[He does not believe him, but that's all right. He'll be vindicated soon enough. In the meantime: they duck through narrow alleys and take seemingly random turns. The streets are surprisingly clean, shining from what must have been a recent rainfall. He's glad for that. He's glad for all of this, a giddy enthusiasm utterly foreign to him. Even the most mundane sights seem something wonderful to share now: see, I used to buy armor from that stall. See, Isabela and I once killed a few Carta thugs when they tried to mug us. See, that's the path I would take when I was going home, that's the best spot to hang around if you want to get work, that's where Merrill's legs once gave out and I had to carry her home, see, see, see?
It's like sharing his memories all over again. See? This is a part of who I am, so much so that for Lorenz to not understand is impossible. Kirkwall, for all he'd left it, for all he'd never meant to consider it home, had felt . . . well. It had felt, as he'd put it to Aveline once. Like it or not, it was the first place he'd chosen for himself, and it has far more of a bearing on his life than he realizes.
So they walk, and sometimes he gives in to the impulse to point out this or that. Not incessantly, and certainly not with anything approaching giddiness, but rather in murmured comments, quiet observations meant only for Lorenz.
The Hanged Man stands out, though, even in Lowtown. Not because it's so nice, but because it's so clearly a hub of activity: even in this memory, fantasy, whatever, it's still busy. People of questionable origin hang around the front, and yes, some give Lorenz an extra glance, but it's fine.
He'd intended only to sit them down at a table, order a few drinks, tease Lorenz when he'd fussed. Instead, they walk in, and it's--
Well, it's an illusion based on a memory, isn't it? And what Fenris remembers, really remembers, isn't the atmosphere or the drinks or the brawling.
It's the company.
It's not all of them. But enough, Varric and Anders and Sebastian, and from the way they glance around, they're not the only ones here. And it's nothing, it's nothing, he knows that, it's not really them, just fragments and illusions and magic, but still--]
Let's sit.
[Not near them. Tucked away elsewhere, where they can observe in peace.]
no subject
It's like sharing his memories all over again. See? This is a part of who I am, so much so that for Lorenz to not understand is impossible. Kirkwall, for all he'd left it, for all he'd never meant to consider it home, had felt . . . well. It had felt, as he'd put it to Aveline once. Like it or not, it was the first place he'd chosen for himself, and it has far more of a bearing on his life than he realizes.
So they walk, and sometimes he gives in to the impulse to point out this or that. Not incessantly, and certainly not with anything approaching giddiness, but rather in murmured comments, quiet observations meant only for Lorenz.
The Hanged Man stands out, though, even in Lowtown. Not because it's so nice, but because it's so clearly a hub of activity: even in this memory, fantasy, whatever, it's still busy. People of questionable origin hang around the front, and yes, some give Lorenz an extra glance, but it's fine.
He'd intended only to sit them down at a table, order a few drinks, tease Lorenz when he'd fussed. Instead, they walk in, and it's--
Well, it's an illusion based on a memory, isn't it? And what Fenris remembers, really remembers, isn't the atmosphere or the drinks or the brawling.
It's the company.
It's not all of them. But enough, Varric and Anders and Sebastian, and from the way they glance around, they're not the only ones here. And it's nothing, it's nothing, he knows that, it's not really them, just fragments and illusions and magic, but still--]
Let's sit.
[Not near them. Tucked away elsewhere, where they can observe in peace.]