Part 4 of 4 wherein Sylf and Ephraim meet.
Letter
Sylf made her way down the sewer corridor quickly—the stench was stronger today than it usually was. Finding the wall she desired, she raised her hand to a marked stone and the spell activated. The wards disengaged and the secret door clicked open. She went through quickly and shut the door behind her. There was a lantern on thr ground, just in case, but she didn't need it—her Darkvision let her see the corridor perfectly. As she made her way down the narrow corridor, she scrunched her nose. While the sewers smelled awful, something definitely died in the corridor recently. She couldn't control the sewers, but she did own the corridor.
Before long, she made it to the other door, stepping over a dead snake along the way. She set the lantern down and held her hand again to the marked stone. The spell activated and the door clicked open, and she went through to her Lair. After she closed the door and watched the door wards activate, she unbuckled her cloak and tossed it on the chair in front of the drafting table. Then, she set her now lighter bag on the chair and pulled off her traveling boots. Looking forward to a nice, hot, bath, she made her way up the stairs and out of her Lair.
When she cracked open the trap door, she paused, listening for any movement in the house. She soon got her answer as she heard a familiar voice singing a bawdy tavern song. Smiling to herself, she pushed open the trapdoor and reset the room. When she left the study and entered the kitchen area, Tomlyn turned to her grinning.
"Hey Sylf! I heard you were down at the wharf. I hope you don't mind me hanging out while waiting for you to get back." Tomlyn seemed relaxed in comfortable pants and a linen vest as he cut vegetables. She couldn't help herself as she gazed at his toned, but scarred chest. Throughout the years, her fingers ran across all of his scars, one by one. There wasn't an inch of him that she didn't know.
"Of course it's fine," she said. "You have a room here too, you know."
"Ah, right." He set the knife down and walked over to her. She let him embrace her, his arms going around her frame. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and absorbed his musky smell and the warmth of his body. "I didn't expect to see you before you left for the countryside," she murmured.
"I found some time," he replied softly. He pulled back a bit so he could look at her. "I leave the day after tomorrow, and, until then, I'm all yours."
Sylf closed her eyes as Tomlyn leaned towards her and kissed her, slow and gentle. He broke the kiss too soon for Sylf and he rested his forehead against hers. For a brief moment, everything in her—her thoughts about the next job, the weird thing with the prince, Raizen trying to kill her—all of it dissolved. If the world came to an end and all that was left was her and Tomlyn, that wouldn't be so bad, would it?
Tomlyn sighed and pulled back with a dramatic, mournful expression. "I'd love nothing more than to whisk you off your feet, but I am starving. I'll make sure to save room for dessert, though." He winked and Sylf rolled her eyes. Chuckling, Tomlyn resumed his work in the kitchen, singing his bawdy tavern songs. Sylf went to the cabinet to get a wine glass when she noticed there was a fresh bouquet in the vase: a vibrant assortment of reds, purples, whites, and pinks. Next to the vase was a folded parchment.
"Another one?" she asked, frowning. She picked up the letter as Tomlyn replied,
"Oh, my patron wanted me to give that to you."
She picked it up and turned it over. It looked the same as the others that idiot prince sent her, and they all ended up in the fire. She was sure this one would too. But, she might as well see what he had to say first.
"I'm going to head into the bath."
"Maybe I'll join you when I'm done," Tomlyn called over his shoulder and she shook her head, smiling, as she went up the stairs.
Sylf took her time settling into her bath, the warm water relaxing her muscles. Lazily, she sipped her wine and decided to read the prince's letter. What she read, though, did not match her relaxed demeanor at all—she nearly dropped the letter in the tub, a mix of frustration and embarrassment rising in her. Then, after quelling the urge to rip the letter into shreds, she read it again, slowly and deliberately, digesting each and every word:
Dear Atrea,
I hope this letter finds you well. This latest bouquet is an ode to our new beginning: purple lilacs, red alstroemeria, blue forget-me-nots, and yellow acacia accented with green ferns and baby's breath. I hope the flowers and colors are to your liking.
Though it is against my better instincts, I cannot help but hope to see you again soon. I truly enjoyed our visits, and I look forward to discussing the latest books and serials you read. Perhaps next time you will have recommendations for me. When you do, I will make sure to have freshly crushed rose petals for your tea. Perhaps a tour of the rose garden is in order as well, if our deal still stands.
I must admit, also against my better instincts, that I am continuously perplexed as to why you requested my company. I am under no delusion as to how much gold the information you provided me is worth, and I can't understand what you hoped to gain from our visits. I am plagued by thoughts that our time together was simply a ploy to fill your pockets with even more gold, and it is my desperate hope that this is simply not true. I don't expect you to explain yourself, nor do I ask that of you, but I feel compelled to express my doubts and my hopes. Perhaps I sound like a fool to you, but I must be honest with you, as well as myself.
If we do not meet again for some time and if you are so inclined, come seek me out towards the end of winter. We can discuss what flora or vegetables will work best for your garden in time for spring.
Yours,
Ephraim
P.S. I suppose if I am going to be honest, then, I must say this: I found our evening in the water gardens to be quite pleasurable, as I hope you did, but I regret stepping away from you. Perhaps, if only I was bold enough to step towards you, our evening would have shifted to a different sort of pleasurable.
How stupid was this prince?! He used their names—his real name and the name attached to her livelihood. If Tomlyn was caught with this letter, the consequences would be unfathomable. The wrong person at the wrong time, and Tomlyn's life was easily forfeit. That idiocy, that recklessness, was not something she could easily overlook. And what was this postscript? Her cheeks heated as she read the impeccable cursive letters again. He wanted to step towards her? To what end?
He didn't mean to reject her? What did he mean by a "different sort of pleasure"? Surely, she wasn't curious, or silly, enough to entertain the idea.
This prince was certainly a fool to think any of her interactions with him were truly genuine. He was clearly enamored with her because she was the first woman who didn't swoon in his presence or put on airs for him. And, if he was going to be stupidly infatuated with her, then of course she was going to use that to her advantage. It was too easy to play him, make him think she liked him, even a little. If that was how she got him to trust her, then she certainly didn't see a problem.
Ephraim stared at her intently, his wanting golden eyes trailing down her body and settling on her lips. He was going to lean towards her, pull her into him. Could she leave? Did she want to leave? She had to leave. NOW.
Furious, Sylf slammed the letter back down onto the table. She felt NOTHING for this prince, regardless of what occurred between them. He could wax poetics all day long, but it didn't change anything: the prince was simply a means to an end. And by end, she meant a purse full of gold. Still, the prince nagged at her thoughts. Why was Tomlyn so enamored with this idiot prince?
After drinking the rest of her wine, she finished up in the bath and slipped into her silk robe and slippers. She made her way downstairs where Tomlyn was lighting candles on the table. He had outdone himself with the mutton, fire roasted vegetables, and mashed potatoes. Sylf left her home for the wharf before dawn—he must have arrived at their house and started cooking mid morning, at least. The lights were off in the kitchen and living room, save for a small lamp in Sylf's reading nook.
All thoughts of the prince vanished from her mind as Tomlyn smiled at her, his visage warm and glowing as his red eyes absorbed her presence. Contentment rose in her like a gentle caress, spreading through her. Only Tomlyn made her feel completely at peace and, well, happy. Sure, she thrived in her work and threw herself at more challenging jobs by the day, and she loved the adrenaline rush that came with successfully pulling off a heist. But, as her relationship with Tomlyn morphed over the years, she liked being with him just as much. Sometimes more. And that feeling made this house, and everything in it, worth it.
Sylf enjoyed the meal thoroughly, listening to Tomlyn's elaborate retelling of how he ran into Agnes in the market and how she coerced him into getting tea. She couldn't help but laugh at Tomlyn recounting how, in a single breath, Agnes mentioned she and her husband were trying for children while also warning Tomlyn to be careful with Alais if he wasn't truly serious about her. Sylf recalled how she finished a small job for the Doc while narrowly avoiding Raizen's goons. They seemed to be everywhere in the Undercity now, and it only reaffirmed her decision to move into the Market District and take higher risk jobs from nobles—it let her avoid the Undercity as much as possible.
Their conversation flowed on throughout the meal and, as they moved onto the apple pie Agnes brought over, insisting she made an extra by accident, the conversation moved to the prince. Tomlyn described his new job out the countryside, which was obviously to spy on Baroness Mannan, but Sylf couldn't pay attention. Her previous ire spurred by the letter was rising and she managed to hold her tongue until Tomlyn was finished.
"You do realize your idiot patron used our names in that letter?"
Tomlyn paused for a moment, frowning. "What?" He swore in Undercommon, running his fingers through his white hair. "We talked about that. Clearly, the lesson didn't stick. I'll talk to him again and make sure he understands completely."
"And about how he put you in an extremely dangerous position," she added irritably.
Tomlyn nodded, "I know. I'll speak to him, Sylf. I promise."
"I don't understand what you see in him. Why follow him?"
Tomlyn's red eyes stared at her appraisingly and she returned his examination with a sour glare. Her glare didn't bother him, though; it hadn't for many years now.
He suddenly grinned at her mischievously, as he often did when he thought he had a bright idea. "I'll answer your question, if you tell me why you made that deal with him."
Sylf rolled her eyes. "I made the deal with him so I could have personalized time with someone of his stature for basically nothing. I didn't think it was that hard to figure out."
"Uh-huh. You sure that's your answer?" Tomlyn asked, clearly unconvinced. When she didn't reply, he stared at her for a long moment, and then took a swig of his brandy. "Okay, I'll accept that for now." He then sighed and ran his hand through his hair. What would he have to be nervous about with her? A small sinking feeling rose in her chest, but she spoke the words anyway,
"You care for him, don't you?"
Tomlyn glanced at her, and then shrugged. "A bit. But it's not like that for him."
In her lap, her hands curled into fists. How could you only care for someone "a bit"? It was either you did or you didn't.
He paused for a moment and added, "Either way, we are friends. Or, I like to think so, at any rate."
"Friends?" she asked. "With someone like him?"
"Look, I know it's hard to believe, but he really relies on me."
"Until he doesn't need you anymore."
"He's not like that, Sylf."
Sylf couldn't believe what she was hearing. This was completely antithetical to everything she had ever known about Tomlyn. "Great, so not only will his naivety get you killed, you're more than willing to go along with it," she spat. She had half a mind to get up and walk away, but she didn't really want to get up from the table after all the work Tomlyn put into their dinner.
"That's not how it is. I-" he sighed heavily. "Look, you spent more time with him, right? Is that what you really think about him?"
Her eyes darted away as she tried to think of an answer. She sighed and finished her wine. "He's kind-hearted, compassionate, handsome, and generous—a prince from a children's tale. He hasn't experienced the world and once that happens, he'll end up like the rest of his family."
She brought her gaze back to Tomlyn who was staring at her with an unusually hard, but determined visage. "Not if I have anything to say about it."
Sylf wasn't sure how to respond to that. He obviously care for the prince so much that he was deluding himself. But there was no way to make him see it now. That only took time. Hopefully, she could help him open his eyes before he ended up in a cell or with a knife between his ribs.
She stood and sauntered over to him. "I'm ready to move onto second dessert. I'll see you when you're ready." With an edge to her voice, she added, "You had better not keep me waiting for too long."
Tomlyn stared up at her, his hard visage boring into her. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it. Shaking his head, she watched as the hard expression melted into a playful grin. "I'd better get moving then." Her gaze lingered on him, and she wondered if that grin was fake. But then he stood and kissed her cheek, his warm hand giving her arm a playful squeeze. She watched him go up the stairs, feeling reassured.
Sylf cleared the table and cleaned up downstairs while Tomlyn bathed. After she finished in the kitchen, she poured herself another glass of wine. When she reached the top of the stairs, Tomlyn's door was closed and she heard the low, rhythmic murmur of his prayers. She didn't mind waiting and entered her room. It was a decently sized room with a double bed, a tall dresser, and a small desk. The nightstand next to her bed contained the book she was currently reading—a tale of an evil sorcerer plotting to overthrow the kingdom and thwarting the paladin and his party. Tomlyn made fun of her when he read the description, but since the tale was from the sorcerer's point of view she found it far more entertaining. Plus, it was a nice break from the thrillers and mysteries she consumed between her meetings with the prince.
Sylf moved to her desk where the prince's letter sat, folded and unassuming. She wanted to burn it, but something was holding her back. Maybe it would be better to sleep on it. When Tomlyn's mumbles to Periti went quiet, Sylf looked at her open door frame expectantly. Sure enough, a few moments later, Tomlyn appeared. He was shirtless but wearing light trousers—she didn't know why he bothered to put on clothes considering she was going to take them off in a moment. She set the book aside as he climbed into the bed. She gestured for him to sit up against the headboard and once he was settled, she slid on top of him, straddling his legs.
Sylf sucked in a breath as he slowly pulled the bow holding her robe in place undone, and his hands, rough and hot, spread the robe open. His eyes roamed her torso appreciatively and his fingers lightly traced a long horizontal scar underneath her breast, as he always did.
"Why do you always touch that one?" She asked.
"You almost died from this scar."
Sylf rolled her eyes. "I was nowhere close to dying. It just happened to bleed a lot."
"Yeah, but at the time you were also playing dead."
"Well, it worked didn't it?"
He tilted his head back to look at her, and his face twisted a little. In a soft voice he said, "That's easy for you to say. I thought you were dead."
Sylf cupped his face in her hands, staring down at him. He stared back as though he was lost in the memory of the fight. She dipped her head down and placed her lips against his gently. She would make him forget about that useless memory and focus on her, here and now. It didn't take much to remind him that she was very much alive, and she reveled in his touch. Tomlyn knew exactly how and where to touch her so she was forced to forgo her pride and beg him for more—something he was quite fond of doing. But in return, she knew precisely and mercilessly how to kerp him in the limbo between buildup, pleasure, and release.
When they were both finally finished tormenting and pleasing each other, both of them completely spent, they lay sprawled on the bed, still entangled in each other. Tomlyn's eyes were closed, his white hair clumped in front of his face from his previous shower and sweat. Sylf reached up and brushed his hair out of his face. Wordlessly, Tomlyn reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. She smiled softly at the gentle brushing of his lips against her skin. There simply wasn't anything or anyone in the entire plane that could make her feel so utterly at peace.
With Tomlyn groaning in protest, Sylf pulled him out of the bed to shower again to wash off. Though sometimes Tomlyn enjoyed a second wind in the shower, tonight it seemed he barely had the energy to stand. Sylf didn't mind and they quickly finished up. She soon found herself nestled in Tomlyn's arms, her nose brushing his warm, dark chest. Still buzzed on the peace and joy from their lovemaking, she found herself asking,
"Tomlyn, when you're done with your job, why don't you just come back here? You don't need to live in that decrepit hovel."
He sighed, "I can't. Maven and the kids down the road need me."
"No one bothers Maven anymore since you put the fear of your goddess into Soren. And the orphanage is supported by the city—they don't need your money." Tomlyn giving away most of his money was clearly a questionable choice, if not downright stupid, but Sylf argued that many times before to no avail.
"No can do; not all help comes from just gold. Plus, the orphanage doesn't get that much money. And, I will say, that decrepit hovel is my home," he huffed lightly before yawning loudly. His voice drifting and tired, he added, "Don't worry, I'll make sure to visit soon after I get back."
She always hated that hovel. In all the years she knew him, he never moved once. The walls were cracked, the ceiling leaked, the walls were thin, and it was constantly dirty. He only had a cot to sleep in and he enjoyed living that way? Sylf set up a room for him in the row house recently, complete with an officially blessed kneeler, candle, and prayer book that she actually bought from the Peritian church down the road. And wanted his hovel instead?
Sylf thought Tomlyn dreamed about having a real home—nice, simple, domestic bliss, as he once put it. Or, was that a lie, too? Fine. Keep the shitty hovel in the shittiest part of the Undercity. …It was the prince. This was all his fault. Laying in Tomlyn's sturdy arms, Sylf couldn't help but wonder if he wanted to hold the prince like this too.
"Tomlyn, why do you really care about your patron?"
He grunted unhappily and she pulled back a bit to see his eyes opening at her, bleary and unfocused. "You're so demanding," he grumbled. "I know this is hard for you to grasp, since you only care about yourself, but we care about the same things. And he's honest, and-" Tomlyn paused, his voice barely audible now as rest claimed him, "E.'s not a coward."
Psh, the city. Honesty. He wanted honesty? This city was her plaything as she slowly made everyone dance to her tune while they played their games. -In the end, she would be the mastermind, everyone dancing to her tune without them even knowing. And what did Tomlyn care for honesty? He was the best liar she knew!
Is this all a lie too? Was Tomlyn pretending not to see how much she cared?
Sylf didn't press him further as he slid into his trance, but even the sight of his peaceful visage could not prevent her contentment souring into something she did not want to name. She was tired and wanted to rest, but all she could do was thinking about how the prince corrupted Tomlyn, somehow, someway.
Eventually, after tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, Sylf slipped out of the bed, pulled on her robe, and went to her desk. She lit the candle and reread the prince's letter, determined to find some hint or clue as to what could have possibly changed Tomlyn so much. But as she read, her frustration began to abate. All she could think about were her encounters with the prince throughout the past few months: his boyish excitement over the serials; his bright laughter; his dejected and hurt visage while waiting for her in the pavilion; his gentle, longing gaze as he tucked the gardenia behind her ear.
Try as she might, it was incredibly difficult to just outright hate the Prince. Maybe, for the time being, it was okay that the Prince was from a tale. And maybe it was okay for Tomlyn to be swept away in his story. She didn't know. But, if Tomlyn was going to be caught up in the Prince's nonsense, did the Prince have to blind him in the process? Was that the price? Was she going to lose Tomlyn? She read the letter again and one of the lines jumped out to her:
Perhaps I sound like a fool to you, but I must be honest with you, as well as myself.
Sylf set the Prince's letter aside, but still in view, and got out several sheafs of parchment, a quill, and some ink and began to write. It wasn't easy. She tossed aside letter after letter after letter, all scribbles and scratch-outs, until, at least, she was satisfied. Then, she realized all that was missing was her signature. She prepped the quill, but then paused. "Atrea" didn't seem fitting, but she couldn't just give him her real name. After settling on a compromise, she quickly jotted a postscript. She read through the letter in full, making sure she said everything that she wanted to say.
Ephraim,
Somehow, the flowers have become a welcome and expected addition to my house. I look forward to talking with you more next spring; I also think flora will fare better than vegetables.
Believe it or not, there are a few things I value more than a pursue full of coin. You happen to posses one of these "things," and I am not sure you are worthy. I have yet to determine a verdict, so take care. If you misplace it, or let it be destroyed without cause, make no mistake: I will come for you.
I too enjoyed our visits far more than I expected. You exceeded my expectations, and I hope you continue to do so.
I shall toast to our new beginning. May it be profitable and fruitful to us both.
-S
P.S. Next time, perhaps you will make sure to be bold with your actions, as opposed to your words.
The postscript was a bit too indulgent to his infatuations, but everything else sounded exactly the way she wanted it. She folded the letter and flattened her palms on the desk. She didn't know why, but writing the letter made her feel considerably better. Behind her, she heard Tomlyn rustling. He was out of bed, bleary eyed, and trying to avoid the crumpled letter drafts on the floor. He looked cute with his hair flattened to his head and yawning.
He trudged over to the desk and leaned over, wrapping his arms around her neck from behind. He pressed his lips to her temple and murmured. "What are you doing?"
"I couldn't rest. So, I wrote your patron back instead."
Tomlyn seemed more alert as he asked, "You haven't written him back before. Why now?"
Sylf thought for a moment, unsure of how to explain. "He said he wanted to be honest. I thought, maybe, it was worth responding to."
Tomlyn released his hold on her and stared at the freshly folded letter on the desk. Then, he smiled at her softly. "I see. I can deliver it tomorrow."
She shook her head. "Not this one. I need to draft a new version without our names." And to edit the postscript, but she wasn't going to mention that. Tomlyn took her hands and gently pulled her from the chair, and led her back to bed. She didn't protest and welcomed rest in his arms.
~*0*~
The next morning Sylf woke a bit later than usual, feeling fresh and content. Tomlyn wasn't in bed, though he had fully rested hours ago, so she wasn't bothered by it. Humming lightly to herself she began to get ready for the day, and it wasn't until she was fully dressed and finishing in the bathroom that she realized the house was quiet. Too quiet. As though…she was the only one there.
"Tomlyn?" she called. She checked his bedroom. Nothing. He wasn't downstairs or in the study either. The key to the Lair was in its proper place and she checked the flag to see if it had been disturbed, something Tomlyn didn't know about, but the key was clean. He wasn't anywhere. Maybe he went to the market for fresh bread and groceries? But it was already midday, wouldn't he be back by now? Did he have an errand that she forgot about?
She went back up to her room and glanced at her desk, intending to check the nightstand to see if he left a letter. But, the glance at her desk made her stop. She turned to her desk and instead of two letters on the desk, there was only one. Dread filled her as she picked up the singular letter. She opened it, and her knees suddenly felt weak. In her hand was the letter from the Prince. That could only mean that her response to the Prince, the one with his name and her first initial, was gone.
The only reasonable assumption was that Tomlyn took the letter to deliver it to the Prince directly. If that was the case, he should be back by the time Sylf finished her weekly tea time with Agnes. But, if he was caught… Everything in her froze and her throat tightened at the thought. No, she would not panic or succumb to fear. Delivering a letter was easy. Yes, there was risk, but Tomlyn wouldn't have taken it if he didn't think he could deliver the letter easily…right?
Try as she might, Sylf could not get Tomlyn—that stupid, idiot, good for nothing asshole who treated nothing seriously—out of her head. She felt jittery all day and even Agnes noticed, asking her repeatedly if she was alright. Finally, Sylf admitted that McDanna left that morning without a word, which was unlike him. Agnes assured her he was fine, but it didn't help. It wasn't until the two women were walking back home, and she saw Tomlyn leaning outside her door. Hands in his pockets with a slackened posture, he was simply standing there without a care in the world.
Without so much as a goodbye to Agnes, Sylf marched over to him and dragged him into the house, seething. But as she reared on him, a string of yelling, cursing, and empty death threats flowing out of her without a thought, it only seemed to make him more amused until he was laughing heartily. Begrudgingly, she let him take her into his arms and he kissed her forehead.
"Now, now, Sylf, there's no need to get worked up," he teased.
Sylf wanted to swing her fist at him, but his arms were already locked around her. Damn him!
"I told you, I needed to rewrite that letter." She snapped. He didn't reply and she gave up the struggle, sagging into him. As she calmed down from her rant, a mixture of relief and frustration lingered in her voice. "What if you were caught? It wasn't worth the risk."
His fingers lightly caressed the frame of her face, and he guided her to look up into his warm gaze. "It was worth it to me."
Sylf started to say something but words failed her. In her silence, Tomlyn sighed and buried his face in her neck. She closed her eyes and let her head fall on his shoulder.
"When I die," he murmured into her neck, "I don't want you to be alone. At least, with him, you can mourn me together."
She hugged him tightly. "Don't talk about dying. You die, I'll find you and kill you myself."
Tomlyn chuckled and pulled out of the embrace. "Noted. Now then," his tone lifted and he grinned at her, "I have a wonderful evening planned for us and I'm not wasting another minute!"
They did spend a lovely evening together, laughing, drinking, eating, and even dancing. Then, the next morning they went their desperate ways—Tomlyn off to the countryside and Sylf plotting her next information heist. Their paths crossed briefly after a few weeks, and then again almost a month and a half later. But, when Sylf was finally finished with her job, she came home to two letters and stack of detective Varric serials.
She opened the first letter with its impeccable cursive and, if she was able to start a fire with one of her glares alone, this letter would have burst into flames.
Darling,
I know it has been some time since we've seen each other, but I hope you are well. Will I see you again soon? I have something important to discuss with you.
In the meantime, I collected the serials you missed while you were away. I hope you are able to get caught up before we meet again.
Your Loving Husband
Opening the second, she was relieved to see Tomlyn's slanted handwriting.
I told him not to address you that way, but it was the reasonable compromise. After all, I am the caretaker your husband hired.
Sylf rolled her eyes and tucked the two letters under her arm. Scooping the serials into her arms, she went upstairs, looking forward to her correspondence with her "husband" and hoping to see her "caretaker" soon.
I really like this chapter, but I'm a bit annoyed because I had some of Sylf's thoughts formatted with strikethroughs, as a visual and rhetorical way to show she's trying to avoid or block out certain thoughts, but FFnet won't retain them! Ugh.