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2nd of Fessuran, leaving Port Zoon, first night watch
Valac
"I'll go with you."
When Kismet volunteers for first watch, Valac speaks before anyone else has the chance to. He knows they have to be alone for what he wanted to ask, and that was the only window of opportunity.
In a couple of minutes, the group settles in various sleeping arrangements around the fire - Bella, Agatha and Florian bundled in close proximity, the twins facing each other, their fingers intertwined, and Asriel, a little bit by the side, leaning on a tree trunk. Valac throws a cursory glance around to make sure nothing is creeping on their camp, and even though the way some bare forest branches extend in the breeze like crooked limbs unnerves him, he recognizes no immediate danger. Latching onto that fleeting sense of security, he gives Beta and Gamma a quick pat before climbing the driver's seat of the cart. The high vantage more like a seat of power, more at ease, even if he knows if it comes down to it it wouldn't really matter.
Silence overtakes them, and he lets it sink in, taking the reins and running the leather fabric between his fingers, easy to clutch now with filed down fingernails. He sighs. It's not even been a full week since he broke one, and he doesn't care for it. But his mind keeps running over the days at Acis's estate, the warmth of the sun on his skin, the embrace of ocean waves, the piano room, once filled with news of betrayal, once with gentle music, magic and feathers. Every little piece of information revealed and withheld. They all have their secrets, and it's never bothered him before, even as he briefly wonders if his run deepest or the twins'. Yet now it... bothers him that there are some things he feels the need to know. Especially when he has made a name for himself not asking unwarranted questions, only lending an ear to those who wanted to be heard and had no one to hear them.
Black nails, still impeccable, painted for no one. He lets the reins drop as he looks up to find whatever spot Kismet has occupied.
"You know, I never ended up painting your nails as we talked. And Florian's", he adds a bit too quickly, a slight twitch to his eyebrow.
Kismet
Kismet doesn’t think too much of Valac volunteering to take watch with him. In the time between Nicodranas and here, he’s felt that awkward tension between them ease. At least, he doesn’t think Valac is still angry with him. So he offers a quick smile and then moves to the other side of the cart, leaning on one of the large spoked wheels and staring into the dark. Small copses of trees dot the grassy lowlands stretching toward the Lucidian ocean. A large river merges with the surf, silver and sparkling in the moonlight. He allows himself a soft sigh, and a moment to loosen his ever tense shoulders.
When Valac breaks the silence he startles, then flushes with embarrassment. He turns to look up at the tiefling sitting at the reins, and flicks a glance over his nails. He’d noticed they’d been filed short, of course. He glances at his own, clean for the first time in a week, though growing out a little. There’s remnants of the black polish, most of it chipped away through nervous picking.
He glances down the road again. Empty. He can’t peek over the cart to check if the rest of the party is sleeping, but decides he doesn’t mind all that much if anyone is awake enough to hear.
“If you’re offering to paint my nails again, you need only ask.” He taps his fingers on the rim of the cart. “Truthfully I quite enjoyed having them painted. I mean—I liked them after they were painted, not the process of—“
He cuts himself off his stammering with a sharp click of his teeth. Why is it he can never speak straight around Valac? Anything that comes out of his mouth is either a nervous babble or something far too revealing about himself, with no in-between. It's endlessly frustrating.
Valac
He smiles at the subtle implication that he wouldn't be direct with Kismet. That really hasn't been the case so far, although he worries his lip this time. He'll have to start from afar.
"I am offering, if you'll indulge me. And on the contrary, I find the process quite relaxing."
His pouch gives a slight clank when he unclasps it from his belt, the ocean pebbles inside stirring. He's almost forgotten about them, already used to the difference in weight; the pouch normally only carried a handful of spell components and makeup. So when he opens it to fish for the nail polish and sees the unusual translucent rock on top, he pauses, mesmerized by the way it reflects what little light finds its way inside. Yet his fingers brush past it as he takes out the bottle of black liquid instead.
He moves to the side, leaving enough space on the bench for Kismet if he were to get up. It's not hard to notice the stammering or the glances about, and he furrows his brow, head tilted slightly. The elf didn't seem to actually want him, so if there was something else that worried him, it was all the more concerning.
"Unless of course you're just saying that," Valac starts and quickly realizes he won't live with himself unless he comments on it. "Do I… make you nervous?"
Kismet
Kismet eyes the empty space beside Valac, and after a moment's hesitation steps up to the driver's seat. He has to almost hop up, the step is so far from the ground. He sits facing ahead, toward the empty breeching, his foot tapping anxiously. After getting settled, it occurs to him how mirrored this scene is from the waltz in the music room. That, coupled with Valac's words, sends another embarrassed blush over his face.
"In truth, I never know what's going to babble out of my mouth when you ask me something." He clutches his hands in his lap, the pressure giving him something to focus on. "So yes, sure. You make me nervous." He ends the sentence in a weak mumble. "But not...in a bad way. I don't know."
He huffs, his nervousness flipping to frustration at himself. It worries him how easily Valac gets under his skin. He unclenches his hands and turns slightly, watching as Valac takes out the polish from his bag.
"Sorry. I'm already tripping over my words." He chews the inside of his cheek, biting back a comment over Valac's shorter nails. "It's pleasant, actually. Having my nails look nice. Having someone else do it."
He cringes, squeezing his eyes shut. What on Exandria is coming out of your mouth?
Valac
Valac nods, taking in the information. Nervous not in a bad way was... a peculiar way to feel, somewhat unknown to him. It takes him a while to untangle the web of thoughts while he takes the hand from Kismet's lap and slowly brings it up until it meets the brush.
Perhaps it was just the nature of travelling with someone for long. It's not like he's been in a group at all before. The only really constant presence in his life was-
He freezes, hand stilling with a slight tremble over Kismet's index finger. Was it like that with them, or was that in a bad way? Never knowing enough, never being sure of intentions, regardless of the draw. Being pulled both ways, towards someone and screaming in the other direction. He blinks away the fog quickly and continues, hoping that Kismet doesn't notice his pause.
"It's easy to change that, I fear," he speaks low. "You barely know anything about me, or I about you," he steals a quick glance upwards before returning his focus back to the elf's nails.
The memory of Kismet reaction to Agatha's old body keeps resurfacing, and he circles it even as it burns, like moth to a flame. It bothers him, even more so the fact that he doesn't know why. "I could be all the things that haunt you."
Kismet
Kismet keeps his eyes on their hands as Valac begins painting with deft precision. Black lacquer, a cool void to lose himself in. For a moment, Valac appears to stutter over. His index finger, the one he keeps his ring on, and Kismet’s gaze darts to the tiefling's face. There’s little to find, and as he continues, their eyes meet for a moment.
”I could be all the things that haunt you.”
He breathes out, slowly. “I’m haunted by many things.” He keeps his voice low, and even if one of the others were to stir they would not hear anything. “Things I’ve done. Things done to me.” Despite his thunderous pulse he’s sure Valac feels through his wrist, he manages a smile. “If the ghost of my past danced half so well as you I might embrace it instead of run.”
He lets the sentence hang for a moment, the soft hush of the distant surf mingling with the easy sounds of sleep about them. Then he shakes his head as though warding off a fly, and leans back.
“So, ask. I don’t mind.” His smile drops a little. “Perhaps our ghosts can shake their clawed hands and become acquainted.”
Valac
He almost lets the words roll past him were it not for the beating pulse of Kismet's wrist when he speaks them. Once again he pauses, this time barely for a heartbeat, to consider the careful word choice and all its implications. If anything in the elf's demeanor changes, he misses it. There's really no two ways of interpreting that, which makes it all the more confusing.
Valac exhales and quickly prestidigitates a little bit of leftover polish from Kismet's ring finger before returning his focus to painting. He could be letting his own desires cloud his judgement, in which case the meaning is best left ignored.
Well, the invitation to ask was there. Better not hesitate now.
"When," he starts, then reconsiders. "It's not my intention to pry what does not concern me. So for what I ask, I have good reason to."
He dips his brush back in the bottle then presses it to the rim to squeeze all excess, letting silence briefly overtake them.
"Most things don't interest me about most people. Can't say the same about you. Even so, I won't question what you've asked of me, I- I wouldn't like the same done to me. And," he chuckles before continuing, voice barely a whisper. "My ghosts shaking someone's hand is about as likely as me growing a pair of wings. But no matter. When we talked with Agatha, about her soul and previous life, she turned into someone... something that affected you."
With one last brush stroke, he sets Kismet's hand back in his lap, and takes the other one.
"Don't move that hand, it's still drying," he instructs, firm for a second, and continues with a sigh. "I suppose it's a question of what it was exactly that meant something to you. Was it the Aurora Watch armor itself, the fact that it's another person entirely, or the fact that it's the Dynasty?"
Kismet
”Most things don't interest me about most people. Can't say the same about you.”
His eyebrows fly up at this. Interesting? He hadn’t entertained the thought that he could be interesting.
Kismet’s right hand twitches as Valac orders him to keep it still. For the briefest of moments he considers waggling his fingers just to be difficult, but as Valac goes on the impulse dies. His heart rate picks up, thudding against his ears. His hand in Valac’s trembles with how hard he’s trying to keep it stationary.
The moments stretch by like dripping tree sap, his mouth dry. “I uh—“ He clears his throat, tries again. “The armour.” He presses his lips together, hands shaking with restraint. He wants to fidget with something, feel the cold, textured metal of his ring against his thumb. But Valac said not to move it.
Valac
The hand twitches, but doesn't move as Valac watches it with the corner of his eye. The armor, huh. He bites the inside of his cheek. Although he feels a certain relief, it's not enough to ease his mind, or curiosity.
"Don't think about that," he points the brush in the direction of Kismet's lap, a stark contrast to the hand shaking in his own. "The more you do the more you'll want to move it. You're focusing on the wrong thing."
He pushes Kismet's thumb up with his own.
"Focus here instead," and the black lacquer drips on the nail, moving along its length and almost rolling off before Valac stops it. "For something so simple, such a delicate procedure. But it's pleasant on its own, and I've always found it relaxing."
The bristles spread along the nail bed just as Kismet suddenly twitches, and it stains the sides. He could prestidigitate it away, just as he could dry the other hand. Instead, he wipes it with his own finger.
"Mistakes can happen, but they're part of the process. They make it more real, more tangible. Just as some dangers are real, and others just seem like it."
"I've had my own share of experiences with the Aurora Watch, but nothing that can… scare me like that. I'm sure it's not the same, and I don't know if you share my disdain, if you do, it wouldn't be for the same reasons. Mostly because… you didn't grow up where I did. So I don't know what, how you even came across that."
He lets the question hang in the air unspoken.
Kismet
"Mistakes can happen, but they're part of the process. They make it more real, more tangible.”
Kismet can’t help but relax at that. The words so strongly echoed his own, so long ago, when he spoke to Agatha about weaving. Not the conversation about fate and threads, but real, tangible needlework. How even if you’re not very good at something, the delight can come with the work produced, no matter how slipshod. It doesn’t pass his notice that Valac isn’t using his spell to dry the polish this time.
His heart still hammers against his ribcage from his own answer. It’s more than he ever expected to say when he joined this group, more than he ever thought would come up. As though each of the members apart were but threads in the weave, but once pulled together cannot help but become a tangled mess. And how he can’t resist the need to comb it out, to reveal the pattern he’s sure lies beneath.
When Valac alludes to his history, Kismet’s eyes widen. He’s brought tumbling back to the morning they arrived in Nicodranas, his fear still bitter on his tongue, when Florian mentioned they were from the Dynasty. For a moment he worries the same fear will claw its way up his throat, but it doesn’t. It’s muted. Perhaps it’s the still night, or the stars peppering the sky, or the fact that Florian has been nothing but kind, but the fear crouches back into his gut.
He takes his time looking over each sleeping face, watching their forms rise and fall with each deep breath. Then he looks back to Valac, and studies his face, more closely than he’s dared to these past days. Watching for a reaction. Watching for recognition.
Fate, he tells himself, can define where the thread ends. Do not be afraid to become the needle.
“You all know I’ve travelled along the northern end of the Empire,” he begins, a tremor in his soft voice. “I’ve never said how far east I’ve gone, but…” He forces himself to hold eye contact, though his nerves feel as though they are catching fire. “The…the Garrison. The southmost one. I spent some time there, working. Healing. Helping with…I helped.”
Memories threaten to wash over him, but he pushes them back, focusing instead on Valac’s hand around his.
“I’ve had my share of experiences with them. My share and more. I…I didn’t mean for my reaction to be so strong, but it was unexpected. It…it made me remember.”
He trails off, watching. Waiting for the moment Valac’s demeanour switches, for the moment he’s been dreading. He’s ready to run, if he must. If it gets too risky.
He’s ready, but he doesn’t want to.
Valac
The southmost one. The Ashguard, not three days away from Asarius. Valac looks up from his work to find Kismet already staring at him, and realizes his mistake a second too late. His reaction was too immediate and he chuckles at how stupid it makes him feel to be laid bare for all to see. As if he's learned nothing.
"Memories can't hurt you, not in a way that's real. Not unless you let them," he whispers and moves to the next finger, focusing back on painting. Not holding eye contact felt safer now, lest he said more than intended.
Well, Kismet's not stupid, and Valac is fully aware he must have made one or two connections by now. It is just a choice of how much of that he confirms, how much he uses to weave into the subtle dance. The conversation is fragile, and Kismet felt fragile, both in his hands and inside his mind.
"From Bysaes Tyl all the way to the Ashguard. You've travelled a lot. I wonder if we passed each other like strangers in the rain. When was that, exactly?"
The thought of meeting Kismet then racks him with fear, and his whole body shudders. He'd given up on trying to suppress it. What he could've done then... strange to feel guilt over something that never happened, something he's no longer a part of. Stranger still to feel guilt over it now of all times. He doesn't trust a single soul with the words he speaks next, not even Kismet, and yet he says them all the same through his thoughts.
Although I never stepped foot in the Garrison, I got close on my way to Felderwin. And had you continued east, you would've reached where I came from.
Kismet
The flash of recognition comes, and it takes everything in Kismet’s willpower to stay seated. It’s only the soft grip on his hands, the care in which each stroke of nail polish is applied, that keeps him calm. The Undercommon, the eastern towns.
"I wonder if we passed each other like strangers in the rain.”
The thought of it almost makes him shudder. Valac, probably in some fine carriage, looking through the window down at a scrap of an elf on the Glory Run road.
“I’m certain we hadn’t. I doubt you were even born. And even so, you’d barely recognise me from now and then. An elf with mud-stained feet and only the shirt on his back.” He bites his tongue, already saying too much.
Then the next words are spoken into his mind, and his suspicions are confirmed all at once.
He catches Valac’s wrist with his free hand, the one he was told to keep still. The black lacquer stains his fingers, not yet dry. Now ruined. He doesn’t press hard, just enough to stall the painting.
When he replies, it’s through thought, trying to hold Valac’s gaze as best he can.
If you’re with the Watch, tell me now. I beg you. I see the look of the hunted in your eyes, not the hunter. But I must know.
The pathetic tone whines through his thoughts like a mosquito, and though he doesn’t expect a reply, though he fears he’s ruined everything, it’s too late to take it back. He doesn’t think Valac would hurt him, not intentionally. His grip loosens, his thumb trembling along the veins in Valac's wrist, ready to let go.
Valac
He laughs, on his way to say that they'd match in stains, when the sudden grip on his wrist sends bolts of electricity along his spine, extending to needle pricks though each limb. Their surroundings blur as his control shatters, all his careful work as ruined as the lacquered hand that touches him. The black liquid oozes down from Kismet's fingers, more watery than it's supposed to be, and when Valac looks at the brush he's holding dark water pours from it like a faucet.
He blinks, heart hammering in his ears, and it's all gone. But the presence on his wrist stays, somehow both cold and burning through. He pulls away perhaps a bit too sharp, mind racing as whatever little scene they had is forgotten, and with a tremble slowly rests the brush back in its bottle.
"I'm not," it comes out almost as whimper. "I'm not, I- my brother. He's-"
He squeezes his eyes shut, palms covering his face.
I see the look of the hunted in your eyes, not the hunter.
Kismet's wrong, and the dread that comes with that knowledge consumes him. Had he squeezed him harder, he would've lashed out like he did before. Had he met him seven years ago, he would've dragged him down with no remorse.
I'm not with the Watch, I'd rather be dead than that, he finds his voice calmer as it drips with venom in his thoughts. But there are things worse than the Watch or the Lens out there.
Kismet
Kismet draws his hands back, slowly, guilt and hurt swirling across his face. Once more, he’s reached out to someone without asking. Once more, he’s caused more pain than ease. Valac covers his face and all Kismet wants is to understand, to know who or what left their mark so visibly. It shocks him to feel anger clawing at his throat, a familiar vengeful rage.
It frightens him.
So let me watch over your shoulder. He sends it without hesitation, though he feels foolish. And you watch over mine.
He looks over his nails, half-finished and smudged. Remorse settles in the pit of his stomach, and he says aloud, “I’m sorry for pushing you like that. It wasn’t fair.”
He looks up, Valac’s face still hidden in his hands, the nail polish stained like black ichor on his wrist. What’s the right thing to do in this situation? His mind is a torrent, threatening to overflow. Something different, something distracting.
With a sigh, he plucks the nail polish from the seat, and turns to face Valac properly. “Come now,” he says, his tone gentle. “Let me try. I won’t always have you around to do my nails, so I need practice.”
He holds his hand out, waiting.
Valac
Valac breathes out, hushed and shaky behind his palms. Kismet's words hold little meaning, with more than half of the context needed to make such a bold statement lost to the winds, but the intent is clear. He doesn't comment on it, jumbled mess; there's the desire to make a joke, tell him how shit Valac is at seeing things, but nothing comes out.
Instead, prompted by the elf's voice, he brings his hands down to see him holding the polish, expectation painted on his face.
He gives a weak laugh. "What have I told you about apologizing for everything?"
A pause. He thinks the words over as he inspects the stains on his hands. One of them sticks, although it's likely Kismet didn't mean it to. Fair. Has anything ever been fair, except for what he's made it to be? Even this doesn't feel fair, yet he agrees to it.
With a snap, his own nails clear of the polish and smudges, but the elf's don't. For that, he takes off his scarf and wipes them, finger by finger, careful not to leave anything behind. When he's done with one hand, he gently moves the polish from the other and continues.
"You plan to have your nails painted often from now on?" he manages a smile as he looks up to Kismet.
Kismet
Kismet starts to protest as Valac uses his soft scarf to clean the polish from his nails, but to no avail. He sinks into silence, glad that for the moment Valac seems to be calming down.
At Valac's prompt, he gives a half-hearted shrug. "It...looks nice. And it won't chip too badly now that I'm not tending a garden for hours each day." As Valac moves from one hand to the other, he turns his palm up. "Calluses from the spade."
He can't help examining the weave of Valac's scarf. By the feel of it...he catches it between finger and thumb, the roughness of his skin catching on the fine thread. Silk. A little threadbare along the hem. He tilts his head, following the bold splashes of red woven in. An expensive garment, now tarnished in places with black lacquer.
It takes him a moment to realise that Valac has finished taking off his nail polish, leaving Kismet sitting there hunched over the scarf. He drops it with an apology halfway from his mouth, but he turns it into half a laugh.
"Alright. Fair warning--I have no idea what I'm doing." He sets the small jar down on the bench between them, his fingers shaking a little as he draws the brush out. The smell is strong, and it reminds him a little of the salves he would use to stave off infection from cuts. He shakes his head softly at the odd thought, and holds his hand out for Valac to take.
"I don't know why I'm thinking of this, but I've got a sudden memory of being quite ill in bed as a child. An older woman came to tend to me, and I remember how wrinkled her hands were. I thought she was made of paper, and I was so scared to touch her hands in case I tore her skin." He takes one of Valac's fingers between his, and frowns in concentration as he goes to make the first stroke. "But of course she was hardy, and her hands would plunge into hot water to clean the rags to press to my forehead. She'd make this kind of porridge, hot and flavourless. She swears it helped me get better."
He tuts as the bristles bleed outside of his nail, and without a thought he wipes it carefully away with his thumb.
Valac
As Kismet recalls his ailment, Valac feels his shoulders lower, some of the tension in his spine leaving him. It's strange to imagine the elf as someone with that sort of naivete.
"It's true, often those who look most fragile can endure the most," he doesn't dare go too far back in memory at that, afraid of what buried secret he'll uncover. Unsure if it's his own or Kismet's that he prefers to keep obscure.
"I used to frequent the Vine, in Rexxentrum", he glances at the elf, sure he'll catch his meaning. "Some of the folks there used to do this for me, and I'd do their make-up in return. That was on quiet days, of course."
He watches as Kismet struggles to stay in line, hands trembling more than Valac's own, still coming down from whatever came over him.
"It's strange. I kind of miss that. The monotony of everyday life, I mean - it's tedious in the moment, but looking back... I suppose it was good to play pretend at a normal person, for a while."
He leans back with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Kismet doesn't look up, and Valac uses the opportunity to study him - eyebrows pulled close, focused only as he'd seen him in battle. The crescent moon hanging from his ear gently rocks back and forth with each movement of his arm, occasionally catching light from Catha and Ruidus and reflecting it on pale skin. The bit of missing cartilage, too large and jagged to be the result of a pulled earring like he'd told Florian.
"If I was with the Watch, what would you have done?"
Kismet
He smiles as Valac mentions the Vine. It sounded…cozy, he supposes the word is. He studies his work, grimacing a little. He takes Valac’s ring finger, the one with the dark, winding jewellery.
“I suppose I never settled into playing at ‘normal’. Much better at playing a ghost.”
He resumes his silence, determined to stay in the lines. They’ll reach Port Damali at some point soon, and he might have time to buy some nail polish of his own. But which colour? He doesn’t think his favourite colour, that robin-egg blue, would suit him. The void-like black, however, calls to something else in him.
"If I was with the Watch, what would you have done?”
He pauses, then returns the brush to the jar. Stalling for time, he blows softly on the lacquer, trying to dry it faster.
What would he have done?
He sighs, hands still cradling Valac’s. He barely registers the contact, his mind running through all the possibilities. A few weeks ago, his answer would have been different. But spending time with this group, with Valac…
“I want to say I would have run. Just…grabbed my things and vanished in the night.” His hands twitch involuntarily. “I want to say that’s what I would have done, but it’s not true. Maybe when we all first met, but not now. Not anymore.”
He glances up, hesitant to read the expression on Valac’s face. “Instead, I might have asked why you were all the way in the Empire, or what made you leave.” His mouth twitches into a smile. “Strange, isn’t it? I feel like I’ve been fighting so hard to keep my distance from everyone, but each day that gets harder to do.”
He starts to say something else, but bites back his words. About how much it terrifies him that he can feel these attachments forming, about how much he’s beginning to genuinely care.
Valac
He chuckles, familiar with keeping away, a simple presence lurking in the shadows. Unseen for those that do not seek it. But he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he continues watching the little twitches in Kismet's expression as he ponders the question. His eyes unfocus, darting back and forth, clearly lost in his mind palace for a second, and then he returns, concentrating back on Valac's hand, blowing soft wind on his nails to dry them. There's the temptation to read Kismet like an open book while he waits for an answer, too easy to just tune into his thoughts if he so wished, but he holds back.
I feel like I’ve been fighting so hard to keep my distance from everyone, but each day that gets harder to do.
He blinks, caught off guard - like he didn't consider that Kismet can just look up to Valac staring at him. And the words themselves cut even deeper, like they've been plucked straight from his own core. It both eases him that someone else feels the same way, and terrifies him how strongly that statement resonates with him. He has been trying so hard to keep his distance from everyone, with mediocre success, yet here he is again. Light, what is he even doing? His hand in Kismet's grasp burns, immobilized, while the other squeezes into a fist on his lap. Didn't they start the watch with the roles reversed, or why does he feel so cornered right now? And why in the name of whatever watched over them had he never felt the urge to kiss someone with no agenda, like he does now?
"I may not be part of them, but you can still ask me those things", the words tumble out of his mouth, desperate to think about something else, anything more disconnected from the present moment.
Kismet
Kismet holds his gaze for a moment, a beat too long, trying to read the subtle shift of emotion across Valac’s face. He comes to no solid conclusion, so picks up the brush again, all too aware he’d been sitting there cradling Valac’s hands like a sleeping bird.
“I could, yes.” He turns his attention to the thumb this time, realising now he should have started painting with some kind of order in mind. “At some point I might. But perhaps I want to know more frivolous things, like what comforts you when you get sick. Or what your favourite colour is. Or if you like the wide open night sky or a roof over your head.”
He finishes painting his thumb, turning it this way and that in the meagre light. A little cleaner than the others.
“And you could ask the same things of me. Frivolous things or not. I think it’s easier to ask about hometowns or histories, places a person has been, things they’ve done. It’s a thin veneer of who a person is, and you feel like you’re getting to know them.”
He moves to the pointer finger, adjusting his position on the seat to get comfortable, guiding Valac’s hand a little higher.
“You could know a person’s reason for being somewhere, you could know where they are from. But one day they get sick or fall into a malaise, and there’s nothing you can do because you only know where they’ve been, not the things that make them happy now.”
Valac
"And yet history defines you. You wouldn't be the same person had you not walked the exact same steps. I think that's where your essence comes from. The path you choose to take from those laid before you."
He's rambling, gaze frozen on Kismet's fingers as they paint. The welcome change of topics releases some of the leftover tension from his body and a chuckle leaves him, glad that he won't have to answer his own suggestion.
"But frivolous questions are fun, they're safe. Ah, I like black, I suppose. And blue, but you know the one that's almost green if you really think about it? The one which no one seems to agree on what to call it. I like that it can't be defined easily, and it's also the color of-", he stops himself, eyebrows flying up behind his bangs. Close. "-most bodies of water. The ocean held the same color."
He looks up, greeted by two moons, same as they've always been.
"And the open sky. A roof is nice for keeping out of storms, but otherwise constraining. For different reasons through the years, the night sky has brought me peace. It's... nice. Static."
Kismet's almost done with his hand now and it looks surprisingly good for a first try. He's been wiping his mistakes, and although little smudges remain here and there, Valac thinks he'll keep them.
"But enough with me, I don't think I've talked this much about myself in years. I'm really usually the one doing the listening," he finally catches Kismet's eye. Their conversation has gone to so many unfamiliar places that he yearns to bring it back to something he knows. "You know, you're probably the only person who'd find comfort in talking about sickness. Is that the healer in you, or do you just want to see me when I'm sweating a fever?"
Kismet
Kismet listens, and files away the small glimpses into Valac’s persona. Much like the letters he chooses to keep, hidden away in his old journal. Last night was the first opportunity in a while he could write without being interrupted. For a moment, a memory of flame from Elvendawn flickers across his vision, when he had to decide what to keep and what to burn.
He thinks about the night sky, about how the trees hid most of it from him. Of how sometimes it feels claustrophobic, the weight of it over his head. Other times it makes him feel insignificant, a mere dust mote caught in a ray of light. There for a moment, and gone, and it’s comforting.
Kismet is reaching for Valac’s other hand when the final comment is made, and his eyes widen with shock, his face a full blush in an instant. He’s not sure how well Valac sees at night, but with the moons out there’s very little he can do to hide it.
“No, I—“ His voice breaks, only exacerbating the blush. “I wouldn’t wish sickness upon you, that’s—and it’s not like—“
He holds up his hands, sighing, scrubbing away the mental image Valac obviously knew would surface.
“You couldn’t have just asked my favourite colour, hm? It’s light blue, like a robin’s egg, or the sky just after dawn, for your information.” Somehow he feels as though he’s lost the upper hand on the conversation, only realising he had it after it slipped from his grasp. “It won’t do to have my hands shake while I’m trying to paint your nails. It’ll come out terrible.”
He grumbles under his breath, but the flush remains across his cheeks. He beckons, waiting for Valac to relinquish his other hand. “I don’t much like talking about my history, as much as it defined me. But there are bits and pieces I don’t mind thinking about. If you have any burning questions you may as well ask.”
Despite his tense tone, he can’t help the small smile that pulls at his lips.
Valac
"I could have, yes." he mirrors Kismet's from earlier, sharp canines fully on show. "But that's not how I get valuable information. And it's fine, I'll clean them." What's a bunch of smudged polish. He wasn't having them painted for himself anyway.
For a while, he allows himself some sort of imagined pride over Kismet's full face of blush again. He's stopped counting the times he's done that now. Perhaps he's just... like that. An uninvited reminder of another's name resurfaces in his memory. He wouldn't be able to ask, not for a while - perhaps not ever, but none of the thoughts he heard in secret made much sense. To hurt Valac would mean to know him, to betray him. Leave him.
He would have to find a way to prevent either of those things.
"One last question, I've pried enough. Does it bother you?", his voice comes out solemn, as if unsure of what's pulling the words out. "When I do that. I'll stop if you ask me to."
Kismet
He busies himself with the other hand, growing more used to the right way to hold the brush, while he ponders the question. He chews on his lip, letting the silence draw onward.
“No,” he whispers. “It doesn’t.”
How to put it into words? He moves to the next finger, not trusting eye contact while he speaks.
“I think…I think you find it fun to do. I think you like to change the direction of conversations through pure distraction. And it works, and I don’t mind it.” He examines the completed nail with a sense of pride. It actually doesn’t look too bad. “We all have things we have to hide, so I truly don’t mind.
He pauses here, trying to sort through his own reasoning. Why it might bother him, why it wouldn’t. If there was no intention behind the flirting besides trying to throw him off, would that upset him? No. Surely not.
Yet it does.
But that’s too dangerous a thought to voice, especially for so calm a moment.
So he laughs, a short, forced thing born of worry and fear, of terror that he would only push Valac further away by being so honest. “If you keep doing it, one day I’ll get used to it and I’ll stop getting so nervous.”
Lies, lies, lies.
He holds up Valac’s hand, examining his work. “Well? Suitable?” His own bare nails flash in the moonlight. “You’ll have to do me next, I don’t want shoddy workmanship on my own hands.” This draws out a genuine snort of laughter.
Valac
He finds relief in the answer at first, a simple "No", although the pause before it stretches out for what seems like the whole night, pressure building under his skin, threatening to burst at the seams. He's surprised at how much he craves the permission, how he basks in it before it's buried under more words and doubt. A simple distraction? A huff of laughter leaves him. Yes, perhaps it does seem like that. And perhaps for the better - he gains nothing from confirming or denying Kismet's interpretation; on the contrary, he keeps the upper hand.
What feels like a coil in his stomach twirls, and immediately the ring finger of his free hand twitches. He flicks his wrist, making quick work of drying the lacquer before he's had a chance to move, grasp something, and ruin it.
Yet Kismet continues, and the coil grows thorns. You're fine. He'll never read too much into it. That's what you want. You don't mean anything by it. It almost becomes a chant, to the point where he wonders if he's arguing or soothing himself.
By the time his nails are finished, he's at war with himself, lip caught between his teeth. Maybe he just wants to prove him wrong. That must be it. Otherwise, he has no reason to even consider what others might think of his actions, not unless he's actively trying to influence someone. And he's not doing that with Kismet, or, no- wait, or he is. That was the point, wasn't it? He rubs at his temples.
"I'm not- It's not a-", he sighs. That was about to be a lie. "It's not just a distraction. I do it because I like it, or I wouldn't be so relentless. The way your whole face colors, right to the tips of your ears. It's charming."
He finally bites his tongue when his tail gives a loud thud, moving with his panic against the cart bench. The sudden sound resonates with the distant screech of an owl. He refuses to think of the weight of those words; he's said more to others, elaborate declarations of admiration, and they've never held any deeper meaning. There's no reason that this would have to be any different.
So, as nonchalantly as possible, he continues. "And I'll do yours, but I'm drying them with a spell this time, since you can't sit still. Otherwise I'll have to tie you down."
Kismet
Kismet watches in growing fascination, his eyebrows leaping when Valac's tail thuds against the footboard. As much as he wishes he could control the emotion showing plainly on his face or the blush that colours his cheeks, somehow he doesn't mind it in that moment. Probably because there's no one else to tease him about it afterward. He almost buries his face in his hands remembering the conversation with Agatha. She never misses a wink.
"And I'll do yours, but I'm drying them with a spell this time, since you can't sit still. Otherwise I'll have to tie you down."
He almost misses the words in the calm tone they are delivered with. After a moment the meaning lands, and the puzzled smile slips from his face. Gaping, his face goes hot, and he stammers out a string of gibberish before clicking his jaw shut. Yes, the upper hand of this interaction is most definitely in the tiefling's hands.
After a moment, he chuckles, shaking his head. There's no way he can meet Valac on even footing, not in that way. He'd half blurt out some fumbling excuse for an innuendo and immediately wish to take it back. And something tells him he wants it to be more...genuine. Considered.
"That might elicit some questions from the next watch," he mutters, but extends his hands again.
He doesn't want to pry, not too deeply. But there's something endlessly fascinating about the way Valac answers questions. Like he almost wants to reveal things, to be transparent. It's enticing, there's no other word for it. Kismet wants to peer beneath the surface, try to see through that indefinable glaze and grasp at the darkness within. To hold it next to his own and see if they reflect.
The night breeze cools his face, smelling faintly of salt. "Back home, in the Pearlbow, there was a flower that only bloomed at night." He gazes somewhere past Valac's shoulder, between the dark trunks of a nearby copse. "I'd never seen it anywhere else. It rarely grew in the city, not with so much noise. But in my clearing, around my cottage, the blossoms would unfold every night. Deep purple, almost black. Dotted with white--like stars. It didn't have any purpose, really. I just liked the way they looked."
Before he can react, a tear slips down his face. It takes him a moment to recognise the dull pain in his chest, and he frowns. Along with the most obvious cause, there's a new feeling. Homesickness.
Valac
The reaction is delayed, and Valac only catches it with a glance before taking the polish in his hands. But it's enough. He wasn't trying to layer another meaning there, but judging by the journey of emotion that passes the elf, he's definitely hit a mark. "I'd untie you before they wake", he smiles as he makes the first stroke. "You know, Kismet, I find it interesting that your face keeps the red color right now."
Content that the rest of his words were overshadowed, he gets a bit more comfortable, fully facing Kismet and bringing one leg on the bench, bent under him. For a while, he enjoys the silence, gentle breeze rustling rich tree crowns around them the only thing to disturb it. When the elf speaks, it almost startles him. He tries to remember ever having seen such a flower, but it all comes short. Cities are not meant for such wild beauty, and the outskirts of Asarius aren't suited for life.
"I wish I could've seen it."
He turns to the camp, gaze flying through the pile of sleeping bodies, lingering on Asriel, Kel and Kaul. Asleep. "I grew up in a barren wasteland. Asarius. Before coming to the Empire, I'd only seen real flowers with the-" Would it even matter? What interest would Kismet have in how Dens work anyway? "My point is, I've seen exotic plants in shops, merchants carrying goods from all over the continent. But never something like that. I don't think it would grow-"
A single drop lands on his thumb where it holds the brush and immobilizes it, cuts his sentence in half. The coil that had unfurled grips him once more, his mind desperate for answers. Is it real? Is he crying? Rain?
He looks up to a face laden with discontent and a wet trail of where the tear rolled off. No, it's Kismet.
He doesn't think, so much so that the jumbled mess of thoughts from a mere second ago turns to static. He doesn't think about the time he left the elf with his hat, or the time Florian had to soothe him when Valac was useless, even as the memories press against him. He doesn't think when he drops the hand he's holding to wipe the elf's face.
"Is it really that pretty that it deserves a tear?"
Kismet
Valac’s thumb is cool against his skin, cutting through the shame of crying at any old thing. But it’s not about a flower, not really. He tries to smile, tries to think about anything, but it’s as though Valac wiped through his mind along with the tear.
“I’ve cried over prettier things,” he says, his throat constricting. “And if I’m lucky, it won’t be the last time.”
The pause here stretches, a twisted thread teased out on a spinning wheel, and he simply watches. With so many years tucked in his heart spent moving slow and holding onto patience, the last few weeks have been a riot of noise and colour and movement. This moment, the stillness in the surface of a pond long after the pebble has been thrown in. So he savours it, selfishly, knowing that seconds drawn out into minutes is not something he can fabricate with his hands.
Then he drops his gaze, the smile finally working its way to the surface. “I never thought I’d miss that place so fiercely. Before I left it was more of a waiting grave than a home.” His hands tremble with the effort of not moving them, of waiting for Valac to reach out again. “You’ve heard me speak fondly of my loom, and my garden, and all the material things. In truth, when I left, the loom was covered with dust and a half-finished weave. My scissors blunt and needles broken. The garden overgrown in places and barren in others.”
He blinks, tears catching on his eyelashes.
“How am I supposed to mourn a home I let die? There’s no sense in it. But it felt better to pretend.”
Valac
He retreats his hand, slowly, mouth agape, almost in stupor at his own actions. He's stopped thinking, he realizes now. What a dangerous state to be in. Kismet's words make little sense and the stillness they bring transcends their surroundings. His mind has never been so blank, which scares him more than anything. So much that he only realizes they've been locked when the elf looks away.
But he listens, quietly returning to his senses, taking ahold of small palms once more. He makes quick work of one hand, only a single finger left unpainted, then immediately dries it and turns to the other.
"I've heard you speak, but it wasn't fond. You only speak fondly of it now", his brow furrows, trying to figure out what led them here. Dropped the thread of conversation at the first sight of a tear, how pathetic. Have you learned nothing. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, stills his hand, shakes the thoughts away. He tries to think back, days ago, before Port Zoon, their conversation with Agatha. Kismet didn't willingly talk about home then, if it could even be described as talking. Valac was certain it was a topic never to be pushed again, yet here he was, listening to the elf pick it up on his own volition.
Why can't I fucking figure you out. It angers him, endlessly, that he doesn't know what ground he treads on. Kismet even has the audacity to smile as he recalls a place he misses, whatever it turned to, and it angers him even more that he likes looking at him. And he very nearly hates how much and how little he understands at the same time.
"In truth, what that place meant to you is real, just as how it made you feel when you left is real. And you don't have to mourn it. There are things that you simply have to let go."
He closes his mouth with a click, throat heavy with emotion. Another slip up, and his pulse is already quickening. It wasn't supposed to bother him, after all these years.
Kismet
With his now free hand, he wipes at his eyes, trying to erase the evidence of his slip into his past. The conversation skirts dangerous territory, memories he has firmly locked behind a gate, even more so after that moment with Agatha.
“I try to tell myself it’s a privilege to mourn, to remember. It means it was real, it means I loved fiercely. I wish I could let some of those ghosts go, but that’s what they do, isn’t it? Linger?”
He leans back, leaving his hand limp in Valac’s, and stares up into the sky. Notes the shift in constellations. But Catha is there, a thin sliver, a reflection of the earring he can feel against the side of his neck. Unbidden, more tears slip away, falling down his temples.
“When I was a child I was shamed for crying, you know. I cried all the time. At cute things, at sad things. Things that were unfair. Things that didn’t make sense. My parents tried to crush it from me, but even two centuries later it’s been the one constant.” He wipes at his face again with a pathetic sort of chuckle. “I hope you don’t mind. And I promise if you cry in front of me I won’t judge you for it.”
The thought of Valac crying is so strange a concept it almost leaves him breathless for a moment. How easily the emotion comes to Kismet, how amazed he is that even after everything there are still things he feels so strongly about he could shed a tear over it. He wonders if Valac would flinch away if he tried to brush at his cheek.
With a deep, shuddering breath, he dries his eyes again, and turns his head so he can read Valac’s face, to see how uncomfortable he’s made him.
Valac
"I've had those plucked out of me a long time ago", he lets a sad chuckle define the words. "I've cried so much I have nothing more to give."
Crying, screaming and kicking. Whole world turned upside down overnight, the same way a boat topples over in a storm.
His hand moves, a twitch so severe that the black lacquer paints the entire side of Kismet's finger. There is something in the woods behind them, and he knows what it is, and it's here for him. Yet there's nothing there, he's seen, but his spine hurts with how much he wants to turn around and check.
So he takes a quiet, shaky breath, lets the tears he hears roll off Kismet's face. Murmurs the incantation that removes his mistake, not trusting his fingers not to make a bigger mess. He doesn't mind the crying this time, he learns, almost envies the elf for the release.
"That place has served its purpose. You're not meant to be imprisoned by your own ghosts, you're meant to be here. And," he channels all of his rage in the word, a singularity where his anger at himself, his parents, Kismet's words, has no end and no beginning. "Fuck your parents."
He tries to continue, but it's like someone's holding a hand to his mouth. Just one finger left unpainted. Probably rude to not elaborate that, but he's on the verge of choking, and he can't let it show.
"I've never really wanted to talk about myself much. Truthfully, at least." A bitter smile draws on his face. "I don't know why it's different now, with this group." Still a liar. The whole group doesn't do this do you. "But I- I've never been allowed to. If I do now, you might- disappear." The words come out in a staccato, almost, as he pushes against his every instinct to continue.
Kismet
"Fuck your parents."
It's said with such venom, such ferocity, that it takes Kismet aback. The words he's been too scared to voice, the anger he's been too ashamed to show. It's cathartic.
He watches on as Valac continues, and he speaks with a tension and wariness that frightens Kismet. That word--allowed--sends a chill spike through his bones. That familiar coil of anger wraps about his ribs, cold and ravenous. He won't ask, or pry. He almost shakes with the effort of holding his hands back, wishing it were easy to meet his eye and offer words of comfort. To hold his hands and run soothing circles with his thumbs.
But those gestures he reserved for grieving strangers. Valac is no stranger, not anymore.
"I don't plan on disappearing." His eyes are still puffy from crying, he knows, but he drops a part of the mask he's built. Allows the smallest flare of void-like rage shine through. "Whatever's made you think you aren't your own person, whatever took all those tears from you?"
His amulet grows cold against his chest, and he blinks, the anger simmering back. How can he promise such things? He chews the inside of his cheek, every nerve in his body burning with restraint. He wants to tilt Valac's chin up, promise all the sanctuary he has to offer. But such words are dangerous.
Yet.
He lowers his voice to a bare whisper. "I watch over your shoulder. You watch over mine. I'm not disappearing. Not anytime soon."
The words leave him, and they feel correct. Right. And he wonders how he could have thought of leaving, how he can't now. How he wouldn't want to.
He smiles, then, and it's a smile he hasn't felt on his face for a long time. "Unless I'm actually going invisible, in which case I will let you know."
Valac
He shakes his head at uncomfortable promises, struggling to stay focused on his last brush strokes. No, Kismet might not disappear. Not if it were up to him. He hears a fierce determination and it pierces his throat with how little it would matter. So he stays silent, choosing to accept what he's given, while the guilt of his inability eats at him.
Not pity, at least, he thinks as he considers how his words would have sounded. Better empty promises.
"Whatever's made you think you aren't your own person-"
His head shakes of its own volition again. How could he explain? It would be so easy to just explain. Why can't he explain? When it doesn't even make sense inside his own mind. When the absence of something made of dread brings you even more pain. Still, over his shoulder, where they creep. Over his shoulder, where Kismet watches. His eyes dart up, looking for a reflection in blue pupils. If Kismet sees anything, he would tell. He has to, right? Valac pushes the belief down his throat, much easier to promise to watch than be watched, and wordlessly nods.
He can't help but roll his eyes over at the joke that follows, but it eases some of the tension in the air. "Stupid," he whispers, endeared. "Does your matron offer lessons? Sure sounds handy to just go invisible at a whim."
With a flick, he dries the nail polish, finally done and looking pristine.
Kismet
Kismet examines his nails in wonder, a rare warmth blossoming in his chest. He supposes the neat shape and smooth finish is what years of practice affords. He can't hide the guilty grimace as he glances over Valac's nails, a little lumpy and streaked in places.
He sobers a little at Valac's question. "You know, I'm unsure. I know she is there for all who seek her, or wish to pay their respects." He sets his chin on his knuckles, watching the road once more. "It wasn't...the easiest. Seeing her the first time. But I was in a dark place, and I thought I was hallucinating. But she stayed with me even after I came back to daylight."
He glances at Valac, and the warm feeling returns. Like he's missed a step walking down stairs. He doesn't think much on it, but lets it colour his smile.
"I thought I was afraid of the darkness, for a while, but she helped me embrace it. Slip sideways out of sight, at least for a little while." The scar across his chest twinges, and he rubs at it absent-mindedly. "I'm not sure of her plans for me yet, if any. But as you said...this is where I'm meant to be, right now."
He glances sidelong, more at Valac's general silhouette than really making eye contact. "And perhaps you, too. I think you're meant to be here." He's not sure how Valac feels about fate, or destiny, or the great weave. To some it offers comfort, to know there's a destination. To others it's constricting.
Valac
He leans back on his hand, considering Kismet's words. He didn't expect an actual answer, even less one so elaborate. Darkness. That word seemed to come up with him a lot. He never really suspected staying that long, or at all, to start noticing patterns, but they've been there. The fight in the hideout, there was some sort of a- a hex? Black ichor stuck to their enemies, crawled their veins, and Valac was sure it made them weaker. He knew he could hurt them more, then. He'd never really seen anything like it, not even from Amicus. It seemed just the nature of the Raven Queen; death is seldom pretty, at least in a conventional sense.
Now, he thinks back to the night before they got Keldrym out, and it paints a new light. Not a holding cell, something darker. Worse, enough to relapse the next day. When he searches his memory deeper, he finds Kismet mindlessly holding his ankle, many times over, and further back, he sees scars in the bathhouse. Everyone had them, they didn't interest him in the slightest. The people attached to them neither.
It's almost like a deep revelation is at the tips of his fingers, just out of reach. It's all too similar in all the wrong ways. He glances at the elf's legs before he can catch himself, hopes it's not too obvious. Other people's secrets have always been just a plaything, something to fiddle with until he got bored, found a better sensation. This time, he wants to know. Just to know.
He's half of a mind to just find out, it would be so easy. Kismet's already thinking about it, he wouldn't even have to make his presence known, but he's met with- some sort of resistance, deep within himself. That would be unfair. What? Such a strange concept.
"And perhaps you, too. I think you're meant to be here."
He blinks up. What is he thinking? He already tried it once, and it only left him more confused than before. But the allusion to fate intrigues him too much to not comment, especially in the way his own words are reflected back to him.
"I know it. I know that. Not a god at my side to guide me, but I've felt it. When we fell, back at the gazebo," he can't help but crack a smile at the memory. "I couldn't have been able to catch you like that when we met. That was new. I've been in a stasis for many years, but here, doing this, it's all coursing through me, and I know it's the right path. I know it's meant to be."
Kismet
Kismet nods, the memory of that night fresh in his mind. The words ring familiar, the growing power. He looks down at his open palms, opening and closing his hands. He, too, has been able to call upon more complex, more powerful spells. As though the Raven Queen is preparing him for something – something bigger.
“If I’d have left home any earlier than I did, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t be here.”
He smiles grimly, then mutters the verbal components for a spell, and draws the spectral rapier from his side. He sends it skyward, allows it to rotate slowly in its natural state, point down. The stars seem to refract through it, distorted and blurred.
“I couldn’t do this until I started my journey southward. I think she saw me leaving with nothing but a sling for protection on the road and decided I needed something more…powerful.”
He breathes deep, looking down at his hands, and begins muttering another incantation. Deep shadows crawl from his palms and circle around his wrists, like ghostly manacles. The void licks at his skin, cold and bitter. Tutting, he drops the spell halfway, and the shadows disperse.
“That one is something I’ve had as long as the invisibility. I think it’s powerful, but it requires me to be close. I don't plan on getting right up in an enemy's face, so hopefully we won't find out how painful it really is.”
Moonlight refracting through the spiritual weapon glances across his skin, prismatic shards of purple and white, before the blade scatters to nothing.
“I need to be more powerful. I need more.” It comes out as a soft whisper. ”I have to be able to protect you all, and to protect me.”
[redacted territory starts here]
Valac
His body moves, the motion uncontrolled, rigid. He'd left a good amount of space between them before, enough to be comfortable while painting nails, but the notion of personal space becomes crowded now. Not to Valac, too mesmerized by the spell that faded in front of him.
The hand that cradled his face falls on the back of the bench so that it lays behind Kismet's shoulders. The other drifts below the elf's palms, a light touch where the shadows lingered.
More powerful. More. More. It echoes, like a switch, and all inhibitions are gone as his voice connects to Kismet's mind.
That's how I got to Rexxentrum. In search of more. There's an academy, Soltryce, I was told. And I read about it, when we were in the Cobalt Soul. I got some names, I- wanted to learn more, but, he lets go of the elf's hands and with a wide arc gestures to the camp. We got sidetracked. I know they won't just offer their secrets to any stray dog from the street that begs for it though, so I'm content with where we are now. But I need to be More.
He looks back at Kismet, eyes a bit wild. To protect as well? No, that's not him. He's selfish. He doesn't want others to have what they're too incompetent to handle. But Kismet... Kismet could handle it.
That's dangerous in the wrong hands. It could be dangerous in mine, but it's still better than those who currently wield it, it's a strained thought, laced with venom. Yet yours have seen a lot.
Valac lets his arm fall back to his side and his fingers curl up in a fist with how much he wants to bring it back to where it was. Yet the proximity is enough, an anchor. The static electricity between their shoulders, almost touching, helps take his mind off what he's saying.
"That spell you haven't tried... Do you know how much it would hurt?"
Kismet
He sits, spellbound and frozen, the distance between his shoulder blades and Valac’s arm sending pins and needles down his spine. The light touch on his wrist, so much softer than when Kismet had grabbed his. He listens, gaze transfixed.
An academy? he sends back. I’m not much for books, or studying. The Matron leads me where I need to go. But that does sound intriguing…
Yet yours have seen a lot.
He bites his lip, and he wants to reveal it all. Every moment leading to this, just so Valac could see the burden he’s carried. To see what power had brought him in the past, what guilt he carries.
But that weight is for him alone.
More than you know, is all he sends back, because he can’t bear to send his memory back that far. Can’t bear to linger on thoughts that could send him once more into a state.
When Valac moves away, he can still feel the phantom shadow of where his arm rested.
“I don’t know,” he lies. “It is difficult to land it, and if it were to hit…” He squeezes his eyes shut. “But I’d rather not. I want these hands to heal, to protect. To prevent the worst from happening.”
Even as he says the words he knows they skirt the line of truth. He wants to heal, yes. He wants his hands to be more than a vessel for pain, or to ease the passage from life to death. But a word licks at the corners of his consciousness, and it frightens him. Vengeance.
He needs a distraction, so he sends back to Valac. You’re intelligent though. And I’ve seen some of what you’re capable of in combat. An academy that sounds as exclusive as the Soltryce does would be lucky to have you.
He hesitates a moment, averting his eyes. But I’m glad you became sidetracked.
Valac
Valac laughs, quiet, barely controlled as to not wake the others. He briefly wonders if he'll regret it all in the morning, perhaps on a clearer head. It feels wonderful now though. He's not felt freer since... light, how long had it been? It almost doesn't even matter that he's not told a soul before - Kismet doesn't know that. People talk about their deepest desires all the time, people in the Vine have told him the most bizarre, depraved and fantastical secrets, and he's only told one tiny fraction of something that wouldn't be a secret to most people. It doesn't even matter, and it's great.
There's a compliment that lands a bit different than others he's received before. It's hard to interpret the words when he realizes he wants to color them one way, but they might not bear the same intention. So he ponders for a second, tongue playing along the edge of a fang, studying the elf.
"Fuck, I just had the craziest idea," he finally smirks. "You've been given the opportunity to do both, though, both heal and fight. You said so yourself - she gave you a rapier when you left. If you're not taking advantage of your capabilities because it's hard to land, then use the spell on me. Find out what it does."
The idea excites him, he can't hide it. The fact that he knows he'd be able to take it, that Kismet would heal him either way. The power.
Kismet
Valac laughs, and Kismet looks up at him, just to catch it. He’s met with the tiefling examining him, weighing and measuring. He’s frozen in place, his heart thudding in his ears. Never before has he felt more like a deer cornered by a wolf.
”Find out what it does.”
Kismet’s eyes widen, his hands curling into fists atop his thighs. His breath quickens at the thought of it, of the implications. What Valac is willing to do. There’s a light in his eyes, pupils large and bright. Does he realise the control he’s given Kismet? He must.
So he shuffles closer, turns in his seat to face Valac. Sitting next to him, their height difference is clear, and he has to look up. Slowly, carefully, offering every opportunity for the tiefling to pull away, he reaches out to get close to the sides of his face. The memory of Valac flinching out of his grasp is still clear in his mind. But he doesn’t pull away.
“Ready?” he breathes. His gaze darts between Valac’s eyes, his fingers so close to his skin he can almost feel the space remaining. After Valac gives his consent, Kismet pauses for a long moment. “Hold your breath.”
He holds Valac’s eye as he whispers the verbal component, and before he can change his mind he presses his palms to Valac’s face, leaving no room in his mind to think of the consequences.
But it’s not the spell he had started casting before. It’s a different one, and the void that crawls up his hands more warm than icy. It’s soft, like feathers, and it settles in place with a gentle glow around Valac’s form. A ward, to discourage any harm from befalling him.
Kismet grins, fangs showing. “If you thought I’d willingly hurt you just for my own benefit, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” He leaves his hands there, the contact still warm. “Let someone who actually deserves it get close, and I’ll show you how much I can make them hurt.”
Valac
He really expects some sort of resistance, a retort, at least an argument, before Kismet is reaching out to him. He didn't even manage ask what type of spell it is, but he's aware, he's ready. Wordlessly, he nods his consent and doesn't flinch, not even as his stomach turns at the contact. In preparation for what's to come, surely. But... the pain never comes.
Instead, he's warm all over. Not unlike being healed, and at the same time stronger, like he's donned a suit of armor made of light. It's a stark contrast to what he was expecting, and it's alien.
"Mm, ah," he lets an obviously exaggerated cry of pain, voice fully monotone. "Yeah, you'd kill a weaker man with that one."
That felt good. That felt better than the pain he asked for, he realizes with a warmth that spreads on his face. He huffs, ready to deflect, to turn it back around at Kismet the moment he lets go of him. Which he doesn't. Valac narrows his eyes at him, definitely caught off guard. Is there a right move here? He wants his hands everywhere.
"I'd like that. However, I did ask for it," he smiles, sly as he cups the underside of the elf's chin. Then leans in, not more than an inch closer, just to show that he can. "You should serve your own benefit sometimes."
Kismet
The distance between them narrows, and Kismet is aware all at once how close they are. His hands are still on Valac’s face, his rough palms marring the smooth skin. Was that a blush? He swallows, a smile pulling weakly at his mouth. Valac’s fingers could wrap just about all the way around his jaw—
He drops his hands, mind racing. Since when was he one to close the distance between them? First the music room, now this. If he keeps it up, things are going to get very complicated, very quickly. So he pulls back, aware he’s blushing. Guilt clenches unpleasantly around his heart. All this banter, this flirting, this back-and-forth. It’s dangerous to let people in, he reminds himself. But that voice is growing weaker and weaker as the days go on.
“I do. Trust me, I do. In ways that aren’t so obvious, perhaps.”
He frowns into his lap, thinking back on the conversation. Of what Valac said, about the academy. About Kismet’s parents. He begins twisting his ring again.
“When we get to Port Damali I have some things I want to check in on. Maybe find a temple to the Raven Queen, if there is one. It’s been some time since I’ve connected with any others.” He smiles grimly. “In times of war, people believe her power grows. More death, you see. Perhaps that’s why I’ve heard from her more frequently. You’re welcome to come with me, if you were curious. I…don’t really wish to go alone, and I’m unsure how the others think of her.”
He looks up at Valac again. “See? There. Thinking of my own benefit. And if you had things you needed to look up, I could help.”
Valac
The loss of contact is cold, even with the aura that surrounds him. It doesn't come as a surprise this time though, when Kismet pulls away. This close, he can study him with care, see the journey of emotion. It's not often that he can get a good read on people at a glance, but he's more familiar with certain expressions than others, and he's starting to see a pattern here.
It's like Kismet wants to be close, but the moment he allows himself the proximity it scares him right back. His free hand closes into a fist, frustrated. Did his inability to lure him in bother him? Just because it hasn't happened before. Or was it something else?
"I'd be amiable to come, yes", he responds after a moment. "And I've never had to think about war before, can't say it's been on my list of priorities. I've also never been in a proper temple. Gods are... complicated. Yet death's so simple."
He laughs at that. He's never wanted to be in one, but he doesn't mind it. His gaze traces the outline of Kismet's form. Small. Where did he fit all that nuance? Valac never would have pegged him to be so okay with war. It's a pleasant surprise to find more and more beneath the surface.
"I haven't seen it up close, not like you have. War, I mean. But death, I've seen plenty. There's a certain peace to knowing how it's all going to end."
Kismet
"Gods certainly are complicated. As much as we try to understand them, pretending we do would be a great mistake. Hubris, I think they call it?"
Valac talks of war as a far off thing. "I suppose the closest I have been to it was in the garrison. There were only small skirmishes. And occasionally, someone interesting or suspicious would try to cross over."
He closes his eyes, spinning the ring faster. It's a dangerous topic, and he skirts around the memory, trying to savour the lightness of the night.
"I've seen death as well. Death through violence, through natural causes, through sickness. It's followed me, it seems, my whole life. A constant companion." He risks a glance at Valac. "You're the first person I've met who has spoken of it like I do. At least, I believe you do. Death happens. If there was not death, if we had no limit to our lives, wouldn't we just stagnate? Even I feel the taste of it, being...so long-lived, I suppose. Willing to stay in one place, to just wait out the years. Without death, there's no life, not really."
He sighs, leaning his elbow behind them, pressing his fingers to his mouth. He looks over Valac, reassessing. He's seen how swiftly and without thought Valac deals death. How many people has he met who have used peace and death effectively in the same sentence?
More than ever, he wishes to peel away the layers, reveal more. More. But that kind of knowing can only come with time. Time, he has. Endless time.
"I don't know if there is even a temple in Port Damali, but...thank you. I haven't seen others of...my order, I suppose, for a long time. I don't know what they're like right now." He rests his finger there, on his lip, just watching. "But it ought to be interesting."
Valac
"You're the first person I've met who has spoken of it like I do."
There it is again, his stomach turning. His eyebrow twitches at the unfamiliar feeling that the words bring. They resonate, deeply, but only after they're spoken. He'd hardly realized it before but now that Kismet has voiced it, it's so clear to him. How they reflect.
"Exactly. Death happens", he meets the elf's eyes, but his gaze drops to his mouth where a single finger lies, innocently. He licks his lips before he can control himself. No, he certainly can't, not when he'd raised his walls so high and they're being torn with such ease now.
The gentle glow around him fades then, and he blinks away. It almost sobers him up, the cool night air hitting all at once.
"But you have many ways of protecting others, should you choose to do so instead of deal death. I certainly don't," he chuckles at the thought. Their powers were so different, regardless of their other similarities. "I haven't used this one before."
He murmurs the verbal component, waves his hand, and frigid white glow emanates from it. Another hand extends, like a mirror copy of his own, but spectral and skeletal. It slowly floats up to Kismet's face, but instead of touching him flicks at the moon-shaped earring.
"It would hurt. Not a lot, but it can't be healed easily. I don't have to be this close unless I want to though", he lingers on the words before facing the forest, arm extended, as the skeletal hand flies up to the tree line. It reaches the first row of trees, then goes past it, then even further in, until Valac can no longer see it, only feel it.
"I like to think there's certain upsides to my spells, even if I can't directly use them to protect you."
With a horror, he hears the words leave his mouth. He was supposed to stop at "protect".
Kismet
Kismet watches the spectral hand approach, almost wonders what it feels like. Cold? Painful? Before he can ask, it gently flicks the earring, a clear tone ringing in his ear. His eyes widen, and he claps his hand to the crescent moon, holding it flush against his face. It's cool against his cheek, real. The sharp tips dig painfully into his skin, reminding him exactly how fragile mortals can be.
He listens, half there, until the last sentence. It cuts through him, like being submerged suddenly in frigid water. He can barely speak, barely move. His earring cuts a moon-shaped indent into the side of his face with how hard he presses it. Protect you. Valac has never been so straightforward like this, at least when it comes to showing any kind of selflessness. Kismet has seen it, of course, in small things. But to outright say it...
Kismet lowers his hand, examining his palm where he can see the clear outline of his earring. He tries desperately to regain control of his face, to stop it crumpling.
"Gods, but if you can try, that's more than I'd ever done." It comes out a harsh whisper as he stares at his hand. "You're stronger than I."
After a long moment, he closes his hand into a fist, brings it shaking to his lips, all the words stolen from his breath. His eyes are fixed in the distance, where the skeletal hand disappeared into the trees.
Protect you.
Valac
Valac stays perfectly still, as if time won't flow around them unless he moves. He wasn't thinking. He wasn't even thinking that. How could he say it.
He searches his mind, desperate, for any kind of spell do undo it. Amīcus could do it. They must have left something in. Goddamn it. Help me. He it sends out in rage, confident that his connection with Kismet has ended at least.
After a while, he hears the elf speak, and knows it's too late. But the words are cryptic and his mind's already a mess. So he sighs as the spell fizzes out in the distance. He wouldn't call himself stronger now, not after that slip up. He certainly wouldn't offer protection, that much he must make clear.
It takes all of his willpower to turn to Kismet with any sort of response; his stomach turns as if he were hanging from the edge of a pit, scrambling for purchase. They're still so close, shoulders an inch apart, his arm is still stretched on the back of the bench. If he were to bring it down, just at Kismet's neck, his palm would fully envelop-
"Don't skirt dangerous territories", he warns, unsure whom. "And don't-"
His first instinct is to take it back, everything, to pull back, yet that feels wrong and it terrifies him. Instead, he moves in front of the elf, blocks his vision. Forces the eye contact.
"I watch over your shoulder, you over mine. And not a word leaves this cart. Okay? Otherwise you'd have to personally send the Raven Queen my regards early."
He cups the side of Kismet's face and closes the distance, placing his lips on the tip of his ear, just near the torn out bit. Lets them linger before pulling away completely, gaze focused on the horizon. It feels final, like a promise. In the back of his mind, he's aware that it's both a warning and a distraction. His only hope is that his own desperate need for contact doesn't come through.
Kismet
”Otherwise you'd have to personally send the Raven Queen my regards early.”
A retort is already on his tongue, a light-hearted joke tainted with a vein of truth. Instead, his mind goes blank, a ringing in his ears. Valac’s lips are soft on his ear, his breath warm. Where his palm cups Kismet’s face feels like fire, the kind of burn you can only feel after touching ice. He closes his eyes, every muscle tensing, his hand hovering an inch from Valac’s collarbone.
Then the contact is gone, and the space between them may as well be a cavernous void. He keeps his eyes closed a moment longer, wishing he’d had the courage to press his forehead to Valac’s. With a hand pressed to his chest, his heart beating a tattoo against his palm, he looks out over the camp, breathless.
It takes a moment for him to collect himself, to let his shoulders relax. But there’s a voice in his head, in his heart, that craves more. And another that defies it, that tells him pursuing would be foolish. That he would only hurt them both.
“I promise,” he breathes, and the flush over his face deepens at his ragged tone. “And I promise I’ll have your back.” He says it to the night air, but the night belongs to the Raven Queen, and his words are holy.
Valac
The words grip at him, the weight of unspoken warnings heavy on his throat. No stranger to indulgence, yet the thought wasn’t laced with relief now. Otherwise he would’ve offered, right? He’s done as much before. But there’s his whole essence now, screaming at him to wait.
He attributes it to caution, the hide that’s protected him in past years, and fear. Kismet could make promises, but Valac knows what happens to things he gets attached to.
“And I promise I’ll have your back.”
It rings a painful reminder of another’s vow. For a second, he’s paralysed, unsure if the seat next to him is occupied by the same person. A healer of death, helping on the Ashguard, where help is at best mercy.
Worse still, he’s already trusted him, spilled more than he has to any living soul. He brings a hand to his mouth, trembling on its way, the urge to bite at his nail overwhelming him. But the polish is uneven and jagged in places. He runs a finger over the edge of his index. Imperfect. He breathes out. That much is real.
“That’s more than enough,” he finally responds, almost when it feels like it’s been too long to wait for one. “And you’ve done a great job, for a first time.”
He waves his hand in front of them, not missing the way it twitches before settling, steady. The shine on his nails reflects the light of Catha and Ruidus above, hand in hand - one of them familiar and known, the other cloaked in uncertainty and questions.