[He says it a little dazedly, the answer falling from his lips as he obediently follows where pale hands direct him. No, of course they haven't; if he isn't bleeding out or nursing a broken bone, what would be the point? Every master knows that. Bruises and cuts are his own to deal with as and when he sees fit; it's why there's more than a few scars etched into the lines of his body. A snarling knot of scar tissue against one thigh; a deep slice along his ribs . . . it adds up over three centuries, no matter how good a bodyguard he is.
Cool hands brush along his spine, his hips, his shoulders, finding nothing but unbroken skin until at last— ah, and he is too well trained to wince as Astarion's fingers finally find crusted blood. Shards of glass had done more work than he realized, slicing deep into his left bicep. His shirt acted as temporary gauze, but a flimsy one; at Astarion's light touch, a jolt of pain runs through him, fresh blood bubbling to the surface as it reopens.
And he'll deal with it, he will, but far more important to him is this conversation. He catches Astarion's hand with his right, stopping him from further inspection, because this is important.]
You were the target, not I, Astarion. And I am not shocked because you care, I simply—
[How to explain that it's nothing to do with Astarion and everything to do with his own life and experiences? How to distill three centuries of casual dismissal into one simple explanation? I did not realize you would fret, I did not think it possible, and it sounds like such a disservice to his charge, but he doesn't mean it that way. Fenris' eyes dart about his face, struggling to come up with the right words, before he finally settles on:]
I did not . . . I am not used to that being a consideration.
[He catches Astarion beneath the chin, tipping his head up so their eyes meet. Softer, then:]
And it was you who were the target. I care little for if you've seen it happen before . . . it is still frightening, no matter that it did not succeed.
no subject
[He says it a little dazedly, the answer falling from his lips as he obediently follows where pale hands direct him. No, of course they haven't; if he isn't bleeding out or nursing a broken bone, what would be the point? Every master knows that. Bruises and cuts are his own to deal with as and when he sees fit; it's why there's more than a few scars etched into the lines of his body. A snarling knot of scar tissue against one thigh; a deep slice along his ribs . . . it adds up over three centuries, no matter how good a bodyguard he is.
Cool hands brush along his spine, his hips, his shoulders, finding nothing but unbroken skin until at last— ah, and he is too well trained to wince as Astarion's fingers finally find crusted blood. Shards of glass had done more work than he realized, slicing deep into his left bicep. His shirt acted as temporary gauze, but a flimsy one; at Astarion's light touch, a jolt of pain runs through him, fresh blood bubbling to the surface as it reopens.
And he'll deal with it, he will, but far more important to him is this conversation. He catches Astarion's hand with his right, stopping him from further inspection, because this is important.]
You were the target, not I, Astarion. And I am not shocked because you care, I simply—
[How to explain that it's nothing to do with Astarion and everything to do with his own life and experiences? How to distill three centuries of casual dismissal into one simple explanation? I did not realize you would fret, I did not think it possible, and it sounds like such a disservice to his charge, but he doesn't mean it that way. Fenris' eyes dart about his face, struggling to come up with the right words, before he finally settles on:]
I did not . . . I am not used to that being a consideration.
[He catches Astarion beneath the chin, tipping his head up so their eyes meet. Softer, then:]
And it was you who were the target. I care little for if you've seen it happen before . . . it is still frightening, no matter that it did not succeed.
Are you all right?