[He appreciates that gentle touch. That's one of the last things he remembers later on, before time abruptly stuttered and stopped. That gentle shift, so quiet enough that neither of them needed to draw attention to it, and he flexes back against it, pushing his foot up against Astarion's own. It's soothing without being pitying, a gentle acknowledgement without doing something so crass as drawing attention to it.
And then Astarion says that, and everything breaks.
Time slows. Fenris' head snaps forward, his eyes gone wide as rigidity sets into his muscles and something deep in him lurches. The shock of a sucker punch; the abruptness of a slap, his heart gone cold, for he had not once considered the possibility—
I look on you now and I think you received the better end of the bargain.
Why wouldn't she? Resentful, hateful creature that she'd been, looking at him with malice in her eyes and her own selfish gain in her heart, why wouldn't she chase after her revenge? How hard would it be to modify his memory? For that matter, how hard would it be to sneak up on him? He knows her face, her voice (he will never forget her, that lilting accent and eyes that matched his own), but how hard would it be for her to disguise herself? She had gotten the drop on him once before. And he had taken everything from her, her future, her pathetic, sniveling, servile future—
(He remembers, in that very faint way that means he does not truly remember at all, finding out she was a mage. Feeling fear in his heart for what might become of her, an elven slave who had more talent than was good for her. Competing for their mother, yes, but for her, for at least as a liberati she might be safe—
He was so stupid).]
I, [he says, and realizes his breathing has gone shallow. Enough, he snarls at himself, realizing that he's been staring at nothing for a long few seconds, enough, but he had not dreamed this could be Varania's handiwork.]
No. No, I . .
[He closes his eyes tightly. Enough, and he forces himself to inhale sharply.]
. . . it is possible. I cannot deny that. I had not considered it, but . . . I cannot say she is not capable of it, I—
[He shakes his head sharply, as if he might simply dislodge that clawing panic in the center of his chest. But that isn't enough; with a short, frustrated exhale he shoves the blanket off himself, his fingers knotting in the fabric, his shoulders rounding as he fights to urge to run. Where? Why? But suddenly energy fills him from tip to toe, sickish and demanding, and he does not know how to disperse it.]
In any case, [move on, move on,] I— I at least have a place to begin to look.
no subject
And then Astarion says that, and everything breaks.
Time slows. Fenris' head snaps forward, his eyes gone wide as rigidity sets into his muscles and something deep in him lurches. The shock of a sucker punch; the abruptness of a slap, his heart gone cold, for he had not once considered the possibility—
I look on you now and I think you received the better end of the bargain.
Why wouldn't she? Resentful, hateful creature that she'd been, looking at him with malice in her eyes and her own selfish gain in her heart, why wouldn't she chase after her revenge? How hard would it be to modify his memory? For that matter, how hard would it be to sneak up on him? He knows her face, her voice (he will never forget her, that lilting accent and eyes that matched his own), but how hard would it be for her to disguise herself? She had gotten the drop on him once before. And he had taken everything from her, her future, her pathetic, sniveling, servile future—
(He remembers, in that very faint way that means he does not truly remember at all, finding out she was a mage. Feeling fear in his heart for what might become of her, an elven slave who had more talent than was good for her. Competing for their mother, yes, but for her, for at least as a liberati she might be safe—
He was so stupid).]
I, [he says, and realizes his breathing has gone shallow. Enough, he snarls at himself, realizing that he's been staring at nothing for a long few seconds, enough, but he had not dreamed this could be Varania's handiwork.]
No. No, I . .
[He closes his eyes tightly. Enough, and he forces himself to inhale sharply.]
. . . it is possible. I cannot deny that. I had not considered it, but . . . I cannot say she is not capable of it, I—
[He shakes his head sharply, as if he might simply dislodge that clawing panic in the center of his chest. But that isn't enough; with a short, frustrated exhale he shoves the blanket off himself, his fingers knotting in the fabric, his shoulders rounding as he fights to urge to run. Where? Why? But suddenly energy fills him from tip to toe, sickish and demanding, and he does not know how to disperse it.]
In any case, [move on, move on,] I— I at least have a place to begin to look.