"Well if we're lucky it'll come back around this fall," Barcus says lightly, knowing neither of them is anxious for the bug liquor.
Five years, though. So many things could have happened in that time. A wedding seems likely, and that, at least, is good news. Barcus can only hope there was more good than bad in those years, because the social censure Percy is likely to face here--at least for a while--is going to sting.
For his part, he's been accused of being too forgiving, too loyal, too trusting, and maybe it's true. Maybe he should be yelling for justice for the people Percy hurt, rather than welcoming him with gently open arms. And where is Vax? What can be done now? Barcus doesn't know who to ask or where to begin.
He just nods, slightly, sadly, at the thanks, knowing his own gentleness is probably as much a deficiency of character as it is courage or kindness. Still, it means something. You can't bring someone back into the fold unless you're willing to open the door.
"Come see me again when you're feeling..." a pause, a sigh. "When you feel like you can. Be well, Percy."
Percy paused at that—be well—as though the words had caught him off guard. Not because they were said, but because of who they came from, and how quietly they landed. Like a blanket laid across his shoulders instead of a warning hurled at his back.
He turned, just enough to look at Barcus over one shoulder. The firelight caught at the edge of his face—high cheekbone, soft shadow under his eye, the faintest shimmer where a tear might have been if he were less practiced.
"I’ll try," he said, and he meant it. Not the kind of vow a man makes when he intends to atone, but the quieter kind—an acknowledgment that trying is all he has left to offer. "And if it helps… I don’t expect forgiveness. I never did. But it’s good to know the door didn’t close behind me."
He didn’t smile—not quite—but there was a gentleness to the way he held himself in that moment. A man carrying history, not pride.
"Until then," he added, voice low but steadier, and turned away.
No cloak. No gauntlet. No pretense.
Just the sound of boots fading on stone, and a bottle of Sandkheg’s Hide left in gentler hands than his own.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2025-06-05 05:37 pm (UTC)Five years, though. So many things could have happened in that time. A wedding seems likely, and that, at least, is good news. Barcus can only hope there was more good than bad in those years, because the social censure Percy is likely to face here--at least for a while--is going to sting.
For his part, he's been accused of being too forgiving, too loyal, too trusting, and maybe it's true. Maybe he should be yelling for justice for the people Percy hurt, rather than welcoming him with gently open arms. And where is Vax? What can be done now? Barcus doesn't know who to ask or where to begin.
He just nods, slightly, sadly, at the thanks, knowing his own gentleness is probably as much a deficiency of character as it is courage or kindness. Still, it means something. You can't bring someone back into the fold unless you're willing to open the door.
"Come see me again when you're feeling..." a pause, a sigh. "When you feel like you can. Be well, Percy."
no subject
Date: 2025-06-06 04:22 pm (UTC)He turned, just enough to look at Barcus over one shoulder. The firelight caught at the edge of his face—high cheekbone, soft shadow under his eye, the faintest shimmer where a tear might have been if he were less practiced.
"I’ll try," he said, and he meant it. Not the kind of vow a man makes when he intends to atone, but the quieter kind—an acknowledgment that trying is all he has left to offer. "And if it helps… I don’t expect forgiveness. I never did. But it’s good to know the door didn’t close behind me."
He didn’t smile—not quite—but there was a gentleness to the way he held himself in that moment. A man carrying history, not pride.
"Until then," he added, voice low but steadier, and turned away.
No cloak. No gauntlet. No pretense.
Just the sound of boots fading on stone, and a bottle of Sandkheg’s Hide left in gentler hands than his own.