[Blacktree means nothing to him, but Simon . . . he thinks he remembers hearing that name. It rings the faintest of bells, though how and where and why, Fenris couldn't say. It doesn't matter right now— not when the present is far more important.
Fenris shudders as those chains are loosened. The cuffs are still tight around his wrists, leather chafing against newly mended skin, but that doesn't matter, not one bit, not in wake of the relief that's finally being able to lower his arms. Fenris outright groans for it, a soft noise of relief that he can't help, oh, gods, but that feels good. Like easing the worst of a knot in one's neck, like finally stirring after hours on his knees . . . it's worth everything.]
Vakares, hm . . .?
[He hadn't any idea Vakares gave such an order, but he can't say it shocks him. It's just like their sire to think so far ahead— though gods, Fenris doesn't know whether he's resentful or grateful that Vakares apparently foresaw a turn like this. He compromises between the two by glancing away, focusing on stretching out his arms as his mouth goes tight.
(It doesn't escape his attention just where Simon had been fighting to keep his eyes above, and gods, but some part of Fenris warms for it.]
And what order did he give you, that you should tend to me like this?
[If he fled these halls, it would not be a year before he was killed. Such a young thing. Such a hopeless thing, and Astarion's voice echoes so maliciously in his ear. How weak Vakares must have thought him, how pathetic . . . make sure you save him, and Fenris' stomach twists.]
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Fenris shudders as those chains are loosened. The cuffs are still tight around his wrists, leather chafing against newly mended skin, but that doesn't matter, not one bit, not in wake of the relief that's finally being able to lower his arms. Fenris outright groans for it, a soft noise of relief that he can't help, oh, gods, but that feels good. Like easing the worst of a knot in one's neck, like finally stirring after hours on his knees . . . it's worth everything.]
Vakares, hm . . .?
[He hadn't any idea Vakares gave such an order, but he can't say it shocks him. It's just like their sire to think so far ahead— though gods, Fenris doesn't know whether he's resentful or grateful that Vakares apparently foresaw a turn like this. He compromises between the two by glancing away, focusing on stretching out his arms as his mouth goes tight.
(It doesn't escape his attention just where Simon had been fighting to keep his eyes above, and gods, but some part of Fenris warms for it.]
And what order did he give you, that you should tend to me like this?
[If he fled these halls, it would not be a year before he was killed. Such a young thing. Such a hopeless thing, and Astarion's voice echoes so maliciously in his ear. How weak Vakares must have thought him, how pathetic . . . make sure you save him, and Fenris' stomach twists.]