Because they know I'd do it to them too— and it's better than having nothing and no one at all on your side.
[As affection washes over his borders through trailing fingerprints like the island that it is, he starts picking at the fibers of his world from its isolated shores, trying to make himself into a stranger to what shaped him. Made him.
(When even nursemaids have to abide by it, he could drop himself into cynicism just to aggrandize about what really suckled him from birth.
You know, if he was a pretentiously insufferable prick.)]
Orlais calls it the Grand Game, right?
[Purely rhetorical, that question: just a passive segue to pinpoint a way of life that Fenris may or may not know. The man's not thick by any stretch, but recent freedom's still recent freedom, and they both have their blindspots. So start there, drop a reference alluding to a nation practically written by their love of cambions and devils, all of it romanticized for being the embodiment of noble subterfuge, while also being publicly denounced by an equally beloved Chantry.
Always did make for a fascinating read.]
The end goal of everything being to outsmart and outmaneuver your competition— friends and enemies alike. Which is, obviously, the same thing.
Because the more elevated you are, the more the world foists into your lap just by virtue of being you. Id est: the more you have, the more you're admired by the world at large by anyone that wants even a speck of what you have. And the more you're admired, the more fervently you're hated in reverse by people you've never even met for that same reason, too. [And it's not a coincidence that high society's cluttered with cautionary tales about betrayal and longing and love. If it doesn't sink in early, then at least crude repetition might finish filling in the blanks for younger nobles before reality sets in.
Something to keep them away from reckless decisions like these.]
But you? You say these things in private, knowing it can't leave. Not wanting it to, anyway. [Not for status or pride; he'd gritted his teeth and waited out the worst of Astarion's teasing misbehavior with a noble in his lap, and it means Fenris isn't afraid to back off. back out. Fuck off.
Everything— all of it— rings so sincere it hurts for someone that's not used to it.
Makes astarion want to be the same, hungry as he is for love. Touchstarved fingers picking at pale swaths of straightset hair somewhere just behind tan ears, always leaning into every scuff. More. More.
But back to the lesson at hand, before he forgets the whole point of teaching.]
And I already know my father didn't send you to seduce me. [Spoken with the smallest shrug.] Even if he tried to bribe you by offering you freedom, you're too proud: you could maybe try to agree, but I don't think you'd ever bring yourself to do it— besides, my brother's too young to inherit right now anyway, and there's no guarantee that when that finally changes, he won't get hit with the same unruly distemperment as me come puberty. The scandal from making a play like that too early would be blunt as razors.
no subject
[As affection washes over his borders through trailing fingerprints like the island that it is, he starts picking at the fibers of his world from its isolated shores, trying to make himself into a stranger to what shaped him. Made him.
(When even nursemaids have to abide by it, he could drop himself into cynicism just to aggrandize about what really suckled him from birth.
You know, if he was a pretentiously insufferable prick.)]
Orlais calls it the Grand Game, right?
[Purely rhetorical, that question: just a passive segue to pinpoint a way of life that Fenris may or may not know. The man's not thick by any stretch, but recent freedom's still recent freedom, and they both have their blindspots. So start there, drop a reference alluding to a nation practically written by their love of cambions and devils, all of it romanticized for being the embodiment of noble subterfuge, while also being publicly denounced by an equally beloved Chantry.
Always did make for a fascinating read.]
The end goal of everything being to outsmart and outmaneuver your competition— friends and enemies alike. Which is, obviously, the same thing.
Because the more elevated you are, the more the world foists into your lap just by virtue of being you. Id est: the more you have, the more you're admired by the world at large by anyone that wants even a speck of what you have. And the more you're admired, the more fervently you're hated in reverse by people you've never even met for that same reason, too. [And it's not a coincidence that high society's cluttered with cautionary tales about betrayal and longing and love. If it doesn't sink in early, then at least crude repetition might finish filling in the blanks for younger nobles before reality sets in.
Something to keep them away from reckless decisions like these.]
But you? You say these things in private, knowing it can't leave. Not wanting it to, anyway. [Not for status or pride; he'd gritted his teeth and waited out the worst of Astarion's teasing misbehavior with a noble in his lap, and it means Fenris isn't afraid to back off. back out. Fuck off.
Everything— all of it— rings so sincere it hurts for someone that's not used to it.
Makes astarion want to be the same, hungry as he is for love. Touchstarved fingers picking at pale swaths of straightset hair somewhere just behind tan ears, always leaning into every scuff. More. More.
But back to the lesson at hand, before he forgets the whole point of teaching.]
And I already know my father didn't send you to seduce me. [Spoken with the smallest shrug.] Even if he tried to bribe you by offering you freedom, you're too proud: you could maybe try to agree, but I don't think you'd ever bring yourself to do it— besides, my brother's too young to inherit right now anyway, and there's no guarantee that when that finally changes, he won't get hit with the same unruly distemperment as me come puberty. The scandal from making a play like that too early would be blunt as razors.
He's not that stupid.