the tail wagging the dog
"What can I do for you, Special Inquisitor?"
That was his standard ask. He hoped (and shouldn't he know, by now? after enough endless years) that it accomplished what he wanted: wry but patient inquiry, to the right souls, placing only the requisite measure of burden on his guest to name their price. Not "what do you want" or "what brings you here" but a more succinctly framed question. What can I do for you? That much should be obvious. You'll just have to decide which of those whats you want.
The Special Inquisitor took Cole's query with absolute grace and dignity. "I'm curious what you know of Brighid."
No epithet, no title. Just Brighid. "And you wouldn't ask her yourself?"
"She wouldn't know what you know."
"But she is not here with you."
"That is not how I intend to observe what you know."
An interrogation, then? But no, Cole could read people, enough to get along, and the soldier stood before him was at parade rest, not duty service. There were very few living repositories of the knowledge, and that thing beyond knowledge called history, of five hundred years ago, despite what Blades were, at heart. She sought what he had to offer. She knew, like most good-natured souls did, that he did indeed readily offer it.
What else was he here for?
"You want to know if she's changed."
Not such a callous question; Mòrag the careful and the compulsed wouldn't be inquiring into her partner's descent from grace, but rather her ascent to it. She wanted the account of someone who'd known her and had the opportunity to love her, or not. To cherish her odd angles, or scorn them. To be grateful it was there, or grateful it was over.
"She was indeed not once as she is now. Not...tempered."
He wasn't claiming credit, rather offering it. It was only happy, beautiful, even lavish coincidence that he had had the cogent cleverness, at that time, to term it as such.
Temper, temper, Brighid dear!
Bold of him. Ridiculous of him. Foolish of him. But what else is a voicebox and the electric impulses that jump it, from Core to Heart, for than to offer your admiration, your esteem, your affection?
Mòrag was studying him with an open, youthful gaze he knew, implicitly, was rare.
"You're lucky."
"That I am."
"She's lucky."
A slower response, tongue tracing contemplation. "That she is."
What fact, what justification, could he offer? For his useless, nostalgic sentiments. A voicebox might not be for dispensing information, but a written account was, in order that it might be salient.
"She didn't make those floating flame hearts for Emperor Hugo, you know."
Mòrag smiled. "So you can teach an old Blade new tricks."