"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
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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?"
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.