☼ ISHAK ☼اسحاق
"oh, what would your mother say if she could see what we're doing now? / oh, what would your mother say if she could hear what we talk about?"
"oh, what would your mother say if she could see what we're doing now? / oh, what would your mother say if she could hear what we talk about?"
Ruth tilts her head, a show of inquisitivity, and asks, “Who did you see this time?”
You stretch a smile over your face. After all, it’s a funny story, isn’t it?
(It’s an ugly story, isn’t it? All your stories are. They are desperation and struggle and crime and a hard knot of shame. Most days you swallow it down, the bitter taste in your mouth, and some days you turn up in a new coat of paint like hiding your story from Ruth’s eyes will make it taste like citrus instead. Why do you care so much? You blame it on a habit of secrecy, treat your own self-awareness like a contract target.)
You stretch a smile over your face, and you say, “Did I tell you about the time I impersonated a painter?”
Of all the contracts you completed, it’s really the only you’d willingly consider spinning the tale out to Ruth.
(Of all the lights to paint yourself in, it’s the one you find the least shameful.)
You skip over the hours spent sketching, the realization you didn’t know how to even begin when it came to placing color on the canvas, the dripping fear down your back as you met eyes with your target and realized your tells were starting to show. You were so young.
“I botched the followthrough,” you begin, “Probably the closest call I had before meeting you; doused a guard in paint just to escape.”
You toss another grape in your mouth and take a steadying breath. You’re in the odd space between drinks when the buzz is wearing off and isn’t, where you’re just a little less tipsy as opposed to sober.
Your smirk’s almost real on this one, “It’s funny; I would have thought that client would have been long dead by now. That’s Solterran justice for you — retaliation.”
You’re well aware of the irony.
Still. What an ice water shock to see him among the land of the living. You really had thought he’d be ashes on the winds by now. To see him stumbling drunkenly through an Ieshan party… Brazen, really, is what it is.
Then again, you’re likely the only proof left that he was involved. Can a crime be too old for retribution? You doubt it; the scandal is what any good noble would want to avoid even more than other punishment. Motive enough to be concerned he might recognize you, might want rid of his last loose end.
On the other side of the equation, though, you’re situated next to an Ieshan. If even one step of dealing with you goes awry, he exposes himself to other potential scandals. Depending on how the winds of fortunes have blown for him, you may be too much effort. Too much risk.
You hate not knowing all the variables.
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