[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.
[Oh. That was new, wasn't it? It must have been, and Fenris makes a quiet note to bring it up again at some point. It's nothing important, not in the grand scheme of things, certainly nothing that will help their mission, but it's a satisfying story. A hopeful one, maybe.
What has died once can always die again.]
Is that right?
[He actually laughs. It's a little mean, but on the other hand, it isn't really meant nastily. He's just that confident in his own skills.]
Careful, Astarion. I will not say it's impossible for me to be beaten, but it is no easy feat. Don't talk yourself up too much.
[It's teasing, but there's something quietly excited in his gaze. It's been a long, long time since he's gotten to do anything so mundane as . . . well, this. Casually challenging someone to a battle whose outcome almost doesn't matter; playfully trash-talking, a luxury so mundane he'd forgotten how good it felt.]
There are two ways for you to go about attempting to prove that. We could spar. I know a few places where we'd have plenty of room.
Or you can accompany me on a hunt.
[Or both, frankly. There's nothing to say they can't do both: sparring down the hallways of his oversized mansion, weaving in and out of patches of moonlight, blades flashing and all of him trembling in exertion— and then, later, all the joyful, hopeful, fantastic thrills of killing those that no longer deserve to live.
Either way: he reaches for the cigarette. The heady, pleasantly dizzy feeling it offers is a relief in more ways than one, just as the port is. Fenris trades in a card— higher, though not as risky as Astarion's own— and absolutely in no way scowls at the shit card he picks up.]
[Without memory there to shatter the yawning stretch, how long has Fenris been alone, now?
Astarion tries— passively— to picture it as the vertiginous flow of cigarette smoke tangibly weaves its way in across his peripheral senses. Tingling ever-so-light, like the first, strangely numb feeling of a limb losing its own circulation, though not at all unpleasant. He’s done this enough times (in good company and poor alike, too) that there’s no losing track of either himself or his train of thought. Just the pleasantness of it, mirroring how much he enjoys—
Well, all of this.
But still, under the sound of that rolling laugh, rough and pretty all the same, he does wonder.]
Whetting our appetites before a decent meal sounds thrilling a prospect as any.
[And, despite the danger they’ve only just escaped, he considers asking for it right now.
Still, immediate risks being what they are— slightly drunk and slightly addled, card game half-started and not a drop of actual food in their bellies— that’d just be stupid, wouldn’t it.]
[So, objectively: this is a stupid idea. Sparring while tipsy is one thing; sparring while tipsy and dizzingly dazed off a drug he's never before tried is just courting disaster. Even with blunted blades, there's so many ways sparring can go wrong. Broken limbs or dull metal catching at the wrong angle, and it's not that Fenris can't afford a healer, but still, it's not a good idea to court danger. After all, he's only just gotten back to Kirkwall.
But maybe that's why the idea grips him. Because he has just gotten back to Kirkwall (and it is Kirkwall, not home, not anymore, and who knows if it will ever be home again?). Because he doesn't know anyone here anymore, and he is so, so aware of that right now. Everywhere he looks, he sees only ghosts, the echoes of people long since fled and nothing but bitter longing for a time he will never get back aching in his heart. He knows these streets, but then again he doesn't; he knows this city, except in all the ways he doesn't.
He does not want to think, not tonight. He does not want this card game to end and to watch as Astarion made polite motions to end their night and shoo Fenris away. He doesn't want to make that journey back up to Hightown, letting himself into an abandoned mansion, picking his way through the dark so he can crawl beneath cold sheets and drink himself into a miserable stupor, til at last he passes out and shivers his way through a lonely set of nightmares.]
Show me your blades.
[He sets his cards down, flashing a sharp grin, and reaches for the cigarette. One last hit, and oh, he's getting rather good at ignoring that burn.]
Do you have dulled ones, or are we to truly risk ourselves tonight?
[How quickly Fenris catches on. Astarion sparing only a moment for watching the slowly burning remains of that joint perched between sharp claws— and then he shifts, dropping his hand of cards (face down) against the edge of the table, fetching a pair of glassy black daggers from his belt: dark as night, with hilts of cut gemstone that glint like starlit skies when held at the right angle.
A Satinalia gift from Riftwatch’s most terrifying asset.
Like the cards for their game, Astarion sets them down in the middle of their table. An offering.]
These are all I have.
[It’s not a shameful confession; Astarion tends to play for keeps.]
But if you’re worried, I can always wrap them in cloth or something. Keep you safe from my fearsome claws.
[They're beautiful blades. Not because of the gemstones, although he's prepared to admit those please the eye. But there's something soul-sighingly-satisfying about a blade that's well cared for, and so it's that which he notices first: the sheen of oil along the metal, glistening in the candlelight. The proper sharpness of the edge, pricking warningly against the flat of his thumb as he cautiously tests it. There are daggers that are made purely for show, blades that sheen in rainbow hues that couldn't cut through paper, much less flesh, but this . . . oh, no. This is function and form all in one.
A warning, he thinks, setting the dagger back down, for the man opposite him.]
Says the cat to the wolf . . . no, I shall take my chances with your claws.
[Not just because he's reasonably certain he can dodge and weave to his heart's content, but because he doesn't want to delay this little spar. Besides: he doubts he'll end up stabbed. Cut, maybe, but what's a nick or two?
His sword, however . . . ah, that's a blade that means business. No better or worse than daggers when it comes to taking a life, but decidedly faster about it. One misjudged movement and Astarion might have a solid chunk ripped out of him, and that would be a rotten end to the night. Hm.
He glances up at him.]
But allow me use one of them as we spar. Knife to knife . . . and if I beat you anyway, Astarion, with a weapon that is not my primary choice, you shan't have room to brag to me for at least a month.
[Safety first, that's their motto tonight. And ah . . . he means that as a taunt, nothing else. A tease. Certainly nothing that should make his throat stick unexpectedly. He's not a child, it's not that he's losing his composure. It might well be due to the way his throat is burned from that cigarette. But it happens, and Fenris notices, a brief flash of awareness that he shoves away in the next instant.
[A cat to a wolf, Fenris says, and Astarion likes that analogy somehow. All implied power imbalances aside, the descriptors fit more keenly than Fenris might realize.
(Or is that just the ghost of his own lost memories peeking through despite everything?)
Whatever it is, it earns a shockingly wolfish smile from Astarion as he rises to stand (no one pay attention to how he sways at first from moving too quickly, tipsy and high enough that balance has to move in belatedly to adjust) grabbing the bottle of port with one hand, and only one of the daggers with the other.]
Deal.
[said with all the confidence of a creature certain it’ll emerge victorious.]
And if I win...
[If he wins, what. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. Hadn’t wanted anything but the thrill of a good, bloody rush.
So what should he ask for? Hm. Better run with the first thing that comes to mind. Never steered him wrong before.]
You stay the night.
[Oh. Right. He’s drunk. That’s exactly what drunk Astarion would try to grab at.
Oh well. True to oneself, and all. Time to cap it all off with a very charming grin.
...it’s quite possibly the dumbest grin anyone’s ever managed in Kirkwall’s entire history.]
[Who's swaying? No one's swaying, certainly not these two, the world spinning a little and everything coming at a bit of a distance . . . they're fine. It's fine. He takes the other dagger, hefting it, trying to remember how to hold himself. He's been trained on nearly every kind of weapon at one point or another, but daggers were never his strong suit.
Lucky, then, he's distracted by that absolutely idiotic grin. It's so clearly meant to be charming, and honestly, in other contexts, it probably would be! Fenris can admit that. He can admit that Astarion is, ah, attractive, that there's something appealing about those sharpened teeth and glinting eyes, but oh, not when they're both so clearly intoxicated.
Fenris grins, realizes what he's doing half a second later, and glances away, trying to bite it back. Please . . .]
Deal.
[Stay the night, not spread your legs and get on your back. He'll take advantage of that later, if he ends up losing this fight. (And really: he'll stay either way, so long as Astarion won't make a fuss over it. Fenris is going to have to face his mansion sooner or later, but oh, let him put it off for another day. Let him stave off those ghosts as much as he can, though he knows he'll have to face them soon).]
Up on the rooftops? I doubt the guards will care, so long as we stay quiet.
You can stay quiet, can you not?
[It's a joke, a flash of a tease that's swiftly moved past as he adds:]
Or we could make the trek up to Hightown. I leave the choice to you.
[But give him that port, please, don't be greedy, let him have another sip.]
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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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What has died once can always die again.]
Is that right?
[He actually laughs. It's a little mean, but on the other hand, it isn't really meant nastily. He's just that confident in his own skills.]
Careful, Astarion. I will not say it's impossible for me to be beaten, but it is no easy feat. Don't talk yourself up too much.
[It's teasing, but there's something quietly excited in his gaze. It's been a long, long time since he's gotten to do anything so mundane as . . . well, this. Casually challenging someone to a battle whose outcome almost doesn't matter; playfully trash-talking, a luxury so mundane he'd forgotten how good it felt.]
There are two ways for you to go about attempting to prove that. We could spar. I know a few places where we'd have plenty of room.
Or you can accompany me on a hunt.
[Or both, frankly. There's nothing to say they can't do both: sparring down the hallways of his oversized mansion, weaving in and out of patches of moonlight, blades flashing and all of him trembling in exertion— and then, later, all the joyful, hopeful, fantastic thrills of killing those that no longer deserve to live.
Either way: he reaches for the cigarette. The heady, pleasantly dizzy feeling it offers is a relief in more ways than one, just as the port is. Fenris trades in a card— higher, though not as risky as Astarion's own— and absolutely in no way scowls at the shit card he picks up.]
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Astarion tries— passively— to picture it as the vertiginous flow of cigarette smoke tangibly weaves its way in across his peripheral senses. Tingling ever-so-light, like the first, strangely numb feeling of a limb losing its own circulation, though not at all unpleasant. He’s done this enough times (in good company and poor alike, too) that there’s no losing track of either himself or his train of thought. Just the pleasantness of it, mirroring how much he enjoys—
Well, all of this.
But still, under the sound of that rolling laugh, rough and pretty all the same, he does wonder.]
Whetting our appetites before a decent meal sounds thrilling a prospect as any.
[And, despite the danger they’ve only just escaped, he considers asking for it right now.
Still, immediate risks being what they are— slightly drunk and slightly addled, card game half-started and not a drop of actual food in their bellies— that’d just be stupid, wouldn’t it.]
We should do it tonight.
[Good job, Astarion.]
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But maybe that's why the idea grips him. Because he has just gotten back to Kirkwall (and it is Kirkwall, not home, not anymore, and who knows if it will ever be home again?). Because he doesn't know anyone here anymore, and he is so, so aware of that right now. Everywhere he looks, he sees only ghosts, the echoes of people long since fled and nothing but bitter longing for a time he will never get back aching in his heart. He knows these streets, but then again he doesn't; he knows this city, except in all the ways he doesn't.
He does not want to think, not tonight. He does not want this card game to end and to watch as Astarion made polite motions to end their night and shoo Fenris away. He doesn't want to make that journey back up to Hightown, letting himself into an abandoned mansion, picking his way through the dark so he can crawl beneath cold sheets and drink himself into a miserable stupor, til at last he passes out and shivers his way through a lonely set of nightmares.]
Show me your blades.
[He sets his cards down, flashing a sharp grin, and reaches for the cigarette. One last hit, and oh, he's getting rather good at ignoring that burn.]
Do you have dulled ones, or are we to truly risk ourselves tonight?
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A Satinalia gift from Riftwatch’s most terrifying asset.
Like the cards for their game, Astarion sets them down in the middle of their table. An offering.]
These are all I have.
[It’s not a shameful confession; Astarion tends to play for keeps.]
But if you’re worried, I can always wrap them in cloth or something. Keep you safe from my fearsome claws.
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A warning, he thinks, setting the dagger back down, for the man opposite him.]
Says the cat to the wolf . . . no, I shall take my chances with your claws.
[Not just because he's reasonably certain he can dodge and weave to his heart's content, but because he doesn't want to delay this little spar. Besides: he doubts he'll end up stabbed. Cut, maybe, but what's a nick or two?
His sword, however . . . ah, that's a blade that means business. No better or worse than daggers when it comes to taking a life, but decidedly faster about it. One misjudged movement and Astarion might have a solid chunk ripped out of him, and that would be a rotten end to the night. Hm.
He glances up at him.]
But allow me use one of them as we spar. Knife to knife . . . and if I beat you anyway, Astarion, with a weapon that is not my primary choice, you shan't have room to brag to me for at least a month.
[Safety first, that's their motto tonight. And ah . . . he means that as a taunt, nothing else. A tease. Certainly nothing that should make his throat stick unexpectedly. He's not a child, it's not that he's losing his composure. It might well be due to the way his throat is burned from that cigarette. But it happens, and Fenris notices, a brief flash of awareness that he shoves away in the next instant.
(He just misses his friends, that's all).]
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(Or is that just the ghost of his own lost memories peeking through despite everything?)
Whatever it is, it earns a shockingly wolfish smile from Astarion as he rises to stand (no one pay attention to how he sways at first from moving too quickly, tipsy and high enough that balance has to move in belatedly to adjust) grabbing the bottle of port with one hand, and only one of the daggers with the other.]
Deal.
[said with all the confidence of a creature certain it’ll emerge victorious.]
And if I win...
[If he wins, what. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. Hadn’t wanted anything but the thrill of a good, bloody rush.
So what should he ask for? Hm. Better run with the first thing that comes to mind. Never steered him wrong before.]
You stay the night.
[Oh. Right. He’s drunk. That’s exactly what drunk Astarion would try to grab at.
Oh well. True to oneself, and all. Time to cap it all off with a very charming grin.
...it’s quite possibly the dumbest grin anyone’s ever managed in Kirkwall’s entire history.]
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Lucky, then, he's distracted by that absolutely idiotic grin. It's so clearly meant to be charming, and honestly, in other contexts, it probably would be! Fenris can admit that. He can admit that Astarion is, ah, attractive, that there's something appealing about those sharpened teeth and glinting eyes, but oh, not when they're both so clearly intoxicated.
Fenris grins, realizes what he's doing half a second later, and glances away, trying to bite it back. Please . . .]
Deal.
[Stay the night, not spread your legs and get on your back. He'll take advantage of that later, if he ends up losing this fight. (And really: he'll stay either way, so long as Astarion won't make a fuss over it. Fenris is going to have to face his mansion sooner or later, but oh, let him put it off for another day. Let him stave off those ghosts as much as he can, though he knows he'll have to face them soon).]
Up on the rooftops? I doubt the guards will care, so long as we stay quiet.
You can stay quiet, can you not?
[It's a joke, a flash of a tease that's swiftly moved past as he adds:]
Or we could make the trek up to Hightown. I leave the choice to you.
[But give him that port, please, don't be greedy, let him have another sip.]
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cw: suicide mention
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