[Guilty is a good word for how she's felt of late. She can distract herself with people and new sights and experiences, but it's never quite thorough enough to wash the feeling away.
[Strange how the perfectly inevitable topic unsettles him, nearly blindsides him. He fumbles a little, walking in silence for a moment.]
Better than I...
[Expected. Thought. Assumed.]
...feared.
[For a moment he watches his feet walk. Then huffs a sigh, and forces out the entirely too blasé,] I've come to care about very few people in my life, and he's...
[But he can't really finish.] Well. The fact remains, I shouldn't have doubted you.
[It's an apology. It doesn't make her feel any better. He thought her capable of leaving Dion when injured. A thing she did do, once she scraped him off the floor. She called in someone else to take care of him, because they would only hurt one another, and she had to confront Clive about what he'd done.
She stares at the sidewalk ahead of them.]
I love Dion very much. He's one of the best people I've met.
[He deserved better from her. So, Astarion's reaction that night--she earned it, she thinks. He should doubt her, as should Dion, as should Clive.]
[How easily she says it. It only prolongs his silence in turn. Much as the latter is inarguable, the former is...]
Cazador beat me. [He hears himself saying, his tone wooden. The words bubbling up of their own volition.] Or he'd have one of his servents do it. It didn't matter. So long as I was beaten. So long as I screamed.
I thought -- [by the time he cuts himself off, his voice has become quite small. And thick. His eyes are distant, pointed off ahead of them.]
[Jill's feet slow to a stop. She'd bit her tongue until it bled, but it had been the children and women that made her break and submit to the Ironblood. Their screams. The sound still haunts her, even half a decade removed from her shackles. Some monsters are not so easily killed.
She thinks of Clive and his fury and how he too was a slave. She thinks of Dion, and the unbruised knuckles that did not attempt to fight back. She thinks of Astarion, and what his scream must sound like.]
You care for him, and I'm glad. For all that you've endured, you've kept your heart.
[She's sure there's more to his torment. There always is.]
[He laughs at that, a hollow little thing. He'd kept his heart? He shuffles to a stop as well.
How many Dions had he lead to that mansion? How many Jills had he condemned to Cazador's hunger? How many decades ago had he stopped counting. Stopped resisting.]
I don't ever want you to hurt like that.
[He says quietly, but firmly, red eyes fixing on her again, directly. Unflinchingly.]
[Jill's confusion doesn't exactly surprise him. He had thought, in the beginning, that if he behaved well enough he could be safe himself. Still, something about his eyes harden.]
If he even raises a hand to you...
[He doesn't finish. Doesn't think he needs to. What's a little more blood on his hands, after all? He had already drowned in it.]
[The realization of what he means hits Jill like a truck. Her eyes widen, and she's momentarily taken aback.]
You mean--Clive? [She almost laughs, but (thankfully) does not. She's never heard anything more absurd. Clive may hurt her feelings and break her heart, but he would never strike her. He treats her like glass, much to her dismay.]
He would sooner run himself through with his own blade.
[His expression merely tightens. It's not in him to make the argument, or try to convince her. She'll only believe what she's willing to, and he isn't finished making his point.]
[Jill is fairly certain Clive's fist would go through Astarion's face. Her lips press together in line, refusing to let the remark escape. Refusing to allow herself to be hurt by the implication: that she didn't care to say as much.]
I spoke to Clive about what he did.
[And knocked the wind out of their healing relationship.]
He and Dion have a complicated history. Clive has no wish to be near him.
[This would be so much simpler if he didn't care. If he had been able to maintain his distance. If he hadn't found the heart she thought he kept.
The irony galls him, to be honest. To be so incensed at a man who merely hurt when he hinself had been little more than an instrument of undeserved death for so long.
His lips purse, but he doesn't know how to say this in any way that isn't cruel. even as he softens his voice. Even as his eyes drop away from her. He looks toward the park, and wonders if they'll ever get there.]
My dear, it's only because you're in love with him that I'm willing to grant the man any grace at all.
[He snorts, finally, forcing out.] I don't care about Clive. I care about you.
[He's not allowed to say that. It melts some of the growing frost from Jill, and she lets it out with a soft sigh. All of this, even that awful night, stems out of care. No one wished to see Joshua hurt. So Dion told him the truth. Clive thought keeping the truth to himself would delay Joshua's hurt and his own. And Jill hurts because she loves them all so much she doesn't know what to do.]
Clive saved me from my captors. Saved me from giving up my life, and saved me many times since. He was made a slave in the army for the kingdom Dion's father ruled, and before that, I daresay he was one for the Rosarian duchy.
[So no wonder he bristled and snapped when what Dion did was perceived as one more Imperial commanding how he lived. No wonder he could only see red when Joshua, the person he lived to protect, was hurt.]
None of it was right, but Clive carries the wounds of serving a master as we do. He is a good man that has been trying to pull himself back onto his feet.
[But she doubts Astarion will hear much of what she has to say. Clive has not left a good impression on many of the people she's come to care for.
A good thing the city is vast.
Jill takes another breath before her expression softens.]
You're a good man, too. I appreciate that you worry for me. It comes from a good place, I know. I don't take that for granted, Astarion.
[It's not what he wants to hear. That he has something in common with the man, that he can sympathize with him. It feels like a smack in the face, but he hears it.
He hears it because Jill is saying it, maybe. Or because the topic has been fresh in his mind. Or maybe it's because of the shame that lurks in the corner of him every time someone shows him pity. Imagine, pitying the instrument of so many cruel deaths!
Astarion looks away from Jill, fully at a loss for words as she tells him about that ruffian he had judged little more than a dog at the outset. And it leaves him open to the sting of her praise.]
No, I'm not.
[He corrects, his voice raw in that moment of uncertainty, as he struggles to process the details of it all. A slave to Dion's father... Yet, his prince had only spoken ill of his father's second wife, this Anabella, and... Slavery itself wasn't quite -- ]
Clive liberated you, did he? [He interjects, more to kill his own brooding thought line than anything. A smile snakes across his mouth, as sudden as it is sickly.] Then I suppose he is the better man for that, at least.
[He shakes his head, looking through her more than at her.]
You are, based on what I've seen. [And with a blind eye turned towards any sticky fingers...] You care. That's what matters to me. You may disagree if you like.
[He may not care for Clive, but he cares for her, cares for Dion. That's more than enough. She's privvy to Dion and Clive's sins--witness to some of it herself. Little can truly surprise her, she thinks. Talk of who the better man happens to be is pointless.
She's far from a saint herself.
Her heart aches for a new reason, now. Him.]
I did not expect to have so much in common with you. [Torture and slavery and care for Dion and embroidery--] I wish you didn't know the terrible things.
[If he'll let her, she'll reach to take his hand.]
[She refutes his claim. Expected. She qualifies it perfectly. Based on what she'd seen. And how little that is! Even the numbers alone are staggering to compare a handful of months to the decades he's lost count of. To compare one girl's gentle heart to the legions he had stilled -- albeit indirectly.
But none of this finds a voice. It only sinks in his chest like a stone. It only weighs his shoulders. Distracts from his intentions. He'd come here to apologize, and she was comforting him?
He realizes she's taking his hand only belatedly, and his fingers catch around hers near immediately. His grip is firm but yielding, the kind she could break without efforr, but that conveys his wish that she doesn't. Red eyes droop to her hand in his.]
I'm sorry I left you that night. [He returns, tugging her hand toward him just a little.] I should have...
I should have waited. Or seen you home, at least. All I did was wake him up.
[She had thought plenty of terrible things that night, but nothing aimed at Astarion. She deserved to be shunned. She deserved to feel like a monster.]
If I recall correctly, I left. [Her head bows as she looks down at their hands. ] I was ashamed. I am ashamed. And you were right, I chose a side. Not Dion's or Clive's, but my own. Selfishly. I've disappointed everyone, you included.
[How it stings. Jill shakes her head, not able to bring herself to look at him hust yet.]
You did the right thing. I would have done the same, were I in your position.
[Her side. She says she chose her side, and he cannot help but doubt her. But his jaw shifts, locks rather than give voice to it. Who is he to claim he knows her? Who is he to judge? Well, out loud, anyway.
He peeks back at her, and finding her looking away, he pulls her hand up and holds it against his chest. Red eyes linger, but he doesn't prompt her to look at him. He just waits for her to do so.]
Hm. I don't know. Am I disappointed that you tripped over me last year?
[It's lighter. He musters a little curve to the smile that peeks through a very deliberately thoughtful expression.]
Obviously, for making me return that jacket, yes. But the tripping was nearly worth it...
[She does look up when he moves her hand. He's trying, and he said he cares, and that matters to her. She must try, too. There's not quite a smile on her lips, but something less gloomy in her eyes even if they remain a touch bright, a little too glassy.]
It was, to gain a friend like you. You're kinder than I thought, and I already had my suspicions.
[He's trying to deflect and she's not letting him. His bravado falters, eyes dipping as he squeezes her hand.
Because she's wrong. No matter what he might be now, there's been so much, and the idea that he could just be dropped back into it...
She deserves far better, yet he can't let go.]
When Karlach...
[He stops himself, closing his eyes, tapping her captured hand against his chest.]
Don't take this the wrong way, [he starts over, chuckling, trying to,] but she'd fight you tooth and nail for the title of my first friend, so I'm afraid you'll have to be content with second place.
Oh, I'd never dream of taking that away from Karlach. Second suits me just fine.
[It's where she usually sits, anyway. Dion and Clive reminded her of that very recently, in fact. But that's an irrationally bitter thought that pops up, and she swallows it down with a smile and a step closer to Astarion.]
Thank you.
[He could have chosen to not reach out and she would have let it be out of shame. Now, she at least hopes they're closer to being on the same page--they both care for Dion, and while Astarion may not care for Clive, there's more to the story than just a man losing his temper. Still... he cares about her, and she will cherish that.
Her smile dims as she needs something clarified before she says more.]
[It's not that he means in rank, honestly. He means chronologically, but without prompting he doesn't know to clarify. In any case her question dashes any concern from his mind, a dozen conflicted feelings chording through him. Not the least of which, of course, twist his mouth, and settle heavy on his tongue.]
No.
[He practically croaks. His eyes open, but turn away from her. When he continues, his voice is painfully thin, whereas it had been too thick just a moment ago.]
He is very much alive.
[The begrudging amendment comes half under his breath.]
[Jill watches the expressions play across his face, the pain in his voice. She doesn't regret asking, for digging a little deeper, because she thinks it better for her to know where he is int regards to this monster. She's only sorry this is a conversation they can have at all.
Her free hand comes to rest over his, over hers, trapping it as she turns her palm to hold it. Her voice is more steady and sure than it's been since she came out of the house.]
Then I pray that some day you get the opportunity to kill him yourself. That you find your peace.
[Maybe he's able to grasp that without killing this Cazador, but from Jill's experience, there's no true peace to be found when you're always looking over your shoulder, knowing he must be somewhere, doing the same as he always did.]
[Something about his expression shifts. The feeling that was so close and immediate and muddled a moment ago seems to hollow. His hand works between hers, curling around her hand. But he's also biting his tongue.
The bitter rejoinder dies in his throat, mercifully. Prayer had gained him nothing, no matter which god he had begged for his freedom. There was no fighting Cazador. There had been no escaping Cazador. No disobeying him.
Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.
There hadn't been at least.
Not for the first time, there is a flickering mote of hope in the hollow of his chest, and not for the first time it aches more than when he had had none.
He swallows, pulling both her hands up to kiss the back of the one he had held against his chest.]
[That won't do. Jill pulls her hands from his so that she can cross what little distance remains between them to capture Astarion in a hug, arms around his middle.]
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But she moves to follow him.]
How was he?
[Might as well get to it.]
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Better than I...
[Expected. Thought. Assumed.]
...feared.
[For a moment he watches his feet walk. Then huffs a sigh, and forces out the entirely too blasé,] I've come to care about very few people in my life, and he's...
[But he can't really finish.] Well. The fact remains, I shouldn't have doubted you.
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She stares at the sidewalk ahead of them.]
I love Dion very much. He's one of the best people I've met.
[He deserved better from her. So, Astarion's reaction that night--she earned it, she thinks. He should doubt her, as should Dion, as should Clive.]
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Cazador beat me. [He hears himself saying, his tone wooden. The words bubbling up of their own volition.] Or he'd have one of his servents do it. It didn't matter. So long as I was beaten. So long as I screamed.
I thought -- [by the time he cuts himself off, his voice has become quite small. And thick. His eyes are distant, pointed off ahead of them.]
I don't ever want him to hurt like that.
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She thinks of Clive and his fury and how he too was a slave. She thinks of Dion, and the unbruised knuckles that did not attempt to fight back. She thinks of Astarion, and what his scream must sound like.]
You care for him, and I'm glad. For all that you've endured, you've kept your heart.
[She's sure there's more to his torment. There always is.]
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How many Dions had he lead to that mansion? How many Jills had he condemned to Cazador's hunger? How many decades ago had he stopped counting. Stopped resisting.]
I don't ever want you to hurt like that.
[He says quietly, but firmly, red eyes fixing on her again, directly. Unflinchingly.]
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I've killed my master. My penance.
[Surely, that's what he means.]
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If he even raises a hand to you...
[He doesn't finish. Doesn't think he needs to. What's a little more blood on his hands, after all? He had already drowned in it.]
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You mean--Clive? [She almost laughs, but (thankfully) does not. She's never heard anything more absurd. Clive may hurt her feelings and break her heart, but he would never strike her. He treats her like glass, much to her dismay.]
He would sooner run himself through with his own blade.
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Or if he touches Dion again.
[Comes a hair sharper.]
I will not tolerate it.
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I spoke to Clive about what he did.
[And knocked the wind out of their healing relationship.]
He and Dion have a complicated history. Clive has no wish to be near him.
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The irony galls him, to be honest. To be so incensed at a man who merely hurt when he hinself had been little more than an instrument of undeserved death for so long.
His lips purse, but he doesn't know how to say this in any way that isn't cruel. even as he softens his voice. Even as his eyes drop away from her. He looks toward the park, and wonders if they'll ever get there.]
My dear, it's only because you're in love with him that I'm willing to grant the man any grace at all.
[He snorts, finally, forcing out.] I don't care about Clive. I care about you.
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Clive saved me from my captors. Saved me from giving up my life, and saved me many times since. He was made a slave in the army for the kingdom Dion's father ruled, and before that, I daresay he was one for the Rosarian duchy.
[So no wonder he bristled and snapped when what Dion did was perceived as one more Imperial commanding how he lived. No wonder he could only see red when Joshua, the person he lived to protect, was hurt.]
None of it was right, but Clive carries the wounds of serving a master as we do. He is a good man that has been trying to pull himself back onto his feet.
[But she doubts Astarion will hear much of what she has to say. Clive has not left a good impression on many of the people she's come to care for.
A good thing the city is vast.
Jill takes another breath before her expression softens.]
You're a good man, too. I appreciate that you worry for me. It comes from a good place, I know. I don't take that for granted, Astarion.
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He hears it because Jill is saying it, maybe. Or because the topic has been fresh in his mind. Or maybe it's because of the shame that lurks in the corner of him every time someone shows him pity. Imagine, pitying the instrument of so many cruel deaths!
Astarion looks away from Jill, fully at a loss for words as she tells him about that ruffian he had judged little more than a dog at the outset. And it leaves him open to the sting of her praise.]
No, I'm not.
[He corrects, his voice raw in that moment of uncertainty, as he struggles to process the details of it all. A slave to Dion's father... Yet, his prince had only spoken ill of his father's second wife, this Anabella, and... Slavery itself wasn't quite -- ]
Clive liberated you, did he? [He interjects, more to kill his own brooding thought line than anything. A smile snakes across his mouth, as sudden as it is sickly.] Then I suppose he is the better man for that, at least.
[He shakes his head, looking through her more than at her.]
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[He may not care for Clive, but he cares for her, cares for Dion. That's more than enough. She's privvy to Dion and Clive's sins--witness to some of it herself. Little can truly surprise her, she thinks. Talk of who the better man happens to be is pointless.
She's far from a saint herself.
Her heart aches for a new reason, now. Him.]
I did not expect to have so much in common with you. [Torture and slavery and care for Dion and embroidery--] I wish you didn't know the terrible things.
[If he'll let her, she'll reach to take his hand.]
I'm sorry. And I'm sorry to drag you into this.
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But none of this finds a voice. It only sinks in his chest like a stone. It only weighs his shoulders. Distracts from his intentions. He'd come here to apologize, and she was comforting him?
He realizes she's taking his hand only belatedly, and his fingers catch around hers near immediately. His grip is firm but yielding, the kind she could break without efforr, but that conveys his wish that she doesn't. Red eyes droop to her hand in his.]
I'm sorry I left you that night. [He returns, tugging her hand toward him just a little.] I should have...
I should have waited. Or seen you home, at least. All I did was wake him up.
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If I recall correctly, I left. [Her head bows as she looks down at their hands. ] I was ashamed. I am ashamed. And you were right, I chose a side. Not Dion's or Clive's, but my own. Selfishly. I've disappointed everyone, you included.
[How it stings. Jill shakes her head, not able to bring herself to look at him hust yet.]
You did the right thing. I would have done the same, were I in your position.
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He peeks back at her, and finding her looking away, he pulls her hand up and holds it against his chest. Red eyes linger, but he doesn't prompt her to look at him. He just waits for her to do so.]
Hm. I don't know. Am I disappointed that you tripped over me last year?
[It's lighter. He musters a little curve to the smile that peeks through a very deliberately thoughtful expression.]
Obviously, for making me return that jacket, yes. But the tripping was nearly worth it...
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It was, to gain a friend like you. You're kinder than I thought, and I already had my suspicions.
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Because she's wrong. No matter what he might be now, there's been so much, and the idea that he could just be dropped back into it...
She deserves far better, yet he can't let go.]
When Karlach...
[He stops himself, closing his eyes, tapping her captured hand against his chest.]
Don't take this the wrong way, [he starts over, chuckling, trying to,] but she'd fight you tooth and nail for the title of my first friend, so I'm afraid you'll have to be content with second place.
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[It's where she usually sits, anyway. Dion and Clive reminded her of that very recently, in fact. But that's an irrationally bitter thought that pops up, and she swallows it down with a smile and a step closer to Astarion.]
Thank you.
[He could have chosen to not reach out and she would have let it be out of shame. Now, she at least hopes they're closer to being on the same page--they both care for Dion, and while Astarion may not care for Clive, there's more to the story than just a man losing his temper. Still... he cares about her, and she will cherish that.
Her smile dims as she needs something clarified before she says more.]
Is Cazador dead?
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No.
[He practically croaks. His eyes open, but turn away from her. When he continues, his voice is painfully thin, whereas it had been too thick just a moment ago.]
He is very much alive.
[The begrudging amendment comes half under his breath.]
As much as he can be.
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Her free hand comes to rest over his, over hers, trapping it as she turns her palm to hold it. Her voice is more steady and sure than it's been since she came out of the house.]
Then I pray that some day you get the opportunity to kill him yourself. That you find your peace.
[Maybe he's able to grasp that without killing this Cazador, but from Jill's experience, there's no true peace to be found when you're always looking over your shoulder, knowing he must be somewhere, doing the same as he always did.]
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The bitter rejoinder dies in his throat, mercifully. Prayer had gained him nothing, no matter which god he had begged for his freedom. There was no fighting Cazador. There had been no escaping Cazador. No disobeying him.
Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.
There hadn't been at least.
Not for the first time, there is a flickering mote of hope in the hollow of his chest, and not for the first time it aches more than when he had had none.
He swallows, pulling both her hands up to kiss the back of the one he had held against his chest.]
Thank you. [He breathes, his eyes wet.]
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I care about you, too.
[She doesn't think she said it.]
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