Of course Ludo wouldn’t refuse. It may have been a mistake to ask in the first place, knowing the man’s generosity, knowing the ways he’s given to lending heed. Perhaps this wasn’t (nothing, nothing about this can be) fair.
But Ludo’s right, or Daud believes his point is apt: it’s probably for the best. Better that Ludo know, if Daud’s going to attempt to stay. Better that Daud not deceive the man, not if he doesn’t need to.
“No. I don’t know that I would.” And yet. What he wants has little enough to do with it. What he wants is (quiet; stillness; each evening spent here and in this warmth, beside this man) for somewhere far apart from what he’s been.
But that’s too much to ask for. But there’s no turning back now. And before he can tangle his thoughts further, he finds himself breathing, breathing, then speaking.
“Before those years of moving place to place. Before I started running, I spent most of my life in Dunwall, a city far up the coast. I—“ ’Like to think I’m not the man I was then,’ only that isn’t the point right now, that’s a way of side-stepping the raw truth, or of easing it. Of reaching for Ludo and attempting to suggest that ‘look, look, this man I’m speaking of is caught far in the past; I’m something different, don’t you see?’ But no, no. Tell the story first; let Ludo decide as he will.
“They had a name for me. The Knife of Dunwall.” He’s rubbing the back of his left hand slowly, a compulsive gesture that he can’t keep quiet, not now, not speaking about this. He can’t curb his motions now. Can hardly choose the word he lands on. Very little of this is up to choice.
Only that he continues telling. Only that he’s telling at all. That— Yes. That’s his own decision.
“I’m not proud of what I was. What I’ve done.” He used to be. Used to live so proud of his deeds, his name, his renown and the minor empire he’d constructed. Was secure in his pride until everything fell apart, and then it seemed a sickness. A disease he could never be rid of.
“I led a gang. Gathered from the cities thieves and vagabonds. We—“ ’Called ourselves the Whalers,’ only the detail seems superfluous and he waves it away with a flick of his head. “I worked as an assassin. For twenty years.” It’s a long time, isn’t it? Longer than he’s been running. Longer than Katrina’s lived. When he speaks the number out loud, it hits with a dull thud because no, no, that’s too much. Too much to be borne, and some part of his mind goes back to etching an escape route, tracing the fastest way from town.
(He doesn’t want to leave this man. He can’t dwell on that right now, either. Daud’s made his decision to speak, and he’ll need to accept whatever comes of it.)
“That isn’t all of it. But if that’s all you’ll hear…
“I’ll do what you like. Go, if you’d rather.” Not that Ludo requires his permission. Not that Daud’s permission ought to mean much of anything. But he wants to make it clear he’ll offer no argument, no fuss. That the information is Ludo’s to use as he pleases, as he must. "You won't need to—
no subject
But Ludo’s right, or Daud believes his point is apt: it’s probably for the best. Better that Ludo know, if Daud’s going to attempt to stay. Better that Daud not deceive the man, not if he doesn’t need to.
“No. I don’t know that I would.” And yet. What he wants has little enough to do with it. What he wants is (quiet; stillness; each evening spent here and in this warmth, beside this man) for somewhere far apart from what he’s been.
But that’s too much to ask for. But there’s no turning back now. And before he can tangle his thoughts further, he finds himself breathing, breathing, then speaking.
“Before those years of moving place to place. Before I started running, I spent most of my life in Dunwall, a city far up the coast. I—“ ’Like to think I’m not the man I was then,’ only that isn’t the point right now, that’s a way of side-stepping the raw truth, or of easing it. Of reaching for Ludo and attempting to suggest that ‘look, look, this man I’m speaking of is caught far in the past; I’m something different, don’t you see?’ But no, no. Tell the story first; let Ludo decide as he will.
“They had a name for me. The Knife of Dunwall.” He’s rubbing the back of his left hand slowly, a compulsive gesture that he can’t keep quiet, not now, not speaking about this. He can’t curb his motions now. Can hardly choose the word he lands on. Very little of this is up to choice.
Only that he continues telling. Only that he’s telling at all. That— Yes. That’s his own decision.
“I’m not proud of what I was. What I’ve done.” He used to be. Used to live so proud of his deeds, his name, his renown and the minor empire he’d constructed. Was secure in his pride until everything fell apart, and then it seemed a sickness. A disease he could never be rid of.
“I led a gang. Gathered from the cities thieves and vagabonds. We—“ ’Called ourselves the Whalers,’ only the detail seems superfluous and he waves it away with a flick of his head. “I worked as an assassin. For twenty years.” It’s a long time, isn’t it? Longer than he’s been running. Longer than Katrina’s lived. When he speaks the number out loud, it hits with a dull thud because no, no, that’s too much. Too much to be borne, and some part of his mind goes back to etching an escape route, tracing the fastest way from town.
(He doesn’t want to leave this man. He can’t dwell on that right now, either. Daud’s made his decision to speak, and he’ll need to accept whatever comes of it.)
“That isn’t all of it. But if that’s all you’ll hear…
“I’ll do what you like. Go, if you’d rather.” Not that Ludo requires his permission. Not that Daud’s permission ought to mean much of anything. But he wants to make it clear he’ll offer no argument, no fuss. That the information is Ludo’s to use as he pleases, as he must. "You won't need to—
"I'll do as you ask."