Asshole, Dima thinks to himself. Hears Liviana's thoughts as an irked ruffling of feathers, along with images suggesting that maybe, maybe Dima's approach wasn't the soundest method.
She's not wrong. Obviously. And Dmitri would shoot Nerys a glare if he wasn't so focused on Faolan and on—
Oh, that's.
Not an UNwelcome sight. And Dmitri might be staring again, but also and to be fair, Dima is often staring, often—
Looking, yes.
Looking at Faolan in a way the man's seen before, and of course he must have seen this, beautiful as he is, and given what... Well, what Dima's gathered was his employ, not to mention what pursuits he might have followed in his own time.
Dmitri watches, arms crossed, feeling uneasy (feeling exposed) (feeling as if he's wronged the man, and feeling, hearing that Faolan's been wrong so wretchedly before) (Dima knows this; though he'd never thought much of the story of the noble and the shame cast on a named, nearly unknown boy, he knows some version of the story, and knows it can't have been pleasant) (and doesn't he know how memories can ache (would he give up his own?)).
And, to Faolan: [ Forgive me.
You have been wronged, repeatedly. I— ]
He wants to ask if Faolan's fulfilled his end of a bargain already. (Bargaining what? Memories, by the sound of it. How many, and are they gone already, and what follows in the wake of absent memories, of holes in the place of experience?) (Dima doesn't like the thought of it. Even the undead keep their memories, experience that lingers after life— But Faolan has the right to choose erasure. Faolan has the right to free himself of whatever pain he wishes.)
[ You have nothing to be ashamed of. Certainly not from lesser men, whatever claim of status they might hang their names upon.
...I understand it is your choice. And I'm going to stay right here. I'm going to be watching. ]
Watching for any foul play from the tattooist. Watching Nerys.
Watching Faolan, to make sure he isn't lost.
<.>
Faolan huffs a little laugh to hide whatever he might feel about that statement. It jerks his shoulders and the tattooist hisses and swats at his head. "Every time you move, I have to start the attunement over, you squirming bastard."
Taken aback, Faolan looks at her scowl and, chastened, nods meekly and settles back with his elbows on his knees. Not without a wry, "You could've made a good living humbling men like that, you know."
Almost breezily, the crone answers, "Still do."
He takes it in stride. "Fair enough."
And to Dmitri, he continues to Message. [ I have plenty to be ashamed of. Enough to tell you I've been fooled too many times to let it happen again. In haunted houses and at campfires and maybe even in Awich, you're Dima and I'm Fae, and you look soft at me to your heart's content.
But in Morovsk, you're Dmitri Voronin and I'm 'that Rhys whore' who was caught out with his hand wrapped around Fedir Petrenko's cock. At one of your brother's parties, in fact. ]
He didn't precisely mean to say all of that. Or maybe he did. Maybe it's been burning inside him since he learned Dmitri's name almost three days ago. (Maybe he wants someone to hurt like he hurts.) (Or just - know. Understand. See what he is and accept it, embrace it, and maybe -
Maybe he'll come away cleansed, somehow.)
He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the sting of magic at his back.
[ I gave Phaedron three things. The memory of my first time with a lover. The taste of honey on a man's tongue. The emotions of the night Fedir lay beside me under starlight and promised me the world.
I believed him. That's shame enough. ]
<.>
Dima hadn't known.
He could have guessed. (Ought to have inquired?) Given Daniil's recurrent references to Petrenko, the man's passage through their home, Daniil's insistence on Petrenko's claim for justice.
Dmitri and Derzhena had, in the end, given over to permitting their family's support. It seemed wisest, for the sake of keeping balance among families, bridges unburned over an incident that hadn't seemed of their concern.
Dima flinches inwardly at the thought. Feels a query from Liviana, then understanding, and the sensation (but not the physical actuality) of feathers brushed against his cheek. He'd like to sink into himself at this moment. He half thinks he ought to look away from Faolan, knowing himself unworthy of the man's eyes— But also. But also, he can't cease watching, and thinks maybe, maybe looking away would be another manner of abandonment.
He's been quiet, noting the tattooist without really looking at her, trying to keep some eye on her work but unable to track much. Finally, he responds—
[ You wouldn't have to be.
They'll listen to what I say; they'll have to. I'd take the tongue of any wretch who dares to speak against you, or defile your name.
...Thank you. For telling me. I worry that— ]
A soft click of his tongue, and he cuts himself off briefly. Yes, he worries what repercussions the loss of these memories might carry. But that's Faolan's choice to make, and there's no good in questioning or casting doubt on what's already been done. That isn't what this moment, that isn't what Faolan needs.
(Can Dima give Faolan what he needs?) (He'd like to. He'd truly like to.)
[ No. I'm only sorry you've known such shame, and I regret that my brother's godsforsaken parties played any role in it. Petrenko was something far worse than a fool and rat-ridden bastard to treat you in this way.
Faolan. You can't fault yourself for believing him. Or. I'd urge you not to. ]
And: [ The memory, the sensations are gone, then? ]
<.>
It's a good thing Dmitri changed the subject because the look Faolan was beginning to wear was prelude to anger.
A warning of a warning.
He almost snaps, What would I have to do for you in return for such a brave defense?
He almost snaps, Your family defiled my name.
He doesn't say any of it, because he knows it's not (entirely) deserved. And also - and also. There's an admission in there of something he doesn't want to know. (A hope. A desire. A dream of some future where even in Morovsk, they're Dima and Fae, and their hands remain joined.)
It's to his relief that the focus changes to his trade. [ The emotions of that night with Fedir are gone. I can remember what happened, but not how I felt. ]
No, he needs to hang on to the memory itself. Fedir said a lot of things.
[ The other two memories - yes. They're gone. Good riddance to them. If I never replace them, at least they won't trouble me any longer. Maybe they'll please someone else. ]
<.>
He saw that shifting, that could-be-oncoming-storm in Faolan's mien. Fair enough, and perhaps, perhaps Dmitri almost expected it. Didn't wish to draw it from Faolan, but the subject he spoke is charged, must be painful, and Dima can't see himself as being free from blame; can't expect Faolan to think Dima was entirely removed from his family's decisions.
Dima doesn't venture further with the subject. (Maybe another time.) (If Faolan allows.) (If it feels right, feels helpful— Feels like something in its speaking could be healing for the man?). Dima does wonder— Dima does note.
Faolan must have loved Petrenko. Which is not a thought for dwelling on just now. Which is something to remember, because it marks a site of sharpest pain for Faolan. (Because... Because maybe, just maybe, there's a question of what Faolan adored in Fedir.) (Because Dima has it in his power to make the man pay dearly. When he's returned to Morovsk. When he's had time to think about... All of this. Including the role Daniil played.) (How many fucking chances will Dima need to give his brother?)
He brushes one finger under Liviana's jaw, considering Faolan's words, considering potentials of response. Then: [ Do you feel all right? Do you feel— Mm. Any different?
I don't ask in judgment; I don't mean to castigate you. I am wary by nature, but— But I AM glad for any pain that may be lifted from you.
You've had far too much of wounding. ]
A thought: 'If.' Faolan said 'if,' and it might mean, could mean— Maybe there isn't only pain, maybe there aren't only scars left on Faolan's heart. Maybe, maybe he could be willing, could be able to try again.
(Oh, if only.)
<.>
[PERC, f: 23 DEC, d: 21]
It was the "if". He shouldn't have said it, shouldn't have phrased it as though there's even the slightest possibility.
(It wasn't just the "if"; it's everything he's said and done, meeting everything Dima has said and done from the moment they met.) (Which was not that long ago.)
He can see Dmitri's - oh, it's well past longing, it's yearning, it's aching, strangling hope.
It's terrifying, because yearning and hope sink deeper, go far beyond physical want. (He knows. He's felt it.)
(He knows, also, that Dmitri seems to genuinely care.)
Oh, it's not sustainable. The world always gets in the way; it will get in the way even if Dmitri swears his soul to Faolan. Whatever he says, Morovsk will turn him.
Dmitri's on a path towards a broken heart. There's nothing Faolan can do to stop it; he can only handle the man with care and give him nothing else to feed his hope. No confusing touches. No smiles, no soft words. Just kindness.
And an answer to that question.
He looks down at his hands and thinks a moment.
[ I feel unburdened. And I feel it's a dangerous unburdening; it would be tempting to sell every last shred of my life to him just to forget. ]
His mouth curves in a small, rueful smile.
[ But then I wouldn't be myself any longer. Yes, there's pain, but it's MY pain. ]
A moment passes as Faolan listens to the crone humming some discordant tune.
[ You don't know me, Dmitri. ]
He speaks gently, and when he looks up, it's only lifted eyes.
[ You spoke a moment ago as though it was given that I would join you -
I'll never go back to Morovsk. Not until I can look at that beautiful, summertime sea and feel something other than desolate. ]
(The water was, he thinks now, the same color as the wisp-light.) (The water was the color of Dmitri's eyes.)
<.>
There's that, at least: That Faolan's gained some unburdening with the severance of these memories, and that he's not liable to cut away many, if any, more.
The rest—
Dima hadn't, really, realized how he'd framed his talk of Morovsk He hadn't guarded his speech, and it's true he'd spoken from his hope, his wishing, anticipating the future as he thought it could be.
(Dima's usually so much more careful in his disclosures.) (It's difficult to hide anything or skirt the center of truth with this man.) (And Dima— Doesn't want to be untruthful. But. But it isn't fair to drop all of this on Faolan.)
[ That isn't 'never.' Or it might not be. ]
Not an advisable place to begin, probably. (But Dima latched onto that 'not until.' But it shines in his mind, a place of possibility.)
He shakes his head, huffs a sigh and earns a sharp look from the tattooist, a reminder that he can take his impatience outside. Dima inclines his head, says nothing aloud and returns to Messaging—
[ I speak too far ahead of myself. There are things, visions of existence I would like - for myself; for you - but I don't intend to force your hand.
You keep reminding me that I don't know you.
True, in part. There's much of you - I suspect there are whole worlds in you - I've yet to witness.
But I know people, Faolan. I've spent much of my life studying their habits, learning their complexities, and in my duties, in my studies, I've met many, many men.
None exist for me the way that you do.
None struck me with such radiance; none hold the heart you do.
I overreach, perhaps, in saying any of this; in believing it. But I don't speak idly, Faolan. I don't hold affection without reason. ]
<.>
Well. There it is, open and spoken, and there's no unspeaking it.
(There's no unhearing it, and he won't trade it away.) (He'll hear Dmitri's voice for the rest of his life, saying there are whole worlds in you and none exist for me the way you do.)
He's heard men speak this way before. He knows better now than to believe it. Oh, he'd like to believe it, but he doesn't have any faith left in him. (Dmitri is a Voronin, and he wonders if his name ever cross Dmitri's tongue in slander.)
He's spared having to respond immediately by a slap against his back where the skin has burned as magic flowed in from the crone's needle.
"You're done and paid. Move along, send in the next one before you go."
As he's getting up and pulling his shirt back on, hiding the tattoo from Dmitri's eyes, he considers what he ought to say.
He settles for [ I can't give you what you want. ]
Whatever it is. However much he wants it.
[INT, d: 20
dm: Nice C: That'll do it, then.]
<.>
The thing is, Faolan doesn't know what Dima wants.
(Does Dima know in fullness what he wants? This man in happiness; freed from his burdens without losing anything. This man beside him (at midnight) (a rose in his hand) on the sands of Morovsk, arms twined around each other, looking out across the sea. This man's laughter; this man's voice on into the night. Years upon years and yes, yes it's true he wants nearness with this man, wants passion. He wants— So much.
Too much?
...Perhaps he'll never know. But this perhaps won't keep him from trying.)
As much as Dima wants to make his case, as much as he wants to outpour words of what he would do, will do and be if Faolan permits, he senses it might be best not to keep flooding the man with speaking. There's something here that speech alone can't touch. And there will be time (please; please) for extensive words again.
He exhales (quietly, this time). He tries to glimpse the tattoo; he sees nothing, and his curiosity ticks: What is it Faolan's asked for. What is it that he's taken on himself? He glances at the room around; tries finally to discern what this place is, what these tattoos might accomplish.
And his eyes return to Faolan: [ What I want is— Is extraneous, I suppose.
What I ask for is your company. In travel, for as long as you can stomach me, hm? ]
He was, he thinks, attempting a jest. He ends up looking aside, lip ticking, and—
[ I should like to know you better, for however long I may. ]
<.>
There's a look from Faolan that's entirely sorrowful; how much he wishes he was someone else, or Dmitri had come along years ago.
Or that, maybe, Dmitri wasn't Dmitri Voronin, and instead some peasant boy like himself.
He could bear this man's company all his life, if he thought it was possible. (Bear. Cherish. Welcome.)
He doesn't respond. Instead, he moves toward the door where Nerys has been waiting, ready to accompany him to the next merchant.
Before Dima can follow, the old crone speaks - or Messages? - "Some of my marks might interest a man who suffers unrequited love, Necromancer."
She hasn't moved from her stool where she sits wiping down the overlarge needle until it gleams unnaturally in the light.
"Tattoos to make you forget. Or to bind your lover to you. More, for the right price."
She pauses, then clucks her tongue. "No, you don't want to force him. A spell for a spell, though, hm? You know how to disguise yourself, to hide yourself from prying eyes. I know how to give a man a little luck - in love and war alike. An instinct that could turn the tide of battle or inspire you in a moment when the right word, the right deed could draw a lover's eye.
"Small. A compass rose on your forearm. Attune a needle with your spell and I'll do the same with mine."
no subject
She's not wrong. Obviously. And Dmitri would shoot Nerys a glare if he wasn't so focused on Faolan and on—
Oh, that's.
Not an UNwelcome sight. And Dmitri might be staring again, but also and to be fair, Dima is often staring, often—
Looking, yes.
Looking at Faolan in a way the man's seen before, and of course he must have seen this, beautiful as he is, and given what... Well, what Dima's gathered was his employ, not to mention what pursuits he might have followed in his own time.
Dmitri watches, arms crossed, feeling uneasy (feeling exposed) (feeling as if he's wronged the man, and feeling, hearing that Faolan's been wrong so wretchedly before) (Dima knows this; though he'd never thought much of the story of the noble and the shame cast on a named, nearly unknown boy, he knows some version of the story, and knows it can't have been pleasant) (and doesn't he know how memories can ache (would he give up his own?)).
And, to Faolan: [ Forgive me.
You have been wronged, repeatedly. I— ]
He wants to ask if Faolan's fulfilled his end of a bargain already. (Bargaining what? Memories, by the sound of it. How many, and are they gone already, and what follows in the wake of absent memories, of holes in the place of experience?) (Dima doesn't like the thought of it. Even the undead keep their memories, experience that lingers after life— But Faolan has the right to choose erasure. Faolan has the right to free himself of whatever pain he wishes.)
[ You have nothing to be ashamed of. Certainly not from lesser men, whatever claim of status they might hang their names upon.
...I understand it is your choice. And I'm going to stay right here. I'm going to be watching. ]
Watching for any foul play from the tattooist. Watching Nerys.
Watching Faolan, to make sure he isn't lost.
<.>
Faolan huffs a little laugh to hide whatever he might feel about that statement. It jerks his shoulders and the tattooist hisses and swats at his head. "Every time you move, I have to start the attunement over, you squirming bastard."
Taken aback, Faolan looks at her scowl and, chastened, nods meekly and settles back with his elbows on his knees. Not without a wry, "You could've made a good living humbling men like that, you know."
Almost breezily, the crone answers, "Still do."
He takes it in stride. "Fair enough."
And to Dmitri, he continues to Message. [ I have plenty to be ashamed of. Enough to tell you I've been fooled too many times to let it happen again. In haunted houses and at campfires and maybe even in Awich, you're Dima and I'm Fae, and you look soft at me to your heart's content.
But in Morovsk, you're Dmitri Voronin and I'm 'that Rhys whore' who was caught out with his hand wrapped around Fedir Petrenko's cock. At one of your brother's parties, in fact. ]
He didn't precisely mean to say all of that. Or maybe he did. Maybe it's been burning inside him since he learned Dmitri's name almost three days ago. (Maybe he wants someone to hurt like he hurts.) (Or just - know. Understand. See what he is and accept it, embrace it, and maybe -
Maybe he'll come away cleansed, somehow.)
He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the sting of magic at his back.
[ I gave Phaedron three things. The memory of my first time with a lover. The taste of honey on a man's tongue. The emotions of the night Fedir lay beside me under starlight and promised me the world.
I believed him. That's shame enough. ]
<.>
Dima hadn't known.
He could have guessed. (Ought to have inquired?) Given Daniil's recurrent references to Petrenko, the man's passage through their home, Daniil's insistence on Petrenko's claim for justice.
Dmitri and Derzhena had, in the end, given over to permitting their family's support. It seemed wisest, for the sake of keeping balance among families, bridges unburned over an incident that hadn't seemed of their concern.
Dima flinches inwardly at the thought. Feels a query from Liviana, then understanding, and the sensation (but not the physical actuality) of feathers brushed against his cheek. He'd like to sink into himself at this moment. He half thinks he ought to look away from Faolan, knowing himself unworthy of the man's eyes— But also. But also, he can't cease watching, and thinks maybe, maybe looking away would be another manner of abandonment.
He's been quiet, noting the tattooist without really looking at her, trying to keep some eye on her work but unable to track much. Finally, he responds—
[ You wouldn't have to be.
They'll listen to what I say; they'll have to. I'd take the tongue of any wretch who dares to speak against you, or defile your name.
...Thank you. For telling me. I worry that— ]
A soft click of his tongue, and he cuts himself off briefly. Yes, he worries what repercussions the loss of these memories might carry. But that's Faolan's choice to make, and there's no good in questioning or casting doubt on what's already been done. That isn't what this moment, that isn't what Faolan needs.
(Can Dima give Faolan what he needs?) (He'd like to. He'd truly like to.)
[ No. I'm only sorry you've known such shame, and I regret that my brother's godsforsaken parties played any role in it. Petrenko was something far worse than a fool and rat-ridden bastard to treat you in this way.
Faolan. You can't fault yourself for believing him. Or. I'd urge you not to. ]
And: [ The memory, the sensations are gone, then? ]
<.>
It's a good thing Dmitri changed the subject because the look Faolan was beginning to wear was prelude to anger.
A warning of a warning.
He almost snaps, What would I have to do for you in return for such a brave defense?
He almost snaps, Your family defiled my name.
He doesn't say any of it, because he knows it's not (entirely) deserved. And also - and also. There's an admission in there of something he doesn't want to know. (A hope. A desire. A dream of some future where even in Morovsk, they're Dima and Fae, and their hands remain joined.)
It's to his relief that the focus changes to his trade. [ The emotions of that night with Fedir are gone. I can remember what happened, but not how I felt. ]
No, he needs to hang on to the memory itself. Fedir said a lot of things.
[ The other two memories - yes. They're gone. Good riddance to them. If I never replace them, at least they won't trouble me any longer. Maybe they'll please someone else. ]
<.>
He saw that shifting, that could-be-oncoming-storm in Faolan's mien. Fair enough, and perhaps, perhaps Dmitri almost expected it. Didn't wish to draw it from Faolan, but the subject he spoke is charged, must be painful, and Dima can't see himself as being free from blame; can't expect Faolan to think Dima was entirely removed from his family's decisions.
Dima doesn't venture further with the subject. (Maybe another time.) (If Faolan allows.) (If it feels right, feels helpful— Feels like something in its speaking could be healing for the man?). Dima does wonder— Dima does note.
Faolan must have loved Petrenko. Which is not a thought for dwelling on just now. Which is something to remember, because it marks a site of sharpest pain for Faolan. (Because... Because maybe, just maybe, there's a question of what Faolan adored in Fedir.) (Because Dima has it in his power to make the man pay dearly. When he's returned to Morovsk. When he's had time to think about... All of this. Including the role Daniil played.) (How many fucking chances will Dima need to give his brother?)
He brushes one finger under Liviana's jaw, considering Faolan's words, considering potentials of response. Then: [ Do you feel all right? Do you feel— Mm. Any different?
I don't ask in judgment; I don't mean to castigate you. I am wary by nature, but— But I AM glad for any pain that may be lifted from you.
You've had far too much of wounding. ]
A thought: 'If.' Faolan said 'if,' and it might mean, could mean— Maybe there isn't only pain, maybe there aren't only scars left on Faolan's heart. Maybe, maybe he could be willing, could be able to try again.
(Oh, if only.)
<.>
[PERC, f: 23
DEC, d: 21]
It was the "if". He shouldn't have said it, shouldn't have phrased it as though there's even the slightest possibility.
(It wasn't just the "if"; it's everything he's said and done, meeting everything Dima has said and done from the moment they met.) (Which was not that long ago.)
He can see Dmitri's - oh, it's well past longing, it's yearning, it's aching, strangling hope.
It's terrifying, because yearning and hope sink deeper, go far beyond physical want. (He knows. He's felt it.)
(He knows, also, that Dmitri seems to genuinely care.)
Oh, it's not sustainable. The world always gets in the way; it will get in the way even if Dmitri swears his soul to Faolan. Whatever he says, Morovsk will turn him.
Dmitri's on a path towards a broken heart. There's nothing Faolan can do to stop it; he can only handle the man with care and give him nothing else to feed his hope. No confusing touches. No smiles, no soft words. Just kindness.
And an answer to that question.
He looks down at his hands and thinks a moment.
[ I feel unburdened. And I feel it's a dangerous unburdening; it would be tempting to sell every last shred of my life to him just to forget. ]
His mouth curves in a small, rueful smile.
[ But then I wouldn't be myself any longer. Yes, there's pain, but it's MY pain. ]
A moment passes as Faolan listens to the crone humming some discordant tune.
[ You don't know me, Dmitri. ]
He speaks gently, and when he looks up, it's only lifted eyes.
[ You spoke a moment ago as though it was given that I would join you -
I'll never go back to Morovsk. Not until I can look at that beautiful, summertime sea and feel something other than desolate. ]
(The water was, he thinks now, the same color as the wisp-light.) (The water was the color of Dmitri's eyes.)
<.>
There's that, at least: That Faolan's gained some unburdening with the severance of these memories, and that he's not liable to cut away many, if any, more.
The rest—
Dima hadn't, really, realized how he'd framed his talk of Morovsk He hadn't guarded his speech, and it's true he'd spoken from his hope, his wishing, anticipating the future as he thought it could be.
(Dima's usually so much more careful in his disclosures.) (It's difficult to hide anything or skirt the center of truth with this man.) (And Dima— Doesn't want to be untruthful. But. But it isn't fair to drop all of this on Faolan.)
[ That isn't 'never.' Or it might not be. ]
Not an advisable place to begin, probably. (But Dima latched onto that 'not until.' But it shines in his mind, a place of possibility.)
He shakes his head, huffs a sigh and earns a sharp look from the tattooist, a reminder that he can take his impatience outside. Dima inclines his head, says nothing aloud and returns to Messaging—
[ I speak too far ahead of myself. There are things, visions of existence I would like - for myself; for you - but I don't intend to force your hand.
You keep reminding me that I don't know you.
True, in part. There's much of you - I suspect there are whole worlds in you - I've yet to witness.
But I know people, Faolan. I've spent much of my life studying their habits, learning their complexities, and in my duties, in my studies, I've met many, many men.
None exist for me the way that you do.
None struck me with such radiance; none hold the heart you do.
I overreach, perhaps, in saying any of this; in believing it. But I don't speak idly, Faolan. I don't hold affection without reason. ]
<.>
Well. There it is, open and spoken, and there's no unspeaking it.
(There's no unhearing it, and he won't trade it away.) (He'll hear Dmitri's voice for the rest of his life, saying there are whole worlds in you and none exist for me the way you do.)
He's heard men speak this way before. He knows better now than to believe it. Oh, he'd like to believe it, but he doesn't have any faith left in him. (Dmitri is a Voronin, and he wonders if his name ever cross Dmitri's tongue in slander.)
He's spared having to respond immediately by a slap against his back where the skin has burned as magic flowed in from the crone's needle.
"You're done and paid. Move along, send in the next one before you go."
As he's getting up and pulling his shirt back on, hiding the tattoo from Dmitri's eyes, he considers what he ought to say.
He settles for [ I can't give you what you want. ]
Whatever it is. However much he wants it.
[INT, d: 20
dm: Nice C: That'll do it, then.]
<.>
The thing is, Faolan doesn't know what Dima wants.
(Does Dima know in fullness what he wants? This man in happiness; freed from his burdens without losing anything. This man beside him (at midnight) (a rose in his hand) on the sands of Morovsk, arms twined around each other, looking out across the sea. This man's laughter; this man's voice on into the night. Years upon years and yes, yes it's true he wants nearness with this man, wants passion. He wants— So much.
Too much?
...Perhaps he'll never know. But this perhaps won't keep him from trying.)
As much as Dima wants to make his case, as much as he wants to outpour words of what he would do, will do and be if Faolan permits, he senses it might be best not to keep flooding the man with speaking. There's something here that speech alone can't touch. And there will be time (please; please) for extensive words again.
He exhales (quietly, this time). He tries to glimpse the tattoo; he sees nothing, and his curiosity ticks: What is it Faolan's asked for. What is it that he's taken on himself? He glances at the room around; tries finally to discern what this place is, what these tattoos might accomplish.
And his eyes return to Faolan: [ What I want is— Is extraneous, I suppose.
What I ask for is your company. In travel, for as long as you can stomach me, hm? ]
He was, he thinks, attempting a jest. He ends up looking aside, lip ticking, and—
[ I should like to know you better, for however long I may. ]
<.>
There's a look from Faolan that's entirely sorrowful; how much he wishes he was someone else, or Dmitri had come along years ago.
Or that, maybe, Dmitri wasn't Dmitri Voronin, and instead some peasant boy like himself.
He could bear this man's company all his life, if he thought it was possible. (Bear. Cherish. Welcome.)
He doesn't respond. Instead, he moves toward the door where Nerys has been waiting, ready to accompany him to the next merchant.
Before Dima can follow, the old crone speaks - or Messages? - "Some of my marks might interest a man who suffers unrequited love, Necromancer."
She hasn't moved from her stool where she sits wiping down the overlarge needle until it gleams unnaturally in the light.
"Tattoos to make you forget. Or to bind your lover to you. More, for the right price."
She pauses, then clucks her tongue. "No, you don't want to force him. A spell for a spell, though, hm? You know how to disguise yourself, to hide yourself from prying eyes. I know how to give a man a little luck - in love and war alike. An instinct that could turn the tide of battle or inspire you in a moment when the right word, the right deed could draw a lover's eye.
"Small. A compass rose on your forearm. Attune a needle with your spell and I'll do the same with mine."
<.>