[ First Martel, whom she managed to forgive after a fashion. It's easier when the world ruined isn't her own- but this?
How is she ever to cope with this?
Frustrated, roiling, composure held only by the barest of threads she stalks to Dorian's tent with a bottle of wine in one fist and a bottle of brandy in the other. She will have answers (which she's certain she knows the answer to but she must ask all the same) and then? She will drink. Horribly. ]
Dorian. [ A whipcrack of his name, cold and hard and weary. It's all the warning he has before she pushes her way into his tent. ]
[ Reading a slender book he'd bargained off of someone in Sahrnia, entitled Les Trois Soeurs: Aventures Manquantes, Dorian is at least academically enthralled as he thumbs through the pages and struggles through his sketchy understanding of Orlesian. Many men might celebrate a victory in battle by drinking and fucking, and for all that he isn't above those things, and actually quite enjoys them, a good book is occasionally exactly all he needs after an encounter with a desire demon, cleansing and quiet.
Up until this moment, anyway, startling at his name but unmoving from his recline on his bedroll. There's another across from him, where he shares the space with Bevenenuta, who'd been content to leave him alone for the moment.
By the time Adelaide storms in, his expression is a little wide around the eyes. She's holding two bottles of alcohol, which is usually a good thing, but he doesn't put his book down yet. ]
[ The space is too small for her to stalk end to end, too cramped for her to do more than stand and glower, a snap of power knotting the tent flaps back into place behind her. The walk over loosened strands from her pinned back hair, snow dusted her shoulders- she wasn't even wearing a cloak.
Just her kirtle, just what she'd been wearing when Detlef-
Anders-
Came and pulled the ground out from under her. ]
If you have ever lied to me- if you have ever hidden something from me, speak it. Now. [ It starts firm- a demand. Hard and biting as the wind outside but it twists with a knot in her voice, tangles and trails and ends pleading. ] Tell me.
[ Dorian sort of bridles, at first, offended in the first instance. In Benevenuta, he'd been honest about the secrets he holds closest because he trusts her, but so much of that circumstance had been foisted upon them against his will. In Adelaide, he'd done what he never does; inform her he had things to say, and spill them from there. Self-evisceration might have been easier, but he'd already felt like he had been walking around with open wounds.
But it becomes clear that this isn't actually about him (perish the thought) around when her voice breaks and wavers, grip on book relaxing to fold against his chest, before he folds a page's corner over and sets it aside. ]
You know just about everything worth knowing, [ he says, levelly. ] And unfortunately for me in particular, none of it was a lie.
[ She sags- but not with relief. If she'd suspected anything of him in truth, she would be relieved but-
As difficult as Dorian can be, as sneaky and flashy and sideways- he's never been dishonest. She'd taken comfort in that more often than not, that the person with the least reason to be open and straightforward actually has been. His regard, his trust is a gift and one she's spat on a bit in her lack of composure.
At least he is gracious enough to ignore it.
Without her fear and fury to spur her onward Adelaide shivers as she sits, skirts tangled rather than swept, tense and frustrated and miserable. ]
I have, with the exclusion of you and perhaps a few others, shit judgement in character.
[ Dorian doesn't sit up so much as reposition himself, stretching out with his weight on an elbow as he reaches across expectantly for whatever bottle of liquor she feels like giving him. All the while, the look of study he gives her is one of focus, listening, just short of speculative.
The corner of his mouth goes up. ]
I'm a shining credit to your taste in friends, [ he corrects, loftily. ] That must outweigh other, more regrettable decisions.
Infinitely more regrettable. [ She releases the wine, the brandy can come later. It ought to be warmed anyway and the focus it takes for her to manage such a thing might help settle this flayed raw, gnarled thing spiraling in her chest. She can ignore it more often than not. Tuck it away, not be bothered.
But this is too much. ]
I have been made a fool of. Twice. Both times they came to me, confessed to me. 'I have lied to you and I am sorry for it, here are my sins'.
[ Paraphrasing. With Martel it had been that, a list of sins for absolution. Anders-
A word. A name. Her lips twist bitterly and she is not going to weep over this. She did not weep over Martel, she will not weep over Anders- she glares stubbornly into the middle distance as though that will prevent the tears from falling. ]
[ Dorian takes his time, working the cork out of its snug settle as he listens, an eyebrow raising at the news of confession. Now that's slickly done, isn't it? ] Now now, [ he says, a tone of caution. ] None of that. That is, after all, the thing about liars. They lie.
[ Wine opened, he doesn't drink from it immediately, but does set it within reach. His hand rests on the ground between them, not quite invading her space, but nudging against it. She looks like she might cry, which Dorian understands to be one of the worst things that can happen, but also not so terrible when it's other people. ]
Once in a month would be unlucky. Twice in a single week?
[ Martel she has demanded his solemn word and forgiven, after a fashion. Gutted herself before him so he might understand why her reaction had been quite so visceral. Detlef-
Anders.
That apostate. Is beyond her capacity to forgive. ]
Months I have known them both. Months they've kept up the lie. And now because they feel poorly or are spurred by guilt they- [ She shakes her head, hand fisted in the bedroll under her. Gradually her grip loosens, she lets it drift enough to rest against Dorian's. Allows it to ground her a little. ]
[ Dorian curls his knuckles enough to better shape against her hand, before opting to turn his palm enough and fold her fingers against his palm. ]
I wouldn't say no to gossip if it would make you feel better, you know. Unless you feel particular duty towards keeping their secrets.
[ Despite the slight joke to his words about whether sharing in such chatter would or would not delight him personally, his tone isn't specifically prying. His curiousity settles more in this last point; whether Adelaide feels that obligation at all. ]
One is irrelevant as the sins are not of this world. [ Hint enough and now- now she takes the wine as she squeezes his hand, damn the glasses, and takes a draught from the neck. ] The other-
Fuck.
The other is far, far too relevant.
[ Does she owe them her silence? Martel's lies- as she'd said- were irrelevant. The revelation that he'd been a reprehensible human being in his own world cuts distantly, quick and sharp and healed swiftly enough. Anders- cleaves to the bone with a rusted blade, gutting her more than she'd like. ]
[ Given some thought, Dorian can probably narrow it down from there -- the Rifter population is a limited pool -- and raises an eyebrow in brief reflection as she drinks, before this next part settles. ]
It isn't anyone I like, is it?
[ Also: a limited pool.
At least, strong enough like to be remarked upon, disappointed by. He reaches out for the wine once he's certain she's had her current fill. ]
[ She crackles a wry, bitter laugh, swallowing around the name. Maker, had she been so blind? Signs all around and she'd overlooked all of them. The bottle she passes over even as she curls in on herself, listing faintly in Dorian's direction- but not leaning.
I've traded more words with the former than the latter, although I've seen him about the library. Healer, yes?
[ He takes a swift sip of wine, mainly to fortify. Getting properly drunk isn't on his agenda, although he won't begrudge a lady from attempting it herself. ]
He didn't strike me as a man with a great deal of skeletons in his closet.
[ At talk of being drawn to someone, Dorian's eyebrows hike up juuust a fraction. Intrigue, perhaps a touch of concern. He and Adelaide are friends, but he'd be surprised if she described herself as being in any way drawn to him.
Or perhaps this is just the language of those who have been tricked. ]
Not a small lie, then.
[ But she doesn't seem ready to just out with it, so-- ]
He's in a secret marriage. To a family member. That is to say, one of yours, not his. Or-- oh! He is a family member and is courting one. Am I getting close? He's a cultist, trying to lure you into his schemes -- orgies, and virgin sacrifice when they don't participate in the orgies.
A lie of a name which- normally is a terribly small thing.
[ Lies of omission, lies of intent. Every time she circles back to 'she should have known better'- she drinks.
Not the best way to cut off that line of thought but the burn of the brandy does help somewhat. The sheer absurdity of what Dorian is suggesting wrenches a wry laugh from her, the first thing that doesn't sound terribly broken. ]
[ At first, Dorian honestly doesn't comprehend what she's saying. Yes, there was an Abomination named Anders that triggered a civil war that lasted years, but surely she doesn't actually mean--
--no, she does, and he blinks at a shadowy corner of the tent, slow in his absorption of this information. ]
He told you this, [ he says, a little stiffly, still trying to put the pieces together. ]
He apologized for the deception. Apparently he is turning himself into the Wardens.
[ Time to drain a fair portion of the bottle. It isn't elegant, it isn't ladylike- but she does not wish to recall the conversation and remain sober. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
In EDL, after Anders outs himself to her.
How is she ever to cope with this?
Frustrated, roiling, composure held only by the barest of threads she stalks to Dorian's tent with a bottle of wine in one fist and a bottle of brandy in the other. She will have answers (which she's certain she knows the answer to but she must ask all the same) and then? She will drink. Horribly. ]
Dorian. [ A whipcrack of his name, cold and hard and weary. It's all the warning he has before she pushes her way into his tent. ]
no subject
Up until this moment, anyway, startling at his name but unmoving from his recline on his bedroll. There's another across from him, where he shares the space with Bevenenuta, who'd been content to leave him alone for the moment.
By the time Adelaide storms in, his expression is a little wide around the eyes. She's holding two bottles of alcohol, which is usually a good thing, but he doesn't put his book down yet. ]
Whatever it was, it wasn't me. Was it?
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[ The space is too small for her to stalk end to end, too cramped for her to do more than stand and glower, a snap of power knotting the tent flaps back into place behind her. The walk over loosened strands from her pinned back hair, snow dusted her shoulders- she wasn't even wearing a cloak.
Just her kirtle, just what she'd been wearing when Detlef-
Anders-
Came and pulled the ground out from under her. ]
If you have ever lied to me- if you have ever hidden something from me, speak it. Now. [ It starts firm- a demand. Hard and biting as the wind outside but it twists with a knot in her voice, tangles and trails and ends pleading. ] Tell me.
no subject
But it becomes clear that this isn't actually about him (perish the thought) around when her voice breaks and wavers, grip on book relaxing to fold against his chest, before he folds a page's corner over and sets it aside. ]
You know just about everything worth knowing, [ he says, levelly. ] And unfortunately for me in particular, none of it was a lie.
[ A little gentler; ] Come, sit. Explain.
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As difficult as Dorian can be, as sneaky and flashy and sideways- he's never been dishonest. She'd taken comfort in that more often than not, that the person with the least reason to be open and straightforward actually has been. His regard, his trust is a gift and one she's spat on a bit in her lack of composure.
At least he is gracious enough to ignore it.
Without her fear and fury to spur her onward Adelaide shivers as she sits, skirts tangled rather than swept, tense and frustrated and miserable. ]
I have, with the exclusion of you and perhaps a few others, shit judgement in character.
no subject
The corner of his mouth goes up. ]
I'm a shining credit to your taste in friends, [ he corrects, loftily. ] That must outweigh other, more regrettable decisions.
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But this is too much. ]
I have been made a fool of. Twice. Both times they came to me, confessed to me. 'I have lied to you and I am sorry for it, here are my sins'.
[ Paraphrasing. With Martel it had been that, a list of sins for absolution. Anders-
A word. A name. Her lips twist bitterly and she is not going to weep over this. She did not weep over Martel, she will not weep over Anders- she glares stubbornly into the middle distance as though that will prevent the tears from falling. ]
I should have known better.
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[ Wine opened, he doesn't drink from it immediately, but does set it within reach. His hand rests on the ground between them, not quite invading her space, but nudging against it. She looks like she might cry, which Dorian understands to be one of the worst things that can happen, but also not so terrible when it's other people. ]
Unlucky, perhaps.
no subject
[ Martel she has demanded his solemn word and forgiven, after a fashion. Gutted herself before him so he might understand why her reaction had been quite so visceral. Detlef-
Anders.
That apostate. Is beyond her capacity to forgive. ]
Months I have known them both. Months they've kept up the lie. And now because they feel poorly or are spurred by guilt they- [ She shakes her head, hand fisted in the bedroll under her. Gradually her grip loosens, she lets it drift enough to rest against Dorian's. Allows it to ground her a little. ]
no subject
I wouldn't say no to gossip if it would make you feel better, you know. Unless you feel particular duty towards keeping their secrets.
[ Despite the slight joke to his words about whether sharing in such chatter would or would not delight him personally, his tone isn't specifically prying. His curiousity settles more in this last point; whether Adelaide feels that obligation at all. ]
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Fuck.
The other is far, far too relevant.
[ Does she owe them her silence? Martel's lies- as she'd said- were irrelevant. The revelation that he'd been a reprehensible human being in his own world cuts distantly, quick and sharp and healed swiftly enough. Anders- cleaves to the bone with a rusted blade, gutting her more than she'd like. ]
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It isn't anyone I like, is it?
[ Also: a limited pool.
At least, strong enough like to be remarked upon, disappointed by. He reaches out for the wine once he's certain she's had her current fill. ]
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[ She crackles a wry, bitter laugh, swallowing around the name. Maker, had she been so blind? Signs all around and she'd overlooked all of them. The bottle she passes over even as she curls in on herself, listing faintly in Dorian's direction- but not leaning.
Not yet. ]
Detlef.
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[ He takes a swift sip of wine, mainly to fortify. Getting properly drunk isn't on his agenda, although he won't begrudge a lady from attempting it herself. ]
He didn't strike me as a man with a great deal of skeletons in his closet.
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[ At first. The rest, the smile, the humor, the camaraderie.
The understanding. ]
You would be surprised.
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Or perhaps this is just the language of those who have been tricked. ]
Not a small lie, then.
[ But she doesn't seem ready to just out with it, so-- ]
He's in a secret marriage. To a family member. That is to say, one of yours, not his. Or-- oh! He is a family member and is courting one. Am I getting close? He's a cultist, trying to lure you into his schemes -- orgies, and virgin sacrifice when they don't participate in the orgies.
no subject
[ Lies of omission, lies of intent. Every time she circles back to 'she should have known better'- she drinks.
Not the best way to cut off that line of thought but the burn of the brandy does help somewhat. The sheer absurdity of what Dorian is suggesting wrenches a wry laugh from her, the first thing that doesn't sound terribly broken. ]
Literal Skeletons, Dorian. A great many. He-
Anders. His name is Anders.
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--no, she does, and he blinks at a shadowy corner of the tent, slow in his absorption of this information. ]
He told you this, [ he says, a little stiffly, still trying to put the pieces together. ]
no subject
[ Time to drain a fair portion of the bottle. It isn't elegant, it isn't ladylike- but she does not wish to recall the conversation and remain sober. ]