And it always comes down to that, doesn't it? Then again: isn't that meant to be every slave's hope? That some master will look on them kindly enough to buy them not as laborer, but kept pet, safe and secure. My precious thing, my beloved jewel, and it isn't freedom, but it's almost like it. Safe from work. Safe from harm. Safe from the illegal slave markets and the brutal cruelty of a master who might chain you to a bed or work you quite literally to death—
Fenris should be grateful.
He isn't.
He knows what the boy means. He knows that there is no lie in the fervency of his voice nor the bright shine to his gaze, for what would be the point? Some cruel joke, maybe, but such a thing is too tiresome to play out. This is real. This is what he thinks will help, and gods, but he isn't wrong. It would help. It would help immensely, right up until Astarion got tired of him. Or: Astarion found a better offer. Or: Astarion dies an untimely death, and all his prized possessions go to his brother, who looks at Fenris as though he's little more than a mildly interesting object (which he is in this household).]
And what then?
[It's soft. Not angry. Not yet, anyway.]
Assuming I do survive the next fifty years here, what then? You will buy me from my contract, and then I will be yours. I will still have a master I need to serve and keep happy. I will still owe a debt to someone— or do you plan on paying all of it yourself out of your own pocket and never ask me for a copper? It will not come cheap. And I doubt your father will be content with you spending it, heir or not.
[He does not realize how hunched his posture has become, his head bowed forward and his shoulders raised defensively.]
Besides. You assume your father will keep me for another fifty years. But I do not think he imagines I will last that long.
[Then why hire him? Why spend such a staggeringly enormous sum? He doesn't know, but he can think of more than a few possibilities, none of them good.
A few moments of silence, and, quieter:]
Do not mistake this as my wanting to wallow in enslavement— nor a lack of appreciation for your— for you.
[He glances over at him. There's such anguish in that expression— and so despite himself, Fenris reaches out, absently brushing a strand of hair away from his face.]
But trading one master for another is not freedom.
no subject
And it always comes down to that, doesn't it? Then again: isn't that meant to be every slave's hope? That some master will look on them kindly enough to buy them not as laborer, but kept pet, safe and secure. My precious thing, my beloved jewel, and it isn't freedom, but it's almost like it. Safe from work. Safe from harm. Safe from the illegal slave markets and the brutal cruelty of a master who might chain you to a bed or work you quite literally to death—
Fenris should be grateful.
He isn't.
He knows what the boy means. He knows that there is no lie in the fervency of his voice nor the bright shine to his gaze, for what would be the point? Some cruel joke, maybe, but such a thing is too tiresome to play out. This is real. This is what he thinks will help, and gods, but he isn't wrong. It would help. It would help immensely, right up until Astarion got tired of him. Or: Astarion found a better offer. Or: Astarion dies an untimely death, and all his prized possessions go to his brother, who looks at Fenris as though he's little more than a mildly interesting object (which he is in this household).]
And what then?
[It's soft. Not angry. Not yet, anyway.]
Assuming I do survive the next fifty years here, what then? You will buy me from my contract, and then I will be yours. I will still have a master I need to serve and keep happy. I will still owe a debt to someone— or do you plan on paying all of it yourself out of your own pocket and never ask me for a copper? It will not come cheap. And I doubt your father will be content with you spending it, heir or not.
[He does not realize how hunched his posture has become, his head bowed forward and his shoulders raised defensively.]
Besides. You assume your father will keep me for another fifty years. But I do not think he imagines I will last that long.
[Then why hire him? Why spend such a staggeringly enormous sum? He doesn't know, but he can think of more than a few possibilities, none of them good.
A few moments of silence, and, quieter:]
Do not mistake this as my wanting to wallow in enslavement— nor a lack of appreciation for your— for you.
[He glances over at him. There's such anguish in that expression— and so despite himself, Fenris reaches out, absently brushing a strand of hair away from his face.]
But trading one master for another is not freedom.