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Oh, not in the least. I simply would hate to distract you from your job if you were occupied. But as it seems you've time to chat . . . shall we walk together?

[He nearly shrugs.]

If you like. [He gestures in a direction to walk, along a line of more stalls. It's busy, but easy enough to avoid the crowd if they walk around the outer edges of it.]

What's on your mind?

[They're hardly out of earshot with the general population, but at least no one will hear more than a snatch of their conversation.]

You know perfectly well what. Cash in your end of the bet-- we can start when you're off your shift, if you want, but I'm not going to live the next few weeks with the world's stupidest sword of Damocles hanging over my head.

[The murmur of the crowd quite clearly illustrates that people are more concerned with their wares than overhearing their conversation.]

Well, at that, I have a question for you.

Go on.

[Is it going to begin now? Not officially, but still she braces herself. Perhaps this is the prelude.]

[Oh, Rosalind. You give him too much credit..........]

Who is Damocles?

You make it easy to want to slap you again.

[She remarks it; a short sigh follows, the only visible sign of her growing irritation.]

Damocles was a servant of a king. He was sycophantic, constantly telling the king how good and wise he was. One night, however, he mentioned how fortune the king was to be surrounded by wealth and power. In response, the king offered to switch places with Damocles for a day.

However. He arranged for a sword to hang over his head the entire day, suspended only by one single hair off a horse's tail. The entire day, Damocles sat there, terrified that should some stray action be taken, some careless word be said, the thread would snap and he'd be killed.

It's a metaphor, of course. It means that for all that great power is enjoyable for any number of reasons, power comes at a price.

More colloquially, having a sword of Damocles over one's head means that one does not want to spend the entire day with something hideous hanging over one's head, waiting for it to drop. In our case: our bet.

[You learn something new everyday.

And yet, it is an interesting metaphor, and a wholly correct one. Ardyn thinks of Regis, the man weakened and greying, holding his city's bulwark against invading forces, and delicately balancing all facets of a war in his court. He thinks of Aldercapt and the immense power of his empire, but how his mind withered with corruption, easily manipulated with a few coaxing words here and there. A sword that hung over both of their heads, and in the end, both were split in twain.

Fitting, he supposes.]

Ah, then at that, a second question: did you by any chance not comprehend what I wrote you? I said I would let you know — when it suits me. Allow that sword to hang over your head for a while yet, Rosalind. I’ll be merciful and cut the thread eventually.

Edited 2018-01-15 20:00 (UTC)

I comprehended it. I came to see you because that doesn't suit me. I promised you a day; I never promised you days of making me wait. Either cash it now or I'll ensure I'm not available when you want me.

[She's stubborn, but so can he be. Especially if he's feeling particularly spiteful because someone tried to cheat.]

I never promised taking advantage of a won bet the moment I won it. If that was your assumption, then the fault lies with you. As simple as that.

[He stops briefly, though, turning to look at her.]

But since I'm so generous -- ask me nicely, and perhaps I'll consider it.

[Ah, and there's a reaction: minute, minuscule, but there. It's in the way her cheeks flush; the way her mouth thins and her eyes turn colder.

What are her options here? Refuse him, that's one. She could spitefully refuse, turning on her heel, leaving the rest of her day free. It'd leave her jumpy and irritable for the next god knows how many days, though. She'd be paranoid as to when he'd cash his bet, certain he'd do it at the worst possible moment, eager to see her squirm.

Or: accept his offer. Ask nicely, and watch him grow smug. It'd be an undeniable victory for him, and one he'd surely hold over her head for the next twelve hours. There's no guarantee, too, that he won't take the best of both worlds: have her ask nicely and refuse anyway, citing his perhaps as all the justification he needs. But there's the chance he'll simply get it all over with now, for better or worse, and they can put this behind them.]

Don't lie. You aren't generous in the least.

[She steps in closer to him. There's absolutely no warmth in her gaze, and icy disdain drips off every word.]

Please, Ardyn, may we start now.

[It's theoretically a question, though the way she says it so flatly rather renders it a statement.]

[Normally, that might be good enough. But Ardyn is, generally speaking, a cruel man. And if she wanted to make things difficult for him from the start, he will do so in kind -- tenfold. Such is his character.

So, no, he does not want a flat statement. Even if it is insincere and dripping in sycophancy, much like Damocles, he wants to hear something syrupy in that request. Say it like you mean it.

He will relent then. But only then.]

No, my dear, that's not good enough. Nicer. Smile for me, say it like it means the world to you.

[He's pushing her to her limits, especially in public. Rosalind balks, her cheeks first paling and then flushing darkly, fury making her react far more than humiliation (though that, too, is a factor).

She takes an awful long time about it, long enough that he wouldn't be faulted for thinking she isn't going to do it at all. But soon she tips her head back again, facing him, and the expression on her face might be called a smile, in that her mouth is soft and her lips are gently upturned--

--but the fury in her gaze means that the result is distorted. It means that she looks more as if she's self-righteously satisfied at a viewing of an execution, not a wife simpering up at her husband. Every other bit of her expression is as it ought to be, though, soft and sweet and pliant.]

Please.

[She murmurs it, and her voice, too, sounds right: soft and breathless to the point of nearly being a parody of itself. But her eyes ruin the effect, and that's precisely how she intends it.]

Please, will you start now?

[And so is his response equally swathed in a long pause. That fire in her eyes is certainly indicative of her true feelings, but Ardyn did not expect her to sweep away all fury and defiance just because he asked for it. But this, how she strains and how she absolutely hates it, is enough to satisfy him. This is what he wanted to see.

And Rosalind is right; he does not bother to hide his grin of great satisfaction. And some idle part of his mind wonders, truly, if she was so eager to get this done today that she does not notice the mood that he's in. That perhaps rushing things has made it all the more difficult for her.

Well, that's her problem now.]

Perfect! [He laughs, lets it ring out to be heard even over the crowd.] Good, exactly that. What an effort -- I think I shall reward you for it, and adhere to your request. We can start now.

[This isn't the end, she promises herself, but of course it isn't. He isn't fool enough to think he'll be able to hold this over her head forever. She'll find a way to return this favor tenfold, needling him and forcing him into a position just as uncomfortable.

But not right now. Right now . . . the smile drops off her face, and though her ears have turned red, her expression is its usual neutral mask.]

Good.

[And that's all she says. He'll have more than enough ideas of his own; she won't talk and give him more.]

[The sharpness of his grin lessens, but not that keen something that lives in his eyes. That will remain with him for practically the whole of the day -- 24 hours, and he counts it starting now.]

Well, since you're already here, it would be a shame to waste the convenient opportunity you've just handed me. And it might be a mundane task, but that only means you're up to the challenge.

Walk with me, since I've a bit of shopping to do. [That answers her question, then. He's not on duty.] And carry what I cannot.

[Says the man with the hammerspace. Which implies that he will not be using it just for this entertainment alone.]

An easy task: you can carry a great deal more than I can.

[Twenty-four hours, and she intends to be as difficult as possible (as she's certain he would have been, had he lost and she won). But she walks at his side, stride for stride.]

Is there even a limit to your other dimension?

Oh, but I'm feeling rather weak-limbed today.

[This is going to be terrible, isn't it.]

I don't know. Is there?

[So terrible. Rosalind, why did you pick today.]

[She pulls a little face at his answering a question with a question, because what's the point of that?]

Don't be idiotic, please.

[She wonders if she can offer a few silver to some little street urchin to take their things and follow them along. Perhaps. She supposes it depends on how much he intends to buy; she won't for a bag, but she isn't going to carry around armloads of things.]

If you don't want to answer a question, simply say so; don't try and be clever by turning the question back on me.

Strange. Is it you who gets to tell me what to do today?

[Another question, just to be difficult.]

Come along now, don't get lost in the crowd.

[And so he waves her along.

And this is how it will go: Ardyn will not give her a bag of anything, but rather he will try to make her carry an armload. But it is not an armload of particularly heavy things (for what is the point if she can't make it back to his home?), but manageable items. Clothes (dark colors, inlaid with odd patterns within its folds), a neat little pile of scarves. A light, wooden crate of fanciful empty glass vials. A few books, stacked on top of that.

Manageable, yes, but practically stacked up to just under her chin. And he... is carrying nothing.]

[There are worse things than to be carrying a load of things. It isn't a particular humiliating task; she's been seen doing the precise same thing time and again, though never with so many boxes. But though she's done this, it's different here and now. She's never had to do it on someone else's orders; she's never done it with someone so smug, gleeful in forcing her to carry this around.

She is difficult throughout, as she promised she'd be. Each purchase is a battle of wills, with her demanding he carry it and him refusing. It's a pointless battle, but god forbid she make this easy. And when they reach his house, she's fully determined to let all the packages drop, shattering those glass vials, simply because he hadn't told her not to.

No snide remarks, only obedience. A doting, dutiful wife, that had been their bet. She's obeying, anyway, though she can't say as she's doting. But perhaps that will come easier in private.]

More? Or are we done for the day?

[He is gleeful in each object he hands her, though really, she shouldn't be complaining. He could be far crueler and hand her things that were too heavy to possibly carry, and still expect her to tote them around -- that would truly be an exercise in humiliation and futility.

He's unlocking his door to where he lives, a rather nicer apartment in a quaint part of the residential district, though it certainly isn't anything ostentatious. But given that he has been employed almost since his arrival planetside, it wasn't difficult to secure a living space that was a bit more impressive than what they were first assigned to.]

What? Did you want to continue our little shopping excursion together? Your arms aren't hurting enough yet?

It was a question, not a desire for more. You'd think you'd learn to hear the difference after two thousand years.

[But once the door is closed behind them, Rosalind exhales softly, relieved it's over with. Meeting his gaze, she offers him a little smile and, without a single hesitation, releases her grip on the packages. They fall from her arms, and that might have been fine, if she'd bothered to wander over to the table first.

As it is, they fall in a heap on the floor, and those vials make such a lovely noise as they shatter. It's likely some of the packages will be all right, but Rosalind isn't bothering to find out. Stepping over the mess, she intends to sweep past him, heading deeper into his house. Why not? What's his is hers, right? That's how marriage works.]

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