[He watches Astarion's profile as he speaks, eyes flicking over the curve of his lips, the faint splatter of freckles across his nose . . . grounding details, soothing details, things that root him to the present and keep him focused. The other elf's features are softer than his own, his eyes smaller, and Fenris wonders if that's true of all elves in Faerûn, or if it's simply a biological quirk. All it takes for Astarion to pass among humans is to cover his ears, but not so for Fenris.
It's odd. All of this is odd, this comparison between species and worlds, this stark illustration of how things might be . . . it's difficult to believe at first, so much so that it takes Fenris a few seconds to realize this isn't just a story woven for his amusement.
There is a world out there just as real as his own, full of the same sorts of people, petty and noble and evil and ordinary, and yet where elves are looked upon with respect. Not a species whose name is synonymous with either slave or servant, but who are looked at with awe. Envy. Revered, even, and Fenris thinks of his own existence in Hightown, barely tolerated by his neighbors, and even then, only because he is careful not to draw too much attention to himself. Of Shartan, and the fact that one of the greatest elvish heroes still began as a slave.
What a fantasy. What a dream, what a delight, to be looked at as something other than a creature defiantly making a space for himself.
Unseen beneath the covers, his fingers curl and flex against the sheets. The lyrium brands pull at his skin, a prickle of pain he's long since learned to ignore. Venerated, and for a moment he allows himself to imagine it: striding through the wilds instead of creeping through the trees, a knight instead of a wraith . . . do such creatures truly exist? He can fit himself so easily within that story, too easily, some strange amalgam of Dalish warrior and bodyguard, an upright creature full of pride and joy, not the flinching, snarling creature that he is.
It doesn't matter, of course. He will never see Faerûn; he will certainly never become such a wondrous thing as a Bladesinger. But still, he thinks of it: himself all clad in black and gold, dangerous and yet domesticated, free and yet comfortable. An elf who has a place in life, a purpose, his worth and dignity recognized and acknowledged.]
Mm. And yet I see no worship from you.
[He's joking. Or at least he's trying to, a vaguely amused observation as he sits up, resting his head in the palm of one hand. It's as much to fill the air as anything while his mind spins and turns this new information over.]
. . . truly, I cannot . . . I believe you. But it seems an impossibility. The Dalish have their stories of ages ago, when elves were . . . were not as we are today. But they are foolish things, filling their sentences with a language they cannot remember, clinging to a past long gone, if it ever existed at all. I have never paid them mind.
[As if Fenris himself does not curse in Elvish. As if he does not feel that nostalgic longing sometimes, deep in the pit of his soul. But ah, this is different. His eyes flick down for a moment, unsure, for he does not usually involve himself with his species. He tries very hard not to think about what he is, no matter that his ears and eyes mark him damningly as such.]
. . . what did you mean, Eladrin? A High elf . . . what—
[He feels clumsy. Like a child, foolish in the extreme.]
no subject
It's odd. All of this is odd, this comparison between species and worlds, this stark illustration of how things might be . . . it's difficult to believe at first, so much so that it takes Fenris a few seconds to realize this isn't just a story woven for his amusement.
There is a world out there just as real as his own, full of the same sorts of people, petty and noble and evil and ordinary, and yet where elves are looked upon with respect. Not a species whose name is synonymous with either slave or servant, but who are looked at with awe. Envy. Revered, even, and Fenris thinks of his own existence in Hightown, barely tolerated by his neighbors, and even then, only because he is careful not to draw too much attention to himself. Of Shartan, and the fact that one of the greatest elvish heroes still began as a slave.
What a fantasy. What a dream, what a delight, to be looked at as something other than a creature defiantly making a space for himself.
Unseen beneath the covers, his fingers curl and flex against the sheets. The lyrium brands pull at his skin, a prickle of pain he's long since learned to ignore. Venerated, and for a moment he allows himself to imagine it: striding through the wilds instead of creeping through the trees, a knight instead of a wraith . . . do such creatures truly exist? He can fit himself so easily within that story, too easily, some strange amalgam of Dalish warrior and bodyguard, an upright creature full of pride and joy, not the flinching, snarling creature that he is.
It doesn't matter, of course. He will never see Faerûn; he will certainly never become such a wondrous thing as a Bladesinger. But still, he thinks of it: himself all clad in black and gold, dangerous and yet domesticated, free and yet comfortable. An elf who has a place in life, a purpose, his worth and dignity recognized and acknowledged.]
Mm. And yet I see no worship from you.
[He's joking. Or at least he's trying to, a vaguely amused observation as he sits up, resting his head in the palm of one hand. It's as much to fill the air as anything while his mind spins and turns this new information over.]
. . . truly, I cannot . . . I believe you. But it seems an impossibility. The Dalish have their stories of ages ago, when elves were . . . were not as we are today. But they are foolish things, filling their sentences with a language they cannot remember, clinging to a past long gone, if it ever existed at all. I have never paid them mind.
[As if Fenris himself does not curse in Elvish. As if he does not feel that nostalgic longing sometimes, deep in the pit of his soul. But ah, this is different. His eyes flick down for a moment, unsure, for he does not usually involve himself with his species. He tries very hard not to think about what he is, no matter that his ears and eyes mark him damningly as such.]
. . . what did you mean, Eladrin? A High elf . . . what—
[He feels clumsy. Like a child, foolish in the extreme.]
What distinguishes us from others?
[Us.]