He listens, patiently, though remains cynical of this one’s true credibility. Lips draw into a thin line, and Faeron stands perfectly still, statuesque beneath the dim lighting; it is a long moment that passes before he so much as takes a breath. He considers the Knight-Lieutenant’s words deeply and thoughtfully – was it truly worth it to give up the identities of these mage-elves? Certainly quite a few had fled from the recently disbanded Circle, and Faeron would have had to been blind not to notice that an equally shocking amount of them whom he’d met and assisted suffered terrible lacerations or varying injuries presumably derived from their departure. The thought that they had suffered harm troubled him greatly, though he had treated each and every single one of them with the absolute fullest attention they deserved after such a brutal ordeal.
Again, the question surfaces: was it truly worth it to give up their identities? Had they not suffered enough? Of course the Templars sought out these rogue mages; a war was ongoing! Any magic-wielder caught was either put to death or treated just so that they might long for its sweet kiss. The blond’s stomach turns – he is truly in a predicament, then. He was not borne of magic himself, and could not wield the power as most of the other elves could, and thus he is hesitant to protect them despite his lack of knowledge of what their abilities actually entailed.
That countenance pales, and he shifts slightly – nervously – on his feet, though his expression remains stoic and controlled.
“I am afraid I cannot help you in these matters,” he confesses, voice low: “even if I did know of their locations. They do not deserve whichever fate you or your displaced order decides to bring. Whichever ‘other parties’ are involved in this hunting of them, as you say, they will get the same response from me if they do seek me out.”
Blue visionaries meet matches flecked with yellow, and he holds that stare, a deer caught in the bright light of a curious onlooker. Should he flee? Certainly there were places nearby of which he could run. The alleyway nearby possessed a generous stack of empty crate which Faeron could leap on top of with ease, only to disappear into the night by hopping from one roof to the next until the Knight-Lieutenant Aden was far, far out of sight. In truth, he did not know how this other would react, and if he’d sooner swing that greatsword instead of attempting in a futile effort to convince the healer that his cause was just. Not even with all the curiosity that the blond possessed would he inquire as to which other parties were the hunters, nor even the names of the elves, or what they did. The entire war seemed vile to him.
“… I, ah… I am terribly sorry to disappoint.”
This was the part he despised about field work. The young Trevelyan was able to watch the progression on the face of the other, the narrowed lips, the long moments without breath. Even the nervous shifting from foot to foot. The elf was not appreciating his position, and as pale as he had become even compared to his original tone under the light, it was clear there was more than discomfort. Aden himself was not as meticulously still. No, the lyrium stirred in his blood, the suspicious whispers speaking their piece.
He lies. He is lying to you. He’s keeping them from you and will warn them. They have manipulated him into defying you… Force him!
The paranoia ever burned at him, and hearing such a thing always made him edgy. This came out in small cues, a flicking of his fingers against one another, the working of the muscles on his jaw, the small back and forth motion of his torso at an irregular tempo. He could hold the stare of the other for some time, but his body ached for action, desperate for something. Aden wanted to reach out and shake the elf, demanding answers and insisting he was different. The desire to demand the truth was pushing him to be belligerent, and the only reasons he moderated himself was years of experience controlling his natural temper, and the memory if his younger brother, insisting the elf did not deserve such treatment. Aden could thank the Maker for giving him someone like his brother, despite his own brother’s belief in reverse about the Maker.
Taking a deep breath, he broke the eye contact that was so critical at the moment. He pulled his threat away from Faeron, similar to how one would break a dogs eye contact to delay the impending fight for dominance. It was sacrificing the advantage, lessening the effect of the ever present stare, but did the healer deserve such treatment? No. His actions were protecting others, for there was no doubt in his mind that Faeron knew where these elves were. His words did not scream a lack of knowledge, but a lack of willingness to share what knowledge was available. The healer was preforming his duties, even beyond the physical hurt, and doing what he must to give them a chance. Admirable, if dangerous.
Now lay the problem of how to convince Faeron otherwise of his ill advised action. Hands resting on his hips as he paced a step back and forth before him, he tried to think. A bribe would likely not go anywhere, not of coin anyway. Buying truth often got one into trouble, and did nothing to earn credibility. Offering a favor? A dalish would likely spit on such an offer from a shem. He truly needed to push the gravity of the situation. How much it rested on a knife’s edge, likely doomed to violence if there was no interference on his end.
His issue was that he was not temperate, a reason he had been banned from ever attending the theatre by his great aunt, or welcomed to the soirées of the nobles. His ire often came out in bold action and broken noses. His time with the Templar order had helped him gain discipline, but it was ever a battle he had to fight, and it often came out in blunt words instead.
“You’re right.” He started, his voice terse as he tried to figure out how he was going to put it. Threats wouldn’t make him friends. “They do not deserve the fate they’ve been forced to deal with. They don’t deserve to be cut down like they were infected with Blight.” He paused in his pacing, giving a silent prayer to the skies for the Maker to hear, before his blue orbs returned to Faeron. “Their gift is dangerous, but the Maker would not see them condemned for a chance of birth.”
“But madness has taken the Order, and pushed it from it’s rightful path. Do you think I will be the only one to look for you?” He watched the elf carefully, twisting to be sure both of his hands were visible to Faeron. Aden wanted to keep the other aware of his mood, and aware of his position. He’d be able to see Aden go for the weapon at his side and the shield at his back, and would be able to respond. The templar had control of himself, but he had to be aware even as he spoke of violence. “Do you think I will be the only one who finds you?” His voice was urgent, pushing for understanding. “And do you think they will be kind?”
“They will not care if you will not speak of them. They will not take a sorry for an answer.” Aden’s right hand came up, his fingers massaging at his brow. It was late, and he was due a dose soon. The headache was impending, added to by the stress of the situation. “Please, if there is anything you might offer, I’d like to avoid more bloodshed.” He was aware the last could be taken as a threat, but he had to try to get the point through.
