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It had started to snow right before they reached the Mountain Pass. Astarion can only eye the white flakes with contempt from the other side of glass, thankfully warm though not exactly cosy in the back of the cab; it was already a whole thing having to leave the city for this job but they’ve been stuck in traffic for almost an hour after three different detours. He even tried trancing, close his eyes temporary from the ghastly sight but when he comes to again, it’s only more snow and pines and a mountain ever threatening to come down on both sides. The line of vehicles stretch ahead and get swallowed around the bend.
He’s dug through his bag and looked over the drafts and blueprints from the Builder’s Society that sent him on this ‘journey,’ going to some backwater small town on the other side of the mountains to ‘open commerce’ and ‘stimulate surrounding economies,’ it’s all so tedious; he could have been sent to some other more accessible town near the Gate but one thing he supposes that going through with all of this is meant to ameliorate the way to get there and the town itself. Grovington. It even sounds enchanted and not in the good ways. There’s probably mosquitoes even in the dead of winter. Or bog swamp hags, or bears in the woods just waiting to eat him.
“This is ridiculous,” Astarion spits out.
The cabby doesn’t respond.
“All honesty—where are all these people going?”
“Saer, if you would may, I need utmost concentration right now.”
“Or what, we slide and slip down the side of the mountain?” Astarion huffs and settles back against the seat, grumbling, “Doesn’t seem so bad to me.”
The driver’s hands tighten on the wheel.
Astarion’s have had worse torments in his elven life, mind, but reminding himself of that just makes him more sour than grapes tucked back there, it doesn’t make the current situation and what’s bound to come after more bearable. If anything, it only traps him tighter. The start of a tunnel cutting through the mountains engulfs the cab in darkness, and Astarion sticks his elbows on his knees and cups his hands over his face, waiting, just waiting, trying not to think, just waiting until this gruelling ride is over, until his time in Grovington is over and he can get back to the city with the start of fat deposits in his bank account and pop open one of his wines to celebrate the fact it’s over.
After either what is a very long time or what feels like it, the cab drives, actually drives and can drive. Astarion picks up his head, blinking at the thick layer of overcast unleashing sprinkles from the sky. The road stretches on, following a few other cars before they split ways and it’s only the cab cutting through the snow-covered tracks for a while more.
Civilisation starts again in houses speckling here and there, then Astarion’s appetite makes itself known, grovelling as soon as the trees open to a large, garland-decorated sign that says, ‘Grovington Welcomes You!’
“Oh, thank hells or whatever,” he nearly sobs with it. To the driver, “Drop me off at the closest place to get a bite to eat here!”
Wordlessly, the cabby gives him side-eye and slows to tap on his phone attached to the dashboard.
The town starts just a bit later, more houses leading into parks and a school then shops, fountains and benches and passersby with their puffy coats and hats against the onslaught of snow. All of the light posts, all of them have some kind of sparkling tinsel or lights shaped like snowflakes attached to them as if there isn’t enough jolly wintery cheer outside.
“You have arrived at your destination!”
It’s just some little town. Mountains line the distance. Astarion can’t help a stir in the seat. Food. Stretching his legs. Getting to work. He only has his bag with a couple change of clothes; he’s been told to pack light as everything will be provided once he gets to his lodge, but he sniffed suspiciously at that and now the only thing that matters is getting the hells out of here and…into the cold, snowy world. The cab stops and the driver flicks on the hazard lights. One of those half-century diners sit on a parking lot surrounded by more shops and flats. He almost hesitates when he sets his hand on the door handle.
“Enjoy yourself, saer.” It’s practically mockery.
Astarion shoots the cabby a last look and opens the door. A gust of wind immediately greets him and he hunches into his jacket, feebly yanking up the collar before planting his feet onto the pavement. As soon as he closes the door behind him, a tire grinds against snow and the cab takes off down the road. Almost a bit too fast, really. Another hefty gust of cold mountain wind slaps Astarion on the upside and he stumbles forward, head, neck, ears, everything exposed and everything not exposed gets cut right through anyway and he silently seethes, seething and sneering and spite the only things keeping him going.
“Bit chilly?” Someone passes him from the other way. Astarion ignores him. At the very least, there’ll be something warm to drink in the diner. He doesn’t have high hopes.
Since he arrived there relatively safely, he agreed to call one of his coworkers to let her know, miffed when the line cuts to voicemail the same time one of the doors swing open and almost clip him in the face.
“Ope, sorry. Have a good day!”
Astarion blinks after the man and catches the door, slipping inside like his life depends on it and maybe it does. The warm air seises the ice on his cheeks. His ears hurt.
“Oh, good afternoon, sir!” The cashier puts too much on the greet. “Are you cold? We can help with that! How about one of our soup specials we got for the day?”
“Ugh, yes, I’ll take that and...that primavera special you have going on there.” Way too cheery, way too cold, Astarion is surprised there isn’t chequerboard flooring but the back splash behind the counter and all the bulbs and more snowflakes attached to the board and scattered around the counter are atrocious enough to make up for it. The cashier’s face slightly falls as she glances up at him but gets to work jotting down his order and ringing it up. Astarion dials again and tucks his phone to his cheek to fish out his wallet with an icy hand. It’s going to take the rest of this evening to get rid of this chill.
Once again, the other line goes straight to voicemail, and this time, he does leave a message after the tone, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but it’s me, Astarion, and I’m as alive as I’m going to get. I’m in Grovington now, don’t weep for me when I’m not there—”
“Your total, sir?”
Astarion taps his card around the reader and catches movement in the corner of his eye—someone leans back in his seat, pulling a smile when their gazes catch, obviously nosing on him too the same time Astarion sputters and turns away, hissing, “Hells, I just seen the biggest elf sitting at the table right there—”
“It’s insert, sir.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Quickly, “Delete this message!”
Astarion shoves his phone in his pocket and snatches his food and scurries for the door, back into the cold, horrid world of white, making no eye contact or detours or hesitations—it’s to the lodge, unloading everything, and eating his lunch or dinner or whatever until he has to run back out again in an hour or so to meet an Alderman, the whole reason he’s here. Curtains will be closed and heat blasting on high. Maybe he’ll buy a scarf whilst here’s here. See, big plans. Astarion will get through this. Begrudgingly.
Right alongside the diner, some mum-and-pop-shop spews fake snow onto the parking lot, again, just like the snowflake decorations, there isn’t enough snow and winter and horrid things out in the world.
“Fake snow,” Astarion sneers to himself, brushing some off his sleeve. It’s getting into his hair and all over his clothes. “That’s just ridiculous-s-s-s-!” His foot slides out from under him. His hands jump into the air. Bag of food bumps against his arm. He goes down and gets swallowed into a snowbank.
Astarion is quiet. If it was cold before, it can get colder yet. He tips his head back as far as he can, which is not all that far, as there's snow everywhere and seeping in that everywhere. Then, he wails.
The world, as it has a habit of doing, doesn’t answer back.
Everything is white. The ground, the clouds, the world he’s sunken into, the bag of food still clutched around his hand but who knows if his soup survived. Who knows if he did. Fake snow continues to sprinkle on him and he sputters, spits it out when it lands on his mouth. Astarion turns to the side, but there’s snow. He heaves to the other side but there’s snow there, too. He wriggles and kicks and swats through a chunk and it only spatters him with more of it. The heels of his derbies slide across the ice and he tosses up his arms and opts to give up and lie there instead. Lunch/dinner on the ground. Dusted with snow, fake and real alike, Astarion decides to lie there and wallow instead.
Maybe they’ll scrape him away come spring.
After the long, ridiculous drive around the mountains, the first thing he does is land on his arse—he landed arse-first into this little old town, that’s what he did. Upon dealing with a short lifetime of clients who didn’t know their bollocks from their brain and two hundred years of even worse ‘clients,’ the fates have decided Astarion didn’t suffer enough and it is time to humble him again. Perhaps it is a warning, to the things yet to come here in wee Grovington.
“Sir, whatever you do, stay down!”
Footsteps crunch on the snow. Someone’s coming.
“No, just let me here,” Astarion mumbles, making peace with this new chilly grave.
“Are you hurt? I can—” A sharp breath, scratch on the ice and—bam! The newcomer hits the ground right alongside him. Astarion’s eyes fly open, only to scrunch and he turns his head from the fake snow joyously continuing to spew over the both of them now.
There’s a groan, and the stranger is still alive.
Astarion gloats from his predicament, “See what happens when you try to be a hero?”
“I assume you did not hit your head?”
“No more than you, oaf.”
Astarion flinches when a hand knocks some snow onto his chest, trying to dig some away. “Oh, hells,” he says as soon as he gets a glimpse of the curious eyes peering down at him. It’s the really big, really attractive guy from the diner. Even closer now, Astarion can see he’s a lot more elven than his size and first glance suggests, vines tattooed down the one side of his face and plenty of small tight braids hang from his hair that only elven fingers may have the time or patience to do; they can be little life preservers if Astarion is to reach up and make grabs. The creases and crowfeet would mark a wise life, but not wise enough, mind; he came right after Astarion and fell the same way he did.
Then stranger cracks a grin beyond both their years and bids him, “I remind you, we both slipped. Happy Holidays.”
Astarion wedges his eyes shut, just ready to move on from this plane as the big elf finds and gets to his feet. Hands grab him. His eyes fling open and he unflatteringly gasps as they latch onto his coat and pull him right out of the snow bank. Astarion swears he goes up in the air for a moment. His legs skitter and he almost slips right down again, to smash his face on the ice when the stranger catches him and he latches on, flannel take the wheel, the angels sing.
Astarion tips his face up, both of them dusted in snow, cupped by his elbows and held close when his knees get the idea to do a funny weak thing.
“Are you all right?”
Just because he is another elf and freakishly tall and smiles and crinkles his eyes like that does not mean Astarion is going to forget himself, now. He swipes a clump of curls hanging from his face, keeping that inhale of winter-cold breath quiet as he makes his lips work again, “I...I am now, I suppose.” Then he gets his fingers to unlatch from the stranger’s coat and finds solid, somewhat dry ground beneath himself. “Thank you,” and it’s truthful enough. He gets busy brushing the snow from his coat, grimacing at the clumps that got under his collar and are now seeping against his skin. The stranger stands there, watching him with an amused smile, not helping the snow that’s on himself because he’s a lunatic, apparently. Then Astarion remembers his food, his poor downtrodden food he just charged on his work card. The bag lies there in the snow, plastic handles sticking up but everything inside is all broken, busted, ruined for certain. Astarion can have a little eulogy for it like the imprint he just left of himself in the snow-bank. He sighs, “I don’t think my lunch survived, though,” and he stops when they both reach for the bag at the same time.
The stranger picks it from the ground, holding it up to survey if anything spilled from the bottom of the bag. Unfortunately, the plastic holds it but the paper bag inside is soaked and seeping in Astarion’s soup.
“The lid must’ve came off.”
“We can get you a new one,” the stranger says.
Astarion reaches for the bag. “No, that’s all right.”
“It’s no bother at all.”
“No, really. I appreciate it, but I’m not wasting any more money on another. I need to go.”
“They won’t charge you for that. They’ll understand, I assure you.”
“Look, there’s places I need to go, things to do, an Alderman to catch. So.” Big breath. Words stop coming out when Astarion locks eye to eye with the curious look the stranger gives him.
“You’re looking for one of the Aldermen?”
“Yeah. I have a meeting I need to get over with a ‘Halsin Silverbough,’ if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” The stranger holds out his hand, “You’ve caught me right here. You must be Astarion.”
Astarion just stares at the stranger, at Halsin. The only thing that comes out of his throat is a little, “...ah.”
“As I said, it’s no trouble at all. We can head back inside, talk over lunch, and…” Halsin cracks another grin as glances down at Astarion, “We’ll see about getting ourselves warmed up.”
The snow mysteriously gets tempting enough for Astarion to bury himself again.
“Oh. Oh, dear.”