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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Roper and Syarra sort out their to-do list for the living and their mail from Aze and Captain Jo. 4k-ish words. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Arc: Death Knight PR
In sleep, in the shadowed darkness of the yurt, it might be difficult to tell that the young human man is a deadly reanimated elite dead; his features have returned to some natural set, a soft innocence to him with no innate threat of either violence or piercing intelligence, and he breathes slowly and deeply. If he is otherwise too still, as though the animation has gone out of his body, usually constantly moving and shifting, it might seem more like peaceful repose in the dim light. Mostly on his stomach, with an arm wrapped tightly around Syarra's waist, and his face resting against her right shoulder, an observer could be forgiven if he seemed more affectionate than possessive, at least for the moment.
Syarra lies on her back, still as death. She looks less like a predator than a pale sin'dorei woman, her face younger and less troubled in sleep, her hair tumbled on the pillow. She breathes, though she doesn't need to, completing the image of a living person who might wake at any moment.
And then she does, her eyes snapping open as she returns to consciousness. But now the mask slides down over her face, the breathing stops, and a slight tension returns to the lines of her body. The monster is awake, as well as the woman. She rolls over in her lovers' grip to face him, and says in a voice barely above a whisper, "Morning, Roper."
"Mmrph?" Is the articulate returning sound, as Roper burrows a little closer, and only the faint change in his expression, the sharpening of the edges of his features, give any sense that he's returning to consciousness. He mumbles something that sounds a bit like 'grsh fightnn croffee,' and a brief pause before he adds, 'clold.' Helpful.
A faint amused smile turns Syarra's lips and she says, "We do have the coffee maker. Though I doubt it will help."
"Croffeemaker to fight thgods?" Roper asks in confused mumble, brows drawing in over eyes still closed, his regular breathing halting, as he returns to only inhaling to have air to speak.
"If anything could kill the gods, it would be coffee," Syarra says in perfect solemness, struggling up toward a sitting position and trying to dislodge Roper's arm.
Roper's arm doesn't budge for a moment, as he tightens it instead, struggling to make sense of the words and the movement both at the same time — error, too many things — before he mumbles something incomprehensible, and opens one eye to look at Syarra. "Sya? Where y'goin'?" To fight the gods? is suggested in the confused squinting.
"Not far," she says, setting one hand on his arm. "Let me get the coffee started? If you actually want some."
"Coffee?" Is a hopeful question as he lets his arm slide from her, dropping away. He forces the other eye open partially, and then reaches up his hand to rub at it in a reflexive gesture of someone trying to rub sleep away.
Syarra slides out of the bed, fully clothed, and starts to walk over to where Roper's coffeemaker sits on the table. She pauses at the curtain to look over her shoulder and say, "At least we're not likely to run out, given how busy we've been lately."
Roper groans as he rolls over onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes as if there's a brightness in the room; there isn't. "Of coffee or of the gods to fight?" He asks, his voice still a raspy mumble.
"Not likely to run out of either, I would imagine," Syarra exhales a brief laugh. "Gods do have a thing of coming back, when you think they're done."
"Yeah, well, so did we. They're not fucking special," Roper mutters as he lowers his arm and stretches in a way that seems more like the habit of a living body than anything he needs to do.
Syarra sets about making the cold coffee with Roper's press, likely from snow-water, kneeling on a cushion by the table. The actions seem rote enough that perhaps she used to do this often in life. "Today, then. Fight the gods? Deal with the living?"
Roper sits up, and rubs his right hand along his jaw as if testing the stubble — it's still there, unchanged, like it has been every single day since his resurrection — and blinks a few times at Syarra. "Fuck." He leans back onto both hands on the bed. "Gotta deal with the living. What was in the letter from Aze?" His voice still sounds rougher, the husky note pronounced, but there's an increasing sharpness in his face, a return to focus, and he isn't mumbling.
Syarra pours out two cups of cold black coffee and nods at the letter. "It's in Thalassian, but the grammar is simple enough, if you want to read it. It's… disproportionate. I was annoyed at first, but I think we just touched a raw nerve somewhere. She'll settle."
"Gods," Roper mutters, and swings himself out of bed, moving the curtain aside with a dismissive sweep of his hand before coming to plop down on his usual cushion of choice, reaching out for the coffee first, and then the letter. He blinks at it, and stares for a good moment while he drinks a sip and then shakes his head. "Sya, I can't fucking read this. It's just…" He gestures vaguely. Word symbols on page. Hasn't had coffee yet. Also can't really read Thalassian fully awake. "Give me the words of it?"
Syarra frowns. "You can speak Thalassian, at least a little. You should learn. What if something happens to me and someone I know writes? How will you get that information?"
"That's what assets are for," Roper drawls, and he makes a gesture like 'come here,' just shy of impatient, taking another long drink of coffee. "I'll learn eventually. It's on the to-do list." Somewhere. "What's this one say?"
Syarra takes the letter from him and flattens it on the table, running her finger down to the first line. "She addresses me as 'Yara', which is a good sign, if she hadn't then followed with 'I think that was worth a few Thursdays, don’t you?'"
There's a harsh tsch, and a flare of something between irritation and scorn before he drinks more coffee, and sets his left hand on the table. Tap. "What're the exact words? In Thalassian." A very brief beat. "Please."
"My reaction exactly," Syarra says mildly, then repeats the sentence in Thalassian, running her finger over each word.
Roper's gaze goes a little distant, as he mentally translates. "Okay."
"It gets worse… and better. Honestly, I think she's flailing a little," Syarra pauses. "Thursdays were only sure to hold while I had the lever of guilt. I think at some point I lost that, and she just… wanted to see me. I feel like there should be some repercussion for her breaking the agreement, but if she comes back…" Syarra trails her finger down the letter. "Anyway, to continue. [I understand what you wanted from me now. At first, I didn’t get why you stuck around, back when I kept trying to hurt you.]"
Roper taps again, slow and steady. It takes him longer to parse the Thalassian, and he repeats the words stuck around low under his breath before he nods in a 'keep going' way.
Syarra draws in a breath, and continues in Thalassian, pointing out the words, "[There are places you can’t go anymore, things you can’t do, but you want someone living to be your hands and your voice. I’m not your fucking minion.]"
Roper frowns, mouths the words to himself again, and shakes his head. Nope, not enough context. "[Minion]? What is that?"
"Someone who serves," Syarra tries to translate. "An inferior."
"Like a servant? Or like a military thing?"
"A servant… something like that," Syarra frowns, thinking through Common words. "It's a casual word. Not what I would call an inferior officer in an army."
Roper runs his tongue over teeth, considering it, and raises his rapidly depleting coffee in a vague 'go on' gesture before he drinks the rest of it. "Alright. Anything after that?"
"That's the first half," Syarra says, continuing to follow the text with her finger. "She starts walking it back, but then also not really. [Don’t panic, I’m not leaving you.]" She trails her finger over where a few words are scratched out, and continues, "[This is not about Mevlin, I just need you to know I’m not a tool you can use. Or a weapon. I’m your sister.]"
Roper's eyes narrow, focused, and then there's a curl of a triumphant smile, a huff of sound, as he taps once.
"And then the rest of it. [I’ll be there for all the wedding stuff. I just need some things you don’t have to give. I’ll see you when I see you. Don’t look for me.]" Syarra comes down to the sign off, which is simply Aze. In Common, she adds carefully, "Part of me sees her running away and thinks I shouldn't let her."
"What was that part after the wedding bit? She needs…something?"
"Some things that I can't give her," Syarra clarifies in Common. "I am not sure what she means there."
Roper rubs a hand over his jaw absently. "Needs some things you can't give her," he repeats. "There's a puzzle piece there and I can almost see it. You find out what those are, that might be leverage. Because if you know what she fucking wants…she might think you can't give it to her, but she doesn't know this version of you enough yet. That bit before though, claiming herself as your sister not your servant. That's another piece. She wants to see that."
"How else can I show her that?" Syarra sits back, a hint of frustration in her voice. "I've been loyal. We took care of her. We bought her clothes, you made her weapons. We contacted her friends, let them know she was here. And yes, we asked her to do some things for us, but nothing unreasonable. I've never even tortured anyone in front of her."
"Do you know what the Other Syarra would have done?" Roper asks, his eyes on Syarra rather than the letter. "Made her a little rabbit out of ceramic?"
Syarra raises one hand, lets it drop. "Maybe she would have told her to get over herself and try thinking about someone else for a change? Or ask her why she seems so upset by something she wasn't upset about when it happened? I wouldn't have let her walk away, I think, unless that's just my mind now saying chase."
Roper's gaze goes to her hand. "Would she have said she was sorry?" He asks and there's no drawl to his voice. "Or would that be too unlike her enough to make Aze think something was wrong?"
"I'm not sure exactly what I would be apologizing for," Syarra says, her expression going a little distant in thought. "I have, before, when I hurt her. It wouldn't be strange."
"Yeah. Assume she's hurt, apologize for that but not for asking for help, because you're her fucking sister and you don't need a servant, but you do need your partner back with you, and give her a number of Thursdays that you think is fair. Or tell her she has until the wedding to fuck around, and then after that she's back to the agreement, because if she wants to negotiate if favors count for time, then she better fucking do it ahead of time, not after the fact," Roper says and for a moment there's that irritation and scorn in his voice and face, but it fades back. "That's what I'd do, if she was an asset of mine, with those parameters."
"Until the wedding is too open. We still don't know when Alaisa will arrive. Maybe two or three Thursdays, to be generous," Syarra looks back at Roper, her coffee cup entirely forgotten. "I could write… I really want to track her down. I'm tired of not knowing where she lives, in any case. No one has followed her. Even if they did, I'm sure I could lie."
"She might see you coming enough that she'll run, literally, and that could be…" Roper shrugs. It could be be bad. "I've tried a few things. I'm pretty sure, if I had to bet on it, that the reason I can't find where she's living is that she isn't staying in a single place. Too much fucking variation in it. I'd guess a tent, if I had to guess. And I don't love it because there's a few other explanations that could fit. Too many open spaces on the frame of the puzzle, because Northrend's a fucking disaster of a place. Not enough inns, but plenty of people who might be willing to share a place if she was sharing their bed for a few nights at a time," Roper says casually. "And I don't know her well enough to know if she'd be getting that friendly with anyone."
Syarra sits back, thinking. "What I know of Aszera… she hides her marks, which might be hard to do while sharing a bed. And that arrangement strikes me as too… transactional for her? When she leans that direction, it's to create distance, not intimacy. I don't think she would prefer a tent, but if that's the only option…"
"She also said she wasn't going to live 'untouchable,' and maybe she wouldn't have done a transaction before, but everyone gets to a point of desperation, both to be touched and when they don't have options of family to turn to," Roper says and there's an odd note to his voice, a bitter twist of his lips, and something too knowing in his eyes. "But, maybe she's not there, and wouldn't. I don't know if it's a tent. And I don't know where. She's got too many things from too many places for it to be one though."
"Then I write to her," Syarra says reluctantly. "I think this would settle on its own without me, but… the last time I waited for her to come back to me it took years. And my death."
"We have the wedding to force her back. All it will take is me asking Alaisa to come sooner, because I need her here, and she will," Roper says and there's confidence in his voice. "She says she isn't leaving you. Give her a chance to prove it one way or another, and you know something more about her."
"If it's soon, then… till the wedding. And I still think she and Alaisa should have a… party. Or something. To get to know one another. With us there, or without."
"You could mention it. That won't chase her, but that you want to offer a touch in with someone alive, and the offer of a fucking party in Northrend."
"I bet she'll like that," Syarra nods. "Something for her to look forward to. I think that's one minor crisis of the living handled."
Roper leans forward to brush hair away from Syarra's face, and then rises to a stand with a lithe agility. "I should check to see if I've got any of my own fires to put out. Or if Alaisa's written."
Syarra stays sitting, watching him go as she picks her coffee cup back up. It's not as if it's gone cold, after all.
Time Passes
Roper is only gone as long as it takes someone riding an undead horse at maximum speed over the land with no regard for water being an obstacle. He doesn't linger in Unu'pe, or around Kaskala's beach front slash perpetual landing zone for the kvaldir. He likely fought some stray ones, given that when he does arrive back at the yurt, opening the door, shutting it and locking it behind him, his armor gleams with fresh saltwater. He tosses his helmet onto the stand.
"Hey."
Syarra looks up at him from the table, setting her pen down on a half-written letter. "Something from Alaisa?"
"No, from the Captain of Cobalt Company," Roper drawls, and he sounds and looks amused, pleased even, as he starts removing his gauntlets. "Gimme a sec and I'll show you."
Syarra raises one eyebrow. "I thought you said she was cold."
"She was. And this doesn't exactly give off the warm fuzzies, but it's good news." Roper casually tosses his gauntlets at the bottom of the armor stand for Future Roper to deal with, before he reaches into a signature Cressidha Aspenwood Original bag and pulls out the letter from Jo — already opened and obviously read — crossing over to hand it to Syarra. "Here."
Syarra takes it from him and reads through it quickly. She looks up at Roper, raising her eyebrows. "Is that concern? For us?"
"No fucking idea," Roper replies and he sounds almost cheery. "But it matters that she reached out to give the warning. That's the important thing. That's someone acting with an ally in mind. And, the temple she mentioned could be useful, if it does kill the Scourge like that and doesn't kill freed Death Knights. Because we've had that question come up of loyalty. But we'll have to test it out first."
"You're not going into a dragonshrine to see if you crumble to dust," Syarra says, and it sounds more like an order than a question. "We can ask if anyone's been there before, like she says."
Roper sets a hand dramatically on his chest. "Sya, I'm hurt that you'd think I would ever go see if I'll crumble to dust when we've got some conveniently unchained Scourge serving fuckers just waiting for us to toss in there." He doesn't seem hurt. If anything, he still seems pleased, a smirk lingering on the edge of his expression, his eyes sharp and a cruel light in them.
"Yet sadly, my sister just destroyed the easiest subject we could've used," Syarra says, deadpan. "We'll need to catch another."
Roper shrugs, a quick twitch of his pauldrons up and down. "It's already on the to do list. No reason to delay it. And if Westwind doesn't like it, well. That's Mourn's problem. No one has any right to stop us from destroying the Scourge, no matter what their fucking feelings are."
"Agreed," Syarra says. "Though… she was helpful, with Mevlin. She knows them, how they work. I would rather not discard that advantage, if possible."
"You got any ideas on how to get that, I'm all fucking ears. But when an asset starts turning, sometimes you gotta let them out, or they'll compromise an entire operation."
"'Something from a nightmare'," Syarra says dryly. "And that's when I was trying to protect her. I think we would have to let her go. If anyone can keep her, it's Mourn."
Roper shrugs, gesturing to the note from Jo. "Not everyone's bothered by a nightmare so long as it isn't haunting them. But in Westwind's case, if Mourn isn't a nightmare yet, he will be the more she knows him. We can't hide every part of the monster forever, not even when we fucking care about the person." His eyes go to hers, his brows flicking up once.
"Maybe especially not, if the person cares about us," Syarra says, looking at the letter. "Once the hope fades, they see us too clearly. Which makes it easier in some ways, with those who never knew us at all."
Roper laughs briefly, spreading his hands out in an open gesture. "With me, that'd be just about everyone I fucking knew, if I know myself. But in my case, it's gonna be weirder, like with Theris. They'll be remembering someone entirely different and wondering what the fuck happened."
A smile flickers on her face, a moment of amusement. "It must be quite a shock. They might wonder if someone else was put back in your body."
Roper's body language flows into someone else, a graceful courtier of gentle manners and soft expression. "Oh, I have no doubt at all milady that they do wonder to what extremes the nightmare of death befalls those beneath the Lich King's will," a nobleman of Stormwind with a soft lisp on his sibilants says. And then Roper steps forward back into himself as he kneels next to, but not on, the pillow in his armor. "The problem," he rasps in his real voice. "Is that I'm not always gonna know who they knew. I've got a few names now and know which one goes to what, but I won't recognize them if I liked them even a little."
"At least, perhaps, you will recognize the ones you disliked," Syarra says, reaching one hand towards his.
Roper moves his hand to catch hers, and there's a flicker of something in his face, a twitch of a lopsided wry smile with an odd look in his eyes. "I don't think I…disliked my assets. I don't remember…" He shakes his head a little. "I think I always cared at least a little. About all of them. I was that kind of guy, before." His eyes go harder and the smile grows, but it has a cruel edge to it. "I'm not anymore."
"That's a little inconvenient," Syarra says, tilting her head. "But you can build back some of the information, I'm sure. You have Alaisa, at least."
"Who I don't remember at all," Roper drawls, but he shrugs. "Starting from the bottom just takes work and time. And I don't even have to sleep." He studies her fingers, moving one of his own scarred ones over hers in a thoughtful touch. If he's considering breaking it, at least it doesn't look immediate. "And I've already built back some. That information from the Captain of Cobalt Company is progress that we didn't have six months ago. We could have walked in there completely unaware."
Syarra nods. "People are starting to look out for us. We shouldn't count on it, and they don't have to like it, but… it's progress."
"I want to get some information before I write the Captain back. I'm gonna go check it out, ask around to see if anyone's seen anything like us there before, and then we should see if we can get some Scourge to toss into it, and test if the fucking dust thing still works. I've had traps go bad before," Roper says and there's no drawl or rasp to his voice now. All business. "And we don't want to think about maybe using it as a threat or a test to find out if someone's Scourge or not only to realize the dusting is fucking busted."
"That would be awkward," Syarra says with a faint smile. "I don't imagine it will be difficult to find a Scourge test subject."
"Just gotta get it done." Roper stands without the aid of a hand, an agile unfolding, still holding onto her hand with a deceptive gentleness that could turn crushing in any second. "You wanna come with, or split up to cover more ground?"
"Would you like the company?" Syarra asks, rising with him.
Roper tilts his head as he reaches out a hand to brush a stray hair from her face. "Tactically, it'd be a better choice to spread us out." Which is another answer to a different question, and he knows it, because there's a faint, wry sort of twist of his lips. "But I get fucking stupid with you, and you know that already. Yeah, I'd like your company."
"Maybe we don't have to make the best tactical decision all the time," Syarra says, glancing to the armor stand. "Give me a minute, and I'll come with you."