[Fenris is so gentle. Lyrium-lined fingers cautious when they unravel the mess of worn sheeting that still bears tears here and there from its former life outside the pale elf’s care: like so much else that populates Astarion’s flat, it’s all second-hand. Stolen or dug up from the trash heaps that merchants discard in the shadow of dockside scaffolding, too damaged to count as exceedingly fine or noticeably salvagable.
He’s fought tooth and nail for every scrap of it, on his own. Proudly. But...
Red eyes lift nominally, watching the way Fenris sets his hands openly across his thighs. Slightly splayed to prove there’s nothing held within them. No ill will. No deceit. And Astarion, disentangled by kindness alone, takes the opportunity to fold his legs properly. Painlessly. His spine is still set against the wall, but he hunches forward through his shoulders instead, his neck slung so unspeakably low: every bit the wounded animal with its guard only tentatively withered under the tempting sway of won trust.
Not tonight, Fenris says, and the crippled look that rises to meet it is far more transparent than the snow-lined panes that bracket Astarion’s bed.
Oh, how much he wants that to be true.
(Astarion is so gentle. Narrow fingers cautious when they strain, fearfully, to press against the pads of Fenris' own.)]
...Two hundred years. That’s how long I was leashed to his side.
[He doesn’t say it to weep. Doesn’t want to scrounge around for sympathy that won’t do either of them any good. Only to illustrate the difference between two centuries of enslavement...and six months of freedom.
Six months.
It’s nothing.
And it's everything.]
My beloved master, Cazador. [The word beloved cloying across his tongue, laced with vitriol. He lifts his opposite hand, gesturing in turn to the stark crimson of his irises; his jagged, inhuman teeth.] The one who cursed me the night he stole my blood, and left me with these eyes— these fangs.
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He’s fought tooth and nail for every scrap of it, on his own. Proudly. But...
Red eyes lift nominally, watching the way Fenris sets his hands openly across his thighs. Slightly splayed to prove there’s nothing held within them. No ill will. No deceit. And Astarion, disentangled by kindness alone, takes the opportunity to fold his legs properly. Painlessly. His spine is still set against the wall, but he hunches forward through his shoulders instead, his neck slung so unspeakably low: every bit the wounded animal with its guard only tentatively withered under the tempting sway of won trust.
Not tonight, Fenris says, and the crippled look that rises to meet it is far more transparent than the snow-lined panes that bracket Astarion’s bed.
Oh, how much he wants that to be true.
(Astarion is so gentle. Narrow fingers cautious when they strain, fearfully, to press against the pads of Fenris' own.)]
...Two hundred years. That’s how long I was leashed to his side.
[He doesn’t say it to weep. Doesn’t want to scrounge around for sympathy that won’t do either of them any good. Only to illustrate the difference between two centuries of enslavement...and six months of freedom.
Six months.
It’s nothing.
And it's everything.]
My beloved master, Cazador. [The word beloved cloying across his tongue, laced with vitriol. He lifts his opposite hand, gesturing in turn to the stark crimson of his irises; his jagged, inhuman teeth.] The one who cursed me the night he stole my blood, and left me with these eyes— these fangs.
Bound to him so that I could never run.