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The dirt crumbled in his palm, under his fingers. It had been a dry summer, though the foliage does not seem bothered. The magic was still strong here, he thought, though he could not feel it. It had been unreachable for eleven years now; he had counted each passing second as though there might be an end to the counting.
Eleven years, eight months, two weeks, three days, fourteen hours, and two minutes. Felassan had not known magic in eleven years, eight months, two weeks, three days, fourteen hours, and two minutes. What had once been something he struggled to control was taken from him in a split second.
He could not miss it.
He could not miss anything.
He could not feel anything.
No, that was untrue.
He could feel the dirt crumbling in his hand, individual soil particles falling in a dust storm to the ground. He felt that dirt under his feet too. Felassan dug his toes into the soil and wondered at the dryness.
It had not rained in six weeks, two days, and six hours. The top soil was dry; his footprints disappeared into little puffs as he moved through the ruins. He rolled when jumping from high points to keep his shoulder from aching. It was painful, he noted with a clinical detachment, and pain made it difficult to sleep.
Felassan hopped a small ledge and walked to the edge of a crumbling bridge. It had led to the western entrance to the Vir Dirthara once. He stared at where, instead of pillars and balconies and spires there was now a sinkhole filled with forest and, underneath the foliage, the flickering of demons slipped in and out of view.
Felassan did not like demons. They caused pain when they hit, leaving burns that he then had to treat. He also did not like them because they hurt the Veil Jumpers, the group that consisted of elves and not-only-elves taking up residence near where Sylaise’s Gardens had been. They used the remnants of June’s workshops and forges as bases and searched through the ruins for what remained of a lost world.
They did not like him. They found his blank expression and twinkle-less eyes disconcerting and eerie. They stared when he walked past or through or near. So Felassan did not walk where they could see him. He approached only when they would not track his footprints through the woods.
Like today. Today, when his feet raised only miniscule dust storms that disappeared seconds after he had.
A figure sat on the ledge of the opposite end of the bridge. Felassan knew them; Aster. They had introduced themself while smiling endlessly, laughing easily. They had not been bothered by his lack of response save his name. It was not usual to find those who would not shy away from his disconnection.
“Felassan!” they called across the bridge and waved their hand. He was unsure why–was it not obvious that he could see them? There was nothing to block his line of sight.
Felassan waved his hand back. Aster grinned.
It took them seventeen minutes and thirty one seconds and nine curses before they had joined him at the ledge, their feet dangling off the edge. “Hey, Fel,” they said.
“Hello, Aster.”
“How are you doing?”
Felassan turned his head to look at them. “I have not been injured since you last saw me,” he said.
“That’s good,” they said cheerfully. “Guess how many times Strife has yelled at me?”
Strife was the tall man at the Veil Jumper camp. Felassan held no opinion of him despite the short conversations they had shared. Strife thought him a threat to the Veil Jumpers. He had said no less the last time they had met.
“I do not know. How many?”
“Guess.”
Felassan took a deep breath. He looked down at the creek cutting sharp turns through the trees and petrified spirits. He knew them; they had been friends and foes and people who had been at the market, tending to stalls and purchasing the fruit and trading jewellery. “Seven.”
“Twelve.”
“That is a large number.”
Aster laughed, leaning back against their hands. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, it is more than ten, which is also a big–”
“I didn’t mean literally, Fel.”
“Ah.” Felassan folded his hands primly in his lap. “Is the reason for your trip to the ruins these twelve lectures?”
“Oh. No!” Aster shook their head, curls bouncing with each movement. “I’m leaving Arlathan for a bit. Someone from the Inquisition came by and asked me for help with something. Varric wants– I just wanted to say goodbye before I left.”
The name sounded familiar. Varric. Felassan blinked slowly. “Varric,” he repeated. “That is the name of Fenris’ friend.”
“Who’s Fenris?”
“The little wolf.” He did not like that name. He accepted it with exasperation because Felassan would not stop calling him that, Felassan knew, but Fenris did not like to be called that. “Fenris is my friend.”
“And he’s Varric’s friend?” Aster prompted.
“I do not know.” He could not be certain. “Fenris has mentioned Varric before.”
“... Riiiight,” Aster shifted on their hands, kicking their legs out as they studied him. They had knowing eyes. Felassan liked their knowing eyes. They reminded him of someone he knew once, a long time ago. “Are you gonna be okay? While I’m gone?”
His attention returned to their words. Felassan tilted his head. “I have lived a very long time,” he said. “I am sure I will continue to live.” The words did not seem to reassure them. Felassan turned his lips down into a frown. “Everything will still be the same as the day before, save your presence. I will not be hurt simply by your lack of presence.”
“Yeah, alright.” They nudged his shoulder with theirs. “Promise me you’ll get help if something goes wrong. If you need it. The Veil Jumpers’ll take care of you if you need it, you know.” His eyes rested on them, still. “Don’t look at me like that. They will. You’re an elf in need, they’ll always help.”
“They do not like me,” Felassan said. He sniffed. His nose was running and there was a pressure in his eyes. He was… crying. He did not know why he was crying.
“Maybe,” Aster said. “But I do. And I’ll tell my friends to look out for you, just in case. Deal?” They held their hand out. He placed his hand in theirs and watched as they shook hands. “And I’ll come back when I can to check on you.”
“I am very old,” Felassan protested, “I do not need to be ‘checked’ on.” Though Fenris did that when he came to Arlathan. It had been a while since Fenris had come.
“Still,” Aster shook their head. “I want to. I’ll come check on you. Promise. It’s what friends do.”
It’s what friends do. He had another friend. He felt his lips curved up, a smile.
“I will be waiting,” Felassan murmured. “Swift travels, Aster.”
They squeezed his hand and stood, stretching with a loud groan before they were taking off into the trees. Felassan’s legs dangled over the edge of the ruined bridge. He would wait right here.