apostatised | [log] i wish i had the blind faith of an atheist

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[log] i wish i had the blind faith of an atheist

Not once, but twice; there is something disconcerting about reliving that particular moment all over again, not quite able to disconnect himself from these men who might very well come from different worlds entirely. They look at him the same way - with rightful suspicion and outright shock, like they've seen a ghost put to rest and he's tearing open old wounds, like he always would - and it feels the same, like a lifetime ago wasn't long enough.

(It wasn't; it was little more than a year.)

The situation, Martel has decided, calls for a drink and a friendship one has to be this twisted in the first place just to fall into. He tells Candice, first, being not entirely a fool, and sends warning ahead to the castle to see if he's welcome enough to drop by.

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Martel is one of the few individuals who is always welcome about the Snape residence - by himself, anyway, let's not push our luck. Severus is in the dungeon (we could call it a basement laboratory, but why?) when he gets the notification, and not up to anything pressing, cleans up his work and drifts topside, arriving at the heavy doors just in time to let him in. There are no servants here, which is undoubtedly not surprising - just him, the occasional bird, and, well. Gillian. Though he's not about, presently.

"Martel."

Presumably Gillian won't mind Martel commandeering Severus's time for the evening, wherever she's got off to; he is not much concerned, presently occupied with putting his pinpoint away in a hidden pocket and offering greeting in return with a sparse sort of smile.

"Severus." He doesn't bother with pleasantries like 'I hope I'm not interrupting', because he - possibly quite rightly - assumes that if he were, he would've told him to fuck off. "I've got a pressing need for intelligent company that doesn't want to kill me. Drink?"

Edited 2009-10-15 05:18 (UTC)

He nods and steps back, allowing room for him to enter before shutting the door. The castle is tasteful if curiously fashioned, the decor some kind of 'wizarding default' with his own darker influence here and there. He's not one to pay much attention to interior decorating, but it's clean and not abandoned-looking.

"How's the intelligent company that's trying to kill you fairing?" ... Well. Severus leads the way into a study.

"Puzzled about why I'm not dead, I expect." It's been that sort of a day, hasn't it. Martel follows him with a brief glance around - familiar enough to be comfortable, as ever - and smiles thinly. "If I never have the experience of seeing someone I killed wandering about offensively, I won't mind at all."

"It happens," he says, managing a shrug without moving. "I have brandy and dragonwhiskey." ... Like you do.

...a pause and a squint. "Dragonwhiskey."

This is almost a question, but mostly it sounds like 'I have to try that just so I can say that I have'.

He likes it better than firewhiskey. Less of a kick, but more body and it's significantly higher proof. He snags the crystal bottle (filled with something a bit more red than the usual brown) and glasses, and they set about serving them on their own while Severus motions for Martel to sit down, doing so himself. It's an invitation to speak, if he wishes.

No servants because everything is so thoroughly enchanted, Martel surmises, and idly considers some of the possibilities this puts into his own mind while he takes a seat and investigates the glass that's just served itself to him. It's an easier thought than the subject of going through this again, never quite certain whether it's worth worrying about or if, like the rest of them, Sparhawk will appear long enough to throw him off-balance and then drift back to wherever he came from.

And yet.

"My brother made an untimely appearance," he explains (sort of), almost wry. "I wasn't as prepared for it as I'd have liked."

He'll answer all sorts of questions about the castle, if Martel would prefer it to baring his soul - Severus is not exactly the best at emotional comfort, but he can appreciate the brittle moments that men have, here and there.

"Your people are not numerous here," he supplies, almost a question. Severus himself has become somewhat used to the coming and going of various wizards and people he doesn't want anything to do with, but he guesses that Martel has not.

Has not and has not needed to, with how rare and typically brief the appearances tend to be. Martel tastes the dragonwhiskey while he decides what to say and when to inevitably change the subject to something less tension-inducing. 'Brittle' is a good word for it, and if he's honest then the fact Severus is not especially good at it (and thus less likely to ask him about how it all makes him feel and express the kind of awkward sympathy that will only make him feel more wretched) had something to do with why he's here and not somewhere else.

That, and they're friends. After a (strange) fashion.

"Far from it. A few, occasionally - Kalten broke my ribs and felt much better for it, but he's a simple sort of a man." There's a bleak sort of humour in that, as well as truth. "Apparently we're not as interesting to the multiverse at large; you wouldn't see me complain about it."

"My own numbers have quieted down as of late, but they are never truly vanished." He sounds wry, though not sympathetic; it's not personal - Severus Snape is somewhat incapable of sympathy.

He sips at his drink and reflects, wondering at the impact of blows too precise to be physical ones. The harder ones. "Is he staying?" Because that's annoying as hell.

A lack of sympathy suits him, as above; if he'd wanted it, he'd have gone that somewhere else. Wherever it might have been.

"That remains to be seen." Martel expects he won't, if previous patterns continue to uphold - but you never can tell, and he's hesitant to guess either way just yet. "I'm sure he'd rather not leave a suspicious gentleman like myself to my own devices in the multiverse."

"Death does not stop men you like, nor men like me, it seems," he remarks, not bothering to soften the remark. "What, besides death, is there to be done? Quite the laborious task, to dog at one's heels for an eternity."

"He'll die of old age before I do," Martel drawls, with another one of those thin smiles - remarks around here do not require much softening, judging by how he doesn't bother either. The worst part is that he calls him brother not because of blood but because of love, and when he says this he doesn't say 'I will miss him when he's gone', though it's just as true as 'I hate him for being better than me'.

"At least he's not inclined to poison my wife just because I poisoned his the once. -actually, he congratulated me, after the shock wore off. I told her I'd be offended for the both of us if it hadn't derailed him so thoroughly."

Severus raises his eyebrows at that though he cannot, truly, find it within himself to be shocked. "A good man is he, then?" He says the words just like you'd expect - a little bitter, a little insulting, a little mocking.

"One of the better," and Martel's tone isn't much different. The fact he drinks directly after he says it is probably not a coincidence, but this conversation is tolerable because of how utterly sardonic they are, the absence of a requirement to talk about it in terms of an emotion. "Rather too pragmatic and worldly for the sainthood, at least."

...let's bear in mind that he is, still, the sort of man Martel once got along with. There's no place in the knighthood for saints, anyway; Martel has seen young men too good for this world holding the swords they will invariably die by, and even now it sort of pains him to think of.

"I find those are the worst," he says, fingers playing over the rim of his glass. "They don't even have the decency to be legitimately righteous, it's all this fine-lined 'the best they can do'." Years and years apart from his own demons have dulled the bitterness about it, but his opinions are no less black and white.

"The holy fools are easier to dismiss," Martel notes, of the truly righteous, "or lead around by the nose, as you like."

...sometimes he has, after all, been the death of those too-good young men himself.

Severus has his own body count contributing to that pile of skeletons lingering just over his shoulder in the closet; such is the way of things. "They'll all come and go. I'd make some allusion to the tide, but that would suggest predictability." A pause, wry in its silence, and he drains the last of his glass. "Though the undertow remains."

"As ever." Kalten was easy enough to manage - a headache, but in retrospect not as much of one as he could've been. Sparhawk, on the other hand-

Well, he can see a thousand ways for this to go horribly wrong for everyone involved, which is why it's better not to think on it too deeply and drink instead.

The glasses will refill themselves now that a serving has been poured, though Severus taps the side of the bottle to tell it to quit it with his own; he's not much of a drinker. "Have your wards been keeping?" ... Might as well.

The downside of totally disparate alcohol tolerances, or: Martel probably shouldn't drink as much as he does, either, but it takes longer to hit him very hard. Probably a good thing, considering what he's like drunk.

"Very well - the last trouble we had with castle security was long before they were finished. I've been meaning to talk to you about the house in Savannah, although I expect Candice will want something - milder than what we have at Valdis."

Severus is quite used to everyone else around him drinking more - maybe it should be a point of masculine concern that his tolerance isn't higher, but for someone who is such a control freak about his own mind, it's not surprising that he hasn't worked that particular muscle.

"A little less aggressively fuck-off, you mean."

"Essentially," he agrees, unrepentantly.

"This can be done." You know, if he has to.

"We can arrange the details when I know what the schedule in Savannah looks like," Martel says, amiably, apparently too used to Severus at this point to consider taking offense at the fact he is approximately the most put upon man he's ever met.

Severus is always put upon, somehow, even when he's not. It's just his natural charm. "I imagine I should offer to show you the grounds, since you're here," he says, and somehow makes it sound like a burden, though there's a note of humor in his voice - unusual, wry, but chances are Martel is adept enough at navigating his bizarre communication skills ('what communication skills') not to be bothered.

Arguably, Martel has enough of a grasp of how to navigate people for the both of them - this may have something to do with how they accomplish things like 'conversations no one leaves wanting to die or commit homicide'. He does, however, elect not to comment on that one time he saw the grounds merely from a distance while tempted to throw something at a wall and swear.

"It is the done thing. Lead on, if you will."

It's probably better that such incidents are not brought up, because then the issue of friendship would be in a much more stark light, and such things just cannot be. Severus rises and motions to Martel to bring his glass with him if he likes, heading out a different way than they came, through French doors shrouded in black curtains to a lovely patio balcony that doesn't seem to get much use despite being very tidy.

The view from here is all green hills and forests in the distance, and it gives a nice up close look at this side of the castle. 'Positively medieval' is a very accurate description. "It's not as impressive by fifths as your own holdings," he says, looking skyward, "But any larger and I'd have to start filling rooms out of sheer compulsion, and Merlin only knows what I'd do then." A lamp collection? Taking up an actual interior decorating habit? Having guests? What horrors.

"Valdis has to be as big as it is so I can have a full wing between the boys and anyone sane at all times," Martel notes, probably kidding ... well, mostly kidding, anyway, carrying his glass and taking in the view. 'Positively medieval' is not only a good description, it's probably one of the reasons he's as comfortable here as he is - a little of the familiar goes a long way.

He would be hard-pressed to describe Severus as a 'friendly face' without choking on his own laughter, though, so open indications of their admittedly sort of close friendship are almost certainly out of the question.

"And I'm more social than you are."

The fact that he can say this and, despite the 'aggressive fuck off' wards, have it be true may say more about Severus than it does about Martel.

(Who is merely in denial about being a social creature, actually.)

Severus laughs - sort of. It's more like a quiet snort, but it's certainly not a disagreement. Martel is more social than he is; he can stand the company of others, in general, while Severus disdains any interaction that he has not carefully calculated. (And he calculates it rarely.)

"I am uniquely unsuited to other people," he remarks, and there's a casual sort of thread to his tone that is only there by the benefit of having spent time locked in an asylum for his own good. "I do not begrudge their existence until it begins to infringe on mine." And then, you know, he starts sending people home cut up into pieces and gift-wrapped.

"Though there have been more about, of late."

Perhaps Martel just enjoys having an audience; his theatricality can't be entirely for his own benefit. (He could live without one, mind you, but when that audience exists he invariably begins playing to it.)

And on the subject of people around Severus lately-

"Miss Owens," he observes, not exactly asking - what exactly would he ask about that?

Edited 2009-10-16 02:48 (UTC)

What would anybody ask about that? ... And live through asking? There's not a lot of options.

Severus quirks his eyebrows and lets out a breath, not uncomfortable but without context on how to handle the subject. "She appears to have taken up residence, despite the wards."

Really now, Professor.

"I suppose it'd be poor manners to change the locks on her now," Martel drawls, after a fascinating ('vaguely smug') pause. "She must be a determined woman."

Really. Really determined.

"I suppose," he agrees, and gives Martel a dry look. "Extremely." He's not actually going to say that she must be out of her goddamned mind, but they both know that any woman 'determined' enough to try this hard with Severus Snape has got to be ... well, out of her goddamned mind.

Maybe that's why he likes her.

"The post owls like her the best, I think."

The thought had occurred to him, yes, judging by the hint of sharp edged amusement in his answering glance. (The difference between people Martel doesn't like and people he does are that when he likes you, he's laughing with you.)

"Well, I'm sure she's prettier than you are. Perhaps that's why."

"Enormously," Severus says, and it's less a complement to her (because he can't have that) than something self-depreciating, though he sounds darkly amused. "Which is inexplicable in itself. Perhaps I'll save us both the prolonged torture of the subject and just imagine you've told me to shut up and accept it, based on context." You know, her being enormously pretty and refusing to leave.

Martel toasts him wordlessly.

Severus nods in wry acquiescence, and then he pushes away from the railing and heads back inside, carrying on with their little tour. It's not a bad night, really. Compared to what it could be.

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[log] i wish i had the blind faith of an atheist

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