Chapter Text
That’s the last of them, Fenris thinks. They would need to be out quick, now – he’s certain that more are on their way.
“Hey, knife-ear!”
Or not.
By no small mercy, the creativity of the slavers did not quite extend to their choice of interior décor. The encampment was basically a cave, carved harshly into the rock of a dripping cavern. It was composed of a singular, long hallway, branching out into separate rooms with multiple cells. The voices seemed to be coming from near the entrance.
“Wait here,” Fenris says, and makes his way down the hallway as quietly as he can, careful to not alert the newcomers of his presence. He is very certain that he had cleared out the cells.
Hadn’t he?
He rounds the corner, and peers into the room. Two large slavers flank a cell, which held an elf that absolutely had not been there before. He is quite certain. Well - at least eighty percent certain.
Two men. Either they had been outside while he was clearing out the cells, or he has been slipping.
“I don’t know about ears,” the man says lazily, folding his arms. “But I do know a thing or two about knives.”
“Is that so?” One of them sneers. “Hah! This one has a bit of a mouth on him. Awfully pretty too.”
His partner leers at the elf, sick and cruel. “You reckon we could put it to use?”
“You could at least take me out for a drink first,” the elf interrupts, wrinkling his nose. “Really, darling. Where are your manners?”
“Wining and dining are for people,” the man says. “Not property.”
“Don’t mess ‘im up too much,” his partner grins. “That face alone will fetch a pretty price.”
The elf’s eyes flash with something, and his smile strains imperceptibly.
“Come a little closer, then,” he says casually, and Fenris tenses, clenching his fist. Two men – he can take them easily, but any sudden movement could cause them to kill their captive. Not quite the most optimal outcome.
Silently, he bids the elf to shut up right now. It would be easy enough for him to dispose of the two men while they were distracted. All the fool had to do was keep himself alive.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to be very good at it. The floorboard creaks ominously, and the two slavers step towards the cell door, twin grins on their faces.
“He’s eager, isn’t he?” One of them comments, and the other laughs, moving closer towards the cell.
“Lucky us,” the other replies.
The rest happens in a flash.
One minute, the two men are reaching into the cell, the next, there is a wet gurgle. Two bodies drop to the ground, throats slit expertly.
“How very tiresome,” the elf mutters, and sticks a pale hand through the bars. Dumbly, Fenris watches as he begins to root through the man’s pocket.
Standing up, he clears his throat awkwardly.
The elf’s head snaps up, eyes wide.
“Oh,” he says. “Hello.”
Fenris walks over cautiously. Now that he’s standing in front of the elf, he can get a better look at the man. Tangled curls as light as his own hair, but unlike his darker complexion, the elf has even paler skin to match. A head shorter than him, but with unmistakably sharp ears. Curiously, the elf’s eyes were a shade of red that he had never seen on one of his kind before.
Then again, he had never seen a slave dressed in finery, either.
“Hello,” he says cautiously.
“I know what this looks like,” the elf says, letting go of the man’s corpse through the cell bars, “but I promise you that there is a lot more to this.” Despite the composed smile on the elf’s lips, his eyes are suspicious.
It would do well to take caution, he thinks.
“I know,” he replies soothingly. Or at least, he tries to be. Given that little dagger-happy display, it stands to reason that this elf might be slightly more dangerous than the rest. It’s nothing he can’t handle, of course – sometimes, he encounters slaves that are more distrustful than not.
“So perhaps we can pretend you never saw me, and you could carry on with your day?” The elf says, smiling winningly.
Maker, he wanted to be left in the cell?
“You … do not wish to be released?”
“I've got it covered,” the man says airily. His eyes dart around the room again.
How very strange indeed. “If you give me a moment, I can get you free,” he says, stepping forward. The elf stares at him distrustfully. With an eye on the man and another on the ground, Fenris bends down slowly to retrieve the key from the corpse at his feet.
The pockets come up empty. Did the guard not carry a key? No matter. He can’t pick the lock, but he can definitely smash it open.
He has barely unsheathed his sword, though, when the cell door swings open, and suddenly, he is on the ground, the same damn knife pressed dangerously close to his throat.
“I would have really liked to not do this again,” the man sighs, almost wistfully. Fenris fights the urge to dig his own blade into the elf. Or his fist. The elf’s grip is pitifully weak, despite his bravado, and it wouldn’t take much to flip him over. He does not commonly encounter violent slaves, but he knows that fear manifests in different ways.
Patience. We hunt slavers, not slaves.
“I am not going to hurt you,” he says. “Really.”
“Of course, darling,” the man replies smoothly. “Now, if you cooperate, you won’t end up like your friends over there.”
Friends?
“I am not a slaver,” Fenris replies, affronted. “Do I look like a slaver to you?”
The elf shrugs. “You can never be too certain.”
Strange. Had the man met elvhen slavers before? Did they even exist? He fights the urge to tear into the man’s chest, and instead, shoves him off roughly.
Or at least, he tries to.
The man shifts his grip deftly, his hold on the knife tightening. The blade starts to press into his skin. His unexpected dexterity catches Fenris off guard.
“I really wouldn’t, if I were you,” he says smoothly. His grip is iron tight, even if his arms are trembling slightly from the exertion of holding another down. Perhaps a trained fighter like himself, then. Not a very strong one, but he’s been on the tail end of Isabela’s blade often enough to know that he could very well be just as dangerous.
Thankfully, Fenris is also very, very good at what he does.
“I am not trying to hurt you,” he repeats through gritted teeth. “I am trying to free you.”
It would be all too easy for Fenris to shove this pitiable creature away and turn his blade on him. His hold is shaky at best. And yet, something tells him that this man is acting out of fear. It's a common reaction in slaves - and while it's rare for them to actually attempt an attack, it's not unheard of either.
The elf’s eyes narrow.
“Drop the weapon,” he orders, and Fenris obliges. If this turns ugly, he doesn’t actually need his blade anyway. The elf kicks his sword into a corner of the room, and finally, finally, lets him up. He keeps the knife drawn.
“See?” Fenris says, standing up slowly, raising both hands in surrender. “I have no wish to harm you.”
It helps that in that moment, a small girl comes barreling down the hall and latches onto his legs, followed by her tired mother.
“No, come back –“
“It’s fine,” Fenris cuts her off. “The danger has passed.”
As the lady carries her child away, chastising her softly the whole way through, he sees the suspicion on the man’s face melt away slowly.
“Child of yours?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, and Fenris shakes his head.
“Former captives,” he says evenly. “Now free.” Like you, he thinks.
The man looks at him impassively, his red eyes uncomfortably perceptive, before he sighs and sheathes his knives. “Perhaps I judged you too quickly,” he says finally.
“What do you think?” Fenris replies dryly. Hawke always told him that he should be nicer, but sometimes, he just can’t help himself.
“Let me extend my humblest apologies,” the elf says, smiling winningly. He takes a step back and clears his throat. “I suppose it is only polite that I introduce myself. My name is Astarion.” He holds out a hand. Fenris stares at it as though he has just been offered a dead rat.
Slowly, Astarion withdraws his hand.
“I have the feeling I might have offended you somewhat,” he admits. “But really, darling, can you blame me? A beautiful, lone man, left helpless in a cell? At the mercy of those ... brutes?” He wrinkles his nose primly.
“Don’t call me that,” Fenris says automatically, and then, “You seemed capable enough. If not a bit full of yourself.”
Astarion does not seem fazed. “Usually, others would have introduced themselves by now.”
Fenris gives him a withering look.
“But I see you are the strong and silent type,” Astarion mutters, almost sardonically, then seems to perk up slightly. “Well, it has been lovely meeting you, but I must be on my way now.”
He makes his way towards the door, before he pauses and turns around again.
“Any chance you could tell me where we are?”
“Just off the coast of the Waking Sea,” Fenris replies curtly. He is not quite sure why exactly, but something about this man rubs him just shy of the wrong way. Perhaps it was the attempted murder. “I am unsure of our exact coordinates, but by my estimates, we are near Amaranthine.”
Astarion blinks. “Sorry, what?”
Fenris bristles with annoyance despite himself. Yes, definitely the attempted murder. “The City of Amaranthine,” he says slowly. “Near … Denerim, if that is of any help.”
“I’m sorry- where is that?”
What a strange question. He had assumed the elf was, like the rest of the slaves, a Tevinter captive. Surely he possessed a basic understanding of geography? Most slaves would at least know the names of each nation’s capital.
“Ferelden.” Fenris says. It does nothing to erase the confusion on Astarion’s face. If anything, his skin turns even paler. “Thedas?”
“Thedas?”
“Yes,” he replies, growing impatient. “Do you know of anywhere outside Tevinter?”
“Tevinter?”
Surely this man is having him on. Does he not even know where he came from? Or … perhaps he really was different from the rest. Was he Dalish? He certainly did not look Dalish.
“You are far from home,” Fenris says evenly, in Tevene.
Astarion squints at him. “Are you having a stroke?”
Kaffas.
“Where did you come from?” Fenris asks slowly, this time reverting to Trade.
“Baldur’s Gate,” Astarion replies. “Please tell me we are nearby.”
The name is foreign to him. Evidently, the confusion on his own face is enough of an answer for his new companion.
“Gods, don’t tell me we are in the North,” Astarion groans. “Is this Neverwinter?”
He has never heard of Neverwinter. Winter … snow … surely he did not mean the Anderfels?
“Is that … off the Broken Coast?” Fenris asks cautiously.
“Did you mean the Sword Coast?” Astarion looks at him hopefully.
“Not really,” Fenris says, almost apologetically, and Astarion groans audibly, pinching at the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, heavens above,” he moans. “Are we even in Faerûn?”
“Perhaps that is … another continent?” Fenris asks carefully. “I am not aware of this … Faerûn. Neither have I heard of … Balding Gate.”
“Baldur’s Gate,” Astarion corrects distractedly. Then, under his breath, “I am going to kill Gale.”
“Is he your master?” It is not uncommon to hear slaves swear vengeance on their masters after they have left. There is nothing Fenris would like more than to rip Danarius apart.
Astarion snorts. “Hardly. He is a meddling, idiotic, incompetent wizard who is about to be torn limb from limb very slowly.”
This elf was getting stranger and stranger by the minute. Although he seemed to possess a healthy dislike for mages, which is a comforting start.
“Also,” Astarion adds, “I am not a slave.” He looks thoroughly disgusted by the prospect. It is almost insulting.
“You were in a slave pen, though,” Fenris points out, unconvinced.
“I have no idea how I got here.” Astarion looks suitably distressed. “Or how I am going to get home.”
They stare at each other for a while, before Fenris takes pity on the strange, pale elf.
“You can come with me to the city,” he offers. “You may seek out aid there, or perhaps a map.”
The other man still looks rather doubtful, so Fenris adds: “You could also stay in this cave and wait for the back-up that is almost definitely on their way.”
“I suppose I don’t have any other choice,” Astarion says mournfully, looking as though Fenris had asked him to dive off a cliff. “Alright, I accept.”
Usually, the slaves that he rescues are filled with gratitude. This one was obnoxious enough that Fenris could almost believe that he was not a slave. Surely no master would allow such obstinance in their household!
“I will need to bring the rest of the elves to the port first,” Fenris tells him. “There is safe passage from the docks of Amaranthine. Those ships are bound for the Free Marches. You could follow them instead if you wish?”
Oh, that was an idea! Why had he not thought of that sooner?
Astarion shudders. “No, thank you.”
The other man’s response feels almost disappointing. As generous as he was (which was, objectively, not quite), Fenris did not enjoy the idea of travelling with another. The past years spent alone, away from everyone back in Kirkwall, had made him far too accustomed to solitude.
“Are you sure? You will be offered entry there and the chance to begin anew as a free man.” Most ships get directed to Kirkwall. He does not add that, given the state of the city, sanctuary would most likely be a cardboard box in the Alienage, or the streets of Darktown. Somehow, he cannot imagine this prim elf wallowing amongst the filth of the slums.
“I am a free man,” Astarion says, frowning. “I don’t require a new home. I already have one– I just need to figure out how to get back there.”
The elf is stubborn, Fenris thinks, and writes off the idea of any peace and quiet in the near future as a lost cause.
At least until he finds a way to let go of his newly acquired burden.
“Fine,” he says, gritting his teeth. Fasta vass, why did he offer his aid so readily? He did not need to be a seer to know that there was something rather strange about this man. And strange is really the last thing that he wants to embroil himself in.
Because he’s not claiming to be the most perceptive elf out there, but there is something undeniably off about Astarion. For one, he spoke in the common tongue with an accent crisp but wholly unfamiliar. For another, he wore the body of a slave but behaved with the haughty superiority of a magister.
Fenris had met many a bizarre situation in his travels, but in this moment, he finds himself completely at a loss as to how to approach this problem.
“Shall we head off, then?” Astarion asks, and Fenris is hit by a sudden realization.
“How did you get here?” he asks suspiciously. “I have seen no one enter or leave the caverns, and your cell was empty when I cleared it of slavers.”
Astarion sighs deeply. “I am so glad you asked, really. So there I was, enjoying a wonderful glass of wine and a good book. Very well deserved, I think. I was visiting a dear friend in Waterdeep, although after this, I don’t think we can be friends anymore –”
“Get to the point,” Fenris interrupts, and the other man pauses, looking affronted.
“Oh, you’re no fun.”
Fenris raises an eyebrow, and Astarion sighs, but continues. “So I was seated in Gale’s library, yes? I’ll tell you now, that man is quite prone to exaggeration, but the knowledge he has crammed into that small space is incredibly impre-”
“You severely overestimate my patience.”
Astarion clears his throat pointedly. “Impressive. His tomes were impressive, and I suppose I could have sat a little further away from the runes he was drawing, but how was I to know tha-”
“Your point?”
“I fell through a damn portal summoned by a meddling wizard." The statement is met with the most petulant scowl that Fenris has ever seen. Not that he is in the habit of observing scowls. He's been told that he's usually the one frowning.
“Very,” Fenris says. “Portal magic is powerful work. That mage must be very strong.” A threat, he thinks, but does not say it out loud.
“Bah,” Astarion says, wrinkling his nose delicately. “He is mediocre at best.”
“I suppose you wish to head for … Waterdeep, then?” That name is just as unfamiliar to him.
Astarion shudders and shakes his head. “Baldur’s Gate. I come from there, and I wish to return there.”
“Do you not want to seek revenge on this mage?” Fenris asks.
The other elf shrugs again. “There is plenty of time to enact my vengeance on him. Trust me.”
He probably wants to prepare, Fenris thinks. This quarrel was between this man and his tormentor, and as much as Fenris would love to rip out the heart of another corrupt magister, he thinks that he should at least respect Astarion’s wishes, as strange as his inaction was.
But still. It would eventually lead to mage hunting, right? Perhaps there was a silver lining to this after all. He leads the way out of the rocky crevice, before pausing at the door.
“Fenris,” he says, turning around, and Astarion stares at him questioningly.
“Beg your pardon?”
“You asked my name,” he says, and the other man nods in understanding, something imperceptible in this gaze.
“It suits you,” Astarion says finally, and pushes his way past the doorway.