[Princess Horse comes to a stop as they emerge into Lowtown proper. And for a long minute, Fenris just sits there, staring.
It's all the same.
The vendors who lined the streets for nearly a decade still linger here, a little older but no less enthusiastic as they hawk their wares. The chaotic mixture of humans and elves and dwarves wandering through Lowtown's streets is the same, with each species tending to keep to themselves, most not wanting to start a fight. The air still smells like sea-salt and sweat; above them, the buildings of Hightown loom large, cutting off the view of the horizon. The only thing missing is the Chantry, but beyond that . . .
It shouldn't look like this, Fenris thinks numbly. How dare it look like this? As if nothing has changed at all, as if this city was not the site of a wound so deep that it hurts even now . . . as if none of it mattered. It's so similar that if he turned his head too fast, he might swear that he sees Hawke out of the corner of his eye. Isabela, bending over provocatively as she examines a blade; Merrill tottering between stalls, cooing over the wares and never buying a thing. Maker's breath, he could close his eyes and find his way to any of their doorsteps in an instant, retreading paths long since learned, and yet—
And yet the houses will be empty. And there will be no reason to knock at those doors. For it might look and sound and smell similar, but it isn't. They've all gone. They've all left, scattered to the winds and moved on, for none of what they did ever mattered, not in the long run. Friends are only ever good for a limited time, he thinks bitterly, and no one ever loves you forever. They used him, and he used them, and now . . .
Now, it's over.
And so dark are his thoughts, so bleak is his sudden mood, that he doesn't hear Astarion at first. It's only the way he leans into Fenris that draws attention— and from there, a belated realization.]
Mm? What part of it?
[No, hang on:]
He's mostly talk, I imagine. The city probably is on edge, but I doubt very much the new viscount would try something as stupid as a sundown ban— not least of which because it would inconvenient most of Hightown to have their servants leave so early.
no subject
It's all the same.
The vendors who lined the streets for nearly a decade still linger here, a little older but no less enthusiastic as they hawk their wares. The chaotic mixture of humans and elves and dwarves wandering through Lowtown's streets is the same, with each species tending to keep to themselves, most not wanting to start a fight. The air still smells like sea-salt and sweat; above them, the buildings of Hightown loom large, cutting off the view of the horizon. The only thing missing is the Chantry, but beyond that . . .
It shouldn't look like this, Fenris thinks numbly. How dare it look like this? As if nothing has changed at all, as if this city was not the site of a wound so deep that it hurts even now . . . as if none of it mattered. It's so similar that if he turned his head too fast, he might swear that he sees Hawke out of the corner of his eye. Isabela, bending over provocatively as she examines a blade; Merrill tottering between stalls, cooing over the wares and never buying a thing. Maker's breath, he could close his eyes and find his way to any of their doorsteps in an instant, retreading paths long since learned, and yet—
And yet the houses will be empty. And there will be no reason to knock at those doors. For it might look and sound and smell similar, but it isn't. They've all gone. They've all left, scattered to the winds and moved on, for none of what they did ever mattered, not in the long run. Friends are only ever good for a limited time, he thinks bitterly, and no one ever loves you forever. They used him, and he used them, and now . . .
Now, it's over.
And so dark are his thoughts, so bleak is his sudden mood, that he doesn't hear Astarion at first. It's only the way he leans into Fenris that draws attention— and from there, a belated realization.]
Mm? What part of it?
[No, hang on:]
He's mostly talk, I imagine. The city probably is on edge, but I doubt very much the new viscount would try something as stupid as a sundown ban— not least of which because it would inconvenient most of Hightown to have their servants leave so early.