[He exhales softly, his head sagging. No, little wonder Astarion's belief in this miracle is tenuous, for he has all the proof in the world that it won't necessarily last. There is a chance he will be spirited back, and there is nothing either of them can do to safeguard against it.
So what is there to say? He can promise his dedication, and there is no question in his mind that he would seek Astarion out should that miracle fail, but who knows if he can manage it? They barely understand the rifts themselves, never mind what drags people here; he won't do Astarion the disservice of promising something he does not know if he can keep.
They will deal with that problem if and when it comes, Fenris thinks. And in the meantime . . .
In the meantime, he reaches down again, nabbing his own blanket. He doesn't lie down, but rather settles at Astarion's feet, back resting against the wall, wrapping himself until every bit of him is safely cocooned. It's cold in the winter, all right, and he has never endured it well.]
Yes and no.
[He closes his eyes. This isn't a fun topic, but it isn't fresh pain; he has long since grown used to the scars here.]
I remember . . . my sister. Varania. Dancing with her, or playing with her in our master's courtyard while our mother worked . . .
[What kind of slave had she been? Something to do with being outside, anyway, for he can remember her at a distance: not a figure, but a blur, a vague source of comfort and, if not safety, at least adoration.
He wonders, sometimes, who she was. If she had been born into slavery or sold into it. If she was Dalish, even, although such a thought is discomfiting. He does not ever bother to wonder who his father was; there is a mystery that would never be solved even if he retained his old life.]
Sensations, mostly, is what I recall. Flashes of scenes with no context. I can remember lying in a cellar with the other slaves . . . it was hot. Summer, I suspect, and that was the coolest place my mother could find for us. The feeling of a sword beneath my hands . . . that may have been the first time I picked one up to use as my own.
[And what a thrill it had been. A slave armed. No matter it was in service of his master, that he was training (he assumes) to compete in that damned tournament . . . still, he remembers the thrill of it.
He blinks. Glances down at Astarion and offers a one-shouldered shrug.]
Sensations, as I said. Faint shapes that make little sense. The only reason I recall Varania so vividly is because she found me a few years ago.
no subject
So what is there to say? He can promise his dedication, and there is no question in his mind that he would seek Astarion out should that miracle fail, but who knows if he can manage it? They barely understand the rifts themselves, never mind what drags people here; he won't do Astarion the disservice of promising something he does not know if he can keep.
They will deal with that problem if and when it comes, Fenris thinks. And in the meantime . . .
In the meantime, he reaches down again, nabbing his own blanket. He doesn't lie down, but rather settles at Astarion's feet, back resting against the wall, wrapping himself until every bit of him is safely cocooned. It's cold in the winter, all right, and he has never endured it well.]
Yes and no.
[He closes his eyes. This isn't a fun topic, but it isn't fresh pain; he has long since grown used to the scars here.]
I remember . . . my sister. Varania. Dancing with her, or playing with her in our master's courtyard while our mother worked . . .
[What kind of slave had she been? Something to do with being outside, anyway, for he can remember her at a distance: not a figure, but a blur, a vague source of comfort and, if not safety, at least adoration.
He wonders, sometimes, who she was. If she had been born into slavery or sold into it. If she was Dalish, even, although such a thought is discomfiting. He does not ever bother to wonder who his father was; there is a mystery that would never be solved even if he retained his old life.]
Sensations, mostly, is what I recall. Flashes of scenes with no context. I can remember lying in a cellar with the other slaves . . . it was hot. Summer, I suspect, and that was the coolest place my mother could find for us. The feeling of a sword beneath my hands . . . that may have been the first time I picked one up to use as my own.
[And what a thrill it had been. A slave armed. No matter it was in service of his master, that he was training (he assumes) to compete in that damned tournament . . . still, he remembers the thrill of it.
He blinks. Glances down at Astarion and offers a one-shouldered shrug.]
Sensations, as I said. Faint shapes that make little sense. The only reason I recall Varania so vividly is because she found me a few years ago.
[He smiles thinly, bitterly, and adds:]
It was not a happy reunion.