Darrow was, in many ways, a good place, and Cremisius Aclassi lived a good life. He wanted for very little. He worked a job he was very good at. He had a ward, a daughter, he loved and respected the independence of. He had a man he cherished and who cherished him. On more than one occasion, he had had more than one man or woman who he had cherished, and who had cherished him. His skin was marked with the stains of those people, outward reflections of inward leavings, emotional stains like ink on parchment.
More of those tattoos were of people that had left this place than people who remained. Balthier, Adalaine. Now Hild.
Darrow was, in many ways, a very good place. On a very good day, Cremisius Aclassi could forget the agony of growing up, of the hunger in his bones and under his skin, of becoming this boy, this man, this soldier. In Darrow, these things felt natural.
He had lost many things in Thedas. His family, to the slavery and trappings of cultural mores in Tevinter. His friends, to the whims of an Inquisitor who hadn't fully understood the ramification of the choices being made. But Darrow was the only place that took from him. His peace. His stability.
It had been a very long time since Krem had been angry about something. The doctor that had called him a woman, refused him his surgery. Bull showing up--he had been angry about that, not because it was Bull, but because of the reminder of the Inquisitor's decisions. But he was angry about this loss. He was angry, after going through everything, after surviving everything, to wake up to one side of the bed cold as if she had never been there, but all her dried herbs, all her little things that marked her, still about the house. He was angry, and he hated that.
It had been days, and he was still angry.
More of those tattoos were of people that had left this place than people who remained. Balthier, Adalaine. Now Hild.
Darrow was, in many ways, a very good place. On a very good day, Cremisius Aclassi could forget the agony of growing up, of the hunger in his bones and under his skin, of becoming this boy, this man, this soldier. In Darrow, these things felt natural.
He had lost many things in Thedas. His family, to the slavery and trappings of cultural mores in Tevinter. His friends, to the whims of an Inquisitor who hadn't fully understood the ramification of the choices being made. But Darrow was the only place that took from him. His peace. His stability.
It had been a very long time since Krem had been angry about something. The doctor that had called him a woman, refused him his surgery. Bull showing up--he had been angry about that, not because it was Bull, but because of the reminder of the Inquisitor's decisions. But he was angry about this loss. He was angry, after going through everything, after surviving everything, to wake up to one side of the bed cold as if she had never been there, but all her dried herbs, all her little things that marked her, still about the house. He was angry, and he hated that.
It had been days, and he was still angry.