faderift | OPEN | Looking Down on Empty Streets

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OPEN | Looking Down on Empty Streets

WHO: Lexie, Evie, Loki, Thor, Fifi, Gwen, anyone else who wants to deal with this actual mess of a woman (special shout out to anyone who has a four letter (nick)name apparently)
WHAT: Late nights, early mornings, a bunch of processing the horrible things that happened!
WHEN: Post return from Tevinter (so... mid-month?)
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: cw: a nice violent nightmare, general mental trauma. hmu if you want something special, will do brackets or prose as desired.

I. The Apartments (Day)

When Alexandrie is home, much of her time is spent laying on the chaise out on the balcony staring into nothing and hardly seeming to care about the oppressive heat that so irked her the month before. Her hair, if it is styled at all, is woven into a simple braid and pinned up, a far cry from the way she used to wear it. Sometimes she is a fury of diplomatic paperwork, sometimes she is repetitively and grimly throwing a knife into a target that is a new fixture in the area. Sometimes she will, all of a sudden, snap into the light and cheerful woman she was, although her laughter is harder to come by. Whichever it is, she is still welcoming of callers.

II. Hightown (Night)

She haunts the streets like a ghost; all loose hair and pale wan skin and simple white dress, dressing gown layered over it against the slight chill that still manages to cover Kirkwall by second or third bell despite the heat of the day. Often, she is in the memorial garden, sitting and watching the fountain or pacing the paths repetitively. Sometimes she makes her way to wherever the sea can be best seen. Like a spectre, too, she is gone by the time the sky begins to lighten.

Anyone else out and about in the dark hours?

III. Loki/Evie:

Smell. Noise. There's so much of it. The screams of panic, the mortal ones unlike any other, some far too high to have issued from fully grown throats. The ozone of magic ripping the air mixing with the choking char of burning stalls, the metallic smell of blood. Blood. Far too much of it. How can there be so much. The visceral nigh-unbelievable revulsion at how thickly it drips. It clings to her hands, sliding, sticking. The wink of sunlight on silver. The noise he makes around it is so desperately wrong: liquid, bubbling. The same thing, then, on a far slenderer throat. Sudden. Silver again, but streaked with red. Silver where it doesn't belong. Cannot belong. Disbelief. Overwhelming horror that grips so hard she is frozen and the sound, the sound that comes from them.

She never quite screams. While there is noise that accompanies Alexandrie's gasping terrified surges to consciousness, the shriek in her throat never truly makes it past the hands that fly reflexively to cover her mouth to fiercely stifle it as her knees shoot to her chest, her heart pounding like something is trying to fight its way outside of her. Sometimes they are clapped flat against her face; sometimes it's the side of her hand between her teeth, her jaw clenching hard enough to bruise, even to draw blood, although that is more rare. Always it is a desperate bid to prevent her horrified shuddering panic from waking her bedmate.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it does not.

IV. Thor/Fifi:

There is a small disturbance in the kitchens. The pour of water, the clink of metal, of china, rummaging through dry goods. Investigating will reveal Alexandrie, wrapped in a white silk dressing gown, her hair finger-combed and tied around itself in a simple knot, quietly looking through the selection of tea as the glyphs on the kettle do their work of setting the water to boil.

She looks tired and subdued—she often looks so, recently—but she manages a small smile all the same.

“Pardonnez-moi. Did I wake you?”

V. Gwenaëlle:

[ she has come looking for Gwenaëlle for a reason she can't really fathom. Perhaps it is because there is precious little in Kirkwall that is familiar and they had walked the same streets and halls, seen much of the same art, known many of the same faces, have the same mother tongue. Perhaps it is because Gwen too had been abruptly thrown from that world into one that so immediately included brutal violence and death that stood close enough to feel the hot splatter of it. Perhaps it is both things.

Whatever the reason, Alexandrie is knocking now on the door to the Provost's rooms in hopes of finding the small, concentrated, dark-haired woman, wearing a simple summer dress with her hair pinned up just as simply, the neck of a bottle containing something substantially stronger than the wine she'd offered at the Tourney in her fist. ]

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Loki hears her, however softly she speaks, with his ear pressed so against her chest. He shifts, groggily, as a man just woken and moves away just enough to look at her face. There are tracks there, traces of tears as clear on her skin as his, no doubt.

To take control would so often be his preference; he was so fond of holding dominion over things, even in small matters...but his failure is too recent a wound. No, he cannot bear the weight of responsibility just yet, however mild.

"Take it from me," he urges her, his voice rougher and drier than he likes. He bends to press his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, and draws a long breath. "Please, mistress."

[ continued over here, because we are considerate writers of the porns! ]

It's the second time in as many nights, but at least this time Fifi suspects she knows who it is. And she finds she's right, as she emerges from her room again and, this time, simply pads into the kitchen half-asleep and takes out a cup and saucer for the lady.
She sets it down in front of Alexandrie and checks the kettle, resting her cheek on her curled hand as she watches it boil, letting Lexie investigate the brews. "Something to help you sleep, Madame?" Fifi asks, her voice raspy from sleep.

"Ah, I did wake you." Lexie sounds genuinely apologetic, although truth be told, she was a little glad for Fifi's company. With the ability to speak in their shared language and the memory of seeing the elven woman in a flurry of bright ruffled skirts and stage lights back in even the rougher parts of Val Royeaux, Fifi brought a radius of normalcy along with her. A little flicker of 'before' that Lexie always finds her heart leaning towards with no small longing.

"Have you something to suggest for that?"

If it helps you to know, I am homesick as well.

[ she assumes this is part of it. part of the upset of being so removed from familiarity and experiencing strife because of it. ]

If there is any sort of negative response to the glint of something in the moonlight then there is little to be seen on her face as Saoirse carefully tilts her head, half hidden beneath the hood she wears and frowning ever so slightly. Her staff rests secured on her back but does not make much in the way of motions besides lightly adjusting her hold on the crown of flowers.

"It is not often that I find others out here," she says lightly. "Have you come hoping to clear your head? I find myself wandering out here in need of such things more often than not."

They're always genuinely apologetic, until half an hour later when they're happy again and stop caring. Fifi doesn't hold it against them, but doesn't necessarily buy into it either.

"I'm afraid I don't know my herbs," she says, perhaps a bit too drily, "but I've found red wine to do the trick."

Alexandrie sighs, shakily raises the back of her hand to her forehead with a small bemused smile.

"Truly I know not. It is something to do while waiting to see if sleep will come; there is only so much to see within my home, and I have spent long enough staring at all of it." There were days not long prior to these in which she would not have answered so honestly. But she is tired and distracted always, now, and so often finds she has not the energy or desire to dissemble.

It is— and has been— a true temptation; to crawl into a bottle and see if sleep was any better at the bottom of it. Alexandrie is slightly worried that if it works she will decline to come out again, but one glass couldn't hurt. (It could, but she is so tired and she wakes so easily.)

"I suppose that would render the water unneeded, then."

That's a 'yes please'

If nothing else, at least she won't be drinking alone. At least, not if she deigns to offer some to her elven savior.

"Very well, madame," Fifi replies, and, pushing up off the counter, she goes to find a bottle that's already been opened and corked. She may be a bit slaphappy late at night, but even she isn't ballsy enough to go opening a fresh bottle of the masters' wine while they're asleep.

Popping out the cork, she takes a glass from the cupboard and pours a generous amount for Lexie.

"If I may entreat you to stay... take a glass for yourself, if you like," Lexie says before Fifi corks the bottle again. "After all, you shall need to return to sleep as well now."

And she would indeed prefer not to drink alone. Especially given the possibility that looking at another face may prevent her from seeing the face of the man she had killed. Or, far worse, Frigga's.

( it's been a hell of a month, and it's not yet over. most are returned from tevinter, but as kostos so bluntly put it to her they left people behind—mostly people gwenaëlle could easily put from her mind, but for one name. that adalia's loss would be survivable wouldn't make it less a loss, wouldn't make it acceptable. they will have to go back. there is work still to do.

yet it's a relief she wouldn't have thought, just being back in the gallows. the fucking gallows, of all the places in all of thedas, become familiar; solas's mural on the walls, her things among her husband's, hardie a welcoming weight leaned against her. home, for now. for a time.

when she comes to the door (and it is she who comes to the door) she's dressed similarly simply, exchanged her ship-clothes for a soft gown and undone, washed and combed out her salt-water plaits. traces of what happened colour her in bruises stark against soft, pale fabric; her jaw, her arms. but she's whole, and so is lexie—

who she embraces, which is a very fine greeting. she takes in the bottle when she draws back, holding a hand light underneath it, then looking up to meet her eyes, )

Come on, ( linking their arms, ) I know somewhere we won't be interrupted by anyone else's work.

[ the paths of the gallows were not as familiar to alexandrie and so granted little of that peace that gwenaëlle had found-- but everything was unfamiliar right now, as if she had taken a step an inch to the side of what was real. even marceau looked strange. even geneviéve. herself, in the mirror. sometimes she had to reach up and touch her own cheek-- a half-shade darker from weeks of unavoidable sun-- to assure herself she existed. sometimes even that didn't work.

the pall of grief at the asgard estate was real. the yawning gap in even the smallest spaces between loki and herself which neither of them could bear bridging was real. and, oddly, unexpectedly enough that her eyes widen slightly in surprise when the petite woman answers the door, so was gwen. perhaps it was because she too was forged a little harder in tevinter, still wearing the bruises which lexie cannot help but reach up to touch gently not in sympathy or concern but in recognition. the embrace of greeting is solid and grounding, the link of their arms a tether, and she will go wherever she is led by it. ]

I can see the sea in you. [ apropos of nothing, as they walk. she has spent enough time watching the waves while painting to recognize a woman of the land turned siren. ] It suits you.

I joined Naval Presence officially when we got back, ( in agreement, contemplative and her mood a little strange with it, but likely no stranger than anyone else's, just now. at times lexie feels like a mirror held up, reminding her what her reflection used to be—it's selfish, probably, that she's more at ease with her as the war leaves its mark in ways she understands, that are familiar.

it's neither kind nor unkind—she did not wish it, she can tell herself that and have it be true—but it's natural, and nature is unmoral. they understand each other. there was no one like that for her, at the start; patience, but different kinds. it's not good, exactly, that lexie goes through this or that gwenaëlle did—it's happened, though, and they're here.

they don't go far: guilfoyle had not wished his quarters to be far out of reach, if needed. he rises, somehow impeccable in shirtsleeves with his whetstone and blades, query implied in his impassive expression. )

May we have the room, Felix? I don't want to be bothered.

( an inclination of his head—a murmured mademoiselle—and he will not go far now, either, so if lexie needs to be poured into a carriage later there will be a sober pair of hands ready to do it. but he closes the door behind himself, gives them privacy. it's an impersonal but comfortable space, and she sweeps them down in front of the hearth; empty, too warm for a fire. )

[ the empty hearth makes the corners of lexie's lips twitch, although her private amusement—perhaps not private in this particular company—doesn't quite reach her eyes. it is, of course, far too warm for a fire, but she has become used to having one anyway and somehow rather misses it. how honestly awful an influence he is. ]

And I shall be spending a good deal of time in the library with those researching Corypheus.

[ here comes the bottle, the cork twisted and popped from its neck deftly, then offered to gwen. first drink for the hostess; we're not animals, no matter how feral and strange parts of her feel.

it will burn, going down. the self-destructive quality inherent in cheap whiskey had been morbidly appealing when she'd bought it on the way over. it seemed right to drink something as ragged as she felt. wryly: ]

How terribly useful we have become.

( no matter how useful she becomes, felix guilfoyle will always stand ready to outdo her. gwenaëlle finds that comforting, even as the bruises lexie had so gently touched speak plainly that she can't so easily shrug back into her old skin. lace her waist tight, cover herself in clinging fabrics, but she is changed—

the whiskey burns. that, though, is no new thing. she hands the bottle back, exhaling deeply and resting her weight back on her hands, her skirts a pool of fabric around her, bare feet tucked to her side. )

Coupe had a demon's own time trying to teach me to be, ( a frank observation. ) I thought if I knew how to protect myself, no one else would do it.

( that has not proved the case. it's strange, to say so bluntly what had been dragged out of her in terror—but she feels differently, now, and she thinks perhaps there's a reason lexie came to her, particularly. )

[ that wasn't alexandrie's problem so much as she had thought she had learned to protect herself. and perhaps that was so, in the world she had occupied before. abruptly not so in this new one, where words and posture and wit were blade and shield far too ephemeral to do anything against cold steel.

the bottle is received, a generous swallow taken, a terrible face made. ]

Shit.

[ after another smaller mouthful, lexie places the bottle between the two of them, slips off her shoes, and mirrors the tuck of gwen's feet. ]

When I was learning, [ she makes the gesture of throwing a knife by way of explanation, ] it was so idle. A skill for skill's sake. It is different to need it. [ an involuntary shudder ] To see its result.

( gwenaëlle had never wished to. had, in fact, been stridently against any such teaching; had preferred to actively cosset herself. it had taken her far longer than lexie, and with far more reluctance—dragged unwillingly and backwards into what she's become.

if the time had been spent differently, she might regret it, but it's hard to imagine the past few years taking any other path. hard to see how she would have ended up in the same place, and she'd not part with any of it. )

I never did that, ( she observes. ) In Orlais, before. In Skyhold, even. I never knew violence as anything but what it is.

( and she'd seen enough of it; there is a trace of bitterness in that, of old griefs. cruelty did not come late to her, as everything else—familiarity was what had bred that terror of her own hands. )

A curse and a blessing, I suppose, to see that truth early.

[ after all, truth is in such short supply in orlais. she is ashamed, now, to have been so entirely crushed by something which now seems so small. what is young heartbreak compared to the brutally efficient murder of a kind and loving woman, close enough to see the life leave her. close enough to feel it splatter on her skin. lexie eyes the bottle, is briefly self-conscious about taking it up again after such a short time, but thinking about how she got here makes her remember how she got here and propriety seems like bullshit in its entirety so she reaches for it again in defiance.

then, after, bitterly: ]

And even then only blessing in that you then have fewer years to look back on in a sort of scornful wonder for their frivolity.

He reaches over and presses a hand to her shoulder, smiling gently back.

"You're welcome." It's nice when he's genuinely able to help. The tears look like a mix of sadness and relief, but he's fairly certain he's responsible for the relief alone this time by the look she's giving him.

"Take your time and rest in the chair, please. You didn't look well for a time there and Darktown can be violent enough toward those that look healthy." He cares about Darktown, but there is no denying its inherent risk and dangers. Best to take precautions. Especially with nobles, as they don't tend to really understand the underbelly of a city.

Thor jerks to his feet as the elf comes in. It's just Fifi, not his brother's valet, but there's a deeply ingrained instinct to appear strong and confident in front of the sl-servants. When slaves see weakness they tend to become afraid and insecure. Maybe the same is not true of servants, but he will not burden an elf with additional concerns in an already chaotic time.

"We do, thank you." He straightens his robes before frowning and looking down at his tea. "You will not mention this to anyone." House Asgard is vulnerable. They cannot afford for anyone, Venatori or regular enemy houses, to hear of him taking a break during his vigil.

"And I am expected to stay awake for several days of it, yes. Or the head of our house is. But he is seeing to matters at home and I am here." They hadn't managed to get anyone out aside from Inquisition personnel and there were plenty who didn't want to submit to Venatori rule.

Were she more ground down into servitude, Fifi might have been scandalized by the request; instead, though she does think on it a moment, it's not long before she takes Lexie's advice and gets a second glass. She pours a little less than she gave the other woman, since it's one thing to be casual, another entirely to tempt fate.

( how many weeks ago was it that they had been in a tent at the grand tourney, gwenaëlle awkward and abrupt in the face of alexandrie's lighthearted lark. how exciting she had seemed to find it all, and how swiftly it has proven otherwise.

in orlais, she had imagined herself less sheltered than her peers for her knowledge—the harsh lesson of skyhold had been how relative a thing that was. how soft she was, even knowing. how much further she had yet to go, and how much she still might be capable of. and now, here: this isn't at all where she imagined she would be.

nor where lexie had, she supposes. at least they've company. she is thoroughly shameless in taking the bottle when lexie is done; )

It all seemed so fucking pointless, I just didn't know what to do instead.

( on frivolity. she flexes her left hand, the dull green of the anchor-shard marking it. )

I didn't choose to come with the Inquisition. I mean, hardly anyone with an anchor-shard did. ( sabine, she thinks, who had got hers after. ) But I was particularly—

( a little shrug. )

I was badly injured in getting it, it didn't matter that I was refusing to go. My lord put me in the carriage and I couldn't get out again on my own.

[ alexandrie is quiet, mostly. quiet and waiting for the burn of the liquor to mellow and wend its way into her head to dull the uncomfortable feeling of the world being a flat set dressing too cheap for even the stages of kirkwall. she rolls her head to rest on her shoulder in the hopes of encouraging the hum of the whiskey upwards. dryly: ]

Do we do anything on our own, truly?

[ she has always known herself to be an ornament. one of substantial and carefully curated quality, perhaps, but an ornament nevertheless. a lapel pin for one, a mask for another, perhaps now even something as active as a concealed blade, but for all her headstrong ways lexie has always felt the delicate strings trailing from her wrists, each of her movements an allowance rather than any true independence. But yet, ]

Have you found freedom here, of a sort? Even with the shard as shackle? I cannot imagine things going as well [ the arch of an eyebrow in acknowledgement of the changed value of "well" ] for you if you had remained in Orlais as they have gone here.

Alexandrie nods dumbly, visibly struggling to collect herself. Even having avoided actually being sick, her skin still crawls cold and clammy with the nearness of it.

It's a few moments before she can make herself reach for the mug, and a few more before she can do more than hold it cupped between her hands and breathe, but eventually she takes an experimental sip of what turns out to be a sort of herbal blend she can't identify but is nevertheless soothing even in the oppressive damp heat of Darktown.

"Forgive me," she says, quiet and wry, "I was not intending to become a patient."

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Page 4 of 6

OPEN | Looking Down on Empty Streets

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was anyone surprised tho

IV again fight me

that face lmf

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v.

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me always assuming they're speaking orlesian

fistbump

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