Shyla made for poor conversation, Fenris learned this through a dreadfully long two weeks of travel with the woman. Despite her noble title, she was stoic, someone of few words, which, when Fenris wasn't trying to pry information from her, often left him alone to his thoughts.
While she refused to tell him why Sebastian had sent for him, much less why he ordered an attack in the Cathedral, Fenris noticed that she never tried to bind him, not that she could. When he would steer his horse behind the rocks, or move his bedroll behind the trees, she never once moved as to keep an eye on him or make sure he didn't flee. He wasn't being treated as a prisoner, which was the only indication of the prince's intentions being peaceful.
As he watched the Free Marches countryside pass, he could practically hear Varric's voice. Oh, if the dwarf were here, there would be no silence. Complaints, yes, but certainly no silence. If he wasn't complaining about his horse, he would be complaining about the terrain, or the cold, or the color of the sky… Anything relating to not being inside, really.
Then Hawke would chip in, the burly Ferelden that he was, insisting that it was a rather nice day out, with the summers of his country being far too cold for the city dwarf to handle as it was. He could only imagine where Varric had escaped to after fleeing Kirkwall. Now that they were at the cusp of winter, he could only hope that his friend had found some new tavern to lounge around, and some new serving girl to flirt with.
He could recall their nights in the Hanged Man vividly. Varric and Isabela would be playing Wicked Grace, in a never-ending contest over who was better at cheating. Meanwhile, Merril would be sitting next to the Rivaini, having found a rat to deem her pet for the night. All the while she would be fending off Aveline, who was trying to tear the disease-ridden creature from the foolish elf. Hawke would be in his designated seat by the fireplace, drunk, and with that wretched mage in his lap. As the two of them practically devoured one another, Sebastian would be leading a prayer for the wicked and the drunk, with his every word falling upon deaf ears.
"We're getting close to the city." Shyla's voice pulled Fenris from his memories, and as his eyes would focus on the road ahead of them, just budding above the horizon line, he would be able to see the alabaster walls of Starkhaven, "Prince Sebastian will receive you in the palace. You will be given ample time to rest before his highness seeks an audience with you."
"Seeks an audience with me?" The elf mused. That certainly wasn't something he heard everyday. Even in his later years in Kirkwall, where people recognized him as the Champion's body guard, he was still an elf, and an unsettling one at that. People avoided him, giving him just enough respect to stay out of his way.
Shyla, unsurprisingly, gave little more than a grunt of acknowledgement in response. With conversation clearly not an option, Fenris's gaze turned to the walls once more. Starkhaven was more intimidating that he would have thought: He would have thought that white walls would be welcoming, but rather they loomed ominously, as pale as death itself. Where Sebastian's armor was the same white, he had the fatherly personality to make his set seem pure and noble. These walls, however, they looked threatening, arrogant he would even say. The shadows cast upon the ground, with those stone bricks gazing down at all who enter with no shortage of judgement. He felt like he was already being watched.
As they approached the gates however, with curious civilians staring at him throughout the entire ordeal, he would finally feel as though he were entering a city and not a prison. Once past the white walls, the city was an explosion of color, with the familiar grimey grays and browns making themselves known on every building. However, colorful banners of reds, blues and greens strung overhead muted the grime, and when aided by the sounds of lutes and song from the nearby tavern, it became less dirty and more home-like. It reminded him of a cleaner version of Lowtown.
The scent of hot food was almost enough for the elf to derail from Shyla completely in favor of the tavern. He could smell spiced meats and fresh vegetables, the heat of which cracked through the frosty air to greet him. The bitter and rich aroma of Rivaini coffee clung to the air like perfume, and only then did Fenris truly realize how exhausted he was, and what he would give for just one cup of it.
His stallion's chest rumbled as they passed a grain merchant, and the elf would smirk knowingly. It seemed that he wasn't the only one looking forward to a decent meal.
Leaning back, Fenris placed one hand on his saddlebag as they walked through the lower district of the city. The gate's market was a pickpocket's natural habitat, after all, he would know. He remembered his time running from Danarius, wearing layer upon layer of filthy rags to hide his markings and hair while he fetched gold enough for room and food. And now, over ten years later, here he was being escorted to the royal palace within such a city as a guest.
Starkhaven wasn't unlike most other cities in many respects. The poor district showed the true character of the city, with civilians who were diverse and surprisingly content as such. He passed a human and an elf drinking with one another, gossiping in the slurred drunken tongue, and they were laughing. Such a thing he would never find in Kirkwall, or, he assumed, anywhere else in the world.
Soon enough, they reached the palace. It held the same foreboding walls as the gates of the city, though if Fenris was correct, the inside would be just as welcoming as the market was. He slid off of his horse, taking the saddlebag onto his back, and allowed for one of the stable hands to take the moody pony to a proper stall.
When he felt the weight on his back being lifted, the elf spun sharply, one hand having moved threateningly to the hilt of his blade. He was expecting to see the face of a pickpocket, but rather, a thoroughly terrified servant who had been trying to carry the bag for him. Dropping his hand, Fenris would have him off, "I will carry it," he spoke, though it came out as more of a growl than he intended. The boy squeaked before sprinting away.
The elf was lead within the palace, and he would eye the paintings that lined the walls. They were of the Vael family, of course, tan skinned men and women, brown of hair, bright blue eyes, they didn't seem to differ much with each generation. He couldn't say he was surprised: He assumed that they would breed akin to Tevinter, where pure bloodlines were the goal in every union. Although he assumed they had vastly different ideas as to what purity meant.
Soon enough, however, his guide would stop in front of a door, gesturing for the elf to make his way in. It was not the room of a prisoner. The elf would set his bag and sword down before stepping inside, taking his quarters in.
Extravagant failed to define how lavish the space was. Natural light bled through the glass doors, which lead to a balcony just outside. Cream-colored curtains covered the ends of the glass, matching the throw carpet and bedsheets. Maker, the bed. The mattress was large enough to fit two Qunari comfortably, and the elf wondered idly if Sebastian forgot the fact that the white haired warrior was a good head shorter than the prince himself.
The walls and floors were made of stone, marble by the looks of it: It was cool to the touch and easy to walk upon, which Fenris took some pleasure in. His ear would twitch upon hearing the door click shut, and would glance over his shoulder. He was alone.
Moving silently, he stepped through the archway into the side room. A copper tub was waiting for him, expertly crafted, with various bars of soaps and bottles of several colors resting beside it. The elf found himself smiling, he had forgotten the strange ways in which Starkhaven viewed hygiene, though he was no less pleased.
It didn't take long to draw the bath, with several jugs of water having been provided for such a task. With it filled sufficiently, the elf would uncork one of the potions. It was hot to the touch, the labeling holding a flame, and he would pour it into the bath water. Within moments, it became hot, if a slightly red-tinted color.
With a content smile, he would begin to unbuckle the harnesses of his armor. Setting the plate gently off to the side, he would then begin to step from his armor, revealing tanned, lyrium embedded flesh. His muscles flexed involuntarily, aching for a rest after such a long travel, though the elf had no desire to turn those cream sheets dark brown with the filth of the road.
Once he was completely nude, he raised a leg and crawled into the tub. The water washed over him like the embrace of a lover: Hot, welcoming, and giving him some form of the rest his body pleaded so passionately for. A weary moan would escape from the elf as he sank further into the pink waters, Maker, if he could stay in that water for hours, he would have no complaints.
With no shortage of protest from his body, he sat back up, taking hold of one of the soaps. He sniffed it curiously as he brought it near. It smelled of juniper berries and a herb he couldn't quite name. While he doubted the uses in terms of being clean, it certainly would do well to mask the scent of travel - He doubted the servants would take kindly to him meeting their royal while smelling like a stable, after all.
After dipping the bar into the water, he began to coat his arms and chest with it, watching as the suds would wash over his scars and cause his markings to tickle and sting - A pain he was well acquainted with by then. He could recall years past when Danarius took delight in bathing with the elf, for the reason that he could watch Fenris's face twist with pain every time his master ran those filthy soap-coated fingers over fresh glowing scars. Now, he would never give him such a satisfaction.
His hair had grown longer, Fenris noted duly. It wasn't necessarily a shock: It had been three years since Isabela had been able to give him anything in terms of a proper haircut, leaving the elf to simply cut the dead ends off with a knife every six months or so. His hair now rested at his shoulders, tangled and matted beyond repair, with specks of black-bronze flaking from the matted chunks.
He took hold of one of the bottles, straining his eyes as he tried to read the label… Or rather, he looked for the warnings. Far less effort to know what he couldn't do with it than what he could. After finding none that barred against using it in his hair, the elf would pour a large amount of the liquid into his hand and slap it on his head.
It was cold and felt gooey. Though as he would rub it in, the scent of cranberries filled the air as his hair would fill up with suds, running down his cheeks wildly. With mild panic, he realized he may have used too much.
It took a grand total of twenty minutes to get all of the shampoo from his hair. By the time he was finished, the tub was little more than brown-red water and dirty bubbles. He now smelled of berries and herbs, however, and the layer of dirt that had caked him was no more.
He would approach the mirror soon after, taking himself in now that he was cleaned. He wouldn't say he had changed much in the past several years: His hair was the only thing that had any sort of notable change. Heavy bags still rested under his eyes from sleepless nights, and he had the same amount of muscle as he did in Kirkwall. No new piercings to speak of had been added, and only a few new scars, none of which were notable to have any extravagant story attached to them.
Taking hold of a small blade, he would sit down on the rim of the tub and take hold of those filthy mats. The process of cutting through them took longer than he would have liked, and was messier than he had anticipated, though it was nothing a servant couldn't sweep up. He had cut his hair shorter than planned, having initially made a mistake and tried to fit it by going shorter. And shorter. And shorter still. Now, he had a completely different style, with short sides and a longer top that failed to cover the markings on his forehead.
Only once satisfied with his state did he finally crawl under the blankets of the bed provided. He found himself letting out a weary, grateful sigh as he nuzzled the pillow, feeling the down feathers under cloth that felt as soft as the clouds. The elf was completely lost under a sea of covers in a bed comically large for his scale, and there was no place he would rather be. His last thought before he began to drift was a small hope that he didn't have a nightmare. It would be a shame for his markings to burn through such wondrous sheets.
"E-excuse me, serah?"
Fenris groaned as the voice interrupted his sleep, simply rolling over; it was the easiest method of saying 'go away' without having to form the words for it.
"Serah? I-I'm terribly sorry, but-but Prince Sebastian-"
The poor elf let out a shout as Fenris sat up immediately upon hearing the name. What hair he had left was standing in every direction, and the pattern of the sheets having embedded themselves into his cheek. A graceful sight to be sure as he blinked awake. When his eyes would finally focus, he frowned upon seeing the servant having fallen to her knees. She was begging for his forgiveness, yet, groggy and mildly irritated, he could make no sense of her words.
"What day is it?" He grunted, finding no amusement in the servant's bewilderment as he moved out from the covers, which he was pleased to see were no less damaged than when he crawled into them the day -or days?- before.
"I-it's the twelfth of Kingsway?" The servant squeaked as she jumped to her feet, already backing toward the door in horror as Fenris, who was quite nude, made his way out into the open. Her cheeks lit up a rosy pink color, and she found a particularly interesting spot on the wall to stare at as the former slave began to dress himself, "You've been asleep since, ah, since yesterday afternoon, serah. I-it's the morning now. Prince Sebastian would like to eat his first meal with you."
Fenris merely grunted again as he walked into the bathroom, reaching for those scented oils to quickly rub on his body. While he cared little for such things, he didn't need to see the Prince, or yet his servants, making a fuss over his scent. As he caught sight of his reflection, the tattooed elf would hum as he ran his fingers through his hair, a feeble attempt in styling the length he had settled for.
He stepped back into the bedroom, nodding for the servant to lead the way. She did so, eagerly and quickly, as if staying close to Fenris for too long would cause her to contract some disease from him. It was not an uncommon response from others. In half the time it should have taken, she brought him to a large set of double doors, gesturing for him to enter, as if she had suddenly become mute in the time since she had woken him.
Taking a breath before he began, Fenris rested his hands upon the cool wood of the doors before he would push them open, and step into the dining hall.
The scene… Well, he didn't know what he had expected, but it certainly wasn't the reality. The room was small, about a quarter of the size he had been expecting it to be. The table, while better quality, was roughly the same size as any peasant's dining table, with two places set, where plates and filled glasses of ice water rested. The chairs looked soft and padded, and were the same cream color as the rest of the interior. Much like the room he had been provided, large glass windows allowed the natural morning light to shine in, seeming just as welcoming as the man waiting for him.
"Good morning, Fenris." Maker, how Sebastian had changed. Three years ago, the elf had watched him spin his heel and walk away from him, from all of them, once Hawke had stated he was not about to execute Anders. In only three years, that idealistic chantry brother had become a man who at least looked fitting to be crowned king. His hair, now with subtle streaks of gray running through it, was longer and tied back, and a small, neatly trimmed beard had grown in quite nicely. His face, especially around his eyes, now had lines of both age and stress, telling tales of hardship since he had left Kirkwall.
He still had those almost obnoxiously bright blue eyes, although where they had once reminded Fenris of those of a doe, they now held a different quality. A cat would more accurately describe the look in his eyes: clever and calculating, though with a certain warmth that could easily draw one in. He hadn't lost that comforting presence he seemed to hold, the one that had annoyed Varric to no end. While he may have accepted his role as Starkhaven's leader, the years spent in the Chantry as a priest had not gone in vain.
"It's good to see you again," The prince's voice interrupted his thoughts, with a small chuckle sounding from him. Whatever face Fenris was making, it must have amused the royal. "I admit, I was worried that you were either dead or out of the Free Marches by the time I was able to seek you out. I'm glad that Lady Shayla was able to track you."
"About that," Fenris finally found the voice to speak. He stepped toward the table, slowly sitting himself down. He had never been one for physical affection, offering no embrace or even a handshake, though Sebastian didn't look offended by such. Rather, those eyes held understanding most could only hope to rival. "Your girl attacked me in the middle of a Chantry, and under your orders. It caught me off-guard… It seems very out of character for you to order such, with such intimate details."
With that smile never leaving him, Sebastian nodded slowly as he would listen, "I did condone the order," he admitted, "I went to lengths to ensure none of the Chantry sisters or the Revered Mother were injured during such, and I'm personally seeing to it that any and all damages were properly repaired and cleaned. If anything, that little village is getting a much-needed upgrade, wouldn't you say?"
"But why there?" Fenris asked, his eyes narrowing as his head would tilt, "You could have just as easily ambushed me while I was riding into the town, yet you did not."
"I didn't," Sebastian nodded again as he sipped at the glass of water, "The point of attacking you there was to catch you off-guard. I wanted to see if you could look past your personal beliefs to get a job done, and I wanted to see if you could think on your feet still. I'm pleased to hear that you more than impressed."
"But why?" The elf demanded again, his eyes hard and stubborn, "You would not do such a thing without a reason for testing me. Tell me what it is."
As Sebastian's eyes met the warrior's once more, he had no doubt that they had indeed changed. There was nothing docile about them now, as flicks of subtle rage and hurt would flash through them, "I need you to hunt someone for me. Someone who has managed to escape punishment too many times."
"It took me three years to take my city back and get everything in order, Fenris. For three years, this person, this abomination has wondered unchecked by the templars or by anyone." Sebastian swallowed again before placing the glass down, "I intend to succeed where Hawke had failed. I will see the victims of Kirkwall avenged, and the first step on that path is to bring the man responsible to the headsman's block."
the warrior's eyes would widen and his mouth hang slack as he realized just what was being asked of him.
"I called you here so you help justice be done: I need you to track down Anders."
