[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—
[And despite himself, he hadn't expected that. The clattering of books and rapidfire footsteps, Astarion's eagerness audible through the door. He had missed him, he had thought of him endlessly, he had wished so desperately for his companionship these past lonely few nights, but he hadn't thought it would be returned.
He pauses for just a little longer than he should, his eyes locked on the flush in Astarion's cheeks.]
Of course I have.
[His tongue moves without input from his mind, his thought still struggling sluggishly with the concept that he was missed. It's only with the greatest of efforts that he tears his eyes away from Astarion's face, realizing belatedly he'd begun to stare.]
I told you I would.
[No, he hadn't. But he'd meant to— and before Astarion can call him out on that, Fenris tips his head in invitation, then glances around to be sure they're alone.]
And I promised you a drink. Several, in fact. Five days is quarantine enough, and I have not fallen ill, besides.
[A lopsided little smirk, then, as he focuses back on Astarion and clarifies:]
[He sets his hand across that rough-edged door frame, leaning forwards as if adopted languidness might up and serve to counter every last ounce of momentum that'd carried him there with a stumbling mix of shock and disbelief— and you know, it actually might have if not for the momentary slip of his own grip. The one that knocks his shoulder hard against the doorway with a wince. A blink. A breathy slantline of a grin fighting to prop him up alongside the rest of this.
Whether or not it succeeds is anybody's guess.
Astarion's most of all.
('I told you I would,' Fenris says.
—had he? Gods. When everything is a line, surrounded and flocked by platitudes, is it any wonder Astarion put it out of his fractured excuse of a mind?)]
Gallant. [Comes with a transparent lifting of both brows.] Dashing. [With a flash of sharklike teeth, rounding out across his shoulders while he's still slung against that open arch, needing what he doesn't dare admit.] And yet I could've told you that, my fearless rescuer twice over.
I'm only contagious when I bite.
[Red eyes dart towards the hall and back, measuring its apparent vacancy with the good sense of someone that's done more than their share of mapping out floorboards.]
There are a handful of unwatched boats by the foot of the tower. [Is a conspiratory octave lower.] How deft are you at navigation?
[His eyes drink in the way Astarion keeps attempting casualness, his grin charming and his expression unsubtle, and he almost manages it. Perhaps someone who had never been kept in captivity might even be fooled by it. But Fenris can feel an aching sympathy building in the pit of his stomach, some small part of him remembering what it was to scream silently in suffocated desperation, needing to get out and not being able to . . .
Maker, he should have come sooner.
(And is part of that fumbling for him? Is that charming grin for him, or would it be for anyone? He doesn't know, and he doesn't know why it matters, save that his mind lingers on the question). ]
Deft enough. I can get us back to Kirkwall proper with a bit of luck, though my rowing skills are not as keen as some. But here—
[He digs into one of his many pouches.]
A gift.
[One of two gifts he has planned, actually. But this first: a set of leather gloves, black and well-oiled, are held out before Astarion.]
They may be too large, but I did not want to err on the small side.
If you can cover your mark, we might simply walk out instead of trying to sneak. Your hair will distinguish you as much as my own does, but elves are rarely looked at here. And the organization seems busy today . . . I suspect if we walk with confidence, they will not stop us.
From there, those boats. And from there . . .
[His eyes flick over Astarion's face again, and then, carefully:]
[For a single, overwhelming moment, Astarion thinks he can feel his heart stop once more: the drop of it as it plummets to a standstill, so very much like the night he—
Reaches out tentatively to take them, pulling their supple weight into his palm first as he peels himself upright. Lining them up against the whole of his hand before he moves to put them on, extinguishing that vibrant glow— and with it, the thought that Fenris might not have somehow planned this whole thing through despite the fainter scent of tannins lingering in the air.
Gods above.]
Anywhere at all....?
[Warrants a quick upwards glance from underneath dark lashes.]
[He says it before he can think of all the reasons why he shouldn't. He says it because he is so far from immune to the way Astarion glances up at him, eyes doeishly wide and his voice so vulnerable. He says it because he can remember being so overwhelmed, so awed, so uncomprehending of what it was to choose anything at all, never mind to be promised something so vast— and with that thought comes a small caveat.]
. . . though I can find a place, if you do not know what you wish for just yet.
[With gloved fingers Astarion ushers Fenris inside, snapping up a fallen map from its resting place across the floor, tapping at a few key points.
Anywhere— and it isn't that he doesn't grasp the dangers involved when stealing out into a larger war unaided, or that his containment has drowned its every boon in languishment (on the contrary, he's already brightened without strings or shackles at his throat), but freedom, true damned freedom calls.
He wants to shuck every trace of conceivable restraint. Drink like a dying man, eat like a starving lord— thieve and steal and cavort and run his mind into the gutter, and he doesn't want to do it alone.
And there's only one soul who's earned a ticket to that mayhem at his side.]
You know the world better than I do. What'll it be: Antiva or Orlais?
[Oh, and for a moment, everything in Fenris rears up in protest. No, that's not what I meant, that's too much, his objections based far more in rationalized instinct than any real thought. Antiva is a world away, and they'd only just gotten to Kirkwall, and anyway, he has—
But what does he have here?
A city full of ghosts. An organization that couldn't care less if he died (for what organization anywhere truly cares about its members?). An aching heart and a run-down mansion more suited for stray cats and well-bred rats than a real person. What does Kirkwall have that Antiva or Orlais doesn't?
And the thought of going together— traveling as they had a few nights ago, letting their feet take them where they will and knowing that they are beholden to no one but themselves— feels like a breath of fresh air among the suffocating weight of Kirkwall and her horrors.]
Antiva.
[He answers a little distantly, some part of his mind still struggling to catch up— but the more he speaks, the easier it gets.]
No place in this world is particularly kind to elves, but Antiva is more so. They're a nation of merchants, with an emphasis on piracy. I had a friend from near there once . . . and I trusted her, thief that she was, more than anyone else.
[He wonders where Isabela is right now, and then dismisses the thought swiftly. Glancing over just once at Astarion, Fenris allows the slightest of smiles to creep over his lips, something like excitement beginning to flutter in the pit of his stomach.]
We can travel through the Free Marches. It will not be too hard to avoid the armies, I suspect; the war hasn't reached that part of the continent just yet. And Rivian is nearby, too . . . that might be an option before Orlais if you tire of Antiva swiftly.
[A beat, and then:]
You truly wish to go?
[With me being the quietest addition, silent and yet not unsubtle.]
[By now, Astarion's eyes are glittering in the low light of that tower room. Small space. Cramped space. Thick stone walls with a storied history that speaks of iron sufferance right down to its repairs, and yet in the here and now, nothing of the sort stands tall within that alcove corner. The one adjacent to a cot of a bed and its straw mattress. The thin, conscripted blanket undisturbed (telling a tale of five days where it went untouched while its designated master slept with his knees tucked in amongst dusty tomes and endless notes), all of which the albinic elf ignores in favor of setting his sights on the only other living creature in that room.
Door only nominally shut. Plan only nominally hatched.]
We could do so much worse than a grand adventure, darling. [Slips between his fangs with true confidence this time; tugging at the corner of dark leather where it comfortably meets his wrist. Parchment map rustling in his other hand.]
And in truth, he doesn't need convincing. Perhaps that's the most shocking thing of all: that there is a part of him that's already long since agreed, and it's just the rest of him playing catch-up in the interim. He's felt so wrong for so long, disjointed and out of place, that it's become normal— but this feels right.]
All right.
[All right, and with the agreement comes a strange, muted excitement. All right, and perhaps this will be a disaster. Perhaps they'll find in two weeks that they can't stand each other's company, that it was all a mistake, that they never should have done this— but so what? They can always turn back. And Maker, but it feels so good to suddenly look forward to something.]
Then we'll leave . . .
[Hmm.]
Soon. You will need supplies of your own, and a horse, if we can manage it. And you will need to learn how to fight in one way if not another, for bandits will inevitably waylay us— and while I will protect you, it would be better if you could defend yourself.
[His eyes flick to the bed, unslept in and pitifully inadequate.]
And until we leave . . . you need not live here. You need not even stay here the night— for I still intend to take you out.
—I already told you I know how to fight. [Is an obstinate counterpoint left to echo in as they stroll down empty Lowtown streets barely an hour later, in search of an open tavern worth its salt and spittle, freshly departed from a stolen rowboat (now safely stowed in harbor). True, that they'll need supplies, funds, a plan, yes, fine. But in the end what Fenris was most right about was that insistence on tonight's autarkic existence regardless of the rest: that shared footfalls over dusty streets is but a necessary prelude, rather than one more piece of a larger, much more ambitious scheme.
And really, it's a good test run. A way to toe the waters just to gauge the world's response in kind— better, if one's going to be caught, to find oneself red-handed and completely soused. Sprawled not half a city away, and giddy from borrowing drink compared to half a continent's worth of distance, committing arguable war crimes.
If this more immediate gambit succeeds....well. Then comes the thrilling game of marking up a map under the brutal influence of a hangover.
Astarion flashes a grin as he passes through a strip of moonlight cutting between tattered clotheslines high overhead:]
It isn't about a lack of trust and more a clear memory. You told me you were a fearsome predator, and when I asked for specifics, you played it off and we got side-tracked.
[He drawls it out in retort, his smile a little easier to come now that they've made it back to Kirkwall proper. He has visited the Gallows a thousand times over the past decade, but it never fails to make him uneasy. No matter what his views on mages are (and they have not changed in the past few years, only growing more sour with his own bitterness), he cannot deny the ghosts that haunt those halls, nor the blood soaked into the stone. It's unnerving, and add to the fact that they were, in fact, breaking out illegaly, and oh, his nerves were more than a little strained.
(And was there a memory there? A flashback to a thousand different lectures, Anders' voice equal parts smug and disgusted? No. No, for Fenris will not allow it).]
In any case: I bring it up only because I have a second gift for you. Do not grow used to this; I am not going to always give you presents.
[But he does not mind spending the coin so Astarion can have a few things to start off his new life. And this isn't exactly how he meant to give this, but . . . oh, hell, he isn't very good at sentiment on the best of days, and there's no point in delaying further for the sake of ill-managed surprise. With a little grimace of annoyance at himself, he brings them to a halt and draws out of his pack—
A blade.
A dagger, well oiled and well made, sheathed in leather and with a gleaming handle. Raven Armory is inscribed in an impossibly spider-thin font along the hilt, for Fenris had gone to a reputable armorer. What would be the point in giving some rusted blade barely better than a kitchen knife?]
Here. Keep it on you, for my sake if nothing else. I have no doubt you are a fearsome thing with those teeth, but a knife will deter some idiots from trying anyway.
The words spark an ember of— what is it, nausea? Shivering unease? Excitement? Maybe it's all one and the same, spiking hot in his blood as it courses through his restored heart, that adrenal reflex that comes on when he thinks— given all due context— that what comes next is sure to be a lunge. A whip-quick surge of movement or a feint to test his guard as either proof of prowess or deceit. So when the knife is raised his way he jerks away at an angle, twisting through his neck to—
To....nothing.
Quite literally, nothing. Inert outside the dilated flicker of his pupils as they shrink and widen by the sheerest difference of degrees. Attempting to translate what he's staring at into something that makes sense by any measure. We'll run away together— yes, of course that tracks: countless souls foster well-worn fantasies of taking flight in the stillness of the night, abandoning responsibility or care. The rest's explained away by palpable loneliness. Something even Astarion can't deny they share, no matter how he's tried over the last few days. But that's all self-comfort. Self-serving. I don't want to be alone, so it's you. I can't stomach the ghosts of my enslavement, but you understand, so when I look at you I see myself. Save myself.
And the logic of it, poured over time and time again through every sleepthin night since their departure, had the decency therein to at least make passable sense.
Gloves are cheap. Stealing in past Riftwatch's lax guard: simple enough.
This?
This is....]
....It's beautiful.
[Comes on breathless. Hazy. He might as well be drunk for how its the words that reach for it, rather than his own gloved hands, now incapable of movement. Only his eyes can manage it (again), a ratcheted little uptick that snaps from the sight of that offered gift towards whatever expression Fenris wears.
Astarion isn't certain he could read it to save his life.]
His expression is impossibly, wondrously soft in that moment when their eyes meet: his mouth a soft line and his emerald eyes endlessly gentle, his flinty mask melted away to reveal something so much more vulnerable than he ever usually allows. His heart thunders like a drum, and though Astarion hasn't made a move to take the blade just yet, Fenris keeps it held out all the same. He'll hold it there for hours if need be.
And it isn't pity that fuels that softness. It isn't the patronizing sympathy that plagues this world, human nobles cooing about how sad it is to see an elven child in threadbare clothing or begging for food. It certainly isn't the condescending attitude of an elder towards a youth, rueful amusement at their expense for the sake of bittersweet memories.
It's so much more than that. A cacophony of emotions twisting within him and boiling in the pit of his stomach, so foreign and strange that he can't possibly identify them. Grief and sorrow, joy and keen-edged pleasure, and yet all he knows is that they're overlaid with the fiercest urge to stay close.
Don't leave me behind.
Like a drowning man finally surfacing for air: he wants to stay near this elf as long as he's able, Fenris realizes. It's such a swelling desire that it takes him by surprise, no matter that he agreed to run away with him not an hour ago. That had been more about leaving Kirkwall than anything, but now . . . Maker, he wants to be near. Not because Astarion needs protecting (though oh, he feels that urge too, baring his teeth in a snarl at the entire world for what it might wrought). Not because Astarion cannot handle things on his own, newly freed and stumbling into this world on coltish legs.
It's because he wants to.
The past few days have been a misery for more reasons than one. Lonely thing, he's grown so used to isolation that he'd forgotten what it was to want someone. And there's a connection here. A spark, a thread that ties them together, and it makes no sense. For the life of him, he couldn't articulate it if he tried, but it's there all the same. Something that makes Astarion different from others he's freed before, the pale elf distinguishing himself in Fenris' eyes by way of vulnerability and independence both. He plans to cross countries and trek it to another country by way of celebrating his freedom, and yet he looks up at Fenris as though he's the world, and Fenris—
Maker, he wants to be that. He wants to be everything to Astarion in this moment.]
It's yours.
[He doesn't know how long he took before he replied. Hours, maybe, or mere seconds; it's so hard to tell.]
I . . . the gloves were practical. But this . . .
[This is something more, and they both know it. His tongue feels thick and clumsy; what had Hawke said to him all those years ago? He can't remember. He doesn't know what to say nor how to say it, and in the end, he manages:]
[His smile hurts when he flexes it on instinct. Aches in ways that defy articulation, and perhaps always will. It's no grand thing. His cheeks don't hurt or even dimple; they couldn't when the corners of his mouth barely flex at all aside from an angled thinning on one side, mostly at the edge. His brows pinch in completely palpable contrast, pulling so hard and so high that the creases in the middle of his forehead leave sharp lines and an even sharper sense of pressure. It digs, in essence, and where it doesn't, it burns hot and sharp and slick. Tucks in behind the borders of his blinking eyes.
Breath in, resolute, and time begins to tick again. The noise of the city comes back, invited to remember all its cues, and the act of reaching out to take that blade becomes the simple act of taking a blade.
Weighing it.
Slipping a gloved thumb across its glinting mark.]
Welcomed with a weapon that implies an inherent sense of rampant danger?
The first step from cowering slave to freed man. The first choice that will linger and echo days and months and years from now, no matter what Astarion does or where he goes. And it doesn't matter whether or not he's fought before, for Fenris himself was made to be a war dog— but there's such a difference between the blade pushed into your palm by your master and one you take up yourself.
It's more than just a weapon. It's a way to defend. It's a way to declare that you won't be helpless anymore, cowering beneath the yoke of laws and commands and the whimsical cruelty of the wealthy. I can take care of myself, this blade whispers, and Fenris wishes he knew how to say all that. He wishes he knew how to express the pride that wells up fiercely within him without sounding as though he's patronizing the pale elf.
But that fixed smile says so much. The way he drawls an offhand remark rather than linger in the sentiment of the moment says so much. And while Fenris doesn't know what he's thinking or where it comes from, he can well guess that this might be overwhelming— and that Astarion can't bear to linger.]
Welcomed with a weapon that implies you are the danger.
[An easy correction, his tone matching Astarion's own. And though Fenris wants very much wants to say more, he bites those words back. Instead, more easily:]
Come. I mean to get us both drunk tonight.
[Give Kirkwall this: it's ridiculously easy to find a good dive bar. Not the Hanged Man, for he cannot return there just yet, but something smaller: a hole in the wall that seems relatively clean. Astarion finds them a private table in the back while Fenris orders— Maker, far too much alcohol. Whiskey and rum, vodka and beer— all of it far too expensive and such a clash of liquors, but to hell with it. If this is Astarion's first night out, he wants it to be memorable.
(And if they're both dreadfully hung over tomorrow, well, that's part of it too).
Two drinks before the world begins to blur and soften; another two before he rises to get them water, nearly trips over his own feet, and realizes that he's properly drunk. Drunk as he hasn't been in a long, long time, his eyes soft and his grin reckless, amused and happy just to be here. It's a sharp difference from all the wine-drenched bitterness of before, and he's grateful for it.]
Savor all this.
[He drawls it out, his tongue loose over the syllables and his accent thick.]
All they do is drink wine in Antiva, from what I hear. Nothing but wine. Though I do hear it's good . . .
[Maker, they're going to Antiva in a few days. It's almost unreal, and yet he likes the thought the more he lingers on it. Antiva, and oh, it will be so nice to be in a place with a warm climate again . . . frankly, it will be nice just to be out of Kirkwall, for this is a miserable city. But oh: he doesn't want to get too lost in his thoughts, not when his companion is far more interesting. With a little grin, Fenris lifts his glass.]
To nearly a week in freedom. And to you.
Tell me what still puzzles you, hm? I saw those books . . . you must have picked up a great deal by now. What surprises you here?
[For he's still so curious about the concept of another world.]
[The dagger sits against his breast, tucked in close beneath loose cloth and a slanted sense of awareness; something that grows increasingly lopsided the more he drinks from that gleaming assortment of poured paint-thinners that all taste like—
Oh, like ambrosia, really.
He'd drink it out of a boot if it meant tasting more than ash and congealed misery whilst imbibing. And the best part is— like the figure hunched around mottled wood barely an arms' length away (and pleasantly blurry)— won't be going anywhere he can't fully follow.]
Oh, I don't know, darling— everthing??
[A puff of air that's both a scoff and a laugh, residually rife with scorching disbelief. Don't mind him as he snares a glass of something amber. And strong. And that absolutely reeks with fumes when it's held up in mutual salute....and downed.
(His swallow doesn't struggle, but it is audible, if one listens close.)]
Religion, history, genocide, slavery, culture, politesse. Your entire continental map looks like a dropped steak and honestly my darling I'm almost positive it's something to do with the fact that you lot had humans at the helm for centuries upon centuries— completely and utterly unchecked. Then there's the Circles, blood magic, abominations, phylacteries, chevaliers, templars, Q– uh. Qun....ah- qunahree. Or whatever. Old gods. Blights.
And now Corypheus? His spies. His dogged hunters. The fact that I can't order a drink without being forced to 'wait my turn'?
Gods and devils both have mercy, I've no idea how you even managed to snag this room.
[He laughs. It's an undignified thing, more akin to a low giggle than anything approaching what a grown elf ought to emit, but he can't help it. He isn't even laughing at Astarion, just as the truth of what he's saying: there's so much that's strange. Even Fenris can see it, from the blight to abominations to the entire concept of phylacteries . . . oh, and don't forget:]
Qunari.
[Sweetly corrected, for he finds the mispronunciation rather cute. But mmph, less so: that reminder of elven prejudice. Fenris scoffs derisively beneath his breath (though he does glance around, but ah, no one is paying two drunken elves any mind).]
It helps if you're intimidating. Most humans know better than to pick a fight with an elf who has a claymore strapped to his back, never mind who has the markings I do.
[He leans his cheek against his palm, in part for the comfort and in part because the room has begun to spin a little, and it's nice to have an anchor.]
As for Corypheus and his hunters— they will never catch you, not so long as you are with me.
[Smug, that, and frankly, not unduly so. But oh, oh, wait, he had a further thing to say about being an elf in Thedas, which was:]
Who, who do you have in charge, then, if not humans? Dwarves? Elves? I would think the humans would simply take over in your world, too . . . they expand so quickly.
[He's never talked to anyone like this. He's never talked about humans like this, distinctly separate and utterly other.]
Though I suppose no faster nor slower than elves, but . . . mmph, still.
[Astarion's expression rises first. Uplifted by the warmer current of Fenris' sly comment, it's why he misses the subtlety of the rest:]
True, they breed like rats, but they die out just as quickly. A handful of decades and then— poof— [a flick of his fingers outwards, imitating the winking of a dying star. Distracted a moment later by the cup resting beside said hand. Hello, beautiful.]
We'll outlive the lot without breaking a seat— [Errh. Hold on. Words. He knows words.]
Sweat.
False gods and assassins included, provided we're together. Your ferocity and my boundless cleverness combined.
[He laughs again, white teeth flashing for the sheer audacity of talking like this. He has never been one to cower from humans, not since freedom, but it's so refreshing to talk to someone else who feels the same. Not even the Dalish can manage it, so lost in their victimization.]
Of course we will.
[Of course they will. Drunk as they are, anything seems possible right now. His voice has gone drunkenly pleased, loose and light and a little silly in a way that it never normally is.]
Anyway, what kind of cleverness? Clever enough to survive, I know that. Clever enough to study up. What other kinds of ways are you clever, hm?
[A beat, and then, a little ruefully:]
I do not suppose light fingers were part of your training . . .
[Look, stealing is wrong, but it does make for a far easier life, and he is too old to care overly much about the morals of it. Steal from the rich to give to the poor, isn't that how the saying goes? And given they themselves have almost nothing between them . . . it's fine.]
[Arguably when escaping one's enslavement with nothing to one's name, stealing is always right. And stealing from the sort that stare and scoff the way that many in this city seem inclined to is therefore very very right.
Not that it matters; Astarion would thieve to his now-beating-heart's content anyway.]
Training? No. Survival?
[Ah, but— wait, they should do this properly, should they not? Turning around where he sits, the pale elf's focus aims itself out through the gap of the open doorway leading to their private room.]
Name your target, my dear enigmatic friend. Any target.
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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— ]
2/2
[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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[And despite himself, he hadn't expected that. The clattering of books and rapidfire footsteps, Astarion's eagerness audible through the door. He had missed him, he had thought of him endlessly, he had wished so desperately for his companionship these past lonely few nights, but he hadn't thought it would be returned.
He pauses for just a little longer than he should, his eyes locked on the flush in Astarion's cheeks.]
Of course I have.
[His tongue moves without input from his mind, his thought still struggling sluggishly with the concept that he was missed. It's only with the greatest of efforts that he tears his eyes away from Astarion's face, realizing belatedly he'd begun to stare.]
I told you I would.
[No, he hadn't. But he'd meant to— and before Astarion can call him out on that, Fenris tips his head in invitation, then glances around to be sure they're alone.]
And I promised you a drink. Several, in fact. Five days is quarantine enough, and I have not fallen ill, besides.
[A lopsided little smirk, then, as he focuses back on Astarion and clarifies:]
I'm here to break you out, if you wish.
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Whether or not it succeeds is anybody's guess.
Astarion's most of all.
('I told you I would,' Fenris says.
—had he? Gods. When everything is a line, surrounded and flocked by platitudes, is it any wonder Astarion put it out of his fractured excuse of a mind?)]
Gallant. [Comes with a transparent lifting of both brows.] Dashing. [With a flash of sharklike teeth, rounding out across his shoulders while he's still slung against that open arch, needing what he doesn't dare admit.] And yet I could've told you that, my fearless rescuer twice over.
I'm only contagious when I bite.
[Red eyes dart towards the hall and back, measuring its apparent vacancy with the good sense of someone that's done more than their share of mapping out floorboards.]
There are a handful of unwatched boats by the foot of the tower. [Is a conspiratory octave lower.] How deft are you at navigation?
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Maker, he should have come sooner.
(And is part of that fumbling for him? Is that charming grin for him, or would it be for anyone? He doesn't know, and he doesn't know why it matters, save that his mind lingers on the question). ]
Deft enough. I can get us back to Kirkwall proper with a bit of luck, though my rowing skills are not as keen as some. But here—
[He digs into one of his many pouches.]
A gift.
[One of two gifts he has planned, actually. But this first: a set of leather gloves, black and well-oiled, are held out before Astarion.]
They may be too large, but I did not want to err on the small side.
If you can cover your mark, we might simply walk out instead of trying to sneak. Your hair will distinguish you as much as my own does, but elves are rarely looked at here. And the organization seems busy today . . . I suspect if we walk with confidence, they will not stop us.
From there, those boats. And from there . . .
[His eyes flick over Astarion's face again, and then, carefully:]
Anywhere you wish.
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Reaches out tentatively to take them, pulling their supple weight into his palm first as he peels himself upright. Lining them up against the whole of his hand before he moves to put them on, extinguishing that vibrant glow— and with it, the thought that Fenris might not have somehow planned this whole thing through despite the fainter scent of tannins lingering in the air.
Gods above.]
Anywhere at all....?
[Warrants a quick upwards glance from underneath dark lashes.]
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[He says it before he can think of all the reasons why he shouldn't. He says it because he is so far from immune to the way Astarion glances up at him, eyes doeishly wide and his voice so vulnerable. He says it because he can remember being so overwhelmed, so awed, so uncomprehending of what it was to choose anything at all, never mind to be promised something so vast— and with that thought comes a small caveat.]
. . . though I can find a place, if you do not know what you wish for just yet.
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[With gloved fingers Astarion ushers Fenris inside, snapping up a fallen map from its resting place across the floor, tapping at a few key points.
Anywhere— and it isn't that he doesn't grasp the dangers involved when stealing out into a larger war unaided, or that his containment has drowned its every boon in languishment (on the contrary, he's already brightened without strings or shackles at his throat), but freedom, true damned freedom calls.
He wants to shuck every trace of conceivable restraint. Drink like a dying man, eat like a starving lord— thieve and steal and cavort and run his mind into the gutter, and he doesn't want to do it alone.
And there's only one soul who's earned a ticket to that mayhem at his side.]
You know the world better than I do. What'll it be: Antiva or Orlais?
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But what does he have here?
A city full of ghosts. An organization that couldn't care less if he died (for what organization anywhere truly cares about its members?). An aching heart and a run-down mansion more suited for stray cats and well-bred rats than a real person. What does Kirkwall have that Antiva or Orlais doesn't?
And the thought of going together— traveling as they had a few nights ago, letting their feet take them where they will and knowing that they are beholden to no one but themselves— feels like a breath of fresh air among the suffocating weight of Kirkwall and her horrors.]
Antiva.
[He answers a little distantly, some part of his mind still struggling to catch up— but the more he speaks, the easier it gets.]
No place in this world is particularly kind to elves, but Antiva is more so. They're a nation of merchants, with an emphasis on piracy. I had a friend from near there once . . . and I trusted her, thief that she was, more than anyone else.
[He wonders where Isabela is right now, and then dismisses the thought swiftly. Glancing over just once at Astarion, Fenris allows the slightest of smiles to creep over his lips, something like excitement beginning to flutter in the pit of his stomach.]
We can travel through the Free Marches. It will not be too hard to avoid the armies, I suspect; the war hasn't reached that part of the continent just yet. And Rivian is nearby, too . . . that might be an option before Orlais if you tire of Antiva swiftly.
[A beat, and then:]
You truly wish to go?
[With me being the quietest addition, silent and yet not unsubtle.]
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Door only nominally shut. Plan only nominally hatched.]
We could do so much worse than a grand adventure, darling. [Slips between his fangs with true confidence this time; tugging at the corner of dark leather where it comfortably meets his wrist. Parchment map rustling in his other hand.]
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And in truth, he doesn't need convincing. Perhaps that's the most shocking thing of all: that there is a part of him that's already long since agreed, and it's just the rest of him playing catch-up in the interim. He's felt so wrong for so long, disjointed and out of place, that it's become normal— but this feels right.]
All right.
[All right, and with the agreement comes a strange, muted excitement. All right, and perhaps this will be a disaster. Perhaps they'll find in two weeks that they can't stand each other's company, that it was all a mistake, that they never should have done this— but so what? They can always turn back. And Maker, but it feels so good to suddenly look forward to something.]
Then we'll leave . . .
[Hmm.]
Soon. You will need supplies of your own, and a horse, if we can manage it. And you will need to learn how to fight in one way if not another, for bandits will inevitably waylay us— and while I will protect you, it would be better if you could defend yourself.
[His eyes flick to the bed, unslept in and pitifully inadequate.]
And until we leave . . . you need not live here. You need not even stay here the night— for I still intend to take you out.
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And really, it's a good test run. A way to toe the waters just to gauge the world's response in kind— better, if one's going to be caught, to find oneself red-handed and completely soused. Sprawled not half a city away, and giddy from borrowing drink compared to half a continent's worth of distance, committing arguable war crimes.
If this more immediate gambit succeeds....well. Then comes the thrilling game of marking up a map under the brutal influence of a hangover.
Astarion flashes a grin as he passes through a strip of moonlight cutting between tattered clotheslines high overhead:]
I'm beginning to think that you don't trust me.
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[He drawls it out in retort, his smile a little easier to come now that they've made it back to Kirkwall proper. He has visited the Gallows a thousand times over the past decade, but it never fails to make him uneasy. No matter what his views on mages are (and they have not changed in the past few years, only growing more sour with his own bitterness), he cannot deny the ghosts that haunt those halls, nor the blood soaked into the stone. It's unnerving, and add to the fact that they were, in fact, breaking out illegaly, and oh, his nerves were more than a little strained.
(And was there a memory there? A flashback to a thousand different lectures, Anders' voice equal parts smug and disgusted? No. No, for Fenris will not allow it).]
In any case: I bring it up only because I have a second gift for you. Do not grow used to this; I am not going to always give you presents.
[But he does not mind spending the coin so Astarion can have a few things to start off his new life. And this isn't exactly how he meant to give this, but . . . oh, hell, he isn't very good at sentiment on the best of days, and there's no point in delaying further for the sake of ill-managed surprise. With a little grimace of annoyance at himself, he brings them to a halt and draws out of his pack—
A blade.
A dagger, well oiled and well made, sheathed in leather and with a gleaming handle. Raven Armory is inscribed in an impossibly spider-thin font along the hilt, for Fenris had gone to a reputable armorer. What would be the point in giving some rusted blade barely better than a kitchen knife?]
Here. Keep it on you, for my sake if nothing else. I have no doubt you are a fearsome thing with those teeth, but a knife will deter some idiots from trying anyway.
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The words spark an ember of— what is it, nausea? Shivering unease? Excitement? Maybe it's all one and the same, spiking hot in his blood as it courses through his restored heart, that adrenal reflex that comes on when he thinks— given all due context— that what comes next is sure to be a lunge. A whip-quick surge of movement or a feint to test his guard as either proof of prowess or deceit. So when the knife is raised his way he jerks away at an angle, twisting through his neck to—
To....nothing.
Quite literally, nothing. Inert outside the dilated flicker of his pupils as they shrink and widen by the sheerest difference of degrees. Attempting to translate what he's staring at into something that makes sense by any measure. We'll run away together— yes, of course that tracks: countless souls foster well-worn fantasies of taking flight in the stillness of the night, abandoning responsibility or care. The rest's explained away by palpable loneliness. Something even Astarion can't deny they share, no matter how he's tried over the last few days. But that's all self-comfort. Self-serving. I don't want to be alone, so it's you. I can't stomach the ghosts of my enslavement, but you understand, so when I look at you I see myself. Save myself.
And the logic of it, poured over time and time again through every sleepthin night since their departure, had the decency therein to at least make passable sense.
Gloves are cheap. Stealing in past Riftwatch's lax guard: simple enough.
This?
This is....]
....It's beautiful.
[Comes on breathless. Hazy. He might as well be drunk for how its the words that reach for it, rather than his own gloved hands, now incapable of movement. Only his eyes can manage it (again), a ratcheted little uptick that snaps from the sight of that offered gift towards whatever expression Fenris wears.
Astarion isn't certain he could read it to save his life.]
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His expression is impossibly, wondrously soft in that moment when their eyes meet: his mouth a soft line and his emerald eyes endlessly gentle, his flinty mask melted away to reveal something so much more vulnerable than he ever usually allows. His heart thunders like a drum, and though Astarion hasn't made a move to take the blade just yet, Fenris keeps it held out all the same. He'll hold it there for hours if need be.
And it isn't pity that fuels that softness. It isn't the patronizing sympathy that plagues this world, human nobles cooing about how sad it is to see an elven child in threadbare clothing or begging for food. It certainly isn't the condescending attitude of an elder towards a youth, rueful amusement at their expense for the sake of bittersweet memories.
It's so much more than that. A cacophony of emotions twisting within him and boiling in the pit of his stomach, so foreign and strange that he can't possibly identify them. Grief and sorrow, joy and keen-edged pleasure, and yet all he knows is that they're overlaid with the fiercest urge to stay close.
Don't leave me behind.
Like a drowning man finally surfacing for air: he wants to stay near this elf as long as he's able, Fenris realizes. It's such a swelling desire that it takes him by surprise, no matter that he agreed to run away with him not an hour ago. That had been more about leaving Kirkwall than anything, but now . . . Maker, he wants to be near. Not because Astarion needs protecting (though oh, he feels that urge too, baring his teeth in a snarl at the entire world for what it might wrought). Not because Astarion cannot handle things on his own, newly freed and stumbling into this world on coltish legs.
It's because he wants to.
The past few days have been a misery for more reasons than one. Lonely thing, he's grown so used to isolation that he'd forgotten what it was to want someone. And there's a connection here. A spark, a thread that ties them together, and it makes no sense. For the life of him, he couldn't articulate it if he tried, but it's there all the same. Something that makes Astarion different from others he's freed before, the pale elf distinguishing himself in Fenris' eyes by way of vulnerability and independence both. He plans to cross countries and trek it to another country by way of celebrating his freedom, and yet he looks up at Fenris as though he's the world, and Fenris—
Maker, he wants to be that. He wants to be everything to Astarion in this moment.]
It's yours.
[He doesn't know how long he took before he replied. Hours, maybe, or mere seconds; it's so hard to tell.]
I . . . the gloves were practical. But this . . .
[This is something more, and they both know it. His tongue feels thick and clumsy; what had Hawke said to him all those years ago? He can't remember. He doesn't know what to say nor how to say it, and in the end, he manages:]
Welcome to your new life.
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Breath in, resolute, and time begins to tick again. The noise of the city comes back, invited to remember all its cues, and the act of reaching out to take that blade becomes the simple act of taking a blade.
Weighing it.
Slipping a gloved thumb across its glinting mark.]
Welcomed with a weapon that implies an inherent sense of rampant danger?
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The first step from cowering slave to freed man. The first choice that will linger and echo days and months and years from now, no matter what Astarion does or where he goes. And it doesn't matter whether or not he's fought before, for Fenris himself was made to be a war dog— but there's such a difference between the blade pushed into your palm by your master and one you take up yourself.
It's more than just a weapon. It's a way to defend. It's a way to declare that you won't be helpless anymore, cowering beneath the yoke of laws and commands and the whimsical cruelty of the wealthy. I can take care of myself, this blade whispers, and Fenris wishes he knew how to say all that. He wishes he knew how to express the pride that wells up fiercely within him without sounding as though he's patronizing the pale elf.
But that fixed smile says so much. The way he drawls an offhand remark rather than linger in the sentiment of the moment says so much. And while Fenris doesn't know what he's thinking or where it comes from, he can well guess that this might be overwhelming— and that Astarion can't bear to linger.]
Welcomed with a weapon that implies you are the danger.
[An easy correction, his tone matching Astarion's own. And though Fenris wants very much wants to say more, he bites those words back. Instead, more easily:]
Come. I mean to get us both drunk tonight.
[Give Kirkwall this: it's ridiculously easy to find a good dive bar. Not the Hanged Man, for he cannot return there just yet, but something smaller: a hole in the wall that seems relatively clean. Astarion finds them a private table in the back while Fenris orders— Maker, far too much alcohol. Whiskey and rum, vodka and beer— all of it far too expensive and such a clash of liquors, but to hell with it. If this is Astarion's first night out, he wants it to be memorable.
(And if they're both dreadfully hung over tomorrow, well, that's part of it too).
Two drinks before the world begins to blur and soften; another two before he rises to get them water, nearly trips over his own feet, and realizes that he's properly drunk. Drunk as he hasn't been in a long, long time, his eyes soft and his grin reckless, amused and happy just to be here. It's a sharp difference from all the wine-drenched bitterness of before, and he's grateful for it.]
Savor all this.
[He drawls it out, his tongue loose over the syllables and his accent thick.]
All they do is drink wine in Antiva, from what I hear. Nothing but wine. Though I do hear it's good . . .
[Maker, they're going to Antiva in a few days. It's almost unreal, and yet he likes the thought the more he lingers on it. Antiva, and oh, it will be so nice to be in a place with a warm climate again . . . frankly, it will be nice just to be out of Kirkwall, for this is a miserable city. But oh: he doesn't want to get too lost in his thoughts, not when his companion is far more interesting. With a little grin, Fenris lifts his glass.]
To nearly a week in freedom. And to you.
Tell me what still puzzles you, hm? I saw those books . . . you must have picked up a great deal by now. What surprises you here?
[For he's still so curious about the concept of another world.]
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Oh, like ambrosia, really.
He'd drink it out of a boot if it meant tasting more than ash and congealed misery whilst imbibing. And the best part is— like the figure hunched around mottled wood barely an arms' length away (and pleasantly blurry)— won't be going anywhere he can't fully follow.]
Oh, I don't know, darling— everthing??
[A puff of air that's both a scoff and a laugh, residually rife with scorching disbelief. Don't mind him as he snares a glass of something amber. And strong. And that absolutely reeks with fumes when it's held up in mutual salute....and downed.
(His swallow doesn't struggle, but it is audible, if one listens close.)]
Religion, history, genocide, slavery, culture, politesse. Your entire continental map looks like a dropped steak and honestly my darling I'm almost positive it's something to do with the fact that you lot had humans at the helm for centuries upon centuries— completely and utterly unchecked. Then there's the Circles, blood magic, abominations, phylacteries, chevaliers, templars, Q– uh. Qun....ah- qunahree. Or whatever. Old gods. Blights.
And now Corypheus? His spies. His dogged hunters. The fact that I can't order a drink without being forced to 'wait my turn'?
Gods and devils both have mercy, I've no idea how you even managed to snag this room.
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Qunari.
[Sweetly corrected, for he finds the mispronunciation rather cute. But mmph, less so: that reminder of elven prejudice. Fenris scoffs derisively beneath his breath (though he does glance around, but ah, no one is paying two drunken elves any mind).]
It helps if you're intimidating. Most humans know better than to pick a fight with an elf who has a claymore strapped to his back, never mind who has the markings I do.
[He leans his cheek against his palm, in part for the comfort and in part because the room has begun to spin a little, and it's nice to have an anchor.]
As for Corypheus and his hunters— they will never catch you, not so long as you are with me.
[Smug, that, and frankly, not unduly so. But oh, oh, wait, he had a further thing to say about being an elf in Thedas, which was:]
Who, who do you have in charge, then, if not humans? Dwarves? Elves? I would think the humans would simply take over in your world, too . . . they expand so quickly.
[He's never talked to anyone like this. He's never talked about humans like this, distinctly separate and utterly other.]
Though I suppose no faster nor slower than elves, but . . . mmph, still.
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True, they breed like rats, but they die out just as quickly. A handful of decades and then— poof— [a flick of his fingers outwards, imitating the winking of a dying star. Distracted a moment later by the cup resting beside said hand. Hello, beautiful.]
We'll outlive the lot without breaking a seat— [Errh. Hold on. Words. He knows words.]
Sweat.
False gods and assassins included, provided we're together. Your ferocity and my boundless cleverness combined.
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Of course we will.
[Of course they will. Drunk as they are, anything seems possible right now. His voice has gone drunkenly pleased, loose and light and a little silly in a way that it never normally is.]
Anyway, what kind of cleverness? Clever enough to survive, I know that. Clever enough to study up. What other kinds of ways are you clever, hm?
[A beat, and then, a little ruefully:]
I do not suppose light fingers were part of your training . . .
[Look, stealing is wrong, but it does make for a far easier life, and he is too old to care overly much about the morals of it. Steal from the rich to give to the poor, isn't that how the saying goes? And given they themselves have almost nothing between them . . . it's fine.]
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Not that it matters; Astarion would thieve to his now-beating-heart's content anyway.]
Training? No. Survival?
[Ah, but— wait, they should do this properly, should they not? Turning around where he sits, the pale elf's focus aims itself out through the gap of the open doorway leading to their private room.]
Name your target, my dear enigmatic friend. Any target.
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