That's saying a lot. Vakares has always been a soft hand with his coven no matter their rank, but it was his consorts he adored spoiling the most. Both their rooms had been marvelous things: airy and bright, artwork lining the walls and books stacked on shelves. They'd been allowed to customize them to their liking, and for Fenris, that meant half of it became a place to train: stone overlaid with tile and racks of weapons lining the far wall. You don't need to fight anymore, Vakares had told him, but I can appreciate the need for routine. Simply try not to stab anyone within the household.
(He has to stop thinking of Vakares. He has to stop longing for a past that no longer exists, for lingering there too long is the right way to ruin. And he will. He will, but oh, give him a day's grief, at least).
And understand, Fenris loves that room. He had spent a century marveling over the sizable grandeur, thrilling over ownership and marveling over the privacy it provided.
But it might as well have been a closet for how it compares to this.
It's almost too much. It is too much— certainly it is for Fenris, who even now does not quite know how to handle all the wealth and power at his fingertips (and that's a far different thing than learning to enjoy it). But perhaps, he thinks as he wanders into the room, perhaps it's just enough for an Archduke or two.
His fingers slide almost idly over the oaken desk (where already there is paperwork waiting for them both, Vakares' neat script making his heart pang once more); they drift over the marble inset on their grooming station, taking note of the fact both their personal things have been brought over already. He wanders and he tries so hard to take it all in, but he knows even now that it will take a long while before it feels like anything belonging to him.
Just like this title.
Gods. Archduke Fenris, and in the echochambers of his mind, it sounds like a joke. A cruel jibe slipping off the tongue of his counterpart, perhaps, or a particularly uninspired taunt from Danarius— but ah, he won't say so aloud. Whether or not he feels it fits, the title is still his— and it will be all Fenris can do to hold onto it in the coming years. There is more than just Astarion to fear when it comes to their coven, and perhaps they should talk about that—
Did you mean it? a voice calls, and Fenris turns.
Later.]
I did.
[Their tones match in dryness. And you know, anyone listening in would think it friendly banter and little more— and to an extent, that's true. But Fenris does not imagine Astarion has forgotten that kiss— nor if it comes to it, his vulgar promise from a few days ago. I want to take my new whore out for a ride before I fit him with a bit and bridle, and it's surely only a matter of time before Astarion tries just that.]
You saw them tonight. They barely knew how to look at us both, never mind which to defer to first.
[It was almost funny, honestly: watching all the nobles stumble in their bows, piggish eyes darting back and forth as they still tried to determine who to suck up to.]
But I suppose they will learn, in one way if not another.
[They'll have to.
Fenris steps forward. There's a thousand ways he could coyly approach this topic, but subtle gestures have never suited him, not when he can be blunt. So:]
Have you?
[Another step forward, his eyes bright and tension beginning to form in the lines of his body.]
Or do you still insist on the fantasy that I am here to be your consort and not your partner?
no subject
That's saying a lot. Vakares has always been a soft hand with his coven no matter their rank, but it was his consorts he adored spoiling the most. Both their rooms had been marvelous things: airy and bright, artwork lining the walls and books stacked on shelves. They'd been allowed to customize them to their liking, and for Fenris, that meant half of it became a place to train: stone overlaid with tile and racks of weapons lining the far wall. You don't need to fight anymore, Vakares had told him, but I can appreciate the need for routine. Simply try not to stab anyone within the household.
(He has to stop thinking of Vakares. He has to stop longing for a past that no longer exists, for lingering there too long is the right way to ruin. And he will. He will, but oh, give him a day's grief, at least).
And understand, Fenris loves that room. He had spent a century marveling over the sizable grandeur, thrilling over ownership and marveling over the privacy it provided.
But it might as well have been a closet for how it compares to this.
It's almost too much. It is too much— certainly it is for Fenris, who even now does not quite know how to handle all the wealth and power at his fingertips (and that's a far different thing than learning to enjoy it). But perhaps, he thinks as he wanders into the room, perhaps it's just enough for an Archduke or two.
His fingers slide almost idly over the oaken desk (where already there is paperwork waiting for them both, Vakares' neat script making his heart pang once more); they drift over the marble inset on their grooming station, taking note of the fact both their personal things have been brought over already. He wanders and he tries so hard to take it all in, but he knows even now that it will take a long while before it feels like anything belonging to him.
Just like this title.
Gods. Archduke Fenris, and in the echochambers of his mind, it sounds like a joke. A cruel jibe slipping off the tongue of his counterpart, perhaps, or a particularly uninspired taunt from Danarius— but ah, he won't say so aloud. Whether or not he feels it fits, the title is still his— and it will be all Fenris can do to hold onto it in the coming years. There is more than just Astarion to fear when it comes to their coven, and perhaps they should talk about that—
Did you mean it? a voice calls, and Fenris turns.
Later.]
I did.
[Their tones match in dryness. And you know, anyone listening in would think it friendly banter and little more— and to an extent, that's true. But Fenris does not imagine Astarion has forgotten that kiss— nor if it comes to it, his vulgar promise from a few days ago. I want to take my new whore out for a ride before I fit him with a bit and bridle, and it's surely only a matter of time before Astarion tries just that.]
You saw them tonight. They barely knew how to look at us both, never mind which to defer to first.
[It was almost funny, honestly: watching all the nobles stumble in their bows, piggish eyes darting back and forth as they still tried to determine who to suck up to.]
But I suppose they will learn, in one way if not another.
[They'll have to.
Fenris steps forward. There's a thousand ways he could coyly approach this topic, but subtle gestures have never suited him, not when he can be blunt. So:]
Have you?
[Another step forward, his eyes bright and tension beginning to form in the lines of his body.]
Or do you still insist on the fantasy that I am here to be your consort and not your partner?