[The evening of the day that the rifters arrive....
Scipio, in the tavern, puts his face into Rafael's upper arm. He is clinging to the bar like a man clinging to the last scrap of decking after a shipwreck, one arm looped around his mug of wine.]
Terrible. [A muffled moan, but Rafa will be able to decipher it. Twerwarbwr.] Terrible, terrible, terrible...
[ Rafael turns but does not lift his face from the mug of ale that he is nursing. Being poor is the worst, so much the worst that he has been pondering ways to fix it despite the whole Warden thing. ]
Yes, I know, everything is terrible, Skip. I don't think drooling on my sleeve is going to help.
[Cold feet. He frowns, as he wiggles his toes in his boots, but misery doesn't allow him to pull away from his best friend, his only hope and strength in this world.]
Many things, one of them being-- Rafa, I've never seen anything like it. Eyes, like gimlets-- and I don't mean that dwarf's that runs the delicatessen on Cavo Street--
Most things. Everything other than being out of the snow and having a drink. And not being dead yet.
[ Rafael is busy making his own list, attempting to find something else to append to it and failing before turning his mind back to Scipio. It's a familiar and affection sort of inattention, like they're so used to thinking on the same wavelength that it's not really necessary for him to listen to everything. Except now he's confused, but also Scipio is speaking in fragments. ]
What does Cecco have to do with this? He isn't here, is he? That cheap bastard still owes me three andris for that ham, it didn't taste anything like despair.
[ Rafael is only growing more confused instead of less. This is not how this is supposed to go. His reaction is not dramatic in the least, unless increasing exasperation counts. He is baffled as to what an elf and hunger and a dwarf's eyes and despair have to do with each other or with anything else for that matter. ]
What? What elf? Did he steal your food? We can get more, you know.
[Food is important. Food is of the utmost important, second only to--]
She.
[--Well. She is not necessarily of the utmost importance, but she's certainly weighing heavily on Scipio's mind. Fears renewed, he grabs again for a firmer hold on Rafael's arm.]
She. Not he. There was no food. I only wish there were food. I was in the library, sleeping--only for a moment! And when I woke, she was there, and I asked her what help I needed, and, and the next thing I knew, she was-- staring at me. Through me. I thought she was going to strike me down, there, where I stood. Maker, Rafa--
[ Food is extremely important, and right now Rafael is beginning to fear he may never eat again once Scipio succeeds in cutting off circulation to his fork arm. He doesn't shake him off, but sets a hand on his friend's shoulder and gives it an encouraging pat. ]
Elves are always angry, Skip, that's just how elves are. Surely she didn't mean it personally. Nobody dislikes you at first sight unless we mean them to. You weren't in character, were you? No fake nose or anything? What did she do, then? Did she explain?
[He droops, mournfully, comforted by the weight of Rafael's hand. It is unfortunately less-than-difficult to remember how awful it was under the razored gaze of the elf in question, even here, in amid warmth and laughter and conversation and food. And drink, which, speaking of, Scipio grabs his mug and takes a draught.
Better.]
I was only myself. No noses. Nothing. But she looked at me, and it was-- like the way a rat must feel, when he eats of a poison. All shriveled up. Awful, Rafa, and I hope that you never feel anything of its like. You're so good, and strong, you must stay this way forever-- [He reaches to pat a hand against Rafael's cheek, weak, boneless--] --while I languish.
[A little exaggerated, but exaggeration makes him feel a little better. Like playing a character, and he can distance himself from reality. Only when he thinks of it that way, he thinks of that reality, the spool of song played faint at the back of his head. Sobering like nothing else is. That's what gets him to say:]
She knew, Rafa. About-- She had never heard of Wardens before. I don't know how, I didn't ask. A hermitage, maybe, one so far removed no tale has ever reached its shores. But she knew. She said my blood was poison.
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aktchion
Scipio, in the tavern, puts his face into Rafael's upper arm. He is clinging to the bar like a man clinging to the last scrap of decking after a shipwreck, one arm looped around his mug of wine.]
Terrible. [A muffled moan, but Rafa will be able to decipher it. Twerwarbwr.] Terrible, terrible, terrible...
que?
[ Rafael turns but does not lift his face from the mug of ale that he is nursing. Being poor is the worst, so much the worst that he has been pondering ways to fix it despite the whole Warden thing. ]
Yes, I know, everything is terrible, Skip. I don't think drooling on my sleeve is going to help.
oh mi scusi acción
[Cold feet. He frowns, as he wiggles his toes in his boots, but misery doesn't allow him to pull away from his best friend, his only hope and strength in this world.]
Many things, one of them being-- Rafa, I've never seen anything like it. Eyes, like gimlets-- and I don't mean that dwarf's that runs the delicatessen on Cavo Street--
no subject
[ Rafael is busy making his own list, attempting to find something else to append to it and failing before turning his mind back to Scipio. It's a familiar and affection sort of inattention, like they're so used to thinking on the same wavelength that it's not really necessary for him to listen to everything. Except now he's confused, but also Scipio is speaking in fragments. ]
What does Cecco have to do with this? He isn't here, is he? That cheap bastard still owes me three andris for that ham, it didn't taste anything like despair.
no subject
[He switches his grip from the edge of the bar to Rafael's arm, giving it a brisk shake in order to get his attention.]
Despair! We can talk about despair--Rafa, I met this-- elf.
[Horror. He pauses for a reaction.
Although.]
--And, I'm a little hungry.
no subject
[ Rafael is only growing more confused instead of less. This is not how this is supposed to go. His reaction is not dramatic in the least, unless increasing exasperation counts. He is baffled as to what an elf and hunger and a dwarf's eyes and despair have to do with each other or with anything else for that matter. ]
What? What elf? Did he steal your food? We can get more, you know.
no subject
She.
[--Well. She is not necessarily of the utmost importance, but she's certainly weighing heavily on Scipio's mind. Fears renewed, he grabs again for a firmer hold on Rafael's arm.]
She. Not he. There was no food. I only wish there were food. I was in the library, sleeping--only for a moment! And when I woke, she was there, and I asked her what help I needed, and, and the next thing I knew, she was-- staring at me. Through me. I thought she was going to strike me down, there, where I stood. Maker, Rafa--
no subject
Elves are always angry, Skip, that's just how elves are. Surely she didn't mean it personally. Nobody dislikes you at first sight unless we mean them to. You weren't in character, were you? No fake nose or anything? What did she do, then? Did she explain?
no subject
[He droops, mournfully, comforted by the weight of Rafael's hand. It is unfortunately less-than-difficult to remember how awful it was under the razored gaze of the elf in question, even here, in amid warmth and laughter and conversation and food. And drink, which, speaking of, Scipio grabs his mug and takes a draught.
Better.]
I was only myself. No noses. Nothing. But she looked at me, and it was-- like the way a rat must feel, when he eats of a poison. All shriveled up. Awful, Rafa, and I hope that you never feel anything of its like. You're so good, and strong, you must stay this way forever-- [He reaches to pat a hand against Rafael's cheek, weak, boneless--] --while I languish.
[A little exaggerated, but exaggeration makes him feel a little better. Like playing a character, and he can distance himself from reality. Only when he thinks of it that way, he thinks of that reality, the spool of song played faint at the back of his head. Sobering like nothing else is. That's what gets him to say:]
She knew, Rafa. About-- She had never heard of Wardens before. I don't know how, I didn't ask. A hermitage, maybe, one so far removed no tale has ever reached its shores. But she knew. She said my blood was poison.