am i air or am i water

Tristan cocked a brow, unhappy at how little Oliver thought of himself. “I’ve only ever had Robbard,” he mused with a furrowed brow, but he refused to leave it there. “You know, I doubt they were always good at what they do.” He let out a short breathy laugh. “I certaintly wasn’t. You’d stare in horror if you ever saw the first hundred poems I wrote.”

Oliver tilted his head, wondering why Tristan, who seemed to give information freely, seemed abrupt at the mention of his brother. He didn’t want Tristan to stop talking with him though, so he glossed over it and latched on to the next thing the other man mentioned. “What? No. I don’t believe it. How many poems do you think you’ve written, then?”

Eira listened to what Oliver was saying and nodded.  “That seems to be a very wise interpretation,” she told him before her eyes widened slightly.  “Really?  I have always wondered what it would be like to speak with animals.”  The Queen had no magic within her, something that plagued her when she was a child.

“It’s like...it’s like speaking to a child sometimes, I think. Horses don’t think like us, so you can’t act the same to them. But all the same, it’s not like it’s the weirdest thing ever. You get used to it after a while.” Oliver paused. “Sometimes it’s better. Horses aren’t cruel just for the sake for being cruel.” He lowered his eyes to the ground before remembering. “Your Majesty.”

Eira smiled slightly while she listened to Oliver speak about his family.  “I’m afraid I don’t spend near as much time in the stables as I once did,” Eira replied.  As a girl that had been one of her favorite places, but a queen’s duties were far outside the stables.  “Horses are very noble creatures.  I can understand the appeal.”

“Ah, of course.” Oliver couldn’t imagine what the Queen had to do. She probably didn’t have time do visit the stables with all her royal duties. “Well, I mean, your Majesty, I agree - some are noble, but some are mean. Like people, I think.” He paused, realizing how that sounded without context. “Uh, I just mean - horsespeak runs in our family. That’s why he chose to work there.”

His hesitant smile grew into a genuine one. “A swordsman?” he echoed. What a romantic dream. Tristan adored romantic ideals. “It’s only as childish as you consider it. Just because you aren’t as free as you once more, it doesn’t mean you can’t still work for it.” He would encourage it as much as anything else that might encourage Oliver to leave the employment of Grigor Stradden. “In fact, I’m sure there’s at least one day a week you have time to yourself.”

“It seems childish now that I have a real job. I mean, not that a swordsman isn’t a real job, but perhaps for someone else it is.” Oliver looked at Tristan, hiding a bashful grin quickly. It was nice to hear someone encourage him instead of the opposite, even if it was hard to truly believe. “I do - I mean, there is. It just seems...I don’t know. Most of my brothers and sisters are just so good at what they do, like they’ve always been meant to do what they do. Then there’s me.” He shrugged. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Oliver Hart,” Dahlia said, testing the name on her lips. She knew of another Hart family member through word in the halls, a blacksmith of a girl, but beyond that her knowledge was limited. After his redundant admission, Dahlia graced the man with a rare and gentle smile. It was the kind of smile most men and women saw on the brunette’s face long ago back in the temple - one she had to strain now to achieve. However, the faint clinking of her guards’ armor from leaning their weight on the opposite foot erased all traces of it.

“Ah, His Highness. Wonderful company, if you’ve ever the honor,” she voiced loud enough for her guards to hear. In truth, Dahlia thought the prince wasn’t as terrible as his mother - perhaps played worse than her own self by the heartless Queen. Still, she wasn’t too keen on him. The servant woman supposed Oliver was looking for some answer, of which she attempted to grant, “I am of the Southern Isles. My mistress being Her Majesty, Queen Ammut, Herself. But I am a mere servant among many others in Her company.” Hoping to turn the tides before she was swept under, Dahlia wondered, “May I ask what you do?”

Oliver’s tense shoulders relaxed slightly when she smiled, and he was glad that he hadn’t said anything to ruin the conversation. She was a very interesting person, and though he knew that he was in no league as intriguing as her, Oliver continued to take what he could and talk as long as she permitted.

“I never had the chance myself, but someone I know once met him. He was quite taken by him, yeah.” Oliver shifted, looking at the guards when she stopped smiling. Was she trying to hide something from them? He hadn’t an idea of what she was trying to do; he spoke his thoughts without fear of who heard.

“Wait, you serve her?” Oliver’s eyes widened. “That’s...that’s something.” He bit back a hundred questions, trying to figure out which one to ask first and which she would actually answer. “I assist Mr. Stradden here in the city. He owns...um, businesses and he knows lots of important people, so I deliver his letters and things and sometimes I write. Whatever he needs done, really.” He paused, hesitated. “What do you think of Nore so far?”

        ysabeau frowned. she still pinched the sleeve of the man — was he a ranger, maybe? certainly handsome enough. “i don’t know how to rob someone,” she said sharply. her voice rumbled up from her like a storm. it felt like an insult. she wasn’t a thief, though she sometimes caught herself admiring the sharp quickness of the pickpockets she saw. often too scrawny, too, so she said nothing. she’s finally reached the booth, where this merchant is busy with another common patron. “this is the one you want,” she says. she lets go of his sleeve. those boots look so warm, she thought.

Oliver, a year ago even, might’ve pressed the point and furthered the argument. Anyone could be a thief, and it seemed the sort of thing a thief would say if they were trying to protect themselves. The edge her voice held suggested otherwise, and he decided to bite his tongue and drop it.

“Right, of course,” Oliver said instead, waiting to see where she would lead him. The booth they came too seemed nice, although the lady behind it was talking to someone else.

“Truly, you’re right,” Oliver said, voice tinged with grudging admiration. “Look at those boots! They seem quite warm. And those! Those look like something someone with status would buy!”

“No, no, tell me. What is it?” Tristan prompted softly. He couldn’t help his curiosity, but he also saw how important it was for Oliver to receive a positive response to this. He disliked the idea of…well, he didn’t even enjoy thinking about the word itself, much less the people it described who worked under Grigor Stradden. But no matter what he thought of them, he would stand by his insistence that there was nothing too stupid to matter to people. “I want to hear.”

“I wanted to be a swordsman. A Royal Guardsman, more like. I was training, even, and sometimes I still do, but work leaves me so busy, and...” Oliver sighed, reddening. It felt foolish to admit it out loud. “It seems like a child’s dream now, doesn’t it?”

The toe of his boot scraping the ground became a distracting rhythm. Because of her inability to see clearly, she had learned to rely on her other senses. They were rather heightened, better than the average individual, but not better than a person with a magic catered to such. “Dahlia,” fell her name from her lips, before she explained gently, “I am not a Lady. You may call me Dahlia. And what do I call you?” 

She listened to him clarify as best as he could. He was nervous, but his words were blunt when they were met. What was someone like her doing here? Heavens, she didn’t know herself. Shaking her head, Dahlia washed away the apology, “It is fine. But I’m afraid I do not know exactly what you mean by someone like me doing here?”

“Oliver Hart, your - Dahlia, I mean.” Oliver felt like he wasn’t supposed to be addressing her with her first name, but she said it was so, and he wasn’t one to disagree. “Of the Hart family,” he quickly added before realizing his redundancy. He breathed deeply before continuing, wishing that he had just moved on in the first place.

“Your - your clothes, and the guards - it’s just the last time I saw anyone like that, it was the Prince of the Southern Isles,” Oliver said, tone appropriately awed. The Southern royalty seemed an entirely different beast from the Caddocks, who were at the least approachable and more or less open.

Tristan laughed openly, glad to see Oliver clearly did not dislike him entirely. No-one would joke around with someone they didn’t like. “With all my heart,” he answered, honestly and with a grin. No matter who he was talking to, Tristan loved hearing them talk about themselves, especially when they offered the information willingly.

The laughter disappeared in an instant. He fought back a scowl at the mention of Grigor Stradden. Tristan didn’t hate people. He made an effort not to. But, despite his might and will, he could find absolutely nothing he liked about the man. But some emotion clearly had to be shown, if Oliver’s expression said anything. A judgement had to be passed, and it was all too clear Oliver wanted it to be a good one. Tristan did his best to keep the negativity at bay. He asked neutrally, not having to feign his surprise, “How did you get such a career? It’s not every day you hear a man starts working in the brothel.”

Oliver shrugged, glad to be the center of attention now that his suspicions were mostly allayed. Were Tristan to reveal this as some sort of prank now, Oliver would be crushed, as he was inwardly genuinely enjoying speaking with Tristan and wanted to be his friend.

“I had a friend there - an actual friend, not a, uh, you know, and he helped me get a job when I asked. Probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me ever. Mister Stradden brought me on account of me knowing how to read and write, yeah. For years before - well, never mind. It’s stupid,” Oliver said, blushing and rubbing at the back of his neck.

A real job, he said? Lotta chuckled to herself: for her, wealth had always meant that she didn’t need to work, that the earnings of her parents was more than enough for her to live comfortably. “They hardly even seem palatable. Have you never tried finely made food? It would put your fish pies to shame.” Snobbish as Lotta was being, she did not have an air of absolute seriousness. While still disgusted, she did find the lives of the less fortunate interesting in a curious kind of way that she hardly dared express.

“This is finely made food,” Oliver insisted with a frown. There wasn’t much he took more seriously than food, and he couldn’t help but be jealous of what he imagined the noblewoman got to dine on on a regular basis. “But what are you talking about? Like the food at the New Moon feasts? How can you get much better than that?”

        ysabeau, at this point, was used to strangers harking anything from leathery meat to “crystal” charms. she’d usually just nod and be on her way. now, she only spared half a glance, then looked again. the boots looked fine to her. in fact, she’d love a good, sturdy pair of boots. but  — there, she could see the knots in the stitching, and there was a crack in the heel. she hummed her distaste — yes, this merchant was charging too much. she pinched the sleeve of the harried man bartering for the lower price and tugged him away. “i know a better one,” was all she said.

Oliver was but a few moments from throwing a punch at the shopkeeper when he felt someone grabbing his sleeve. He looked over to see a young woman apparently moving to lead him somewhere - whether her offer was genuine or an attempt to sell him something else remained to be seen. “He was charging a small fortune for those, aye? For less, I might have bought them, but not at that price. So where is this better pair? If you’re dragging me away to be robbed, though, I’d prepare for disappointment.”

There was a brief pause in between his addressing her and his apology. She waited, hands resting at her sides, picturing the man while he thought of what to say next. His aura was a lemon yellow fire that flickered yet remained steady, leaving its source in slight wisps. She could imagine he was a lost soul, but would have never said it aloud. “Have you never felt the stare of a stranger?”

Dahlia resumed filtering through merchandise, if only to give her hands something to do, “Might I ask instead why you were staring?” At times, she had to remind herself that her thoughts were not always right, and that perhaps he had been staring for a reason other than her appearance and what she wore. 

Her question caught him off guard - part of the reason he used to be so volatile was because people stared at him, and suddenly he felt a measure of genuine remorse for being rude. His cheeks colored even more, and he shuffled the toe of his boots against the ground. “No. Guess I’ve never really thought about it.” He paused. “My lady.”

Oliver peeked up carefully again and licked his lips out of nervousness. “I dunno - I mean, I just...I was trying to think of what someone like you is doing here. I mean, it’s just...” Gods, he thought to himself. “I, um, I apologize for staring.” Confronted with someone different, Oliver’s usual confidence seemed all but gone.

She despised it - being dressed up like the Queen’s doll. Before her servitude, Dahlia enjoyed the sparkling jewels, golden chains, and colorful gowns she would see amongst the Southern Isles nobles. She had never coveted the materialistic world, as her temple had taught her material things were of no value in the afterlife, but like any girl she had dreamed of dressing nice for some festival where she would find her true love and dance until her feet were sore. 

Sadly, with years of being shown off as a pretty thing with pretty accessories and pretty garments, Dahlia had become bitter towards the act. She would wait all day to go to her room and throw everything to the floor in piles of nonsense, before choosing a simple gown to spend the rest of her lone time in. Nowadays, the golden chains dripping off her frame weighed more like a slave’s chains than anything else. 

She stepped along the market square in her blue and purple gown, feeling the waves of fabric sweep along the cold streets. Her guards trailed behind, watching over her as she inspected trinkets in each stand with her fingertips. Dahlia paused when a nerve trickled down her spine, and she figured it was because of her appearance, “Though I cannot see, I do feel your stare.”

Oliver couldn’t help but gawk slightly at the woman and her bright dress. He had seen very little like it, and the wearer was adorned with jewelry Oliver, whose family consisted of metalworkers, couldn’t have dreamt up. It was clear that she was not only rich, but from a far off foreign place, and as he often did, Oliver lost himself in a flight of fancy before realizing he had been caught.

“My lady,” he responded quickly, his position as Stradden’s assistant having taught him some semblance of proper manners. Oliver felt his face redden in embarrassment, but he also wanted to speak to her more, curious at what she meant. “I, uh - I apologize. Didn’t meant to...wait, if you can’t see, how can you know I’m starin’?”

“By the look of that, I’m not sure I would ever want to have a fish pie,” Lotta retorted just as quickly, the bite in her voice hidden under a high brow and arrogant, perhaps even snobbish tone. “Is that what the poor folk always have to eat? Gods, the state of things these days.”

Oliver had dealt with some citizens of the noble persuasion ever since starting to work for Stradden, and though he had generally grown less intimidated, this particular woman threatened his newfound attitude. “Poor? Shows what you know, my lady. I have a real job and everything. And fish pies are delicious.”

Tristan couldn’t help but laugh, both in amusement at Oliver and embarrassment of his own self. “Is it obvious, then, that I’ve fallen into a pile of fish before?” He asked, almost hoping the answer would be yes. It would mean Oliver was comfortable enough around him to either jest or speak the truth – and both were fine with him.

As for the choices this time, they were a bit harder. He figured that the first was a lie – he couldn’t imagine Suzette Hart allowing animals anywhere near her work. But the latter two were conflicting. If Oliver could read, he more than likely had a job, but if he had no job, it didn’t mean he couldn’t read. And vise versa, now that he thought of it.

He decided to opt for the most optimistic choice. “I think you can read. And I’d be excited to know all about this job of yours – if you’d want to share.”

“Yes. I could smell it from quite a bit away, if I’m honest,” Oliver joked, trying to keep a straight face before breaking out into a grin. He was more comfortable poking fun at someone than talking about serious things, and he was glad to see that Tristan could take a joke even if it meant laughing at himself a little.

“Truly? You’d be interested?” Oliver couldn’t help but be slightly suspicious. Out of all his siblings, he wasn’t usually (or ever, if he was being honest) the one people wanted to know about. “I, ah, work for Stradden. As his assistant, I mean. I write letters sometimes, deliver things for and to him, and whatever else he needs.” Oliver hesitated. He wanted to know what Tristan thought, but he was afraid to ask, though his hesitant expression probably told as much.