1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of ... (#6)

Salles

The strand of flaxen hair catches the light, and William Jarvim plucks it off his onion soup. Beside him on the bench, Yale's long fingers tremble as she tears at a roll, jerking with every scream and impact sound. The rioters have grown distant, but the violence has so obviously kept happening.

If he'd gotten home even a stone later... William discreetly lifts his hand, offering his wife a hug.

She shakes her head, saying that wouldn't help her, right now.

The restaurant where they sit is eerily quiet, especially considering all the people. The pagoda is often busy, but right now it's packed with persons from both gateside and dockside, which this business straddles, who've come to take advantage of the wards an ondine owner might put on his building. William's never seen such a blend of persons, spanning the breadth of status, prostis and musclemen intermingled with matrons and businessmen, and the children of both, besides. There are more violent criminal types here, too, representatives of gangside, but they overall put themselves at the entrances. Gangside, even the good areas, are run by physical force and violence.

Conspicuously absent are nobility, though the castle's closer to this pagoda than gangside is. Yale's tension could easily be from recognizing that, the danger the pair of them are in if anyone realizes William himself is biologically and legally nobility, though he's never lived as a noble. But she probably hasn't noticed that.

"We should've taken your brother's girlfriend up on her offer," she mutters, staring at the roll she's torn to bits. They need to eat, to keep themselves well, but her appetite's apparently gone the same way as his.

"You should've," William agrees mildly, for there are reasons for him to stay in Saf, even now—even before the Three were triggered. The woman his brother impregnated had offered them a safe place, saying they could trade in one of her favors, because Aldrik had a fondness for protectors. Sneakiness, too, but limited by that context.

William himself prefers caution, intelligence, and ability to figure out why his birth was so secret that there isn't even rumor of his existence, without him having to explain anything. It has the unfortunate side effect of meaning he's attracted to persons who have been hurt very badly by people who should've helped them. Yale says that's because he was hurt, too, just not in a way that leaves physical marks behind. He's unconvinced she's correct, but he can't say she's wrong.

"Not leaving you here," she mutters again, retreading the argument they've had a few times, now. Her foreign ancestry makes her a target as much as his own parentage does, she insists—which is true, but ignores that her ancestry is obvious to anyone who looks at her. His parentage isn't.

There is reason they are both steadfast about not having children, beyond how childbirth kills the females in Yale's family. Which would've been sufficient reason on its own.

He's cycling, distracted. William intentionally picks up his bowl of soup and takes a sip. The flavor's both stronger and more nuanced than he expected the restaurant to serve in this situation. Has someone recognized him as working in the castle and provided better fare? That might explain why they're some of the few with seating, too.

Or, considering the wary sidelong looks he's getting, maybe the managers just want to ensure they'll have time to respond if he gives cues of mistreating his wife, whose foreign ancestry and mannerisms proclaim as vulnerable, or of being insane, as the nuances in his magic right now would give Bridgers in particular reasons to suspect.

He sips again. "Try your soup."

She shakes her head, the downwards turn on her lips saying she can't eat, right now, that she'd be unable to keep it down.

There's rustling in the crowd, and they're approached directly by a... Actually, there's no clear cue what gender this manager is, as their choices of hairstyle, clothing, and accessories are so ambiguous that it must be by design.

The probable calculation inherent in the pagoda sending this manager to speak to him is a comforting reminder that politics are politics, so his adeptness at navigating the nobility and castle servants gives him the foundation he needs to understand these people, too, once he gets more fluent with the associations they make.

"You claimed business with the owner's concubine?" the manager says briskly, their voice just as ambiguous as others' focus sharpen in on William.

"Yes," he agreed, reinforcing his reason for picking this particular place as a bunker. His half-sister would probably report in before heading south, so they could meet up.

Silence ticks by. Is he overlooking a response they want?

Yale covers her face. "Will..."

He watches her, waiting for her to finish her sentence.

"Emotions?" she prods.

So the issue is his standard court-servant mask? But... "Emotions about what?"

She winces and rips her torn-up bread even further. It'll be crumbs for songbirds, at this rate. "Sorry," she tells the manager. "He's a bit of a dissociate."

People who habitually dissociate their emotions and observations have a stereotype of being academics, who aren't well-respected here. The manager relaxes a little, fitting the way this property's owner has a history of supporting outcasts.

"I see," the manager says. "What business do you have with our lady?"

William lets his eyebrows rise. "Does she know you call her that?" He's hardly met his half-sister, but he's seen enough to know she's outright proud of how baldly she isn't a lady.

Yale sighs. "We need to talk to her on a family matter."

He casts her a sharp look. Admitting relationship isn't wise, not with the magic.

Wait. "You're not—"

Yale frowns at him, eyes narrowed, wordlessly saying yes, she is coming along on the trip south.

He scowls.

Triumph flashes over her face, and she tosses a glance at the manager. "See? He can show feelings; he's just trained not to."

And his wife's honest description just told the manager something William hasn't followed, because the person relaxes entirely, says they'll see about finding somewhere for them to sleep, and heads off.

He looks at his wife for explanation.

She shakes her head, focus back on her bread.

He returns to eating, wishing he could take a little of her anxiety and nausea so she could at least have something, herself. These spells can last days, for her, though fortunately she can at least nibble a little when distracted, if she keeps a snack on-hand.

He finishes his bowl, sets it aside for a server to easily pick it up when passing the table.

"You've been hurt, too," Yale says quietly, with a firmness that calls it a reference to why she thinks he's attracted to survivors.

And, somehow, what she told the manager told them that?

"Interesting."