[It shouldn't be a question whether or not Astarion would stand decisively by Fenris' side in whatever story they'd settle on, were that to manifest as true: easy enough to claim Astarion ordered it, or that Violet was a threat (she might've been tonight were it not for the quick snap of someone else's grasp clasped around her own), and it'd be no more a crime than one more instance of drunken, overly ambitious children in a spat— worth only the gossip column that inevitably follows. He'd do it in a heartbeat, is the ripple of an afterthought with no home in sight to nestle in beyond the fingers at his ear, warm when he tips into them.
Nearly as warm as the smile he adopts; just a slanting of his lips high on one side, counterbalance to a sinking, lowered chin.]
We're more alike than I ever dared think, in that case. [Isn't blind or delusional, though gods above the uninitiated might think so after a conversation spanning torment, torture and status all. It's not as if Astarion's ever been cornered like an animal; spoken to as one or harshly tortured. The dullest of tutors remained only thus, and the most sadistic stood beneath him still, likely turning their malice as Hadriana did— elsewhere lower underfoot.
No, it's the trust that Astarion gives voice to, chasing the ley of Fenris' fingerprints. What had made all the difference even at the start when contempt was still in play. He'd never had another on his side without bartering for it. Bargaining for it. Vipers like Violet— the ones who knew their limits— or the others, that was the best he could scrounge up before Fenris came to his side. Acquaintances. Allies.
Not friends.
Not this.
And maybe they'd stop him from drinking himself to death or overdosing (—maybe— ) but they'd never take his side. Never take a stand should the world be at its worst.
This is new.]
Though I'd draw an immeasurable sea of blood to keep you safe from either of them. [Squares his stance until they're parallel— toe to toe— slim shoulders even: arms unfolded so his hands relax, with the knuckles of one nestling against the dead center of his fighter's taller chest, hello.] Or anyone.
[That's his birthright, after all. The one thing he's good for. ]
no subject
Nearly as warm as the smile he adopts; just a slanting of his lips high on one side, counterbalance to a sinking, lowered chin.]
We're more alike than I ever dared think, in that case. [Isn't blind or delusional, though gods above the uninitiated might think so after a conversation spanning torment, torture and status all. It's not as if Astarion's ever been cornered like an animal; spoken to as one or harshly tortured. The dullest of tutors remained only thus, and the most sadistic stood beneath him still, likely turning their malice as Hadriana did— elsewhere lower underfoot.
No, it's the trust that Astarion gives voice to, chasing the ley of Fenris' fingerprints. What had made all the difference even at the start when contempt was still in play. He'd never had another on his side without bartering for it. Bargaining for it. Vipers like Violet— the ones who knew their limits— or the others, that was the best he could scrounge up before Fenris came to his side. Acquaintances. Allies.
Not friends.
Not this.
And maybe they'd stop him from drinking himself to death or overdosing (—maybe— ) but they'd never take his side. Never take a stand should the world be at its worst.
This is new.]
Though I'd draw an immeasurable sea of blood to keep you safe from either of them. [Squares his stance until they're parallel— toe to toe— slim shoulders even: arms unfolded so his hands relax, with the knuckles of one nestling against the dead center of his fighter's taller chest, hello.] Or anyone.
[That's his birthright, after all. The one thing he's good for. ]