How proud he must have been, Astarion thinks bitterly from his own bedding, Fenris' master watching comfortably from his perch, consolidating his most precious possessions so much the same way Cazador often did. Each one that fails becomes a little less precious— a little less loved. But the one that succeeds....
A fortune’s worth of lyrium.
Astarion seethes. His teeth ache, the way wild things work their jaw for wanting to bite down into vulnerable flesh. He can’t spare pity or sorrow; Fenris has already been marred, no shed tears will smooth down the horrid shape of it— but anger? Anger will always have its use, even if Danarius is long dead.
Even so, he keeps that to himself.]
All you’d done to free her...
[Wasted.
Abused.
What Astarion wouldn’t have given to someone who’d dared to free him from enslavement. Yet still. Still he remembers the spawn that truly loved their master for his power. His wretched cruelty. His sheltering claws, hoping to lap mere scraps from his plate. Someone else might think of options. How terrible it might have been to be free in a place like Minrathous, where even Astarion knows the only power comes from status alone.
But plenty flee.
And plenty more find themselves possessed of enough restraint not to betray those who fought for them.
Through thick covers, Astarion shifts. It’s a muted thing— possibly nothing at all, and barely noticeable besides— when he settles the edge of his foot against the unmarked arch of one of Fenris’ own.
The barest facsimile of touch.]
If she studied beneath Danarius— if she was a mage, who knew what he’d done to you— and still alive besides, are you certain she isn’t responsible for what happened? [His attention shifts slightly, red eyes peering out over the hemline of that comforter.] With the loss of your memories this time.
[Tevinter serves another master now, and its reach is far: who’s to say she didn’t find another way to get what she wanted so many years later?
Or...maybe that’s just Astarion’s paranoia talking.
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How proud he must have been, Astarion thinks bitterly from his own bedding, Fenris' master watching comfortably from his perch, consolidating his most precious possessions so much the same way Cazador often did. Each one that fails becomes a little less precious— a little less loved. But the one that succeeds....
A fortune’s worth of lyrium.
Astarion seethes. His teeth ache, the way wild things work their jaw for wanting to bite down into vulnerable flesh. He can’t spare pity or sorrow; Fenris has already been marred, no shed tears will smooth down the horrid shape of it— but anger? Anger will always have its use, even if Danarius is long dead.
Even so, he keeps that to himself.]
All you’d done to free her...
[Wasted.
Abused.
What Astarion wouldn’t have given to someone who’d dared to free him from enslavement. Yet still. Still he remembers the spawn that truly loved their master for his power. His wretched cruelty. His sheltering claws, hoping to lap mere scraps from his plate. Someone else might think of options. How terrible it might have been to be free in a place like Minrathous, where even Astarion knows the only power comes from status alone.
But plenty flee.
And plenty more find themselves possessed of enough restraint not to betray those who fought for them.
Through thick covers, Astarion shifts. It’s a muted thing— possibly nothing at all, and barely noticeable besides— when he settles the edge of his foot against the unmarked arch of one of Fenris’ own.
The barest facsimile of touch.]
If she studied beneath Danarius— if she was a mage, who knew what he’d done to you— and still alive besides, are you certain she isn’t responsible for what happened? [His attention shifts slightly, red eyes peering out over the hemline of that comforter.] With the loss of your memories this time.
[Tevinter serves another master now, and its reach is far: who’s to say she didn’t find another way to get what she wanted so many years later?
Or...maybe that’s just Astarion’s paranoia talking.
Yet again.]