[Does the word remind him of anything? Some half-memory forgotten long ago of a story his mother whispered to him: tales of elves long ago who were immortal, whose magic was woven into the very air they breathed, whose lives were so very different than the wretched, miserable ones they themselves led . . .?
Maybe. Maybe. A ghost of a memory, the echo of words long since forgotten . . . and there's no time to recall, not right now. Not when Astarion demands his attention. Wild magic, wild places, and Fenris shakes his head.]
No. I am not trying to be difficult, Astarion, but no. If anything, there is Arlathan . . . it resides now in the Tevinter Empire, but it is a vast forest, and was said to be the capital city of the ancient elven empire. But that was . . . I cannot even tell you how long ago. Thousands of years, maybe. Before humans arrived on the continent, I think I read once.
I have been there. And it is beautiful, I will not deny it. And . . . ancient, too. You can feel the history around you, the age of the trees and the land . . . and there are relics there, too. Remnants and buildings long since abandoned. But there was no . . . there is nothing like you described.
[He feels as though he's failing somehow, and doesn't know why.]
The gods . . . I know their names. I even know their aspects. But if they were ever truly real, they do not have an effect any longer. Mythal, Elgar'nan, Andruil, Ghilan'nain . . . the Dalish still worship them. Pray to them. Beg them for help, for all the good it has done any of our people. The vallaslin— the tattoos they sear upon their faces— are a tribute to them.
But they have never once helped us, not in the thousands of years since the fall of the elven empire. Not when elf is synonymous with slave in Tevinter. Not when we are all but second-class citizens even now, and the humans look at us as little more than fodder for their whims. And there is no magic they offer us that helps us, whether it comes to lifespan or otherwise.
[That feeling only intensifies: a bitter disappointment and a strange sense of grief and guilt, as though he has somehow let Astarion down. And maybe there is a trace of that child still left in him— the one who once long ago listened sleepily to his mother as she murmured about the glory of the elves, for he adds:]
no subject
[Does the word remind him of anything? Some half-memory forgotten long ago of a story his mother whispered to him: tales of elves long ago who were immortal, whose magic was woven into the very air they breathed, whose lives were so very different than the wretched, miserable ones they themselves led . . .?
Maybe. Maybe. A ghost of a memory, the echo of words long since forgotten . . . and there's no time to recall, not right now. Not when Astarion demands his attention. Wild magic, wild places, and Fenris shakes his head.]
No. I am not trying to be difficult, Astarion, but no. If anything, there is Arlathan . . . it resides now in the Tevinter Empire, but it is a vast forest, and was said to be the capital city of the ancient elven empire. But that was . . . I cannot even tell you how long ago. Thousands of years, maybe. Before humans arrived on the continent, I think I read once.
I have been there. And it is beautiful, I will not deny it. And . . . ancient, too. You can feel the history around you, the age of the trees and the land . . . and there are relics there, too. Remnants and buildings long since abandoned. But there was no . . . there is nothing like you described.
[He feels as though he's failing somehow, and doesn't know why.]
The gods . . . I know their names. I even know their aspects. But if they were ever truly real, they do not have an effect any longer. Mythal, Elgar'nan, Andruil, Ghilan'nain . . . the Dalish still worship them. Pray to them. Beg them for help, for all the good it has done any of our people. The vallaslin— the tattoos they sear upon their faces— are a tribute to them.
But they have never once helped us, not in the thousands of years since the fall of the elven empire. Not when elf is synonymous with slave in Tevinter. Not when we are all but second-class citizens even now, and the humans look at us as little more than fodder for their whims. And there is no magic they offer us that helps us, whether it comes to lifespan or otherwise.
[That feeling only intensifies: a bitter disappointment and a strange sense of grief and guilt, as though he has somehow let Astarion down. And maybe there is a trace of that child still left in him— the one who once long ago listened sleepily to his mother as she murmured about the glory of the elves, for he adds:]
Tell me . . . what is it in your world?