am I free now, am I at peace?

[rowancrowned]

WHO: Thranduil, Casimir
WHAT: Arranging an escape.
WHEN: mid-Eluviesta/Cloudreach
WHERE: Provost's Office
NOTES: Discussions of Tranquility.

He calls Casimir into his office late on a rainy afternoon. It ought not to be out of the ordinary—Casimir has been here a half-hundred times or more, though less frequently now that he is once more himself.

The afternoon’s heat had dropped off in the wake of the storm, so there’s a chill in the stone but a fireplace swept clean of ashes, and where Thranduil is known to ply with sweets, extra rations, finer wines, there is nothing today. Just Thranduil himself, lingering near the window, the curtain half drawn back as he peers at the harbor.

“Close the door,” he says. “I will be brief.”

Comments

[aestivation]

He follows the look, to that hazy place where sky and water meet, and --

He doesn't like it.

"You expect trouble." Casimir has been bracing for it with every step that doesn't carry him from this tower, for the sea and streets beyond. Perilously wide. "From Skyhold?"

From the Chantry, he means, and does not say.

[rowancrowned]

“I fear it,” he admits, in the hesitating tone of someone who doesn’t like having fears. He can’t anticipate. He’s never lived in a Thedas with a Divine. There’s one (two, but more like one) candidate who he thinks might possibly leave well enough alone, but if things are bad enough to come after Casimir—branded Casimir—he’ll start itching about elves and Rifters, and… best not.

“It may not be rational,” he amends. “But I fear it.”

[aestivation]

Thumb grips against palm, presses hard. It's not enough to smother the half-laugh that pushes out past his lips, forced by reluctance into something closer to a cough. Unkind.

"I," He's not that sorry. The shake of his chin; dismissive of itself. "I hoped you could tell me."

Whether it was rational. At least that levels this conversation, however little; however strange they both must find it, to speak between equals. To imagine Thranduil vulnerable is nearly foreign as the world outside. Still. He's always been here for a purpose.

The facts:

"The knowledge of it is, ah. It is more valuable than me." You can fake a brand. "This would make me an acceptable trade to some."

Placation. There are enough pragmatists in the Inquisition to stomach it; say nothing of those with truer concerns. (What do you believe, Kitty had asked —)

"Kirkwall resisting could bring," A gesture. Can't find the word. "It would be a risk."

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil wants wine—or rather, wants the ritual of going to get it, of moving through his office. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even sit. The wall by the window is support enough. He takes no offence at the laugh.

“The knowledge could be—” he gestures. “—spread. Forgive me my cowardice, but I do not want to bring that down on us right now. Even anonymously, they might assume.”

There are other, more valuable bodies in Kirkwall. He would have given Anders to the Templars during the negotiations in a moment if he 1) could have or 2) thought it might have bought them more.

“If they did not know where you were…” He doesn’t have enough leverage with the Dalish to send Casimir off to one of them. Orzammar might take him on his own merit, no letters of introduction. “You want to live. You could. It would be a hard life, but it would be life.”

[aestivation]

The assumption would be foregone:

"There are not so many Tranquil in the Gallows."

Not any longer. Unspoken, between them, there are not so many Tranquil at all. A hard life is one that might still end with his skull on a spit.

It isn't an objection. You begin by finding the obvious holes, the cracks a lever might be pried through, but there have never been good answers for this. A few months' reprieve was more than anyone could have expected — if it makes the present conversation easier, it's also underlined the necessity.

"I am Nevarran," No one's about to forget that, Dracula. "It was done in the Marches. Some might be sympathetic of this. But a harder life,"

A harder sell. He'd sooner vanish than step any further into that light. "Than, ah, than I think you have in mind."

He's listening.

[rowancrowned]

He shrugs.

“I have never been on the run.” An easy admittance. “I fled a burning kingdom twice, when I was young, but both times there was a destination in mind. Thedas is—less kind.”

Thranduil closes his eyes briefly.

“You could go south. I believe I know of an Avaar hold who might-- might keep you.” The face paint might even hide the sunburst. “There are the dwarves, but I can offer no assistance. I can help you leave Kirkwall, and provide enough funds that you might keep yourself fed.”

He shakes his head. There are other complications—again, the brand.

[aestivation]

The idea tastes dry, or maybe that's only his mouth, void of counterpoint.

"The Inquisition has contacts in Orzammar," He's written to a few; hasn't since — well. "It would be natural to look."

Second only to his sister (Maker keep her from that news). The words sound distant the further he speaks them; not yet far enough. Eyes shut, hidden by the pinch of his nose. All the will in the world can't flatten them back to emptiness, that smooth, hollow before.

An Avvar hold. Ludicrous.

"I've never," Something burns beneath his eyes. His hand flattens over them: No thank you. We aren't doing that right now. "I have lived in a Circle for twenty years."

Twenty-five. Forget the brand, he can't pass for else than a mage.