#agents;

“Your skill is greater than I had been led to anticipate, healer,” Fenumin says, almost casually, rolling his freshly-mended shoulder - and Halan’s eyes dart away, finding somewhere safer to rest. But the poisonmaker’s words were not merely an observation, and Halan cannot pretend otherwise; there is a question there: Where does your skill come from? That they had shown little to no true promise in training is no great secret; that no one expects anything of note from them is an unspoken truth. And yet.They clear their throat, not yet willing to meet Fenumin’s curious green-eyed gaze, and busy themself with cleaning up. “It... it’s D-Dacien,” they explain, as though it requires no further elaboration - and so far as they are concerned, it does require no further explanation, and yet they feel Fenumin’s eyes still on them, still waiting.Halan sighs.“H... he n-needs a c-competent healer.” One better than me, but I am all he has. “The th-things he d-does... I have to b-bring him back, every t-time; the Keeper n-needs him s-still.” How often do I fear he may slip through my fingers? I grip his life with both hands and pray it will always be enough. “And he... he has always b-been k-kind to me, even in th-this.” They swallow hard, past the ache in their throat, past the shame, past the weight of the entire enclave’s doubt and pity. “He d-deserves someone b-better. He s-serves loyally, he w-walks into p-pain and torment with a s-smile, and all in the Keeper’s n-name, with only m-me to ensure he comes h-home.”A deep breath. Fenumin’s gaze remains unchanged, and Halan feels their face heating. “I, I h-have p-practice,” they conclude, finally, quietly. “I h-have... a great deal of practice.”

The assassin stretches in satisfaction, lithe muscles still gleaming with sweat; at his side, Fenumin is already sweeping his long red hair back into its tight knot atop his head, already recovered from their rough play as though it had never happened, only the bruises and bite marks remaining. As always. Mi’Enasalin eyes his lover’s slender back in silent disdain; the day will come when he shatters Fenumin’s icy control, when he leaves him in fragments in truth, when he refuses to restrain himself for Fenumin’s pleasure -“I would very nearly bet you,” the assassin murmurs, lowering his stretched arms to settle his hands - strong enough to snap your neck if I so chose, sweetling - on Fenumin’s narrow shoulders. “-that Dacien would not be half so composed once I finished with him.”It earns him half a glance over one shoulder, before Fenumin shrugs his hands away. “It seems to be of no consequence, agent.”“No?” He grins, leaning back against the pillows, smiling at the canopy overhead. “A man well-versed in receiving pain as pleasure, a plaything of the gods themselves? What I could do with such a creature...” Fenumin does not respond, and Mi’Enasalin frowns. “You might at least be jealous.”“I might,” Fenumin agrees - but his voice, dry and airy, says otherwise. “But jealousy is ill-spent on a toy you cannot play with, no matter how fine his craftsmanship may be.” He rises from the bed, retrieves his robe, and leaves Mi’Enasalin to fume in his wake.

It is hardly rare that Fenumin has an audience while he works; the infrequency with which he is actually present at the enclave makes him a subject of no little intrigue among his fellow poison-crafters. On a typical day, assuming Mi’Enasalin has not staked a monopoly on his time - per usual - he may have two, three, perhaps as many as ten eager young assassins and apprentices hovering around his table. He seldom minds. Eager eyes come attached to eager hands, and the younger generation are all so terribly eager to fetch whatever catalysts or extracts he may require.But then there is Dacien, something of an oddity.Neither a trainee nor an assassin himself, Dacien has hardly any practical cause to be here; true, his missions may on occasion call for poison, but he has no need to know what that poison is, nor how it was crafted. Yet here he is, the curious creature - Dirthamen’s plaything, Mi’Enasalin’s daydream. Perhaps, being a disciple of Dirthamen, seeking knowledge simply runs in his blood. The reason, Fenumin decides, is irrelevant. “I do, agent,” he replies, sparing Dacien a half-attentive glance as he continues adding heat to the distillation assembly arrayed before him. “Felandaris is both deadly and versatile, and is an ingredient in all but the most basic of poisons intended to kill both swiftly and painfully - yet because it is steeped in the power of the Fade, it may also be used in potions intended to strengthen spellcasting.” He gestures, and without moving from his spot, summons a twisting branch of the peculiar plant from a nearby supply cabinet. Allowing the branch to rest suspended in midair between them, Fenumin gestures toward it. “Observe: it appears to move even when harvested and left to dry. This, botanists believe, is the lasting effect of the Fade on the plant; I have often wondered if it means plants dream, if indeed the Fade may have so striking an impact.”The branch remains floating, but Fenumin casts another spell, summoning this time a black vial, gleaming like bottled ink. “This,” he says, almost proudly, “Is my personal favorite Felandaris derivative, a concoction of my own devising. Where most poisons meant for weapon application will corrode the metal if unremoved, or will lose potency rapidly upon being exposed to the elements, this eliminates both problems. I have found it to be very popular among our Keeper’s assassins as a safety measure.” And a favorite of Mi’Enasalin’s, but Dacien hardly needs to know that.“A single coat on a blade or arrowhead will cause severe pain at the site of the injury,” Fenumin continues, removing the stopper of the vial and tipping it to allow Dacien to see how thick the liquid within is. “Two coats will cause paralysis - potentially permanent, depending on the location of the injury, and possibly blindness. Three coats,” he concludes, returning the stopper. “Is death, guaranteed, within moments of the toxin entering the bloodstream.”He returns the vial to the supply cabinet, to be claimed by some assassin or other in the days to come, then returns his attention to Dacien. “I trust this has been enlightening?”

“Wh... what?” The question catches them off-guard, though perhaps it shouldn’t. Dacien has been strangely quiet, strangely close, in the way he tends to be when he’s at war with his own mind in these strange days without the gods. When a man has been shaped for one purpose by the gods themselves, what becomes of him when the gods are gone? It’s the question Dacien has been struggling to answer since the day the Veil stole Dirthamen from him, and Halan...Halan fears there are no good answers. And they feel guilty for thriving in the gods’ absence, but that is neither here nor there.“T-to me...” My life. My soul. My reason for breathing. My reason for rising in the morning. Every day for centuries. How can you even ask? “Everything, D-Dacien. Y-you’re... you’re everything.”

Trust me, Dacien says, and Halan remembers to breathe - and then forgets again when Dacien’s lips find their neck, brushing gently against their skin. Blind and tense as a bowstring, they shiver, swallowing hard against the pulse pounding in their throat. It’s not as unpleasant as they’d feared it might be. Strange, but oddly calming; an appeal, Dacien says, and Halan thinks they believe him - behind the blindfold, they cannot see how Dacien moves, cannot see when he leans in once more, only the warm burst of his breath against Halan’s neck, the silken softness of his lips, and-They shiver again, a small gasp escaping - not at all displeased, not at all unwilling when Dacien gently urges them down with him; they sense his warmth, his weight, his scent, so keenly without their eyes to gauge the particular light in his eyes, his mood, his thoughts. They know him regardless. Blind, they feel him: the curve of his arm, his shoulder. Stronger now than he was when they escaped from slavery in Tevinter. His neck, where Dirthamen used to leave his slow, steady marks, red against Dacien’s skin.Halan is not Dirthamen, nor would they ever claim to be, but they rake their nails softly against the back of their partner’s neck, slide their hand into his hair. Even with their eyes covered, they can nearly see it, always a mess, more so when Halan gets their hands deep into it and Dacien melts into their touch; blindfolded, Halan revels in how soft it is as they twist their fingers in it, shifting to pull Dacien’s lips back to their neck.“D-Dacien,” they say, their voice a touch hoarse; their other hand teases beneath Dacien’s shirt; they want to feel him, with their senses wide awake like this. “K-kiss me,” they urge, breathless when they feel his breath on their throat again. “K-kiss me again, Dacien. I’ll t-tell you… when t-to stop.”

Halan has witnessed Dirthamen’s nails for themself, when the God of Secrets removes his dark gloves to gently rest his fingertips on his agents’ heads, searching their thoughts and memories for the information they have gathered for him - Halan themself has experienced it, the shivery sensation of a god’s hands on them, a god’s presence in their mind. Dirthamen’s nails are long and sharp, yet he maneuvers his hands with such grace as to put all fear of being clawed by accident out of Halan’s mind. They might look differently upon those nails when next they face their god. Dacien’s skin is warm to the touch, perhaps a shade too warm near the scratches, but Halan judges it to be nothing worth fretting over. The scratches themselves are an angry red, fresh and bright, tracing an intimate path along Dacien’s neck, around the base of his ear, around his jaw - Dirthamen had cupped the man’s face in one hand, cradled it against his hip as he raked his nails along Dacien’s skin. Halan had hovered in the shadows nearby, of course, uninvited but not dismissed; their own reward. Of sorts. It was a slow torment: Dirthamen was a creature of infinite patience, and there were many agents returning to the enclave tonight - these scratches were the work of hours, long and slow, etching deeper and deeper. A strange reward. Yet Dacien seems beside himself with rapture, as much now as he had been then, hazy-eyed at Dirthamen’s side. Halan was never going to understand it. Best not even to try. “D-don’t worry,” they assure him, reaching for the healing ointment they use for such purposes. “I w-won’t heal them p-properly.” No magic, no quick spell to banish the scratches and erase their god’s favor. It would be blasphemy; even Halan could see as much, however much they might dislike leaving Dacien unmended. “This m-might s-s-sting,” they warn... but there’s a faint, exasperated yet amused glitter in their eye that suggests they know full well Dacien hopes it will sting. I’m never going to understand you, they lament, spreading the ointment carefully over the wounds, protecting them from infection while they healed. Slowly. And in the meantime, all the enclave would know - those who had not witnessed the display for themselves - that Dacien had been granted Dirthamen’s... peculiar favor.