It's not a nice thing. Certainly no one in the waiting audience would mistake it for the radiant smile of a bliss-filled vampire eager to be even closer to his counterpart, starry-eyed and sweet. At best, it's a sardonic thing, there and gone and yet so very vivid now that blood coats his lips.
And you know, Fenris is still such a young thing. Only barely a century old and so terribly disinterested in vampiric politics, but still. He knows how people work. He knows what details they will remember in the coming years, when all the words have faded and all that's left is the stark impressions. No matter that Vakares squeezes both his consorts' shoulders in warning, for Fenris thinks that perhaps this is what will matter most in the coming years.
This exchange. This quiet little moment when Astarion speaks and Fenris responds, the two of them suddenly allied together in a moment of quiet camaraderie.
There is so little they agree on, after all. Vakares has always been their chief point of connection, the two of them setting aside their rivalry to make their beloved happy— but perhaps they can join in on this, too. The two of them unifying not for the sake of peace or love (oh, Vakares is such an earnest thing, so eager to see the future as nothing but good and bright), but sheer bloody spite.]
A hundred golden coins says that they get us mixed up more than half the time—
[What a dedicated thing their sire is, for he doesn't pay his whispering spawn any mind. He doesn't even break his stride, intoning the next part of their oath with all the enthusiasm and muster his position requires. But the sudden squeeze of his fingers against their shoulders speaks volumes, as does the sharp little glance he darts down at both of them. Shut up.]
I do so swear—
[Loyalty. Partnership. The vows settle on their shoulders like mantles, binding them together with more than just spoken words. There's magic woven in these rituals, Fenris realizes. Not the paltry spells that wizards use, their powers torn from the Weave; this is far more ancient. It's a bitter aftertaste beneath the blood slowly dripping down his tongue, so subtle that his lyrium doesn't bother to react. Not a deliberate thing Vakares kept from them, no— simply a pledge. A binding pact, as definitive as the ties that bind they two to their sire. Each promise a lash, each vow a cinching knot, until at last—
Seal your pact before the world, Vakares commands, and Fenris' eyes focus up once more.
And maybe it's nerves. Maybe it's grief for Vakares, sudden and yet all the more painful for it. Maybe it's the wariness of a century's worth of rivalry suddenly flaring its head, sparking old instincts born of a lifetime ago that whisper that nothing is certain. That to trust is to lead oneself to destruction; that everyone, everyone is out only for themselves, and Astarion most of all. And it doesn't matter that they just exchanged a teasing joke; it doesn't matter that they both of them promised Vakares they'd do their best. Emotions don't ever need rational thought, and all Fenris knows in that moment is this:
That whatever comes next, he will have to fight to keep himself from harm.
So he hesitates. It's the briefest thing, a half-breath's balking as wariness and rebelliousness and loathing all tangle together. He doubts anyone in the audience notices, but the two near him surely do.
Act, those instincts insist— and without a moment's thought, Fenris does. His hand darts to the back of Astarion's neck, drawing him in with one quick motion so Fenris can fit his lips to his so pointedly. For if they are to do this— to embark on this partnership, to be a duo instead of a singular ruler— Fenris will not be a passive partner. He will not be the younger brat constantly waiting for his elder to take control, no: Fenris kisses as though he means to take, domineering and rough. Mine, hungry pushes and eager pulls a vulgar rhythm once, twice—
Before he draws back, his tongue flicking out to lap at the blood coating Astarion's lip.
There, now. That's far better, and he does not realize just how self-satisfied he truly looks.]
no subject
It's not a nice thing. Certainly no one in the waiting audience would mistake it for the radiant smile of a bliss-filled vampire eager to be even closer to his counterpart, starry-eyed and sweet. At best, it's a sardonic thing, there and gone and yet so very vivid now that blood coats his lips.
And you know, Fenris is still such a young thing. Only barely a century old and so terribly disinterested in vampiric politics, but still. He knows how people work. He knows what details they will remember in the coming years, when all the words have faded and all that's left is the stark impressions. No matter that Vakares squeezes both his consorts' shoulders in warning, for Fenris thinks that perhaps this is what will matter most in the coming years.
This exchange. This quiet little moment when Astarion speaks and Fenris responds, the two of them suddenly allied together in a moment of quiet camaraderie.
There is so little they agree on, after all. Vakares has always been their chief point of connection, the two of them setting aside their rivalry to make their beloved happy— but perhaps they can join in on this, too. The two of them unifying not for the sake of peace or love (oh, Vakares is such an earnest thing, so eager to see the future as nothing but good and bright), but sheer bloody spite.]
A hundred golden coins says that they get us mixed up more than half the time—
[What a dedicated thing their sire is, for he doesn't pay his whispering spawn any mind. He doesn't even break his stride, intoning the next part of their oath with all the enthusiasm and muster his position requires. But the sudden squeeze of his fingers against their shoulders speaks volumes, as does the sharp little glance he darts down at both of them. Shut up.]
I do so swear—
[Loyalty. Partnership. The vows settle on their shoulders like mantles, binding them together with more than just spoken words. There's magic woven in these rituals, Fenris realizes. Not the paltry spells that wizards use, their powers torn from the Weave; this is far more ancient. It's a bitter aftertaste beneath the blood slowly dripping down his tongue, so subtle that his lyrium doesn't bother to react. Not a deliberate thing Vakares kept from them, no— simply a pledge. A binding pact, as definitive as the ties that bind they two to their sire. Each promise a lash, each vow a cinching knot, until at last—
Seal your pact before the world, Vakares commands, and Fenris' eyes focus up once more.
And maybe it's nerves. Maybe it's grief for Vakares, sudden and yet all the more painful for it. Maybe it's the wariness of a century's worth of rivalry suddenly flaring its head, sparking old instincts born of a lifetime ago that whisper that nothing is certain. That to trust is to lead oneself to destruction; that everyone, everyone is out only for themselves, and Astarion most of all. And it doesn't matter that they just exchanged a teasing joke; it doesn't matter that they both of them promised Vakares they'd do their best. Emotions don't ever need rational thought, and all Fenris knows in that moment is this:
That whatever comes next, he will have to fight to keep himself from harm.
So he hesitates. It's the briefest thing, a half-breath's balking as wariness and rebelliousness and loathing all tangle together. He doubts anyone in the audience notices, but the two near him surely do.
Act, those instincts insist— and without a moment's thought, Fenris does. His hand darts to the back of Astarion's neck, drawing him in with one quick motion so Fenris can fit his lips to his so pointedly. For if they are to do this— to embark on this partnership, to be a duo instead of a singular ruler— Fenris will not be a passive partner. He will not be the younger brat constantly waiting for his elder to take control, no: Fenris kisses as though he means to take, domineering and rough. Mine, hungry pushes and eager pulls a vulgar rhythm once, twice—
Before he draws back, his tongue flicking out to lap at the blood coating Astarion's lip.
There, now. That's far better, and he does not realize just how self-satisfied he truly looks.]