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[Why, Fenris wonders, does this kind of thing keep happening to him?
Not the tadpole bit. That, while horrific, is brand-new, and thank the Maker for that. Being strapped down, helpless to stop the mindflayer from shoving that creature into his eye, oh, he never wants to go through that again. He's never going to stop having nightmares about the way it had writhed against his eye, the feeling of it sliding into parts of his skull he'd never once realized had sensation . . . urgh.
But no. No, what Fenris had meant was the bit about being caught up with a rag-tag group of individuals united by a single purpose. It's the second time this has happened to him. That's not a lot, admittedly, but it's weird it's happened twice? And besides, this group isn't nearly as good as the first. He misses his Kirkwall companions desperately, though he doesn't say as such, even in his own mind. And yet though he'd started in Kirkwall the same way as here— lost, alone, distrustful of the others— he has no intention of slowly letting the people here grow on him.
That said: nor is he indifferent to them. Some are more tolerable than others. Wyll is his favorite thusfar. Shadowheart is snobbishly insufferable, and the less said about Gale, the better. Lae'Zel despises him, but she despises everyone, so she doesn't count. And as for Astarion . . .
Maker's breath, what an absolute asshole.
They've traveled for at least a week together. Their fearless leader seems to be oblivious to anything save the tadpole in her head, but Fenris isn't. He's noticed the dead animals drained of blood that mysteriously keep appearing outside of their camp. The fact that Astarion had flinched and winced when they'd crossed running water. The fucking fangs peeking out each time he spoke, though those ears give him away as an elf. It's not a hard puzzle to solve.
He waits, at least, until the others are asleep. He doesn't trust them enough to do this in front of them. And if Astarion attacks . . . well, Fenris is more than confident he can take him.
That night, when the vampire (for surely that's what he is) slips out of camp, Fenris follows.]
You might try hiding your animal corpses more effectively. Sooner or later someone is going to deduce the culprit.
[He calls it out softly, but his muscles are tensed, ready to go for his sword if need be.]
It isn't that difficult a puzzle to piece together.
Not the tadpole bit. That, while horrific, is brand-new, and thank the Maker for that. Being strapped down, helpless to stop the mindflayer from shoving that creature into his eye, oh, he never wants to go through that again. He's never going to stop having nightmares about the way it had writhed against his eye, the feeling of it sliding into parts of his skull he'd never once realized had sensation . . . urgh.
But no. No, what Fenris had meant was the bit about being caught up with a rag-tag group of individuals united by a single purpose. It's the second time this has happened to him. That's not a lot, admittedly, but it's weird it's happened twice? And besides, this group isn't nearly as good as the first. He misses his Kirkwall companions desperately, though he doesn't say as such, even in his own mind. And yet though he'd started in Kirkwall the same way as here— lost, alone, distrustful of the others— he has no intention of slowly letting the people here grow on him.
That said: nor is he indifferent to them. Some are more tolerable than others. Wyll is his favorite thusfar. Shadowheart is snobbishly insufferable, and the less said about Gale, the better. Lae'Zel despises him, but she despises everyone, so she doesn't count. And as for Astarion . . .
Maker's breath, what an absolute asshole.
They've traveled for at least a week together. Their fearless leader seems to be oblivious to anything save the tadpole in her head, but Fenris isn't. He's noticed the dead animals drained of blood that mysteriously keep appearing outside of their camp. The fact that Astarion had flinched and winced when they'd crossed running water. The fucking fangs peeking out each time he spoke, though those ears give him away as an elf. It's not a hard puzzle to solve.
He waits, at least, until the others are asleep. He doesn't trust them enough to do this in front of them. And if Astarion attacks . . . well, Fenris is more than confident he can take him.
That night, when the vampire (for surely that's what he is) slips out of camp, Fenris follows.]
You might try hiding your animal corpses more effectively. Sooner or later someone is going to deduce the culprit.
[He calls it out softly, but his muscles are tensed, ready to go for his sword if need be.]
It isn't that difficult a puzzle to piece together.
[Trotting around with the herd is, as Astarion has so kindly voiced at least a handful of times in the past two or three days, absolutely miserable. These people are all varying degrees of unbearable, even if on the rare occasion he might agree with, broadly, the decisions of the group. It's necessity, nothing more. He has no interest in letting the thing in his head turn him into some other monstrous creature, and so here he is.
Among the unbearables. It has been a long week; nearly all of them are impossible to even speak to, except perhaps their fearless leader, if she is feeling amenable, but most nights in camp he sulks and complains about this or that; the lack of something to drink (like wine, thank you), the amenities...
Despite his better judgment, he'd had hope for Fenris. Shadowheart— well, half elves, for starters, plus her intolerable attitude had placed her well outside his interest. But Fenris, ah— for a moment, he'd thought, just maybe...
Of course, if his first response upon meeting the man had not been to tut disapprovingly at him and blithely insist that one of them would have to go home and change, well. He's really set the bar with that one, it seems, because some people completely lack a sense of humor! Someone with crueler implications than he would have surely pointed out the two white-haired elves thing eventually; he did them a favor.
So Fenris receives the same amount of scoffing and eye rolling as everyone else after that, and Astarion moves on. It's only a week later now, and he is hungry, and has yet to find even a particularly plump rabbit when Fenris' voice sounds out behind him. Astarion's shoulders tense, irritation from being caught mixed with something much more primal coursing through him, but when he turns to sigh at Fenris it's with his usual amount of languidness and idle gesturing.]
Ugh, it's you, of all people? I should have hoped for someone with a more... tender touch.
[Because Fenris is an asshole, see, but also because he's the elf equivalent of very dry jerky, all tiny and probably hard to chew on.]
What now, then? Have you come to chase me away in the dead of night?
Among the unbearables. It has been a long week; nearly all of them are impossible to even speak to, except perhaps their fearless leader, if she is feeling amenable, but most nights in camp he sulks and complains about this or that; the lack of something to drink (like wine, thank you), the amenities...
Despite his better judgment, he'd had hope for Fenris. Shadowheart— well, half elves, for starters, plus her intolerable attitude had placed her well outside his interest. But Fenris, ah— for a moment, he'd thought, just maybe...
Of course, if his first response upon meeting the man had not been to tut disapprovingly at him and blithely insist that one of them would have to go home and change, well. He's really set the bar with that one, it seems, because some people completely lack a sense of humor! Someone with crueler implications than he would have surely pointed out the two white-haired elves thing eventually; he did them a favor.
So Fenris receives the same amount of scoffing and eye rolling as everyone else after that, and Astarion moves on. It's only a week later now, and he is hungry, and has yet to find even a particularly plump rabbit when Fenris' voice sounds out behind him. Astarion's shoulders tense, irritation from being caught mixed with something much more primal coursing through him, but when he turns to sigh at Fenris it's with his usual amount of languidness and idle gesturing.]
Ugh, it's you, of all people? I should have hoped for someone with a more... tender touch.
[Because Fenris is an asshole, see, but also because he's the elf equivalent of very dry jerky, all tiny and probably hard to chew on.]
What now, then? Have you come to chase me away in the dead of night?
Would you go if I attempted it?
[It's a retort, although as he says it, he wonders. Would he go? He seems no more enamored of their companions than Fenris is, and yet still he stays. Even when he complains about the more heroic actions they undertake, even when he (correctly, although Fenris will not admit this aloud) reminds their group they have a seemingly limited amount of time before this tadpole takes over, he stays.]
I am assessing a threat. They think you nothing more than a particularly dramatic elf. They would not sleep so well if they knew the truth, I think, and for good reason.
[Still: he isn't going for his sword. He really is more in this to assess whether or not Astarion is a threat. And if he isn't, fantastic, Fenris will be genuinely pleased to go back to being irritated by him in peace. But if he is . . .
Well. Best to know here and now.]
[It's a retort, although as he says it, he wonders. Would he go? He seems no more enamored of their companions than Fenris is, and yet still he stays. Even when he complains about the more heroic actions they undertake, even when he (correctly, although Fenris will not admit this aloud) reminds their group they have a seemingly limited amount of time before this tadpole takes over, he stays.]
I am assessing a threat. They think you nothing more than a particularly dramatic elf. They would not sleep so well if they knew the truth, I think, and for good reason.
[Still: he isn't going for his sword. He really is more in this to assess whether or not Astarion is a threat. And if he isn't, fantastic, Fenris will be genuinely pleased to go back to being irritated by him in peace. But if he is . . .
Well. Best to know here and now.]
Oh, please.
[A dismissal of the question, not so much curt as drawling, either for asking it in the first place or assuming he can be chased off in the night so easily. It isn't— they are all very annoying, yes, quite so, but if luck is in numbers for this particular wriggling endeavor, then they will all have to endure each other. So be it.
Including the two of them, he supposes, which means he has to have this conversation now, and not find anything to eat, and be even more sluggish in the morning... Truly, Fenris is the worst.]
And here I thought you would roll over and call it a night if you caught me helping myself to a little midnight treat back at camp. Shame!
[But that's just blustering, as Fenris has already noticed the trail of blood-drained animals he's carelessly left behind, and so obviously he hasn't tried to help himself. Hmph. He crosses his arms, giving Fenris a look like he is being unfair, actually.]
I don't follow any of you around while you're eating your meals cooked.
[A dismissal of the question, not so much curt as drawling, either for asking it in the first place or assuming he can be chased off in the night so easily. It isn't— they are all very annoying, yes, quite so, but if luck is in numbers for this particular wriggling endeavor, then they will all have to endure each other. So be it.
Including the two of them, he supposes, which means he has to have this conversation now, and not find anything to eat, and be even more sluggish in the morning... Truly, Fenris is the worst.]
And here I thought you would roll over and call it a night if you caught me helping myself to a little midnight treat back at camp. Shame!
[But that's just blustering, as Fenris has already noticed the trail of blood-drained animals he's carelessly left behind, and so obviously he hasn't tried to help himself. Hmph. He crosses his arms, giving Fenris a look like he is being unfair, actually.]
I don't follow any of you around while you're eating your meals cooked.
That's because the chances of one of us deciding to cook and eat the others is nonexistent.
[I mean, hopefully, although you never quite know sometimes. Fenris stares back unrepentantly, not in the least bit guilty. It's hard not to mirror Astarion's pose, but he'd never hear the end of it if he did.]
Do you always just feast upon animals?
[I mean, hopefully, although you never quite know sometimes. Fenris stares back unrepentantly, not in the least bit guilty. It's hard not to mirror Astarion's pose, but he'd never hear the end of it if he did.]
Do you always just feast upon animals?
[Astarion raises his eyebrows - Fenris, darling, have you heard Lae'zel? Like, when she speaks? Ever? If any of them are going to carve and roast the rest of them, it's her. He's decided.]
Are you even going to believe me, whatever I tell you?
[It's dark, but he still looks away when he says it, because it's— embarrassing, in a way that churns in his stomach, bothered that he has to endure the interrogation and then some. Which makes the next part all the worse, but having Fenris breathing down his neck - mmph, phrasing - is less than appealing in this particular context.]
I do, if you must know. Whatever I can scrounge up in this miserable hellhole we're traipsing around in.
Are you even going to believe me, whatever I tell you?
[It's dark, but he still looks away when he says it, because it's— embarrassing, in a way that churns in his stomach, bothered that he has to endure the interrogation and then some. Which makes the next part all the worse, but having Fenris breathing down his neck - mmph, phrasing - is less than appealing in this particular context.]
I do, if you must know. Whatever I can scrounge up in this miserable hellhole we're traipsing around in.
[. . . so, all right. Perhaps this is nothing more than a ruse. It's possible. But still, that first sentence strikes at him. Will he believe Astarion? His first inclination is to say yes, of course I will, but that isn't necessarily true, is it?
Look at the evidence. Fenris has found a full-grown pig drained of blood, not to mention a rabbit or two. That's a great deal of blood over the course of a week. More than one single person could offer. And yet, despite the fact it would be relatively easy to kill, consume, and hide the evidence, Astarion hasn't touched any of them. That doesn't let him off the hook entirely, nor does it mean all of Fenris is just going to relax, but . . .
Nor does he have to charge in here quite so suspiciously. He frowns faintly, regarding him for a few seconds, struggling between snapping out another question and something slightly less aggressive.]
And you have not told the others because you fear they will assume the worst and rid themselves of the threat before it becomes a threat.
Yes?
Look at the evidence. Fenris has found a full-grown pig drained of blood, not to mention a rabbit or two. That's a great deal of blood over the course of a week. More than one single person could offer. And yet, despite the fact it would be relatively easy to kill, consume, and hide the evidence, Astarion hasn't touched any of them. That doesn't let him off the hook entirely, nor does it mean all of Fenris is just going to relax, but . . .
Nor does he have to charge in here quite so suspiciously. He frowns faintly, regarding him for a few seconds, struggling between snapping out another question and something slightly less aggressive.]
And you have not told the others because you fear they will assume the worst and rid themselves of the threat before it becomes a threat.
Yes?
[Astarion sighs, crossing his arms with one hand free to press his chin into, watching Fenris evenly. He can practically see the gears turning before he comes up with that very obvious thing he just said, hmm--]
Something like that. Have you met us?
[Us, he says, because wouldn't he do the same if any of them suddenly turned on the rest? Undoubtedly he would, if only to save his own hide. He taps his temple, idly, which will make sense as an indicator of the worm they're all carrying around when he says,]
What is it we're doing already if not trying to remove a threat? Nothing brings the group together like a fresh monster to fight!
[Worms, vampire spawn, please— don't try to tell him the group is suddenly going to develop a unified conscience about threat management. Perhaps if their lovely leader had found him out first, he could have winked his way into a good word with the rest, but Fenris is another story entirely.
Astarion shifts, more uncomfortable than he's willing to readily admit, much as it already shows; Fenris has found the animals, which means Fenris has surely done some rudimentary arithmetic about how much blood that is, and can Astarion really blame him for any judgments he might be making right this very second?
(Yes, obviously, he can and will, but still! Still.)
Urgh.]
By the Hells, don't tell me you would tell all, if you were me. After mere days?
Something like that. Have you met us?
[Us, he says, because wouldn't he do the same if any of them suddenly turned on the rest? Undoubtedly he would, if only to save his own hide. He taps his temple, idly, which will make sense as an indicator of the worm they're all carrying around when he says,]
What is it we're doing already if not trying to remove a threat? Nothing brings the group together like a fresh monster to fight!
[Worms, vampire spawn, please— don't try to tell him the group is suddenly going to develop a unified conscience about threat management. Perhaps if their lovely leader had found him out first, he could have winked his way into a good word with the rest, but Fenris is another story entirely.
Astarion shifts, more uncomfortable than he's willing to readily admit, much as it already shows; Fenris has found the animals, which means Fenris has surely done some rudimentary arithmetic about how much blood that is, and can Astarion really blame him for any judgments he might be making right this very second?
(Yes, obviously, he can and will, but still! Still.)
Urgh.]
By the Hells, don't tell me you would tell all, if you were me. After mere days?
I might. Better they hear it from your lips instead of like this, in the dead of night. If you offer it up yourself, it at least comes from a position of strength.
[And all right . . . he's fairly sure that if the vampire were to attack, it would have happened already. Fenris sighs and relaxes somewhat, his arms crossing over his chest. They uncross immediately as he realizes they're mirroring each other, but whatever, the point is: he's not going to attack, probably.]
But I came to assess a threat, not pass a moral judgement. If you have no intention of feeding on anyone, I . . .
[Hmm.]
. . . will keep it to myself for a time.
[And all right . . . he's fairly sure that if the vampire were to attack, it would have happened already. Fenris sighs and relaxes somewhat, his arms crossing over his chest. They uncross immediately as he realizes they're mirroring each other, but whatever, the point is: he's not going to attack, probably.]
But I came to assess a threat, not pass a moral judgement. If you have no intention of feeding on anyone, I . . .
[Hmm.]
. . . will keep it to myself for a time.
[Know that, naturally, "a position of strength" makes him roll his eyes; he does not care about the group's opinions of his personal integrity as long as no one is trying to put a stake in his heart, honestly. It's completely self-serving that he's even considered telling the others just a little, obviously.
Anyway, Fenris' unintentionally mirroring him and hastily unmirroring makes his lip curl in a terrible, asshole vampire sneer, but he holds his hands up and shakes his head, conceding something or other. Maybe just that he's not going to say anything about how alike they are, again. Give him a point for that.]
Certainly not you, you skinny little thing.
[Not Yet (tm) but who's counting--]
Now, either help me find a savory woodland creature or leave me to my supper in peace, hmm?
Anyway, Fenris' unintentionally mirroring him and hastily unmirroring makes his lip curl in a terrible, asshole vampire sneer, but he holds his hands up and shakes his head, conceding something or other. Maybe just that he's not going to say anything about how alike they are, again. Give him a point for that.]
Certainly not you, you skinny little thing.
[Not Yet (tm) but who's counting--]
Now, either help me find a savory woodland creature or leave me to my supper in peace, hmm?
I am not skinny.
[He's not really offended, but still, he feels he ought to say something to that affect. He's not skinny. He's a twunk, not a twink. It's a matter of working at it. That said: this is about the time he ought to just turn around and go to bed, but . . .
Instead, he falls into step next to Asterion, glancing down at the ground. Does he know how to hunt? He does not! He is not Dalish! This is not his arena! Which really makes you wonder what he's doing out here, but maybe it's that he doesn't feel like being alone just yet.]
How much blood do you need at minimum? A rabbit? A stag?
[He's not really offended, but still, he feels he ought to say something to that affect. He's not skinny. He's a twunk, not a twink. It's a matter of working at it. That said: this is about the time he ought to just turn around and go to bed, but . . .
Instead, he falls into step next to Asterion, glancing down at the ground. Does he know how to hunt? He does not! He is not Dalish! This is not his arena! Which really makes you wonder what he's doing out here, but maybe it's that he doesn't feel like being alone just yet.]
How much blood do you need at minimum? A rabbit? A stag?
[Pohjoinen.
North, in Finnish. A word Lalli is used to hearing day in and day out—and a word that Emil is, despite his best efforts, currently butchering. It should be annoying? It is, on some level, and yet, as Lalli abandons his absent study of the nearest tree—well. The sun has long since sunk out of sight; the fire the others are stretched out about is crackling softly in the background, just near enough to send warm light flickering across Emil's face as he leans back against this mossy rock, shoulder just barely brushing against Lalli's while he thinks of new ways to destroy Lalli's language. Pohjoinen! Pohjoinen. Pohjoinen.
...Terrible. Truly, hence the way Lalli's brow knits together as he attempts to work out where Emil is coming up with, like, syllables that simply do not exist—but here is the thing about Emil: Lalli doesn't mind him. Emil does not grate on Lalli's nerves in the way that, say, Reynir does; like, even when Emil is at his most frustrating—even when Lalli tells himself he wants nothing to do with the stupid Swede—it's only a matter of time before Lalli is drawn right back into Emil's orbit. Sometimes Emil even pulls Lalli back himself, because Emil, unlike so many others, never stops trying.
Lalli appreciates it.
It's a grudging appreciation, at times, but it's appreciation all the same? It's partly why he doesn't snap at Emil now, though the other reason for his continued silence is—hmm. Lalli likes Emil's voice; Lalli likes watching Emil's lips form these words that are not the word, and that... sure is something. He's certainly never paid such close attention to anyone else's lips...
Ah, well. Emil remains the exception to so many things, and thus Lalli decides not to think about why Emil's lips are so interesting as he stretches a hand toward them, lightly presses the tips of his bare fingers to them. Shh. That's enough, for the time being.]
Not good, [he says, quietly, in his slightly stilted Swedish, applying a tad more pressure.] Too fast.
[Slow it down a bit, bud? Even as Lalli's eyes fall to his fingers, just... soaking in—savoring?—this familiar-yet-unfamiliar sight.]
North, in Finnish. A word Lalli is used to hearing day in and day out—and a word that Emil is, despite his best efforts, currently butchering. It should be annoying? It is, on some level, and yet, as Lalli abandons his absent study of the nearest tree—well. The sun has long since sunk out of sight; the fire the others are stretched out about is crackling softly in the background, just near enough to send warm light flickering across Emil's face as he leans back against this mossy rock, shoulder just barely brushing against Lalli's while he thinks of new ways to destroy Lalli's language. Pohjoinen! Pohjoinen. Pohjoinen.
...Terrible. Truly, hence the way Lalli's brow knits together as he attempts to work out where Emil is coming up with, like, syllables that simply do not exist—but here is the thing about Emil: Lalli doesn't mind him. Emil does not grate on Lalli's nerves in the way that, say, Reynir does; like, even when Emil is at his most frustrating—even when Lalli tells himself he wants nothing to do with the stupid Swede—it's only a matter of time before Lalli is drawn right back into Emil's orbit. Sometimes Emil even pulls Lalli back himself, because Emil, unlike so many others, never stops trying.
Lalli appreciates it.
It's a grudging appreciation, at times, but it's appreciation all the same? It's partly why he doesn't snap at Emil now, though the other reason for his continued silence is—hmm. Lalli likes Emil's voice; Lalli likes watching Emil's lips form these words that are not the word, and that... sure is something. He's certainly never paid such close attention to anyone else's lips...
Ah, well. Emil remains the exception to so many things, and thus Lalli decides not to think about why Emil's lips are so interesting as he stretches a hand toward them, lightly presses the tips of his bare fingers to them. Shh. That's enough, for the time being.]
Not good, [he says, quietly, in his slightly stilted Swedish, applying a tad more pressure.] Too fast.
[Slow it down a bit, bud? Even as Lalli's eyes fall to his fingers, just... soaking in—savoring?—this familiar-yet-unfamiliar sight.]
stop reading us both. i only have whiny icons and this one
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illequipped
2020-11-26 05:29 am (UTC)(link)
[Already, Emil has decided to never in his life put himself into a situation in which he needs to tell Lalli that someone or something is north or face dire consequences. It's not worth it! This word is cursed! Like so many Finnish words, it sounds like gibberish no matter how hard he tries, the Swedish word is so much simpler, etc, etc. The usual.
Except— sitting in the dark mumbling to himself about pohjoinen this and that, without any of the others hovering around doing things- any things at all!- is... different! Nicer. He's the only one still putting in the effort to learn Finnish, here, but it's still embarrassing to utterly murder Finnish pronunciation where the others can hear him. Every time he makes eye contact with Reynir he wants to hit him in the face with his own stupid braid, but! Well, so, this is better.
And Finnish words sound nice when Lalli says them, at least. Much as he has been looking at a tree and not talking to Emil for several minutes now, something that is highly objectionable in a way Emil has too few words in any language to articulate, hmm...
He's destroying this poor word for the nth time, lamenting the lack of appreciation for his efforts, when Lalli's hand is suddenly in his face? On his face? He blinks, boggling for a good few seconds-- this kind of shushing, historically, has meant trolls nearby, so excuse him the moment it takes him to catch up with, ah.
This thing? This touching and not very good but still okay Swedish thing? Mmph.
He shrugs, first, and makes it a few more seconds before he lifts a hand to tug Lalli's away from his mouth.]
I can't say it any slower, Lalli. [his brain will shut down?] Give me a different one!
Except— sitting in the dark mumbling to himself about pohjoinen this and that, without any of the others hovering around doing things- any things at all!- is... different! Nicer. He's the only one still putting in the effort to learn Finnish, here, but it's still embarrassing to utterly murder Finnish pronunciation where the others can hear him. Every time he makes eye contact with Reynir he wants to hit him in the face with his own stupid braid, but! Well, so, this is better.
And Finnish words sound nice when Lalli says them, at least. Much as he has been looking at a tree and not talking to Emil for several minutes now, something that is highly objectionable in a way Emil has too few words in any language to articulate, hmm...
He's destroying this poor word for the nth time, lamenting the lack of appreciation for his efforts, when Lalli's hand is suddenly in his face? On his face? He blinks, boggling for a good few seconds-- this kind of shushing, historically, has meant trolls nearby, so excuse him the moment it takes him to catch up with, ah.
This thing? This touching and not very good but still okay Swedish thing? Mmph.
He shrugs, first, and makes it a few more seconds before he lifts a hand to tug Lalli's away from his mouth.]
I can't say it any slower, Lalli. [his brain will shut down?] Give me a different one!
[It's been nearly eight months since the Chantry explosion, Fenris realizes one night.
He's changing, going from his usual battered day-to-day armor to something more formal. He does not care for the formal armor. It's not bad— far from it, in fact, it's easily the most expensive item he's ever owned— but it's, well, formal. It's not really meant for fighting, it's meant to look nice. It's shiny. It's white. It makes him look like a bit of a twerp, but he'd already insisted he wasn't going to wear a kilt, so there's only so much he can protest.
Or maybe the armor is fine and he's sulky for a different reason tonight.
But the point is . . . eight months.
The first month was the worst. He was so angry for a hundred different reasons, far different from Sebastian's own. The prince was furious on behalf of the Chantry, of the innocent lives lost in what seemed a senseless explosion, at Hawke's refusal to kill Anders . . . all of which were valid reasons to be angry, to Fenris's mind. He understood them, and to an extent, even sympathized. But that was not why he had wandered in a kind of stunned daze afterwards.
No, Fenris's reasons had far more personal. Fenris's reasons bounced around chaotic in his mind, distracted and distorted, flashbang impulses of emotions and scraps of thought all muddled until they became nothing but fury and grief. But what it boiled down to was this: Fenris was angry because once again, magic had taken away everything dear to him. It wasn't personal; it certainly wasn't intentional. But the facts are these: Fenris had spent seven years building a life, a family, and then suddenly the Chantry had exploded and with it, everything he'd grown to love. Magic was to blame, just as it always was. Everyone had split up, and of course they none of them had any obligation towards each other, but it had still hurt.
And then there'd been Sebastian. Come with me, standing in the foyer of a mansion that was not Fenris's own, haunted with the ghosts of the past. Come back to Starkhaven with me.
Of course he'd said yes.
Starkhaven is . . . different. Far different than the things Fenris has grown to know, but not in an unpleasant way. Cold, of course, everything is cold and damp, the food far stranger than the Tevene fare he still misses, but the people are friendly. They, to his great surprise, take to him far better than Fenris assumed they would. There are a few jokes, a fair bit of testing, but once he proves he knows what he's doing (and then some), there are few who care about his species. They're eager to learn and hungry for a commander who knows what he's doing, and Fenris so clearly does.
Not that he's their commander. He balks at the position, anxious about anything that would forcibly wrench him from Sebastian's side. No, he's the prince's bodyguard first and foremost. Training the guards, teaching them fighting both formal and decidedly informal, walking them through endless exercises and spars, showing them how to spot a threat or keep an eye out for blindspots . . . it's simply helping improve Starkhaven in general, and makes his life easier in the long run.
And it is not an easy life.
A prince with no heir, no spouse, and no immediate family to take his place? Oh, yes. Oh, there are far too many people eager to see if they can finish off the Vael line and take its place. None have gotten close yet, not least of which because the guards are getting far better at spotting threats, but still. It's a stressful thing, constantly having to be aware of one's surroundings.
And tonight's a party, which makes it even worse. Hundreds of people mingling around, they all of them with their eye on Sebastian for one reason if not another. Eight months is more than long enough for the noble families to plot about lineages and marriages; every eligible woman (and man, for some of Starkhaven's more openminded families) is going to be angling to catch the prince's eye. They're all plotting; it's just that Fenris has to make sure they're all trying to get into his bed for power instead of murder.
Ugh.
It's because of things like that that tonight will be stressful, he tells himself. That's why he's in such a sour mood. And honestly, that's not wrong, he's really not looking forward to being tensed up and ready to kill for an entire evening, but that's far from all of it.
Once upon a time, Fenris had thought . . . but no. It doesn't matter what he'd thought, back when Sebastian had so earnestly asked him to come home with him. The reality is this: they come from two different worlds. Sebastian is a prince and Fenris is an elven ex-slave, and yes, they are friends, but even that is a shock. Sebastian has a country to rule, and sooner or later he'll be married to some gentle, well-bred girl so they can have gentle, well-bred children, the heir and the spare, and that's just how it goes. And Fenris will . . .
Well. Fenris will guard him, of course. Because that's his job, and he is too in love with his prince to dream of doing anything but that.
But nights like tonight really, really suck. Fenris scowls at himself in the mirror, shoves a hand through his hair to try and make it look semi-decent, and then heads for the door. Not the main one, the one that leads out to the hall, but the other one. The one that leads directly to Sebastian's room, for what is the point of a bodyguard if he is not always near?
He knocks twice, a vague courtesy, before opening the door anyway.]
You'd best be dressed.
He's changing, going from his usual battered day-to-day armor to something more formal. He does not care for the formal armor. It's not bad— far from it, in fact, it's easily the most expensive item he's ever owned— but it's, well, formal. It's not really meant for fighting, it's meant to look nice. It's shiny. It's white. It makes him look like a bit of a twerp, but he'd already insisted he wasn't going to wear a kilt, so there's only so much he can protest.
Or maybe the armor is fine and he's sulky for a different reason tonight.
But the point is . . . eight months.
The first month was the worst. He was so angry for a hundred different reasons, far different from Sebastian's own. The prince was furious on behalf of the Chantry, of the innocent lives lost in what seemed a senseless explosion, at Hawke's refusal to kill Anders . . . all of which were valid reasons to be angry, to Fenris's mind. He understood them, and to an extent, even sympathized. But that was not why he had wandered in a kind of stunned daze afterwards.
No, Fenris's reasons had far more personal. Fenris's reasons bounced around chaotic in his mind, distracted and distorted, flashbang impulses of emotions and scraps of thought all muddled until they became nothing but fury and grief. But what it boiled down to was this: Fenris was angry because once again, magic had taken away everything dear to him. It wasn't personal; it certainly wasn't intentional. But the facts are these: Fenris had spent seven years building a life, a family, and then suddenly the Chantry had exploded and with it, everything he'd grown to love. Magic was to blame, just as it always was. Everyone had split up, and of course they none of them had any obligation towards each other, but it had still hurt.
And then there'd been Sebastian. Come with me, standing in the foyer of a mansion that was not Fenris's own, haunted with the ghosts of the past. Come back to Starkhaven with me.
Of course he'd said yes.
Starkhaven is . . . different. Far different than the things Fenris has grown to know, but not in an unpleasant way. Cold, of course, everything is cold and damp, the food far stranger than the Tevene fare he still misses, but the people are friendly. They, to his great surprise, take to him far better than Fenris assumed they would. There are a few jokes, a fair bit of testing, but once he proves he knows what he's doing (and then some), there are few who care about his species. They're eager to learn and hungry for a commander who knows what he's doing, and Fenris so clearly does.
Not that he's their commander. He balks at the position, anxious about anything that would forcibly wrench him from Sebastian's side. No, he's the prince's bodyguard first and foremost. Training the guards, teaching them fighting both formal and decidedly informal, walking them through endless exercises and spars, showing them how to spot a threat or keep an eye out for blindspots . . . it's simply helping improve Starkhaven in general, and makes his life easier in the long run.
And it is not an easy life.
A prince with no heir, no spouse, and no immediate family to take his place? Oh, yes. Oh, there are far too many people eager to see if they can finish off the Vael line and take its place. None have gotten close yet, not least of which because the guards are getting far better at spotting threats, but still. It's a stressful thing, constantly having to be aware of one's surroundings.
And tonight's a party, which makes it even worse. Hundreds of people mingling around, they all of them with their eye on Sebastian for one reason if not another. Eight months is more than long enough for the noble families to plot about lineages and marriages; every eligible woman (and man, for some of Starkhaven's more openminded families) is going to be angling to catch the prince's eye. They're all plotting; it's just that Fenris has to make sure they're all trying to get into his bed for power instead of murder.
Ugh.
It's because of things like that that tonight will be stressful, he tells himself. That's why he's in such a sour mood. And honestly, that's not wrong, he's really not looking forward to being tensed up and ready to kill for an entire evening, but that's far from all of it.
Once upon a time, Fenris had thought . . . but no. It doesn't matter what he'd thought, back when Sebastian had so earnestly asked him to come home with him. The reality is this: they come from two different worlds. Sebastian is a prince and Fenris is an elven ex-slave, and yes, they are friends, but even that is a shock. Sebastian has a country to rule, and sooner or later he'll be married to some gentle, well-bred girl so they can have gentle, well-bred children, the heir and the spare, and that's just how it goes. And Fenris will . . .
Well. Fenris will guard him, of course. Because that's his job, and he is too in love with his prince to dream of doing anything but that.
But nights like tonight really, really suck. Fenris scowls at himself in the mirror, shoves a hand through his hair to try and make it look semi-decent, and then heads for the door. Not the main one, the one that leads out to the hall, but the other one. The one that leads directly to Sebastian's room, for what is the point of a bodyguard if he is not always near?
He knocks twice, a vague courtesy, before opening the door anyway.]
You'd best be dressed.
[Eight months away from Kirkwall feels like eight years and eight days at once; it feels like yesterday that the Chantry and half the people he'd held dear were reduced to rubble and ashes— yesterday that he'd stormed away from Hawke in blind fury and gone... well. Just gone, to sit amongst the rubble that was his home, too full of grief and rage and despair to do anything but sit there and stare at the wreckage. Yesterday that he'd descended the steps and gone not to apologize to Hawke and to everyone but to Fenris' empty mansion, to listen to his footsteps echo so much more confidently than he'd felt and the raw timbre of his voice when he'd looked up at Fenris on the landing and asked him to come to Starkhaven. Properly, this time.
To come home.
Because Starkhaven is his home, despite the fact that he's spent about half his life somewhere else, by now; the city welcomes its rightful prince back with open arms and it's bittersweet, yes, it's not easy to return nor is it easy to do right by Starkhaven with the weight of Kirkwall still lashed around his neck, but— it is home.
Fenris helps, which Sebastian assures him of probably too many times, those first weeks. That month they'd drifted around each other carrying a different grief, intersecting sometimes only for a few moments of silent company over a hasty meal, each throwing himself into the work that ought to be done. Fenris helps. Sebastian can't— won't stop to think about what he might have done with himself without someone there to act as ballast, and it kindles something warm in him he hasn't felt in a long time to watch Fenris thrive in Starkhaven. He'd known all along, of course, he'd always known that Fenris could do anything if finally given the opportunity he deserves, and Sebastian won't deny he's more than glad to have been a part of it.
So there's a kind of hazy, idyllic interim, after the grief subsides down to something manageable. Sebastian fixes the mess left by the murder of his family, Fenris trains the guard; Sebastian drags Starkhaven back to its rightful place and puts it back on its proper course despite several noble families' best efforts, Fenris stays at his side and mutters in his ear things that make him nearly lose his composure in front of one too many nobles. He hosts dinners and parties, Fenris fusses over his formalwear.
It's a nice routine. They work well together, and Sebastian is never shy about expressing just how much Fenris' presence means to him, and yet... hmm.
Well, he'd thought he'd been... clearer. Come back to Starkhaven with me, come share my home hadn't felt, mm, subtle all those months ago, but perhaps? Perhaps.
So there is a party, and nobles who hate and adore him alike are going to simper and fawn over him, and it's not dreadful but it is the last thing he'd like to be doing. He is dressed, at least, when Fenris enters the room behind him, standing at a full mirror and adjusting the shiniest bits of his formal gathering getup (not nearly as comfortable as his armor, but enough of his people have insisted he look the part of the returned prince, finally). There's an artfully slanted cape he just can't seem to clasp right, fiddling with it as he looks at Fenris in the mirror.]
Eager to get going? [he asks, as if Fenris has ever wanted to go to one of these parties, hah. Sebastian flashes him a grin.] The sooner we get downstairs, the sooner Lady Wilhelmina is going to tell you all about how charmingly single her many daughters are, again.
[Is it scandalously inappropriate to flirt by proxy with the prince's elven bodyguard? Not as much as it would be in, say, Orlais, but enough. Sebastian is a fan of the way Fenris' nose scrunches up in barely-contained displeasure when it happens and, hmm, nothing else. Pros, cons.
Anyway, come help him with this clasp, he is in dire straits.]
To come home.
Because Starkhaven is his home, despite the fact that he's spent about half his life somewhere else, by now; the city welcomes its rightful prince back with open arms and it's bittersweet, yes, it's not easy to return nor is it easy to do right by Starkhaven with the weight of Kirkwall still lashed around his neck, but— it is home.
Fenris helps, which Sebastian assures him of probably too many times, those first weeks. That month they'd drifted around each other carrying a different grief, intersecting sometimes only for a few moments of silent company over a hasty meal, each throwing himself into the work that ought to be done. Fenris helps. Sebastian can't— won't stop to think about what he might have done with himself without someone there to act as ballast, and it kindles something warm in him he hasn't felt in a long time to watch Fenris thrive in Starkhaven. He'd known all along, of course, he'd always known that Fenris could do anything if finally given the opportunity he deserves, and Sebastian won't deny he's more than glad to have been a part of it.
So there's a kind of hazy, idyllic interim, after the grief subsides down to something manageable. Sebastian fixes the mess left by the murder of his family, Fenris trains the guard; Sebastian drags Starkhaven back to its rightful place and puts it back on its proper course despite several noble families' best efforts, Fenris stays at his side and mutters in his ear things that make him nearly lose his composure in front of one too many nobles. He hosts dinners and parties, Fenris fusses over his formalwear.
It's a nice routine. They work well together, and Sebastian is never shy about expressing just how much Fenris' presence means to him, and yet... hmm.
Well, he'd thought he'd been... clearer. Come back to Starkhaven with me, come share my home hadn't felt, mm, subtle all those months ago, but perhaps? Perhaps.
So there is a party, and nobles who hate and adore him alike are going to simper and fawn over him, and it's not dreadful but it is the last thing he'd like to be doing. He is dressed, at least, when Fenris enters the room behind him, standing at a full mirror and adjusting the shiniest bits of his formal gathering getup (not nearly as comfortable as his armor, but enough of his people have insisted he look the part of the returned prince, finally). There's an artfully slanted cape he just can't seem to clasp right, fiddling with it as he looks at Fenris in the mirror.]
Eager to get going? [he asks, as if Fenris has ever wanted to go to one of these parties, hah. Sebastian flashes him a grin.] The sooner we get downstairs, the sooner Lady Wilhelmina is going to tell you all about how charmingly single her many daughters are, again.
[Is it scandalously inappropriate to flirt by proxy with the prince's elven bodyguard? Not as much as it would be in, say, Orlais, but enough. Sebastian is a fan of the way Fenris' nose scrunches up in barely-contained displeasure when it happens and, hmm, nothing else. Pros, cons.
Anyway, come help him with this clasp, he is in dire straits.]
The sooner we start, the sooner it ends.
[There's no need for him to say that as grimly as he does, but here we are. Fenris comes to stand in front of Sebastian, his back to the mirror, his nose scrunched in absolutely-not-disguised-at-all displeasure. Sebastian's hands are swatted away, Fenris' fingers deftly taking their place.]
Hold still.
[His eyes flick up for a few precious seconds before he focuses back on his work.]
I suggest you stop grinning. If I am doomed to endure that, so are you. I will not be left alone in this torment.
[Is it strictly necessary for his fingers to brush against Sebastian so much? Probably. Almost definitely.]
There's still time to pretend you're ill.
[There's no need for him to say that as grimly as he does, but here we are. Fenris comes to stand in front of Sebastian, his back to the mirror, his nose scrunched in absolutely-not-disguised-at-all displeasure. Sebastian's hands are swatted away, Fenris' fingers deftly taking their place.]
Hold still.
[His eyes flick up for a few precious seconds before he focuses back on his work.]
I suggest you stop grinning. If I am doomed to endure that, so are you. I will not be left alone in this torment.
[Is it strictly necessary for his fingers to brush against Sebastian so much? Probably. Almost definitely.]
There's still time to pretend you're ill.
[It's completely necessary, the same way it makes the party they're about to endure worth it. Sebastian does not stop grinning, anyway; not right away, as Fenris is doing the nose-scrunching thing and it's precious, and he deserves a moment of simple distraction before the two of them are pawed at for the next few hours.
He does, at least, obediently drop his hands to his sides, though not without lingering there for a moment, almost covering Fenris' hands and interrupting his clasping completely. Hmm.]
I pretended I was ill two weeks ago. [Hmm!] Am I to be the bodyguard tonight, then?
[Ah, that's— you know, don't think too hard about that sentence at all.]
Not that I condone shirking my duties, but... an hour ought to be long enough.
He does, at least, obediently drop his hands to his sides, though not without lingering there for a moment, almost covering Fenris' hands and interrupting his clasping completely. Hmm.]
I pretended I was ill two weeks ago. [Hmm!] Am I to be the bodyguard tonight, then?
[Ah, that's— you know, don't think too hard about that sentence at all.]
Not that I condone shirking my duties, but... an hour ought to be long enough.
[Again his eyes flick up, more startled than before. Is that for the lingering touch or that statement? Both, maybe, but he won't linger on it. He slips the pin through the fabric, pinning it swiftly in place. There. Per—
Damn it. Okay. One more try.]
I'll hold you to that. An hour, nothing more.
[His mouth purses. It's for the cape, surely.]
What would you do? Intervene and flirt directly instead of forcing me to play middleman?
Damn it. Okay. One more try.]
I'll hold you to that. An hour, nothing more.
[His mouth purses. It's for the cape, surely.]
What would you do? Intervene and flirt directly instead of forcing me to play middleman?
I never forced you to play along, Fenris.
[Mildly, because mm, there's an obligation to being the prince's bodyguard that does involve being between the prince and undesirables, but not... like this, specifically. But never mind it, the point is: maybe Fenris could pretend to be ill!
Sebastian watches his hands, quiet for a moment, thinking of a grand escape plan.]
An hour, and something will mysteriously come up that requires my immediate attention, and as I couldn't possibly go somewhere without you at my side... [He'll slip a note to the seneschal or something, it'll be fine!] Even I can come up with a worthy excuse.
[Is lying a sin, it doesn't matter because pretending to like Lady Wilhelmina is already a lie, so what's one counter-lie... anyway. Much as he'd prefer to stand here with Fenris for the whole night--]
Ready?
[Mildly, because mm, there's an obligation to being the prince's bodyguard that does involve being between the prince and undesirables, but not... like this, specifically. But never mind it, the point is: maybe Fenris could pretend to be ill!
Sebastian watches his hands, quiet for a moment, thinking of a grand escape plan.]
An hour, and something will mysteriously come up that requires my immediate attention, and as I couldn't possibly go somewhere without you at my side... [He'll slip a note to the seneschal or something, it'll be fine!] Even I can come up with a worthy excuse.
[Is lying a sin, it doesn't matter because pretending to like Lady Wilhelmina is already a lie, so what's one counter-lie... anyway. Much as he'd prefer to stand here with Fenris for the whole night--]
Ready?
[He absolutely hasn't ever been forced to play along, and yet somehow he ends up playing middleman every single time. Funny, that. At least he knows it, and so doesn't bother responding to that mild rebuke.
His hands tug idly one last time at his clothing, straightening him out carefully, before he steps back and nods.]
Ready.
[The party is . . . a party. It's not particularly special or noteworthy, and relatively quiet for these sorts of things. People mingle in twos and threes, joining together to gossip and chatter before parting ways, a social dance all its own as the music plays. People approach more than once, and to Fenris's relief, most are just there to greet him.
Alas, he doesn't escape unscathed. Foolishly, Fenris steps away from Sebastian to get them both something to drink, and that's when Lady Wilhelmina, hm, attacks? Is attacks the right word? She certainly does verbally, pinning Fenris down through sheer force of conversation.
She's four daughters now, she tells him, and surely one of them will catch Sebastian's eye sooner or later, doesn't he think? After all, the girls are all pretty in their own way— does the Prince seem to go for a certain type of woman? Oh, she's just asking, that's all, he oughtn't get so bent out of shape, it's not as if she was asking for details on his personal life. As if there are any; everyone knows the prince is celibate, not like he was when he was younger, oh, the stories she could tell Fenris, why, it'd turn his hair white if it wasn't already, goodness.
Anyway: her daughters have such a range of hobbies nowadays, and she knows the prince is interested in archery, isn't that what Fenris had said last time? Well, Lilla's taken it up now, she's ever so good, but she could always improve, if Fenris knows of a tutor? Not that the good Lady would ever suggest their Prince tutor her, no, bu-ut on the other hand, perhaps he ought to get out a bit more! He looks a little peaky, if you ask her, and really, isn't it a bodyguard's job to take care of a prince's health? Tip to toe, that's what he ought to be doing, not just skulking in the shadows waiting for someone to attack— really, was Fenris trained properly? Not that she thinks he's doing a bad job! It's just that, well, everyone can improve a bit, can't they? Besides, the outdoors never hurt anyone; her father was first out the door every morning, bow in hand, an absolute terror to the local animals— and, well, sometimes the local elves, too, but that was another time, and we're a bit more civilized now, aren't we? She's even met a Dalish, and don't you know, they seem to be so healthy, not like those city elves you see. Of course, she pities them, and she gives what charity she can, but really: they all seem so sickly. And that's why, surely! Not enough fresh air! She'd hate to see the same happen to Sebastian, but of course, here's a convenient way to solve all their problems? Clever, isn't it? Of course it is, and Fenris ought to pass that along. Tonight, if he pleases, thank you ever so much.
(At one point, he looks desperately at Sebastian, pleading silently for help. The love of his life, the one he's sworn to protect in life and death both, the only person he trusts nowadays, proceeds only to mime confusion before grinning.
Prick.)
Still: it's not all bad. Once he beats a strategic retreat (and passes on some very choice words to Sebastian, they none of them about Lilla or her archery), nearly half an hour has passed.]
Aren't you meant to dance?
[It's, like, the fifth time in ten minutes he's leaned down to murmur in Sebastian's ear, but honestly. He can't imagine he's not just as bored as Fenris is. There's only so long you can watch dresses twirling before it gets repetitive.]
Or is that more suggestion than obligation.
His hands tug idly one last time at his clothing, straightening him out carefully, before he steps back and nods.]
Ready.
[The party is . . . a party. It's not particularly special or noteworthy, and relatively quiet for these sorts of things. People mingle in twos and threes, joining together to gossip and chatter before parting ways, a social dance all its own as the music plays. People approach more than once, and to Fenris's relief, most are just there to greet him.
Alas, he doesn't escape unscathed. Foolishly, Fenris steps away from Sebastian to get them both something to drink, and that's when Lady Wilhelmina, hm, attacks? Is attacks the right word? She certainly does verbally, pinning Fenris down through sheer force of conversation.
She's four daughters now, she tells him, and surely one of them will catch Sebastian's eye sooner or later, doesn't he think? After all, the girls are all pretty in their own way— does the Prince seem to go for a certain type of woman? Oh, she's just asking, that's all, he oughtn't get so bent out of shape, it's not as if she was asking for details on his personal life. As if there are any; everyone knows the prince is celibate, not like he was when he was younger, oh, the stories she could tell Fenris, why, it'd turn his hair white if it wasn't already, goodness.
Anyway: her daughters have such a range of hobbies nowadays, and she knows the prince is interested in archery, isn't that what Fenris had said last time? Well, Lilla's taken it up now, she's ever so good, but she could always improve, if Fenris knows of a tutor? Not that the good Lady would ever suggest their Prince tutor her, no, bu-ut on the other hand, perhaps he ought to get out a bit more! He looks a little peaky, if you ask her, and really, isn't it a bodyguard's job to take care of a prince's health? Tip to toe, that's what he ought to be doing, not just skulking in the shadows waiting for someone to attack— really, was Fenris trained properly? Not that she thinks he's doing a bad job! It's just that, well, everyone can improve a bit, can't they? Besides, the outdoors never hurt anyone; her father was first out the door every morning, bow in hand, an absolute terror to the local animals— and, well, sometimes the local elves, too, but that was another time, and we're a bit more civilized now, aren't we? She's even met a Dalish, and don't you know, they seem to be so healthy, not like those city elves you see. Of course, she pities them, and she gives what charity she can, but really: they all seem so sickly. And that's why, surely! Not enough fresh air! She'd hate to see the same happen to Sebastian, but of course, here's a convenient way to solve all their problems? Clever, isn't it? Of course it is, and Fenris ought to pass that along. Tonight, if he pleases, thank you ever so much.
(At one point, he looks desperately at Sebastian, pleading silently for help. The love of his life, the one he's sworn to protect in life and death both, the only person he trusts nowadays, proceeds only to mime confusion before grinning.
Prick.)
Still: it's not all bad. Once he beats a strategic retreat (and passes on some very choice words to Sebastian, they none of them about Lilla or her archery), nearly half an hour has passed.]
Aren't you meant to dance?
[It's, like, the fifth time in ten minutes he's leaned down to murmur in Sebastian's ear, but honestly. He can't imagine he's not just as bored as Fenris is. There's only so long you can watch dresses twirling before it gets repetitive.]
Or is that more suggestion than obligation.
[It is indeed a party, a very well-meaning and upright one, and while Sebastian does enjoy the brief spots of conversation he has with more than a few people, it does quickly become something of a prince showing than an event he's actually participating in. It usually does, inevitably; there are spots in Starkhaven's court beyond just his bed that more than a few families are vying for, and more than once Sebastian has found himself almost wistfully thinking of the utter filth and debauchery of the Hanged Man.
Not, like— not as if he participated there, either, but there's a keen difference between that - being part of the group - and this, where he's something of a main attraction.
So when Fenris leaves his side and is immediately accosted by Lady Wilhelmina, well, that's just consequences for leaving him to hang over here, isn't it? He deserves every facetious look of confusion Sebastian gives him over the shoulders of the first two nobles who've come to talk to him, a brother and sister pair each trying to talk up the other. The family isn't picky, he supposes, and they evidently assume Sebastian isn't either— the brother studied the Chant, did he know that, and the sister is quite handy with a sword, isn't that something? Doesn't that sound nice, a spouse who can protect him?
(That must get a reaction out of him, a face he isn't aware of making, as the two of them trip over a few hasty non-apologies about how they aren't implying anything about his current guard, not at all— Sebastian says something smoothly forgiving and excuses himself a few minutes later, before one of them simply faints from the pressure.)
So now, seated with that drink, finally, he chuckles and tilts his head to glance up at Fenris, not for the first time either. Buddy...]
I am the prince, you know. Starkhaven isn't as tightly wound as other courts, so they'll permit me a short rest.
[He glances significantly at the nearest small gaggle of would-be dance partners, several of whom have been looking at them for a few minutes now. At least one has the decency to flush and look away hastily. Sebastian hums.]
You know, I always envied my brother having parties like this. But now that I'm here... [Grass is greener, etc. He looks at Fenris again.] Do you want to dance?
[With anybody at all, this is a broad question, but it's also not.]
Not, like— not as if he participated there, either, but there's a keen difference between that - being part of the group - and this, where he's something of a main attraction.
So when Fenris leaves his side and is immediately accosted by Lady Wilhelmina, well, that's just consequences for leaving him to hang over here, isn't it? He deserves every facetious look of confusion Sebastian gives him over the shoulders of the first two nobles who've come to talk to him, a brother and sister pair each trying to talk up the other. The family isn't picky, he supposes, and they evidently assume Sebastian isn't either— the brother studied the Chant, did he know that, and the sister is quite handy with a sword, isn't that something? Doesn't that sound nice, a spouse who can protect him?
(That must get a reaction out of him, a face he isn't aware of making, as the two of them trip over a few hasty non-apologies about how they aren't implying anything about his current guard, not at all— Sebastian says something smoothly forgiving and excuses himself a few minutes later, before one of them simply faints from the pressure.)
So now, seated with that drink, finally, he chuckles and tilts his head to glance up at Fenris, not for the first time either. Buddy...]
I am the prince, you know. Starkhaven isn't as tightly wound as other courts, so they'll permit me a short rest.
[He glances significantly at the nearest small gaggle of would-be dance partners, several of whom have been looking at them for a few minutes now. At least one has the decency to flush and look away hastily. Sebastian hums.]
You know, I always envied my brother having parties like this. But now that I'm here... [Grass is greener, etc. He looks at Fenris again.] Do you want to dance?
[With anybody at all, this is a broad question, but it's also not.]
[It's a laughably simple question, except it's not. Fenris stalls for all of two seconds, his expression freezing as half a dozen responses flit through his mind. Everything from are you certain (because it will be a scandal, it isn't a question; it would be a scandal if he was well-bred and female and still an elf, never mind an ex-slave bodyguard) to no (not in front of all these people, this is not something he wishes to share) to yes please (because when will he ever get this chance again?). His mouth opens, and he intends fully to offer up an argument, but instead:]
. . . finish your drink first. I did not endure all that so you could only sip a little at it.
[Are his ears red? They are, just a little at the tips. Don't look at that. He buries himself in his own drink, staring out at the crowds.]
You will have to lead. I am not familiar with how to dance like this.
[Like, he's seen it, he can shuffle in place, he can probably follow fine, but. It's not like he's ever had to learn how to waltz or what have you.]
. . . finish your drink first. I did not endure all that so you could only sip a little at it.
[Are his ears red? They are, just a little at the tips. Don't look at that. He buries himself in his own drink, staring out at the crowds.]
You will have to lead. I am not familiar with how to dance like this.
[Like, he's seen it, he can shuffle in place, he can probably follow fine, but. It's not like he's ever had to learn how to waltz or what have you.]
[He's looking, and grinning into his drink as he raises the cup to his lips, amused if nothing else by Fenris' half-assed complaint. Yes, yes, he'll drink, don't fuss.]
You'll pick it up in no time.
[It's, hmm, definitely something they shouldn't just do, dance in front of all these people, but the rebellious youngest son in him wants to revel in enjoying himself however he pleases again, like a lifetime ago. A larger part of him wants to be close to Fenris as much as a formal waltz will allow, just to feel the press of his hands in a decidedly different context than usual, and—
Well. He shouldn't start thinking about Fenris' hands in the middle of this party, probably. He finishes the rest of his drink at once- another shouldn't, but oops- and stands, leaving the glass on the broad arm of the chair and holding a hand out to Fenris.
It's now or never, bud, let's go. He's not grinning quite so smugly as moments ago, but it's there; softer, now.]
If anyone asks, I'm teaching you the steps.
You'll pick it up in no time.
[It's, hmm, definitely something they shouldn't just do, dance in front of all these people, but the rebellious youngest son in him wants to revel in enjoying himself however he pleases again, like a lifetime ago. A larger part of him wants to be close to Fenris as much as a formal waltz will allow, just to feel the press of his hands in a decidedly different context than usual, and—
Well. He shouldn't start thinking about Fenris' hands in the middle of this party, probably. He finishes the rest of his drink at once- another shouldn't, but oops- and stands, leaving the glass on the broad arm of the chair and holding a hand out to Fenris.
It's now or never, bud, let's go. He's not grinning quite so smugly as moments ago, but it's there; softer, now.]
If anyone asks, I'm teaching you the steps.
[Hypocrite that he is, he doesn't bother to drink another mouthful before setting his glass down. Such is the lure of an absolutely perfect solution to all his hesitations, and Fenris doesn't wait another moment to take his hand.
Sebastian's taller. This is not a shocking new conclusion, but rather a quiet affirmation: oh, Fenris thinks pleasantly, quietly pleased by the fact he has to tip his head up just a bit in order to meet his gaze.
He's taller and warm and blessedly solid, his body firm as Fenris presses up against him. He can feel the warmth of his body as he sets a hand to his chest and slides it upwards, fingers slipping beneath his cape to curl around his shoulder. And there's no starting signal, not really: Sebastian pulls and Fenris willingly moves, stepping forward and then back, struggling against the instinctive urge to try and take control. He doesn't quite know where to look, for meeting Sebastian's piercing gaze is suddenly difficult for reasons he can't quite place. He settles for glancing out at the crowds instead, but that might just be a mistake, because suddenly now he's very aware of them.
They're going to be fodder for gossip for the next month at minimum. It is what it is, but perhaps it's better to glance back up at Sebastian instead. If nothing else, so he won't catch Lady Wilhelmina's indignant glare.]
You're going to have to become my bodyguard after all. I daresay there's more people plotting for my death instead of yours for once.
Sebastian's taller. This is not a shocking new conclusion, but rather a quiet affirmation: oh, Fenris thinks pleasantly, quietly pleased by the fact he has to tip his head up just a bit in order to meet his gaze.
He's taller and warm and blessedly solid, his body firm as Fenris presses up against him. He can feel the warmth of his body as he sets a hand to his chest and slides it upwards, fingers slipping beneath his cape to curl around his shoulder. And there's no starting signal, not really: Sebastian pulls and Fenris willingly moves, stepping forward and then back, struggling against the instinctive urge to try and take control. He doesn't quite know where to look, for meeting Sebastian's piercing gaze is suddenly difficult for reasons he can't quite place. He settles for glancing out at the crowds instead, but that might just be a mistake, because suddenly now he's very aware of them.
They're going to be fodder for gossip for the next month at minimum. It is what it is, but perhaps it's better to glance back up at Sebastian instead. If nothing else, so he won't catch Lady Wilhelmina's indignant glare.]
You're going to have to become my bodyguard after all. I daresay there's more people plotting for my death instead of yours for once.
Edited (shhh) 2020-12-10 05:17 (UTC)
[Better, Sebastian thinks, and it's as much a thought for the party itself as it is for the past eight months; better, to have Fenris so easily, so confidently come into his arms and plod through the basics of this waltz. It's all charming, making Sebastian's smile soften that much further as he tightens his arm around Fenris' waist.
The dance steps aren't important, just rote back and forth and the occasional turn, simple enough that he can lead without thinking about it or losing Fenris in the- literal- shuffle, which is lucky, because he can hardly think of anything else but the bright green of Fenris' eyes and the press of that hand at the back of his neck.
(Well, he does make time to shoot Lady Wilhelmina a glare of his own, but that's something for Future Sebastian to worry about.)]
Everyone in the Free Marches knows the kinds of things I do when the people close to me are threatened, [he says with a chuckle, like his bad temper and tendency to gather armies for vengeance is very funny. It's not without its sharper edge, for the benefit of the nearest nobles he knows are straining to hear their every word; he didn't even like his family, so just imagine what he'd start if even a hair on Fenris' head was harmed?
Just some more fun things to gossip about. Sebastian presses his hand into the small of Fenris' back, drawing him closer as he ducks to speak low into his ear:]
Let them come. I am ever at your side, your Highness-for-the-night.
[He'd bow to really sell it, but, you know. Just imagine it.]
The dance steps aren't important, just rote back and forth and the occasional turn, simple enough that he can lead without thinking about it or losing Fenris in the- literal- shuffle, which is lucky, because he can hardly think of anything else but the bright green of Fenris' eyes and the press of that hand at the back of his neck.
(Well, he does make time to shoot Lady Wilhelmina a glare of his own, but that's something for Future Sebastian to worry about.)]
Everyone in the Free Marches knows the kinds of things I do when the people close to me are threatened, [he says with a chuckle, like his bad temper and tendency to gather armies for vengeance is very funny. It's not without its sharper edge, for the benefit of the nearest nobles he knows are straining to hear their every word; he didn't even like his family, so just imagine what he'd start if even a hair on Fenris' head was harmed?
Just some more fun things to gossip about. Sebastian presses his hand into the small of Fenris' back, drawing him closer as he ducks to speak low into his ear:]
Let them come. I am ever at your side, your Highness-for-the-night.
[He'd bow to really sell it, but, you know. Just imagine it.]
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