From beyond the cabin comes the sound of the ship's bell to mark the hour. In another, says something too practiced to be quieted by anything, the watch will change.
He draws back then. It's a small thing—his thumb retreating from under the jacket cuff and the tilt of his face straightening from where he'd been leaning into the press of fingers. It's not a separation. Rather, he takes stock: of the points of contact between them, of John settled against the desk, of the cabin, and the ship's sounds.
After a beat, from out the shadow cast by John's shoulder— "We've been spread too thin."
In turn John's hand shifts further, falling to the bend of Flint's shoulder, thumb set at the line of his collarbone. The slight straightening doesn't take him far, but realigns some minor pressure in his shoulder.
"I know."
Striking the balance between Riftwatch's goals and their own has demanded more than either of them might have anticipated when they'd first arrived in Kirkwall. Taking higher positions hasn't eased that either.
"But going forward we can narrow our focus. And we won't be making our case alone any longer."
John is still of the opinion that Madi's presence will help them, that she'll be able to sway people neither of them will reach.
And what he'd discussed with Petrana will be of use to them, after they'd unspooled it accordingly. All the conversations where they'd considered how to rally people behind them has come to this point, where they've had a demonstration of how many people would follow them out into the world.
For a moment, it's as if he might lapse back into silence under the flat square of John's hand. His thumb is still there, careful across the bend of his wrist—
"We should tell them," is abrupt. "Julius and Averesch. Nell Voss. Rowntree. Put then in a room and clarify what exactly is at their fingertips."
Because he's right; there are two options available to them. They must either narrow the point of their attention, or make use of the numbers at their disposal.
It is abrupt, but John follows the leap in logic. He had been considering it, so it stands to reason Flint's reasoning would follow. They're all three of them considering assets, how best to use what's close at hand. There is a deep inhale, but there isn't a flinch.
He thinks of Petrana, her ash-soft voice in the garden, discussing those same names. He thinks of Flint's thumbs smoothing across his palm as John said, I can see no other purpose for it at this point than to put it to work.
"Madame de Cedoux offered to make introductions for me with Julius and Rowantree," John says, tone even, as his fingers nudge beneath the collar of Flint's shirt. "There's no reason to delay, but I'd like to pursue it with some delicacy."
Measuring that instinct against Petrana's and finding it to be a match, some shared recognition of the value of having some unseen advantage. At the very least, it would be a silent piece of leverage for Flint to wield going forward.
There are circumstances where that is a question with a sharper point; but in these, it's an assessment - re-familiarizing himself with the weight of a tool when forced to hold it in his offhand.
There's no answer for a few moments. John doesn't attempt to school his features into neutrality as he thinks his way through his answer. Flint's skin is warm beneath his palm, pulse steady under the light pressure of John's thumb.
"In the course of my conversation with Madame de Cedoux, we'd considered the benefit of having my capabilities up your sleeve and relatively secret."
And Petrana's agreement had been something of great value to John. It is hard to let go of old habit. Her validation of that instinct had dispelled some uncertainties, steadied. If she recommended Rowantree and Julius, then their discretion can be counted upon. Nell and the surly Averesch, John has less of a read on them.
"Do you believe each of those four capable of holding this information in reserve?"
"I believe that de Cedoux is equally capable when it comes to impressing the importance of secrecy as she is with determining who would warrant having the information in first place."
If she thinks Rowntree is trustworthy enough for the one, then why not the other? And if there is a scraping doubt lurking low in his chest—over giving some part of this away, over the prospect of surrendering total control of the thing and parceling it out—then he forces himself to set it somewhere else for the time being. Full control over something of this magnitude is a luxury which requires more strength than they have.
His pulse is study under John's thumb; his touch at his wrist gentle and meditative either as if he has forgotten its there (and the soft shift if his fingers is by habit) or like he might at some some point look to draw Silver elsewhere.
"What we need is all of them—whichever mages can be trusted with the idea which Van Markham represents—in a room together so they can be encouraged to work out exactly how it serves them best. If we're viewed as little more than messengers by most of the room, it does us no harm. We wouldn't need your part in this to be known to everyone. Not at this stage."
In another room, after another type of disaster, Flint's thumbs had swept along John's palm as he'd cautioned I would only advise that you use this only to the degree that is bearable.
What degree is bearable? To what extent can that be indulged knowing how few cards they have left to play? He recalls Petrana's voice as she spoke of her world, of the embrace of her nature, sets it against what Flint is describing.
The names he's centered on are the same that John had considered inevitable and valuable. Is the urge to stall by degrees a matter of caution, or of a last ditch attempt at self-preservation?
"When we return, let me speak to Rowantree and Julius first," John says slowly, as if working through the steps of an equation, as if easing down steps in the dark, wary of one giving beneath him. "Then we gather the four of them together, assuming the first conversation goes well."
Alongside Petrana, John doesn't see how could it go otherwise. It would serve them better to have a certainty of support from two of the four going in, nevermind that even John would benefit from hearing some specific conversation on what Southern mages desired.
Some minor, restless movement of his fingers at Flint's neck accompanies that train of thought. John looks at him and lets the contact steady him, dispel the uneasy misgivings this course of action sparks. Broaching any aspect of this secret will always feel like a risk. There is no escape from that.
Somewhere low in the lines of him, something near to impatience flickers. But it's folded up, tucked away, and pinned tightly under some heavier thing so that it won't come unexpectedly unreeled.
Instead, after the moment required to manage it, he says, "I expect you'll need to clarify your position to Isaac as well." And, disconnected— "Fabria will need to know what has changed as well. Leander."
Saying it all out loud has a strange way of enforcing how uncontrolled it looks. A sprawling sort of risk, and for what?
He attention fixes suddenly sharper.
"Without a force on Nascere, there is nothing being reinforced by allying with southern mages. We would be doing it just to see it done."
If this business has always been about striking an accord between mages a burgeoning settlement (uprising) in the north, what is its purpose when the latter has been so reduced?
They would arrive at this question one way or another. To pluck at the disparate pieces of their plans, trying to fit them back together, would inevitably require considering what accomplishment they are attempting to bolster.
John's aware of his own short-sightedness. Yes, the support of the southern mages would be a boon for Flint. There is no mage among the division heads, and to channel their support would give Flint some latitude, some ease with which to determine the direction of Riftwatch's efforts. But what lies beyond that?
"There is some benefit in their support," John says slowly. Yes, he is thinking of the risk. Dividing up a well-kept secret among people he knows little of and trusts less weighs on him. But the potential—
"To my mind, extending a hand to Tevene slaves and rebels goes easier when we have the support of the nearest southern equivalent."
No, there was nothing to reinforce. Not anymore. But there may someday be some foothold they would need to hold. They may as well gather who they can in the meantime to set against that. His hand shifts as he speaks, fingers settling at the nape of his neck, thumb slipping along Flint's throat.
"The support of men and women who wield a similar power as those who rule over them in Tevinter," is not an argument, merely a complication—the sound humming in his throat under the pad of John's thumb.
Without a demonstration of the southern mages' willingness to align themselves with forces outside their own interests, how do they convince any Imperium slave to submit to associate with them? The argument to the soporati becomes the difficult one of, Not that magisterium, this thing which may at first resemble it. Not your Chantry which enables all of this, and not the one in the South which drives a different breed of indenture.
What a narrow eye they draw for themselves to thread.
The disparate pieces come to mind again: Nevarra, the Van Markhams, the rebel mages, the Imperium slaves and rebels, the elves, the pirates of Llomerryn.
This was always going to be a struggle uphill with the anyone who wasn't a mage or Rifter, Flint had said, not so long ago. If the incline has become steeper, the way up more given to loose rock and fewer handholds, is it worth abandoning their progress to seek a new method?
"Among others," John says, in the way of making an note on a sheet of paper, a reminder to himself to what must be included in any given address to the Walrus men. "All the more reason to be sure we hold the crew, and supplant them with the crews in Llomerryn. We'll have others, beyond the mages."
We'll have you, John doesn't say. It's a complicated statement, more burden than reassurance in this moment. But they'll have Flint, they'll have Madi. They have those aboard this ship, not all mages. Perhaps it would be enough.
The silence into which he lapses may be a deeper darker thing, but it is the kind of space he recognizes—one in which he knows generally the direction he might swim in to reach should he desire to surface again.
He's right. Something will need to be brokered with Llomerryn sooner rather than later. If not for this, then for the trade passing across the Waking Sea and from out of Rialto Bay. Whatever displeasure he might have for the prospect - the exact nature of which he cannot identify, only he knows that it irritates like a spur between his shoulder blades - weighs little against the rationale of the thing.
He studies some point past Silver - some feature in the cabin all in shadow beyond the pool of swaying lamplight. His breathing is quiet under the set of that hand. Most of all it is even. Measured. A tempo fit for examination of something he understands rather than the erratic attempt to take measurement of a failure he cannot parse in this hour.
(Today. Tomorrow. Maybe they will reach Kirkwall and he will still not have catalogued all the pieces broken off by it.)
When his eye line flickers back, something has quieted.
There is a shift in the air. John feels it when Flint's thoughts turn inwards. It's as if the tide comes in around them. John feels the lapping pull of it as Flint's eyes shift from his face. The light pressure at his wrist puts him in mind of a tether; the loose cup of his fingers at the nape of Flint's neck an echoing reminder of the shock of contact in the midst of so much wreckage and the long, clumsy tow back to shore.
Flint's skin is warm beneath his palm. There is no hitch of pain in his breath, but John knows very well that over time certain agonies resolve themselves so neatly that there is no outward sign. His thumb grazes the bristle of beard once more as Flint's eyes refocus and meet John's again.
"Let me," John offers, softly, before correcting himself: "Let us."
They are three now. Flint needn't thread the narrow line between Yseult, Darras and their own plans on his own.
"If we're to make full use of our forces, that will include a division of our own efforts as well. You have the mages to see to. Madi and I can oversee the efforts with Llomerryn. I imagine," he says, and there is something crooked in it - at attempt at resuscitating some ghost of wit, however dry. A thumb smoothing over a crack to mask that is was every there in the first place. Starting over, the imperfect nature of the attempt obvious only because the quarters are so close and because he is under John's hands. "That some measure of diplomacy will necessary in that, despite all that has happened here."
Which they all will admit is not his strongest suit.
The fractures are nearly tangible. John's thumb draws back and forth at the hinge of Flint's jawline, noting the way he draws at composure, the flash of humor. It's met with a slight smile before John nods.
"I'll speak to Isaac."
It says something that John begins there. But then, it had been Isaac in Nevarra that had begun the balancing act. If there is any alteration, it makes sense John considers it first with Isaac.
His hand turns slowly so as not to disturb Flint's fingers at his wrist as John's hand catches at his sleeve. The pressure of his fingers is light, entreating, as John straightens.
Some instinct flinches at the sense of leaving Flint alone with the enormity of this, without some tether. John studies him for a moment, hand settled, thumb at the hinge of his jaw.
You can ask me to stay, John doesn't say, because he doesn't yet know how to tread this narrow path he's set for himself. But Madi has her people here, for the moment, before they set out to carry the news of their defeat back to her mother, her home. What is left for Flint when John closes the door behind him?
That hesitation is marked. And for a moment, Flint balks in the face of it - stiffening against the shape of that hand and under the point of John's study. Some flicker of irritation rises, irrationally, behind his ribs to choke at the base of his throat.
What is he supposed to say? There is nothing he can produce to make up an easy dismissal with. I'm well, is fundamentally untrue. You've done all you can, is unsatisfying.
And there is a copper tang on his tongue. It reminds him to loosen the set of his jaw to the tune of aching teeth recently clenched tight, and by then he is confident that if he opens his mouth something practical must find its way out of it. For they have been practicing at it for hours, he thinks— only that thing in the base of his throat which comes up is all pierced through anger and frustration and split knuckle despair mingled together in a short catching sound. He puts his hand over his face before the tears come, and is furious when they do.
This is not such a sudden thing, but the yielding of Flint to it still comes to John along the same lines as the crack of thunder, the snapping of a mask in the midst of a storm. The raw vocalization of pain John had been able to guess at, imagine the shape of and estimate the depth of, draws him instinctively closer.
Earlier, John's offerings had been measured, couched in what he thought were terms easier for Flint to hear. (If I can halve the pain of this for you, so we can better see a way forward, I'd do so. Without question.) Comfort like a thrown line in a storm, quantified and carefully measured to be more easily taken in hand. But there's nothing measured in the way he sways carefully forward to take Flint's face in both hands, weaving beneath the splayed palm masking his expression.
"Don't do that," John says quietly, one thumb set at Flint's wrist; just the suggestion of pressure, nothing more. "Don't hide."
It is a severe thing that shield, thumb pressed hard to brow bone and fingers clamped tight, and for a long time nothing can alter it. The world narrows. It is a closed, blank place and a body is trapped there - grown too full for its skin and unable to molt it. That it hears John clearly or feels the set of his hands makes as little difference as what Flint wants does. That he knows what he's doing and how he sounds and what he is refusing is irrelevant.
The options are not to ignore what's being asked of him, or to lower his hand; they are to be powerless and do nothing, or to close tighter. He chooses the second thing because it is what he can control.
(They tell horror stories about abominations in Tevinter too.)
The silent shudder of Flint's body through this pain is familiar. John knows it. The wordless denial is not so far removed from John having attempted the same, holding shattered pieces of himself together with two hands as he burned with fever and endured through it.
John knows himself to be at a disadvantage. He is good at a certain kind of comfort, the kind of effortless, smooth-gleaming comfort that is nothing but a stall. He couldn't bring himself to give that to Madi nor to Flint.
Maybe it is a blessing that John doesn't consider the weight of his nature, what part of himself Flint is closing out. Maybe that too is a kind of self-preservation, refusing to acknowledge what may hurt him.
Softer: "James."
A name like a struck bell. A name said to the sound of Look at me.
He breathes in. It's a harsh sound, and is held for a long measure high in his chest until it fails there or until the sensation comes back into his fingertips or until the sway of the ship reaches him again and he is reminded of the arrangement of himself in relation to everything else.
What it isn't for is the time it takes to master the thing unwinding in him. That much is obvious in the naked anger and grief still left in his face when he at last recalls the ability to shift his hands and by lurching degrees lowers his guard to take John's wrists into them.
His exhale too is sawing rough. He can't bring himself to look at him.
John watches him, observing the winding storm move across Flint's face. His palms are warm at John's wrists, though his gaze doesn't return to John's face as John's fingers resume the slow, soothing curl at the nape of neck.
What balm can John offer? (I don't know that it's a thing to be eased, he'd said.) He is aware of the limitations of his own body, how far his own balance can stretch, how much longer he can stay on his feet. He is aware that there is maybe nothing he can say in the face of what Flint has lost, but that if nothing else he can make himself into something steady enough for Flint to lean against.
Some objection moves in him. It catches to curl briefly at his lip or to yank at the already uneven rhythm of his breathing, and his grip at John's wrists tightens, then moderates - the kind of ugly, unpredictable weather fit for being carried away by. When he looks at him, it's an abrupt shift. Restlessness and fear rise together like a flash of temper in his face.
"The way forward requires placing real trust with Riftwatch. With people willing to trade for their security. I'm not blind to that." They are untethered. Without Nascere, they require an anchor point. "You know what that becomes."
Faith becomes empty houses and dead women on fine dining room carpets.
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He draws back then. It's a small thing—his thumb retreating from under the jacket cuff and the tilt of his face straightening from where he'd been leaning into the press of fingers. It's not a separation. Rather, he takes stock: of the points of contact between them, of John settled against the desk, of the cabin, and the ship's sounds.
After a beat, from out the shadow cast by John's shoulder— "We've been spread too thin."
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"I know."
Striking the balance between Riftwatch's goals and their own has demanded more than either of them might have anticipated when they'd first arrived in Kirkwall. Taking higher positions hasn't eased that either.
"But going forward we can narrow our focus. And we won't be making our case alone any longer."
John is still of the opinion that Madi's presence will help them, that she'll be able to sway people neither of them will reach.
And what he'd discussed with Petrana will be of use to them, after they'd unspooled it accordingly. All the conversations where they'd considered how to rally people behind them has come to this point, where they've had a demonstration of how many people would follow them out into the world.
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"We should tell them," is abrupt. "Julius and Averesch. Nell Voss. Rowntree. Put then in a room and clarify what exactly is at their fingertips."
Because he's right; there are two options available to them. They must either narrow the point of their attention, or make use of the numbers at their disposal.
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He thinks of Petrana, her ash-soft voice in the garden, discussing those same names. He thinks of Flint's thumbs smoothing across his palm as John said, I can see no other purpose for it at this point than to put it to work.
"Madame de Cedoux offered to make introductions for me with Julius and Rowantree," John says, tone even, as his fingers nudge beneath the collar of Flint's shirt. "There's no reason to delay, but I'd like to pursue it with some delicacy."
Measuring that instinct against Petrana's and finding it to be a match, some shared recognition of the value of having some unseen advantage. At the very least, it would be a silent piece of leverage for Flint to wield going forward.
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There are circumstances where that is a question with a sharper point; but in these, it's an assessment - re-familiarizing himself with the weight of a tool when forced to hold it in his offhand.
(Or while under the scuff of fingertips.)
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"In the course of my conversation with Madame de Cedoux, we'd considered the benefit of having my capabilities up your sleeve and relatively secret."
And Petrana's agreement had been something of great value to John. It is hard to let go of old habit. Her validation of that instinct had dispelled some uncertainties, steadied. If she recommended Rowantree and Julius, then their discretion can be counted upon. Nell and the surly Averesch, John has less of a read on them.
"Do you believe each of those four capable of holding this information in reserve?"
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If she thinks Rowntree is trustworthy enough for the one, then why not the other? And if there is a scraping doubt lurking low in his chest—over giving some part of this away, over the prospect of surrendering total control of the thing and parceling it out—then he forces himself to set it somewhere else for the time being. Full control over something of this magnitude is a luxury which requires more strength than they have.
His pulse is study under John's thumb; his touch at his wrist gentle and meditative either as if he has forgotten its there (and the soft shift if his fingers is by habit) or like he might at some some point look to draw Silver elsewhere.
"What we need is all of them—whichever mages can be trusted with the idea which Van Markham represents—in a room together so they can be encouraged to work out exactly how it serves them best. If we're viewed as little more than messengers by most of the room, it does us no harm. We wouldn't need your part in this to be known to everyone. Not at this stage."
no subject
What degree is bearable? To what extent can that be indulged knowing how few cards they have left to play? He recalls Petrana's voice as she spoke of her world, of the embrace of her nature, sets it against what Flint is describing.
The names he's centered on are the same that John had considered inevitable and valuable. Is the urge to stall by degrees a matter of caution, or of a last ditch attempt at self-preservation?
"When we return, let me speak to Rowantree and Julius first," John says slowly, as if working through the steps of an equation, as if easing down steps in the dark, wary of one giving beneath him. "Then we gather the four of them together, assuming the first conversation goes well."
Alongside Petrana, John doesn't see how could it go otherwise. It would serve them better to have a certainty of support from two of the four going in, nevermind that even John would benefit from hearing some specific conversation on what Southern mages desired.
Some minor, restless movement of his fingers at Flint's neck accompanies that train of thought. John looks at him and lets the contact steady him, dispel the uneasy misgivings this course of action sparks. Broaching any aspect of this secret will always feel like a risk. There is no escape from that.
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Instead, after the moment required to manage it, he says, "I expect you'll need to clarify your position to Isaac as well." And, disconnected— "Fabria will need to know what has changed as well. Leander."
Saying it all out loud has a strange way of enforcing how uncontrolled it looks. A sprawling sort of risk, and for what?
He attention fixes suddenly sharper.
"Without a force on Nascere, there is nothing being reinforced by allying with southern mages. We would be doing it just to see it done."
If this business has always been about striking an accord between mages a burgeoning settlement (uprising) in the north, what is its purpose when the latter has been so reduced?
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John's aware of his own short-sightedness. Yes, the support of the southern mages would be a boon for Flint. There is no mage among the division heads, and to channel their support would give Flint some latitude, some ease with which to determine the direction of Riftwatch's efforts. But what lies beyond that?
"There is some benefit in their support," John says slowly. Yes, he is thinking of the risk. Dividing up a well-kept secret among people he knows little of and trusts less weighs on him. But the potential—
"To my mind, extending a hand to Tevene slaves and rebels goes easier when we have the support of the nearest southern equivalent."
No, there was nothing to reinforce. Not anymore. But there may someday be some foothold they would need to hold. They may as well gather who they can in the meantime to set against that. His hand shifts as he speaks, fingers settling at the nape of his neck, thumb slipping along Flint's throat.
no subject
Without a demonstration of the southern mages' willingness to align themselves with forces outside their own interests, how do they convince any Imperium slave to submit to associate with them? The argument to the soporati becomes the difficult one of, Not that magisterium, this thing which may at first resemble it. Not your Chantry which enables all of this, and not the one in the South which drives a different breed of indenture.
What a narrow eye they draw for themselves to thread.
no subject
This was always going to be a struggle uphill with the anyone who wasn't a mage or Rifter, Flint had said, not so long ago. If the incline has become steeper, the way up more given to loose rock and fewer handholds, is it worth abandoning their progress to seek a new method?
"Among others," John says, in the way of making an note on a sheet of paper, a reminder to himself to what must be included in any given address to the Walrus men. "All the more reason to be sure we hold the crew, and supplant them with the crews in Llomerryn. We'll have others, beyond the mages."
We'll have you, John doesn't say. It's a complicated statement, more burden than reassurance in this moment. But they'll have Flint, they'll have Madi. They have those aboard this ship, not all mages. Perhaps it would be enough.
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He's right. Something will need to be brokered with Llomerryn sooner rather than later. If not for this, then for the trade passing across the Waking Sea and from out of Rialto Bay. Whatever displeasure he might have for the prospect - the exact nature of which he cannot identify, only he knows that it irritates like a spur between his shoulder blades - weighs little against the rationale of the thing.
He studies some point past Silver - some feature in the cabin all in shadow beyond the pool of swaying lamplight. His breathing is quiet under the set of that hand. Most of all it is even. Measured. A tempo fit for examination of something he understands rather than the erratic attempt to take measurement of a failure he cannot parse in this hour.
(Today. Tomorrow. Maybe they will reach Kirkwall and he will still not have catalogued all the pieces broken off by it.)
When his eye line flickers back, something has quieted.
"I'll speak with Darras."
no subject
Flint's skin is warm beneath his palm. There is no hitch of pain in his breath, but John knows very well that over time certain agonies resolve themselves so neatly that there is no outward sign. His thumb grazes the bristle of beard once more as Flint's eyes refocus and meet John's again.
"Let me," John offers, softly, before correcting himself: "Let us."
They are three now. Flint needn't thread the narrow line between Yseult, Darras and their own plans on his own.
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Which they all will admit is not his strongest suit.
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"I'll speak to Isaac."
It says something that John begins there. But then, it had been Isaac in Nevarra that had begun the balancing act. If there is any alteration, it makes sense John considers it first with Isaac.
His hand turns slowly so as not to disturb Flint's fingers at his wrist as John's hand catches at his sleeve. The pressure of his fingers is light, entreating, as John straightens.
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What else is there to say?
"Go be with her."
The loss must be more broad for her, he thinks - stinging for its lack of specificity.
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You can ask me to stay, John doesn't say, because he doesn't yet know how to tread this narrow path he's set for himself. But Madi has her people here, for the moment, before they set out to carry the news of their defeat back to her mother, her home. What is left for Flint when John closes the door behind him?
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What is he supposed to say? There is nothing he can produce to make up an easy dismissal with. I'm well, is fundamentally untrue. You've done all you can, is unsatisfying.
And there is a copper tang on his tongue. It reminds him to loosen the set of his jaw to the tune of aching teeth recently clenched tight, and by then he is confident that if he opens his mouth something practical must find its way out of it. For they have been practicing at it for hours, he thinks— only that thing in the base of his throat which comes up is all pierced through anger and frustration and split knuckle despair mingled together in a short catching sound. He puts his hand over his face before the tears come, and is furious when they do.
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Earlier, John's offerings had been measured, couched in what he thought were terms easier for Flint to hear. (If I can halve the pain of this for you, so we can better see a way forward, I'd do so. Without question.) Comfort like a thrown line in a storm, quantified and carefully measured to be more easily taken in hand. But there's nothing measured in the way he sways carefully forward to take Flint's face in both hands, weaving beneath the splayed palm masking his expression.
"Don't do that," John says quietly, one thumb set at Flint's wrist; just the suggestion of pressure, nothing more. "Don't hide."
no subject
The options are not to ignore what's being asked of him, or to lower his hand; they are to be powerless and do nothing, or to close tighter. He chooses the second thing because it is what he can control.
(They tell horror stories about abominations in Tevinter too.)
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John knows himself to be at a disadvantage. He is good at a certain kind of comfort, the kind of effortless, smooth-gleaming comfort that is nothing but a stall. He couldn't bring himself to give that to Madi nor to Flint.
Maybe it is a blessing that John doesn't consider the weight of his nature, what part of himself Flint is closing out. Maybe that too is a kind of self-preservation, refusing to acknowledge what may hurt him.
Softer: "James."
A name like a struck bell. A name said to the sound of Look at me.
no subject
What it isn't for is the time it takes to master the thing unwinding in him. That much is obvious in the naked anger and grief still left in his face when he at last recalls the ability to shift his hands and by lurching degrees lowers his guard to take John's wrists into them.
His exhale too is sawing rough. He can't bring himself to look at him.
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What balm can John offer? (I don't know that it's a thing to be eased, he'd said.) He is aware of the limitations of his own body, how far his own balance can stretch, how much longer he can stay on his feet. He is aware that there is maybe nothing he can say in the face of what Flint has lost, but that if nothing else he can make himself into something steady enough for Flint to lean against.
"Where are you?" he prompts. Talk to me.
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"The way forward requires placing real trust with Riftwatch. With people willing to trade for their security. I'm not blind to that." They are untethered. Without Nascere, they require an anchor point. "You know what that becomes."
Faith becomes empty houses and dead women on fine dining room carpets.
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