What breaks your bones is not the load you're carrying, what breaks you down is all in how you carry Who: Ari & Aspel What: A fight Where: Aspel’s apartment When: Today Rating: PG-13-ish? Lots of shouting. Status: Complete
She’d rushed over the moment the director had called rehearsal for the day. The message she had received over lunch had said nothing and everything all at once. She might have stayed in when the attack had been reported outside the walls, but Faram knew Aspel hadn’t. And apparently, as per the norm, she had used this tailor made opportunity to get herself nearly killed. Possibly also broken in two dozen places.
In truth, Ari had half-expected a call to arms the day prior. She would have gone, too, had anyone worth her trouble bothered to ask it of her, but the silence had meant, to her, that the fighters and mages of her acquaintance thought they had this particular trouble handled.
Demonstrably not the case.
She was already seething by the time she reached the Armory, and it was a good thing that Mag appeared to be around to let her in, else she would have surely resorted to picking the lock in broad daylight. Fortunately, she didn’t have to exchange small talk -- if anything, the knight seemed in a mood of her own and simply waved her up.
She had to assume she knew exactly what she would find. Aspel, bruised and bandaged and in bed, or worse, hobbling around as though nothing was wrong on two broken legs, as was her (suddenly infuriating) habit. Already preparing for the sight, she opened the door and entered the apartment.
Mag had yelled at her once already about not doing something or another. Well, yelled probably wasn’t quite the right way to put it, a huff of air, a frown of disapproval along with some rather creative language about how Aspel must have it out for herself. Which, on some days, well… The smith wouldn’t have been able to deny that she did. On other days, well, that wasn’t so much the case anymore.
Regardless, Aspel had finally settled on the couch in the living room, though eyes kept wandering towards the kitchen, tea would be rather nice about now, and the idea of burdening Mag with such a request when she was capable of making it herself seemed rather… Rude. Even if it would put her in fairly significant pain. Yet, wasn’t that what she was here for? To suffer for her sins? To atone and repent until all of the evil had been drained from her body and soul? Faram certainly knew that she was far from there yet.
Though, when the door had rung, Mag had glared at Aspel to stay on the couch, and gone and gotten it. Giving the smith enough time to - of course - think of all of the ways she could try to convince Mag to leave. She wasn’t quite dumb enough to get up and do something when Mag could catch her, and glare more. There was no reason to give the other Knight additional ammo for why she should stay here longer than she already had.
When the door opened, Aspel began to speak. “I propose,” The words began in a tone of - almost - rebuttal, and died there exactly as it was Ari that appeared before her instead, and the smith’s brows furrowed.
“Good evening.” A pause. “What brings such surprise to my eve?”
“Sorry,” Ari said, though she didn’t sound it. “The dragon at the gate allowed me through. I thought I’d come see you for myself. After all,” she approached closer, taking in injuries which, if possible, looked worse than any she’d seen since their failed trip to the countryside, “considering how often you seem to throw yourself into things, it could well be the last time. Who knows when you’ll get yourself killed on a whim?”
Her lips pursed, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “You didn’t call me,” she said, the words almost an accusation. They felt that way: do you do these things on purpose? “If it was this bad, for the love of Faram, why not?” She didn’t know why she was so angry, only that she was. “Don’t,” she warmed before Aspel could interrupt her tirade, “tell me it’s nothing.” She might entirely lose her temper at that point, whether she tried to control it or not. “If you are actually looking to die, perhaps you could inform me of that fact now.”
Dragon at the gate, how appropriate it was as a descriptor for Mag. Really, even though Warwick was gone, sometimes Aspel could still find glimpses of him within Mag herself. It was a grain of truth within the story of shared hearts. Though, the accusation of the smith’s whims caused Aspel’s mouth to open, a rebuttal caught in her throat when Ari began speaking again.
“I did not believe you would be needed.” The words were added in quickly, hopefully, before the bard would start to speak again, and she was right as shortly Ari started in again. It was the truth too, the mention of a fire elemental had not brought her to think they’d be against what felt like half a monster army. A hand raised, mouth opening to speak up, but Ari started in once more before she could talking about the…. Well, what Aspel assumed was the severity of her wounds.
Though, the final punch of the rant hit home, and the smith’s eyes fell away, finding something to allow her eyes to lock on.
“No.” A pause. “I am not.” And her gaze would stay derailed from Ari for as long as she would reasonably be allowed.
“No of course I wasn’t needed. Clearly. Obviously.” That just made her more upset. It wasn’t as though she often (ever) made promises to people such as the one she had made to Aspel. She wasn’t an altruist. But she had said it with an understanding of just what she was offering -- and she’d thought Aspel had understood her, too.
Well, apparently getting pummeled was better than taking her up on the stupid promise she never should have made. Just lovely.
When Aspel’s gaze dropped, though, Ari couldn’t help an irate huff of air. “You are supposed to be a better liar than that,” she accused. “You must think I’m royally stupid. Either that, or you’re royally stupid, and genuinely unaware of your own apparent death wish. Which is it?” She should go, she knew that. This visit had been prompted by impulse, but her own outpouring of anger surprised her. Certainly, it was annoying, irritating, ridiculous but.
If Aspel died -
“Go to bed,” she said. Her tone was not kind. “I should go and leave you to recuperate. Or hobble around pretending you’re not hurt. I honestly don’t know anymore with you.”
The tone, the rant, the accented point on each word was - sexy - obvious in display that Ari was displeased. “I did not-” The words died in her throat, a defeated sigh taking the place of whatever words had been dismissed.
She’d let Ari have at her, pummel her verbally, surely Aspel deserved this abuse as well. There were more ways than one to suffer, and perhaps she ought to incur all of them before she did die. Each word, each accusation stung, but instead of responding, her jaw would tighten, eyes remained lowered away from the other woman as Aspel attempted to assure she was capable of holding back tears.
No words were given to Ari’s question as the smith wondered if there would be another verbal lashing. While she wasn’t entirely sure why this was happening now, it was. Maybe the bard had finally tired of her, maybe this was the price she’d incur before Ari realized she really would be better off.
“What do you wish?” Her voice came out low, a bit strained with eyes lowered still, and Aspel swallowed, not entirely sure she desired to hear the answer.
“I wonder!” Ari exclaimed, clearly at the end of her rope by now. “Maybe for you to take care of yourself! To put half an effort towards staying alive! To stop doing --” She waved her hands, a completely incomprehensible motion; she could not find the words for her feelings about it. “If you actually died --” She cut off, her lips pressed into a thin line, shaking her head.
“C’est pourri, ça.” And that was her cue out of here. She was already halfway to the door. “If what I wish suddenly becomes a matter of legitimate concern, then you can tell me. I need to go…” do something foolish “somewhere. Away.”
That was it, finally a blip of temper flared, and Aspel’s eyebrows knit together, her jaw lacking briefly before looking towards Ari, and she snapped out. “I am not planning to die, I have no wish to visit hell so soon!” And the words were angry, but honest. “I am alive, and I have resolved to continue doing so until I no longer hate-” And the sentence died, a hand curling into a fist.
“I would not-” And her anger got the better of her while emotions warred inside. One half wanted to talk to Ari, to lay her burdens down, while the other side wanted to yell at the bard to go, to get out, and not come back. Conflicting words remained stuck inside of her, not being able to get one side or the other out.
“Then start thinking about what you’re doing!” Because Aspel, far more than other fighters she knew -- far more even than the other Sentinel she knew -- seemed to thrive on pushing herself until she had broken every limb thrice over.
Had she been calmer, perhaps, she might have engaged with the conversation, tried to explain herself. But the fact was, she wasn’t calmer, and the anger, so rare an emotion in her cheerful world, was making it very difficult to think of anything else. “Go to bed.” Her tone was ominous.
With those final words delivered, she whirled on her heel and all but stomped down the stairs, slamming the door in the process.
Mag, who had apparently not had time to leave in the brief minutes Ari had spent in the apartment, looked up at her as she descended. “You talk to her,” Ari said, and before the knight could reply, she was already storming out the door into the street.