[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.]
[Something in him buckles to hear it. Under the weight of everything said. Unsaid. The silence and the empty bandwidth in between. The stillness that takes root in all his fingers too fixed and heavy for him to overcome, and so there, for a time, lit by the glow of his own palm and the pale sheen of those tattoos no more than a few feet away from where he sits, Astarion does what he always does when faced with the insurmountable: he concedes to it. Lets it rule him. Have him.
Only this time, it feels right.]
Gradual. [ Proves a surprising level confession, casting him as something rife with capable indiffernce; he'd seen Cazador enact it once or twice as punishment. Never enough to kill his own unruly pets, but enough to make them think he might just on a whim, should they insist on clawing at the last thin walls of his charnel house patience.]
Worse comes to worst I was planning on crawling back inside my bedroll and rejecting crawling out until the sun sets— but I couldn't do that without alerting you. And I....didn't want to actually run off.
[What a waste that would've been. Or would be, he supposes, considering it's not too late.]
[Somewhere buried beneath the layers of shock and horror and distant grief, Fenris feels his heart twist just once in something like pleasure. I didn't want to actually run off, and it nearly surprises him how glad he is to hear it— but he is a lonely thing, even if he won't admit it. And it's been a long time since he's had someone he likes nearby.]
I'm glad.
[It's a quiet comment, not meant to be noticed so much as acknowledge that statement. The majority of his attention is focused on that answer. Gradual, and he wonders . . . but it must be akin to burning alive, he thinks, and hopes he never finds out.
Still, he can read into that indifferent tone and knows well enough not to push it.]
It was not the worst of plans, albeit, as you said, not particularly subtle. But if it comes to that, we can find a more elegant way for you to avoid the sun's rays, I think. There is a forest not far from here.
[Water conquered, and sunlight left to be seen . . . Fenris cocks his head just slightly.]
Even a simple cloak would do, provided it was thick enough to shade my skin completely. [Astarion adds narrowly before that singular segue carries them away from talk of forests into far uglier spaces. Filled with memories best not recanted in the dead of night— but they make do with what they have.
And for now, daylight seems the tallest order.]
Mm. [What a sullen sound that is, oppressive as it turns his face towards his palms as if it were anchored to them. Only the recitation that comes after it proves easy, for he's mette it a hundred thousand times before:] I cannot enter homes uninvited, I cannot disobey, or control myself against any of his— that is to say my former master—'s wishes. I cannot dream, nor suffer running water, nor sunlight, nor the kiss of holy magic.
And, most of all, [or worst of all, depending on perspective] I can't sustain myself on anything that isn't blood.
A foolish and short-sighted set of restrictions to impose upon you.
[It's the first thought, blunt and childish, that flashes through Fenris' mind— and like so many of his thoughts, it slips right past his lips without filter.
But really: I cannot enter homes uninvited, I cannot dream, I cannot suffer running water, I cannot endure holy magic, and Fenris will not fault Astarion for a single one of those limitations, but oh, what a stupid master. Danarius would have agreed (and in the distant reaches of his mind, Fenris can hear his voice echoing in time with the rhythmic tap-tap of his staff. What if his master has need of him in the Chantry? What if he falls into the river and might drown if his slave doesn't dive in?). There are certain restrictions that make sense, in an awful sort of way— what Danarius wouldn't have given to ensure that Fenris could never, ever disobey— but the rest . . .
But he's being foolish. Curse, Astarion had said. Blood, he says now, his face buried in his hands. And blood magic (for it must be that) always has a price.]
Though little wonder you do not know how to cook . . .
[It's not funny, but he says it only to gently defuse, for he knows what it is to flinch in anticipation for the cry of monster. But lest Astarion mistake diffusion for irreverence, he adds:]
To what end did he impose those limitations? For magic for himself, for which you were forced to bear the consequences— or something else?
[The repetition doesn't haunt, it possesses; at this rate it's going to take a near eternity to acclimate to the dead drop feel of weightlessness that's ingrained itself within his neophytic pulse each time he braces for the worst— for what should, by all rights, come attached to an admission as damning as this one— only to remain blissfully spared the sight of narrowed eyes or dawning horror.
What a terrifying thing, realizing you'd follow someone so devoutly without coercion or a second thought.
Exhilarating, too. Moreso than all the rest.]
Not an untrue statement to be seen. [Offered through the sly tip of his clawed fingers as his own chin blithely lifts. What few of them perch broken barely detracting from the pale elf's practiced poise....and well afforded praise (for Fenris).] But I doubt he'd have chosen those exact conditions were it not a byproduct of the magic used to forever bind us to his side. Some, yes— not all.
That was the deal, you see. Bleeding at death's door in desperation, peripheral vision already a muddy swath, and in he'd swoop like a shining beacon of salvation in the night. There to save us from certain oblivion with no other hope in sight, sweet and mercifully noble. [And what a familiar tale that is.] It's the fine print that gets left out. The fact that we'll be no cherished thing once we surrender to his....alterations, but an eternal slave with no body of our own. No freedom even in our own minds, for all he'd need do was demand we speak, and sanguine compulsion gladly did the rest.
It was his curse that granted those of us too unlucky or stupid to fall victim to his offer those myriad weaknesses, along with fangs. Claws. Eyes that shine with the truth of what we are.
Another leash, to make certain we could never leave unless he bade it.
[Threaded, that narrow little pause.]
....you're the only soul I've ever met that doesn't seem to care what I've become. I don't know what to make of that.
[A choice, then. A choice that wasn't a choice at all, and oh, yes, that's a familiar tale, isn't it? A slave driven to the brink with desperation, clawing at the walls and so desperate that he'd take any out offered to him— gods, is there any sadism a master won't stoop to? Us, Astarion says, ours, and Fenris wonders how many times such a ritual was performed.
(How many times would Danarius have done it if he could have? Hundreds of times, if the magic didn't dilute, for what magister wouldn't give an arm and a leg to have such control over all his slaves? No need to fret about rebellion; no need to worry about health or resentment, the vengeful mother with a knife or the heartbroken lover who decides to end it all in one spectacular bang, oh, no. Better to make sure they're all docile, and who cares if their souls are screaming?
And he hates that even now, his first comparison is Danarius, but it is what it is— and of all the scars he bears, that, at least, is a small one).
He wants to know more. To ask how long it's been since Astarion was able to converse freely, if he was ever able to at all; to wonder if those compulsion spread even to thoughts, and this is the first time his newfound companion could even think without having to fear undue influence.
But there's that last sentence— and oh, that takes priority, for he can hear the wariness threaded there, tentative and fearful both.]
Well, do not think me a saint for it.
[He doesn't look away from those hollow eyes shining across the fire, whether they return his gaze or not.]
I am no endlessly doting figure, here to accept any and all as they come. I find magic to be the source of most of the world's problems— blood magic especially— and I am not inclined to coddle what mages I find. They are dangerous creatures at the best of times— and we are not in the best of times. Nor am I often compelled to share my fire like this, not with those I find on the road. I am not cruel, but nor am I some bleeding heart ready to empty my pockets for the sake of another.
[A breath to let that sink in.]
. . . but I know more intimately than most what it is to be marked and mutilated by one's master. I know what it is to be held on a leash and kept at his side, mute and deaf and blind, resigning yourself to your existence until a seemingly miraculous escape presents itself. And I know what it is to flee into a place where you know nothing and understand even less, left only to try and make your way as best you can.
[It's more of a speech than Fenris really meant to give, but he doesn't regret it. Still: some quiet awkwardness is present in the way his fingers idly tap at the ground, self-consciousness displaced.]
So: it is less that I do not care and am blind to what you are, and more that I am too familiar with being the pawn and unwilling victim of a magister gone mad with power.
[A beat, and then, a little glibly, he adds:]
Besides: you may find you attract less stares than me when we go into Kirkwall. An elf with white hair and fangs is unusual, but not more than a warrior walking around with a fortune's worth of ore burned into his skin.
[He listens. For so long, and so attentively, that he's sure no one who knew him would recognize him in those fleeting moments whilst his newfound fascination sits there speaking. Where even the fractured gaps between conscious and subconscious seem to echo as they hang on every word, repeating them again and again.
And then, at the end—
He laughs.]
Be still my—
[ah] beating heart. [Hm. Such a novel thing to say, now that it's true (tugging on his tattered blouse comes with less fascination). Those gold-green eyes don't look away; neither do Astarion's. Couldn't help it if he tried.]
I suppose we'll need to take tally if we make it to that city of yours in one piece. With the winner spared paying for drinks for an entire night.
[It's Fenris' turn to laugh: soft and yet genuine, a pleased scoff as he feels some of the tension ease between them.]
A bold offer for a man who has, last I counted, not a single gold piece to his name. Are you so confident in your ability to attract stares, or merely willing to test if I'll cover you, win or lose?
[Maker, it's been years since he's teased like this. He'd thought he'd forgotten how. And you know, even now, some part of his heart rings an alarm bell in warning, whispering of the foolishness of growing close to someone— but ah, this isn't that. This isn't Kirkwall; this isn't even Shirallas. It's one night, and more likely than not, Fenris thinks, this man will soon disappear anyway. Content to forget anything that even nebulously connects him to his past. It's no bad thing.
[Astarion's scoff is such a feathered thing; he doesn't grasp the depth of what presently churns behind an otherwise easy stare (how could he? So far as he knows, they're both rife with keen contentment. The first true thing in two lightless, all-encompassing lifetimes). Like something starved for sustenance, he leans in without looking back.]
Pshh. Details, details. Perhaps I'm simply confident in my ability to manifest coin from thin air?
Oh, an ex-slave and a thief? If nothing else, Astarion, trust that you'll fit right in where we're heading.
[God. What a cesspit, Fenris thinks fondly. It's a semi-fondness, admittedly, tainted not just by memories but a fairly realistic expectation of what the city entails, but still. It was his home, and in some ways will always be his home.]
Kirkwall is many things, most of them unpleasant, but it's a good city to start over in. For better or worse, you can climb your way out of the slums if you try— especially if you have light fingers.
You know, I don't think I ever understood the idea of expatriation outside simply dreaming of a world beyond my Master's reach. Apparently all I needed was the right potential home.
And the right company.
[Oh, how those garnet eyes glint above the green cast of his upturned palm, each syllable tigerine in ways that rise too easily behind now-fragile ribs.]
But what slave doesn't know how to silence their steps beyond shadow or the dead of night? Or feign sleep so as to go unnoticed? Sleight of hand— misdirection— flattery itself: the skills that once bore me through the depths of misery now afford a higher—
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no subject
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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
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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Only this time, it feels right.]
Gradual. [ Proves a surprising level confession, casting him as something rife with capable indiffernce; he'd seen Cazador enact it once or twice as punishment. Never enough to kill his own unruly pets, but enough to make them think he might just on a whim, should they insist on clawing at the last thin walls of his charnel house patience.]
Worse comes to worst I was planning on crawling back inside my bedroll and rejecting crawling out until the sun sets— but I couldn't do that without alerting you. And I....didn't want to actually run off.
[What a waste that would've been. Or would be, he supposes, considering it's not too late.]
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I'm glad.
[It's a quiet comment, not meant to be noticed so much as acknowledge that statement. The majority of his attention is focused on that answer. Gradual, and he wonders . . . but it must be akin to burning alive, he thinks, and hopes he never finds out.
Still, he can read into that indifferent tone and knows well enough not to push it.]
It was not the worst of plans, albeit, as you said, not particularly subtle. But if it comes to that, we can find a more elegant way for you to avoid the sun's rays, I think. There is a forest not far from here.
[Water conquered, and sunlight left to be seen . . . Fenris cocks his head just slightly.]
Are there any others I ought to know?
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And for now, daylight seems the tallest order.]
Mm. [What a sullen sound that is, oppressive as it turns his face towards his palms as if it were anchored to them. Only the recitation that comes after it proves easy, for he's mette it a hundred thousand times before:] I cannot enter homes uninvited, I cannot disobey, or control myself against any of his— that is to say my former master—'s wishes. I cannot dream, nor suffer running water, nor sunlight, nor the kiss of holy magic.
And, most of all, [or worst of all, depending on perspective] I can't sustain myself on anything that isn't blood.
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[It's the first thought, blunt and childish, that flashes through Fenris' mind— and like so many of his thoughts, it slips right past his lips without filter.
But really: I cannot enter homes uninvited, I cannot dream, I cannot suffer running water, I cannot endure holy magic, and Fenris will not fault Astarion for a single one of those limitations, but oh, what a stupid master. Danarius would have agreed (and in the distant reaches of his mind, Fenris can hear his voice echoing in time with the rhythmic tap-tap of his staff. What if his master has need of him in the Chantry? What if he falls into the river and might drown if his slave doesn't dive in?). There are certain restrictions that make sense, in an awful sort of way— what Danarius wouldn't have given to ensure that Fenris could never, ever disobey— but the rest . . .
But he's being foolish. Curse, Astarion had said. Blood, he says now, his face buried in his hands. And blood magic (for it must be that) always has a price.]
Though little wonder you do not know how to cook . . .
[It's not funny, but he says it only to gently defuse, for he knows what it is to flinch in anticipation for the cry of monster. But lest Astarion mistake diffusion for irreverence, he adds:]
To what end did he impose those limitations? For magic for himself, for which you were forced to bear the consequences— or something else?
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What a terrifying thing, realizing you'd follow someone so devoutly without coercion or a second thought.
Exhilarating, too. Moreso than all the rest.]
Not an untrue statement to be seen. [Offered through the sly tip of his clawed fingers as his own chin blithely lifts. What few of them perch broken barely detracting from the pale elf's practiced poise....and well afforded praise (for Fenris).] But I doubt he'd have chosen those exact conditions were it not a byproduct of the magic used to forever bind us to his side. Some, yes— not all.
That was the deal, you see. Bleeding at death's door in desperation, peripheral vision already a muddy swath, and in he'd swoop like a shining beacon of salvation in the night. There to save us from certain oblivion with no other hope in sight, sweet and mercifully noble. [And what a familiar tale that is.] It's the fine print that gets left out. The fact that we'll be no cherished thing once we surrender to his....alterations, but an eternal slave with no body of our own. No freedom even in our own minds, for all he'd need do was demand we speak, and sanguine compulsion gladly did the rest.
It was his curse that granted those of us too unlucky or stupid to fall victim to his offer those myriad weaknesses, along with fangs. Claws. Eyes that shine with the truth of what we are.
Another leash, to make certain we could never leave unless he bade it.
[Threaded, that narrow little pause.]
....you're the only soul I've ever met that doesn't seem to care what I've become. I don't know what to make of that.
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(How many times would Danarius have done it if he could have? Hundreds of times, if the magic didn't dilute, for what magister wouldn't give an arm and a leg to have such control over all his slaves? No need to fret about rebellion; no need to worry about health or resentment, the vengeful mother with a knife or the heartbroken lover who decides to end it all in one spectacular bang, oh, no. Better to make sure they're all docile, and who cares if their souls are screaming?
And he hates that even now, his first comparison is Danarius, but it is what it is— and of all the scars he bears, that, at least, is a small one).
He wants to know more. To ask how long it's been since Astarion was able to converse freely, if he was ever able to at all; to wonder if those compulsion spread even to thoughts, and this is the first time his newfound companion could even think without having to fear undue influence.
But there's that last sentence— and oh, that takes priority, for he can hear the wariness threaded there, tentative and fearful both.]
Well, do not think me a saint for it.
[He doesn't look away from those hollow eyes shining across the fire, whether they return his gaze or not.]
I am no endlessly doting figure, here to accept any and all as they come. I find magic to be the source of most of the world's problems— blood magic especially— and I am not inclined to coddle what mages I find. They are dangerous creatures at the best of times— and we are not in the best of times. Nor am I often compelled to share my fire like this, not with those I find on the road. I am not cruel, but nor am I some bleeding heart ready to empty my pockets for the sake of another.
[A breath to let that sink in.]
. . . but I know more intimately than most what it is to be marked and mutilated by one's master. I know what it is to be held on a leash and kept at his side, mute and deaf and blind, resigning yourself to your existence until a seemingly miraculous escape presents itself. And I know what it is to flee into a place where you know nothing and understand even less, left only to try and make your way as best you can.
[It's more of a speech than Fenris really meant to give, but he doesn't regret it. Still: some quiet awkwardness is present in the way his fingers idly tap at the ground, self-consciousness displaced.]
So: it is less that I do not care and am blind to what you are, and more that I am too familiar with being the pawn and unwilling victim of a magister gone mad with power.
[A beat, and then, a little glibly, he adds:]
Besides: you may find you attract less stares than me when we go into Kirkwall. An elf with white hair and fangs is unusual, but not more than a warrior walking around with a fortune's worth of ore burned into his skin.
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And then, at the end—
He laughs.]
Be still my—
[ah] beating heart. [Hm. Such a novel thing to say, now that it's true (tugging on his tattered blouse comes with less fascination). Those gold-green eyes don't look away; neither do Astarion's. Couldn't help it if he tried.]
I suppose we'll need to take tally if we make it to that city of yours in one piece. With the winner spared paying for drinks for an entire night.
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A bold offer for a man who has, last I counted, not a single gold piece to his name. Are you so confident in your ability to attract stares, or merely willing to test if I'll cover you, win or lose?
[Maker, it's been years since he's teased like this. He'd thought he'd forgotten how. And you know, even now, some part of his heart rings an alarm bell in warning, whispering of the foolishness of growing close to someone— but ah, this isn't that. This isn't Kirkwall; this isn't even Shirallas. It's one night, and more likely than not, Fenris thinks, this man will soon disappear anyway. Content to forget anything that even nebulously connects him to his past. It's no bad thing.
So enjoy it while it lasts, Blue Wraith.]
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Pshh. Details, details. Perhaps I'm simply confident in my ability to manifest coin from thin air?
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[God. What a cesspit, Fenris thinks fondly. It's a semi-fondness, admittedly, tainted not just by memories but a fairly realistic expectation of what the city entails, but still. It was his home, and in some ways will always be his home.]
Kirkwall is many things, most of them unpleasant, but it's a good city to start over in. For better or worse, you can climb your way out of the slums if you try— especially if you have light fingers.
Can you fight at all?
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And the right company.
[Oh, how those garnet eyes glint above the green cast of his upturned palm, each syllable tigerine in ways that rise too easily behind now-fragile ribs.]
But what slave doesn't know how to silence their steps beyond shadow or the dead of night? Or feign sleep so as to go unnoticed? Sleight of hand— misdirection— flattery itself: the skills that once bore me through the depths of misery now afford a higher—
[Long ears twitch once, delayed.]
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[Wait.]
What?
[Did you say fight?] ....As in fight fight?
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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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