[That gets him one of Horseriver's less brittle smiles. He'd left any true interest in revenge on people behind a long time ago, even as he'd held onto the revenge he knew he'd never really get (but he need something). But the offer holds meaning.]
No, and not simply because being stuck here holds its own punishment for many. Then they would bother you about it and the is no reason for you to have to deal with irritants for such a small thing.
[He holds out a hand, not as steady as he'd like but such things come with death. It's not a command but he can't make requests out-loud so his desire for contact can only be unspoken.]
I'm sure I could figure out a way to get away with it.
[Slightly indignant. It's been awhile since he did assassinations, and yes the toll makes for an interesting challenge, but - his professionalism isn't really what's important here. He leaves the tea to steep and jumps at the implied permission to come touch - normally he wouldn't wait for it, but Horseriver did just die. He climbs into bed next to him, wriggling neatly under the extended hand.]
I do not doubt your ability, Ser Fox. Even against the nose of a wolf.
There was a sickness, once - many times, but this one struck the camp hard. I died from an arrow on the field to wake up in the body of his son. Only just past six and already sick. I dislike being in the body of a child, it is a waste. It takes years to be able to truly influence anything.
[The other waste, the death of the children - well, he can't say it but doesn't think he has to.]
Not that I was trapped for long, I suppose it must have only been a few weeks at most, much of which I couldn't remember. At least they took my words to be fever madness.
Have I told you the story of how my world came into being?
[He wriggles around a little, ego mollified, gets comfortable curled up under Horseriver's arm with his head resting gently on Horseriver's chest, where he can hear his heartbeat and his breathing and the double-echo of his voice, inside and out, his own arm tossed over the other man's waist.]
[He runs a hand over Jedao's hair, resting it on the nape of his neck. This is an old story, in some ways, this first story, as history and as told to children. He's told the tale many time over the centuries, the storyteller's rhythm comes easily to him.]
First was the world and it was flame, fierce and ever changing. But the flame cooled and matter formed, a great globe with fire at its heart. In this fire that was the heart of the world slowly grew the World-Soul.
But a soul cannot see itself, not even the World-Soul. So it split in two, that it might perceive itself; and so the Father and the Mother came into being. And with that first perceiving, love became possible in the heart of the World-Soul. Love was the first of the fruits that the realm of the spirit gifted back to the realm of matter that is its fountain and foundation. But it was not the last gift, for song was next, then speech.
Between them, the Father and the Mother began to order the world, that matter might not be instantly consumed again by fire and chaos and rolling destruction. Together, in that first love, they bore the Daughter and the Son, and divided the seasons of the world among them, each with its special and particular beauty, each to its own lordship and stewardship.
And in the harmony and security of this new guard, the matter of the world grew in boldness and complexity. And matter strove to create beauty, from which plants and animals and men arose, for love had come into the heart of the world and matter sought to return gifts of the spirit to the realm of the spirit, as lovers exchange tokens.
But as the fire at the heart of world could learn love, it could also hold forces of destruction that could not be denied. And from this chaos rose the demons, who broke free and invaded the world to pray upon the fragile new souls growing there. The order of the world was disrupted, and winter and spring and summer and fall upended one into another. Drought and flood, ice and fires threatened the lives of men, and of all the marvelous plants and artful creatures that matter, infected by love, had offered on the altar of the World-Soul.
Then one day a powerful demon lord, wise and wicked from having learned from the consumption of many souls of men, came upon a man living alone in a tiny hermitage in a wood. Like a cat that wishes to to toy with their prey, he accepted the beggar's hospitality and waited his chance to leap from the worn-out body he presently possessed to the fresh new one. For the beggar, though clad in rags, was beautiful: his glance was like a sword thrust and his words a clear bell.
But when the demon lord drank the bowl of wine that had been given, he was confounded. For the saint had divided his own soul, and poured it out into the win, and given it to the demon of his own free will.
[He breaks off a moment, before catching hold of the story again.]
And thus, for the first time, a demon gained a soul, and all the beautiful and bitter gifts that it brings. And so he was born in that moment, into the world of both matter and spirit. And taking the hermit's body that was his free gift, and not stolen nor begrudged, he began to move in the world of matter, and fight the soulless demons on the gods' behalf in the places where They could not reach and restore the order of the seasons.
He became the Mother's champion and captain, and She loved him without limit for his soul's incandescent splendor. And from them was born the last god, the Bastard, love child of the goddess and the great-souled demon. The Bastard, of all the gods, was given agency of spirit and matter, for He inherited as servants the demons that His father's great sacrifice had swept out of the world.
[It's a good story. He likes it, even overtop the simple pleasure of listening to Horseriver tell it. Although it is a little confusing. He knows what the word bastard means, at least - there's a Shparoi equivalent, though not one in high language, not precisely.]
Why didn't the demon just join the marriage? Did the Father not like him?
It is not as if the Father and the Mother are married either, by human terms, they are simple of the same essence. I believe 'Bastard' is used just to mark things out of season, the one who knows both planes.
[But the tea is done, has been for a minute or two.]
Just a moment -
[He goes to pour and fix the cups for both of them, adds a little to Horseriver's cup for his throat and a little lemon to cut the sweetness, then brings them over and settles in beside him again.]
[That sounds - good, right, in a way he can't completely articulate. A little heresy. Although of course that doesn't quite make sense outside the context of the Calendar. He snickers a little at Horseriver's tone, half-muffling the noise against his shoulder.]
He is young and alive, for all he has some of the dark moods common to my family, he didn't understand the true search for death.
He survived the tortures they put him through for his own good, he learned young to hold fiercely. It was made him such a good player for both sides of the chase. [The pawn had become king, so Horseriver will grant him the title of one who was played instead.]
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[Which is as close as he comes to caring.]
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I don't really believe in revenge. Unless something else is at stake, it's just poor sportsmanship. But I'd hurt her if you wanted me to.
[Because that would constitute something else. And goodness knows the wardens aren't going to do anything. Zinzi was right about that.]
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No, and not simply because being stuck here holds its own punishment for many. Then they would bother you about it and the is no reason for you to have to deal with irritants for such a small thing.
[He holds out a hand, not as steady as he'd like but such things come with death. It's not a command but he can't make requests out-loud so his desire for contact can only be unspoken.]
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[Slightly indignant. It's been awhile since he did assassinations, and yes the toll makes for an interesting challenge, but - his professionalism isn't really what's important here. He leaves the tea to steep and jumps at the implied permission to come touch - normally he wouldn't wait for it, but Horseriver did just die. He climbs into bed next to him, wriggling neatly under the extended hand.]
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I do not doubt your ability, Ser Fox. Even against the nose of a wolf.
There was a sickness, once - many times, but this one struck the camp hard. I died from an arrow on the field to wake up in the body of his son. Only just past six and already sick. I dislike being in the body of a child, it is a waste. It takes years to be able to truly influence anything.
[The other waste, the death of the children - well, he can't say it but doesn't think he has to.]
Not that I was trapped for long, I suppose it must have only been a few weeks at most, much of which I couldn't remember. At least they took my words to be fever madness.
Have I told you the story of how my world came into being?
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No, not yet.
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First was the world and it was flame, fierce and ever changing. But the flame cooled and matter formed, a great globe with fire at its heart. In this fire that was the heart of the world slowly grew the World-Soul.
But a soul cannot see itself, not even the World-Soul. So it split in two, that it might perceive itself; and so the Father and the Mother came into being. And with that first perceiving, love became possible in the heart of the World-Soul. Love was the first of the fruits that the realm of the spirit gifted back to the realm of matter that is its fountain and foundation. But it was not the last gift, for song was next, then speech.
Between them, the Father and the Mother began to order the world, that matter might not be instantly consumed again by fire and chaos and rolling destruction. Together, in that first love, they bore the Daughter and the Son, and divided the seasons of the world among them, each with its special and particular beauty, each to its own lordship and stewardship.
And in the harmony and security of this new guard, the matter of the world grew in boldness and complexity. And matter strove to create beauty, from which plants and animals and men arose, for love had come into the heart of the world and matter sought to return gifts of the spirit to the realm of the spirit, as lovers exchange tokens.
But as the fire at the heart of world could learn love, it could also hold forces of destruction that could not be denied. And from this chaos rose the demons, who broke free and invaded the world to pray upon the fragile new souls growing there. The order of the world was disrupted, and winter and spring and summer and fall upended one into another. Drought and flood, ice and fires threatened the lives of men, and of all the marvelous plants and artful creatures that matter, infected by love, had offered on the altar of the World-Soul.
Then one day a powerful demon lord, wise and wicked from having learned from the consumption of many souls of men, came upon a man living alone in a tiny hermitage in a wood. Like a cat that wishes to to toy with their prey, he accepted the beggar's hospitality and waited his chance to leap from the worn-out body he presently possessed to the fresh new one. For the beggar, though clad in rags, was beautiful: his glance was like a sword thrust and his words a clear bell.
But when the demon lord drank the bowl of wine that had been given, he was confounded. For the saint had divided his own soul, and poured it out into the win, and given it to the demon of his own free will.
[He breaks off a moment, before catching hold of the story again.]
And thus, for the first time, a demon gained a soul, and all the beautiful and bitter gifts that it brings. And so he was born in that moment, into the world of both matter and spirit. And taking the hermit's body that was his free gift, and not stolen nor begrudged, he began to move in the world of matter, and fight the soulless demons on the gods' behalf in the places where They could not reach and restore the order of the seasons.
He became the Mother's champion and captain, and She loved him without limit for his soul's incandescent splendor. And from them was born the last god, the Bastard, love child of the goddess and the great-souled demon. The Bastard, of all the gods, was given agency of spirit and matter, for He inherited as servants the demons that His father's great sacrifice had swept out of the world.
So the story goes.
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Why didn't the demon just join the marriage? Did the Father not like him?
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It is not as if the Father and the Mother are married either, by human terms, they are simple of the same essence. I believe 'Bastard' is used just to mark things out of season, the one who knows both planes.
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Not an entirely enviable position.
[But the tea is done, has been for a minute or two.]
Just a moment -
[He goes to pour and fix the cups for both of them, adds a little to Horseriver's cup for his throat and a little lemon to cut the sweetness, then brings them over and settles in beside him again.]
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[He takes the tea, holding it carefully so as not to spill.]
People pray to avoid His attention more than they pray for it and yet he is the balance and the chaos that is...needed.
[His smile grows even more wry.]
He was never my god.
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[That sounds - good, right, in a way he can't completely articulate. A little heresy. Although of course that doesn't quite make sense outside the context of the Calendar. He snickers a little at Horseriver's tone, half-muffling the noise against his shoulder.]
I shudder to think.
[With the same dryness.]
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He's the god of jokes, too. Imagine if I had a sense of humor.
[Which he clearly doesn't.]
As I've been forced to deal far too often with practical theology, I believe the story has things the wrong way around.
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Enlighten me, then.
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[He laughs, sharp and sudden.]
Ingrey thought I wanted to become a god. He was clever enough to put together more than I had...expected but some of his conclusions were amusing.
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[Which is to say: he'd take that bet.]
A little information can be a dangerous thing.
[Or at least seen you far awry.]
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He is young and alive, for all he has some of the dark moods common to my family, he didn't understand the true search for death.
He survived the tortures they put him through for his own good, he learned young to hold fiercely. It was made him such a good player for both sides of the chase. [The pawn had become king, so Horseriver will grant him the title of one who was played instead.]