[ the scrape of shifting furniture, then it's Isaac's face at the crack of door. he ushers her within; replaces the chair.
blood trails from bed, to floor, to leander's heap. isaac's clothes — hands — are little cleaner. the front of him stains from kneeling, footsteps streak red. don't scream, he thinks to say,
but lexie was right: he didn't choose her carelessly. the battle of ghislain; the ambulance crew. the orlesian court. ]
He's stable.
[ enough. isaac sounds no less winded in the trade tongue (this much leander ought to hear) ]
I don't know what he was trying to accomplish. But I know what it will look like.
[ There was a time when she would have needed to be told that. Don't scream. Even if that time hadn't passed, she is sheathed in a numbness at the moment that means only a sharp breath in through her nose as she takes in the room.
Leander looks like her heart given form: sliced open in a hundred places. A perfect pinprick bead for each curl righted, carved lines from the merciless growth of tenderness she'd thrown up her arms to ward off, the darker red depths of truths that have seen no light but incisive green eyes or air but breath between lips pressed to their edges. Although she can see she'd been given the right of it, that it has slowed to stability, the vital weeping of his body had been made obvious, had soaked into everything, and the hawk in her chest shrieks a greeting-warning to see another winged shadow cast over its home.
Gold and emerald glints serpentine against the pristine white of her glove as Alexandrie crosses her arms against it. ]
Like a Sunburst brand. Or the gallows.
[ Perhaps for both men. In Orlesian, quietly: ] I will not play with only half a hand showing. Not at this table. [ Trade then, so both will know she asked: ] How came this?
[ Leander. Issac. The room. She would hold something in reserve, and she is neither in the mood to try and ascertain whether or not they are nor to dig after it. Alexandrie finds she can't spare a thought for her own reputation under the circumstances, but a secondary rumor of associating with maleficarum at her feet—she looks down, briefly, checking to make sure her hem hasn't dragged through any of the literal blood there—lends credence to the first, and if she remains a vocal ally of Thor's, Benedict's, as she means to, it will leap to them easily enough.
As much information as there is risk to her and those she deems hers. That is her buy-in.
(They would both be free, of course, to keep the coin of their knowledge, pay her in gilt wood and bet she will stay regardless. She will, and Isaac at least knows so, but there are three choices of whom she will play for in this room that holds both mages and blood, and this is a chance to sway her.) ]
[Sounds of movement rouse him to awareness (barely), rumbling of furniture, the door (distant as his own heartbeat, quickly, lightly), and he cracks his eyelids to watch the hem of a dress glide in, sideways (the smear a little longer, now, painting his trail to the floor). His mouth flutters a smile, light as a moth.
Of course it would be her. Something stirs, some sense of—not comfort, but something—a gathering. Some vague significance. He should resent the Lady's involvement, the further complexity it creates, but in this misty-edged moment he's simply content to see her.
And while he has faded (is still fading, by the smallest increments), he's been listening, too.
The first try is a soundless whisper. The next, he licks his lips, lingers in meandering distraction at the taste of blood, and finally manages,]
Everything he says,
[A pause, both to catch his breath in shallow puffs, and to create a moment of suspense—even the dying can multitask—as he turns his gaze on Isaac. Hooded eyes in a mask streaked with blood and liquid salt. He lets loose the only weapon he can reach:]
is the truth.
[Take that, fucker. Let's see what you do with it.
His eyes close; his brow knits in controlled discomfort as he tries to shift the jut of his hipbone to a marginally more comfortable position against the floor.]
well, fuck. agreement is more damning than any protest: returns him the burden of supplying a secret worth this liars’ story. agreement creates the illusion of alliance, where tolerance might have served.
isaac paces to the wardrobe, the better not to block the door. he needs a change of clothes. de fontaine needs to own some control of this scene, beyond the caress of metal, the invocation of doom. a grey wash of loathing sluices past, but however long tranquility has been held threat, it’s not one he’s cared to examine. the habit doesn’t break now. ]
These are Speaker Fabria’s rooms,
[ were, but she could read that on a list, and there’s little harm that can be done a dead man. if there’s value in this, it’s for words already said: ilias had been thoroughly apolitical, ilias had lately taken enough interest to take up asking her favours. isaac trusts she can spy between the lines. ]
We were close. [ the tip of his chin to leander, however reluctant, ] He wanted to go back. I don't know what he —
[ was trying to accomplish. a whistling breath. ]
Edited (word repetition SORRY IM VERY SLEEPY) 2019-06-04 04:47 (UTC)
[Are is correct. The man is gone; the room still belongs to him. It's the closest to tradition they can reach. He'll have to come back, later, and clean it up—new sheets—a rug, maybe, to cover the stain he's made. They've made.
(Likewise, the consequences don't bear any reflection. If it comes to it, better to die than be robbed of his link to the Fade.)]
To kill them. [The effort it takes to speak is immense, and it sounds it; somehow it's easier to muster the energy if he keeps his eyes closed.] As many as I can find. Could you help me to the bed, please.
[ A sympathetic sentiment. Were she a mage, Alexandrie would have ripped herself similarly asunder for vengeance's sake.
Which means, perhaps, that she has finally been introduced to the identity of someone I like very much, who is likely also the 'he' in he wore the light beautifully. Who may, prior to Leander's reappearance, have taken up with the other occupant of this room.
There was a time she would have ripped herself similarly asunder for that as well. Or done it to someone else.
So: there is at least one blood mage in the room, Leander is identified as the culprit, then volunteers that he will abide by whatever story is told, which is largely a marker of cozying to power or wishing to seem to be. Putain de hommes. The two of them are playing at their own game in the midst of this, even with both the Rite and the noose laid out on the table before them, which makes the bizarre entangled enmity-alliance of sharing a beloved—
Having shared a beloved—
(Not that, not now.) More likely. Fine. She plays for herself. Looks at Isaac, raises a brow: 'You're stained already. You do it.' ]
And so we keep you alive, free, and able to do so.
I imagine you would prefer to limit the number of involved parties. If we must seek a healer elsewhere... [ assuming neither of you can do it, or you would have, ] how should you like to be brought there? We could well have found you in a Darktown alleyway, mistaken for someone who owed the Carta money. Perhaps you did owe the Carta money.
[ levelly: ] Or you could have found your way into a grief-stricken fight that turned very bad unexpectedly. [ beat ] While drinking a great deal in Lowtown.
[ Who knows. Could be anything. ]
Alternately, if non-magical skill will suffice, I shall see to you myself. Forty minutes will see you both re-clothed, and you, mon cher, acceptably salved and bandaged where it shall not be visible, and with very well applied cosmetic where it is. [ dryly: ] How lucky our skin is not overly far off matching, that you are both of a height and build with Byron, and that my carrying a large packed satchel whilst unaccompanied is extremely simple to explain.
[ u can use that time to think about what u've done and clean the floor. ]
[ to kill them, as many as i can find — the inquisition has always been full of fucking lunatics. he would have had better success with another. but another wouldn't have had his blood. he doubts he's forgotten about the phylactery.
sooner or later,
the robes are black and roomy, conservative to cover a wound or six. they'd drown leander, and too many questions would be asked. isaac drags a pair from the wardrobe, takes the moment to meet lexie's eye. rare now that his own expression doesn't contort (wry, dry, any synonym you'd like for 'asshole'), just stills and sobers. intent: ]
There's only so much magic can do. [ he's seen to both ends of that. ] He needs rest now, water. Somewhere with a door that locks. It can't be the Infirmary.
[ they'll know this wasn't some alley debt. the cuts on his arms are too distinctive, the scars too memorable, and what a strange beating it all would compose. the carta are more likely to break a knee. ]
His room's in the other tower, or I can pay an inn,
[ none of it's as secure as a set of hightown apartments or a recently-bereaved estate, but there's colin to consider. there are the servants. he runs a hand over the absence of stubble, glances leander: a spasm of interior revulsion, a nod that's either gratitude or assent. he drapes the cloth over sheets and steps closer, cautious. for all their closeness, he's awkward of it now. a man hauling quarry free of dogs' teeth, still wary of its own.
he isn't strong enough for a bridal carry. leander's going to need to lean. ]
[The cuts on his arms, too distinctive—to say nothing of the scars no one has seen. His forearms can be explained as marks of defence, by design, but his biceps—his chest—too deliberate.
(Isaac has more than his blood.)]
No cosmetics,
[he breathes, before the oncoming trial consumes his concentration.
Hand up (shaking, pale) for assistance, no serpent waiting under the leaf, only a moment of dizzy effort and vision bursting white. He sags on the way up, but returns in the next breath to catch himself. Fierce concentration and hissing through his teeth. Stay awake. Stay awake. Leaden limbs forced on by a mind light and tenuous as dandelion seeds—
At the bed, he wants nothing more than to collapse, but sits instead, painstaking, oddly stiff. The throb in his ribcage is a familiar ghost; a jolt or slouch might stir him out of this floating numbness, which he'll need if they're going to move.
He turns his head to look at Alexandrie's shape, her head and shoulders crisp, the rest of her dreamlike. How lucky.
[ A sober Isaac, a Leander barely holding on to the world, and an mildly irritated Alexandrie. No need for disguise, no need for clean clothing, and surely Isaac didn't think she'd tidy the space. Why did he feel the need to call her of all people.
It's only belatedly that she realizes that in this instance she counts as a healer. A rudimentary one, yes, but with enough experience forced down her throat by Ghislain to take stock of injury, tie a smart bandage, judge what will heal well enough alone and what needs to be encouraged with fine even stitching well-practiced elsewhere (the only difference between petticoat and man is that the latter flinches and dyes the thread when you put flowers onto it with a needle,) and one who is notably sympathetic to mages and has ties (had. has.) that would discourage her from saying 'blood magic'. ]
I surmise you have had fine reason to become a hermit forced upon you, but if you wish such reason to remain quiet, you may borrow my room in the apartments when you are well enough to make it to Hightown. It is largely a studio now, after all. [ Her mouth curves in a thin wry smile. ] You may take an artistic retreat. Your interests in that arena are not unknown to my staff, and those circumstances render it perfectly acceptable to shut yourself up with canvas and paint and have your meals left outside the door.
[ When shutting oneself up in a room for long periods of time and refusing to take visitors the lower class are suspicious, the nobility are eccentric, and artists patronized by nobility are inspired. ]
Since it appears you need not a change of clothing and you refuse to be beautified, I am for the infirmary. Having the near entirety of those I have come to care for unceremoniously ripped from me has apparently made me most desirous of having always with me the ability to preserve life with my own hands.
[ For all the content, the delivery is bloodless. A field of lavender flattened by an unprecedented storm, stems snapped, dry in the sun. She turns to leave, pausing with her hand on the door only long enough to ask and receive answer. ]
Fourth floor. The other tower, [ down the hall from his own. isaac may still take up an inn — ] There's a bag on my desk.
[ in the infirmary, he means. a traveling bag, to be perfectly specific, he hasn't wholly unpacked. ]
It has most of what you'll need. Venaras' station will have wine.
[ or brandy. something to render the poor saps less sensible. a pause, a grunt of effort as leander detangles. he steps free, lingers by the door. a glance to lexie, orlesian again: ]
Thank you.
[ he doesn't promise shit. it doesn't mean there isn't a debt. ]
[Since it appears you need not a change of clothing— Lady. Lea pants out something like a laugh, shallow—call it a pair of good-natured huffs, maybe. A grimace is like a smile, right? Breathless, he adds,]
Room H. Don't worry about— mn. Noise. The floor's nearly empty.
[A small gift in gratitude; she doesn't need to know exactly where Isaac lives if she doesn't already know. Not that she couldn't find out, easily, but still. It's the gesture.]
Thank you.
[Spoken at near the same moment, two voices overlapping. This time he does smile, barely, with his face turned away.]
[ a curse under his breath, soon as the sound of footsteps recedes. get him clean enough to get down the hall, out the courtyard, up another set of steps while upright —
get himself clean enough. there's nothing for it really, but to shrug on the second pair of nearly identical robes. it isn't what he'd hoped to do with these. it isn't going to hurt a dead man. ]
What you did to the door.
[ hates acknowledging that any further than he has, ]
Can it be done again?
[ that's one thing. doing it in this state, another. if it comes to it,
none of isaac's skills are suited to this. jam it and hope for the best. ]
[ The silence while Leander just looks at him, chin tilted down, eyes moving along his body in a meandering path as he wraps himself in that fabric, into that shape, so familiar—this silence is a long and heavy one. The blood streaked down his nose and mouth and chin (and elsewhere) has darkened; he's listing to one side; his blinks are slow and uneven, eyes threatening to roll with each. But he's still awake.
The urge to tell Isaac to stop touching things in the room comes and goes. He'd have been okay with it.
His own clothes—his shirt's going to dry, and peeling it free of so many scabs will be... unpleasant. Sluggish, he plucks at the fabric, sticky fingers holding a delicate shape. His mind finally catches up to the question; he nods.]
[ leander's still covered in blood. isaac still doesn't have any fucking water. but at least alexandrie de fontaine got the last word, so clearly this was all a splendid use of an unspecified favour and not a colossal waste of time better spent on a boat to the mainland —
he pulls a scarf free, while he's at it. pushes it between those tacky hands. ]
Lea. [ is he going to have to snap his fingers. he doesn't have water. doesn't have smelling salts, won't for another tower's distance so this must have been completely worth calling in the cavalry, ] Clean your face.
[ then the robes. then the door. it's not as though any ideas tonight have been good ones. ]
[Like a child, snapped at to clean himself up. Annoyance flares dimly, along with amusement; he probably does look like a child as he tries. He can't see, won't rise to find a mirror, can't muster enough clean spit to be helpful, and much of the grace has bled out of his hands. But he tries, and perhaps there's a sense of dignity in the way he straightens his spine while he does it, gathering himself for the long walk to come.]
Leander. [It isn't an impossible name to know by any stretch; still, they'd might as well be formally introduced. And since he not only stole a secret, but weaponized it, it only seems fair—] Named for a character in a book. By one of the sisters at the orphanage. [A pause to flatten the scarf over his palm, find a clean place, wipe it across his open mouth.] In the story, he dies.
[Again he folds the cloth to its cleanest, holds it up, doesn't look at Isaac while he does it. If any conspicuous smears remain, he'll have to do his duty as a healer and finish. Then Leander will be ready for the rest.]
[ it is at about this moment, having reached the door at the bottom of the stairs, that the greater situation and the number of floors needing to be traversed both finally make it to comprehension.
Since she can see no-one else, Isaac's crystal will chime to announce more Orlesian, which, despite the apparent privacy, is delivered in a soft tone of consolation in words easily explained away. ]
If you have not moved, stay. I will fetch what is needed to at least clean yourself.
[ The fact that it took her this long to think of bloody boot tracks is—
a brief pause, and then, ]
If you can think of aught else you might need, I implore you to make attempt to overcome our shared heritage and ask outright.
[ He’s halfway to spitting himself when the crystal crackles into speech. Listens with eyes shut. If it’s reflex that finds malice in distraction — well, there are only so many reflexes that one can dull. ]
If there’s lyrium, take it. [ A mop’s somehow the greater ask at present. He’ll deal with that later. ] Something to jam the door. Venaras' tools might do.
[ If Leander can’t pull this off. Shit. Leander. (Malice,) ]
I know the story. [ A version of it, at least, which is all that any story is. What a name to slip past one’s Mother, with all it implies of certain vows. He wipes at the stray smear of an eyebrow. ] Not a Hero?
[His head being the current focus of stressed hands, Leander turns only his eyes in the general direction of the lady's voice, and then to the mouth in front of him as it moves in response. It seems wisest not to interject.
Then the mouth asks him a question, sharp, and he twitches a smile. To his credit, he is still when the cloth moves a little too briskly alongside his re-fractured nose, only closing his eyes against it, the short-lived frown of his brow his only tell. That and the crease at one side of his mouth, not quite a grimace, as he murmurs,]
No. She never fought with her doctor— [This one's a full grimace, though probably not about his face.] —and I'm in no condition to climb out a window.
[ Is telling, but only if you know the story; the natural state of windows and bars. It's been five years, but it was thirty before that. Iron, gaps. You wriggle. Slip out just as distraction does now: Attention more automatic than warmth. Another unwitting flash of belly.
You talk to sick men. You find the gaps. ]
She's coming back up.
[ A warning. Can't bring himself to make it a threat — worse, an apology. ]
[Thirty years, a lifetime; they all know how the world looks through bars; they're all bound together by the memory. But that doesn't mean anything is owed, and he knows better than to assume more than decent bedside manner: gallows humour, a distraction from pain. Warmth would be incongruous, would suggest a deficiency in recognizing the seriousness of violence—or else a disregard for it. At worst, an appreciation.
Still, he didn't need to stay. (Ilias didn't stay. Couldn't bear to see what he'd done, even to finish it.)
Cleaner now, the open wound hardly seeping, his hand finds the wrist again. While privacy remains,]
Thank you.
[His gaze clings to focus, a sharp point in the haze. The barest squeeze of cold fingers.]
[ Bones upon his. That same crawl of revulsion, the urge to snap that he doesn't understand a fucking thing.
Childish, even to his own ears. Too close to the swell of anger that brought them here. Isaac couldn't reach for a spell again if he wanted to; it's the wanting that spells trouble. The knock is,
A welcome distraction. He watches the door, frozen in the crack of light from beneath. Tries to number the odds that she's returned with guard in tow. There's nothing for it. Pries digits loose — gentle, and that's automatic too — to answer. Ushers her in before anyone else might see.
(Serra can be distracted. Artemaeus, cowed. Yngvi, diverted. But any hands might do it; no loyalty or guarantee.) ]
[ No guards, only white skirts—laughable, in this room. Alexandrie with a stuffed satchel slung over her shoulder heavily, the strap digging down into the pale of her shoulder alongside lace. (Pink beneath, when she sets it down. The audacity of it, to touch her so). She bends, opens buckles, frees waterskins and rolls of absorbent cotton bandage to set on the desk. Shears to cut it. Curved needle and waxed thread for what has already been cut. A roll of tools, a small bottle with a soft familiar glow of blue.
Their previous owners wouldn’t miss them.
A long exhale through her nose, as she turns her head to regard Leander even as she speaks to Isaac. ]
Was your need only for the delivery of such tools or their utilization as well, Enchanter? I know little of your skills in the arena of healing.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hayyy
Silence, after it reaches the door, and then two knocks. The delivery is crisp, although the sound is muted. Nothing else accompanies them. ]
no subject
blood trails from bed, to floor, to leander's heap. isaac's clothes — hands — are little cleaner. the front of him stains from kneeling, footsteps streak red. don't scream, he thinks to say,
but lexie was right: he didn't choose her carelessly. the battle of ghislain; the ambulance crew. the orlesian court. ]
He's stable.
[ enough. isaac sounds no less winded in the trade tongue (this much leander ought to hear) ]
I don't know what he was trying to accomplish. But I know what it will look like.
no subject
Leander looks like her heart given form: sliced open in a hundred places. A perfect pinprick bead for each curl righted, carved lines from the merciless growth of tenderness she'd thrown up her arms to ward off, the darker red depths of truths that have seen no light but incisive green eyes or air but breath between lips pressed to their edges. Although she can see she'd been given the right of it, that it has slowed to stability, the vital weeping of his body had been made obvious, had soaked into everything, and the hawk in her chest shrieks a greeting-warning to see another winged shadow cast over its home.
Gold and emerald glints serpentine against the pristine white of her glove as Alexandrie crosses her arms against it. ]
Like a Sunburst brand. Or the gallows.
[ Perhaps for both men. In Orlesian, quietly: ] I will not play with only half a hand showing. Not at this table. [ Trade then, so both will know she asked: ] How came this?
[ Leander. Issac. The room. She would hold something in reserve, and she is neither in the mood to try and ascertain whether or not they are nor to dig after it. Alexandrie finds she can't spare a thought for her own reputation under the circumstances, but a secondary rumor of associating with maleficarum at her feet—she looks down, briefly, checking to make sure her hem hasn't dragged through any of the literal blood there—lends credence to the first, and if she remains a vocal ally of Thor's, Benedict's, as she means to, it will leap to them easily enough.
As much information as there is risk to her and those she deems hers. That is her buy-in.
(They would both be free, of course, to keep the coin of their knowledge, pay her in gilt wood and bet she will stay regardless. She will, and Isaac at least knows so, but there are three choices of whom she will play for in this room that holds both mages and blood, and this is a chance to sway her.) ]
no subject
Of course it would be her. Something stirs, some sense of—not comfort, but something—a gathering. Some vague significance. He should resent the Lady's involvement, the further complexity it creates, but in this misty-edged moment he's simply content to see her.
And while he has faded (is still fading, by the smallest increments), he's been listening, too.
The first try is a soundless whisper. The next, he licks his lips, lingers in meandering distraction at the taste of blood, and finally manages,]
Everything he says,
[A pause, both to catch his breath in shallow puffs, and to create a moment of suspense—even the dying can multitask—as he turns his gaze on Isaac. Hooded eyes in a mask streaked with blood and liquid salt. He lets loose the only weapon he can reach:]
is the truth.
[Take that, fucker. Let's see what you do with it.
His eyes close; his brow knits in controlled discomfort as he tries to shift the jut of his hipbone to a marginally more comfortable position against the floor.]
no subject
[ dry, before he can quite contain it.
well, fuck. agreement is more damning than any protest: returns him the burden of supplying a secret worth this liars’ story. agreement creates the illusion of alliance, where tolerance might have served.
isaac paces to the wardrobe, the better not to block the door. he needs a change of clothes. de fontaine needs to own some control of this scene, beyond the caress of metal, the invocation of doom. a grey wash of loathing sluices past, but however long tranquility has been held threat, it’s not one he’s cared to examine. the habit doesn’t break now. ]
These are Speaker Fabria’s rooms,
[ were, but she could read that on a list, and there’s little harm that can be done a dead man. if there’s value in this, it’s for words already said: ilias had been thoroughly apolitical, ilias had lately taken enough interest to take up asking her favours. isaac trusts she can spy between the lines. ]
We were close. [ the tip of his chin to leander, however reluctant, ] He wanted to go back. I don't know what he —
[ was trying to accomplish. a whistling breath. ]
no subject
(Likewise, the consequences don't bear any reflection. If it comes to it, better to die than be robbed of his link to the Fade.)]
To kill them. [The effort it takes to speak is immense, and it sounds it; somehow it's easier to muster the energy if he keeps his eyes closed.] As many as I can find. Could you help me to the bed, please.
no subject
Which means, perhaps, that she has finally been introduced to the identity of someone I like very much, who is likely also the 'he' in he wore the light beautifully. Who may, prior to Leander's reappearance, have taken up with the other occupant of this room.
There was a time she would have ripped herself similarly asunder for that as well. Or done it to someone else.
So: there is at least one blood mage in the room, Leander is identified as the culprit, then volunteers that he will abide by whatever story is told, which is largely a marker of cozying to power or wishing to seem to be. Putain de hommes. The two of them are playing at their own game in the midst of this, even with both the Rite and the noose laid out on the table before them, which makes the bizarre entangled enmity-alliance of sharing a beloved—
Having shared a beloved—
(Not that, not now.) More likely. Fine. She plays for herself. Looks at Isaac, raises a brow: 'You're stained already. You do it.' ]
And so we keep you alive, free, and able to do so.
I imagine you would prefer to limit the number of involved parties. If we must seek a healer elsewhere... [ assuming neither of you can do it, or you would have, ] how should you like to be brought there? We could well have found you in a Darktown alleyway, mistaken for someone who owed the Carta money. Perhaps you did owe the Carta money.
[ levelly: ] Or you could have found your way into a grief-stricken fight that turned very bad unexpectedly. [ beat ] While drinking a great deal in Lowtown.
[ Who knows. Could be anything. ]
Alternately, if non-magical skill will suffice, I shall see to you myself. Forty minutes will see you both re-clothed, and you, mon cher, acceptably salved and bandaged where it shall not be visible, and with very well applied cosmetic where it is. [ dryly: ] How lucky our skin is not overly far off matching, that you are both of a height and build with Byron, and that my carrying a large packed satchel whilst unaccompanied is extremely simple to explain.
[ u can use that time to think about what u've done and clean the floor. ]
no subject
sooner or later,
the robes are black and roomy, conservative to cover a wound or six. they'd drown leander, and too many questions would be asked. isaac drags a pair from the wardrobe, takes the moment to meet lexie's eye. rare now that his own expression doesn't contort (wry, dry, any synonym you'd like for 'asshole'), just stills and sobers. intent: ]
There's only so much magic can do. [ he's seen to both ends of that. ] He needs rest now, water. Somewhere with a door that locks. It can't be the Infirmary.
[ they'll know this wasn't some alley debt. the cuts on his arms are too distinctive, the scars too memorable, and what a strange beating it all would compose. the carta are more likely to break a knee. ]
His room's in the other tower, or I can pay an inn,
[ none of it's as secure as a set of hightown apartments or a recently-bereaved estate, but there's colin to consider. there are the servants. he runs a hand over the absence of stubble, glances leander: a spasm of interior revulsion, a nod that's either gratitude or assent. he drapes the cloth over sheets and steps closer, cautious. for all their closeness, he's awkward of it now. a man hauling quarry free of dogs' teeth, still wary of its own.
he isn't strong enough for a bridal carry. leander's going to need to lean. ]
no subject
(Isaac has more than his blood.)]
No cosmetics,
[he breathes, before the oncoming trial consumes his concentration.
Hand up (shaking, pale) for assistance, no serpent waiting under the leaf, only a moment of dizzy effort and vision bursting white. He sags on the way up, but returns in the next breath to catch himself. Fierce concentration and hissing through his teeth. Stay awake. Stay awake. Leaden limbs forced on by a mind light and tenuous as dandelion seeds—
At the bed, he wants nothing more than to collapse, but sits instead, painstaking, oddly stiff. The throb in his ribcage is a familiar ghost; a jolt or slouch might stir him out of this floating numbness, which he'll need if they're going to move.
He turns his head to look at Alexandrie's shape, her head and shoulders crisp, the rest of her dreamlike. How lucky.
To Isaac, then, hooded and bleary,]
We'll go to my room. For convenience.
no subject
It's only belatedly that she realizes that in this instance she counts as a healer. A rudimentary one, yes, but with enough experience forced down her throat by Ghislain to take stock of injury, tie a smart bandage, judge what will heal well enough alone and what needs to be encouraged with fine even stitching well-practiced elsewhere (the only difference between petticoat and man is that the latter flinches and dyes the thread when you put flowers onto it with a needle,) and one who is notably sympathetic to mages and has ties (had. has.) that would discourage her from saying 'blood magic'. ]
I surmise you have had fine reason to become a hermit forced upon you, but if you wish such reason to remain quiet, you may borrow my room in the apartments when you are well enough to make it to Hightown. It is largely a studio now, after all. [ Her mouth curves in a thin wry smile. ] You may take an artistic retreat. Your interests in that arena are not unknown to my staff, and those circumstances render it perfectly acceptable to shut yourself up with canvas and paint and have your meals left outside the door.
[ When shutting oneself up in a room for long periods of time and refusing to take visitors the lower class are suspicious, the nobility are eccentric, and artists patronized by nobility are inspired. ]
Since it appears you need not a change of clothing and you refuse to be beautified, I am for the infirmary. Having the near entirety of those I have come to care for unceremoniously ripped from me has apparently made me most desirous of having always with me the ability to preserve life with my own hands.
[ For all the content, the delivery is bloodless. A field of lavender flattened by an unprecedented storm, stems snapped, dry in the sun. She turns to leave, pausing with her hand on the door only long enough to ask and receive answer. ]
Which is your convenient room?
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[ in the infirmary, he means. a traveling bag, to be perfectly specific, he hasn't wholly unpacked. ]
It has most of what you'll need. Venaras' station will have wine.
[ or brandy. something to render the poor saps less sensible. a pause, a grunt of effort as leander detangles. he steps free, lingers by the door. a glance to lexie, orlesian again: ]
Thank you.
[ he doesn't promise shit. it doesn't mean there isn't a debt. ]
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Room H. Don't worry about— mn. Noise. The floor's nearly empty.
[A small gift in gratitude; she doesn't need to know exactly where Isaac lives if she doesn't already know. Not that she couldn't find out, easily, but still. It's the gesture.]
Thank you.
[Spoken at near the same moment, two voices overlapping. This time he does smile, barely, with his face turned away.]
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A briefly raised hand in acknowledgement, nevertheless, and then she is gone. ]
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get himself clean enough. there's nothing for it really, but to shrug on the second pair of nearly identical robes. it isn't what he'd hoped to do with these. it isn't going to hurt a dead man. ]
What you did to the door.
[ hates acknowledging that any further than he has, ]
Can it be done again?
[ that's one thing. doing it in this state, another. if it comes to it,
none of isaac's skills are suited to this. jam it and hope for the best. ]
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The urge to tell Isaac to stop touching things in the room comes and goes.
He'd have been okay with it.
His own clothes—his shirt's going to dry, and peeling it free of so many scabs will be... unpleasant. Sluggish, he plucks at the fabric, sticky fingers holding a delicate shape. His mind finally catches up to the question; he nods.]
I can try.
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he pulls a scarf free, while he's at it. pushes it between those tacky hands. ]
Lea. [ is he going to have to snap his fingers. he doesn't have water. doesn't have smelling salts, won't for another tower's distance so this must have been completely worth calling in the cavalry, ] Clean your face.
[ then the robes. then the door. it's not as though any ideas tonight have been good ones. ]
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Leander. [It isn't an impossible name to know by any stretch; still, they'd might as well be formally introduced. And since he not only stole a secret, but weaponized it, it only seems fair—] Named for a character in a book. By one of the sisters at the orphanage. [A pause to flatten the scarf over his palm, find a clean place, wipe it across his open mouth.] In the story, he dies.
[Again he folds the cloth to its cleanest, holds it up, doesn't look at Isaac while he does it. If any conspicuous smears remain, he'll have to do his duty as a healer and finish. Then Leander will be ready for the rest.]
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Since she can see no-one else, Isaac's crystal will chime to announce more Orlesian, which, despite the apparent privacy, is delivered in a soft tone of consolation in words easily explained away. ]
If you have not moved, stay. I will fetch what is needed to at least clean yourself.
[ The fact that it took her this long to think of bloody boot tracks is—
a brief pause, and then, ]
If you can think of aught else you might need, I implore you to make attempt to overcome our shared heritage and ask outright.
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If there’s lyrium, take it. [ A mop’s somehow the greater ask at present. He’ll deal with that later. ] Something to jam the door. Venaras' tools might do.
[ If Leander can’t pull this off. Shit. Leander. (Malice,) ]
I know the story. [ A version of it, at least, which is all that any story is. What a name to slip past one’s Mother, with all it implies of certain vows. He wipes at the stray smear of an eyebrow. ] Not a Hero?
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Then the mouth asks him a question, sharp, and he twitches a smile. To his credit, he is still when the cloth moves a little too briskly alongside his re-fractured nose, only closing his eyes against it, the short-lived frown of his brow his only tell. That and the crease at one side of his mouth, not quite a grimace, as he murmurs,]
No. She never fought with her doctor— [This one's a full grimace, though probably not about his face.] —and I'm in no condition to climb out a window.
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[ Is telling, but only if you know the story; the natural state of windows and bars. It's been five years, but it was thirty before that. Iron, gaps. You wriggle. Slip out just as distraction does now: Attention more automatic than warmth. Another unwitting flash of belly.
You talk to sick men. You find the gaps. ]
She's coming back up.
[ A warning. Can't bring himself to make it a threat — worse, an apology. ]
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At worst, an appreciation.
Still, he didn't need to stay. (Ilias didn't stay. Couldn't bear to see what he'd done, even to finish it.)
Cleaner now, the open wound hardly seeping, his hand finds the wrist again. While privacy remains,]
Thank you.
[His gaze clings to focus, a sharp point in the haze. The barest squeeze of cold fingers.]
I understand now.
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Childish, even to his own ears. Too close to the swell of anger that brought them here. Isaac couldn't reach for a spell again if he wanted to; it's the wanting that spells trouble. The knock is,
A welcome distraction. He watches the door, frozen in the crack of light from beneath. Tries to number the odds that she's returned with guard in tow. There's nothing for it. Pries digits loose — gentle, and that's automatic too — to answer. Ushers her in before anyone else might see.
(Serra can be distracted. Artemaeus, cowed. Yngvi, diverted. But any hands might do it; no loyalty or guarantee.) ]
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Their previous owners wouldn’t miss them.
A long exhale through her nose, as she turns her head to regard Leander even as she speaks to Isaac. ]
Was your need only for the delivery of such tools or their utilization as well, Enchanter? I know little of your skills in the arena of healing.
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