[In truth, if Astarion hadn't had the outburst, Fenris might well have.
Certainly he feels it rising in him as Vakares murmurs that. And every word that's spat in their sire's direction sounds as if it comes straight from Fenris' heart: how could you, have you lost your mind, is this a joke, repulsed and horrified. But whereas Astarion's humiliation comes from the indignity of not being solely picked (and it is humiliating, even Fenris can admit that: passed over in favor of a joint rule, oh, how it must sting his pride), Fenris' is more rooted in the past.
You need your master's permission to be married, you know.
(A hundred years later and it still always comes back to this.)
You have to petition him. Court him. You have to make it seem like a good idea, whether for the general happiness of the slaves (for happy slaves make productive workers, after all) or simply because one's master fancies himself a romantic at heart. But you can't do it without his say-so. And if he disapproves— if he looks as his favorite bedwarmer and hates the thought of them belonging to another— he might disapprove. He might even arrange for another marriage, one that suits him more: a pretty thing wedded to an aged, broken slave not five years away from death. Kept, wedded, with all talk of that initial suitor put to rest.
And this feels a little like that.
It's not marriage. But it is, sort of, and he loathes that he wasn't consulted on it. He hates the notion of waking up and not having a choice; he despises the fact that even here, even now, parts of his life are dictated by someone to whom he is bound. Do this, not because it's what you wish for, but because it's what I demand— and maybe if Astarion hadn't bolted first, Fenris would have let that roaring rise of humiliation and repulsion crash over him. He would have let it consume him, smothering his good sense and bringing a snarl to his lips, and it would have been him who fled.
But Astarion went first.
And in the aftermath . . . Fenris returns that earnest glance with an exhausted one of his own.]
No.
[Crisp. Not cold, but not warm either. For he knows Vakares, you see. He knows that their sire knows of Fenris' past; he knows, too, how sensitive he can be towards it. Gods, it was Vakares who rescued him from all that (fingers stroking through blood-soaked hair, ignoring the ragged wheeze from a punctured lung, little one, you deserve better than this).
He has earned the benefit of the doubt.]
But I do not know what else you expected.
[He turns on his side, facing Vakares a little bit more.]
Why didn't you make it him? He is older. He has more experience. He knows vampires, and further, he thrives within their presence. And people will talk . . . tell me what the point is.
no subject
Certainly he feels it rising in him as Vakares murmurs that. And every word that's spat in their sire's direction sounds as if it comes straight from Fenris' heart: how could you, have you lost your mind, is this a joke, repulsed and horrified. But whereas Astarion's humiliation comes from the indignity of not being solely picked (and it is humiliating, even Fenris can admit that: passed over in favor of a joint rule, oh, how it must sting his pride), Fenris' is more rooted in the past.
You need your master's permission to be married, you know.
(A hundred years later and it still always comes back to this.)
You have to petition him. Court him. You have to make it seem like a good idea, whether for the general happiness of the slaves (for happy slaves make productive workers, after all) or simply because one's master fancies himself a romantic at heart. But you can't do it without his say-so. And if he disapproves— if he looks as his favorite bedwarmer and hates the thought of them belonging to another— he might disapprove. He might even arrange for another marriage, one that suits him more: a pretty thing wedded to an aged, broken slave not five years away from death. Kept, wedded, with all talk of that initial suitor put to rest.
And this feels a little like that.
It's not marriage. But it is, sort of, and he loathes that he wasn't consulted on it. He hates the notion of waking up and not having a choice; he despises the fact that even here, even now, parts of his life are dictated by someone to whom he is bound. Do this, not because it's what you wish for, but because it's what I demand— and maybe if Astarion hadn't bolted first, Fenris would have let that roaring rise of humiliation and repulsion crash over him. He would have let it consume him, smothering his good sense and bringing a snarl to his lips, and it would have been him who fled.
But Astarion went first.
And in the aftermath . . . Fenris returns that earnest glance with an exhausted one of his own.]
No.
[Crisp. Not cold, but not warm either. For he knows Vakares, you see. He knows that their sire knows of Fenris' past; he knows, too, how sensitive he can be towards it. Gods, it was Vakares who rescued him from all that (fingers stroking through blood-soaked hair, ignoring the ragged wheeze from a punctured lung, little one, you deserve better than this).
He has earned the benefit of the doubt.]
But I do not know what else you expected.
[He turns on his side, facing Vakares a little bit more.]
Why didn't you make it him? He is older. He has more experience. He knows vampires, and further, he thrives within their presence. And people will talk . . . tell me what the point is.