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Entry tags:

ellis,
{ leo fitz }

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WHO: Fitz, Ellis
WHAT: Chores, bonding (?)
WHEN: now-ish
WHERE: Wysteria's haunted house
NOTES: currently n/a

When they'd asked Fitz to organize the library, they probably weren't expecting him to read half of the books in the process. The project's been slow-going and slowly transformed into more of an extended orientation for all things Thedas than just shifting shelves, and it hasn't exactly been a priority, but slow-going beats not at all.

Which is all to say: the library probably looks worse off than it did before they'd pawned it off. There are more books on the floor and tables than there are on the shelves, the second draft of a filing system that Wysteria had started and that Fitz only finds frustrating like, twenty-five percent of the time.

"Adventures of the Black Fox."

Fitz has carved out a spot near one of the corners, where he's claimed a chair in front of a middling-sized desk. He's got his feet up on said desk — not that rude, considering how dusty everything is anyway. He's nearly walled in by the stacks of books he's been diligently paging through and sorting, and he leans around them to make sure Ellis can hear him from where he's toiling on the other side of the room. Struggling with a lopsided shelf? Organizing stacks? Something. Fitz hasn't been paying attention.

"How much of that's actually non-fiction."

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Is he expected to pick between those two names? Ellis shoots a quick look over his shoulders, eyebrows raised, before turning his gaze back to the shelf in question. There's a low crunching noise as he tries to force it back into place.

"His mortal enemy could turn into a crow."

That's clearly all the input Ellis cares to make. No spoilers, Fitz.

"If you put it on the table by the door I'll take it with me and read it. Or you make your best guess and we trust Wysteria won't notice for a few months."

Safe bet. Then, slightly corcerned:

"The stack to your left is listing, by the way."

Fitz' brow furrows as his gaze drops back to the book, flipping another page. No crows yet, but it isn't like it'd mean anything. Shapeshifting is, mindbogglingly, not automatically fiction.

The gentle warning earns Ellis a look as the Black Fox is set aside, then he glances at the stack in question. Fitz pulls his boots off the desk, careful not to jostle the stack, and leans forward for some very confident book jenga: one hand holds the very top of the stack as he firmly tugs a weak link from its middle. There's a moment of peril as the balance abruptly tilts, and it's probably as much luck as skill that sees the stack firmly intact a second later.

The weak link is a thick book, dark leather. Ellis won't be able to glimpse the title from across the room, but he might catch the design of a griffon pressed into the front cover as Fitz flips it open.

"The First Blight," he says, which removes any mystery. A short beat, short enough to feel almost natural. His tone, similarly, is almost casual. "Suppose you don't need to read that one."

Ellis catches sight of the griffon embossed on the leather, gleaming dully beneath a layer of dust. He can anticipate the turn of the conversation, answers easily even as he takes a step back and lets the shelf thud to the floor.

"Aye, I'm familiar with the Blights."

Painfully so, though he doesn't need to expand any further. He is a Warden. Wardens are always familiar with the Blight.

There's a question behind Fitz's statement. Fitz and Tony and Wysteria are predictable in some ways. They all seek knowledge, and approach this world like a puzzle to be spread apart and pieced back together. Ellis has been lucky that their interests have settled on dwarven crafting rather than Wardens in general.

He runs a palm across the edge of the shelf with a quiet sigh.

"I'll need a hammer and nails for this," he says, more to himself than Fitz, picking up with, "There'll be four more, if she has the complete set. If that's the book I think it is, it's the first of five volumes on Blights."

"Yeah, I've read them. Thedas one-oh-one." The remark's not meant to be flippant, just filling in gaps. The copies at the Gallows had come highly recommended by the locals for getting up to speed.

"It all seems a bit—," archaic? Maybe not. Magic aside, it's not all that different from any other war or fighting force, used up and left out to dry. Then again, maybe that just means it's all archaic, not the other way around. It's a conversation Fitz quickly rethinks, and it's easy to read concern in the way the tetchy observation stops short.

There's an expectant beat as he shifts gears, looking over the open book to Ellis.

"Are there any other Wardens in Riftwatch?"

Ellis flashes a small smile, as if he can guess at something unflattering in the sudden stop. Without knowing exactly, there is no affront. Ellis lowers the shelf, then swipes at the dust coating his tunic.

"A few. Not as many as there were, I think."

Which is probably better for Ellis overall, though he isn't about to say that aloud.

"Warden von Skraedder oversees our affairs. She's mostly left me alone."

There's an implication here he can't quite place. Not that he's surprised they wouldn't have club nights, necessarily, but the phrasing. Left me alone. Being left alone isn't the same as we aren't close; it sounds like it's a good thing. When he looks back to the book, he isn't reading — his mind's elsewhere, trawling back through old book records and library records and notes he's dug up in the department.

"Have they done any work with Research?" He's not sure if Ellis would know. Addressing the Wardens as a group just feels like a safer way of addressing whatever point he's inching towards.

"Because here's the thing—" Fitz leans back into the chair again, closing the book with a soft thud. "I've read a hundred books saying they've got a leg up on Darkspawn, which may as well be a leg up on Corypheus, but absolutely none of the books say anything about how they've got it."

Ellis' reply doesn't come right away. But there is something in his demeanor that shifts, like a shuttering of windows, a latch being drawn against the wind.

"Never thought it would be as simple as training your entire force for the sole purpose of eradicating an enemy?"

It's not so simple, but it's part of it. Wardens know what they're fighting. As fractured and chaotic as they've become, there's always been the certainty of facing an enemy that they've known for thousands of years. It's in their blood. It will kill them. But it's more than that too.

"The Grey Wardens are an old, old order," Ellis says, tone softening slightly. "They've been fighting this war for a long time. There might be an answer to your question, but I'm not the right person to ask."

It's only a little bit of a lie. Ellis isn't the right person to ask, not because he doesn't know, but because he won't divulge that secret. It doesn't matter to him what's already been shared. He leans the offending shelf aside, and crosses to lift the book from Fitz's hands.

"As you might have heard from Wysteria, I'm not much of a scientist."

Fitz gives him a look that's both skeptical and patient at the first comment. It's never that simple. Or, if it were, then the order wouldn't be so obnoxiously impenetrable. The patience pays off when Ellis continues, if only sort of.

"I'm not asking you to be a scientist." Fitz lets him take the book, idly crossing his arms. There's a mild frustration behind his voice, but it's not personal; whether he suspects a lie or otherwise, he's familiar enough with red tape and hierarchies not to push. "Who is the right person to ask, then? Von Skraedder?"

While Ellis had fully pretended not to notice the look Fitz had been giving him, the mention of Teren provokes a quick, amused glance over his shoulder as he lifts a few dusty tomes from the pile in front of him.

"You could try."

A beat, then more thoughtfully:

"She might be. But I don't think she's much for talking to people she doesn't trust." Or talking to people at all. "You're that curious about Wardens?"

That's the strangeness of associating with so many rifters, the absence of indifference or revulsion in their dealings. Maybe that'll change depending on what Fitz finds out.

"Great," quickly, a little petty. "That's very helpful, thank you."

It is helpful, in that he'll have a better idea how to approach her if he makes the attempt. Better news just would've been more helpful.

"I'm curious about why an obvious resource hasn't been investigated." He knows. Red tape, sort of. Secrecy and a good dose of superstition or stigma or reverence, or some obnoxious combination of all three. He clarifies, a bit resigned: "I think that if our job's to know everything we can about Corypheus and the armies and people he's got under his influence, or had under his influence, it'd be foolish not to share notes with the Wardens."

This isn't even the first time Ellis has heard someone express this particular sentiment. Even Alistair had said as much. He'd heard it in the underpinnings of Isaac's conversation even. But still, Ellis balks at being the one to say too much.

He's failed his fellow Wardens in other ways.

"The bulk of our forces are in the Anderfels," Ellis says slowly. "And I heard there were some in Orlais, but I was traveling on my own for a long time."

And he hasn't made any effort to reconnect. Perhaps that is a mistake. He lifts a delicate, yellowing journal from the pile of books by the windowsill.

"I don't think you're wrong. But getting the kind of information you're talking about is going to be more complicated than just a conversation with me."

Fitz' thoughts play out in his expression as quickly as he processes them, a split second of begrudging defeat before he picks up what Ellis has put down. His gaze skips up, expression curious.

"You think it'd be worth speaking to the other Wardens. Outside of Rifwatch."

Ellis had said their local rep would be cagey. Higher up, then? Or more official, try to deal with them as a group. Or— less official, maybe. Off the books. There's always more than one way to deal with red tape.

Ellis says nothing for a long moment. No, he hadn't really meant to direct Fitz towards anyone other than Teren. But as Fitz posits this, Ellis thinks of the chaos in his wake, fleeing Adamant Fortress.

There are things he would like to know. It is maybe very different than what Fitz is curious about, but the lure of the opportunity is enough to pique his interest. It's a struggle to try and separate out what is selfish and what is a service to his fellow Wardens. Perhaps it is both.

"We would have to go to the Anderfels," Ellis says at last. "But there has been very little communication in and out for years now."

Side-stepping the question of what Ellis thinks is and isn't worth pursuing. Just laying out a simple fact of what they would need to do to pursue anything.

Is Fitz misreading the passive offering of information as encouragement? Subtle conspiring? Not really, honestly. The information's there and it's a lead, and he's not reading into anything past that. Ellis' intention is only as important as its impact on the research — right now, anyway, when said research is still precarious.

He does care, obviously. He'll just care more later. Until then, the practical angle:

"You're saying we. You'd help?"

Maybe that's obvious. The tense pause had said otherwise.

"I wouldn't send you to the Anderfels on your own."

Though Ellis can presume from here that if Fitz pursued this he'd attract either Wysteria or Tony's attention, so perhaps he wouldn't be going alone. It'd be all the more reason for Ellis to be there, to mitigate whatever they attempted to find out.

"You'd be better received traveling with a Warden anyway. The Anderfels holds us in high regard." A beat, before he gestures to Fitz's palm. "And that won't do you any favors. It'll have to be hidden."

Maybe Wysteria can loan Fitz some of her gloves.

The part of Fitz that is still a big baby thinks: he can handle it on his own, whateVER. The rest of him tells that part to shut up, because he'd absolutely rather not handle it on his own. Besides, Ellis is right — having a Warden around will be useful for a billion reasons, even if it's a very taciturn one. Company and back-up's never a bad thing, either.

He glances to his palm, a little surprised by the reminder. Strange that he's gotten so used to the green sliver so quickly.

"Yeah, of course. Always do when I'm out of the Gallows." This is patently not true. He's got leather gauntlets he wears, yes, but he's admittedly lazy about it around Wysteria's house and sometimes even around Kirkwall (that cat's kind out of the bag, isn't it?). They're always on outside of the city, at least.

"We should start by getting the latest on the Anderfels, even if it's not much." A tangible pause, brow furrowing as he's waylaid by an annoyingly responsible thought. "Should we loop the head of Sashamiri in? Or— I mean we haven't really got anything to discuss, yet."

"We should talk to Tony," Ellis says, decisive.

He doesn't know the man who leads Sashamiri. It's a mage, Julius, who Ellis has only seen from afar. There's nothing particularly ominous, apart from the fact that Ellis had never met him, and doesn't know what his commitments are. If they're embarking on this kind of delicate research, they might as well keep it contained as possible until the last second.

That's always worked out for Wardens, right?

"Maybe he can tap Scouting for information on the Anderfels."

Because the alternative is Ellis trying to do something delicately, and that seems like a far lower success rate.

A few things: Fitz recognizes that thought process, instantly, without having to put much thought into it. Maybe not the specifics of it — the exact whys, but he's followed that instinct to keep things contained and controlled himself.

And the second thing: he's done so without bothering to interrogate his own whys, to ask whether they're good or bad or remotely smart or justifiable. Which means when intuition sends up a red flag, tells him that maybe he should push Ellis on his motives, Fitz just casually marks it as 'read' and does none of that. He's had practice.

"Okay. Great, I'll ask Tony to get us an update."

Said with the brisk optimism of having a course of action as he leans forward, turning his focus to a small stack of books as if it's that easy to get back to work. It isn't. Fitz opens the top one, goes through the motions of reading the title, then taps restlessly on the page before glancing back to Ellis. Ellis, who he's managed to spend months working alongside with very little information to show for it, who reminds him a bit of those times he's been iced out of discussions by 'need to know' and of having friends who turned out to be spies.

He's had practice with this, too, and he doesn't sound like he's taking anything personally when he speaks up again. It's calculated, slightly curious.

"It's not going to be a problem, you coming with." No obvious lilt, but the searching tone makes it a question. "You're not the person to ask," he says, pointedly, echoing Ellis's earlier statement back, "but you're not going to get in the way of answers coming from anyone else."

For a moment, it almost seems as if they'd go back to working in companionable silence. Almost

The question isn't necessarily accusing, but Ellis doesn't know how to answer it. Is it a question? Fitz looks expectant, so Ellis offers up the most simple one he has.

"No, I'm not," he says after a moment, after he's settled three delicately bound leather volumes on the lowest shelf and straightened up.

There's a pause, before he offers, "I'm still a Warden. I can't give up their secrets, no matter what has become of us. But others might, if I'm standing beside you when you ask."

"Great," again, this time a little more comfortable. He's still not sure he gets Ellis, but that's not really the point: some things you have to take on instinct. It helps that Tony seems to trust him, helps to a lesser degree that Wysteria seems to. Also helps that Fitz can respect hardcore compartmentalization as a way of getting things done.

This time his gear shift towards the books is more settled, no more distractions. "I'll ask Tony."

[ smash cut to ]

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puts bow on this 10 years later