She knows this, and accepts it, but that does not mean she has to like it. Madi is standing there, ghosting her fingers over maps and missives on the table where the plans are made. Flint's plans. Her plans. His. The best plan for the big picture, and it once again is taking him from her. Perhaps it will always be like that. She can live with it, so long as he always comes back, too.
Everyone else has already set off to do their part, leaving her to her contemplation. No give us the room necessary, this time.
The rain comes down in great impenetrable sheets. It turns the maroon settlement - its cane fortifications and lookout towers, its circular meetings houses with their roofs of thatch and nature waxed leaves striped and woven, its people as they run along with their hands over their heads toward escaping the weather - into shadows. It isn't cold. It's summer in the Bahamas and so the heat persists even through the deluge. It just isn't sticky, and that's worth just enough to not to go out into the weather and get soaked through.
Or it could be, where they different people under different circumstances. What it is, really, is inconvenient. A mile from here lies is a fleet of ships at anchor in the midst of being refit and watered and victualed. Here in this very village there is a fleet worth of men who have been stirred to a fever pitch in preparation for their departure. The delay here, in what is practically their very last hours before they make their move, can't be enough to dull that edge they've sharpened into the crews but it certainly frustrates it.
It frustrates him where he's standing there in the shelter of one of many half enclosed thatch awnings. There was meant to be a last meeting, their last council of war to be held here on the island, but in this gale it was only ever half formed at best and has almost completely dissipated now: Rackham and Bonny slinking off to whatever rock they've claimed as theirs, Teach sight unseen and presumably still in one of the tents pitched high on the beaches, Mr Silver with his erudite 'Fuck that,' opinion having seen himself off before the storm had even fully coalesced. Which leaves the two of them - him and her, a girl who might be called a princess were terms so generous but likely never will have it applied to her - here in the shade of the meeting house watching as the sky comes down, down, down and blots the world into indiscriminate shapes.
"This easterly will have to blow itself out first. We'll never have the ships off the beach in it."
Somehow she hadn't expected him to speak. She is not startled by it, but it draws a sidelong glance from her, the barest swivel of her head on its axis. Regarding him in her periphery, she lets the din of rain beating down upon the world fill the moments that would otherwise belong to silence.
"Then we will have to wait," she finally says. It is all they can do, to wait and prepare no matter how ready they might have been were it not for this delay. Still, it feels redundant to say so. Of course they will wait. Of course they will prepare. Perhaps she's simply letting her mistrust of Flint choose her tone, regardless of the words.
Her mistrust stymies conversation, while her curiosity keeps her in proximity. Eventually she will have to decipher him with more than scrutinizing glances.
I have found myself thinking of the day I left Nascere. I suppose neither of us could have known this venture would take the better part of two years, perhaps more. I would have taken more care in how we parted, if I'd known that last conversation was meant to tide us over for this long.
Living with your absence is almost beyond my endurance, but I promised you one army, if not two. We won't return with anything less.
[ three lines here, scratched out beyond deciphering ]
I won't waste parchment on details. The business goes slowly, but we have not forgotten what we came here for. Lend me some of your strength to shift the obstacles in our path.
Forgive me my long silence; unsurprisingly it is difficult to find a trustworthy man willing to carry a letter into Nascere. This is a poor substitute for conversation, but I suppose I must make do with what's available to me at the moment.
We are alive. Ghislain went badly, but Flint and I escaped unscathed. How this defeat will affect our business, I cannot yet say.
I miss you.
— J
Edited (forgot to hit random icon button) 2020-07-24 20:31 (UTC)
"I've received an interesting invitation," John says, sliding the letter in question across the table to her.
Levity aside, John isn't entirely sure how to anticipate Madi's response. He's become more and more aware of how removed they are from Nascere. Over time he had grown used to the day to day business of Riftwatch, but Madi has brought into very stark contrast how vast the differences are between Kirkwall and Nascere. The ease of John's adaption to the former is a more complicated thing when set beside Madi's quiet observation of the entire company.
Madi looks up from the book in her hands to watch the slip of the letter, then looks up even further to raise her eyebrows at John. It's meant to be of interest to them both, then? She lays the book ribbon down its middle so she won't lose her place by closing it, and picks up the letter.
"...Objects of fascination for the entertainment of guests?" She reads aloud on her second pass, frowning. The first pass warranted a wry set to her features, knowing Commander Flint's ability to hold a crowd's attentions.
"It means Wysteria and her friend want to know if I'd be amenable to entertaining a room full of wealthy individuals curious about the fabled agents of Riftwatch and willing to open their purses for the privilege of our company."
And that it isn't the first time John's played that role. Chasing funds has become more and more of a necessity since the split from the Inquisition, and Diplomacy has shouldered plenty of those opportunities.
"You don't have to accompany me, if you don't care for the idea of it."
There's an obvious reason to dislike the arrangement. Agents of the organization being treated as objects in exchange for funds, at the estate of someone, judging by their name, who is Tevene by origin or marriage.
But, she is curious.
"This Wysteria claims this to be an unofficial event," she starts, carefully. "But does it differ greatly from the official ones?"
Some of the tension among the crew eases when the Walrus gets underway, and passes far enough that looking out in any given direction shows nothing but open sea. John doesn't assume that the loss of Nascere is something they can sail away from, but the immediacy of maintaining the ship can at least keep the worst of the uncertainty at bay.
The deck is quiet, darkness having fallen and a sparse handful of men moving in the rigging, crossing the deck as John moves past them to where Madi stands alone. His approach is hardly silent, and his hand finds first the small of her back then her elbow as he moves to stand beside her.
"I began more than one letter trying to describe Kirkwall to you," John begins, as he shifts to lean against the side with his fingers lacing through hers. "And I always concluded that I'd wanted to show you, rather than try to write it out."
There are so many different hopes wrapped up in that admission. He watches her face for a long moment, before shaking his head slightly.
"But this is not the way I'd hoped for the opportunity to present itself."
It goes without saying that none of this has gone how anyone hoped it would. Not even the Venatori. Madi's grip on John's hand tightens, and she watches the horizon rather than turn to his face for the moment.
"I would have liked to read those letters," she says, softly. "But I am glad you did not send them."
Surely he knows, as she knows, as they all know, that sending letters describing their locations in detail would have been a liability to their efforts, even if in hindsight it might seem all for naught. Looking somewhat shy to admit it, Madi looks down and a sad little smile tugs at the corner of her lips.
"I dictated my letters to the sea, since she was the only one I could trust with them."
"There's no need for it now," John points out, though it feels hollow now. It's hard to take joy in the idea that she'll be traveling back with them. The question of which of them would stay, who would shepherd the newly delivered Nascere forward, is no longer an option to concern themselves with. It is a forgone conclusion that they will return to Kirkwall, and whatever way forward will come from there.
But it's a bitter thing to consider. Celebration feels far from this moment.
It shouldn’t be a complicated question, but it is. Madi takes a breath to speak, but holds it a moment before it resolves into her answer:
“I will be.”
Because the immediate answer is no, she is not alright. And yet it is also yes, she is. She is unharmed but for some minor scratches, a bruise here or there, the usual trophies from engaging in action. Nothing a bath and a glass of wine cannot soothe. But the utter devastation of the island, of Flint’s home, of her own island’s main source for things necessary to survive...the quantities needed to soothe that sting would drown the best swimmer.
“Loss was always a possibility,” she adds, pragmatic but for the obvious emotion tightening around her throat.
[At the tail end of some other conversation occurring in the division office, Flint rises from his chair near the fireplace and moves to the desk. It doesn't interrupt the line of thought - the finer points of theory on how best to extort Antiva's continued trade to Tevinter in the north -, but it's stretched thin when he returns with something book shaped crisply wrapped in plain brown paper. He passes it to her before retaking his chair.]
What is clear to me, [he continues] is that they will continue until it is no longer profitable to do so. Orlais and Nevarra are in no position to ban Antivan goods, but Kirkwall—the Marches— and Ferelden might.
Convincing the Free Marches to agree on anything as a unified front will not be easy, [ Madi watches him retrieve the parcel with quiet interest, expecting him to return with a number of documents, not with a...gift? ] but you already know that.
[The alternative 'It's a book,' being equally obvious before the paper might even be peeled away.]
Higgins was a linguist and a poet based out the Chantry at Starkhaven. I don't find his verse particularly remarkable, but that [with a nod to the parcel] is work worth reading.
[That being 'Poetry of the Trade Tongue', a rigorously researched volume that is part linguistics and part philosophy centered on the development and use of language both across the Marches and in relation to their more far flung trade (pun intended; Higgins writes with a certain good humor) partners.]
[ Madi carefully unwraps the parcel while he's explaining about Higgins, a smile dawning on her face as she thumbs through the pages. ]
Thank you. [ Soft and heartfelt, because whether he realizes or not, this is now the only book she owns that isn't leagues away on an island near Seheron (or wherever the Maroon island is).
One smaller bundle of white linen contains a choker of bleached bone-white driftwood, strung together at uneven heights, a pendant of chunky blue iolite on a translucent piece of black ribbon. The other holds two books: a detailed history of Nevarran politics written by a Nevarran ex-pat, and a slimmer volume of Marcher children’s stories, both wrapped in what at first appears to be an excess of fabric but upon opening is actually a warm woven shawl in shades of gold and purple. Tucked inside the cover of the first book, a note: Forgive this excess, I’d meant to give most of this to you long ago.
A small waxed-paper packet, left on bedside table for her one morning—
A generous slice of lemon cake, sugar-dusted and sticky with glaze. Beneath it, a note: Vlasta tells me she makes the best lemon cake south of Antiva. I can't pretend to be a better judge than you, so please, tell me if it's so worthy of praise.
John is easily found. (He makes it his business to be found within certain hours of the day.) In the wake of all the lingering unease stirred up by the dream, John wants to be somewhere to observe as well as to be seen. Presently, he's claimed a table by the far wall in the Gallows, glances up with a smile at her approach.
"There's tea," he offers, tipping his head towards the pot. "Still warm, I think."
Madi nods absently about the tea — not because she's disinterested; it honestly sounds like it'll hit the spot right about now — and takes his hand, sinking into the seat beside him with a sigh and drawing his arm around her shoulders as she does. The Gallows is cold, and he is warm, and she is tired.
"I do not think there is any doubt among our company that Antivans value coin, and also coin, and above all else, coin."
It was a small taste of the irritation Flint and Silver both must be well acquainted with, the uphill struggle of trying to accomplish something or to make people see through a window when all they want to look at is a wall. It was a small taste, but enough to understand the feeling.
A hum of agreement. Yes, John has found this to be true. Has even known it to be true for longer than he has known Madi; there is a reason he had considered Antiva to be the optimal place to vanish once he'd had his share of the prize.
His thumb runs up and down her shoulder lightly as he leans forward to hook his own untouched mug and set it before her.
"We've had some dealings with the Merchant Princes," John tells her. "But they squabble among themselves. Convince one to do something and another will do the opposite out of spite."
Not ideal for forming a united front against a common threat.
"Was it a wasted effort?" he asks, gentle over the question.
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maybe after the big defeat / decision to go to inquisition
look i hanker for intense goodbyes
SHRUG EMOJI
It cannot be helped.
She knows this, and accepts it, but that does not mean she has to like it. Madi is standing there, ghosting her fingers over maps and missives on the table where the plans are made. Flint's plans. Her plans. His. The best plan for the big picture, and it once again is taking him from her. Perhaps it will always be like that. She can live with it, so long as he always comes back, too.
Everyone else has already set off to do their part, leaving her to her contemplation. No give us the room necessary, this time.
"Preparations are already underway."
vibrates so intensely
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idk there's like literally months between season 3 and season 4
Or it could be, where they different people under different circumstances. What it is, really, is inconvenient. A mile from here lies is a fleet of ships at anchor in the midst of being refit and watered and victualed. Here in this very village there is a fleet worth of men who have been stirred to a fever pitch in preparation for their departure. The delay here, in what is practically their very last hours before they make their move, can't be enough to dull that edge they've sharpened into the crews but it certainly frustrates it.
It frustrates him where he's standing there in the shelter of one of many half enclosed thatch awnings. There was meant to be a last meeting, their last council of war to be held here on the island, but in this gale it was only ever half formed at best and has almost completely dissipated now: Rackham and Bonny slinking off to whatever rock they've claimed as theirs, Teach sight unseen and presumably still in one of the tents pitched high on the beaches, Mr Silver with his erudite 'Fuck that,' opinion having seen himself off before the storm had even fully coalesced. Which leaves the two of them - him and her, a girl who might be called a princess were terms so generous but likely never will have it applied to her - here in the shade of the meeting house watching as the sky comes down, down, down and blots the world into indiscriminate shapes.
"This easterly will have to blow itself out first. We'll never have the ships off the beach in it."
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"Then we will have to wait," she finally says. It is all they can do, to wait and prepare no matter how ready they might have been were it not for this delay. Still, it feels redundant to say so. Of course they will wait. Of course they will prepare. Perhaps she's simply letting her mistrust of Flint choose her tone, regardless of the words.
Her mistrust stymies conversation, while her curiosity keeps her in proximity. Eventually she will have to decipher him with more than scrutinizing glances.
letter #2 9:45, after satinalia
Living with your absence is almost beyond my endurance, but I promised you one army, if not two. We won't return with anything less.
[ three lines here, scratched out beyond deciphering ]
I won't waste parchment on details. The business goes slowly, but we have not forgotten what we came here for. Lend me some of your strength to shift the obstacles in our path.
I love you. Be safe.
letter #1, 9:44, after ghislain
We are alive. Ghislain went badly, but Flint and I escaped unscathed. How this defeat will affect our business, I cannot yet say.
I miss you.
— J
action, mid-modplot probably.
Levity aside, John isn't entirely sure how to anticipate Madi's response. He's become more and more aware of how removed they are from Nascere. Over time he had grown used to the day to day business of Riftwatch, but Madi has brought into very stark contrast how vast the differences are between Kirkwall and Nascere. The ease of John's adaption to the former is a more complicated thing when set beside Madi's quiet observation of the entire company.
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"...Objects of fascination for the entertainment of guests?" She reads aloud on her second pass, frowning. The first pass warranted a wry set to her features, knowing Commander Flint's ability to hold a crowd's attentions.
"What does this mean?"
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And that it isn't the first time John's played that role. Chasing funds has become more and more of a necessity since the split from the Inquisition, and Diplomacy has shouldered plenty of those opportunities.
"You don't have to accompany me, if you don't care for the idea of it."
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But, she is curious.
"This Wysteria claims this to be an unofficial event," she starts, carefully. "But does it differ greatly from the official ones?"
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did she just call him a barnacle?
what a compliment
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boat ride. smears myself across this inbox
The deck is quiet, darkness having fallen and a sparse handful of men moving in the rigging, crossing the deck as John moves past them to where Madi stands alone. His approach is hardly silent, and his hand finds first the small of her back then her elbow as he moves to stand beside her.
"I began more than one letter trying to describe Kirkwall to you," John begins, as he shifts to lean against the side with his fingers lacing through hers. "And I always concluded that I'd wanted to show you, rather than try to write it out."
There are so many different hopes wrapped up in that admission. He watches her face for a long moment, before shaking his head slightly.
"But this is not the way I'd hoped for the opportunity to present itself."
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"I would have liked to read those letters," she says, softly. "But I am glad you did not send them."
Surely he knows, as she knows, as they all know, that sending letters describing their locations in detail would have been a liability to their efforts, even if in hindsight it might seem all for naught. Looking somewhat shy to admit it, Madi looks down and a sad little smile tugs at the corner of her lips.
"I dictated my letters to the sea, since she was the only one I could trust with them."
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But it's a bitter thing to consider. Celebration feels far from this moment.
"Are you alright?"
A better question: Will you be alright?
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“I will be.”
Because the immediate answer is no, she is not alright. And yet it is also yes, she is. She is unharmed but for some minor scratches, a bruise here or there, the usual trophies from engaging in action. Nothing a bath and a glass of wine cannot soothe. But the utter devastation of the island, of Flint’s home, of her own island’s main source for things necessary to survive...the quantities needed to soothe that sting would drown the best swimmer.
“Loss was always a possibility,” she adds, pragmatic but for the obvious emotion tightening around her throat.
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action;
What is clear to me, [he continues] is that they will continue until it is no longer profitable to do so. Orlais and Nevarra are in no position to ban Antivan goods, but Kirkwall—the Marches— and Ferelden might.
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What is this?
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[The alternative 'It's a book,' being equally obvious before the paper might even be peeled away.]
Higgins was a linguist and a poet based out the Chantry at Starkhaven. I don't find his verse particularly remarkable, but that [with a nod to the parcel] is work worth reading.
[That being 'Poetry of the Trade Tongue', a rigorously researched volume that is part linguistics and part philosophy centered on the development and use of language both across the Marches and in relation to their more far flung trade (pun intended; Higgins writes with a certain good humor) partners.]
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Thank you. [ Soft and heartfelt, because whether he realizes or not, this is now the only book she owns that isn't leagues away on an island near Seheron (or wherever the Maroon island is).
But then she looks somewhat sheepish. ]
I didn't get you anything.
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a delivery / pre-dream.
post network post
"There's tea," he offers, tipping his head towards the pot. "Still warm, I think."
Pen set down, he reaches for her hand.
"How did it go?"
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"I do not think there is any doubt among our company that Antivans value coin, and also coin, and above all else, coin."
It was a small taste of the irritation Flint and Silver both must be well acquainted with, the uphill struggle of trying to accomplish something or to make people see through a window when all they want to look at is a wall. It was a small taste, but enough to understand the feeling.
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His thumb runs up and down her shoulder lightly as he leans forward to hook his own untouched mug and set it before her.
"We've had some dealings with the Merchant Princes," John tells her. "But they squabble among themselves. Convince one to do something and another will do the opposite out of spite."
Not ideal for forming a united front against a common threat.
"Was it a wasted effort?" he asks, gentle over the question.
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puts hand over timestamp