dastardly | saltburnt inbox

[ It hadn't been an easy night. He knows now that it's over that he took liberties it wasn't his place to - but he knows too, with the weight of his new role a constant call to understand exactly what is and isn't right here amongst the flock, that not to have acted would have had worse consequences than this breach of autonomy.

The first couple of days after the markings are full of other things: a grudge, hot fury, the more immediate ache of someone else missing from his bed. By the time the dust settles and he has space again to acknowledge everything else that roils in him, remember the choices he made and the people he committed to in the making of them, the taut thread of connection is trembling, Stephen's worry and the dreaded inevitability of contact merging into sharp anxiety as each plummets back and forth along the invisible tie between them.

Stephen forced this on him. He won't make him be the one to reach out, or leave him to suffer their mutual absence alone. ]

Are you staying with someone?

[ A weak start, but a start. They've barely spoken since Josias was the son of a sister Stephen never met in a life that wasn't real. He'll have to figure this out as he goes. ]

[It's hard to recall his initial delighted fascination at these devices when he'd first woken. Like his play at being disturbed and distressed by the things had been a grim prediction of his future, every buzz and trill has been a plague on his senses since his memory returned, a constant reminder of how much he'd been exposed, how many people had witnessed it. At least back at the manor, he'd felt some confidence in being able to safely ignore his phone for hours, if not days at a time. But here, vigilance has proven itself entirely necessary, and his desperate attempt at seclusion is finally beaten.

Of course, he still regrets having looked when he sees who the message is from.]

No.

[An immediate reply that he didn't want to make, a truth he didn't want to give. Dragged from him by the compulsion of the mark on his throat, aware that the resentment, irritation and fear he feels for it is just as visible to Stephen as the word on the screen.]

[ He can't call it a mistake. It had been very particularly intentional, a necessary evil he can't really regret - though perhaps the mistake was in treating fabricated ties as true ones. It doesn't make any difference now. Josias is stuck with him, for better or worse, and Stephen stuck with the mire of unhappy sentiments flooding across the now very literal blood tie that binds them to one another.

Only one of them had to bleed for it. He knows who's suffering more for his choice. ]

It's not safe to be alone here.

[ Not safe to be alone with Lanfear either, he suspects, though she might offer Josias some comfort. Stephen took the most dangerous cut for himself, shackled her too with the knife across her throat in defence against any of her worse instincts aimed at those he won't see hurt, but the bond isn't the same as omniscience. He can't defend against what he can't see when he isn't there. ]

Were there any more cuts?

A courtesan, alone, would hardly be serving his purpose, would he?

[It's hard to tell if he's truly taken the implication as insult, or if he's just playing at it. It might be both. The real weight was the demonstration: Stephen had asked, and, as the binding demanded, he'd answered - but only as the question required.]

Not of the binding variety. You'll have to fool more people into believing I'm important to you, then I'll have them queueing up.

I haven't seen you put your name against anyone yet.

Wonderful to hear your eyesight isn't failing. Please, do keep me updated on any other obvious observations you make.

[ Anyway, ]

Are you going to vote?

Ah, you want a trade in obvious observations! No.

[But he's annoyed enough about everything that, after a moment, Stephen gets a real answer:]

I won't be participating in any of this nonsense unless I unfortunately find myself called upon to play victim. If whatever entity concocting these wonderful events for us to experience wanted me as puppet, it can take the time to put strings on me, just as it has repeatedly shown itself capable of doing in the past. I won't be putting them on myself.

Edited 2025-10-08 00:46 (UTC)

[ Things move quickly after Ashcroft's death. Their welcome runs out immediately, and it isn't long before they're back in the woods, returning the dangerous way they came. The hurry of it, the need to gather together what few things were worth taking and make a plan to survive the journey home, means any intentions he'd had to find the newly living get lost in the rush.

Once they've made it, stumbling through the gates, he has neither the energy nor the inclination to force others to remember what he already wants to forget. He sees what he assumes is the back of a familiar head as it slips into the house in search of an old hiding place, and Stephen doesn't follow.

Josias gets until late the next morning. Enough time to rest, to sleep if he could manage it. Not enough time for Stephen to let himself off the hook.

Two solid knocks on his bedroom door mark a visitor, and a wizard waits on the other side. ]

I requested it be left outside.

[A sentence already halfway through being spoken as the door opens, Josias sounding terse, irritated, but largely exhausted, the venomous edge that his words might have held blunted by it. He looks no better - clean, at least, and dressed, if only in pyjama pants and an open robe, but noticeably tired, something harried about his expression, in his eyes, dulled from their usual brightness. Behind him, the room is untouched, flat-pack furniture still in its boxes, cases of his belongings retrieved from the tents still closed, but all the windows flung wide open, the chill of October let fully inside.

Not that Stephen is given chance of more than a glimpse, as Josias realises the knock had been a wizard, not his expected visitor, and promptly begins to shut the door again. Simply:]

No.

[ He should let him go, let him have his privacy if that's what he needs. Maybe once, he would have. Now though, Stephen's palm meets wood and offers resistance, a first step to stopping the closing of that door. He has others. He'll have to decide whether or not to use them if it comes to it. ]

Josias.

[ Careful not to overstep with a more familiar name he'd never taken the time to earn the use of, the word still lands somewhere between a scold and a plea. ]

[Resistance meets resistance, for a moment - then, abruptly, it's gone, Josias releasing the door, walking away.]

Of course, what was I thinking? Please, come in.

[A wide gesture at the room as he pads through it, as if offering Stephen a seat. There aren't any, unless he sits on the unmade bed, one of the boxes, or a window sill.

The last is the seat Josias claims, leant back into the frame, one leg drawn up, seemingly unfazed by the cold. Looking at Stephen expectantly. Defiantly.]

I'd hate to keep you from completing the mandatory token gesture of concern.

[ A fair blow. It lands, as it ought, evident in the brief lowering of his gaze as he turns from the door he's pushed most of the way closed behind him, shame its own easy tell. Stephen doesn't languish in it. Picks himself up to cast an eye over the room, taking in the furniture still in its boxes, bare walls and still-packed belongings. ]

You want a hand with this?

[There's a scoff, immediate, that likely would have come for anything Stephen would have next said. The dismissal that should follow is stalled, however, as Josias catches up with the question that was asked.

When he'd first realised what the boxed furniture was, he'd dismissed it as ridiculous - but a day later is time enough for some small seeds of embarrassment to have planted themselves. It isn't like he hasn't overcome many such moments since his first waking up in Saltburnt, but being confronted by his lack of knowledge or capability in the face of something others seemed to accept as norm still rankled, felt like insult. Right now, he finds himself without the energy to turn it to curiosity, to challenge, and he refuses to be so pitiable as to ask for help. Accepting an offer, though--

He looks between the boxes and Stephen, some reluctant consideration in his expression, wary. Answering yes could lead to mockery, pity - or, worse yet, it could lead to Stephen staying. What would either of them be meant to do with that?]

Are you a carpenter, now?

No.

[ Not a carpenter, but then nobody need be a carpenter to build the kind of furniture left for them here. He doesn't rub that knowledge in, aware the ground he stands on is already shaky. Instead, a lift of his hand and a twist of his fingers through the air and the end of one box laying on its side unsticks itself, opening up to make way for the flat of a tabletop to slide out onto the floor, bags of screws and a few paltry tools following after and stopping neatly in a row.

He watches Josias quietly for a reaction. Some here are more used to magic than technology, others find any stretch of power a concern. ]

But it shouldn't be too hard.

[A wave of Stephen's hand and the box begins to unpack itself, wood and tools moving to, Josias presumes, fit themselves together into whatever piece of furniture they're destined to become. The wary curiosity in his expression lingers for one moment at the sight, then dulls to something more like resignation. Disappointment.

Of course, Stephen wouldn't be offering to help if it was something that required real time or effort.]

They keep mages locked up in towers where I'm from.

[As light and flat as if he were discussing the weather, and not invoking a vast simplification of the Circle's practices, the dark history of it. He doesn't even keep his attention on Stephen to see his reaction, turning to look out of the window as he continues:]

I'll be sure to tell them of all the convenient construction and decorating services they've been missing out on, if I ever return.

[ He's not quite sure what it means, the look on his face once it settles out of his immediate reaction. Unimpressed, maybe, though Josias of all people could be trusted to put on a better show of disinterest than that. So if it's not a performance to mask intrigue...

Stephen watches him turn, cite the practices of a world it seems would cage him if it could, and stands there amidst the boxes and crates, at a loss.

Are you a carpenter, now? hadn't been a no. This isn't a no, either - but it feels like a dismissal, where before there was consideration. He thought he'd want him gone as quickly as possible, given he never wanted him in here in the first place. But maybe... ]

It comes with instructions. You don't have to be a carpenter.

[ The wood and screws and tools sit still where he's emptied them out onto the floor. Stephen waits, uncertain, to see if he's hit the right nail on its head. ]

[There's nothing of note to hold Josias' interest in the view outside his window, but the slide of his attention back to Stephen is still slow, reluctant to keep humouring the charade of care. Frowns, at the pieces of wood and fixings now spread about his floor rather than boxed up and out of the way. It looks a mess. It looks, a little - if those pieces there were legs, and that piece there was a stretcher - like a puzzle.]

Weren't you enchanting it to prance about and build itself?

[Turned back fully, despite himself, to examine the display.]

I was enchanting it to get it out of the box.

[ Had the intention been to get it all made with a few breezy wafts of his hands? Sure. But it seems like even the beginnings of that train of intention had rubbed Josias the wrong way, in spite of how little he wanted to see him in the first place.

Instead of admitting as much and leaving the full onus of choice on the shoulders of his unwilling host, aware that one wrong move will have him hissing a retreat, Stephen follows it up with - ]

I have time. [ A turn of his wrist and the instructions appear in Stephen's hand. Doing them both the favor of a moment of privacy, he flips them open to take an idle glance. ] Do you?

Happy Christmas.

[ ATTACHMENT.JPG ]

It's not a celebration we have where I'm from, but I'm certainly coming to appreciate it.

[ DAMN IT. this is twice now. she's going to hand deliver the pictures at this point lest they find their way to someone else instead of the intended participant.

maybe if she just ignores it for a while. ]

This is only the second Christmas season I've celebrated, myself. Do you have a winter celebration?

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text — un: pearlnecklace (misfire)

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