Fenris understands. It doesn’t shock Astarion to know it, but hearing it aloud still feels like stepping forward with his eyes tightly shut— and finding the earth both soft and steady beneath his feet. Expectation intermingling with relief.
From where he’s curled beneath his covers (far less tightly; he doesn’t feel the cold), his eyes slide over to take in the sight of Fenris resting there in the dark, half-lit by the pale haze of snowy skies through the window at his side. Always bright as a foggy morning, weather like this. Even in the dead of night. Something to do with diffused lighting, if he hasn’t forgotten what he’d read on a whim, once. Plucked up from a bookshelf while stalking prey.
Like this, the only thing that glows are the tiny little spots marking the center of Fenris’ forehead.]
I remember I had a home. Not what it looked like or who was there, but it’s like...warmth at times. It smells of things like vanilla or herbs, or when wood gets too hot in plain sunlight.
[When he smells those things on their own, nothing comes to mind, but the opposite still stays true.
The talk of reunion, though, changes his focus.]
...for your pain, or hers.
[Slaves both, Astarion assumes. So then was it the reminder that hurt more— or something else entirely?]
no subject
Fenris understands. It doesn’t shock Astarion to know it, but hearing it aloud still feels like stepping forward with his eyes tightly shut— and finding the earth both soft and steady beneath his feet. Expectation intermingling with relief.
From where he’s curled beneath his covers (far less tightly; he doesn’t feel the cold), his eyes slide over to take in the sight of Fenris resting there in the dark, half-lit by the pale haze of snowy skies through the window at his side. Always bright as a foggy morning, weather like this. Even in the dead of night. Something to do with diffused lighting, if he hasn’t forgotten what he’d read on a whim, once. Plucked up from a bookshelf while stalking prey.
Like this, the only thing that glows are the tiny little spots marking the center of Fenris’ forehead.]
I remember I had a home. Not what it looked like or who was there, but it’s like...warmth at times. It smells of things like vanilla or herbs, or when wood gets too hot in plain sunlight.
[When he smells those things on their own, nothing comes to mind, but the opposite still stays true.
The talk of reunion, though, changes his focus.]
...for your pain, or hers.
[Slaves both, Astarion assumes. So then was it the reminder that hurt more— or something else entirely?]