There's only so long John can feasibly put off the inevitable. The news Teren brings feels as close to a nudge as John cares to receive, so he makes his way to the Infirmary after nightfall.
It is not a quiet approach. The sound of his crutch on stone announces his arrival before he appears in the doorway.
"I assume you've seen the news."
They were successful, after a fashion. And here is John, as agreed upon, to learn whatever it is Isaac is capable of teaching him.
The knife is sharp; the thunk of it dull against board — again: a peg and slate. Roots multiply, divide into thin discs, thinner. Preparations.
They're going to war. He's heard the news.
"And its absence." The primary discussions have stayed behind shut door. Must have, for the silence of the yards. It's another moment, two, before he stops cutting. Looks up. "Though that vouches we won't be disturbed."
Isaac won't. Silver, another matter. He's as certain that Commander Flint has thoughts, as he is that Commander Flint hasn't bothered to learn blonde from black (there are only so many mistakes that one may estimate to shock). It rankles; it shouldn't. He's done well to disappear here, and pride an unwelcome guest.
"I'm not a scholar," Sets the blade aside, wipes his hands upon cloth. "But neither is any child. Circle theory, vocabulary, comes later. A way to frame ideas that come less naturally."
Or the natural byproduct of sitting piss-bored in a tower.
"Feelings that come less naturally. Do you follow?"
John volunteers nothing. Yes, he is aware of the public absence of certain discussions. No, he doesn't care to translate Flint's slumped shoulders and dull fury. That all of their machinations have not gone to plan doesn't need to be spelled out any further.
And it galls John to think of how vastly awry their plans have gone. The cost is staggering.
It's the reason he's here, levering himself into a seat as Isaac speaks. John has spent so much time trying to avoid facing this head on, and yet—
"The implication that none of this has come naturally?"
He hasn't decided whether or not to contradict that concept. But it lodges in his chest, wedged like a dagger.
"Or that learning technique comes before learning the theory behind it?"
"Yes and no," To the latter — the first notion must say more of John, and isn't that peculiar for a Vint? "What I mean to say is that we all begin somewhere, with some expression of will."
However accidental.
"A girl wants to help her mother, and the candle lights itself. A boy is so angry that he stomps, and makes sparks." The flick of his fingers doesn't accompany any now. "An impulse can signal an area of strength, for its early familiarity. We know where it comes from within us."
"What you used in Nevarra, the South would call it force," A shrug with the rag: He didn't pick the name. "But what do you call it, when you call upon it? What does it feel like?"
Wary resentment doesn't reach John's expression. All it does is burn, coiling in his gut as John does his best to tread the line between succinctly answering the question and revealing too much.
"I have never attempted to name it. I've always known what it was, there was no need to call it anything other than magic."
There is no need to lie about that, at least. John has known his ability for what it is, just as he knew the way he relied on blood and bone and pain distort the way it was meant to be used. Innate ability recognizes the sense of being overextended, bent out of place.
"But I must admit, I find it difficult to describe what it feels like to use. Do you find it easy to separate the physical sensation from the abstract sense of...your abilities?"
Abilities is appropriately vague. It allows for focus on the more traditional healing Isaac does, rather than the way his body had knitted back together, bones cracking back together as blood-gouged flesh slopped over deep tears. What did that feel like, John wondered. More or less painful than the slow agony of a body repairing itself naturally?
"Mhm —" His head cants, briefly, toward nostalgia. Levels. "— No. Some have no trouble with it, of course. Pricks."
There's no particular heat to that; itself almost fond. Younger years. He shakes them off.
"When you define a sensation, an attitude, you make it easier to recognize and repeat reliably. To hold in check." A splayed hand. "Think of a spell as a shortcut. A bundle of names and gesture that prompt you toward that abstraction. That magic. There are dozens of books that will tell you how to throw a fireball, argue about its classification and technique."
"But they're only a means to practice. For you, I think, less than a useful one." The unnameable thing, the instincts of an apostate — how well would it fit within Chantry geometry? He supposes that's the point of all this. Isaac has long been worn to a ring. "Was there anything else? That you do."
The books and theory Isaac mentions are not unknown to John. He's made some faltering attempts to grasp that kind of knowledge, but it had felt more like trying to read another language. There was some foundation John simply didn't have.
"There's a few things I know that you might find familiar, but I think largely what I know to do isn't going to be recognizable."
And some defensive instinct wards against sharing too much.
"Especially if these lessons entail...redefining my instincts, so to speak."
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action / after teren's revelation
It is not a quiet approach. The sound of his crutch on stone announces his arrival before he appears in the doorway.
"I assume you've seen the news."
They were successful, after a fashion. And here is John, as agreed upon, to learn whatever it is Isaac is capable of teaching him.
what's time anyway
The knife is sharp; the thunk of it dull against board — again: a peg and slate. Roots multiply, divide into thin discs, thinner. Preparations.
They're going to war. He's heard the news.
"And its absence." The primary discussions have stayed behind shut door. Must have, for the silence of the yards. It's another moment, two, before he stops cutting. Looks up. "Though that vouches we won't be disturbed."
Isaac won't. Silver, another matter. He's as certain that Commander Flint has thoughts, as he is that Commander Flint hasn't bothered to learn blonde from black (there are only so many mistakes that one may estimate to shock). It rankles; it shouldn't. He's done well to disappear here, and pride an unwelcome guest.
"I'm not a scholar," Sets the blade aside, wipes his hands upon cloth. "But neither is any child. Circle theory, vocabulary, comes later. A way to frame ideas that come less naturally."
Or the natural byproduct of sitting piss-bored in a tower.
"Feelings that come less naturally. Do you follow?"
hopefully fake
And it galls John to think of how vastly awry their plans have gone. The cost is staggering.
It's the reason he's here, levering himself into a seat as Isaac speaks. John has spent so much time trying to avoid facing this head on, and yet—
"The implication that none of this has come naturally?"
He hasn't decided whether or not to contradict that concept. But it lodges in his chest, wedged like a dagger.
"Or that learning technique comes before learning the theory behind it?"
no subject
However accidental.
"A girl wants to help her mother, and the candle lights itself. A boy is so angry that he stomps, and makes sparks." The flick of his fingers doesn't accompany any now. "An impulse can signal an area of strength, for its early familiarity. We know where it comes from within us."
"What you used in Nevarra, the South would call it force," A shrug with the rag: He didn't pick the name. "But what do you call it, when you call upon it? What does it feel like?"
no subject
"I have never attempted to name it. I've always known what it was, there was no need to call it anything other than magic."
There is no need to lie about that, at least. John has known his ability for what it is, just as he knew the way he relied on blood and bone and pain distort the way it was meant to be used. Innate ability recognizes the sense of being overextended, bent out of place.
"But I must admit, I find it difficult to describe what it feels like to use. Do you find it easy to separate the physical sensation from the abstract sense of...your abilities?"
Abilities is appropriately vague. It allows for focus on the more traditional healing Isaac does, rather than the way his body had knitted back together, bones cracking back together as blood-gouged flesh slopped over deep tears. What did that feel like, John wondered. More or less painful than the slow agony of a body repairing itself naturally?
no subject
There's no particular heat to that; itself almost fond. Younger years. He shakes them off.
"When you define a sensation, an attitude, you make it easier to recognize and repeat reliably. To hold in check." A splayed hand. "Think of a spell as a shortcut. A bundle of names and gesture that prompt you toward that abstraction. That magic. There are dozens of books that will tell you how to throw a fireball, argue about its classification and technique."
"But they're only a means to practice. For you, I think, less than a useful one." The unnameable thing, the instincts of an apostate — how well would it fit within Chantry geometry? He supposes that's the point of all this. Isaac has long been worn to a ring. "Was there anything else? That you do."
Aside from crushing ribs, snapping necks.
no subject
The books and theory Isaac mentions are not unknown to John. He's made some faltering attempts to grasp that kind of knowledge, but it had felt more like trying to read another language. There was some foundation John simply didn't have.
"There's a few things I know that you might find familiar, but I think largely what I know to do isn't going to be recognizable."
And some defensive instinct wards against sharing too much.
"Especially if these lessons entail...redefining my instincts, so to speak."