Black Out Days (Closed RP)

[burning_manifesto]

Speak in tongues

I don't even recognize your face

Mirror on the wall

Tell me all the ways to stay away

 

 

 

There’s a quick, panicked moment when Anders first wakes when he thinks he might be in solitary confinement again. His surroundings are dark, cold, and far, far too quiet. He can practically hear his pulse pounding in his ears as he sits up, panting, eyes darting around the room.

No. Not again. They couldn’t have, not without waking him, and he hasn’t even done anything to deserve that again, he’s told no one his plans-

But as he calls fire to his fingertips, it becomes apparent that Anders isn’t in a room at all. He’s never seen the inside of a cave himself, but he reads. He knows what it probably looks like. The walls are damp and there’s a chill in the air that has already worked its way down into his bones. There appears to a torch on the ground a few feet away, its flame extinguished. Anders can’t see much farther than that with the small flame in his palm.

His panic begins to subside, but confusion rises up to fill the void. Is this somewhere below the tower? How did he get here? Was this some sort of waking dream, the Fade, or…

Anders’s thoughts grind to a halt when he looks down and sees another person laying motionless beside him in the dark. Though he has often fantasized about what it would be like to wake up beside someone one day, he has never once anticipated that it would be like this. In his fantasies, there was usually a bed. And less clothes. And also, the other person didn’t look like they might be dead.

Maker, he hopes the boy isn’t dead.

Anders hesitates just a moment before reaching out to shake the young man’s shoulder- gently at first, then more roughly when he doesn’t immediately stir.

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[chains_of_freedom]

He’s dreaming. It’s the same one as always. He’s slashing down foe after foe, the appraising eyes of his master gleaming down at him. He’s panting from the exertion, sweat dripping from his every pore on his body. Master claps after every downed competitor, and he can’t help but preen just a little.

He’s proud. For the first time in his life, he’s proud of himself.

But the dream changes then. Instead of pulling out the victory and freeing his mother and sister, he feels the cold slide of steel pierce his chest. He feels a presence behind him, but he can’t turn. His body is stunned to stillness.

The last thing Leto sees before he wakes up are a pair of forest green eyes on a man who looks familiar in all the wrong ways. They are staring him down from where his master had sat just moments before.

Disappointment is riddled in them.

He gasps awake, scrambling instinctively away from the touch of whoever is beside him. His hands feel the cold, damp stone he’d been laying on. He can smell…dirt, but not like the loose soil in master’s garden. This is all rock, and he can hear dripping water not too far away.

He blinks his eyes open, and he has to squint them until they adjust to the light— And when his eyes land on the source of said light, he freezes.

Mage.

He doesn’t know where he is, where his master is, or who this stranger is, but it takes all of his effort to remain still.

Was this a sort of punishment? Another trial? Surely Danarius wouldn’t have abandoned him so close to the tournament…?

He pushes himself up onto his knees, eyes averted to the ground, and he says nothing.

[burning_manifesto]

Anders almost falls backwards as he pulls away from the stranger, his own eyes wide. The man had gone from still-as-death to a flurry of panicked movement, and then… nothing. Anders stares, waiting for the strange elf to say something. Anything.

As the seconds tick by, it becomes apparent that Anders will have to be the one to break the silence.

“That’s certainly one way to wake up,” he quips, one eyebrow raised. He feels a bit more at ease now that he knows he shares the room with a living, breathing person, even if that person seems terrified of him for some unknown reason. Maybe it’s just the “waking up in a cave” thing. If Anders hadn’t been so relieved not to be in solitary again, he’d likely be panicking a bit more himself.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where we are?” he asks, hand held high to illuminate as much of the room as he can with the single light. It doesn’t help much, but he can at least get a better look at the elf. Maybe it’s the pose, but he appears younger than Anders, who is in his early twenties himself.

“Or how we got here?” he continues. “Because I don’t know about you, but I don’t remember wandering off into a cave for a nap.”

[chains_of_freedom]

Leto winces as he hears the man stumble, but it doesn’t make him speak up. He simply sits on his knees, his mind running a mile a minute.

Where are they? Where is Master? Why is this mage here? Why does his body feel so heavy? The light from the palm-fire glints against the gauntlets on his hands, and he frowns, opening and closing them.

This isn’t his armor. It feels too big and too…sharp, for lack of a better term. Although his body is well toned, he’s slim enough that the form fitting leather doesn’t quite fit him correctly. His posture makes him look young, but there is something time-worn about his expression. Still, he doesn’t look older than 18 or 19. His long raven braid appears to be caught in feathers on his right pauldron. The way copper plates are seamlessly attached to iron for the chest piece looks…almost opulent. For a slave, anyway.

And then he freezes, unable to stop himself from lifting a hand to his neck.

His collar is gone.

His heartbeat is suddenly loud in his ears as anxiety thrums through his body. No, no, no what did he do that was so terrible that Master would remove his collar? Only after he’d done something dreadfully disobedient would his collar get removed. It’s a game—a test—a reminder of how easy it would be for Master to leave him and strip away the only chance he has at fulfilling his purpose. Saving his mother and sister is everything. He can’t do that without Danarius.

He has to get back. And to do that, he has to figure out just what is going on.

What he knows so far is that this mage is not from Tevinter, if his accent is anything to go by… He clears his throat, lifting his head just enough to gaze at the man’s neck. Still downcast, but not like before. When he speaks, his voice grates like gravel. But beneath that sign of disuse, there is a deep, baritone quality to it.

“My apologies. I…do not know where this is. Nor how we got here.” There is a small pause, as if he’s considering the risk of continuing. “I…am not even sure whose armor this is…that I’m wearing…” He trails off, looking off to the side.

[burning_manifesto]

This is quickly shaping up to be the weirdest conversation Anders has ever had. Who just woke up in another person’s clothes? And adding to the strange quality of this whole encounter is how the elf won’t even meet Anders’s eyes.

“What do you mean, you don’t know…” Anders looks away from the elf’s armor down to his own robes at a whim.

“… oh.”

They’re not his either.

Anders runs a hand down over the cloth, fingers catching on a large metal hoop. He’s never worn anything like this before. The clothes would have been rather nice, even, had they not been so dirty. And a little too tight, come to think of it, as if they were just over half a size too small for him.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” he asks wonderingly, checking his pockets. There’s an elfroot potion in the one and a few stray mushrooms and flowers in the other. Ingredients for a potion, perhaps. “This isn’t mine either.” He shakes his hand and lets a few stray bits of leaf drift off of it.

“Right. Well then. Two strangers, stuck in a cave in someone else’s clothes… sounds like the start of a bad joke. And I should know, since I excel at those.”

Anders finally tries standing and finds it not entirely difficult, after a short period of dizziness. He makes his way to the fallen torch, lights the end of it with his own flame, then lets his spell peter out. Better to save mana.

“Are you injured?” Anders watches his companion, unable to keep the curiosity out of his gaze. Neither of them know the reason yet, but there must be some explanation for why the two of them are here. “And where are you from? You’re not a mage, are you?” The questions come one after the other.

[chains_of_freedom]

Leto watches the mage fiddle with what’s in his pockets, not recognizing most of the plants in the dim lighting except elfroot. That’s common enough. Curiosity makes him search his own person for any items. On his belt, there is a pouch with a few stamina draughts and what appears to be a small bag of coin. If he wasn’t so shocked by all of this, he’d probably laugh. A slave with coin in his pocket? He’s starting to think this is all just an elaborate dream. He’ll wake up, perhaps on the overly soft carpet of Danarius’s bedroom floor, and start his morning chores. Then his training regimen. Preparations for dinner…

Leto can’t recall the last time he was idle for this long, and it’s becoming a bit uncomfortable.

On the other hand, this man appears to be handling things pretty well. His matter-of-fact tone and how he brushes this strangeness off with humor puts a bit of ease into Leto. But when he douses the light in his palm, that relief is doubled. Green eyes watch the flame go out just briefly before averting once more. He feels a wave of tension come off of him, and though he tries, it’s difficult to hide how his shoulders relax a bit.

He remains seated on his knees, though. He hasn’t yet been told to stand. He hasn’t yet been told to do anything, in fact.

“I….don’t feel injured,” he begins, glancing over his body and experimentally moving his limbs one by one. “Just muscle soreness…from training.” He clears his throat, glancing around the room. The light from the torch reflects off a blade not too far away near a boulder. A greatsword, it looks like. But it doesn’t resemble the one he’s used to. It looks better. He doesn’t make a move for it. Instead, he looks up at the mage—not directly. He scans the man’s clothes in the new light, seeing how dirty they are.

Magisters would never be caught dead in such rags, he thinks. But as soon as the thought comes, shame wells up inside him, and he looks back down at the ground.

This is still a mage. That puts him leagues above Leto.

He answers the other questions quickly, hoping his delay between answers wasn’t too long.

“I’m…from Tevinter. That’s where I had been yesterday, at any rate. And I am not a mage. I…” He hesitates, but then figures it is pointless to hide. If he is here, surely it is by Master’s whim in one way or another. Best to give a proper greeting, even if it sounds a bit rehearsed. “My name is Leto. I serve Magister Danarius of Minrathous. It is a pleasure to meet you…?” It’s only bravery that drives him to turn the last statement into a question. Usually, he would know the person’s name long before any introduction. But these circumstances are unique. He still gives a practiced bow, dipping down to where his forehead is only inches from the floor. And he holds it there, waiting to be told to rise.

[burning_manifesto]

"Tevinter?"

Anders's eyebrows shoot skyward, though it's not just the mention of Tevinter that prompts it. Ultimately, it's the bow that Anders focuses on most, since it's actively happening and it feels downright smarmy to let the elf remain kneeling there like... like some kind of servant.

Or, well. Not like a servant, Anders notes with a prickle of unease. More like a slave. Isn't that what elves are in the Imperium? They'd been taught all the various evils of Tevinter in the Circle, after all. It was a lesson in how magic could corrupt a society.

"You don't have to do that," he insists as he steps forward, closing the distance between them and extending a hand. "My name is Anders, and it would be much more pleasant to meet you if you weren't kneeling. I'm not a Magister." He almost laughs on the last word, though there's a bit of a shaky sort of edge to his voice when he says it. This is all incredibly wrong, the two of them being here: a Tevinter slave and a Circle mage, neither of them where they should be and neither of them knowing why. Anders forcibly swallows down the urge to keep laughing, knowing he would sound downright mad if he let it slip out.

"Please," he insists again with a little shake of his hand. "Get up off the ground."

[chains_of_freedom]

Leto doesn’t know what to think. This man, Anders, certainly doesn’t look or sound like a Magister. And the warrior can’t ignore the faint tremble in his voice, as if he’s truly found himself out of his depth. Has he never seen a slave before? The very idea that Anders could be from a place where such introductions are not expected—where elves could even be free…

It’s terrifying.

His mother used to tell him stories of elves that broke away from bondage, found a new purpose for themselves in Seheron or Par Vollen. But if he ever experienced it, he was too young to remember now. The small part of him that yearned for that life died the day he decided to fight in the Tourney.

So here Leto sits, not knowing what to trust. He’s had plenty of people tell him what he does or doesn’t have to do, but he knows what Master would expect. And he knows the punishment for doing anything else. Regardless of this mage’s knowledge of Tevinter customs or background, it doesn’t change the fact that they don’t know where they are. They could walk out of this cave, and Master could be waiting. He aches for it even as his stomach roils with nausea.

It isn’t until he’s told to get up off the ground that his mind settles. His discomfort fades, for the moment anyway. He nods once and stands as directed, looking at the still-outstretched hand with owlish green eyes. He reaches out and shakes it once, though the action is awkward with the bulky gauntlet he is wearing. As he pulls away, he clears his throat.

“Forgive me for assuming. This is all very strange. If…you would permit it, I can make use of that sword.” He gestures to the blade he spotted earlier. “It may be best to…leave this cave… And there could be dangers.” Leto just really wants to know where they are. He wants to know what, or who, is out there before his anxiety swallows him whole.

[burning_manifesto]

As Anders watches Leto watch him, and as the elf finally reaches for his hand, he can’t help but be reminded of the first time he’d managed to coax a kitten out of hiding and into his open palm. He has no idea what had happened to that kitten before they met, just as he has no idea what has happened to Leto; but they both share an almost shell-shocked, wary look that is eerily similar.

“Getting out of this cave is as good of a goal as any,” he muses, eyeing the sword with a dubious air.

“And it’s fine with me if you want to take that along, but… you’re sure you can lift it? It’s just about as large as you are.” He can’t help but smirk. “Perhaps the original owner was trying to compensate for something.” Anders has seen it in the Circle: Templars who think the size of their sword is directly related to their… other virtues. Mostly it just makes them slow and clumsy, which Anders takes no lack of amusement in. There were times when certain Templars would walk by, and he and Karl would have to do their best to swallow back their laughter until the sound of clanking metal armor faded away.

Karl… Anders goes still for a moment when the realization hits him. If he truly is free, then… then there possibilities, aren’t there? Anders tries not to let his sudden rush of adrenaline overtake him completely. He can’t get ahead of himself, not now. Doing that is a surefire way to get caught. He has to be slow this time. Careful. If he is truly free, he can’t let them catch him again. They’ll surely kill him… or worse, brand him. He would rather die then feel the Tranquil mark burned into his skin.

“There could be other things in here we can use before we leave,” Anders notes, voice deceptively steady considering the way his pulse is tripping over itself. “We should take a look before we go.”

[chains_of_freedom]

Leto can’t help narrowing his eyes at Anders’ comment. He may be a slave, but he isn’t without pride in the work he does. When he cleans, a room is left immaculate. When he aids in the kitchen, the meals are fit for magisterium guests. Above all, when he brandishes a blade, it is with expert precision and skill. How he wields a sword makes the eyes of his Master (and all onlookers, for that matter) gleam with approval and want. And oh, how Leto craves it: the validation--and the boon that will come from triumphing in the tourney.

He steps carefully with rogue-like quiet over to the blade, examining it as best he can in the low light. He kneels, not so subordinately this time and more like he is trying to get a better look. Without thinking, he reaches out to run his fingertips over the edge of the blade to test for sharpness. The scrape of metal on metal clangs out against the damp cave walls, and he grimaces. Damned gauntlets. Still, he thinks it best to keep them on.

That turns out to be a wise decision. He grasps the hilt of the weapon and is shocked at how well it fits into his armored hand. Does this belong to the same person these clothes do? Leto purses his lips, hesitating. None of these things belong to him… Will he be punished for having them?

Anders’ voice brings him back, talking about other things they can use—before leaving. That’s right. He has to get out of this place, and doing so naked and weaponless would be extremely unwise. Anything could be lurking out there. So he grips the blade with both hands and stands up, gracefully. No signs of struggle with the weight of a two-handed greatsword show on his face.

And perhaps he shoots Anders a look—one that causes his torch-lit green eyes to meet the mage’s for the first time. Perhaps there is a bit of confidence and, dare say, swagger in his gaze. Or perhaps it’s just dark, and the light is playing tricks. Either way, the moment is lost as Leto lifts the sword to his shoulder and gazes around the room. His eyes land on a staff, and he swallows thickly, eyes going blank.

“There is a staff there. Looks…useable,” He notes. He wants to settle, going nowhere near that thing, but he can hear his Master’s voice in his head as clear as day: ’Well? Bring it here.’ It propels him into action, and he strides over to pick the staff up off the ground with his free hand. As he hands it to Anders, any sign that someone confident and strong was beneath all those layers of conditioning has all but disappeared. His eyes are averted once more, and his head is slightly bowed.

[burning_manifesto]

The change is so stark that Anders thinks he must be seeing things momentarily. He blinks, and suddenly Leto is different. And when the sight doesn’t vanish after Anders blinks again, he finds himself swallowing a little harder than usual. The other man didn’t look the part of a beaten slave any longer. That look… it suits him so much better than the subservient nervousness had.

Between that and the casual display of strength, one thing becomes clear: Leto could possibly be a very dangerous man, in more than one way.

But it doesn’t last long, and Anders feels a little bit of whiplash after the fact as Leto offers him the staff with his eyes cast down once again. “Thank you,” he says as he takes it, eyes lingering curiously on his companion before he turns his attention to their newest find.

It’s not an intricate weapon, but it’s surprisingly well-made despite all the signs of use that mar the wood. Anders looks it over before tilting it from side to side. He’d switch it between hands if he hadn’t been carrying the torch. It’s a little hard to tell so early on, but it feels perfectly balanced. He’s never had a chance to have his own staff before, but if he had, he imagines it might have felt like this: light and responsive to the particular movement of his hands.

“Well, seems like we’ve both gotten lucky. Best not to push that, in my experience.” With his luck, they’d stumble upon a trap next. “Shall we?” He tilts his head towards the closest exit. “This is my first time in a cave, and I can’t say I’m particularly enjoying it.”

[chains_of_freedom]

Leto nods but says nothing as he stalks toward the exit. His movements speak of stealth training, but some steps are clumsy in the new armor. He curses under his breath in Tevene each time the end of his gauntlet scrapes the cave wall. There are needless points on the ends of his fingertips as if the previous owner was using their hands as weapons. Bare arms certainly seem like a design flaw. But all in all, as he moves, he finds that the armor isn’t so much a hindrance as he’d thought. There is more leather than plate, and it’s formfitting and breathable—if a little big. He’s soon used to it with no trouble at all.

One of his ears twitches as he catches some sound from the end of the exit where light is just peeking through from around an outcropping of stone.

“Seems we’re going the right way,” he murmurs under his breath. “But I hear movement from the outside.”

He wonders idly if its his master waiting, but that notion is seeming less and less like a possibility. Not once has he ever seen this place, and there is no way Danarius would take him out so close to the tourney—unless it was for training. Which means the movements are most likely hostile. His grip tightens on the hilt of his sword as he nods in that direction. Green eyes, once locked on the light, flicker over the mage for just a moment.

“I hope you can use that,” he speaks genuinely, no trace of insult in his tone. More astonishment, as if he’s just now realizing he will have to fight alongside Anders, not for him.