faderift | [CLOSED] I lie so you won't have to

"Is it...that way for everyone?"

His brow is pinched a little more, his stare narrowed. The thing about Rifters— like himself— is that they could, theoretically, say anything at all they want, and no one would be any wiser. The fact that Loki's clearly a proficient wordsmith and/or liar only makes that stance all the more likely.

But then there's the idea that he's got someone here like him, in a sense. The veil, the rifts— even the planes back home all had the potential for the strangest of anomalies, as Astarion (a nobleman with exactly none studies under his belt) understands it. It's not so far-fetched, even if it is unsettling.

"Do you think there's a handsome elf in this world with...strikingly beautiful eyes and hair as brilliant as moonlight itself?"

He ponders that question, reminded of Sylvie telling him that the Hunters in the TVA were also all variants. "Probably," he admits haltingly. "I have no reason to believe it wouldn't be, and I've been to a place that is entirely comprised of variants from one world or another."

Loki fixes Asterion with a thoughtful look. "Would you feel better about it if there were? It's not like elves, here, have good lives across the board."

For that, Astarion's expression sharpens drastically. Not a sneer or a wince, only a potent sort of hardening. The kind of look that says exactly what Astarion won't.

But then again, it's Astarion, and so the rest comes tumbling out anyway not even a beat later:

"Whatever his theoretical life might've been, I can assure you, I was the one who had it worse."

His look withers, there. His gaze slithering away back towards the road, sinking slightly in his seat. This isn't what they're supposed to be talking about, and he knows it.

"Forget all that, though. Tell me about your Altus. The more you can divulge, the better: I don't want to have any missteps while we're in there flitting about making frenemies."

Up go the eyebrows as Astarion refocuses on the road before them; he wonders if Asterion is right, or merely lacking in the shift in imagination crossed with compassion it takes to imagine someone in a worse situation when one's own situation was clearly bad enough. He knows he didn't, before, but meeting Sylvie and learning her story changed that for him. For better or worse, that.

Despite all the horrid things he's been dealt, he does think that her situation was the worse of the lot.

But, the topic shifts and Loki sees no reason not to allow it, especially as Asterion has a good point. "Younger son of Frigga and Odin d'Asgard. Older brother's name is Thor, both are mages, his mother is dead by an assassin's hand several, and his father is distant. He's married to an Orlesian, which caused some ripples within Tevene society, including the aforementioned assassination. He's kept slaves his entire life, so your presence shouldn't be much of a surprise if they know anything about him."

"And now, if anyone asks, I'm sure he's feeling more than a touch homesick." Astarion tacks on helpfully, back to studying the man's sharp-set features more carefully— measuring them as if he himself might somehow be able to tell the difference between a d'Asgard and a Laufeyson.

He can't, of course, and gives up a moment later, smile easing slowly back onto his face.

The road ahead is long. He passes the time in decent spirits: quick to make up games of all sorts, to fill in with easing banter about the peculiarities of Thedas, the map of the sky overhead and how he knows a scant few constellations. There are worse companions to have on the road, in truth. Of course, by the time they reach Wycome he's long since tired. By the time they reach their given room in a startlingly scenic inn by the water he's utterly exhausted.

By the time he throws his pack atop a full mattress, he—

"Gods be damned, they couldn't have rented a carriage for such a long trip? If I have to ride that mule home I'm not going home." He all but collapses, sprawled face-first over silken sheets, fingers knitting in it as he exhales a breath for the ages.

"I don't know how people do this all day."

Loki is mid-boot removal, sitting on the edge of the bed at the opposite end from Asterion's theatrics when the blond collapses face-first onto the bedding. He gives a little chuckle and finishes untying the laces halfway so he can toe his feet out from the leather with a sigh and a stretch of his long limbs.

"It's called suffering," Loki says matter-of-factly, before reaching his arms above his head and stretching that way too. "Alternatively, 'we're too busy worrying about demon possession to learn how to use magic for anything other than blowing holes in shit'." His whole spine feels compressed, and for a moment he vaguely considers shifting into a snake just to feel something other than bone-tired, but he can't be sure of how Asterion might respond, so.

Into the back pocket, that idea goes. "It could be worse. We could be walking." He knows, realistically, that fetching a carriage would incur too high a cost and too easily a paper trail back to Riftwatch but he is considering it for the rest of their travel. He'll have to ask, in the morning, and see if any of the prices are anything other than straight-up highway robbery, as he expects they will be.

As of right now, Astarion— face buried deeply in bedding— can't see shit all regardless, so his opinion of just about everything ranks the same.

He exhales low, scrubbing his cheek across silk. The aches lingering in his muscles are beginning to throb for their trouble. Even so, Loki's somewhat disparaging commentary in regards to Riftwatch earns a muffled laugh all the same.

That said, he's not making space. He's not budging at all, in fact.

"If we win enough gold from this, I'm confessing right now I'll be tempted to defect if it means keeping every last wretched coin and not having to cart my way back to the dust-laden ash pit known as Kirkwall."

Loki's response to Asterion's threat to defect is merely a hum of consideration; now that his boots are off he's standing again, placing socked feet on the carpet in the middle of the floor before going to splash some water from the basin across the room on his face and divest himself of his sweat-sticky shirt with a grimace. Eugh.

He wants a bath. He wants to sleep more than that, but Asterion is quite spread out and Loki doubts he'll rearrange himself without some fuss. Loki wouldn't, and there's no reason to expect better behavior from the other man.

So he puts his water in the basin and flicks his damp fingers in the vague direction of Asterion's face and shoulder. "Move over, we have to share this bed, remember?"

"Ahh— hhss—" He hisses without meaning to, head jerking away from that sprinkling of water on instinct, long fangs bared bright in the darkness as he waits for the inevitable burn to settle into his skin—

As he—

...Ah. Right. No more weakness to that. Relief gives way to irritation, chin lifting in mock-dignity as he lifts a hand to wipe softly at his own skin.

"Oh very funny." Somewhere in his mind, he's making a note to pay this forward. Just you wait, Loki.

"Besides, I was operating under the assumption you'd simply take the lounger, like a true gentleman."

Well that's a fascinating response, isn't it? Loki peers at Asterion with stark curiosity. What was that about? He'd love to know.

"I thought so." Raised eyebrows as he comes back towards the bed. The lounger? Loki is over six feet tall, he's not going to sleep in a chair, not after being on a horse forever. "I've been clearly rather misrepresented if you think for a moment I am going to sleep in that. Shove over."

"Fine."

It's huffed, albeit toothlessly: Loki's a striking creature, all things considered. There are worse partners to have to share a bed with— and now that he's done being doused in residual droplets of cast-off water, he's certainly not so blind that he doesn't notice the man's only half-dressed: changed, it seems, while he wasn't looking.

Sometimes, very infrequently, the universe is merciful.

Still, Loki demands, Astarion concedes. Scooting to the edge of one side, he drags his pack with him, apparently granted enough of a second wind that he's capable of pulling at buckles and straps, untethering the leather of that bundle and beginning the process of sorting finery from sleepwear. It's not a shy process, they're not giggling adolescents aside from their own childish senses of humor: the only time Astarion decisively angles his back away from Loki is when he tugs on a thin, loose blouse over his otherwise shirtless form. Something to mask the scarring at his back.

They're not there yet. Maybe another night.

The rest's set aside for later. And hair brushed, jagged teeth cleaned, he slips into bed properly at last, exhaling again for the trouble with no small amount of exaggeration.

And then, in what should be silence:

"You said he was married, by the way."

Loki, for his part, is reminded that he probably doesn't want to sleep in the pants he rode all day in and thus has to rummage through his own pack for a pair of softer pants to change in to, which he does before sitting down on the bed without shame or hesitation. He's also not wearing underwear, so enjoy that, Asterion.

He notes the shirt, the change in position, and determines that another story lies there but not one he's going to press tonight. He's too tired to be properly nosy.

Asterion gets between the sheets and Loki follows to do the same, extinguishing any lamps left lit in the room before doing so. He rolls his eyes at Asterion's sighing but it's more of an amused annoyance than anything; Loki's more than glad to not be vertical any longer.

He's laying on his back, one hand behind his head, when Asterion speaks up. In the dark, he frowns. "Is this a question of spouses or tenses?" Is the important thing that Loki said 'was' as opposed to 'is'? Or is Asterion asking who d'Asgard is married to?

"I imagine if you're going to pretend to be him, tense isn't something I need to worry about." Or to be curious about, for that matter. If the man's vanished, bled to death, eloped or gone missing— well, the only way it'll matter to Astarion is if Loki d'Asgard comes waltzing into the casino when they're there.

"I'm just curious if you've met his spouse. Former spouse? Whichever."

"A good point."

Instead of sighing, Loki sucks his teeth a little. Asterion would ask that, and he wonders if he's being honest, but the one time that it was aired out in public, as it were, was also a time in which Asterion loudly flounced from the conversation over the crystals. So there's a good chance he doesn't know, and is honestly inquiring.

"I know her well."

"Well."

Well is something, isn't it? Not just met, not just familiar with, but he knows her well. The implication's written on the wall. He resembles her absent love, he— a Rifter— somehow has funds of his own, and he—

Astarion stops there. Thinks back on the twinge of familiarity lurking even in his own exhausted mind. D'Asgard. And while some names are startlingly common, while he might absolutely be mistaken, he rolls onto his side with a sudden intake of breath:

"Is it Lady Alexandrie?"

The noise Loki makes is neither confirmation nor denial, just... a sound, but it is indicative that he's heard the implication in that one word and isn't arguing with it directly.

It says a lot, that noise on the exhale. It doesn't say everything, however.

What does is probably Loki's also turning on his side to face Asterion with a frown. "Why, what did you do?"

So, yes.

"What did I—" He balks at the accusation, even in the dark, sharing the same bed like a pair of indulged children having some sort of sleepover. Next comes the part where they braid each others' hair.

Or it would, if Astarion weren't so affronted.

"I didn't do anything at all! Why, we were fast friends, the dear Lady and myself. Musically inclined, in fact— but nothing more, if that's your fear. Cross my dear, frigid little heart."

Friends might be stretching it, considering the f-word means about as much to him as spun sugar in a rainstorm, but there's no denying the fact that he uses it liberally when referring to anyone he finds even vaguely useful.

"That is not —" He snorts, softly, an indication of how little he were to care if Asterion had slept with Alexandrie, but that wasn't what he'd been asking after. "She didn't seem terribly fond when I mentioned you at dinner before we left Kirkwall, is all," but it's entirely possible Asterion has severely misstepped with her and is simply unaware of it.

Easily done for people like them, or so firsthand experience has taught him.

Also, he doubts they're friends of any stretch of the imagination. But. Not important.

"She...what?"

Defensiveness turns to disbelief, scrawled clear across the sharp lines of his face, catlike eyes gone wide in the dark. And then, just as quickly—

"Nonsense. You were probably just imagining things. Or you didn't hear her right."

Which, naturally, were Astarion completely assured of his own innocence in everything, would be the absolute end of it. Instead, the inhale that follows is audible, and sharp— his voice uniquely quiet.

"...what did she say, exactly?"

"Very little, honestly. The topic shifted in a moment, and she only expressed a degree of distaste at your name and then a level of concern after my well-being on this trip." But. He knows what he understood to be her dismay to also be true.

He knows her well, after all.

Loki narrows his eyes at his companion in the dark.

"So I'll ask again: what did you do, Asterion?"

His scoff is harsher this time, puncuated by an almost ragged exhale. The joke's worn off. This isn't funny anymore.

"I haven't done a damn thing. I haven't gone near the woman since the first time we met— "

Concern. Concern. The word knifes its way through him, like little pinpricks running just up his spine. Like bristling fur. What does she know? What does she think of him? Where did she get it from?

Bastien? Had he blabbed about—

"I don't know what it is she's so upset about but I mind my own business, darling, and I have right from the start." Bitterly, his shoulder sinks to the mattress, chased by his back. Covers tugged almost comically high when he rolls over to face away from Loki instead.

"Go to sleep. We've work to do, in case you've forgotten."

Edited 2021-09-19 01:40 (UTC)

Believing Asterion is easy; he's so clearly agitated by the idea that Alexandrie doesn't like him that Loki doesn't think he's lying about it. Still. She must have had some reason, even if as Asterion protests he's done nothing to Alexandrie directly.

He considers it as Asterion turns over, clearly prepared to ignore him. She has deep ties to Riftwatch and its people, so it could simply be a matter of someone else he's managed to slight boiling over into Alexandrie's regard.

That's how it is, when people have ties, friendships, family in a place.

"She is my business," he informs the darkness of the room, slightly amused at Asterion's hurt feelings, but his words are as much truth as they are disliking not having the last word. "Goodnight, then."

He isn’t the most pleasant partner to share a bed with. Loki may have wanted that lounger after all: the man talks in his sleep, whines in his sleep, snores faintly and thrashes (intermittently) like a man drowning—

Morning comes. Astarion sleeps in. Maybe, in a sense, to make up for a night of restless slumber.

They've the entire day to prepare for what's ahead of them. Put their ear to the wind, pick up information, familiarity, lines of contact— potentially even scouting out the city in advance. Whatever Loki decides, it's clear enough that Astarion isn't going to rise any time before noon...ish.

Loki doesn't sleep well most nights to begin with, and he doesn't sleep well with strangers in the bed beyond that; Asterion sounds and smells and the presence of his body on the other side of the mattress feels very differently from what Loki's grown used to, so there's a good chance he'd not have gotten much sleep even without the snoring, the talking, the moving about.

Morning comes. Loki gets up, cleans himself up a bit, and wanders off to find food, news, and gossip to start his day. Also coffee, which has grown very expensive with the war growing closer, but he has the coin to spend so why not make a few very subtle waves with a Tevene accent and the means to buy coffee for more than one person. It's half past noon by the time he's had enough of Asterion's laying about, and sets the coffee on the bedside table before shaking the other man's shoulder gently.

"Up with you, come on. I've brought food."

His response is— it’s poor. A snarl at touch, a snort at the flood of consciousness as it comes rolling in, and if Loki isn’t careful Astarion jolts upright fast enough to likely knock into the man responsible for rousing him.

Either way, he blearily clears his throat. Squints.

“You....what?”

Where is—

“Oh. Yes. Right.” Wycome, he thinks to himself, shrugging off the blur of memories from a day of travel mixing with a full night of half-formed haunts. Two slender fingers work against the bridge of his nose on either side. He exhales slowly.

“What time is it?”

He can smell food. The faint tang of acrid sea salt. The overly distinct traces of sunlight heating stone. Loki himself. Sharp senses.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject