[CLOSED] AND YOU'LL KNOW THE NEXT TIME I WAKE UP SCREAMING

[illithidnapped]

WHO: Astarion, Fenris, Bastien, Emet-Selch, Mobius, Ellie, Dante, Loki
WHAT: fear spirits are no joke when you're a bag of broken glass
WHEN: backdated to Crossroads plot hours
WHERE: the Crossroads
NOTES: so many content warnings: mind control, slavery, torture, blood, mutilation and abuse of every conceivable/literal shade, possibly more warnings to be added later, not joking this is a very horrible space. There's a reason why I'm divorcing this from the main log; Astarion's canon is, in short, unkind.

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Comments

1/2

[doggish]

Yes.

[How to explain the Fog Warriors? He's offered vague details, snatches of trivia that more belong in a textbook than on his lips. A rebel group of freedom fighters that struggled for independence, and it isn't that it's untrue, but still, that doesn't encapsulate them. He stares at nothing, absently focusing on the feeling of Astarion's fingers against his own: delicate and gentle, yes, but more than that: familiar. His own fingers twitch, working gently against them, as he tries to push away the usual swell of guilt and self-loathing that always comes when he thinks of them.

But ah . . . he could do this tipsy, but why bother? Not daring to pull his hand free, he reaches with his left, plucking the bottle from between them, setting it to his lips as he drinks.

Silence, for a time, as he slowly drains the bottle and tries to remember. There's no rush right now. No pressing missions that will call them from this space, no need so great that they'll be forced to open the door and remember all that exists outside of this haven.]

They freed me and they kept me, the only outsider among their kind. I was . . . [he huffs a laugh, faint,] like a pup, really, those first few days. I stumbled around, helpless without orders to guide me, so lost that it was all I could do not to weep in vexation when I begged for them and still they refused to give them to me. But it eased. Slowly, surely, as they offered me the most minimal choices . . . where to sleep. What to eat. Encouraging me to speak my mind, if I wished, and I found I had a taste for it. When I realized that they would not punish me for being a person with my own thoughts and soul— when I found they liked when I disagreed with them, even if it was vexing to them, for at least I was saying what I thought instead of bowing to their will and whims.

Imekari, one or two of them called me. Child. I suppose I was to them.

[No, this isn't right either, although it's close. How to describe it? Sitting in a humid hut while grey paint was applied to his cheeks in slender lines, an elvish imitation of vitaar; staring fixedly at Setan five feet in front of him, stepping where he stepped, listening to his own footsteps become silent as sunlight drifted through the leaves and warmed his skin; standing in the sea, letting the water lap at his shins, as behind him voices in Qunlat sang of warriors long ago. The comfort of waking and choosing his task; the satisfaction of contributing, one part of a whole, working til exhaustion not because he had to, but because he wished to.

The joy of intimacy. Of being seen and known and wanted, not because of what he could do or what glory he could bring to others, but because of him. Desire and companionship, adoration and affection . . . their fingers slide against one another, Astarion's fingertips gliding against his palm, and Fenris exhales raggedly.]

Whatever I am, whatever I became . . . I owe it to them.

[And now finish the story. He pulls his hand away, shifting until they're no longer pressed together, thighs and hips, an unconscious action.]

I stayed with them for months. Five, I think, in total.

And then one day Danarius appeared, as easy as anything. He sailed to the shore and called me to his side, and like the loyal dog I was, I went.

[An inevitability. The fated conclusion to his little excursion. He had lived in a dream for five months, and there, now, was the waking world, come to collect. Fenris' voice is dull and deadened, but it's impossible not to hear the loathing in his voice. The rage and grief, all for a stupid boy who was too frightened to do anything but obey his master.]

He told me that I was a fool to run, and lucky that I had not encountered a worse fate than being taken in by oxmen, but that all was well now that he had found me. And when they refused to hand me over, for gold or power, he told me to kill them.

And so I did.

[Oh, what a terror. What a monster, and he was so very good at it. One after another, and oh, some tried to reason at first. Some begged him for mercy or reason, imekari please don't you don't have to, foolish things that they were. They thought him a person still, but his master was there to show them the truth. Fenris was nothing but a weapon. A dog leashed once more, his muzzle removed and his fangs bared.

The sand rusted red with blood. Bodies festering in the searing heat. In the distance, carrion birds calling, hungry for this newfound feast. And in the middle of it all: Fenris, his vitaar washed away by the blood and the sweat, rebirthed anew under his master's guiding hand.]

He praised me afterwards. Told me that I had done well. Told me that all would be forgiven.

[What a lie. What an enormous lie, and it was that which had shattered Fenris' terror and shock. He had taken a step back, and then another— Danarius' voice screaming in rage, echoing in Fenris' ears as he disappeared into the jungles of Seheron, as he raced to a port, as he stowed away on a ship heading for the mainland—

Running, always running, bile in his throat and unworthiness in his heart.]

I ran. And so we played cat-and-mouse for three years, until I crossed the border and crept into Kirkwall, where I stayed until he found me again.