albinomilksnake | RP: OPEN POST

"I did pledge to carry you," Fenris says, hoping the potential romance of the gesture will assuage a bit of Astarion's ruffled feathers. "I'm sure you can find a place to suit your standard."

About that second part, he is not at all sure. But he's willing to weather that storm later, when their options are narrower and they are ultimately safer.

Romance does soothe. It always soothes. Sometimes less efficiently than others, but even in this moment, there’s a noticeably interested sidelong glance cast Fenris’ way.

“Mhm. We'll see soon enough.”

And then he’s primly returned to his duties, wrapping corded reeds around snapped antler in ways he can only faintly recall: not a perfect imitation of a monstrous charm, but an artistic interpretation, and one that’ll at least scare off any passing rabble. A few extra bones, a little spare hide, and it’ll be just—

Well, not lovely. Hideous, really, but you get the idea.

“How’s your neck?” He asks, dusting off his hands. “I can ease the pain, you know. If you need it, just for a little while.”

Something Fenris has been meaning to ask springs to mind. "Are you a mage, here?"

He understands enough of Astarion's world to know magic works differently. He knows Astarion would be dead if he was Thedosian, falling happily to a desire demon's whims.

These facts to not put him at ease, at this moment.

“It’s not that simple, darling.”

The word itself means something different here: someone who can use magic is only a mage if they choose to be— all those rigorous studies and schools and whatnot. Bookworms, all of them, and Astarion— while occasionally finding them intriguing at the occasional soiree— more often than not thinks the pedantry exhausting.

But that’s not important.

What is important is Fenris, and that knowledge of his own long-troubled relationship with magic. With mages, and the cruelties of its application at their hands. His head tilts slightly, his expression surrendering its pristine edge.

“But yes, I suppose to a certain extent. It’s only a little magic, mind— I can dull the pain I cause while feeding without even needing to think about it, lure even the most resilient of quarries to my side. Obviously I didn’t have access to any of that in Thedas: you fell for my charms all on your own.”

It’s a chuckle that— doesn’t really land. He expects Fenris won’t find his teasing funny, so the instinct dies as soon as it takes flight, a few graceful fingers instead curling uselessly in midair, and then dropping.

“It’s harmless, cross my unliving heart. I’d never hurt you.”

Which means the intimacy, the gentleness, the foolish pleasure of Astarion's feeding, that first time, was all an utter lie. Fenris turns away, more angry at himself than anyone else. Of course it was. Bloodletting is always painful.

His head throbs with anger or fatigue, too many things happening all at once, and he is overwhelmed.

"We should move on," Fenris says, voice flat. "Never ever use magic on me again, without asking."

“I wasn’t— ”

He was of course, and whatever performative argument he thinks to make dies all too quickly, even as he reaches to gather up his doublet.

“But your state, darling. You need to feed on something: you won’t be well if you keep soldiering on.”

"I can endure," he snaps, "far worse than what you think you can do to me."

He has never been good at holding back his anger, and how that pushes him forward.

"You know the roads. Guide us." Apparently, this is not a discussion he is having.

Well. That makes them 0 for 2 on living the dream of romantic excursions in shared company: first the talk of biting, now this— he’s beginning to think he’s somehow swindled this poor creature into devotion— but then again, that’d be just yet another injustice done to Fenris in secret, wouldn't it?

If Fenris fell, he likely didn’t fall expecting their aggregate existence to be easy. He might be young comparatively, but he’s no child.

“Of course.”

There’s nothing else to offer but concession, and in a way— fed and invigorated twice over— he’s almost glad to take point even through the thickness of forest underbrush and tangled growth: a different creature entirely compared to his normal demeanor, vampirism sees him prowling with feline fluidity, footsteps balanced and perfectly in-line, no matter the terrain, long ears attentive and perked for even the faintest of sounds.

Fenris has guarded him well enough so far. He’ll do the same, now, in turn.

It isn’t until the evening hours that he asks, darkness swelling the shadows surrounding them, “How are you holding up?”

Astarion melts like smoke through shadow, and there is no part of Fenris that does not think he is beautiful. Even the anger, kept always in reserve, a ready weapon, transmutes itself around this thought. He keeps trudging along, occasionally fiddling with his piece of antler, leaving chips behind as he saws pieces off.

He walks, and he lets himself cool off. He does not forgive, but he knows he'll receive no apology. And, ultimately, no blood magic was used. No demons were summoned. He isn't angry enough to end things.

It is simply a wrong that will remain unrighted. He has many.

"The same," Fenris answers through the dark. He is tired, this is true, but he will survive it. "Are we lost?"

"No." he counters smoothly, softly, sounding uniquely contented as his footfalls slow with one glance high towards the tops of the canopy where they break. "The stars were never so bright in Baldur's Gate, but I know them just as well like this."

One hand lifts, the fingers of his opposite hand scrubbing idly at it while he mulls something over in silence.

"We should stop, though. For your sake. Just until morning."

"I'll will not see us robbed again, or worse," Fenris says, too tired to sneer it. "If we are not lost, where is the nearest inn?"

A function of being, as ever but now especially, the wrong kind of elf, Fenris' eyes gleam in darkness.

“There should be a village not far from here. The one we’d been aiming for before— but walking back towards the main road and actually getting there will still take some time.”

In fact, at this rate he doubts they’ll make it there till midnight. Maybe a little beforehand if they’re lucky with their pathing and footwork.

One silvered brow arches, his head canting slightly as he looks Fenris over. Yes, he’s still standing, and yes he has faith in him, but—

“You’re sure you’ll be all right with that?”

Fenris looks up from the antler and knife in hand. "Would you endure my nursemading you?"

"I'm just making sure you know how taxing this little trip of ours is going to be."

Said defensively because— yes, fine, it is nursemading, but like hell is he going to admit it and prove Fenris right when they're already in a tiff. Eyes lifting petulantly towards nothing at all, lips pursing as his hand meets his hip, and then he's veering off in an entirely different direction, likely angling for the road.

"And for the record, I hardly mind being fussed over by you, thank you very much."

"When it is on your terms," Fenris says, a bit (a bit more than a bit) pointedly.

That was unworthy, but he won't retract it. Fenris starts again. "I have never told you of Seheron, an island of perpetual war. Smoke was the sky, and it seemed all the point of those forests was to burn. I was there to guard my master, and so I fought off anyone who would harm him, as he took blood from me. There was little food he thought to spare, and his apprentices made a game of it to stop me from resting. This..."

He gestures to this strange new world.

"It is a garden, Astarion. I am not pleased by all your actions, but I do not mind being lead through it."

“Sometimes I forget we don’t speak the same language.” He says it quietly as he stops, turning slightly on his heel to face where Fenris whittles away at that antler, knowing it’ll take longer. That it’ll cost them a little time and a little more effort. He likes to think Fenris won’t be too fussed about it.

“For two hundred years I was alone. And before that, I can hardly remember a thing— I don’t even recall what I looked like before— this.” said with a sweeping gesture of his own hand across his body, making an example of paleness and red eyes and teeth in the dark.

“I was supposed to break boundaries, not respect them you see, that’s all Cazador wanted whenever he let me off my leash. But you should know that I am trying, that I’ll learn it all soon enough, albeit with more than the occasional growing pain.”

It isn’t an apology, he doesn’t make those in earnest, after all. Those are nothing more than deflections, little shields for the continuation of his own bad behavior. This, whatever it is, is more honest. More willing.

“That said, you can’t expect me not to want something nicer for you than whatever it was you used to know. Doesn’t matter that you can handle it. You know that— I certainly do. But I’m not Danarius, and you’re damn well not bloody Cazador.

We can do better for ourselves, I think. Maybe.”

He's often wondered: why don't you use my strength? Why don't you use my power? Now he has his answer, far starker than he wanted it. What other purpose can he serve? What else can he contribute?

They can do better than themselves, and what is that, exactly? What nightmare future is he being thrust into now?

Rules generally evolve for the worse, not the better.

"Maybe," Fenris concedes, each word squeezed through grit teeth. "I will try as well. I- You cannot possibly think yourself Danarius. Never say that again."

Fenris keeps walking, having forgotten to concede.

That’s fine of course. He knows how it hurts, change.

And he’s asked for a lot of it lately. As much giving as he is getting, so to speak. But for all his callousness beyond the borders of his affection, he remains ever the optimist: this will be worth it. He’ll give Fenris so much more than a garden.

He’ll give him a damned paradise.

For now it starts on a smaller scale, however, a touch after midnight by way of a blearily conversation with an innkeep with only one room to spare, and only one bed at that.

Astarion makes it simple, asking for spare bedding and tucking it just against the wall nearest to the bed, along with what they already carry. Hardly dignified by Baldurian standards, but it’s within his own eyeline, meaning he won’t wake and worry, and it’s far enough aside that Fenris won’t feel pressed on— or fussed over.

“Well? How’d I do?” He asks brightly, setting his hands high on his hips as he surveys the scene.

Fenris, stuck with his own thoughts, has had enough time to cool. He nods, setting his things aside, and begins taking off his excess armor. "That you can manage rooms at inns like this still amazes me. When I was on the run, I slept in trees."

A pale compliment, and Fenris feels rather wan himself. He finds the excess bedding and all but collapses into it.

"I was a snarling wolf today, snapping at your heels," he says, looking up at Astarion. He is not kneeling. This vantage is just comfortingly familiar. "Can you forgive me?"

A snarling wolf. What a lovely image, he thinks, and appropriate enough as he buries his stare at the fringed edges of silver bangs where they give way to sharper features.

After a beat, he shrugs off his doublet— nothing else— and clambers up across the mattress to drape down over its edge, one hand drifting lazily to catch (gently) the underside of Fenris' chin with the back of two artfully flexed fingertips, just in the dip between bright markings.

"Well, I'd consider it, if there were anything to forgive in the slightest." Suave and simple, hardly the painted niceties he's capable of offering. "But looking back you were right."

Take note of this, Fenris. He's not likely to admit it again.

"Off with you now. Kitchen doesn't kick off till after dawn, and the more I stare at you, the less I want to sleep."

Fenris turns his head, pausing a moment to press his face gently into Astarion's wrist, feeling the utter lack of pulse. Little warmth, but warm enough for Fenris. He kisses it before he rises.

Gently, he places the remainder of the antler in that indolent hand. Fenris is no grand artist, but he has clearly done this before: the trinket is now in the rough shape of a wolf's head, ears back, eyeless and snarling.

"You asked for something of mine," Fenris says, paused awkwardly in the doorway, before fleeing to the kitchen.

It feels rough against the pads of his own soft fingers, only crisp where the knife Fenris had used to whittle away excess left tracking angles. Had he been doing that the whole time, even throughout their tensed back and forth?

Hells, he’s a soft heart beneath all that armor.

So much time spent protecting everyone else, and so little realizing he’s the one in need of it, too. Oh, not from Astarion. No, he’s already fallen quite stupidly head over heels for that strange wolf of a man– and there’s no coming back form that, he thinks. But from the rest of the world?

That’s quite a different story. Especially here.

He turns it over one last time before pressing it to his chest, shutting his eyes and letting the heaviness of sleep take him. For once, he’s actually looking forward to it.

Haven eaten as much food as he'll allow, Fenris returns with caution. Finding Astarion asleep is good, if disappointing. Finding his silly little gift clutched in Astarion's hand does fill Fenris with a quiet sort of warmth. What a lovely thing, to be wanted freely.

Fenris quietly puts a blanket over Astarion's shoulders before curling up to rest on the floor. Sleep finds him quickly, blessedly dreamless.

There’s no sense of urgency this time. Astarion wakes when he wakes, the sun already clawing its way through the lopsided shutters to their room, only having rolled about once or twice— so little compared to usual restlessness that he doesn’t even remember it. The trinket he has to dig for, already sunken somewhere between sheets from sleep, and when he finds it he wastes no time in tending to a host of immediate, menial tasks:

He gains his bearings from the upper view of the inn, which cuts down on their travel time to Yartar by two whole days; he pockets coin with deft fingers from innkeep and patrons alike before departure, meaning that once they set foot inside city walls, they’ve the money to spare immediately for a narrow little space that’s barely more than a den of an unfurnished apartment; he swaps out weathered bedding last, and within that chilled loft in Yartar, makes certain they’ll be comfortable enough at the start of new beginnings.

True new beginnings. None of this endless life-on-the-run business. The city smells of smoke and sweet promises, lantern tallow and animal in places—

“Unlike Baldur’s Gate,” Astarion explains without prompting, arms folded across the sill of their rickety loft’s only open window, “Yartar permits dogs within city limits. As well as cats, chickens— just about anything, as long as it’s well-kept.”

He feels refreshed. Bright. Eager. Alive with the promise of a successful journey and the reminder that there’s a glory to be found in sprawling cityscapes.

“Gods. Just look at it.”

Astarion watches the city; Fenris watches Astarion. He sees how Astarion comports himself, how he moves through the city, what he needs and wants from it. This is no Kirkwall; this is a proud spot on a trading route, not a bitterly tired port in a storm.

Fenris will aquatint himself with it better in the night, to see where its Lowtown and inevitably Darktown begin and end. He suspects they now reside in some part of its poorer quarters. He thinks of Hawke, taking ten years to carve a name for herself out of Kirkwall's swirling ash and flame. It will be quicker, here. He promises that not to himself, but Astarion, as he stares silently at the red band on his wrist.

"How will you hunt?" Fenris asks, practical as ever. "I meant what I said-- drink from who you like-- but a sudden rash of anemia will be... noticed."

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