[Oh, her clever, clever Astarion, and of course he'd noticed what the others never do. They're all such loud creatures, always eager to voice their opinions or fight with the others . . . and you know, that's not to say they don't pay attention. Leon and Yousen in particular are clever creatures when they're on the prowl, but that's just the thing: they so rarely are when it comes to her, for she purposely never makes herself interesting enough to be a target.
But Astarion is different. She has never minded his observations, nor his questions, if it comes to that, for he has never wielded that wickedly sharp tongue against her.]
Can it not be both?
[A small smile first, there and gone, her pale purple eyes flicking away— and then a sharp shrug, dismissive of her own sentiment. Soft sentiment hiding a steely practicality: such is her way.]
It seems madness— if you look at it purely logically, anyway. Risking your position and your fortune for the sake of someone you've known only a handful of months, and all on the notion of love . . . of course it sounds like madness. And I’m sure Violet and Petras will tell you as much, over and over, just so they can be smugly satisfied if it doesn't work out.
But, [she says, her voice warming,] it seems the exact kind of madness you have needed for a long time now.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes, and she has known him long enough to be certain of that. His cold, sharp heart has longed for a friend, and she has done what she could, yes, but he needed more than she could offer. Warmth and adoration, care and kindness . . . she does not know Fenris, not really, but she doesn't need to; the way Astarion melts against him is proof enough.
He cared. Most of all when he didn't have to, and even as her heart melts to hear it, so too does Fenris': his eyes soften as he cards his fingers through Astarion's hair, roughened callouses gone gentle as he tends to his charge. There's such adoration in the movement, a small smile on his lips.]
Whatever risk comes with it is secondary.
[She does truly believe that. But aha, the second part of his question . . . again Dal shrugs sharply, not dismissive so much as discomfited.]
There was a girl, once. An assistant when I attended medical school. She was . . . I can't say kind, but kind to me, at any rate. She . . .
[She hesitates, and then, carefully:]
She listened at a time when it felt as though I could scream and no one would hear. She paid attention, and helped me when it felt as though no one would bother.
[But things change. Circumstances develop. And perhaps she does not want to linger on her own sore heart, for she adds:]
Tell me if you need something. A cover story for a date, or what space I can provide in my home.
[She is not an orphan, but she might as well be: her parents are gone for most of the year, preferring to spend their days (and coin) in Waterdeep.]
no subject
But Astarion is different. She has never minded his observations, nor his questions, if it comes to that, for he has never wielded that wickedly sharp tongue against her.]
Can it not be both?
[A small smile first, there and gone, her pale purple eyes flicking away— and then a sharp shrug, dismissive of her own sentiment. Soft sentiment hiding a steely practicality: such is her way.]
It seems madness— if you look at it purely logically, anyway. Risking your position and your fortune for the sake of someone you've known only a handful of months, and all on the notion of love . . . of course it sounds like madness. And I’m sure Violet and Petras will tell you as much, over and over, just so they can be smugly satisfied if it doesn't work out.
But, [she says, her voice warming,] it seems the exact kind of madness you have needed for a long time now.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes, and she has known him long enough to be certain of that. His cold, sharp heart has longed for a friend, and she has done what she could, yes, but he needed more than she could offer. Warmth and adoration, care and kindness . . . she does not know Fenris, not really, but she doesn't need to; the way Astarion melts against him is proof enough.
He cared. Most of all when he didn't have to, and even as her heart melts to hear it, so too does Fenris': his eyes soften as he cards his fingers through Astarion's hair, roughened callouses gone gentle as he tends to his charge. There's such adoration in the movement, a small smile on his lips.]
Whatever risk comes with it is secondary.
[She does truly believe that. But aha, the second part of his question . . . again Dal shrugs sharply, not dismissive so much as discomfited.]
There was a girl, once. An assistant when I attended medical school. She was . . . I can't say kind, but kind to me, at any rate. She . . .
[She hesitates, and then, carefully:]
She listened at a time when it felt as though I could scream and no one would hear. She paid attention, and helped me when it felt as though no one would bother.
[But things change. Circumstances develop. And perhaps she does not want to linger on her own sore heart, for she adds:]
Tell me if you need something. A cover story for a date, or what space I can provide in my home.
[She is not an orphan, but she might as well be: her parents are gone for most of the year, preferring to spend their days (and coin) in Waterdeep.]