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
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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.)
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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.
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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?"
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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!"
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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."
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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."
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