[Debt. And for a split-second, Astarion assumes he's found it: vice, at long last. His bodyguard's a gambler. A debtor. All his well-masked weakness bottled up and reserved solely for watching caged things tear themselves apart before a crowd (why else would he seek out places full of violence like that range they'd visited?) Oh yes, no wonder he's so stiff inside these walls. More at home around the scent of split-knuckled punches let loose or hooves beating or—
I was property.
Likened to a fucking phone. A piece of plastic and magic-infused tech, the comparison brutally offhanded. And Astarion's too stunned through the twist of his own neck as it jerks towards his conversational partner to remember that he'd started off association by teasing loosely about things like orphanages or enslavement; time's dilated so much under the press of cold shock that weeks might've been entire lifetimes ago, and at least in this second he's not the same person now that he was back then.
His eyes are opened, even if his brain hasn't caught up yet.
No part of him's caught up yet, in fact. Sitting upright in his bed without realizing it; hearing that posed prompt already come and gone, and one he tramples when he snaps out in response:]
Who gives a damn what I want— what do you mean you were property? [His father paid— gods. Gods, that's an astronomical amount. Even for their seemingly bottomless expenses, his father could have bought a legion devoted to his every last word. Instead he chose—
This.
One elf. One glow-in-the-dark, metaphoric name possessing, eye-contact averse elf in unsuspecting armor. Hells' teeth— why? Was it assumptive loyalty? That if he paid more than anyone ever should, the man would feel inescapably bound? Or....]
no subject
I was property.
Likened to a fucking phone. A piece of plastic and magic-infused tech, the comparison brutally offhanded. And Astarion's too stunned through the twist of his own neck as it jerks towards his conversational partner to remember that he'd started off association by teasing loosely about things like orphanages or enslavement; time's dilated so much under the press of cold shock that weeks might've been entire lifetimes ago, and at least in this second he's not the same person now that he was back then.
His eyes are opened, even if his brain hasn't caught up yet.
No part of him's caught up yet, in fact. Sitting upright in his bed without realizing it; hearing that posed prompt already come and gone, and one he tramples when he
snaps out in response:]
Who gives a damn what I want— what do you mean you were property? [His father paid— gods. Gods, that's an astronomical amount. Even for their seemingly bottomless expenses, his father could have bought a legion devoted to his every last word. Instead he chose—
This.
One elf. One glow-in-the-dark, metaphoric name possessing, eye-contact averse elf in unsuspecting armor. Hells' teeth— why? Was it assumptive loyalty? That if he paid more than anyone ever should, the man would feel inescapably bound? Or....]
Who owned you?