[Two hundred years, and honestly, it takes a moment for Fenris to understand what that means. It's an impossibility, a fate so horrifying he cannot, will not comprehend it at first. Two hundred years, two centuries, and his fingertips spasm against Astarion's own, his eyes going wide as he absorbs that.
No wonder he has nightmares. No wonder he stares at Fenris like that, terrified and longing all at once, an animal who refuses to believe that the cage door has finally been propped open for good. How could he? How could he believe in anything good happening, when for so long there was nothing but misery and servitude? The color has drained from his face, his expression for one moment starkly horrified.
Did you ever think about killing yourself? Anders had once asked him. No, he had replied, and that was true enough, but the real answer was that such a thing was not fathomable. Fish don't dream of flying. Escape was such an impossibility that to even contemplate it was too much to bear. People who have never felt that collar, that crushing weight, the unbearable hopelessness of days turning into weeks, into months, into years of abuse and false praise, being broken and reconditions . . . they imagine a prison. They think of a free man suddenly jailed, full of spirit and hope that surely wouldn't be crushed, even if it was suppressed.
They do not understand how much it hurts to hope. How, when you have been denied everything and your entire world has become dependent on upon the moods and whims of one impossibly powerful man, it's so much easier to bow your head and give in.
(He hates himself for it. He despises his own compliancy, and so lashes out all the more strongly when he sees it mirrored in the elves that surround them, flinching from the sight of a human, taking abuse they should not tolerate. He hates it so much, and yet he understands it so well in the same breath).
Two hundred years, Fenris thinks. And then, with a very different inflection, thinks it again. Two centuries, and still, here Astarion sits. Not crazed or cringing, whimpering for Cazador to return and guide him. Two hundred years of abuse, and still, he is his own man. He has a mind of his own. Preferences and habits, and look how has flourished under freedom.
It's humbling. Fenris can admit that to himself.]
And yet here you sit nonetheless.
[It's said firmly, iron-clad determination in those six words. A stabilizing anchor that Astarion can cling to in wake of the crashing tide of memories. Here, now, he is free. Here, now, Cazador is in another world, the door is locked, their chains are broken. Fenris inches his fingers forward, hooking them gently around Astarion's in something a little less than holding hands.]
You dreamt you were bound once more.
[It isn't a question.]
. . . I have had nightmares where I dreamt the same. That all my freedom was an illusion, and all that I had gained slipped like sand between my fingers. That I was nothing more, would never be more, than the dog he had raised me to be.
[He hesitates.]
I will not ask you to recount it, if it is too difficult. But I would listen, if you wished to speak of it. Of him.
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No wonder he has nightmares. No wonder he stares at Fenris like that, terrified and longing all at once, an animal who refuses to believe that the cage door has finally been propped open for good. How could he? How could he believe in anything good happening, when for so long there was nothing but misery and servitude? The color has drained from his face, his expression for one moment starkly horrified.
Did you ever think about killing yourself? Anders had once asked him. No, he had replied, and that was true enough, but the real answer was that such a thing was not fathomable. Fish don't dream of flying. Escape was such an impossibility that to even contemplate it was too much to bear. People who have never felt that collar, that crushing weight, the unbearable hopelessness of days turning into weeks, into months, into years of abuse and false praise, being broken and reconditions . . . they imagine a prison. They think of a free man suddenly jailed, full of spirit and hope that surely wouldn't be crushed, even if it was suppressed.
They do not understand how much it hurts to hope. How, when you have been denied everything and your entire world has become dependent on upon the moods and whims of one impossibly powerful man, it's so much easier to bow your head and give in.
(He hates himself for it. He despises his own compliancy, and so lashes out all the more strongly when he sees it mirrored in the elves that surround them, flinching from the sight of a human, taking abuse they should not tolerate. He hates it so much, and yet he understands it so well in the same breath).
Two hundred years, Fenris thinks. And then, with a very different inflection, thinks it again. Two centuries, and still, here Astarion sits. Not crazed or cringing, whimpering for Cazador to return and guide him. Two hundred years of abuse, and still, he is his own man. He has a mind of his own. Preferences and habits, and look how has flourished under freedom.
It's humbling. Fenris can admit that to himself.]
And yet here you sit nonetheless.
[It's said firmly, iron-clad determination in those six words. A stabilizing anchor that Astarion can cling to in wake of the crashing tide of memories. Here, now, he is free. Here, now, Cazador is in another world, the door is locked, their chains are broken. Fenris inches his fingers forward, hooking them gently around Astarion's in something a little less than holding hands.]
You dreamt you were bound once more.
[It isn't a question.]
. . . I have had nightmares where I dreamt the same. That all my freedom was an illusion, and all that I had gained slipped like sand between my fingers. That I was nothing more, would never be more, than the dog he had raised me to be.
[He hesitates.]
I will not ask you to recount it, if it is too difficult. But I would listen, if you wished to speak of it. Of him.