Entry tags:
[for Biffy; April]
The better weather and start of some formal season or another with the local school-age citizens meant that Krem's hours had picked up at Bardolf's. He was hardly complaining about the hours, working them in around everything else. There wasn't so much everything else to work around, after all, and beyond having to sometimes supervise the fittings, he was left pretty much alone to do his job and get things done.
That evening, arriving at Bardolf's, he was aching and distracted. The weight of fight club was still on him, and his evening and morning after. But he was there, blissfully and entirely sober for the first time in a surfeit of months, and staring at the list of projects left for him by the day seamstresses to complete as the secondary tailor.
"...you'd think they'd be able to get more done," he mumbled to himself. "With three of them and using machines. Why's the singular hand seamer faster than the lot?"
That evening, arriving at Bardolf's, he was aching and distracted. The weight of fight club was still on him, and his evening and morning after. But he was there, blissfully and entirely sober for the first time in a surfeit of months, and staring at the list of projects left for him by the day seamstresses to complete as the secondary tailor.
"...you'd think they'd be able to get more done," he mumbled to himself. "With three of them and using machines. Why's the singular hand seamer faster than the lot?"
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The compliment made him laugh a little, and shrug. He shifted the piece he was working on, checking all the points he was bringing in. In the time they'd been talking, he'd nearly finished with it. He knew that the day-shift workers probably would have taken at least twice as long.
"I never thought it much impressive back home," he said with a shrug. "It's just something I've trained myself into doing. Been stitching almost as long as I can remember. The hidden stitches are always the easiest and the fastest."
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"I'd be afraid to even attempt it when I haven't got much soul left." This he said wistfully. Biffy hadn't touched a piano since he'd died, afraid to see what became of his talents now that he'd traded his excess soul for immortality.
"At least the hat is simple."
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"I don't know much about anything but soldiering and tailoring, honestly," Krem said with a shrug. "Lucky me, both of those are still of use, even here."
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He carefully and studiously applied a bit of gold braid trim to the hat and then removed it, thinking that the effect was a bit much, especially now that its intended recipient was a teenage girl. She would do better with something simple, fresh.
"Military service is compulsory for Britain's packs."
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"The soporati, the lowest free class in Tevinter, they range anywhere from barely scraping the edges of slavery all the way up to being nearly as wealthy as the greatest altus. But, none of us are mages. So, especially second sons in less affluent families, turn to the military. It pays well. It gives great prestige, if you live long enough for it. The two best honors in the military are station, and death."
He was quiet, picking small details into the finery. "Women are allowed very few positions in the military. Secretaries. Couriers. Scribes, if they were from a family affluent enough to know how to write. Healers, if they're a mage. Company women for the frontier or the front lines. I paid every sovereign my mother and I had for a piece of paper to make sure I had a sword in my hand."
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"But that's not why you began to dress and act as you did," he supposed. If Krem had done it only as a means of security, he would not be dressed and acting the way he was now. Biffy was tempted to ask if he'd known before or during the army but that seemed too daringly personal.
"It must seem rather pitiful that I dreaded the idea."
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Krem had no problems talking about that part of himself. What was there to hide? Especially now, with the slow evolution of his face, his body, his very voice. It was a dream he'd had once and that had never been possible, but was here in Darrow. There was no escaping what he was.
"I don't," he said, shaking his head and comparing his stitches to the original embroidery. He looked up at Biffy and offered a candid smile. "Our paths were very different, I think. Much like mine and Dorian's. Though, over the months, I've come to realize that mine and Dorian's had more in common than I care to enjoy. Tevinter was not a kind place to anyone, I think, though I miss it terribly."
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He wondered now if he would do that dance in Lord Akeldama's townhouse or in the Maccons'. What place was home to him, anymore?
"I am glad, then, that our paths saw fit to cross."
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The but sat between them, filled with unspoken things. But Darrow. But everything Dorian and he had left in Thedas. But that Dorian had been abducted by this place, and Krem had not. There was no point in speaking any of those things.
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And that but hung in the air.
"I suppose, Darrow being what it is, the whole thing is moot."
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But he had still punched Dorian straight across the mouth that first fight club. Had still frozen in the midst of wrestling Thomas on the beach. He still flinched and retreated when men tried to hand him things too quickly, or pass things around him, or when women raised their voices too rapidly around him. These were things ingrained in his bones and his muscles now, as much as his swordplay was.
"I suppose so, for most of us."
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"I, for one, am glad to have been brought here. Without this place I would never have met Dorian, nor you." That was enough, Biffy thought, to recommend Darrow.
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Today was a slightly better day, aching and clarified and feeling closer to whole, closer to how he ought to, if he'd been back home. That made it easier.
"Dorian is certainly a reason, all on his own."
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"And I do mean it." Biffy was grateful to Krem for many acts of friendship and one great act of courage on a particularly awful full moon.
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He did not think of himself as, particularly, a reason to find Darrow otherwise endearing or desirable. But that was likely the soldiering. He had fixed himself as an object of transience for nearly half his life now. His lot was meant to be discarded in the end.
But it was nice, he supposed, to end up a facet.