[He hears those little details for what they are: confessions, offered fleetingly, one hand darting into the light before being snatched back. And why shouldn't he offer details in such a manner? After all they have endured (and Astarion, Fenris thinks, has endured a great deal, no matter how long his enslavement or what he was used for; a slave is a miserable thing), they've earned the right to share their pasts like this.
Off-handed comments. Jokes that aren't funny at all. Details meant to horrify and enlighten all at once without making them seem weak, in need of pity. Fenris used to snarlingly offered his past to anyone who dared inquire, refusing to back down, sickeningly satisfied (and yet not at all) when they flinched. Look at what I have endured, look at what he did to me, and it did not wholly quiet the screaming in his soul, but at least it was a start.
Odd, now, to see it mirrored in Astarion. And odder still: that he does not quite know how to respond.
It's one of the first times he's spoken to a former slave like this, after all. Oh, there were plenty of rescues, but that doesn't count; grateful elves who avoided a horrifying fate, not slaves proper. And Orana . . . well. He'd barely interacted with her, skittish for reasons he couldn't quite understand.
Danarius used to, he thinks of saying, but even as he does the memories dart forward. Clammy hands and moonlit bedrooms, his thighs trembling and his eyes focused on a point in the wall— and it mixes, Danarius' voice amused as he'd stared at Hawke, the lad is rather skilled, isn't he?, humiliation and horror and—
And then fingers, cool and deft, brushing over his own. Like crisp water cutting through the sand and mud, a stark reminder that cajoles rather than drags him back to the present. Fenris blinks, focuses, and then nods at the slice on Astarion's shoulder.]
Now you.
[He doesn't wait for answer. Just takes bottle and cloth, splashing the wine haphazardly against the bloodied fabric. Somewhat horribly, he then takes a drink of that bottle, but eh, it's fine.]
Turn around.
[And he waits, patient as the grave, until Astarion obeys. His fingers tug at fabric, prying his shirt a little farther open, holding it steady as he begins to apply that cloth. Then, quietly:]
I am sorry I do not recall it. [You.]
But I am glad I could be of help.
[Ah, and how to say this . . .]
I do not doubt your expertise, nor your competence. And I have little doubt you would be fine without me. But if there are things that you need to learn, that were never taught to you . . .
[No one ever realizes that slaves aren't taught to cook, not unless they're assigned to the kitchen. Nor clean, not really, not if you're a bodyguard or a bedwarmer. How to wash clothing, how to manage money (oh, he'd had trouble with that), how to know when food rots or learn how to care for yourself . . . all those little things that people learn growing up that they never had.
His tone a little more light, then, an intentional joke at his expense:]
I ate two meals a day at a tavern for a year before I learned how to cook.
[It's true, but also, it's an easy way to deflect if Astarion doesn't take to the implied offer.]
no subject
Off-handed comments. Jokes that aren't funny at all. Details meant to horrify and enlighten all at once without making them seem weak, in need of pity. Fenris used to snarlingly offered his past to anyone who dared inquire, refusing to back down, sickeningly satisfied (and yet not at all) when they flinched. Look at what I have endured, look at what he did to me, and it did not wholly quiet the screaming in his soul, but at least it was a start.
Odd, now, to see it mirrored in Astarion. And odder still: that he does not quite know how to respond.
It's one of the first times he's spoken to a former slave like this, after all. Oh, there were plenty of rescues, but that doesn't count; grateful elves who avoided a horrifying fate, not slaves proper. And Orana . . . well. He'd barely interacted with her, skittish for reasons he couldn't quite understand.
Danarius used to, he thinks of saying, but even as he does the memories dart forward. Clammy hands and moonlit bedrooms, his thighs trembling and his eyes focused on a point in the wall— and it mixes, Danarius' voice amused as he'd stared at Hawke, the lad is rather skilled, isn't he?, humiliation and horror and—
And then fingers, cool and deft, brushing over his own. Like crisp water cutting through the sand and mud, a stark reminder that cajoles rather than drags him back to the present. Fenris blinks, focuses, and then nods at the slice on Astarion's shoulder.]
Now you.
[He doesn't wait for answer. Just takes bottle and cloth, splashing the wine haphazardly against the bloodied fabric. Somewhat horribly, he then takes a drink of that bottle, but eh, it's fine.]
Turn around.
[And he waits, patient as the grave, until Astarion obeys. His fingers tug at fabric, prying his shirt a little farther open, holding it steady as he begins to apply that cloth. Then, quietly:]
I am sorry I do not recall it. [You.]
But I am glad I could be of help.
[Ah, and how to say this . . .]
I do not doubt your expertise, nor your competence. And I have little doubt you would be fine without me. But if there are things that you need to learn, that were never taught to you . . .
[No one ever realizes that slaves aren't taught to cook, not unless they're assigned to the kitchen. Nor clean, not really, not if you're a bodyguard or a bedwarmer. How to wash clothing, how to manage money (oh, he'd had trouble with that), how to know when food rots or learn how to care for yourself . . . all those little things that people learn growing up that they never had.
His tone a little more light, then, an intentional joke at his expense:]
I ate two meals a day at a tavern for a year before I learned how to cook.
[It's true, but also, it's an easy way to deflect if Astarion doesn't take to the implied offer.]