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In the shadow of the narrow little yard as the enchanted snake winds its rustling way through the planter, Wysteria tilts her face up to look at him.
She'd been halfway through her impromptu book surgery, with the spine cut into pieces and the pages in the delicate process of being resealed, when it had occurred to her that perhaps this battered old thing was precious somehow—as if by changing any part of it, she might be ruining it as a token. After all, the book's pages are very faded and the edges of the cover rather rounded out and banged blunt from the wear of travel. Maybe these things matter. But of course by then it had been rather too late to do anything about it other than carry on and hope for the best.
Some measure of her relief must show clearly in her expression, in her careful (upside-down) examination of him.
"Are you? You must think nothing of it. It really took no time at all," is naturally contradicted by how long she has been in possession of the little book. A printer was consulted. An essay on the subject was read. She is a very poor hand at marbling paper and had ruined the first few sheets of stock she'd attempted to color.
She knows how it must seem and so veers away from that point with all expediency.
"Can I ask you something, Mr. Ellis?"
She'd been halfway through her impromptu book surgery, with the spine cut into pieces and the pages in the delicate process of being resealed, when it had occurred to her that perhaps this battered old thing was precious somehow—as if by changing any part of it, she might be ruining it as a token. After all, the book's pages are very faded and the edges of the cover rather rounded out and banged blunt from the wear of travel. Maybe these things matter. But of course by then it had been rather too late to do anything about it other than carry on and hope for the best.
Some measure of her relief must show clearly in her expression, in her careful (upside-down) examination of him.
"Are you? You must think nothing of it. It really took no time at all," is naturally contradicted by how long she has been in possession of the little book. A printer was consulted. An essay on the subject was read. She is a very poor hand at marbling paper and had ruined the first few sheets of stock she'd attempted to color.
She knows how it must seem and so veers away from that point with all expediency.
"Can I ask you something, Mr. Ellis?"
"No time at all" is not the truth. Ellis doesn't need to call her on that, because it changes nothing. Wysteria did something kind for him when she hadn't needed to, and Ellis understands exactly what it is to want as little attention called to that as possible. Is this garden not something similar?
At the question, Ellis reaches over to draw one of the buckets over to sit on. He has some sense that whatever she's going to ask might be something he'd rather not answer, but on the off chance it's about the book, about one turn of phrase Ellis had read a thousand times but never paid particular mind to while Wysteria had plucked it out to consider how it relates to the Chantry or some historical event or how it may be an allegory for this or that, he'd like to be comfortable.
"I think so," he answers her, elbows set on his knees, hands folded loosely between them. "I can't promise I have the answer you're looking for."
Which tends to be the case sometimes, when they talk about literature.
At the question, Ellis reaches over to draw one of the buckets over to sit on. He has some sense that whatever she's going to ask might be something he'd rather not answer, but on the off chance it's about the book, about one turn of phrase Ellis had read a thousand times but never paid particular mind to while Wysteria had plucked it out to consider how it relates to the Chantry or some historical event or how it may be an allegory for this or that, he'd like to be comfortable.
"I think so," he answers her, elbows set on his knees, hands folded loosely between them. "I can't promise I have the answer you're looking for."
Which tends to be the case sometimes, when they talk about literature.
Asking in that way, she ought to have her question teed up and ready to strike the moment he agrees to make an attempt.
The trouble of course is that she has a half dozen. A full dozen. A long series of miscellaneous inquiries which she has saved up like some frugal old bat who can afford to buy whatever she likes but has been hemming and hawing on what is actually worth the coin.
(Oh, to be a penny pinching dowager, she thinks. The whim is unrelated and distant.)
What she settles on, with a rising sensation of foolishness and a slight grimace is—
"Is everything... well with you?"
The view from the corner of her eye is very sharp when she cares for it to be.
The trouble of course is that she has a half dozen. A full dozen. A long series of miscellaneous inquiries which she has saved up like some frugal old bat who can afford to buy whatever she likes but has been hemming and hawing on what is actually worth the coin.
(Oh, to be a penny pinching dowager, she thinks. The whim is unrelated and distant.)
What she settles on, with a rising sensation of foolishness and a slight grimace is—
"Is everything... well with you?"
The view from the corner of her eye is very sharp when she cares for it to be.
Something in his expression settles slightly, as if bracing against the inquiry.
There are two answers to the question. Ellis could simply opt for the one closest at hand: he is well in this moment, healthy and out of danger of immediate injury. But if Wysteria is asking, it is because she has discerned some wrinkle.
But this knowledge doesn't guide Ellis in how to navigate it.
"Do I seem unwell?" he asks finally, with the air of a man fumbling in the dark, seeking some touchstone to guide himself forward.
There are two answers to the question. Ellis could simply opt for the one closest at hand: he is well in this moment, healthy and out of danger of immediate injury. But if Wysteria is asking, it is because she has discerned some wrinkle.
But this knowledge doesn't guide Ellis in how to navigate it.
"Do I seem unwell?" he asks finally, with the air of a man fumbling in the dark, seeking some touchstone to guide himself forward.
"No, no. Nothing like that at all," she is quick to say, her attention veering away from him to the snake in the planter. She reaches out to touch along the tip of its tail, the creature's muscular little body rippling under her fingertip.
(Evidently direct exposure had been the right course to take in tackling certain aversions; congratulations on your discerning eye, Mr. Dickerson.)
"It's just the polite thing to do on occasion. To ask someone how they are. And also, it occured to me that other day that some time ago you had seemed slightly dissatisfied with the circumstances of your association with—Well. With Mr. Stark and myself. I was somewhat distracted at the time and failed to properly return to the subject to see it settled, but I suppose later to be better than never. Particularly now that there is Mr. Fitz, and de Foncé has elected to be so rude, and as we are all of us are being rather demanding of your time and expertise with respect to the Orzammar affair. That's all."
(Evidently direct exposure had been the right course to take in tackling certain aversions; congratulations on your discerning eye, Mr. Dickerson.)
"It's just the polite thing to do on occasion. To ask someone how they are. And also, it occured to me that other day that some time ago you had seemed slightly dissatisfied with the circumstances of your association with—Well. With Mr. Stark and myself. I was somewhat distracted at the time and failed to properly return to the subject to see it settled, but I suppose later to be better than never. Particularly now that there is Mr. Fitz, and de Foncé has elected to be so rude, and as we are all of us are being rather demanding of your time and expertise with respect to the Orzammar affair. That's all."
It takes Ellis a moment to think back, to remember Wysteria's tears in the alcove of the library and what he had told her then. It is still true.
His gaze drops briefly to the hands, the ground beneath their feet. The grass will need some attention here, he thinks vaguely before wrenching his focus back to Wysteria.
"I'm not dissatisfied with your friendship, or Tony's," Ellis tells her. Maybe he should be. Maybe he should have avoided being led into this situation at all, or at least ashamed of himself for not extricating himself from it. "You aren't troubling me with any of this, Orzammar or otherwise."
Well, not troubling in the way she means. Ellis is habitually troubled by how close experiments often veer towards danger, but that's a separate matter.
"None of it's to do with you," Ellis presses, sincere if not particularly illuminating. "I'm lucky to have your friendship."
His gaze drops briefly to the hands, the ground beneath their feet. The grass will need some attention here, he thinks vaguely before wrenching his focus back to Wysteria.
"I'm not dissatisfied with your friendship, or Tony's," Ellis tells her. Maybe he should be. Maybe he should have avoided being led into this situation at all, or at least ashamed of himself for not extricating himself from it. "You aren't troubling me with any of this, Orzammar or otherwise."
Well, not troubling in the way she means. Ellis is habitually troubled by how close experiments often veer towards danger, but that's a separate matter.
"None of it's to do with you," Ellis presses, sincere if not particularly illuminating. "I'm lucky to have your friendship."
Wysteria cuts a glance in his direction, something there on the tip of her tongue that she puts on reserve as she instead moves to fetch the snake from the planter bed. Like a well trained dog, the reptile answers Wysteria's simple command of 'Come here,' by bending back over itself. It slithers up into her hand and coils about the wrist.
With the snake transferred from the planter into her lap, she finds the thought still pressing despite how inconsiderate it is. Can't have a mysterious past without some hard limits lying around,' Mr. Stark had said of their mutual friend, but she has found more poked holes than barriers.
None of it's to do with you, suggests—
"But there is something. Troubling you."
With the snake transferred from the planter into her lap, she finds the thought still pressing despite how inconsiderate it is. Can't have a mysterious past without some hard limits lying around,' Mr. Stark had said of their mutual friend, but she has found more poked holes than barriers.
None of it's to do with you, suggests—
"But there is something. Troubling you."
Is there something troubling him? Maybe, but it won't do either of them any good for him to admit any of the sins rattling around his head.
"I'd rather not talk about things like that, Wysteria," he says, because he cannot bring himself to lie to her, nor to dismiss her out of hand. She is perceptive, and he doesn't care to divert that or to try and fool her into mistrusting her own impression.
But he doesn't want certain aspects of his life to touch hers. It leaves him with one option forward, which is stating his wish plainly and hoping for the best.
"I'd rather not talk about things like that, Wysteria," he says, because he cannot bring himself to lie to her, nor to dismiss her out of hand. She is perceptive, and he doesn't care to divert that or to try and fool her into mistrusting her own impression.
But he doesn't want certain aspects of his life to touch hers. It leaves him with one option forward, which is stating his wish plainly and hoping for the best.
It's a strange thing—to be both wrong in one direction and correct in another. But there's hardly any shame in modifying one's understanding of a thing, or a person, or whatever you please. And what Mr. Stark doesn't know, he won't needlessly crow over.
"Well, then I suppose I can hardly be expected to argue the point," is all pragmatism as she turns her hand in her lap so the snake can continue to sunbathe in some patch of light dappling her knee.
She looks at him, quite severe.
"But should it ever have to do with myself, or Misters Stark or Fitz or de Foncé or anyone else, then you must say so immediately and I will see about correcting it."
"Well, then I suppose I can hardly be expected to argue the point," is all pragmatism as she turns her hand in her lap so the snake can continue to sunbathe in some patch of light dappling her knee.
She looks at him, quite severe.
"But should it ever have to do with myself, or Misters Stark or Fitz or de Foncé or anyone else, then you must say so immediately and I will see about correcting it."
The sweetness of that offer catches him off-guard. It's overwhelming, to be afforded that kind of care. He has done nothing in his life to deserve this kind of loyalty, and yet, here is Wysteria, offering it up in absolute sincerity.
Ellis gets to his feet, leans down to kiss her forehead, hand light at her shoulder.
"You're too good," he tells her. Too good for him, perhaps too good for the whole of Thedas. "I'll remember that."
Ellis gets to his feet, leans down to kiss her forehead, hand light at her shoulder.
"You're too good," he tells her. Too good for him, perhaps too good for the whole of Thedas. "I'll remember that."
Recall this when she describes wanting to put slugs enchanted with lightning into people.
"Nonsense. Goodness has very little to do with it, Mr. Ellis," she informs him in no uncertain terms, pinching the back of his hand at her shoulder. "Now stop that. Your face is intolerably scratchy."
"Nonsense. Goodness has very little to do with it, Mr. Ellis," she informs him in no uncertain terms, pinching the back of his hand at her shoulder. "Now stop that. Your face is intolerably scratchy."
"Please. The two of us are quite good friends now, isn't that right?" This is addressed to the snake, who blinks back with its beady black eye and tastes the air with its dark tongue.
And that is that. For some time after, all traded notes and books and flowers and favors are incidental.
And that is that. For some time after, all traded notes and books and flowers and favors are incidental.
Edited 2020-08-27 04:16 (UTC)
It's early yet - a few days before the thing proper, and therefore far too early to be giving away gifts. But between Base Operations overseeing both a delayed provisioning request and a surprise donation of second hand armor and sabers willed by some eccentric old salle master in Ostwick, and a concentrated effort of the Research department to catalog a number of archival artifacts before year's end, and the brokering of the import of a particular cut of Orlesian walnut wood for the eventual stock of The Rifle, it promises to be a busy week indeed. If the thing is to be done, it had best be done promptly before she is too tangled in some other task to see the matter properly conducted.
Or she is just impatient. What difference does it make really? The sum of the thing is all the same: one brisk morning, between one steel clatter and the next, Wysteria simply appears on some convenient seat (an overturned bucket, a bale of old straw, or whatever have you) at the edge of the training yard as the morning drills are coming to a close.
She is waiting patiently, slightly pink in the face thanks to the chill of the fall air and wrapped in her bright red and elaborately embroidered half cloak against it. There is a largeish, roughly square, and only slightly lumpy package wrapped in brown paper then tied with twine balanced in her lap. What is perhaps most evident of all is that she hasn't come to practice her archery.
Or she is just impatient. What difference does it make really? The sum of the thing is all the same: one brisk morning, between one steel clatter and the next, Wysteria simply appears on some convenient seat (an overturned bucket, a bale of old straw, or whatever have you) at the edge of the training yard as the morning drills are coming to a close.
She is waiting patiently, slightly pink in the face thanks to the chill of the fall air and wrapped in her bright red and elaborately embroidered half cloak against it. There is a largeish, roughly square, and only slightly lumpy package wrapped in brown paper then tied with twine balanced in her lap. What is perhaps most evident of all is that she hasn't come to practice her archery.
Tillie points Wysteria out, nudging at Ellis' elbow as the drills wind down and the mix of guards begins to scatter. There's some bright, teasing implication in her expression that Ellis shakes his head at as he breaks off. He's a little sweaty, over-warm from exertion, and he has a small, bright smile for her as he approaches with his coat over one arm and his mace swinging at his hip.
"Did I forget we were practicing today?" he questions first, uncertain of what else brings her here. "It's a little early for you to have stopped at the market."
Though in the back of his head, he considers the possibility of Wysteria having some urgent project that needs his attention.
"Did I forget we were practicing today?" he questions first, uncertain of what else brings her here. "It's a little early for you to have stopped at the market."
Though in the back of his head, he considers the possibility of Wysteria having some urgent project that needs his attention.
"Neither, I'm most pleased to say," she announces with a grin - it is very rewarding to surprise a person -, springing to her feet with a click of floral embossed boot heels on the yard's dusty paving stones.
The lumpy packet is held out to him with both hands; it sags slightly in its strings.
"I'll shortly be very occupied with work, and thought it would be best to give you your present early."
The lumpy packet is held out to him with both hands; it sags slightly in its strings.
"I'll shortly be very occupied with work, and thought it would be best to give you your present early."
The immediate reply: Ah.
He thinks immediately to his own plans, the parcel wrapped and sitting at the end of his bed in the Gallows. Ellis tsks a little over the package, expression somewhere between embarrassed and pleased, before lifting the package from her hands.
"Well, sit with me while I open it," he stipulates, tapping Wysteria's elbow as he nods towards the hay bale. "I can already tell this is too much."
As far as Ellis is concerned, she'd given him an advance Satinalia gift when she repaired his book. He belatedly considers he might have said as much.
He thinks immediately to his own plans, the parcel wrapped and sitting at the end of his bed in the Gallows. Ellis tsks a little over the package, expression somewhere between embarrassed and pleased, before lifting the package from her hands.
"Well, sit with me while I open it," he stipulates, tapping Wysteria's elbow as he nods towards the hay bale. "I can already tell this is too much."
As far as Ellis is concerned, she'd given him an advance Satinalia gift when she repaired his book. He belatedly considers he might have said as much.
"You say so now, but I guarantee you will be little more than fully exasperated once you see what it is."
She sounds extremely pleased with the prospect, and is indeed quite happy to sweep her skirt forward so she might sit back down with room left on the hay bale to accommodate his company. That she doesn't set her chin eagerly in her palm is due entirely to the fact that it would require leaning inconveniently far over to do so, and so Wysteria satisfies herself with picking at some loose thread of her gloves.
Beyond the carefully tied twine and the plain paper is folded a quilted gambeson, cut of a blue cloth a series of shades brighter than any Warden might usually wear. It's a well made, if economical garment with lacings rather than buttons or clasps, and very little in the way of decorative pinning where the quilting's stitching crosses, or colored edge piping, or any of that nonsense which would be largely wasted when worn under various arrangements of plate.
It also is very obviously wrapped around a suspiciously book-shaped weight. But before he can get any farther, Wysteria sees fit to interrupt with an explanation: "It's for Satinalia. The party, I mean. And any other time, I suppose - I've been assured it's perfectly serviceable all on its own. But I thought since you'd agreed to be my dance partner that it would be humorous for us to match. And this way I can heroically save you from anyone else who might want to engage you for the evening without so much as a word."
She sounds extremely pleased with the prospect, and is indeed quite happy to sweep her skirt forward so she might sit back down with room left on the hay bale to accommodate his company. That she doesn't set her chin eagerly in her palm is due entirely to the fact that it would require leaning inconveniently far over to do so, and so Wysteria satisfies herself with picking at some loose thread of her gloves.
Beyond the carefully tied twine and the plain paper is folded a quilted gambeson, cut of a blue cloth a series of shades brighter than any Warden might usually wear. It's a well made, if economical garment with lacings rather than buttons or clasps, and very little in the way of decorative pinning where the quilting's stitching crosses, or colored edge piping, or any of that nonsense which would be largely wasted when worn under various arrangements of plate.
It also is very obviously wrapped around a suspiciously book-shaped weight. But before he can get any farther, Wysteria sees fit to interrupt with an explanation: "It's for Satinalia. The party, I mean. And any other time, I suppose - I've been assured it's perfectly serviceable all on its own. But I thought since you'd agreed to be my dance partner that it would be humorous for us to match. And this way I can heroically save you from anyone else who might want to engage you for the evening without so much as a word."
Edited 2020-10-21 18:08 (UTC)
It's a fine piece of clothing. It will very easily be one of the finest things in his limited wardrobe, though Ellis' instinct is to make sure it's set aside for the times when some disaster of necessity forces him along on a diplomatic mission.
"That's very gallant of you," Ellis tells her. "And solves the question of what I should be wearing to that party, so you've done me a favor."
Because Ellis is still laboring under the illusion that they'll do a few dances together and he'll spend the rest of the evening on the sidelines. He has some passing sense that the matching is part and parcel of being someone's dance partner, even if the most elaborate gatherings he's attended haven't required it of him.
"Should I continue?" he asks, looking sideways at her.
"That's very gallant of you," Ellis tells her. "And solves the question of what I should be wearing to that party, so you've done me a favor."
Because Ellis is still laboring under the illusion that they'll do a few dances together and he'll spend the rest of the evening on the sidelines. He has some passing sense that the matching is part and parcel of being someone's dance partner, even if the most elaborate gatherings he's attended haven't required it of him.
"Should I continue?" he asks, looking sideways at her.
"Go on," she says, then promptly amends with, "Oh, but you must also wear some of your armor. Not all of it, mind. Just a few pieces to imply the general effect," before lapsing into anticipatory silence. The thread on the glove is abandoned in favor of drawing the edges of her short cloak a little tighter about her on account of, obviously, the weather.
The book is so well worn that it must be a second (or third, or fourth-) hand purchase, the stamp lettering of its exterior worn largely away so that its title is legible only by the interior bookplate: Rural Scholar Series II: Principles of Floriculture by Merwyn A. Hughes. A very brief note is written on the inside - Best Wishes! -W.A. Poppell, 9:46 -, and tucked in alongside it is a packet of seeds bearing the simple description of 'pincushion flowers' written in some spidery scrawl which emphatically doesn't belong to Wysteria.
"My friend in Markham says he's had no luck growing them out of doors this far north as the climate is very different from near Calenhad. But I was assured they might take in a pot if kept in a cool, shady place and treated with some care."
The book is so well worn that it must be a second (or third, or fourth-) hand purchase, the stamp lettering of its exterior worn largely away so that its title is legible only by the interior bookplate: Rural Scholar Series II: Principles of Floriculture by Merwyn A. Hughes. A very brief note is written on the inside - Best Wishes! -W.A. Poppell, 9:46 -, and tucked in alongside it is a packet of seeds bearing the simple description of 'pincushion flowers' written in some spidery scrawl which emphatically doesn't belong to Wysteria.
"My friend in Markham says he's had no luck growing them out of doors this far north as the climate is very different from near Calenhad. But I was assured they might take in a pot if kept in a cool, shady place and treated with some care."
Later, when Ellis thinks back as to how he got involved in public spectacles, he'll consider this request and think, Ah, a warning sign.
But in the moment, he hums over it softly and nods as he unfolds the quilted fabric to reveal the second item. Would it be such a hardship to wear his breastplate? No. Comparatively, the larger undertaking had been learning the dances, so overall—
As the book is revealed, Wysteria is treated to Ellis' brief laugh at the title, before his expression softens between the inscription and the packet of seeds. He draws in a deep breath. (There's no way for Wysteria to know about the little house he'd grown up in, fence lined with these flowers, set out in a vase on the kitchen table.) He turns the packet over in his hands before setting it back down on the page, covered over with his palm.
"You went through too much trouble," he says, reaching to take her hand. "This, the seeds, it's very kind, Wysteria."
But in the moment, he hums over it softly and nods as he unfolds the quilted fabric to reveal the second item. Would it be such a hardship to wear his breastplate? No. Comparatively, the larger undertaking had been learning the dances, so overall—
As the book is revealed, Wysteria is treated to Ellis' brief laugh at the title, before his expression softens between the inscription and the packet of seeds. He draws in a deep breath. (There's no way for Wysteria to know about the little house he'd grown up in, fence lined with these flowers, set out in a vase on the kitchen table.) He turns the packet over in his hands before setting it back down on the page, covered over with his palm.
"You went through too much trouble," he says, reaching to take her hand. "This, the seeds, it's very kind, Wysteria."
There is a distinct flame of self-satisfaction which flares in answer to first his laugh and then the deep breath Ellis draws. She decides all at once that there is nothing quite so pleasant as successfully surprising someone, and so is very smug indeed as he takes her hand.
"Nonsense. Hobbies ought to be encouraged, which means the alternative would have been some kind of absurd fancy chicken. They don't wrap nearly so well."
"Nonsense. Hobbies ought to be encouraged, which means the alternative would have been some kind of absurd fancy chicken. They don't wrap nearly so well."
"No, perhaps not."
He folds her hand in his own, squeezes her fingers. What else can he say? Like so many small kindnesses she has bestowed upon him, Ellis lacks the words to fully express his gratitude. There's no way to frame the gesture for her. She's missing too much context and Ellis can't bring himself to provide it for her.
After a moment, he clears his throat, smiles sideways at her as his gaze lifts from where his hands cup hers over the cover of the book.
"You're going to have to help me name those chickens, you know. I've been promised six chicks in the spring."
He folds her hand in his own, squeezes her fingers. What else can he say? Like so many small kindnesses she has bestowed upon him, Ellis lacks the words to fully express his gratitude. There's no way to frame the gesture for her. She's missing too much context and Ellis can't bring himself to provide it for her.
After a moment, he clears his throat, smiles sideways at her as his gaze lifts from where his hands cup hers over the cover of the book.
"You're going to have to help me name those chickens, you know. I've been promised six chicks in the spring."
"I must do no such thing," she announces primly, delighted to put her foot down. "I will observe, I will be a willing ear should you wish to express some detail or two on the subject because I am your friend, I may even criticize. But what I refuse to do is to take an active role in the nurturing of farm animals. No, I am afraid they are entirely your responsibility."
She sniffs disparagingly to great effect and then, with her hand still comfortably in his, she adds—
"But were I to express my opinion, I might say that it would be amusing to call them Ser Tillers and Lady Shyna and Aldenon and so on. But again, I have no interest whatsoever."
She sniffs disparagingly to great effect and then, with her hand still comfortably in his, she adds—
"But were I to express my opinion, I might say that it would be amusing to call them Ser Tillers and Lady Shyna and Aldenon and so on. But again, I have no interest whatsoever."
"That's a clever idea."
A little distracted, stuck on the easy turn of phrase: Because I am your friend. It doesn't catch him off-guard, but it does linger, provoke some minor discomfort that he forcibly puts aside before it can dampen the moment.
"They'll tend to themselves once they're big enough," Ellis promises. "And the eggs will smooth things over with your neighbors, if we have some extra."
The explosions and fires have been fewer, but Ellis wants to shore up some good will in case the projects pick up again now that the weather has turned.
A little distracted, stuck on the easy turn of phrase: Because I am your friend. It doesn't catch him off-guard, but it does linger, provoke some minor discomfort that he forcibly puts aside before it can dampen the moment.
"They'll tend to themselves once they're big enough," Ellis promises. "And the eggs will smooth things over with your neighbors, if we have some extra."
The explosions and fires have been fewer, but Ellis wants to shore up some good will in case the projects pick up again now that the weather has turned.
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