[His sobs still echo in Fenris' ears as they ride.
They'd sat there for so long, Fenris' hand on Astarion's shoulder and his gaze drifted outward, offering the other man some semblance of privacy as he'd cried. Occasionally his thumb would rub against his shoulder, his palm a little awkward as it pet his back, but not once did Fenris speak. There were no words that would suffice. Whatever Astarion mourned in that moment was his alone to grieve over, and though Fenris could think of a thousand reasons why (though his heart ached in wailing empathy, remembering an elven boy howling brokenly in agonized grief as he'd knelt in the sand), nothing would be worth articulating.
So he'd waited, staring at nothing at all, and let Astarion sob.
And now they ride. Astarion's weight is a comfortable warmth behind him, his hands tight as they cling to his armor. They've been silent for a long while, but he's glad to hear his voice when he speaks.
Let it leave you. Let it all fall to the wayside . . . though he knows better than most how hard that is.]
Mm. I've been contemplating that. My original plan was to head to my old home. It should still be there, though I suppose there's always a chance it was repossessed in my absence. I doubt it, though.
[Princess Horse bears both their weight well, but Fenris is glad they're cresting the last hill. She's a little more nervous than either of them are used to, and it'll do her some good to be put into a barn and spoiled for a time. She's more than earned it.]
But there is an organization nestled within the city. Rift Watch, I've heard they are called. [The name's a bit on the nose, but whatever.] It may serve you better if I were to drop you off there. They will have more information about the mark on your hand than I do, and I have no doubt they shelter travelers. You cannot be the first to tumble through.
That said: I do plan to visit them sooner or later. The choice is yours: if you wish to stay with me or go there instead. Either way, I will guide you there first.
[He suspects— no. He wants one choice in particular, and more likely than not he's projecting that onto Astarion. Why shouldn't the elf want to find out more about what's happening to him?
They crest the hill, and ah . . . Kirkwall looks as grim and foreboding as ever. The twin slave statues that mark the main gate gleam in the afternoon light, as behind them, the city herself erupts jaggedly from the cliffs, Hightown looming from the very top. Fires burn and smoke billows from the lower districts, as by the docks, ships stream to and fro carrying cargo.]
There it is, [he adds over his shoulder, drawing them to a stop.] Kirkwall.
[Excitement builds itself atop the bones of his immediately fading rawness; the odd salt-tinge that scrapes against his skin and joints, chafing throughout every blink or movement as they trot along, the grey-brown cliffs that spear their way up towards the sky suddenly the oddest wonder to behold: nothing like the bejeweled seas or verdant mountains lining Baldur's Gate— therefore what they safeguard must be equally impactful. A hypothesis only doubled down by Fenris' admission barely half a second later, when the offer of his home insists he has a home— insists there's something in that reportedly fanged city worth treasuring— and his mind races up to meet that assertion in kind, swearing to himself that it could be a bloody hole in the dirt (of course it won't be, gods, look at the man settled just before him), and he'd still find fervent succor in the space that it affords.
Leaning around in the saddle he can feel his pulsebeat racing yet again. His eyes widening as his grip pulls tauter for security in movement. There it is, Fenris says through the throatiest of hums, and Astarion can't see around him no matter how he tries. Has to stick his heels low and lever up by crude degrees, pulling and pushing his own weight to at last mark the sight of his own future.
The bastion of his freedom. The start of his new life.]
Surprised and sputtered, slipping past his lips before he has the good sense to bite it back. The noise sounds strange to his ears, for it's been so long . . . but oh, he doesn't mean to direct it at Astarion. He half-turns, tipping his head back just to see if he can catch the other elf's eye, a slight grin still playing around his lips.]
That about sums it up, yes.
Is that a disappointed oh or an awed one? I will not fault you for either. It's a bit of a shithole.
[Well, it is.
That said: he clicks his tongue, urging Princess Horse forward. The main gate is only half a mile down the road, but it takes time to get up to Hightown, and he'd like to be indoors before the sun sets.]
Let me do the talking when we come to the gate. The guards can be rude in their questioning, but not particularly overzealous.
As you wish. [Comes as the more immediate response whilst whatever scant unbroken claws stay latched on in momentum's triumphant return to center stage, princess' hooves shifting forwards into the slower slide-trot downwards into mud: no particular inflection attached, Astarion knows he's too far out of his own element to try and charm the city guard, or—
He drops his eyes down towards his palm. Tucks it tighter around the back of Fenris' armor, trying to smother its rich light. Given the scope of everything, he can't be certain something like that would do more good or harm, and conformity is always, always a solid bet.]
It's....[another cast-off glance, another view of something grand and dust-tinged and too striking to describe: the plumes of belching smoke above dark water and high walls, the statues and grim chains and— are those spikes??] ....not what I expected.
[The truth, halting as it rattles loose, dumbstruck.]
I've seen warding decoration before, but on a scale like this? Hells, it certainly doesn't pull its punches when it comes to making threats to any would-be invaders, does it?
[No, it certainly doesn't. Maker, what a strange feeling it is to be approaching the city yet again . . . he sits a little stiffer in the saddle as they approach, his grip tightening on the reins until his lyrium aches in protest. Settle, he tells himself, hating the way his stomach churns and his mind wanders. Settle down, for though there will inevitably be ghosts lingering on the streets and echoing in his mind, he need not fall to pieces just yet.
It's still just a city, after all. No matter that he suffered here, no matter that he fled it in grief and hurt, still: it has no power to hurt him now.
And anyway, he thinks, he need not stay long. Not if he doesn't want to.]
It was once a part of the Tevinter empire: an imperial slave outpost built to break and retrain an endless supply of slaves for the empire. And for a time, it did, and effectively, at that. You'll see it reflected in the layout of the city and the decorations that still linger. The streets are deliberately confusing, and too often there are endless frescoes of cowering slaves and triumphant magisters.
[They're getting closer. Already the guards are eying them, their gazes flat and wary. Fenris returns the stare evenly. There's no sense in picking a fight, but nor will he back down. Besides: he has every right to return here. They can't deny him, not legally.
Not that legally ever means much when it comes to elves.]
But, inevitably, there was an uprising. Several uprisings, in fact, all happening simultaneously. The slave Shartan led his people in rebellion, and that inspired several more, including in Kirkwall. The magisters were slaughtered to a man, and the slaves took over— yes?
[That last comment addressed to the guard who approaches them, his mouth set in a grim line. And yes, all right: this is a stupid story to tell as they try and ease their way into Kirkwall, but perhaps that's why Fenris tells it. Because it's impudent and savage and satisfying; because it makes humans nervous, no matter their rank or designation. Because some part of Fenris hates that he's back here, and what better way to cope with that than to spread that misery around?
There's the usual curt questions, and far more than are strictly necessary: what's your purpose here, how long exactly do you plan on staying and why, what do you need to do in Kirkwall, on and on, invasive and petty, but not overly cruel. Princess Horse snorts in annoyance as one guard takes her reins, holding her still while he rifles through their packs, looking for imported nugs and intoxicants that aren't there. But then it comes to registering where they intend to live, and oh . . . that annoys Fenris.
The Alienage or Darktown, the guard asks, as if there's no other place they might go. And there isn't, not really, and that rankles him all the more.]
We'll find our own way, [he replies evenly, and the guard grunts in dissatisfaction.
See that you do. If you're caught out after dark, it'll be all the harder on you both.]
Do they not allow elves out after dark any more?
[His voice is soft, but oh, there's an edge there now. The guard picks up on it too, for his stare hardens, his mouth twisting nastily. Not yet, he says, and drops Princess' reins, not bothering to hand them back. But it's only a matter of time. And just in case you feel like testing that, let me warn you: there's strange things about lately, and the guards aren't taking well to new things. Don't push your luck, knife-ear.
And he almost reacts.
He almost does.
But to what end? Kill this idiot and his fellows will react; kill them and he'll land in prison. Talk back and be refused entry to the city, and then what? Drag Astarion to some other city and hope they know about his marking too? Besides: if he got riled for every idiot human and their slurs, he'd never get anything done.
So Fenris rolls his eyes and doesn't bother to respond: just kicks Princess Horse into a trot and emerges into Kirkwall proper.]
Maker's breath.
[Muttered as they head in. Kirkwall is no less intimidating from the inside, but at least she opens up a little more: airy markets and the familiar hustle and bustle of vendors and customers soothe some of Fenris' ruffled feathers.
And just like that, with no ceremony at all, he's home. And it feels like everything and nothing, all at once.]
Though rumination on that point is short lived, and what comes next is a palpable rush of tension-et-barely bottled hostility. Less an assessment and more an interrogation in d-minor: disdain running rife on either side, spurring Astarion himself to stiffness while he sticks all the closer to his companion, hawkish twitches of his focus tightening around the masked bed of his palm.
He expects a fight.
He instead finds them walking— well, riding away only a few short minutes later, neither harmed, only threatened in a way that leaves the hair across the nape of his neck bristling uneasily.
Wary.]
....are we going to talk about what just happened?
[Is all Astarion can muster on the shores of disbelief, leaning forward yet again into the rigid slant of leather tackwork, and barely a harbor's walk away from incredulity. Bewilderment. Utterly blindsided confusion.
[Princess Horse comes to a stop as they emerge into Lowtown proper. And for a long minute, Fenris just sits there, staring.
It's all the same.
The vendors who lined the streets for nearly a decade still linger here, a little older but no less enthusiastic as they hawk their wares. The chaotic mixture of humans and elves and dwarves wandering through Lowtown's streets is the same, with each species tending to keep to themselves, most not wanting to start a fight. The air still smells like sea-salt and sweat; above them, the buildings of Hightown loom large, cutting off the view of the horizon. The only thing missing is the Chantry, but beyond that . . .
It shouldn't look like this, Fenris thinks numbly. How dare it look like this? As if nothing has changed at all, as if this city was not the site of a wound so deep that it hurts even now . . . as if none of it mattered. It's so similar that if he turned his head too fast, he might swear that he sees Hawke out of the corner of his eye. Isabela, bending over provocatively as she examines a blade; Merrill tottering between stalls, cooing over the wares and never buying a thing. Maker's breath, he could close his eyes and find his way to any of their doorsteps in an instant, retreading paths long since learned, and yet—
And yet the houses will be empty. And there will be no reason to knock at those doors. For it might look and sound and smell similar, but it isn't. They've all gone. They've all left, scattered to the winds and moved on, for none of what they did ever mattered, not in the long run. Friends are only ever good for a limited time, he thinks bitterly, and no one ever loves you forever. They used him, and he used them, and now . . .
Now, it's over.
And so dark are his thoughts, so bleak is his sudden mood, that he doesn't hear Astarion at first. It's only the way he leans into Fenris that draws attention— and from there, a belated realization.]
Mm? What part of it?
[No, hang on:]
He's mostly talk, I imagine. The city probably is on edge, but I doubt very much the new viscount would try something as stupid as a sundown ban— not least of which because it would inconvenient most of Hightown to have their servants leave so early.
[They've traded places. Figuratively, that is. Their position in the saddle hasn't changed, and Astarion's no more certain in his body language or intonation than before: still a hunkered thing throughout his shoulders, sunken lower than the measuremark of Fenris' leather pauldrons, battered and tattered and disheveled to a fault aside from all the places Fenris washed.
But he's present.
Theres no droning in his ears, and the shock he feels in passing is a far more acute thing compared to what stays itself under his fingers. To the way his companion has drawn back— and, if Astarion's own blind assumption stands true based on countless times spent flat against stone walls— much farther away than before.]
....wh— no, the—
What?
A sundown ban? On elves? [Is there something that he's missing here?] 'Knife ear?'
....is this to do with that rebellion you mentioned?
[But something's wrong here. Even he, dour and miserable now, can sense it. And though he would like very much to simply ride Horse the rest of the way, this isn't a conversation to have called over his shoulder. With a short exhale, Fenris dismounts, gesturing for Astarion to do the same.]
Walk with me.
[For he would face his companion and meet his eye— and, incidentally, keep this conversation between them. If anyone notices Astarion's hand and raises a ruckus, Fenris thinks, it'll be easy enough to sling him back onto the horse and ride away, but for now, best to keep as low a profile as possible.]
Knife ear is a slur they throw around regularly in Kirkwall. I will not say it isn't offensive, but you learn to ignore it. More often than not it isn't worth the trouble to respond.
[But no, that isn't it. A swift glance at Astarion's expression only confirms that.]
They often pass arbitrary rules against elves here. Sundown bans are, frankly, a relatively benign one. Is that not . . .
[No, wait. Fenris pauses for a few moments, staring at Astarion— and then, slowly:]
Humans are the dominant species in this world, here to rule and ruin as they see fit. They do not care for the dwarves, the Qunari, nor the elves— but unlike the former two, elves have no kingdom or stronghold to act from. The last elven kingdom shattered hundreds of years ago, its people colonized and enslaved by humans. Now they— we— are at best second-class citizens wherever we go. Elf is all but synonymous for slave in Tevinter, and the Free Marches act little better, confining most elves into a small Alienage within the poorest neighborhoods so they stay in one place.
There are a few outliers: those who wander the plains and attempt to live outside human influence, for all the good it has ever done them. But for those who wish to live in a city . . .
[He nods around them. It isn't hard to see how most of the elves around them have adopted a universal sort of posture: heads bent and eyes cast down, walking carefully to avoid the path of humans. Some are more spirited than others, talking among themselves or simply set on an errand— but it's not hard to see how some instantly quiet down each time a human approaches.
Sheep, Fenris thinks nastily, and fights off the urge to roll his eyes as he focuses back on Astarion.]
You either comply and allow them to take over your life . . . or you learn to play outside the rules, and know well enough to defend yourself when the humans eventually protest that.
[But then, with wary curiosity:]
. . . is that not what elves in your world are like?
No. [Comes before he thinks to hold his tongue for propriety's own sake, blinking with an almost owlish candor; visibly reined in once he's caught whiff of what he must look like in return, wide-eyed and hopelessly unknowing in those first few shambling steps without a saddled tucked between his legs, fawnish in every sense.
The streets seem to tower over them. The strange smell of dust and salt water blowing through old channels, funneling in a host of other scents along with it— meat, molten dross, ale, perfume— all quickly intertwining. All building in their overlaps like an echo of each other. The architecture: strange. The etchings: strange. The people— ]
....the....[No, start again, he thinks, having already lost the plot.] ....is that where your home lies?
[Tucking in close enough to whisper, Astarion only glances sidelong as a group of humans pass by in a louder herd without much friction. Just their noise. Their presence. Their assumed sense of belonging, taking up so much of an already crowded street.]
No. [Come the returning answer, intoned just as swiftly and bluntly as Astarion's own. No, never, not for him. And yet he does not mean to answer in such a harsh tone; he grimaces in silent apology.]
No.
[He shifts half a step closer in the next moment, pressing in closer to Astarion. Not a mother hen doting endlessly over her chicks, but rather something unspoken: I won't let them near you, no matter that the humans in question aren't paying them much mind. I won't let them lay a finger on you, for Astarion is under his protection now, come whatever may.]
I live in my master's old mansion in Hightown. It is mine in perpetuity, by sheer virtue of no one having the nerve nor the right to challenge me on it. Though it does mean I need to exist within a certain level of anonymity if I intend to linger there.
[Never shop at the same times of day. Never meet your neighbors. Never exist too loudly, too brashly, too openly, for fear that some Hightown resident will take issue and make a fuss. And yet even still, it's better than the alienage. Anything is.
And though he burns to know what it is Astarion is used to, he bites his tongue; he isn't the stranger here, after all, and Astarion's questions matter more.]
You own a— a— [He has to bite his own tongue with the singular pair of flat incisors he possesses just to keep from letting a word slip too loudly in sheer shock as they crowd in one another's space, tugging a set of stray, feathering pulses loose beneath his ribs. Staying in shadow comes naturally even in the throes of instinct, and while he fits himself sidelong across the edge of Fenris' body, it's the way he's conformed to in turn that upends every last rattling thought he could possibly attempt to kickstart in those seconds.
And then the engine of his skull sputters back to life with one sharp (whispered) hiss:] —You own a bloody mansion?
I . . . owned is not the correct term. Squat might be closer to the truth.
[Just so everyone's expectations are reasonable . . . and yet this shock, at least, Fenris can understand. It is unbelievable, frankly. Even he can't believe his luck sometimes, but then again: it's not really luck, is it? Or if it is, it's one of his own making, and well owed besides.]
But it is mine, for better or worse. I cleaned out some of the rooms and made them hospitable a long time ago, and I cannot imagine much has been disturbed since I left it.
Darling not to put too fine a point on it but you killed its former owner, rite of succession swears it's yours. [It is so hard to catch his breath fully; there's no natural rhythm for anything, and when they're striding close like this, with the clopping of hoofbeats just behind, he'd need a fucking metronome to get him back in time.
Still keeping to a conspiratory whisper, he does his level best.]
[He scoffs, though the derision isn't directed at Astarion.]
I have called it mine for a long time, but the law, if ever it looked into the matter, would say something very different, right of succession or no. Especially, [and he has a strange sort of look in his eye as he watches Astarion's face] when it comes to elves.
It is a rare day when anything works in our favor here.
[He says it gently: not an attempt at reinforcement or shutting Astarion down insomuch as simply trying to help him adjust to this reality. It is not an easy thing to be an elf, and the sooner he learns it, the better he'll be at surviving.
He watches Astarion's face for a moment more, then adds softly:]
It's a shock.
[Of course it is. Anyone can see how bewildered Astarion is, and gods, Fenris can't imagine.]
Your law sounds like a nightmare. [Mirrored derision— albeit sincere— doesn't set its sights on Fenris in the slightest; his mind is dizzy to the point of tugging on the borders of his vision, necessitating a hand shoved against slateish stone walls solely to keep his body upright.
'And now they've suffered and scraped for an eternity because of it, always repressed and always enslaved.'In context now, or perhaps something close to it, possessed of more comprehension of the larger tale, those words don't seem so much like hyperbole anymore....
But that doesn't make them any more digestable, either.]
Humans as the dominant species. [His throaty Tsk finds itself aimed at the now-distant view of the pack they've cleared, barely visible around an equine set of ears and all her attached tack.] What complete and utter faff— they live like mayflies, they have all the genetic memory of a bloody goldfish!
I know a mansion's worth the price, but even I have to admit this city's....rhetoric [(culture?)] does a great deal to balance out the proverbial scales.
[He snorts softly, less of a laugh and more of a breathless exhale, and will realize only later that he's missed the joke. They live like mayflies, and he thinks— oh, who knows? That it's some slam against humans and their stubborn insistence on warmongering, perhaps. It doesn't matter. He breathes the noise out because it's a point of connection between the two of them, and right now, Astarion needs all the handholds he can get.]
It does not seem it right now, but Kirkwall is surprisingly forward-thinking.
[A pause as he evaluates that statement, and amends it to:]
Well— it is less awful than some of the other countries, which is almost the same thing. Better here than Tevinter. Or Orlais.
[He thinks of adding just why Orlais is a nightmare, but you know what, one thing at a time. Astarion need not know that some nobles still think hunting elves is a fun pasttime when you can't get good game. One horror at a time and all that.]
But you are not wrong: nightmare is an accurate way to describe it. I will not deny that.
[Oh, no. There's such a long distance between how things should be and how they are, and no matter that Fenris firmly believes that dreaming of what <>could be is a fool's errand— still, he will not argue that this is right or normal.]
[Astarion knows that he got lucky— one look to his left solidifies that fact alone as it speaks to him with roughened tone and fights to exhale warm, warm tension. Perhaps the same tension as before they were distracted by talks of enslavement and fair grace, perhaps not.
But this? This solidifies the fact that he got more lucky than he could ever really know. As if all his belated good fortune was just waiting for this moment alone to stride into play.]
More than equal.
[Offered up before they clear that narrow sidestreet and enter into broader daylight, offering a view of high streets and dusty banners, dyed with vibrant and fittingly earthy colors. It distracts him again, and for a moment he doesn't know whether to gawk at what's fluttering overhead or painted on the walls or milling about on two legs before them.
[To say that he wants to know more is an understatement, for Astarion's answer is nothing short of baffling. More than equal, and it's not that he cannot imagine what the other elf means, but . . . it's one thing to understand the meaning. Quite another to apply that framework to elves, to imagine them as, what? Kings? Rulers? Higher-ups in government? It seems . . . mmph, unlikely is the nice answer. Utterly incomprehensible is a better one. How does it work? Are humans at the bottom of the food chain, then? Or is it dwarves? And what of Astarion and his master— is his former master an elf too, then?
Later, though. For now . . . he stands beside Astarion, watching him drink in Kirkwall in all her dubious glory, and wonders what he thinks. If even the architecture and the banners seem strange to him, repulsive and backwards in their proclamations, or if some things remain consistent. Perhaps, he thinks, it's a sensation not unlike when he himself first came to the Free Marches: a place so like and unlike Tevinter as to be baffling, with only the outlines of familiar habits and rhythms to guide you as you stumbled blindly throughout.
They linger like that for a few minutes. It isn't enough to really take in the sights, not yet, but it's something.]
Come.
[His voice soft as he gently sets a hand at Astarion's elbow.]
To this organization first— and then, if you wish it, my home.
[It's located in the Gallows of all places, which is, to Fenris' mind, a rather ominous choice— but he supposes there's few other unclaimed patches right now. It's no less ghastly an area than he remembers— bronze statues kneeling in weeping supplication and iron fences jagged and high— but the amount of mindless Tranquil wandering around is severely lessened, so that's something.
There's a few people out and about, and though he can't be sure, he thinks he sees a flash of green on one of the palms there. This is it, then, and he glances over at Astarion.]
[Yes is the only thought that springs to life when asked, standing on the borders of a chasm that leaves him feeling like a godsdamned child perched across the threshold of an unfamiliar schoolyard— or what he imagines one would feel like, given the shock-cold void of his own memories. That collective mass (or morass) of gaping holes and empty spaces, each chock full of discomfort. Each willing to swallow him whole if he lingers too long along their borders. Chastisement for his neediness here, shame for boiling fear there, starting with the routine cadence of his master, yet always ending with a recognition of his own voice. His own poisonously potent vitriol, swearing that it wasn't just compulsion that'd hooked its fangs into his veins.
A conscripted farrier hammers a nail into pinned metal barely ten yards away. The sudden clang of it jolts its way into pallid, road scuffed ears, and Astarion's back stiffens into alertness with it, drawing him up higher than his striped companion. Emphasizing the similarities in their stature— and the absent thought that he'd need to bend even lower to shrink down fully behind Fenris for the sake of disappearing. So much so that he might as well be kneeling for all the dignity it'd afford, frightened of— what? Of everything? He's already begged Fenris for dawn, is he going to repeat this endlessly for every mild risk that comes their way? Tiring is how that shortsighted entreatment would wind up soon enough. Sorry, Fenris, you've taken on his cause. Too late now to back out of tending to him day and night alike. Another pitiful slave rescued, always in need of watching. Safeguarding. Put him back in the kennel for how useless he'd be, and call him a bloody accessory at best.
He won't be that. Won't stoop down into the collar still burning at his throat like a phantom weight.
The answer is yes. Please, yes. But what it has to be is— ]
No.
[Confident, a flicker of a grin. It masks the nausea in his throat. the hard crunch of his anxious heart, and all the scenarios running through his head. How little they both might know of this organization. How little trust there is to be had anywhere, and perhaps most of all in a city as befanged as this one despite all its purported progressiveness.
But he can't. He can't cling. Won't cling. Will never cling to anyone again— having learned better.]
No, darling. [One thread of his cast stare sent sidelong for just a moment as his posture settles with it, angled across one heel. One leg. One comfortably cocked hip.] Not unless you want to spend your every waking moment anchored at my side, which— flattering.
[Disappointment, hot and hard, drops in the pit of his stomach unexpectedly. And yet no matter how he feels, it matters far more that Astarion has made his choice. Whatever motivates him (and Fenris suspects he knows some of what lurks beneath the surface of that charming grin), it's still his choice, and Fenris will not take that from him.
Even if he rues asking it.
So he nods, affirming that, and yet compromises by saying:]
Not every moment, no. You would grow weary of me, I suspect, and I am not a social creature even on the best of days. But I would not mind spending more time with you, if ever you should wish it.
[Still: what's said is said. Fenris glances up at the building, a little grimace stealing over his face.]
But let us see what this organization entails.
[And what it entails, as it turns out, is . . . well. It's an attempt.
Fenris is being unfair, he knows. He does not trust organizations as a rule, and he's already in a filthy temper thanks to being back in Kirkwall. And it is a good thing that someone is trying to understand these rifts, never mind house and shelter those who have tumbled through worlds and fallen into this one— for it isn't just Astarion, he swiftly discovers. Whatever else these rifts are, they're portals to countless worlds— worlds far, far stranger than Baldur's Gate and her ilk.
And it is good, too, that there is a power dedicated to opposing Corypheus that isn't aligned with anyone but themselves. That's why Fenris agrees to help: because the so-called god needs to be killed. Because he does not trust the Chantry, and he is suspect of any organization that thrills in starting another Exalted March, no matter that it's against Tevinter. And because he has not had any real purpose these past few years beyond freeing slaves, and . . . perhaps he misses it. The thrill of having someone else to guide him, the joy of working towards something bigger than himself . . . he has missed it.
And perhaps he agrees, too, despite his doubts, because he wants to keep an eye on Astarion.
Not coddle him, nor indeed even keep track of him, if the elf discovers he wants little more to do with Fenris. But there's a connection there, undeniable and strong, and Fenris will not ignore such a thing, not after so many years of loneliness.
But nurturing it will have to wait. By the time his guide has finished showing him around, Astarion has been whisked away to quarantine— a precaution, the woman says crisply. We can't know what kind of diseases this world is inoculated against, and having a Rifter transmit the next Black Plague is a particularly bad look.
Her mouth purses, and she tucks a stray strand of red hair behind her ear as she adds: They distrust us enough as is, superstitious as they are.
(They, Fenris thinks as she walks away. They, not you, and he wonders at that inclusion— but perhaps she can well guess his lyrium already marks him as different).
And of course he can't see him, that's the entire point of a quarantine. And of course it really is a necessary thing, Fenris can see that plain enough. Astarion likely understands it too, and really, it's not as if they're locking him away in a room: just keeping him within the confines of these walls for the next fortnight.
(I wouldn't know. I've never been allowed to leave.)
In truth, he nearly makes it on the fourth evening. Drunk on sour wine, he sways as he makes his way down, down, down, all the way to Lowtown, muscle memory guiding him far more than any coherence. The streets are emptier than they used to be, but that only gives him more time to remember who isn't filling them.
There: Hawke's mansion, her sigil faded and worn, ivy growing over the doorway. Does Gamlen live there? Fenris doesn't know and doesn't care to find out, for he will hate it either way. There: a blue lantern glowing outside a Lowtown doorway as a dark-haired elf ushers in her pregnant companion, whispering in relief that a healer is still open this late. There: the outline of a man carved in wood hanging upside down and swaying in the breeze . . .
And he never quite makes it past the Hanged Man.
But the next day, the entirety of Riftwatch is a flurry of activity, Rifters and natives alike gathering for a mission out west. No one notices nor cares that Fenris slips inside and lingers there past sunset; they certainly don't pay him any mind as he strides purposely towards where they house the Rifters, acting as if he has every right to be there past curfew.
It doesn't take long to find Astarion.
(They always find each other in the end).]
Astarion?
[Soft, his knuckles gentle as he raps at his door. Just because he hasn't been bothered so far doesn't mean he wants to draw attention to himself.]
[Play along with it because you have no choice. Be flattering. Lean in. Find out what it is they want and wear it, and above all else— be charming, Astarion.
The speech came twice, but only the second time did that lesson sink in through the oozing cracks to bore right down to bone.
Be charming.
No amount of distance spun the needle the other way. No amount of clawing his own fingers into tatters could ever open shuttered doors. No screaming. No begging. No pleading. It didn't take long in the grand scheme of things; it only took forever in his broken, lightless mind. And once rooted, it stayed. Stuck with him every waking moment— possibly even the unwaking. The unfeeling. The black, bleak misery of nothingness, alone.
Compared to centuries of that, he could swallow anything with a smile.
(Provided he ignores the ache that's mildly nauseating once he's ushered away to his designated tower quarters with a small, curtly worded speech. Alone with the tristely paralytic tug that occasionally leaves him staring at the harbor for full minutes at a time when not prone to exploring the bounds of his new kennel, trying to expunge that rampant sense of hope he knew well better than to trust.
Because by then, he also knows it's over. It's done. Doubtlessly the elf is gone, having collected either a bounty or a kindly warning off by the attending staff of Riftwatch, and if there's nothing else for small favors, he'd imparted Astarion with a wealth of useful knowledge already wielded like a knife in those first strides.) Five days of sniffing out information. Of mapping out hierarchies both local and abroad to comprehend the flow of vitriol. Power. Wealth. Still more to learn but it's a start, and Astarion can use that—
Until he finds a way to be free. Truly free.
And that's his consolation. The ancillary bulwark used to keep his chin above the tide when a shut wing and a closed door threaten to bring to bear an ocean's worth of black-mouthed memories. Fingers poring over pages— lines upon lines of history and language in the dark, lit only through the verdant green of an aching shard.
In the shadow of an alcove, amidst small stacks of 'borrowed' books, his wounds are healed. His curls brushed out. The clothes he wears a little loose from their donation, yet he's no stranger to the secondhand, and it suits him better than the tattered clothing he'd arrived in. Like everything else, it's a temporary stay.
Behind the door, something rattles as it hits the floor. An assortment of items(?), paperwork and the glassy sound of lighter objects rolling away from their presumed point of impact— let alone a chasing thud when bootheels snap down over wood, quick to scuff before they find their footing and go silent. Comparatively soundless approach the last thing before the doorlatch rattles in its moors and spits out—
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They'd sat there for so long, Fenris' hand on Astarion's shoulder and his gaze drifted outward, offering the other man some semblance of privacy as he'd cried. Occasionally his thumb would rub against his shoulder, his palm a little awkward as it pet his back, but not once did Fenris speak. There were no words that would suffice. Whatever Astarion mourned in that moment was his alone to grieve over, and though Fenris could think of a thousand reasons why (though his heart ached in wailing empathy, remembering an elven boy howling brokenly in agonized grief as he'd knelt in the sand), nothing would be worth articulating.
So he'd waited, staring at nothing at all, and let Astarion sob.
And now they ride. Astarion's weight is a comfortable warmth behind him, his hands tight as they cling to his armor. They've been silent for a long while, but he's glad to hear his voice when he speaks.
Let it leave you. Let it all fall to the wayside . . . though he knows better than most how hard that is.]
Mm. I've been contemplating that. My original plan was to head to my old home. It should still be there, though I suppose there's always a chance it was repossessed in my absence. I doubt it, though.
[Princess Horse bears both their weight well, but Fenris is glad they're cresting the last hill. She's a little more nervous than either of them are used to, and it'll do her some good to be put into a barn and spoiled for a time. She's more than earned it.]
But there is an organization nestled within the city. Rift Watch, I've heard they are called. [The name's a bit on the nose, but whatever.] It may serve you better if I were to drop you off there. They will have more information about the mark on your hand than I do, and I have no doubt they shelter travelers. You cannot be the first to tumble through.
That said: I do plan to visit them sooner or later. The choice is yours: if you wish to stay with me or go there instead. Either way, I will guide you there first.
[He suspects— no. He wants one choice in particular, and more likely than not he's projecting that onto Astarion. Why shouldn't the elf want to find out more about what's happening to him?
They crest the hill, and ah . . . Kirkwall looks as grim and foreboding as ever. The twin slave statues that mark the main gate gleam in the afternoon light, as behind them, the city herself erupts jaggedly from the cliffs, Hightown looming from the very top. Fires burn and smoke billows from the lower districts, as by the docks, ships stream to and fro carrying cargo.]
There it is, [he adds over his shoulder, drawing them to a stop.] Kirkwall.
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Leaning around in the saddle he can feel his pulsebeat racing yet again. His eyes widening as his grip pulls tauter for security in movement. There it is, Fenris says through the throatiest of hums, and Astarion can't see around him no matter how he tries. Has to stick his heels low and lever up by crude degrees, pulling and pushing his own weight to at last mark the sight of his own future.
The bastion of his freedom. The start of his new life.]
2/2
....oh.
[Proves particularly breathless.]
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Surprised and sputtered, slipping past his lips before he has the good sense to bite it back. The noise sounds strange to his ears, for it's been so long . . . but oh, he doesn't mean to direct it at Astarion. He half-turns, tipping his head back just to see if he can catch the other elf's eye, a slight grin still playing around his lips.]
That about sums it up, yes.
Is that a disappointed oh or an awed one? I will not fault you for either. It's a bit of a shithole.
[Well, it is.
That said: he clicks his tongue, urging Princess Horse forward. The main gate is only half a mile down the road, but it takes time to get up to Hightown, and he'd like to be indoors before the sun sets.]
Let me do the talking when we come to the gate. The guards can be rude in their questioning, but not particularly overzealous.
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He drops his eyes down towards his palm. Tucks it tighter around the back of Fenris' armor, trying to smother its rich light. Given the scope of everything, he can't be certain something like that would do more good or harm, and conformity is always, always a solid bet.]
It's....[another cast-off glance, another view of something grand and dust-tinged and too striking to describe: the plumes of belching smoke above dark water and high walls, the statues and grim chains and— are those spikes??] ....not what I expected.
[The truth, halting as it rattles loose, dumbstruck.]
I've seen warding decoration before, but on a scale like this? Hells, it certainly doesn't pull its punches when it comes to making threats to any would-be invaders, does it?
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[No, it certainly doesn't. Maker, what a strange feeling it is to be approaching the city yet again . . . he sits a little stiffer in the saddle as they approach, his grip tightening on the reins until his lyrium aches in protest. Settle, he tells himself, hating the way his stomach churns and his mind wanders. Settle down, for though there will inevitably be ghosts lingering on the streets and echoing in his mind, he need not fall to pieces just yet.
It's still just a city, after all. No matter that he suffered here, no matter that he fled it in grief and hurt, still: it has no power to hurt him now.
And anyway, he thinks, he need not stay long. Not if he doesn't want to.]
It was once a part of the Tevinter empire: an imperial slave outpost built to break and retrain an endless supply of slaves for the empire. And for a time, it did, and effectively, at that. You'll see it reflected in the layout of the city and the decorations that still linger. The streets are deliberately confusing, and too often there are endless frescoes of cowering slaves and triumphant magisters.
[They're getting closer. Already the guards are eying them, their gazes flat and wary. Fenris returns the stare evenly. There's no sense in picking a fight, but nor will he back down. Besides: he has every right to return here. They can't deny him, not legally.
Not that legally ever means much when it comes to elves.]
But, inevitably, there was an uprising. Several uprisings, in fact, all happening simultaneously. The slave Shartan led his people in rebellion, and that inspired several more, including in Kirkwall. The magisters were slaughtered to a man, and the slaves took over— yes?
[That last comment addressed to the guard who approaches them, his mouth set in a grim line. And yes, all right: this is a stupid story to tell as they try and ease their way into Kirkwall, but perhaps that's why Fenris tells it. Because it's impudent and savage and satisfying; because it makes humans nervous, no matter their rank or designation. Because some part of Fenris hates that he's back here, and what better way to cope with that than to spread that misery around?
There's the usual curt questions, and far more than are strictly necessary: what's your purpose here, how long exactly do you plan on staying and why, what do you need to do in Kirkwall, on and on, invasive and petty, but not overly cruel. Princess Horse snorts in annoyance as one guard takes her reins, holding her still while he rifles through their packs, looking for imported nugs and intoxicants that aren't there. But then it comes to registering where they intend to live, and oh . . . that annoys Fenris.
The Alienage or Darktown, the guard asks, as if there's no other place they might go. And there isn't, not really, and that rankles him all the more.]
We'll find our own way, [he replies evenly, and the guard grunts in dissatisfaction.
See that you do. If you're caught out after dark, it'll be all the harder on you both.]
Do they not allow elves out after dark any more?
[His voice is soft, but oh, there's an edge there now. The guard picks up on it too, for his stare hardens, his mouth twisting nastily. Not yet, he says, and drops Princess' reins, not bothering to hand them back. But it's only a matter of time. And just in case you feel like testing that, let me warn you: there's strange things about lately, and the guards aren't taking well to new things. Don't push your luck, knife-ear.
And he almost reacts.
He almost does.
But to what end? Kill this idiot and his fellows will react; kill them and he'll land in prison. Talk back and be refused entry to the city, and then what? Drag Astarion to some other city and hope they know about his marking too? Besides: if he got riled for every idiot human and their slurs, he'd never get anything done.
So Fenris rolls his eyes and doesn't bother to respond: just kicks Princess Horse into a trot and emerges into Kirkwall proper.]
Maker's breath.
[Muttered as they head in. Kirkwall is no less intimidating from the inside, but at least she opens up a little more: airy markets and the familiar hustle and bustle of vendors and customers soothe some of Fenris' ruffled feathers.
And just like that, with no ceremony at all, he's home. And it feels like everything and nothing, all at once.]
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At least the architecture fits.
Though rumination on that point is short lived, and what comes next is a palpable rush of tension-et-barely bottled hostility. Less an assessment and more an interrogation in d-minor: disdain running rife on either side, spurring Astarion himself to stiffness while he sticks all the closer to his companion, hawkish twitches of his focus tightening around the masked bed of his palm.
He expects a fight.
He instead finds them walking— well, riding away only a few short minutes later, neither harmed, only threatened in a way that leaves the hair across the nape of his neck bristling uneasily.
Wary.]
....are we going to talk about what just happened?
[Is all Astarion can muster on the shores of disbelief, leaning forward yet again into the rigid slant of leather tackwork, and barely a harbor's walk away from incredulity. Bewilderment. Utterly blindsided confusion.
Why is everyone pretending that was normal??]
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It's all the same.
The vendors who lined the streets for nearly a decade still linger here, a little older but no less enthusiastic as they hawk their wares. The chaotic mixture of humans and elves and dwarves wandering through Lowtown's streets is the same, with each species tending to keep to themselves, most not wanting to start a fight. The air still smells like sea-salt and sweat; above them, the buildings of Hightown loom large, cutting off the view of the horizon. The only thing missing is the Chantry, but beyond that . . .
It shouldn't look like this, Fenris thinks numbly. How dare it look like this? As if nothing has changed at all, as if this city was not the site of a wound so deep that it hurts even now . . . as if none of it mattered. It's so similar that if he turned his head too fast, he might swear that he sees Hawke out of the corner of his eye. Isabela, bending over provocatively as she examines a blade; Merrill tottering between stalls, cooing over the wares and never buying a thing. Maker's breath, he could close his eyes and find his way to any of their doorsteps in an instant, retreading paths long since learned, and yet—
And yet the houses will be empty. And there will be no reason to knock at those doors. For it might look and sound and smell similar, but it isn't. They've all gone. They've all left, scattered to the winds and moved on, for none of what they did ever mattered, not in the long run. Friends are only ever good for a limited time, he thinks bitterly, and no one ever loves you forever. They used him, and he used them, and now . . .
Now, it's over.
And so dark are his thoughts, so bleak is his sudden mood, that he doesn't hear Astarion at first. It's only the way he leans into Fenris that draws attention— and from there, a belated realization.]
Mm? What part of it?
[No, hang on:]
He's mostly talk, I imagine. The city probably is on edge, but I doubt very much the new viscount would try something as stupid as a sundown ban— not least of which because it would inconvenient most of Hightown to have their servants leave so early.
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But he's present.
Theres no droning in his ears, and the shock he feels in passing is a far more acute thing compared to what stays itself under his fingers. To the way his companion has drawn back— and, if Astarion's own blind assumption stands true based on countless times spent flat against stone walls— much farther away than before.]
....wh— no, the—
What?
A sundown ban? On elves? [Is there something that he's missing here?] 'Knife ear?'
....is this to do with that rebellion you mentioned?
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[But something's wrong here. Even he, dour and miserable now, can sense it. And though he would like very much to simply ride Horse the rest of the way, this isn't a conversation to have called over his shoulder. With a short exhale, Fenris dismounts, gesturing for Astarion to do the same.]
Walk with me.
[For he would face his companion and meet his eye— and, incidentally, keep this conversation between them. If anyone notices Astarion's hand and raises a ruckus, Fenris thinks, it'll be easy enough to sling him back onto the horse and ride away, but for now, best to keep as low a profile as possible.]
Knife ear is a slur they throw around regularly in Kirkwall. I will not say it isn't offensive, but you learn to ignore it. More often than not it isn't worth the trouble to respond.
[But no, that isn't it. A swift glance at Astarion's expression only confirms that.]
They often pass arbitrary rules against elves here. Sundown bans are, frankly, a relatively benign one. Is that not . . .
[No, wait. Fenris pauses for a few moments, staring at Astarion— and then, slowly:]
Humans are the dominant species in this world, here to rule and ruin as they see fit. They do not care for the dwarves, the Qunari, nor the elves— but unlike the former two, elves have no kingdom or stronghold to act from. The last elven kingdom shattered hundreds of years ago, its people colonized and enslaved by humans. Now they— we— are at best second-class citizens wherever we go. Elf is all but synonymous for slave in Tevinter, and the Free Marches act little better, confining most elves into a small Alienage within the poorest neighborhoods so they stay in one place.
There are a few outliers: those who wander the plains and attempt to live outside human influence, for all the good it has ever done them. But for those who wish to live in a city . . .
[He nods around them. It isn't hard to see how most of the elves around them have adopted a universal sort of posture: heads bent and eyes cast down, walking carefully to avoid the path of humans. Some are more spirited than others, talking among themselves or simply set on an errand— but it's not hard to see how some instantly quiet down each time a human approaches.
Sheep, Fenris thinks nastily, and fights off the urge to roll his eyes as he focuses back on Astarion.]
You either comply and allow them to take over your life . . . or you learn to play outside the rules, and know well enough to defend yourself when the humans eventually protest that.
[But then, with wary curiosity:]
. . . is that not what elves in your world are like?
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The streets seem to tower over them. The strange smell of dust and salt water blowing through old channels, funneling in a host of other scents along with it— meat, molten dross, ale, perfume— all quickly intertwining. All building in their overlaps like an echo of each other. The architecture: strange. The etchings: strange. The people— ]
....the....[No, start again, he thinks, having already lost the plot.] ....is that where your home lies?
[Tucking in close enough to whisper, Astarion only glances sidelong as a group of humans pass by in a louder herd without much friction. Just their noise. Their presence. Their assumed sense of belonging, taking up so much of an already crowded street.]
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No.
[He shifts half a step closer in the next moment, pressing in closer to Astarion. Not a mother hen doting endlessly over her chicks, but rather something unspoken: I won't let them near you, no matter that the humans in question aren't paying them much mind. I won't let them lay a finger on you, for Astarion is under his protection now, come whatever may.]
I live in my master's old mansion in Hightown. It is mine in perpetuity, by sheer virtue of no one having the nerve nor the right to challenge me on it. Though it does mean I need to exist within a certain level of anonymity if I intend to linger there.
[Never shop at the same times of day. Never meet your neighbors. Never exist too loudly, too brashly, too openly, for fear that some Hightown resident will take issue and make a fuss. And yet even still, it's better than the alienage. Anything is.
And though he burns to know what it is Astarion is used to, he bites his tongue; he isn't the stranger here, after all, and Astarion's questions matter more.]
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And then the engine of his skull sputters back to life with one sharp (whispered) hiss:] —You own a bloody mansion?
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[Just so everyone's expectations are reasonable . . . and yet this shock, at least, Fenris can understand. It is unbelievable, frankly. Even he can't believe his luck sometimes, but then again: it's not really luck, is it? Or if it is, it's one of his own making, and well owed besides.]
But it is mine, for better or worse. I cleaned out some of the rooms and made them hospitable a long time ago, and I cannot imagine much has been disturbed since I left it.
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Still keeping to a conspiratory whisper, he does his level best.]
That is how things would work where I'm from.
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[He scoffs, though the derision isn't directed at Astarion.]
I have called it mine for a long time, but the law, if ever it looked into the matter, would say something very different, right of succession or no. Especially, [and he has a strange sort of look in his eye as he watches Astarion's face] when it comes to elves.
It is a rare day when anything works in our favor here.
[He says it gently: not an attempt at reinforcement or shutting Astarion down insomuch as simply trying to help him adjust to this reality. It is not an easy thing to be an elf, and the sooner he learns it, the better he'll be at surviving.
He watches Astarion's face for a moment more, then adds softly:]
It's a shock.
[Of course it is. Anyone can see how bewildered Astarion is, and gods, Fenris can't imagine.]
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'And now they've suffered and scraped for an eternity because of it, always repressed and always enslaved.'In context now, or perhaps something close to it, possessed of more comprehension of the larger tale, those words don't seem so much like hyperbole anymore....
But that doesn't make them any more digestable, either.]
Humans as the dominant species. [His throaty Tsk finds itself aimed at the now-distant view of the pack they've cleared, barely visible around an equine set of ears and all her attached tack.] What complete and utter faff— they live like mayflies, they have all the genetic memory of a bloody goldfish!
I know a mansion's worth the price, but even I have to admit this city's....rhetoric [(culture?)] does a great deal to balance out the proverbial scales.
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It does not seem it right now, but Kirkwall is surprisingly forward-thinking.
[A pause as he evaluates that statement, and amends it to:]
Well— it is less awful than some of the other countries, which is almost the same thing. Better here than Tevinter. Or Orlais.
[He thinks of adding just why Orlais is a nightmare, but you know what, one thing at a time. Astarion need not know that some nobles still think hunting elves is a fun pasttime when you can't get good game. One horror at a time and all that.]
But you are not wrong: nightmare is an accurate way to describe it. I will not deny that.
[Oh, no. There's such a long distance between how things should be and how they are, and no matter that Fenris firmly believes that dreaming of what <>could be is a fool's errand— still, he will not argue that this is right or normal.]
Are they . . . is it really equal in your world?
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But this? This solidifies the fact that he got more lucky than he could ever really know. As if all his belated good fortune was just waiting for this moment alone to stride into play.]
More than equal.
[Offered up before they clear that narrow sidestreet and enter into broader daylight, offering a view of high streets and dusty banners, dyed with vibrant and fittingly earthy colors. It distracts him again, and for a moment he doesn't know whether to gawk at what's fluttering overhead or painted on the walls or milling about on two legs before them.
All, is the end result.
Just all.
Maybe theyre alike in that.]
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Later, though. For now . . . he stands beside Astarion, watching him drink in Kirkwall in all her dubious glory, and wonders what he thinks. If even the architecture and the banners seem strange to him, repulsive and backwards in their proclamations, or if some things remain consistent. Perhaps, he thinks, it's a sensation not unlike when he himself first came to the Free Marches: a place so like and unlike Tevinter as to be baffling, with only the outlines of familiar habits and rhythms to guide you as you stumbled blindly throughout.
They linger like that for a few minutes. It isn't enough to really take in the sights, not yet, but it's something.]
Come.
[His voice soft as he gently sets a hand at Astarion's elbow.]
To this organization first— and then, if you wish it, my home.
[It's located in the Gallows of all places, which is, to Fenris' mind, a rather ominous choice— but he supposes there's few other unclaimed patches right now. It's no less ghastly an area than he remembers— bronze statues kneeling in weeping supplication and iron fences jagged and high— but the amount of mindless Tranquil wandering around is severely lessened, so that's something.
There's a few people out and about, and though he can't be sure, he thinks he sees a flash of green on one of the palms there. This is it, then, and he glances over at Astarion.]
Do you wish me to stay with you?
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A conscripted farrier hammers a nail into pinned metal barely ten yards away. The sudden clang of it jolts its way into pallid, road scuffed ears, and Astarion's back stiffens into alertness with it, drawing him up higher than his striped companion. Emphasizing the similarities in their stature— and the absent thought that he'd need to bend even lower to shrink down fully behind Fenris for the sake of disappearing. So much so that he might as well be kneeling for all the dignity it'd afford, frightened of— what? Of everything? He's already begged Fenris for dawn, is he going to repeat this endlessly for every mild risk that comes their way? Tiring is how that shortsighted entreatment would wind up soon enough. Sorry, Fenris, you've taken on his cause. Too late now to back out of tending to him day and night alike. Another pitiful slave rescued, always in need of watching. Safeguarding. Put him back in the kennel for how useless he'd be, and call him a bloody accessory at best.
He won't be that. Won't stoop down into the collar still burning at his throat like a phantom weight.
The answer is yes. Please, yes. But what it has to be is— ]
No.
[Confident, a flicker of a grin. It masks the nausea in his throat. the hard crunch of his anxious heart, and all the scenarios running through his head. How little they both might know of this organization. How little trust there is to be had anywhere, and perhaps most of all in a city as befanged as this one despite all its purported progressiveness.
But he can't. He can't cling. Won't cling. Will never cling to anyone again— having learned better.]
No, darling. [One thread of his cast stare sent sidelong for just a moment as his posture settles with it, angled across one heel. One leg. One comfortably cocked hip.] Not unless you want to spend your every waking moment anchored at my side, which— flattering.
....and yet a touch impractical, I expect.
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Even if he rues asking it.
So he nods, affirming that, and yet compromises by saying:]
Not every moment, no. You would grow weary of me, I suspect, and I am not a social creature even on the best of days. But I would not mind spending more time with you, if ever you should wish it.
[Still: what's said is said. Fenris glances up at the building, a little grimace stealing over his face.]
But let us see what this organization entails.
[And what it entails, as it turns out, is . . . well. It's an attempt.
Fenris is being unfair, he knows. He does not trust organizations as a rule, and he's already in a filthy temper thanks to being back in Kirkwall. And it is a good thing that someone is trying to understand these rifts, never mind house and shelter those who have tumbled through worlds and fallen into this one— for it isn't just Astarion, he swiftly discovers. Whatever else these rifts are, they're portals to countless worlds— worlds far, far stranger than Baldur's Gate and her ilk.
And it is good, too, that there is a power dedicated to opposing Corypheus that isn't aligned with anyone but themselves. That's why Fenris agrees to help: because the so-called god needs to be killed. Because he does not trust the Chantry, and he is suspect of any organization that thrills in starting another Exalted March, no matter that it's against Tevinter. And because he has not had any real purpose these past few years beyond freeing slaves, and . . . perhaps he misses it. The thrill of having someone else to guide him, the joy of working towards something bigger than himself . . . he has missed it.
And perhaps he agrees, too, despite his doubts, because he wants to keep an eye on Astarion.
Not coddle him, nor indeed even keep track of him, if the elf discovers he wants little more to do with Fenris. But there's a connection there, undeniable and strong, and Fenris will not ignore such a thing, not after so many years of loneliness.
But nurturing it will have to wait. By the time his guide has finished showing him around, Astarion has been whisked away to quarantine— a precaution, the woman says crisply. We can't know what kind of diseases this world is inoculated against, and having a Rifter transmit the next Black Plague is a particularly bad look.
Her mouth purses, and she tucks a stray strand of red hair behind her ear as she adds: They distrust us enough as is, superstitious as they are.
(They, Fenris thinks as she walks away. They, not you, and he wonders at that inclusion— but perhaps she can well guess his lyrium already marks him as different).
And of course he can't see him, that's the entire point of a quarantine. And of course it really is a necessary thing, Fenris can see that plain enough. Astarion likely understands it too, and really, it's not as if they're locking him away in a room: just keeping him within the confines of these walls for the next fortnight.
(I wouldn't know. I've never been allowed to leave.)
Fenris goes home.]
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In truth, he nearly makes it on the fourth evening. Drunk on sour wine, he sways as he makes his way down, down, down, all the way to Lowtown, muscle memory guiding him far more than any coherence. The streets are emptier than they used to be, but that only gives him more time to remember who isn't filling them.
There: Hawke's mansion, her sigil faded and worn, ivy growing over the doorway. Does Gamlen live there? Fenris doesn't know and doesn't care to find out, for he will hate it either way. There: a blue lantern glowing outside a Lowtown doorway as a dark-haired elf ushers in her pregnant companion, whispering in relief that a healer is still open this late. There: the outline of a man carved in wood hanging upside down and swaying in the breeze . . .
And he never quite makes it past the Hanged Man.
But the next day, the entirety of Riftwatch is a flurry of activity, Rifters and natives alike gathering for a mission out west. No one notices nor cares that Fenris slips inside and lingers there past sunset; they certainly don't pay him any mind as he strides purposely towards where they house the Rifters, acting as if he has every right to be there past curfew.
It doesn't take long to find Astarion.
(They always find each other in the end).]
Astarion?
[Soft, his knuckles gentle as he raps at his door. Just because he hasn't been bothered so far doesn't mean he wants to draw attention to himself.]
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The speech came twice, but only the second time did that lesson sink in through the oozing cracks to bore right down to bone.
Be charming.
No amount of distance spun the needle the other way. No amount of clawing his own fingers into tatters could ever open shuttered doors. No screaming. No begging. No pleading. It didn't take long in the grand scheme of things; it only took forever in his broken, lightless mind. And once rooted, it stayed. Stuck with him every waking moment— possibly even the unwaking. The unfeeling. The black, bleak misery of nothingness, alone.
Compared to centuries of that, he could swallow anything with a smile.
(Provided he ignores the ache that's mildly nauseating once he's ushered away to his designated tower quarters with a small, curtly worded speech. Alone with the tristely paralytic tug that occasionally leaves him staring at the harbor for full minutes at a time when not prone to exploring the bounds of his new kennel, trying to expunge that rampant sense of hope he knew well better than to trust.
Because by then, he also knows it's over. It's done. Doubtlessly the elf is gone, having collected either a bounty or a kindly warning off by the attending staff of Riftwatch, and if there's nothing else for small favors, he'd imparted Astarion with a wealth of useful knowledge already wielded like a knife in those first strides.) Five days of sniffing out information. Of mapping out hierarchies both local and abroad to comprehend the flow of vitriol. Power. Wealth. Still more to learn but it's a start, and Astarion can use that—
Until he finds a way to be free. Truly free.
And that's his consolation. The ancillary bulwark used to keep his chin above the tide when a shut wing and a closed door threaten to bring to bear an ocean's worth of black-mouthed memories. Fingers poring over pages— lines upon lines of history and language in the dark, lit only through the verdant green of an aching shard.
In the shadow of an alcove, amidst small stacks of 'borrowed' books, his wounds are healed. His curls brushed out. The clothes he wears a little loose from their donation, yet he's no stranger to the secondhand, and it suits him better than the tattered clothing he'd arrived in. Like everything else, it's a temporary stay.
Counting the days, so to speak. Counting— ]
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[Shit.
Behind the door, something rattles as it hits the floor. An assortment of items(?), paperwork and the glassy sound of lighter objects rolling away from their presumed point of impact— let alone a chasing thud when bootheels snap down over wood, quick to scuff before they find their footing and go silent. Comparatively soundless approach the last thing before the doorlatch rattles in its moors and spits out—
Oh.
Oh.]
You came back.
[You came back?
No one ever comes back.]
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