Sen and Rin, with Faolan trailing along after, approach a canopied shop with rows of tables displaying nothing but mirrors. Some of these seem perfectly normal at a glance, albeit ranging from common to ornate. Other distort the reflection, or the world around the reflection. Some show no reflection at all - only blackness, only an empty white space.
Floating dismally between the tables, here and there rearranging a display, is Payl Gower. He is - was - a younger human man, and from the lighter pearlescence of his hair, it's easy to see he was blond, likely fair-skinned. Now, he's pearly gray, sad-eyed and frowning at himself in his merchandise.
When he sees the party, he gestures, "Please, have a look. If you have any questions -"
His customer service attitude drops a little. "Well. I'm not exactly going anywhere."
<.>
Rin is going to try very, very hard to stay focused on what they've come here for. (It's definitely about Payl Gower, who is a ghost and is supposed to be in here and might be that ghost right there.) The trouble is, there are an awful lot of mirrors. And Rin is awfully fond of mirrors. They're definitely glancing at the mirrors around. Then stopping briefly in front of one, and a little less briefly in front of the other.
Rin is in fact quickly losing focus on what they've come here for.
Dima hangs back briefly, not letting the others from his sight, not about to let them enter the tent before he joins—
He only needs a moment. To think; to let the image of hands upon his hand, fire around both settle deep in his mind. To scratch Liviana's neck lightly, and nod when she asks in her way whether he's all right. A moment, and moment, and then he follows after, into the shop of mirrors, standing near to Faolan.
The tiefling swirls around, blinks, then slips back toward the group, now offering the ghost a nod of their head, "It's Payl, right?"
<.>
Sen does nothing to curb Rin's enthusiasm or redirect them from their reflection. Shouldn't they admire their appearance? He does, so very much. He trails them; they look in mirrors and he watches them, and all is right in the world until Dima enters.
He must have said something. Sen darts a suspicious look at the man and pulls a face that clearly says, Don't harass Rin.
Faolan watches all of this with a faintly amused expression that fades when he meets Dima's eyes. His look becomes complicated, because it's all complicated when it should be very simple. (He should get away from Dmitri before getting away hurts any worse than it already will.)
The ghost furrows its brow at Rin, then inclines his head in confirmation. "Do I know you?"
And then, by way of explanation, he adds apologetically, "My memory - I can't recall much. I'm told it's normal. If I've met you, I don't remember you. I would have, I think. Never - Might have never. Met a tiefling."
<.>
Rin has - for the moment, and moments don't last so very long - let the mirrors go. Ghosts might not be any match for a mirror, but they're still interesting; Rin hasn't exactly conversed with many of them. And if Payl can't remember having met a tiefling, well! He is very lucky that Rin should be the first! Grinning, they offer a bow, with a sweep of their arm.
"Now you can say for certain that you have! And no, no, I believe if you had met me, you'd remember. I'm not so simple to forget." They raise a finger to tap their cheek, thinking, thinking. "I am very good at forgetting, however, so if I'd met you, I also wouldn't recall! Faces elude me, do you see? Most faces; there are some that stay forever, right there in my head."
They move their hand back to their side— But not before giving Sen's arm a playful poke, then a small brush. "The point is that we have a question for you. Or several questions?" Does Rin recall the questions.
Not precisely...
But they'll take a running guess!
"How did you die, anyway?"
Dmitri meets Sen's glance with a studiously neutral expression. They are here for a reason, and Rin may scurry about as they please once this has been completed.
Though. Now that Rin's offered a question, Dima begins to think that maybe, maybe he ought to have left them to their mirrors.
He clears his throat, shakes his head, but doesn't speak yet. He is watching Payl closely, seeking any signs of the being he might have been in living, trying to determine for himself how newly this man became a ghost.
<.>
The forthrightness of the question seems to surprise Payl; it's apparent that it isn't a common (or polite) subject, and perhaps it's one that no one's approached him with before.
"I..." he begins, then trails off. He seems to be searching his memory when he looks away. "It was a knife. Sudden - It's so strange. It felt like nothing at first. Like someone dragged a thumb across my neck.
"I don't think I felt much pain at all, actually. Shock of the body. By the time I realized what had happened, it was nearly over."
He looks at the party again and laughs a perfunctory, self-effacing sound that dies immediately. "That's not what you wanted to know. Forgive me. I - had gone to do something terrible. Stupid. But I have a daughter, and it's more terrible to watch her go hungry. I was promised what seemed a small fortune for helping my employer to his end.
"It would have been enough to keep her warm and fed for years. Enough to set her up somewhere in the city and give her a life.
"So I went with poison, and because I'm no studied killer, I was caught. I tried to run and his brute caught me."
<.>
"Your employer?" It's Dmitri who speaks first, voice even, showing little of his own feeling. (His own feeling, which isn't nothing. Which carries the sensation of two hands around his own, and the ache in hearing Faolan's pain, and Faolan's turn away. Which carries as well, just now, some modicum of pity for the man. It was a foolish choice Gower made - an errand taken without skill, without means - but poverty drives men to far, far worse.
And in formation, there's a thought, a plan to follow from Dima's pity.)
"Forgive me; I impose inquiry without offering my name. I am Dmitri Voronin. The four of us" (here he gestures to the group) "are seeking information related to the circumstances of your end, and the work that led to it.
"We're to receive payment for whatever we might glean. And it occurs to me that we might see that some share of the profit is directed to your daughter."
<.>
Sen again shoots Dmitri a look - a glare - but almost immediately rolls his eyes in acquiescence. Nevermind that this is his little errand, and Dmitri is just along for the Market trip. Bastard.
Double bastard: Faolan weighs in with, "If nothing else, we could make sure she's well."
The two of them need to crawl into a sack together so Sen can win his bet and he and Rin can be on their way.
Payl looks torn; clearly, his daughter's security means a good deal to him.
"I - was one of the servants of the merchant-lord Calabra." He seems to be restraining himself from speaking further and clears his throat in discomfort. "What kind of information are you looking for?"
<.>
Dmitri isn't going to give Sen the satisfaction of acknowledging that Look, though he does Message the elf, [ If you have a more pertinent question, feel free to unleash your torrent. ]
At Faolan's words, he nods once; it wouldn't be, won't be so difficult to do. If nothing else, Dima can see that some measure of Voronin money is carried to the girl. (He isn't going to consider the fact that he isn't typically prone to offering monetary support, not so early in a negotiation.) (He isn't going to think on what this early offering might have to do with Faolan, or with the rings on Dima's hand.)
It's an interesting revelation - that the man was a servant of Calabra - though not at all unheard-of. Dima's about to respond when Rin cuts in with a 'tsk' and—
“That [ brimstone-encrusted anus ] seems about as nice to work for as a constipated chimera." And, after a moment, a little softer, "Well, I'm sorry about your daughter."
And, from Dima: "Did you recognize the being who offered you this fortune?"
<.>
Payl smiles at Rin's comment, though it's more perfunctory than amused. It seems he knows exactly what kind of man Calabra is. As for his daughter- "As am I."
To Dima, he replies, "I did. At the time, I - or, no. No, that's wrong. What I remember is I knew a name, because I spoke with someone sent by -"
He frowns darkly. "It's all jumbled and patched. I can't remember who wanted Calabra dead and who hired me on whose behalf. The faces are blurred. Voices distorted."
He motions to one of the mirrors reflecting back a hazy view of the Nightmare Market. "Like this."
And then, suddenly, "I would like it. If you'd look in on her. My sister will have her now, I'm certain of it. Morwenna Gower. She's not much older than my girl, though. Only nineteen now to Manon's twelve. Can I trust you?"
Sen pulls a flat look at Dmitri, then steps in. "You have our word. We'll make certain the girl is unharmed and looked after. You don't have anything to worry about from us; we may be scoundrels, but we're generally the honorable kind."
[PERS, s: nat 20]
Payl looks relieved, even smiles genuinely at the group and utters, "Pelor bless you all."
"Can you tell us anything about the person who hired you?" Faolan presses gently. "Anything at all. Even if it doesn't seem important."
Payl considers the mirror under his ghostly hand for a moment; he begins to shake his head, then starts suddenly. "Wait. There was something troubling about their face. I think they kept it hidden, but the wrap fell and -"
He drags a hand down along his jaw. "There were scars here. Three or four - like a bear or some beast took a great swipe at them."
<.>
It takes everything in Dima's power not to roll his eyes at Sen— Or it would, were it not for Gower's sorrow and subject, or for the promise Sen gives; it's one Dima can only agree with, and he can't pretend Sen doesn't say it well.
He does give Faolan a glance of approval, both for the question and the manner of its asking. (For a man so long abused, he can be achingly gentle, careful.) (However his tender heart has been kicked, wounded, he hasn't lost it wholly; hasn't, Dima thinks, lost much of it at all.)
Rin nods vigorously with Sen's promise. They don't do a lot of making sure anyone's taken care of, but no kid should be left almost alone at twelve, and if word's gotten around about the circumstances of her father's death, the road ahead could be extra rough— For her, and for the ghost's sister, as well. (Who isn't a ghost, but also probably didn't count of raising her niece out of nowhere.)
"That helps," they say to Payl's description. And, "Are there any mirrors in here that might help put things together? Like. Mirrors that can show 'what was,' or whatever?"
[q: would dima or rin have met anyone whose face would match the scarred description?
If the person with the scarred face is someone they've ever encountered, they can't remember the meeting.]
<.>
Payl doesn't bother looking around. He just shakes his head at Rin. "There was a mirror of that kind, but I sold it at the last Market, south of Mysos. Doesn't matter, though. It only showed what a person remembered. I'd touch it and the whole thing would turn black."
Seeming to remember something more, Payl makes a small 'ah' sound. "They gave me gold. I remember that. They gave me a pouch with gold in it - half of what was promised. I can't remember what I did with it, but I can guess. Tell Morwenna to look in our old hiding spot. She'll know."
A sense of peace seems to descend over Payl. "If you can do that - I'd be grateful."
That's a shame about the mirror, and Rin still thinks it might be worth checking out what all of these mirrors do because maybe there's one Pyle hasn't had a chance to look at? He hasn't been here that long, right? Or does time even work right in the Market? Whatever the point about the mirrors - and they will look at those mirrors! - they speak, "We can do that, definitely. And if your sister can't find it there, we'll search it out for you. I'm pretty talented at finding hidden things. Especially if it's gold. Or some nice bones or stones."
Something occurs to them! "How're we going to find your sister, though? Do you remember where she's at? Or I guess we could ask around."
Dmitri thinks, but doesn't say, that there's a not-nil chance that whoever paid for the assassination is also searching for the gold. If it is the case, it's not something Gower needs to worry about. (It might be something for their group to look into once they get a sense of who offered the money, and what their usual practices might be.)
<.>
Sen has been awfully quiet through most of this conversation; he's watching Payl closely, wondering how much of his amnesia is truth. If it's entirely true, he's about to spend a lot more time than a single evening running around looking for their would-be-assassin's shadowy employer.
"Awich," Gower nods. "Work's not easy to come by when you don't work the docks. I took the river south to Mysos with Manon and my wife; they're always looking for servants. That's where I was when..." A shaking off of the thought. "She's in Awich. She has a house in South Ward. It isn't much, but she gets by. She'll get by."
Faolan almost asks what happened to Payl's wife, but he can guess. It's the first time he's mentioned her, after all; either she's dead or she left him. Either way, she's not someone Payl is worried about now.
A group of very much alive, very young necromancers filter into the stall; Payl hums a note of apology. "Is there anything else I can answer? I'm afraid I haven't been much help."
<.>
It's a detail worth holding onto, the fact of Gower's (former) wife. Something to ask into, if they end up needing further information, further sources. Something that needn't be brought up just now—
Probably.
For the moment, at least. There's been an interruption, and Dima turns his head just enough to favor the intrusive necromancers with a chilly, an affectless glance. Then, scarcely raising his voice, though he's sharper now in enunciation, and there's a trace of warning in his voice: "Would you mind. Out. I don't appreciate your interruption."
Dima is absolutely attempting to snarl them ouT, at least for a few more minutes.
[INT: 18; There is ONE necromancer permitted in this shop rn >:C]
<.>
The stunned neophytes immediately stumble over one another to try and get out of the tent; one of them knocks into a table, nearly sending a mirror crashing to the floor. Sen only barely manages to grab at it in time, fumbles and nearly drops it, himself, but rescues it from potential shattering.
(Acrobatics: 12. lkfhashdf Had to beat a 10.)
<.>
All Dima needs to see is that they are leaving (little shits); he hears the mirror-shuffling, but fixes his attention of Gower. "My pardons; I haven't finished with our questions.
"First, you said you knew a name: Can you recall it? Or any pertinent name, title at all, however tangential."
"Second: What can you tell us of Calabra himself— Or of his employ.
"Third: Where did you obtain your poison.
"You've given somewhere to begin, and I do appreciate your efforts. But you've had much more to say of your family than the circumstances leading to your end. Understandable, yes, but we need something more if we're to find the ones who put you in this position.
"If the answers elude you, try to focus on what you do know: The feeling of cobblestones beneath your feet, perhaps, or the cloak you wore. Perhaps the scents you noticed when you met your scarred contact."
<.>
"No, no. I've tried that. We don't have any sense memory," he replies disconsolately. "Some of the others claim it comes back, but it's why there's such a - demand for memories. For anything, just a shred, so we can taste wine again, or smell grass -"
"Or touch hair like our child's."
He lifts a shoulder and stares at the ground, clearly trying to think of something, anything. "Calabra's as your companion says. Even his fellow made-nobility don't like him much. He likes to flaunt his money and still whines about earnings.
"Working for him was always being accused of laziness, or theft, or of grifting from the cook's funds. Fucking miser. New-gold trash, really. Heavily on the side of stricter taxes on the canals. On all of us."
Payl looks up again at Dima. "Did you say 'Voronin?" And he laughs with a little schadenfreude. "Oh, he hated you. Or your family. I suppose the feeling was mutual - not to say your family had anything to do with it. I can't remember the name, but I know what the name wasn't."
A sigh. "The poison was just what we use to kill vermin. Concentrated for Calabra, obviously. Like I said: I'm no killer. I'm not - wasn't - very creative about any method of accomplishing a murder."
There's another silence, and Payl thinks to add, "I don't remember who hired me, but I know they weren't from Mysos. They complained of losing their way in the streets, but anyone who's lived there for a month knows the trick to getting around."
<.>
It isn't particularly helpful, but Gower at least seems to be trying in earnest; it's more than can be said for most beings, living or undead. So Dmitri decides to refrain from pushing further.
He did huff an amused laugh at the mention of Calabra's hatred. The hatred's no surprise; the question is how often the shit has cursed Dima's family, and how loudly, and how many vases he might have destroyed in the process. They aren't questions worth asking, or worth entertaining for more than a moment. Dima does, however, remark archly, "Not the most potent choice of poisons, but suited perfectly to Calabra."
Godsdamned ratfink fuck that he is.
"You can't have been the first to attempt to poison him; I'm certain you won't be the last." Most likely, Gower also won't be the last servant approached with the murderous offer. If, if they decide to pursue this further, they could do worse than to surreptitiously question some of Calabra's living servants.
"Payl. You have my thanks, and I've no more questions for you. Your daughter will be cared for; you may rely on that."
Dima folds his arms and looks to the rest of the party.
Rin has no questions to add, though now that the meeting seems to be reaching it's end, they're beginning to grow antsy, their eyes darting to the mirrors more and more often. Clearly, they will not be leaving once the conversation's finished. They have mirrors to look at, thank you very much! Also, maybe if they look at enough mirrors and ask enough questions about enough mirrors, they can help get the ghost's mind off of— Well, off of some of this, at least.
<.>
Sen, seeing Rin's fixation growing, thinks maybe he ought to try to find some way to distract them from the mirrors and allow Payl a little time to compose himself. (Insofar as a ghost may feel composed so soon after its death.) He knows there's a shop full of small totems near the docks, but he's not entirely sure that's enough to pry them away from the dozens of reflected Rins. (He can't blame them.)
Faolan, for his own part, has nothing more he wants to pursue about this. He thinks there's quite a lot of information that's been given, though it might need some puzzling through. Maybe tomorrow after another rest, he can approach all the information Payl's given them and figure out something crucial. Without waiting for the rest, he slips out of the stall and into a little more open space (away from all those mirrors.) (Not now.)
Payl sees the looks Sen keeps casting at Rin, and the looks Rin keeps casting at the mirrors. Hurriedly, he picks up a small hand mirror - folding, with a clever little catch to keep it closed. "Here. It isn't much, and it doesn't have any magic to it, but why don't you have it? With my thanks."
<.>
Rin—
Rin actually. Doesn't quite know what to do with this. People don't really give them things; it's usually a 'Rin takes and nobody realizes until later' sort of arrangement. Or a 'sometimes people give Rin things but it's always when they want something' arrangement.
Which.
Okay, maybe Payl does want something, and maybe what he wants is a little space, and maybe that's also why Sen's been looking at them like that, and it's true Rin's not the best at picking up on hints.
The mirror's in their hands now, and Rin's smiling down at it, pleased, running their hand along its cover. When they look up, there's a grin for Sen and a flash of the mirror - "Sen, Sen, look!" - then a smile for Payl and a little bow of their head. "If you're sure it's all right?
"Here, you should have something to, I'll—" They don't have much a ghost would want. Or could do much with. But there's a thought, something recent that tickles their memory, and as they tug at their hair, the pieces slip into place: "What if I bring you back a memory? If I— When we find your daughter." A pause as they try, they really try to remember and the name issss, "Manon, that's right, right? I could touch her hair - just like—" Here, they demonstrate, combing their fingers slow through their own hair. "Like that, and bring the memory to you? If it's okay with you, and if your daughter's okay with it."
They look to Sen, partly just to look at Sen because he's lovely to look at, partly as a way of checking to see whether they've gone way off-point. Then, back to Payl with a nod: "I'd like to do that."
Dmitri, when he saw the conversation had indeed reached its end, has followed Faolan out. Approaching him without coming too close, just in case the man needs a moment. Just in case what he witnessed was a little overwhelming. After a moment, he does ask, voice not too loud, "How do you feel?"
<.>
Payl looks utterly broken by their offer. If he had breath, it would catch - and it looks as though, if he could weep, maybe he would. "I..."
Composing himself a little, he nods. "I didn't expect anything. But if you would do that - Please. Yes, please. I'd like that."
Sen, with a sense of timing and more than his fair capability to read a room, begins to herd Rin out, offering Payl one parting smile and the reassurance that they'll do all they can.
Once they're just out of Payl's sight, Sen stops and smiles down at them. "You are a remarkable creature - with a lovely mirror and a lovelier heart. Do you know that?"
Faolan, meanwhile, doesn't know how to answer that question. Or rather, he doesn't know what Dmitri picked up one, and why he's asking. (There are so many reasons for him to feel anything other than well.) (...Not when he meets Dmitri's eyes, however. Dangerous, that's very dangerous.)
"I can't say I enjoyed that, obviously." He folds his arms and examines the tops of his shoes a moment before bringing himself back to the conversation - and Dmitri. "Tonight's been...a lot. I'm not used to being around so many people anymore, dead or alive."
Why is he telling Dmitri any of this?
(Because it's nice to tell someone who cares.)
"Also. I can't help but think of the servant stopping by our table. How many other people do you suppose he asked, and how many of them know Calabra is looking for whoever hired Gower?"
Faolan chews his lower lip thoughtfully. "I'm worried for his daughter. Someone might get it in their head that Gower told her what he was doing and who he was doing it for. Someone might get to her and his sister long before we do."
How long has Faolan been alone, or nearly so? There's a likely answer, a wrenching one: Since he was demonized by (humiliated in; exiled from) Morovsk. And since that time, how has he lived? Who has he had to speak to, commiserate with? (Perhaps it isn't all misery. Perhaps there's peace to be found far from crowds. Still, still, it's clear there's so much wounding that hasn't had chance or cause to heal.)
Dima dares to move forward; near enough to reach for Faolan, though his hands stay loose at his sides, not wanting to force further contact. "I've been entertaining a similar thought. There are potentialities of harm we can't predict; strands leading from the attempted assassination and the money paid to his daughter, his sister.
"We'd be wise to seek her home as soon as we're able. If she's there now - if they're both there - we have coin enough to assure their passage from the city, and with a word, I can secure temporary housing, at the least." If Morwenna isn't in the city - if, perhaps, she and the daughter are in the process of traveling from Mysos - they'll need to construct another plan.
"I'm interested in knowing why Calabra had his servant making such an unsubtle search. Unless he thought to avoid the embarrassment of bringing the Nightmare Market to his connections." Dima shakes his head, dismissing the subject for the moment; it's another layer of conflict that Faolan needn't consider, certainly not right now.
Fixing his eyes on Faolan, Dima speaks in a voice soft but self-assured: "We'll find her, Faolan. And there are many places a girl and her guardian might escape discovery."
There's a moment's pause, Dima clearly considering this next action before he takes it, reaching out to settle a hand at Faolan's elbow. "Tonight's been a lot; the past several days have been a lot. It's all become something of a blur, but between the mansion, the rush of the city, and now this—
"You've endured quite a lot, Faolan. It might be best to have a breath outside." Another pause, a cant of Dima's head. "Would you like that?"
With or without Dima's accompaniment, he means (though he hopes, of course he hopes, for 'with').
Nearby, Rin wraps their arm around Sen's, shifting their gaze between the mirror and the elf. They'd given Payl a parting wave of their hand goodbye, vowing to themself all over again to bring him back his memory, and to make it a very good one. Now they laugh a little, beaming up at Sen.
“I don’t know so much about my heart, but it is a lovely mirror, isn’t it? And you are a lovely elf.” They open the mirror again to examine their face, then hold it up toward Sen so that he may see himself (himself?). "See what I mean?
"Well, I mean your face, and also... everything you said to him in there. The promises; I think he needed that. And if anyone can keep those promises, it's us honorable scoundrels." Considering, considering, and, "This all got more complicated, didn't it? I mean. There's a lot to do if we want that money, and if we want to help Calabra with anything at all.
"...Maybe we could just rob him?"
<.>
He doesn't know quite how he ends up at the docks with Dmitri beside him; he didn't invite the man, but neither did he turn him away, and he did agree that he was in need of space. He did need freedom from the crowd. Perhaps Dmitri led him out, and he simply followed because -
He always has been something of a follower.
(And if he did let himself care for, want Dmitri, he would follow him anywhere.)
So Faolan is sitting now on the dock with his shoes off and his legs dangling, feet drifting in the water fearlessly, unmindful of what creatures might see them as opportunity.
He's been quiet all this time, other than his assent. He's had a good deal to think about, and truthfully, he's growing tired of thinking. It's nice to sit here and look at the reflection of stars on the water, to look up and see those stars above him. (To feel Dmitri beside him.)
It's nice to know Dmitri expects nothing from him, demands nothing. Is simply here, maybe happy to be in his company.
Sen is having a very different sort of interlude. As he and Rin wander the market, he picks and prods at the problems with Calabra, with the assassin, and is beginning to wonder how much more there is to this.
How deep the rabbit hole goes, so to speak.
"I'm curious why someone would pay a servant a small fortune to kill him. Why not hire an actual assassin? Someone with experience would surely have gotten the job done. Do you suppose this is the exact outcome they wanted? A message of some sort to Calabra, that he can be reached from anywhere, at any time? It might have been difficult for an assassin to get close, but not unmanageable."
<.>
There isn't any need to speak, not now.
Dmitri did lead Faolan from the Market. Gently, with a hand at his elbow. Speaking a soft series of inconsequential notions; remarks on a stall's wares requiring no answer, thoughts of what the hour might be and how the sky might appear, talk of sights encountered on the road prior to meeting this man.
The dock seemed the natural place to take their quiet. Whether Dima led or whether he felt Faolan tending toward the shore, he can't say. He knows he's glad for the water's presence. He knows the silence of the night brings comfort, helps begin to clear his head of convolutions. He knows he's pleased, he's unspeakably lucky to be here, seated by this man, sharing in his silence and his presence.
He knows there's quiet thrill each time he turns to see Faolan still here, and sitting close. As if he's found a kind of peace. And it's charming, the way he sits, feet kept within the water while Dmitri sits with one leg crossed beneath him, the other upright, crooked, the better to wind his arm around it. He doesn't venture to touch Faolan; he also sits near enough to feel Faolan's warmth, and almost hear his heartbeat.
Liviana flies above, occasionally dipping close, the soaring toward the slowly, slowly fading night. She hunts, yes, and keeps an eye to any signs of movement, any signal that might suggest attack, or merely an equally unwanted interruption. (She, too, is glad of the quiet, the open sky. There was much to witness in the Market, but Liviana has always preferred vast spaces to crowds.)
At some point, Dmitri does speak. Again in the soft voice that demands no response; demands no active listening. Speaking of the night sky as he's seen in from so many cities, town, uninhabited places. Of the stars' reflections on the lake before them now, and the way they shimmer upon rivers, caught in streams. Of how well he likes the sky apart from any city's bustle.
He thinks he's never seen a more comforting sky than the one before him now. He thinks, he knows, he's never met a fonder night. And if he adjusts himself, if the adjustment shifts him just a little nearer to Faolan, it's with no expectation; only gladness for Fae's company; only relief, to know his presence.
In the Market, Rin pauses frequently to look through varied offerings, to touch when no one says 'no touching,' to ask questions and nod and move along again. There was a very nice fan, a few stalls back. A gathering of bones at the one to their right. They like these items, but they like their mirror better, and their attention stays primarily with Sen and with his musings.
He's got a lot of good points, and the more he talks, the clearer the whole situation becomes for Rin (it's a lot easier, they're finding, to hold onto details and track the bigger picture when Sen puts everything into words; it's like everything turns from clouds they can't quite keep together into solid images). They hum, they nod, and really, yeah, they can think of several handfuls of ways someone could have a Sir Lord Fuck-His-Face killed than passing an offer to an untried servant.
Which. Is extra shitty for Payl. Because he not only got caught up in some game of murder chess; he was always going to lose.
"Shit," they hiss. "Yeah, it seems funny - and by funny I mean kinda fucked - to not at least give their mm 'assassin' some better poison, or at least tips for a better poison, maybe some suggestions for how to go about killing. Those are all pretty basic 'if you want a job done right' steps, probably.
"I think you're right, Sen. Unless whoever hired him is the world's stupidest conspirator, they can't have thought it'd end with a dead Calabra. Some sort of bullshit message-sending sounds pretty likely. Like yeah, maybe they were trying to scare him. Or maybe this is step one in a bigger plan?
"Maybe we should ask Dmitri? Seems like he might know about this kind of thing." A shrug, a little skip in their step. "Not that we can't figure it out. ...And now that I think about it, we could always ask some people who know people who are assassins if anyone heard about an offer like this."
<.>
Sen nods along, finding Rin's feedback more helpful than most. They take the things he says and add a new step, a new thread to pull at, but rather than destroying a tapestry, they help create one.
Rin is...really all he's ever been looking for in the world. Someone he can adore, whose nature suits his own. The fact that they are a vain and daydreaming little thing only makes them better.
"I'm sure I know one or two in Striker's Bay, but no one near Awich. Certainly none in Mysos. Do you often come in contact with assassins?" He drops a wink and continues, craning to see over the crowd, "Speaking of Dmitri, though. Where did he and his druid get off to?"
It's a suggestive question. He thinks maybe he won that bet.
Faolan listens - hangs on every word. At some point during these stories, he summons the wildfire spirit to let it run along the river's banks,; it chases Liviana in flight or rolling against the fine sediment by the water, returns again and again to circle him and Dmitri.
(This is, he thinks, how life could have been. If he hadn't become what he did, and if Dmitri hadn't been a Voronin, they could have sat like this by the water and spun dreams for one another.)
Dmitri shifts closer and for a while, Faolan lets their shoulders touch. He closes his eyes and plays his game of pretending, imagines a time when Dmitri won't tire of him, won't realize what sort of man he is. When Dmitri won't remember his own nobility and leave Faolan behind.
Eventually, he moves away - not far. He lies back on the wood of the dock and rests with his arms under his head, his eyes drifting from the sky to Dmitri and back again. And then, surprisingly, he begins to offer his own tales. Places he's seen since leaving Morovsk. Caverns and hidden groves, springs he swam in at midnight under skies just like this. (Alone. Always alone.) He talks about creatures in underground lakes that glowed with their own light.
His stories twine with Dmitri's, offered one for one as though they both need someone else to hear. (Or as though they create a harmony together.) (It's so godsdamned easy to talk to him.)
<.>
If Rin thought about it, they'd be surprised to find how recently they met Sen, surprised to think they haven't known him all their life. (Mostly surprised. Because there's a lot in their life that hasn't been very bright. There's a lot touched with shadow, touched with pains they don't much like revisiting, and mostly let lie in forgetting. It would've all been very different had Sen been there, so in that sense, it makes sense they only just met him, found him, really.) He fits so perfectly beside them, and he broadens all the prospects in the world, and oh, they love every word he says, and they wind their arm a little further around his, infinitely, infinitely pleased.
"Maybe I do.” They bat their eyelashes, most winningly! "You'd be surprised to know the characters a tiefling meets while breaking and entering! ...Well. No, you wouldn't be surprised, but you must let me have my mystery, so please, Sen, do look very surprised when I tell you I have encountered an assassin or even several!"
They look around, as if they just might spot Faolan and Dmitri, but no, no, they haven't seen either since Payl's shop, they're mostly sure of it. And they gasp, oh no! "Sen, do you really think??
"Hmm, but where would they have found a blanket roll? Surely they would be in the grass, or behind a stall, and I can't be certain whether that means the bet is forfeit!" A nod, solemn. "We failed to consider the ramifications of illicit meetings where bedrolls fail to tread!
"Also, how will we find out, if we don't catch them? Should we go look— Oh, no.” They pull an exaggerated, sour face. "No probably not that. But will we know by the look of them? I'm not sure how druids and necromancers look post-coitus."
It means something (it means, Dima thinks, quite a lot) that Faolan summons the wolf, and Dima watches the wolf run, watches Liviana circle the spirit, black feathers and bright fire spiraled through the sky. Smiles crooked (*happy*) when the wolf runs circles around the two of them, and Liviana gyres overhead.
It's perfect, crystalline; this moment, this space.
Faolan's shoulder against his own. Their bodies warm against the night's subtle chill.
Faolan, eyes closed, accepting - trusting, for the moment? - Dima's presence, bathing in the stars' light.
In this moment, Dmitri thinks, he has everything.
(And this— Whatever follows, he'll have this night forever in his heart, written with slow, ceaseless fire in his bones.)
In the next moment, nearly, he finds he has more, still. Yes, Faolan moves away, but Faolan doesn't go far, and there's a new charm in the way he lies back, beautiful, unwary. It's a movement away that doesn't leave Dima cold. It's a continuation of their closeness; another way of sharing space together. And after—
And after, Faolan speaks. As if a string's been tugged, a slow rush of words freed forth. And Dmitri listens, rapt, feeling fortune-struck. Seeing the pictures Faolan paints in perfect clarity. Thinking how well he'd like to see those places with this man; he'd like Faolan to share the secret places he best liked, and be led, hand-in-hand, through all.
More talk, more telling, and Dmitri finds they've begun to speak their tales in a kind of conversation, and that somehow, somehow, the tales together glow with deeper resonance, seem to echo into one another and form images, possibilities unseen; beauty in a vision. Faolan, stretched still across the dock. Dima, sitting with his legs curled behind him, leaning on one arm that keeps him balanced, lets him watch and watch over Faolan.
At some point, Liviana joins them, settling near Dima's feet. At some point, the wolf curls up near Faolan, watching with ears perked and slowly blinking eyes.
And at some point, as Faolan speaks, Dima drifts one hand to settle on Faolan's arm. Slowly, unintrusive (asking no more than a touch); ready to draw back if Faolan seems not to want it.
He doesn't...want to shrug off the hand. It's as though this moment, this space has become sacred. Liviana and his wolf sit close by, and he swears he can feel the nearness of Rose and Thorn. (He could almost believe he has everything.)
Faolan lets the touch linger, then shifts his other hand to carefully rest atop it. Unguardedly, he closes his eyes and breathes slowly, feeling everything here that could have been his, once. (But isn't it true that it's his right now, even if it's only for an hour?) (Would he pay for this the way other men paid for the things they got from him?)
(No. Not if it's Dmitri.)
Opening his eyes again, he regards the other man in silence, in peace, his hand remaining warm atop Dmitri's despite his (fleeting) misgivings.
Sen, meanwhile, is pulling a face at the thought of post-coital necromancers, because he's quite certain (as he relays to Rin) that they make the most godforsaken faces mid-coitus. As for druids, they probably rut like dogs and howl just as loud. The post-coitus is bound to be messy.
"Best we leave them be and make our own entertainment until they deign to make an appearance again."
Which leads him to a sign marking 'the Pits' - a pair of makeshift fighting rings where contenders at present are facing off against mud golems. "Care to watch someone find themselves absorbed after trying to land a blow?"
<.>
Sacred, he thinks, to know his touch accepted, his hand covered.
Sacred to sit beneath the stars with their familiars, with the vestiges of Rose and Thorn, with Dima's voice and Faolan's brushing soft with one another, turning the night into their own.
There could be no world beyond them. They - the, yes, the six of them - could compose the world alone. (They could, Dima thinks, be a family.) (Oh, if only. (Oh, it isn't impossible— But he can't think that. Not now, and right now, there's no need.))
All thought - all breath - stalls as Faolan's eyes turn open, upward. As Dmitri beholds what ought to be impossible: This man, witnessing his eyes (Dima's eyes, now unguarded; wondering and looking on a world anew) (Dima's eyes, stricken with experience, with years of harshness, years of echoed hollows), and not drawing away. This man, who knows some measure of what Dmitri is, who has seen some of the fury, the fascinations Dima possesses, and still, still looks upon him, still lies in steady-breathing peace.
Beneath Faolan's hand, Dima presses his own, softly, a gesture of thanks and of kinship; something kindred (something of soul calling to soul; heart recognizing its own). And Dmitri speaks, awestruck and hushed, "Astonishing, this night."
And. "Fae. Thank you."
Yeah, Rin thinks; yeah, they're probably both better off not walking in on, hmmm, whatever they could walk in on, or its aftermath. This Pit's got to be better (if - oh no, don't think about that - no less messy), and!
"Only if we can bet on it!" They have a feeling Sen won't be opposed, but also just in case, "Or pretend bet. I've still got a lot of ballbearings, and we can chuck the ones we win at anyone who annoys us. Or we can bet in stories; if I win, you have to tell a story for me, and if you win, I'll make a story just for you.
"Yours'll be better though. That's pretty sure, so you'll have to go in knowing you've got the short end of the stick. But Sen!" They step suddenly in front of his, setting their hands on his chest and watching with a grin. "I shall do my very best, and if my stories don't have the best quality, they will have a lot of, so very much heart!"
<.>
He knows better. He's been telling himself he knows better for three days now. There's no happy ending here.
But. Right now, tonight, he has this. He has their familiars close, and, in this distorted fantasy, their children likewise near at hand. He has a sky stretching above them, full of stars that reflect off the water idling past.
And Dmitri called him 'Fae'. (And in that thanks, in that familiar name and the touch of the hand at his arm, in the weaving of stories, he knows he has love, however insubstantial it might be.
It's more than he ever had before.)
He closes his eyes against a pricking of tears but breathes steadily anyhow. Right now, tonight, he has everything he could ask for. Why would he discard this, even if tomorrow it's gone like a dream? (Or in a week, Dmitri shuns him before a crowd of nobles.) (He won't give him the chance.)
Without a word, he grasps the hand below his own and draws it to his lips for a chaste kiss, then shifts, holding out his other arm in invitation to Dmitri - to lie beside him. (With him. In his arms, just for a little while.)
When Dmitri's head is resting on his shoulder, when they press body-to-body and Faolan's arm holds securely around the man's shoulders, only then does he consider the look that seemed to pass through Dmitri's eyes. There's something raw and broken inside him, too. Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but he needs this. (Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but Fae, instead.) (That's too much to hope for, and too dangerous to think.)
"Just tonight," he says softly. "Just for right now, like this, I'll be 'Fae' - and you be 'Dima', and this can be what we are together."
And softer still, with something a little like longing but far more like loss in his voice, "My Dima."
<.>
He could be dreaming.
In his pleasant dreams - rare and far-between - it's always deep night, and there's always water. In these dreams, he's known at times the presence of a corvid-seeming creature, yes—
But there never was a man beside him.
There never was the ghost of anyone beside himself and the shadowed creature-to-be. It wouldn't have occurred to Dmitri to consider the possibility; long ago, he learned there was no good in seeking company. Long ago, he learned reliance solely on himself. So he never could have imagined this man (this beautiful man, in soul in magic in body in being), or imagined his own heart opened so quickly, so wholly.
Nor could he have known how his heart would shiver, how thought and feeling would thaw, melt, blossom at the sound of his own name.
('Dima.')
(‘My Dima,' and a kiss offered upon his hand, a place granted beneath the open stars.)
(He couldn't have known how a sound would germinate within his throat and catch, the bare beginning of a sigh, an almost-laugh or almost-sob; signal of a soul beholding revelation; signaling of an unsuspected, decades-buried longing granted fire.)
He wants this forever. He wants this: To stay here, unguarded and secure, his cheek brushing a nuzzle against Faolan's (Fae's) shoulder. To bring this feeling out into the world beyond, and know it to be something lasting. To know himself as Fae's, and Fae as his own.
He knows the wish is foolhardy. He hears Faolan's meaning: That what they have just now is temporary, is for this moment and perhaps, perhaps never again. There's pain to be found in the absence that may follow, but why think on that now? Why not wrap himself and Fae alike within the cloak of velvet silver-stricken blue; why not wrap his arm closer, closer around Faolan's chest. Why not dare - just softly, as an offering without declaring claim, as an expression of devotion, adoration - to set a kiss upon Fae's cheek, and speak with hush, with wonder—
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kingdomsofrain2026-01-17 02:26 pm
no subject
Floating dismally between the tables, here and there rearranging a display, is Payl Gower. He is - was - a younger human man, and from the lighter pearlescence of his hair, it's easy to see he was blond, likely fair-skinned. Now, he's pearly gray, sad-eyed and frowning at himself in his merchandise.
When he sees the party, he gestures, "Please, have a look. If you have any questions -"
His customer service attitude drops a little. "Well. I'm not exactly going anywhere."
<.>
Rin is going to try very, very hard to stay focused on what they've come here for. (It's definitely about Payl Gower, who is a ghost and is supposed to be in here and might be that ghost right there.) The trouble is, there are an awful lot of mirrors. And Rin is awfully fond of mirrors. They're definitely glancing at the mirrors around. Then stopping briefly in front of one, and a little less briefly in front of the other.
Rin is in fact quickly losing focus on what they've come here for.
Dima hangs back briefly, not letting the others from his sight, not about to let them enter the tent before he joins—
He only needs a moment. To think; to let the image of hands upon his hand, fire around both settle deep in his mind. To scratch Liviana's neck lightly, and nod when she asks in her way whether he's all right. A moment, and moment, and then he follows after, into the shop of mirrors, standing near to Faolan.
And, seeing Rin distracted, Dima sighs internally, Messages, [ Rin. ]
The tiefling swirls around, blinks, then slips back toward the group, now offering the ghost a nod of their head, "It's Payl, right?"
<.>
Sen does nothing to curb Rin's enthusiasm or redirect them from their reflection. Shouldn't they admire their appearance? He does, so very much. He trails them; they look in mirrors and he watches them, and all is right in the world until Dima enters.
He must have said something. Sen darts a suspicious look at the man and pulls a face that clearly says, Don't harass Rin.
Faolan watches all of this with a faintly amused expression that fades when he meets Dima's eyes. His look becomes complicated, because it's all complicated when it should be very simple. (He should get away from Dmitri before getting away hurts any worse than it already will.)
The ghost furrows its brow at Rin, then inclines his head in confirmation. "Do I know you?"
And then, by way of explanation, he adds apologetically, "My memory - I can't recall much. I'm told it's normal. If I've met you, I don't remember you. I would have, I think. Never - Might have never. Met a tiefling."
<.>
Rin has - for the moment, and moments don't last so very long - let the mirrors go. Ghosts might not be any match for a mirror, but they're still interesting; Rin hasn't exactly conversed with many of them. And if Payl can't remember having met a tiefling, well! He is very lucky that Rin should be the first! Grinning, they offer a bow, with a sweep of their arm.
"Now you can say for certain that you have! And no, no, I believe if you had met me, you'd remember. I'm not so simple to forget." They raise a finger to tap their cheek, thinking, thinking. "I am very good at forgetting, however, so if I'd met you, I also wouldn't recall! Faces elude me, do you see? Most faces; there are some that stay forever, right there in my head."
They move their hand back to their side— But not before giving Sen's arm a playful poke, then a small brush. "The point is that we have a question for you. Or several questions?" Does Rin recall the questions.
Not precisely...
But they'll take a running guess!
"How did you die, anyway?"
Dmitri meets Sen's glance with a studiously neutral expression. They are here for a reason, and Rin may scurry about as they please once this has been completed.
Though. Now that Rin's offered a question, Dima begins to think that maybe, maybe he ought to have left them to their mirrors.
He clears his throat, shakes his head, but doesn't speak yet. He is watching Payl closely, seeking any signs of the being he might have been in living, trying to determine for himself how newly this man became a ghost.
<.>
The forthrightness of the question seems to surprise Payl; it's apparent that it isn't a common (or polite) subject, and perhaps it's one that no one's approached him with before.
"I..." he begins, then trails off. He seems to be searching his memory when he looks away. "It was a knife. Sudden - It's so strange. It felt like nothing at first. Like someone dragged a thumb across my neck.
"I don't think I felt much pain at all, actually. Shock of the body. By the time I realized what had happened, it was nearly over."
He looks at the party again and laughs a perfunctory, self-effacing sound that dies immediately. "That's not what you wanted to know. Forgive me. I - had gone to do something terrible. Stupid. But I have a daughter, and it's more terrible to watch her go hungry. I was promised what seemed a small fortune for helping my employer to his end.
"It would have been enough to keep her warm and fed for years. Enough to set her up somewhere in the city and give her a life.
"So I went with poison, and because I'm no studied killer, I was caught. I tried to run and his brute caught me."
<.>
"Your employer?" It's Dmitri who speaks first, voice even, showing little of his own feeling. (His own feeling, which isn't nothing. Which carries the sensation of two hands around his own, and the ache in hearing Faolan's pain, and Faolan's turn away. Which carries as well, just now, some modicum of pity for the man. It was a foolish choice Gower made - an errand taken without skill, without means - but poverty drives men to far, far worse.
And in formation, there's a thought, a plan to follow from Dima's pity.)
"Forgive me; I impose inquiry without offering my name. I am Dmitri Voronin. The four of us" (here he gestures to the group) "are seeking information related to the circumstances of your end, and the work that led to it.
"We're to receive payment for whatever we might glean. And it occurs to me that we might see that some share of the profit is directed to your daughter."
<.>
Sen again shoots Dmitri a look - a glare - but almost immediately rolls his eyes in acquiescence. Nevermind that this is his little errand, and Dmitri is just along for the Market trip. Bastard.
Double bastard: Faolan weighs in with, "If nothing else, we could make sure she's well."
The two of them need to crawl into a sack together so Sen can win his bet and he and Rin can be on their way.
Payl looks torn; clearly, his daughter's security means a good deal to him.
"I - was one of the servants of the merchant-lord Calabra." He seems to be restraining himself from speaking further and clears his throat in discomfort. "What kind of information are you looking for?"
<.>
Dmitri isn't going to give Sen the satisfaction of acknowledging that Look, though he does Message the elf, [ If you have a more pertinent question, feel free to unleash your torrent. ]
At Faolan's words, he nods once; it wouldn't be, won't be so difficult to do. If nothing else, Dima can see that some measure of Voronin money is carried to the girl. (He isn't going to consider the fact that he isn't typically prone to offering monetary support, not so early in a negotiation.) (He isn't going to think on what this early offering might have to do with Faolan, or with the rings on Dima's hand.)
It's an interesting revelation - that the man was a servant of Calabra - though not at all unheard-of. Dima's about to respond when Rin cuts in with a 'tsk' and—
“That [ brimstone-encrusted anus ] seems about as nice to work for as a constipated chimera." And, after a moment, a little softer, "Well, I'm sorry about your daughter."
And, from Dima: "Did you recognize the being who offered you this fortune?"
<.>
Payl smiles at Rin's comment, though it's more perfunctory than amused. It seems he knows exactly what kind of man Calabra is. As for his daughter- "As am I."
To Dima, he replies, "I did. At the time, I - or, no. No, that's wrong. What I remember is I knew a name, because I spoke with someone sent by -"
He frowns darkly. "It's all jumbled and patched. I can't remember who wanted Calabra dead and who hired me on whose behalf. The faces are blurred. Voices distorted."
He motions to one of the mirrors reflecting back a hazy view of the Nightmare Market. "Like this."
And then, suddenly, "I would like it. If you'd look in on her. My sister will have her now, I'm certain of it. Morwenna Gower. She's not much older than my girl, though. Only nineteen now to Manon's twelve. Can I trust you?"
Sen pulls a flat look at Dmitri, then steps in. "You have our word. We'll make certain the girl is unharmed and looked after. You don't have anything to worry about from us; we may be scoundrels, but we're generally the honorable kind."
[PERS, s: nat 20]
Payl looks relieved, even smiles genuinely at the group and utters, "Pelor bless you all."
"Can you tell us anything about the person who hired you?" Faolan presses gently. "Anything at all. Even if it doesn't seem important."
Payl considers the mirror under his ghostly hand for a moment; he begins to shake his head, then starts suddenly. "Wait. There was something troubling about their face. I think they kept it hidden, but the wrap fell and -"
He drags a hand down along his jaw. "There were scars here. Three or four - like a bear or some beast took a great swipe at them."
<.>
It takes everything in Dima's power not to roll his eyes at Sen— Or it would, were it not for Gower's sorrow and subject, or for the promise Sen gives; it's one Dima can only agree with, and he can't pretend Sen doesn't say it well.
He does give Faolan a glance of approval, both for the question and the manner of its asking. (For a man so long abused, he can be achingly gentle, careful.) (However his tender heart has been kicked, wounded, he hasn't lost it wholly; hasn't, Dima thinks, lost much of it at all.)
Rin nods vigorously with Sen's promise. They don't do a lot of making sure anyone's taken care of, but no kid should be left almost alone at twelve, and if word's gotten around about the circumstances of her father's death, the road ahead could be extra rough— For her, and for the ghost's sister, as well. (Who isn't a ghost, but also probably didn't count of raising her niece out of nowhere.)
"That helps," they say to Payl's description. And, "Are there any mirrors in here that might help put things together? Like. Mirrors that can show 'what was,' or whatever?"
[q: would dima or rin have met anyone whose face would match the scarred description?
HIST
d: 14
r: 15
f, s: also failed check
scarred face: nat 20
If the person with the scarred face is someone they've ever encountered, they can't remember the meeting.]
<.>
Payl doesn't bother looking around. He just shakes his head at Rin. "There was a mirror of that kind, but I sold it at the last Market, south of Mysos. Doesn't matter, though. It only showed what a person remembered. I'd touch it and the whole thing would turn black."
Seeming to remember something more, Payl makes a small 'ah' sound. "They gave me gold. I remember that. They gave me a pouch with gold in it - half of what was promised. I can't remember what I did with it, but I can guess. Tell Morwenna to look in our old hiding spot. She'll know."
A sense of peace seems to descend over Payl. "If you can do that - I'd be grateful."
<.>
no subject
Something occurs to them! "How're we going to find your sister, though? Do you remember where she's at? Or I guess we could ask around."
Dmitri thinks, but doesn't say, that there's a not-nil chance that whoever paid for the assassination is also searching for the gold. If it is the case, it's not something Gower needs to worry about. (It might be something for their group to look into once they get a sense of who offered the money, and what their usual practices might be.)
<.>
Sen has been awfully quiet through most of this conversation; he's watching Payl closely, wondering how much of his amnesia is truth. If it's entirely true, he's about to spend a lot more time than a single evening running around looking for their would-be-assassin's shadowy employer.
"Awich," Gower nods. "Work's not easy to come by when you don't work the docks. I took the river south to Mysos with Manon and my wife; they're always looking for servants. That's where I was when..." A shaking off of the thought. "She's in Awich. She has a house in South Ward. It isn't much, but she gets by. She'll get by."
Faolan almost asks what happened to Payl's wife, but he can guess. It's the first time he's mentioned her, after all; either she's dead or she left him. Either way, she's not someone Payl is worried about now.
A group of very much alive, very young necromancers filter into the stall; Payl hums a note of apology. "Is there anything else I can answer? I'm afraid I haven't been much help."
<.>
It's a detail worth holding onto, the fact of Gower's (former) wife. Something to ask into, if they end up needing further information, further sources. Something that needn't be brought up just now—
Probably.
For the moment, at least. There's been an interruption, and Dima turns his head just enough to favor the intrusive necromancers with a chilly, an affectless glance. Then, scarcely raising his voice, though he's sharper now in enunciation, and there's a trace of warning in his voice: "Would you mind. Out. I don't appreciate your interruption."
Dima is absolutely attempting to snarl them ouT, at least for a few more minutes.
[INT: 18; There is ONE necromancer permitted in this shop rn >:C]
<.>
The stunned neophytes immediately stumble over one another to try and get out of the tent; one of them knocks into a table, nearly sending a mirror crashing to the floor. Sen only barely manages to grab at it in time, fumbles and nearly drops it, himself, but rescues it from potential shattering.
(Acrobatics: 12. lkfhashdf Had to beat a 10.)
<.>
All Dima needs to see is that they are leaving (little shits); he hears the mirror-shuffling, but fixes his attention of Gower. "My pardons; I haven't finished with our questions.
"First, you said you knew a name: Can you recall it? Or any pertinent name, title at all, however tangential."
"Second: What can you tell us of Calabra himself— Or of his employ.
"Third: Where did you obtain your poison.
"You've given somewhere to begin, and I do appreciate your efforts. But you've had much more to say of your family than the circumstances leading to your end. Understandable, yes, but we need something more if we're to find the ones who put you in this position.
"If the answers elude you, try to focus on what you do know: The feeling of cobblestones beneath your feet, perhaps, or the cloak you wore. Perhaps the scents you noticed when you met your scarred contact."
<.>
"No, no. I've tried that. We don't have any sense memory," he replies disconsolately. "Some of the others claim it comes back, but it's why there's such a - demand for memories. For anything, just a shred, so we can taste wine again, or smell grass -"
"Or touch hair like our child's."
He lifts a shoulder and stares at the ground, clearly trying to think of something, anything. "Calabra's as your companion says. Even his fellow made-nobility don't like him much. He likes to flaunt his money and still whines about earnings.
"Working for him was always being accused of laziness, or theft, or of grifting from the cook's funds. Fucking miser. New-gold trash, really. Heavily on the side of stricter taxes on the canals. On all of us."
Payl looks up again at Dima. "Did you say 'Voronin?" And he laughs with a little schadenfreude. "Oh, he hated you. Or your family. I suppose the feeling was mutual - not to say your family had anything to do with it. I can't remember the name, but I know what the name wasn't."
A sigh. "The poison was just what we use to kill vermin. Concentrated for Calabra, obviously. Like I said: I'm no killer. I'm not - wasn't - very creative about any method of accomplishing a murder."
There's another silence, and Payl thinks to add, "I don't remember who hired me, but I know they weren't from Mysos. They complained of losing their way in the streets, but anyone who's lived there for a month knows the trick to getting around."
<.>
It isn't particularly helpful, but Gower at least seems to be trying in earnest; it's more than can be said for most beings, living or undead. So Dmitri decides to refrain from pushing further.
He did huff an amused laugh at the mention of Calabra's hatred. The hatred's no surprise; the question is how often the shit has cursed Dima's family, and how loudly, and how many vases he might have destroyed in the process. They aren't questions worth asking, or worth entertaining for more than a moment. Dima does, however, remark archly, "Not the most potent choice of poisons, but suited perfectly to Calabra."
Godsdamned ratfink fuck that he is.
"You can't have been the first to attempt to poison him; I'm certain you won't be the last." Most likely, Gower also won't be the last servant approached with the murderous offer. If, if they decide to pursue this further, they could do worse than to surreptitiously question some of Calabra's living servants.
"Payl. You have my thanks, and I've no more questions for you. Your daughter will be cared for; you may rely on that."
Dima folds his arms and looks to the rest of the party.
Rin has no questions to add, though now that the meeting seems to be reaching it's end, they're beginning to grow antsy, their eyes darting to the mirrors more and more often. Clearly, they will not be leaving once the conversation's finished. They have mirrors to look at, thank you very much! Also, maybe if they look at enough mirrors and ask enough questions about enough mirrors, they can help get the ghost's mind off of— Well, off of some of this, at least.
<.>
Sen, seeing Rin's fixation growing, thinks maybe he ought to try to find some way to distract them from the mirrors and allow Payl a little time to compose himself. (Insofar as a ghost may feel composed so soon after its death.) He knows there's a shop full of small totems near the docks, but he's not entirely sure that's enough to pry them away from the dozens of reflected Rins. (He can't blame them.)
Faolan, for his own part, has nothing more he wants to pursue about this. He thinks there's quite a lot of information that's been given, though it might need some puzzling through. Maybe tomorrow after another rest, he can approach all the information Payl's given them and figure out something crucial. Without waiting for the rest, he slips out of the stall and into a little more open space (away from all those mirrors.) (Not now.)
Payl sees the looks Sen keeps casting at Rin, and the looks Rin keeps casting at the mirrors. Hurriedly, he picks up a small hand mirror - folding, with a clever little catch to keep it closed. "Here. It isn't much, and it doesn't have any magic to it, but why don't you have it? With my thanks."
<.>
Rin—
Rin actually. Doesn't quite know what to do with this. People don't really give them things; it's usually a 'Rin takes and nobody realizes until later' sort of arrangement. Or a 'sometimes people give Rin things but it's always when they want something' arrangement.
Which.
Okay, maybe Payl does want something, and maybe what he wants is a little space, and maybe that's also why Sen's been looking at them like that, and it's true Rin's not the best at picking up on hints.
The mirror's in their hands now, and Rin's smiling down at it, pleased, running their hand along its cover. When they look up, there's a grin for Sen and a flash of the mirror - "Sen, Sen, look!" - then a smile for Payl and a little bow of their head. "If you're sure it's all right?
"Here, you should have something to, I'll—" They don't have much a ghost would want. Or could do much with. But there's a thought, something recent that tickles their memory, and as they tug at their hair, the pieces slip into place: "What if I bring you back a memory? If I— When we find your daughter." A pause as they try, they really try to remember and the name issss, "Manon, that's right, right? I could touch her hair - just like—" Here, they demonstrate, combing their fingers slow through their own hair. "Like that, and bring the memory to you? If it's okay with you, and if your daughter's okay with it."
They look to Sen, partly just to look at Sen because he's lovely to look at, partly as a way of checking to see whether they've gone way off-point. Then, back to Payl with a nod: "I'd like to do that."
Dmitri, when he saw the conversation had indeed reached its end, has followed Faolan out. Approaching him without coming too close, just in case the man needs a moment. Just in case what he witnessed was a little overwhelming. After a moment, he does ask, voice not too loud, "How do you feel?"
<.>
Payl looks utterly broken by their offer. If he had breath, it would catch - and it looks as though, if he could weep, maybe he would. "I..."
Composing himself a little, he nods. "I didn't expect anything. But if you would do that - Please. Yes, please. I'd like that."
Sen, with a sense of timing and more than his fair capability to read a room, begins to herd Rin out, offering Payl one parting smile and the reassurance that they'll do all they can.
Once they're just out of Payl's sight, Sen stops and smiles down at them. "You are a remarkable creature - with a lovely mirror and a lovelier heart. Do you know that?"
Faolan, meanwhile, doesn't know how to answer that question. Or rather, he doesn't know what Dmitri picked up one, and why he's asking. (There are so many reasons for him to feel anything other than well.) (...Not when he meets Dmitri's eyes, however. Dangerous, that's very dangerous.)
"I can't say I enjoyed that, obviously." He folds his arms and examines the tops of his shoes a moment before bringing himself back to the conversation - and Dmitri. "Tonight's been...a lot. I'm not used to being around so many people anymore, dead or alive."
Why is he telling Dmitri any of this?
(Because it's nice to tell someone who cares.)
"Also. I can't help but think of the servant stopping by our table. How many other people do you suppose he asked, and how many of them know Calabra is looking for whoever hired Gower?"
Faolan chews his lower lip thoughtfully. "I'm worried for his daughter. Someone might get it in their head that Gower told her what he was doing and who he was doing it for. Someone might get to her and his sister long before we do."
<.>
no subject
Dima dares to move forward; near enough to reach for Faolan, though his hands stay loose at his sides, not wanting to force further contact. "I've been entertaining a similar thought. There are potentialities of harm we can't predict; strands leading from the attempted assassination and the money paid to his daughter, his sister.
"We'd be wise to seek her home as soon as we're able. If she's there now - if they're both there - we have coin enough to assure their passage from the city, and with a word, I can secure temporary housing, at the least." If Morwenna isn't in the city - if, perhaps, she and the daughter are in the process of traveling from Mysos - they'll need to construct another plan.
"I'm interested in knowing why Calabra had his servant making such an unsubtle search. Unless he thought to avoid the embarrassment of bringing the Nightmare Market to his connections." Dima shakes his head, dismissing the subject for the moment; it's another layer of conflict that Faolan needn't consider, certainly not right now.
Fixing his eyes on Faolan, Dima speaks in a voice soft but self-assured: "We'll find her, Faolan. And there are many places a girl and her guardian might escape discovery."
There's a moment's pause, Dima clearly considering this next action before he takes it, reaching out to settle a hand at Faolan's elbow. "Tonight's been a lot; the past several days have been a lot. It's all become something of a blur, but between the mansion, the rush of the city, and now this—
"You've endured quite a lot, Faolan. It might be best to have a breath outside." Another pause, a cant of Dima's head. "Would you like that?"
With or without Dima's accompaniment, he means (though he hopes, of course he hopes, for 'with').
Nearby, Rin wraps their arm around Sen's, shifting their gaze between the mirror and the elf. They'd given Payl a parting wave of their hand goodbye, vowing to themself all over again to bring him back his memory, and to make it a very good one. Now they laugh a little, beaming up at Sen.
“I don’t know so much about my heart, but it is a lovely mirror, isn’t it? And you are a lovely elf.” They open the mirror again to examine their face, then hold it up toward Sen so that he may see himself (himself?). "See what I mean?
"Well, I mean your face, and also... everything you said to him in there. The promises; I think he needed that. And if anyone can keep those promises, it's us honorable scoundrels." Considering, considering, and, "This all got more complicated, didn't it? I mean. There's a lot to do if we want that money, and if we want to help Calabra with anything at all.
"...Maybe we could just rob him?"
<.>
He doesn't know quite how he ends up at the docks with Dmitri beside him; he didn't invite the man, but neither did he turn him away, and he did agree that he was in need of space. He did need freedom from the crowd. Perhaps Dmitri led him out, and he simply followed because -
He always has been something of a follower.
(And if he did let himself care for, want Dmitri, he would follow him anywhere.)
So Faolan is sitting now on the dock with his shoes off and his legs dangling, feet drifting in the water fearlessly, unmindful of what creatures might see them as opportunity.
He's been quiet all this time, other than his assent. He's had a good deal to think about, and truthfully, he's growing tired of thinking. It's nice to sit here and look at the reflection of stars on the water, to look up and see those stars above him. (To feel Dmitri beside him.)
It's nice to know Dmitri expects nothing from him, demands nothing. Is simply here, maybe happy to be in his company.
Sen is having a very different sort of interlude. As he and Rin wander the market, he picks and prods at the problems with Calabra, with the assassin, and is beginning to wonder how much more there is to this.
How deep the rabbit hole goes, so to speak.
"I'm curious why someone would pay a servant a small fortune to kill him. Why not hire an actual assassin? Someone with experience would surely have gotten the job done. Do you suppose this is the exact outcome they wanted? A message of some sort to Calabra, that he can be reached from anywhere, at any time? It might have been difficult for an assassin to get close, but not unmanageable."
<.>
There isn't any need to speak, not now.
Dmitri did lead Faolan from the Market. Gently, with a hand at his elbow. Speaking a soft series of inconsequential notions; remarks on a stall's wares requiring no answer, thoughts of what the hour might be and how the sky might appear, talk of sights encountered on the road prior to meeting this man.
The dock seemed the natural place to take their quiet. Whether Dima led or whether he felt Faolan tending toward the shore, he can't say. He knows he's glad for the water's presence. He knows the silence of the night brings comfort, helps begin to clear his head of convolutions. He knows he's pleased, he's unspeakably lucky to be here, seated by this man, sharing in his silence and his presence.
He knows there's quiet thrill each time he turns to see Faolan still here, and sitting close. As if he's found a kind of peace. And it's charming, the way he sits, feet kept within the water while Dmitri sits with one leg crossed beneath him, the other upright, crooked, the better to wind his arm around it. He doesn't venture to touch Faolan; he also sits near enough to feel Faolan's warmth, and almost hear his heartbeat.
Liviana flies above, occasionally dipping close, the soaring toward the slowly, slowly fading night. She hunts, yes, and keeps an eye to any signs of movement, any signal that might suggest attack, or merely an equally unwanted interruption. (She, too, is glad of the quiet, the open sky. There was much to witness in the Market, but Liviana has always preferred vast spaces to crowds.)
At some point, Dmitri does speak. Again in the soft voice that demands no response; demands no active listening. Speaking of the night sky as he's seen in from so many cities, town, uninhabited places. Of the stars' reflections on the lake before them now, and the way they shimmer upon rivers, caught in streams. Of how well he likes the sky apart from any city's bustle.
He thinks he's never seen a more comforting sky than the one before him now. He thinks, he knows, he's never met a fonder night. And if he adjusts himself, if the adjustment shifts him just a little nearer to Faolan, it's with no expectation; only gladness for Fae's company; only relief, to know his presence.
In the Market, Rin pauses frequently to look through varied offerings, to touch when no one says 'no touching,' to ask questions and nod and move along again. There was a very nice fan, a few stalls back. A gathering of bones at the one to their right. They like these items, but they like their mirror better, and their attention stays primarily with Sen and with his musings.
He's got a lot of good points, and the more he talks, the clearer the whole situation becomes for Rin (it's a lot easier, they're finding, to hold onto details and track the bigger picture when Sen puts everything into words; it's like everything turns from clouds they can't quite keep together into solid images). They hum, they nod, and really, yeah, they can think of several handfuls of ways someone could have a Sir Lord Fuck-His-Face killed than passing an offer to an untried servant.
Which. Is extra shitty for Payl. Because he not only got caught up in some game of murder chess; he was always going to lose.
"Shit," they hiss. "Yeah, it seems funny - and by funny I mean kinda fucked - to not at least give their mm 'assassin' some better poison, or at least tips for a better poison, maybe some suggestions for how to go about killing. Those are all pretty basic 'if you want a job done right' steps, probably.
"I think you're right, Sen. Unless whoever hired him is the world's stupidest conspirator, they can't have thought it'd end with a dead Calabra. Some sort of bullshit message-sending sounds pretty likely. Like yeah, maybe they were trying to scare him. Or maybe this is step one in a bigger plan?
"Maybe we should ask Dmitri? Seems like he might know about this kind of thing." A shrug, a little skip in their step. "Not that we can't figure it out. ...And now that I think about it, we could always ask some people who know people who are assassins if anyone heard about an offer like this."
<.>
Sen nods along, finding Rin's feedback more helpful than most. They take the things he says and add a new step, a new thread to pull at, but rather than destroying a tapestry, they help create one.
Rin is...really all he's ever been looking for in the world. Someone he can adore, whose nature suits his own. The fact that they are a vain and daydreaming little thing only makes them better.
"I'm sure I know one or two in Striker's Bay, but no one near Awich. Certainly none in Mysos. Do you often come in contact with assassins?" He drops a wink and continues, craning to see over the crowd, "Speaking of Dmitri, though. Where did he and his druid get off to?"
It's a suggestive question. He thinks maybe he won that bet.
Faolan listens - hangs on every word. At some point during these stories, he summons the wildfire spirit to let it run along the river's banks,; it chases Liviana in flight or rolling against the fine sediment by the water, returns again and again to circle him and Dmitri.
(This is, he thinks, how life could have been. If he hadn't become what he did, and if Dmitri hadn't been a Voronin, they could have sat like this by the water and spun dreams for one another.)
Dmitri shifts closer and for a while, Faolan lets their shoulders touch. He closes his eyes and plays his game of pretending, imagines a time when Dmitri won't tire of him, won't realize what sort of man he is. When Dmitri won't remember his own nobility and leave Faolan behind.
Eventually, he moves away - not far. He lies back on the wood of the dock and rests with his arms under his head, his eyes drifting from the sky to Dmitri and back again. And then, surprisingly, he begins to offer his own tales. Places he's seen since leaving Morovsk. Caverns and hidden groves, springs he swam in at midnight under skies just like this. (Alone. Always alone.) He talks about creatures in underground lakes that glowed with their own light.
His stories twine with Dmitri's, offered one for one as though they both need someone else to hear. (Or as though they create a harmony together.) (It's so godsdamned easy to talk to him.)
<.>
If Rin thought about it, they'd be surprised to find how recently they met Sen, surprised to think they haven't known him all their life. (Mostly surprised. Because there's a lot in their life that hasn't been very bright. There's a lot touched with shadow, touched with pains they don't much like revisiting, and mostly let lie in forgetting. It would've all been very different had Sen been there, so in that sense, it makes sense they only just met him, found him, really.) He fits so perfectly beside them, and he broadens all the prospects in the world, and oh, they love every word he says, and they wind their arm a little further around his, infinitely, infinitely pleased.
"Maybe I do.” They bat their eyelashes, most winningly! "You'd be surprised to know the characters a tiefling meets while breaking and entering! ...Well. No, you wouldn't be surprised, but you must let me have my mystery, so please, Sen, do look very surprised when I tell you I have encountered an assassin or even several!"
They look around, as if they just might spot Faolan and Dmitri, but no, no, they haven't seen either since Payl's shop, they're mostly sure of it. And they gasp, oh no! "Sen, do you really think??
"Hmm, but where would they have found a blanket roll? Surely they would be in the grass, or behind a stall, and I can't be certain whether that means the bet is forfeit!" A nod, solemn. "We failed to consider the ramifications of illicit meetings where bedrolls fail to tread!
"Also, how will we find out, if we don't catch them? Should we go look— Oh, no.” They pull an exaggerated, sour face. "No probably not that. But will we know by the look of them? I'm not sure how druids and necromancers look post-coitus."
It means something (it means, Dima thinks, quite a lot) that Faolan summons the wolf, and Dima watches the wolf run, watches Liviana circle the spirit, black feathers and bright fire spiraled through the sky. Smiles crooked (*happy*) when the wolf runs circles around the two of them, and Liviana gyres overhead.
It's perfect, crystalline; this moment, this space.
Faolan's shoulder against his own. Their bodies warm against the night's subtle chill.
Faolan, eyes closed, accepting - trusting, for the moment? - Dima's presence, bathing in the stars' light.
In this moment, Dmitri thinks, he has everything.
(And this— Whatever follows, he'll have this night forever in his heart, written with slow, ceaseless fire in his bones.)
In the next moment, nearly, he finds he has more, still. Yes, Faolan moves away, but Faolan doesn't go far, and there's a new charm in the way he lies back, beautiful, unwary. It's a movement away that doesn't leave Dima cold. It's a continuation of their closeness; another way of sharing space together. And after—
And after, Faolan speaks. As if a string's been tugged, a slow rush of words freed forth. And Dmitri listens, rapt, feeling fortune-struck. Seeing the pictures Faolan paints in perfect clarity. Thinking how well he'd like to see those places with this man; he'd like Faolan to share the secret places he best liked, and be led, hand-in-hand, through all.
More talk, more telling, and Dmitri finds they've begun to speak their tales in a kind of conversation, and that somehow, somehow, the tales together glow with deeper resonance, seem to echo into one another and form images, possibilities unseen; beauty in a vision. Faolan, stretched still across the dock. Dima, sitting with his legs curled behind him, leaning on one arm that keeps him balanced, lets him watch and watch over Faolan.
At some point, Liviana joins them, settling near Dima's feet. At some point, the wolf curls up near Faolan, watching with ears perked and slowly blinking eyes.
And at some point, as Faolan speaks, Dima drifts one hand to settle on Faolan's arm. Slowly, unintrusive (asking no more than a touch); ready to draw back if Faolan seems not to want it.
<.>
no subject
Faolan lets the touch linger, then shifts his other hand to carefully rest atop it. Unguardedly, he closes his eyes and breathes slowly, feeling everything here that could have been his, once. (But isn't it true that it's his right now, even if it's only for an hour?) (Would he pay for this the way other men paid for the things they got from him?)
(No. Not if it's Dmitri.)
Opening his eyes again, he regards the other man in silence, in peace, his hand remaining warm atop Dmitri's despite his (fleeting) misgivings.
Sen, meanwhile, is pulling a face at the thought of post-coital necromancers, because he's quite certain (as he relays to Rin) that they make the most godforsaken faces mid-coitus. As for druids, they probably rut like dogs and howl just as loud. The post-coitus is bound to be messy.
"Best we leave them be and make our own entertainment until they deign to make an appearance again."
Which leads him to a sign marking 'the Pits' - a pair of makeshift fighting rings where contenders at present are facing off against mud golems. "Care to watch someone find themselves absorbed after trying to land a blow?"
<.>
Sacred, he thinks, to know his touch accepted, his hand covered.
Sacred to sit beneath the stars with their familiars, with the vestiges of Rose and Thorn, with Dima's voice and Faolan's brushing soft with one another, turning the night into their own.
There could be no world beyond them. They - the, yes, the six of them - could compose the world alone. (They could, Dima thinks, be a family.) (Oh, if only. (Oh, it isn't impossible— But he can't think that. Not now, and right now, there's no need.))
All thought - all breath - stalls as Faolan's eyes turn open, upward. As Dmitri beholds what ought to be impossible: This man, witnessing his eyes (Dima's eyes, now unguarded; wondering and looking on a world anew) (Dima's eyes, stricken with experience, with years of harshness, years of echoed hollows), and not drawing away. This man, who knows some measure of what Dmitri is, who has seen some of the fury, the fascinations Dima possesses, and still, still looks upon him, still lies in steady-breathing peace.
Beneath Faolan's hand, Dima presses his own, softly, a gesture of thanks and of kinship; something kindred (something of soul calling to soul; heart recognizing its own). And Dmitri speaks, awestruck and hushed, "Astonishing, this night."
And. "Fae. Thank you."
Yeah, Rin thinks; yeah, they're probably both better off not walking in on, hmmm, whatever they could walk in on, or its aftermath. This Pit's got to be better (if - oh no, don't think about that - no less messy), and!
"Only if we can bet on it!" They have a feeling Sen won't be opposed, but also just in case, "Or pretend bet. I've still got a lot of ballbearings, and we can chuck the ones we win at anyone who annoys us. Or we can bet in stories; if I win, you have to tell a story for me, and if you win, I'll make a story just for you.
"Yours'll be better though. That's pretty sure, so you'll have to go in knowing you've got the short end of the stick. But Sen!" They step suddenly in front of his, setting their hands on his chest and watching with a grin. "I shall do my very best, and if my stories don't have the best quality, they will have a lot of, so very much heart!"
<.>
He knows better. He's been telling himself he knows better for three days now. There's no happy ending here.
But. Right now, tonight, he has this. He has their familiars close, and, in this distorted fantasy, their children likewise near at hand. He has a sky stretching above them, full of stars that reflect off the water idling past.
And Dmitri called him 'Fae'. (And in that thanks, in that familiar name and the touch of the hand at his arm, in the weaving of stories, he knows he has love, however insubstantial it might be.
It's more than he ever had before.)
He closes his eyes against a pricking of tears but breathes steadily anyhow. Right now, tonight, he has everything he could ask for. Why would he discard this, even if tomorrow it's gone like a dream? (Or in a week, Dmitri shuns him before a crowd of nobles.) (He won't give him the chance.)
Without a word, he grasps the hand below his own and draws it to his lips for a chaste kiss, then shifts, holding out his other arm in invitation to Dmitri - to lie beside him. (With him. In his arms, just for a little while.)
When Dmitri's head is resting on his shoulder, when they press body-to-body and Faolan's arm holds securely around the man's shoulders, only then does he consider the look that seemed to pass through Dmitri's eyes. There's something raw and broken inside him, too. Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but he needs this. (Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but Fae, instead.) (That's too much to hope for, and too dangerous to think.)
"Just tonight," he says softly. "Just for right now, like this, I'll be 'Fae' - and you be 'Dima', and this can be what we are together."
And softer still, with something a little like longing but far more like loss in his voice, "My Dima."
<.>
He could be dreaming.
In his pleasant dreams - rare and far-between - it's always deep night, and there's always water. In these dreams, he's known at times the presence of a corvid-seeming creature, yes—
But there never was a man beside him.
There never was the ghost of anyone beside himself and the shadowed creature-to-be. It wouldn't have occurred to Dmitri to consider the possibility; long ago, he learned there was no good in seeking company. Long ago, he learned reliance solely on himself. So he never could have imagined this man (this beautiful man, in soul in magic in body in being), or imagined his own heart opened so quickly, so wholly.
Nor could he have known how his heart would shiver, how thought and feeling would thaw, melt, blossom at the sound of his own name.
('Dima.')
(‘My Dima,' and a kiss offered upon his hand, a place granted beneath the open stars.)
(He couldn't have known how a sound would germinate within his throat and catch, the bare beginning of a sigh, an almost-laugh or almost-sob; signal of a soul beholding revelation; signaling of an unsuspected, decades-buried longing granted fire.)
He wants this forever. He wants this: To stay here, unguarded and secure, his cheek brushing a nuzzle against Faolan's (Fae's) shoulder. To bring this feeling out into the world beyond, and know it to be something lasting. To know himself as Fae's, and Fae as his own.
He knows the wish is foolhardy. He hears Faolan's meaning: That what they have just now is temporary, is for this moment and perhaps, perhaps never again. There's pain to be found in the absence that may follow, but why think on that now? Why not wrap himself and Fae alike within the cloak of velvet silver-stricken blue; why not wrap his arm closer, closer around Faolan's chest. Why not dare - just softly, as an offering without declaring claim, as an expression of devotion, adoration - to set a kiss upon Fae's cheek, and speak with hush, with wonder—
"Astonishing— My Fae."
<.>