tushanshu_logs | there was an exquisite poison in the air

[Dorian still likes walking through the streets of Keeliai. Tensions may be rising, but Dorian isn't frightened. What harm can really come to an immortal? Except of course an inescapable suffering, but let's not talk about that. Dorian was always arrogant, and he continues to be so, ambling along through the streets.

He isn't suspecting anything bad to happen. And if something did happen, he has faith that he would escape it eventually. Nothing can last forever, not even misery. It is something he has been telling himself rather a lot this past week.]

[He is not a hard man to find.

But then, she was not truly looking. She stepped out of a bakery (it has little fare, but she's used to less) and happened to be only a few steps behind him.

So she lengthens her stride for the express purpose of catching up.]

You walk like a king, you know. They are just as foolish.

[It's less a jab and more an observation. Plus, she likes Dorian. Enough that she offers him a chunk of bread from the bag.]

[Even though he doesn't need to eat, he accepts it. If Aisha offers something, then he isn't going to say 'no.' Sometimes, talking to her, he wonders if she wouldn't just cut off one of his limbs for sustenance if it comes to that.]

[So of course why he smiles back at her and engages her in conversation. He is an idiot.]

I like to think of myself as more of a prince. All the sovereignty, none of the real responsibility. Thanks, by the way.

[Spoiler warning: she probably would. You said yourself, Dorian, it would grow back. She's not a particular fan of cannibalism but you can bet she'd resort to it if she needed to survive.]

It is the province of princes to be forever in someone's shadow. What does that say about you, I wonder?

[No 'you're welcome'. She isn't the sort to say it, but she nods a little in acknowledgement of his statement.]

That I don't trouble myself with my princely provinces.

[Dorian shines with a light all his own, thank you very much. Except that he laughs, amused at the thought.] Then again, there may be something to it. Shadow is where I've spent most of my life. [For the criminal, the deviant, and the supernatural, there is no place that is more a home.]

But if I'm Prince Charming [sorry Sibyl] what are you? The dragon?

[She smiles. It's a very vicious sort of expression. You'd better believe she's worn it as a herald to bodily harm on more than one occasion.]

I am about as apt to using my teeth.

[That's said with some measure of agreeability.]

But princes are well known for their treatment towards dragons. Do you mean to slay me, Dorian?

[A soft laugh turns his head down. He finds that smile entirely charmingly.]

Princes tend not to know the most fun ways to kill a dragon.

Do you?

[Eyebrow.]

Do you doubt me? I've even fought a few, decades ago, and won, if you can believe it. [The light arrogance fades. What happened with those dragons, he thinks, wasn't really winning, was it?

Poor Dora.] Well, a kind of victory. [To force a memory back, he cracks a joke.] But that was in another country, and besides, the monsters are dead. And, as far as dragons go, you're much better company.

That is not a story I've heard.

[Which is an invitation for him to enlighten her. She is not one for tales, but Dorian has a particular knack for telling them.

Strangely, it doesn't occur to her at all to disbelieve him.]

I would not say I am better company. Perhaps you are simply a masochist.

[He does not answer the implicit invitation. If it were any other story, he would have eagerly told the tale. He has often found pleasure in playing the raconteur, and Aisha is a rewarding audience.

But not this one. Not his sister.

Instead, Dorian laughs.] Mm, well, I've never gone in for labels—you see them change so much over a hundred and fifty years, and I would never mistake for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for the sojourn of a night—but if the knife fit . . .

Though you shouldn't undersell yourself. Unless—[Dorian fakes a gasp.] You aren't going to go all raspy-voiced and try to destroy and/or rule the world, are you? Because that's going to drop you down the ranks of good conversation, I'm sorry.

[Hm. She tilts her head to one side at the particular nature of his deflection, but says nothing. She likes him well enough that she's not inclined to pry away at his secrets.

Instead, she will divulge one of her own.]

I would have destroyed it if I could. I settled for a small country known as New Jerusalem.

[And she quotes,]

'I will not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand'. It was built by a madman. But even the maddest of men are not immune to nuclear bombs.

[Keeping pace, his threat does not falter. He isn't horrified, and worse yet, he has forgotten to be bothered by that fact.

Instead, he finishes the verse.]

'Till we have built Jerusalem, in England's green and pleasant land.' [He laughs softly.] I had no idea you were a fan of Blake, or of Parry.

[He turns over the idea as he turns his thumbs over his fingers.]

Did you destroy it just to kill him?

I am not a fan. He was. He named his country after that poem, and it pays to know the habits of one's enemies.

[She considers his next question quite carefully before answering. She has no cause to be deceptive. In a way, being able to air her secrets so freely is... curious. She has lived the life of a triple agent so long she is not certain of how to pursue personal honesty.]

No. But I would have. His 'country' was an oil drilling rig off the coast of Qatar. The tectonic plates shifted, causing it to become its own island. His name was Max. Two men, one name. The scar you've seen, here, [she touches her right shoulder] is from him. He was a lunatic, with a nuclear arsenal meant to cow the rest of the world into subservience.

[He listens, not sure if she is giving detail for a story or justification for her actions. He doesn't think it would be the latter with her, but perhaps he has not measured her correctly. Regardless, there is no judgement. He has lost much of that.]

A dangerous lunatic, my favourite kind. [Something occurs to him.] And I realize I have no idea how you got involved in something like that. I don't know what you do, back on Earth.

[Dorian, please. She explains her actions to no one.]

I kill.

[There's no real passion to the comment. She may as well have just claimed she was a gardener.]

Do you remember the Soviet-Afghan war? I served there. After, there was little else for a woman in Afghanistan. I travelled. Worked for the CIA, infiltrating Taliban ranks. I ran security on the opium trails. There is little I have not done, but killing is a constant.

[You know. That war. That started when she was six.]

Edited 2013-04-27 01:57 (UTC)

[Aisha no.

Dorian doesn't have the dates to match up to her age, but he doesn't try to do the calculations anyway. It's a lifestyle he simply can't imagine. Every kill sits on his portrait. Red paint is his tell-tale heart.]

And destroying this country—was that for the CIA?

No. It was for me. My only regret is that I could not take my time in killing him.

[There is a scary amount of resolve in the way she says that.]

The CIA had outlived their usefulness to me by then.

[She used her handler a final time, to break Fahd out of Karakum after the Americans had beaten him unrecognisable. After that, capitulation became unnecessary. Redundant. What was one more government agency that could not admit she existed long enough to say she was wanted?]

[It should be terrifying, and Dorian knows it. But the horror doesn't hit him. No disgust, no fear, not even that thrill of danger.

Instead he smiles, remembering the taste of the bread she had given him.]

Remind me not to get on your bad side. Or become redundant to you.

You are immortal, Dorian. I pose little threat to you.

[Though there's always torture.]

[Dorian's laugh isn't bitter, but neither is it pleasant. He is resigned to that truth.]

Yeah, I'm immortal. You don't think it's never occurred to me what that would mean for someone vengeful and creative?

So you kill them first. I see no difficulty with that.

[THESE ARE NOT APPLES AND ORANGES, DORIAN. SERIOUSLY.]

So you think I could win against you in a fight?

[Things Dorian doesn't believe himself capable of: that.]

[She gives him a calculating, predatory look. Head tilted, eyes attentive. He is small. Slight. How much is the reality of the thing, and how much his immortality? Do immortals have the luxury of calloused hands, rough scars? She has seen enough of his skin to think his complexion tantamount to a newborn.

But he has a wealth of experiences she herself does not have. Roque beat her, after all. Literally. She ached for weeks after. The man beat her and threw her from a plane just before take-off, and it was only Cougar's driving (there is a moment of... not sadness, then, but a slight tinge of regret) that saved her life.

Still. She was forged in war, has never known a dandy's life. Regardless, as she studies him she finds she does not have an answer for him.]

It would depend. Are you like to hesitate?

No.

[No hesitation even on the question. Dorian may be reckless and stupid, but he has a great sense of preservation when there truly is something at stake. If that means more blood on the portrait, so be it.]

there was an exquisite poison in the air

AISHA

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