[Fair enough, and he tips his head, acknowledging and agreeing with Astarion's point all at once. His lyrium really must seem strange, he realizes. He's all but forgotten it, too wrapped up in this conversation, but of course it's as foreign to Astarion as all of this is to him.
He takes in those tucking ears (cute, and he doesn't think it now, but he will in a few years, viewing these memories all over again), though his nose wrinkles petulantly at that question.]
More often than I ever would have cared to, yes.
[Not all nobility are awful, admittedly. He'll never love his love for Hawke, and Sebastian had been fine enough, but still. Ugh.]
Demigods are so much worse. [Coy as a kittenish purr from the hollow of his throat; sharing secrets like a duchess having taken in too much brandy and good company, now prone to making dangerous little jokes in secret.
And all of them true.]
They embody the spirit of their pampered parentage and wear it like a bloody shirt for good or ill will, and both are damned intolerable. The last to visit razed nearly all the city for its father— the god of murder— just by showing up. And though I had been locked away for the entirety of the disaster, believe me, the whole damned thing was all anyone could talk about for years.
That makes an unfortunate amount of sense. Though it does seem the natural conclusion of tolerating worship to a god of murder.
[Like, he's just saying! The critique not aimed at Astarion but Toril, and perhaps religion in general. With a little grin, he adds:]
I suppose I cannot judge. Kirkwall is no better. For six years she played host to a group of unflinchingly rigid warriors who despised everything the city stood for, and had the audacity to act shocked when it all inevitably boiled over and they ransacked the city.
You'll hear word of it, I have no doubt. Though I do wonder which was worse. Qunari are frighteningly competent, but then again, they have no divine parentage . . . though both, I imagine, feel as though they owed something to a higher calling.
Was it just the one demigod that caused all the destruction, or did he have an army, too?
Some say the wretch had a fleet at its disposal, while others claim it tore the city asunder in broad daylight, alone, and drenched in blood.
[His chuckle comes and goes faster than a blink.]
I imagine the truth lies somewhere in the middle.
[But when he rolls forward to tuck his chin into his unagonized palm, it's with an air of palpable thrill.] Were they tall, these unflinching rigid warriors? Broad in stature and singleminded determination and rippling with muscle, perhaps?
[Oh, and for just a moment something bittersweet crosses Fenris' face, there and gone. Astarion might not even have noticed it unless he's paying attention; it's replaced swiftly enough with a scoffing laugh.
(I heard Tevinter slaves are kept oiled so they glisten, and funny, isn't it, what makes him think of her . . .)]
I commend you for focusing on the real priorities here.
But yes: they are all that and more. They stand around six to eight feet tall, grey-skinned and white haired as a rule, with horns and a somewhat bovine inclination around their facial features.
[He gestures at his own face, trying (somewhat badly) to illustrate what that means.]
With that said: they are, without exception, extremely disciplined. Their religion is their way of life and has no tolerance for disobedience— and they do not lie with bas— outsiders.
You would have better luck with the outcasts of their world, perhaps. They still lurk about Lowtown from time to time. Though you may want to be sure of your own talents before you approach them; they do not suffer braggarts, no matter the arena.
And at your height, I suspect you'd have something to prove to them.
[They are literally the same height, and Fenris knows goddamn well what he's talking about.]
At my everything I suspect it wouldn't take half as much as you think. [Wrinkles his fine nose with the most dagger-sharp of grins: all teeth. All jagged, pointed edges.
All confidence.]
Religion is such a flimsy defense against desire behind closed doors, after all. [That smile twitches upwards for a beat.] But I'm all full up on warriors I'm currently proving my worth to at the moment. Alas.
[He cocks his head, quietly disagreeing with that first comment; Astarion might have decent enough skills in flirtation, but Fenris knows Qunari. But oh, that grin . . . Maker's breath, and his eyes linger there for a few seconds too long.]
You have nothing to prove to me— beyond, perhaps, your so-called skills with a weapon, if that's a fiction you wish to maintain.
[I haven't forgotten about that, his look says, with a quiet addition of, and I'll be following up on it if you stay with me. It's as much for his own peace of mind as anything.]
Though your teeth could serve in a pinch. Is that another aspect of your curse, or another difference between elves in your world and mine?
Tch. All creatures should be so lucky. [Makes for two lies passably sold: the first already cited by Fenris' blunter teeth— the faint glimpse of which draws Astarion's attention where he rests.
At this rate, dawn will come before either of them finish teasing one another.
And that's hardly a complaint.]
But it was one more facet of my 'gift', as the vampiric saying goes. We are—
Some of us are built to be as deadly as our diet theoretically demands: ones such as my master and his kin, who can, no doubt basking in the glory of their free will and unfettered power, coax even the most stunning and skittish of mortals to their side, and—
[His pause is suddenly loose. A dry noise in his empty throat, working against more than gravity.]
—I.
[A clipped exhale.]
On second thought, this may not be the best of late night subjects. [That isn't it; he just doesn't long to be associated with the grim potential of his kind.
[It's a laughably small noise, but Fenris is paying more attention than ever. He knows he doesn't understand, not really, but he can guess at the shape of what Astarion is saying. There's few good ways for that sentence to end, and he cannot fault him for wanting to distance himself from a monster, never mind his master.]
They were wretches, and now they are a world away.
[And it isn't soothing. It isn't trite comfort or false assurance that Fenris has no business giving. It's just a fact, but sometimes those are the most comforting things of all.
He's silent for a few moments. Then, just a little abruptly:]
My lyrium enables me to go transparent.
[He rolls his fingers and feels the lyrium tug at his knuckles.]
Exceedingly useful in battle— not to mention if I need to flee or reposition myself with a group of attackers. I will never say I'm grateful for it, but it gives me an edge in battle that no one else has. I can even isolate it to parts of my body if I so wish.
Most often, I use it to tear the heart out of my enemies.
[His voice as steady and even as his gaze.]
Blue Wraith, they call me, and it is not a compliment. I am a terror to those I call my foes, and before that, I was a terror to whomever my master pointed me at. There is nothing and no one in the world like me, and there never will be.
I will not call myself a wretch. But I am no hero, either.
And you should know what you travel with.
proof yesterday was a disaster bc I forgot it was actually my turn??? ??????????
On that, they agree. Astarion has lived for so long with panic lining his limbs that he craves certainty. Security. No surprises, please gods, he's had enough of dead drop twists— aside from the knot in his stomach that curdles to think of returning the favor, already rushing to try and phrase it correctly. Cage horror in a way that flatters 'oh it wasn't me— I had no choice, I took no throats', but there's no cause for it when the topic of the hour is rending hearts. No cause, and yet his palms are clammy still.
He combats it with a smile run too glassy to the brim, filled with cruel contempt.]
My master's appetite was endless. While he fed me dead rats and bugs to stave the edge of uselessness in starvation, he longed nightly for the purest beauty Baldur's Gate might have to offer— the sanguine sort, if that isn't clear: the young, the well-bred, the enviably handsome or tenderest of hearts— those were the sort of unsuspecting meals meant to grace his table and that of his most precious guests.
Luring them was my role.
[The echo he adopts is laced with punctuation. A steady hand.]
[He listens. It's a nauseating tale, to be sure, though perhaps not for the reasons Astarion thinks. He feasted upon blood and flesh and used me as a lure, and there is no part that does not turn Fenris' stomach. But nor does it shock him.]
And now I know.
[His voice is as even as his gaze, steady and sure. And it isn't apathy or blitheness that has him reacting so calmly— but he would not blame Astarion for assuming that.]
The streets of Tevinter and Kirkwall are paved with the blood of innumerable slaves. Spilled for no other reason than indulgence, or experiment, or feign for power. And though it was on a master's orders, I have no doubt it was a slave more often than not who drew the knife over their fellows' throat.
I do not hold myself responsible for those victims whose lives I ended upon my master's orders.
[But this isn't about him. And while it's nice to think that a near-stranger's pronouncement of guilt or innocence could change things, it won't. Not really. So, a little more quietly:]
[Steady and sure, and yet Astarion's own image falters in the face of it; inadvertently admitting that he's just too long persisted inside those margins writ by lightless manipulation. Has to squint to try and measure its antithesis, atrophied pupils failing hard to scratch the surface.
Let alone weather it without flinching, despite feigning a mirrored show.]
Of course not. [(A twitch of the eye. A lightness in his tone that doesn't find its footing, camaradie falling wretchedly short).
Astarion nearly frowns to hear himself.]
No one ever blames the knife for rending flesh. The venomous fang for its poison, rather than the snake itself. [Of course not.
And whether or not Fenris believes Astarion as he asserts that almost doesn't matter. He has his guesses, quiet and informed by his own past, but what Fenris does or doesn't believe is ultimately irrelevant. It's what Astarion internalizes that matters.
Perhaps someday they'll revisit this conversation, and he'll ask again. Perhaps they'll even grow close enough he'll get an honest answer.]
They should not, anyway, [he finally settles upon, his tone light.] Though never is a very large word, and the world is full of people who have little idea of what it is to be a slave.
[But he will not push.]
But you were right before: this is a poor subject for a late night. And I would not have you spend your first evening in freedom ruminating on what came before.
Tell me instead more of this city of yours. You say it was a grand thing? But you may be surprised . . . Kirkwall is far from a jewel, but she is a port city-state, and larger and more sprawling than most suspect. I wonder if your Baldur's Gate will compare.
Oh I very much doubt i'll be able to escape rumination with a view like this. [It is so hazy, the sudden measure of his hooded stare as it washes over everything— present company included. Aimless as the slow blink that he finally manages through those grit-lined eyes, now dark around their corners.]
But it— hm. [wistful, nearly.] It had its charms and vistas, its beauty and its rot. More former; a great deal of the latter.
I can't pretend I was eternally awash in awe each time I found myself cut loose within her walls with purpose, but....gods above, it was a thrill.
Still.
[Theres a tug of upwards movement just along the corner of his mouth.]
[He curses his own foolishness in asking such a question the moment it leaves his lips, but it's too late to take it back now. I've never been allowed to leave, Astarion had said— but as he talks, he confirms what Fenris had vaguely suspected: little trips. Little visits with explicit instruction, nothing close to real freedom or exploration. It mirrors Fenris' own experience, and perhaps that's why he made the error in the first place.
For he remembers that thrill, too. The impossible delight of walking around Minrathous on those rare occasions when Danarius would send him on an errand alone: listening voyeuristically to conversations without context, baffled at bursts of laughter and awed at the freedom people so casually exercised without a second thought. So different from all he knew, so strange, so shocking— and like a gulp of ice water, the reminder that there were other ways of life hurt as much as it refreshed.]
We shall see.
[He's looking forward to it, Fenris realizes.]
Though I'll have to trust in your honesty. It cannot be a fair competition unless I see your city in return.
[And that's certainly not happening, ha ha ha. But levity feels, if not false, at least a little strange— and so he adds more quietly:]
It was a rare day when Danarius let me off my leash, but it happened now and again. Minrathous is the supposed jewel of the Empire, and she is dazzling, so long as you don't mind all the slaves and blood magic.
I can still remember the taste of the first beer I snuck, using change from a purchase my master had sent me to retrieve. It was vile— but it was my own to consume as I pleased. And even that inspired awe, in its own way.
Oh so you do have taste. Thank goodness for that— I was beginning to wonder if you weren't one of those swaggering brawlers that swears the only cure for anything in life is a mug of piss-scented swill. [Don't be fooled by the shape of playfulness taking root in his expression:
This isn't keen deflection.
On the contrary, underneath the surface level gleam of hollow eyes in well-cast darkness, Astarion does the very same thing he's done all evening thus far— he hangs on every word. Devours it, insomuch as his own racing awareness will let him at any point in time. Casting odd glances down towards sleek green or up towards a canopy of unfamiliar stars. Casting more discreet glances towards the elf he tries to picture in something that— at least in daydream theory— walks a stretch of miles in his shoes.]
I take it you've developed your palette in freedom for more than just said freedom.
[It's so strange to talk like this: dipping in and out of the past, alluding to old horrors in one moment and speaking lightly of drinks and gambling in the next. He would have thought it would feel disingenuous, a smirk on his lips akin to the worst kind of flippancy, but instead . . . it just feels good. Ordinary in the sweetest way, and all the more addicting for it.
There's no pity. There's no need to couch his words or go on the defensive, not when it comes to his past— and Astarion seems to be of the same caliber. Despite being mere hours out of enslavement, the pale elf is of a different caliber than Orana— and perhaps, Fenris thinks, he too has learned how to talk about this. How to walk that razor's edge between grief and bitter amusement.
And there's something oddly addicting, too, about getting to do this. He doesn't miss those darting eyes, nor the hunger in Astarion's expression, and it's such a quiet satisfaction to sate that appetite.]
Agreggio Pavali is an especially good strain of wine if you enjoy reds— and I do suspect it does. I, ah, inherited several bottles of it when I killed my master, and several more of other vintages I only found much later. They still rest in my home, presuming no one has looted it or repossessed it.
Whiskey is a specialty of Kirkwall; there's a Master of it who lurks in Darktown, selling only to those who take the time to find him. Cheaper spirits can be found in most bars, but quality varies.
[He scoffs a laugh and adds:]
Though if cocktails are more to your taste, there is one called Dragon's Piss that they once served in a bar I knew. I imagine they still do. Or they have sweeter ones, if your tongue cannot handle a bit of spice.
Or, [he says, more warmth creeping into his voice than he means for there to be,] if you do not know your own tastes, I will buy you a glass. And we will learn.
[No. No pity whatsoever. No miring, no squirming as the screws wind tight over old vulnerabilities and fears— like a well done dance, there's an unseen balance woven deep throughout the seams, and it isn't a mirror to the Szarr's puppeting strings. Each time he feels it tug tight (coaxing either of their banter back and forth), he swears he can very nearly pin the difference down between his balled-up fingertips. Mark the places where it sinks into his fingerprints. His mood. His awareness: the thinnest razor edge between intuition and compulsion.
It isn't a lie, what Fenris tells him.
It can't be.
Not when choice comes as easily as this, nesting in a fluttering heartbeat that aches hard and hot along the inside of his throat. Intoxicating. Perfect. Too right.]
....don't make promises you don't intend to keep, darling boy. [Weaves its way out of his throat with a bruising quality to it. Warm as a fever. Distinct in its hue when exposed.
Hopeful. That's what it is. And yet still too afraid to give in blind.]
[Darling boy, and in any other time, in any other circumstance, he would ask after that. Probe at it cautiously, carefully, intent not on shutting it down (how odd that he knows he wouldn't, but never mind that), but simply understanding what Astarion means by it.
But not now. Not when there's that terribly fragile note in Astarion's voice, so terrified and vulnerable that Fenris could shatter it with a word. A breath.
He catches the elf's eye with unwavering confidence, and says with heavy deliberation:]
I never do.
[Sturdy and steady, so that Astarion might build his confidence from that alone.]
Tomorrow night. Or the next day, if it suits you better. Next week, or next year . . . you have my word, Astarion. And I will not break it, not by choice.
Contrary to his past, some things are: it doesn't take much longer for the sun to begin blotting the corners of the sky with bright, salmonflesh splotches of color— drawing the whole of Astarion's apprehensive (overly attuned), stare towards it, and this time without letting go.
His mouth feels dry. A thickened click behind long teeth as he strains to find his footing from inside the narrow body of his bedroll.]
—ahah....
I'm only just now realizing we ought to've come up with a better contingency plan beyond huddling underneath a handful of layers of cloth in broad daylight.
[Maker, is it really approaching sunrise? The night's gone by so fast, but there's no denying the slowly lightening greyness all around them. They've little time before the sun rises properly— and despite himself, Fenris feels his throat thicken in breathless anticipation.
Surely nothing will happen. He truly believes nothing will happen; the lack of reaction towards the water must be proof enough.
And yet still, he rises. Crawling out of his bedroll, he brings it along with him as he resettles at Astarion's side. He won't be so patronizing as to offer up some kind of assurance, not when neither of them know how this will go, but he kneels as close as he can, his palms flat against his thighs and his eyes trained on Astarion.]
Perhaps.
[His voice is pitched low.]
But if it comes to that, there are worse things to sacrifice than dignity. And I can carry you to shade if you linger in your bedroll.
[He means it.
There's a small pause, and then:]
Sit with me.
[Not quite an order, but not quite a suggestion either.]
If it is truly your first sunrise in two hundred years . . . face it like the freed man you are.
That's what it is, Astarion realizes after a narrow handful of seconds pass by in stunted silence, with only the dull roar of his own blood (his own blood, gods— ) hissing in elongated ears as a surrogate for sense of any stripe. Beneath the dull fear and the far more acridly present nausea bumping up against his heart, the truth is far far smaller than its casing.
He doesn't want to crawl away from subjective safety just to face it. He doesn't want to swallow shame to lift his chin, or to smile, or to laugh with comfort at his side, trusting he'll be looked after. Call it instinctive or intelligent, there isn't any difference to the pale elf's hunched spine and anxious pulse: despite craving the glory of confident transcendence, Astarion might not know himself after two hundred years of shackled torture— but he still knows what he isn't.
He isn't like the elf seated closer. Striking in that stretch of dawning red, and committed to the beauty of won freedom. Astarion, meanwhile, can practically feel his own tail tucked between his crossed legs when he gives in to the horrifying press of dignity: sacrificing pride to save it, in an ironic twist. Better scorched than a sniveling coward, he supposes, as he peels himself out of his own bedroll to slink across diagonally till they're settled side-by-side. Licking his lips like a nervous dog, yet leaving his eyes— his expression— even enough to pass for complete and utter calm.
(A farce it may yet be, but it'll be a believable one before it all goes to shit.)]
I'll note those sort of lines are usually of the 'famous' and 'last' variety, just to keep things in perspective. [Thin as paper; thin as the smile he adopts out of the corner of his eye, sticking close as anything to Fenris' side without touching, palms adopting a similar pose.
His left hand seethes, throbbing like a splinter. He barely feels it.]
Shall I speak irreverently to you, then? Few stories end with death occurring midway through a ribald tale.
[Around them, the sky lightens. Pink streaks turn blazing shades of orange and scarlet and gold, as towards the west, the last vestiges of night hold out stubbornly for a few minutes more. Dawn is here, and it will not be long before the sun herself rises from behind the mountains. Even now, the world changes around them: colors suddenly more vivid than they had been in the hours before, the deep-dyed indigos and emeralds becoming something softer. Sweeter. Lighter, in every shape and form.
And Astarion is so good at looking calm. Truly he is, and Fenris will not spoil that act, no matter what he might suspect lurks beneath it. Part of him thinks to speak, prattling on about nonsense for the sole reason for distraction, but . . . ah, that was never his style, and it does not suit. Better not to flinch from this, to Fenris' reckoning. Best to face it as best they both can, and accept whatever consequences from from it.
But as the air begins to warm and the dew glimmers on the grass, liquid gold finally cresting over the horizon, he sets his hand atop Astarion's shoulder, gripping it wordlessly.]
Speaking from personal experience, darling: more have than you might think. [Is its own response, in a way; with sunlight cutting through the gaps in the horizon, he isn't certain he can stomach making one more choice entirely on his own. Amplified there by the weight of his heels planted where they're tucked in underneath him, and how even through clothing and the rest, he can make out grass. Tangled and crushed down, stretching up only in the places where his outline slacks, and with that subtle mapping, he knows—
(Like the hissing in his ear, the dull discomfort throbbing hard beneath his ribs—)
—he's far from Baldur's Gate at last.
And when it's just too damned much to bear (is it ever not), his eyes squint shut against a blur of redder light just in time to find themselves throttled back open by the press of an unfamiliar hand across his shoulder. By the fingers that anchor in just around the dip above his collarbone, so unlike the others that he's known in recent years: neither hard nor overtly soft; stiff pressure framing glassier attention from the strip of cold, odd lyrium strung in bands across what must be the center of those fingerpads.
Astarion's crimson focus lifts— darts breathlessly to one side— and exhales hot once he realizes he's failed to notice the actual bloody sunrise at his side. Just the reflection of it where it meets white fringe. Jagged wisps and downturned ears, and the golder glint in green, calm eyes.
His own breath shakes inside his lungs. Quiet. Low. Shallow and uncomfortable, too afraid to check to see whether or not he's burning straight to ash.
Dawning horror on his companion's face might tell him that more kindly than a glance downwards at his own chalking skin, if it comes to it.]
[He looks at his companion, for there's nothing that matters more in this moment. If Astarion cannot bear to face the rising sun, there is no shame in that; it only means that Fenris will not either, for he has seen it a thousand times before.
Dawn breaks, rays of light dying silver curls a sweet gold, adding flushing warmth to pale skin and narrow features. Fenris' eyes play over his face, studying him not just for signs of fear or grief, but burning too. And yet: there's nothing. The seconds tick past and he can smell nothing, see nothing out of the ordinary.
Just an elf, pale and terrified and so, so out of his depth.
And Fenris doesn't remove his hand.]
Daylight suits you.
[Soft and sweet, just like the smile that plays over his lips for a precious few seconds. But then, more directly:]
I see nothing, Astarion. You aren't burning. You look just as you did.
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no subject
He takes in those tucking ears (cute, and he doesn't think it now, but he will in a few years, viewing these memories all over again), though his nose wrinkles petulantly at that question.]
More often than I ever would have cared to, yes.
[Not all nobility are awful, admittedly. He'll never love his love for Hawke, and Sebastian had been fine enough, but still. Ugh.]
no subject
And all of them true.]
They embody the spirit of their pampered parentage and wear it like a bloody shirt for good or ill will, and both are damned intolerable. The last to visit razed nearly all the city for its father— the god of murder— just by showing up. And though I had been locked away for the entirety of the disaster, believe me, the whole damned thing was all anyone could talk about for years.
no subject
That makes an unfortunate amount of sense. Though it does seem the natural conclusion of tolerating worship to a god of murder.
[Like, he's just saying! The critique not aimed at Astarion but Toril, and perhaps religion in general. With a little grin, he adds:]
I suppose I cannot judge. Kirkwall is no better. For six years she played host to a group of unflinchingly rigid warriors who despised everything the city stood for, and had the audacity to act shocked when it all inevitably boiled over and they ransacked the city.
You'll hear word of it, I have no doubt. Though I do wonder which was worse. Qunari are frighteningly competent, but then again, they have no divine parentage . . . though both, I imagine, feel as though they owed something to a higher calling.
Was it just the one demigod that caused all the destruction, or did he have an army, too?
no subject
Some say the wretch had a fleet at its disposal, while others claim it tore the city asunder in broad daylight, alone, and drenched in blood.
[His chuckle comes and goes faster than a blink.]
I imagine the truth lies somewhere in the middle.
[But when he rolls forward to tuck his chin into his unagonized palm, it's with an air of palpable thrill.] Were they tall, these unflinching rigid warriors? Broad in stature and singleminded determination and rippling with muscle, perhaps?
Asking for a friend.
[He has no friends.]
no subject
(I heard Tevinter slaves are kept oiled so they glisten, and funny, isn't it, what makes him think of her . . .)]
I commend you for focusing on the real priorities here.
But yes: they are all that and more. They stand around six to eight feet tall, grey-skinned and white haired as a rule, with horns and a somewhat bovine inclination around their facial features.
[He gestures at his own face, trying (somewhat badly) to illustrate what that means.]
With that said: they are, without exception, extremely disciplined. Their religion is their way of life and has no tolerance for disobedience— and they do not lie with bas— outsiders.
You would have better luck with the outcasts of their world, perhaps. They still lurk about Lowtown from time to time. Though you may want to be sure of your own talents before you approach them; they do not suffer braggarts, no matter the arena.
And at your height, I suspect you'd have something to prove to them.
[They are literally the same height, and Fenris knows goddamn well what he's talking about.]
no subject
All confidence.]
Religion is such a flimsy defense against desire behind closed doors, after all. [That smile twitches upwards for a beat.] But I'm all full up on warriors I'm currently proving my worth to at the moment. Alas.
no subject
You have nothing to prove to me— beyond, perhaps, your so-called skills with a weapon, if that's a fiction you wish to maintain.
[I haven't forgotten about that, his look says, with a quiet addition of, and I'll be following up on it if you stay with me. It's as much for his own peace of mind as anything.]
Though your teeth could serve in a pinch. Is that another aspect of your curse, or another difference between elves in your world and mine?
no subject
At this rate, dawn will come before either of them finish teasing one another.
And that's hardly a complaint.]
But it was one more facet of my 'gift', as the vampiric saying goes. We are—
Some of us are built to be as deadly as our diet theoretically demands: ones such as my master and his kin, who can, no doubt basking in the glory of their free will and unfettered power, coax even the most stunning and skittish of mortals to their side, and—
[His pause is suddenly loose. A dry noise in his empty throat, working against more than gravity.]
—I.
[A clipped exhale.]
On second thought, this may not be the best of late night subjects. [That isn't it; he just doesn't long to be associated with the grim potential of his kind.
Not yet.]
They were wretches. I promise you, I'm not.
[Three lies.]
no subject
[It's a laughably small noise, but Fenris is paying more attention than ever. He knows he doesn't understand, not really, but he can guess at the shape of what Astarion is saying. There's few good ways for that sentence to end, and he cannot fault him for wanting to distance himself from a monster, never mind his master.]
They were wretches, and now they are a world away.
[And it isn't soothing. It isn't trite comfort or false assurance that Fenris has no business giving. It's just a fact, but sometimes those are the most comforting things of all.
He's silent for a few moments. Then, just a little abruptly:]
My lyrium enables me to go transparent.
[He rolls his fingers and feels the lyrium tug at his knuckles.]
Exceedingly useful in battle— not to mention if I need to flee or reposition myself with a group of attackers. I will never say I'm grateful for it, but it gives me an edge in battle that no one else has. I can even isolate it to parts of my body if I so wish.
Most often, I use it to tear the heart out of my enemies.
[His voice as steady and even as his gaze.]
Blue Wraith, they call me, and it is not a compliment. I am a terror to those I call my foes, and before that, I was a terror to whomever my master pointed me at. There is nothing and no one in the world like me, and there never will be.
I will not call myself a wretch. But I am no hero, either.
And you should know what you travel with.
proof yesterday was a disaster bc I forgot it was actually my turn??? ??????????
On that, they agree. Astarion has lived for so long with panic lining his limbs that he craves certainty. Security. No surprises, please gods, he's had enough of dead drop twists— aside from the knot in his stomach that curdles to think of returning the favor, already rushing to try and phrase it correctly. Cage horror in a way that flatters 'oh it wasn't me— I had no choice, I took no throats', but there's no cause for it when the topic of the hour is rending hearts. No cause, and yet his palms are clammy still.
He combats it with a smile run too glassy to the brim, filled with cruel contempt.]
My master's appetite was endless. While he fed me dead rats and bugs to stave the edge of uselessness in starvation, he longed nightly for the purest beauty Baldur's Gate might have to offer— the sanguine sort, if that isn't clear: the young, the well-bred, the enviably handsome or tenderest of hearts— those were the sort of unsuspecting meals meant to grace his table and that of his most precious guests.
Luring them was my role.
[The echo he adopts is laced with punctuation. A steady hand.]
You should know what you travel with.
IT WAS HARD OKAY
And now I know.
[His voice is as even as his gaze, steady and sure. And it isn't apathy or blitheness that has him reacting so calmly— but he would not blame Astarion for assuming that.]
The streets of Tevinter and Kirkwall are paved with the blood of innumerable slaves. Spilled for no other reason than indulgence, or experiment, or feign for power. And though it was on a master's orders, I have no doubt it was a slave more often than not who drew the knife over their fellows' throat.
I do not hold myself responsible for those victims whose lives I ended upon my master's orders.
[But this isn't about him. And while it's nice to think that a near-stranger's pronouncement of guilt or innocence could change things, it won't. Not really. So, a little more quietly:]
Do you?
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Let alone weather it without flinching, despite feigning a mirrored show.]
Of course not. [(A twitch of the eye. A lightness in his tone that doesn't find its footing, camaradie falling wretchedly short).
Astarion nearly frowns to hear himself.]
No one ever blames the knife for rending flesh. The venomous fang for its poison, rather than the snake itself. [Of course not.
Of course not....]
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And whether or not Fenris believes Astarion as he asserts that almost doesn't matter. He has his guesses, quiet and informed by his own past, but what Fenris does or doesn't believe is ultimately irrelevant. It's what Astarion internalizes that matters.
Perhaps someday they'll revisit this conversation, and he'll ask again. Perhaps they'll even grow close enough he'll get an honest answer.]
They should not, anyway, [he finally settles upon, his tone light.] Though never is a very large word, and the world is full of people who have little idea of what it is to be a slave.
[But he will not push.]
But you were right before: this is a poor subject for a late night. And I would not have you spend your first evening in freedom ruminating on what came before.
Tell me instead more of this city of yours. You say it was a grand thing? But you may be surprised . . . Kirkwall is far from a jewel, but she is a port city-state, and larger and more sprawling than most suspect. I wonder if your Baldur's Gate will compare.
[Gentle, toothless comparisons.]
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But it— hm. [wistful, nearly.] It had its charms and vistas, its beauty and its rot. More former; a great deal of the latter.
I can't pretend I was eternally awash in awe each time I found myself cut loose within her walls with purpose, but....gods above, it was a thrill.
Still.
[Theres a tug of upwards movement just along the corner of his mouth.]
You might actually be right.
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For he remembers that thrill, too. The impossible delight of walking around Minrathous on those rare occasions when Danarius would send him on an errand alone: listening voyeuristically to conversations without context, baffled at bursts of laughter and awed at the freedom people so casually exercised without a second thought. So different from all he knew, so strange, so shocking— and like a gulp of ice water, the reminder that there were other ways of life hurt as much as it refreshed.]
We shall see.
[He's looking forward to it, Fenris realizes.]
Though I'll have to trust in your honesty. It cannot be a fair competition unless I see your city in return.
[And that's certainly not happening, ha ha ha. But levity feels, if not false, at least a little strange— and so he adds more quietly:]
It was a rare day when Danarius let me off my leash, but it happened now and again. Minrathous is the supposed jewel of the Empire, and she is dazzling, so long as you don't mind all the slaves and blood magic.
I can still remember the taste of the first beer I snuck, using change from a purchase my master had sent me to retrieve. It was vile— but it was my own to consume as I pleased. And even that inspired awe, in its own way.
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This isn't keen deflection.
On the contrary, underneath the surface level gleam of hollow eyes in well-cast darkness, Astarion does the very same thing he's done all evening thus far— he hangs on every word. Devours it, insomuch as his own racing awareness will let him at any point in time. Casting odd glances down towards sleek green or up towards a canopy of unfamiliar stars. Casting more discreet glances towards the elf he tries to picture in something that— at least in daydream theory— walks a stretch of miles in his shoes.]
I take it you've developed your palette in freedom for more than just said freedom.
[Astarion imagines that he would.]
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[It's so strange to talk like this: dipping in and out of the past, alluding to old horrors in one moment and speaking lightly of drinks and gambling in the next. He would have thought it would feel disingenuous, a smirk on his lips akin to the worst kind of flippancy, but instead . . . it just feels good. Ordinary in the sweetest way, and all the more addicting for it.
There's no pity. There's no need to couch his words or go on the defensive, not when it comes to his past— and Astarion seems to be of the same caliber. Despite being mere hours out of enslavement, the pale elf is of a different caliber than Orana— and perhaps, Fenris thinks, he too has learned how to talk about this. How to walk that razor's edge between grief and bitter amusement.
And there's something oddly addicting, too, about getting to do this. He doesn't miss those darting eyes, nor the hunger in Astarion's expression, and it's such a quiet satisfaction to sate that appetite.]
Agreggio Pavali is an especially good strain of wine if you enjoy reds— and I do suspect it does. I, ah, inherited several bottles of it when I killed my master, and several more of other vintages I only found much later. They still rest in my home, presuming no one has looted it or repossessed it.
Whiskey is a specialty of Kirkwall; there's a Master of it who lurks in Darktown, selling only to those who take the time to find him. Cheaper spirits can be found in most bars, but quality varies.
[He scoffs a laugh and adds:]
Though if cocktails are more to your taste, there is one called Dragon's Piss that they once served in a bar I knew. I imagine they still do. Or they have sweeter ones, if your tongue cannot handle a bit of spice.
Or, [he says, more warmth creeping into his voice than he means for there to be,] if you do not know your own tastes, I will buy you a glass. And we will learn.
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It isn't a lie, what Fenris tells him.
It can't be.
Not when choice comes as easily as this, nesting in a fluttering heartbeat that aches hard and hot along the inside of his throat. Intoxicating. Perfect. Too right.]
....don't make promises you don't intend to keep, darling boy. [Weaves its way out of his throat with a bruising quality to it. Warm as a fever. Distinct in its hue when exposed.
Hopeful. That's what it is. And yet still too afraid to give in blind.]
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But not now. Not when there's that terribly fragile note in Astarion's voice, so terrified and vulnerable that Fenris could shatter it with a word. A breath.
He catches the elf's eye with unwavering confidence, and says with heavy deliberation:]
I never do.
[Sturdy and steady, so that Astarion might build his confidence from that alone.]
Tomorrow night. Or the next day, if it suits you better. Next week, or next year . . . you have my word, Astarion. And I will not break it, not by choice.
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Contrary to his past, some things are: it doesn't take much longer for the sun to begin blotting the corners of the sky with bright, salmonflesh splotches of color— drawing the whole of Astarion's apprehensive (overly attuned), stare towards it, and this time without letting go.
His mouth feels dry. A thickened click behind long teeth as he strains to find his footing from inside the narrow body of his bedroll.]
—ahah....
I'm only just now realizing we ought to've come up with a better contingency plan beyond huddling underneath a handful of layers of cloth in broad daylight.
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Surely nothing will happen. He truly believes nothing will happen; the lack of reaction towards the water must be proof enough.
And yet still, he rises. Crawling out of his bedroll, he brings it along with him as he resettles at Astarion's side. He won't be so patronizing as to offer up some kind of assurance, not when neither of them know how this will go, but he kneels as close as he can, his palms flat against his thighs and his eyes trained on Astarion.]
Perhaps.
[His voice is pitched low.]
But if it comes to that, there are worse things to sacrifice than dignity. And I can carry you to shade if you linger in your bedroll.
[He means it.
There's a small pause, and then:]
Sit with me.
[Not quite an order, but not quite a suggestion either.]
If it is truly your first sunrise in two hundred years . . . face it like the freed man you are.
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That's what it is, Astarion realizes after a narrow handful of seconds pass by in stunted silence, with only the dull roar of his own blood (his own blood, gods— ) hissing in elongated ears as a surrogate for sense of any stripe. Beneath the dull fear and the far more acridly present nausea bumping up against his heart, the truth is far far smaller than its casing.
He doesn't want to crawl away from subjective safety just to face it. He doesn't want to swallow shame to lift his chin, or to smile, or to laugh with comfort at his side, trusting he'll be looked after. Call it instinctive or intelligent, there isn't any difference to the pale elf's hunched spine and anxious pulse: despite craving the glory of confident transcendence, Astarion might not know himself after two hundred years of shackled torture— but he still knows what he isn't.
He isn't like the elf seated closer. Striking in that stretch of dawning red, and committed to the beauty of won freedom. Astarion, meanwhile, can practically feel his own tail tucked between his crossed legs when he gives in to the horrifying press of dignity: sacrificing pride to save it, in an ironic twist. Better scorched than a sniveling coward, he supposes, as he peels himself out of his own bedroll to slink across diagonally till they're settled side-by-side. Licking his lips like a nervous dog, yet leaving his eyes— his expression— even enough to pass for complete and utter calm.
(A farce it may yet be, but it'll be a believable one before it all goes to shit.)]
I'll note those sort of lines are usually of the 'famous' and 'last' variety, just to keep things in perspective. [Thin as paper; thin as the smile he adopts out of the corner of his eye, sticking close as anything to Fenris' side without touching, palms adopting a similar pose.
His left hand seethes, throbbing like a splinter. He barely feels it.]
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Shall I speak irreverently to you, then? Few stories end with death occurring midway through a ribald tale.
[Around them, the sky lightens. Pink streaks turn blazing shades of orange and scarlet and gold, as towards the west, the last vestiges of night hold out stubbornly for a few minutes more. Dawn is here, and it will not be long before the sun herself rises from behind the mountains. Even now, the world changes around them: colors suddenly more vivid than they had been in the hours before, the deep-dyed indigos and emeralds becoming something softer. Sweeter. Lighter, in every shape and form.
And Astarion is so good at looking calm. Truly he is, and Fenris will not spoil that act, no matter what he might suspect lurks beneath it. Part of him thinks to speak, prattling on about nonsense for the sole reason for distraction, but . . . ah, that was never his style, and it does not suit. Better not to flinch from this, to Fenris' reckoning. Best to face it as best they both can, and accept whatever consequences from from it.
But as the air begins to warm and the dew glimmers on the grass, liquid gold finally cresting over the horizon, he sets his hand atop Astarion's shoulder, gripping it wordlessly.]
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(Like the hissing in his ear, the dull discomfort throbbing hard beneath his ribs—)
—he's far from Baldur's Gate at last.
And when it's just too damned much to bear (is it ever not), his eyes squint shut against a blur of redder light just in time to find themselves throttled back open by the press of an unfamiliar hand across his shoulder. By the fingers that anchor in just around the dip above his collarbone, so unlike the others that he's known in recent years: neither hard nor overtly soft; stiff pressure framing glassier attention from the strip of cold, odd lyrium strung in bands across what must be the center of those fingerpads.
Astarion's crimson focus lifts— darts breathlessly to one side— and exhales hot once he realizes he's failed to notice the actual bloody sunrise at his side. Just the reflection of it where it meets white fringe. Jagged wisps and downturned ears, and the golder glint in green, calm eyes.
His own breath shakes inside his lungs. Quiet. Low. Shallow and uncomfortable, too afraid to check to see whether or not he's burning straight to ash.
Dawning horror on his companion's face might tell him that more kindly than a glance downwards at his own chalking skin, if it comes to it.]
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Dawn breaks, rays of light dying silver curls a sweet gold, adding flushing warmth to pale skin and narrow features. Fenris' eyes play over his face, studying him not just for signs of fear or grief, but burning too. And yet: there's nothing. The seconds tick past and he can smell nothing, see nothing out of the ordinary.
Just an elf, pale and terrified and so, so out of his depth.
And Fenris doesn't remove his hand.]
Daylight suits you.
[Soft and sweet, just like the smile that plays over his lips for a precious few seconds. But then, more directly:]
I see nothing, Astarion. You aren't burning. You look just as you did.
It's all right.
[His thumb strokes against his shoulder.]
You're all right.
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