Again, a sheet of paper folded over three times and slipped in the bend of his door handle. A little smudged wrinkle of dampness has marred one corner. The delivery was presumably done at some late hour of the evening, as it's waiting for him when he emerges for the day:
Marcus,
Will you meet me in the training yard?
The time and day is up to you. I don't want to inconvenience you.
[ Some logistical coordination follows, later that day, with an early morning scheduled for tomorrow, all conducted neutrally and politely and efficiently. He does not sound inconvenienced.
He does not appear to be inconvenienced either when Derrica finds him. The hour means there is a little privacy, especially with this lingering chill in the air. It reddens his bared knuckles and draws his breath out in flurried steam as he waits by the perimeter. ]
In preparation, she'd forgone her usual nightly activities in Kirkwall's taverns. Derrica appears swathed in a thick shawl, belted at the waist. When she smiles in greeting, it's genuine.
In spite of everything, all Derrica's best intentions and reasoning, there is still a small crackle of fear to stand within arm's reach of him. She is trying very hard to keep that to herself.
"Thank you for coming to meet me," she says first, because she still feels it to be an imposition on his time when maybe the letters should have sufficed. "I wanted to ask a favor, and I didn't...it felt like it didn't belong in a letter."
Marcus stands more upright as she approaches, hands linked behind him. It's a common sort of gentlemanly posture. He does it on occasion, naturally. Here, he does it with intent and purpose, like perhaps it will have him seem unthreatening. Less assumptive. He remembers the way he'd lain his hands over her shoulders.
Somehow more striking to him in the moment than all of the ridiculousness that occurred after. Anyway. He nods back to her thanks.
"Certainly," he says, a slight uplift in tone to make it a prompting query.
In spite of all her resolve, there's still a beat of hesitation over what she means to ask. It feels like an imposition.
"I wanted to ask you to teach me how to fight," she begins, arms crossing, fingers curling around the edges of her shawl to draw it more securely around her. "I don't know if I will ever be able to do what do you, but I'd like it if—"
She breaks off, drawing in a sharp little breath. Surely Marcus knows what hangs in the space at the end of that unfinished sentence. It is hard to feel helpless. Derrica doesn't want to feel that ever again.
"I know a little," she says instead. "You saw almost all of it."
And it wasn't enough. He'd shaken off everything she'd thrown at him without any trouble. That was the problem.
Marcus' expression changes, subtle and by degrees, and she'd be forgiven for imagining that he is about to refuse even before she finishes speaking. But he doesn't, listening instead, caught in place on that broken off sentence.
To walk through the Gallows is almost always to do it in shadow. During high noon on a clear day, perhaps not then, but the massive buildings that rise with their hard stone walls and hard edges always seem to throw every corner within its territory into dimness at every other hour. He looks away from her to consider the place they are in, now, having this conversation. He's certainly known what helplessness feels like. He's felt it here before.
The thinking pause is substantial, but he does speak before she might feel moved to retract her request or prompt for answer. "You saw more than what I can do. Not unfamiliar magic, but I was given—I dreamed for myself strength I haven't mastered yet.
"But I can teach you to fight," he says, but makes it sound like a fact. Another pause, and Marcus adds, "If that's what you want."
There isn't any hesitation in the answer. Yes, she wants to know. Yes, she wants him to teach her.
"Yes, please," is softer, steadier and more deliberate. "I need to know. And I trust you to show me."
This too is important, as vital to her as the knowledge she's asking him to impart. He had offered her an apology for a dream, and Derrica doesn't know any other way to demonstrate her acceptance of it than this: to offer up a vulnerability and ask him to help her fix it. To invite him into the training ring with her and trust he won't hurt her in the course of his tutelage.
The lessons are for her, but some part of it is meant to ease his mind too.
And his heart twists in place that she's doing it. Of course he will accept, but he has to indulge in some stubborn silence first, looking at her across the distance between them and allowing himself to grow warmer to the idea—or, more accurately, warmer to the ability to accept it in full.
He nods.
"You've brought us to the training yard," he says, finally, once he's sure he can speak without the weight of all of this in his tone. "You would have us start now?"
"When you're ready," she answers, which is maybe unnecessary but Derrica thinks he finds the memory of that dream as distressing as she had. She is asking him a favor. She can afford to be gentle about it.
"It feels...urgent to me," Derrica admits. "But I think some of that is just remembering the dream, and what the Herald said."
This too, is a piece of trust. She thinks Marcus will take her meaning. A lot of things feel pressing now, even though the reality is the world hasn't much changed around them in the passing of a night.
The ordinariness of the next day, and the day after that, had felt like a disguise, an obfuscation of the tectonic shifts beneath the social fabric of Riftwatch. He has reasoned that that's not so for everyone. But even for those who saw a recognisable reflection in the mirror offered by the Herald, the distinct possibilities of the future loom large and long, and each moment is another inch towards it.
And yet, they rise. They walk down the same stone staircases. They attend their duties.
Marcus' is silent in his acceptance, thinking before looking out towards the grounds. Some stock-standard weapons are available, cheap swords and passable bows all mounted in rows, and it's in this direction that he moves without a word. He retrieves two dense wooden staves, entirely non-magical, both about as tall as he is.
He balances both against his shoulders as he moves back to her. He offers out one of them once close enough, but what he says is, "I might have died, in those stables. After the spell, after you knocked me cold." He holds onto the offered staff long enough for her to answer his question, which is, "You're why I lived, isn't it?"
There's no reason to hesitate over the answer, but Derrica stalls for a moment anyway, studying his face. Her hand closes over the worn grip of the proffered stave, without trying to draw it away from him.
"Yes."
It isn't a thing to be embellished. There's no need to mention the hushed, panicky whispers she and Richard had shared, outlining the risk, or the moments spared to knit back together what Richard's spell had torn asunder. She isn't even certain it's a thing to be praised for, what she'd done in a dream.
And even so, it wasn't a thing done for praise or gratitude. It was simply the right thing, as far as she was concerned.
And moves out more towards the centre of the ground, earth compressed beneath his boots, patches of frost unmelting in the frigid morning. His expression had been one of acceptance, that tinge of regret—for all of it—still a shadow behind it. But she has offered him a means of repair. He means to accept it.
He balances the staff between both hands, a nod that gestures her to come out here with him if she hasn't already done so. "You were quick with your Barrier," he says. "And you're a skilled caster. What do you consider to be your weaknesses?"
At his nod, Derrica follows after. Facing him, she mirrors the way Marcus holds his staff, focusing on that for a moment while she sorts through the kneejerk insecurities his question stirs up.
It's difficult to tell, even now, what was a deficiency in her and what was simply being outmatched by his abilities.
"I'm...limited, I think, in what I can do. Lightening wasn't working, but I didn't have anything else to fall back on."
All her healing magic wouldn't do her any good in a fight like that.
"I haven't fought other mages that way," she admits. "I felt like I was scrambling, not doing anything intentionally."
Marcus listens, patient, approval slow but gradual as she ably outlines her limitations. There is an assuring pattern to this that even he from within can feel himself fall into, the way it distracts him, the piqued interest in the forming of a lesson. It quiets the way he remembers having knocked her down, the feeling of gathering strength as he raised his staff.
(Still, the endless debate: had he truly hesitated? Or had he been lining up the blow? He doesn't remember, he wishes he did.)
"Some mages swear by learning varied magics," he hears himself saying. Returning to the present. "It isn't a bad strategy, really. If faced with a monstrous entity of fire, then my fire does little good against it. If faced with another mage—"
He tips his head.
"I find focus in my limitations, that way. In understanding all that fire and rock and ash can do, and all that I can do with it. To conjure lightening is to conjure with great speed. To conjure light that blinds an opponent, or pain that forces them to drop their weapon. To scare a horse, or distract. However."
Marcus shifts his stance a little, adopting something more defensive and ready, "In conditioning yourself to avoid the scramble, I find sparring a suitable way to begin." Nothing like being forced to think fast when someone is about to crack your head open. He remembers that too.
It's not Marcus' fault that she thinks, for a split second, of him rushing toward her with his stave out and feels her mouth go dry.
"Will you go slowly?" stings to ask, but the necessity of it can't be denied. She tries to soften it as she attempts to mirror his stance, adding, "This is new to me. Fighting with staves."
That information can't be news to him, not after that fight. If she'd known how to do more than cast with her staff, she might have fallen back on it then.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
action.
He does not appear to be inconvenienced either when Derrica finds him. The hour means there is a little privacy, especially with this lingering chill in the air. It reddens his bared knuckles and draws his breath out in flurried steam as he waits by the perimeter. ]
no subject
In spite of everything, all Derrica's best intentions and reasoning, there is still a small crackle of fear to stand within arm's reach of him. She is trying very hard to keep that to herself.
"Thank you for coming to meet me," she says first, because she still feels it to be an imposition on his time when maybe the letters should have sufficed. "I wanted to ask a favor, and I didn't...it felt like it didn't belong in a letter."
no subject
Somehow more striking to him in the moment than all of the ridiculousness that occurred after. Anyway. He nods back to her thanks.
"Certainly," he says, a slight uplift in tone to make it a prompting query.
no subject
"I wanted to ask you to teach me how to fight," she begins, arms crossing, fingers curling around the edges of her shawl to draw it more securely around her. "I don't know if I will ever be able to do what do you, but I'd like it if—"
She breaks off, drawing in a sharp little breath. Surely Marcus knows what hangs in the space at the end of that unfinished sentence. It is hard to feel helpless. Derrica doesn't want to feel that ever again.
"I know a little," she says instead. "You saw almost all of it."
And it wasn't enough. He'd shaken off everything she'd thrown at him without any trouble. That was the problem.
no subject
To walk through the Gallows is almost always to do it in shadow. During high noon on a clear day, perhaps not then, but the massive buildings that rise with their hard stone walls and hard edges always seem to throw every corner within its territory into dimness at every other hour. He looks away from her to consider the place they are in, now, having this conversation. He's certainly known what helplessness feels like. He's felt it here before.
The thinking pause is substantial, but he does speak before she might feel moved to retract her request or prompt for answer. "You saw more than what I can do. Not unfamiliar magic, but I was given—I dreamed for myself strength I haven't mastered yet.
"But I can teach you to fight," he says, but makes it sound like a fact. Another pause, and Marcus adds, "If that's what you want."
no subject
There isn't any hesitation in the answer. Yes, she wants to know. Yes, she wants him to teach her.
"Yes, please," is softer, steadier and more deliberate. "I need to know. And I trust you to show me."
This too is important, as vital to her as the knowledge she's asking him to impart. He had offered her an apology for a dream, and Derrica doesn't know any other way to demonstrate her acceptance of it than this: to offer up a vulnerability and ask him to help her fix it. To invite him into the training ring with her and trust he won't hurt her in the course of his tutelage.
The lessons are for her, but some part of it is meant to ease his mind too.
no subject
And his heart twists in place that she's doing it. Of course he will accept, but he has to indulge in some stubborn silence first, looking at her across the distance between them and allowing himself to grow warmer to the idea—or, more accurately, warmer to the ability to accept it in full.
He nods.
"You've brought us to the training yard," he says, finally, once he's sure he can speak without the weight of all of this in his tone. "You would have us start now?"
no subject
"It feels...urgent to me," Derrica admits. "But I think some of that is just remembering the dream, and what the Herald said."
This too, is a piece of trust. She thinks Marcus will take her meaning. A lot of things feel pressing now, even though the reality is the world hasn't much changed around them in the passing of a night.
no subject
And yet, they rise. They walk down the same stone staircases. They attend their duties.
Marcus' is silent in his acceptance, thinking before looking out towards the grounds. Some stock-standard weapons are available, cheap swords and passable bows all mounted in rows, and it's in this direction that he moves without a word. He retrieves two dense wooden staves, entirely non-magical, both about as tall as he is.
He balances both against his shoulders as he moves back to her. He offers out one of them once close enough, but what he says is, "I might have died, in those stables. After the spell, after you knocked me cold." He holds onto the offered staff long enough for her to answer his question, which is, "You're why I lived, isn't it?"
no subject
"Yes."
It isn't a thing to be embellished. There's no need to mention the hushed, panicky whispers she and Richard had shared, outlining the risk, or the moments spared to knit back together what Richard's spell had torn asunder. She isn't even certain it's a thing to be praised for, what she'd done in a dream.
And even so, it wasn't a thing done for praise or gratitude. It was simply the right thing, as far as she was concerned.
no subject
And moves out more towards the centre of the ground, earth compressed beneath his boots, patches of frost unmelting in the frigid morning. His expression had been one of acceptance, that tinge of regret—for all of it—still a shadow behind it. But she has offered him a means of repair. He means to accept it.
He balances the staff between both hands, a nod that gestures her to come out here with him if she hasn't already done so. "You were quick with your Barrier," he says. "And you're a skilled caster. What do you consider to be your weaknesses?"
no subject
It's difficult to tell, even now, what was a deficiency in her and what was simply being outmatched by his abilities.
"I'm...limited, I think, in what I can do. Lightening wasn't working, but I didn't have anything else to fall back on."
All her healing magic wouldn't do her any good in a fight like that.
"I haven't fought other mages that way," she admits. "I felt like I was scrambling, not doing anything intentionally."
no subject
(Still, the endless debate: had he truly hesitated? Or had he been lining up the blow? He doesn't remember, he wishes he did.)
"Some mages swear by learning varied magics," he hears himself saying. Returning to the present. "It isn't a bad strategy, really. If faced with a monstrous entity of fire, then my fire does little good against it. If faced with another mage—"
He tips his head.
"I find focus in my limitations, that way. In understanding all that fire and rock and ash can do, and all that I can do with it. To conjure lightening is to conjure with great speed. To conjure light that blinds an opponent, or pain that forces them to drop their weapon. To scare a horse, or distract. However."
Marcus shifts his stance a little, adopting something more defensive and ready, "In conditioning yourself to avoid the scramble, I find sparring a suitable way to begin." Nothing like being forced to think fast when someone is about to crack your head open. He remembers that too.
no subject
It's not Marcus' fault that she thinks, for a split second, of him rushing toward her with his stave out and feels her mouth go dry.
"Will you go slowly?" stings to ask, but the necessity of it can't be denied. She tries to soften it as she attempts to mirror his stance, adding, "This is new to me. Fighting with staves."
That information can't be news to him, not after that fight. If she'd known how to do more than cast with her staff, she might have fallen back on it then.