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I will.
[ Immediate, even if Ellis cannot say for certain when soon might be.
And here he might say good-bye. Or he might say any other number of things. They are close at hand. And he has missed her so terribly.
But no. The line remains open though, while he grapples with his own reluctance. Perhaps the deep breath he draws on the other end of it is even audible. But then he twists the crystal off, severing the connection ]
[ Immediate, even if Ellis cannot say for certain when soon might be.
And here he might say good-bye. Or he might say any other number of things. They are close at hand. And he has missed her so terribly.
But no. The line remains open though, while he grapples with his own reluctance. Perhaps the deep breath he draws on the other end of it is even audible. But then he twists the crystal off, severing the connection ]
Poking around dusty tomes that can't tell you is one thing. Active spywork's something else. Puts a target on your back.
No, but the likelihood is. When people are keeping their trap shut, what happens to people who become people who hear stuff?
[ Thunk, something set down, heavy. ]
Fine. And talk to Yseult before you go dark, figure out a timeframe. Don't take notes, we can do that.
Fine. And talk to Yseult before you go dark, figure out a timeframe. Don't take notes, we can do that.
[ Left in Ellis’ dining hall pigeonhole after at least two weeks of silent avoidance, maybe more, what is time:
One, a small book of woodcut-illustrated children’s fables. The one marked with a scrap of paper, opposite an ending-spoiling woodcut of a bear skeleton, is a brief tale about a bear who snaps and snarls at all of the other animals in the forest because he’s bothered by a burr between his toes. Eventually the bear dies alone and delirious from an infection of the paw. When his corpse is discovered all of the other woodland creatures say it’s good he’s dead, because clearly he was vicious and he might have eaten them otherwise. Cocklebur grows from his skeleton. The end.
In a carefully legible version of Bastien’s scrawl, the bookmark says, ]
I am sorry for being a dick about your ring.
[ And, two, three dog biscuits. Three dog biscuits he might otherwise have given to Whiskey, the floppy, jowly princess of his heart. It's really the bigger gesture. ]
One, a small book of woodcut-illustrated children’s fables. The one marked with a scrap of paper, opposite an ending-spoiling woodcut of a bear skeleton, is a brief tale about a bear who snaps and snarls at all of the other animals in the forest because he’s bothered by a burr between his toes. Eventually the bear dies alone and delirious from an infection of the paw. When his corpse is discovered all of the other woodland creatures say it’s good he’s dead, because clearly he was vicious and he might have eaten them otherwise. Cocklebur grows from his skeleton. The end.
In a carefully legible version of Bastien’s scrawl, the bookmark says, ]
I am sorry for being a dick about your ring.
[ And, two, three dog biscuits. Three dog biscuits he might otherwise have given to Whiskey, the floppy, jowly princess of his heart. It's really the bigger gesture. ]
[ The biscuits are well-received.
The book is—
Well, the book is interesting. Beautiful. However, the meaning of the marked passage escapes him. Is the bear meant as a cautionary tale for Ellis?
By and by, a similarly carefully scribed message appears via book. ]
There is no need for apology.
(The gifts are very kind.)
The book is—
Well, the book is interesting. Beautiful. However, the meaning of the marked passage escapes him. Is the bear meant as a cautionary tale for Ellis?
By and by, a similarly carefully scribed message appears via book. ]
There is no need for apology.
(The gifts are very kind.)
[ Bastien takes time to notice it, and then takes more time to pluck at his lower lip—rare for him to fidget, but also rare for him to feel genuinely sorry about anything he’s done to anyone. Usually when he’s a dick, it’s to accomplish something.
He should have given into the urge to deface the book and draw a mustache on the bear skeleton, clearly. ]
In Orlais, "there is no need for apology" could mean:
1. Apologizing is useless and a little pathetic, because it should be obvious that I will never forgive you.
2. You did not disappoint me because I never expected more from you in the first place, you bumbling backwoods brute.
3. I have already poisoned you, ha ha ha ha!
4. It is alright.
I believe the last meaning remains in use only to keep us on our toes.
He should have given into the urge to deface the book and draw a mustache on the bear skeleton, clearly. ]
In Orlais, "there is no need for apology" could mean:
1. Apologizing is useless and a little pathetic, because it should be obvious that I will never forgive you.
2. You did not disappoint me because I never expected more from you in the first place, you bumbling backwoods brute.
3. I have already poisoned you, ha ha ha ha!
4. It is alright.
I believe the last meaning remains in use only to keep us on our toes.
[ Yes, the mustache might have been a helpful indicator.
Maybe in other circumstances Ellis might have taken the meaning, but Bastien is Orlesian and their methods of communicating—
Well. Case and point.
The ensuing response does not betray the indecisive taps of fingers on the page. Or the indecision over continuing the conversation. Or even the discomfort with the introduction of the idea of apology in the first place. Instead, what appears is brief. ]
I am Fereldan.
[ And not given to duplicity. Omission, yes. But duplicity, no. ]
You don't have to apologize to me.
Maybe in other circumstances Ellis might have taken the meaning, but Bastien is Orlesian and their methods of communicating—
Well. Case and point.
The ensuing response does not betray the indecisive taps of fingers on the page. Or the indecision over continuing the conversation. Or even the discomfort with the introduction of the idea of apology in the first place. Instead, what appears is brief. ]
I am Fereldan.
[ And not given to duplicity. Omission, yes. But duplicity, no. ]
You don't have to apologize to me.
[ A squiggle appears next to I am Fereldan. The first letter of, So is Byerly—who is half Orlesian, but for banter’s sake. The S is as far as Bastien gets before he thinks that if Byerly said You don’t have to apologize to me, the key words would be to me. What he might mean is, I’m not worth apologizing to. Maybe, It doesn’t matter what you do to me.
Is it what Ellis means? Impossible to know. Bastien has had minimal luck getting him to explain himself about anything, ever. But in case: ]
Of course I do.
[ The rest arrives with long pauses between sentences, sometimes between words. He’s delivered plenty of off-the-cuff apologies in his life, some intentionally infuriating and some intentionally excellent, but sincerity makes everything harder. So does writing. (As counterintuitive as it might be, given his profession and aspirations, he hates to write letters. He has clumsy penmanship. Not being able to see someone’s face and know whether he needs to shift his tone between one sentence and the next makes him feel adrift and grasping. Without someone else’s work to reference, his vocabulary is pared down to only the words he’s reasonably confident he knows how to spell.) ]
It’s yours. It’s important to you. It meant something that you trusted me with it. I should have given it to you the first day I knew you were back. I shouldn’t have given you a hard time about it. You are already asked to give up a lot, Monsieur Warden. No one should make you feel guilty for the things you hold onto. I am not sure if I did, but I’m sorry that I tried. If you had never been kind to me at all, I would still have owed you better than that. Since you have been nothing but kind, I owed you much better.
[ There’s an enthusiastic triple underline, actually, on that much. ]
You do not have to tell me that it is forgiven. I am not sure I will believe you if you do. Maybe it is best if you only check this box:
☐ Acknowledged
Then I will stop bothering you about it.
Is it what Ellis means? Impossible to know. Bastien has had minimal luck getting him to explain himself about anything, ever. But in case: ]
Of course I do.
[ The rest arrives with long pauses between sentences, sometimes between words. He’s delivered plenty of off-the-cuff apologies in his life, some intentionally infuriating and some intentionally excellent, but sincerity makes everything harder. So does writing. (As counterintuitive as it might be, given his profession and aspirations, he hates to write letters. He has clumsy penmanship. Not being able to see someone’s face and know whether he needs to shift his tone between one sentence and the next makes him feel adrift and grasping. Without someone else’s work to reference, his vocabulary is pared down to only the words he’s reasonably confident he knows how to spell.) ]
It’s yours. It’s important to you. It meant something that you trusted me with it. I should have given it to you the first day I knew you were back. I shouldn’t have given you a hard time about it. You are already asked to give up a lot, Monsieur Warden. No one should make you feel guilty for the things you hold onto. I am not sure if I did, but I’m sorry that I tried. If you had never been kind to me at all, I would still have owed you better than that. Since you have been nothing but kind, I owed you much better.
[ There’s an enthusiastic triple underline, actually, on that much. ]
You do not have to tell me that it is forgiven. I am not sure I will believe you if you do. Maybe it is best if you only check this box:
☐ Acknowledged
Then I will stop bothering you about it.
This is a generous thing Bastien has done. He offers Ellis an easy way out, a simple box, one slash of ink, and this conversation comes to an end.
Ellis had the book open across one knee, observing the words coming in fits and starts. They rise like bruises upon the page. Ellis feels the impact, the way it aches to read these words.
What is he meant to do with this kindness?
So the box goes untouched for some time. The length of Ellis' watch. The ferry ride after. The brief, whistling search for Ruadh. And then—
A winding, circuitous search for Bastien, wherever he might be.
Ellis had the book open across one knee, observing the words coming in fits and starts. They rise like bruises upon the page. Ellis feels the impact, the way it aches to read these words.
What is he meant to do with this kindness?
So the box goes untouched for some time. The length of Ellis' watch. The ferry ride after. The brief, whistling search for Ruadh. And then—
A winding, circuitous search for Bastien, wherever he might be.
By the time Ellis appears, Bastien is outside, sitting high on stone steps cut into the walls around one of the Gallows' deep, cavernous outdoor corridors, with bread and wedge of soft cheese balanced on his knees.
He eats outside all the time. Not only when he wants to put some distance between himself and the empty checkboxes and blank spaces below paragraphs he has now convinced himself were unwelcome and embarrassing of him. But the sky is overcast and the air is damp, the sort of drizzle so fine it accumulates like dew rather than fall, so maybe today isn't a day he would normally be out, otherwise.
The awkwardness of his smile, when he sees Ellis down below, is only half attributable to his mouthful of bread. A quick wave of acknowledgment. And that's all. If Ellis has only accidentally stumbled upon him, he's not going to stop him from walking by unbothered.
He eats outside all the time. Not only when he wants to put some distance between himself and the empty checkboxes and blank spaces below paragraphs he has now convinced himself were unwelcome and embarrassing of him. But the sky is overcast and the air is damp, the sort of drizzle so fine it accumulates like dew rather than fall, so maybe today isn't a day he would normally be out, otherwise.
The awkwardness of his smile, when he sees Ellis down below, is only half attributable to his mouthful of bread. A quick wave of acknowledgment. And that's all. If Ellis has only accidentally stumbled upon him, he's not going to stop him from walking by unbothered.
If Bastien intends to keep the soft cheese, he might want to lift it out of Ruadh's reach. Ellis whistles him on, soft permission sending the mabari trotting ahead to nose at Bastien's boots before turning sights on other targets.
It leaves Ellis at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. But Ruadh alone isn't a sufficient response either, so he ascends as well.
There is room alongside Bastien to pass by, if need be. But Ellis halts, steps below, hands in his pockets.
"May I sit?"
It leaves Ellis at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. But Ruadh alone isn't a sufficient response either, so he ascends as well.
There is room alongside Bastien to pass by, if need be. But Ellis halts, steps below, hands in his pockets.
"May I sit?"
"Of course."
By now, Bastien is holding his bread and his cheese up on either side of his head, arms bent like he's about to pretend to be a bear. But he's looking into Ruadh's great big face with affection and interest, not with the panicked annoyance of someone who feels their space has been invaded by a strange dog.
A good sign, that Ellis wants to sit. Bastien hopes.
"Can he have a bite?"
By now, Bastien is holding his bread and his cheese up on either side of his head, arms bent like he's about to pretend to be a bear. But he's looking into Ruadh's great big face with affection and interest, not with the panicked annoyance of someone who feels their space has been invaded by a strange dog.
A good sign, that Ellis wants to sit. Bastien hopes.
"Can he have a bite?"
"Consider how generous you wish to be with your lunch."
Ruadh's eyes slide to Ellis, then return to examination of Bastien. He is not a sweet-looking dog. He is too muscular. He is scarred. But he still butts his head against Bastien's knee as if he is any other dog.
Ellis folds his hands between his knees, right masking the left. Watching, for the moment. Giving himself time to choose his words.
Ruadh's eyes slide to Ellis, then return to examination of Bastien. He is not a sweet-looking dog. He is too muscular. He is scarred. But he still butts his head against Bastien's knee as if he is any other dog.
Ellis folds his hands between his knees, right masking the left. Watching, for the moment. Giving himself time to choose his words.
Bastien smiles because of Ruadh's head-butt, and he smiles because this already feels close to forgiveness.
"For you, monsieur," he says to the mabari, for whom he will be this generous: a third of the remaining cheese, a third of the remaining bread.
There is some caution in the way he holds it out, but it has less to do with Ruadh's rippling muscles and heavy jaws, specifically, than with the temperamental, fluffy terriers who have snapped at Bastien's fingers in the past from the arms or laps or bags of their owners.
"Can he have a bite?" he asks again, this time to Ruadh, about Ellis. Seems only fair.
"For you, monsieur," he says to the mabari, for whom he will be this generous: a third of the remaining cheese, a third of the remaining bread.
There is some caution in the way he holds it out, but it has less to do with Ruadh's rippling muscles and heavy jaws, specifically, than with the temperamental, fluffy terriers who have snapped at Bastien's fingers in the past from the arms or laps or bags of their owners.
"Can he have a bite?" he asks again, this time to Ruadh, about Ellis. Seems only fair.
For such a large beast, Ruadh is very delicate in his acquisition of bread and cheese. A lap of tongue and lip is the limit of contact; Ruadh keeps his teeth well out of the way.
Ellis' head ducks at the question, but the shade of amusement in his expression is unmistakable. The mabari gives the question some obvious contemplation before butting his head once more against Bastien's knee. Permission, of a sort.
"I didn't come to rob you of your lunch," might head off the actual attempt. Ellis hadn't expected to be included in the offer, whatever begging his mabari had or had not been doing.
Begs the question of why he came in the first place, but they'll wind their way to it in due time.
Ellis' head ducks at the question, but the shade of amusement in his expression is unmistakable. The mabari gives the question some obvious contemplation before butting his head once more against Bastien's knee. Permission, of a sort.
"I didn't come to rob you of your lunch," might head off the actual attempt. Ellis hadn't expected to be included in the offer, whatever begging his mabari had or had not been doing.
Begs the question of why he came in the first place, but they'll wind their way to it in due time.
"To rob me you would have to threaten me, I think," Bastien says while he tears the remaining two-thirds into one-thirds, "or use force."
He holds out Ellis' potential portion in one palm. Out of Ruadh's immediate reach, though he seems too gentle to snatch it. It'd be rude to tempt him to.
"Anyway, it is my second lunch." He smiles, not as brightly as he might if he were more confident they were alright, and looks briefly skyward in exasperation at himself. "I am eating my feelings."
He holds out Ellis' potential portion in one palm. Out of Ruadh's immediate reach, though he seems too gentle to snatch it. It'd be rude to tempt him to.
"Anyway, it is my second lunch." He smiles, not as brightly as he might if he were more confident they were alright, and looks briefly skyward in exasperation at himself. "I am eating my feelings."
The stairs are not exactly made for large mabari. Ruadh is suffering this hardship, ascending a few steps to stretch along the landing behind them. Shove his nose in between Bastien's elbow and rib, just to remain in the loop of conversation.
Ellis breaks the cheese in half and offers it to Ruadh without hesitation, action that speaks of habit already ingrained. He takes care with the action, dividing, passing the chunk into Ruadh's jaws, drawing a palm over Ruadh's square brow as the mabari chews. Letting the quiet settle while Ellis thinks on what's been said.
Then, straightening with what's left of the cheese in one hand and the hunk of bread balanced on one thigh, Ellis dips fingers into his pocket and draws out a trio of rough stones.
"There were no leaves," Ellis says, setting them down between them. Ruadh eyes the assortment, licking his chops.
A paltry offering, compared to the ring. But this is what Ellis has to give. What he'd collected for Bastien, even when he wasn't certain he would ever return to pass them over to him.
Ellis breaks the cheese in half and offers it to Ruadh without hesitation, action that speaks of habit already ingrained. He takes care with the action, dividing, passing the chunk into Ruadh's jaws, drawing a palm over Ruadh's square brow as the mabari chews. Letting the quiet settle while Ellis thinks on what's been said.
Then, straightening with what's left of the cheese in one hand and the hunk of bread balanced on one thigh, Ellis dips fingers into his pocket and draws out a trio of rough stones.
"There were no leaves," Ellis says, setting them down between them. Ruadh eyes the assortment, licking his chops.
A paltry offering, compared to the ring. But this is what Ellis has to give. What he'd collected for Bastien, even when he wasn't certain he would ever return to pass them over to him.
Edited (a day later: just kidding) 2022-05-09 02:59 (UTC)
There's food in one of Bastien's hands. The other is draped over Ruadh's bulky neck, fingers crooked to scratch his shoulder with a touch of reverence. But he looks at the stones with a smile while he's shuffling to stuff the last of his bread into his mouth and the last of his cheese on the stair next to his hip. Then the stones on his knees. They don't fit together like puzzle pieces, but he while he chews his mouthful he turns them until the curves and edges are complementary.
"No leaves," he says after. Not disappointment; rocks serve him just as well. Only wonder. The blight-born deserts of Orlais still have their stubborn plants and oases. He'd always thought the stories about the Anderfels, stripped so thoroughly of its life and natural cycles that a corpse couldn't decompose in the dust, must be exaggerated. But perhaps not.
Maybe he'll see it someday. Ideally not for very long. Not for a solitary hike to Weisshaupt and back.
He looks sideways at Ellis. Competing pressures: to explain himself and to not make excuses. To never give anyone more pieces of himself than they first give him of themselves, and to acknowledge—if only to himself—that he's taken pieces Ellis didn't intend to give him. Fit some of them together, staring at his ceiling. His confidence it was the only one of its kind: something from the rifts. Ellis' possession of it: Stark's or Poppell's, most likely. The dance lessons, the poetry, his sentimentality over a ring—Bastien's confident enough to bet his money on Wysteria.
His cheeks puff up with his capitulating exhale. He sounds more self-deprecating and embarrassed than solemn about the confession: "Bastien is my name. It's all anyone has called me since I was a boy." Give or take a few dozen brief false identities and his five-year stint as Edouard Almary, Honest Printer. That's not what he means. "But it isn't the name my parents gave to me, and I'm—" Hypocritical, after using the ring to investigate everyone he could, after opening Ellis' letters, after everything about his entire life and line of work. "—touchy, I suppose."
A bear with a burr he oughtn't have snarled at anyone else about.
"Something to work on."
"No leaves," he says after. Not disappointment; rocks serve him just as well. Only wonder. The blight-born deserts of Orlais still have their stubborn plants and oases. He'd always thought the stories about the Anderfels, stripped so thoroughly of its life and natural cycles that a corpse couldn't decompose in the dust, must be exaggerated. But perhaps not.
Maybe he'll see it someday. Ideally not for very long. Not for a solitary hike to Weisshaupt and back.
He looks sideways at Ellis. Competing pressures: to explain himself and to not make excuses. To never give anyone more pieces of himself than they first give him of themselves, and to acknowledge—if only to himself—that he's taken pieces Ellis didn't intend to give him. Fit some of them together, staring at his ceiling. His confidence it was the only one of its kind: something from the rifts. Ellis' possession of it: Stark's or Poppell's, most likely. The dance lessons, the poetry, his sentimentality over a ring—Bastien's confident enough to bet his money on Wysteria.
His cheeks puff up with his capitulating exhale. He sounds more self-deprecating and embarrassed than solemn about the confession: "Bastien is my name. It's all anyone has called me since I was a boy." Give or take a few dozen brief false identities and his five-year stint as Edouard Almary, Honest Printer. That's not what he means. "But it isn't the name my parents gave to me, and I'm—" Hypocritical, after using the ring to investigate everyone he could, after opening Ellis' letters, after everything about his entire life and line of work. "—touchy, I suppose."
A bear with a burr he oughtn't have snarled at anyone else about.
"Something to work on."
Here is some shared ground: that tension between explanation and excuse, Ellis has found himself in such a space before, even recently, standing on the opposite of Bastien's desk watching his face crumple into disapproval. And beyond that, this urge towards secrecy, holding fast to all parts of himself lest someone hear them and—
Draw conclusions. Come to some decision much like Ellis suspects Bastien already has: that Ellis is worth something, when that has not been true in a very long time.
But still, he has been given something. A piece of the kind of truth that Ellis knows comes at a very dear price.
"I didn't think of it as something to be used in the way you described," Ellis admits. "I've not used it at all myself."
Is this so surprising? Ellis has never wanted anyone else's secrets. He has reached no hand towards anything that isn't freely given. But it isn't so much about the work as it is about what Bastien holds in check. Ellis hasn't wrenched that secret from him. (He had put it on his smallest finger, standing in the crowded market square. He had taken it off only moments later, unsettled by the rush of whispered names that had spilled forth. If one was Bastien's, it would be impossible to know which.)
His hands turn one over the other. Index finger and thumb finding the stiff bend of his left hand, masking it behind the closure of one hand over the other. Draws breath, and holds it. Hesitating. Ruadh gone still between them, attentive.
Draw conclusions. Come to some decision much like Ellis suspects Bastien already has: that Ellis is worth something, when that has not been true in a very long time.
But still, he has been given something. A piece of the kind of truth that Ellis knows comes at a very dear price.
"I didn't think of it as something to be used in the way you described," Ellis admits. "I've not used it at all myself."
Is this so surprising? Ellis has never wanted anyone else's secrets. He has reached no hand towards anything that isn't freely given. But it isn't so much about the work as it is about what Bastien holds in check. Ellis hasn't wrenched that secret from him. (He had put it on his smallest finger, standing in the crowded market square. He had taken it off only moments later, unsettled by the rush of whispered names that had spilled forth. If one was Bastien's, it would be impossible to know which.)
His hands turn one over the other. Index finger and thumb finding the stiff bend of his left hand, masking it behind the closure of one hand over the other. Draws breath, and holds it. Hesitating. Ruadh gone still between them, attentive.
[ drafted in tidy hand on the back of a scrap of paper used for notetaking on nug gestation and left in Ellis' box: ]
Scoutmaster,
In light of Warden Ellis’ recent discoveries in Weisshaupt and the encroach of corrupted rifts into the Crossroads, I’m formally requesting follow-up reconnaissance be carried out in the vicinity of Orentius University and/or Qarinus, where the missing records are said to have been sent. I trust you are better informed than I am about the accessibility of and unique dangers associated with either location.
Without more specific intelligence as to who the records are being funneled to, the university seems to me the better option for surveillance. If related research is being carried out on or around the grounds, there may be rumors about unexplained deaths or incidences of blight to overhear in local taverns. More targeted investigations could be carried out once leads are identified.
Of the others I know here, I can personally recommend Bastien and Mado as particularly well-suited to this task. I will also volunteer, provided you consider the pursuit worthwhile.
D. Dickerson
Scoutmaster,
In light of Warden Ellis’ recent discoveries in Weisshaupt and the encroach of corrupted rifts into the Crossroads, I’m formally requesting follow-up reconnaissance be carried out in the vicinity of Orentius University and/or Qarinus, where the missing records are said to have been sent. I trust you are better informed than I am about the accessibility of and unique dangers associated with either location.
Without more specific intelligence as to who the records are being funneled to, the university seems to me the better option for surveillance. If related research is being carried out on or around the grounds, there may be rumors about unexplained deaths or incidences of blight to overhear in local taverns. More targeted investigations could be carried out once leads are identified.
Of the others I know here, I can personally recommend Bastien and Mado as particularly well-suited to this task. I will also volunteer, provided you consider the pursuit worthwhile.
D. Dickerson
Bastien's eyebrows raise when he first speaks, his gaze flickering from the rocks to Ellis with a smile.
He's known Ellis too long to be surprised. And before Ellis, he knew too many people who never seemed interested in anything. It's alien, the absence of an instinct that's driven Bastien's whole life—even as a child, he never passed a window he didn't want to peek through. But it's a type of alien he has plenty of experience with. Maybe the surprising part is that, in Ellis, he finds it more charming than dull. An honest heart (or a wounded one, or both), not the incuriosity of the sluggish or self-involved. Ellis is neither of those.
The smile stays in place during Ellis' hesitation, but Bastien's gaze moves to his hands. Silence. Nerves. It's tempting, to talk. To save Ellis from whatever he's thinking about. To say, I know, overconfident as it would be, or a less daring thank you for coming to find me, or a torrent of chatty babble to sweep them away from this entire territory of conversation and into something simpler. That last one—that's what he would do if he didn't care.
But Ruadh is still and waiting. Bastien follows his lead. Halfway, at least. He waits, but he also moves, lifting his dangling hand from the mabari's shoulder to settle over Ellis' twisting fingers. His thumb taps thrice, reminiscent of a let me in knock, but mostly friendly levity. It's alright if he wants to say something. And in a different way, one against all of Bastien's natural and learned instincts but that Ellis is nonetheless owed, it's alright if he doesn't.
He's known Ellis too long to be surprised. And before Ellis, he knew too many people who never seemed interested in anything. It's alien, the absence of an instinct that's driven Bastien's whole life—even as a child, he never passed a window he didn't want to peek through. But it's a type of alien he has plenty of experience with. Maybe the surprising part is that, in Ellis, he finds it more charming than dull. An honest heart (or a wounded one, or both), not the incuriosity of the sluggish or self-involved. Ellis is neither of those.
The smile stays in place during Ellis' hesitation, but Bastien's gaze moves to his hands. Silence. Nerves. It's tempting, to talk. To save Ellis from whatever he's thinking about. To say, I know, overconfident as it would be, or a less daring thank you for coming to find me, or a torrent of chatty babble to sweep them away from this entire territory of conversation and into something simpler. That last one—that's what he would do if he didn't care.
But Ruadh is still and waiting. Bastien follows his lead. Halfway, at least. He waits, but he also moves, lifting his dangling hand from the mabari's shoulder to settle over Ellis' twisting fingers. His thumb taps thrice, reminiscent of a let me in knock, but mostly friendly levity. It's alright if he wants to say something. And in a different way, one against all of Bastien's natural and learned instincts but that Ellis is nonetheless owed, it's alright if he doesn't.
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