[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.]
You think I brought you into my bed to mock you? [There's a soft click of his tongue, tame when it meets the back of his teeth.] Darling, I would never.
I could’ve saved myself the trouble and done that hours ago if I wanted to.
[But he doesn’t want to, is the thing. The sole little implication left suspended there between them as his smile softens just slightly at its edges, only by the barest amount of degrees. A missable thing.]
That said, you’re right. Pretty tales aside, you probably don’t have any sort of birthright to go rooting around for.
But I’d argue no more or less than I do, either: a monster of a thing who’s never left distinctly human cities in all his days, who never much cared for ancient rites or sacred oaths or...bare feet, for that matter.
I’ve been to wild places, and I know what sits within me is different than what’s in them.
[It’s harder to emphasize that in the absence of a place or a people, he’s come to realize what matters more is just what you choose for yourself.
What you choose to be.
It lives in his hovel of a home. A place he pays in triple for, compared to any human tenant— and while he could blackmail and extort his way into paying nothing, it’s a point of pride that he doesn’t. That he stares them in the eye each month, that watery-faced little creature that expects nothing at all from him, when he smiles as he forces that weight into their palm, purring.
He’ll be more than this, too, someday. Have more than this, the coffer beneath his bed laden with coins he’s even dared to steal from Riftwatch itself, unnoticed.
He’s certain of it.]
I’ve seen it in you, too. [He leans forward when he says it, just so, voice turning conspiratorial for a silent, weighted beat. Underscored by the sound of wind rattling low against the glass.]
You know what it’s like, don’t you?
Belonging nowhere. Nowhere at all, and not just because of what they took from you.
[And there, his lips peel pack decisively:]
So to the Hells with it. Knife-ear, rabbit, city elf, Dalish, slave. This world is far too small for you, my dear— and for me too, besides. Don’t let it collar you to its expectations.
Do you see this? [Astarion gestures with a flicking index finger towards a Ferelden painting in the corner, half covered, and almost lost behind a sack of potatoes.] There, that painting, I stole from a Lord in Hightown. By the door, those statuettes? Val Chevin. The finery on the far sill, Wycome, at the Duke’s inner circle....and I took so much more than that back with me.
[Pale fingers curl in a gruesome estimation of clawed hands, gnarled when he clutches them to his chest, emotive in the purest sense.]
I stood in the heart of Corypheus’ stronghold and shot arrows through the skulls of his lackeys. I tore the throat from a blood mage and left him gasping over the countless bodies bled to fuel his magic.
A slave to his own dying fear.
[He sits upright, palm pressed flat to the mattress, neck stretched long; whatever shadows haunting them in seconds or minutes or hours prior all gone, given just how brightly (devilishly) he grins, pale curls tumbled low across half his face, red eyes narrowed with an untamed cast, overlong canines flashed.
Look, Fenris. Look at everything he’s done.]
So yes. Eladrin. High elf. That’s what I am.
And if you want to be, [his chin tips lower, eyes lidded and dark when he promises, with all defiant, unbroken certainty]
What a strange word to use now, but that fits, for all of this has been strange. From that first coincidental meeting, the two of them running into one another, and all that happened afterwards . . . he would think it a trick, truthfully, if they had not talked of so many painful things. He would think it some Fade-born dream, too sweet, too thrilling, too good to be real. How could it be? How could anyone like Astarion exist? The two of them fitting so easily together— not perfectly, for nothing in life is perfect, but so smoothly it's as if they've known each other for years on end. As if this is not a first meeting, but a simple reacquaintance: each of them flowing where the other ebbs.
There were so many terrible ways Astarion could have responded. There were so many decent ways he might have responded, too, that Fenris might have flinched from anyway, snarling and snapping no matter that someone had the best of intentions. And yet somehow, he finds the correct combination of words.
Or— no, it's not that, is it? It's the intent behind them. The edge to his grin as he triumphantly lists off treasures stolen for himself; it's the weighty, unspoken knowledge behind belonging nowhere, not born of cooing sympathy, but experience. It's being seen, and it is not that Fenris has not had beloved companions, but . . .
He has never felt so understood, he thinks faintly, as he does tonight in Astarion's bed.
Somewhere in that list, he began to smile. More quietly than Astarion's gleaming grin, but with no less pleasure behind it. And he thinks, without really thinking it at all, that Astarion covered in blood and gore, viciously triumphant and savagely pleased, would be a thing to see, indeed.]
You, [he begins, but all the things that come to mind are far too silly to allow to come to light. Instead:]
Freedom suits you, Astarion. More than it does most.
[And then, most honestly:]
Perhaps someday I will . . . perhaps.
[But it does not feel so strange as it did a moment ago. Before, claiming that title had felt like a child donning a parent's clothes, stumbling around in imitation of their elders. Now . . . now, it seems like something he might or might explore. A part of him that he can pick up and put down at will.]
Eladrin. Thief. Murderer. [And they are compliments, the way he says them, his voice rumbling and low, his mind's eyes dreaming of blood mages writhing in pain and terror, his heart dreadfully thrilled.] Companion. Refugee. Rogue. Savior.
[For there is a mansion waiting for him in Hightown, lonely and cold, and he will not forget how close he was to spending his night there. Savior, but he will pretend it's due to his work in Riftwatch if Astarion presses.]
[When he laughs this time, it’s a clear-cut thing. No performative lilt, no haughty pride— just him. Just them, a pair of wounded things huddled up for shelter in the middle of a storm and finding just enough warmth to forget, only for a little while, that the wind outside might be howling their names. Speaking of terrible atrocities that yet still might come to pass. So yes. Here, tangled in stolen covers, and warmed by a fire that’s little more than a glorified, dug-out hole in the wall, they’ve cut something for themselves, and sometimes that’s the only victory one gets.
The only one needed, too.
He snorts softly on the heels of it, leveling out instead of continuing to thrive in his own wicked glory, finding his way back into his own far subtler skin.
But the smile stays.]
Mhm. A little. [Soft. Contented. Easy in his own silhouette when he slips an elbow across his knee, keeping the whole of his stare fixed on Fenris in the dark.]
But you’ll figure those out in time.
[Oh, it’s not all pretty. Even Astarion knows just how mean he can be when prompted. Ambition turned to gluttony and greed. Pride twisting into callousness. Cowardice without end. There are moments when he looks in the mirror and fears only Cazador is staring back, but...
Savior.
What an intriguing fantasy for a monster like him.
He lifts his free hand, two fingers brushing white wisps of hair from Fenris’ eyes— ring and little fingers— so precise in their work that they barely graze skin. Less an intrusion, and more a barely mentionable show of care. Small. Quick.
And then he’s back within his own space, shifting to lie down once more. Turning away and lifting the covers, keeping them tucked close against his neck.
An old, pointless habit.]
For now, try to sleep. I know it’s all so terribly tedious, but no one in Riftwatch’s going to be content to let you rest once they find out you’re here.
Better take what you can get in the meanwhile.
[The door is locked; nothing will come for you tonight.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.
no subject
I could’ve saved myself the trouble and done that hours ago if I wanted to.
[But he doesn’t want to, is the thing. The sole little implication left suspended there between them as his smile softens just slightly at its edges, only by the barest amount of degrees. A missable thing.]
That said, you’re right. Pretty tales aside, you probably don’t have any sort of birthright to go rooting around for.
But I’d argue no more or less than I do, either: a monster of a thing who’s never left distinctly human cities in all his days, who never much cared for ancient rites or sacred oaths or...bare feet, for that matter.
I’ve been to wild places, and I know what sits within me is different than what’s in them.
[It’s harder to emphasize that in the absence of a place or a people, he’s come to realize what matters more is just what you choose for yourself.
What you choose to be.
It lives in his hovel of a home. A place he pays in triple for, compared to any human tenant— and while he could blackmail and extort his way into paying nothing, it’s a point of pride that he doesn’t. That he stares them in the eye each month, that watery-faced little creature that expects nothing at all from him, when he smiles as he forces that weight into their palm, purring.
He’ll be more than this, too, someday. Have more than this, the coffer beneath his bed laden with coins he’s even dared to steal from Riftwatch itself, unnoticed.
He’s certain of it.]
I’ve seen it in you, too. [He leans forward when he says it, just so, voice turning conspiratorial for a silent, weighted beat. Underscored by the sound of wind rattling low against the glass.]
You know what it’s like, don’t you?
Belonging nowhere. Nowhere at all, and not just because of what they took from you.
[And there, his lips peel pack decisively:]
So to the Hells with it. Knife-ear, rabbit, city elf, Dalish, slave. This world is far too small for you, my dear— and for me too, besides. Don’t let it collar you to its expectations.
Do you see this? [Astarion gestures with a flicking index finger towards a Ferelden painting in the corner, half covered, and almost lost behind a sack of potatoes.] There, that painting, I stole from a Lord in Hightown. By the door, those statuettes? Val Chevin. The finery on the far sill, Wycome, at the Duke’s inner circle....and I took so much more than that back with me.
[Pale fingers curl in a gruesome estimation of clawed hands, gnarled when he clutches them to his chest, emotive in the purest sense.]
I stood in the heart of Corypheus’ stronghold and shot arrows through the skulls of his lackeys. I tore the throat from a blood mage and left him gasping over the countless bodies bled to fuel his magic.
A slave to his own dying fear.
[He sits upright, palm pressed flat to the mattress, neck stretched long; whatever shadows haunting them in seconds or minutes or hours prior all gone, given just how brightly (devilishly) he grins, pale curls tumbled low across half his face, red eyes narrowed with an untamed cast, overlong canines flashed.
Look, Fenris. Look at everything he’s done.]
So yes. Eladrin. High elf. That’s what I am.
And if you want to be, [his chin tips lower, eyes lidded and dark when he promises, with all defiant, unbroken certainty]
...so you are.
no subject
What a strange word to use now, but that fits, for all of this has been strange. From that first coincidental meeting, the two of them running into one another, and all that happened afterwards . . . he would think it a trick, truthfully, if they had not talked of so many painful things. He would think it some Fade-born dream, too sweet, too thrilling, too good to be real. How could it be? How could anyone like Astarion exist? The two of them fitting so easily together— not perfectly, for nothing in life is perfect, but so smoothly it's as if they've known each other for years on end. As if this is not a first meeting, but a simple reacquaintance: each of them flowing where the other ebbs.
There were so many terrible ways Astarion could have responded. There were so many decent ways he might have responded, too, that Fenris might have flinched from anyway, snarling and snapping no matter that someone had the best of intentions. And yet somehow, he finds the correct combination of words.
Or— no, it's not that, is it? It's the intent behind them. The edge to his grin as he triumphantly lists off treasures stolen for himself; it's the weighty, unspoken knowledge behind belonging nowhere, not born of cooing sympathy, but experience. It's being seen, and it is not that Fenris has not had beloved companions, but . . .
He has never felt so understood, he thinks faintly, as he does tonight in Astarion's bed.
Somewhere in that list, he began to smile. More quietly than Astarion's gleaming grin, but with no less pleasure behind it. And he thinks, without really thinking it at all, that Astarion covered in blood and gore, viciously triumphant and savagely pleased, would be a thing to see, indeed.]
You, [he begins, but all the things that come to mind are far too silly to allow to come to light. Instead:]
Freedom suits you, Astarion. More than it does most.
[And then, most honestly:]
Perhaps someday I will . . . perhaps.
[But it does not feel so strange as it did a moment ago. Before, claiming that title had felt like a child donning a parent's clothes, stumbling around in imitation of their elders. Now . . . now, it seems like something he might or might explore. A part of him that he can pick up and put down at will.]
Eladrin. Thief. Murderer. [And they are compliments, the way he says them, his voice rumbling and low, his mind's eyes dreaming of blood mages writhing in pain and terror, his heart dreadfully thrilled.] Companion. Refugee. Rogue. Savior.
[For there is a mansion waiting for him in Hightown, lonely and cold, and he will not forget how close he was to spending his night there. Savior, but he will pretend it's due to his work in Riftwatch if Astarion presses.]
Am I missing anything else?
no subject
The only one needed, too.
He snorts softly on the heels of it, leveling out instead of continuing to thrive in his own wicked glory, finding his way back into his own far subtler skin.
But the smile stays.]
Mhm. A little. [Soft. Contented. Easy in his own silhouette when he slips an elbow across his knee, keeping the whole of his stare fixed on Fenris in the dark.]
But you’ll figure those out in time.
[Oh, it’s not all pretty. Even Astarion knows just how mean he can be when prompted. Ambition turned to gluttony and greed. Pride twisting into callousness. Cowardice without end. There are moments when he looks in the mirror and fears only Cazador is staring back, but...
Savior.
What an intriguing fantasy for a monster like him.
He lifts his free hand, two fingers brushing white wisps of hair from Fenris’ eyes— ring and little fingers— so precise in their work that they barely graze skin. Less an intrusion, and more a barely mentionable show of care. Small. Quick.
And then he’s back within his own space, shifting to lie down once more. Turning away and lifting the covers, keeping them tucked close against his neck.
An old, pointless habit.]
For now, try to sleep. I know it’s all so terribly tedious, but no one in Riftwatch’s going to be content to let you rest once they find out you’re here.
Better take what you can get in the meanwhile.
[The door is locked; nothing will come for you tonight.]