much better, that he closes his eyes in pure relief, and forgets to say anything for a few long moments. When he does answer, his thoughts have wandered:]
Did you have aught that might have been...cursed, or enchanted, or what have you?
[Estinien is a man full of surprises, truly. Had you asked Thancred before this what manner of satiation the gruff, recalcitrant dragoon would've preferred, he would've bet all his coin and then some on the thought that he would've wanted it silent and impersonal and easily ignored. That Estinien has both shoved away that offer and continues to volunteer conversation of his own is...interesting.
A fragile thing to be handled delicately, he marks — not that he'd ever allow Estinien to think of it so.]
...When I arrived, the robe they gave me. 'Twas emblazoned with a word — of all the words they might've chosen, to have picked that one feels like little and less of a coincidence.
[He pauses, reflective.]
Not just any vice. One my old mentor specifically condemned. To find myself branded with it, here, in a place like this... [And then, a short laugh.] Small wonder I've been more than happy to shed my garb for sport, given the alternative.
[Well, he'd meant food or drink, and none of this answers his real question— but it's so specific, so deliberate, that he can't just scoff, dismiss it, and clarify.
He hesitates, eyes still closed.]
What was it? The word.
[Thancred wouldn't have volunteered so much, he reasons, if that were as far as he's willing to go.]
[How easy it feels, letting these small glimpses of himself slip. Later, mayhaps, he'll question that more. Examine it more deliberately in the harsh light of retrospect, see the threads of influence for what they are.
Right now, it just feels easy to find an anchor in the familiar. And if a secret or two slips, at least it's been entrusted to someone who can keep it.]
Indolent.
[He draws in a slow breath; he lets it out again slower still.]
A criticism of Sharlayan's isolationist ways, originally. Though now 'tis hard to help feeling as though it's a criticism of me, just as well.
What man could say that you or the others have been indolent? A rescuer of a hundred stars with five of your Archon's marks and a castle built stone-by-stone with his bare hands? You could all retire to seaside vineyards, if such a man existed, and leave the wars and calamities to him.
[Ah, Estinien. How could he not let a brief burst of laughter escape at the ornery candor of his commentary, however softly delivered? It really does make him feel better, at least a little. Better than a tender reassurance ever could've.]
Mm. That's precisely it, you know — retirement. I've been contemplating it. However little I may deserve it.
[A thoughtful interval passes.]
I envy you that, I think. Finding aught to do with yourself once your charge had been fulfilled.
I haven't the slightest. Take commissions until Y'shtola perfects her means of bridging the shards. Return to the First, mayhaps, after that.
[This is nice. Uncomfortably intimate if he thinks too long about it, but fortunately he's just pointedly not going to dwell on it. Compartmentalizing. It's one of those things he's always done best.]
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peacockstop2025-07-15 09:00 pm
no subject
Not...an obvious one.
[It's difficult to tell whether treating this as some kind of poison or venom to identify is making the entire thing better or worse, but standing like a marble statue with his hands at his sides is rapidly becoming not quite enough in a way he couldn't articulate if he tried.]
no subject
[There is, after all, a very distinct difference between "not one" and "not an obvious one". So he takes a quick survey of the room, with its bath and its cushions and its fragrant pink flowers, and kicks a few of the pillows until they're positioned in such a way that they roughly resemble a floor mat.]
Steel yourself. In a moment I'll let go, and when I do, lie down here and close your eyes. I'll put myself next to you and keep full silent, so you can simply do whatever sets the ache to rights. All right?
no subject
You needn't act as though I'm made of glass.
[It comes out just a little rougher than he means it to; he grits his teeth at himself and shifts his weight, changing tack.]
Let's— say we go about it as though this hells-cursed place has naught to do with it, and it's no different from some frozen night in Garlemald, and we're the luckless fools sharing a shelter for one.
[Pure convenience, and no more damnably gentle talk.]
no subject
Aye, he can work with that.
And work with it he does: taking Estinien up on his demand not to be coddled by releasing him without fanfare, and instead going to work rearranging the various cushions and blankets the way a survivalist might build a rudimentary shelter against the elements. That the end result is a narrow fit for two men of their respective sizes is simply a lack of materials to do otherwise, clearly. They'll have to huddle close together to keep from freezing. There's simply no other way about it.]
Well, hurry up and get in, then. These gusting winds go straight through a man to his bones.
[In other words: yes, we can play that game, full certain.]
no subject
Still, he thinks crossly, staring at the makeshift shelter: they should've gone back to his room, after all.]
A man ought've spent more time in Coerthas, in that case.
[It's the first thing that comes to mind to stave off an awkward silence as he settles onto his side, casually stretching his arm across the cushions.]
no subject
[He says, dryly, as he likewise finds a place in the little nest that just Happens™ to have him nudged up against Estinien, within easy reach to be —
Well. Not cuddled, obviously. But to maximize the sharing of body heat. Against the Coerthan chill. Obviously.]
The prospect of attempting to cross the Western Highlands was rather an unpleasant one. Given how fond I am of all my fingers and toes, to say naught of more sensitive bits that take unkindly to being bared to the elements.
no subject
Estinien has a loosely-curled fist between them, at first, but that doesn't sate the damned curse; so he shifts to press against the line of Thancred's body fully— and it's so good, so much better, that he closes his eyes in pure relief, and forgets to say anything for a few long moments. When he does answer, his thoughts have wandered:]
Did you have aught that might have been...cursed, or enchanted, or what have you?
no subject
A fragile thing to be handled delicately, he marks — not that he'd ever allow Estinien to think of it so.]
...When I arrived, the robe they gave me. 'Twas emblazoned with a word — of all the words they might've chosen, to have picked that one feels like little and less of a coincidence.
[He pauses, reflective.]
Not just any vice. One my old mentor specifically condemned. To find myself branded with it, here, in a place like this... [And then, a short laugh.] Small wonder I've been more than happy to shed my garb for sport, given the alternative.
no subject
He hesitates, eyes still closed.]
What was it? The word.
[Thancred wouldn't have volunteered so much, he reasons, if that were as far as he's willing to go.]
no subject
Right now, it just feels easy to find an anchor in the familiar. And if a secret or two slips, at least it's been entrusted to someone who can keep it.]
Indolent.
[He draws in a slow breath; he lets it out again slower still.]
A criticism of Sharlayan's isolationist ways, originally. Though now 'tis hard to help feeling as though it's a criticism of me, just as well.
no subject
What man could say that you or the others have been indolent? A rescuer of a hundred stars with five of your Archon's marks and a castle built stone-by-stone with his bare hands? You could all retire to seaside vineyards, if such a man existed, and leave the wars and calamities to him.
no subject
Mm. That's precisely it, you know — retirement. I've been contemplating it. However little I may deserve it.
[A thoughtful interval passes.]
I envy you that, I think. Finding aught to do with yourself once your charge had been fulfilled.
no subject
You're going to retire? From what? Doing good works?
[He closes his eye again, shifting just a tiny bit closer unconsciously.]
Well, if you mean to become some sort of...
[There was a dry joke there, somewhere, but the rest of it doesn't come. His brow furrows.]
What would you do?
no subject
[This is nice. Uncomfortably intimate if he thinks too long about it, but fortunately he's just pointedly not going to dwell on it. Compartmentalizing. It's one of those things he's always done best.]
Keep a promise. Something like that.