[Look: he is no stranger to dealing with slavers, even now. Danarius and his illegitimate sons are dead, but shockingly, Tevinter has not taken well to even one elf routinely and relentlessly disrupting the steady flooding income of slaves. Fenris does not know the current price on his head, but Maker knows it's high enough that he's routinely spotted and bothered. Often it's easy enough to dispatch with them: idiots who see the promise of money and don't wonder why anyone else has cashed in, oh, yes, those are throats easily slit.
But sometimes, even slavers are smart. Sometimes, they manage a proper ambush, a two-pronged attack that had sent Fenris running. Three dead at the site of the ambush, four on his tail— if he can just find an alley somewhere, some chokehold where they'll be forced to come at him two at a time, he can plant his feet and sweep through them, he knows he can.
Duck down the alleyway, one sharp turn, and thank the Maker for quick reflexes, for he nearly murders the poor elf he all but runs headon into. Silver-haired and chased by, oh, too many others . . . they must have mistaken him for Fenris. They must have seen someone with pointed ears and silver hair and decided to take their chances. Why not? At worst, they get even the ordinary payout for a slave.
This does not make the elf Fenris' problem, not really. But it sort of does, all at once.]
If you cannot fight, stay behind me. Back to the wall.
[He says it distractedly, trying to keep track of too many opponents at once. Everyone's gone terribly still, waiting to see who will strike first— but though the odds are against them, not impossibly so. The new group of men doesn't even have armor (and that, later, will strike at Fenris; these aren't slavers, not all of them, but it's hard to think when you're caught up in the moment). They can survive this.
He waits, tense— but there, one slaver from Fenris' group growing impatient and darting forward, blade flashing through the air, and oh, how swiftly Fenris' sword rises to meet him in response. Three stabs to kill him, his body crumpling before Fenris— but while an alley had its tactical advantages, it also means Fenris hasn't any room to swing, not really. He won't be able to kill quite so fast as he ordinarily does, and oh, doesn't everyone seem to realize it all at once. The other three slavers rush forward, yelling loudly, and oh, fuck it—
It happens very quickly; later, he'll remember it broken up into moments. One: Fenris goes invisible, his lyrium bursting into a bright brilliant blue glow before fading, the scent of ozone thick in the air and everyone shouting. Two: screams, the scent of ozone overpowered by copper, blood spraying wildly as one man, two, three, clutches at their chests, their torsos, hearts and lungs torn halfway out of their bodies, evisercated but not necessarily dead just yet. Three: his bloody fingers wrapping tight around the other elf's wrist, yanking him invisibly forward, urging him through the stumbling bodies—]
Run!
[Sometimes a tactical retreat is best. Away, down the streets, and he reappears as they move, heading not for the docks but up, up on the rooftops, where it's easier to leap from roof to roof in a frantic dash away.]
[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.]
[Trust me, the strange elf says, in those breathless few seconds before they fall. Insanity by anyone's definition, but especially in Kirkwall, and Fenris knows better. He knows elves who lure others in just to sell them out; he knows that this may well be part of a trap, that this elf might simply be leading him to his doom. Trust me as they stand on the edge of an abyss, and Fenris has no time to debate or decide. It's a gut-level instinct, a yes or no, trust me, fingers wrapping tight around his wrist as they leap—
— and fall, tumble, stumble to their feet, and it isn't until the wall hits his back that Fenris actually exhales.]
Look at me.
[It's breathed out, a low rumble intended only for his companion's ears. One hand snakes around him, fingers splayed along his lower back as he yanks him in closer— the awning is only so big, after all. He can hear thundering footsteps above them, confused shouts and snarled threats— they've lost track of them, but still, better safe than sorry.
Even once the noises have faded, he doesn't move just yet. But a quiet tone, that ought to be all right.]
Fenris.
[He jerks his head in a nod.]
My apologies. Your pursuers may have mistaken you for me. They've grown . . . enthusiastic, these past few months, and do not care much if they make an error in their efforts.
[Gauntleted fingers pressed heavy against his spine, that unmistakable voice thrumming deeply in the air between them, clear as cut crystal; his own gloved hands cinched tight around the armored edges of Fenris' shoulders, eclipsed almost entirely in shadow.
Real. All of it real. And 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 died in Cazador's arms. Not just from the danger looming directly overhead. Not from the chips of chalky, displaced stone that tumble from on high underfoot (slipping through the awning holes to land somewhere against his shoulder) as one last figure leans over the edge above them, surveying the city with lingering determination.
But then it’s passed, that moment of threaded tension.
The last of their troubles departs, and Astarion, exhaling at last into the nonexistent space between them, pulls back as far as Fenris' grip allows— easing off his own in turn. Admittedly this is hardly the easiest place to foster a reunion, but Astarion's never been one to give a damn: flexing a grin that’s all fang. Lilac and leather oil mingling with the clinging scent of scorched ozone— and the wretched, ashy smell of Lowtown itself.]
Mistaken me for—
[A wicked glint catching in his eyes, the easiness in his tone when he scoffs. Time hasn’t done a damn thing to make this feel any less familiar.] If anyone’s been mistaken for anyone else around here, it’s you for me.
[And he’s warm as anything. Bolstered as anything now, too. Not brittle or bewildered, not waiting for the hammer to fall.
[Oh, hm, this is getting a little weird. Not uncomfortably just yet, but whatever breathless moment of camaraderie had drifted between them clearly had an effect on his companion. Hand dropping from the elf's back, Fenris shifts a little, taking a half-step to the side, putting a bit of space between them.]
Are you so famous, then?
[A little weird, but not very. Fenris' tone is earnest, one eyebrow raising as he stares at the other man. At those fangs, Maker's breath, and he can't help but stare for half a second.]
[The step away means nothing; the man always valued his space, his privacy— and given where Astarion lives (not to mention how he chooses to live within it) it's not as if Astarion can't understand.
But.]
Ahah. Funny. [Flat, that. Warier, too. A tone that's akin to stepping onto thin, half-cracked ice.
He's watching Fenris almost peripherally now, searching for something in the other man's expression. A sign of amusement. A dry flicker of humor. Or meanness. Or—
[This is not the first time someone has looked at Fenris and hoped that he knew them. This is not the first time eyes have searched his face so hungrily, mouth drawn and with bated breath; this is not the first time Fenris has felt that familiar lurch in the pit of his stomach, like missing a step, like skidding up the edge of a cliff—
But unlike Varania, Fenris feels no trickle of memory. He searches desperately, pushing at old shadows and half-remembered words, but no. Nothing.
He does not know if that comforts him or frightens him.]
No.
[No, it frightens, though he refuses to let that fear show.]
But you know me. I can see it in your face.
[His eyes drift over Astarion's face, studying the curves there, the pale skin, scarlet eyes . . . but no. No, there's nothing.]
[It hangs, that thought. Snags on nothing (and everything) all at once. Like the world itself is unraveling second by miserable second spent standing here in the open air, letting whatever this is sink in, and he can't put his fingers to the seam line to stop it. But if Astarion's good at anything at all, it's knowing when to let his mind shut off entirely, numbing himself to everything as surely as flipping a sickening little switch.
He exhales thinly. Tips his head towards a set of nearby stairs.] We shouldn't talk here.
Come on.
[It isn't far from where they'd taken refuge, his Lowtown flat. A closet of a place: just as rusted and worn as any other building in Kirkwall's lower belly— though it's high enough that the flowing smell of ocean air filters out chalk and soot more keenly than one might expect, given the often funneling walls of Lowtown itself.
Most importantly, it's far from either the Alienage or the Gallows, which is all Astarion truly cares about for the moment, anyway.
He fits his key into the lock securing heavy iron doors. Cracks them, and leaves room for Fenris to follow inside.]
Watch your step, darling.
[And he does, in fact, mean that: most of the floor (the shelves, the crates and so on, too) is littered with clutter of every conceivable type. A magpie's nest of junk and treasure alike, and none of it sorted in the slightest, though it glitters in low light from a deeply dimmed hearth.]
[No, the alley is no place for a talk like this, Fenris thinks, and yet he brims with impatience every step of the way. The question of friend or foe seems obvious enough, at least (although old habits have him checking the shadows once they enter the abode— stupid, as if the ghost of Danarius might appear). But friend of what kind, that remains to be seen, and from where? Some ghost from Tevinter? It's not inconceivable that some slave remembers him, Fenris supposes, although even so— why here?
Why now?
He picks his way carefully through clutter, feet more deft than you'd expect from a warrior, and settles on a chair, one leg curling under him. He's quiet while the other man does whatever it is he has to, setting his things down or simply finding somewhere to settle— but sooner or later he speaks, his voice quiet.]
[There's something to be said for how much better Astarion feels once the door's thoroughly locked behind them (though Fenris might not be able to say the same, given the fact that he's no better educated on the man that's led him here). Without ceremony, the pale elf plucks up a dusty bottle of wine from the nearest heap, uncorking it and pouring two glasses' worth into cups already left out (read: only slightly dirty) on the table just in front of Fenris.
As he pours, he pulls one dark leather glove off with his teeth, revealing a sickly green glow embedded deep within his palm.
An anchor-shard. Unmistakable.
The bottle's set aside. Astarion sits down.]
You were there, when I was first drawn into this world.
[Stunning, how swiftly the emotions rush through him. The heady relief (he isn't from my past) so swiftly eclipsed by the leaden reality, slamming into the forefront of his mind. Astarion isn't from Tevinter, no, but if Fenris was the one to save him— if they have some shared history, some past that the other man clearly desperate wishes Fenris recalled—
He has lost time.
Again]
Tell me when this happened. When did you first come through?
[His voice is so terribly tense, the lines of his body gone taut as he reaches for the glass. Wine isn't strong enough, not nearly, but it's better than nothing. Already he can feel the questions struggling to slam forward; he tries to keep a lid on them, shoving them to the side, knowing its an impossible task even as he does. Where and when and why, and is this the work of magic or mundane means? Did he forget because of some fight, or because of some lingering malicious magic from Danarius? How long did he lose? And if he has forgotten this man, who else does he not know?
They race screaming through his soul, lancing and leaving jagged rips behind. He's going to break that glass soon if he grips it any tighter, he realizes, and sets it down heavily.]
The shape of his own fragmented past was never quite the same, but he knows, deeply, what it’s like to hold up an empty frame and only understand that something should’ve been there. The horrible heaviness of holding nothing in one’s palms. How wretched a thing.
...and how unfair that it’s stolen from them both.
Again.]
Half a year ago, now. Over it, in fact.
You and I were—
[No, he doesn’t say friends. He doesn’t say it because it’d make things worse. Because it’d be a knife to his own ribs as much as Fenris’, too. What good does that do him?
Any of them?
He lifts his cup, sipping from it for a single, weighty beat.]
I don’t know. Acquaintances, I suppose.
We played cards together. Swapped gossip. [Mostly about Riftwatch, but Kirkwall is ever Kirkwall.] Hunted when the mood struck— which it often did.
[A thin smile, there. The quickest flash of levity.
And then it’s gone.]
I knew you were a former slave— like myself— though admittedly we never much discussed more of it than that on either side. So I can’t go regurgitating a wellspring of facts to put your mind at ease, and I can’t tell you that you knew me all that well, either, when it really comes down to it.
[Maybe that’s a comfort. He doesn’t know.]
You mentioned your enemies have grown more aggressive these last few months. So that probably means you’ve only lost—
Well. It means whatever happened to you must’ve skimmed from the top, unless....
[Unless, and it’s a terribly heavy word in that single second before he asks:]
[He listens to all of these facts. They're good ones. Distantly, dazedly, he can recognize that: his appreciation for how straightforward the other man is being. There is no hesitation, no balking or fluffing for the sake of spared grief; he tells him directly, and even manages to add a bit of silver lining to the thunderclouds that blur his mind.
You only forgot a few months.
The question stirs him, and Fenris glances up from where his gaze had moodily strayed.]
Yes. I do, yes.
[He cannot help how brittle his voice has gone. Rubbing his mouth, he sits back, setting his empty glass (when had he drained it?) between them.]
I lived here for years. Nearly a decade before Anders— before the Chantry blew up. And I had— I thought I had [and what a terrible smile flickers over his expression, wry and haunted and so, so embittered]— not returned, not until now.
[Kirkwall was too full of memories . . . oh, the irony. Fenris shoves to his feet, boots scuffing against bare floor as he paces as best he can. He's too full of energy suddenly, jittery and bittr, fingers tapping against his thighs and his gaze roving wildly.]
But no. I had. I lived here for a time, I joined an organization, I befriended Rifters and then I left, and—
[He thinks to track it. To trace the timeline and line it all up neatly, and yes, he still wishes to. But not now. Fenris exhales sharply, shaking his head.]
So yes. Whatever mage decided to practice his craft upon me likely just skimmed off the top. How fortunate I am, that it is months instead of years that I have lost.
[It's a nasty tone, and really, Astarion doesn't deserve it. Fenris doesn't even mean to direct it at him.]
Did I tell you, then? How much of my life I do not recall? How much is already lost to me?
Contrary to popular belief, vampires can’t actually smell fear. But Astarion's eyes are sharp. His senses piercing, still. And it’s there, living behind the sudden sharpness seizing its way through the man at his side— a thousand little telltale signs proving it laid bare as Fenris speaks. As he bristles, and recoils, and snaps his teeth at nothing but the knowledge he's been wronged.
And Astarion can’t pretend he wouldn’t be just the same.]
Drink. [He says, his voice low. Almost coaxing, if not careful above all else, index finger pressing Fenris’ glass nearer to him once more.] It’ll help.
And...no.
[If that stings Astarion to admit, it certainly doesn’t show.]
[For a moment, his mouth twitches, snarling resentment so clear on his face. He wants— he doesn't know what he wants. To fight, maybe, to rip into this man for no other reason than he's close by; he wants to bite and snarl and dig his fingers in, just so someone else will feel an echo of the chaotic rage and terror thrashing through him.
But no. Astarion does not take the bait, and in the next moment Fenris sags, one hand coming up to rub at his face. Drink, and Fenris obeys: coming to take his glass and sprawl into his seat.]
I don't know.
[There. That's honest enough, isn't it? Fenris downs half the glass, and no, it isn't strong enough, but it does help. The jagged edges of his soul cannot be soothed so easily, but at least the flare of temper is calmed momentarily.]
Eighteen years, I think. Something around there. I was around that age when my master subjected me to the ritual that gave me these markings— a feat so painful it wiped my memories, and what few remained he took care of himself. I was . . .
[Well, anyway. Another sip.]
He never told me how old I was. I do not think he remembered. So it may be shorter or longer, but . . . certainly I was almost a man grown when I first woke.
So. Around eighteen years, and now, a few months, is what I cannot remember of my life.
[A little less than half his life, in other words, although really, who can say? He suspects he's around forty-something now, but really, he barely keeps track. Elves live longer than humans, and no signs of aging have appeared on him yet, though he's checked now and again.
He glances dourly at his now-empty glass. Glances up to meet Astarion's eye, and then, with that brittle, awful humor, drawls:]
Nor do I recall your name. And we may need something stronger, if this is how our conversation will go.
Granted it's as thin as damp paper, true, but when his lips twist he gestures with now-ungloved fingertips towards the entirety of his minuscule kingdom— the assorment of various bottles tucked away within immediate sight as much as without. Glass edges peeking out from beneath paper and silk and shed jewels.
...and trash, too.]
I promise you I have more than enough to pleasantly numb, if that’s where we’re headed tonight. [Which...admittedly, yes, actually. Astarion suspects that’s exactly where this road leads: nowhere pleasing in the slightest, and everywhere necessary.] Elfroot, too, depending on whether or not you can tolerate the smoke.
[But that’s all less important than what else they were discussing, and as Astarion reaches to fish up yet another heavy bottle (a rich port, this one stolen from Hightown itself— which feels particularly apt, in a way), setting it between them with a little thunk, he returns to the rest of it.
Watching Fenris’ expression closely, hooded stare settling low.]
Eighteen years. I didn’t realize it was— that it was the markings that made it so you couldn’t remember.
[And then, with one last sip from his glass:]
Mm. But first things first, before you and I start confessing all the sordid facets of our own unhappy pasts.
[He holds out his hand— anchor shard gleaming brightly in low light— fingertips left loosely hanging in the short distance that divides them. A muted counter to Fenris’ justifiably unhappy tempest.]
[It does not quell his anger, not really, but the truth is that Fenris is nearly always angry anyway. It lives in him awfully, a twisted writhing mass of resentment and bitterness and fear, and some days he thinks he'll never be rid of it. It comes swiftly, but so too does it quickly blow out of him: not snuffed out entirely, but muffled, at least for now.
He takes his hand, gripping firmly (slightly worried about how his lyrium will interact with the mark, but no, nobody explodes or glows, so that's fine), jerking his head into a nod.]
Fenris.
[. . . which Astarion knows already. Fenris wrinkles his nose, annoyed and vaguely embarrassed, and reaches for the port, busying himself with pouring it.]
This is not a cheap vintage. Do they pay you so well?
[Like, yes, there's a thousand horrible questions he could ask. About Astarion's master, or what else he remembers of Fenris. He could quiz him endlessly, and perhaps later he will, once they're more numb. But let him ask something easier at first. Let them trade mundane facts instead of horrid ones, just for now.]
[Astarion’s careful to pull away from that touch not long after it starts; even through the gauntlet Fenris wears, he imagines it’s probably not the most pleasant experience. Smile widening for that flicker of visible embarrassment— stare glinting wickedly in the next second for the question that follows:]
Oh. You think I got this legitimately?
Well that’s the first thing you should know about me: now that I’m free, I play by my own rules.
[And he is so very proud of that fact.]
This one was a return gift from a Hightown soirée I attended. Tucked my ears away, pretended I belonged. Brought a present— which, for the record, was just a watered down bottle of swill from the Hanged Man’s stores with the labels swapped. Sealed with leftover wax from the Scouting Division’s missives, of course.
They were none the wiser.
[He finishes his own glass at last, sliding it over in a silent request for refilling (with the good stuff, thank you very much).]
Then again I find most of Hightown’s residents aren’t all that bright to begin with. Spoiled things. Utterly blind, even after everything that’s happened.
It’s enough to almost make me feel sorry for them.
Almost.
[Reaching across the table, he grabs for a little silver box, embossed with a flower motif. Popping the lid (ring finger to the latch, index finger digging around inside until he pulls loose a pinch of dried herb), fitting it to cigarette paper in a perfect line, rolling it up.
Sealing it with his tongue.
He lights it shortly thereafter with an enchanted lighter, extending it in offered exchange for his own presumably now-full glass.]
[He laughs, which is the most surprising thing of all. Not a full one, of course, but rather a chuckle, low and deeply amused, pleased at that bit of deft cleverness and petty revenge. Pleased, too, at the thought of this former slave learning how to take what he wants without flinching, embracing his freedom so wholeheartedly. Fenris pours them their drinks, something in him sighing happily as the scent hits him. Alcohol is alcohol, and he'll drink whatever he needs to in order to accomplish his end goal of getting drunk— but it's also rather nice to have something good for once.
His eyes flick down as they made their little trade, and yes, all right, he does notice that bit with his tongue. Not creepily, but vaguely, in the same way he'd noticed the gap in the barmaid's top last night. Don't read into it.]
Careful, now. You speak to a Hightown resident. At least note an exception in your judgements.
[Please. Fenris flashes a smile in the next moment, settling back with the joint. Ah . . . now, see, alcohol he can handle without a hitch, his tolerance built up over the course of years, but elfroot . . . well, there's always a first time for everything. Joint to lips, the tip flaring red as he pulls in a shallow breath— how overwhelming can it be?]
[PRETTY FUCKING OVERWHELMING, IT SEEMS, especially to a set of lungs that only know smoke secondhand. He's a warrior! Keeping your lungs as healthy as possible is a pretty big part of that! He's never smoked, leave him alone. He at least has presence of mind to set the damn thing down before he coughs too loudly and for far too long, his throat burning and his lungs very loudly protesting, fucking hell . . .]
Shut it.
[Don't start. Has Astarion started? Has he even given a hint he's about to start? No, but at the same time, how could he not? Fenris grabs for his port, ignoring all those pretty thoughts he'd had about savoring it in favor of doing literally anything to cool off his throat, Maker's breath.]
There it is, subtly breaking the surface of pervasive misery like a sprout slithering out from under crushing stone. The smallest, most unexpected interjection. A little glimmer of Astarion's own familiar warmth catching just beneath his ribs as he scoffs brightly over the rim of his glass:]
Oh damn, there goes my invitation to your next gala.
[But before he can settle into his usual conversational rhythm, Fenris pulls a steady inhale from the base of that cigarette—
And.
Oh, it’s pitiful. Precious, even.
'Shut it', Fenris snaps— or possibly chokes, to be more precise— and Astarion’s expression is, in a word, devious when he reaches out to take back his own joint, subsequently drawing one very long, very graceful inhale from its smoldering span.
Exhaling smoothly only a beat later, crimson eyes never leaving Fenris’ own.]
You should’ve told me it was your first time.
I’d have been gentler.
[Nope. Even like this, with the both of them centered right at the heart of their own apparent misfortune, he just can’t help himself.
Extending it again, leaving it caught between his index and middle finger, Astarion holds the cigarette out towards Fenris’ lips.
Which is to say— Fenris can just take the damn thing if he wants to.]
Small inhales at first. Hold the smoke against your tongue beforehand, if you can manage it.
[The drawling innuendo sends a pang of nostalgia lancing through him, sharp in its unexpectedness and all the more bittersweet. Isabela is long gone, and that's as it should be, for she was never meant to be tethered to land. But oh, he does miss her.
It's why he doesn't immediately reach for the cigarette. Instead: he allows himself a few deliberate moments of silence (coughing fit mercifully subsided, Maker), his gaze knowing as he looks at Astarion. Yes, he sees what you're doing. He knows very well, and truthfully, it isn't displeasing. Not something he wants to go chasing after, not today, when all of him is still too emotionally wrung out, but . . .
Ah, Fenris thinks. It's been a long time since he's had that kind of easy back and forth. A friends-with-benefits sort of thing, potentially, although one does need to be friends first. But it's not out of the question.
So then, with an exaggerated sort of care, Fenris leans forward. He keeps his eyes locked on Astarion, not a hint of fluster to be found even as hot breath hits the curl of his fingers. A flash of white teeth; his tongue slipping forward, helping draw the tip past his lips, til he can bite down so terribly gently. Lips wrapping firmly around that little cylinder, aided after a moment by two fingers steadying what he can't fit in his mouth and three glasses of wine cheering him on. Sitting back, and there's one slow, short inhale, the smoke lingering on his tongue.
It takes all of ten seconds, if that. A sharp exhale, smoke slipping past his lips, as he offers it back.]
Do not mistake inexperience with incompetence.
[And don't call attention to whatever that was a moment ago. And hey, good news: the urge to cough has subsided, so thank the Maker for small mercies. And oh, he's sure the other man will say something, so smoothly, Fenris adds:]
You never explained, you know, why you were being chased. It wasn't being mistaken for me, clearly. Have slavers gotten so bold even with ordinary elves?
[Not that Astarion is ordinary, exactly, but whatever.]
[Astarion agrees, approval living in the upturned corners of his lips.
(And no, he’s not immune to the outcome of his own goading: the heat of Fenris’ breath lurking so close to his own fingertips, the challenged determination blooming behind emerald eyes— but he knows, intimately, the difference between provocation met and true, unmistakable longing.
They’re only strangers now, the both of them.
He doesn't let himself forget.)
So he leans back, tucking the cigarette between his own fangs and gathering up a pack of dented cards from the edge of the table— beginning the nimble work of artfully shuffling them. Without asking whether or not Fenris wants to play, naturally.]
Well I didn’t exactly have time to ask. [He snorts offhandedly, ashing the joint over old flooring before setting it down between them for Fenris to practice with as he likes.
The cards snap as he flicks them into place.]
But... [Reluctant, his sigh. He never likes confronting this.] I’m not exactly unrecognizable as far as striking silhouettes go. And I haven’t always been careful about masking the anchor-shard before these last few months.
That is to say, I never knew I should’ve been.
Because as I so recently learned, Corypheus' forces are hunting down Rifters. Experimenting on them, as far as I’ve heard. And if he has his way, he’ll use them as the front lines of his own army, controlled against their will or enslaved, it doesn’t make any difference: he wants the Rifts themselves as a weapon in his fleshy little pocket.
But I don’t intend to be leashed again.
[Hence. Gloves.]
Of course the alternative is just my own...mm. Local notoriety, but that seems less likely. I take care not to overreach with my thefts.
[Well.]
And then there’s just the sort that hate a pair of ears prettier than their own.
So.
[He deals out a single hand for each of them, flashing the most acrid little smile.]
[Is he shocked? Not particularly. It isn't information that he'd known, but still, that sounds about right. A Tevene magister out to enslave, mutilate, experiment upon, and eventually murder, yes, that's pretty much exactly their constantly motive, whether they're fifty years old or five hundred. Fenris pulls a face— it is good to hear it confirmed— and reaches for his cards.]
Of course he does.
[He can still remember that booming voice, that imperious stare, the confusion and rage in the Corypheus' tone . . . the way he had gone from waking up to assuming they were slaves and ordering them about all within five minutes, oh, yes. But ah . . . he glances up.]
A pity his death did not stick the first time. We did try to be thorough. [Did I tell you that? Did you know? Perhaps soon those questions will stop springing to the forefront of his mind, but not tonight. What do you know of me? What did I tell you?, his memory dark and dim, offering no hints no matter how often he probes it.] But he died once, and that is a comfort. It will not be long before he dies again.
[So easily said! But not with arrogance; but rather, with the quiet, determined confidence of one who watched him fall. It happened before; it will happen again, whether or not Corypheus realizes it. They will beat back Corypheus and his forces; they will wage war on Tevinter, pushing her borders back. Anything else is not worth considering— not because it isn't a possibility, but because he refuses to allow it to pass.
Fenris reaches for his port and offers up a card.]
At a guess, then, out of all those reasons . . . [Well, of course it's because of his mark. Fenris thinks. His mark or his ears, but at the end of the day, the result is the same.] I was going to venture that perhaps you weren't quite so light-fingered as you thought yourself, but perhaps not.
You said we went hunting together, when the mood struck us. [There's a dozen questions layered beneath there, ones Fenris firmly ignores.] I would go with you soon, if you are inclined.
[Teasing, then, lightly:]
But I would first know what you can do beyond pinch pockets. Is it to be a test of skill as we slaughter our prey, or was I teaching you how to hold a sword?
['We did try to be thorough', Fenris says, and in an instant a thousand questions leap immediately to mind:
Did you really? What was it like? How did you even do it?
All of them stitched into the shock of his expression (crimson eyes gone overwide, the middling start of their game forgotten)— before he shakes loose of wonderment, lays out his own card (higher: riskier as far as moves go) and subsequently uses that opportunity of drawing yet another card to snatch up the cigarette once more. Another steady puff of smoke slithering serpentine and loose from between the dagger-sharp edges of his fangs.
Then he sets it back down again.
And smiles.
Because something stupid in his heart outright leaps at that offer. Or request. Or promise. A skipped beat sort of thing he can keenly feel, a shameful glint living behind unsettling red eyes that don’t blink half as often as they otherwise should. Like a pup asked if it wishes to walk.
Astarion barely masks it (if he manages to at all) beneath a longer sip of wine. Strewth.]
Hold a sword? Like the corpse-sized one you drag around, you mean?
Nothing wrong with size where it counts, but I’ve always preferred the viciousness of intimacy.
Closeness.
Daggers suit me just fine. And...not to brag, but it’s been a while since we parted ways— not a grand loss I suppose, those memories. Consider it all a gentle prelude before I go showing you just how much I truly am capable of.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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But sometimes, even slavers are smart. Sometimes, they manage a proper ambush, a two-pronged attack that had sent Fenris running. Three dead at the site of the ambush, four on his tail— if he can just find an alley somewhere, some chokehold where they'll be forced to come at him two at a time, he can plant his feet and sweep through them, he knows he can.
Duck down the alleyway, one sharp turn, and thank the Maker for quick reflexes, for he nearly murders the poor elf he all but runs headon into. Silver-haired and chased by, oh, too many others . . . they must have mistaken him for Fenris. They must have seen someone with pointed ears and silver hair and decided to take their chances. Why not? At worst, they get even the ordinary payout for a slave.
This does not make the elf Fenris' problem, not really. But it sort of does, all at once.]
If you cannot fight, stay behind me. Back to the wall.
[He says it distractedly, trying to keep track of too many opponents at once. Everyone's gone terribly still, waiting to see who will strike first— but though the odds are against them, not impossibly so. The new group of men doesn't even have armor (and that, later, will strike at Fenris; these aren't slavers, not all of them, but it's hard to think when you're caught up in the moment). They can survive this.
He waits, tense— but there, one slaver from Fenris' group growing impatient and darting forward, blade flashing through the air, and oh, how swiftly Fenris' sword rises to meet him in response. Three stabs to kill him, his body crumpling before Fenris— but while an alley had its tactical advantages, it also means Fenris hasn't any room to swing, not really. He won't be able to kill quite so fast as he ordinarily does, and oh, doesn't everyone seem to realize it all at once. The other three slavers rush forward, yelling loudly, and oh, fuck it—
It happens very quickly; later, he'll remember it broken up into moments. One: Fenris goes invisible, his lyrium bursting into a bright brilliant blue glow before fading, the scent of ozone thick in the air and everyone shouting. Two: screams, the scent of ozone overpowered by copper, blood spraying wildly as one man, two, three, clutches at their chests, their torsos, hearts and lungs torn halfway out of their bodies, evisercated but not necessarily dead just yet. Three: his bloody fingers wrapping tight around the other elf's wrist, yanking him invisibly forward, urging him through the stumbling bodies—]
Run!
[Sometimes a tactical retreat is best. Away, down the streets, and he reappears as they move, heading not for the docks but up, up on the rooftops, where it's easier to leap from roof to roof in a frantic dash away.]
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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.]
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— and fall, tumble, stumble to their feet, and it isn't until the wall hits his back that Fenris actually exhales.]
Look at me.
[It's breathed out, a low rumble intended only for his companion's ears. One hand snakes around him, fingers splayed along his lower back as he yanks him in closer— the awning is only so big, after all. He can hear thundering footsteps above them, confused shouts and snarled threats— they've lost track of them, but still, better safe than sorry.
Even once the noises have faded, he doesn't move just yet. But a quiet tone, that ought to be all right.]
Fenris.
[He jerks his head in a nod.]
My apologies. Your pursuers may have mistaken you for me. They've grown . . . enthusiastic, these past few months, and do not care much if they make an error in their efforts.
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Real. All of it real. And 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 died in Cazador's arms. Not just from the danger looming directly overhead. Not from the chips of chalky, displaced stone that tumble from on high underfoot (slipping through the awning holes to land somewhere against his shoulder) as one last figure leans over the edge above them, surveying the city with lingering determination.
But then it’s passed, that moment of threaded tension.
The last of their troubles departs, and Astarion, exhaling at last into the nonexistent space between them, pulls back as far as Fenris' grip allows— easing off his own in turn. Admittedly this is hardly the easiest place to foster a reunion, but Astarion's never been one to give a damn: flexing a grin that’s all fang. Lilac and leather oil mingling with the clinging scent of scorched ozone— and the wretched, ashy smell of Lowtown itself.]
Mistaken me for—
[A wicked glint catching in his eyes, the easiness in his tone when he scoffs. Time hasn’t done a damn thing to make this feel any less familiar.] If anyone’s been mistaken for anyone else around here, it’s you for me.
[And he’s warm as anything. Bolstered as anything now, too. Not brittle or bewildered, not waiting for the hammer to fall.
Fenris came back.]
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Are you so famous, then?
[A little weird, but not very. Fenris' tone is earnest, one eyebrow raising as he stares at the other man. At those fangs, Maker's breath, and he can't help but stare for half a second.]
I would at least have my counterpart's name.
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But.]
Ahah. Funny. [Flat, that. Warier, too. A tone that's akin to stepping onto thin, half-cracked ice.
He's watching Fenris almost peripherally now, searching for something in the other man's expression. A sign of amusement. A dry flicker of humor. Or meanness. Or—
Anything, really.
Recognition most of all.]
...you...are joking, aren't you.
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But unlike Varania, Fenris feels no trickle of memory. He searches desperately, pushing at old shadows and half-remembered words, but no. Nothing.
He does not know if that comforts him or frightens him.]
No.
[No, it frightens, though he refuses to let that fear show.]
But you know me. I can see it in your face.
[His eyes drift over Astarion's face, studying the curves there, the pale skin, scarlet eyes . . . but no. No, there's nothing.]
How?
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[It hangs, that thought. Snags on nothing (and everything) all at once. Like the world itself is unraveling second by miserable second spent standing here in the open air, letting whatever this is sink in, and he can't put his fingers to the seam line to stop it. But if Astarion's good at anything at all, it's knowing when to let his mind shut off entirely, numbing himself to everything as surely as flipping a sickening little switch.
He exhales thinly. Tips his head towards a set of nearby stairs.] We shouldn't talk here.
Come on.
[It isn't far from where they'd taken refuge, his Lowtown flat. A closet of a place: just as rusted and worn as any other building in Kirkwall's lower belly— though it's high enough that the flowing smell of ocean air filters out chalk and soot more keenly than one might expect, given the often funneling walls of Lowtown itself.
Most importantly, it's far from either the Alienage or the Gallows, which is all Astarion truly cares about for the moment, anyway.
He fits his key into the lock securing heavy iron doors. Cracks them, and leaves room for Fenris to follow inside.]
Watch your step, darling.
[And he does, in fact, mean that: most of the floor (the shelves, the crates and so on, too) is littered with clutter of every conceivable type. A magpie's nest of junk and treasure alike, and none of it sorted in the slightest, though it glitters in low light from a deeply dimmed hearth.]
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Why now?
He picks his way carefully through clutter, feet more deft than you'd expect from a warrior, and settles on a chair, one leg curling under him. He's quiet while the other man does whatever it is he has to, setting his things down or simply finding somewhere to settle— but sooner or later he speaks, his voice quiet.]
Will you not alleviate my suspense?
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As he pours, he pulls one dark leather glove off with his teeth, revealing a sickly green glow embedded deep within his palm.
An anchor-shard. Unmistakable.
The bottle's set aside. Astarion sits down.]
You were there, when I was first drawn into this world.
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He has lost time.
Again]
Tell me when this happened. When did you first come through?
[His voice is so terribly tense, the lines of his body gone taut as he reaches for the glass. Wine isn't strong enough, not nearly, but it's better than nothing. Already he can feel the questions struggling to slam forward; he tries to keep a lid on them, shoving them to the side, knowing its an impossible task even as he does. Where and when and why, and is this the work of magic or mundane means? Did he forget because of some fight, or because of some lingering malicious magic from Danarius? How long did he lose? And if he has forgotten this man, who else does he not know?
They race screaming through his soul, lancing and leaving jagged rips behind. He's going to break that glass soon if he grips it any tighter, he realizes, and sets it down heavily.]
Tell me what you know of me.
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The shape of his own fragmented past was never quite the same, but he knows, deeply, what it’s like to hold up an empty frame and only understand that something should’ve been there. The horrible heaviness of holding nothing in one’s palms. How wretched a thing.
...and how unfair that it’s stolen from them both.
Again.]
Half a year ago, now. Over it, in fact.
You and I were—
[No, he doesn’t say friends. He doesn’t say it because it’d make things worse. Because it’d be a knife to his own ribs as much as Fenris’, too. What good does that do him?
Any of them?
He lifts his cup, sipping from it for a single, weighty beat.]
I don’t know. Acquaintances, I suppose.
We played cards together. Swapped gossip. [Mostly about Riftwatch, but Kirkwall is ever Kirkwall.] Hunted when the mood struck— which it often did.
[A thin smile, there. The quickest flash of levity.
And then it’s gone.]
I knew you were a former slave— like myself— though admittedly we never much discussed more of it than that on either side. So I can’t go regurgitating a wellspring of facts to put your mind at ease, and I can’t tell you that you knew me all that well, either, when it really comes down to it.
[Maybe that’s a comfort. He doesn’t know.]
You mentioned your enemies have grown more aggressive these last few months. So that probably means you’ve only lost—
Well. It means whatever happened to you must’ve skimmed from the top, unless....
[Unless, and it’s a terribly heavy word in that single second before he asks:]
Do you remember this city? At all, I mean.
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You only forgot a few months.
The question stirs him, and Fenris glances up from where his gaze had moodily strayed.]
Yes. I do, yes.
[He cannot help how brittle his voice has gone. Rubbing his mouth, he sits back, setting his empty glass (when had he drained it?) between them.]
I lived here for years. Nearly a decade before Anders— before the Chantry blew up. And I had— I thought I had [and what a terrible smile flickers over his expression, wry and haunted and so, so embittered]— not returned, not until now.
[Kirkwall was too full of memories . . . oh, the irony. Fenris shoves to his feet, boots scuffing against bare floor as he paces as best he can. He's too full of energy suddenly, jittery and bittr, fingers tapping against his thighs and his gaze roving wildly.]
But no. I had. I lived here for a time, I joined an organization, I befriended Rifters and then I left, and—
[He thinks to track it. To trace the timeline and line it all up neatly, and yes, he still wishes to. But not now. Fenris exhales sharply, shaking his head.]
So yes. Whatever mage decided to practice his craft upon me likely just skimmed off the top. How fortunate I am, that it is months instead of years that I have lost.
[It's a nasty tone, and really, Astarion doesn't deserve it. Fenris doesn't even mean to direct it at him.]
Did I tell you, then? How much of my life I do not recall? How much is already lost to me?
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Contrary to popular belief, vampires can’t actually smell fear. But Astarion's eyes are sharp. His senses piercing, still. And it’s there, living behind the sudden sharpness seizing its way through the man at his side— a thousand little telltale signs proving it laid bare as Fenris speaks. As he bristles, and recoils, and snaps his teeth at nothing but the knowledge he's been wronged.
And Astarion can’t pretend he wouldn’t be just the same.]
Drink. [He says, his voice low. Almost coaxing, if not careful above all else, index finger pressing Fenris’ glass nearer to him once more.] It’ll help.
And...no.
[If that stings Astarion to admit, it certainly doesn’t show.]
So tell me now.
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But no. Astarion does not take the bait, and in the next moment Fenris sags, one hand coming up to rub at his face. Drink, and Fenris obeys: coming to take his glass and sprawl into his seat.]
I don't know.
[There. That's honest enough, isn't it? Fenris downs half the glass, and no, it isn't strong enough, but it does help. The jagged edges of his soul cannot be soothed so easily, but at least the flare of temper is calmed momentarily.]
Eighteen years, I think. Something around there. I was around that age when my master subjected me to the ritual that gave me these markings— a feat so painful it wiped my memories, and what few remained he took care of himself. I was . . .
[Well, anyway. Another sip.]
He never told me how old I was. I do not think he remembered. So it may be shorter or longer, but . . . certainly I was almost a man grown when I first woke.
So. Around eighteen years, and now, a few months, is what I cannot remember of my life.
[A little less than half his life, in other words, although really, who can say? He suspects he's around forty-something now, but really, he barely keeps track. Elves live longer than humans, and no signs of aging have appeared on him yet, though he's checked now and again.
He glances dourly at his now-empty glass. Glances up to meet Astarion's eye, and then, with that brittle, awful humor, drawls:]
Nor do I recall your name. And we may need something stronger, if this is how our conversation will go.
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Granted it's as thin as damp paper, true, but when his lips twist he gestures with now-ungloved fingertips towards the entirety of his minuscule kingdom— the assorment of various bottles tucked away within immediate sight as much as without. Glass edges peeking out from beneath paper and silk and shed jewels.
...and trash, too.]
I promise you I have more than enough to pleasantly numb, if that’s where we’re headed tonight. [Which...admittedly, yes, actually. Astarion suspects that’s exactly where this road leads: nowhere pleasing in the slightest, and everywhere necessary.] Elfroot, too, depending on whether or not you can tolerate the smoke.
[But that’s all less important than what else they were discussing, and as Astarion reaches to fish up yet another heavy bottle (a rich port, this one stolen from Hightown itself— which feels particularly apt, in a way), setting it between them with a little thunk, he returns to the rest of it.
Watching Fenris’ expression closely, hooded stare settling low.]
Eighteen years. I didn’t realize it was— that it was the markings that made it so you couldn’t remember.
[And then, with one last sip from his glass:]
Mm. But first things first, before you and I start confessing all the sordid facets of our own unhappy pasts.
[He holds out his hand— anchor shard gleaming brightly in low light— fingertips left loosely hanging in the short distance that divides them. A muted counter to Fenris’ justifiably unhappy tempest.]
Astarion.
My name, that is.
Good to meet you at last, darling.
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He takes his hand, gripping firmly (slightly worried about how his lyrium will interact with the mark, but no, nobody explodes or glows, so that's fine), jerking his head into a nod.]
Fenris.
[. . . which Astarion knows already. Fenris wrinkles his nose, annoyed and vaguely embarrassed, and reaches for the port, busying himself with pouring it.]
This is not a cheap vintage. Do they pay you so well?
[Like, yes, there's a thousand horrible questions he could ask. About Astarion's master, or what else he remembers of Fenris. He could quiz him endlessly, and perhaps later he will, once they're more numb. But let him ask something easier at first. Let them trade mundane facts instead of horrid ones, just for now.]
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Oh. You think I got this legitimately?
Well that’s the first thing you should know about me: now that I’m free, I play by my own rules.
[And he is so very proud of that fact.]
This one was a return gift from a Hightown soirée I attended. Tucked my ears away, pretended I belonged. Brought a present— which, for the record, was just a watered down bottle of swill from the Hanged Man’s stores with the labels swapped. Sealed with leftover wax from the Scouting Division’s missives, of course.
They were none the wiser.
[He finishes his own glass at last, sliding it over in a silent request for refilling (with the good stuff, thank you very much).]
Then again I find most of Hightown’s residents aren’t all that bright to begin with. Spoiled things. Utterly blind, even after everything that’s happened.
It’s enough to almost make me feel sorry for them.
Almost.
[Reaching across the table, he grabs for a little silver box, embossed with a flower motif. Popping the lid (ring finger to the latch, index finger digging around inside until he pulls loose a pinch of dried herb), fitting it to cigarette paper in a perfect line, rolling it up.
Sealing it with his tongue.
He lights it shortly thereafter with an enchanted lighter, extending it in offered exchange for his own presumably now-full glass.]
1/2
His eyes flick down as they made their little trade, and yes, all right, he does notice that bit with his tongue. Not creepily, but vaguely, in the same way he'd noticed the gap in the barmaid's top last night. Don't read into it.]
Careful, now. You speak to a Hightown resident. At least note an exception in your judgements.
[Please. Fenris flashes a smile in the next moment, settling back with the joint. Ah . . . now, see, alcohol he can handle without a hitch, his tolerance built up over the course of years, but elfroot . . . well, there's always a first time for everything. Joint to lips, the tip flaring red as he pulls in a shallow breath— how overwhelming can it be?]
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Shut it.
[Don't start. Has Astarion started? Has he even given a hint he's about to start? No, but at the same time, how could he not? Fenris grabs for his port, ignoring all those pretty thoughts he'd had about savoring it in favor of doing literally anything to cool off his throat, Maker's breath.]
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There it is, subtly breaking the surface of pervasive misery like a sprout slithering out from under crushing stone. The smallest, most unexpected interjection. A little glimmer of Astarion's own familiar warmth catching just beneath his ribs as he scoffs brightly over the rim of his glass:]
Oh damn, there goes my invitation to your next gala.
[But before he can settle into his usual conversational rhythm, Fenris pulls a steady inhale from the base of that cigarette—
And.
Oh, it’s pitiful. Precious, even.
'Shut it', Fenris snaps— or possibly chokes, to be more precise— and Astarion’s expression is, in a word, devious when he reaches out to take back his own joint, subsequently drawing one very long, very graceful inhale from its smoldering span.
Exhaling smoothly only a beat later, crimson eyes never leaving Fenris’ own.]
You should’ve told me it was your first time.
I’d have been gentler.
[Nope. Even like this, with the both of them centered right at the heart of their own apparent misfortune, he just can’t help himself.
Extending it again, leaving it caught between his index and middle finger, Astarion holds the cigarette out towards Fenris’ lips.
Which is to say— Fenris can just take the damn thing if he wants to.]
Small inhales at first. Hold the smoke against your tongue beforehand, if you can manage it.
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It's why he doesn't immediately reach for the cigarette. Instead: he allows himself a few deliberate moments of silence (coughing fit mercifully subsided, Maker), his gaze knowing as he looks at Astarion. Yes, he sees what you're doing. He knows very well, and truthfully, it isn't displeasing. Not something he wants to go chasing after, not today, when all of him is still too emotionally wrung out, but . . .
Ah, Fenris thinks. It's been a long time since he's had that kind of easy back and forth. A friends-with-benefits sort of thing, potentially, although one does need to be friends first. But it's not out of the question.
So then, with an exaggerated sort of care, Fenris leans forward. He keeps his eyes locked on Astarion, not a hint of fluster to be found even as hot breath hits the curl of his fingers. A flash of white teeth; his tongue slipping forward, helping draw the tip past his lips, til he can bite down so terribly gently. Lips wrapping firmly around that little cylinder, aided after a moment by two fingers steadying what he can't fit in his mouth and three glasses of wine cheering him on. Sitting back, and there's one slow, short inhale, the smoke lingering on his tongue.
It takes all of ten seconds, if that. A sharp exhale, smoke slipping past his lips, as he offers it back.]
Do not mistake inexperience with incompetence.
[And don't call attention to whatever that was a moment ago. And hey, good news: the urge to cough has subsided, so thank the Maker for small mercies. And oh, he's sure the other man will say something, so smoothly, Fenris adds:]
You never explained, you know, why you were being chased. It wasn't being mistaken for me, clearly. Have slavers gotten so bold even with ordinary elves?
[Not that Astarion is ordinary, exactly, but whatever.]
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[Astarion agrees, approval living in the upturned corners of his lips.
(And no, he’s not immune to the outcome of his own goading: the heat of Fenris’ breath lurking so close to his own fingertips, the challenged determination blooming behind emerald eyes— but he knows, intimately, the difference between provocation met and true, unmistakable longing.
They’re only strangers now, the both of them.
He doesn't let himself forget.)
So he leans back, tucking the cigarette between his own fangs and gathering up a pack of dented cards from the edge of the table— beginning the nimble work of artfully shuffling them. Without asking whether or not Fenris wants to play, naturally.]
Well I didn’t exactly have time to ask. [He snorts offhandedly, ashing the joint over old flooring before setting it down between them for Fenris to practice with as he likes.
The cards snap as he flicks them into place.]
But... [Reluctant, his sigh. He never likes confronting this.] I’m not exactly unrecognizable as far as striking silhouettes go. And I haven’t always been careful about masking the anchor-shard before these last few months.
That is to say, I never knew I should’ve been.
Because as I so recently learned, Corypheus' forces are hunting down Rifters. Experimenting on them, as far as I’ve heard. And if he has his way, he’ll use them as the front lines of his own army, controlled against their will or enslaved, it doesn’t make any difference: he wants the Rifts themselves as a weapon in his fleshy little pocket.
But I don’t intend to be leashed again.
[Hence. Gloves.]
Of course the alternative is just my own...mm. Local notoriety, but that seems less likely. I take care not to overreach with my thefts.
[Well.]
And then there’s just the sort that hate a pair of ears prettier than their own.
So.
[He deals out a single hand for each of them, flashing the most acrid little smile.]
Take your pick.
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Of course he does.
[He can still remember that booming voice, that imperious stare, the confusion and rage in the Corypheus' tone . . . the way he had gone from waking up to assuming they were slaves and ordering them about all within five minutes, oh, yes. But ah . . . he glances up.]
A pity his death did not stick the first time. We did try to be thorough. [Did I tell you that? Did you know? Perhaps soon those questions will stop springing to the forefront of his mind, but not tonight. What do you know of me? What did I tell you?, his memory dark and dim, offering no hints no matter how often he probes it.] But he died once, and that is a comfort. It will not be long before he dies again.
[So easily said! But not with arrogance; but rather, with the quiet, determined confidence of one who watched him fall. It happened before; it will happen again, whether or not Corypheus realizes it. They will beat back Corypheus and his forces; they will wage war on Tevinter, pushing her borders back. Anything else is not worth considering— not because it isn't a possibility, but because he refuses to allow it to pass.
Fenris reaches for his port and offers up a card.]
At a guess, then, out of all those reasons . . . [Well, of course it's because of his mark. Fenris thinks. His mark or his ears, but at the end of the day, the result is the same.] I was going to venture that perhaps you weren't quite so light-fingered as you thought yourself, but perhaps not.
You said we went hunting together, when the mood struck us. [There's a dozen questions layered beneath there, ones Fenris firmly ignores.] I would go with you soon, if you are inclined.
[Teasing, then, lightly:]
But I would first know what you can do beyond pinch pockets. Is it to be a test of skill as we slaughter our prey, or was I teaching you how to hold a sword?
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Did you really? What was it like? How did you even do it?
All of them stitched into the shock of his expression (crimson eyes gone overwide, the middling start of their game forgotten)— before he shakes loose of wonderment, lays out his own card (higher: riskier as far as moves go) and subsequently uses that opportunity of drawing yet another card to snatch up the cigarette once more. Another steady puff of smoke slithering serpentine and loose from between the dagger-sharp edges of his fangs.
Then he sets it back down again.
And smiles.
Because something stupid in his heart outright leaps at that offer. Or request. Or promise. A skipped beat sort of thing he can keenly feel, a shameful glint living behind unsettling red eyes that don’t blink half as often as they otherwise should. Like a pup asked if it wishes to walk.
Astarion barely masks it (if he manages to at all) beneath a longer sip of wine. Strewth.]
Hold a sword? Like the corpse-sized one you drag around, you mean?
Nothing wrong with size where it counts, but I’ve always preferred the viciousness of intimacy.
Closeness.
Daggers suit me just fine. And...not to brag, but it’s been a while since we parted ways— not a grand loss I suppose, those memories. Consider it all a gentle prelude before I go showing you just how much I truly am capable of.
And just how much you’ve been surpassed, my dear.
[Skill, to answer your question, Fenris.]
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cw: suicide mention
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