Not the grip on his hand, although yes, that too, and Fenris is grateful for the physical pain. It keeps him grounded, keeps him present through this tale, and he does not mind it. But it hurts to hear, a mixture of selfish reflection and aching empathy that wrings at his heart. He aches with it, the weight of it settling on his shoulders, a hollow pit opening in the space behind his chest as he listens. The bitter irony of having your life saved just to enter into a special kind of hell; the unrelenting, unending horror of having spent two centuries being tortured, tormented, put through the worst kind of agony only to be revived again and again and again . . .
Did you ever want to kill yourself? Anders whispers in the back of his mind, and now, finally, Fenris can understand the sentiment.
The enormity of all that Astarion confesses towers over him. There is no comforting, no combination of words that will soothe these savage wounds. He cannot fix this, for the fact of the matter is that there is no fixing it. It happened. It will always have happened. Fenris could no more change that than he could fly.
So what does he say instead? How does he begin to understand this?
Start with the similarities.
He knows what it is to feel that terrible, false love for one's master. To be so helpless (and to seethe on it later, despising yourself for your foolishness) that you look to the worst person in the world for salvation. He knows what it is to learn how to bend and break yourself in order to fit their whims; he knows what it is, too, to blame yourself when their moods change and they punish you anyway.
(oh dominus please)
Astarion's head is bowed, his eyes downcast (good slaves don't meet the eyes of their better). Fenris swallows thickly. He feels a little outside of himself, truthfully. There's a ringing in his ears, a subtle sort of shock that creeps up in his throat. He ignores it.
What else does he know? What it is to be changed fundamentally. Not in the same way that Astarion was, no, but still, he knows what it is to be different from anyone else around you. He knows what it is to be used. To bleed for a master who saw you as nothing more than a pet and a body, something less than a person, there only to please him.
And he knows what it is to cry out in the dark, and hear nothing in return.
Three decades is nothing compared to two centuries. And yet still, Fenris has spent more than half his life enslaved, and perhaps agony isn't always measured in years. Perhaps it is measured in how many moments you spent pleading for someone to save you. Perhaps it is measured in empty stomachs and hollow cheeks; in tears shed, or the torment you were forced to inflict on others (imekari please you don't have to).
Or perhaps there is no measuring it. Perhaps it all of it is simply that: agony. Cruelty, unfair and spiteful, and there is no measure of who had it worse, for the answer simply tallies up to yes.]
Little wonder you do not trust this miracle to hold.
[His voice rasps as he says it.
A miracle, yes. But Fenris had not stopped looking over his shoulder in paranoid terror until Danarius was dead. He had not stopped flinching from Hawke's outstretched hand, from Isabela's offers to join her on the sea, from Aveline's offers of stability and jobs— for he had known he stood on cracked glass. And that sooner or later, something would give.
He squeezes Astarion's hand once, a silent warning before he pulls it away. Not to go far, no, but so he can lean over and nab his shirt from the floor. Tugging it on swiftly, he then moves: climbing back on the bed to sit next to Astarion, reaching for his hand again. Lacing their fingers together, shoulders bumping together, hips and knees and ragged sheets, and he stares out at the wall, as much privacy as he can offer him while still staying close.]
I cannot promise he will never come. And I did not find relief until Danarius lay dead at my feet.
[Deep breath, in and out.]
But I did kill him.
And when a so-called god arose from his slumber, a magister who triumphed over all other magisters, I killed him too.
And I will die before I allow him to take you back, Astarion. That . . . that, I can swear to you.
cw: suicide mention
Not the grip on his hand, although yes, that too, and Fenris is grateful for the physical pain. It keeps him grounded, keeps him present through this tale, and he does not mind it. But it hurts to hear, a mixture of selfish reflection and aching empathy that wrings at his heart. He aches with it, the weight of it settling on his shoulders, a hollow pit opening in the space behind his chest as he listens. The bitter irony of having your life saved just to enter into a special kind of hell; the unrelenting, unending horror of having spent two centuries being tortured, tormented, put through the worst kind of agony only to be revived again and again and again . . .
Did you ever want to kill yourself? Anders whispers in the back of his mind, and now, finally, Fenris can understand the sentiment.
The enormity of all that Astarion confesses towers over him. There is no comforting, no combination of words that will soothe these savage wounds. He cannot fix this, for the fact of the matter is that there is no fixing it. It happened. It will always have happened. Fenris could no more change that than he could fly.
So what does he say instead? How does he begin to understand this?
Start with the similarities.
He knows what it is to feel that terrible, false love for one's master. To be so helpless (and to seethe on it later, despising yourself for your foolishness) that you look to the worst person in the world for salvation. He knows what it is to learn how to bend and break yourself in order to fit their whims; he knows what it is, too, to blame yourself when their moods change and they punish you anyway.
(oh dominus please)
Astarion's head is bowed, his eyes downcast (good slaves don't meet the eyes of their better). Fenris swallows thickly. He feels a little outside of himself, truthfully. There's a ringing in his ears, a subtle sort of shock that creeps up in his throat. He ignores it.
What else does he know? What it is to be changed fundamentally. Not in the same way that Astarion was, no, but still, he knows what it is to be different from anyone else around you. He knows what it is to be used. To bleed for a master who saw you as nothing more than a pet and a body, something less than a person, there only to please him.
And he knows what it is to cry out in the dark, and hear nothing in return.
Three decades is nothing compared to two centuries. And yet still, Fenris has spent more than half his life enslaved, and perhaps agony isn't always measured in years. Perhaps it is measured in how many moments you spent pleading for someone to save you. Perhaps it is measured in empty stomachs and hollow cheeks; in tears shed, or the torment you were forced to inflict on others (imekari please you don't have to).
Or perhaps there is no measuring it. Perhaps it all of it is simply that: agony. Cruelty, unfair and spiteful, and there is no measure of who had it worse, for the answer simply tallies up to yes.]
Little wonder you do not trust this miracle to hold.
[His voice rasps as he says it.
A miracle, yes. But Fenris had not stopped looking over his shoulder in paranoid terror until Danarius was dead. He had not stopped flinching from Hawke's outstretched hand, from Isabela's offers to join her on the sea, from Aveline's offers of stability and jobs— for he had known he stood on cracked glass. And that sooner or later, something would give.
He squeezes Astarion's hand once, a silent warning before he pulls it away. Not to go far, no, but so he can lean over and nab his shirt from the floor. Tugging it on swiftly, he then moves: climbing back on the bed to sit next to Astarion, reaching for his hand again. Lacing their fingers together, shoulders bumping together, hips and knees and ragged sheets, and he stares out at the wall, as much privacy as he can offer him while still staying close.]
I cannot promise he will never come. And I did not find relief until Danarius lay dead at my feet.
[Deep breath, in and out.]
But I did kill him.
And when a so-called god arose from his slumber, a magister who triumphed over all other magisters, I killed him too.
And I will die before I allow him to take you back, Astarion. That . . . that, I can swear to you.