Is there anything in his life that isn’t complicated?
He thinks back, really stops and gives it breadth and consideration. He hopes very much it might be the case, that there’s something, anything about or around him that exists for the sake of itself, without being compounded by caveat and stipulation and mortification.
The answer comes to him with the clarity of a silver bell.
It’s in watching her speak that he knows – in the delicate curvature of the cupid’s bow of her lips, the shift of her hair across her shoulders, the elegant sweep of her neck. Her features have always held such harmony for him, come together in rosy chorus, that even the sterility and asceticism he assumes of the Healing Center couldn’t altogether wither it.
The mention of the possessed child – she rolls on as if it’s happenstance, perfectly quotidian, the instinctive shiver that goes up his spine immediately tempered by the fact that she relates the story in a way that makes it sound like potential caper and hijinks, instead of negotiating with the mysteries of the dead. And everything she tells him directly thereafter – he forgets the tavern around them, for a moment, as he realizes they have more in common that he’d initially assumed. Forgets to breathe for a tick when that commonality goes as far back as the frozen tundra to the north.
One of the tavern staff pause by their table. The words don’t immediately register – but he reacts instinctively, giving her a perfectly polite smile, assures her they’re doing quite alright. No one’s heard Rohka’s admission of Vantha blood; no one but Caspian, and she had deemed him worth her trust, enough to utter out loud words that would warrant a death sentence if picked up by the wrong ears.
“I –“ Another one of the barkeeps brushes past. The words die in his throat, his caution on the topic at a hair’s trigger. But he needs her to know – to show her he can go the same distance that she’s willing to. Because the truth has sat and calcified in him for years and rather than lie dormant, had beat at him from the inside out. And against all odds - he's found, maybe, someone who might feel the same. “I was born in Avanthal,” he says as softly as he can, just enough for her to catch his words, once he’s sure that anyone in their immediate vicinity is engrossed elsewhere or turned away. “I know I look sort of… Benshira, but – Snowsong Hold.”
He casts another furtive look around, searching for any sign of outrage, of disgust – but there’s none of it. It’s just him and Rohka, in a space all of their own.
And Rohka –
Heart hammering in his chest, he realizes with full gravity what he’s just confessed. Tears his eyes from the other patrons and casts them back at the person sitting opposite him at the table. He’d done it because he’d felt safe enough to do so with her, but – he’s not the psychic here. He can’t see the future, for good or for ill. He holds his breath, waits for her answer.
And in his anxiety, clumsily tries to pave the way forward. “I’ve never been to the Healing Center, no,” he stammers. Resents himself for it and grits the next one back. “I know what you mean, about being stagnant. Trapped in limbo. I think – it’s a great idea, a place of your own. A fortune teller’s shop, you mean? I don’t know how many are in Zeltiva, what the competition might be like. Though – I’ve been in the Outpost recently, through the Dovecote. Seems like anyone from all over the continent could set up whatever they liked there. Potential customer base would be - well, as good as infinite."
If she’s been here for all of Fall, they might have met sooner. But the golden eye on his wrist says otherwise – that this is the time, the very hour they were meant to, that any sooner would not have come to any meaningful end.
“This suit’s magic,” he says as she points at the embroidered eye. Not that he’d really been afraid this might be the case, but he’s glad he isn’t just imagining it, that she can see it too, that the emblem on his wrist is a frighteningly clear one, and he isn’t just, say, looking up at the clouds and wishfully convincing himself they’re taking any real shape. “Wonderfully magic,” he goes on, because that’s the kind of thing he can openly share here. “So all those really… loud suits you’ve seen me in, it creates them, even the shoes, and I have no idea what it’s going to turn into before I put it on. But it knows, somehow, exactly what’s right for me that day, before the day even begins.” He lets the weight of the statement hang between them – considerably lighter than saying he’s got half-Vantha blood. Nearly everything is easier in comparison. “So!” he goes on, “Contrary to popular assumption, I don’t actually have an overblown closet bursting with silk and satin. Good thing, I think. Would have been a lot harder to run from Ravok otherwise.”
He thinks back, really stops and gives it breadth and consideration. He hopes very much it might be the case, that there’s something, anything about or around him that exists for the sake of itself, without being compounded by caveat and stipulation and mortification.
The answer comes to him with the clarity of a silver bell.
It’s in watching her speak that he knows – in the delicate curvature of the cupid’s bow of her lips, the shift of her hair across her shoulders, the elegant sweep of her neck. Her features have always held such harmony for him, come together in rosy chorus, that even the sterility and asceticism he assumes of the Healing Center couldn’t altogether wither it.
The mention of the possessed child – she rolls on as if it’s happenstance, perfectly quotidian, the instinctive shiver that goes up his spine immediately tempered by the fact that she relates the story in a way that makes it sound like potential caper and hijinks, instead of negotiating with the mysteries of the dead. And everything she tells him directly thereafter – he forgets the tavern around them, for a moment, as he realizes they have more in common that he’d initially assumed. Forgets to breathe for a tick when that commonality goes as far back as the frozen tundra to the north.
One of the tavern staff pause by their table. The words don’t immediately register – but he reacts instinctively, giving her a perfectly polite smile, assures her they’re doing quite alright. No one’s heard Rohka’s admission of Vantha blood; no one but Caspian, and she had deemed him worth her trust, enough to utter out loud words that would warrant a death sentence if picked up by the wrong ears.
“I –“ Another one of the barkeeps brushes past. The words die in his throat, his caution on the topic at a hair’s trigger. But he needs her to know – to show her he can go the same distance that she’s willing to. Because the truth has sat and calcified in him for years and rather than lie dormant, had beat at him from the inside out. And against all odds - he's found, maybe, someone who might feel the same. “I was born in Avanthal,” he says as softly as he can, just enough for her to catch his words, once he’s sure that anyone in their immediate vicinity is engrossed elsewhere or turned away. “I know I look sort of… Benshira, but – Snowsong Hold.”
He casts another furtive look around, searching for any sign of outrage, of disgust – but there’s none of it. It’s just him and Rohka, in a space all of their own.
And Rohka –
Heart hammering in his chest, he realizes with full gravity what he’s just confessed. Tears his eyes from the other patrons and casts them back at the person sitting opposite him at the table. He’d done it because he’d felt safe enough to do so with her, but – he’s not the psychic here. He can’t see the future, for good or for ill. He holds his breath, waits for her answer.
And in his anxiety, clumsily tries to pave the way forward. “I’ve never been to the Healing Center, no,” he stammers. Resents himself for it and grits the next one back. “I know what you mean, about being stagnant. Trapped in limbo. I think – it’s a great idea, a place of your own. A fortune teller’s shop, you mean? I don’t know how many are in Zeltiva, what the competition might be like. Though – I’ve been in the Outpost recently, through the Dovecote. Seems like anyone from all over the continent could set up whatever they liked there. Potential customer base would be - well, as good as infinite."
If she’s been here for all of Fall, they might have met sooner. But the golden eye on his wrist says otherwise – that this is the time, the very hour they were meant to, that any sooner would not have come to any meaningful end.
“This suit’s magic,” he says as she points at the embroidered eye. Not that he’d really been afraid this might be the case, but he’s glad he isn’t just imagining it, that she can see it too, that the emblem on his wrist is a frighteningly clear one, and he isn’t just, say, looking up at the clouds and wishfully convincing himself they’re taking any real shape. “Wonderfully magic,” he goes on, because that’s the kind of thing he can openly share here. “So all those really… loud suits you’ve seen me in, it creates them, even the shoes, and I have no idea what it’s going to turn into before I put it on. But it knows, somehow, exactly what’s right for me that day, before the day even begins.” He lets the weight of the statement hang between them – considerably lighter than saying he’s got half-Vantha blood. Nearly everything is easier in comparison. “So!” he goes on, “Contrary to popular assumption, I don’t actually have an overblown closet bursting with silk and satin. Good thing, I think. Would have been a lot harder to run from Ravok otherwise.”
x
