[Though he often chose to lounge or work outside his tent to enjoy the fire and the companionable chatter that would float across their camp from various corners, Gale has spent this evening tucked inside— with books, of course, a stack of which are visible through the partially raised flap when Godrey requests permission to enter.
The wizard looks up from the journal he'd been writing in with an easy smile, setting his pen down.]
Godfrey, please— come in. You're expected, after all.
[He'd hardly had to ask, but they are both polite sorts, and so Gale can hardly hold it against him. He gestures to the space in front of him, where Godfrey has his pick of cushions to sit on, should he so choose.]
[ And, like the polite sort he is, Godfrey gives a gentle duck of his head before ducking the rest of himself through the threshold and stepping inside, letting the tent's flap slip the length of his broad back. ]
Thank you.
[ He picks his few steps carefully, around that stack with a cursory glance at their spines. He recognizes few titles in Gale's current program of studies - which he expected, their respective fields of knowledge have little overlap. Still, he could do with more to meaningfully contribute. Perhaps he ought pick a title and inquire...
That is not what he's come for this evening, but - if their stories waned, perhaps that was a second discussion to keep them afloat. Godfrey dutifully sits on a larger, square cushion, and sets the bottle and glasses down. ]
I snuck a bottle from the others, if you might like a glass. [ Red, and a decent table wine - but a table wine all the same. ] They ought not miss a few cupfuls, I think.
[ And likely, Godfrey thinks, they would drink little more than that. ]
[His smile hitches wider as he teases warmly, setting his journal aside as his companion makes himself comfortable.]
You know me, I've always a weakness for a glass. I used to be a bit more specific about the quality, but these days, I find most will do in a pinch. This one, I do believe I recognize— quite decent, in fact, especially when compared to some of the others we've come across in our travels. We'll make a sommelier of you, yet.
[Just in case being a Paladin of the Morninglord doesn't work out, naturally.]
[ Where camp supply is concerned, Godfrey has stolen nothing - they all have as much right to the alcohol as he.
When it comes to the question of where the wine came from... well. This is something mired in ambiguity.
And it is no conundrum he's willing to entertain right now; not while the evening has such warm and quiet promise to it. Godfrey settles in his seat and pours each glass carefully, nodding slowly as he listens to Gale speak. Smiling to himself even before he turns his eyes up, bright and warm, to extend the first full cup to him. ]
Then I am gratified to know that I chose well.
[ He's as faultlessly genuine as he's always been - his tone as light and bright as though he had never considered that Gale's approval would not be significant.
Drink distributed, Godfrey carefully corks the bottle and sits back with his own glass. ]
I imbibe only occasionally. I cannot boast any particularly significant palate. Tragic that I could not make use of your expertise when last I was honoured to contribute to Waterdhavian Rhyestertide celebrations.
Edited (i didnt like some of the phrasing last edit i promise) 2024-01-23 00:19 (UTC)
[Gale accepts the glass gratefully, waiting until Godfrey has corked the bottle and settled with his own before holding it up in a wordless toast. They may not feel much like celebrating at the moment, but at this point, he'll gladly drink a glass to another day where they've managed to stay alive, and hopefully many more to come. Otherwise, this was a different sort of drink; they both had a great deal on their minds and could likely stand to unburden themselves a bit further— and wine, good, bad or middling, was always best enjoyed with good company.]
Oh, dear. Disaster struck, I take it?
[He smiles at Godfrey from behind the rim of his cup before taking a generous sip. Really, for found wine, it's quite good.]
I aim not to imbibe with excess, but a good glass of wine can go a long way in complementing a meal. I confess, I lose myself rather quickly if I have too much, so I do make an effort to exercise caution. Tonight, however, I believe myself to be in trustworthy company. If I help myself to a second glass, you'll not think any less of me for it, I hope.
[He gives a smile that manages to be just a touch weary and self-deprecating beneath the usual optimism. It's been an especially exhausting few days for the lot of them, really.]
Nothing so dramatic, [ Smiling, Godfrey lowers self and cup as he retreats from Gale's toast, knees folded and back straight, thoughtfully swirling the dark wine, ] Although I fear that your perspective may differ, my friend, when I tell you that a taste of Lathander's Red was wasted on a tongue as unsophisticated as mine.
[ And, really, Godfrey could hardly fault him this inevitable conclusion. He's very sure that Gale will register the magnitude of what was wasted on him, even if he won't give voice to his feelings on the matter. Appreciative of the high honour as Godfrey was, he could not lie to himself as to pretend that the sliver of valuable and rare red vintage, so lovingly brewed and aged by monks of his Lord's dawn, tasted like anything more than over-stewed plums to him.
But this is the sort of thing Godfrey had come for, wasn't it? Far-flung pieces of the path that had led them here. Stories of home. He raises his cup to his lips and takes a slow, meandering drink.
Tastes of grapes.
He keeps this to himself and tries, instead, to think of some description that wouldn't gall poor Gale. He looks up as he swallows and smiles, meaningful. ]
I doubt much that there is any way you might tarnish my esteem of you, Gale. [ His voice is warm and gentle, resonant in the little tent they sit in, ] Indeed, it would do me some good, to see you well and at ease.
Edited (didnt acknowledge toast and that cant stand) 2024-02-12 14:03 (UTC)
['Wasted,' he says— a difficult vintage to come by outside of specific circumstances, and Gale can only imagine what other connoisseurs might say to such a thing. He may quite enjoy wine himself, but he's hardly going to shame Godfrey for not acquiring the taste.
Still, it does sting just a little bit, hearing that, and he shakes his head in disbelief.
He helps himself to another sip, pausing to let the flavor bloom on his tongue, and its second impression is not so different from the first. Nothing outstanding, but they could do far worse, like the vinegar they'd managed to pick up among the goblin camps.
Godfrey's reassurance causes his smile to warm and soften, his shoulders dropping as he lets some of the tension of the day further ease from him.]
Is that so? I could say much the same about you. Of course, I asked you here for a reason— I won't have you taking all of our burdens onto those broad shoulders of yours without insisting that you allow us to do the same in turn. Relax tonight, at the very least. Gods know you deserve it as much as any of us, perhaps moreso.
Godfrey naturally hadn't been unappreciative of the opportunity - indeed, even to a palate as uncultured as his own, it had been a great honour to know the taste and bouquet of such a valued and prized labour of his monastic brothers and sisters.
Having said that, conveying his appreciation had required a good bit of smiling and nodding along, and none of his own words. Godfrey hardly found stewed plums an unpleasant comparison in its experience, but couldn't deny that it hardly sounded so. And besides that, listening to the others find limitless complexity in the same glasses made his own thoughts feel simple and juvenile.
Much the same as what keeps him silent on the glass he has in his hand now. He takes another thin sip and finds another element to add to his collection of thoughts - this sip tastes like dry grapes.
He wonders idly if Gale ever experiences these banal little examples of thoughts best kept in one's own head. It seems not, or so he thinks, as he swirls the ruby table wine in his cup and watches its depths move. He knows he must reasonably, despite how loquacious and eager he may seem. But it's difficult to apply such convention to a man like him; to a life that seems to know no idle thought or wasted exercise of the mind.
This impression proves itself again; Godfrey glances up from his cup as Gale answers and reveals the truth - that he has been deceived, and that only after it closes around his ankle is the snare in the leaves where he steps revealed. ]
I am betrayed, then. Not only to a good drink in pleasant company, but also to reprieve and fellowship. [ Voice still just as mellow, smile just crinkling his eyes. ] There are far worse double-crossings.
[ And there are few who know just how necessary such measures are better than Godfrey himself. Selfish in pain. He's like a dog; he has to be tricked into showing his wounds. ]
Very well, then I shall be the one to lead our ramblings for the evening. I cannot promise any particularly interesting revelations, but if there is a burden you would particularly like to investigate...
[ Seems prudent to give him the choice, if he wants to carry something. Even if the room is dark, and all he may take on his back remains uncertain and vague. ]
Edited (if ur getting this i lied and dusted it up now bc im trapped here until this box of food arrives) 2024-03-28 14:38 (UTC)
[The wizard lets out a warm, amused peal of laughter in response; his snare had been well-meant, of course, and he's glad that it has been received as such. As ulterior motives went, this really was rather tame.]
Betrayed, yes, but with the greatest of intentions!
[He smiles again in turn, a bit of pleasant crinkling forming around his own eyes, as it so often did when he was in a merry mood.]
Of course, I'll not attempt to extract anything you aren't willing to share, but it seemed imperative that you have at least half an hour where you did not feel as though you must hold yourself together for the good of all.
[Though his gaze becomes a bit more somber, his expression remains pleasant, the inviting countenance of a good friend.]
This journey has been hard on all of us. I know it cannot be easy to lead this rag-tag band of rascals and ruffians, especially under the present circumstances. Certainly, there are days where each one of us must feel like giving up entirely.
[ Distance and a trick of the light, surely. This is all that he sees in the way Gale looks at him.
Holding to what he knows helps him little. His gaze touches Gale's as he laughs, warm in the dying light, the barest flickering by his eyes, the illusion of movement cast just slightly downward, and he feels his chest swell.
Sir Godfrey busies himself with his glass and a steadying breath. The light plays tricks as it dies, and Godfrey had seated himself distantly enough to fall vulnerable to them. That was all. He needed not cast his own aspersions over the evening, over this evening least of all. Gale's kindness and good will needed none of Godfrey's compounded loneliness to colour it, nor to turn it into anything but what it was.
Another sip likely wouldn't help, tempting though it may be. Sufficiently chastened, Godfrey unbusies himself from the ruby depths of his cup, and he looks again to Gale, with only the hope that the warmth blooming in his chest isn't as visible as it feels.
And truly, he wishes the care Gale shows him now untouched by the years he's spent encased in mourning. It is one deeply admirable; selfless and extended for no gain of his own. To project such hunger to him here - either his own, or to veil him and this evening in it - felt an unkindness, an unnecessary sullying of something wonderful and rare. Godfrey, eyes smiling, cants his head toward it as it is expressed, taking a moment of thought. He takes a breath through his nose. ]
Here... once, perhaps. [ This answer comes softly, unsure. As though this is the first moment's thought he's granted to the question. ] Shortly after we became stranded by the Nautiloid, and we began learning of our affliction.
[ He had allowed himself to think of his daughter. Of taming her wild Wood Elven hair into braids, and of laying out her clothes for the morning before bed. Of her hand in his. Of watching her eat, and listening to her play, and reading to her. Of listening to her outlandish thoughts and seeing the world through her young eyes. Of the way she would, baby-fat cheeks sagging just a little with grim and childish severity, stand up and run to crowd his stomach with her face after every long day of training.
Of what the word ceremorphosis would do to it. He had wept alone. ]
Though not since. Our friends have failed to instill such feelings in me, if that is indeed their goal. I am... I think, good at trying for others. I think not of myself for as long as I do.
[ What might happen now that Gale is asking him to stop doing that? Godfrey hasn't asked himself that quite yet.
Godfrey glances back to his cup now, considers another drink, decides against it. ]
At home... many times, it pains me to say. The church did not always appreciate my leadership, and often did I ask myself if all of the fighting was worthwhile. As well...
[ Did Gale know of his husband? Godfrey can't say. But he'd asked for the walls which kept these old tragedies in to come down, for the silence stretching between them to be filled with all that he's kept in his chest. Godfrey asks himself to oblige. He swallows. ]
I am a widower, and the time after my husband passed was difficult and long.
[Gale's expression turns rather more somber as he listens, his smile fading even as his attention never wavers— he watches Godfrey as he answers him with intent, with patience, wishing to offer the same understanding that their de-facto leader has offered him so many times now. He takes another measured sip of his drink, his gaze momentarily lingering on the way the low light catches against the very outline of Godfrey's features.
That he was a widower wasn't entirely surprising, though they had never discussed it in detail.]
I imagine it must have been so. I did not know for certain if you were a widower, but you have mentioned that you are Iltha's only remaining family. I confess, I assumed as much.
[It was, in fact, one of the myriad reasons why Gale had convinced himself his interests were inappropriate— even if he weren't considering the amount of danger he would put someone in, given the disastrous consequences of his own actions and the burden he now bore.]
As someone who has come to both respect and depend upon your leadership, I'm afraid the church may not have realized what they had. I suppose they might have lacked a certain sense of pragmatism.
[ A perfectly serviceable guess, really; it wasn't as though Godfrey had done much to educate his new friends on the truth of him.
In this respect, he has done them a disservice. This is something that has always perched at the edge of his awareness; always there, but simple enough to avoid. All Godfrey truly needed to do was to remind himself of the simple fact that none of them could know him - that they all had things more important and pertinent to know than the silver-and-gold knight who had just blundered into their lives. They did not need to know him. He could know them, and surely, that would be enough.
This was before the first of them had tried to return the favour by knowing Godfrey as Godfrey had come to know them. Gale, attentive and careful, looking to absorb anything of Godfrey, sits before him. Ready and eager for anything that he might give.
And yet, his tongue guides the conversation in circles. He does not seek an ear nor a shoulder tonight, and he asks not that Godfrey remain sturdy and strong where he cannot. These things are simple; his own strength can stand in for others, and he can listen, and he can take in their tragedies, and he can hope that they weigh a little less on them for how they now weigh on Godfrey himself. Gale asks something else of him entirely. Godfrey hardly knows where to begin. And, indeed, where the others have slowly done him the honour of giving Godfrey pieces of themselves, Godfrey finds himself retreating, clutching those shards in his hands.
Why, Godfrey? He could not say. It was not as though Gale was an untrustworthy friend - and yet he hesitates. Even in the face of his kindness, he hesitates.
Sir Godfrey had sworn an oath. ]
You are kind to say so.
[ This small concession, first. He does not agree, and Godfrey does not hide this. He lifts his glass to his lips and takes a long, thoughtful sip, the bell-curve of its belly glinting in the low light. It hangs loose in his fingers when he finds his thirst satisfied, leaning casually against the inner edge of of his leg. ]
But it was me who lacked pragmatism. I think it will not surprise you to hear that my leadership was a touch... idealistic. I did not always keep in the forefront of my thoughts the well-being of the Temple.
I do confess that my own view of you has certainly been colored by our very unusual circumstances, but no, I cannot say that surprises me a great deal.
[His smile quirks to one side as he drinks deep from his glass, a simple pleasure that he finds himself incredibly grateful for in these trying times. For all of his experiences, all of his talents, all of his elegant taste, it was the simple moments he always found the most comfort in.]
I would go so far as to say that there are times when your leadership is still a touch idealistic, but given that what we face has the potential to lead to disastrously poor choices under tremendous pressure, but the optimist in me rather appreciates the standing reminder to be considerate of the consequences of our actions.
[Gale is rather pragmatic when he needs to be, but he does still like to hope for the best while preparing for the worst.]
[ He lets himself live just a little too long in that moment, studying the way he smiles and his face as he takes that deep drink of wine. Tries to read his thoughts through his closed eyes and the way his chest moves as he breathes, exhaling as he allows the taste to fill him.
Suns himself in this small approval, as he recounts a time when not even his own household fully appreciated his efforts.
Godfrey glances away then. The lingering smile fades as he delves deeper. ]
I like to think that my time in the clergy taught me a thing or two. [ Perhaps more accurate; he likes to hope. ] My heart was well-placed and did not falter, but... well. I prioritized what it told me over what my rational mind did.
[ Here, his gaze gets trepidatious and shy; he glances toward Gale for a thin moment, gauging his reaction in slim seconds before looking away again, allowing the buzz of the night outside to take the moment again. ]
The temple had many... implicit, shall we say, initiatives to help the underprivileged. [ His gaze distances as he rolls the glass in his hand, feeling its weight slosh precariously in its glass belly. ] We offered direct help to the children and the newly born, and that was well. We sheltered travelers and adventurers, for they often proved lucrative prospects and particularly helpful hands. But never the parents of those children. There was an air that we ought not take responsibility for them, that their problems lie with themselves where their children were blameless, that the church ought keep funding our other initiatives instead. It all appeared, to me, rather... self-serving.
[ And the hesitation is no trepidation regarding blasphemy - the Morninglord uses His clergy first and foremost to revise the old traditions, that Lathander may be improved continuously as His priests use Him for their own betterment. Criticism and debate of scripture and its use is, always, a healthy part of any good Lathanderian worship. ]
It was my assessment that a man cannot be expected to improve himself when he knew not where his next meal came from, or when he had no cover from the sun or the rain. And it also was my assessment that our scripture demanded we pull those around us in our wake, tow them toward a tomorrow ever brighter. That this was our divine duty. I followed this call. I became the Temple's Dawnlord, and I fought to keep its doors open to the poor and the destitute.
[ He exhales, slowly, through his nose. His shoulders fall, and his brow tightens a little. The note of the statement swings downward instead of upward. ]
[Gale's brow furrows as he echoes the paladin, having watched his expression carefully as he told his tale, that exhale alone a great indicator of a turning point to come. He grimaces, his own smile having faded, and he shakes his head as he lowers his glass, eyebrows knit together in disapproval— not of Godfrey, but of those who would take advantage of his ideals.]
I wish such things were unheard of, people turning on the very hands that feed them. Your heart was certainly in the right place, wishing to aid those the temple had previously overlooked. I've not been unfortunate enough to experience true hunger— the traditional kind, at least— but I do know how difficult it can be to try and improve one's situation when plagued with doubt, with pain.
[He lets out a sigh of his own, lifting his glass and giving it another even swirl before he drinks.]
Even then, it seems you believed the best of mankind. What happened to the one who assaulted you?
[ Godfrey's taken on a mournful air as Gale gives his thoughts - but the air is sucked from the tent completely at that question.
In the heavy vacuum of silence left behind, Sir Godfrey sits, swallowing. ]
She was found to have made an intentional attempt on my life by the courts, whilst I lay in recovery. I could not intervene before she was hanged by the neck.
[ And intervene he would have; the assailant was a young woman known to him. He had no wish to see her put to death for a crime she had committed in desperation, not while he remained dedicated to helping her. He had walked himself through the alternatives he could have offered for weeks - had he only been able to attend.
Though, somewhere in Godfrey's chest, this story had never quite sat right. He had never been able to fathom how it had been that multiple days had been lost; his fellow clergymen pointed their fingers at Vladimir and claimed that all had been handled at home, that the Temple had presumed him missing in the crucial hours after the assault had been discovered. And Vladimir would not speak of the incident at all. ]
Vladimir was furious with me. [ Godfrey's gaze has drifted down to his shoes, one ankle crossed over the other, as he murmurs. ] He was a stern man for all of our time together, but never had I seen him angry, either before or since. He told me, the bastards will eat you alive, and you'll think nothing of anyone who loved you. Only to be sorry for the way you'll stick in their damned teeth.
[ Another quiet moment passes.
Something shifts across Godfrey's face. A subtle furrowing of his brow and a slow-dawning regret as he wishes he could pull back that anecdote - the fear that he's compromised the careful image of Vladimir that Godfrey's curated, one of the few which exists.
Godfrey takes his glass and drains the rest of the wine from it and, in a woozy moment, decides to prove his late husband's frustrations right; he untucks his shirt and, carefully, lifts a bit of its cover from his waistband.
Beneath it is a criss-crossing mess of pink scarring, the remains of a savage assault. Repeated, rapid intrusions, clustered to the lower-right of his firm abdomen. A bloody remainder.
[He had not expected a happy end to that tale, and yet the answer he was almost certain he would receive still hangs heavy in the air between them. Godfrey tells him much, but there are things he leaves unspoken, as well— had he not been in recovery, Gale is certain he would have done everything within his power to see the woman's life spared. It was simply who he was.
The tale is a grim one. He frowns slightly as Godfrey recounts Vlad's words to him, his brow furrowing further still.]
I imagine he was furious because he was terrified.
[Coming so close to losing the person you loved... such things were enough to push people to do or say things they wouldn't normally.
His gaze moves downwards as Godfrey shifts, and it takes him a moment or two longer than it should to realize what it is that his companion is doing, thanks to the wine. The scar is a stark contrast against the rest of his skin, and yet despite the solemnity of the moment, Gale feels his heart rise into his throat and his mouth go suddenly dry as he finds his gaze taking in other details, as well— the plane of Godfrey's stomach, the hard-won muscle.
He swallows hard, averts his gaze, and quickly drains the last of the contents of his glass.]
It must have been a very close thing, that injury. I'm glad you lived to tell the tale.
[Gods above, the way he was feeling in this moment was wildly inappropriate.]
Edited (I literally forgot the most important line) 2024-05-18 03:37 (UTC)
Yes, [ Godfrey tugs the bottom edge of his shirt back over his firm stomach, ] just so.
[ If Godfrey is aware of the sudden flash of colour in Gale's ears, he doesn't show it. He clears the tension from his throat and rests his other hand on his stomach, rolling the wine in the bottom of his glass. Feels its thin weight rock between hand and palm as he stares through the tent walls.
Softly; ]
I never did learn just what happened.
[ The uncertainty, though frightening, was a better avenue of conversation to travel than others which branched from this event; the fighting, or the cold guilt. Feeling the life leak out of him in that locked, silent office. ]
My fellow clergymen told me that Vladimir had handled everything. And he would not speak on it.
[ Not while he could, anyway, and Godfrey had thought the day would not come.
Perhaps he had died. He'd never know now, and had spent some years convincing himself that the uncertainty perched in the back of his head didn't bother him.
The subject matter sufficiently disturbing for a change in focus, Godfrey's eyes return to the tent. He glances up at Gale and sees his glass empty. ]
Ah. [ Godfrey shifts, wrapping a gentle hand around the neck of their bottle. ] Another, perhaps?
[He finds himself immensely grateful for the offer of wine, not only because of his empty glass, but because the shift in topic, however slight, might help him to feel slightly less at odds with himself— a momentary thought that he immediately feels guilty for allowing to pass through his mind at all. It had been important to him to encourage Godfrey to share, it still was, but he has not, perhaps, been entirely honest about why that might be, with Godfrey or with himself.
He leans forward to hold out his glass, balancing himself against the ground with one hand.]
Ah, yes— please, though I hope you will join me for another, as well.
[The space between them had already been small, narrow, and leaning forward brings them inordinately close to one another in a way that is bordering on terribly distracting. Gale finds himself keenly aware of the fact that this is the first time Godfrey has ever physically joined him in his tent, but he's certainly thought about what might happen if he did on more than one occasion.
Gods above, he is certainly going to find himself in one of the nine hells for thinking such things of a still-grieving widower— devoted to the church, at that. Gale has never considered himself to be particularly hedonistic, but when comparing himself to Godfrey, he feels downright sinful.]
[ He would, however, likely keep himself at two glasses for the rest of his visit. Not that that's anything to discount; Godfrey has kept his one-glass limit strict through their travels. Nothing has motivated him to bend this rule prior to this evening.
What has changed? Godfrey can't say. Not precisely; that is to say, he cannot give a singular, satisfying explanation. The closest his own thoughts come is to say that everything has. There is little about this evening they're sharing that isn't unorthodox for him, at least slightly. He's yet to intrude on the quarters of any of his new companions in this manner, lounging so casually in their private corners of their campsites. He has shared things which only few people know - stories he's been reticent to tell even in Baldur's Gate. Stranger still, he feels at ease about it.
One more paltry glass of table wine in the company of a friend who is trying for him seems, perhaps, an innocent enough diversion to add to the pile.
He sets his own down as Gale works his way nearer, just a little unsteady on the rocky ground. Godfrey's hand comes to his. Strong, rough fingers cradle the hand around his glass gingerly, just enough to hold him steady as he extends. They don't move as Gale steadies, and Godfrey pours more dark wine. He pours him a respectable glass - something vague in him dictates this line, between "respectable" and some shadowy alternative. Not too heavy, lest he be pressured to drink more than he might have; not too stingy, lest he think Godfrey thinks him some sort of sot who needs mediating. The glass is perfectly respectable when Godfrey pulls away; just tiptoeing to half-full.
Godfrey finishes his own glass and pours himself just a little less. ]
Gale had been about to offer a witty but warm response when he feels Godfrey's hand coming to steady his own, causing him to suddenly draw a blank where he had previously been full to the brim with far more thoughts than even he knew what to do with.
It's such a small thing. Insignificant to most, likely, but tonight, in this space, after so very long without experiencing any human touch aside from any that coincided with recent mending of wounds—
It feels like something.
Surely he's overthinking it. Surely, he is allowing the dim light and the cheap table wine to go to his head, but the strong, warm touch of Godfrey's hand is still enough to convince Gale to shift so that they're now seated alongside one another, rather than across.]
You're welcome to stay all night, if you wish.
[It comes so easily that he doesn't even consider the implications of it, and he flusters just a touch as he revises.]
That is— you're always welcome, as far as I'm concerned. My thanks.
[He lifts his glass, giving a tip of his head before drinking deep.
Very deep.
Gods, didn't he used to be good at this sort of thing? He swears he was.]
[ Shivering warmth floods the back of his neck, runs down his spine as he hears the low ease in Gale's voice.
Ridiculous. Pathetic, his desperation. That it would drive him to resort to crawling into accidental innuendo for warmth - and, indeed, to assign warmth where there likely wasn't any. A blind worm seeking moisture by the tip of his nose. He ought to be ashamed of himself. Certainly he would pray for his Lord's guidance tomorrow morning - but it isn't shame he feels thrilling in the bottom of his chest.
Something else. A queer giddiness. A tiny exhilaration. Small wings beating against the inside of him, too small to fill him completely but yet unmistakable. The wine and the thin and fleeting notion that it might have been meant precisely how Godfrey had first thought conspire to make something impossible, irresistible. He'd not even imagined such a thing in years. There is no way for Godfrey to thank Gale for what currently stirs in him, the tiny wings lightening his shoulders and the stone he's carried in his chest, yet he feels he must.
Instead, he releases a soft breath as Gale course corrects. Of course. It couldn't take what he had given him, though, selfish as it may be to hold it. He would lock it deep within himself. It would stay there until his body would rot and break its aroma to the world. Until then, he would lock it in a box. He would inhale it for the rest of his days. ]
I ought impose upon your hospitality more often, my friend.
[ If there is some mirrored implication in Godfrey's words, he doesn't let on that he realizes it. He takes a polite drink of his glass as Gale dives into his, lets the alcohol sit on his tongue, swallows.
More grape, but pleasantly so. ]
I think I have rather handily defeated my own purpose in being here. [ He's smiling, gently, as he says it. ] I wish not to dwell on unpleasantness while I take your time. Perhaps I ought tell a happier tale.
[ He would lend the floor to Gale, but he seems uninterested in himself as a subject of conversation, and Godfrey feels indebted to appease him after all of that sorrowing he's just done. ]
[That smile of his— always warm and full of reassurance, and Gale finds himself wondering if, perhaps, he had not been so far off the mark after all. It would be so, so easy to imagine such things after so many long months sequestered away from the world, so much time spent keenly aware of the fact that any given day could not only be his last, but was more likely to be than not. That last part, he supposes, hasn't changed much in the least.
Perhaps it's the wine bolstering his courage, or the fact that there's so little left to lose. What do any of them really have left to hold onto, at this point?
Certainly not pride. He's had his fill of that, personally.]
Oh, I do wish you would.
[... wait.]
'Impose' more often, I mean, though it is certainly no imposition at all. The story would be more than welcome, of course. I am certain I would enjoy any tale you had to tell.
[ ... well. There's a certain warmth and familiarity in Gale's tone for a moment that not even Godfrey can ignore, the low implication of something more just beneath his words ringing too clearly for Godfrey to plug his ears to.
He can't be surprised, though. Not after seeing personally how quickly he started into his glass. It's likely the wine talking; Godfrey can feel it himself, the way the alcohol begins to blur the lines between the two of them, the way it flourishes in his chest. He was at risk of the very same thing - precisely why he must remain cognizant of it. It was hardly fair to ascribe something personal to Gale's burgeoning inebriation, and less fair to hold it against him.
Godfrey sits and smiles amiably, but keeps his back straight and his hips beneath him. He does not return to his earlier posture, lounging back on the piled cushions. It felt improper now, in ways that Godfrey could not elaborate upon. He watches the shimmering, ruby heart of his glass, and he delves. ]
I have shown you sadness tonight, but that is not all that my life has been. [ It likely went without saying, but it was a reminder that Godfrey himself could do with. There were many sadnesses, but just as much laughter, and a litter of stories he could use to prove it. ] I remember once-- Iltha was quite angry at me.
[ She seemed his safest bet. Vladimir felt inexorably couched in that same sadness he was trying to escape, though he had his share that always brought a smile to his face - and, strangely, it feels impolite to conjure him back into the conversation. He takes a deep sip. ]
She had... I believe, said some disparaging things to her schoolteacher. She became angry that I had not taken her side in the matter and confined her to her room. [ Even had she been, as Iltha's assessment went, lacking in intelligence and not worth listening to, it would not do to have her saying so. ] I had assumed the matter would cool in the evening, but I suppose that I underestimated her.
[ There's a distance in his eyes now, a warm fondness in the curve of his lips. ]
I said good-night to her, as I often did. She was scrunched into her bed, you know, looking sullen still. And she began-- [ Something ripples in him, a sensible chuckle he tries to suppress, ] She began to point out other things in the room and address them. Good-night book, good-night chair, good-night hairbrush. I love you, comb. I'd spent my time watching over the children with the church, but I'd no clue they were capable of that sort of... I suppose, passive-aggression.
[He laughs warmly, shaking his head before taking another pull from his glass, more measured this time. The tale reminds him of how he'd responded to his mother when she'd initially refused to allow him to get a cat.]
It's quite remarkable, how long children can hold onto grudges. It would seem your girl is especially clever, if she's able to make such a savage point so young.
[He lets out a chuckle of his own; it's good to hear Godfrey laugh, to laugh together, given all they've endured these past weeks.]
She's going to grow up to be a force to be reckoned with, I've no doubt. I'd quite like to meet her someday, if the opportunity ever presents itself. If my hunch is correct, she's likely to have quite a knack for debate.
[Even through stories alone, he can recognize a kindred spirit.]
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The wizard looks up from the journal he'd been writing in with an easy smile, setting his pen down.]
Godfrey, please— come in. You're expected, after all.
[He'd hardly had to ask, but they are both polite sorts, and so Gale can hardly hold it against him. He gestures to the space in front of him, where Godfrey has his pick of cushions to sit on, should he so choose.]
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Thank you.
[ He picks his few steps carefully, around that stack with a cursory glance at their spines. He recognizes few titles in Gale's current program of studies - which he expected, their respective fields of knowledge have little overlap. Still, he could do with more to meaningfully contribute. Perhaps he ought pick a title and inquire...
That is not what he's come for this evening, but - if their stories waned, perhaps that was a second discussion to keep them afloat. Godfrey dutifully sits on a larger, square cushion, and sets the bottle and glasses down. ]
I snuck a bottle from the others, if you might like a glass. [ Red, and a decent table wine - but a table wine all the same. ] They ought not miss a few cupfuls, I think.
[ And likely, Godfrey thinks, they would drink little more than that. ]
resurrects myself
[His smile hitches wider as he teases warmly, setting his journal aside as his companion makes himself comfortable.]
You know me, I've always a weakness for a glass. I used to be a bit more specific about the quality, but these days, I find most will do in a pinch. This one, I do believe I recognize— quite decent, in fact, especially when compared to some of the others we've come across in our travels. We'll make a sommelier of you, yet.
[Just in case being a Paladin of the Morninglord doesn't work out, naturally.]
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When it comes to the question of where the wine came from... well. This is something mired in ambiguity.
And it is no conundrum he's willing to entertain right now; not while the evening has such warm and quiet promise to it. Godfrey settles in his seat and pours each glass carefully, nodding slowly as he listens to Gale speak. Smiling to himself even before he turns his eyes up, bright and warm, to extend the first full cup to him. ]
Then I am gratified to know that I chose well.
[ He's as faultlessly genuine as he's always been - his tone as light and bright as though he had never considered that Gale's approval would not be significant.
Drink distributed, Godfrey carefully corks the bottle and sits back with his own glass. ]
I imbibe only occasionally. I cannot boast any particularly significant palate. Tragic that I could not make use of your expertise when last I was honoured to contribute to Waterdhavian Rhyestertide celebrations.
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Oh, dear. Disaster struck, I take it?
[He smiles at Godfrey from behind the rim of his cup before taking a generous sip. Really, for found wine, it's quite good.]
I aim not to imbibe with excess, but a good glass of wine can go a long way in complementing a meal. I confess, I lose myself rather quickly if I have too much, so I do make an effort to exercise caution. Tonight, however, I believe myself to be in trustworthy company. If I help myself to a second glass, you'll not think any less of me for it, I hope.
[He gives a smile that manages to be just a touch weary and self-deprecating beneath the usual optimism. It's been an especially exhausting few days for the lot of them, really.]
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[ And, really, Godfrey could hardly fault him this inevitable conclusion. He's very sure that Gale will register the magnitude of what was wasted on him, even if he won't give voice to his feelings on the matter. Appreciative of the high honour as Godfrey was, he could not lie to himself as to pretend that the sliver of valuable and rare red vintage, so lovingly brewed and aged by monks of his Lord's dawn, tasted like anything more than over-stewed plums to him.
But this is the sort of thing Godfrey had come for, wasn't it? Far-flung pieces of the path that had led them here. Stories of home. He raises his cup to his lips and takes a slow, meandering drink.
Tastes of grapes.
He keeps this to himself and tries, instead, to think of some description that wouldn't gall poor Gale. He looks up as he swallows and smiles, meaningful. ]
I doubt much that there is any way you might tarnish my esteem of you, Gale. [ His voice is warm and gentle, resonant in the little tent they sit in, ] Indeed, it would do me some good, to see you well and at ease.
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['Wasted,' he says— a difficult vintage to come by outside of specific circumstances, and Gale can only imagine what other connoisseurs might say to such a thing. He may quite enjoy wine himself, but he's hardly going to shame Godfrey for not acquiring the taste.
Still, it does sting just a little bit, hearing that, and he shakes his head in disbelief.
He helps himself to another sip, pausing to let the flavor bloom on his tongue, and its second impression is not so different from the first. Nothing outstanding, but they could do far worse, like the vinegar they'd managed to pick up among the goblin camps.
Godfrey's reassurance causes his smile to warm and soften, his shoulders dropping as he lets some of the tension of the day further ease from him.]
Is that so? I could say much the same about you. Of course, I asked you here for a reason— I won't have you taking all of our burdens onto those broad shoulders of yours without insisting that you allow us to do the same in turn. Relax tonight, at the very least. Gods know you deserve it as much as any of us, perhaps moreso.
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Godfrey naturally hadn't been unappreciative of the opportunity - indeed, even to a palate as uncultured as his own, it had been a great honour to know the taste and bouquet of such a valued and prized labour of his monastic brothers and sisters.
Having said that, conveying his appreciation had required a good bit of smiling and nodding along, and none of his own words. Godfrey hardly found stewed plums an unpleasant comparison in its experience, but couldn't deny that it hardly sounded so. And besides that, listening to the others find limitless complexity in the same glasses made his own thoughts feel simple and juvenile.
Much the same as what keeps him silent on the glass he has in his hand now. He takes another thin sip and finds another element to add to his collection of thoughts - this sip tastes like dry grapes.
He wonders idly if Gale ever experiences these banal little examples of thoughts best kept in one's own head. It seems not, or so he thinks, as he swirls the ruby table wine in his cup and watches its depths move. He knows he must reasonably, despite how loquacious and eager he may seem. But it's difficult to apply such convention to a man like him; to a life that seems to know no idle thought or wasted exercise of the mind.
This impression proves itself again; Godfrey glances up from his cup as Gale answers and reveals the truth - that he has been deceived, and that only after it closes around his ankle is the snare in the leaves where he steps revealed. ]
I am betrayed, then. Not only to a good drink in pleasant company, but also to reprieve and fellowship. [ Voice still just as mellow, smile just crinkling his eyes. ] There are far worse double-crossings.
[ And there are few who know just how necessary such measures are better than Godfrey himself. Selfish in pain. He's like a dog; he has to be tricked into showing his wounds. ]
Very well, then I shall be the one to lead our ramblings for the evening. I cannot promise any particularly interesting revelations, but if there is a burden you would particularly like to investigate...
[ Seems prudent to give him the choice, if he wants to carry something. Even if the room is dark, and all he may take on his back remains uncertain and vague. ]
thank you for your endless patience, I adore you
Betrayed, yes, but with the greatest of intentions!
[He smiles again in turn, a bit of pleasant crinkling forming around his own eyes, as it so often did when he was in a merry mood.]
Of course, I'll not attempt to extract anything you aren't willing to share, but it seemed imperative that you have at least half an hour where you did not feel as though you must hold yourself together for the good of all.
[Though his gaze becomes a bit more somber, his expression remains pleasant, the inviting countenance of a good friend.]
This journey has been hard on all of us. I know it cannot be easy to lead this rag-tag band of rascals and ruffians, especially under the present circumstances. Certainly, there are days where each one of us must feel like giving up entirely.
always and forever my dude
Holding to what he knows helps him little. His gaze touches Gale's as he laughs, warm in the dying light, the barest flickering by his eyes, the illusion of movement cast just slightly downward, and he feels his chest swell.
Sir Godfrey busies himself with his glass and a steadying breath. The light plays tricks as it dies, and Godfrey had seated himself distantly enough to fall vulnerable to them. That was all. He needed not cast his own aspersions over the evening, over this evening least of all. Gale's kindness and good will needed none of Godfrey's compounded loneliness to colour it, nor to turn it into anything but what it was.
Another sip likely wouldn't help, tempting though it may be. Sufficiently chastened, Godfrey unbusies himself from the ruby depths of his cup, and he looks again to Gale, with only the hope that the warmth blooming in his chest isn't as visible as it feels.
And truly, he wishes the care Gale shows him now untouched by the years he's spent encased in mourning. It is one deeply admirable; selfless and extended for no gain of his own. To project such hunger to him here - either his own, or to veil him and this evening in it - felt an unkindness, an unnecessary sullying of something wonderful and rare. Godfrey, eyes smiling, cants his head toward it as it is expressed, taking a moment of thought. He takes a breath through his nose. ]
Here... once, perhaps. [ This answer comes softly, unsure. As though this is the first moment's thought he's granted to the question. ] Shortly after we became stranded by the Nautiloid, and we began learning of our affliction.
[ He had allowed himself to think of his daughter. Of taming her wild Wood Elven hair into braids, and of laying out her clothes for the morning before bed. Of her hand in his. Of watching her eat, and listening to her play, and reading to her. Of listening to her outlandish thoughts and seeing the world through her young eyes. Of the way she would, baby-fat cheeks sagging just a little with grim and childish severity, stand up and run to crowd his stomach with her face after every long day of training.
Of what the word ceremorphosis would do to it. He had wept alone. ]
Though not since. Our friends have failed to instill such feelings in me, if that is indeed their goal. I am... I think, good at trying for others. I think not of myself for as long as I do.
[ What might happen now that Gale is asking him to stop doing that? Godfrey hasn't asked himself that quite yet.
Godfrey glances back to his cup now, considers another drink, decides against it. ]
At home... many times, it pains me to say. The church did not always appreciate my leadership, and often did I ask myself if all of the fighting was worthwhile. As well...
[ Did Gale know of his husband? Godfrey can't say. But he'd asked for the walls which kept these old tragedies in to come down, for the silence stretching between them to be filled with all that he's kept in his chest. Godfrey asks himself to oblige. He swallows. ]
I am a widower, and the time after my husband passed was difficult and long.
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That he was a widower wasn't entirely surprising, though they had never discussed it in detail.]
I imagine it must have been so. I did not know for certain if you were a widower, but you have mentioned that you are Iltha's only remaining family. I confess, I assumed as much.
[It was, in fact, one of the myriad reasons why Gale had convinced himself his interests were inappropriate— even if he weren't considering the amount of danger he would put someone in, given the disastrous consequences of his own actions and the burden he now bore.]
As someone who has come to both respect and depend upon your leadership, I'm afraid the church may not have realized what they had. I suppose they might have lacked a certain sense of pragmatism.
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In this respect, he has done them a disservice. This is something that has always perched at the edge of his awareness; always there, but simple enough to avoid. All Godfrey truly needed to do was to remind himself of the simple fact that none of them could know him - that they all had things more important and pertinent to know than the silver-and-gold knight who had just blundered into their lives. They did not need to know him. He could know them, and surely, that would be enough.
This was before the first of them had tried to return the favour by knowing Godfrey as Godfrey had come to know them. Gale, attentive and careful, looking to absorb anything of Godfrey, sits before him. Ready and eager for anything that he might give.
And yet, his tongue guides the conversation in circles. He does not seek an ear nor a shoulder tonight, and he asks not that Godfrey remain sturdy and strong where he cannot. These things are simple; his own strength can stand in for others, and he can listen, and he can take in their tragedies, and he can hope that they weigh a little less on them for how they now weigh on Godfrey himself. Gale asks something else of him entirely. Godfrey hardly knows where to begin. And, indeed, where the others have slowly done him the honour of giving Godfrey pieces of themselves, Godfrey finds himself retreating, clutching those shards in his hands.
Why, Godfrey? He could not say. It was not as though Gale was an untrustworthy friend - and yet he hesitates. Even in the face of his kindness, he hesitates.
Sir Godfrey had sworn an oath. ]
You are kind to say so.
[ This small concession, first. He does not agree, and Godfrey does not hide this. He lifts his glass to his lips and takes a long, thoughtful sip, the bell-curve of its belly glinting in the low light. It hangs loose in his fingers when he finds his thirst satisfied, leaning casually against the inner edge of of his leg. ]
But it was me who lacked pragmatism. I think it will not surprise you to hear that my leadership was a touch... idealistic. I did not always keep in the forefront of my thoughts the well-being of the Temple.
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[His smile quirks to one side as he drinks deep from his glass, a simple pleasure that he finds himself incredibly grateful for in these trying times. For all of his experiences, all of his talents, all of his elegant taste, it was the simple moments he always found the most comfort in.]
I would go so far as to say that there are times when your leadership is still a touch idealistic, but given that what we face has the potential to lead to disastrously poor choices under tremendous pressure, but the optimist in me rather appreciates the standing reminder to be considerate of the consequences of our actions.
[Gale is rather pragmatic when he needs to be, but he does still like to hope for the best while preparing for the worst.]
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Suns himself in this small approval, as he recounts a time when not even his own household fully appreciated his efforts.
Godfrey glances away then. The lingering smile fades as he delves deeper. ]
I like to think that my time in the clergy taught me a thing or two. [ Perhaps more accurate; he likes to hope. ] My heart was well-placed and did not falter, but... well. I prioritized what it told me over what my rational mind did.
[ Here, his gaze gets trepidatious and shy; he glances toward Gale for a thin moment, gauging his reaction in slim seconds before looking away again, allowing the buzz of the night outside to take the moment again. ]
The temple had many... implicit, shall we say, initiatives to help the underprivileged. [ His gaze distances as he rolls the glass in his hand, feeling its weight slosh precariously in its glass belly. ] We offered direct help to the children and the newly born, and that was well. We sheltered travelers and adventurers, for they often proved lucrative prospects and particularly helpful hands. But never the parents of those children. There was an air that we ought not take responsibility for them, that their problems lie with themselves where their children were blameless, that the church ought keep funding our other initiatives instead. It all appeared, to me, rather... self-serving.
[ And the hesitation is no trepidation regarding blasphemy - the Morninglord uses His clergy first and foremost to revise the old traditions, that Lathander may be improved continuously as His priests use Him for their own betterment. Criticism and debate of scripture and its use is, always, a healthy part of any good Lathanderian worship. ]
It was my assessment that a man cannot be expected to improve himself when he knew not where his next meal came from, or when he had no cover from the sun or the rain. And it also was my assessment that our scripture demanded we pull those around us in our wake, tow them toward a tomorrow ever brighter. That this was our divine duty. I followed this call. I became the Temple's Dawnlord, and I fought to keep its doors open to the poor and the destitute.
[ He exhales, slowly, through his nose. His shoulders fall, and his brow tightens a little. The note of the statement swings downward instead of upward. ]
They closed when I was stabbed.
[ He takes another drink. ]
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[Gale's brow furrows as he echoes the paladin, having watched his expression carefully as he told his tale, that exhale alone a great indicator of a turning point to come. He grimaces, his own smile having faded, and he shakes his head as he lowers his glass, eyebrows knit together in disapproval— not of Godfrey, but of those who would take advantage of his ideals.]
I wish such things were unheard of, people turning on the very hands that feed them. Your heart was certainly in the right place, wishing to aid those the temple had previously overlooked. I've not been unfortunate enough to experience true hunger— the traditional kind, at least— but I do know how difficult it can be to try and improve one's situation when plagued with doubt, with pain.
[He lets out a sigh of his own, lifting his glass and giving it another even swirl before he drinks.]
Even then, it seems you believed the best of mankind. What happened to the one who assaulted you?
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In the heavy vacuum of silence left behind, Sir Godfrey sits, swallowing. ]
She was found to have made an intentional attempt on my life by the courts, whilst I lay in recovery. I could not intervene before she was hanged by the neck.
[ And intervene he would have; the assailant was a young woman known to him. He had no wish to see her put to death for a crime she had committed in desperation, not while he remained dedicated to helping her. He had walked himself through the alternatives he could have offered for weeks - had he only been able to attend.
Though, somewhere in Godfrey's chest, this story had never quite sat right. He had never been able to fathom how it had been that multiple days had been lost; his fellow clergymen pointed their fingers at Vladimir and claimed that all had been handled at home, that the Temple had presumed him missing in the crucial hours after the assault had been discovered. And Vladimir would not speak of the incident at all. ]
Vladimir was furious with me. [ Godfrey's gaze has drifted down to his shoes, one ankle crossed over the other, as he murmurs. ] He was a stern man for all of our time together, but never had I seen him angry, either before or since. He told me, the bastards will eat you alive, and you'll think nothing of anyone who loved you. Only to be sorry for the way you'll stick in their damned teeth.
[ Another quiet moment passes.
Something shifts across Godfrey's face. A subtle furrowing of his brow and a slow-dawning regret as he wishes he could pull back that anecdote - the fear that he's compromised the careful image of Vladimir that Godfrey's curated, one of the few which exists.
Godfrey takes his glass and drains the rest of the wine from it and, in a woozy moment, decides to prove his late husband's frustrations right; he untucks his shirt and, carefully, lifts a bit of its cover from his waistband.
Beneath it is a criss-crossing mess of pink scarring, the remains of a savage assault. Repeated, rapid intrusions, clustered to the lower-right of his firm abdomen. A bloody remainder.
Unhealed by priestly magic. ]
It was quite a shock to him, I think.
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The tale is a grim one. He frowns slightly as Godfrey recounts Vlad's words to him, his brow furrowing further still.]
I imagine he was furious because he was terrified.
[Coming so close to losing the person you loved... such things were enough to push people to do or say things they wouldn't normally.
His gaze moves downwards as Godfrey shifts, and it takes him a moment or two longer than it should to realize what it is that his companion is doing, thanks to the wine. The scar is a stark contrast against the rest of his skin, and yet despite the solemnity of the moment, Gale feels his heart rise into his throat and his mouth go suddenly dry as he finds his gaze taking in other details, as well— the plane of Godfrey's stomach, the hard-won muscle.
He swallows hard, averts his gaze, and quickly drains the last of the contents of his glass.]
It must have been a very close thing, that injury. I'm glad you lived to tell the tale.
[Gods above, the way he was feeling in this moment was wildly inappropriate.]
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[ If Godfrey is aware of the sudden flash of colour in Gale's ears, he doesn't show it. He clears the tension from his throat and rests his other hand on his stomach, rolling the wine in the bottom of his glass. Feels its thin weight rock between hand and palm as he stares through the tent walls.
Softly; ]
I never did learn just what happened.
[ The uncertainty, though frightening, was a better avenue of conversation to travel than others which branched from this event; the fighting, or the cold guilt. Feeling the life leak out of him in that locked, silent office. ]
My fellow clergymen told me that Vladimir had handled everything. And he would not speak on it.
[ Not while he could, anyway, and Godfrey had thought the day would not come.
Perhaps he had died. He'd never know now, and had spent some years convincing himself that the uncertainty perched in the back of his head didn't bother him.
The subject matter sufficiently disturbing for a change in focus, Godfrey's eyes return to the tent. He glances up at Gale and sees his glass empty. ]
Ah. [ Godfrey shifts, wrapping a gentle hand around the neck of their bottle. ] Another, perhaps?
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He leans forward to hold out his glass, balancing himself against the ground with one hand.]
Ah, yes— please, though I hope you will join me for another, as well.
[The space between them had already been small, narrow, and leaning forward brings them inordinately close to one another in a way that is bordering on terribly distracting. Gale finds himself keenly aware of the fact that this is the first time Godfrey has ever physically joined him in his tent, but he's certainly thought about what might happen if he did on more than one occasion.
Gods above, he is certainly going to find himself in one of the nine hells for thinking such things of a still-grieving widower— devoted to the church, at that. Gale has never considered himself to be particularly hedonistic, but when comparing himself to Godfrey, he feels downright sinful.]
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[ He would, however, likely keep himself at two glasses for the rest of his visit. Not that that's anything to discount; Godfrey has kept his one-glass limit strict through their travels. Nothing has motivated him to bend this rule prior to this evening.
What has changed? Godfrey can't say. Not precisely; that is to say, he cannot give a singular, satisfying explanation. The closest his own thoughts come is to say that everything has. There is little about this evening they're sharing that isn't unorthodox for him, at least slightly. He's yet to intrude on the quarters of any of his new companions in this manner, lounging so casually in their private corners of their campsites. He has shared things which only few people know - stories he's been reticent to tell even in Baldur's Gate. Stranger still, he feels at ease about it.
One more paltry glass of table wine in the company of a friend who is trying for him seems, perhaps, an innocent enough diversion to add to the pile.
He sets his own down as Gale works his way nearer, just a little unsteady on the rocky ground. Godfrey's hand comes to his. Strong, rough fingers cradle the hand around his glass gingerly, just enough to hold him steady as he extends. They don't move as Gale steadies, and Godfrey pours more dark wine. He pours him a respectable glass - something vague in him dictates this line, between "respectable" and some shadowy alternative. Not too heavy, lest he be pressured to drink more than he might have; not too stingy, lest he think Godfrey thinks him some sort of sot who needs mediating. The glass is perfectly respectable when Godfrey pulls away; just tiptoeing to half-full.
Godfrey finishes his own glass and pours himself just a little less. ]
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Gale had been about to offer a witty but warm response when he feels Godfrey's hand coming to steady his own, causing him to suddenly draw a blank where he had previously been full to the brim with far more thoughts than even he knew what to do with.
It's such a small thing. Insignificant to most, likely, but tonight, in this space, after so very long without experiencing any human touch aside from any that coincided with recent mending of wounds—
It feels like something.
Surely he's overthinking it. Surely, he is allowing the dim light and the cheap table wine to go to his head, but the strong, warm touch of Godfrey's hand is still enough to convince Gale to shift so that they're now seated alongside one another, rather than across.]
You're welcome to stay all night, if you wish.
[It comes so easily that he doesn't even consider the implications of it, and he flusters just a touch as he revises.]
That is— you're always welcome, as far as I'm concerned. My thanks.
[He lifts his glass, giving a tip of his head before drinking deep.
Very deep.
Gods, didn't he used to be good at this sort of thing? He swears he was.]
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Ridiculous. Pathetic, his desperation. That it would drive him to resort to crawling into accidental innuendo for warmth - and, indeed, to assign warmth where there likely wasn't any. A blind worm seeking moisture by the tip of his nose. He ought to be ashamed of himself. Certainly he would pray for his Lord's guidance tomorrow morning - but it isn't shame he feels thrilling in the bottom of his chest.
Something else. A queer giddiness. A tiny exhilaration. Small wings beating against the inside of him, too small to fill him completely but yet unmistakable. The wine and the thin and fleeting notion that it might have been meant precisely how Godfrey had first thought conspire to make something impossible, irresistible. He'd not even imagined such a thing in years. There is no way for Godfrey to thank Gale for what currently stirs in him, the tiny wings lightening his shoulders and the stone he's carried in his chest, yet he feels he must.
Instead, he releases a soft breath as Gale course corrects. Of course. It couldn't take what he had given him, though, selfish as it may be to hold it. He would lock it deep within himself. It would stay there until his body would rot and break its aroma to the world. Until then, he would lock it in a box. He would inhale it for the rest of his days. ]
I ought impose upon your hospitality more often, my friend.
[ If there is some mirrored implication in Godfrey's words, he doesn't let on that he realizes it. He takes a polite drink of his glass as Gale dives into his, lets the alcohol sit on his tongue, swallows.
More grape, but pleasantly so. ]
I think I have rather handily defeated my own purpose in being here. [ He's smiling, gently, as he says it. ] I wish not to dwell on unpleasantness while I take your time. Perhaps I ought tell a happier tale.
[ He would lend the floor to Gale, but he seems uninterested in himself as a subject of conversation, and Godfrey feels indebted to appease him after all of that sorrowing he's just done. ]
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Perhaps it's the wine bolstering his courage, or the fact that there's so little left to lose. What do any of them really have left to hold onto, at this point?
Certainly not pride. He's had his fill of that, personally.]
Oh, I do wish you would.
[... wait.]
'Impose' more often, I mean, though it is certainly no imposition at all. The story would be more than welcome, of course. I am certain I would enjoy any tale you had to tell.
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He can't be surprised, though. Not after seeing personally how quickly he started into his glass. It's likely the wine talking; Godfrey can feel it himself, the way the alcohol begins to blur the lines between the two of them, the way it flourishes in his chest. He was at risk of the very same thing - precisely why he must remain cognizant of it. It was hardly fair to ascribe something personal to Gale's burgeoning inebriation, and less fair to hold it against him.
Godfrey sits and smiles amiably, but keeps his back straight and his hips beneath him. He does not return to his earlier posture, lounging back on the piled cushions. It felt improper now, in ways that Godfrey could not elaborate upon. He watches the shimmering, ruby heart of his glass, and he delves. ]
I have shown you sadness tonight, but that is not all that my life has been. [ It likely went without saying, but it was a reminder that Godfrey himself could do with. There were many sadnesses, but just as much laughter, and a litter of stories he could use to prove it. ] I remember once-- Iltha was quite angry at me.
[ She seemed his safest bet. Vladimir felt inexorably couched in that same sadness he was trying to escape, though he had his share that always brought a smile to his face - and, strangely, it feels impolite to conjure him back into the conversation. He takes a deep sip. ]
She had... I believe, said some disparaging things to her schoolteacher. She became angry that I had not taken her side in the matter and confined her to her room. [ Even had she been, as Iltha's assessment went, lacking in intelligence and not worth listening to, it would not do to have her saying so. ] I had assumed the matter would cool in the evening, but I suppose that I underestimated her.
[ There's a distance in his eyes now, a warm fondness in the curve of his lips. ]
I said good-night to her, as I often did. She was scrunched into her bed, you know, looking sullen still. And she began-- [ Something ripples in him, a sensible chuckle he tries to suppress, ] She began to point out other things in the room and address them. Good-night book, good-night chair, good-night hairbrush. I love you, comb. I'd spent my time watching over the children with the church, but I'd no clue they were capable of that sort of... I suppose, passive-aggression.
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It's quite remarkable, how long children can hold onto grudges. It would seem your girl is especially clever, if she's able to make such a savage point so young.
[He lets out a chuckle of his own; it's good to hear Godfrey laugh, to laugh together, given all they've endured these past weeks.]
She's going to grow up to be a force to be reckoned with, I've no doubt. I'd quite like to meet her someday, if the opportunity ever presents itself. If my hunch is correct, she's likely to have quite a knack for debate.
[Even through stories alone, he can recognize a kindred spirit.]
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will i win and finally get a tag out
you did it!
have a fat titty godfrey to celebrate, on the house
thank you I love him
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