im/possibilities

Brown eyes snap up to his. Holding his runaway panicked look with a sudden burst of electricity felt just right at the base of her eye sockets. Her mouth does not twitch, her face remaining neutral for all but that sudden awakening: to hear it said aloud made it real. The blood was still warm.

The silence that settled between the two of them as the words finally spoken though they sound foreign: a shape that she can see through the heavy fog around her vision, a beautiful melody from a siren spoken through the thickness of the water. There was a sort of undeniable sort of glee, relief, joy, electrifying deligh that took a hold of the air in her lungs. And there was also dread, deep, deep, dread in equal measure.

Yes. Though the sentence was wrong. But it was right. The monster was dead, even if its animal survived.

It was now her that carried a piece of him, unwillingly she had taken something that was meant to stay in him and not be shared. The tooth is kept carefully and safetly in the folds of her leather armour - and has been forgotten by the time that Ben starts talking once more.

They dive further into the darkness and the questions resume. She looks around and there is no window to look at the sky outside. To keep track of the time. Perhaps it would help, though Orla doubted.

   “I don’t know.” she whispers, distantly.

She had not counted.

She could likely attempt to remember, but each time she reached for those memories there was only this large smudge of red and browns and the drowning became louder. There was a latch in her mind that had been torn asunder and regardless of how much she attempted to reach for it, to put things as they had been, it always fell open and out of place. A thing for another time.

She had counted at least twelve bodies when the mind had finally resettled back into the bleeding and roaring skull. One girl still breathing but keeping herself hidden when she saw Orla looking at her. She was shaking like a leaf, sinking in a way that Orla knew all too well - the assassin would not know how long it would take for her to gain the courage to leave. If that was to happen first, or if the magister’s consistent absences would lead the templars to make a visit to the mansion.

They both stand in the room with the bath.

She is told to undress and to hand the clothes. She follows the former, pulling armour in a well rehearsed way, automated, careful. First removing the blades, placing them carefully down over a small stool. More reverence and attentively than she did pulling the layers off her body, uncaring for the strands of bloodied hair that got tangled in buckles and swiftly removed too. She does not follow the second order.

Instead, she holds it closer to her, closer towards the water. Placing each one of the pieces beside her. She douses herself with a bucket of lukewarm water. She wonders, briefly, how the water is kept warm so frequently, so deep into the night, but she could guess at the answer and chose, instead, start picking at the long black hair and the dark, deep chunks of iron.

   “This leather armour is worth more than my life. You will not burn it.” it was also the only thing she owned. The only thing that she could call her own. There would come a day where she would burn it, but it would be by her hands. It would be when she could feel it. The cane is placed just beside it, with barely a sound made upon touching the floor “I will clean it.”

Or the rain would.

The body shivers and she doesn’t stop it. It feels good. To be present, even if barely tethered. Brown eyes glance in Ben’s direction. There is a question she wants to ask though she thinks it a waste of breath, and so she shelves it. Now back in her own body, back at the single fleeting though that had made her walk to his estate after everything.

he gags. and the acid in his throat is at least unpleasant enough to jolt him back to the present.

"i-" he rakes a hand through his hair, closing his eyes and counts to three to calm himself before continuing. "i don't think you fully appreciate the gravity of the situation here. any minute now, templars could be descending upon this humble abode—did you even cover your tracks or did you just stamp a trail of bloody boot prints all the way up to my front door?"

he should really go check, now that he's thought of it. hopefully the rain would wash away the worst of the incriminating evidence, and the dark of night shroud them from immediate suspicion.

at orla's request of a request, ben couldn't help but deadpan.

 the theatre's appeal, after all, is for its novelty and accessibility, more so than poor rat's singing — which could not be flatter if she'd taken a mallet to it themself. which is why, cléo had reminded her before their matinee this morning, they are an understudy when there are musical numbers in their performances.

 but that is neither here nor there when ben turns to face her, and cléo finally finds his gaze. she doesn't let the concern wash over the sharp planes of her expression, though something in her jaw tightens. so this is closer to assassination attempt than it is wet wig, she considers quietly. it hardly registers that she starts bouncing ehr leg as she presses her fingers together. her etiquette teacher had told her that gold would jostle its way out of her pockets doing so, and cléo still bears a sharp, ruler-stick scar between her shoulders for it. her sharp eyes follow the form of ben's anxious pacing.

 for the evening, she'd perfectly looked the part of a leading man, the ringmaster, but with the light downcast on her like this now, despite the even expression she attempts to balance on a tightrope, she doesn't look like she is faring much better than her counterpart. she vaguely recalls this tarquin character, kept even further in the fringe of her memory of ben's peripheral retelling of his time in the military. there'd been far more interesting details to polish upon, at the time. details that now threaten to come apart.

 "no—" in the heart of the imperium, there are much more knowing eyes that would compromise her usual scouts. their more illicit activities are much more constricted here than ben may be familiar with.

 she sucks her teeth. what a fucking shit show. though her disdain is not directed at him. "we cannot afford to show our hand when he holds the rest of the deck. we don't have time to dilly dally." we, yes — it is as much her problem as it is his. nor does she consider to ask if he is certain it was him. certain that he was seen. the fear that pales his expression is all the confirmation she needs. "we move swiftly — but calmly. this isn't like kirkwall. too many here are wise to what we are capable of, no cover of chaos to hide behind. we simply ensure that he does not have a chance to speak. yes?"

 though her mind races, she offers the solution coolly and firmly. cut it at its root, before trying to control the damage becomes too much of a liability. she has an old contact with the crows, and the funds — but to send word to antiva and wait ... time is of the essence. even now, precious minutes burn away, the question surely growing in tarquin like a tumor ... tracing back that red string to ben ... she downs the rest of her wine, finding her bravado.

"...right." ben takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm. then pulling up a chair with its back towards cléo, straddling it to sit across from her. "not kirkwall. starkhaven then? ...or redcliffe." ventus is significantly larger than redcliffe. but if they're speaking of urgency, and the potential consequences, redcliffe is the right shorthand.

they have plenty of those—shorthand. code word. turn of phrase. small signals and cues that few understand besides each other. he's known cléo for too long, ben considers this vaguely sometimes. has been through too much together, it's really getting into his bones.

ben had been 15 years of scrawny limbs and too clever for his own good when he landed at cléo's trailer door. he didn't know at that time, of course, that he was walking into anything more illicit than the business of entertainment itself. he had wanted a job as a custodian or usher where he could unobtrusively move around wealthy patrons and their pockets, or charming up a lonely older woman for a free meal or two. the scheme he ended up in was something bigger, and cléo had been at the helm of that for the better part of three years. until his father's passing.

it was unexpected, but not entirely surprising.

his father was a man—a city elf—of absolutely no means. which made his honesty and optimism less endearing and more painfully embarrassing. ben couldn't remember the number of times he found his father dejected, in a state of devastation after he had, once again, been cheated out of his money, labor, belongings or all of the above.

ben couldn't understand then, how his father could do this: let himself trust and get betrayed, hope and be let down, confide and be humiliated, again and again and again. it wasn't until one day, watching his father hunched over the bare kitchen table, head in his hands (—why? how could they do this to me?) that ben realized.

his father had expected to be treated decently.

the realization burnt ben's face like no other shame. his father had not just wanted to be treated decently, wanted to hope and dream and have true friends—he had thought he had a right to it. that he was entitled to respect, care, and sincerity; that he had expected to be considered as a man with dignity and pride, a thinking, feeling, unique individual. like a human.

he had been so mortified that he stumbled as many lines in one night as he did the entire season. he wondered how cléo didn't kick him out during the intermission. but cléo didn't kick him out. and ben learned something about himself that day: it might sting to be put down or scorned, but to expect better would utterly destroy him.

and he has nearly gone down that road, just then. what was he expecting, if he found tarquin? that the man would listen to him, excuse or reason, and offer him understanding or confidence? for what? because they served together? rolled in the same muck and perhaps shared one or two drinks of horrible liquor? foolish thoughts. of course, there is the small matter of tarquin's own secret life; the soldier was not nearly as discreet as he thought in his affair with his tent mate. not to ben anyway, who was looking for things worthy of noticing. it's no use anyway. he doubts he could blackmail a man with his sexual proclivity when he is already disgraced and no longer expected to produce an heir. and the whole idea does twist at something in ben's stomach.

better a knife then. damn.

Her cloak was held by one arm, kept from dripping blood or water alike. There is a heavy scent of late evening rain and humidity that clings to her body.

- 1. After finishing the job, dispose of the body. - 2. If you cannot dispose of the body, prepare a list.

Exit strategy. Resources. Tie loose ends.

She had nothing prepared, but the magekiller’s feet had lead her to the front of his door. This Lord whose name he wore like a mask - ill fitting or not it hardly mattered, it had never mattered to Orla. The games were over and all that was left behind weighted her down as Benvolio, Lord Quintus cursed under his breath. Like two sinners entering a Chantry in the dead of night with the most rotten of intentions. Two sinners still in the darkness but instead of a lover’s promise they had barely a ghost of a body between them.

Though she felt like she carried it. The glee she had felt upon doing it had long worn out. She held still the cane with left hand, feeling still the warmth and how comfortable it had felt in her palm as finally the whistling of its fall had landed not on her but against the hands that had risen so often against hers.

One tooth. Malformed. Chipped. Bloody. It is held between indicator and thumb. Allowed to roll down to her palm. Picked up again between fingers, covered by bloody darkened leather.

Her wrist is grabbed and she allows it. Her body is heavy and her mind is light and he acts like an anchor. Pulled deeper into his house she feels herself return as the dim light in a late evening demands it. She minds the carpet, she makes no sound over the wooden boards - not the rustling of the clothes, the creak of uneven weight. Even now she is a shadow trailing after the nobleman.

Ben looks pale, even in the warm light. It is a brief thing, how softly the light lands on his face and his form. From behind heavy lids, she watches him and the barrage of questions. He is rattled.

She holds his wrist first, leaving two dots of washed red atop warm skin. Softly, loosely, but firm, turning it. Careful to not touch any of the expensive fabric.

it doesn't help now.

dragging orla into the dim glow of the torchlight, he has seen and saw. and what he sees well, it's a bloody mess. figuratively, literally, proverbially, spiritually, materially, psychologically, biologically, anatomically... however which way you cut it (and he does wonder—in the grim part of his mind not running at hare-speed—how many ways orla has known to cut). this is a calamity.

"you..." his mouth feels dry. he holds out his hand numbly, knows it before the object ever touches his palm. he looks down, stares absurdly as reality catches up with what his mind has known. "you killed a magister." he proclaims, as though saying it out loud would help tie down the disaster spinning out of control, and... well, it needs to be said so he might as well said it: "you killed your magister."

that's not how the law and most citizens of tevinter would've phrased it. but it hardly matters now, with the cane weighing a ton in ben's hand, and the blood drying in orla's hair.

"fuck." swearing wouldn't help, but not swearing is just as useless so ben prefers to keep his mouth busy. "fuck. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—fuck you! come this way!" he grabs orla's wrist again and starts dragging her deeper into the mansion. "how many? no—how long ago? answer this first. we gotta get you cleaned up. not that way. the guest bathroom leads to the open sewer. the last thing i need is somebody asking why there's blood coming outta my wastewater. no, you will use my bath. scrub clean. hair, body, behind the ears, under your fingernails, not a speck inside your nostril! gimme your clothes. i will burn it. now answer my question: how long ago? how long do you reckon we have til' somebody starts looking for you?"