[Manages to clear the entry to the booth before Astarion's pale hand finishes peeling back attached curtains, scowling at the unearthed sight. There's a dry squeak as he pulls himself across the seat opposite to Fenris, and an even harder shove that comes from elbowing Petras to the side— ]
And he doesn't need your fucking drinks you insipid little harpies.
[ —revealing a tall glass of brandy garnished with a lilac sprig. Sweet aroma nearly floral, and far, far from cloying when it's nudged across the table; coupled with a hooded glance for all due measure, gold eyes shining beneath dark lashes. Never mind that Violet's offering was already downed, he's figuratively nosed aside her half-paused offer for another, locked on nothing but the faintly glowing elf in front of him, smile self-assured.]
[It's like the sun breaking through the clouds for how his expression changes: all the distant chilliness of two seconds ago fading in a burst of warmth, emerald eyes softening to see the other man. And oh, how good he looks: pale skin flecked with sweat and curls pleasantly mussed, glitter glinting on his skin and his outfit clinging to his slender frame . . .
'It's a miracle your father hasn't found out yet,' Petras says, aiming a little look over at Astarion. 'Is he your bodyguard or your puppy?']
You speak boldly for a man who can only handle drinks drenched in sugar.
[Fenris retorts smoothly, not taking his eyes off Astarion. Three fingers wrap around the rim of the offered glass, drawing it up to his lips, savoring the sting as it hits his tongue.]
Now: where's yours? Or have you had your fill of drugs and drinks tonight?
['Ugh,' Violet says, offering her completely necessary opinion at the exchange before her.]
The same place yours is. [Asserts Astarion when he wraps his fingers back around the offered glass like they've always belonged there, interlocking fingers winding tighter like a serpent's hungry coils— not particularly strong through force, nor rough the way a fighter's skin would run— but it's only eagerness that gives them a certain breed of tensile insistence despite every inborne shortcoming. The luxury of his birth meeting a desire for something more.
It's obvious to everyone by now that he's ignoring Petras.
And Violet.
He has to sit up a little in his seat to crane himself far enough across the table to drink from that same glass– mostly dregs— yet knowing what he does of context, they taste all the better slid along the back of his curled tongue.
'Rum isn't just sugar, anyway. It's the drink for bold hearts and voyagers and....'
'You forgot the rest, didn't you?' Idiot, is the unsung undertone in Violet's drawling question.
'No!']
Oh I'd say that's a yes, if ever I've heard one. [Slides his hand back. Slides himself back, sinking in his seat.]
Brandy still trumps your cheap rum, anyway. A rich cognac— aged with care and only the best of attentive craftsmanship—
[A click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth.]
Nothing better.
['Whiskey,' Violet interjects with a hardened stubbornness. 'Whiskey's better.'
And, as if to prove her point, takes a lengthy sip of her second glass.
'What do you think, Fenris?' Petras asks, leaning on the syllables.]
[Truthfully? The answer is whiskey, at least for Fenris. Brandy goes down just as dizzily, but there's something delightfully oaken about whiskey that appeals to him. But without a moment's hesitation, Fenris answers:]
Brandy.
[He gives Violet a little glance, smug and pointed, and gets rewarded with a scoff. 'You're a liar,' she declares with a sniff, 'and you'd say that no matter what he brought you.'
Which is absolutely the truth, and Fenris doesn't bother to deny it, shrugging one shoulder.]
Ask me something difficult, and perhaps you'll give me a challenge. But do you truly expect me to pick—
['I expect you to have an opinion,' she says. 'Or are you just his dog?'
It isn't all that insulting, in truth, but the children seem to think so, for Petras lets out a cooing little ooh of challenge.]
I said brandy because I meant it— and because the whiskey you so thoughtfully brought me was tainted by the magic it was stowed in. Alluring though the thrill of the illicit is, magic has a particularly sour taste that my nanites draw out. Thus: brandy.
Shall I settle your favorite drug next?
[For a moment it seems as though she might snap— but then she exhales sharply, rolling her eyes once more. 'Oh, don't be tiring,' she says, and leans down more. Her palms slide over Fenris' shoulders and down his chest, impudent (and painful, though he doesn't wince). 'When are you coming out to dance? Answer me that instead.']
[It's the dog comment that catches first. Rough-edged and bitterly uncomfortable, like a sour bite at the end of cool liqueur, ruining the experience in retrospect. He's offput before he's livid— well before those elegant fingertips settle like a wreath around strong shoulders— mussing up the line of Fenris' clothes.
Violet can be cruel. Crueler than cruel, in fact, inclined to chuckle to herself at crossed lines that never quite sink into psychopathic borders (as far as any of them know, though gods swear they all wonder if there might come a time when she walks in and offhandedly confesses to a spattering of murders), but this is different.
This is different.
Because unlike the rest of the pack, Astarion knows what Fenris has been through. And unlike them, he cares about the depth of those clotted memories— their outreach. And unlike them, he—
Is up on his feet in an instant, lithe arm outstretched to latch onto her forearm like a vice, nearly upsetting the booth's table for how hard he'd lunged to yank her off across the distance: hips jammed against the corner of the table, drinks partially spilled across its surface (Petras' undrunk charge, mostly), nails biting into skin with the sort of twisting pull that should elicit something from her. A hiss or a cry or a yelp of outrage.
It doesn't, though. Too many fights between packmates or sisters, or a frigid nervous system that doesn't function like it should, cold as its own owner; whatever the reason, Violet is scowling at him in return.]
Get your hands. OFF. Of him. [ —earns a stiffening of her shoulders like a cat about to launch itself forwards to attack. A raising of her other hand, glass still in it, and a steeling of her outraged gaze.]
Faster than Fenris would have thought Astarion could move. Faster than he ever expected for the likes of him (a slave, a bodyguard, a servant, a dog), and there's a part of him still reeling in bewilderment even as he shoots up. In one fluid motion he's slotted himself between them, Astarion's arm tucking beneath his body as he blocks Violet from reaching his charge. He grabs her wrist roughly, halting her wind-up; for a moment she strains instinctively, but there's no escaping his hold.
Three seconds, if that.
And then the world begins to move again. The bass keeps thumping away, muffled but eternally present; in the background, Petras squawks in dismay over his now-soaked pants. Violet's eyes dart around Fenris' face, seeking out some sign of weakness. For a long moment he wonders if she'll try and fight him— but no. She's many things, but stupid isn't one of them. With a scowl he takes the glass from her, setting it down blindly behind him and then letting her go.]
It's fine.
[It's not, really, but when has that ever mattered?]
It's fine, [he says again, and eases back, guiding Astarion into letting go. Settle, little pup, and Fenris doesn't sit until Astarion does, his eyes locked on him all the while.
'Jealous,' Violet hisses, drawing herself up. As haughty as a cat, she sets about examining her wrist, acting as though that was her plan the entire time. 'This had better not bruise. I have a meeting Monday.']
It won't.
[It might, but he'll deal with that later. And he knows he should be keeping an eye on Violet, but he can't seem to stop staring at Astarion. There's something unreadable in Fenris' gaze, astonishment and awe so foreign as to be unfamiliar to him; he simply stares in wonder, trying to understand something that seems simultaneously so simple and yet so impossible.
'And possessive,' she continues, ignoring Fenris in favor of cocking her head at Astarion. 'You've never minded sharing before. How was I meant to know this one was off-limits?' There's a mocking edge to her tone, for of course she knows damn well that Fenris is different. But it's a way to move forward. It's a way to, if not keep the peace, at least find a way to navigate out of this little snarl.
. . . or it would be, except Violet can't help but run her tongue. 'Are you going to try and tear apart everyone who brushes against him, or just the ones you're terrified might actually seduce him away—']
Enough.
[He snaps it out sharply, glaring up at her.]
Go away, or stay and hold your tongue.
[She rolls her eyes. 'You used to be more fun,' she informs Astarion, and gets to her feet. 'Come along,' she bids to Petras. The elf looks torn, glancing from Astarion's seething face to Violet's cold glare and finding neither particularly hospitable. The impatience seems to annoy Violet further, for she clicks her tongue at him. 'Come on, and maybe I'll find you a pretty toy to play with tonight.'
Which is allure enough for Petras, it seems— though he does grip Astarion's shoulder in affectionate camaraderie as he passes by. The curtain draws back and falls closed behind him, and just like that, they're left alone.]
[It's as if he didn't even register how close he'd been to a concussion, had Violet actually swung down on his temple in the fit of fury that she'd fostered like a spark inside bottled vodka for those few, looming miliseconds before Fenris twisted round to stop her. And it feels that way, because the look within gold eyes that blink in stark bewilderment show nothing but an incredulous shiver of stark shock for those first wordless beats— after Petras touches his shoulder (after Violet slips away, and the world starts throbbing like a headache to the tune of thumping music)— and the crease between his brows runs deep.
It feels that way, because he didn't register it.
Hasn't now, either, with his head shaking once as it rears back, rejecting something else and taking self-awareness out alongside it.]
Am I all right? [Of course he is. He and the others always fight; another day another spat, and violence isn't so farfetched between siblings— not even the unrelated sort.] It was you she was drooling over— are you all right, Fenris? [Comes on so quickly that it's just a naked show of sharp concern laid bare without reaching. Without touching.
His shoulder still tingles with the ghost of Petras' touch.]
[Of course he is. Of course he is, and yet some small part of him internally flinches at it was you she was drooling over. He can still feel the warmth of her hands on his chest, the purr of her voice in his ear, and it's—
It's nothing. It really isn't. She's so much weaker compared to him, and it's not as if he isn't allowed to fight back. Gods, Astarion would support him even if he snapped her neck, never mind broke her wrist, so what's the issue? It meant nothing (but his hands have balled into fists). It was nothing (but the music is too loud, the scent her perfume too cloying, the taste of that whiskey suddenly turned sour and sickly on his tongue). He took care of it. He's gone through worse. He—]
I'm fine.
[He says it because he doesn't know what else to say, nor even how to begin to say it. His eyes flick down to the table for a few seconds, and he adds:]
But I would not say no to another drink.
[Gods, alcohol seems so alluring right now, professionality be damned. But before Astarion can go and procure some (and the mood he's in, Fenris thinks he would, eager to soothe in any way he could), he reaches over the table, grabbing first his wrist, then his hand. Fingers loosely interlacing in a silent bid: stay.
[Astarion does as he's bid; folds himself by palatable degrees forward into that anxious hold, smoothing a reassuring thumb along the borders of Fenris' own. Anchoring it a moment later— fingerprint to skin.
And in silent response: I'll fetch you more when you're ready.]
Not always. [Includes a cast-off stare towards the direction that they'd trod off in.] Something normally sets her off when she turns particularly nasty, and I can't say tonight is a shock in that regard, considering what day it is.
[The next pause leaves ample room, though he doesn't dare ask again if Fenris is all right.]
[He nods, showing he'd heard, but it's a distracted thing, half-formed and barely there. And for a time, there's quiet. Not silence, not when the bass is thumping too loudly and the rising and falling of voices laughing and chattering and shrieking are right outside their booth, but still: muffled. Muted. Separate from this fragile space, where it's just the two of them in this tentative moment.
There's so much he wants to say, and yet in the same breath he doesn't know how to begin to say it. How he can feel revulsion crawling in the back of his throat; how stunning it was that Astarion had bothered to say anything, never mind attack her so viciously. How he has a thousand memories of being fondled and groped and fucked, and all of them underscored with a dulled sort of indifference from both his master and himself, for what use would there be in growing upset?
He twists his hand, gently taking Astarion's between his own. There's still blood smeared beneath the nails, and absently Fenris begins to wipe it away.]
Jealousy? [Sounds as though it comes from miles away for distraction, only barely registering the question itself affter he's already repeated it on reflex, still bedded down in the pinning weight of Fenris' grip— and needing to snap back like a band at the pull of present conversation, drawing his eyes wider than they normally are when he finally meets that stare.
The grin comes a moment after.]
Not on your life, darling. I've seen the looks you give her when she's near; that she hopes you'd eat out of her hand tonight is more a joke than anything I could say. [The softest pinch. The softest pause, and then....]
I don't need to be jealous to want to keep you safe.
[His eyes flick up, tsavorite eyes drinking in Astarion's expression for a swift few seconds before dropping back down to his task. In truth, there's not so much blood he need spend more than a few moments on it, but it's easier this way. He cannot reach out and hold Astarion's hand like a whimpering lover, not when anyone might spot them, but this . . . no one would object to the sight of a dutiful bodyguard tending to his charge.]
I know.
[His voice is low, audible only because it rumbles at such a different note than the endless bass outside. His thumb strokes against his index finger, a swift echo: thank you and I know, for this is not the first time Astarion has protected him.
Simply the first time he's drawn blood to do so.
Noises fill the silence between them, muffled but not muted by the door-née-curtain. A chorus of excitable shrieks pierces past cloth as someone falls into the champagne fountain that dominates the center of the room; a woman exclaims in dismay over her ruined shoes, bemoaning the fact she'll have to buy them again. Somewhere else, good-natured jeers echo as the Ophal heir loses a few thousand dollars in an ill-timed bet; he moans for his poor luck, but buys everyone at the table a round of the most expensive scotch he can think of, just to show there's no hard feelings.
A dull night, he hears a woman say carelessly; another voice assures her that tomorrow will be far more exciting, for at least then the club will really try and liven things up.
It's nothing new. Nothing he hasn't heard a thousand times before over the past three centuries, and yet tonight something bitter rises in his throat. It's too loud. It's too much, grating on his nerves and clouding his senses; his ears swivel back, pressing flat against his skull as his body tenses.]
Why are you friends with her?
[It isn't what he means to say, but it spits past his lips before he has a chance to bite it back. His gaze rises and lingers this time, his expression flinty around the edges.]
The others I understand. But her . . . there is nothing there but bile and bitterness. She is a viper, and she will turn on you the moment she senses it will give her the slightest advantage, gleeful in how she grinds you beneath her heel— and if she spares you at all, it will only be to prolong your suffering. What cruelty she delights in regaling you all with is but a fraction of what she does, I assure you, for she is vile, and you still—
[He glances away, shaking his head sharply as he cuts himself off. This isn't fair, not at all, and not especially now. And he doesn't know why he's snarling all this (oh, but he does); he doesn't know why he's picking here and now to bring this up, when the circumstance and location couldn't be worse.
A breath, and then, as he glances back:]
This will not be the last time she asserts herself against me. And you will not always be here to step between us.
You understand the others but not her? [Is a real question, void of any strings or preconceptions given how bewilderment practically boils on his tongue for half a second, narrowing his eyes and cutting lines between dropped brows. Has Fenris met Petras? Has he seen Leon cut off those in need or followed Dalyria's flexible morality? Even Yousen has his moments, and even Aurelia's subdued cruelty is nothing to be scoffed at— ]
—I can only assume you've been sitting with your face turned away from half the group, if that's the way you've sized things up. [And Astarion's uncertain whether it's the droning music or the irritating burn of too much liquor polluted by a sea of piss poor company, but even the blind could see there's something gnawing underneath the surface. Spurring Fenris with its barbs when he ought to be settling down to rest.
It's a raw cut. A prickling miasma from without, not within. Most of all it's not intentional, and for all that Astarion reminds himself he should be patient—
Well.
He's a young thing yet. Full of emotion all his own.]
In what bloody world would I not be here? [He hisses, craning forwards in his seat.] You're my bodyguard, for gods' sakes— and I'm her friend because I'd rather a viper on my side that knows its limits rather than the other hundred here that don't.
[He's not wrong. He's not, for Fenris has seen and heard too much from the others to ever claim otherwise. Gods, Dalyria alone is a nightmare, never mind Petras and his antics, and yet—]
I tell you now, there will be a time when we are parted, for if an opportunity does not come, she will manufacture it— and when that happens, Astarion, she will bite all the harder.
[This isn't what he wants. This isn't what he's craving, and yet somehow it's all gone sour the way it always does. The bile rises up in his throat and he can't hold it back, not after a lifetime of keeping himself in check. And it's not the first time they've fought, no, for they both of them have sharp tongues— but perhaps it's the first time he's felt himself sink into that feeling, not wanting to and yet paradoxically not able to resist.]
You assume she knows her limits? You assume she cares? As if a bitch like her ever cares about anything but her own sadistic cravings and how best to sate them, never mind how to cover her tracks. How many servants has she gone through? How many times has she fucked her way through anyone she could, just to say she had?
[Not fair, not fair, the comparison cruel and not even intended— and yet perhaps not a shock, not when he continues:]
How long do you imagine she'll wait before she tries? A day? An hour? And all your protective rage will only fuel her further, for that is what people like her do, each and every time!
'Manufacture it?' Do you hear yourself? Do you know where we are? [Should be caring, should be sincere— is, on some deep, embedded level, buried underneath the puppish urge to bite when on his figurative heels with hackles raised. That tender, infallible sort of instinct that exists in every creature who knows what it is to hurt, whether or not they know what it means or why. Whether or not they're actually hurt, either, because gods know it's merely the suggestion that has Astarion run stiff throughout his shoulders and nearly snarling out each syllable, both to be heard over the din and just to simply be heard.]
'People like her' don't risk everything just to satisfy a whim, and if they did, Fenris, they'd be a damned idiot to think the rest of us would keep her in arms' reach—
[A beat, like a hook finding purchase in a storm; dulling the edge of his bite.]
[Like running full-tilt just to realize too late that he's skidded off a cliff— the words cut through his growing rage, leaving him balking on the back foot. The air bursts from his lungs and does not return, every subsequent inhale suddenly too shallow; he stares at Astarion for a few seconds too long, eyes wide, before he finds himself again.]
I mean people like her.
[The saccharine concoction Petras brought him has long since melted, neon colors now muddled and watered down. Fenris reaches for it anyway, draining the cup with a grimace. The sugar lingers on his tongue, nauseatingly cloying, but the world mercifully blurs a little more.]
Petty, pathetic children who despise their own weakness and take their bitterness out on anyone they can.
[Fenris, her lilting tone at such savage odds with the wide-eyed sadism shining in her eyes— and it's so overwhelmingly unfair that in the cloudy, smeared annals of his memory, it's that which he remembers with crystal-clear clarity.
And the thing is: he doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't want to say her name, as if she is a wraith who might somehow be summoned by the mere invocation. He doesn't want to give her anything, even this conversation— and yet he's never much had a choice when it comes to her, has he?]
. . . Hadriana.
[Has he ever sounded so bitter?]
My— Danarius' apprentice. A bitch of a sorcerer from a middling family who knew she was fated to amount to nothing— and so took every opportunity to torment those beneath her, just to distract herself from that fact. She hounded my sleep, denied me food, humiliated me, and she . . .
[The silence hangs between them, black and jagged, full of a thousand memories impossible to articulate.]
They could be twins, she and Violet. They act just the same.
[. . .]
You ruined twenty-five careers before I came along, but you did not destroy their lives. You thrill in seducing lesser nobles just to laugh about their subpar skills, but you do not rip them apart just to say you could.
[Leon, Dalyria, Aurelia . . . there are shades and shades of grey, but they all of them pale when placed against something so starkly black.]
There is a difference. And she is not like the other vipers whose company you keep.
[Much like the shades of this conversation, in fact, the differences run stark. Enough that Astarion's bearing slips back behind his shoulders, spine settling against his seat whilst his focus turns away— yet despite appearances, it's not a loss of interest.
There's a tug of contact as slim fingers clasp round Fenris' own. As he's pulled away from that saccharine drink and the covering gauze of draped curtains. Away from the throbbing bassline, the gossiping patrons, the source of his seething ire—
Into a narrow, black-paint lined corridor reminiscent of a backstage passage leading to two shoddy little restroom doors, neither of them labeled anymore, their plastic markers long worn off. Luxury, it seems, doesn't extend to the latrines. But it's quiet here, sectioned off and near the exit, all downsides well included.
His back is to the illuminated green of that emergency sign, arms folding tight across his chest.]
No good can come of having talks like this in places like that.
[One creak, once he's backed against the doorway, its opened seams letting in a gust of summer air.]
....she sounds a monster, your Hadriana.
[She sounds both like, and unlike Violet....but he won't say that just yet.]
[He follows with a dazed sort of obedience, unsure of where he's being led and yet trusting Astarion to steer him right. His hand is soft in Fenris' own: the only point of clarity in the sea of noise and neon lights, pale curls a steady star to orient himself towards. Until the overstimulating chaos of it all quiets down, and his anger has softened into something more exhausted.]
She—
. . . yes.
[He leans up against the wall, his posture a terse mirror of Astarion's own.]
The ordinary kind. The kind that snap and bite at their peers, but revel in vicious cruelties to anyone who cannot fight back. She would take her frustrations out on anyone, but she reserved the worst of her ire for me.
[He tips his head. There's no more anger in his gaze, for in truth, it was never Astarion he was upset with. Gently, then, so as not to be misunderstood:]
You must know the type.
[Not just Violet, no. Surely there are others among his peers who act just the same. And yet . . . he wonders. It isn't that Astarion is so willfully blind, but it's so easy to assume that everyone acts with the same cold civility you and yours do.]
Nothing ordinary about that, you know. [Cruelty— cruelty, yes, in this world, cruelty is ordinary regardless of whether it stands at the heels of higher echelons, or whether it's spat from the mouth of a spoiled noble— but the sort of dehumanizing wickedness that Fenris spoke of just before? No. That's a shade of malice that goes well beyond social ruin or trite dismissal.
Fenris tips his head. Astarion shakes his own, albeit both run gently in their course.]
You can't truly think Violet would starve you— beat you— had she the chance. She's a bloody bitch, I'll grant you, but....
[But leaves room for pause. For doubt. It's the moment he says but that he remembers the glint of a raised glass half-forgotten, and the coldness in her eyes.
Yet that was the squabbling of siblings, was it not?]
[But, and though it brings him no satisfaction to hear that sliver of doubt in Astarion's voice, perhaps there's a shade of relief. An exhale from the small part of him that's still eternally steeled against the world, waiting for the blow that will surely land. He won't believe you, what noble would ever take your side over their peers, and he thinks so much more of Astarion than that, but old habits die so hard.]
No? She was ready to concuss you half to death with a bottle for stopping her sport, and it was mild. What would she dare if she was the butt of a joke and she had nothing but bitterness and rage in her heart?
[Fenris takes a breath, trying to keep his thoughts steady. It's easier here, but he has to hold the reigns tightly, lest they slip from his grasp.]
Hadriana told me once that starvation wasn't a bad fate, for I would recover eventually. Salting my food was a joke. Bruises fade. Bones heal. I am scarred already, and what was a burn mark or two? And—
[And there are other, darker memories. Things that he cannot say, not just yet. Not here and not now. Not ever, maybe, but if those words come, they will emerge in the darkness, whispered against the back of Astarion's neck while they lie beneath the sheets.]
What would she dare if you humiliated her in front of some Duke? If Petras made her the butt of a joke for the next month? Do you truly think she would limit herself to just a few nasty remarks in return?
[It began as rhetorical, but somewhere along the way becomes a true question.]
You are not a fool, nor a child. Think of her, and tell me what you think she would do.
[Grabbing her was hardly mild, he thinks. Deflecting the responsibility of assertion into the hands of malleable deniability means ignoring the way things could've gone a little longer.
—No.
No, actually, it doesn't. There's always some part of him that knows how far into the depths of contempt they all too easily stray; packmates and compatriots and friends, so far as any term applies, but there are times he'd swear he'd slit the others' throats for but the slightest insult. Moments where he'd considered dragging Petras into ruin beyond rescue, void of either regret or keen restraint. There's a reason Fenris sits above them. Why his friendship holds his heart in ways no other does.
Astarion moves to stand beside him, pressing their shoulders together by degrees.]
....no less than murder, I expect. The literal sort. [Is muted, far from slurred. A blow against the brandy on his breath.]
[He rumbles his agreement for that assessment, some small part of him satisfied to hear it. Murder, yes, and it would not shock him to hear that Violet has ordered that done already, even if her hand hasn't struck the blow just yet. There's a streak of violence in her, one that will overflow sooner or later. Fenris has seen it before, and not just in Hadriana.
But oh, that question. That quiet, soft question, and when Astarion speaks in that tone it disarms all of Fenris' defenses. There's something so intimate about it, gentle in ways that he is not used to. Fenris swallows thickly, his head tipping down as he struggles to think of how to respond.
For he wants to, he does, but the memories muddle in his mind, incidents smearing into one another: flashes of blue eyes and black hair, his name breathed into his ear and a lithe body writhing above his own. Danarius' seething rage as Fenris tried his hardest to fight through a tournament while drugged up, his water tainted and Hadriana laughing just out of sight. Food kept just out of reach and water given only in a dog dish, his clothes stained and ripped, his sleep interrupted for days on end—
It goes on and on. And the words won't come, but that's never been his way. Lifting up just slightly off the wall, he turns towards Astarion. Carefully, he extends his thumb and pointer finger, wrapping them gently around the front of his throat for a long few seconds.]
She would collar me like a dog, and tie my lead to the wall.
[He does not keep the hold for long; in the next instant his thumb strokes gently against Astarion's neck, soft affection before he pulls away.]
And she would do anything she pleased with her caught prize, knowing that I could not report anything.
[He catches Astarion's eye, confirming and questioning all at once: do you understand? But he must. He's too clever not to.]
And I know she murdered at least one of her potential rivals in school, but I would not be shocked if that number was higher. Such competition was encouraged in Tevinter, so long as no one got caught.
Violet would thrive there, I suspect. Living in a world where all her worst tendencies were not just ignored, but revered.
[Violet would do more than flourish. Violet would adore it, in all fairness. Fenris is right in that assesment.
But there's so much rage in Astarion, prompted by the words collared like a dog, and tied my lead to the wall. A hard snap of eclipsing focus, and the subsequent drag of all his self-restraint as it threatens to give way under mounting, heated pressure— and a lingering draw towards that withdrawn touch, though he doesn't dare chase after it just yet, only stands there facing his companion— his bodyguard— as if better words might come to mind. The ones he needs. The ones he wishes he could will to do their job and ease off every shred of retained anguish, for it's the past that's in the present, now, when he looks at Violet and sees Hadriana's shadow.]
And if you'd struck out at her....well.... [A pause, thin as a razor's edge.]
Doesn't exactly take a clairvoyant to know it'd have gone over poorly, does it?
[The paradox of a question that isn't really a question at all.]
[Soft. His gaze is fixed on Astarion now, watching the emotions play out over his face (for he is so much less adept at hiding them than he thinks— or perhaps it's just that Fenris has gotten to know him so well). The rage that swells up in him, and the subsequent tells: his eyes flashing as his cheeks go pale, tension coiled up so tight in him it's as if he wants to go after Hadriana now. Tear her apart with laws and hands both, the only determining factor what would hurt her more.
It's thrilling. Alluring. Seductive, almost, in its viciousness; belated revenge no substitute for comfort, but still, he shudders beneath it.]
But there were times I forgot myself, and did anyway. It was not always a one-sided fight.
[There's a distant look in his eyes as he first cups Astarion's cheek, then moves to tuck a curl behind one pointed ear.]
Nothing I truly wanted to do, but still . . . I could blame my markings and faulty coding for the times when I snarled at her, or left her things behind when our master took us abroad. I humiliated her more than once in front of our master more than once, setting her up to fail— one of the worst things she could do in front of him, for he valued her first and foremost as a tool. Watching her simper pathetically for weeks on end to attempt to make up for it was not satisfying, not when I wished to stain my knuckles with her blood, but at least better than her smug.
[And it's nothing. Petty things, little things, things that didn't once make up for all the horror and grief, but at least made life a little less unbearable.
A moment's pause, and then:]
It's money and power that makes Violet so dangerous. Hadriana was leashed by Danarius just as much as I was, though she pretended otherwise. But Violet . . . if I were to attack her, enacting revenge when she inevitably tries something again . . . I have no doubt you would support me. [Little magistrate. Little love, who wants so badly to protect him.] But it still would be a foolish idea.
[And that's part of the bitterness and rage, too. The fact that he is just as chained as he was back then, free and yet not.]
Still: you thrilled me, drawing blood as you did. And I am proud of how swiftly you acted.
I never thought to expect such things from anyone, much less someone of your class. It is . . .
[He hesitates.]
You are more comforting than I can say. I have never had anyone I could rely upon without thinking like that, much less someone who would draw blood for me.
[It shouldn't be a question whether or not Astarion would stand decisively by Fenris' side in whatever story they'd settle on, were that to manifest as true: easy enough to claim Astarion ordered it, or that Violet was a threat (she might've been tonight were it not for the quick snap of someone else's grasp clasped around her own), and it'd be no more a crime than one more instance of drunken, overly ambitious children in a spat— worth only the gossip column that inevitably follows. He'd do it in a heartbeat, is the ripple of an afterthought with no home in sight to nestle in beyond the fingers at his ear, warm when he tips into them.
Nearly as warm as the smile he adopts; just a slanting of his lips high on one side, counterbalance to a sinking, lowered chin.]
We're more alike than I ever dared think, in that case. [Isn't blind or delusional, though gods above the uninitiated might think so after a conversation spanning torment, torture and status all. It's not as if Astarion's ever been cornered like an animal; spoken to as one or harshly tortured. The dullest of tutors remained only thus, and the most sadistic stood beneath him still, likely turning their malice as Hadriana did— elsewhere lower underfoot.
No, it's the trust that Astarion gives voice to, chasing the ley of Fenris' fingerprints. What had made all the difference even at the start when contempt was still in play. He'd never had another on his side without bartering for it. Bargaining for it. Vipers like Violet— the ones who knew their limits— or the others, that was the best he could scrounge up before Fenris came to his side. Acquaintances. Allies.
Not friends.
Not this.
And maybe they'd stop him from drinking himself to death or overdosing (—maybe— ) but they'd never take his side. Never take a stand should the world be at its worst.
This is new.]
Though I'd draw an immeasurable sea of blood to keep you safe from either of them. [Squares his stance until they're parallel— toe to toe— slim shoulders even: arms unfolded so his hands relax, with the knuckles of one nestling against the dead center of his fighter's taller chest, hello.] Or anyone.
[That's his birthright, after all. The one thing he's good for. ]
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[Manages to clear the entry to the booth before Astarion's pale hand finishes peeling back attached curtains, scowling at the unearthed sight. There's a dry squeak as he pulls himself across the seat opposite to Fenris, and an even harder shove that comes from elbowing Petras to the side— ]
And he doesn't need your fucking drinks you insipid little harpies.
[ —revealing a tall glass of brandy garnished with a lilac sprig. Sweet aroma nearly floral, and far, far from cloying when it's nudged across the table; coupled with a hooded glance for all due measure, gold eyes shining beneath dark lashes. Never mind that Violet's offering was already downed, he's figuratively nosed aside her half-paused offer for another, locked on nothing but the faintly glowing elf in front of him, smile self-assured.]
....he needs mine.
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'It's a miracle your father hasn't found out yet,' Petras says, aiming a little look over at Astarion. 'Is he your bodyguard or your puppy?']
You speak boldly for a man who can only handle drinks drenched in sugar.
[Fenris retorts smoothly, not taking his eyes off Astarion. Three fingers wrap around the rim of the offered glass, drawing it up to his lips, savoring the sting as it hits his tongue.]
Now: where's yours? Or have you had your fill of drugs and drinks tonight?
['Ugh,' Violet says, offering her completely necessary opinion at the exchange before her.]
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It's obvious to everyone by now that he's ignoring Petras.
And Violet.
He has to sit up a little in his seat to crane himself far enough across the table to drink from that same glass– mostly dregs— yet knowing what he does of context, they taste all the better slid along the back of his curled tongue.
'Rum isn't just sugar, anyway. It's the drink for bold hearts and voyagers and....'
'You forgot the rest, didn't you?' Idiot, is the unsung undertone in Violet's drawling question.
'No!']
Oh I'd say that's a yes, if ever I've heard one. [Slides his hand back. Slides himself back, sinking in his seat.]
Brandy still trumps your cheap rum, anyway. A rich cognac— aged with care and only the best of attentive craftsmanship—
[A click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth.]
Nothing better.
['Whiskey,' Violet interjects with a hardened stubbornness. 'Whiskey's better.'
And, as if to prove her point, takes a lengthy sip of her second glass.
'What do you think, Fenris?' Petras asks, leaning on the syllables.]
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Brandy.
[He gives Violet a little glance, smug and pointed, and gets rewarded with a scoff. 'You're a liar,' she declares with a sniff, 'and you'd say that no matter what he brought you.'
Which is absolutely the truth, and Fenris doesn't bother to deny it, shrugging one shoulder.]
Ask me something difficult, and perhaps you'll give me a challenge. But do you truly expect me to pick—
['I expect you to have an opinion,' she says. 'Or are you just his dog?'
It isn't all that insulting, in truth, but the children seem to think so, for Petras lets out a cooing little ooh of challenge.]
I said brandy because I meant it— and because the whiskey you so thoughtfully brought me was tainted by the magic it was stowed in. Alluring though the thrill of the illicit is, magic has a particularly sour taste that my nanites draw out. Thus: brandy.
Shall I settle your favorite drug next?
[For a moment it seems as though she might snap— but then she exhales sharply, rolling her eyes once more. 'Oh, don't be tiring,' she says, and leans down more. Her palms slide over Fenris' shoulders and down his chest, impudent (and painful, though he doesn't wince). 'When are you coming out to dance? Answer me that instead.']
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Violet can be cruel. Crueler than cruel, in fact, inclined to chuckle to herself at crossed lines that never quite sink into psychopathic borders (as far as any of them know, though gods swear they all wonder if there might come a time when she walks in and offhandedly confesses to a spattering of murders), but this is different.
This is different.
Because unlike the rest of the pack, Astarion knows what Fenris has been through. And unlike them, he cares about the depth of those clotted memories— their outreach. And unlike them, he—
Is up on his feet in an instant, lithe arm outstretched to latch onto her forearm like a vice, nearly upsetting the booth's table for how hard he'd lunged to yank her off across the distance: hips jammed against the corner of the table, drinks partially spilled across its surface (Petras' undrunk charge, mostly), nails biting into skin with the sort of twisting pull that should elicit something from her. A hiss or a cry or a yelp of outrage.
It doesn't, though. Too many fights between packmates or sisters, or a frigid nervous system that doesn't function like it should, cold as its own owner; whatever the reason, Violet is scowling at him in return.]
Get your hands. OFF. Of him. [ —earns a stiffening of her shoulders like a cat about to launch itself forwards to attack. A raising of her other hand, glass still in it, and a steeling of her outraged gaze.]
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Faster than Fenris would have thought Astarion could move. Faster than he ever expected for the likes of him (a slave, a bodyguard, a servant, a dog), and there's a part of him still reeling in bewilderment even as he shoots up. In one fluid motion he's slotted himself between them, Astarion's arm tucking beneath his body as he blocks Violet from reaching his charge. He grabs her wrist roughly, halting her wind-up; for a moment she strains instinctively, but there's no escaping his hold.
Three seconds, if that.
And then the world begins to move again. The bass keeps thumping away, muffled but eternally present; in the background, Petras squawks in dismay over his now-soaked pants. Violet's eyes dart around Fenris' face, seeking out some sign of weakness. For a long moment he wonders if she'll try and fight him— but no. She's many things, but stupid isn't one of them. With a scowl he takes the glass from her, setting it down blindly behind him and then letting her go.]
It's fine.
[It's not, really, but when has that ever mattered?]
It's fine, [he says again, and eases back, guiding Astarion into letting go. Settle, little pup, and Fenris doesn't sit until Astarion does, his eyes locked on him all the while.
'Jealous,' Violet hisses, drawing herself up. As haughty as a cat, she sets about examining her wrist, acting as though that was her plan the entire time. 'This had better not bruise. I have a meeting Monday.']
It won't.
[It might, but he'll deal with that later. And he knows he should be keeping an eye on Violet, but he can't seem to stop staring at Astarion. There's something unreadable in Fenris' gaze, astonishment and awe so foreign as to be unfamiliar to him; he simply stares in wonder, trying to understand something that seems simultaneously so simple and yet so impossible.
'And possessive,' she continues, ignoring Fenris in favor of cocking her head at Astarion. 'You've never minded sharing before. How was I meant to know this one was off-limits?' There's a mocking edge to her tone, for of course she knows damn well that Fenris is different. But it's a way to move forward. It's a way to, if not keep the peace, at least find a way to navigate out of this little snarl.
. . . or it would be, except Violet can't help but run her tongue. 'Are you going to try and tear apart everyone who brushes against him, or just the ones you're terrified might actually seduce him away—']
Enough.
[He snaps it out sharply, glaring up at her.]
Go away, or stay and hold your tongue.
[She rolls her eyes. 'You used to be more fun,' she informs Astarion, and gets to her feet. 'Come along,' she bids to Petras. The elf looks torn, glancing from Astarion's seething face to Violet's cold glare and finding neither particularly hospitable. The impatience seems to annoy Violet further, for she clicks her tongue at him. 'Come on, and maybe I'll find you a pretty toy to play with tonight.'
Which is allure enough for Petras, it seems— though he does grip Astarion's shoulder in affectionate camaraderie as he passes by. The curtain draws back and falls closed behind him, and just like that, they're left alone.]
Gods . . .
[A soft exhale, and then he glances at Astarion.]
Are you all right?
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It feels that way, because he didn't register it.
Hasn't now, either, with his head shaking once as it rears back, rejecting something else and taking self-awareness out alongside it.]
Am I all right? [Of course he is. He and the others always fight; another day another spat, and violence isn't so farfetched between siblings— not even the unrelated sort.] It was you she was drooling over— are you all right, Fenris? [Comes on so quickly that it's just a naked show of sharp concern laid bare without reaching. Without touching.
His shoulder still tingles with the ghost of Petras' touch.]
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[Of course he is. Of course he is, and yet some small part of him internally flinches at it was you she was drooling over. He can still feel the warmth of her hands on his chest, the purr of her voice in his ear, and it's—
It's nothing. It really isn't. She's so much weaker compared to him, and it's not as if he isn't allowed to fight back. Gods, Astarion would support him even if he snapped her neck, never mind broke her wrist, so what's the issue? It meant nothing (but his hands have balled into fists). It was nothing (but the music is too loud, the scent her perfume too cloying, the taste of that whiskey suddenly turned sour and sickly on his tongue). He took care of it. He's gone through worse. He—]
I'm fine.
[He says it because he doesn't know what else to say, nor even how to begin to say it. His eyes flick down to the table for a few seconds, and he adds:]
But I would not say no to another drink.
[Gods, alcohol seems so alluring right now, professionality be damned. But before Astarion can go and procure some (and the mood he's in, Fenris thinks he would, eager to soothe in any way he could), he reaches over the table, grabbing first his wrist, then his hand. Fingers loosely interlacing in a silent bid: stay.
And then, his voice a little lower:]
Is she always so vulgar?
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And in silent response: I'll fetch you more when you're ready.]
Not always. [Includes a cast-off stare towards the direction that they'd trod off in.] Something normally sets her off when she turns particularly nasty, and I can't say tonight is a shock in that regard, considering what day it is.
[The next pause leaves ample room, though he doesn't dare ask again if Fenris is all right.]
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There's so much he wants to say, and yet in the same breath he doesn't know how to begin to say it. How he can feel revulsion crawling in the back of his throat; how stunning it was that Astarion had bothered to say anything, never mind attack her so viciously. How he has a thousand memories of being fondled and groped and fucked, and all of them underscored with a dulled sort of indifference from both his master and himself, for what use would there be in growing upset?
He twists his hand, gently taking Astarion's between his own. There's still blood smeared beneath the nails, and absently Fenris begins to wipe it away.]
You did well, drawing blood on the first blow.
[Soft.]
Was it jealousy that prompted you?
[It wasn't. He knows it wasn't. But start there.]
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The grin comes a moment after.]
Not on your life, darling. I've seen the looks you give her when she's near; that she hopes you'd eat out of her hand tonight is more a joke than anything I could say. [The softest pinch. The softest pause, and then....]
I don't need to be jealous to want to keep you safe.
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I know.
[His voice is low, audible only because it rumbles at such a different note than the endless bass outside. His thumb strokes against his index finger, a swift echo: thank you and I know, for this is not the first time Astarion has protected him.
Simply the first time he's drawn blood to do so.
Noises fill the silence between them, muffled but not muted by the door-née-curtain. A chorus of excitable shrieks pierces past cloth as someone falls into the champagne fountain that dominates the center of the room; a woman exclaims in dismay over her ruined shoes, bemoaning the fact she'll have to buy them again. Somewhere else, good-natured jeers echo as the Ophal heir loses a few thousand dollars in an ill-timed bet; he moans for his poor luck, but buys everyone at the table a round of the most expensive scotch he can think of, just to show there's no hard feelings.
A dull night, he hears a woman say carelessly; another voice assures her that tomorrow will be far more exciting, for at least then the club will really try and liven things up.
It's nothing new. Nothing he hasn't heard a thousand times before over the past three centuries, and yet tonight something bitter rises in his throat. It's too loud. It's too much, grating on his nerves and clouding his senses; his ears swivel back, pressing flat against his skull as his body tenses.]
Why are you friends with her?
[It isn't what he means to say, but it spits past his lips before he has a chance to bite it back. His gaze rises and lingers this time, his expression flinty around the edges.]
The others I understand. But her . . . there is nothing there but bile and bitterness. She is a viper, and she will turn on you the moment she senses it will give her the slightest advantage, gleeful in how she grinds you beneath her heel— and if she spares you at all, it will only be to prolong your suffering. What cruelty she delights in regaling you all with is but a fraction of what she does, I assure you, for she is vile, and you still—
[He glances away, shaking his head sharply as he cuts himself off. This isn't fair, not at all, and not especially now. And he doesn't know why he's snarling all this (oh, but he does); he doesn't know why he's picking here and now to bring this up, when the circumstance and location couldn't be worse.
A breath, and then, as he glances back:]
This will not be the last time she asserts herself against me. And you will not always be here to step between us.
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—I can only assume you've been sitting with your face turned away from half the group, if that's the way you've sized things up. [And Astarion's uncertain whether it's the droning music or the irritating burn of too much liquor polluted by a sea of piss poor company, but even the blind could see there's something gnawing underneath the surface. Spurring Fenris with its barbs when he ought to be settling down to rest.
It's a raw cut. A prickling miasma from without, not within. Most of all it's not intentional, and for all that Astarion reminds himself he should be patient—
Well.
He's a young thing yet. Full of emotion all his own.]
In what bloody world would I not be here? [He hisses, craning forwards in his seat.] You're my bodyguard, for gods' sakes— and I'm her friend because I'd rather a viper on my side that knows its limits rather than the other hundred here that don't.
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I tell you now, there will be a time when we are parted, for if an opportunity does not come, she will manufacture it— and when that happens, Astarion, she will bite all the harder.
[This isn't what he wants. This isn't what he's craving, and yet somehow it's all gone sour the way it always does. The bile rises up in his throat and he can't hold it back, not after a lifetime of keeping himself in check. And it's not the first time they've fought, no, for they both of them have sharp tongues— but perhaps it's the first time he's felt himself sink into that feeling, not wanting to and yet paradoxically not able to resist.]
You assume she knows her limits? You assume she cares? As if a bitch like her ever cares about anything but her own sadistic cravings and how best to sate them, never mind how to cover her tracks. How many servants has she gone through? How many times has she fucked her way through anyone she could, just to say she had?
[Not fair, not fair, the comparison cruel and not even intended— and yet perhaps not a shock, not when he continues:]
How long do you imagine she'll wait before she tries? A day? An hour? And all your protective rage will only fuel her further, for that is what people like her do, each and every time!
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'People like her' don't risk everything just to satisfy a whim, and if they did, Fenris, they'd be a damned idiot to think the rest of us would keep her in arms' reach—
[A beat, like a hook finding purchase in a storm; dulling the edge of his bite.]
....what do you mean people like her?
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I mean people like her.
[The saccharine concoction Petras brought him has long since melted, neon colors now muddled and watered down. Fenris reaches for it anyway, draining the cup with a grimace. The sugar lingers on his tongue, nauseatingly cloying, but the world mercifully blurs a little more.]
Petty, pathetic children who despise their own weakness and take their bitterness out on anyone they can.
[Fenris, her lilting tone at such savage odds with the wide-eyed sadism shining in her eyes— and it's so overwhelmingly unfair that in the cloudy, smeared annals of his memory, it's that which he remembers with crystal-clear clarity.
And the thing is: he doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't want to say her name, as if she is a wraith who might somehow be summoned by the mere invocation. He doesn't want to give her anything, even this conversation— and yet he's never much had a choice when it comes to her, has he?]
. . . Hadriana.
[Has he ever sounded so bitter?]
My— Danarius' apprentice. A bitch of a sorcerer from a middling family who knew she was fated to amount to nothing— and so took every opportunity to torment those beneath her, just to distract herself from that fact. She hounded my sleep, denied me food, humiliated me, and she . . .
[The silence hangs between them, black and jagged, full of a thousand memories impossible to articulate.]
They could be twins, she and Violet. They act just the same.
[. . .]
You ruined twenty-five careers before I came along, but you did not destroy their lives. You thrill in seducing lesser nobles just to laugh about their subpar skills, but you do not rip them apart just to say you could.
[Leon, Dalyria, Aurelia . . . there are shades and shades of grey, but they all of them pale when placed against something so starkly black.]
There is a difference. And she is not like the other vipers whose company you keep.
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There's a tug of contact as slim fingers clasp round Fenris' own. As he's pulled away from that saccharine drink and the covering gauze of draped curtains. Away from the throbbing bassline, the gossiping patrons, the source of his seething ire—
Into a narrow, black-paint lined corridor reminiscent of a backstage passage leading to two shoddy little restroom doors, neither of them labeled anymore, their plastic markers long worn off. Luxury, it seems, doesn't extend to the latrines. But it's quiet here, sectioned off and near the exit, all downsides well included.
His back is to the illuminated green of that emergency sign, arms folding tight across his chest.]
No good can come of having talks like this in places like that.
[One creak, once he's backed against the doorway, its opened seams letting in a gust of summer air.]
....she sounds a monster, your Hadriana.
[She sounds both like, and unlike Violet....but he won't say that just yet.]
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She—
. . . yes.
[He leans up against the wall, his posture a terse mirror of Astarion's own.]
The ordinary kind. The kind that snap and bite at their peers, but revel in vicious cruelties to anyone who cannot fight back. She would take her frustrations out on anyone, but she reserved the worst of her ire for me.
[He tips his head. There's no more anger in his gaze, for in truth, it was never Astarion he was upset with. Gently, then, so as not to be misunderstood:]
You must know the type.
[Not just Violet, no. Surely there are others among his peers who act just the same. And yet . . . he wonders. It isn't that Astarion is so willfully blind, but it's so easy to assume that everyone acts with the same cold civility you and yours do.]
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Fenris tips his head. Astarion shakes his own, albeit both run gently in their course.]
You can't truly think Violet would starve you— beat you— had she the chance. She's a bloody bitch, I'll grant you, but....
[But leaves room for pause. For doubt. It's the moment he says but that he remembers the glint of a raised glass half-forgotten, and the coldness in her eyes.
Yet that was the squabbling of siblings, was it not?]
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No? She was ready to concuss you half to death with a bottle for stopping her sport, and it was mild. What would she dare if she was the butt of a joke and she had nothing but bitterness and rage in her heart?
[Fenris takes a breath, trying to keep his thoughts steady. It's easier here, but he has to hold the reigns tightly, lest they slip from his grasp.]
Hadriana told me once that starvation wasn't a bad fate, for I would recover eventually. Salting my food was a joke. Bruises fade. Bones heal. I am scarred already, and what was a burn mark or two? And—
[And there are other, darker memories. Things that he cannot say, not just yet. Not here and not now. Not ever, maybe, but if those words come, they will emerge in the darkness, whispered against the back of Astarion's neck while they lie beneath the sheets.]
What would she dare if you humiliated her in front of some Duke? If Petras made her the butt of a joke for the next month? Do you truly think she would limit herself to just a few nasty remarks in return?
[It began as rhetorical, but somewhere along the way becomes a true question.]
You are not a fool, nor a child. Think of her, and tell me what you think she would do.
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—No.
No, actually, it doesn't. There's always some part of him that knows how far into the depths of contempt they all too easily stray; packmates and compatriots and friends, so far as any term applies, but there are times he'd swear he'd slit the others' throats for but the slightest insult. Moments where he'd considered dragging Petras into ruin beyond rescue, void of either regret or keen restraint. There's a reason Fenris sits above them. Why his friendship holds his heart in ways no other does.
Astarion moves to stand beside him, pressing their shoulders together by degrees.]
....no less than murder, I expect. The literal sort. [Is muted, far from slurred. A blow against the brandy on his breath.]
....what would Hadriana do....?
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But oh, that question. That quiet, soft question, and when Astarion speaks in that tone it disarms all of Fenris' defenses. There's something so intimate about it, gentle in ways that he is not used to. Fenris swallows thickly, his head tipping down as he struggles to think of how to respond.
For he wants to, he does, but the memories muddle in his mind, incidents smearing into one another: flashes of blue eyes and black hair, his name breathed into his ear and a lithe body writhing above his own. Danarius' seething rage as Fenris tried his hardest to fight through a tournament while drugged up, his water tainted and Hadriana laughing just out of sight. Food kept just out of reach and water given only in a dog dish, his clothes stained and ripped, his sleep interrupted for days on end—
It goes on and on. And the words won't come, but that's never been his way. Lifting up just slightly off the wall, he turns towards Astarion. Carefully, he extends his thumb and pointer finger, wrapping them gently around the front of his throat for a long few seconds.]
She would collar me like a dog, and tie my lead to the wall.
[He does not keep the hold for long; in the next instant his thumb strokes gently against Astarion's neck, soft affection before he pulls away.]
And she would do anything she pleased with her caught prize, knowing that I could not report anything.
[He catches Astarion's eye, confirming and questioning all at once: do you understand? But he must. He's too clever not to.]
And I know she murdered at least one of her potential rivals in school, but I would not be shocked if that number was higher. Such competition was encouraged in Tevinter, so long as no one got caught.
Violet would thrive there, I suspect. Living in a world where all her worst tendencies were not just ignored, but revered.
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But there's so much rage in Astarion, prompted by the words collared like a dog, and tied my lead to the wall. A hard snap of eclipsing focus, and the subsequent drag of all his self-restraint as it threatens to give way under mounting, heated pressure— and a lingering draw towards that withdrawn touch, though he doesn't dare chase after it just yet, only stands there facing his companion— his bodyguard— as if better words might come to mind. The ones he needs. The ones he wishes he could will to do their job and ease off every shred of retained anguish, for it's the past that's in the present, now, when he looks at Violet and sees Hadriana's shadow.]
And if you'd struck out at her....well.... [A pause, thin as a razor's edge.]
Doesn't exactly take a clairvoyant to know it'd have gone over poorly, does it?
[The paradox of a question that isn't really a question at all.]
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[Soft. His gaze is fixed on Astarion now, watching the emotions play out over his face (for he is so much less adept at hiding them than he thinks— or perhaps it's just that Fenris has gotten to know him so well). The rage that swells up in him, and the subsequent tells: his eyes flashing as his cheeks go pale, tension coiled up so tight in him it's as if he wants to go after Hadriana now. Tear her apart with laws and hands both, the only determining factor what would hurt her more.
It's thrilling. Alluring. Seductive, almost, in its viciousness; belated revenge no substitute for comfort, but still, he shudders beneath it.]
But there were times I forgot myself, and did anyway. It was not always a one-sided fight.
[There's a distant look in his eyes as he first cups Astarion's cheek, then moves to tuck a curl behind one pointed ear.]
Nothing I truly wanted to do, but still . . . I could blame my markings and faulty coding for the times when I snarled at her, or left her things behind when our master took us abroad. I humiliated her more than once in front of our master more than once, setting her up to fail— one of the worst things she could do in front of him, for he valued her first and foremost as a tool. Watching her simper pathetically for weeks on end to attempt to make up for it was not satisfying, not when I wished to stain my knuckles with her blood, but at least better than her smug.
[And it's nothing. Petty things, little things, things that didn't once make up for all the horror and grief, but at least made life a little less unbearable.
A moment's pause, and then:]
It's money and power that makes Violet so dangerous. Hadriana was leashed by Danarius just as much as I was, though she pretended otherwise. But Violet . . . if I were to attack her, enacting revenge when she inevitably tries something again . . . I have no doubt you would support me. [Little magistrate. Little love, who wants so badly to protect him.] But it still would be a foolish idea.
[And that's part of the bitterness and rage, too. The fact that he is just as chained as he was back then, free and yet not.]
Still: you thrilled me, drawing blood as you did. And I am proud of how swiftly you acted.
I never thought to expect such things from anyone, much less someone of your class. It is . . .
[He hesitates.]
You are more comforting than I can say. I have never had anyone I could rely upon without thinking like that, much less someone who would draw blood for me.
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Nearly as warm as the smile he adopts; just a slanting of his lips high on one side, counterbalance to a sinking, lowered chin.]
We're more alike than I ever dared think, in that case. [Isn't blind or delusional, though gods above the uninitiated might think so after a conversation spanning torment, torture and status all. It's not as if Astarion's ever been cornered like an animal; spoken to as one or harshly tortured. The dullest of tutors remained only thus, and the most sadistic stood beneath him still, likely turning their malice as Hadriana did— elsewhere lower underfoot.
No, it's the trust that Astarion gives voice to, chasing the ley of Fenris' fingerprints. What had made all the difference even at the start when contempt was still in play. He'd never had another on his side without bartering for it. Bargaining for it. Vipers like Violet— the ones who knew their limits— or the others, that was the best he could scrounge up before Fenris came to his side. Acquaintances. Allies.
Not friends.
Not this.
And maybe they'd stop him from drinking himself to death or overdosing (—maybe— ) but they'd never take his side. Never take a stand should the world be at its worst.
This is new.]
Though I'd draw an immeasurable sea of blood to keep you safe from either of them. [Squares his stance until they're parallel— toe to toe— slim shoulders even: arms unfolded so his hands relax, with the knuckles of one nestling against the dead center of his fighter's taller chest, hello.] Or anyone.
[That's his birthright, after all. The one thing he's good for. ]
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