If there's anyone else on the ramparts this late, it doesn't feel like it. Fitz finds him overlooking the city, and for a moment he's wholly distracted by the sight of Kirkwall sprawling out beneath them, an Escher of shadows and torchlight. There's no evidence of the months that've passed since the last time he saw it; not in this light, anyway.
"Ellis."
A greeting and announcement as he steps up behind him, tone casual. He's not opposed to a hug or a familiar clap on the back, but he's playing it cool. Maybe if he'd gotten more than an 'aye'.
Ruadh's big square head comes around at the sound of approach, even before Ellis lays aside the sweet-smelling cigarette he'd been smoking to get to his feet. The massive dog gives a low bof, indecisive, soothed by the passing stroke of fingers over one cropped ear.
"You are back," Ellis marvels. It's a muted reception, even by Ellis' standards; warmth comes seeping in by slow degrees as he straightens. Ruadh's nose butts against Fitz's knee, a brief inspection before Ellis nudges him aside to clap Fitz's shoulder, grip his bicep.
Solid and whole.
"Wysteria will be so pleased," he tells him. "You've been long away."
Fitz' gaze drops to keep an eye on the dog's approach, wary in a way that's more perfunctory than actually scared. Wary it'll get drool on him, mostly. He looks back up when a hand falls on his shoulder, reaching up to give Ellis' arm a light squeeze in kind. He's felt how real this world is already — the hard ground beneath the rift, the exhaustion of the trek back to Kirkwall — but it'd still felt surreal, vague enough to write off as a dream. Seeing someone he knows? That's the final nail in the coffin.
"Yeah, I've noticed. I've just got my things and been to the library." Not that he'd needed the library to tell him what month it was. He'd gotten that from the scouts that'd picked him up, though he hadn't gotten much else. Hence the library, but since Ellis is already awake —
Something in Ellis' expression shutters. There is a small shift, some current moving deep below the surface.
"Come sit."
Where Ellis can reclaim what he had been smoking (cobbled together from materials lifted from Richard Dickerson's rooms) and Ruadh can thud huffily back into a sprawl over the stone, back up against the wall and eyes on Fitz.
"It's been a long year," is not really an answer, just an attempt at accounting. Has it been a year? It feels like more, but that feeling alone isn't very reliable.
"Right." Fitz is watching him carefully. Carefully enough to feel the shift when it happens, and the comment's acknowledging that as much as the invite. Another glance at the dog to make sure it's got no plans to get in his space, then he takes the offered seat, leaning forward on his elbows in a gesture of earnest attention.
"It's only been a few weeks. For me, that is. Back—," home, awake, whatever they're calling it. A long few weeks, but certainly not more than a year. The quiet lingers a moment as he eyes Ellis, reconsiders his initial approach.
"But you're alright? And Wysteria? And Tony, I saw his name on the records." Still signing off on research, still here.
"Tony heads the Research Division now," is probably information Fitz already has. "He's managed a feat I'm sure he will be eager to tell you about."
One Ellis can't talk about without being choked into silence by his own bitterness and grief.
A pause follows the summation of Tony's position. Ellis draws in smoke, lets it billow out from his mouth as his gaze moves from Fitz's face back to the lights of Kirkwall. Ruadh makes a formless sound of complaint as he wriggles into a more comfortable position.
Not about Tony. Tony's supposed to be in charge and doing impossible things; that's to be expected, as far as Fitz is concerned. He tries to recall everything he's read about shards, all the research and projects they'd managed or tabled previously. None of it had come close to a safe way to get rid of them.
Despite his best efforts to stay focused, he can't help the sharp pivot from sympathy to curiosity. "Really? On purpose?" Worth clarifying. "Have there been any side effects?"
All best case scenarios, really, though the necessary comment flags as strange. For now, all it gets is a slightly furrowed brow and a mental note to pester Wysteria about it when he pesters her about everything else.
"And you've—," he starts, stops, searches for something both more personalized and less presumptive than been fine, or any variation thereof. Fitz can't pin it down, but Ellis doesn't seem particularly fine.
He abruptly remembers the hulking dog playing lazy sentinel over their conversion, finishes (a bit lamely): "— got a dog."
"Mabari," comes wreathed in smoke. A small distinction, one that likely matters only to a Fereldan.
"Ruadh," Ellis tells Fitz, tone softening fondly over the name. Roo-ah, well worn and affection. The hulking creature in question pricks ears, eyes flicking over to Fitz. "He came south with me winter before last."
Between them, Ellis extends a hand, offering the cigarette. If Fitz is so inclined.
"I've never had a dog." His father had hated the idea of pets (in both lives), and his mum had been too busy. But the observation's made warmly enough, charmed by Ellis' obvious fondness for Ruadh.
"I always wanted a monkey," he states, as if that's roughly the same thing. Fitz accepts the offered cigarette and takes an absent drag, still considering Ruadh; narrows his eyes slightly, draws it back to squint at it on the exhale.
Some real amusement kindles in Ellis' expression; he is half-way through mouthing back the words a monkey as if that will square the concept of Fitz with such a creature more firmly in his mind as the question is put to him.
Fitz's accent sounds like he should hail from Ferelden. Ellis had forgotten how he could lapse into that familiarity, or what it felt like to be jarred by the knowledge that Fitz hailed from somewhere else entirely.
"Elfroot," comes after a moment's pause, amusement tapering off and away. "I had it and the rolling papers off Richard Dickerson, after he'd gone."
Maybe it should have been Loxley's, by due rights. But it's late for that now.
Elfroot. From his perspective, he's been gone for a few months, tops. It shouldn't be that difficult to slide back into this reality, to take the existence of fantasy weed in stride. But he'd never really gotten over all of it, honestly, even after he'd given up and started calling the place home.
What's meant to be an amused huff turns into a small cough, quickly muffled as he passes the cigarette back over.
"Has he been gone long?"
He doesn't sound surprised, or upset. They hadn't been close. Even if they had been, he'd compartmentalize: Richard's gone home, just as Fitz had. There's nothing to mourn.
A flick of his fingers scatters ash across the stones.
"There've been other new rifters," feels like steadier ground than Wysteria's arm, Ellis' state of being, what Tony has gotten up to as Division Head. "They've kept the research workshop occupied."
There's no shortage of nerds, is the implication. For better or for worse, there are more than enough people seemingly willing to join Wysteria and Tony in prodding and poking at any semi-dangerous thing Thedas has to offer.
He draws in another deep mouthful of smoke, head tilting back slightly. The air is still warm. The weather won't turn for a few weeks more. It's a clear night, no trouble on the immediate horizon. As far as moments to arrive, Fitz has picked a good one.
"Huh," thoughtfully. He doesn't bother sharing what any of those thoughts are, but there's a silent beat as he digs into his memory — mulls over the projects he left behind, the theories they'd been tossing around regarding rifts and lyrium and shards. It's a comfortable silence, a moment of peace in which Ellis can enjoy the mild air, the taste of the smoke, the successful dodging of personal questions. Until Fitz ruins it.
"What've I missed, really?" His eyes flick over to Ellis, try to catch and hold his gaze. There's a little punch to the really. Still squarely friendly, if blunt; he'd just rather a 'fuck off' than more subtle deflection.
"If you give it until morning, you'll have every notable event recounted once Wysteria arrives in the Gallows."
The words are wreathed in smoke. He'd meant it, when he had implied Tony and Wysteria would be happy to speak of what they'd just managed to accomplish.
And maybe it was preferable for them to explain what had occurred. How so many of them had been dead. How they are alive now. Ellis isn't certain he can speak of it without his own feelings bleeding into the word.
"Corypheus took Starkhaven," is a safer topic. "It's made the Marches more dangerous, now that they are so close."
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"Ellis."
A greeting and announcement as he steps up behind him, tone casual. He's not opposed to a hug or a familiar clap on the back, but he's playing it cool. Maybe if he'd gotten more than an 'aye'.
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"You are back," Ellis marvels. It's a muted reception, even by Ellis' standards; warmth comes seeping in by slow degrees as he straightens. Ruadh's nose butts against Fitz's knee, a brief inspection before Ellis nudges him aside to clap Fitz's shoulder, grip his bicep.
Solid and whole.
"Wysteria will be so pleased," he tells him. "You've been long away."
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"Yeah, I've noticed. I've just got my things and been to the library." Not that he'd needed the library to tell him what month it was. He'd gotten that from the scouts that'd picked him up, though he hadn't gotten much else. Hence the library, but since Ellis is already awake —
"What've I missed?"
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"Come sit."
Where Ellis can reclaim what he had been smoking (cobbled together from materials lifted from Richard Dickerson's rooms) and Ruadh can thud huffily back into a sprawl over the stone, back up against the wall and eyes on Fitz.
"It's been a long year," is not really an answer, just an attempt at accounting. Has it been a year? It feels like more, but that feeling alone isn't very reliable.
He is tired. He has been tired for months.
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"It's only been a few weeks. For me, that is. Back—," home, awake, whatever they're calling it. A long few weeks, but certainly not more than a year. The quiet lingers a moment as he eyes Ellis, reconsiders his initial approach.
"But you're alright? And Wysteria? And Tony, I saw his name on the records." Still signing off on research, still here.
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One Ellis can't talk about without being choked into silence by his own bitterness and grief.
A pause follows the summation of Tony's position. Ellis draws in smoke, lets it billow out from his mouth as his gaze moves from Fitz's face back to the lights of Kirkwall. Ruadh makes a formless sound of complaint as he wriggles into a more comfortable position.
"Wysteria's shard has been removed."
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Not about Tony. Tony's supposed to be in charge and doing impossible things; that's to be expected, as far as Fitz is concerned. He tries to recall everything he's read about shards, all the research and projects they'd managed or tabled previously. None of it had come close to a safe way to get rid of them.
Despite his best efforts to stay focused, he can't help the sharp pivot from sympathy to curiosity. "Really? On purpose?" Worth clarifying. "Have there been any side effects?"
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Like she hadn't told anyone of the shard poisoning her in the first place—
Ellis hadn't thought of this possibility, and feels some shard of anxiety at the potential wedge into his chest. Chooses to hold it in check.
"It was on purpose. Necessary. She might have a lot to say about it, if you ask her the right way."
In a way that doesn't hint at any kind of seriousness and expresses scientific curiosity, probably.
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"And you've—," he starts, stops, searches for something both more personalized and less presumptive than been fine, or any variation thereof. Fitz can't pin it down, but Ellis doesn't seem particularly fine.
He abruptly remembers the hulking dog playing lazy sentinel over their conversion, finishes (a bit lamely): "— got a dog."
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"Ruadh," Ellis tells Fitz, tone softening fondly over the name. Roo-ah, well worn and affection. The hulking creature in question pricks ears, eyes flicking over to Fitz. "He came south with me winter before last."
Between them, Ellis extends a hand, offering the cigarette. If Fitz is so inclined.
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"I always wanted a monkey," he states, as if that's roughly the same thing. Fitz accepts the offered cigarette and takes an absent drag, still considering Ruadh; narrows his eyes slightly, draws it back to squint at it on the exhale.
"What's in this?"
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Fitz's accent sounds like he should hail from Ferelden. Ellis had forgotten how he could lapse into that familiarity, or what it felt like to be jarred by the knowledge that Fitz hailed from somewhere else entirely.
"Elfroot," comes after a moment's pause, amusement tapering off and away. "I had it and the rolling papers off Richard Dickerson, after he'd gone."
Maybe it should have been Loxley's, by due rights. But it's late for that now.
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What's meant to be an amused huff turns into a small cough, quickly muffled as he passes the cigarette back over.
"Has he been gone long?"
He doesn't sound surprised, or upset. They hadn't been close. Even if they had been, he'd compartmentalize: Richard's gone home, just as Fitz had. There's nothing to mourn.
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A flick of his fingers scatters ash across the stones.
"There've been other new rifters," feels like steadier ground than Wysteria's arm, Ellis' state of being, what Tony has gotten up to as Division Head. "They've kept the research workshop occupied."
There's no shortage of nerds, is the implication. For better or for worse, there are more than enough people seemingly willing to join Wysteria and Tony in prodding and poking at any semi-dangerous thing Thedas has to offer.
He draws in another deep mouthful of smoke, head tilting back slightly. The air is still warm. The weather won't turn for a few weeks more. It's a clear night, no trouble on the immediate horizon. As far as moments to arrive, Fitz has picked a good one.
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"What've I missed, really?" His eyes flick over to Ellis, try to catch and hold his gaze. There's a little punch to the really. Still squarely friendly, if blunt; he'd just rather a 'fuck off' than more subtle deflection.
"Or should I go back to digging through records."
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The words are wreathed in smoke. He'd meant it, when he had implied Tony and Wysteria would be happy to speak of what they'd just managed to accomplish.
And maybe it was preferable for them to explain what had occurred. How so many of them had been dead. How they are alive now. Ellis isn't certain he can speak of it without his own feelings bleeding into the word.
"Corypheus took Starkhaven," is a safer topic. "It's made the Marches more dangerous, now that they are so close."