[He can fight. Gods above he can fight by now, proof laid out in the Silent Wastes behind Tevinter walls— in the wreckage of Val Chevin, where one more blood mage rots in tatters— vicious enough that he’ll easily bleed anyone foolish enough to get close.
The problem is, Astarion bleeds too.
And now that he’s as tentatively mortal as anyone else in Thedas, shadows don’t exactly wreath him in glorious strength.
All right. Fine. Middling strength. The strength of a spawn, rather than a lord, but it’d still be more than what he has now in seemingly living form. In other words, he knows when he’s dangerously outnumbered and at risk for a thousand nagging— potentially unraveling— cuts. He knows when he’s in danger. And he knows the second someone comes rushing his way, a blur against a darkened backdrop, white hair and pale lines—
He—
He doesn’t move.
'Stay behind me', and utterly dumbstruck, Astarion simply does, in fact, stay. Watches the outpouring of lyrium-bursts as stupidly as he’d ever done in their first meeting, crimson stare wide and bewildered, and the name Fenris on his lips— lost completely to the fray itself.
And pulled in the next second.
Right.
Hells, right. Run first. Disbelief later.
To the rooftops he follows, and rapidly the two of them descend into the fluid simplicity of survival: avoiding the rusted metal lining stony structures each time they leap deftly from ledge to ledge in retreat.
And whether their adversaries are doggedly tailing still, or whether nimbleness gives them an advantage, it won’t be worth half as much as a clean getaway: nearer to the foundry than the docks, it’s Astarion that grabs for Fenris this time (he knows better, something to be said for pain, but necessity’s necessity), twisting him off course towards the edge of a roof with no connections.]
This way— trust me, darling.
[Breathless. Quick. One hard yank before they’re careening wildly over the edge.
Before they land in a spare heap of ruined sheeting left behind from the last inward influx of seafaring vessels still slithering down from Val Chevin. Rough, not particularly soft, but still preferable to broken bones or a knife to the ribs or— if particularly unlucky— a set of binding shackles.
And when Astarion spurs himself to his feet in the very next breath, he pulls Fenris with him one last time, shoving him flat against the wall beneath a tattered awning, his eyes cast high to try and ensure they haven’t been successfully spotted.]
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The problem is, Astarion bleeds too.
And now that he’s as tentatively mortal as anyone else in Thedas, shadows don’t exactly wreath him in glorious strength.
All right. Fine. Middling strength. The strength of a spawn, rather than a lord, but it’d still be more than what he has now in seemingly living form. In other words, he knows when he’s dangerously outnumbered and at risk for a thousand nagging— potentially unraveling— cuts. He knows when he’s in danger. And he knows the second someone comes rushing his way, a blur against a darkened backdrop, white hair and pale lines—
He—
He doesn’t move.
'Stay behind me', and utterly dumbstruck, Astarion simply does, in fact, stay. Watches the outpouring of lyrium-bursts as stupidly as he’d ever done in their first meeting, crimson stare wide and bewildered, and the name Fenris on his lips— lost completely to the fray itself.
And pulled in the next second.
Right.
Hells, right. Run first. Disbelief later.
To the rooftops he follows, and rapidly the two of them descend into the fluid simplicity of survival: avoiding the rusted metal lining stony structures each time they leap deftly from ledge to ledge in retreat.
And whether their adversaries are doggedly tailing still, or whether nimbleness gives them an advantage, it won’t be worth half as much as a clean getaway: nearer to the foundry than the docks, it’s Astarion that grabs for Fenris this time (he knows better, something to be said for pain, but necessity’s necessity), twisting him off course towards the edge of a roof with no connections.]
This way— trust me, darling.
[Breathless. Quick. One hard yank before they’re careening wildly over the edge.
Before they land in a spare heap of ruined sheeting left behind from the last inward influx of seafaring vessels still slithering down from Val Chevin. Rough, not particularly soft, but still preferable to broken bones or a knife to the ribs or— if particularly unlucky— a set of binding shackles.
And when Astarion spurs himself to his feet in the very next breath, he pulls Fenris with him one last time, shoving him flat against the wall beneath a tattered awning, his eyes cast high to try and ensure they haven’t been successfully spotted.]