[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.
[There's so much he wants to say to all of that. Accursed, and he struggles to understand what that means, exactly. His companion is an elf mutilated to the point where running water burns and his lifespan stretches out beyond mortal comprehension, and what makes him use such a specific word as accursed? He does not need to know the details of his master's perversion nor his goals, but he would understand why Astarion defines himself that way. If he was defiled by blood magic the likes of which Fenris can barely comprehend, or if it was some magic even stranger and more perverse than he can imagine . . .
He would know. For knowledge's sake, yes, but . . . also so that Astarion does not need to go through what he just did, steeling himself to pain for no reason.
But that's for later, for all of his horror and confusion ebbs in the next moment: washed away by a tide of aching empathy. Fenris' eyes soften, his ministrations pausing for just one moment as an aching smile flits over his lips.]
You really are.
[Murmured gently. He has learned so much since that fateful encounter with Orana all those years ago; what had once earned a balking swell of fear now receives softened sympathy instead.
Two fingers tuck beneath Astarion's chin, keeping his head still as he resumes slowly wiping away the grit and sweat and dried blood that's splattered intermittently over the other elf's face.]
He is gone . . . more gone than I first thought, if you do indeed come from somewhere else.
[Another slow swipe, and then, as he draws back to wet the cloth again:]
I speak from experience: such a thing can be . . . overwhelming. Freedom is overwhelming. And it may take you a long while to comprehend what it means, or what you are meant to do. But it will come in time. And it gets easier the longer you work at it.
[For those seconds when those banded fingers tuck under his chin, he remembers how it feels to be a spawn; his heart shudders in its moors before it stops and stays unbeating, tense in a way it hasn't been since waking up, when nausea and discomfort ached in time with its swift, hard pulse.
His eyes shut. Both of them this time.
He doesn't breathe.
He only listens.
And then the patter of a wrung-out rag pulls him back into the present swath, bearing the brunt of his attention when he wipes his cheek across the corner of one sleeve to dry it (never mind that it smears his skin with red again, just there), uniquely docile in the next few beats when he holds up both his palms.]
....you're a dangerously generous thing for someone who's been through so much. [Knife's edge, those words. Balanced like a dagger on the tongue. I'm not a pet project some part of it implies, but it's less the rattling of a serpent's guarding tail and more the assertion of something well aware it's standing on its last legs. Only legs. Unsteady legs.
He needs the help. Hells, some part of him even wants it, winding willingly into the shadows of the firelight in a mirror to the slow reach of his hands.
That doesn't change the part of this he fears, so much so that he can't say it.]
[No, I don't want to talk about it, and years and years later, the memory of his own mocking snarl still rings in his ears. He'd been so full of emotions he had no names for, still shuddering from the whimpering of Orana and the rush of adrenaline that killing Hadriana had brought. Like a feral wolf, he'd snarled and growled and bared his teeth at anyone and anything, and what it had meant, more or less, was: don't you dare pity me.
And that isn't what this is. But it's something similar, maybe. Flinching from a helping hand even as you long for it, for some part of you wearily whimpers that nothing good ever comes for free, and no matter how sweet their words, no one is ever really altruistic . . . that, too, Fenris remembers.
So though he is gentle as he takes Astarion's unmarred hand, it's a brusque gentleness. Not coddling, but caring.]
I think you may be the first person to call me that, though I will not refute the compliment. That said: to start with, I can afford such generosity.
[Wry, that, and not untrue. But his smile is swift to fade, and he's quiet for a time as he tries to think of how to respond. His hand moves in slow, steady strokes, and his air is that of practicality, not tender doting (and someday, Astarion will learn to feel the difference).]
But is your question why are you doing this, or what price will you ask of me later? The former is more complex. The latter less so.
[The cloth finishes one hand, and Fenris glances up fully this time, so Astarion can see his expression.]
There is no price. Not for tonight. If you journey with me and take up my cause, then that will be a different conversation— and if you run off in the night and steal my horse, I assure you, you will not find me such a generous soul.
And as for why . . .
[Mmph.]
Call it paying it forward, perhaps. Or satisfying a debt to others— ones to whom I owe my own start in freedom.
[A snort slides free from the narrow space between the back of his fangs and the roof of his mouth, burning that much hotter than he's used to— throwing himself off guard by his own attempt at amicable amusement. The way it feels, twice over: one side of the scale wearing the peculiarity of socialization the likes of which he hasn't known in ages, on the other: sweltering humidity, brought on by a beating heart. An aching heart. The jolting pulse of soft blood in his veins—
—smeared across a dampened rag.
No, some part of it implies along the wry edge of a downturned smile, no, I've no intent to rob you.]
Whatever satisfies. [Astarion concedes slowly, unaware of his own flush candor. Holding out his other hand, the picture's only in the details to his mind; he can't see the forest— just the trees that grant him shade. The darker smudge of green on canvas, impossible to navigate, but pleasantly, pleasantly lost.]
[Oh, that laugh. That smile, sweet and startled all at once, so small you might miss it if you weren't watching carefully. His heart warms to see it, though he won't be so foolish as to draw attention to it. Instead: he smiles to himself, just as small and soft as Astarion's own, and takes his other hand.]
A small geopolitical lesson, then, to start. Tevinter— the country I hail from, as does Corypheus— is the only country in Thedas that still actively buys and sells slaves, and it is from the Empire that all slaves inevitably hail.
[Later, when they are closer, he will repeat this conversation, his fingertips tracing the pathways along Astarion's palm. But they aren't what they will be, and right now, his demonstration is only verbal.]
There is one main route into the Empire: the Imperial Highway. That has only a few main roads that connect to it, and thus, only a few ways slavers, burdened with numerous captives, might go.
[His hands are endlessly patient as he wipes away blood and dirt, revealing a pale palm beneath all the grime. His eyes flick up as Fenris offers Astarion another smile, this one with a sharper edge.]
My cause, such as it is, is to free those en-route to Tevinter— and slaughter every slaver and accomplice while I'm at it.
[And there's no mistaking the bloodthirsty relish with which he says that.]
My success rate is considerable. They know to fear me now, for I am a terror to them all— though it does mean that the guards and mercenaries that they all inevitably hire to accompany them on their routes have grown in size and viciousness.
Not enough, though. Not yet.
[A moment, and he adds:]
It does not solve everything. Cut off one serpant's head and four more arise in their place, for there is little people will not stoop to for the right price. But it makes a difference, and that is enough for now.
[Later, when they're closer, this conversation will mean more than it does now, when all concepts are vague beyond the sound of Fenris' voice and the inflection with which they're said: the drawn lines across his skin (different than the feel of being washed, albeit no less caring), doing enviable work to stitch together what Astarion's already ascribed full names and details to, having more than just the simplest of concepts in his pockets such as good or bad or his enemy. My enemy.
Tevinter looks like Baldur's Gate. Corpyheus looks like Cazador— or perhaps a carving of Bhaal's infamous chosen. Depends on the moment. The severity of those placeholders, and the way they're emphasized.]
Admirable. [Isn't, for now, a criticism, though it's said without a drop of the word's own meaning present.] I won't pretend that I don't appreciate becoming one more rescue-ee on that doubtlessly extensive list of liberated slaves, despite the discrepancies in ownership.
[He casts a glance down towards his palm. Still green. Still glowing.]
I take it if your Corypheus wins, things will be much, much worse for those in shackles— and without.
[Simply said, for there's no nuance to be found here.]
His goal is to become a god, for he claims he breached the Fade and found the Maker's throne empty and barren. [Fenris pulls a little face, his hands still methodically cleaning Astarion's, and adds:] I suspect that was little more than the delusions of a magister long since corrupted and gone insane, but either way: he has already slaughtered and enslaved countless to achieve his goals, and his influence continues to grow. And if he succeeds . . .
[Mm. He finishes cleaning his hands and draws back, sitting up so they can face one another properly.]
There is no such thing as a benevolent dictator. Nor a god. And I doubt very much any elf's life will improve under his tender mercies; I have known too many magisters for that.
Do not take this as recruitment. As I said: I work to free those enroute to enslavement, not as part of some resistance organization. But you should know what you face, if you are to choose anything about your life now.
It's a kindness he can't swallow for how it sticks in his throat across the passing flicker of a heartbeat, and suddenly— in full spite of the way that he can't feel the leashing tether of his master, replaced now with the glassy gleam of magic in his palm; in spite of the understanding brokered here already in rich firelight, perched down in the dust with blood and water licking at their skin; in spite of the fact that there is no faking this with either magic or illusion (the demons had been too real for that, and this feels like no dream he's ever suffered)— something in him jerks its way into panicked alertness, already sensing Cazador at his back long before he's attuned to his arrival. Feeling the trickle of cold sweat run rabbiting and anxious across the nape of his own neck, waiting to feel breath there. An exhale. A gloating declaration of victory. A choice, as always, perched in against his ribs like the sharp edge of a knife.
He doesn't turn around. Doesn't tear himself away. There's no palpable flood of panic in his posture, held captive in dilated eyes. There's no point in that, you see: it's the prey drive that allures— the thrill of watching something squirm and shriek before the noose— and if Astarion has one point of pride left to his own name, it's denying his own master that.
But nothing shifts.
Not aside from Fenris, that is, who falls back on his heels, leaving Astarion to stare down at cleaned fingers and mending wounds. Not a shadow to be seen. Not a devilish purr in earshot.]
—what? [He asks, stripped clean of all pretense outside confusion as it dawns on him that he'd forgotten everything of what's been said. Tries, dry-mouthed, to remember it, but the topics slip through his fingers like those droplets of shed water. Corypheus. Slaves. A— god? Or something like that.
He thinks he might have an inkling of what was offered. Leans on it, and checks just once over his shoulder in the process.]
No— [nothing.] Well, I. Mmh. It's not exactly a difficult decision, is it?
All decisions are difficult, Fenris thinks, and they always will be. From what to eat in the morning to whether he ought to return to Kirkwall or not . . . it's so difficult when you've spent so many years waiting only for your master's whims and never consulting your own. And make no mistake: Fenris relishes each and every choice, endlessly marveling over the ability to say yes or no— but never is it easy.
But he doesn't say that aloud. It's a bittersweet realization, but one that Astarion needs to come to on his own. After so many years being held on a puppet's strings, it's up to him to learn how to function without them, and he needs no word that might be misconstrued as disheartening. But perhaps some of that gravity is in his gaze as he looks at Astarion.]
It is yours, nonetheless.
[And he doesn't see the panic. Doesn't register all that goes through Astarion's mind, for the other elf is too good at hiding it. But he hears the confusion, and perhaps that's enough to grant an inkling of, if not understanding, at least empathy.]
And I will not take that from you. It is not the first choice you've made in freedom, but perhaps it will be the first significant one.
[But he will not press for an answer now. Fenris shifts again, tugging his pack near so he can dig through it. It's not just idle busy work, but it does give them both an excuse to take a moment to regroup.]
But such things are for tomorrow. Here—
[An extra bedroll, and he nudges it towards Astarion.]
It is not the most comfortable thing, but it will keep the elements at bay. If you decide to join me tomorrow, we will set out sometime mid-morning. And if you do not . . .
[He catches Astarion's eye again, realizing only in that moment that he would be sorry if he woke to find the other elf gone.]
[He's feigned this more times than he can count. A drink nudged against his fingertips or a compliment to his ears, and there— just so— comes bashful gratitude, flattered and hopeless to the last. Those practiced lines that ever cloyed, tasting sweet as rot after a time. Oh, darling. Thank you. You flatter me. You've changed me. I want to stay with you until you tire of me, trust in that. The world outside those flytrap bars comes differently.
His shoulders align perfectly with his succinctly rounded-out expression— not a ruddy, directed cant like that of a schoolchild in portrayed stagelight, but something quieter. Narrower. Tender things are so unbelievably small in their own nature, that for that moment, it is easy to see just why they slip through the cracks in the world— all of them— any of them. They make no grand statements outside the change that they enact. They fan no flames, spark no shattering burst of electricity.
How could Astarion have seen them before now?]
Oh. [He sounds absurd in that lead in. A fawn learning how to walk would have more grace, fumbling headlong into his own breathlessness and only grasping a glimpse of it in hindsight.] Same. [Same, he says, and it's so paper thin he trips in that return to normalcy:] Ahahah, very much the same indeed. And not solely for the fact that I'd most likely be dead as a doornail rotting in a fallow field otherwise— although I'm certain that's obvious by now.
[Which, much like the rest of this, is true.
He pauses, then. Flexes his freshly cleaned fingertips before slowly glancing up towards that firelight. The man perched still beside it.]
Thus in the spirit of cooperation and naked honesty....a request.
[What passes through the other elf's mind? What must he be thinking? Fenris can only guess. He sounds so clumsy as he speaks, tongue tripping over itself as he offers up a breathless laugh and an assurance he feels the same— and is it real? Fenris wouldn't fault him if it wasn't. Perhaps his mind is still whirring: prying at the edges of Fenris' words, testing them for any give, waiting for that inevitable moment when it all turns out to be nothing but a front.
He would not fault him for it. Not here and now; not ever, not really. When all you've known is manipulation and terror, oh, who could blame a slave for being wary?
And yet even as he thinks it, Fenris thinks: no. Perhaps there are some wary thoughts circling around in the pale elf's mind, but right now, Fenris would swear this is genuine. There's nothing elegant in his bearing, nothing honeyed about his tones or his words . . . if it is an act, it's a superb one, but Fenris allows himself the sentiment of hoping it isn't.]
Ask it, and we shall see.
[His head cocks as he says it, his eyes soft enough to betray that he's inclined to indulge most whims right now.]
[Slow slide: the squeeze of his left fingers over the first two of his right, drawing down. Tucks his thumbpad along the top of the opposite, dragging with movement that runs against the grain of that nervous tic.
Of course it's reassuring, watching those doeish eyes lift as Fenris' head tilts. Of course the throatiness in that voice is something that— already— has two hundred years of sworn mistrust inching in with its tail tucked and its ears lowered in fretful, unsettled need. Of course, to say no less than all of the above, Astarion trusts it.
But he's breaking open a cask that's been sealed for longer than most mortals live. The dry rasp of his throat feels sharp when he inhales, dangerous as glass.]
He doesn't know why. He can't understand it, for no explanation he tries on fits well around Astarion's shoulders. And yet anyone with eyes can see the need shining in those crimson eyes; anyone with ears could hear how much effort it takes the pale elf to ask for this. His fingers tangle within themselves, nervous as anything— and it's that which decides his answer for him.]
All right. I will.
[And he doesn't ask why. It isn't his business. Whatever ghosts of the past haunt this elf now, they aren't his to know. Perhaps if they continue to travel together, he'll find out someday, but as it stands . . . yes, he can do this.]
I— yes.
[He cuts himself off, offering Astarion a rueful smile. There's no need to get into his own past; there's certainly no need to wax on sentimental. But just so Astarion isn't left hanging, he adds:]
Just like that? [Astarion scoffs warmly, the upturned corners of his mouth held by quiet disbelief; the once-unthinkable suddenly made predictable.] No strings attached? No questions asked?
[His formerly fretful hands are set across his folded legs by the time he shakes his head.]
Starting to think you might fluff my pillow for me. Tuck me in. Wish me goodnight.
[He huffs out a laugh, a little half-smile flicking over his lips.]
Well, now you have gone far too far. Ask for the stars if you wish for a more reasonable request next time.
[But those hands have ceased their movements, and it's that which encourages Fenris above all. Taking it as a sign that all is well, he busies himself with laying out his own bedroll.]
Though if you find yourself desperate to repay me, you can make breakfast tomorrow. I hope your fire-building skills are up to the task.
[Joking, and he hopes Astarion knows that— though he glances up to catch his eye, just in case.
But once a little more time has passed and they're both settled, he adds:]
Your reasoning and your secrets are your own. If you wish to share them, I would hear them, for I will not pretend not to be curious. But nor do you owe me them if you wish to keep them to yourself.
[Oof. Phrasing. Astarion's ensuing chuckle is almost rueful in its overt amusement. Doubly so at the rise of that ensuing mercy, pretty as it is.]
Darling boy, if you knew what my cooking was like, you'd spare yourself the torture.
[He's stripped himself of his torn shirt by the time they're both supplanted in their bedrolls, fiddling with its tattered holes in a survey of all damage sustained; the prelude to plotting necessary repairs once they've found their way to this nearby city of Fenris', and a needle and thread will no doubt lie in reach. And at least like this, with the way his body's facing, he doesn't need to fret over the notion of his scars being seen (worser still: some part of him, absent and small and lain unspoken in tame darkness, insists he wouldn't mind it if they were).
But even the daftest whore knows not to surrender all their secrets on the very first night.]
Water isn't the only thing that poses a threat to those afflicted as I am through my former master's touch. For a vampire— [and gods, doesn't he feel the full weight of that word for just a few narrow seconds in confession, not waiting to see if it's recognizable as he continues on— ] even sunlight is lethal in its own right.
Were I to wait until it's risen, well....I might not rise again, so to speak.
[Another scoff, mild. Bleak. Amused.]
....and I don't want to be alone when that happens.
And it's strange to think that Astarion's affliction— his curse— has a name. Does that mean he isn't the only one? Perhaps. Even as he wonders, Fenris tries to recall if he's ever heard the term . . . but no. Perhaps in passing once, a long time ago, when Danarius had spoken of old legends, but even then . . . no, it means nothing to him, not really.
Now he makes a note of it. Vampire, the word utterly synonymous with Astarion: the first and most intense association, and the one that will endure even years from now. Vampire, he will think when he meets Cazador, or Dalyria, or Petras. Vampire, measuring them all up against who Astarion is and what he embodies— and finding them wanting).
But those thoughts come later. The term is lesser right now. Far, far more important: that confession. Even as some part of Fenris twists in sympathetic horror, a darker part of him whispers: of course that's part of it.
What low will a master not stoop to? What horrors will they ever hesitate to inflict upon their slaves? Two centuries, Astarion had said, and now his mind doubles back, I was never allowed to leave, and how could he? When even sunlight was lethal . . . how could any slave ever hope to leave? Especially if you'd been conditioned into helplessness. Especially if there were so many things you were vulnerable towards . . .
He doesn't understand it. Not fully, and even the fractured picture he holds in his mind is off-kilter. But what details escape him matter little in face of the here and now.
If I am to die, I don't want to die alone.]
You won't be.
[His voice emerges rougher than he expects, fierce determination thrumming through his veins. He cannot make this better. He cannot fix this. He cannot even offer Astarion sympathy, not really, not without it being felt as pity (and what slave ever wants that? You poor thing is no balm to ancient wounds).
But he can do this. He can wake with Astarion and stay with him as the sun rises, and then . . .
Come what may.]
I will be there. And I will not leave, no matter what happens.
[For if it's the latter, perhaps they can find some form of shade or shelter . . . Maker, even huddling behind Princess Horse's bulk while Fenris finds a blanket would be better than nothing.
Hopefully it won't be necessary. If he doesn't react poorly to water, perhaps sunlight will be the same. But hope for the best, prepare for the worst, as they say— or, if you take Fenris' point of view, expect the worst and be ready when it comes.
And he wonders when the last time Astarion even saw sunlight was. If he remembers what the world looks like during the day, or if two centuries is too long to keep that kind of thing in mind. Perhaps he doesn't want to remember.]
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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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He would know. For knowledge's sake, yes, but . . . also so that Astarion does not need to go through what he just did, steeling himself to pain for no reason.
But that's for later, for all of his horror and confusion ebbs in the next moment: washed away by a tide of aching empathy. Fenris' eyes soften, his ministrations pausing for just one moment as an aching smile flits over his lips.]
You really are.
[Murmured gently. He has learned so much since that fateful encounter with Orana all those years ago; what had once earned a balking swell of fear now receives softened sympathy instead.
Two fingers tuck beneath Astarion's chin, keeping his head still as he resumes slowly wiping away the grit and sweat and dried blood that's splattered intermittently over the other elf's face.]
He is gone . . . more gone than I first thought, if you do indeed come from somewhere else.
[Another slow swipe, and then, as he draws back to wet the cloth again:]
I speak from experience: such a thing can be . . . overwhelming. Freedom is overwhelming. And it may take you a long while to comprehend what it means, or what you are meant to do. But it will come in time. And it gets easier the longer you work at it.
And I will help, if I can. If you wish for it.
Give me your hands.
[So he might wipe the blood from them, too.]
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His eyes shut. Both of them this time.
He doesn't breathe.
He only listens.
And then the patter of a wrung-out rag pulls him back into the present swath, bearing the brunt of his attention when he wipes his cheek across the corner of one sleeve to dry it (never mind that it smears his skin with red again, just there), uniquely docile in the next few beats when he holds up both his palms.]
....you're a dangerously generous thing for someone who's been through so much. [Knife's edge, those words. Balanced like a dagger on the tongue. I'm not a pet project some part of it implies, but it's less the rattling of a serpent's guarding tail and more the assertion of something well aware it's standing on its last legs. Only legs. Unsteady legs.
He needs the help. Hells, some part of him even wants it, winding willingly into the shadows of the firelight in a mirror to the slow reach of his hands.
That doesn't change the part of this he fears, so much so that he can't say it.]
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And that isn't what this is. But it's something similar, maybe. Flinching from a helping hand even as you long for it, for some part of you wearily whimpers that nothing good ever comes for free, and no matter how sweet their words, no one is ever really altruistic . . . that, too, Fenris remembers.
So though he is gentle as he takes Astarion's unmarred hand, it's a brusque gentleness. Not coddling, but caring.]
I think you may be the first person to call me that, though I will not refute the compliment. That said: to start with, I can afford such generosity.
[Wry, that, and not untrue. But his smile is swift to fade, and he's quiet for a time as he tries to think of how to respond. His hand moves in slow, steady strokes, and his air is that of practicality, not tender doting (and someday, Astarion will learn to feel the difference).]
But is your question why are you doing this, or what price will you ask of me later? The former is more complex. The latter less so.
[The cloth finishes one hand, and Fenris glances up fully this time, so Astarion can see his expression.]
There is no price. Not for tonight. If you journey with me and take up my cause, then that will be a different conversation— and if you run off in the night and steal my horse, I assure you, you will not find me such a generous soul.
And as for why . . .
[Mmph.]
Call it paying it forward, perhaps. Or satisfying a debt to others— ones to whom I owe my own start in freedom.
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—smeared across a dampened rag.
No, some part of it implies along the wry edge of a downturned smile, no, I've no intent to rob you.]
Whatever satisfies. [Astarion concedes slowly, unaware of his own flush candor. Holding out his other hand, the picture's only in the details to his mind; he can't see the forest— just the trees that grant him shade. The darker smudge of green on canvas, impossible to navigate, but pleasantly, pleasantly lost.]
To that end: what exactly is your cause?
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A small geopolitical lesson, then, to start. Tevinter— the country I hail from, as does Corypheus— is the only country in Thedas that still actively buys and sells slaves, and it is from the Empire that all slaves inevitably hail.
[Later, when they are closer, he will repeat this conversation, his fingertips tracing the pathways along Astarion's palm. But they aren't what they will be, and right now, his demonstration is only verbal.]
There is one main route into the Empire: the Imperial Highway. That has only a few main roads that connect to it, and thus, only a few ways slavers, burdened with numerous captives, might go.
[His hands are endlessly patient as he wipes away blood and dirt, revealing a pale palm beneath all the grime. His eyes flick up as Fenris offers Astarion another smile, this one with a sharper edge.]
My cause, such as it is, is to free those en-route to Tevinter— and slaughter every slaver and accomplice while I'm at it.
[And there's no mistaking the bloodthirsty relish with which he says that.]
My success rate is considerable. They know to fear me now, for I am a terror to them all— though it does mean that the guards and mercenaries that they all inevitably hire to accompany them on their routes have grown in size and viciousness.
Not enough, though. Not yet.
[A moment, and he adds:]
It does not solve everything. Cut off one serpant's head and four more arise in their place, for there is little people will not stoop to for the right price. But it makes a difference, and that is enough for now.
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Tevinter looks like Baldur's Gate. Corpyheus looks like Cazador— or perhaps a carving of Bhaal's infamous chosen. Depends on the moment. The severity of those placeholders, and the way they're emphasized.]
Admirable. [Isn't, for now, a criticism, though it's said without a drop of the word's own meaning present.] I won't pretend that I don't appreciate becoming one more rescue-ee on that doubtlessly extensive list of liberated slaves, despite the discrepancies in ownership.
[He casts a glance down towards his palm. Still green. Still glowing.]
I take it if your Corypheus wins, things will be much, much worse for those in shackles— and without.
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[Simply said, for there's no nuance to be found here.]
His goal is to become a god, for he claims he breached the Fade and found the Maker's throne empty and barren. [Fenris pulls a little face, his hands still methodically cleaning Astarion's, and adds:] I suspect that was little more than the delusions of a magister long since corrupted and gone insane, but either way: he has already slaughtered and enslaved countless to achieve his goals, and his influence continues to grow. And if he succeeds . . .
[Mm. He finishes cleaning his hands and draws back, sitting up so they can face one another properly.]
There is no such thing as a benevolent dictator. Nor a god. And I doubt very much any elf's life will improve under his tender mercies; I have known too many magisters for that.
Do not take this as recruitment. As I said: I work to free those enroute to enslavement, not as part of some resistance organization. But you should know what you face, if you are to choose anything about your life now.
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It's a kindness he can't swallow for how it sticks in his throat across the passing flicker of a heartbeat, and suddenly— in full spite of the way that he can't feel the leashing tether of his master, replaced now with the glassy gleam of magic in his palm; in spite of the understanding brokered here already in rich firelight, perched down in the dust with blood and water licking at their skin; in spite of the fact that there is no faking this with either magic or illusion (the demons had been too real for that, and this feels like no dream he's ever suffered)— something in him jerks its way into panicked alertness, already sensing Cazador at his back long before he's attuned to his arrival. Feeling the trickle of cold sweat run rabbiting and anxious across the nape of his own neck, waiting to feel breath there. An exhale. A gloating declaration of victory. A choice, as always, perched in against his ribs like the sharp edge of a knife.
He doesn't turn around. Doesn't tear himself away. There's no palpable flood of panic in his posture, held captive in dilated eyes. There's no point in that, you see: it's the prey drive that allures— the thrill of watching something squirm and shriek before the noose— and if Astarion has one point of pride left to his own name, it's denying his own master that.
But nothing shifts.
Not aside from Fenris, that is, who falls back on his heels, leaving Astarion to stare down at cleaned fingers and mending wounds. Not a shadow to be seen. Not a devilish purr in earshot.]
—what? [He asks, stripped clean of all pretense outside confusion as it dawns on him that he'd forgotten everything of what's been said. Tries, dry-mouthed, to remember it, but the topics slip through his fingers like those droplets of shed water. Corypheus. Slaves. A— god? Or something like that.
He thinks he might have an inkling of what was offered. Leans on it, and checks just once over his shoulder in the process.]
No— [nothing.] Well, I. Mmh. It's not exactly a difficult decision, is it?
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All decisions are difficult, Fenris thinks, and they always will be. From what to eat in the morning to whether he ought to return to Kirkwall or not . . . it's so difficult when you've spent so many years waiting only for your master's whims and never consulting your own. And make no mistake: Fenris relishes each and every choice, endlessly marveling over the ability to say yes or no— but never is it easy.
But he doesn't say that aloud. It's a bittersweet realization, but one that Astarion needs to come to on his own. After so many years being held on a puppet's strings, it's up to him to learn how to function without them, and he needs no word that might be misconstrued as disheartening. But perhaps some of that gravity is in his gaze as he looks at Astarion.]
It is yours, nonetheless.
[And he doesn't see the panic. Doesn't register all that goes through Astarion's mind, for the other elf is too good at hiding it. But he hears the confusion, and perhaps that's enough to grant an inkling of, if not understanding, at least empathy.]
And I will not take that from you. It is not the first choice you've made in freedom, but perhaps it will be the first significant one.
[But he will not press for an answer now. Fenris shifts again, tugging his pack near so he can dig through it. It's not just idle busy work, but it does give them both an excuse to take a moment to regroup.]
But such things are for tomorrow. Here—
[An extra bedroll, and he nudges it towards Astarion.]
It is not the most comfortable thing, but it will keep the elements at bay. If you decide to join me tomorrow, we will set out sometime mid-morning. And if you do not . . .
[He catches Astarion's eye again, realizing only in that moment that he would be sorry if he woke to find the other elf gone.]
I am glad we met, if nothing else.
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His shoulders align perfectly with his succinctly rounded-out expression— not a ruddy, directed cant like that of a schoolchild in portrayed stagelight, but something quieter. Narrower. Tender things are so unbelievably small in their own nature, that for that moment, it is easy to see just why they slip through the cracks in the world— all of them— any of them. They make no grand statements outside the change that they enact. They fan no flames, spark no shattering burst of electricity.
How could Astarion have seen them before now?]
Oh. [He sounds absurd in that lead in. A fawn learning how to walk would have more grace, fumbling headlong into his own breathlessness and only grasping a glimpse of it in hindsight.] Same. [Same, he says, and it's so paper thin he trips in that return to normalcy:] Ahahah, very much the same indeed. And not solely for the fact that I'd most likely be dead as a doornail rotting in a fallow field otherwise— although I'm certain that's obvious by now.
[Which, much like the rest of this, is true.
He pauses, then. Flexes his freshly cleaned fingertips before slowly glancing up towards that firelight. The man perched still beside it.]
Thus in the spirit of cooperation and naked honesty....a request.
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He would not fault him for it. Not here and now; not ever, not really. When all you've known is manipulation and terror, oh, who could blame a slave for being wary?
And yet even as he thinks it, Fenris thinks: no. Perhaps there are some wary thoughts circling around in the pale elf's mind, but right now, Fenris would swear this is genuine. There's nothing elegant in his bearing, nothing honeyed about his tones or his words . . . if it is an act, it's a superb one, but Fenris allows himself the sentiment of hoping it isn't.]
Ask it, and we shall see.
[His head cocks as he says it, his eyes soft enough to betray that he's inclined to indulge most whims right now.]
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Of course it's reassuring, watching those doeish eyes lift as Fenris' head tilts. Of course the throatiness in that voice is something that— already— has two hundred years of sworn mistrust inching in with its tail tucked and its ears lowered in fretful, unsettled need. Of course, to say no less than all of the above, Astarion trusts it.
But he's breaking open a cask that's been sealed for longer than most mortals live. The dry rasp of his throat feels sharp when he inhales, dangerous as glass.]
That you wake before sunrise with me.
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He doesn't know why. He can't understand it, for no explanation he tries on fits well around Astarion's shoulders. And yet anyone with eyes can see the need shining in those crimson eyes; anyone with ears could hear how much effort it takes the pale elf to ask for this. His fingers tangle within themselves, nervous as anything— and it's that which decides his answer for him.]
All right. I will.
[And he doesn't ask why. It isn't his business. Whatever ghosts of the past haunt this elf now, they aren't his to know. Perhaps if they continue to travel together, he'll find out someday, but as it stands . . . yes, he can do this.]
I— yes.
[He cuts himself off, offering Astarion a rueful smile. There's no need to get into his own past; there's certainly no need to wax on sentimental. But just so Astarion isn't left hanging, he adds:]
Is there anything else?
[A genuine question.]
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[His formerly fretful hands are set across his folded legs by the time he shakes his head.]
Starting to think you might fluff my pillow for me. Tuck me in. Wish me goodnight.
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Well, now you have gone far too far. Ask for the stars if you wish for a more reasonable request next time.
[But those hands have ceased their movements, and it's that which encourages Fenris above all. Taking it as a sign that all is well, he busies himself with laying out his own bedroll.]
Though if you find yourself desperate to repay me, you can make breakfast tomorrow. I hope your fire-building skills are up to the task.
[Joking, and he hopes Astarion knows that— though he glances up to catch his eye, just in case.
But once a little more time has passed and they're both settled, he adds:]
Your reasoning and your secrets are your own. If you wish to share them, I would hear them, for I will not pretend not to be curious. But nor do you owe me them if you wish to keep them to yourself.
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Darling boy, if you knew what my cooking was like, you'd spare yourself the torture.
[He's stripped himself of his torn shirt by the time they're both supplanted in their bedrolls, fiddling with its tattered holes in a survey of all damage sustained; the prelude to plotting necessary repairs once they've found their way to this nearby city of Fenris', and a needle and thread will no doubt lie in reach. And at least like this, with the way his body's facing, he doesn't need to fret over the notion of his scars being seen (worser still: some part of him, absent and small and lain unspoken in tame darkness, insists he wouldn't mind it if they were).
But even the daftest whore knows not to surrender all their secrets on the very first night.]
Water isn't the only thing that poses a threat to those afflicted as I am through my former master's touch. For a vampire— [and gods, doesn't he feel the full weight of that word for just a few narrow seconds in confession, not waiting to see if it's recognizable as he continues on— ] even sunlight is lethal in its own right.
Were I to wait until it's risen, well....I might not rise again, so to speak.
[Another scoff, mild. Bleak. Amused.]
....and I don't want to be alone when that happens.
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And it's strange to think that Astarion's affliction— his curse— has a name. Does that mean he isn't the only one? Perhaps. Even as he wonders, Fenris tries to recall if he's ever heard the term . . . but no. Perhaps in passing once, a long time ago, when Danarius had spoken of old legends, but even then . . . no, it means nothing to him, not really.
Now he makes a note of it. Vampire, the word utterly synonymous with Astarion: the first and most intense association, and the one that will endure even years from now. Vampire, he will think when he meets Cazador, or Dalyria, or Petras. Vampire, measuring them all up against who Astarion is and what he embodies— and finding them wanting).
But those thoughts come later. The term is lesser right now. Far, far more important: that confession. Even as some part of Fenris twists in sympathetic horror, a darker part of him whispers: of course that's part of it.
What low will a master not stoop to? What horrors will they ever hesitate to inflict upon their slaves? Two centuries, Astarion had said, and now his mind doubles back, I was never allowed to leave, and how could he? When even sunlight was lethal . . . how could any slave ever hope to leave? Especially if you'd been conditioned into helplessness. Especially if there were so many things you were vulnerable towards . . .
He doesn't understand it. Not fully, and even the fractured picture he holds in his mind is off-kilter. But what details escape him matter little in face of the here and now.
If I am to die, I don't want to die alone.]
You won't be.
[His voice emerges rougher than he expects, fierce determination thrumming through his veins. He cannot make this better. He cannot fix this. He cannot even offer Astarion sympathy, not really, not without it being felt as pity (and what slave ever wants that? You poor thing is no balm to ancient wounds).
But he can do this. He can wake with Astarion and stay with him as the sun rises, and then . . .
Come what may.]
I will be there. And I will not leave, no matter what happens.
[That he can promise.]
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[For if it's the latter, perhaps they can find some form of shade or shelter . . . Maker, even huddling behind Princess Horse's bulk while Fenris finds a blanket would be better than nothing.
Hopefully it won't be necessary. If he doesn't react poorly to water, perhaps sunlight will be the same. But hope for the best, prepare for the worst, as they say— or, if you take Fenris' point of view, expect the worst and be ready when it comes.
And he wonders when the last time Astarion even saw sunlight was. If he remembers what the world looks like during the day, or if two centuries is too long to keep that kind of thing in mind. Perhaps he doesn't want to remember.]
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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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