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Maybe he should have expected that. Should have anticipated how quickly Ludo would bring together the pieces, how he might draw some conclusion and how that conclusion might not quite meet its mark. (Had Daud really been so transparent? It’s possible. He hasn’t been as cautious as he could be, lately. Hasn’t been entirely himself, at all. And Ludo’s more observant than most. (More observant, perhaps, of Daud than most. Another thought not wholly unpleasant, though its flickered warmth is out of place here, now.))
Better not to let the misconception linger. Daud watches Ludo for a moment, giving himself half a moment to reconsider before he moves ahead.
“His father.”
He’s… tired. He hadn’t intended to bring names into this. Had thought they might be better avoided, because there’s no good - is there? - in Ludo knowing of the Pendletons’ involvement. (Is there danger in this knowledge? Or only discomfort? It can’t be more disquieting than what Ludo’s already heard. Perhaps the trouble is that this isn’t only Daud’s knowledge to tell; that it involves Katrina, as well. Doesn’t matter much, now; the name’s been spoken, the truth has been set forth.)
“I don’t know if her husband had anything to do with it. Whether he knew. Whether he acted.” Most likely the man had known and sat silent. Known and done nothing. From everything Daud’s heard, Treavor Pendleton’s an ineffectual coward to the core. (What was it Katrina had suggested so recently? Something otherwise, though Void knows she could be fooling herself.)
“The elder sons took the daughter.” Had done Daud can’t say what with her, and had been well-remarked for their cruelty even in Dunwall, but hadn’t Daud been plenty cruel? (Hadn’t Daud been the one to strike Jessamine down before her daughter’s eyes?) In any case, that isn’t the point. Or it is - the family wouldn’t call for death if they didn’t continue to inflict damage at each turn - but it might seem a way of attempting to excuse himself. So, no, he won’t say that, but he can’t stop there, and so—
“‘Emily’ was her…” Was her name. Is her name. Is a name difficult to speak, but easier always than her mother’s. “Emily Kaldwin.” For what it’s worth. For what it matters here and now. For the little light that it might shed for Ludo.
He’s looking around the room again, trying to discern a path toward some clarity, some answer, some way of easing the edge on all of this, only no, that wouldn’t be fair, wouldn’t be right, and there’s no way of telling it that doesn’t wound. Some stories are like that. Some truths are like that.
“The Pendletons must have fled Dunwall when the coup failed. That Katrina should have ended up wedded to one of them…” It isn’t that fate’s cruel; Daud doesn’t believe in fate, or anything of its ilk. Certainly, it isn’t right. Isn’t deserved. And it can’t possibly end well.
But that isn't the point. That isn't the focus here, and Daud shakes his head. “It was Melville Pendleton who paid me."
Small, insubstantial comfort, to hear that it's not the man to whom Baltus gave his daughter. Yes, of course Ludo feels some pity for Katrina for having been married into a family like the one Daud is describing, but there's a more practical reason for his concern to take root and grow: the Van Tassels own something close to ten thousand acres of property in and around Sleepy Hollow. Their farm is one of the foremost sources of food, of beer, of livestock, of work in the county, and Katrina stands to inherit it all.
By proxy, so does her husband. A man who, if he is anything like Katrina has occasionally lamented within Ludo's hearing, is absolutely useless. If his family is truly the sort of folk who would arrange a coup, pay for an assassination, abduct a child...he wonders if Daud knows just how dangerous it would be for this sleepy little community, once the farm came into Katrina's possession.
He keeps that to himself. Now isn't the time for that sort of derailed focus; it's something to address with Baltus, later, and/or with Katrina, herself, so she knows just how dire the situation is not only for herself, but for everyone.
Instead, he allows Daud to finish, watching as the other man makes half-faltering, trailing-off statements, wishing he could reach over and lay a comforting hand on his wrist. Wishing comfort was something he could stand to offer right now, much as he wants to. Abducting a child...
Abducting a child. It almost sits worse than the thought of Daud killing.
He takes it in stride, always in stride, giving no condemnation in tone or look or movement. Reminds himself this was years ago, another lifetime. The problem is now, the problem is the threat of violence that took root in Daud's mind. The problem is, Daud thought putting distance between himself and those with -
Care. Devotion. Feeling.
For him. Would somehow help the situation, rather than draw loneliness around him like a cloak. That being so removed from those who would give him good advice and comfort would make it an easier reality, or a less present one, or something more manageable. (There are other questions, a multitude of questions, things that can wait because the night is long and he's not going anywhere.
He doesn't have anything better to do.
Doesn't have anyone else he would rather be with, no matter how deadly the conversation seems.)
His exhale is slow, a heavy sound that is and isn't a sigh.
"I can't tell you what to do about this." He could try. He could ask him not to walk out the door, not to go looking for the person he used to be, to stay here and be the person Ludo knows. But that's a selfish ask. It has nothing to do with Daud's struggle, and everything to do with the way the room feels, the air feels, how his chest is too wooden to allow his lungs to expand. How his heart is a hammer without an anvil, an unsteady pounding against nothing. "And this is more to work with than just one night can give me."
That. Is very true. But winter nights are long, and winter is long, and he doesn't have anywhere else he wants to be than sitting here.
"I can say..." It's his turn to trail off, uncertain how to carve something useful out of this fragment. He tries, anyway. "The world has had enough destruction and loss in it for both of us. I don't need more." I need, I need - This isn't about what he needs. "Do you?"
It’d been easy. Every motion, every act a matter of expedience. Slitting the throat of one man or another, daggering a woman in the back, and, yes, abducting a child. Anything, he would have done and he had done so much for the sake of coin and renown. All of which had come in stride for the man he was. Just as it had felt natural to direct his Whalers toward their deadly work. Just as it had seemed right to view the city as his own, to view himself above all others.
How. How had it been so easy. (And how does it now seem so simple to slide back?)
The black-eyed bastard’s voice again: ”I see forever, and right now I see a man walking a tightrope over a sea of blood and filth.”
That bastard. (That bastard had a point.)
No. He can’t focus on the past any more than he can focus on this room and Ludo’s presence. Either way, he’s liable to find himself lost, drawn off-track by agitation by ire or some warmth he doesn’t bother naming, doesn’t need to name. What matters right now is speaking this through.
(He’d erase it all if he could. His deeds, his name, the renown he’d won. What he wouldn’t give for it to disappear, to never have been. What he wouldn’t give to show the man before him someone else, less stained in blood, more. More. (Deserving.))
Again he jars himself into the present. The words: ’This is more to work with than just one night can give me.’ Of course. This must be too much, almost, for taking in. And though Daud’s not asking for advice, though he almost points out, almost protests - ’I wouldn’t force that on you’ - he holds back, because perhaps that’s precisely what he’s doing. Perhaps it’s what he was half hoping for, beneath that wish to simply speak, to make certain he’s not hiding from this man who belongs to these wilds and moves so comfortably among the trees, who sits with such comfort in silence, who, who… who Daud would very much prefer to be seen by.
That this man should allow him to remain, should listen, should clearly hear, and neither flinch nor send Daud away seems impossible. He tells himself it’s only Ludo’s nature. That the man’s skilled with receiving, that he grants to all around the gift of his absorption. (He tells himself it could be something otherwise, as well. Because he finds uncommon depths to the man’s regard. Because the weight of his gaze holds Daud steady. Because there’s something more than welcoming - more than welcome - in every glance.
How in these eyes he feels connected. More the self that he wishes to be. It’s in part the way he feels when beheld by Katrina, when beheld by Cassandra, and yet wound still deeper through his chest. He doesn’t ask how this happened. Why this man holds so much meaning, so much gravity for Daud. The why of it doesn’t matter; only that he feels it. That it holds him. Keeps him almost steady, even in this telling. Gives him reason for something approaching belief.)
Strange, the life he’s found here.
But that isn’t the point, either. He’s leading himself astray too easily. Owes Ludo the courtesy of focus (at the very least). Because there was a question, apt, precise. And Daud has an answer, or the beginning trace of one. ’Do you?’ Does he.
“It isn’t what I want.” That much he knows. But is it what must occur? Daud’s always been a practical man, able to focus on what needs to be done in order to achieve one goal or another (and look where that had led him; look what that practicality had been honed toward). This is within his capability. Might be his responsibility, given the family’s proximity to Katrina, given the family’s potential for doing deep harm.
He doesn’t want to be that man again. But if he has to be. But if someone has to be.
“I don’t expect you to solve—“ ’My troubles.’’This mess.’ Or— “What I am.
“Not to say I don’t value your opinion. Only I’m not eager to put this on you, not any more than I’ve already done.” It’s already been too much, hasn’t it? And that’s only the surface of the story. That’s not to list off the number of people he’d slain, and how little he’d cared who they were. That’s not to mention the Outsider.
A pause, another thought, and he shakes his head once, looking once again toward a corner. "It isn't what I want. But the thought remains." The thought. The possibility. He's only. He's only. Going to venture a glance at Ludo, then return his gaze the corner.
For a brief space of time that could be a heartbeat and could be an eternity, Ludo entertains an uncomfortable thought of his own - one that can't quite be chipped away from his mind, or sanded down to smooth usefulness.
What if there's nothing he can do to help?
There is something he has never confronted before, a uselessness of himself. How a strong back and a sound mind and firm hands might not, in this limited and gutting instance, be of any use. How all the devotion in the world might not be able to summon Daud back from the precipice. What then? Would he follow this man into chaos the way he once followed better men than himself into war, and is it the same thing?
He struggles at that thought, worrying it like a sore tooth.
The answer, what's the answer, how does this knotty problem get worked into something functional? Daud doesn't want the dreadful potential ending that comes from following this path, but the thought remains. (What we so often want is not what we get, and that worries Ludo, too.)
But more focus is required for another question: if Daud isn't asking for his help, if he isn't asking for a solution, what is he seeking tonight? Ludo turns the problem over and over until the light catches it in just the right way, gives sense to its shape. This isn't about solutions. This is a confession, a baring of self. Can you accept this mess I made?
It's such a loaded conversation suddenly. Ludo thought, assumed (feared) that this would be the conversation about eccentricities that ended a sharing of them. The conversation that would be preempted by 'I found a wife', 'my father says-', 'this feels wrong', 'God doesn't allow'. Instead, instead, his chest is tight and his hands have clenched and things are both hopeful and despairing at once. The shape of the problem is not whether Daud will reject, but whether he will reject.
And he doesn't know the solution. The answer to an unspoken question. Does he want, and if he does want, can he accept?
His drink has gone untouched, and he doesn't want it. He doesn't want much right now, except maybe to scrap this project, this work of anti-art, to make it not. To burn it with failed carvings, broken spoons. He wants, he wants -
The way he stands isn't abrupt, or rather it's abrupt for him, not a slow withdrawal from the table but nothing is overturned, nothing jostled. He can't keep sitting, feels too ill at ease, too aware that all I ever wanted is dragging murderer, assassin, killer on its heels. He needs something for his hands, something to help carve and sand and build and create, but isn't looking for anything in particular, not seeing.
Only feeling the heaviness of his own hand and the firmness of the place where it's settled, what kind of tool did he reach for, how many steps away from the other man did he take to find it? Looks down and sees it came to rest on Daud's shoulder, and he didn't move so far away at all, did he?
And the words that follow, there's something in them, none of this has the solidity of craftsmanship. It's all a little adrift, a little too uncertain. But love's not much for tangibility. "If it isn't what you want, that's enough." For now. For me. "Thoughts are only thoughts until you make them more."
He isn't strong enough to turn his back on someone whose strange nature so closely, comfortingly echoes is own. Calls his own. Or maybe it's that he thinks - he could be strong enough to take the bad with the good.
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no subject
No.
Maybe he should have expected that. Should have anticipated how quickly Ludo would bring together the pieces, how he might draw some conclusion and how that conclusion might not quite meet its mark. (Had Daud really been so transparent? It’s possible. He hasn’t been as cautious as he could be, lately. Hasn’t been entirely himself, at all. And Ludo’s more observant than most. (More observant, perhaps, of Daud than most. Another thought not wholly unpleasant, though its flickered warmth is out of place here, now.))
Better not to let the misconception linger. Daud watches Ludo for a moment, giving himself half a moment to reconsider before he moves ahead.
“His father.”
He’s… tired. He hadn’t intended to bring names into this. Had thought they might be better avoided, because there’s no good - is there? - in Ludo knowing of the Pendletons’ involvement. (Is there danger in this knowledge? Or only discomfort? It can’t be more disquieting than what Ludo’s already heard. Perhaps the trouble is that this isn’t only Daud’s knowledge to tell; that it involves Katrina, as well. Doesn’t matter much, now; the name’s been spoken, the truth has been set forth.)
“I don’t know if her husband had anything to do with it. Whether he knew. Whether he acted.” Most likely the man had known and sat silent. Known and done nothing. From everything Daud’s heard, Treavor Pendleton’s an ineffectual coward to the core. (What was it Katrina had suggested so recently? Something otherwise, though Void knows she could be fooling herself.)
“The elder sons took the daughter.” Had done Daud can’t say what with her, and had been well-remarked for their cruelty even in Dunwall, but hadn’t Daud been plenty cruel? (Hadn’t Daud been the one to strike Jessamine down before her daughter’s eyes?) In any case, that isn’t the point. Or it is - the family wouldn’t call for death if they didn’t continue to inflict damage at each turn - but it might seem a way of attempting to excuse himself. So, no, he won’t say that, but he can’t stop there, and so—
“‘Emily’ was her…” Was her name. Is her name. Is a name difficult to speak, but easier always than her mother’s. “Emily Kaldwin.” For what it’s worth. For what it matters here and now. For the little light that it might shed for Ludo.
He’s looking around the room again, trying to discern a path toward some clarity, some answer, some way of easing the edge on all of this, only no, that wouldn’t be fair, wouldn’t be right, and there’s no way of telling it that doesn’t wound. Some stories are like that. Some truths are like that.
“The Pendletons must have fled Dunwall when the coup failed. That Katrina should have ended up wedded to one of them…” It isn’t that fate’s cruel; Daud doesn’t believe in fate, or anything of its ilk. Certainly, it isn’t right. Isn’t deserved. And it can’t possibly end well.
But that isn't the point. That isn't the focus here, and Daud shakes his head. “It was Melville Pendleton who paid me."
no subject
By proxy, so does her husband. A man who, if he is anything like Katrina has occasionally lamented within Ludo's hearing, is absolutely useless. If his family is truly the sort of folk who would arrange a coup, pay for an assassination, abduct a child...he wonders if Daud knows just how dangerous it would be for this sleepy little community, once the farm came into Katrina's possession.
He keeps that to himself. Now isn't the time for that sort of derailed focus; it's something to address with Baltus, later, and/or with Katrina, herself, so she knows just how dire the situation is not only for herself, but for everyone.
Instead, he allows Daud to finish, watching as the other man makes half-faltering, trailing-off statements, wishing he could reach over and lay a comforting hand on his wrist. Wishing comfort was something he could stand to offer right now, much as he wants to. Abducting a child...
Abducting a child. It almost sits worse than the thought of Daud killing.
He takes it in stride, always in stride, giving no condemnation in tone or look or movement. Reminds himself this was years ago, another lifetime. The problem is now, the problem is the threat of violence that took root in Daud's mind. The problem is, Daud thought putting distance between himself and those with -
Care. Devotion. Feeling.
For him. Would somehow help the situation, rather than draw loneliness around him like a cloak. That being so removed from those who would give him good advice and comfort would make it an easier reality, or a less present one, or something more manageable. (There are other questions, a multitude of questions, things that can wait because the night is long and he's not going anywhere.
He doesn't have anything better to do.
Doesn't have anyone else he would rather be with, no matter how deadly the conversation seems.)
His exhale is slow, a heavy sound that is and isn't a sigh.
"I can't tell you what to do about this." He could try. He could ask him not to walk out the door, not to go looking for the person he used to be, to stay here and be the person Ludo knows. But that's a selfish ask. It has nothing to do with Daud's struggle, and everything to do with the way the room feels, the air feels, how his chest is too wooden to allow his lungs to expand. How his heart is a hammer without an anvil, an unsteady pounding against nothing. "And this is more to work with than just one night can give me."
That. Is very true. But winter nights are long, and winter is long, and he doesn't have anywhere else he wants to be than sitting here.
"I can say..." It's his turn to trail off, uncertain how to carve something useful out of this fragment. He tries, anyway. "The world has had enough destruction and loss in it for both of us. I don't need more." I need, I need - This isn't about what he needs. "Do you?"
no subject
How. How had it been so easy. (And how does it now seem so simple to slide back?)
The black-eyed bastard’s voice again: ”I see forever, and right now I see a man walking a tightrope over a sea of blood and filth.”
That bastard. (That bastard had a point.)
No. He can’t focus on the past any more than he can focus on this room and Ludo’s presence. Either way, he’s liable to find himself lost, drawn off-track by agitation by ire or some warmth he doesn’t bother naming, doesn’t need to name. What matters right now is speaking this through.
(He’d erase it all if he could. His deeds, his name, the renown he’d won. What he wouldn’t give for it to disappear, to never have been. What he wouldn’t give to show the man before him someone else, less stained in blood, more. More. (Deserving.))
Again he jars himself into the present. The words: ’This is more to work with than just one night can give me.’ Of course. This must be too much, almost, for taking in. And though Daud’s not asking for advice, though he almost points out, almost protests - ’I wouldn’t force that on you’ - he holds back, because perhaps that’s precisely what he’s doing. Perhaps it’s what he was half hoping for, beneath that wish to simply speak, to make certain he’s not hiding from this man who belongs to these wilds and moves so comfortably among the trees, who sits with such comfort in silence, who, who… who Daud would very much prefer to be seen by.
That this man should allow him to remain, should listen, should clearly hear, and neither flinch nor send Daud away seems impossible. He tells himself it’s only Ludo’s nature. That the man’s skilled with receiving, that he grants to all around the gift of his absorption. (He tells himself it could be something otherwise, as well. Because he finds uncommon depths to the man’s regard. Because the weight of his gaze holds Daud steady. Because there’s something more than welcoming - more than welcome - in every glance.
How in these eyes he feels connected. More the self that he wishes to be. It’s in part the way he feels when beheld by Katrina, when beheld by Cassandra, and yet wound still deeper through his chest. He doesn’t ask how this happened. Why this man holds so much meaning, so much gravity for Daud. The why of it doesn’t matter; only that he feels it. That it holds him. Keeps him almost steady, even in this telling. Gives him reason for something approaching belief.)
Strange, the life he’s found here.
But that isn’t the point, either. He’s leading himself astray too easily. Owes Ludo the courtesy of focus (at the very least). Because there was a question, apt, precise. And Daud has an answer, or the beginning trace of one. ’Do you?’ Does he.
“It isn’t what I want.” That much he knows. But is it what must occur? Daud’s always been a practical man, able to focus on what needs to be done in order to achieve one goal or another (and look where that had led him; look what that practicality had been honed toward). This is within his capability. Might be his responsibility, given the family’s proximity to Katrina, given the family’s potential for doing deep harm.
He doesn’t want to be that man again. But if he has to be. But if someone has to be.
“I don’t expect you to solve—“ ’My troubles.’ ’This mess.’ Or— “What I am.
“Not to say I don’t value your opinion. Only I’m not eager to put this on you, not any more than I’ve already done.” It’s already been too much, hasn’t it? And that’s only the surface of the story. That’s not to list off the number of people he’d slain, and how little he’d cared who they were. That’s not to mention the Outsider.
A pause, another thought, and he shakes his head once, looking once again toward a corner. "It isn't what I want. But the thought remains." The thought. The possibility. He's only. He's only. Going to venture a glance at Ludo, then return his gaze the corner.
no subject
For a brief space of time that could be a heartbeat and could be an eternity, Ludo entertains an uncomfortable thought of his own - one that can't quite be chipped away from his mind, or sanded down to smooth usefulness.
What if there's nothing he can do to help?
There is something he has never confronted before, a uselessness of himself. How a strong back and a sound mind and firm hands might not, in this limited and gutting instance, be of any use. How all the devotion in the world might not be able to summon Daud back from the precipice. What then? Would he follow this man into chaos the way he once followed better men than himself into war, and is it the same thing?
He struggles at that thought, worrying it like a sore tooth.
The answer, what's the answer, how does this knotty problem get worked into something functional? Daud doesn't want the dreadful potential ending that comes from following this path, but the thought remains. (What we so often want is not what we get, and that worries Ludo, too.)
But more focus is required for another question: if Daud isn't asking for his help, if he isn't asking for a solution, what is he seeking tonight? Ludo turns the problem over and over until the light catches it in just the right way, gives sense to its shape. This isn't about solutions. This is a confession, a baring of self. Can you accept this mess I made?
It's such a loaded conversation suddenly. Ludo thought, assumed (feared) that this would be the conversation about eccentricities that ended a sharing of them. The conversation that would be preempted by 'I found a wife', 'my father says-', 'this feels wrong', 'God doesn't allow'. Instead, instead, his chest is tight and his hands have clenched and things are both hopeful and despairing at once. The shape of the problem is not whether Daud will reject, but whether he will reject.
And he doesn't know the solution. The answer to an unspoken question. Does he want, and if he does want, can he accept?
His drink has gone untouched, and he doesn't want it. He doesn't want much right now, except maybe to scrap this project, this work of anti-art, to make it not. To burn it with failed carvings, broken spoons. He wants, he wants -
The way he stands isn't abrupt, or rather it's abrupt for him, not a slow withdrawal from the table but nothing is overturned, nothing jostled. He can't keep sitting, feels too ill at ease, too aware that all I ever wanted is dragging murderer, assassin, killer on its heels. He needs something for his hands, something to help carve and sand and build and create, but isn't looking for anything in particular, not seeing.
Only feeling the heaviness of his own hand and the firmness of the place where it's settled, what kind of tool did he reach for, how many steps away from the other man did he take to find it? Looks down and sees it came to rest on Daud's shoulder, and he didn't move so far away at all, did he?
And the words that follow, there's something in them, none of this has the solidity of craftsmanship. It's all a little adrift, a little too uncertain. But love's not much for tangibility. "If it isn't what you want, that's enough." For now. For me. "Thoughts are only thoughts until you make them more."
He isn't strong enough to turn his back on someone whose strange nature so closely, comfortingly echoes is own. Calls his own. Or maybe it's that he thinks - he could be strong enough to take the bad with the good.