[open]

[brittlest]

Who: Michael Ralston & Various
What: Catch-all for August
When: post-Horizon, but will probably use this space as I see fit throughout the month.
Where: Castle Thorne
Notes: Feel free to hit me up on discord or plurk if you want to plot something or want a ~*~bespoke~*~ starter. Prose or brackets are a-okay; I'll match your preference. See Ralston's optional opt-in info HERE.

THE CASTLE.

There is a man in Castle Thorne who walks with a cane and has made little effort to seek out anyone's company. By all accounts, he is easily missed and cuts a fairly unremarkable figure—he is neither particularly tall or short, nor especially good looking or plain. In fact if not for the tell-tale tunic and trousers and a penchant for haunting the guest quarters, he might be easily mistaken for some servant or native of the castle who is only as interested in these out-of-world travelers as he is employed to be.

And yet—

[A] Here he is, making use of the library available to Thorne's 'honored guests'; he has rooted his way to some back series of shelves, and is presently standing at the foot of a ladder clearly doing the mental math on scaling it to reach an upper series of books when movement at the end of the stack draws his attention. Ralston snaps his fingers at whoever has had the distinct misfortune to cross paths with him, saying,

"You. Step this way for just a moment."

[B] Or he is in some quiet courtyard available to Thorne's guests, sitting on some bench in the shadow of a high stone wall where the air of the day is most temperate. He has an orange in hand, and is peeling it slowly with every appearance of waiting for someone. Ralston's dark eyes search out any figure who happens to pass across the yard. If he happens to recognize them as either an ex-prisoner or someone who has demonstrated a particular talent for the little magic spells being taught by the Thornean mages, he will whistle to get their attention and motion for them to come closer. Worst comes to worst, he might flick a bit of orange peel in your direction to clarify the urgency of his demand for conversation.

[C] Or, rarest and strangest of all, Ralston might be found in some part of the castle where he shouldn't be. Perhaps it is a merely a rarely used back staircase, or a quiet corridor in some wing of the castle which guests have ostensibly been discouraged from visiting, or he is quietly letting himself into a room in which he has no business being.

WILDCARD.
[You know the drill. Feel free to hit me up on disco or plurk if you feel moved, but I can roll with pretty much anything.]

Comments

[sankt]

Where Ralston chooses to rest is fine, more or less; it's the suggestion of moving Kirigan's torpid body that sucks all the humour out of his expression.

"You will not touch me for any reason," he says, with a sudden severity that may seem incongruous to his restful posture until one notes the closed fists resting on his knees, knuckles up. "Is that clear?"

[brittlest]

The sharp edge to it draws his attention and in answer some flickering shape is made narrow and keen. For the briefest moment, Ralston there at the foot of the bed seems startled, a stripe of uneasiness written with bizarre clarity in a face that is otherwise so remarkably closed and barbed.

And then it's tucked away, made hidden or erased as quickly as it had manifested. Aware enough of himself to be cognizant of his own vulnerability, Ralston adopts a sneer in its place.

"You may rest assured that I've no interest in laying my hands on you."

[sankt]

"I didn't ask if you were interested." Still quite serious, but nonetheless seeming mollified, more by the surprise in Ralston's reaction than by the assertion that followed it. Aware, too, of the depth of curiosity likely to be reached by his sudden demand—and that look is as good an indication as any that it was. Now closing his eyes, "You will keep your hands to yourself."

And that's the last of what he says before making himself tranquil by rolling his shoulders, giving his head a little shake—less birdlike than if he were to nestle down into the thick fur-lined layers he so often wore in Ravka, but not by much. The awareness of his own fists seems to come on a delay, as after a moment of silence he stretches his fingers wide, turns his wrists, and leaves his hands newly relaxed where they lie. Last of all—even after the deep breath that seems like it ought to be final—is the brief flexion and scuffing of his toes. Then he is still.

After not too long, his jaw loosens behind his lips, his spine loses its formal stiffness, and he seems to relax against the headboard.

[brittlest]

He waits.

One might expect it to be a natural state for him. After all, what are years spent in a dark place good for if not perfecting a man's ability to be idle? To say nothing of Ralston's habit of depositing himself in chairs for hours at a time or his practiced disdain for anything resembling being made to romp through the countryside.

But this is a different thing. Sitting at the foot of that bed, watching the tension ease of out Kirigan's body, he is aware of some prickling of irritation—a sulky resentment that is so childish that it's difficult to master. Jealousy for the thing that Kirigan is reaching out to. Balking resentment for being told what to do. Restlessness, in the way that caged animals often are. A long time ago, he had been that prone creature looking out and someone else had been in this role he keeps now. How loathsome it is to slip so easily into the space left behind by her.

He waits, his foot in a soft shoe rocking quietly from heel to toe and back again in a quiet restless rhythm. And looking closely as he does, there is something which creeps at Kirigan's edges that he can nearly parse. A dull shape. A point of pressure which slowly extends from the general to press like a thumb somewhere at Ralston's awareness.

"Kirigan," is a soft call. Can he hear him?

[sankt]

He can, says the frown that so gently plays at pulling his eyebrows together, the way one in deep sleep might seem to perceive some echo of the voice that tries to wake him. A reflex, brief, quickly smoothed away.

He can, less distantly than it appears. How tempting it is to sit still until it seems like he's deserted his body, while really waiting in ambush for the right moment to open his eyes into glittering black slits of judgement. But Ralston is likely to know the difference—he can sense these things. And the Singularity's call—that is very real. And so, grazing the cusp of departure, he decides he will slip away, but stand in the Horizon only long enough to count to ten. That seems to him a sufficient compromise. And so he does.

[brittlest]

It's obvious when he goes.

That sense of pressure gives—not dissipating, but cracking outward so the thing it holds inside can come out of it. A seed pod with something growing out of it. The widening of an aperture which allows light come through. To call it a thing which hooks and pulls would be inaccurate; but it is there, living and real. Present and close in a way few things are. And it's like he is standing once more on this side of that portal to which they'd been walked to those many days ago, sweat prickling and an ache in his marrow and the thrill of the Singularity waiting on the other side; only here in this quiet little room, it's Kirigan who has opened the easy way through to it.

How simple it would be, he senses, to slip quietly along to that place in the other man's wake. He memorizes the shape of it like it is a map. As if following it is a simple matter of remembering and not—

He doesn't stir from the foot of the bed. He doesn't touch him. But after a brief thrumming span of time, Ralston commands: "That's enough."

[sankt]

He does not hear him this time. A ten second count—then eleven, twelve, thirteen,

the Darkling gazes up at that strange monument from the very foot of it

fifteen, eighteen,

and lays his hand upon it, just to see. The spark that meets his touch first buzzes, then melts into a yawn, impossibly wide, a vast and ancient thing that first pulls his face slack and then creases it with something like strained recognition—

and still his face, his body, they do nothing.

[brittlest]

And then—

A sharp, ineslastic jab to the general's shoulder.

(It's too far for Ralston's hand to reach, but is well within range of the cane he's fetched back into his hand.)

[sankt]

With a hardening of expression, he snatches his hand away. He's overstayed. Time to return—

—just in time to be welcomed back to his body by a gentle stabbing. Almost before he's opened his eyes, he knocks the stick away with a blind, boyish, elbow-first gesture that can only accurately be described as flailing. Just the one flail. Immediately afterward, he collects himself—which means, in part, giving Ralston a cross look.

"Hilarious."

Technically complying by not using his hands, wow, incredible. Fucker. (Kirigan would've done precisely the same thing.)

"What happened?"

[brittlest]

The stick, knocked aside, is tilted up and back then tucked succinctly under his arm. It's a smooth thing and relatively untroubled by that sour look Kirigan points his direction.

(It would be easy to lie. You spoke; you called out; someone tried the blocked door and I thought to bring you back because of it. Something to legitimize his impatience.)

"You tell me."

[sankt]

If the following pause indicates anything, it's that he is not above kicking Ralston out of his own room and may, in fact, be considering it—but, no. He only brushes his hair back in case it's fallen out of place, which it hasn't, and then mindfully moves toward the edge of the bed to see about putting his feet back in his shoes.

"I was there." Obviously, he doesn't say; he pauses, actually, and rubs his thumb once across his fingertips, recalling a sensation. "I touched it. The monolith."

[brittlest]

"And?" Is biting in the way that hungry things sometimes forget to be mindful of their teeth. Yes, yes. Congratulations. Your hair is where it's meant to be, Kirigan.

"Was it as you remembered? Did it answer you?"

[sankt]

"In its own way."

He flicks an offhand gesture at Ralston: up. Get off the general's bed. The general himself remains seated, meanwhile, and goes on to say,

"It looked the same, but the way it felt... it reminded me of something from long ago." Longer than one might guess, looking at him—but this, what they call the making at the heart of the world, is older than old. It is the first thing. The first of anything. And he could say all this to Ralston,

or

he could say, shittily, "I'd try to describe it, but you really ought to lay your hands on it. If you're interested."

[brittlest]

He is slow to unwind himself at the edge of the bed, to shift toward standing, and indeed is only just rising as Kirigan makes his suggestion. Something sharpens in Ralston's face. Narrows, so that the flashing heat of temper fires only in his dark eyes rather than being writ broad through either his slanting brow or mouth.

Click. Leaning on the cane, Ralston straightens fully—or as near to it as he ever bothers with.

"Then the next time you go, I'll follow you down." Simple. Bristling. He didn't care to remain seated there at the foot of the bed like a faithful pet anyway.

[sankt]

This pleases him; it shows in the lift of his chin, his eyebrows, dark eyes bright with interest. With a little effort he could both look and sound much less condescending, which might be a nice fantasy to entertain while experiencing the reality of his presence.

"And how will you do that?"

[brittlest]

"I don't see how the method would be any of your concern," is snapped back, abbreviated in reply to that knowing tilt of the general's chin. If Ralston had hackles, they might ripple to standing. Instead, he just shifts his grip on the borrowed cane's smoothly curved handle and considers moving to fetch the small table from where it presently blocks any entrance or exit to this quiet, still room.

"Your passage into that place clarifies the way forward. The door stays open behind you."

[sankt]

"Fascinating."

He means it, according to the attentive movements of his eyes.

Ralston sounds as if he's done this before. Or something like it. But perhaps he's just extraordinarily adaptable—a fine quality to have, and one Kirigan expects of all his favoured Grisha. This stranger is turning out to be useful in unexpected ways, and the more this continues, the more firmly he resolves into a person-shaped thing with details worth examining.

"Is that all it would take? Another traveller nearby?"

[brittlest]

Fascinating.

Incredible, how loathsome that word can be under the correct circumstances. Ralston lifts his chin so he might return Kirigan's examination with a study of his own down the length of his faintly crooked nose.

"How should I know? We've only just begun."

[sankt]

The smile that phrase engenders is no kinder than the broader promise it contains.

"So we have."

These people, the people of Thorne and all those they love and all who might defend them, will come to regret what they have done. The pleasure he takes from this thought is that of a child closing his hand around a pebble, smooth and dark.

Ralston's reward: a momentary indulgence.

"Sitting up or lying down?"

[brittlest]

"I don't think we'd both fit in your bed," is snipped directly back, indulgence be damned.

There is a narrow chair which he frequently makes use of, much to the detriment of anyone else who might care to sit somewhere other than at the edge of their bed. With a disparaging sniff, Ralston shifts in pursuit of it now—dredging it around by its arm like a sullen child so that when he sinks down into it, he is facing Kirigan rather than some alternative.

(Though it hardly matters. He doesn't need to see him to sense his progress.)

[sankt]

This is new territory, a rare thing in so long a life, and Kirigan's appetite for it limns his mood enough to make him willing, but not enough to override his judgement. He doesn't yet know whether he can sit upright without support while travelling, as he's come to think of it, and isn't about to try with an audience when the result might be tipping face-first into said audience's lap—even the look on Ralston's face wouldn't be worth that indignity—so it's back to the headboard he goes, bare feet and all.

While settling in place, he murmurs, "You should be so lucky." Despite the timbre of his voice, which flows with a warmth not at all out of place at his bedside, the amusement it carries is unmistakably mocking. Right after, he clears his throat to banish it.

"We'll meet in the centre. There's a woodland nearby—stay clear of it."

[brittlest]

Don't tell me what to do, he doesn't say although it's written there in every sulky line of him and in the impatient flick of his wrist which hooks the borrowed cane at the chair's arm. One foot, still in its shoe, is kicked up onto the very edge of Kirigan's bed; and then the second one arrives as well, one ankle hooking across the other as Ralston's hands lace together over his middle. The glint in his dark eye suggests that even in Kalvad it must be poor manners to put your shoes in someone's bed.

"Don't tell me you've elected to protect someone's things while they're away. How shockingly sentimental, General."

This, as he settles into the depths of the chair with such devotion that it's as if he's willed himself to become a part of it.

[sankt]

"It's not for his sake, it's for yours," he says, thinking in advance of how annoying it would be to have to drag Ralston out of the raven boy's seductive wood or, even worse, to end up wandering there along with him. He says this while looking at Ralston's shoes.

After a deliberate pause, he looks to the face of the man himself.

Then he says, "I'd really rather not."

[brittlest]

From the depths of his chair, Ralston reflects back a studiously unperturbed look. You'd really rather not what? isn't a question which requires asking.

"Lie back," he says to the man who has already settled himself quite firmly against the headboard. "It requires concentration, doesn't it?"

[sankt]

Oh, Ralston.

He responds with a sigh, and turns his gaze aside, as though in concession to this—whatever this is. Assertion of autonomy. Rebellious compulsion. This ongoing argument Ralston is always making against everything. He has been more than patient with it—permissive, even. Polluting his bed, though, with the shoes he wears outside? While gently wringing his hands, the Darkling takes a second to imagine the horror witnessing such a thing might provoke among his Grisha—Ivan would be enraged by it, bless him—and finds it faintly comforting.

And then he flicks his wrist and lifts the shadow beneath Ralston's chair to knock it on its back, and doesn't even watch it happen. Good-bye.