[But, and though it brings him no satisfaction to hear that sliver of doubt in Astarion's voice, perhaps there's a shade of relief. An exhale from the small part of him that's still eternally steeled against the world, waiting for the blow that will surely land. He won't believe you, what noble would ever take your side over their peers, and he thinks so much more of Astarion than that, but old habits die so hard.]

No? She was ready to concuss you half to death with a bottle for stopping her sport, and it was mild. What would she dare if she was the butt of a joke and she had nothing but bitterness and rage in her heart?

[Fenris takes a breath, trying to keep his thoughts steady. It's easier here, but he has to hold the reigns tightly, lest they slip from his grasp.]

Hadriana told me once that starvation wasn't a bad fate, for I would recover eventually. Salting my food was a joke. Bruises fade. Bones heal. I am scarred already, and what was a burn mark or two? And—

[And there are other, darker memories. Things that he cannot say, not just yet. Not here and not now. Not ever, maybe, but if those words come, they will emerge in the darkness, whispered against the back of Astarion's neck while they lie beneath the sheets.]

What would she dare if you humiliated her in front of some Duke? If Petras made her the butt of a joke for the next month? Do you truly think she would limit herself to just a few nasty remarks in return?

[It began as rhetorical, but somewhere along the way becomes a true question.]

You are not a fool, nor a child. Think of her, and tell me what you think she would do.