[Acceptance. Not even death can outrun the necessity of it— nor undeath for that matter: all the instances coming to mind of his sire (more powerful in will and form than any other creature Astarion has ever known, more breathtaking than night's embrace), uttering phrases like 'I cant' or 'I must'.
And the thing is, Astarion knows he means it. That it isn't a lie when it comes slipped between sips of wine or roaming fingertips. The fact that he resents it for existing in the first place doesn't— much to his own eternal frustration— change its underlying nature in any applicable respect (so many years at one another's side breeds questionless certainty like bedrock, settled at the root of their association, concrete and entirely unshakable: if his master insults or incenses him, it's never been malicious— just knowing).
Power has its limits. So does love. So does eternal life. (So does the slouch in Astarion's shoulders. The scathing ire in his stare, fading at its seams against the cut of stubbornness laid bare.)
No, Vakares says. But what comes after it isn't a lie, either. Even if it feels like petty platitude to wounded pride. Even if— ]
Aren't you?
[Tenterhooks, that's the word for it. Weight shifting to the balls of his feet, posture pulling forwards in its tilt while the venom drains (slowly) from his tone. Closer to that ruined sitting area than the wall and its prized tomes— closer to opening his mouth, judging by the slight cinch in his jaw. Honest questions. Honest response.
(There won't be any heartfelt breaths defining the subtle shape of forgiveness, but a peaceable truce? Acceptance?
no subject
And the thing is, Astarion knows he means it. That it isn't a lie when it comes slipped between sips of wine or roaming fingertips. The fact that he resents it for existing in the first place doesn't— much to his own eternal frustration— change its underlying nature in any applicable respect (so many years at one another's side breeds questionless certainty like bedrock, settled at the root of their association, concrete and entirely unshakable: if his master insults or incenses him, it's never been malicious— just knowing).
Power has its limits. So does love. So does eternal life. (So does the slouch in Astarion's shoulders. The scathing ire in his stare, fading at its seams against the cut of stubbornness laid bare.)
No, Vakares says. But what comes after it isn't a lie, either. Even if it feels like petty platitude to wounded pride. Even if— ]
Aren't you?
[Tenterhooks, that's the word for it. Weight shifting to the balls of his feet, posture pulling forwards in its tilt while the venom drains (slowly) from his tone. Closer to that ruined sitting area than the wall and its prized tomes— closer to opening his mouth, judging by the slight cinch in his jaw. Honest questions. Honest response.
(There won't be any heartfelt breaths defining the subtle shape of forgiveness, but a peaceable truce? Acceptance?
Ah, maybe that.)]