illithidnapped | INBOX II

And you'll set their hearts racing in no time, for good or ill— [Thumb slid in a horizontal line along the back of Leto's scalp at eye level, sectioning it out. A momentary pause to bring the brush up with his opposite hand, gathering loose fringe towards waiting fingers— catching them with practiced ease.

He doesn't notice he's being watched. After all, his focus is already set: everything else pours into conversation, and the thought that tonight, Fenris won't hardly recognize himself, diamond that he'll be.] —either way, I'll be able to put an ear to the ground in all the right places and find out what our dear Marquis thinks of the Venatori's recent attempts at courtship.

[He snorts, and it's anyone's guess as to whether that's for the former statement or the latter, for both have an equal chance at earning his amused disbelief.]

You may have luck. [No, correction:] I have no doubt you will have luck in sussing out his intentions; whether or not they are favorable to us, on the other hand . . . I will not say there are no nobles with morals and decency, and I have not yet heard anything overtly damning when it comes to the Marquis. But I have little faith in their ability as a whole to do anything that isn't line their own pockets and stick their heads in the sand.

[But tell us how you really feel, Fenris.]

What are you doing back there . . .?

[He squirms just a little, neck craning as if he might somehow get a better angle in the mirror.]

Little changes there, even between worlds.

[Fenris isn't wrong on that respect, no matter how Astarion in those first few days had hoped differently. Now, he's seen enough even in preliminary trawls through written records or on the streets themselves to assume no surprises lurk within the wings.

Orlais, Baldur's Gate, Kirkwall, is it really any—

There's a (gentle) correction from deft fingers, exhale twisted into fond chastisement at the same time that he pulls against Fenris' wide-eyed leaning (those doeish eyes....)

Hells.]

Trying my damndest to give you a proper tail, darling.

[He looked it up, that name. It sounded too familiar to someone that's read an incantation or two on cast-off tomes in perfumed captivity— Fenris. Fenrir.

Wolf.]

But it'll be a lopsided one if you don't sit still.

[Oh, and it's the sweetest kind of surprise to realize Astarion knows what his name means. Not due to the meaning itself (a moniker that Fenris embraces and resents all at once, just like his lyrium), but the thoughtfulness therein. He thinks about me when I'm not near, and it's one thing to know it vaguely. Quite another to have it confirmed.]

Is it even long enough for that?

[Internally, he scowls at himself. There were so many sweeter ways to engage with that, and instead he bluntly offered the first thought that came to mind. It isn't unsalvageable, but Maker's breath. . . and he doesn't know what to say, now. Thank you sounds silly, but I'm actually enjoying this, I just don't always know how to simmer for it is embarrassing.

Hmm. A beat, and then, internally cringing just a little, adds:]

I have no doubt you will succeed, with or without my squirming.

[Ugh. Anyway: he settles. Commits himself to sitting up straight and still, staring with curiosity in the mirror as pale fingers cleverly work.]

I did not know you had an interest in etymology. Or is the name Fenris another thing that spans worlds?

Never the size that matters, only how one uses it. [Finishes recentering his hold with a sly tweaking of his fingers, so much life trapped there that he can feel it pooling as he works— the docile blowback of what he'd salivated for in days not at all long past. Little things he doubts he'll ever manage to take for granted again.

The next few grazes of that brush are soft, capped by the distinctive feel of being braided.]

Anyway like most creatures blessed by common sense, I've a vested interest in anything that keeps me alive. Language, I find, alongside history, culture, politesse and politics, happens to be one of those things. [....and yet before Fenris assumes it wasn't at all personal....]

But yes, as it so happens. Your name bears a very similar ring to one of the languages of Faerûn.

That of magic itself.

[Oh, and his ears perk up with interest at the mention of languages. He wants to know the rest (what cultural things are there in your world? What politics have you witness?), for he wants to know everything about Astarion— but languages hold a special place in his heart.

But then Astarion continues on, and oh— those ears lower once more.]

Is that so?

[Maker, of course it does. Of course it does, and he wishes he could be surprised. He is surprised, sort of, in that he hadn't suspected such a thing would transcend worlds, but . . . god, the irony is palpable.

And yet it isn't Astarion's fault. And yet it is interesting, no matter that it's also a little embittering. Fenris takes a breath, trying to return to focusing on the sensation of patient fingers in his hair.]

The language that mages use to cast their spells? Or something else?

[It isn't just irony that's palpable. Not with those ears drooping.]

You're not happy about it. [Thumb over forefinger, over middle, over ring— and back again, threading.]

No, but the fault is not yours.

[How to put this? The explanation itself isn't so awful, but nor does Fenris have any desire to break the tranquil mood that's fallen between them— and explaining Tevinter and her magic-based hierarchy will surely do it.

So start smaller. Talk about something that doesn't send them both back reeling, even if it brushes against old traumas. (And if Astarion hates it, if even this talk is too much, Fenris will make it up to him later, he thinks, and surprises himself with how earnestly true that is.)]

. . . there must be things that remind you of your master. I do not mean the obvious ones, but smaller things: a wine he favored, perhaps, or a phrase he was fond of. Yes?

Edited 2024-11-05 01:43 (UTC)

[His fingers stop.

Razor blades.]

Terrible music. Worse company. [Again, he sets to weaving, now that he's found a trail to follow. Thumb scraping along the inline of his index before rhythm settles in once more. Like that, it's a simple thing to remember all the rest. Two palatable half-lies, and a truth:]

The stave he used to drag around night and day— you could always hear him coming.

[So many days spent stilling his lungs and willing himself to vanish into stone— all for a little percussion. And the tailing dread thereafter.]

....was magic yours?

[Tap, tap, tap, every echoing touch of stone and wood a steady counterpart to the growing rhythm of footsteps. Did Astarion learn to distinguish his master's mood that way? Knowing that if it was too quick it meant that Cazador was in a filthy temper and looking for someone to take it out upon; that every third tap missed meant that he was too preoccupied to hunt for entertainment— oh, Fenris is almost certain Astarion did. How could he not?

He won't ask. There's no room for details, not here and now— or, no, that isn't right. In this intimate warmth when they're together and yet a little apart, Fenris can feel his tongue loosening, his defenses lowering, and he does not doubt that Astarion feels the same. And yet to dive into those details now would make it a very different conversation, and one that neither of them wants just yet.]

Yes.

[Astarion's fingers are pleasantly cool as they brush against the back of his neck: little touches, idle and absent, and he focuses on them for a few moments.]

Danarius was a mage. And in the Tevinter Imperium, magic is everything. Magic dictates success or failure, whether you are high-born or a slave. Magic is infused in everything, from the ways people travel to the enchanted Candlehops that deliver messages all over Minrathous. The only people allowed in government are mages, and unlike in the rest of Thedas, mage children are desired and prayed for, for a mage in the family can elevate you to new heights—

Or lower you, if a mage family produces an heir who cannot even conjure a wisp.

[Just beside (not beneath) Astarion's fingers, lyrium pulses: flaring into deliberate brightness as a ghostly song thrums just out of earshot.]

And magic is what Danarius imbued in me.

Within that . . . the tapping of his staff. The scent of the herbs he used to combine to enhance this spell or that.

[With that said:]

But Astarion . . . I enjoy hearing of your world and its languages. And it is a fascinating thing to learn that such a name transcends worlds.

[A beat, and then, a little wryly:]

Do not take my grumbling as condemnation. I am old and bitter, and there will be no shortage of times where I will tell you the evils of magic.

[Old, he's, like, forty-five at best.

Fenris hesitates visibly, and then, his eyes flicking away even in the mirror, adds:]

It does not please me to learn of magic— but it pleases me to learn of you.

[He's done the braid wrong.

It's a supervenient discovery, already two notches down with a third knot on the way, necessitating a sliding of his little finger tip-first through the worst of his offenses— carefully undoing his own mess. Every minute will start to matter soon: they've a mission to succeed in, and Astarion can't afford to go without Riftwatch's protection when Kirkwall continuously calls him back. Or— perhaps that's what he tells himself to make the obvious less like the tangle he's currently revising.

But it's not unpleasant.]

Tell me that again when you're two hundred years old.

[Soft as warmed sugar in the mouth. Soft across the channel of his tongue and in his throat, and softer in the upturned corners of his shadowed smile, aimed down towards his efforts. Fingers in the right place, silver strands pulled through and woven taut before they're banded. Smoothed back into a proper tail, the likes of which stand synonymous with status, or at the very least, care.

He'll be the bell of the ball....provided he doesn't crack open a highborne nose or two in rage along the way.

(This battleworn thing. Suited for dockworkers, not debutants. What in the nine hells is he thinking, letting some lost, lifeless monster drag him into trouble like this?)]

[He exhales slowly, invisible tension easing as Astarion makes no fuss over that comment. He likes it better this way, he finds. Fenris isn't always adverse to talking about things, but sometimes it's nice to simply say something and let it be.]

Are you truly two hundred?

[The question more soft than curious and more curious than impudent. He believes Astarion wholeheartedly, of course, but Maker, it's a strange thing to think. And then, a little more impudently:]

What age have you offered to those outside of Riftwatch?

Tsk. [Theres another (mild) tug at the end of his own handiwork for daring to ask that question— but it's the tone that keeps everything kittenishly gentle; manners would dictate Fenris never ask at all, but manners don't give answers. Plus, he finds he likes that bluntness. That its momentum also occasional swings back around to smack him in the face is just the cost of doing business.

He's smiling when he gets up and crosses the room, taking his brush with him.]

No one's cared enough to ask outside Riftwatch.

[A pause over his travel bag, thick leather buckles held still but for a moment.] ....yet.

But is it really so unthinkable? I mean, granted I know this world isn't all sunshine and rainbows for hardships, but really, I can't be the oldest elf you've come across.

[Oh, gods.

He turns around, peering with renewed focus.]

....am I....?

[Maker, had Fenris really not told him? But of course he hadn't. Two centuries, Astarion had told him that first night, and there were a thousand things more pressing to discuss— and after that, oh, he'd simply forgotten. Astarion looks and acts and feels as though he is about Fenris' own age, and it's only in moments like these that he remembers it isn't so.

Still. There's no way to say this that won't bruise Astarion's ego a little. Ah, well.]

You are the oldest person I have ever met in my life.

[But then, before he can puff up in rage:]

Elves only live to be eighty or so, if they're lucky and live in a place where they can die naturally. [Fifty or so is the morality rate in Tevinter, but for once, Fenris won't go down that dour road.] They— we— share the same lifespan with humans. So do dwarves and Qunari, if it comes to that.

[He cocks his head as a little realization occurs.]

Is that— I thought your age was due to the vampirism. How long do they live in your world?

[I thought your age was due to your vampirism.]

I thought your shock was because of my curse.

[And....maybe it was. Two things can always be true simultaneously, never mind what a tumultuous first night it had been, both of them reeling from respective revelations. New chapters started with a Riftbound bang.

And here, the aftershock.

His shoulders slump alongside the outline of his spine, hands draped inside the borders of his pack, baffled.]

I don't [understand]—

But that can't be right. We're elves, for gods' sake! [We.] You ought to have seven hundred years left, at least. More than a thousand if you're lucky.

[But eighty. A paltry eighty? That's nothing at all. Barely a breath in the grand scheme of things. And just by looking at him, Fenris is already....]

What about your connection to magic? The elven gods?

[A thousand? He can't even comprehend a thousand— Maker, he can barely contemplate two centuries, never mind ten of them. It's so baffling as to defy understanding, for how can anyone stand it? How can anyone not lose their minds over the course of a thousand years? How does that even work with other species (and do they, too, have an expanded lifespan?). It's—

Maker, he's gawking at Astarion, he realizes.]

What about them?

[It's blunter than he means it to be, and he waves a hand, dismissing his tone.]

The gods are dead, Astarion, if ever they existed at all. Personally, I doubt it. I have no connection to them, and as for magic . . . why would that afford me a longer lifespan? It does not for humans.

[But it must for elves in his world. Fenris stands, not thinking of his loose braid— not thinking of anything, really, save that the shock mirrored in them both drives him to action, no matter how pointless.]

Besides: I do not have a connection to magic. My sister did, once, and I am mage-blooded, but . . . I have no magic beyond the lyrium embedded within me, and that doesn't expand my lifespan.

[Mm, debatable, but it's not as if Fenris knows that just yet.]

Does it . . . do the mage elves in your world have a longer lifespan? Or all they all mages?

[Maker, he doesn't understand. It seems impossible that they, each and every one of them, should be blessed by magic, but what other explanation is there? Your connection to magic, the elven gods, Astarion says, as if it was a given thing. As if, though he has never seen Fenris perform a spell, he has assumed he must be able to.]

[....Dead? Never mind Astarion's calcified contempt for all things deified— Maker and Chantry included— his mind reels towards rejection. Bristles in denial that scarcely feels his own, because buried down deep in the hollow of his blackened ribs lies the urge to point across the Veil and spit out that they're right there—

Wretches and despots, all, inclined to ignore the despairing wails of the damned, but dead? No. Not that.]

We're not all— [Mage-blooded. A sister. What terms don't do to dizzy him, those revelations do.] no. Well, I mean, technically there are some wizards that've been rumored to lengthen their own lifespans through the arcane, but it isn't like that for the rest of us.

[His eyes are following Fenris as he rises; little widened flashes of caught light faceted like garnets.]

Elves are creatures of the fey, darling. [And if that doesn't resonate:] Wild magic. Wild places? Forests filled with ancient aspects of creation, inherently infused with the magic of our pointy-eared, entirely untamed progenitors? Oh come on— something in here has to sound familiar to you.

[Please, let it sound familiar. He doesn't want to think about you wilting before his eyes.]

The fey . . .?

[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?

[Mythal, Elgar'nan, Andruil, Ghilan'nain....

They might as well be gurgling noise for all Astarion can recognize in them: no Corellon, no Angharradh, not even a Tethrin or an Oberon to speak of. But the gods did die— ages upon ages ago, before Ao supposedly took reign. Perhaps—

Perhaps nothing, is the snap of a door shut within his mind, pulling presence back into his unfixed pupils. It's not the distant past he should be looking at: it's here. Here, where what is and isn't true is made simple, regardless of what he wants it to be or wishes that it was. There'll be time later to think about ramifications, possibilities, and promise. It's the present where Fenris dwells beside him, and he could lose him to an assassin in a soirée gown just as readily as he could to time.

With a puff of air let out through his nose, he rises. Shoos Fenris back towards the bed and moves to weave a bit of jewelry back in with all those braids— metal cool against his fingers. Cheap glass and painted resin, but no nobles will ever notice in the glow of lantern light.]

In Faerûn, elves only came to live with humans and the other mortals after departing the realm of our gods and being largely cut off from it. Even so, we never found our lifespans shortened.

[There is no coddling; he cannot sense Fenris' guilt or disappointment, and so doesn't think to quell it as he works.]

Has it really always been like that for you?

[There's something so striking about what Astarion tells him, and for the life of him, Fenris cannot say why. He is not like the Dalish, constantly mourning an empire long since gone and praying to gods who have never once bothered to answer; he lives his life as best he can, for there is nothing useful to find in the past. And yet . . . there is something familiar there. Something that strikes a mournful note deep within him, some ancient genetic memory that sits up and whispers: we were cut off, too.

He cannot pinpoint it, and they move on too quickly for him to ruminate. But the thought lingers even as chilly fingers begin to weave in jewelry.]

Yes.

It has for everyone . . . truly, Astarion, I do not think there has been an elf in centuries who has had a lifespan that reached so far. The concept of someone being able to reach even two hundred is as strange to me as our lifespans are to you.

[But oh, that makes him think, and he adds:]

How does that affect your childhood and adolescent years? We consider an elf a child from when he is born to, I don't know . . . ten, perhaps? And then an adolescent until he is sixteen or eighteen, somewhere around there, depending on the elf in question.

Is it the same for you?

[His touch has fallen into stillness faster than it takes for clarity to keep pace; tethering the last piece of jewelry more distractedly than he'd like— necessitating a doubling back for security's sake.

Light jingling. Little tugs.

They really are like humans, aren't they?]

No. [Comes thinly, sticking to his tongue.] We're considered adolescents till we're in our eighties, more often than not.

[You're upset, he does not say, for he doesn't make a habit of stating the obvious. Anyone with ears can hear the sudden terseness in Astarion's tone, and it doesn't take a genius to understand why. I thought I had centuries more to live in freedom, Fenris thinks, and he's not entirely wrong.

I must seem a child to you, he thinks of saying. It's not an untrue thought, but it feels false right now, cloying in a way he has never indulged.

So he's quiet as Astarion finishes weaving those ornaments into his hair, tipping his head this way and that as directed. There's something quietly pleasing even now about feeling another touch him so intimately, little points of connection that he knows he will never tire of.

But when he finishes and he can turn, he does: twisting around to catch Astarion's eye, his brows furrowed.]

You're disappointed.

[Tell me.]

[All the things that it could be— all the possibilities that Fenris (fairly) thinks of—

Astarion's expression locks itself abruptly. He blinks too many times. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out aside from breath (true breath, not its lifeless imitation); just a narrow exhalation cut through parted teeth, no voice.

What does one call compulsion without compulsion? (Reflex.) A pale chin dipped towards his shoulder, a pair of eyes squinting through the darkest smears of kohl around them. Like he doesn't understand the question. Like it's been asked in Rivani or Tevene.]

I'm—

[Sounds as stunted as it did in hollow palace chambers. Again, a puff of air squeezes from his throat, a shallow mask to cover up his shame.]

unhappy to think that I might lose you.

[And then, after hanging for a beat too long, as if only just realizing that it was the truth let loose from its cage, Astarion stiffly rises without another word— footsteps ferrying him across the room to his belongings. There's a glimpse of sunset crawling through the border of a plaster-lined window, cutting across the buckles of his pack, and it's one more apt reminder of where he needs to be. What he should be doing.

There's little said after that.

If Fenris responds, Astarion won't hear it— cuts short any attempt at continuation with a liar's sly wit, grinning all the while. But the pinnacle of Astarion's efforts isn't the tailored silk that fit Fenris' measurements like a scandalous glove, or the bangles in braided hair, glinting against the back of his long, lean neck. It's the pair of masks that he procures before they depart: a gilded pair— one gold, one silver— fashioned with fine features, and themed after the moon and sun.

And because of their importance, unlike the jewelry he'd plucked up on arrival, they're real. True precious metals, the sort nobility would only entrust to those assets they most want to show off.

Astarion's fanged grin is lost in shadow underneath blinding bright gold filigree; one reflects light beautifully, the other veils intent, and if nothing else he's certain that the latter will keep Fenris safe tonight no matter what comes next.]

Remember, you know exactly how to play this, darling. [Arm in arm, the grand chandelier strung above the foyer flaunts thousands of strands of cut glass by bouncing scattered rays off of the pale planes of their twin masks when Astarion leans in, a rumble in his throat.

Ordinary: for a pair of precious starlings to swan about together independent of their masters. Ordinary: that in the style of Orlesian theater and song, one of those twins is sweet while the other is dour. Not ordinary: for one of the two to be branded with strange markings when the other isn't— but it wouldn't be the first time a baron or baroness made due in that regard, and Orlesians are resourceful people to the last.

Or at least, that's the story they're going with.]

Find yourself a nice, secluded spot with a good view. Better, if you can manage to snag a little gossip.

I won't be long.

[I'm unhappy to think that I might lose you.

An hour later, he still can't quite get over hearing the emotion said aloud.

He feels the same. Of course he does. There's no other explanation for the way he'd brightened upon realizing they would room together on this trip; there's no real reason he would have agreed to go to Antiva all those weeks ago if not for growing fondness. And yet it's one thing to know that passively, a spark building into a hearthfire in his chest.

It's another to acknowledge it.

You'll lose him, something sings shrilly in the back of his mind. Just like you lost Hawke and Isabela and Varric, you know how this goes, don't you? You'll give too much of your heart away. You'll grow too used to his company and let your defenses falter. You'll let yourself rely on his humor, his wit, his charm; stupid boy, you'll delude yourself into thinking it will never change, and then it will hurt all the more when he leaves.

And he will leave, because that's what people do. That's what friends are: people who mutually use one another until they get what they want, and then they go.

(And he knows that isn't true, but what his head knows and his heart weeps cannot always be differentiated).

And yet what is he to do? He can no more stop his adoration than he could the beating of his heart or the inhale of air into his lungs: it happens, whether or not he wants it to. And the thoughts keep churning around his head, over and over, a panicked response with no answer— so that he's almost grateful to be given a task to focus on.

Fenris does as he's told: tucking himself into the shadows of a pillar with a drink in hand. Dutifully he glances around the party, watching the guests as they move about. This part, at least, he knows how to do: it was not solely for appearance's sake that Danarius had him serve wine, and knowing how to listen for particularly juicy bits of gossip was yet another aspect of his training.

So: he hears that the Viscount Blacktree has embarrassed his lord father yet again by fretting over the ethics of hunting. He hears that the Lutece twins have hinted at yet another magical breakthrough, the third of the season— and that the rumors of their, ah, preferences towards one another's company have only grown worse. He hears that nobody has seen the Cousland daughter in ages, and no one can decide if she's died or run off with an elven servant.

And he knows without having to be told how little all of that adds up to, especially when it comes to their mission. So perhaps it's no surprise his eyes inevitably flit back towards the glimmering figure flitting his way cleverly through the crowd. Not tracking him, not as a jealous lover might, but merely . . . paying mind. Watching as heads turn and eyes widen, entranced by such beauty— and tensing up when he finally approaches a noble tucked away against a pillar, watching the proceedings without actively participating.

Fenris cannot hear what they say, not from this distance. But oh, he does notice when the man lays a hand on him. Gently, not groping, despite his station— for though it's a masquerade and the entire point is anonymity, there isn't a person in the Orlais who doesn't notice when a duke is in attendance.

Even when the duke in question would rather not be noticed.]

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