"A beast on a leash, for all intents and purposes."
There's nothing jovial in his voice. Grim with anger he can't use, sorrow he can't diffuse, Astarion can only continue holding Fenris close: the edges of his fingertips gone white for tension, a subtle map of pressure pinned between lyrium leylines. His jaw aches. His fangs are set too tightly.
And it's futile, all of it. Unhelpful in the here and now, where Danarius is nothing but dust amongst dust.
(But does it matter, when everything he did remains?)
"....Bastard."
Is where he settles at last, snarling it at nothing but thin air. A way to buck the last of his own anger in some sort of seething, reactive measure— before a thin sigh slides its way throughout his lungs. His throat. His shoulders— which then sag by meager inches.
A few breaths, and his hand is lifted.
"Here." He murmurs, palm held upright just a few inches away from where Fenris lies, level with the ceiling. Outstretched.
"Touch it. Hold fast, if you like, love. Proof I haven't vanished into thin air— and that I don't plan to, besides."
Start there. Find your footing first. That's the thought process driving him in at first, though what follows it comes much, much later: only after Fenris has either reached for him, or opted not to beyond the shadow of a doubt.
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There's nothing jovial in his voice. Grim with anger he can't use, sorrow he can't diffuse, Astarion can only continue holding Fenris close: the edges of his fingertips gone white for tension, a subtle map of pressure pinned between lyrium leylines. His jaw aches. His fangs are set too tightly.
And it's futile, all of it. Unhelpful in the here and now, where Danarius is nothing but dust amongst dust.
(But does it matter, when everything he did remains?)
"....Bastard."
Is where he settles at last, snarling it at nothing but thin air. A way to buck the last of his own anger in some sort of seething, reactive measure— before a thin sigh slides its way throughout his lungs. His throat. His shoulders— which then sag by meager inches.
A few breaths, and his hand is lifted.
"Here." He murmurs, palm held upright just a few inches away from where Fenris lies, level with the ceiling. Outstretched.
"Touch it. Hold fast, if you like, love. Proof I haven't vanished into thin air— and that I don't plan to, besides."
Start there. Find your footing first. That's the thought process driving him in at first, though what follows it comes much, much later: only after Fenris has either reached for him, or opted not to beyond the shadow of a doubt.
"....would you like to be taught?"