eachdraidh | video / action (?)

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[ It's all misery footage, Caer Glaem in paltry glory: rammed gates, scratched walls, torn stone, upturned soil, roughened up trees. The locket's coverage pauses on each 'tourist attraction' from a high vantage point, briefly stumbling on hands that are exceedingly worn, blistered and bitten. ]

What has... what's... wrought this? How many dead does the court mourn, how many supplies were lost to - to enemy unknown?

[ A pause, then less startled, slightly cold. ]

...how do they wish us to make war upon each other, if they give siege first? Not the finest general, not the most accomplished tactician can devise strategy against Anaximander's unknown. Not Caesar - Caesar, who had little gain from the Gauls without paying the blood price, but at least he knew what enemy lay in wait.

And we? Look here. Remember this next you think the time is nigh to fight well and fight fairly: we are not armed with weapon or knowledge. We are played for puppets, and when our masters go without their laughs, our strings are cut.

[ Muttered. ]

'Lawkamercyme'. Hah. We do not even know what the word means, or who gave it to us for the telling.

[ ooc: ...and lo, a ~~much belated, for RL KO'd, APOLOGIES!~~ wild intruder appears in the Seelie court! He's given up his war declaration in favour of sheer horror at Ariadne's mad interior decorating skillz. Those who'd like to run into a Borgia need but look for the 'worker' who's... probably... holding... the tools by the wrong end. ]

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[warily, ben nods. he doesn't trust this guy for a second. something isn't lining up, everything about cesare being here is ... off. his gut is telling him to stand his ground.]

Yeah. Better if you get the hang of it yourself, though.

Yes? You speak well. They'll want their coin's worth, no doubt.

[ More laughter, easily lent. He can afford the one allowance.

What he can't afford, however, is extended ignorance. He looks up from his tool, eyes wide and innocent and just a little glazed by the fatigue of long travel. ]

...forgive me. I failed to take your name. The fault is with me entirely.

[ben squints at cesare, wondering what the hell he's even getting at. he presses his lips together when cesare mentions he hadn't paid attention, and, more flatly this time, repeats his name:]

Ben Hawkins.

[he remembers when they first spoke, cesare had assumed he took care of hawks. maybe some recognition will hit him this time around.]

[ And it's a natural reaction, body suspended between action - what had he meant to do with the trowel? - and paralysing disbelief.

...there it is. The hawker.

Yes, it all ties together now, knots well. The voice, the manner. And does the hawker know he is Ce - Valentino? Perhaps not. He has not greeted, and their world is not yet so hostile that a stranger would refrain from his courtesies. And yet, there're men more used to searching the lockets than Cesare is, men who have similar devices in their world, men who know a voice in transmission as the same in true life, because the similarities are frail.

Does the hawker know him?

It's a gamble, really. He goes with the smile, sheepish. ]

...are you! How extraordinary. I... I'm afraid I - you remember me, yes? If you think? I - just now I gave you - you must understand, when you travel on enemy ground, it's no good telling -

[ And whispered: ]

It's me - Valentino.

[ben exhales a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding -- relief -- before he finally takes a step forward. the movement itself isn't threatening, but it's the way that he does it-- a predatory glint in his eyes, a slight tilt of his head that can only point toward both anger and betrayal. this man had betrayed what little trust ben gave out to him, and not because he gave him a fake name. he's been waiting for the moment he finally showed his face.

he presses his lips together, and his voice is much more flat that usual, as if he's trying to reel in his anger. (it's not working).]

I know who you are.

[and he wants to have a little chat with you, cesare.]

[ It's the smell of him, the sharp cleanliness of his movements - there's a telling to when a man turns rabid dog, bares his teeth and readies to strike.

Cesare Borgia has survived his would-be assassins; perhaps it is time for Valentino Masi to know his first.

He has, again, options: throw the trowel, show himself a friend, coax talk and good humour. Wager on that chance.

Or (and this he does), keep the tool-now-weapon close and let the smile speak his lies for him. ]

Do you.

[ How gracious, when Cesare himself begins to forget. ]

Shall we walk, friend?

[ben eyes the trowel in cesare's hand, but he doesn't really care about it. if the man can't even make a tool out of it, he'd probably make a messy blow if he tried to hit him.

ben is really no good with fights in the first place unless he's got a weapon and unsuspecting people. he doesn't like to fight unless it's necessary. he's hoping it doesn't come to that, no matter how much he just wants to punch cesare in the face.]

Fine.

[he motions with his hand toward the halls behind him.]

Lead the way.

[ For just a moment, his brow raises incredulously, because, Lead. 'Show me your back' or 'show me the region', both make unsuitable demands for the stranger caught on your turf.

But a Borgia is nothing if not courteous (the conditional, now: when wanting something), so he does lead, heading not through the halls, where too many guards might wait, but to the nearby patios. ]

I've seen the harm that's found your court.

[ He hesitates. ]

My sympathies. It's... no kindness to the foreigner's eye. I cannot imagine what it is to you. What it must be like to live here.

[ben follows alongside cesare, keeping a good distance between them as they walk. he contemplates checking in with sansa as they walk, but he's not quick enough with the locket to make it look like he's just screwing around with it. the movements would be too conspicuous.

he takes cesare's sympathetic words with a grain of salt.]

Why are you here?

[ It surprises him - or, he remembers it ought to surprise him, and he gasps. He forgets which, but the effect stands. ]

I'm a courier. I brought a message.

[ How own message, needlessly delivered. Details. ]

Earned a little coin. You know how these things go. It's the trade.

[ And he laughs, twirling once in place. Excited. He's so very honoured and privileged an excited, as any meagre courier should be before the Seelie sight. ]

But it's my first time to visit, so I thought to learn the lay of the land, greet a few familiar faces.

[he doesn't trust you for a second, cesare. his wariness of every moment that the other man makes is certainly starting to show. ben's watching him too closely.]

You ain't even supposed to be over here.

[as far as he knows, anyway. he could grab a guard if he really wanted, but he won't, because he knows he needs to figure out what cesare is really doing in caer glaem. plus, snitching is bad.]

[ Ah. The crux of it, then. He stops in his step - will he tell... won't he... will he... won't he... is Cesare's dagger close enough to unsheathe quickly and do the silencing work tasked to it... isn't it... ]

I'm not.

[ He shrugs evenly, causally. Practised.

And he resumes his step. ]

What would you have me say? I know what they do to my sort here.

[ben slows his pace to a stop, jaw clenching. he can't just avoid the subject forever; it's been eating at him for weeks. he's been waiting for the moment that they exchange books (which wasn't going to happen in the first place. as soon as cesare asked him to deliver a ring, the deal was off) to confront him. but then, the plan was to meet halfway, or something close to it. it's a strange thing having him suddenly show up so effortlessly.

what would have happened if ben hadn't caught sight of cesare struggling with a tool? what are his plans here?]

I don't care. You stay away from Alayne, you hear?

[ 'You presume.' 'Make me.' 'You don't get that say.'

A number of immediate retorts, all suited for children's play, but in the end he favours honest: a frown, a shrug, complete dismissal. ]

...her. Yes. I'm afraid the tide's turned. We're no longer to marry. I -

[ He pauses. No. She's stubborn and irksome and a fool, but to say a girl - and a bastard at that - was rejected for matrimony is to ruin all her prospects. He's not so cruel. ]

She refused me. Well, what can I say to that? Her father's a lord, so... it stands that she wouldn't concern herself with the likes of me. [ And then, lightly. ] You should have said you meant to court her.

[ben shakes his head, letting out an angry scoff. he balls his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms, then relaxes them. damn right she refused him. if she had let things go too far between the two of them, ben would have probably interfered faster.]

Court her? She's a friend. You don't got no right talkin' like that.

[he closes a bit of distance between them, if not to just suggest an intimidation technique.]

You harassed her. That's ain't right. You just mind your own business and keep away.

[ And 'Valentino Masi' would take the obligatory step back, perhaps raise his hands, palm outwards, to beckon calm and peace and earnest relaxation.

But it is not Valente's pride that took the wound, and when Cesare's hand does come up, it's in objection. ]

...harassed her? Hold. The girl never discouraged or made intention clear. She even spoke to me of how to court her in the way of her people.

[ Clever bits of cold recollection, voice firm. ]

Put anything at my door, but not that she was forced. I have mother and sister. I do not press women.

[ben remembers that. he also remembers sansa telling him she was doing that in order to dissuade cesare from continuing his advances.]

Don't lie to me.

[he wants to protect her, to make sure she is safe, away from harm's way.

especially away from cesare. he had his doubts at first, and his doubts are definitely being confirmed. he'll hold sansa's word high over cesare's.

one his hands, still hanging at his side, spreads out, fingers straight and palm facing the floor; a "stop" sign indirectly made at the man in front of him.]

What business you got here ain't none of mine. Just don't be talkin' to Alayne no more. She don't want nothin' to do with you.

[ Man doesn't heed dogs barking in his wake. He puts them down.

And this one yaps on.

He should walk past. Leave. The Hawker's scolded, and men who give you words don't give you violence. There is nothing to fear here. He takes the step forward -

- and stops before Ben's hand, bringing his to meet it, palm on palm, finger on finger.

Whispered, then. ]

You tire me.

[ben startles. he hates being touched, hates it even more when it's done by someone he dislikes. it's too intimate, the mere brushing of fingers. then, there's liquid. his brows furrow as he glances down and -- blood -- it makes him wince.

swiftly, his hands retreat up and he pivots his right foot behind him to brace himself before he shoves cesare, palms on his chest so fast and so hard that he's glad he braced himself (he would have stumbled back a bit if he hadn't).]

Don't touch me.

[ Red on white, his own blood. The (rare) sight of it is enough to surprise him - no, the dogs, he remembers now - and keep him light on his feet. Too light, as he's pushed about like a rag.

Stumbling back until he recovers balance, he makes for his waist to bring out - what? Cloth? Dagger? Cloth... dagger... cloth... dagger...

Cloth wins. His hand comes away with kerchief, carefully embroidered with thread of gold. A woman gifted it - the excuse is unspoken, but immediate, ready should it be asked. He frowns vaguely at the dead white thing in his hand. No, not 'a woman.' The token is too expensive. Don Lorenzo's own wife, for good service to her man. Better.

And then he holds it out. ]

Wipe yourself [ Grudgingly - ] The fault is mine.

[he stares at the kerchief with careful eyes. it's nice-looking, but ben doesn't want it. in fact, he goes out of his way to wipe his hand on his pant leg to make that point. there's nothing from cesare that he wants. he'd never end up using the damn thing, anyway.]

No.

[he brushes past cesare, which is, perhaps, not the best idea since he's giving him so many openings to hit him back, but he doesn't care. being around the guy makes his stomach churn. he's never met someone so fake.]

[ It's a good handkerchief, he wants to defend, feels it between his fingers as if to try it. Good and fine and well-made. The women of his house worked it, and they know their trade, and Ben should have it, he should; not because he deserves it, or because Cesare wishes him to, but because it was offered. He's never been quite refused for such a simple kindness before.

And, insult on injury, the man passes right by him.

He thinks to trip him. Beat him down. Use the dagger for his advantage, call this to an end.

And doesn't, in the end, only whispering as he starts to walk the other way. ]

Very well, sir. Let us not meet again.

[ Else Cesare's cuts won't be the only blood shed between them. ]

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