Three years of pity from the remains of Hasmal Circle, as they watched someone who had been so capable struggle to relearn the simplest tasks, had left its mark on him. It wasn't maliciously meant--they simply didn't know any better--and yet it crept into his self-regard all the same, nibbling away at his confidence, leaving him estranged from the people he loved best.
But Van hadn't been there for any of it; he'd been off struggling for his own survival, unaware his cousin had been maimed. It's easy to forget that, with how readily they've fallen back into their old patterns in the past few weeks--but neither of them really fits anymore, do they, into the holes they'd left in each other's lives.
He doesn't like that feeling.
He sighs, pushing a hand through his hair.]
I know. I wasn't hearing you.
[He was listening to his own insecurities and you-can'ts instead.
In light of that Van's defense of him is heartening, even as it wrings a rueful half-believing laugh out of Myr.]
If I'm the best they've got, we're proper fucked next time Corypheus rears his head.
[A beat of a pause.]
He's got a lot of the same ideas you do--Anders, that is. No surprise there. But hasn't thought them through nearly so well.
Wouldn't have been much of a contest except I didn't think I could keep my temper long enough to work through all his assumptions.
[I know. I wasn't hearing you. How many vicious arguments could have been stopped in their tracks over the years if Vandelin had ever known how to say that? Even now, he still doesn't.
But for the moment, they're at their uneasy peace again. He laughs at Myr's self-deprecation in turn, but only because it's meant in jest. And as to the rest--well. That, from his cousin, is a high compliment indeed.]
I'd almost feel bad enough to give him some pointers, if he were anyone else. There aren't a lot of people I'd wish your temper on.
[He makes that low noise that serves him in the place of an incredulous whistle.]
Didn't know you hated him quite that much. [It's still partly joking.
But only partly.]
I backed off it after he started trying to convert me. Which he didn't do until I told him outright I was a mage, come to think--and that after I told him my name and where I was from. [Lightly,] Think I oughta be flattered he thought I was a templar or insulted he mistook me for shemlen with a name like mine?
[I don't, he would say, but it would ruin this, and there's too much he's missed about being able to talk to Myr like old times. Even his inability to whistle is endearing, when Van hadn't known a few weeks ago that he'd ever hear that idiosyncratic little noise again. It's worth playing along for.
And he can't help but laugh, really laugh, at the idea of that misconception.]
Okay, you already know what I'd say to that, but--he honestly thought you could be a templar? You gave him your full name and everything?
[It's good to hear Van laugh like that. It eases something in his chest he hadn't known was seized up.]
Give him the benefit of the doubt, though; I think he was in such a crashing great hurry to believe no mage would be upset with what he did that he turned a deaf ear to, well, everything else. If he's in the business of charity-healing he's got to see a lot of elves, right? [Because who else would, is the undertone.
Who else would but someone who couldn't look past his own prejudices of a different sort to notice one right under his nose.]
[Charity-healing, and charity-teaching, and other such pursuits that make mocking him leave a bad taste in Vandelin's mouth--but so too would defending him. He can't help but wonder, in the eternally wary part of his heart, if this conversation is some kind of test.]
Probably. I don't think anyone batted an eye when I walked in, but I'm not the one to ask. I was so concussed I wouldn't have noticed if Corypheus himself was ahead of me in line.
[It's a clumsy and slightly desperate grab at a change of subject, baiting Myr into asking about the circumstances. At any other time, and with anyone else, he'd be reluctant to bring it up at all--but he'd still sooner talk about it now than try to keep up a conversation so precarious.]
[Van's gracelessness goes unremarked upon; Myr's no less desperate to keep things on this temporary even keel and more than willing to follow a subject change if it avoids something more dangerous and liable to explode.
Besides which, he's been concussed that badly a time or two himself and hearing Vandelin confess to it evokes a sudden pang of worry.]
What the hell did you do to yourself? And how long ago was this? Did he keep you in for monitoring after?
[He might not be much of a healer himself, but when it comes to the kinds of injuries one can get in the course of a knight-enchanter's training, he knows his stuff.]
[He's relieved that Myr's willing to go along with it, and unexpectedly touched by the concern. It's hardly out of the ordinary for Myr; he's always been the one for explicit displays of affection and overt concern for others' well-being, but...still. It's one more thing Van wasn't sure he'd ever have the benefit of again.]
It wasn't long after I got here. It was fine, honestly. Just a mishap with that ogre-sized templar and a bookshelf in the library. [He ought to clarify, perhaps, which ogre-sized templar he means. He has only thus far had dealings with the one.]
He didn't...really keep me for long, as far as I remember. But all's well that ends well. And like I said, I didn't have to pay a thing for it, which is the important bit. [To him, anyway.]
[At this point it's so much of a reflex that even if Myr's anger at his cousin went deep enough that he'd want to deny Vandelin all affection...he couldn't. Caring about what family he's got is etched into him indelibly.]
--What! Ser Ashlock? [Of course that's where his mind would go.] What did he do? What did you do? You didn't pick a fight, did you? --No, you wouldn't. But what even happened?
[...Huff.] Well, if it was that long ago and he'd botched the job of healing you, you'd be showing effects by now. As long as you don't hurt yourself again that way.
Who? No, it--I don't know who that is. This one was a woman. Of course you know all their names already. [As if he hadn't been counting on that. He'd assumed, evidently at least half correctly, that Myr would already be familiar enough with every templar in the place that he could simply list a single trait and his cousin would know precisely who he meant.]
I told her I didn't need help reaching anything, and she practically climbed the damn shelf trying to prove me wrong. Of course, I got blamed when the thing fell over. [This is his version of events, and by the Maker, he's sticking to it.]
Anyway. It doesn't matter. I'm fine, the healing worked, the archivists have finally let me back into the library, and all is right with the world. Well. In a manner of speaking.
They still need stepladders, though. Maybe you can agitate for them. People like you.
Oh. [He sounds both relieved and embarrassed.] Ser Coupe, then. If she was Orlesian. Ser Ashlock's even bigger, if you can believe it. [...He realizes how fond he sounded there for a moment and rapidly clears his throat.] But yes, I'm working on meeting all of them.
[He sits and listens to all the rest of this with an increasingly puzzled frown on his face--why WOULD Ser Coupe do such a thing?--until that last bit slots the pieces into place.] ...If they don't have stepladders, how would you reach anything on the higher shelves?
[It's a leading question.
Absently,] People like you fine when you're not nettling them. But I'll try. Don't know how well my heartfelt appeal will work if it's obvious I won't be looking for any reading material myself.
[That tone of voice is not lost on Vandelin for a second, and his eyebrow arches sharply on the other end of the line, but he lets Myr correct himself without comment. It's just a bit of information to file away for later, with a secret little smirk.
That drops rapidly off his face at the pointed question, for which he does not have an answer that won't incriminate him. Myr knows him too well.]
Exactly.
And that's why they'd listen. [Myr says it so casually, so utterly matter-of-fact about his blindness, but Vandelin can't joke about it. He tries to match that tone, but the words sound half-choked.] They'll know that you're selflessly arguing on behalf of others, even if you can't benefit personally. I...
[His expression on the other end of the line is frozen, even if Myr can't see it via crystal (couldn't see it at all, no matter what, but don't think of that.) Myr has always had the dubious honor of being the one person Vandelin trusts almost as far as he could throw him--but in the scheme of things, that still doesn't say a whole hell of a lot, and he's now reminded why.
His voice, when it returns to him, is every bit as matter-of-fact as Myr's.]
On the other hand, it might not. You don't really have the best win/loss record.
[He shouldn't relish that audible reaction. He shouldn't be thinking fuck you, turnabout is fair play. But he does, because it is, and when he isn't sure Myr hadn't only been playing along to make him lower his guard and slip the knife in all the deeper--
(He's told himself, in moments of clarity, that he needs to set that kind of paranoia aside, but it creeps back in all too easily through every crack it can find.)]
Oh, no, I'm always glad to listen. You take care.
[He shuts the crystal off, and finds that the nails of his other hand have dug nearly hard enough into his palm to draw blood.]
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Three years of pity from the remains of Hasmal Circle, as they watched someone who had been so capable struggle to relearn the simplest tasks, had left its mark on him. It wasn't maliciously meant--they simply didn't know any better--and yet it crept into his self-regard all the same, nibbling away at his confidence, leaving him estranged from the people he loved best.
But Van hadn't been there for any of it; he'd been off struggling for his own survival, unaware his cousin had been maimed. It's easy to forget that, with how readily they've fallen back into their old patterns in the past few weeks--but neither of them really fits anymore, do they, into the holes they'd left in each other's lives.
He doesn't like that feeling.
He sighs, pushing a hand through his hair.]
I know. I wasn't hearing you.
[He was listening to his own insecurities and you-can'ts instead.
In light of that Van's defense of him is heartening, even as it wrings a rueful half-believing laugh out of Myr.]
If I'm the best they've got, we're proper fucked next time Corypheus rears his head.
[A beat of a pause.]
He's got a lot of the same ideas you do--Anders, that is. No surprise there. But hasn't thought them through nearly so well.
Wouldn't have been much of a contest except I didn't think I could keep my temper long enough to work through all his assumptions.
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But for the moment, they're at their uneasy peace again. He laughs at Myr's self-deprecation in turn, but only because it's meant in jest. And as to the rest--well. That, from his cousin, is a high compliment indeed.]
I'd almost feel bad enough to give him some pointers, if he were anyone else. There aren't a lot of people I'd wish your temper on.
[But he's missed it, in his way, all the same.]
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[He makes that low noise that serves him in the place of an incredulous whistle.]
Didn't know you hated him quite that much. [It's still partly joking.
But only partly.]
I backed off it after he started trying to convert me. Which he didn't do until I told him outright I was a mage, come to think--and that after I told him my name and where I was from. [Lightly,] Think I oughta be flattered he thought I was a templar or insulted he mistook me for shemlen with a name like mine?
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And he can't help but laugh, really laugh, at the idea of that misconception.]
Okay, you already know what I'd say to that, but--he honestly thought you could be a templar? You gave him your full name and everything?
Humans. Bless their giant hairy hearts.
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[It's good to hear Van laugh like that. It eases something in his chest he hadn't known was seized up.]
Give him the benefit of the doubt, though; I think he was in such a crashing great hurry to believe no mage would be upset with what he did that he turned a deaf ear to, well, everything else. If he's in the business of charity-healing he's got to see a lot of elves, right? [Because who else would, is the undertone.
Who else would but someone who couldn't look past his own prejudices of a different sort to notice one right under his nose.]
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Probably. I don't think anyone batted an eye when I walked in, but I'm not the one to ask. I was so concussed I wouldn't have noticed if Corypheus himself was ahead of me in line.
[It's a clumsy and slightly desperate grab at a change of subject, baiting Myr into asking about the circumstances. At any other time, and with anyone else, he'd be reluctant to bring it up at all--but he'd still sooner talk about it now than try to keep up a conversation so precarious.]
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Besides which, he's been concussed that badly a time or two himself and hearing Vandelin confess to it evokes a sudden pang of worry.]
What the hell did you do to yourself? And how long ago was this? Did he keep you in for monitoring after?
[He might not be much of a healer himself, but when it comes to the kinds of injuries one can get in the course of a knight-enchanter's training, he knows his stuff.]
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It wasn't long after I got here. It was fine, honestly. Just a mishap with that ogre-sized templar and a bookshelf in the library. [He ought to clarify, perhaps, which ogre-sized templar he means. He has only thus far had dealings with the one.]
He didn't...really keep me for long, as far as I remember. But all's well that ends well. And like I said, I didn't have to pay a thing for it, which is the important bit. [To him, anyway.]
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--What! Ser Ashlock? [Of course that's where his mind would go.] What did he do? What did you do? You didn't pick a fight, did you? --No, you wouldn't. But what even happened?
[...Huff.] Well, if it was that long ago and he'd botched the job of healing you, you'd be showing effects by now. As long as you don't hurt yourself again that way.
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I told her I didn't need help reaching anything, and she practically climbed the damn shelf trying to prove me wrong. Of course, I got blamed when the thing fell over. [This is his version of events, and by the Maker, he's sticking to it.]
Anyway. It doesn't matter. I'm fine, the healing worked, the archivists have finally let me back into the library, and all is right with the world. Well. In a manner of speaking.
They still need stepladders, though. Maybe you can agitate for them. People like you.
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[He sits and listens to all the rest of this with an increasingly puzzled frown on his face--why WOULD Ser Coupe do such a thing?--until that last bit slots the pieces into place.] ...If they don't have stepladders, how would you reach anything on the higher shelves?
[It's a leading question.
Absently,] People like you fine when you're not nettling them. But I'll try. Don't know how well my heartfelt appeal will work if it's obvious I won't be looking for any reading material myself.
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That drops rapidly off his face at the pointed question, for which he does not have an answer that won't incriminate him. Myr knows him too well.]
Exactly.
And that's why they'd listen. [Myr says it so casually, so utterly matter-of-fact about his blindness, but Vandelin can't joke about it. He tries to match that tone, but the words sound half-choked.] They'll know that you're selflessly arguing on behalf of others, even if you can't benefit personally. I...
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seesnotices what you did there, Van, but elects not to pursue it. He'll take the evasion as a point scored.And maybe go ask the archivists how far up the shelves his cousin managed to climb before toppling them.]
Well, and that's something I've got plenty of practice doing. [He keeps his own tone light.] There's just that extra bit of pathos now. Might work.
[He's being cruel. He knows he's being cruel and a part of him wants desperately to apologize--but why should he when Vandelin still hasn't.]
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His voice, when it returns to him, is every bit as matter-of-fact as Myr's.]
On the other hand, it might not. You don't really have the best win/loss record.
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I believe, [stay calm, stay even, don't let him know how much that hurt, though it's already too late,] I've taken up more than my share of your time.
Have a good afternoon.
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(He's told himself, in moments of clarity, that he needs to set that kind of paranoia aside, but it creeps back in all too easily through every crack it can find.)]
Oh, no, I'm always glad to listen. You take care.
[He shuts the crystal off, and finds that the nails of his other hand have dug nearly hard enough into his palm to draw blood.]