[Simple. Steady. And it surprises him, you know, that Astarion hasn't told Vakares anything so concrete. He'd assumed— well. He'd always assumed the two of them had long since grown so intimate as to have shared all the details of their respective pasts— or at least, in the case of Vakares, most of it. It was even a point of jealousy for a time, back before Fenris had settled more fully into his role— he knows more than I ever will, you love him more . . .
Foolish. Even more foolish than he'd realized, clearly.
But that's not the point here.
What kind of past does Astarion have? He has no idea. He'd assumed— well, he'd assumed so many things, most of them unkind, and only now does Fenris realize that's all they are: assumptions. He'd thought him little more than a privileged brat who'd never once known hardship, but that can't be fully true. And that's not even taking into account Vakares' words . . . for it is a burden. It's a grief unlike he's ever known to lose his own life: to watch as he ceased aging even as the world continued on, his reflection gone and his connection to the outside world suddenly strained . . . not severed, no, but always there is a gap. Always now he is on the outside looking in, watching the endless cycle of life and death pass him by . . .
It's worth it. It is. But it was a loss, too, and he cannot pretend he didn't mourn it.
The same must be true for Astarion.]
I did not want to offer him free ammunition, and I did not want . . . I knew, in those early years, that if he taunted me for being a slave, I would attempt to kill him.
[So there's that.]
And I never asked for his. It simply . . . we do not have intimate discussions, amatus. Not like that. At most, we convene to discuss you— or gossip about others in court. But it isn't . . .
[They don't talk about their pasts. They don't talk about their fears or their hopes, nothing so intimate. They can be amiable, but intimate? Oh, no.
But what is there to say? Either that will change in the coming decades or it won't, but either way, mourning it now won't help. Instead:]
And what of your past? [Does he expect a real answer? Not particularly— which is why he leans forward, nuzzling against his throat again.] You still have not told me of much of it . . . not beyond the vampiric portions, anyway. Will you ever?
no subject
[Simple. Steady. And it surprises him, you know, that Astarion hasn't told Vakares anything so concrete. He'd assumed— well. He'd always assumed the two of them had long since grown so intimate as to have shared all the details of their respective pasts— or at least, in the case of Vakares, most of it. It was even a point of jealousy for a time, back before Fenris had settled more fully into his role— he knows more than I ever will, you love him more . . .
Foolish. Even more foolish than he'd realized, clearly.
But that's not the point here.
What kind of past does Astarion have? He has no idea. He'd assumed— well, he'd assumed so many things, most of them unkind, and only now does Fenris realize that's all they are: assumptions. He'd thought him little more than a privileged brat who'd never once known hardship, but that can't be fully true. And that's not even taking into account Vakares' words . . . for it is a burden. It's a grief unlike he's ever known to lose his own life: to watch as he ceased aging even as the world continued on, his reflection gone and his connection to the outside world suddenly strained . . . not severed, no, but always there is a gap. Always now he is on the outside looking in, watching the endless cycle of life and death pass him by . . .
It's worth it. It is. But it was a loss, too, and he cannot pretend he didn't mourn it.
The same must be true for Astarion.]
I did not want to offer him free ammunition, and I did not want . . . I knew, in those early years, that if he taunted me for being a slave, I would attempt to kill him.
[So there's that.]
And I never asked for his. It simply . . . we do not have intimate discussions, amatus. Not like that. At most, we convene to discuss you— or gossip about others in court. But it isn't . . .
[They don't talk about their pasts. They don't talk about their fears or their hopes, nothing so intimate. They can be amiable, but intimate? Oh, no.
But what is there to say? Either that will change in the coming decades or it won't, but either way, mourning it now won't help. Instead:]
And what of your past? [Does he expect a real answer? Not particularly— which is why he leans forward, nuzzling against his throat again.] You still have not told me of much of it . . . not beyond the vampiric portions, anyway. Will you ever?