That's what it was. Recognition slapping him in the face the second those words leave Fenris' lips, foreign and strange and— if he allows himself even a moment of honesty in his own mind— ill-suited for someone like him. For as far back as he can remember, kindness of any stripe (let alone concern) has never—
His expression pinches subtly, crease lines digging into the space between his brows.
There's a great deal Astarion takes lightly, deflecting it for all the pain it could readily cause. Trust, gentleness, affection. He never feels so small, so uniquely fragile, as he does in those moments when they come slipping nearer to his side.
But right now, between the two of them (back to the wall and covers pulled high) it's Fenris that looks the most fragile; barely relaxing as steady hands smooth aside soft wisps of pale hair. Confessing things Astarion could never begin to conceive, and gods above, his wretched heart aches for it.
"Of course I am." Low, reassuring. Easier to focus on than immediately tracking back towards the former subject. "I'd never do anything but, my darling."
Not if he can help it.
"....I left you a note. Didn't you—" Mm. No. Perhaps. "Did you stay in bed all day?"
Fenris looks at Astarion, searching the other man's face as he makes his promises. He wonders if the pale elf can really understand what those words mean to him, what they could mean to him. Doubt and fear well in him, filling his chest with a gripping cold. Never is a very big word.
But perhaps he can still trust it. Astarion has shown care since they fell in together - since the other elf chose to pick him up and keep him alive. He hasn't betrayed Fenris yet.
He shifts his shoulders, letting the blanket slide down and exposing more warm skin and lyrium. Backed into a corner but not snapping at every stray movement - surely that is some growth. He wants to trust. He is tired of the alternative.
"No," he says quietly. "I searched the room first."
To ensure he hadn't been robbed or otherwise left at loose ends. He sighs quietly and glances at the table where the note sits, acknowledging it and perhaps trying to indicate that he had seen it. He'll have to tell Astarion eventually, won't he? If they are to go on like this. If Astarion is to know how to give him important information.
Fenris sighs and pushes his fingers through his pale hair, following the path of Astarion's to push it fully out of his face.
Jarring, just how swiftly Astarion thinks silently that he won't ever betray Fenris, when all Astarion's ever been devoted to was the ever-reliable promise of himself.
It's swept away in the very next second (palm still tucked against Fenris' cheek, cold and uniquely devoid of warmth— but maybe to someone who'd been touched too much, there's a comfort in it), crimson eyes lost at first beneath rapidfire blinks that shuttle over his (still) doeish stare, underscoring the unsubtle leap between vulnerability and shock.
"—I," quick. Tongue to the back of his teeth, wedged against the roof of his mouth until it turns into a gentler huff of a sound. An exhale that's far more knowing in nature than its owner, given that he's slow to readjust: scooting closer across the mattress, not pulling Fenris away from the wall, only lifting his head far enough to let it rest across his folded leg— the other left dangling over the edge of the bed itself.
Easier to reach him like this. Petting and reassuring all the while through touch alone.
"....I didn't know."
Not an apology, but the closest thing he can offer with sincerity on his tongue.
"Cazador's enslaved collection was a matter of prestige; he valued us for the pedigree and exceptionality we carried, stolen as we all were. So the idea of keeping you from something so simple as writing...."
Gods.
Far from shocking, yes, knowing the worst of any world where power equates to binding control— yet alien and unsettling all the same, even for a bloodthirsty brute like him.
And infinitely more so given it was Fenris who suffered it.
"No, you couldn't have. It hasn't exactly come up."
Maybe there were small signs here or there, but ones that are so easily swept over. Fenris doesn't carry books with him, or anything to write with. He doesn't pay much mind to signs or anything with lettering on it. The only one of them to ever read anything out loud - anywhere - has been Astarion announcing the names of pubs or towns as they near signs of any kind. Fenris knows where they are because he knows the area and he recalls maps well. He can match symbols that say Wildervale on a map with those same symbols on a road sign, but that is his limit. Rearrange those letters into wild, vale, idle or ale and they lose meaning to him. (Well, save perhaps ale. That he might recognize through sheer exposure.)
It is not a shortcoming that Fenris shows willingly or quickly, but it is a reality of his life that becomes more of an issue when he is surrounded by literate people.
"I was a matter of prestige," he says with quiet bitterness. "But not for my cleverness. I was a living symbol of my master's ingenuity and power. I was dangerous, and he held my leash."
Fenris was - is - a walking symbol of the might of his master. And he was a living warning to those who would move against Danarius. A terrifying creature: an elf marked all over with lyrium and able to channel its power. Danarius delighted in the way his friends and adversaries reacted to his little wolf's presence.
"Educating me served no purpose. I could already do what he needed or wanted of me."
"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.
Fenris does not try to soothe Astarion's anger or sorrow, he is uncertain how. Though his illiteracy is a holdover from his life as a slave, it is hardly the deepest scar.
The sharp word, singular as it is, earns a soft huff of breath - very nearly a laugh but not quite. He could not have said it better himself. Fenris hesitates, but soon enough he takes the offered hand and laces their fingers together. He does not need proof that Astarion is here, but he is grateful for it none the less. His thumb strokes over Astarion's, taking comfort in how familiar his touch is now.
He's still holding the offered hand when Astarion speaks again. The question is met with an owlish blink, and it takes Fenris - quick as he is - several seconds more to catch on to what else is being offered to him.
"Taught to read?" he asks, quietly surprised. There is a part of him - one that is probably too prideful or too afraid - that thinks it's unnecessary. He has been fine with his very limited grasp of written language up to this point, why should he change anything? But it also occurs to him that this need not be some intrinsic part of who he is - it's something that can change, unlike the lyrium. He can choose to do that.
"You'd teach me?" comes the follow up, only slightly dubious. Keeping him alive is one thing, teaching him to read is probably quite another.
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
no subject
That's what it was. Recognition slapping him in the face the second those words leave Fenris' lips, foreign and strange and— if he allows himself even a moment of honesty in his own mind— ill-suited for someone like him. For as far back as he can remember, kindness of any stripe (let alone concern) has never—
His expression pinches subtly, crease lines digging into the space between his brows.
There's a great deal Astarion takes lightly, deflecting it for all the pain it could readily cause. Trust, gentleness, affection. He never feels so small, so uniquely fragile, as he does in those moments when they come slipping nearer to his side.
But right now, between the two of them (back to the wall and covers pulled high) it's Fenris that looks the most fragile; barely relaxing as steady hands smooth aside soft wisps of pale hair. Confessing things Astarion could never begin to conceive, and gods above, his wretched heart aches for it.
"Of course I am." Low, reassuring. Easier to focus on than immediately tracking back towards the former subject. "I'd never do anything but, my darling."
Not if he can help it.
"....I left you a note. Didn't you—" Mm. No. Perhaps. "Did you stay in bed all day?"
no subject
But perhaps he can still trust it. Astarion has shown care since they fell in together - since the other elf chose to pick him up and keep him alive. He hasn't betrayed Fenris yet.
He shifts his shoulders, letting the blanket slide down and exposing more warm skin and lyrium. Backed into a corner but not snapping at every stray movement - surely that is some growth. He wants to trust. He is tired of the alternative.
"No," he says quietly. "I searched the room first."
To ensure he hadn't been robbed or otherwise left at loose ends. He sighs quietly and glances at the table where the note sits, acknowledging it and perhaps trying to indicate that he had seen it. He'll have to tell Astarion eventually, won't he? If they are to go on like this. If Astarion is to know how to give him important information.
Fenris sighs and pushes his fingers through his pale hair, following the path of Astarion's to push it fully out of his face.
"Most slaves aren't taught to read."
no subject
It's swept away in the very next second (palm still tucked against Fenris' cheek, cold and uniquely devoid of warmth— but maybe to someone who'd been touched too much, there's a comfort in it), crimson eyes lost at first beneath rapidfire blinks that shuttle over his (still) doeish stare, underscoring the unsubtle leap between vulnerability and shock.
"—I," quick. Tongue to the back of his teeth, wedged against the roof of his mouth until it turns into a gentler huff of a sound. An exhale that's far more knowing in nature than its owner, given that he's slow to readjust: scooting closer across the mattress, not pulling Fenris away from the wall, only lifting his head far enough to let it rest across his folded leg— the other left dangling over the edge of the bed itself.
Easier to reach him like this. Petting and reassuring all the while through touch alone.
"....I didn't know."
Not an apology, but the closest thing he can offer with sincerity on his tongue.
"Cazador's enslaved collection was a matter of prestige; he valued us for the pedigree and exceptionality we carried, stolen as we all were. So the idea of keeping you from something so simple as writing...."
Gods.
Far from shocking, yes, knowing the worst of any world where power equates to binding control— yet alien and unsettling all the same, even for a bloodthirsty brute like him.
And infinitely more so given it was Fenris who suffered it.
no subject
Maybe there were small signs here or there, but ones that are so easily swept over. Fenris doesn't carry books with him, or anything to write with. He doesn't pay much mind to signs or anything with lettering on it. The only one of them to ever read anything out loud - anywhere - has been Astarion announcing the names of pubs or towns as they near signs of any kind. Fenris knows where they are because he knows the area and he recalls maps well. He can match symbols that say Wildervale on a map with those same symbols on a road sign, but that is his limit. Rearrange those letters into wild, vale, idle or ale and they lose meaning to him. (Well, save perhaps ale. That he might recognize through sheer exposure.)
It is not a shortcoming that Fenris shows willingly or quickly, but it is a reality of his life that becomes more of an issue when he is surrounded by literate people.
"I was a matter of prestige," he says with quiet bitterness. "But not for my cleverness. I was a living symbol of my master's ingenuity and power. I was dangerous, and he held my leash."
Fenris was - is - a walking symbol of the might of his master. And he was a living warning to those who would move against Danarius. A terrifying creature: an elf marked all over with lyrium and able to channel its power. Danarius delighted in the way his friends and adversaries reacted to his little wolf's presence.
"Educating me served no purpose. I could already do what he needed or wanted of me."
no subject
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?"
no subject
The sharp word, singular as it is, earns a soft huff of breath - very nearly a laugh but not quite. He could not have said it better himself. Fenris hesitates, but soon enough he takes the offered hand and laces their fingers together. He does not need proof that Astarion is here, but he is grateful for it none the less. His thumb strokes over Astarion's, taking comfort in how familiar his touch is now.
He's still holding the offered hand when Astarion speaks again. The question is met with an owlish blink, and it takes Fenris - quick as he is - several seconds more to catch on to what else is being offered to him.
"Taught to read?" he asks, quietly surprised. There is a part of him - one that is probably too prideful or too afraid - that thinks it's unnecessary. He has been fine with his very limited grasp of written language up to this point, why should he change anything? But it also occurs to him that this need not be some intrinsic part of who he is - it's something that can change, unlike the lyrium. He can choose to do that.
"You'd teach me?" comes the follow up, only slightly dubious. Keeping him alive is one thing, teaching him to read is probably quite another.