Anduin takes in a breath, expression pinching slightly at Lan Wangji's blunt way of calling him out. But he supposes that the other man is right. He is dragging this out longer than he should, for his own sake more than anything else.
His gaze lingers on the table before them for a moment longer before he gathers himself, nodding once before raising his eyes to meet the other man's once more.
"The day before last, the Merchant came to me with a very specific assignment," Anduin explains, his voice very low and very serious. This specific conversation he does not want to be overheard. "The task is simple: he would like for me to see the noblewoman known as donna Rigarda slain. He did not give me a specific timeline, but I am certain he would see it done sooner rather than later."
Anduin hesitates for a moment, before continuing, "I have... Reservations." To put it bluntly.
The air is rich with cookery smells, burned fat, a wealth of condiment to mask the dubious freshness of ingredients. It stirs him to wrinkle his nose, the waft astringent. Unpleasant in ways not dissimilar to men's inertia, when the righteous path glistens bright before them.
He hears Anduin. Knows him, dip of Wangji's nod a mirror of sympathy. Knows Anduin's youth, his muted voice, his reservations. There is a pallor to men confronted with the grave silhouettes of the monsters they might become. It drains the eyes, paints them dry. Wine serves its purpose.
"It is said," and scryed deep in the bones of his shrinking, pained skull, Do not gossip, "She traded lives for those of her people."
Many have spoken of this, at length, like crones unspooling a knotted bundle of twine, before taking a blade to the tangle. Never satisfied, even as the end coalesced, certain.
"But a lord breathes to give his justice." They have overstepped and trampled, and only weed will yet grow in Taravast's great gardens in their wake, and perhaps it's a cowardly thing, to defer to the boy Macaluso Spina — perhaps Lan Wangji is become that craven. "We are not he."
Anduin forces himself to breathe again, to nod. This is why, of course, he decided to meet with Lan Wangji here. The sentiments that he had heard from the other man before, he can now discuss more freely with him now.
"We are not," he agrees, softly. "I do not know of the Merchant's reasoning for wishing such a fate upon Rigarda, but I am no assassin. And if this city stands any chance of standing upon its own two feet when we are gone... Then we must allow its leaders to make such decisions, as difficult as they may be."
He glances up to Lan Wangji across the table at last, summoning his courage as he continues, "Which is where I would ask for your assistance. If -- you are willing."
A boy, cursed by ethics he can barely name, let alone sketch out or enact. Sizhui, back bowed under Anduin's burdens would hold his head just so high, his gaze a blade, cutting. Beneath the beam of that muted despair, Lan Wangji finds himself greeting the serving girl with her water — generously presented beside drenched mint for infusion — and her diluted wine, and accepts her rattling wooden tray.
Better she should withdraw before Anduin is reminded of people and their frailty, of the human cost on the ground of whatever grandiose decision must be taken in abstracts. This girl, who spares a smile and must hope for coin, or at least safe exemption from the petty indignities a tavern wench tolerates with daily fortitude, lives on time bought through the lady Rigarda's mercenary cruelties.
The clink of cups and jars set on the table startles him out of reverie. Hand brittle, Lan Wangji waves the girl dismissed once more, binds his sleeve around his wrist to avoid a wide sweep of the table, and pours Anduin's wine first. Charitably hospitable, a slow hollow growing in his chest. The artifice of familiar protocols, the service.
Anduin would likely resent the conclusions that Lan Wangji is drawing about him. Not that he would be the first, nor the last by any means, to question whether he really has it in him. Anduin himself has questioned it, in some of his darker, more shameful moments.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
But this is not his Kingdom, and he does believe that these people should have a right to make their judgments upon their own people. Who is the Merchant to swoop in and demand he execute this woman? Would it be an act of vigilantism? Or revenge?
Anduin sits straight in his chair, meeting Lan Wangji's gaze levelly as he responds.
"I am willing to do what I must to see her fate handled by the city itself," Anduin replies. "If that is what you are asking."
It is a delicate thing, to run a weave of necessities around sensibility. He stalls, but dips the pitcher of his water, inhaling the long, tender, intimate spasms of wafting heat. The infusion after, stale but gently preserved leaf of mint, wilting before Lan Wangji even sinks it. It roils and swirls in maelstrom, a laughing picture of the city, its aches.
"I ask if you will survive your mercy after." Easy, to align with justice, when the costs of kindness don't yet chain the body or weigh the soul. When they have only pretty words and virtues of legend to arm in, and the shine of their shields blinds even the sun.
The consequences come after, in lonely nights of righteous, steadfast indignation, when principles and justice do not warm a burned home or lonely bed. When the price of preserving Rigarda will be writ in blood they will not spill. "Without regret."
Anduin's eyes fall once more to the table before them. To the wine that Lan Wangji has poured for him. He is right, of course. There is a chance that this is a terrible mistake. If he lets Rigarda live, if he hands her over to Macaluso. The cycle could continue to repeat itself. Taravast might continue its deal with the undead brotherhood, and while the citizens of this city will be saved, countless others may suffer in their stead.
He has considered this. He has considered so many possibilities. He has had several near-sleepless nights, and the question of whether he will survive the decision without regret has been on his mind for some time now, for the answer is... No. He will regret his decision either way. Short of doing nothing. And then surely the Merchant will find someone else in his stead more willing to follow through and step up to answer to his cause.
Anduin gazes into the wine for several long moments, before he answers, "I cannot know how the new leaders of the city will choose to act. They have thus far abhorred the actions of Bonaccorso, but I do not know their minds. I cannot understand where they will draw the line, for the sake of their city and their people. I can only have hope that they will do what is right and just, but."
He hesitates.
"In truth, I cannot know they will. But if I slay the woman, not only do I deprive them of the opportunity to make the decision for themselves, but I fear I will lose a part of myself as well. For a long time, I have prayed for peace and that is not the way that it is achieved."
Battles cannot be won from the dais, bartered with rhetoric. And they find themselves in the midst of war.
But the boy has spoken fairly: he is not of the sword, then, of the impulse for slaughter. Waters such as the one Wangji sips in trickles now would leave him no less tarnished than they encountered him. The killing sickness eludes him.
Your concern is selfish. But the boy knows so already, glance downcast. Whatever verbal weapons Lan Wangji might set against him will not cast or widen his wounds, barely infect them. Drifting, Wangji's thumb walks the rim of his cup, and he considers the fit of this boy against the greedy, busy tumult of the tavern, of the violence-rained streets. He is not made for this world, for its filth. Rubble would bleed him.
Anduin flicks his eyes up to meet Lan Wangji's, studying his expression for a long moment at his reply. Lan Wangji's thoughts are difficult to interpret -- the man does not give much away, on his face, in his mannerisms. Yet here he is, offering support. Anduin cannot begin to understand the reasoning behind it, but he is grateful nevertheless.
He offers his companion a soft, tired smile, nodding across the table at him in return.
"You have my thanks," he says, simply. "I know that I could not do this on my own."
Well. Perhaps he could, practically speaking. He had it described to him that the men guarding Rigarda were not skilled in the ways of magic. And Wrathion has already assured him that he will have his support, no matter what. But it is the principle of the thing. It is good to know that he is not alone, that he does have at least some support here in this strange city, far from home...
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no subject
His gaze lingers on the table before them for a moment longer before he gathers himself, nodding once before raising his eyes to meet the other man's once more.
"The day before last, the Merchant came to me with a very specific assignment," Anduin explains, his voice very low and very serious. This specific conversation he does not want to be overheard. "The task is simple: he would like for me to see the noblewoman known as donna Rigarda slain. He did not give me a specific timeline, but I am certain he would see it done sooner rather than later."
Anduin hesitates for a moment, before continuing, "I have... Reservations." To put it bluntly.
no subject
He hears Anduin. Knows him, dip of Wangji's nod a mirror of sympathy. Knows Anduin's youth, his muted voice, his reservations. There is a pallor to men confronted with the grave silhouettes of the monsters they might become. It drains the eyes, paints them dry. Wine serves its purpose.
"It is said," and scryed deep in the bones of his shrinking, pained skull, Do not gossip, "She traded lives for those of her people."
Many have spoken of this, at length, like crones unspooling a knotted bundle of twine, before taking a blade to the tangle. Never satisfied, even as the end coalesced, certain.
"But a lord breathes to give his justice." They have overstepped and trampled, and only weed will yet grow in Taravast's great gardens in their wake, and perhaps it's a cowardly thing, to defer to the boy Macaluso Spina — perhaps Lan Wangji is become that craven. "We are not he."
no subject
"We are not," he agrees, softly. "I do not know of the Merchant's reasoning for wishing such a fate upon Rigarda, but I am no assassin. And if this city stands any chance of standing upon its own two feet when we are gone... Then we must allow its leaders to make such decisions, as difficult as they may be."
He glances up to Lan Wangji across the table at last, summoning his courage as he continues, "Which is where I would ask for your assistance. If -- you are willing."
no subject
Better she should withdraw before Anduin is reminded of people and their frailty, of the human cost on the ground of whatever grandiose decision must be taken in abstracts. This girl, who spares a smile and must hope for coin, or at least safe exemption from the petty indignities a tavern wench tolerates with daily fortitude, lives on time bought through the lady Rigarda's mercenary cruelties.
The clink of cups and jars set on the table startles him out of reverie. Hand brittle, Lan Wangji waves the girl dismissed once more, binds his sleeve around his wrist to avoid a wide sweep of the table, and pours Anduin's wine first. Charitably hospitable, a slow hollow growing in his chest. The artifice of familiar protocols, the service.
"Are you?" Able. Willing. Prepared.
no subject
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
But this is not his Kingdom, and he does believe that these people should have a right to make their judgments upon their own people. Who is the Merchant to swoop in and demand he execute this woman? Would it be an act of vigilantism? Or revenge?
Anduin sits straight in his chair, meeting Lan Wangji's gaze levelly as he responds.
"I am willing to do what I must to see her fate handled by the city itself," Anduin replies. "If that is what you are asking."
no subject
"I ask if you will survive your mercy after." Easy, to align with justice, when the costs of kindness don't yet chain the body or weigh the soul. When they have only pretty words and virtues of legend to arm in, and the shine of their shields blinds even the sun.
The consequences come after, in lonely nights of righteous, steadfast indignation, when principles and justice do not warm a burned home or lonely bed. When the price of preserving Rigarda will be writ in blood they will not spill. "Without regret."
no subject
He has considered this. He has considered so many possibilities. He has had several near-sleepless nights, and the question of whether he will survive the decision without regret has been on his mind for some time now, for the answer is... No. He will regret his decision either way. Short of doing nothing. And then surely the Merchant will find someone else in his stead more willing to follow through and step up to answer to his cause.
Anduin gazes into the wine for several long moments, before he answers, "I cannot know how the new leaders of the city will choose to act. They have thus far abhorred the actions of Bonaccorso, but I do not know their minds. I cannot understand where they will draw the line, for the sake of their city and their people. I can only have hope that they will do what is right and just, but."
He hesitates.
"In truth, I cannot know they will. But if I slay the woman, not only do I deprive them of the opportunity to make the decision for themselves, but I fear I will lose a part of myself as well. For a long time, I have prayed for peace and that is not the way that it is achieved."
no subject
But the boy has spoken fairly: he is not of the sword, then, of the impulse for slaughter. Waters such as the one Wangji sips in trickles now would leave him no less tarnished than they encountered him. The killing sickness eludes him.
Your concern is selfish. But the boy knows so already, glance downcast. Whatever verbal weapons Lan Wangji might set against him will not cast or widen his wounds, barely infect them. Drifting, Wangji's thumb walks the rim of his cup, and he considers the fit of this boy against the greedy, busy tumult of the tavern, of the violence-rained streets. He is not made for this world, for its filth. Rubble would bleed him.
"As you wish, we do." Together, a paired anomaly.
no subject
He offers his companion a soft, tired smile, nodding across the table at him in return.
"You have my thanks," he says, simply. "I know that I could not do this on my own."
Well. Perhaps he could, practically speaking. He had it described to him that the men guarding Rigarda were not skilled in the ways of magic. And Wrathion has already assured him that he will have his support, no matter what. But it is the principle of the thing. It is good to know that he is not alone, that he does have at least some support here in this strange city, far from home...