A test of will

[Altias_Bromn]

As the morning sun was just beginning to peek over the dying treetops, Altias Bromn slipped through the common room of the Broken Dagger. Thin silk drawstring pants of pale gold flowed gently around his long legs with each step. A blouse of black, loose fitting, unbuttoned to be left fluttering with his movement. As yesterday, his feet were left bare, the leather boots near unbearable in the temperatures which seemed to climb higher every day.

Careful of the creaking fifth stair, he worked his way upstairs, to pause before the closed door of Ariane. A careful hand tried the door. Locked. he should have assumed it would be so.

A knock then, softly. An ear pressed lightly to the door, listening for movement within.

It had been a trying day previous. His secret revealed. He had reacted badly to it. The last thing Ari needed was someone to proclaim such a thing to her, especially him. Ari had made her feeling on the subject perfectly clear, and yet he had gone and done it anyway. She hope he could forgive him, hoped they could go back to the way it was.

Silently, he waited. A second knock, slightly harder than the first. Slim shoulder would move to lean against the door frame as he waited.

[Carnath-Emory]

I...I would f-feel so lucky...

She'd woken choking, some time ago, and the morning had proceeded accordingly. Sweated sheets had been untangled from her legs, put aside with some distaste, for there's not the water to wash them. A sweated body had been washed with what little water there was to spare for that, and the hope that more could be begged from Mikhail, or perhaps Cy. It was an unlikely prospect, there being some things that coin simply cannot buy.

He loves you, you know. Tragic, really.

So much work to do. It had been the mantra of these past weeks, and this morning had been no exception. There was the weekly letter to examine -- sparingly -- and crumple for disposal at the corner of her desk. There were fresh bandagings to contend with, the last of her own meagre supply, and plans to make for another Market ride to renew her stock of them. Hardly a daunting prospect, for she'd had other things to fetch while there: Something Better, she had promised Sawyer the night before, and Ariane fully intended to make good on that prospect.

And in any case, it had occured, a ride might clear the struggling thoughts from her head.

So much work to do, in the aftermath of a trial which had relieved her of some of those responsibilities. There'd been fire in the skies, last night, a matter on which she must later consult with Mikhail and Cy, they being a reliable pair, dedicated and constant. There was Straka to meet with -- perhaps, and Councilor Treadwell -- perhaps, and at some point her life had become a long succession of perhaps --

So that the testing of her door, the delicate knock that followed, came almost as a relief. Stream of thought put to an abrupt end, she padded barefoot to that door, worked the locks, drew the door open a crack and eyed her visitor through it. What does one say at such a time?

"Good morning," seems to suit, however unwarranted. An expectant silence follows.

Tragic, really.

[Altias_Bromn]

"Good morning, Ari. Sleep well?"

He would attempt to breeze into the room as he often did. There was breakfast to be had, a picnic to be planned.

There was a letter in his pocket, one of five. The pale blue parchment had been painstakingly washed with blue ink to achieve the color, three days of dipping and drying. The writing on the letter was in an elegant script, though its words were simple. The whole of it was folded into a perfct square, little star shapes pieces of paper slipped within to fall out and flutter to the floor when opend. It was sealed with blue wax, and the governor's seal.

There would be one delivered to Quincy. One to Sawyer. One to Agnie. One to Molly. There was another, kept tucked within his desk for Lady Dark Blayde, who Ariane had told him much about, just in case.

"I have something for you."

A tap to the pocket of his thin trousers, where the square shape of the letter could easily be seen.

[Carnath-Emory]

"Of course."

It's the easy reply, the generic response that neither dismisses nor deceives, but simply fills the gap that the question created. He drifts his way inwards, the door drawn a fraction open to permit it, and there's nothing here to interest him, really nothing at all. A tangle of sheets, a crumple of paper; the room is as spartan as ever, a tool to be used, like the words she speaks so reluctantly. It reflects nothing of its occupant.

He is silk to her linen, elegance to her utilitarian practicality. He comes bearing exquisite little gifts, and she turns from him, reaches only for the weapon that is her most constant companion. It's strapped low about her narrow hips, fitted snugly there as she slides her feet into thin canvas shoes.

"Thank you."

Words to fill the gap. She is by the door already, when he speaks them, a hand touched to the handle -- but there is so much work to do, and here she'd almost left before accomplishing some of it. A woman must consider this one of fate's more merciful moments, that Bromn would come here to her room, and save her the trouble of visiting him instead.

"This 'gally-vanting' matter," she begins. "It seemed that Straka has offered you guards. Have you spoken with them on that matter?" With hands carefully folded behind her back, as they have been during most of this unexpected meeting, and spine turned towards him when that was impossible. "If not, I am willing to speak with them on your behalf -- I have trained some of those men, I know which are the most able. Or perhaps you might hire some of Kerrak's. Jons is excellent, although I doubt you could wrest him away. Aeryn's loyalty is unquestionable -- oh, they are all of them very fine swordsmen."

A hand upon the door's handle. So much work to do, and Sawyer's protests of the evening before ringing brightly still in her mind. "I would feel so lucky!", Sawyer had insisted. And she, more quietly:

I already do.

[Altias_Bromn]

"I...have not spoken with them. I suppose I should. If you...no I can do it myself. I will speak with Daniels, and Kerrak. Perhaps they have someone they can spare."

A hand had reached for the carefully folded letter. Holding it out, even as she moved for the door. Carefully was the confusion masked from his features.

"I thought you might want to come."

It would be held there, this strange and pretty thing. A slight tremor as it waivered there, suspended.

"I'll...bake something."

With a shake of his head he is shrugging. Back to business it seemed.

[Carnath-Emory]

"It would be well, I think. This...chasing you from here to there and back again, it cannot continue. You have a need for some privacy; I am fond of it myself." As flatly as that, from a woman not ordinarily accustomed to giving such speeches. But they've been required from her lately, demanded at every turn: by Judiciary, by Straka, by friends. An excess of words. It has not encouraged her to any new love for them.

That he comes bearing letters is no surprise at all; at this point in things, it's almost inevitable. But the nature of this one is almost startling, to what degree anything today can be: eggshell blue, the dye surely having cost him dearly. It is a moment's curiosity -- that fact surprises her -- and eyed for a moment, before she accepts it almost tentatively from the man. Not to be opened, this one, not yet. But neither to be crumpled and discarded like the rubbish which litters her desk's corner.

"Thank you," she repeats. 'Come'? In the light of the previous night's events, his invitation is quite surreal. But there comes a nod for his shrug, the dainty envelope hung loose from her fingertips -- and the door released for a time, in favour of an approach to the chest at her bed's end. Some rummaging through garments follows, a great many purchases having been made in the marketplace the morning before. "I've something for you," she explains, and with a backwards glance over her bare shoulder: "Bake? For what?" Words to fill the silences.

Tragic, really.

[Altias_Bromn]

This...chasing you from here to there and back again, it cannot continue. You have a need for some privacy; I am fond of it myself

There is a sting in those words. But quickly she asks about the baking.

"It is a surprise."

There is some mirth, nearly excitement in those words, reaching to gently sparkle in his gaze.

"That is what the letter is for."

A curious look, though no sudden sense of forboding accompanies it, though maybe it should. Approaching, peering over her shoulder, a few paces back.

"You have something for me?"

[Carnath-Emory]

I don't like surprises, she might have said, but that would have been petty, as well as inaccurate. Hands find solace in the tangle of fabrics within that wooden chest: that old tactile tic once more, the want to touch instead of explain, to gesture instead of speak. Fingers wind through silk and linens, dig through fine cottens and hardier suedes.

"I shall look forward to it, then." Mildly spoken, a subtle counterpoint to his own mirth, which has sparked a suspicion in her. Does he realises how carefully he is observed? That she heeds his tone, rather than the words he chooses? Bromn has certainly shown himself capable of startling insights in the past, but it may be just that: a talent of times past. If there was any shred of truth to Dhrin's allegations, this would certainly be so -- but even now, she finds the notion doubtful. Not, of course, that Dhrin would lie to her.

But then, his information hadn't exactly been obtained... in person.

All things come to an end, and in time the rummaging does, too. When she stands, it's with sharp features carefully composed, and an arm extended towards him. There's something in her hand, something small and linen bound; if he'll accept it from her, he'll find metal beneath the fabric, and an arc of smoothness less easily identified by touch.

...an' even more sad is when you try an' make yourself stop feeling.

Quincy's words, yesterday. And that was well enough, but it was yesterday that was for Better Things. Today... is simply today, a day filled with work yet to be done and, evidently, gifts to exchange. And oh, a great wealth of words unspoken, because so few of them seem to have any purpose at all. Sometimes, in the end, a day must simply be... a day.

[Altias_Bromn]

Smooth brow would furrow, as the package was extended. Not from the gift, mind, but from her hand which held it. Knuckles, bound in linen, where none had been a day before.

The package was accepted, fingers playing over the curious metal something within. Altias liked surprises, most of the time. Violet hues would raise to look upon her, a soft shake of his head.

"What is this for? It is not my birthday. I've not gotten anything for you? Is it a special day I have forgotten?"

His expression clouds at that. Oh dear...was it her birthday? An anniversary of some sort?

"I...feel like I am keeping your from something."

Even as he speaks, fingers are slowly working at the wrapping of the package, too curious to wait.

[Carnath-Emory]

A hand which soon enough joins the other, folded alike behind her back; there is no further hesitation, after he's accepted the small package from her fingers. "No," she replies, quietly yet, as she turns to make for the door once again. Evidently, this was only to be a delay of the inevitable, rather than a change of intent. "None such thing. It is just for having." As if that were any sort of explanation at all.

What lays nestled within the lavender fabric is nothing particularly startling. The brooch -- for that's what this is, if the pin at the back is anything to judge by -- is a small thing, plated with burnished copper and what might actually be gold. Oval of shape, embellished with a wing-like flare across one broad arc, he will find that the scattering of tiny gems embedded into the metal offer a fine sparkle under the right light: spinels and tiny chips of amber, all quite small, a fiery array of copper and crimson tones that will prove a fine match for his hair. Is his inspection thorough? If he turns the little thing over, he will find a minute engraving across the back, tiny scrolled words: Ty vot pozhalujstavot mesto vozlyublennyj tovarisch. Which will surely mean nothing whatsoever to the man.

She, in the meantime, answers him with a quiet: "I always have time for you, Altias." And swings the door gently closed behind her, as she leaves.

[Altias_Bromn]

Lips open to thank her, eyes would close as the door closes behind her. The delicate thing which he holds in his hand is in fact, breathtaking. Though it was not the brooch which causes his breath to pause, his heartbeat to flutter. It was her words.

These words he had spoken to her only the day before, and they seemed to...subdue her, somehow. It was a strangely distant woman who had greeted him. Not a flare in her gaze, not a solitary touch. It was a strange thing, after the changes they had seen in one another of late.

And yet. Here in his hand was a gift he could not have expected. A gift he most surely did not deserve after his little performance the day before. Still. A shake of his head as the brooch was carefully lifted to place at the collar of his shirt. In doing so, the light would find the tiny words scribed in the back.

His mouth could not begin to form the sounds that would have brought the words to life. It was strange to him that Ari had not told him what they meatn. Was this what she had meant as she left? Could this be what the words meant?

Without another thought, the black silk shirt is hastily buttoned, and he is fairly running out the door behind her, as he fastens the brooch to his collar.

[Carnath-Emory]

There is a gentle thud of footsteps behind her -- some distance behind her, for by the time he's left that room, she's crossed most of that narrow, ill-lit corridor. Only a particular stubborness, an unwillingness to flee the man, had kept her from the sprint that would have had her out the tavern's doors already.

She must, as he nears, regret that just a little.

Still, she retains that even stride, thin-shod feet quiet upon the worn flooring. Fingertips trail absently across one of the corridor walls, as she continues on her way, for here there's shadow enough that the damage is not so keenly visible. They might have kept this up for some time, this surreal little chase, except that he has put her in mind of Heldenbrand and Lamai, and this is not a comparison which she much cares to make. It is, surely -- despite everything, despite Dhrin's repugnant little revelation -- an unjust one.

"I ride to the marketplace." 'Ride', to a man who detests horses, may be hint enough. "My business there is quite urgent. What would you have of me?" His face is somehow difficult to look upon, which is precisely why she turns to face the man at last. Pride demands that she give no sway to fear, not this day. Pride demands that she bite back the words that her heart wants to cry.

[Altias_Bromn]

"I...nothing. I just wanted to say thank you. It is lovely...."

And more than I deserve. Whatever I have done that has spawned this may I be thrice-damned for it.

Hands seemed to float between them for a moment, hesitating, not knowing what to do. They moved to rest at his side, hopeless, worthless. It seemed, it was as he feared. Information she never should have had.

"I am sorry to have kept you."

With that he is left to decide if he should move around her, or simply return to her stark and empty room until she has gone. It is the latter which makes him feel less of a monster, and he turns on heel and does so.

Crimson locks fall forward, sheltering his face, hiding the burning blush of shame from her as he walks away. The whisper of silks his farewell.

[Carnath-Emory]

It is entirely possible that he has not deceived her. It is entirely impossible that he has betrayed her, if only because there was nothing to betray in the first place case. Thadius Dhrin, he of the entrancing eyes and lulling words, had been in error on that count. So too, perhaps, had Lamai. But then, that woman's intents are beyond her capacity -- and willingness -- to fathom; the small healer, despite Bromn's hopes, remains a compact repugnance.

But she must watch for a time, as he lapses in and out of silence. Must observe carefully, as if there were secrets to be gleaned from the shift of his body, as if truths, answers might drop from his lax hands. Must reckon this much, at least: that Lamai had likely lied. But what is a woman to do? There remains that keen memory of the little woman, coiled at Bromn's ankles. Of the affectionate touch to her hair, and surely he'd misconstrued her response to that sight, surely Lamai had, as well.

Lamai, who'd knelt there like a dog to have her head patted.

There is pain to be had here, a great deal of it, as he finally steps away. "You need not," she manages at some point -- for his thanks feel somehow inappropriate, as the gift might well have been itself. Certain words are not lightly spoken, and now he wears them upon his collar, when... well. It is a matter of direly poor timing. But: "It looks well upon you," she adds, which is something a little kinder at least.

And then nothing at all, as he moves on his way, and she makes good her escape. Pain, oh yes, and Thadius had surely reckoned this not to be the case, which shows precisely the extent of his perceptions, of his experience with soldiering types. One learns to swallow down that hurt. One learnsto eat it like a fine, fine meal, to forget it completely until it can be examined with leisure. So that one might, for instance, wear bandages about the knuckles the next day and, at this point, keep to silence while fleeing. Which she does now, and with some haste.