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Their lessons don't always take place in the library. Sometimes they happen in Julius' office. And other times Athessa manages to make an argument for taking the lesson outside, or at least into one of the gardens for a change of scenery.
But this time was in the library, so none of that really matters outside of flavor. Though she fell behind during her month in the jungle, and only managed to sneak one lesson in before spending nearly the same amount of time in Orlais, she's making up time quite well. Her writing hasn't backslid into chicken-scratch because she's been practicing, and her reading has stayed where it is because she hasn't been practicing.
With the lesson finished, Athessa tips her chair back on its hind legs and lets her gaze drift over the nearest shelves of books. There are so many, about topics unknown, but she seems to remember something that prompts:
"People write a lot about love, don't they?"
But this time was in the library, so none of that really matters outside of flavor. Though she fell behind during her month in the jungle, and only managed to sneak one lesson in before spending nearly the same amount of time in Orlais, she's making up time quite well. Her writing hasn't backslid into chicken-scratch because she's been practicing, and her reading has stayed where it is because she hasn't been practicing.
With the lesson finished, Athessa tips her chair back on its hind legs and lets her gaze drift over the nearest shelves of books. There are so many, about topics unknown, but she seems to remember something that prompts:
"People write a lot about love, don't they?"
He glances at the shelf she's looking at, to see if any particular titles jump out.
"...they do, I suppose. I admit, I've never particularly thought about it in contrast with any other topic. What makes you ask?"
Not that he can't think of reasons she might; there are too many for him to successfully guess without context.
"...they do, I suppose. I admit, I've never particularly thought about it in contrast with any other topic. What makes you ask?"
Not that he can't think of reasons she might; there are too many for him to successfully guess without context.
She answers first with a shrug. The kind of shrug a child gives when bored and asked what they want to do. Of course there is a particular reason for her asking, but for now she'd rather keep that to herself.
"No reason," she lies. "I don't always understand how people talk about it." That, at least, is true.
"No reason," she lies. "I don't always understand how people talk about it." That, at least, is true.
"That's fair," he said. "I was just recently having a conversation about how I think I still have a lot of habits from the Circle that ... likely don't serve me so well now. But regardless of the extent to which that's true, it certainly hasn't left me an expert on how most people talk about love."
He's walked himself right in to this one. With a smile, he says, "I've been romantically involved with the same person in Riftwatch for a little over two years, and there's no reason it needs to be a secret, but people who know us both still don't know because I'm so used to expressing affection only when no one is looking."
It's a frank answer, at least.
It's a frank answer, at least.
"We've talked about it. I don't think we would have lasted two years if it had been a problem, exactly, but. When I did want to make a romantic gesture for a special occasion, I hadn't much experience to draw on. It works for us, but it's not the sort of thing I imagine writers are filling their books with." He leans back in his chair. "Or maybe they are, I haven't read enough to know, I suppose."
She nods and hmms and looks back towards the bookshelves. Thinks about what he said, thinks about what she’s said to other people.
“Do you think it’s worth reading them to learn more about love, even if nobody’s ever written about...the kind of love that speaks to you? Like...I mean I haven’t read any of them, but the stories they make into street plays and puppet shows never seemed like the kind of—-“ She doesn’t have the right words for this, emphasized by her inarticulate gesture before she switches tracks entirely. “I mean what’s romantic, really? Flowers? Poetry? What if you don’t like those things? Does that make you not romantic? Or is it different for every person?”
She’s rambling now, but what do they say about objects in motion?
“If it is different, then how come all the stories end up the same?”
“Do you think it’s worth reading them to learn more about love, even if nobody’s ever written about...the kind of love that speaks to you? Like...I mean I haven’t read any of them, but the stories they make into street plays and puppet shows never seemed like the kind of—-“ She doesn’t have the right words for this, emphasized by her inarticulate gesture before she switches tracks entirely. “I mean what’s romantic, really? Flowers? Poetry? What if you don’t like those things? Does that make you not romantic? Or is it different for every person?”
She’s rambling now, but what do they say about objects in motion?
“If it is different, then how come all the stories end up the same?”
Of course. I'm at liberty now if you'd like to speak this way, or you could stop by my office, if you prefer?
"I think it's... hm." He considers how to put it. "I think a lot of stories use shorthand. The same way that battles in a story are always exciting and bold and often heroic in similar ways, right? It's a way to talk about the idea of war without the messy parts where sometimes people are shouting contradictory instructions, and sometimes soldiers just trip over nothing in particular, and sometimes the same person is both brave and cowardly in different circumstances regardless of their underlying virtue or lack thereof. Who wants that? That's a mess. I suspect it may be the same with romance."
Another few hours now. I'm usually here between midday and the evening meal, though, if another day is better.
"Well, I think so, but I usually read history, not fiction. And I've been told that my sense of fun may have been warped by a distinct lack of puppet shows in childhood, so."
I can come then. I don't mind.
[ And she does, showing up promptly but still knocking hesitantly. There is a chance this is the wrong office. She was pointed in the right direction, but she's nervous. If she took a wrong turn down the last corridor— ]
[ And she does, showing up promptly but still knocking hesitantly. There is a chance this is the wrong office. She was pointed in the right direction, but she's nervous. If she took a wrong turn down the last corridor— ]
Wryly, he asks, "Do you mean on purpose, rather than just someone getting a bit over-the-top in their attempt to write history? I suppose there must be. A lot of the songs about historical figures are meant to be good stories, not historical record, after all. No offense meant to the immortal poetry of 'Andraste's Mabari.'"
[The door is already partly open, and it's indeed Julius' voice that says,] Come in.
[Assuming she does, she finds an office that's neat but clearly very much worked in. His desk is occupied with piles of reports, letters, books, and sundry other paper, and there's a table for maps and charts. There's also two chairs beyond the one he's rising from, presumably for guests who plan to stay longer than the time it takes to give a report. The window is open, in (perhaps vain) hope of a cross-breeze.]
Ah, please -- have a seat. I've just made some tea, if you'd like any?
[Assuming she does, she finds an office that's neat but clearly very much worked in. His desk is occupied with piles of reports, letters, books, and sundry other paper, and there's a table for maps and charts. There's also two chairs beyond the one he's rising from, presumably for guests who plan to stay longer than the time it takes to give a report. The window is open, in (perhaps vain) hope of a cross-breeze.]
Ah, please -- have a seat. I've just made some tea, if you'd like any?
"Really? Huh. My clan's songs were all meant to be historical records. I guess that makes some sense, though."
It definitely explains why humans know so little about elves outside of cautionary tales and bedtime stories.
"Is the mabari meant to have written the poetry, or is it a euphemism?"
It definitely explains why humans know so little about elves outside of cautionary tales and bedtime stories.
"Is the mabari meant to have written the poetry, or is it a euphemism?"
That startles him into a genuine laugh. "No, neither -- it's a song about the mabari. A tavern song, though I suppose it's mainly a Ferelden one. It's, uh, not technically good theology to claim Andraste had a war dog, but it's a very catchy song."
Julius definitely knows this song.
Julius definitely knows this song.
Nothing that won't keep, [he assures her, as he gets up to pour the tea that had been steeping.] In all honesty, I'm grateful for the excuse to take a break. I've wondered before if I could somehow force our scouting forces to take handwriting classes, as interpreting certain of their ravens feels a bit like codebreaking.
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