[Ah, and he nearly echoes Astarion's little half-note, head tipping back as he feels steel slide against skin. It's equal parts startling and alluring, one last show of prowess that Fenris absolutely makes note of. How can he not? His blade falters, dropping from Astarion's stomach, but it isn't until the other man removes his dagger that Fenris dares swallow.
He's still panting in exertion, his pulse thrumming— oh, they'll have to hunt soon, for now all of Fenris feels alight.]
I'll stay the night, [an agreement, and he can still feel the echoes of cool steel against bare skin, Maker's breath.]
Though I note your compromise only extends to my prize, Astarion . . .
[To be strictly fair, he really ought to be obligated to stay only half the night— and yet he doesn't argue further, for it's not as if he actually wants that, he's just saying. Absently he tongues at his teeth, lingering against one canine, and adds:]
You are good at daggers.
[It's a real compliment, but also, let's put that bragging ban to the test.]
I’m just keeping to the limits of my own self control. [Astarion protests gently, keeping a remarkably sufficient lid on his own instincts in demurely stepping away; the air smells pungent with the shared blood they’ve spilled, his eyes lingering just along the flushed edges of Fenris’ expression— that tongue pressed against the edge of his teeth.
Astarion very much needs that space all of a sudden, thank you.]
Ahah. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. [He adds slyly in sudden amusement, glance shot back across his own shoulder before— oof. Just a little wince, shaking out his arm where it decides to sting. It’s not the worst they’ve picked up tonight, but somehow it bites more than the others.
And he realizes then than he’s certainly managed to do an ugly little number of his own on Fenris’ side, somewhere around his stomach.
Aren’t they just a pair.]
Come here, darling. [Bottle of wine found (corner of the roof, just near the edge— Fenris must’ve set it there when they first scurried out of the alleyway, which is decidedly better than having left it in the alleyway), Astarion plucks it up and sits down across dusty stone, patting the empty space at his side.] You look like a battered fighting dog if ever I’ve seen one.
No point in letting it fester before we play.
[Play, he says, as if they’re amusing themselves with simple board games.]
Anyway I don’t quite know, if I’m honest. I don’t think this was always my forte— though it’s always possible I was just particularly good at five-fingered-fillet long before my master found me [the latter addition is a joke, judging by his tone] whatever memory I had of my old life is....
[His lips purse, shoulders lifting in an inconsequential shrug.] gone.
[Oh, that's a smart idea, he thinks vaguely. Would he have left his wounds to sort of scab up on their own? Probably! He's good at taking care of himself until he isn't, and a few little cuts don't really register. With a little sigh (that's an absurdly stupid idea, ow), Fenris comes to sit next to him, tugging the edge of his shirt up. He'll return the favor in a moment, he thinks, listening as Astarion speaks—
— ah, and then, quite suddenly, he isn't thinking of his wounds at all. Fenris' eyes dart up, focusing on Astarion sharply. For a moment, there and gone, he worries that perhaps this man is mocking him— but, no there's no hint of cruelty there.
A beat, and he huffs out a bitter sort of laugh.]
We make the start of a terrible joke, you and I.
[Two silver-haired amnesiatic elven ex-slaves climb up on a rooftop . . . Maker's breath.]
It is the mundane things I despise the most. The origin of talents or habits, little peculiarities, one's age . . . and the knowledge that one will never resolve the mystery.
[And he could ask how long Astarion thinks he lost, of course, but . . . well. What would be the answer, save I don't know or I think it may be... Depressing answers, unsatisfying and mundane.]
How long have you been free?
[There, now . . . that's a far better thing to consider.]
[They do make the start of an awful joke, and that offhanded comment earns a dry little snort from Astarion himself as he lifts his sleeve to his mouth, sharp fangs tugging until fabric tears— which admittedly, doesn’t take much with teeth like that.
From there, he puts the silk to the bottle’s lip; a waste of fine wine by some standards, but for a man like Astarion? Well. He imagines there’s no shortage in his future.
He also holds his breath once Fenris opts to lift his shirt.
Maker indeed.]
I told you I’d been in Thedas for a little over half a year now, so...
[Dabbing ever-so-gently at that nasty gash, fingers peerlessly deft in their care; he’s done this all so many times before, well before his freedom was his own, after all.]
Exactly that long.
[...all right, so maybe it's still not the most pleasant topic as far as depressing truths go.]
[He swallows down the hiss of pain; it's nothing, a brief sting that will be well worth it. And hah, no, perhaps not such a joyful answer, but still, an interesting one.]
Do not take this the wrong way. But I am shocked you are . . .
[How to say this? Fenris gestures vaguely at all of Astarion. Vivid and bright, capable of drawling jokes and teasing flirtations, hedonistic and kind . . .]
That there is a you that exists outside of his shadow.
Six months out of slavery . . .
[He remembers himself six months out of slavery, and oh, what a strange creature he was. Half-feral, really; a scrap of personality mixed in with paranoid terror and overwhelming grief and guilt . . . he barely spoke to anyone, eking out survival and slowly learning how to function one day at a time.
Fenris smiles thinly.]
You handle it far better than I did.
Then again: perhaps we were used to different ends. A personality, beyond intimidating, was not what my master designed me for— ah.
[He say that out of pain, surely. Certainly not for the frankly unfamiliar sensation of someone else's fingers against his skin. Not sexual, nothing like that, but . . . it's been a long time since he's been touched by anyone, friend or foe.]
[It’s teasing, but...maybe not quite. Or not entirely. Or it doesn’t feel like some purely offhanded quip without gravity or weight. The smile he wears is distracted now. Almost lost beneath the focus of his work.]
Oh yes. Fearsome thing that you are, wincing over a little wine. [Said with yet another weighty dab along the edge of blotted crimson where it offsets skin framed by lines of vivid blue.
Joking, when he can well imagine the sort of power Fenris' former master had hoped to hold sole control over. How thrilling that must have been for a creature so wretched, so familiar as one undoubtedly cut from Cazador's own figurative cloth.
He can easily picture in his mind just how a man like that would treat its muzzled hound.]
But...I suppose you’re probably right. Cazador had no lack of puppets to do his bidding, after all, so our roles were distinct. Suited to his tastes, I suppose.
Or perhaps he just knew I did better on my back than on my heels.
[Bleak talk, but Astarion wears it as though talking about nothing more than the weather itself.]
Either way, I imagine there’s something to be said for all the brief little flickers of agency I’d been granted over the years.
Some of his pets never even had that, in all honesty.
[But the blood is clotted now, mostly. The skin around it cleaned.
He’s satisfied with his work, and so, fitting his fingertips across Fenris’ own, lightly presses that hold (and the shirt itself by proxy) back down into place.]
There. Good as new.
[...aside from the myriad other cuts that is, but who’s really counting.]
[He hears those little details for what they are: confessions, offered fleetingly, one hand darting into the light before being snatched back. And why shouldn't he offer details in such a manner? After all they have endured (and Astarion, Fenris thinks, has endured a great deal, no matter how long his enslavement or what he was used for; a slave is a miserable thing), they've earned the right to share their pasts like this.
Off-handed comments. Jokes that aren't funny at all. Details meant to horrify and enlighten all at once without making them seem weak, in need of pity. Fenris used to snarlingly offered his past to anyone who dared inquire, refusing to back down, sickeningly satisfied (and yet not at all) when they flinched. Look at what I have endured, look at what he did to me, and it did not wholly quiet the screaming in his soul, but at least it was a start.
Odd, now, to see it mirrored in Astarion. And odder still: that he does not quite know how to respond.
It's one of the first times he's spoken to a former slave like this, after all. Oh, there were plenty of rescues, but that doesn't count; grateful elves who avoided a horrifying fate, not slaves proper. And Orana . . . well. He'd barely interacted with her, skittish for reasons he couldn't quite understand.
Danarius used to, he thinks of saying, but even as he does the memories dart forward. Clammy hands and moonlit bedrooms, his thighs trembling and his eyes focused on a point in the wall— and it mixes, Danarius' voice amused as he'd stared at Hawke, the lad is rather skilled, isn't he?, humiliation and horror and—
And then fingers, cool and deft, brushing over his own. Like crisp water cutting through the sand and mud, a stark reminder that cajoles rather than drags him back to the present. Fenris blinks, focuses, and then nods at the slice on Astarion's shoulder.]
Now you.
[He doesn't wait for answer. Just takes bottle and cloth, splashing the wine haphazardly against the bloodied fabric. Somewhat horribly, he then takes a drink of that bottle, but eh, it's fine.]
Turn around.
[And he waits, patient as the grave, until Astarion obeys. His fingers tug at fabric, prying his shirt a little farther open, holding it steady as he begins to apply that cloth. Then, quietly:]
I am sorry I do not recall it. [You.]
But I am glad I could be of help.
[Ah, and how to say this . . .]
I do not doubt your expertise, nor your competence. And I have little doubt you would be fine without me. But if there are things that you need to learn, that were never taught to you . . .
[No one ever realizes that slaves aren't taught to cook, not unless they're assigned to the kitchen. Nor clean, not really, not if you're a bodyguard or a bedwarmer. How to wash clothing, how to manage money (oh, he'd had trouble with that), how to know when food rots or learn how to care for yourself . . . all those little things that people learn growing up that they never had.
His tone a little more light, then, an intentional joke at his expense:]
I ate two meals a day at a tavern for a year before I learned how to cook.
[It's true, but also, it's an easy way to deflect if Astarion doesn't take to the implied offer.]
[His mouth is open before he knows what to say. And maybe it’s a mercy, the sharpness of the burning bite that follows, cool cloth pressed to even cooler skin as the whole of his posture straightens, rigid as a board. A little hiss slipping through sharp teeth.
So much for all his own tall talk.
But the next time Fenris works damp silk over skin, he’s silent. Settling by slow degrees as though sinking into a warm bath; he’s had so much worse than this, after all, and the feeling of warm fingertips perching light across his skin relaxes him more than it should.
Even so, he’s never really been capable of letting kindness slip in through his defenses, thinking it to be a dagger rather than a balm. A weapon, alluring to grasp for and damningly dangerous to leave pressed against one's skin. And yet maybe— maybe careful acceptance takes root in the silence between breaths. In the way his expression, tipped low into shadow— dark lashes fitted heavy across downturned eyes (eyes that can only seem to take Fenris in peripherally now), pale curls obscuring what little there is to observe— doesn't twist itself into either scorn or bruising humor.
Against all his own screaming instincts, that offer isn’t actually unwanted.
But he still blinks too often regardless for a beat, the tips of his canines imperceptibly working, the way a beaten animal might worry at its own leg in a cage. His facade is perfect. He holds his head high in the Gallows. He laughs about the murals painted across every other street here, attestations to old pain. Buildings built like prison walls— even the rusted spikes that jut harshly from the rooftops, only a few feet away from where they sit now. And he is happy. More than he’s ever had the chance to be before.
That doesn't change the fact that there are gaps in the seams. Little snags. Places where nothing sits right and that emptiness snarls outstretched fingertips when touched.
And it shows, now. A flicker of brittle uncertainty worn behind bright red eyes.
Before he looks away.
Before his fingers find that bottle and pull it quickly to his own lips, and it tastes— different this time. Ringing faintly of something far more potent. Soothing.]
...thank you.
[Gratitude laid bare. The fragile makings of trust.
Not for old memories, scattered at their backs like displaced dust— but for what he offers now. Openhanded. Unconditional.
[He says it carefully after a few moments of thought. You're welcome sounds trite, and it's my pleasure is true, but equally sticky. It's nothing is a falsehood and a sour one, for it isn't nothing. Fenris knows the weight of what he offers. He can hear in the fragile tone Astarion's voice has taken. The sharp difference from the man of before, flirtatious and vivacious, oh darling that's not fair, oh, darling, what a difference.
He had spoken before to Astarion, Rifter. A man freed from his past, forcibly brought into a new world and hungry to delve into it. He likes that man, Fenris realizes, but that man is but one facet of the whole. Now, Fenris thinks, and drags the wet cloth against his shoulder, now he speaks to Astarion the slave. A creature just as messy as Fenris himself, personality and instincts not naturally developed, but cobbled and stitched together as best they could, stolen moments eked out despite their masters' best efforts.
He wonders, faintly, if Astarion knows what his favorite food is. If he knows what hobbies he enjoys, or what music best pleases his ear. Little things, basic things, and oh, it's easy to point to all the horrors of slavery, but it's the mundane things stolen away that overwhelm him after all these years.
Has he ever met anyone who understood that?
It doesn't take long to clean out the wound. They both of them might do well to bandage their wounds later, but nor will they be actively bleeding. With a little hum he draws the fabric back, setting it on the ledge, tugging at Astarion's shirt to cover him up once more.]
We could hunt slavers.
[He says it a bit more normally. An easy way to move past the emotion of the moment, for all that he feels as though his skin is electrified, buzzing with this realization.]
Fitting, for tonight. But if Kirkwall has not changed too much these past few years, there are always gangs stalking the streets. There's good coin to be made from killing them.
[It’s a relief, those words. Hearing it at last from someone other than himself and his own ceaselessly feigned bravado. Understanding, unforced under the weight of Fenris' stare, and it sticks beneath his ribs like held breath. Like the pang of being seen for the first time out of Cazador's shadow, pulsebeat faint as it fumbles.
That subsequent segue from ancient aches to fresher opportunity finding its footing with such ease, and Astarion's expression brightens within its span; weariness peeling away like paint.
The last sip of wine offered in rapidly forgotten gratitude— which isn’t erased so much as pressed to the side for a little while, making room for Astarion, the Rifter once more.]
The latter, I think. [Because he needs coin. Always. And not just for petty vanity.
A truth that now— he’s certain— needs no explanation between them.] Though I do wonder.
Do they try to cheat you out of a proper bounty as much as they cheat me?
No— or at least, they did not used to. But that, at least, I had little to do with. Hawke was well known in these parts, and few wished to offend the Champion— nor any of her friends.
[He shrugs one shoulder. And ah, a mercy: it's almost easy to say was instead of is when it comes to his fallen friend. Fenris leans back, resting his weight on one hand, glancing out at the city with a little frown.]
I do not know if that reputation will hold. Unlikely, but perhaps. But I suspect I can persuade them if they attempt to cheat us both. My claymore is not just for show, and fortunately, most people realize that.
[Although, actually . . .]
How much protection does Riftwatch afford?
[Because it was one thing when he had Hawke's reputation and Aveline's position as Captain of the Guard to protect him. He had not relied on them too often, but still, it was a safeguard against all the typical elvish prejudice rife in Kirkwall.]
Do they leave us to fend for ourselves, or offer their weight as protection?
There is something to be said for anyone recognizably aligned with Riftwatch when it comes to larger incidents. Political mostly. Not the sort of work for you and I. [Though who can really say if that'll prove true overall, given the sort of ties Fenris nursed along in the past. Even he might get roped into negotiations here or there somewhere along the way, Astarion supposes.]
Sometimes in dealings with refugees there’s a sliver of gratitude to be found, if you value the opinions of the poor. [Astarion, for the record, does not.]
But otherwise— no. Outside the Gallows, we’re just pretty faces amongst an overly bitter crowd: the guards here in Kirkwall won’t look the other way if you start making too much trouble; locals might spit on you as much as they’ll let you pass by unbothered, depending on the time of day. No discounts, no local favors, and—
Well. Always better to err on the side of caution, especially when you’re sent abroad on missions.
We’re not the Inquisition, from what I've gathered: we’re misfits floating our efforts between countries infinitely larger than our own collective, and we don’t have the weight of any Maker behind us.
[His exhale is low. Stare drifting from the sharp lines of Fenris’ profile out towards the city itself.
He doesn't need to ask after it to feel the tinge of discomfort dwelling there.]
People do seem to forget their chosen champions all too quickly. Ungrateful things that they are.
Ungrateful, but at least typical. I expected no better.
[He's had the past few years to grow used to being treated like an elf instead of the odd semi-human privileged status being Hawke's friend provided. The sneers, the stares, the comments . . . people think twice when they see his sword and his don't-fuck-with-me stare, but ah, he ought to be a little more careful.
His mouth is a thin line. He did his mourning years ago, but still, it hurts. He suspects it will always hurt a little. ]
They put a statue up for her, once. After she defeated the Arishok. I have not checked to see if it remains.
[He'll be angry if it hasn't and hurt if it has, so there's no point in going to see. And there's really no reason to be saying all this, except that he's drunk and high and the filter from brain to mouth is all but erased. But oh, speaking of her reminds him, and he glances over at Astarion.]
She was the first to kill him. Corypheus. We were there when he first awoke. And I have no doubt she thought herself responsible for all the horrors that he has caused.
[The first, he says, and something about hearing it again— said with such decisive certainty— eases off a little of the ever-nagging paranoia that boils in the farthest reaches of Astarion’s own mind.
But...
First awoke sounds different than now, he thinks, with all of Tevinter at Corypheus' side and an army that grows by the day— tainted with vanity and bloody lyrium alike.
His lips thin into a flattened line; he isn’t looking at Fenris anymore.]
[Well, what about Fenris? It's a fair question, and he gives it the thought it deserves. Does he blame Hawke? But no, he knows the answer already.]
I think she had extraordinarily bad luck. And I think her father was a victim of the Wardens.
[He glances over, meeting Astarion's eyes.]
She did nothing wrong. I will not say she was blameless in all things, for that is not true. Her faults were numerous. But in the matter of Corypheus . . .
[A short exhale.]
Swear you will keep this to yourself. I will not have her life dissembled for gossip and idle curiosity.
[Knowledge is a valuable thing. Astarion’s hoarded it from the moment he first set foot in this world, clutching every minuscule shred of it to his chest, tucking it away up his sleeve for a moment where it might prove either protective or advantageous.
This? Personal as it is, isn’t any different. Whether it comes today or tomorrow, a moment of opportunity will inevitably worm its way in, and he'll know precisely how to play this tattered little card: for Riftwatch, for a mission, for an exceedingly dull soirée in need of a point of interest as distraction— or even in dealing with Corypheus’ own devoted lackeys, their unshakable faith in need of rattling.
He ought to keep it. Just like all the rest. Deep down, he knows he should.
After all, what has kindness ever gotten him? An anchor round his neck rather than anything either useful or freeing. Risk at perpetual cost.
But he sees that look on Fenris’ face. The sincerity clinging to stony contours, eyes fixed in their emerald stare, clinging to the notion that Astarion's meant to be trusted.]
Mmph. [A breathy sort of dismissal, a little too much air that hums in a half-sigh through his nose.
[In a way, he appreciates the reluctance. He'd hesitate over something earnestly promised so swiftly, no of course I shan't Fenris you're too dear to me, please. Information has power, and he can well understand why Astarion would be reluctant to promise such a thing.
But so many people have laid claim to Hawke's life. They talk of her as a hero, a champion, a menace, an inciter, a villain to blame or a hero to revere . . . but it's the little things Fenris remembers most. The crack in her voice as she'd sobbed out pleas for her mother's corpse not to leave her. The reckless glint in her eye as she'd bait templars, smugly pushing them for no other reason than she felt it was the least they deserves. The way she had once found a book for Fenris, I thought you would appreciate it, it's about Shartan— and, when he had confessed his illiteracy, her aid in teaching him.
He misses her so much it aches sometimes.]
Years ago, the Wardens, as far as I can understand it, attempted to renew the seals that kept Corypheus bound with blood magic. Specifically, the blood of Malcolm Hawke, an apostate. I believe it was involuntary, but . . . regardless, it was his blood that kept the magister away. Well and good, but . . .
[Well. Blood magic never, ever ends well. There are a thousand reasons why, and admittedly, this is one of the more mundane ways it could backfire, but still. Blood magic! It sucks! Fenris has told people that from day one!]
There was a warden. A fool. I suppose at one point her intentions were honorable: she thought she could use Corypheus to wipe out the darkspawn, perhaps. Some fool idea like that. It did not take long for her to be corrupted by his influence, subtle though I assume it was. But because it was the blood of the Hawke that had sealed him, it was only that which could free him. And since the man had long since died, she needed as close a substitute as she could get.
She tricked Hawke and a few of us into his prison, where only breaking the blood seals would set us free.
[A deep inhale— and then, a wry aside:]
That was the second time I have been trapped underground thanks to her. I did not care for that aspect of our friendship.
In any case. She had little choice but to free him. And when he awoke . . .
[Hm.]
He was malformed. Confused. Have you ever seen him? He is more demon than man, warped beyond compare. [He gestures vaguely in the air.] But he knew enough to demand we drop to our knees, rattus and dwarves and lesser beings that we were. He prayed to Dumat and spoke of storming the Golden City . . .
[And Fenris believes him, he really does. He absolutely believes that a group of magisters would get it in their heads to challenge the Maker, and as for the Maker himself . . . well. It's complicated, but . . . anyway, the point is: he believes Corypheus.]
And, when we did not answer and scrape and capitulate immediately, his rage grew. He screamed for his golden throne and decided he would slaughter us before he attempted to retake it. And we, not wishing to die, fought back.
[Silence for a precious few seconds.]
It was a hard fight. Harder than any I have ever fought in before. But he fell to blades and magic, just as any creature will. I saw his corpse fall. I watched her dismember him. And yet still, he rose again, and I do not know how.
[So. With all that being said . . .]
It was not her fault. It was never her fault. But she blamed herself, I have no doubt, and I do not need others agreeing with her memory.
[Astarion’s embittered scowl is subconscious more than anything active; he doesn’t do it for show, or to provide Fenris with a middling amount of comfort.] In Tantervale, just after his pet dragon erased the city in its entirety, I was sent to track the thing down. Figure out where it— and the rest of Tevinter’s army— was coming from.
I chased them to a hidden fortress in the Silent Plains. And I saw him there, commanding his misshapen army. More flesh than man, if there was ever anything human underneath before it went all wrong.
It baffles me still, you know. [Offends him in the most unsettling ways, elbows shifting across his knees as he leans forward over chalky stone.]
How all it’s taken for so many to slither up to his side is the empty, grotesque promise of glory.
[By which Astarion means:]
How can anyone deify something so....wrong?
[Ugly. He means ugly.
But that’s not the point of their conversation:] One does wonder if someone went through the miserable effort of reviving him after you— collective you— and she put him down. [And now she’s gone. Which is...]
[He glances over, equal parts intrigued and fascinated to hear that, though if pressed he couldn't say why. Is it the thought of Astarion in the field, or simply the proof that this organization does something tangibly important? Or both, maybe, but either way, he notes it down and marks it in his head for a later conversation.
(Strange, too, to know where he was at the time, for he recalls Tantervale's destruction. He'd been in the midst of information gathering, stalking a small group of slavers as they'd made their way towards the destruction, hoping to find victims out of refugees).]
Of course he is. [Fenris scoffs.] The delusional do not give up their power so easily.
[When his lip peels back in immediate distaste, it does him the benefit of revealing those overlong canines in full, right up to their seething gumline.]
The man looks like an abomination turned inside out. As though your Maker thought to himself in an overwhelming fit of stupidity: 'no no— I need something more hideous to really flesh out Thedas' already misconstructed bestiary' [There's such an emphasis on the word flesh there, gloved fingers twisting themselves into a closed fist as they cut through the air just in front of Astarion's collarbone. A sort of stand-in for something far more visceral in nature, really.] as if regular old darkspawn aren't good enough already.
Or...awful enough.
[Either way.]
I mean, all I'm saying is that if he were a god, you'd think he could do something about that literally god-awful face of his. [Another wave of his hand, open-palmed this time, passing directly across the entirety of his own profile before he turns up his nose with a not-so-subtle snort.] Eugh.
[Interesting, that of all things, that's Astarion's objection. Not the corruption nor the cruelty, nor even in the insanity of his plans, but his looks. It's not that deep, he won't read too far into it, but it strikes at him, as they sit there and he notes those sharp, sharp teeth.]
I suppose people cling to whatever scraps of hope they can find. And if they believe his tales of the Maker's throne being empty . . . people will worship anything that promises salvation. Or, perhaps, relief.
[He shrugs. He can understand it. Not condone it, but understand it. In his experience, what people want more than anything is stability. For tomorrow to be the same as today, so long as it is not wholly intolerable, and they'll cheer for anyone who promises it.]
I wonder how many converts of his are only mouthing along, more worried about their lives than their eternal salvation.
[Another shrug, but he rises to his feet. Turns, glancing out at the city before focusing down on the other elf.]
In the end, it matters little. They will worship him or not, but it does not change the fact he is no god. Just a mutilated magister, as power-grubbing and pathetic as the rest.
[And now Fenris really want to go hunt down some gangs. He tips his head, indicating the streets, and wonders at how his heart feels a little lighter. Not joyful, exactly, but . . . it was pleasing to speak of Hawke to someone who was inclined to listen. Who would hear her for what she was: a person, not a hero nor a villain.]
Come. Let us earn some coin.
[It's remarkable how quickly trouble finds them. It's a group of harbor rats from the docks, stupid and thuggish, eager for a quick way to let off steam. Swaggering and leering, surrounding them neatly, making the sort of stupid jokes thugs make when they believe they're the cat and not the mouse. So clearly thinking that two elves will make such easy prey. It's that which offends him most, he remarks to Astarion later, the two of them just covered in blood and all the identifiers they need to in order to get their reward safely stuffed in their pockets. The inherent assumption that just because they're elves, they'll be meek. Quiet. Pathetic, he says, and he does not mean for so much derision to color his tone, but he cannot help it.
He hates being lumped in with other elves.
They stagger back home— no. They stagger back to Astarion's home, for a bet is a bet, and really, Fenris is exhausted enough not to offer any resistance. He strips off his armor and shirt, curling beneath a spare comforter clad in breeches and little else. Not ideal, perhaps, but more comfortable than the ground, and he's tired enough to take what he can get. He falls asleep almost instantly, sprawled on his stomach and his dreams blissfully blank.
Not so for his companion, it seems.
He's always been a light sleeper; likely always will be, for those who don't wake up in time to meet trouble seldom survive it. The first whimper sounds and his hand is shooting out for his sword; Fenris jerks up, rising to his feet, head snapping as he tries to identify the trouble. A break-in? A robbery? Revenge from earlier tonight? What—
And then there's another cry, limbs fitfully tossing beneath the sheets. A face contorted with pain and fear, and Fenris exhales sharply, realizing what's happening. A nightmare.]
Astarion.
[No. He hesitates, then leans over him, one hand roughly shaking his shoulder. How deep in the Fade is he? He cannot guess what he is dreaming of, but perhaps he knows the shape. Danarius has been dead for years and yet still he haunts Fenris, his dreams forcing him back into enslavement, iron collars and the dead certainty that his freedom had only ever been a dream . . .]
[The evening goes in sections, like the chapters of a book:
‘You were right, you know.’ He adds, somewhere before they depart. ‘If you were trapped like that, it wasn’t her fault. Being used doesn't make anyone into a monster.’
A flash of glinting canines before he amends:
‘Not that it matters what I think.’
Snap forward in time, and it’s the same self-assured flash of teeth Astarion gives in the tentative seconds after they’re surrounded, like an unassuming beast suddenly flaring venomous barbs. Atmospheric tenor gone blissfully wrong under the combined crack of both it and the pervasive scent of fresh ozone. How Astarion lives for moments like these, adrenaline soaring as sweetly in his veins as his own untamed malice.
The wine-rich vibrancy of spilled blood dots the lines of their split clothes, colder now. Coin clinks against their palms. They laugh somewhere along the way, and the reason for it doesn't quite stick in the back of Astarion's mind when he shoves open the heavy door to his home with a buckled shoulder fit tight against its span, only that it happens. That they have the luxury of sharing it.
There’s a bowl-sized basin by the hearth meant for washing, and he lends it to Fenris first. And when he fits himself by the fire he does try not to stare—
Maybe, depending on Fenris’ mood or sight or sense of wearied awareness at that point in time, he succeeds.
It doesn’t much matter.
What matters is that Fenris agrees to stay. Safe in shallow numbers. Door locked and stony walls secure, Astarion left awake for a little while longer in the simple ensemble he always slumbers in (loose shirt, thin slacks; the illusion of resting nude in gleaming finery is only ever just that: something worked up only when he’s entertaining here or in the Gallows, as much a fantasy as anything else so eagerly offered) trading glances out the window— and towards Fenris’ dozing form where it's heaped beneath thick covers, a lone sentry for a threat that never comes.
Danger, though, finds him regardless.
He never sleeps well. And tonight, with the wick of all prior inebriation run low, the satchet Cole had gifted him fails in its task. His fingers curl under the weight of his subconscious, clawing fitfully at his own chest, the process illuminated sickly green from the shard tucked against his palm. His breathing stutters, spit-flecked and wild. His teeth snap in pitifully warding patterns, as if there were anything to be done to stop what assails him in sleep—
Red eyes. Hectoring commands still stitched into his bones, impossible to defy.
A hand pressed against his shoulder—
And he reels from it. Not in dreams, but reality: choking out a startled bark as he snaps upright and twists to fit his back against the wall just beside his bed, hollow eyes wide and wet and flickering with fear. His palms brace across stone, numb from the knuckles down. There’s blood on his lips.
It’s only his, he realizes, sluggish and uprooted.
He’d bitten his own tongue somewhere along the way, a narrow sting tucked across its leftmost edge.
But the sight that comes belatedly into focus isn’t the one he’d dreamed of. And it takes him longer than it should to map the difference between reality and its hazy antithesis. Fenris can’t be here? —no, Fenris is here. They’d spent the evening together. He chose to stay.
Someone he trusts, yes. But not someone he’d want seeing him like this, fragile as cracked glass, cut entirely from the tattered cloth of his own horrific past.
Hells.
The sheets are tangled tight around his ankles thanks to his own thrashing retreat. It aches, aside from making the matter of trying to shift away from where he’s curled against the wall all the more difficult. And bloody awkward. Swallowing thick in his throat only to taste the bitter tang of bile as it mingles with iron.]
...shit, I...
[Breathless. Nauseated. His heart panging painfully in his chest. His fingers tremble.
He masks it by tucking them against his shirt, already drawing away from dusty stone by narrow degrees.
[He jerks back as Astarion does, but whereas the other man scrambles and tries desperately to get away, Fenris freezes. No sudden movements, no lurching hand reaching, no. Fenris goes still, so that Astarion can see for himself that nothing is trying to trap him.
It could have gone worse, he thinks, in those breathless few seconds as they stare at one another, hearts thudding and panic thick in the air. There are a thousand ways this could have gone worse. Fenris has woken screaming from nightmares before; he has woken savagely, knife in hand, desperately stabbing at phantom shadows. So yes, on the whole, a bitten tongue and sweat-soaked tangled sheets are the least of their problems.
But there is something inherently awful about being witnessed. That, Fenris cannot help.]
There's no one here but you and I.
[Calm. Not patronizingly soft, no, but simply a statement of fact. The tension in the room eases, and so he sits slowly on the mattress, his eyes locked on Astarion all the while.]
He is not here.
[Is his master a man? Ah, but it doesn't matter, not really. It's the statement of fact that counts more than the details. And maybe he's off-base, maybe he's dreaming of some other horror, but . . . well. Former slave, and Fenris suspects they all of them are haunted by the same ghosts.]
He’s right, Fenris, mouthing steady reassurance as he sinks down against the mattress, and for a moment that too causes Astarion’s rabbiting pulse to leap; the snap snap snap of turning gears in his head stuck fast against the details, searching for every last gap in offered comfort.
Fenris doesn’t know Cazador. Astarion hadn’t mentioned him directly beyond title alone— how does he know to call him him? Why is he edging in closer? And for a moment the past is too near to be anything but tangible truth: he’s being duped. Played for a fool yet again. Cazador’s whispered in his ear to dream of something sweeter than his cuffing servitude, and fool that he is, he has, and he’ll bleed for the audacity of it later.
How is Fenris here. Why did he ever come back. Stupid fool of a spawn, not to see it sooner—
But his tongue aches.
His blood tastes of more than ash.
Compressed like a cornered thing, paranoia settles slow as shifting silt alongside the sweat-soaked contours of his silhouette. He heaves another shoddy exhale, and wipes the back of his knuckles once across his eyes.
Salt stings their edges.]
For now. [It’s a stupid laugh of a thing. Low and embittered, paper thin.] So long as the rifts don't opt to do him any favors.
[He agrees, because this isn't the time to play at heroics. The truth is he has no idea what Astarion has suffered. Indeed, he has little idea of where he even came from, save that it's somewhere that isn't Thedas. Who knows what slavery has entailed? I did better on my back than on my heels, Astarion had hinted, but though Fenris knows exactly what he means . . . no, he does not know enough, not yet.
So he will not make the fool's mistake of offering false assurance. That's the right way to a panic attack. Untangling Astarion's ankles, Fenris' hands drop, his fingers gone slack in the sheets and resettling on his thighs. Easy to see, easy to keep track of.]
But for now, the door is bolted. No one has entered. And I am here, with my sword and my lyrium, if that should change.
[His eyes flick down for a moment, dipping away, and if he notices any tears, he does not mention them. Astarion looks like a beaten dog right now: shivering in terror, muscles locked up, knowing deep down in his bones that any move he makes will be the wrong one. Sometimes there is nothing that will stop your dominus from punishing you, he knows, he remembers, but it's one thing to recall his own terror and another to see it painted so starkly before him.
Gently, he offers Astarion a hand, his palm upturned. Not a pointed gesture, but a quiet one, easily ignored if Astarion should wish.]
He has not come to drag you back, Astarion. Not tonight.
[Not while I breathe, he thinks, and startles himself with how true it is.]
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He's still panting in exertion, his pulse thrumming— oh, they'll have to hunt soon, for now all of Fenris feels alight.]
I'll stay the night, [an agreement, and he can still feel the echoes of cool steel against bare skin, Maker's breath.]
Though I note your compromise only extends to my prize, Astarion . . .
[To be strictly fair, he really ought to be obligated to stay only half the night— and yet he doesn't argue further, for it's not as if he actually wants that, he's just saying. Absently he tongues at his teeth, lingering against one canine, and adds:]
You are good at daggers.
[It's a real compliment, but also, let's put that bragging ban to the test.]
Where did you learn how to wield them?
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Astarion very much needs that space all of a sudden, thank you.]
Ahah. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. [He adds slyly in sudden amusement, glance shot back across his own shoulder before— oof. Just a little wince, shaking out his arm where it decides to sting. It’s not the worst they’ve picked up tonight, but somehow it bites more than the others.
And he realizes then than he’s certainly managed to do an ugly little number of his own on Fenris’ side, somewhere around his stomach.
Aren’t they just a pair.]
Come here, darling. [Bottle of wine found (corner of the roof, just near the edge— Fenris must’ve set it there when they first scurried out of the alleyway, which is decidedly better than having left it in the alleyway), Astarion plucks it up and sits down across dusty stone, patting the empty space at his side.] You look like a battered fighting dog if ever I’ve seen one.
No point in letting it fester before we play.
[Play, he says, as if they’re amusing themselves with simple board games.]
Anyway I don’t quite know, if I’m honest. I don’t think this was always my forte— though it’s always possible I was just particularly good at five-fingered-fillet long before my master found me [the latter addition is a joke, judging by his tone] whatever memory I had of my old life is....
[His lips purse, shoulders lifting in an inconsequential shrug.] gone.
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— ah, and then, quite suddenly, he isn't thinking of his wounds at all. Fenris' eyes dart up, focusing on Astarion sharply. For a moment, there and gone, he worries that perhaps this man is mocking him— but, no there's no hint of cruelty there.
A beat, and he huffs out a bitter sort of laugh.]
We make the start of a terrible joke, you and I.
[Two silver-haired amnesiatic elven ex-slaves climb up on a rooftop . . . Maker's breath.]
It is the mundane things I despise the most. The origin of talents or habits, little peculiarities, one's age . . . and the knowledge that one will never resolve the mystery.
[And he could ask how long Astarion thinks he lost, of course, but . . . well. What would be the answer, save I don't know or I think it may be... Depressing answers, unsatisfying and mundane.]
How long have you been free?
[There, now . . . that's a far better thing to consider.]
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From there, he puts the silk to the bottle’s lip; a waste of fine wine by some standards, but for a man like Astarion? Well. He imagines there’s no shortage in his future.
He also holds his breath once Fenris opts to lift his shirt.
Maker indeed.]
I told you I’d been in Thedas for a little over half a year now, so...
[Dabbing ever-so-gently at that nasty gash, fingers peerlessly deft in their care; he’s done this all so many times before, well before his freedom was his own, after all.]
Exactly that long.
[...all right, so maybe it's still not the most pleasant topic as far as depressing truths go.]
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Do not take this the wrong way. But I am shocked you are . . .
[How to say this? Fenris gestures vaguely at all of Astarion. Vivid and bright, capable of drawling jokes and teasing flirtations, hedonistic and kind . . .]
That there is a you that exists outside of his shadow.
Six months out of slavery . . .
[He remembers himself six months out of slavery, and oh, what a strange creature he was. Half-feral, really; a scrap of personality mixed in with paranoid terror and overwhelming grief and guilt . . . he barely spoke to anyone, eking out survival and slowly learning how to function one day at a time.
Fenris smiles thinly.]
You handle it far better than I did.
Then again: perhaps we were used to different ends. A personality, beyond intimidating, was not what my master designed me for— ah.
[He say that out of pain, surely. Certainly not for the frankly unfamiliar sensation of someone else's fingers against his skin. Not sexual, nothing like that, but . . . it's been a long time since he's been touched by anyone, friend or foe.]
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I had you there to help me.
[It’s teasing, but...maybe not quite. Or not entirely. Or it doesn’t feel like some purely offhanded quip without gravity or weight. The smile he wears is distracted now. Almost lost beneath the focus of his work.]
Oh yes. Fearsome thing that you are, wincing over a little wine. [Said with yet another weighty dab along the edge of blotted crimson where it offsets skin framed by lines of vivid blue.
Joking, when he can well imagine the sort of power Fenris' former master had hoped to hold sole control over. How thrilling that must have been for a creature so wretched, so familiar as one undoubtedly cut from Cazador's own figurative cloth.
He can easily picture in his mind just how a man like that would treat its muzzled hound.]
But...I suppose you’re probably right. Cazador had no lack of puppets to do his bidding, after all, so our roles were distinct. Suited to his tastes, I suppose.
Or perhaps he just knew I did better on my back than on my heels.
[Bleak talk, but Astarion wears it as though talking about nothing more than the weather itself.]
Either way, I imagine there’s something to be said for all the brief little flickers of agency I’d been granted over the years.
Some of his pets never even had that, in all honesty.
[But the blood is clotted now, mostly. The skin around it cleaned.
He’s satisfied with his work, and so, fitting his fingertips across Fenris’ own, lightly presses that hold (and the shirt itself by proxy) back down into place.]
There. Good as new.
[...aside from the myriad other cuts that is, but who’s really counting.]
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Off-handed comments. Jokes that aren't funny at all. Details meant to horrify and enlighten all at once without making them seem weak, in need of pity. Fenris used to snarlingly offered his past to anyone who dared inquire, refusing to back down, sickeningly satisfied (and yet not at all) when they flinched. Look at what I have endured, look at what he did to me, and it did not wholly quiet the screaming in his soul, but at least it was a start.
Odd, now, to see it mirrored in Astarion. And odder still: that he does not quite know how to respond.
It's one of the first times he's spoken to a former slave like this, after all. Oh, there were plenty of rescues, but that doesn't count; grateful elves who avoided a horrifying fate, not slaves proper. And Orana . . . well. He'd barely interacted with her, skittish for reasons he couldn't quite understand.
Danarius used to, he thinks of saying, but even as he does the memories dart forward. Clammy hands and moonlit bedrooms, his thighs trembling and his eyes focused on a point in the wall— and it mixes, Danarius' voice amused as he'd stared at Hawke, the lad is rather skilled, isn't he?, humiliation and horror and—
And then fingers, cool and deft, brushing over his own. Like crisp water cutting through the sand and mud, a stark reminder that cajoles rather than drags him back to the present. Fenris blinks, focuses, and then nods at the slice on Astarion's shoulder.]
Now you.
[He doesn't wait for answer. Just takes bottle and cloth, splashing the wine haphazardly against the bloodied fabric. Somewhat horribly, he then takes a drink of that bottle, but eh, it's fine.]
Turn around.
[And he waits, patient as the grave, until Astarion obeys. His fingers tug at fabric, prying his shirt a little farther open, holding it steady as he begins to apply that cloth. Then, quietly:]
I am sorry I do not recall it. [You.]
But I am glad I could be of help.
[Ah, and how to say this . . .]
I do not doubt your expertise, nor your competence. And I have little doubt you would be fine without me. But if there are things that you need to learn, that were never taught to you . . .
[No one ever realizes that slaves aren't taught to cook, not unless they're assigned to the kitchen. Nor clean, not really, not if you're a bodyguard or a bedwarmer. How to wash clothing, how to manage money (oh, he'd had trouble with that), how to know when food rots or learn how to care for yourself . . . all those little things that people learn growing up that they never had.
His tone a little more light, then, an intentional joke at his expense:]
I ate two meals a day at a tavern for a year before I learned how to cook.
[It's true, but also, it's an easy way to deflect if Astarion doesn't take to the implied offer.]
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[His mouth is open before he knows what to say. And maybe it’s a mercy, the sharpness of the burning bite that follows, cool cloth pressed to even cooler skin as the whole of his posture straightens, rigid as a board. A little hiss slipping through sharp teeth.
So much for all his own tall talk.
But the next time Fenris works damp silk over skin, he’s silent. Settling by slow degrees as though sinking into a warm bath; he’s had so much worse than this, after all, and the feeling of warm fingertips perching light across his skin relaxes him more than it should.
Even so, he’s never really been capable of letting kindness slip in through his defenses, thinking it to be a dagger rather than a balm. A weapon, alluring to grasp for and damningly dangerous to leave pressed against one's skin. And yet maybe— maybe careful acceptance takes root in the silence between breaths. In the way his expression, tipped low into shadow— dark lashes fitted heavy across downturned eyes (eyes that can only seem to take Fenris in peripherally now), pale curls obscuring what little there is to observe— doesn't twist itself into either scorn or bruising humor.
Against all his own screaming instincts, that offer isn’t actually unwanted.
But he still blinks too often regardless for a beat, the tips of his canines imperceptibly working, the way a beaten animal might worry at its own leg in a cage. His facade is perfect. He holds his head high in the Gallows. He laughs about the murals painted across every other street here, attestations to old pain. Buildings built like prison walls— even the rusted spikes that jut harshly from the rooftops, only a few feet away from where they sit now. And he is happy. More than he’s ever had the chance to be before.
That doesn't change the fact that there are gaps in the seams. Little snags. Places where nothing sits right and that emptiness snarls outstretched fingertips when touched.
And it shows, now. A flicker of brittle uncertainty worn behind bright red eyes.
Before he looks away.
Before his fingers find that bottle and pull it quickly to his own lips, and it tastes— different this time. Ringing faintly of something far more potent. Soothing.]
...thank you.
[Gratitude laid bare. The fragile makings of trust.
Not for old memories, scattered at their backs like displaced dust— but for what he offers now. Openhanded. Unconditional.
Mercy for a monster.]
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[He says it carefully after a few moments of thought. You're welcome sounds trite, and it's my pleasure is true, but equally sticky. It's nothing is a falsehood and a sour one, for it isn't nothing. Fenris knows the weight of what he offers. He can hear in the fragile tone Astarion's voice has taken. The sharp difference from the man of before, flirtatious and vivacious, oh darling that's not fair, oh, darling, what a difference.
He had spoken before to Astarion, Rifter. A man freed from his past, forcibly brought into a new world and hungry to delve into it. He likes that man, Fenris realizes, but that man is but one facet of the whole. Now, Fenris thinks, and drags the wet cloth against his shoulder, now he speaks to Astarion the slave. A creature just as messy as Fenris himself, personality and instincts not naturally developed, but cobbled and stitched together as best they could, stolen moments eked out despite their masters' best efforts.
He wonders, faintly, if Astarion knows what his favorite food is. If he knows what hobbies he enjoys, or what music best pleases his ear. Little things, basic things, and oh, it's easy to point to all the horrors of slavery, but it's the mundane things stolen away that overwhelm him after all these years.
Has he ever met anyone who understood that?
It doesn't take long to clean out the wound. They both of them might do well to bandage their wounds later, but nor will they be actively bleeding. With a little hum he draws the fabric back, setting it on the ledge, tugging at Astarion's shirt to cover him up once more.]
We could hunt slavers.
[He says it a bit more normally. An easy way to move past the emotion of the moment, for all that he feels as though his skin is electrified, buzzing with this realization.]
Fitting, for tonight. But if Kirkwall has not changed too much these past few years, there are always gangs stalking the streets. There's good coin to be made from killing them.
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That subsequent segue from ancient aches to fresher opportunity finding its footing with such ease, and Astarion's expression brightens within its span; weariness peeling away like paint.
The last sip of wine offered in rapidly forgotten gratitude— which isn’t erased so much as pressed to the side for a little while, making room for Astarion, the Rifter once more.]
The latter, I think. [Because he needs coin. Always. And not just for petty vanity.
A truth that now— he’s certain— needs no explanation between them.] Though I do wonder.
Do they try to cheat you out of a proper bounty as much as they cheat me?
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[He shrugs one shoulder. And ah, a mercy: it's almost easy to say was instead of is when it comes to his fallen friend. Fenris leans back, resting his weight on one hand, glancing out at the city with a little frown.]
I do not know if that reputation will hold. Unlikely, but perhaps. But I suspect I can persuade them if they attempt to cheat us both. My claymore is not just for show, and fortunately, most people realize that.
[Although, actually . . .]
How much protection does Riftwatch afford?
[Because it was one thing when he had Hawke's reputation and Aveline's position as Captain of the Guard to protect him. He had not relied on them too often, but still, it was a safeguard against all the typical elvish prejudice rife in Kirkwall.]
Do they leave us to fend for ourselves, or offer their weight as protection?
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There is something to be said for anyone recognizably aligned with Riftwatch when it comes to larger incidents. Political mostly. Not the sort of work for you and I. [Though who can really say if that'll prove true overall, given the sort of ties Fenris nursed along in the past. Even he might get roped into negotiations here or there somewhere along the way, Astarion supposes.]
Sometimes in dealings with refugees there’s a sliver of gratitude to be found, if you value the opinions of the poor. [Astarion, for the record, does not.]
But otherwise— no. Outside the Gallows, we’re just pretty faces amongst an overly bitter crowd: the guards here in Kirkwall won’t look the other way if you start making too much trouble; locals might spit on you as much as they’ll let you pass by unbothered, depending on the time of day. No discounts, no local favors, and—
Well. Always better to err on the side of caution, especially when you’re sent abroad on missions.
We’re not the Inquisition, from what I've gathered: we’re misfits floating our efforts between countries infinitely larger than our own collective, and we don’t have the weight of any Maker behind us.
[His exhale is low. Stare drifting from the sharp lines of Fenris’ profile out towards the city itself.
He doesn't need to ask after it to feel the tinge of discomfort dwelling there.]
People do seem to forget their chosen champions all too quickly. Ungrateful things that they are.
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[He's had the past few years to grow used to being treated like an elf instead of the odd semi-human privileged status being Hawke's friend provided. The sneers, the stares, the comments . . . people think twice when they see his sword and his don't-fuck-with-me stare, but ah, he ought to be a little more careful.
His mouth is a thin line. He did his mourning years ago, but still, it hurts. He suspects it will always hurt a little. ]
They put a statue up for her, once. After she defeated the Arishok. I have not checked to see if it remains.
[He'll be angry if it hasn't and hurt if it has, so there's no point in going to see. And there's really no reason to be saying all this, except that he's drunk and high and the filter from brain to mouth is all but erased. But oh, speaking of her reminds him, and he glances over at Astarion.]
She was the first to kill him. Corypheus. We were there when he first awoke. And I have no doubt she thought herself responsible for all the horrors that he has caused.
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But...
First awoke sounds different than now, he thinks, with all of Tevinter at Corypheus' side and an army that grows by the day— tainted with vanity and bloody lyrium alike.
His lips thin into a flattened line; he isn’t looking at Fenris anymore.]
What about you?
[Does he blame himself?
Does he blame her?]
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I think she had extraordinarily bad luck. And I think her father was a victim of the Wardens.
[He glances over, meeting Astarion's eyes.]
She did nothing wrong. I will not say she was blameless in all things, for that is not true. Her faults were numerous. But in the matter of Corypheus . . .
[A short exhale.]
Swear you will keep this to yourself. I will not have her life dissembled for gossip and idle curiosity.
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This? Personal as it is, isn’t any different. Whether it comes today or tomorrow, a moment of opportunity will inevitably worm its way in, and he'll know precisely how to play this tattered little card: for Riftwatch, for a mission, for an exceedingly dull soirée in need of a point of interest as distraction— or even in dealing with Corypheus’ own devoted lackeys, their unshakable faith in need of rattling.
He ought to keep it. Just like all the rest. Deep down, he knows he should.
After all, what has kindness ever gotten him? An anchor round his neck rather than anything either useful or freeing. Risk at perpetual cost.
But he sees that look on Fenris’ face. The sincerity clinging to stony contours, eyes fixed in their emerald stare, clinging to the notion that Astarion's meant to be trusted.]
Mmph. [A breathy sort of dismissal, a little too much air that hums in a half-sigh through his nose.
His attention twists sharply away.]
I doubt anyone would believe me, anyway.
[That is, for the record, a yes, Fenris.]
But....what do you mean, her father?
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But so many people have laid claim to Hawke's life. They talk of her as a hero, a champion, a menace, an inciter, a villain to blame or a hero to revere . . . but it's the little things Fenris remembers most. The crack in her voice as she'd sobbed out pleas for her mother's corpse not to leave her. The reckless glint in her eye as she'd bait templars, smugly pushing them for no other reason than she felt it was the least they deserves. The way she had once found a book for Fenris, I thought you would appreciate it, it's about Shartan— and, when he had confessed his illiteracy, her aid in teaching him.
He misses her so much it aches sometimes.]
Years ago, the Wardens, as far as I can understand it, attempted to renew the seals that kept Corypheus bound with blood magic. Specifically, the blood of Malcolm Hawke, an apostate. I believe it was involuntary, but . . . regardless, it was his blood that kept the magister away. Well and good, but . . .
[Well. Blood magic never, ever ends well. There are a thousand reasons why, and admittedly, this is one of the more mundane ways it could backfire, but still. Blood magic! It sucks! Fenris has told people that from day one!]
There was a warden. A fool. I suppose at one point her intentions were honorable: she thought she could use Corypheus to wipe out the darkspawn, perhaps. Some fool idea like that. It did not take long for her to be corrupted by his influence, subtle though I assume it was. But because it was the blood of the Hawke that had sealed him, it was only that which could free him. And since the man had long since died, she needed as close a substitute as she could get.
She tricked Hawke and a few of us into his prison, where only breaking the blood seals would set us free.
[A deep inhale— and then, a wry aside:]
That was the second time I have been trapped underground thanks to her. I did not care for that aspect of our friendship.
In any case. She had little choice but to free him. And when he awoke . . .
[Hm.]
He was malformed. Confused. Have you ever seen him? He is more demon than man, warped beyond compare. [He gestures vaguely in the air.] But he knew enough to demand we drop to our knees, rattus and dwarves and lesser beings that we were. He prayed to Dumat and spoke of storming the Golden City . . .
[And Fenris believes him, he really does. He absolutely believes that a group of magisters would get it in their heads to challenge the Maker, and as for the Maker himself . . . well. It's complicated, but . . . anyway, the point is: he believes Corypheus.]
And, when we did not answer and scrape and capitulate immediately, his rage grew. He screamed for his golden throne and decided he would slaughter us before he attempted to retake it. And we, not wishing to die, fought back.
[Silence for a precious few seconds.]
It was a hard fight. Harder than any I have ever fought in before. But he fell to blades and magic, just as any creature will. I saw his corpse fall. I watched her dismember him. And yet still, he rose again, and I do not know how.
[So. With all that being said . . .]
It was not her fault. It was never her fault. But she blamed herself, I have no doubt, and I do not need others agreeing with her memory.
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[Astarion’s embittered scowl is subconscious more than anything active; he doesn’t do it for show, or to provide Fenris with a middling amount of comfort.] In Tantervale, just after his pet dragon erased the city in its entirety, I was sent to track the thing down. Figure out where it— and the rest of Tevinter’s army— was coming from.
I chased them to a hidden fortress in the Silent Plains. And I saw him there, commanding his misshapen army. More flesh than man, if there was ever anything human underneath before it went all wrong.
It baffles me still, you know. [Offends him in the most unsettling ways, elbows shifting across his knees as he leans forward over chalky stone.]
How all it’s taken for so many to slither up to his side is the empty, grotesque promise of glory.
[By which Astarion means:]
How can anyone deify something so....wrong?
[Ugly. He means ugly.
But that’s not the point of their conversation:] One does wonder if someone went through the miserable effort of reviving him after you— collective you— and she put him down. [And now she’s gone. Which is...]
He’s still looking for it, by the way. Even now.
His Throne.
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(Strange, too, to know where he was at the time, for he recalls Tantervale's destruction. He'd been in the midst of information gathering, stalking a small group of slavers as they'd made their way towards the destruction, hoping to find victims out of refugees).]
Of course he is. [Fenris scoffs.] The delusional do not give up their power so easily.
[But oh, hang on.]
Does it truly baffle you? Their worship of him?
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[When his lip peels back in immediate distaste, it does him the benefit of revealing those overlong canines in full, right up to their seething gumline.]
The man looks like an abomination turned inside out. As though your Maker thought to himself in an overwhelming fit of stupidity: 'no no— I need something more hideous to really flesh out Thedas' already misconstructed bestiary' [There's such an emphasis on the word flesh there, gloved fingers twisting themselves into a closed fist as they cut through the air just in front of Astarion's collarbone. A sort of stand-in for something far more visceral in nature, really.] as if regular old darkspawn aren't good enough already.
Or...awful enough.
[Either way.]
I mean, all I'm saying is that if he were a god, you'd think he could do something about that literally god-awful face of his. [Another wave of his hand, open-palmed this time, passing directly across the entirety of his own profile before he turns up his nose with a not-so-subtle snort.] Eugh.
Unlimited power. Nonsense.
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I suppose people cling to whatever scraps of hope they can find. And if they believe his tales of the Maker's throne being empty . . . people will worship anything that promises salvation. Or, perhaps, relief.
[He shrugs. He can understand it. Not condone it, but understand it. In his experience, what people want more than anything is stability. For tomorrow to be the same as today, so long as it is not wholly intolerable, and they'll cheer for anyone who promises it.]
I wonder how many converts of his are only mouthing along, more worried about their lives than their eternal salvation.
[Another shrug, but he rises to his feet. Turns, glancing out at the city before focusing down on the other elf.]
In the end, it matters little. They will worship him or not, but it does not change the fact he is no god. Just a mutilated magister, as power-grubbing and pathetic as the rest.
[And now Fenris really want to go hunt down some gangs. He tips his head, indicating the streets, and wonders at how his heart feels a little lighter. Not joyful, exactly, but . . . it was pleasing to speak of Hawke to someone who was inclined to listen. Who would hear her for what she was: a person, not a hero nor a villain.]
Come. Let us earn some coin.
[It's remarkable how quickly trouble finds them. It's a group of harbor rats from the docks, stupid and thuggish, eager for a quick way to let off steam. Swaggering and leering, surrounding them neatly, making the sort of stupid jokes thugs make when they believe they're the cat and not the mouse. So clearly thinking that two elves will make such easy prey. It's that which offends him most, he remarks to Astarion later, the two of them just covered in blood and all the identifiers they need to in order to get their reward safely stuffed in their pockets. The inherent assumption that just because they're elves, they'll be meek. Quiet. Pathetic, he says, and he does not mean for so much derision to color his tone, but he cannot help it.
He hates being lumped in with other elves.
They stagger back home— no. They stagger back to Astarion's home, for a bet is a bet, and really, Fenris is exhausted enough not to offer any resistance. He strips off his armor and shirt, curling beneath a spare comforter clad in breeches and little else. Not ideal, perhaps, but more comfortable than the ground, and he's tired enough to take what he can get. He falls asleep almost instantly, sprawled on his stomach and his dreams blissfully blank.
Not so for his companion, it seems.
He's always been a light sleeper; likely always will be, for those who don't wake up in time to meet trouble seldom survive it. The first whimper sounds and his hand is shooting out for his sword; Fenris jerks up, rising to his feet, head snapping as he tries to identify the trouble. A break-in? A robbery? Revenge from earlier tonight? What—
And then there's another cry, limbs fitfully tossing beneath the sheets. A face contorted with pain and fear, and Fenris exhales sharply, realizing what's happening. A nightmare.]
Astarion.
[No. He hesitates, then leans over him, one hand roughly shaking his shoulder. How deep in the Fade is he? He cannot guess what he is dreaming of, but perhaps he knows the shape. Danarius has been dead for years and yet still he haunts Fenris, his dreams forcing him back into enslavement, iron collars and the dead certainty that his freedom had only ever been a dream . . .]
Astarion!
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‘You were right, you know.’ He adds, somewhere before they depart. ‘If you were trapped like that, it wasn’t her fault. Being used doesn't make anyone into a monster.’
A flash of glinting canines before he amends:
‘Not that it matters what I think.’
Snap forward in time, and it’s the same self-assured flash of teeth Astarion gives in the tentative seconds after they’re surrounded, like an unassuming beast suddenly flaring venomous barbs. Atmospheric tenor gone blissfully wrong under the combined crack of both it and the pervasive scent of fresh ozone. How Astarion lives for moments like these, adrenaline soaring as sweetly in his veins as his own untamed malice.
The wine-rich vibrancy of spilled blood dots the lines of their split clothes, colder now. Coin clinks against their palms. They laugh somewhere along the way, and the reason for it doesn't quite stick in the back of Astarion's mind when he shoves open the heavy door to his home with a buckled shoulder fit tight against its span, only that it happens. That they have the luxury of sharing it.
There’s a bowl-sized basin by the hearth meant for washing, and he lends it to Fenris first. And when he fits himself by the fire he does try not to stare—
Maybe, depending on Fenris’ mood or sight or sense of wearied awareness at that point in time, he succeeds.
It doesn’t much matter.
What matters is that Fenris agrees to stay. Safe in shallow numbers. Door locked and stony walls secure, Astarion left awake for a little while longer in the simple ensemble he always slumbers in (loose shirt, thin slacks; the illusion of resting nude in gleaming finery is only ever just that: something worked up only when he’s entertaining here or in the Gallows, as much a fantasy as anything else so eagerly offered) trading glances out the window— and towards Fenris’ dozing form where it's heaped beneath thick covers, a lone sentry for a threat that never comes.
Danger, though, finds him regardless.
He never sleeps well. And tonight, with the wick of all prior inebriation run low, the satchet Cole had gifted him fails in its task. His fingers curl under the weight of his subconscious, clawing fitfully at his own chest, the process illuminated sickly green from the shard tucked against his palm. His breathing stutters, spit-flecked and wild. His teeth snap in pitifully warding patterns, as if there were anything to be done to stop what assails him in sleep—
Red eyes. Hectoring commands still stitched into his bones, impossible to defy.
A hand pressed against his shoulder—
And he reels from it. Not in dreams, but reality: choking out a startled bark as he snaps upright and twists to fit his back against the wall just beside his bed, hollow eyes wide and wet and flickering with fear. His palms brace across stone, numb from the knuckles down. There’s blood on his lips.
It’s only his, he realizes, sluggish and uprooted.
He’d bitten his own tongue somewhere along the way, a narrow sting tucked across its leftmost edge.
But the sight that comes belatedly into focus isn’t the one he’d dreamed of. And it takes him longer than it should to map the difference between reality and its hazy antithesis. Fenris can’t be here? —no, Fenris is here. They’d spent the evening together. He chose to stay.
Someone he trusts, yes. But not someone he’d want seeing him like this, fragile as cracked glass, cut entirely from the tattered cloth of his own horrific past.
Hells.
The sheets are tangled tight around his ankles thanks to his own thrashing retreat. It aches, aside from making the matter of trying to shift away from where he’s curled against the wall all the more difficult. And bloody awkward. Swallowing thick in his throat only to taste the bitter tang of bile as it mingles with iron.]
...shit, I...
[Breathless. Nauseated. His heart panging painfully in his chest. His fingers tremble.
He masks it by tucking them against his shirt, already drawing away from dusty stone by narrow degrees.
What a wretched sanctuary he's provided.]
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It could have gone worse, he thinks, in those breathless few seconds as they stare at one another, hearts thudding and panic thick in the air. There are a thousand ways this could have gone worse. Fenris has woken screaming from nightmares before; he has woken savagely, knife in hand, desperately stabbing at phantom shadows. So yes, on the whole, a bitten tongue and sweat-soaked tangled sheets are the least of their problems.
But there is something inherently awful about being witnessed. That, Fenris cannot help.]
There's no one here but you and I.
[Calm. Not patronizingly soft, no, but simply a statement of fact. The tension in the room eases, and so he sits slowly on the mattress, his eyes locked on Astarion all the while.]
He is not here.
[Is his master a man? Ah, but it doesn't matter, not really. It's the statement of fact that counts more than the details. And maybe he's off-base, maybe he's dreaming of some other horror, but . . . well. Former slave, and Fenris suspects they all of them are haunted by the same ghosts.]
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He’s right, Fenris, mouthing steady reassurance as he sinks down against the mattress, and for a moment that too causes Astarion’s rabbiting pulse to leap; the snap snap snap of turning gears in his head stuck fast against the details, searching for every last gap in offered comfort.
Fenris doesn’t know Cazador. Astarion hadn’t mentioned him directly beyond title alone— how does he know to call him him? Why is he edging in closer? And for a moment the past is too near to be anything but tangible truth: he’s being duped. Played for a fool yet again. Cazador’s whispered in his ear to dream of something sweeter than his cuffing servitude, and fool that he is, he has, and he’ll bleed for the audacity of it later.
How is Fenris here. Why did he ever come back. Stupid fool of a spawn, not to see it sooner—
But his tongue aches.
His blood tastes of more than ash.
Compressed like a cornered thing, paranoia settles slow as shifting silt alongside the sweat-soaked contours of his silhouette. He heaves another shoddy exhale, and wipes the back of his knuckles once across his eyes.
Salt stings their edges.]
For now. [It’s a stupid laugh of a thing. Low and embittered, paper thin.] So long as the rifts don't opt to do him any favors.
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[He agrees, because this isn't the time to play at heroics. The truth is he has no idea what Astarion has suffered. Indeed, he has little idea of where he even came from, save that it's somewhere that isn't Thedas. Who knows what slavery has entailed? I did better on my back than on my heels, Astarion had hinted, but though Fenris knows exactly what he means . . . no, he does not know enough, not yet.
So he will not make the fool's mistake of offering false assurance. That's the right way to a panic attack. Untangling Astarion's ankles, Fenris' hands drop, his fingers gone slack in the sheets and resettling on his thighs. Easy to see, easy to keep track of.]
But for now, the door is bolted. No one has entered. And I am here, with my sword and my lyrium, if that should change.
[His eyes flick down for a moment, dipping away, and if he notices any tears, he does not mention them. Astarion looks like a beaten dog right now: shivering in terror, muscles locked up, knowing deep down in his bones that any move he makes will be the wrong one. Sometimes there is nothing that will stop your dominus from punishing you, he knows, he remembers, but it's one thing to recall his own terror and another to see it painted so starkly before him.
Gently, he offers Astarion a hand, his palm upturned. Not a pointed gesture, but a quiet one, easily ignored if Astarion should wish.]
He has not come to drag you back, Astarion. Not tonight.
[Not while I breathe, he thinks, and startles himself with how true it is.]
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cw: suicide mention
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