Many thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Mille Libri and ShebasDawn!
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Chapter Nine: Dubious Victory
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He had won.
As Ives' eyes jumped open to searing midday light and the ringing of the noontime bells, that was the first thought that filtered through his groggy mind. The next, in very short order, were the muscle impulses to reach up and grab his head, and make a guttural sound that appropriately described the pain he now felt, respectively. The natural progression was for him to stay curled like that, his arms shielding his eyes from the light and his hands raking into his hair, wet with cold sweat that had undoubtedly come from his dreams.
Dreams... Were they dreams, or memories? They had felt so real, down to the feel of burning muscles and the straining for breath resulting from the exertion of the dance. And then, after... it was hard to make sense of what came after the dance. The kisses... he remembered three, very clearly, and the last had given him so many questions. There was a look in Martin's eyes he'd never seen before, and it was so hopeful that Ives' more pessimistic side preferred to assume it had never really happened. Then again... the sting of that pinprick was rather real, and his neck still hurt from it. Not so badly as his head, though.
More than the throbbing, Ives hated that he had won, yet he still hadn't learned that much at all. There had been breakthroughs, but... Never before had he been given so very much, yet walked away knowing so little. Artana would be livid that he was going to have to divide his attention, too. He sighed heavily and let his hands slide down his face, then neck, and along the topmost scar on his chest, blinking away the last of the sleep in his eyes.
A few seconds later, Ives realized something was amiss. Shock did a healthy amount towards waking him all the way, and Ives threw off his sheet.
He wore only as much as the day he was born.
Ives racked his brain as his heart began to race, eyes widening slightly. He had most certainly gotten his shirt on after the dance at the very least, and he'd never removed his trousers. It was true he was somewhat concerned about what sexual activities may have happened without his consent, but he'd have to admit he expected something like that. Did they have sex? Surely the bed would be ... mustier if that was the case, but then, Martin clearly liked to fix imperfections. After he turned the matter over and over in his mind to try and glean information from the blackness of his unconsciousness, he finally shrugged at the futility of fretting over an outcome in which he'd been prepared to engage. Though I would have at least preferred to have chosen it, ah, lala... He is dangerous, a man in a world of his own rules and making, and the strength to support the grandeur.
As he shifted, the glint of fabric to the left of him caught his attention. Where Jean would have lain in the next bed (were he not in such need of comfort and cleaving to Artana) instead sat a neatly folded stack of clothes and likewise arranged items: Isabeau's box, a coiled note with a wax stamp of a castle silhouetted against a moon, and a small, familiar book. His blades were gone, and worse, his heirloom flute. That panicked him again, and he turned frantically to see if it could be located. On his bedstand, near a glass of water he was incredibly wary of, sat a new flute case - presumably with his flute still within. The old case, open and empty, was sitting in the wastebin near the writing desk: he could see it from where he sat. This was his room, but it was hard to say it felt like home with so many intrusions. Life for Isabeau must have felt so every day.
Drawing in a breath, Ives reached for the note and broke the seal, unfurling it carefully, as if it might bite.
"I will forgive the theft of my angel's gift," he murmured as he read, glancing to the little box he'd yet to quell his curiosity over, then continued, "but insist on giving you one of your own. ... One of your own." The prayer book? Ives put the note down and reached for it. It didn't take long at all to realize it was Cateline's book, complete with the dusky blue ribbon that had been her first favor to Jean - and, thus, belonged to his brother. How could I have forgotten? This was hopeful, though Ives couldn't say it was compassion for Jean on Martin's part - just consideration for what Ives might like. There was an underlying compassion in that, though, and for a moment he stared at the ceiling, thinking again of those eyes.
With a great, melodramatic sigh, Ives flopped back onto the bed again and simply lay still awhile, turning over all of the same thoughts. In time the matter of Isabeau's 'gift' came to mind again, and so he picked up that box and held it before him, carefully lifting the cover. Inside lay an amulet, strikingly similar to the one that Livilla wore, save that the shape of the paw imprinted upon it was different. He furrowed his brow. He was no tracker or ranger, and thus did not know which animal each imprint represented. After a moment's hesitation, he laid a finger on the leather cord from which it hung, and a warning growl echoed in his head.
Faster than thought, he snapped the lid back onto the box and dropped it a safe distance away on the bed. Better to ask an expert, he decided, rubbing the faint scars on his neck as the memory of their birth echoed in his head.
That just left his flute, and he wasn't as certain about just picking that one up and carrying on as though it hadn't been handled by a murderer. A powder in the shaft, poison on the mouthpiece, some manner of trigger that would explode in a fiery, runic explosion... The last we can at least presume is an overactive imagination, non?
After a few moments of this little imaginative back and forth, he retrieved the flute case and put it on the bed, gave it a little shake before setting it on the blanket, then turned it over to examine it more closely. The new case was lovely, tailored to the flute almost to a disturbing degree - a detail which made him wonder about the nature and length of Martin's observance of him and his twin. A fine filigree of silver outlined the Durante crest across the front, while a smaller inset box of gold displayed the griffon of the Grey Warden on the back.
All in all, this was an item that spoke of the same twisted care Martin had shown in selecting Isabeau's presents: custom made and suited precisely to the recipient. His eyes moved to the discarded flute case, and he frowned slightly. "Yet you displace what was in our lives before, to make yourself a part of it." He glanced at the odd amulet that had been given to Isabeau, unsure how that fit into the overall scheme of things, then shrugged and returned his attention to the case before him.
"Ah, lala, my enigma, what dreadful surprise shall I find inside?" He could only pray it was just the case that was replaced, and not the flute as well. Finally he braced himself and opened the case slowly, revealing the secrets within.
His flute - a bit old, a bit weathered, and as dear as an old friend - lay nestled within a beautiful inner lining of dark gold velvet. On top of the flute, however, was a folded piece of paper with only his name written gracefully on it. A reluctant smile came to his lips. "As if any other would find it first." Still cautious, he retrieved the paper and opened it, curious how this note would differ from the other one.
Inside he found no words, only a drawing. His eyebrows rose and he remained silent as he saw a most unexpected subject - himself - lying in bed, naked but with a blanket drawn up over his hips. The salient anatomy was hidden tastefully enough to call the detailed shading and hatches fine art... except for one little detail. The suggestion of something beneath the blanket of which any man would be proud did make him chuckle, and he peeked below for a comparison reference. While both humorous and accurate a rendition, it was the depiction of his own face that arrested his attention. "Surely no one is that... perfect," he murmured. "Ah, and I thought we were past that age in the arts. But then, if he were mired in reality, I think we wouldn't have the troubles we do."
Ives folded the paper and put it back into the flute case, though he slid it underneath the velvet insert so that it would be secure for times to come. What a night - what a morning. He had an entirely new set of worries now beyond attracting the undivided attention of a sociopath who might very well prefer him to be some kind of unliving flesh golem than a person - obviously, said sociopath was complex. Ives only found solace in the fact that his hindquarters weren't sore when he stood. Coupled with the drawing, he even had sneaking suspicions he had been left alone last night. ... Relatively speaking of course.
Raking a hand back through his hair, Ives meandered to his dresser, pulled out a set of clothing that (unlike the one sitting on Jean's bed) he wasn't somewhat wary of, and looked out the window. "I hope that you think me idyllic come our next meeting. Else I might not protect Isabeau long after all."
A bath was in order and a night's worth of errands neglected. Staring aimlessly at the view wouldn't do today, so he slid on his pants (the minimum requirement for walking through the Keep whilst sober) and headed down to the basement to cleanse away some of the stress.
In the lazy hours that passed he was reminded that they would need transportation for the upcoming journey that he had almost forgotten about. It would have been nice to have a nice, relaxing vacation after such an extreme ordeal, but that truly would have been too easy. At least he knew where to secure said transportation with relative ease - and knew precisely who to ask to be his accomplice in acquiring it.
.~^~.
"Chèrie." It was a much changed Ives who called from the fence surrounding one of the training partitions: one who was dried and dressed and smelling of lavender from his exorbitantly priced scented soap. Though there were three trainees within the ring, it stood to reason that he was speaking to Isabeau - unless he made a habit of calling a surly-looking, scarred man who was no doubt a cold blooded murderer or a scrappy elven mage also of the male persuasion by the feminine diminutive chérie. "Can I steal you away?"
"Of course, lout," Isabeau said, stepping back and lowering her sword and shield before heading to Ives. The sword was smoothly returned to its sheath and the targe slung over her arm as she walked to him, followed by a cursory mopping at the sweat on her brow with a cloth. When she reached the fence, she grabbed one of the pitchers of water that was readily available throughout the practice area. "What do you want?"
Ives was distracted a moment by the evil look directed at him by the scarred man - presumably for taking Isabeau away - and only belatedly did he focus on Isabeau, after she'd begun to drink. "Making friends, I see. Ah, oui, I was wondering if you'd enjoy a little trip. Are you fond of horses? No tricks or puns," he assured her, "I'm merely inviting you to the stables. Ah, lala, and that is no entendre, either."
She lowered the pitcher, but her eyes didn't rise to meet his. "I... I do like horses. Pére had some horses." Her mouth twisted slightly, and she leaned over and put the pitcher down. "You won't need to teach me how to ride, but Livilla... She'll need a mount for the journey, but she's never ridden on horseback. We took a carriage most of our way from Montfort." Rubbing her hands against her trousers to wipe off most of the sweat, she quickly exited the training area and tucked her cloth into her belt. "Perhaps we could stop by my room first so I could freshen up? I'd prefer not to go anywhere near the Durante Estate looking like this, even if we are just going to the stables."
"As you wish, though I think you look as stunning as a rose, if perhaps you don't smell quite so fresh as one at this precise moment." He chuckled, hoping the mood would be contagious. Considering the night he had endured, his hopes were high to put as much negativity behind him as he could. "After you."
Though he did dance ahead enough to open doors for her despite her protests, their conversation on the way to her room was light and insignificant. The question of why precisely she was avoiding his eyes didn't come up just yet, though he did flip it round and round in his head as he waited outside her room for her to dress.
When she came out, her hair was tidied and braided, and she wore a tasteful dress of light blue samite. It was a riding dress, though, with a split skirt to allow mounting and unmounting of horses, and a pair of leather gloves were tucked into her waistband. "There. I think I'm ready to try some horses out. Hopefully the stables has mounts for people who are..." Her eyes glanced up to the top of his head before she looked away. "Less gifted with height than you. Livilla could ride a tall horse, but I might need you or Jean to give me a hand up if you don't have something a trifle shorter."
"We will see what can be done," Ives said with a chortle.
She'd been to the estate once before now, so this time the walk was something both of them could spend a little more time enjoying. Ives told her little stories as they went to fill the occasional silence, her continued dodges of eye contact avoided in the interest of ease.
"I've seen this property more times in three days than I had in two months. I'm torn as to whether it's a good thing or not. Ah, lala... This way, the stables are around back. Jean and I stable our horses here. Artana's mare Assan sometimes stays here, depending on the needs of the Wardens." His own little dappled stallion, Carrot, would be very pleased to meet the visitor to the stables, though Jean's Ebony could be a trifle standoffish to visitors. "There's ... been additions to the stables at the Keep thanks to Assan ... 'meeting' Carrot. The brilliantly creative name belongs to my stallion, of course. Her mare is named for what I've come to understand is the Dalish word for 'Arrow.' She certainly is fast." With the crunch of gravel beneath their feet on the drive and sweeping gestures to keep his words a little more interesting, they were happily able to completely ignore the barking of the grounds dogs and, no doubt, the barking of the resident mutt up in his study.
"I'm a bit surprised that... Bernard," the hesitation was obvious, even if the reason for it was not, "lets you keep such expensive animals here. I assume you have to pay for their housing, but why let you keep them here in the first place? For the children? Jennine would have to learn to ride if she wishes to achieve the rank of Chevalier, much less go farther."
"Ah, very astute, mon floraison, though I wonder how difficult a stretch it was to imagine Bernard was doing all within his power to rob us every sovereign he could. In fact yes, the children do often use Carrot, and both he and Jean's fine stallion from his station as a Chevalier are frequently used for breeding stock. Despite that we pay all the same, and honestly, I can't truly imagine Carrot terribly minds the existence." Once they reached the stable doors Ives once again held it aside for her, the eight stalls each filled with a fine specimen. "The rather plain, if lovely, fawn is Assan, the black one there is Jean's Ebony. As you can tell, we share a similar talent for naming, my brother and I. Ah, lala, and this charming rose dapple stud is my Carrot. I'm sure you can imagine what his favorite food is."
A smile did creep onto Isabeau's face at that comment, and for the first time she looked at him, as if to verify whether or not he had a grin on his face. "All right, I'll bite. Carrots?"
Naturally, as the bait was taken and she was so terribly curious about his face, he kept it as straight and bland as possible. As though he were a man who had heard that a thousand times if he'd heard it once, Ives simply announced in his most under-spiced tone, "Apples."
She reached out and bumped his upper arm with her fist, unable to stop her chuckle. "Lout. Stop playing us like lutes."
The laughter was contagious, so it bubbled from him, too, as he reached out to give a little push back. "You know, sometimes I think Orlesians forget the original meaning of the word game, hm? Ahh, but fine, I confess, Carrot adores his namesake. Isn't that right, my handsome, whorish little man?" Abandoning his hawkish scrutinizing of her face now that he'd seen a smile upon it, he retreated to lightly grasp his much beloved Nevarran breed's muzzle and rub his forehead against the long, flat expanse of his nose. "Who missed their daddy, hmm?"
"You're even more adventurous than I thought if that is true," she murmured. Ives caught a hint of her lingering smile as she reached up and stroked the neck of the tall black horse. As her fingers dug under his mane, the horse leaned into her hand eagerly. She smiled sadly and set her head against his, so her next words were muffled a bit. "How is your brother?"
"Oh, fine and well enough. He spent the night with Artana, so I'm sure he's worked out some frustrations, non?" Another short chuckle sounded, though it was less at his brother's expense and more out of jaded wonder if he'd had the same sort of end to his evening without even knowing it. "I imagine that man will be bothering us less from here on out. Jean will wind down eventually. Out of sight, out of mind, it is always said. By whom, a mystery, I am sure. I know more idioms than there are idiots and can't accredit a one to anyone. Ah, what is a bard to do!"
Her head lifted and jerked around when he mentioned that man, and her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. "Why do you say that? He didn't... I-" Ebony shook his head and nudged forward again, forcing her attention back onto scratching his forehead until his eyes once again were heavy-lidded with pleasure. "He won't give up." The weariness in her voice was enough to pull sympathy from Ives, and to draw him away from Carrot to bring attention where it was needed most. The horse wouldn't die of another five minutes by himself.
"I just have my suspicions he'll be busy with another, is all, chèrie. Besides, we will be on the road come morning. That will have to slow him down, at least a little. Why, not a single person I know can be in two places at once, don't you agree? He clearly has far too much meddling to do in Orlais to completely abandon it to tail a band of Grey Wardens." The sympathy he felt manifested in a soft smile as he rested a hand gently on her shoulder, squeezing it just so to remind her that he was here, and more importantly, Martin was not.
A heartfelt sigh escaped her as she leaned into him. "I admit, I'm looking forward to leaving Val Royeaux. He's never followed me into the countryside, though I haven't been in them much beyond simple travel. I'm still surprised how quickly he found us when we came here. How he found out where we were going..." Her voice trailed off, and her hand fell away from Ebony as her arms crossed her body in a close self-embrace. "I still wouldn't wish him on anyone else, though. He seemed obsessed with Livilla until she marked him, and then I started getting more presents than ever for a while." She looked up at him, and he saw her tiredness in the smudges under her eyes and the hollowness of her cheeks. "At least once we go, he won't have a reason to target the children. He's... very good with children, when he needs to be."
Ives was silent for a good few moments more than was awkward, but in the light of the emotion lingering in the air, it didn't read that way. His fingertips brushed one of her hollow cheeks and slid to her chin, tilting it up just so that the light would hit it in a way to hide the pallor of exhaustion. He smiled more intently, more contagiously, and brushed along her chin as he pulled back his hand. "Well... I wouldn't wish him on you. Come, we've got to pick you a horse yet, and whisk it away before Bernard becomes more the wiser."
Her smile grew in response to his, but her hand waved in the air as she straightened into a more ladylike posture. "He's not very difficult to bribe, I've noticed. I possess far more valuable items than Montfort Red, if it comes to that." Ives marvelled at how she didn't even seem to notice the motion herself when her arm slipped neatly alongside his, hooking to tangle them in a very friendly posturing. As her eyes examined each new horse, she said softly, "I just wish there was something I could give Jean to make the smile return to his eyes."
Though Ives moved smoothly along with her through the stables which he had every intention to larcon, inside he had been given considerable pause. It wasn't anything he was going to comment on, but the simple fact she'd even noticed that about his brother was a hopeful little glimmer for him. Good friends could become more, after all. Maybe even distractions from a shared suitor. "Ah, well, I can dream," he muttered off-hand, sighing dramatically as Isabeau slowed to a halt before the horse in the last stall on the left. "This one caught your eye, has it?"
Isabeau nodded thoughtfully. "Fourteen hands is usually what I prefer. Is she thirteen or fourteen tall?" Releasing Ives' elbow, she stepped forward and held out her hand, clucking her tongue softly to make the horse come to her. With an experienced hand she reached up and began to scratch the horse's neck, her face softening as the mare wickered softly and nuzzled at her hair. "Oh, she's got a lovely personality, too. What is her name?"
"Oh, knowing Bernard, probably Stock Mare Sixteen. That burden can be all yours, as the theft shall be all mine. There's her saddle there. It won't be fitted to you, of course, but at least it's fitted to her. Make sure you steal away every accoutrement you see - my next return is going to be a colorful one once Bernard discovers the empty stalls later." He winked at her before backing away. "Ebony takes a particularly dreadful amount of time to dress. Hopefully Jean won't be expecting the full heraldry. At least Artana rides bareback. One less saddle to orient."
"Hmmm." Isabeau tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Then let's pick out a horse for Livilla while we can." She moved her hand back to the horse which still sniffed at her and patted her gently. "And I think you shall be Rhea, after Mama's horse." With a final rub, she let go of the horse and headed back to another stall where a tall, lanky mare of a nondescript greyish brown had stuck her head over the stall door and was watching them carefully. "How's the gait on that one? Livilla will need one gentle enough to compensate for the fact she's never ridden before."
Ives really had no defense for the way he giggled, but the opportunity in those words was just far too much for him to ignore. "Hasn't she?" he asked with perfect innocence. "Well, I don't think it would be too much for her to handle. She seems a formidable woman. I trust she'd even enjoy it. Quite a bit of power between her legs... and of course, as is often the case with a well-trained stallion, she'd have the run of him for it."
"That is clearly a mare, you lout!" She stamped her foot, possibly to offset the smile that was vying for attention on her mouth with a frown. The frown won out, finally, as she looked at the mare. "And... and she really wouldn't like you to talk about her like that."
Ah, as soon as he had begun to chuckle, there was the sting that could take it away. His good mood suffered under such fire, Livilla's comparing his compliments to Martin's fresh on his mind. The oddity of a lesson on the matter of appropriateness coming from a source other than his brother only compounded it. "I find it a sin that she cannot enjoy herself. All those who would shun her or try to make her suffer more... They deserve that treatment, not Livilla. I trust there's a part of her within that would quite enjoy banter like this, non? Yet here we stand, wondering how her head would hang or her heart would ache. Livilla is a charming woman. How unfortunate her outside does not match within. The world is too unkind a place to see it."
Isabeau bit her lip and looked away, back to the mare she'd spotted earlier. Her response was not immediate, either, as she went to the horse and began to introduce herself. Finally, after the animal's curiosity had been answered to a degree, she said quietly, "When we were young, she was more... lighthearted, it is true. The world has not been kind, but in this case... she may blame Martin, but it is more than that." Her dark blue eyes landed on Ives. "The only man she has taken to her bed was blind - a Warden veteran who enjoyed the sound of her laugh. His Calling came the year after." Her hand patted the mare without thought as she frowned. "In this case, it is also more than just a matter of 'enjoying herself.' It's because it is-" The horse interrupted her, nudging her forcefully for more attention. Isabeau complied, falling silent as she scratched at the horse's neck with more vigor than before. Clearly the horse was no ally of his.
He stepped forward a half step, a frown on his own lips. She kept her eyes turned away from him with good reason, knowing how much he could search for in them. At this point he couldn't hope to finish her sentence for her, even despite all of his experience with the world's less-than-endless variances in human beings. Isabeau had always proven to be among the least predictable he'd ever met, though. "No doubt that fortune is unearned. But ... I cannot hear words unspoken. What more a matter is it?" It had been surprising (at the least) to hear Livilla's confession that day, but knowing as little as he did about her so far had been a bit of a frustration for him for weeks now. It was another crusade he yearned to embark upon, but with Martin such a challenge as he was, even Ives had to wonder if he had the capacity.
Isabeau sighed. "That is for Livilla to tell." She stroked the horse one final time, then turned to Ives. "So, shall we take these two now? How did you want to handle the acquisition?"
With little hope to persuade this discerning warrior, Ives put his attention to what he could manage. "Ah, the horses... Yes, well, I intended to saddle the four, bridle Assan, and then tie the three bridles to the two we ride. That ride I intended to be a calm canter out of the estate. It should be simple. Well, until Bernard realizes that we've taken more than our own." Clearly not too concerned about that, Ives chuckled again, trying to reintroduce the good mood. "Let me worry about that, though. What is the worst he could possibly do?"
"While we are gone? Not much, considering Jennine is more than his match." She smiled at him. "I can't imagine he would be able to budge the children's opinion of Jean, after all, and so there will be time for his anger to fade back to its customary level of nominal apoplexy." She shook her head, then looked around. "So, time to start saddling?"
"Mm, no thank you. I think we'll use them on the horses instead," Ives said, smirking even as Isabeau glared at him.
.~^~.
A few hours later - four new horses safely in the Wardens' stables alongside the returned Assan - Ives was whistling and in a much improved mood. They would be leaving Val Royeaux soon. That was a mixed point for him - he would miss his home, despite its Game, but there was no cure waiting for any of them in Val Royeaux. Artana's combat record alone had easily earned her the right to find a retirement that didn't involve wading through muck and mire 'til she died to the darkspawn.
He and his brother? They had obligations within Val Royeaux that were best not left to others, if it could be avoided. Unlike Artana, though, with adequate self-preservation, they had over twenty years to avoid the fate of their own Callings. This time next year might be lonely indeed if they weren't successful, but he'd done vast amounts of research. He had nothing but optimism. Borne of corrupt dealings in the Orlesian Circle Tower in a time of rebellion, he knew the medallions they sought existed somewhere. He knew their purpose, and as such he knew there was hope. In some ways, he wasn't all too demanding: hope was enough to sate him for now.
So with their mission in his mind and Martin far from it, and the amusement from imagining Bernard's face when he realized hundreds of sovereigns worth of equine equity had simply trotted right out from under his nose, Ives' good mood persisted. His steps carried him (in time with his whistling) around the corner of the Keep and back into the courtyard, offering him a view of the training spaces and the grand gate. Two figures were standing at it, unimportant to a cursory glance - but then, he thought for a moment the blond man standing with his arms hooked through the bars looked a great deal like his Fence, and he looked again.
While there were certainly similarities to DuMere in his blond hair, it couldn't have been him. That had become all the less interesting, though, considering with whom he spoke. Livilla was on the other side of the gate, leaning against the column, speaking with him intently. She flipped her hand here and again to animate something, to which the blond man would respond with chuckle or a head movement, vaguely gesturing as well when he spoke. The sound of her light laugh floated through the air when the man made a particularly exaggerated gesture that might have had additional meaning, though without hearing the conversation, Ives could not know for certain.
Naturally that made him want to know all the more, so Ives stopped whistling and began to detour away from the Keep and out to the gates, keeping his steps quiet and his intentions dubious. Livilla's laugh held a beauty rarely heard from a face that few would call beautiful, and Ives had just crept into earshot. Eager to hear what the blond man had to say, he held a hand to his ear and caught...
... Caught... the very disappointing finale of their conversation, the mysterious blond bowing extravagantly as he pulled back from the gates. Ives' eyes widened and he hurried back a few steps, the possibility of getting caught quite high without Livilla distracted. He had his suspicions that her missing eye had migrated to the back of her head - and his regrets that such a joke was probably too morbid for polite company. A nimble dance around a rack of shields had him well hidden as she turned from the gate, and impeccable nonchalance was simple to enact with a flute that needed polishing. Even as he rubbed a little cloth around the mouthpiece of his fine silver antique, he snorted a soft breath of a chuckle. The entendre is the world's finest comedic gift.
They had a long journey ahead of them. Hopefully everyone agreed about his comedic stylings. Otherwise it would feel quite a bit longer... well, for them. Once he was certain that Livilla was none the wiser of his spying, he slipped his flute into its new case - kept after a long debate in which he decided it was better to appear to accept what had been gifted - and trotted into the Keep, intent on finishing those last few errands before the trip tomorrow.
Later that night, after the last arrangement had been made and the final missive sent, Ives crept into his quarters, uncertain whether or not Jean would be there or finding solace in bed with Artana. When the empty bed informed Ives of Jean's location, he felt an odd mixture of relief and jealousy. After what had happened in the Durante estate, Ives knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his gentle brother had indeed suffered from the expertly aimed attack, an injury all the more subtle since it touched not flesh or bone. And yet, Ives himself had not been able to rest in the arms of his sweet Dalish princess for more nights than he cared to recount, and after the events of his confrontation with Martin, he ached for the sweet, pure release more than ever...
He sighed as he quickly dressed himself for slumber. Ah, but it was a long-standing agreement between the brothers: only one in her bed at a time.
Shaking his head, he threw back the covers and lay down. After a few tosses and turns, he settled into a position that allowed him to at least relax his body, though his mind continued to race - a not uncommon occurrence the night before a journey. Still, he had learned the trick of forcing his body into at least the semblance of sleep so that it would feel refreshed come morning even if his mind could not claim the same.
Sometime during the night, between worrying about the varying colors of the coming year's street festival candies, the recent plague of political murders, and what he was going to have for breakfast, Ives heard the faintest of whispers in the room, a sound that could not possibly have been made by a returning brother - or any other Warden, for that matter. Instinct led him to the most obvious suspect to produce the sound, and his racing thoughts halted as his immediate surroundings became his only concern. Letting his eyes open to the merest slits, he forced his body to remain relaxed as he caught the barest of movements in the shadows.
The motion resolved into a tall figure which slipped through the darkness of the room as if it were a second home. He watched it as best as he could without betraying the state of his awareness, knowing he was at a most distinct disadvantage in this situation. As Martin - for it could not possibly be another - settled into a kneeling position next to the bed, Ives fought to keep his pulse and breathing in order, not particularly wanting to know how the man would react if he suspected Ives were awake.
When Ives was absolutely sure he couldn't quite manage it for more than the scant couple of minutes he had, he shifted subtly and drew a breath, his tone carrying that particularly groggy ruggedness of a man more than half asleep. He raised his hand and pointedly missed his face, then tried again to scratch an imaginary itch before muttering something about cranberries. Theatrics in place, Ives shifted more and turned the opposite way, supposing that the loss of his view of the man was probably better than having his chest so obvious to someone so well trained in reading breaths. After all, his life's work was to stop that phenomenon in as many unfortunate targets as were necessary. Hopefully, Ives hadn't earned such a status so very soon into this misadventure.
After a while, he could make out the barest of sounds, a soft scratching noise that made... no sense, honestly. He had expected total silence or... well, he wasn't sure what he would have expected beyond nothing. It seemed to stretch into eternity, though more likely only a few minutes passed. Finally he heard a whisper of cloth, and the sensation of someone hovering over him, accompanied by a faint whisper of... paper, the edge of sound from a piece of it being folded.
Then, with a final whisper of cloth, the sense of another person in the room simply... disappeared. Strange as it all had been, there were some things that made more sense now. Clearly he'd been taking a drawing, much like the one that had been left the night after they danced the Caged Lion. While he'd suspected that the idealized picture had been drawn from a live model, he was grateful it had not progressed farther than mere scratches on a piece of paper. With the netting of scars that practically covered the assassin head to toe, Ives couldn't quite ignore the dark and admittedly frightening thought that perhaps he would have had other ideas than paper to express his art.
Assassins were an interesting breed, and sadly he knew all too many of them. True, yes, Orlais in general preferred to destroy a person rather than to mercifully end their suffering by killing them, but assassins were still in demand. Between the Court and his deep involvement with the Thieves' Guild, plus the refugee assassins hiding away in the Wardens, he could name enough acquaintances to claim a certain familiarity with the type of person who chose the path of assassin. The vast majority of those he knew considered themselves artists in a most macabre way, their vision of death as fine an art to them as a poem to the tune of love might be to himself. No, Ives couldn't find 'art' in a single pinprick dropping a six foot man to the stone, nor could he find 'beauty' in a slit throat and its wide bloom of crimson, but he knew several men - and one or two women - who could.
Whether the art Martin created was a healthy hobby to draw him away from work or a pastime when he was bored of killing that was just waiting to blossom into something gruesome, he honestly couldn't quite tell. The worrisome possibilities made his skin crawl, as it may just have been his skin that would feel any ... conflicting artistic differences.
In the end it was all really just aimless speculation that had chewed up the remainder of his night. Ives finally let his eyes open back up and sighed: the light in the sky through his thin hewn stone windows told him there'd be no sleep for him before their departure at false dawn. He rolled from the bed considerably more sore than he would have preferred prior to a months-long occupation of a hard leather saddle, particularly since he hadn't experienced that particular pleasure for quite some time.
All things considered, maybe this was a better alternative. The saddle, that is. Even though his frustration was slowly and steadily mounting to where he'd gladly take a different manner of sore ass altogether, it was truly a concern that Martin would do more than temporary damage. The man had taken Ives' daggers, after all - perhaps so that Ives would be defenseless against him. Still, if Artana kept leaving him so far from her bed...
That was a thought for another day. Ives began to dress himself, preemptively rubbing his ass as he thought again about the saddle after buckling his breeches. As he surveyed his supplies, hip lighter than it should be without his blades, he sighed, "This ... will be a long trip."
