Chapter Text
He's poured out on one of the sick beds this time. He tried to crawl into his little hidey-hole in the wardrobe but, after the shit show in Weisshaupt, the stitch in his thigh won't let him lay on his side as he likes. So he's on these damned beds, feeling naked in the broad openness of the room.
At least it's not that canyon of a bedroom Lace tried to stick him in, once they fell into the Lighthouse. Even If it wasn't larger than Mamae's entire house- completely unsettling- what jack-tar wants to wake up from a night's drinking, looking at the wrong side of water? Who lives like that? Rich folk, probably.
He groans, already tetchy, and returns to the notes and the reports and the missives inexplicably meant for him. He hates this part of the gig most of all and, with Lace still recovering, the correspondence is fully on his head now. Natty thinks he'd work through the nasty half of one of those big, Big Darkspawn rather than scrabble his way over these endless caltrop words. He's trying to not sound them out but some people must love to show off their gold words when a copper would do. His letters have never been good but the assumption that what they're saying is normal, is unexceptionable- It digs into something more acrid than he wants to ponder on. The frustration of it sets him to mumbling. He always thought better aloud.
"Purif- Vaja. Què merda és l'esmorzar d'aquest gos? Aquest fotut tipus h-" and he startles at the light knock on the doorjamb. The Professor clears his throat, politely, and keeps himself beyond the threshold. Troubles on troubles, Natty thinks.
"If you will excuse the interruption, it is-"
Natty looks at him carefully, reading. Shoulders back, neck tight, face passive. The fella is going for dignified.
"I'm here to check on your-"
Oh. But he don't feel it, Natty thinks, watching the man's eyes bouncing around the room. Nerves, then.
"I- brought you, uh-" The fella lifts the cup in his hand and Natty thinks, Mare- the bastard is, at last, here to act sorry. Greasing the wheels some.
Natty clicks his tongue. Of Course, He wouldn't get to decide if they're on talking terms. Huffing a breath that's as bitter as it is darkly tickled. This fella. This Fella. Isn't anything worse, in Natty's experience, than an autocrat that figures he's being sweet.
Yet- he can work mad, he tells himself. And, Mare ho sap, he needs the help. Maybe he can convince the fucking man to write this shit for him. Maybe. He can work hurt.
"I bet You know this shit." But he won't waste a smile on the damned man. "Got post and it don't make no sense. I know puri-fee-cat-a-torie got somethin' to do with pure; it's- I can hear it but- Is it a place? A, a thing? Do I need to do somethin'?"
"If I may-" The Professor extends his hand, pausing briefly before marching into the room. Natty gladly, Gladly gives over the paper. "Ah. This-" The man reads for a moment more. "Lord Bonnidina is requesting best known practices For purification. The water, you see. It's-"
He's feeling his temper sparking, piquing as the fella speaks slower. "I know. I Know that. But why'd he talk- What do I Do?"
The Professor gives him a glance that's painfully close to The Look before he schools his expression. "It's- Rook, it's a adjective. It Means 'purification'. He is simply asking for information About purification."
"He-" Natty swallows, feeling- feeling- He flails his good arm, shoulder bobbing. "Maleït! Why didn't he Say that?! Why come up with another Fuckin' Word to mean the same Fuckin' Thing?" He tuts loudly and looks to his lap. A leaden, moaning pile of good cotton paper. "Thought it was- like a- A 'Manu-factory'. But-" Dama Vella, he thinks. What must he look like right then? The stupidest man in Thedas. And in front of Him. "For-" He feels his fingers twitch. He'll call it a twitch.
"FUCK!" And he scrambles the letters, the notes, the high-pitched, screeching words he doesn't know, all begging him, HIM to tell them what to Do and he smashes it all tight, hurls it, as far as his off-arm can get. He blows, he Throws out a shaky, infuriated breath as he watches the fluttering of people's lives, wafting softly to the floor.
"Fotut idiota" he says quietly. And then "Fotut! Idiota!" louder. He's clambering to his feet, cursing. "Fotuts gent rica. Fotudes paraules de cul. Fotuts shemlen i el seu fotut-" And he stands to waggle his head, disdain screaming, as he whines "Purificatory," as fawning as he can. He spends a couple heartbeats observing, hands stuck into his hips, before he goes limping here and there. Fetching papers he should know better than to lose.
Before he gives the man a slantwise look. "What. You Want?"
The old fella doesn't bite at the hook, nerves or no. No surprises there, he thinks. The man's spine is too straight to be hectored by a snit but Natty Does enjoy that the Professor has returned steadfastly to the hallway. "In, ah- in full honesty, I would like, if permitted, to- to apologize." He tilts his head down and smiles pained to the floor. Natty rolls his eyes to his papers. "Even as it appears, that's the majority of our, My interactions. Recently."
There's something pointed there, Natty thinks. Something cross. And that's the sole interesting idea Natty's hearing. Fella thinks he's playing a game he doesn't know the rules of. Well, he figures, isn't everybody? "Coo, a gentleman's apology. Never heard of such." Natty might be ginning the limp a mite but bending at his waist is legitimately painful. He lets the hurt drive his very last smile to teeth and sharp edges. "Bellara tell you to? Teach you how?"
"Please, Rook."
The weariness in the man's voice reminds Natty of his own exhaustion. He drops the smile with a sigh, when he realizes it did its job. He wanted to be shitty, wanted the bastard to feel bad- and here he is. Even as he firmly believes, yes, Bellara is probably forcing the fella to do this. It doesn't matter, he figures. Now, Natty just wants this done. "Real busy. Professor."
"Of- course," said with what Natty imagines is the most clear guilt he's seen from the fella yet. The old bird plainly isn't finished though. Nor, Natty suspects, will the geezer leave without saying his fill. When the fella feigns shock at the cup in his hand, Natty nearly drums up a sour sneer.
"Oh- yes. My offering. To ingratiate as much as-" The Professor pauses here, reconsidering. "I have- distant memories of my mother plying me with sugared weak tea when ill. I, uh-" He sets the wee rough cup to the wee side table and twists at his rings. "I did what I thought was best. But I fear I've- broken-" The fella is smart and he must see that line is going nowhere. He pivots. "We are in your hands, Hear Ro-"
And it's the entirely wrong move.
He rounds on the old fella, heat gone hot. "FUCK! Don't I KNOW It! Don't I KNOW Everyone, Mare Perdona'm, is lookin' To Me!" Natty slams his hands to his chest, his healing ribs protesting, but the anger is potent. Growing. Been growing since he woke in this very sick room. After Varric. He's just now coming to a boil. "I don't have the Damned! Nearest! idea what-" He flings his hand to papers, still crumpled and heaped around the room. "WHY anybody askin' ME? HUH?" He cranes his to head to side, body tilting with it. It hurts, everything hurts. "What can I? Do? Huh? You seen what I was capable of at Weisshaupt. Damned near dyin', damned near gettin' Baby Killed- and not much else! And-" Trying to run, he doesn't say. "Davrin did all the work. So Why? Am I here? What am I doin'? I barely know how to keep my boots on and everyone, Everyone Expects me to, to know what to Do."
He turns quick from the fella. His fingers tremble and he can't stand the idea of the Professor seeing him like this. "You seem to know fuckin' everythin', huh? Tell me. What I Do, Huh?" said mean.
"You've- been keeping your distance. From the- others. This is- Allow us to-"
Natty glances at the man, tall, hands folded neat in front of him, and it- Destroys him. The stern calm and the vague sympathy lights a humiliation that burns right down to Natty's toes. Worse than long words. Worse than shemlen pity. Worse than any stiff punch of fear and inadequacy that he has to smile through. He can't Stand It. "Will you Get the FUCK outta HERE?!"
There's a long, Long pause. Weighty enough that he figures, he Hopes the bastard has slunk off. But the soft jangle of the man's jewelry shushing over itself has Natty going real still. He's fouled this up, too. He'll be Void-bound before he apologizes, in any way, method, or intent, but he knows. He fucked this up.
"I simply don't-" is said low. Confused. For itself more than Natty. Before Emmrich steps to frustrated with hard blow of breath. The fella has finally found his patience's end and it's an Immense relief to Natty. "What. Would you have Me. Do? Should I have Let you kill yourself in a, a- Hysteria? Tell. Me, Rook!" Natty hears the sound of boots on the stone, the whirl of fabric. "Would You have Dared to ignore the situation if it were Taa-"
"Don't you fuckin' do it. Don't you Fuckin'. Do it. I Saw what I-" Natty clacks his teeth closed and lets his hand crawl over his mouth. He's going tell him. "Shit." He's going to tell the son of a bitch, as that aching, bright stripe of less-than, weaker-than climbs higher.
"What I'm fixin' to say stays between us. You and me; that's it." He keeps his back to the man, positive he can't say any of this with someone looking. He waits and waits until he hears the man hum a sound that he'll, later, decide is agreement.
"When I said- To you. At-" He inhales deep. No one else but the Professor has an inkling of what Natty saw. And he'd like to keep it that way. Dama, he does but- the bubbling in his guts won't stop. As if there's a broad hand between his shoulder blades, pushing the words out. "I saw a, a- big face. In the sky. At Weisshaupt." He hears himself say it and he winces. "Nobody said nothin' about it so I figure it, it musta- It, uh- was talkin' to me. In Elven. Maybe? Sounded-" He shrugs helplessly. Stupid in even this. "Elven."
In for a copper, he thinks, feeling his gorge rising. "And I've been- dreamin'. Of Varric. Uh, Tethras. He, he ran this shakedown operation before- he got himself killed." The pain behind his eyes, also rising. "And he keeps tellin' me stuff. In my dreams. Things he didn't know. Couldn't know Now. Stuff I. Don't-" He rubs the palms of his hands down his thighs and his eye twitches as a pain, Something becomes too tight in his- "And I don't get what's- Happenin' but- It's gettin' worse ever since that knife. And Everythin's getting worse and that Face, I Heard It. I Know I did. But it's-"
It's crazy. It's Crazy. He knows it is. He knows what he sounds like and he knows what the fella must be thinking. There's a shadow in the corner of his mind that warns him- that if they know, know about everything he's currently tripping over, they'll take him away. Dona Vella, only if they would, he thinks.
"None of this stuff is happenin'- but It Is. And I, I got such, Such a bad feelin' and there ain't nothin' I. Can do. I'm-" Another knife ear that came up poor. No magic. Little education. Few viable skills and very little inclination towards betterment. Nihilistic, indeed, as an example of The People, except in how very far they've fallen. Destined for a short life, lived without remark. A small man with small aspirations, finding the edges of his usefulness far too close. You'll drown friendless one bleak night, Hollist, and no one will be the wiser.
Natty gasps, a man's cold voice still in his ears. Eyes refocusing on the Professor's gently panicked face. "I, uh-" He, he daubs his sleeve to his cheek and tries a smile, half-instinct. What- "I, I'm not- I'm-" He swallows thick, breath caught in his throat. "Can you Please- Fuckin' Leave?"
"Rook-" said quiet. "Natty-" said quieter yet.
He sniffs his wet nose, brusque and loud. "Cold in here."
"May- May I touch-"
He's already turning into Emmrich's arms. Already pushing his face into the man's soft brocade vest. Already digging his hands under the man's ridiculous coat, fingers clattering down the man's undershirt. It's enough that Emmrich almost loses his footing, swaying at the onslaught. He's horrifically eager to touch and be touched, in that terrible needy moment. Needing anything, Anything to remind him he's real. He's alive. Real and alive. Even if it's This son of a bitch.
If Natty was thinking clearly, he might find this funny. Like a rhyme maybe. The old bird got himself in outtop trouble for an act Natty is now Insisting on. It is a laugh, really. A laugh to be so- so very scared. What's he got to be scared of, he'll wonder later. If they die, then they'll be dead. Not as much as a fella might think to be done about it. He's known more clever, more rough, more skilled men- better men- that still ended their days as meat floating. What then, huh, he thinks later. Nobody keeps living on account of themselves. It's luck. Mostly. Oh, it's a laugh. It's right laugh.
But the fingers trailing through his hair reminds him, sweet, of his mother. The smell of harsh laundry lye and tea. Skin made tough by the hot water and the washboard.
And the hand on the small of his back reminds him of the first woman he ever slept with. How afterwards she fed him corncakes, fresh from the pan, with honey and milk.
The murmured "there, dear heart, there" reminds him of- nothing pleasant but he finds he, at least, wants to believe it, believe the sentiment. He always wants to believe it. One of his Very Worse qualities.
It's the feel, the warmth of lips set resting and easy to his crown that he has no strong recollection of. It unsettles him in equal parts to how it-
He allows himself to have that full feeling for a few, slow blinks before he pulls himself away. Emmrich doesn't fight him, doesn't follow as he limps to the far wall, keeping his face away from the man. And his, surely, kindly concerned eyes.
"You-" At the scratch, the emotion in his voice, Natty clears his throat. He's got to have some damned pride left. "You're good at that. That stuff."
"Comforting the aggrieved is- part of the training."
"I bet."
"Natty- You- I am here to be at, at this task's service. We all are, if I may speak for them. But we are here With you." The smudge of color that Natty knows is Emmrich shifts in the glass of the medicine cabinet. "And I- shall say nothing of, of what you told me. Yet I do ask that- You will mention if you see such an eminence again?" There's another pause here that screams the fella's apprehension. "As well. If you do desire, I can- help you with your Trade fluency. I'm quite accustomed-"
"Yeah." Natty cuts the man off quick. That backhanded pity, he can't take. "What I say, huh? I can work cross. Just- Just get."
The Professor sighs. Maybe he knows he pushed his luck. "I'll- leave this-" The colors in the glass gesture to the table. Natty imagines the little cup gently wafting heat and comfort. "Here?"
"Yeah."
And there Natty waits. Standing, face turned towards the cabinet's glass doors, seeing them as windows, watching the man's color fade into the darkness of the hallway. He listens for the tap of retreating footsteps and, long after the patter of them have dripped away, he asks the empty room "Emmrich?"
He allows the man's mocador to unfurl from his hand. He looks at the monogram, neat and square, sewn into its corner and, somehow, he's made more upset, more- lonesome when no one responds.
It's two days on and Davrin is already waiting at their meeting table in the Lighthouse proper. The man looks at Natty stony-faced, the dark welt of a hastily sewn cut artlessly crossing his vallaslin. "Harding?"
"Sleeping it off." The Vint gestures to Courtyard, wincing at the motion. "Dwarves heal slow enough Before the Fade intolerance. Blood loss on top? Eh."
"You can't- magic that? Emmrich?" Davrin is not sitting with them. He stands and he stands stiff.
There's the softest of disgruntled breaths before the Professor becomes coolly civil once more. "Alas. Only living bodies can produce blood. And at their own time. Quite- famously problematic. And, should I need to remind again, I am not a hea-"
"But she'll be good, tho'?" Baby turns towards him, towards Natty, frowning. "You said she'd be good."
"And I meant it." Natty flicks his eyes to the Professor and the man's slight nod. "Right as puddles." He smiles wide at Baby, the poor ol' ox. It's the least he can do after- After.
"That would be the first thing to go right during this mess." And each of them knows Exactly what Davrin is meaning.
Lucanis exhales fuming. He mutters "Maldita sea," and pushes away from the wall he's holding aloft. It's no wonder the fella is feeling raw but Natty can see how high the room's temperature is running. And Lucky's brain can't be doing well on the sunniest of days.
Natty looks to Davrin and, subtle-like, gives the man the fish eye. Let it go, he thinks. Let it go. He's not sure whether the upright bastard chooses to ignore him or simply doesn't notice.
"You had one job. One. And now we've got- What?" Davrin settles his thick legs into a stance that's plainly, noisily, looking for a tussle. He keeps his barbed gaze on Lucanis and Natty slumps further over his knees. Trouble coming, he thinks. "An old god on the loose? Two? Because y-"
"Hey. We All had one job. It's the Job that Changed. Don't take it out-"
"No, Neve. He. Is the trained mage killer. Our job was to get him a shot at a mage. Doesn't matter if it was a New Mage." Davrin waves his hand towards the empty chairs, the strained bodies. "Half of us aren't field ready now Because we got him His. Shot."
Here Natty observes.
Bellara is rolled into herself, quiet, next to the Vint, who is herself leaning forward. Two distinctly different conflict methods, he thinks. Baby is- bored. No revelations there. The Professor is pointedly looking at him, looking at Davrin, looking at him- as if any of this fuss is Natty's trammel to unwind.
Davrin is straight up and down, rigid. Angry but in that controlled mien of his. And that surprises Natty a crumb. If He watched the Lord's Hall burn to the ground with most of his kith in it, he'd be in a much worse way. Throwing stuff, stabbing folks. Wrapped around Baby, dripping like a wet towel. Yet, in these last few days, Davrin has been- not apathetic, exactly, but detached. Certainly. Natty's seen people like that, when their grief is laconic and private, but he expected more from the fella. He can't imagine swallowing down this amount of personal disaster and not being a shithead. Not making it Everyone's problem.
And he's not wrong, Natty thinks. Lucanis fouled it. Nothing doing for it but it Was Lucanis' job, as much as any of them have a defined role.
But this, Here, is fully not what Natty would have done to handle this botch-job. Would be doing. Lucanis won't respond well to further pressure in the tiniest bit. The man is already a tea kettle and, Now, Lucanis is ready to whistle. Reasonable. That twisting, loping, disgusting thing that Bellara described to him- It's going to be on guard, cautious in a way it wasn't before. That Was their best chance at killing it, implicitly.
Lucanis tried. He did. His damnedest. Of that Natty has no doubt.
Natty's been there. Close enough he can already taste the drinks- as it slips slips slips through his fingers. The Wycome run. That gig that got Herot killed. Those coins that turned out to be dipped- which was, admittedly, a good scam.
Varric.
He knows. He's been there. But it is still, ultimately, Lucanis' fault. Which means it is- Natty's fault. It must be, he thinks. He could have, Should Have made it work. Should have not lost his head and then not gotten his bones broken and then been awake enough to do anything, fuck-all. Kept who needed alive, alive. Killed who needed killed. That's what a headman does. Should have come ashore with more than a sad look and whatever bobs they could fish up to give to kinfolk. He's never been good at- Dona, he guesses it must be called 'leading'- but it was, Is still his fault. His. It should have been Varric's fault but Varric is Dead. So-
So he sympathizes. He does.
But.
"People, we need to admit getting a Crow involved was a mistake. Reputation or not, we should have gotten a templar. A handful of templars." At that, Natty sees the Professor sit a little higher in his seat. Sees Bellara slink deeper into her own. "People who Fight magic rather than a Hired Murderer wi- No. My misstep." Natty looks to Lucanis, tense and coiled, and then Davrin, stolid and simmering. "An Abomination. With an apple knife."
"You have no idea what I can do with an apple knife." That perks Natty High Up in the worst way. The fella is fighting back. That's- "But what did you do? Hmm? From what I've seen- You shout. You point. You stand safe behind your shield." Lucanis flicks his hand towards Natty and he-
Oh, he does not like this. Natty doesn't want a damned thing to do with- "Hey, hey, now-"
"What about- the, the dragon?" Bellara mutters into her hand. "It, it-"
But the words touched something in Davrin, enough to shake him from his stoicism. His arms uncross. "I was ready to Die for-"
Lucanis makes a scoff of a sound, scornful. "Dying is no talent. You are not special in this, Warden." Natty watches a muscle in Davrin's jaw jump and he files that information for later. Lucanis stabs his thumb into his own chest. "I. Was alone a-"
"Not alone enough. How do We know that It didn't make you miss?" Davrin is leaning forward, knees loose. Natty knows it's about to pop off. He scoots his chair away. "That You didn't miss- Because You Did Miss. How can We Even Trust-"
"You. Warden, are saying We a lot for a man who takes his dinners with his anim-"
The Vint is groaning, saying "If you two are-" and Lucanis is turning to her when, obviously, Obviously, Davrin takes a swing. Maybe the fella was Always going to punch Lucanis and he was simply waiting for a good opening. That seems like the type of thing the man would do but when Davrin Does punch Lucanis, he lands brutal. Direct to the man's face. The hollow thunk of a nose breaking. Mare de Les Tempestes, Natty thinks. The stories weren't wrong about Grey Wardens.
Lucanis, for all his skills, seems truly dumbfounded by the hit. And that boggles Natty. The fella was leaping at chair scuffs and dropped forks for weeks, strained as a fist in a glove. Surely, he expected violence in This moment, in This conversation, Natty thinks. He was effectively, unquestioningly provoking Davrin to strike him. Dama, did the poor man not do Any social training? Natty always heard the Crows insisted on it.
But it's clear that what training Lucanis did suffer was, at least, marginally well spent. Natty knows for a fact that the lad is sporting two broken ribs right now. Bruises up and down his side. And yet, as he lays on the tile, his nose bleeding, Lucanis' face is entirely passive, beyond the dimming shock around his brows. There's no a hint of pain or anger or- Oh.
There's the anger, Natty thinks, as the man spits, fit to tied, blood spattering the floor. He huffs once more and the Professor is on his feet, saying "No. No, no, Don't-"
Soft, faintly glowing cracks wash over the man's skin as he scrambles to his feet, lunging. Thank every rock on the beach that it's the demon awkwardly helming Lucanis' body, Natty thinks, already jumping from his chair. If it had been the man himself, Davrin would be dead.
As it is, Lucanis' foot catches on the table and his body stumbles into Baby's lap. They try to simply hold him there but the demon is clawing at everything it can reach, fingernails tearing. It bites hard at Baby's arm and they shove it off with a yelped "Fuck!" There's a held-breath pause as Lucanis slams into the low table with a resonate thunk and Natty isn't sure it's the furniture or the man.
He'll let Baby's language slide- as it's a bit hectic, he thinks, yelling. Grabbing at Lucanis' legs. He gets a heel for his gallantry and lands on his ass with a split lip. At this, he thinks he'll let them kill each other.
Davrin has one of Lucanis' wild fists in his hand, looking, frankly, too nonchalant. That was his second mistake, Natty figures. The fella won't see the knife until it's sticking from his shoulder.
And he doesn't. Davrin tumbles over Baby's chair, Lucanis' body following him, and he's screaming. Not from fear or hurt- although there must be some of that. No, what he's shouting is "Get him! Get him! Away from my blood!"
Baby sighs miserable and struggles an arm under Lucanis' neck, careful of those biters. It doesn't seem difficult. The demon is entirely focused on Davrin, even as it's being yanked around the room. It howls, it snarls, swinging its legs until it's thrown flat to the two-seater. Baby plunks down heavy to its back and the demon barks out in pain and despondency. Must be the ribs, Natty thinks. What the fuck are they gon-
"I know, my dear." The Professor is squatting near enough to Lucanis' face to be seen but not reached. He's using the voice he uses with Bellara and the thing inside Lucanis gnashes its teeth at him.
"You must be feeling quite upset." Undeterred. Barely phased. Is this normal for the old bird, Natty thinks, collar pulled to his mouth. The Professor makes a soft humming whisper. "I'm terribly sorry to hear it. It must be very- difficult to not complete your goals."
"Can you hea-" Natty starts but he gets a single, delicate finger held up to him, crisply. The man doesn't even look at him. Natty thinks it's right brassy.
"Oh, yes, I know. I know you wanted it badly." The fella moves slowly indeed to touch at Lucanis' forehead. To sweep his long hair from his eyes. "But there is only one thing we can do, isn't there?" The demon faintly nods and Natty has no idea what the man has done here. Is it a spell or something? Mage stuff?
The Professor smiles, fondly. "That's- Well, close enough, my dear." He's all but stroking Lucanis' cheek and the demon looks drowsy, absolutely sloshed on warm skin. How fork-tender the old bird looks. Benevolent. Where was this wh- "We are going to help you. We want very much to help You."
Natty's ear pricks up at the echo of what the old son of a bitch had said to him, earlier. Is this a patter? A script? More of the Professor's 'training'? When dealing with wild animals, speak thusly?
The soft light is guttering in Lucanis' eyes and the thing struggles around noises until it forces a stung "Hu- hururtuh," from Lucanis' mouth. The Professor hums again, just as fond.
"I know. I know. Poor heart. We Shall-" The fella looks off to the side, clearly wondering how best to address whatever it is he's- Hearing? Is he Hearing the demon, Natty wonders, WONDERS. He thought only women could be mare espiritual. "Cut the long woman- Next time. Won't we?" The Professor spends a moment soothing his hand around, generously around, the man's bloody cheek. "Lucanis, reach through."
The glow finally eases away and Lucanis blinks, dizzy, buried into the two-seater. Hand struggling to hold onto The Professor's fingers. "There you are, my boy," Emmrich says gently and damned if Lucanis don't look half to a summer wedding.
"Get Lucky to bed, huh? And bring some hot water and stitchin' for-" Natty throws a thumb behind him. "This jackass."
"Mi- cuchillo." Lucanis, poor, poor thing, sounds like an old charcoal man, pickled. Refusing to let go of the Professor's hand.
Natty figures he means the- hilt shaped like a bird wing, folded. "I got it, cosí. Don't fret none." And he exhales, done with this before it started. Turning to Davrin, still spilled on the floor.
The fella sticks out his good hand. "Don't. I'll clean it. Just- don't touch- the mess."
This is new, he thinks. Davrin has always insisted on treating his own scrapes but Natty thought it more of the man's tedious self-reliance act. There's something else here, plainly. He'll need to ask after it, at some point. But, as he looks over the shambles of the room- chairs here and there, the table overturned, the rugs akimbo, two, no Three different types of blood in the grout- he doesn't exactly care.
He kicks the table right-side up and piles himself carelessly on it, his hip creaking and cracking. Something else that's new to mind. He licks at his lip, tasting the iron. "You fucked it, kin."
"I'm- Trying to save-" He grunts as he pulls the knife free. Shallow dig but nothing troubling nicked given the slow ooze of it. The man drops himself to the tile, entirely boneless. He breathes for a while, eyes closed, frowning.
Oh, ain't it pitiful, Natty thinks. "Don't teach you none how to talk to folks in the Wardens, huh?"
The fella melts, rung-out. Mare, doesn't Natty know This feeling. "They- do not."
"Lucanis works on praise and bein' interested. Give that a go that next time."
The faintest murmur of a grin crosses the fella's sweating face as he rubs weary at his eyes. "Got a recipe for me?"
"Sure do, kin. Don't cotton to no bullshit. But would you believe me any- Also praise?" The man frowns deeper. "You like feelin' needed more flattered tho'."
The man turns his head away slightly.
"What I Like- is when you don't talk to me."
Natty leans himself across the table, tired. Somehow tired. "That, too."
They both manage to sigh.
It's decided to take a few days to recover. To redirect. Regroup.
And Natty figures he's got promises to keep.