[No, he doesn't want to talk about that. He should, he thinks ruefully, and tomorrow he will force himself to, for what use is he if he shies away from the very topics he's meant to be helping overcome? But tonight is . . . tonight is special. A reprieve, the two of them shivering together in their trauma, safely locked away from the rest of the world. He has
So he happily goes along with that subject change. It's not such a bad one, if not a little fanciful. But then again: why not? Who's to say that they aren't related in such a way? He has no proof it isn't true, and Maker knows that inter-dimensional travel is a concept that is now, apparently, real, so . . . why not? Fenris has never given much thought to his species, nor even his own ancestry, but . . . it's a pleasing thought. That somewhere, so far in the past that all have forgotten, there might be some hint of something more than just impoverished, wretched creatures struggling to survive.
Understand: Fenris does not care about his species. He finds the Dalish to be pretentious and foolish, clinging to a past no longer relevant. City elves are even worse, trembling beneath the yoke of humanity, allowing themselves to be penned and herded like so much cattle. He has never identified with them, he has never cared to. He isn't . . . he is elvish, yes, but he has no cultural identity. He does not care, for what use does he have of a culture? Life is hard enough without adding one more identity to it.
So he does not understand why that combination— that incorrigible grin, the casual way Astarion mirrors him, but most of all that claim, inclusive and inviting and so unexpected— leaves him flushing.
Faintly. More heat than proper color, and thank the Maker for tan skin, for he's almost sure it doesn't show up. Fenris' expression goes blank, his mind suddenly left scrambling, and he does not know if he's insulted or irritated or pleased, patronized or (is it possible?) thrilled. He has never sought to be an elf, never wanted to be part of his species, never ever once cared that his connection to his family and his people was severed so completely that there was never a hope of reclaiming it (and how much easier, to pretend he does not care, rather than acknowledge yet another gaping hole in his soul).
If it was anyone else, he would snarl. He knows he would. But because it is this man, this elf who has slipped past so many defenses within a matter of hours—]
You mock me.
[It's gruff. Not an accusation, but pointing out a joke as it's being played.]
I am not—
[Eladrin. Dalish. Moon elf. City elf, even. No kin, save a sister who might have wiped his memory. No people. No culture. No knowledge, no understanding, oh, Fenris is an elf right up until you look closely— but any proper elf might just see that he's human all the way down.]
no subject
So he happily goes along with that subject change. It's not such a bad one, if not a little fanciful. But then again: why not? Who's to say that they aren't related in such a way? He has no proof it isn't true, and Maker knows that inter-dimensional travel is a concept that is now, apparently, real, so . . . why not? Fenris has never given much thought to his species, nor even his own ancestry, but . . . it's a pleasing thought. That somewhere, so far in the past that all have forgotten, there might be some hint of something more than just impoverished, wretched creatures struggling to survive.
Understand: Fenris does not care about his species. He finds the Dalish to be pretentious and foolish, clinging to a past no longer relevant. City elves are even worse, trembling beneath the yoke of humanity, allowing themselves to be penned and herded like so much cattle. He has never identified with them, he has never cared to. He isn't . . . he is elvish, yes, but he has no cultural identity. He does not care, for what use does he have of a culture? Life is hard enough without adding one more identity to it.
So he does not understand why that combination— that incorrigible grin, the casual way Astarion mirrors him, but most of all that claim, inclusive and inviting and so unexpected— leaves him flushing.
Faintly. More heat than proper color, and thank the Maker for tan skin, for he's almost sure it doesn't show up. Fenris' expression goes blank, his mind suddenly left scrambling, and he does not know if he's insulted or irritated or pleased, patronized or (is it possible?) thrilled. He has never sought to be an elf, never wanted to be part of his species, never ever once cared that his connection to his family and his people was severed so completely that there was never a hope of reclaiming it (and how much easier, to pretend he does not care, rather than acknowledge yet another gaping hole in his soul).
If it was anyone else, he would snarl. He knows he would. But because it is this man, this elf who has slipped past so many defenses within a matter of hours—]
You mock me.
[It's gruff. Not an accusation, but pointing out a joke as it's being played.]
I am not—
[Eladrin. Dalish. Moon elf. City elf, even. No kin, save a sister who might have wiped his memory. No people. No culture. No knowledge, no understanding, oh, Fenris is an elf right up until you look closely— but any proper elf might just see that he's human all the way down.]
I have no claim to that title.