[And it's the certainty in Astarion's voice that unnerves him above all else. He isn't wary in the sense of feeling as though he's about to leap for his blade— but wary, maybe, in the sense that something is wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle; despite the summer air, a chill ripples through him.]
I have never heard of such a place— not now, nor in the past.
[He— doesn't laugh. It's more air than that. More dazed. Something like a bark of disbelief, and at this point it's— gods.]
Because unless this is the maddest attempt at luring me back to my old master in ways that make utterly no sense by any standards ever to exist— or you're more insane than a blighted Bhaalspawn, which I won't rule out just yet given what you risked on my own supposed account knowing I've nothing on me— this isn't my world, darling.
I've never heard of Corypheus. He's no threat to the world by our estimation, apparently. [Turning over the rag, he eyes the slick shine of his blood.] Mine, that is.
But if he can do this....drawing others through all the realms of demons in order to bring them here.
What can he say? All the things that spring to mind are disbelieving and inane both— for though that's impossible feels like the most rational response, what use would there be in this man making this up? He was so helplessly bewildered in those first few moments, tender prey for demons any Theodosian knows to flee; he stood at the edge of the fire for so long, terrified to the point of trembling tension, a shivering dog struggling to decide if a mouthful of meat was worth risking another beating.
And he came from the Fade. That sickly green mark on his palm— Fenris still doesn't understand what it means, but perhaps it's a marker. A vulgar scar born of wandering between worlds, and gods, who knows how the Fade truly works? The rifts that now shimmer regularly upon hillsides and fields are a doorway for demons to invade; is it truly such a leap in logic to assume they connect to—
Ah. But there's the snag.
Another world, and the concept is so strange as to baffle. Another world? Another time is almost more easily understood, for he has seen past and present play out in his brief forays. And yet . . . assume it's possible. Assume there are other worlds out there, other— other places, other countries . . .]
Assuredly he should.
[He says it absently. In the next moment his eyes flick up, crimson meeting emerald.]
I believe you.
[His hand flicks up, upturned palm hushing any incredulous scoffing that might occur.]
I do not understand it. Not fully. I have never heard of other worlds, and I would hear more of what you mean. [Maybe it is another time, some nagging part of Fenris whispers. Some elf stumbling out from Elvhenan, his ancient empire long crushed to dust beneath Tevinter's heel. Somehow, that's so much easier to understand— but then again, he speaks so modernly . . .]
But it seems equally impossible that you have not heard of Corypheus. Nor that you do not know what the Fade is. And though I will not say I trust you . . . it seems pointless for you to lie. Especially to me.
[So. So now what? He doubts this little organization in Kirkwall has any answers waiting for him, but curiosity (and anxiety) shared is curiosity halved— and perhaps Astarion is not the only one with such a mark.]
[After a pause, his long ears twitch; wide, red eyes relaxing as he breaks into a slanted grin, cloth still damp against his palm.]
Ahah.
Touché.
[Two liars walk into a bar. They only tell the truth— because despite no one believing them for a second, they only ever told the truth to begin with.]
Though I'd only be repeating tonight's theme of stating the obvious for confessing I make a poor threat to you in my present state, and pitiably poorer company besides, given that my own particular breed of insanity is less drug-bound decadence and more beaten-one-too-many-times-to-keep-my-memories-straight.
[He doesn't look up when he says it. If the creature across from him isn't wicked in some way, well— that makes him just too bright to look at. A little like squinting into the sun.]
I really don't remember what happened before I awoke right where you found me. And as for my home? It's a palace in the sprawling city of Baldur's Gate— which, knowing just how little that conjures up any sort of image worth having— is a port city so grand and christened by the sea that it makes entire territories look like dull little cesspits in comparison.
[He believes him— which is very different than believing, or even fully understanding, this story. And he struggles with the two as Astarion speaks. There's no lie in the other elf's voice (which isn't to say Fenris cannot be fooled, but again: what a stupid lie this would be). And there's no doubting the blazing mark on his hand, nor the fact the Fade contorts time and space in ways that Fenris knows he has no hope of ever truly understanding. So it's not that he thinks the other man is lying; it's not even that he thinks that he's delusional. It's just . . .
Another world. Baldur's Gate, a port city so grand that it has palaces, plural, and sports such a large area that it's nearly a country all its own . . . of course Fenris thinks of Minrathous. A glittering bauble that exists only because of the slave labor it ruthlessly exploits, but doesn't it look pretty as it does? Anyone who's Tevene wants to live in Minrathous, Fenris had been told once. Anyone who's anyone knows what a beautiful place it is.
And how strange, to think some version of it exists in another world. Except it's not a version of it; it's a city with its own separate history. An entirely different background, filled with entirely different customs and ways of being . . . Maker, it's almost too baffling to think about in any detail, and so Fenris soon stops trying.
Better to focus on the smaller picture. On Astarion himself, and the facts he offers.]
Because you were so insignificant to your master . . . or so important?
[For it must be one extreme or the other. Either Astarion was some cog in a larger machine, there only to provide mindless labor until he died . . . or he was so precious as to never be allowed to stray too far, a dog on a gilded leash.]
I was a bodyguard, once. He did not let me roam— though by nature of my duties, I left his estates whenever he did.
[Significant. Unimportant. In that hypothetical context it sounds so simple: was he important? Gods, no. Every exchange ever to happen inside those walls for centuries was a testament to just how worthless he truly was in the eyes of his master, replaceable by any sense. And yet—
Was he insignificant?
Apparently not, if his failed flight had anything to say about it. His first and only attempt at defiance being a short trip into a long, long punishment, where the principle of insult only holds so much weight when it comes to balanced scales.
Astarion's scoff is a bitter run. Thin.]
I'll have to ask him myself when he inevitably tries to drag me back. [Your guess is as good as mine seems to be the implication, which is, for the record, precisely what's running through Astarion's own head.
But it's a thematic thing by now.]
Did—
[It's a slow pause, a flash of red beneath black lashes and the cinching of his palm around that rag. No, that's not the question he wants to ask. Gesture aimed back at Fenris by the curled edge of his knuckles.
Start again.]
Because you were so insignificant to him, or so important?
[It's an interesting answer, but he knows better than to press just yet. But still: important, Fenris thinks to himself, for an insignificant slave knows far more firmly who the master's favorites are. Perhaps he had to vie for it; perhaps his master was particularly skilled in making him feel worthless and replaceable. But important, Fenris thinks, and puts the question to rest for the time being.
Instead: he watches the hesitance play out over the other elf's form. The darting flashes of crimson beneath black lashes; the way he draws breath and thinks better of it, fingers curling, his shoulders curled in on himself. And he wonders, vaguely, when the last time Astarion had been allowed to ask a question was.]
Important.
[Oh, yes. The word slips easily off his tongue, but there's a thread of bitter anger woven in those words. His years post-Kirkwall have not done his temper any favors, nor his bitterness.]
I was his dog. And I kept him safe for many years from assassinations, Qunari raids, petty theft, and all the other things a powerful magister has to field. I was not let off my leash for any reason, and I did not leave his estates unless he wished for protection.
There's no cowing when he exhales. No simpering sightlines in his posture. What he says is sharp and determined each time he deigns to say anything at all, cutting through the air like a knife, and equally as honed once it hits Astarion's own ears: either he was a long, long time away from his former Master, or he was so well cherished he never once learned fear.
Either way, like the rest of this, it feels unreal.]
'Was' is a very specific tense for such an important pet.
[Unlike Fenris, Astarion can't find it in himself to be direct in any line of questioning.
[Ah, but this part he minds less. There's no less anger, of course, and there never will be— but some of the bitterness seeps out of his tone, replaced by something far more satisfied. A twisted smirk flashes over Fenris' face, there and gone, as he deliberately meets Astarion's gaze.]
But was is the only tense he will ever use now. I ran from him a decade— more than a decade ago now, [he realizes abruptly.] And when he tired of my killing all his bounty hunters and slavers and came after me himself, I broke his neck and left his corpse to rot in the dump.
[And how bright it sounds. How heroic he makes himself seem, and it isn't that he's trying to puff himself up, understand. He isn't a gloryhound, seeking Astarion's awe nor his praise. But Fenris has dealt with so many runaways now; he's dealt with so many more who quake in terror at the thought of heading to Tevinter, certain that once they're taken, that's all there ever is.
So he does not say: I was so scared. He does not say: if my friends had sold me out, I would have buckled and broken, no matter how many years of freedom I had behind me. He does not mention how his stomach had curdled with humiliation and rage (the boy is rather talented, isn't he?); he makes it into a fairy tale, and maybe it's for his sake as much as Astarion's.
[Everything present reiterates that tale. In the shortest imaginable span already, he'd cut down monsters— correction: demons— the likes of which Astarion has never seen. Misshapen grotesqueness too gruesome for even Cazador's bloodstained palette, though at most by a thinner margin, unmasked.
The pale elf tallies that with everything he knows thus far, and soundly at the top of that list stands a resolute fact he can't deny: no matter where he's wound up, wracked with strain and his own blood and the oddity of needing air, Astarion isn't safe. Hasn't ever been safe. But the striking creature sat nearby, knowing all the right things to say and yet sparing nothing for strangeness, might be the closest thing to that unattainable sense of safety.
And certainly the most inviting aspect of it.
Astarion stares too long despite himself. At the lopsided grin still flecked red along its border. At the ease and pride of it, spelled out only in the bottom line: he's dead, I left his broken body in the street, what of it? I want that, Astarion thinks hungrily. His stomach suddenly feeling even more barren than before under the loose lines of his torn shirt.
When he finally edges nearer to sit down fully by the fire, he isn't wary anymore.]
[In the distance, Princess Horse snorts just once, her sole contribution to the thought of Astarion sitting down. He does smell unnerving, but she's a mare that's been through quite a few bloody battles; perhaps he oughtn't approach her, but she won't raise a fuss now that he's sitting properly.
Fenris' mouth twists up into another brief smile as Astarion's posture finally relaxes— but unlike before, it isn't an unpleasant thing. There's something comforting about the other elf letting down his guard and settling in fully, though even Fenris can't say if it's because of shared camaraderie or sheer loneliness . . . ah, but it doesn't matter. It's just nice to have someone else by the fire, even for a single night.
Especially someone who understands, even a little. It's a sickeningly sweet feeling to speak of this to another slave, he has long since learned.]
Arrogant, perhaps, is the best word to encompass him. Cruel and sadistic, sometimes thoughtlessly so— but more often than not, it was a calculated thing. He was a mage— a magister, if you have such things in your— your world. Not without talent, and with more than enough wealth to fund his endless forays into the realms of blood magic.
And such things were necessary, for above all else, he craved power. He longed to climb the endless echelons of the Tevinter empire, and he was successful . . . for a time.
[And now he's dead. And now he's dead, the sentence echoing over and over in Fenris' mind, cooling the customary rage that always comes with remembering Danarius. He's dead and so are all his kin, and I am the one who triumphed, and it never soothes quite like he wants it to, but it helps.
A beat, and then, with a horrible, sardonic sort of smile, he adds:]
[That Astarion's attention only briefly flickers towards the mare (mostly) minding her own business is a testament to rapt engrossment. Something so ingrained at the smallest sampling that not even Astarion's own fear can tear him off its back right now.]
Blood magic. [Is the sunken sound that leads in brittle disbelief.] Yes. That sounds familiar. [What a sick joke, that even entire realms away, masters are ever the same.
What a miracle that it's breakable.]
And this is the first time in two centuries I haven't been able to feel his control over me from it. Or— [His body blinks. He has to breathe. Swallow on occasion. Beneath his ribs his heartbeat is a colting upswing of nausea that won't subside the longer he looks down towards his fingertips and finds his nails, well. Nails. No talons. No sign of clipping, only the soft beds of thinner outlines.] anything of him at all.
[No, on second observation, his tongue catches the backs of his fangs— canines and front teeth still dagger-sharp when and where he presses down. What of his eyes, then? His reflection? His deathly aversion to sunlight or running water?
It's too much to hope for. The next jolt from his pulse makes him certain he'll be sick, and he has to suck in air through his nostrils over the hard clap of his fingertips across his mouth when he doubles over just to keep it a suspicion, rather than fact. When he glances back up, it's with a question on his lips.]
[Two centuries, and make no mistake: he marvels over the words. He does not question if he'd heard it right, not when he damn well knows he did. Two centuries, and yes, he knows that this elf came from another world, and so presumably the blood magic there can do things it might well be incapable of here, but . . . to stretch out a lifespan to such unnatural lengths? He doesn't doubt Astarion speaks truly, but gods, what a hell that would be. What a nightmare to spend so long in captivity.
No wonder he reels. No wonder he hunches over, looking as though he might vomit. No wonder his eyes are such a strange color, and distantly, understanding without comprehending at all, Fenris wonders what else this master of his turned him into. Something not quite elven and yet not quite not; something, perhaps, so uniquely different from anyone and everyone else in his world . . .
(No wonder Fenris' heart suddenly aches, every thundering beat echoing in awful, terrible empathy).]
Yes.
[Oh, yes, the answer swiftly offered and softly spoken. He lifts a hand, palm-up, offering it as a display: one thick line of lyrium splitting into five channels, each carefully vivisecting the center of his fingers.]
I was not born with lyrium in my veins. These markings are his legacy.
[Look. Look and see how similar we are, though our mutilations differ. And though he would not allow it with any other newcomer, oh, he will keep his hand displayed for as long as Astarion likes. He'll even let him touch it, if it comes to that. Take what you need from me.]
It took him decades of experimentation to discover the exact kind of blood magic necessary to make such a procedure not just survivable, but successful. And he never managed it beyond me.
It's a familiar score, isn't it? The gouged-in brand of someone else's vision for the full span of your existence— eclipsing it— more than just your body or your looks, it's the measure of everything you know, inescapable without further mutilation: like the attached chain grown into skin for being too damned tight, the mutt will always have its scars even if it tears the leash line loose.
Astarion's mouth goes thin. Even with one eye firmly closed, his expression is both utterly transparent and entirely unreadable. An itch crawling up his spine before he wonders if the tatters of his shirt—
No. No, he knows where the borders are. Nothing's visible.]
....lyrium?
[No lilt to his voice. No songbird cadence. He's angled in and the brightness of the firelight falls on pale features in just the right way to emphasize how blatantly he's let his own doggish defenses slip.]
[So lyrium isn't common across worlds. And why should it be? But then again: why shouldn't it be? He wonders vaguely how mages in Astarion's world power their mana, fuel their spells— and further than that, how the dwarven castes make their money, how they consolidate their power . . . it doesn't matter. Certainly he won't ask tonight, curious though he is.
No, Astarion is more important. The way he angles himself towards him, all bright eyes and trusting expression, matters so much more.]
An ore that fuels magic. It is the basis of most magic in this world.
[He wants to move. To help him clean himself off, maybe, or see to that swollen eye— and sooner or later, he will. But he's equally wary of scaring this elf off, no matter how invested he seems now— and and so all Fenris does is offer his hand a little further forward, letting Astarion peer as he likes.]
Rare, and astronomically expensive in the quantities I sport. But it gives me an edge like no one else in this world— and such an edge was incredibly useful when I served as bodyguard for a power-climbing magister.
[With a wry little smirk, he adds:]
It has its drawbacks. Ignoring all the chronic, endless pain and the question of what it has done to my lifespan, I also sometimes have trouble staying solid. Objects and people both can and will fly through me at times, especially if I'm not expecting it.
[A thought occurs to him, and he adds more seriously:]
The monster that is terrorizing this world— the one I warned you of before. He uses what is known as red lyrium, which looks exactly as it sounds. If you see jagged red rocks bursting out of the earth, do not touch them. Do not even go near them, alluring though they may seem. They corrupt and cause madness, from which I have never witnessed full recovery.
[In a rare show, Astarion listens. Completely. Earnestly. Without a single vivisected thought aside from his initial kneejerk fascination over the concept of being immaterial without choice. A part of— no, not the Weave, then, but something that must serve as it in this world. It bypasses the immediate talk (albeit not completely; anyone once-branded can tell you that there's no overlooking the wretchedness of its presence when it strolls into a conversation like it has and always will belong there), but the temptation to ask to see it unobstructed sits front and center right until the end.
A fortune. Anguish irreversible. Pain.
Astarion has a shock of fallow green bored into his skin like glass, and it aches worse than any splinter. Imagining that on a grander scale— tracing with his eyes the places where those markings vanish behind thick leather and plate and rough fur—
It must be torture, whether it was designed to be or not (and Astarion has his suspicions the man's master didn't damned well care which was true), inevitably making both true.
Gods, but he still wants to see it for himself. Like an overeager pup, he's tipped forwards just a little more, almost twitching— before the idea of a world-ending nightmare brings about its own sort of sobriety, and a worried glance towards his own arm.]
What of yours, then? [Another cast-off look. Another momentary pass.] If red lyrium corrupts, aren't you in danger? Is there any way to stop it?
I stay away from red lyrium, and in that way, my own stays uncorrupted.
[He thinks. He hopes. He has no real idea, frankly, and trust that such thoughts have been the source of so many nightmares. Fenris pushes that thought away; instead, he focuses himself more on the elf in front of him. There's such a desperate hunger in his face right now, lean and starved and needy. He listens to Fenris' tale without flinching nor growing uncomfortable with misplaced pity, watching him so earnestly that you might almost mistake it for a discomfiting interest . . .
If you did not know, perhaps, what it is to yearn for validation. To seek understanding through another's pain . . . and Fenris will not assume. But he wonders quietly, and that is enough.]
I . . . will not claim to know what it would do to the marking on your hand. Lyrium and the Fade go hand in hand, so to speak— it's why, I suspect, it stung so badly when I touched your marking. But I do not think you have quite so much to fear as I do. And either way: it is an easy substance to avoid, for it is obvious enough.
[And then, quietly, his eyes focused on that desperately hungry expression:]
If you stay with me beyond tonight, and choose to join me on the journey to Kirkwall . . . I will point out some as we pass, so you might know it and avoid it.
Don't you dare. [Could be the start of a mildly-formed joke if it weren't for the way sincere alertness throttles high throughout wan features: survival instincts front and center, stubborn in how avidly it all comes cutting in when Astarion would otherwise (no, should otherwise) be mindful of his bearing for that selfsame purpose.
He only has one lifeline out here. One.
And he can't afford to lose it.]
If the idea is stay far enough away from it as possible at all times or risk losing yourself for good, believe me, red equals bad is all the description I'll ever need. And that goes for you, too.
[But the quickness of his tone abruptly hits his ears with renewed realization; like clockwork, the rag's folded over in his fingers, busy now with stubbornly swiping away the flaking peels of ruddy dried blood from his arms. Not so near to apologetic as having clearly self-corrected.
He's not some beaten animal (not fully, anyway). He knows he doesn't need to grovel. But as is the case from all prior reasoning, he can't go treating the man like one of his self-destructive siblings, either. Explanations and charm. There's no other way about it.]
Doubly so if it's something that Corypheus is aiming to make use of. Too careful is not careful enough, trust me on that.
[Though the command earns a raised eyebrow, it's the sudden self-correction that catches Fenris' interest. It's good in that the other elf clearly knows he overstepped (although of all ways to overstep, an abundance of caution isn't so bad), but it's interesting, too. Interesting that he can overstep, frankly, if he's so fresh out of enslavement, and distantly, Fenris approves.]
I did not mean to go near it. But it juts out of the landscape regardless, and we will pass some sooner or later.
[Gentle: not a correction, but an explanation. A moment, and he adds:]
You will have more luck if you use water, you know. Dried blood is stubborn enough to get out as it is. And injuries rarely clot if you let them bleed freely.
[He inches closer, one hand held out expectantly: give it to me, and he won't pull nor assume, but the offer is there.]
[Think, and he shouldn't. Think, and he wants to. Be charming, Astarion. Be pleasant, Astarion. You're bleeding from the head and dragging your fractured leash behind you on the collar that's still attached; the rules that applied in the shadows of that city never stopped applying here just because there's nothing stifling his body. His free will.]
If you don't know everything about its influence, you could be half a bloody continent away and it still might not be enough in the end. What if he changes something about it? What if passive exposure does something to you over time?
You're— well.
I suppose it goes without saying that I'd rather not lose you yet.
[But as for the water— oh, he stops there once it's mentioned. Squeezes his grip a little tighter around that already abused portion of cloth before giving up the ghost, so to speak: short passage tracking its route from one damaged palm into a finely armored one. Something like a metaphor clinging for the lapse in his expression before a smile's worked back in.]
Ah.
I....erm. Very sweet of you, but there's no point in wasting your supplies, darling.
Trust me when I say I can make do.
[Last ditch effort, really. He's already turning slightly; running through the motions of bracing up for the scalding kiss of water on his skin. After all, the elf is right: better a few seconds of agony over hours spent scraping his own skin off in the dirt.]
[Of course he sees that balking. He'd have to be blind not to notice it— but he thinks it the hesitation of a former slave who has long since learned that taking too much is the right way to earn his Master's wrath. Don't waste this on me, an elf so clearly treated as mere property says with a wan little smile, and gods, but Fenris remembers that mindset.]
You can, I imagine.
[An agreement as he dampens the cloth and sets the skein down. There's a momentary hesitation on his part, his wariness of that emerald mark present in his mind— but though they're close, there's no warning buzz from his lyrium. Perhaps it's direct contact; perhaps what happened before was akin to static shock, painful but temporary. It doesn't matter.
Gently, he presses damp cloth to the bloody cut over his companion's eye, unaware of how monumental a thing that truly is. His eyes narrow as he focuses on his work, steadily wiping away dried blood before pressing down firmly enough to encourage a clot. And as he works, he murmurs:]
But you are allowed to aspire to more than simply making do now.
[His eyes flick over, catching Astarion's gaze for a moment, before focusing back on his work. It doesn't seem so deep now that all the blood and dirt is being washed away; likely the pale elf won't even need stitches.]
And though I can understand why you fear such a thing, trust me: you are at no risk of losing me. This world holds many dangers, but I am more than a match for most of them.
[The hesitation of a former slave, yes. One that runs tight as tempered steel through his own shoulders on final, inevitable approach, setting jagged teeth down firm across the outlines of their twins in the seconds where he's grateful that eye's already shut. It wouldn't be the first injury endured, but every spawn has their preferred hiearchy of tortures that they'd rather (not) find at the end of a raw bit of misfortune, well-applied. Scalding his own cursed eyes? Oh, yes, darling. It's up there. Far, far up there.
And yet he's aligned in that cloth's shadow.
And it's sharp, at first— the kind of crispness that runs in anything white-hot, piercing its way through beseiged senses—
....only....it isn't?
No. No, it isn't.
It's cool. It's cold. That's all there is. No tailing wave of agony. No Searing blister. No stabbing bite. His heartbeat's in his throat, but even that tails off in the steadier aftermath, now that the pressure (and clean water) carefully applied has drained the swell above his lid. Wrestled its enmity down into something ugly, yet sedate.
In disbelief, both eyes open. He hadn't even heard what Fenris said over the pounding in his ears, and now— ]
Well, shit.
[Don't mind him, Fenris. He's a little breathless. A little distracted. That comment isn't aimed at you, though it does sound like it, doesn't it?]
[Amongst the sudden swell of unbidden, bitter nostalgia (it's a damned phrase, it oughtn't sting half as much as it does), oh, of course Fenris thinks that comment directed towards him. In the same way all that flinching tension must be the result of a lifetime of enslavement slamming up against a few hours of freedom, Fenris' mind offers the most logical— if not actually correct— explanation.]
Is that a comment on your choice in protector, or your newfound freedom?
[It's a joke, or at least a gentle tease. He's not going to baby Astarion by asking are you all right, but anyone with eyes can see just how shocked the pale elf seems. As if he thought that Fenris might well backhand him at the last moment just for the impudence of wanting care; breathless as if he thought that perhaps his newfound protector was not so strong as all that. He will not judge either way.]
I'm almost done.
[Added as he keeps up his careful motions. The dirt has all been washed away, as has most of the dried blood; now he's just making sure the clot holds. And truthfully? He will never say this, but there's something . . . well, nice about feeling another person beneath his fingertips. Astarion's skin is like ice, freezing to the extreme, but it's been so long since Fenris has felt another person's touch that it doesn't matter. So he lingers a little. Not creepily, he's not going to feel Astarion up, but . . . perhaps he's a bit more thorough in his cleaning than strictly necessary.]
[The wash of that rag has him listless; it vanishes the second that he understands how this has to seem. Alertness snapping back into his vision, compressing everything he feels into a single, blinding point: like an engine sputtering to life in a rush of animated reflex, he wears his thoughts across his sleeve. His tattered, bloodstained sleeve. Silk snagging a little under the indent of Fenris' waiting thumb, wrapping just around its edge.
—oh?]
Oh.
No, neither. [When everything he knows is barbed wire and fanged sharpness and want, he oscillates, still. The same overquickened sense of footing, there and gone again; excuse like an explanation, only it sinks inside his throat instead of rises.] You don't need to stop.
[He can't recall the last time he's said that.]
Let's just say that the way you were altered isn't the same way that I was.
Running water has a nasty tendency to burn when in contact with the accursed. Quite literally burn. [Masked on the off chance it was a telltale trackmark for vampirism and its revilement, but now— with so much care melting him away through every second of tread mercy, a temptation he can't shake. Never could, though he'd always paid its price.] I was prepared to endure it. I've felt so much worse for a great deal less in the grander scheme of all these years, that a little pain would only be worth it if it meant not gawking uselessly at you through a half-functioning pair of eyes.
Now I—
Gods, I don't know what to think.
[A blink, and Fenris' hands feel so damned sturdy that he drifts for just a beat beneath its run. Leaving someone else's hold across the reins. Unfamiliar. Too familiar.
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[And it's the certainty in Astarion's voice that unnerves him above all else. He isn't wary in the sense of feeling as though he's about to leap for his blade— but wary, maybe, in the sense that something is wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle; despite the summer air, a chill ripples through him.]
I have never heard of such a place— not now, nor in the past.
[And then, more plainly:]
Now: how did you know I hadn't?
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Because unless this is the maddest attempt at luring me back to my old master in ways that make utterly no sense by any standards ever to exist— or you're more insane than a blighted Bhaalspawn, which I won't rule out just yet given what you risked on my own supposed account knowing I've nothing on me— this isn't my world, darling.
I've never heard of Corypheus. He's no threat to the world by our estimation, apparently. [Turning over the rag, he eyes the slick shine of his blood.] Mine, that is.
But if he can do this....drawing others through all the realms of demons in order to bring them here.
Perhaps he should be.
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What can he say? All the things that spring to mind are disbelieving and inane both— for though that's impossible feels like the most rational response, what use would there be in this man making this up? He was so helplessly bewildered in those first few moments, tender prey for demons any Theodosian knows to flee; he stood at the edge of the fire for so long, terrified to the point of trembling tension, a shivering dog struggling to decide if a mouthful of meat was worth risking another beating.
And he came from the Fade. That sickly green mark on his palm— Fenris still doesn't understand what it means, but perhaps it's a marker. A vulgar scar born of wandering between worlds, and gods, who knows how the Fade truly works? The rifts that now shimmer regularly upon hillsides and fields are a doorway for demons to invade; is it truly such a leap in logic to assume they connect to—
Ah. But there's the snag.
Another world, and the concept is so strange as to baffle. Another world? Another time is almost more easily understood, for he has seen past and present play out in his brief forays. And yet . . . assume it's possible. Assume there are other worlds out there, other— other places, other countries . . .]
Assuredly he should.
[He says it absently. In the next moment his eyes flick up, crimson meeting emerald.]
I believe you.
[His hand flicks up, upturned palm hushing any incredulous scoffing that might occur.]
I do not understand it. Not fully. I have never heard of other worlds, and I would hear more of what you mean. [Maybe it is another time, some nagging part of Fenris whispers. Some elf stumbling out from Elvhenan, his ancient empire long crushed to dust beneath Tevinter's heel. Somehow, that's so much easier to understand— but then again, he speaks so modernly . . .]
But it seems equally impossible that you have not heard of Corypheus. Nor that you do not know what the Fade is. And though I will not say I trust you . . . it seems pointless for you to lie. Especially to me.
[So. So now what? He doubts this little organization in Kirkwall has any answers waiting for him, but curiosity (and anxiety) shared is curiosity halved— and perhaps Astarion is not the only one with such a mark.]
Tell me where you came from. In detail this time.
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[After a pause, his long ears twitch; wide, red eyes relaxing as he breaks into a slanted grin, cloth still damp against his palm.]
Ahah.
Touché.
[Two liars walk into a bar. They only tell the truth— because despite no one believing them for a second, they only ever told the truth to begin with.]
Though I'd only be repeating tonight's theme of stating the obvious for confessing I make a poor threat to you in my present state, and pitiably poorer company besides, given that my own particular breed of insanity is less drug-bound decadence and more beaten-one-too-many-times-to-keep-my-memories-straight.
[He doesn't look up when he says it. If the creature across from him isn't wicked in some way, well— that makes him just too bright to look at. A little like squinting into the sun.]
I really don't remember what happened before I awoke right where you found me. And as for my home? It's a palace in the sprawling city of Baldur's Gate— which, knowing just how little that conjures up any sort of image worth having— is a port city so grand and christened by the sea that it makes entire territories look like dull little cesspits in comparison.
Or so I've been told. I wouldn't know.
I've never been allowed to leave.
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Another world. Baldur's Gate, a port city so grand that it has palaces, plural, and sports such a large area that it's nearly a country all its own . . . of course Fenris thinks of Minrathous. A glittering bauble that exists only because of the slave labor it ruthlessly exploits, but doesn't it look pretty as it does? Anyone who's Tevene wants to live in Minrathous, Fenris had been told once. Anyone who's anyone knows what a beautiful place it is.
And how strange, to think some version of it exists in another world. Except it's not a version of it; it's a city with its own separate history. An entirely different background, filled with entirely different customs and ways of being . . . Maker, it's almost too baffling to think about in any detail, and so Fenris soon stops trying.
Better to focus on the smaller picture. On Astarion himself, and the facts he offers.]
Because you were so insignificant to your master . . . or so important?
[For it must be one extreme or the other. Either Astarion was some cog in a larger machine, there only to provide mindless labor until he died . . . or he was so precious as to never be allowed to stray too far, a dog on a gilded leash.]
I was a bodyguard, once. He did not let me roam— though by nature of my duties, I left his estates whenever he did.
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Was he insignificant?
Apparently not, if his failed flight had anything to say about it. His first and only attempt at defiance being a short trip into a long, long punishment, where the principle of insult only holds so much weight when it comes to balanced scales.
Astarion's scoff is a bitter run. Thin.]
I'll have to ask him myself when he inevitably tries to drag me back. [Your guess is as good as mine seems to be the implication, which is, for the record, precisely what's running through Astarion's own head.
But it's a thematic thing by now.]
Did—
[It's a slow pause, a flash of red beneath black lashes and the cinching of his palm around that rag. No, that's not the question he wants to ask. Gesture aimed back at Fenris by the curled edge of his knuckles.
Start again.]
Because you were so insignificant to him, or so important?
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Instead: he watches the hesitance play out over the other elf's form. The darting flashes of crimson beneath black lashes; the way he draws breath and thinks better of it, fingers curling, his shoulders curled in on himself. And he wonders, vaguely, when the last time Astarion had been allowed to ask a question was.]
Important.
[Oh, yes. The word slips easily off his tongue, but there's a thread of bitter anger woven in those words. His years post-Kirkwall have not done his temper any favors, nor his bitterness.]
I was his dog. And I kept him safe for many years from assassinations, Qunari raids, petty theft, and all the other things a powerful magister has to field. I was not let off my leash for any reason, and I did not leave his estates unless he wished for protection.
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There's no cowing when he exhales. No simpering sightlines in his posture. What he says is sharp and determined each time he deigns to say anything at all, cutting through the air like a knife, and equally as honed once it hits Astarion's own ears: either he was a long, long time away from his former Master, or he was so well cherished he never once learned fear.
Either way, like the rest of this, it feels unreal.]
'Was' is a very specific tense for such an important pet.
[Unlike Fenris, Astarion can't find it in himself to be direct in any line of questioning.
Instinct still has him by the throat.]
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[Ah, but this part he minds less. There's no less anger, of course, and there never will be— but some of the bitterness seeps out of his tone, replaced by something far more satisfied. A twisted smirk flashes over Fenris' face, there and gone, as he deliberately meets Astarion's gaze.]
But was is the only tense he will ever use now. I ran from him a decade— more than a decade ago now, [he realizes abruptly.] And when he tired of my killing all his bounty hunters and slavers and came after me himself, I broke his neck and left his corpse to rot in the dump.
[And how bright it sounds. How heroic he makes himself seem, and it isn't that he's trying to puff himself up, understand. He isn't a gloryhound, seeking Astarion's awe nor his praise. But Fenris has dealt with so many runaways now; he's dealt with so many more who quake in terror at the thought of heading to Tevinter, certain that once they're taken, that's all there ever is.
So he does not say: I was so scared. He does not say: if my friends had sold me out, I would have buckled and broken, no matter how many years of freedom I had behind me. He does not mention how his stomach had curdled with humiliation and rage (the boy is rather talented, isn't he?); he makes it into a fairy tale, and maybe it's for his sake as much as Astarion's.
It's better to be admired than pitied.]
A pet no longer. Nor ever again.
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The pale elf tallies that with everything he knows thus far, and soundly at the top of that list stands a resolute fact he can't deny: no matter where he's wound up, wracked with strain and his own blood and the oddity of needing air, Astarion isn't safe. Hasn't ever been safe. But the striking creature sat nearby, knowing all the right things to say and yet sparing nothing for strangeness, might be the closest thing to that unattainable sense of safety.
And certainly the most inviting aspect of it.
Astarion stares too long despite himself. At the lopsided grin still flecked red along its border. At the ease and pride of it, spelled out only in the bottom line: he's dead, I left his broken body in the street, what of it? I want that, Astarion thinks hungrily. His stomach suddenly feeling even more barren than before under the loose lines of his torn shirt.
When he finally edges nearer to sit down fully by the fire, he isn't wary anymore.]
What sort of man was he?
[Now that he knows what sort of man Fenris is.]
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PrincessHorse snorts just once, her sole contribution to the thought of Astarion sitting down. He does smell unnerving, but she's a mare that's been through quite a few bloody battles; perhaps he oughtn't approach her, but she won't raise a fuss now that he's sitting properly.Fenris' mouth twists up into another brief smile as Astarion's posture finally relaxes— but unlike before, it isn't an unpleasant thing. There's something comforting about the other elf letting down his guard and settling in fully, though even Fenris can't say if it's because of shared camaraderie or sheer loneliness . . . ah, but it doesn't matter. It's just nice to have someone else by the fire, even for a single night.
Especially someone who understands, even a little. It's a sickeningly sweet feeling to speak of this to another slave, he has long since learned.]
Arrogant, perhaps, is the best word to encompass him. Cruel and sadistic, sometimes thoughtlessly so— but more often than not, it was a calculated thing. He was a mage— a magister, if you have such things in your— your world. Not without talent, and with more than enough wealth to fund his endless forays into the realms of blood magic.
And such things were necessary, for above all else, he craved power. He longed to climb the endless echelons of the Tevinter empire, and he was successful . . . for a time.
[And now he's dead. And now he's dead, the sentence echoing over and over in Fenris' mind, cooling the customary rage that always comes with remembering Danarius. He's dead and so are all his kin, and I am the one who triumphed, and it never soothes quite like he wants it to, but it helps.
A beat, and then, with a horrible, sardonic sort of smile, he adds:]
I was his greatest accomplishment.
[He cocks his head at Astarion and adds:]
Sound familiar?
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Blood magic. [Is the sunken sound that leads in brittle disbelief.] Yes. That sounds familiar. [What a sick joke, that even entire realms away, masters are ever the same.
What a miracle that it's breakable.]
And this is the first time in two centuries I haven't been able to feel his control over me from it. Or— [His body blinks. He has to breathe. Swallow on occasion. Beneath his ribs his heartbeat is a colting upswing of nausea that won't subside the longer he looks down towards his fingertips and finds his nails, well. Nails. No talons. No sign of clipping, only the soft beds of thinner outlines.] anything of him at all.
[No, on second observation, his tongue catches the backs of his fangs— canines and front teeth still dagger-sharp when and where he presses down. What of his eyes, then? His reflection? His deathly aversion to sunlight or running water?
It's too much to hope for. The next jolt from his pulse makes him certain he'll be sick, and he has to suck in air through his nostrils over the hard clap of his fingertips across his mouth when he doubles over just to keep it a suspicion, rather than fact. When he glances back up, it's with a question on his lips.]
Did he change you?
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No wonder he reels. No wonder he hunches over, looking as though he might vomit. No wonder his eyes are such a strange color, and distantly, understanding without comprehending at all, Fenris wonders what else this master of his turned him into. Something not quite elven and yet not quite not; something, perhaps, so uniquely different from anyone and everyone else in his world . . .
(No wonder Fenris' heart suddenly aches, every thundering beat echoing in awful, terrible empathy).]
Yes.
[Oh, yes, the answer swiftly offered and softly spoken. He lifts a hand, palm-up, offering it as a display: one thick line of lyrium splitting into five channels, each carefully vivisecting the center of his fingers.]
I was not born with lyrium in my veins. These markings are his legacy.
[Look. Look and see how similar we are, though our mutilations differ. And though he would not allow it with any other newcomer, oh, he will keep his hand displayed for as long as Astarion likes. He'll even let him touch it, if it comes to that. Take what you need from me.]
It took him decades of experimentation to discover the exact kind of blood magic necessary to make such a procedure not just survivable, but successful. And he never managed it beyond me.
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It's a familiar score, isn't it? The gouged-in brand of someone else's vision for the full span of your existence— eclipsing it— more than just your body or your looks, it's the measure of everything you know, inescapable without further mutilation: like the attached chain grown into skin for being too damned tight, the mutt will always have its scars even if it tears the leash line loose.
Astarion's mouth goes thin. Even with one eye firmly closed, his expression is both utterly transparent and entirely unreadable. An itch crawling up his spine before he wonders if the tatters of his shirt—
No. No, he knows where the borders are. Nothing's visible.]
....lyrium?
[No lilt to his voice. No songbird cadence. He's angled in and the brightness of the firelight falls on pale features in just the right way to emphasize how blatantly he's let his own doggish defenses slip.]
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No, Astarion is more important. The way he angles himself towards him, all bright eyes and trusting expression, matters so much more.]
An ore that fuels magic. It is the basis of most magic in this world.
[He wants to move. To help him clean himself off, maybe, or see to that swollen eye— and sooner or later, he will. But he's equally wary of scaring this elf off, no matter how invested he seems now— and and so all Fenris does is offer his hand a little further forward, letting Astarion peer as he likes.]
Rare, and astronomically expensive in the quantities I sport. But it gives me an edge like no one else in this world— and such an edge was incredibly useful when I served as bodyguard for a power-climbing magister.
[With a wry little smirk, he adds:]
It has its drawbacks. Ignoring all the chronic, endless pain and the question of what it has done to my lifespan, I also sometimes have trouble staying solid. Objects and people both can and will fly through me at times, especially if I'm not expecting it.
[A thought occurs to him, and he adds more seriously:]
The monster that is terrorizing this world— the one I warned you of before. He uses what is known as red lyrium, which looks exactly as it sounds. If you see jagged red rocks bursting out of the earth, do not touch them. Do not even go near them, alluring though they may seem. They corrupt and cause madness, from which I have never witnessed full recovery.
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A fortune. Anguish irreversible. Pain.
Astarion has a shock of fallow green bored into his skin like glass, and it aches worse than any splinter. Imagining that on a grander scale— tracing with his eyes the places where those markings vanish behind thick leather and plate and rough fur—
It must be torture, whether it was designed to be or not (and Astarion has his suspicions the man's master didn't damned well care which was true), inevitably making both true.
Gods, but he still wants to see it for himself. Like an overeager pup, he's tipped forwards just a little more, almost twitching— before the idea of a world-ending nightmare brings about its own sort of sobriety, and a worried glance towards his own arm.]
What of yours, then? [Another cast-off look. Another momentary pass.] If red lyrium corrupts, aren't you in danger? Is there any way to stop it?
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[He thinks. He hopes. He has no real idea, frankly, and trust that such thoughts have been the source of so many nightmares. Fenris pushes that thought away; instead, he focuses himself more on the elf in front of him. There's such a desperate hunger in his face right now, lean and starved and needy. He listens to Fenris' tale without flinching nor growing uncomfortable with misplaced pity, watching him so earnestly that you might almost mistake it for a discomfiting interest . . .
If you did not know, perhaps, what it is to yearn for validation. To seek understanding through another's pain . . . and Fenris will not assume. But he wonders quietly, and that is enough.]
I . . . will not claim to know what it would do to the marking on your hand. Lyrium and the Fade go hand in hand, so to speak— it's why, I suspect, it stung so badly when I touched your marking. But I do not think you have quite so much to fear as I do. And either way: it is an easy substance to avoid, for it is obvious enough.
[And then, quietly, his eyes focused on that desperately hungry expression:]
If you stay with me beyond tonight, and choose to join me on the journey to Kirkwall . . . I will point out some as we pass, so you might know it and avoid it.
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He only has one lifeline out here. One.
And he can't afford to lose it.]
If the idea is stay far enough away from it as possible at all times or risk losing yourself for good, believe me, red equals bad is all the description I'll ever need. And that goes for you, too.
[But the quickness of his tone abruptly hits his ears with renewed realization; like clockwork, the rag's folded over in his fingers, busy now with stubbornly swiping away the flaking peels of ruddy dried blood from his arms. Not so near to apologetic as having clearly self-corrected.
He's not some beaten animal (not fully, anyway). He knows he doesn't need to grovel. But as is the case from all prior reasoning, he can't go treating the man like one of his self-destructive siblings, either. Explanations and charm. There's no other way about it.]
Doubly so if it's something that Corypheus is aiming to make use of. Too careful is not careful enough, trust me on that.
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I did not mean to go near it. But it juts out of the landscape regardless, and we will pass some sooner or later.
[Gentle: not a correction, but an explanation. A moment, and he adds:]
You will have more luck if you use water, you know. Dried blood is stubborn enough to get out as it is. And injuries rarely clot if you let them bleed freely.
[He inches closer, one hand held out expectantly: give it to me, and he won't pull nor assume, but the offer is there.]
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[Think, and he shouldn't. Think, and he wants to. Be charming, Astarion. Be pleasant, Astarion. You're bleeding from the head and dragging your fractured leash behind you on the collar that's still attached; the rules that applied in the shadows of that city never stopped applying here just because there's nothing stifling his body. His free will.]
If you don't know everything about its influence, you could be half a bloody continent away and it still might not be enough in the end. What if he changes something about it? What if passive exposure does something to you over time?
You're— well.
I suppose it goes without saying that I'd rather not lose you yet.
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Ah.
I....erm. Very sweet of you, but there's no point in wasting your supplies, darling.
Trust me when I say I can make do.
[Last ditch effort, really. He's already turning slightly; running through the motions of bracing up for the scalding kiss of water on his skin. After all, the elf is right: better a few seconds of agony over hours spent scraping his own skin off in the dirt.]
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You can, I imagine.
[An agreement as he dampens the cloth and sets the skein down. There's a momentary hesitation on his part, his wariness of that emerald mark present in his mind— but though they're close, there's no warning buzz from his lyrium. Perhaps it's direct contact; perhaps what happened before was akin to static shock, painful but temporary. It doesn't matter.
Gently, he presses damp cloth to the bloody cut over his companion's eye, unaware of how monumental a thing that truly is. His eyes narrow as he focuses on his work, steadily wiping away dried blood before pressing down firmly enough to encourage a clot. And as he works, he murmurs:]
But you are allowed to aspire to more than simply making do now.
[His eyes flick over, catching Astarion's gaze for a moment, before focusing back on his work. It doesn't seem so deep now that all the blood and dirt is being washed away; likely the pale elf won't even need stitches.]
And though I can understand why you fear such a thing, trust me: you are at no risk of losing me. This world holds many dangers, but I am more than a match for most of them.
[It's not a brag.]
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And yet he's aligned in that cloth's shadow.
And it's sharp, at first— the kind of crispness that runs in anything white-hot, piercing its way through beseiged senses—
....only....it isn't?
No. No, it isn't.
It's cool. It's cold. That's all there is. No tailing wave of agony. No Searing blister. No stabbing bite. His heartbeat's in his throat, but even that tails off in the steadier aftermath, now that the pressure (and clean water) carefully applied has drained the swell above his lid. Wrestled its enmity down into something ugly, yet sedate.
In disbelief, both eyes open. He hadn't even heard what Fenris said over the pounding in his ears, and now— ]
Well, shit.
[Don't mind him, Fenris. He's a little breathless. A little distracted. That comment isn't aimed at you, though it does sound like it, doesn't it?]
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Is that a comment on your choice in protector, or your newfound freedom?
[It's a joke, or at least a gentle tease. He's not going to baby Astarion by asking are you all right, but anyone with eyes can see just how shocked the pale elf seems. As if he thought that Fenris might well backhand him at the last moment just for the impudence of wanting care; breathless as if he thought that perhaps his newfound protector was not so strong as all that. He will not judge either way.]
I'm almost done.
[Added as he keeps up his careful motions. The dirt has all been washed away, as has most of the dried blood; now he's just making sure the clot holds. And truthfully? He will never say this, but there's something . . . well, nice about feeling another person beneath his fingertips. Astarion's skin is like ice, freezing to the extreme, but it's been so long since Fenris has felt another person's touch that it doesn't matter. So he lingers a little. Not creepily, he's not going to feel Astarion up, but . . . perhaps he's a bit more thorough in his cleaning than strictly necessary.]
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—oh?]
Oh.
No, neither. [When everything he knows is barbed wire and fanged sharpness and want, he oscillates, still. The same overquickened sense of footing, there and gone again; excuse like an explanation, only it sinks inside his throat instead of rises.] You don't need to stop.
[He can't recall the last time he's said that.]
Let's just say that the way you were altered isn't the same way that I was.
Running water has a nasty tendency to burn when in contact with the accursed. Quite literally burn. [Masked on the off chance it was a telltale trackmark for vampirism and its revilement, but now— with so much care melting him away through every second of tread mercy, a temptation he can't shake. Never could, though he'd always paid its price.] I was prepared to endure it. I've felt so much worse for a great deal less in the grander scheme of all these years, that a little pain would only be worth it if it meant not gawking uselessly at you through a half-functioning pair of eyes.
Now I—
Gods, I don't know what to think.
[A blink, and Fenris' hands feel so damned sturdy that he drifts for just a beat beneath its run. Leaving someone else's hold across the reins. Unfamiliar. Too familiar.
Changed.]
....I really am free of him, aren't I.
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proof yesterday was a disaster bc I forgot it was actually my turn??? ??????????
IT WAS HARD OKAY
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