War

He cannot help but wonder how the others see him. Emmrich, in particular. Does he see the hints of the monster? Or only the hero that the world thinks he is? But that's all a lie. Fighting Corypheus was no altruism. Just like it was his patriotism for his home city that had led him to interrupt Solas' ritual. But Emmrich sees more than the most. Part of it unnerves him. The mention of sadness feels like pity and it needles at him. He is not someone to be pitied. He doesn't deserve it, nor does he want it. Only he knows his sins. And knows that nothing will ever be enough. Defeating Elgar'nan... is barely righting a wrong. If they can even manage it. He does not want to speak on how some days, he wonders if it is a hopeless endeavour. He more than anyone knows the power of the Evanuris... "And what happens when you solve the puzzle?" He wonders, those striking blue eyes set on Emmrich. He leans in too, but it is more of a predator's stance. It is what he knows to be. It is what protects him. "Shall you look for the next set of ancient ruins, professor?"

He has seen all of the words already in Astarion's eyes. The vampire knows well how perceptive he is. But the point of the words is to dig up from the grave the unspoken, to make it all undeniable. To figuratively flay open the chest that rests below his fingers. The worship is to flatter the fire of ego, but well, isn't that the least he deserves, for all that he has done for the other? The flicker in his eyes is like a lightning bolt, how he has wondered if Astarion would make such an offering to him... how it is not an unwelcome thought. But that it is a scenario that seems to be tangled up in some complexities. Considerations. Like a god choosing a disciple... But that red thread is tucked away for a moment when another had become more interesting to pull at. From the way Astarion can't even look at him it's quite clear he's stumbled upon a map of trauma that the other would rather not have him trespass. He watches and waits for the vampire's reaction: to trust or not. To obey. And he does. The shirt comes off, and he doesn't even need to issue the further command: Astarion knows he will want to see. It's not what he was expecting. If he thought the wounds would be random, chaotic, they are not. It is writing. The vampire tells him as much, but oh, he has the genre wrong. His hand reaches out anew, the fingertip tracing a line and following it across the top of his back. "No one writes poetry in Infernal," he says, an all too casual remark with his usual wit. Well, almost no one... he can think of a certain devil who does. Exception, not the rule. Consider him curious. It doesn't read the way it should, that its loops and turns should be logical traps rather than linguistic pitfalls. "But they do write devil's pacts." His finger makes the entire loop around the other's back. There's no chance some second-rate vampire would be able to write something he couldn't make sense of. "Except this one is cut off." He sounds lightly annoyed, like being presented a jigsaw puzzle but not being provided all of the pieces.

The gnarled not-tree that they pass by never fails to get their attention, the invisible chatter of their enemies, their gods, that they eavesdrop on. There are some nights that he sneaks out of the Lighthouse and sits at its base and he waits, listens. To a voice he has not heard in a lifetime. It hates him. It should. But it doesn't stop him from wondering, wishing. He wants to know... what the truth of his god is. Perhaps he never will. But with Emmrich by his side, its only an instinctive flick of his eyes up at it as he passes by, as if it is only momentary distraction. He offers an empathetic smile at the other's words. "I ventured little outside of Minrathous as a child. And often not much farther than my home." His father had like him home. Safe, studying. He knew of the world from pages of a book. "I've been all over with the Inquisition," he tells the other off-hand, as if being part of the organization is another scrawl on a resume. "And this is not the journey that I would have wished to give you, if I'd had a choice." Risking life and limb, for him, at the end of days. The smile recedes slightly. "There are worse things than being happy inside dusty halls." He feels like he's stolen Emmrich away from that life. His city. It was. If Solas had chosen another... would there still be a world left to fight for? It makes him selfish, he knows. But he's never pretended to be anything else. His perspective. He is a stranger to his own hometown, estranged by a millennia. "In fact, I'm more interested in seeing it from yours. What you see... feel, for a place that is new to you. The past colours it for me. I wouldn't wish to bias you."