[He watches Astarion so closely in those first few moments, struggling to eke meaning out of every breath, every hesitation . . . for there's still so much he doesn't understand. Chalk it up to differences in both country and class; chalk it up to the fact this is the first time in three centuries that Fenris has bothered to think about anyone rich as someone worth understanding.
And in the end, he knows he falls short. There's something lurking in the back of Astarion's mind that he isn't privy to. Later, he'll put it together in canny guess, thinking more of himself again and all they've gone through instead of Dalyria and her keen touch, but for now . . . he takes those words and tucks them away, categorizing them as another piece of the puzzle that makes up his Astarion.
He's quiet as the other elf ties the bandage in place. It's a surprisingly neat job done well, and he full well intends to compliment him on it, startled and all the more impressed for it. He intends to take those blood-stained fingers and return the favor, and indeed, even catches Astarion's hand in his own—
And then there's that question.
Ah.
And the way he freezes and stiffens has nothing to do with Astarion. It isn't a bad question to ask. It's just that the thought of her will always raise his hackles and make him bare his teeth in a snarl; that's just the way of it.]
Hadriana.
[You could blaspheme with less derision. With his free hand, he snags one of those alcohol soaked pads, his mouth tight as he carefully begins wiping at Astarion's fingers. It won't take much to get the blood off, but still, Fenris focuses on his work.]
Do not mistake me: I am no friend of Violet's. But she is what Hadriana wished to be, I suppose you might say. If she had been born here, she would have been one of her hangers-on, I have no doubt, eagerly enacting any of her schemes in the hopes that it might raise her social rank, never once realizing that your friend was merely using her for cheap labor and easy sport. A loyal dog, [and there's a wry, self-loathing little smirk that twists over Fenris' face during those words,] and useful assistant.
She is my former master's assistant. His heir, at least in theory. A spiteful, petty thing, but a useful one. She is a middling mage, clever with technology and magic both, but too low-born to ever accomplish anything without riding the coattails of another. She dreams endlessly of glory she will never have, and she loves my master so very much.
[Blech. He sticks his tongue out for that bit, an immature bit of mockery that's there and gone.]
She competed with me for a long time. Impudent little brat, for I had been part of that family when her mother's mother was still a babe, and we both of us had no reason to think I would not be there long after she passed. And yet she thought she could usurp me when it came to who our master's favorite was. Her ploys were petty and childish, not unlike your friend Violet's social schemes. And I will not say they always failed: they didn't. There were plenty of times when she won, but it never lasted, for she never understood that it was in Danarius' best interests to keep her on a short leash. Better to have a fanatically loyal apprentice than a drunk-on-power mistress that would ruin your favorite toy as soon as she could.
[Beneath the nails next . . . for all that his hands are calloused, he's surprisingly delicate when it comes to washing away the dried blood.]
Now, I suppose, she has all she wanted: I am gone, and he cannot get me back. [Maybe, maybe, the eternal warning of his heart whispering in the back of his mind.] I doubt very much he's raised her up, but I am certain that he's fixated on her in his loss. Likely he's drowning his sorrows with her in his bed while he scours the world for more processed lyrium to forge a replacement for me.
[And it's funny, for he says it so wryly. Pathetic, his tone states, and he shouldn't be so cavalier about the possibility of another going through what he had— but in truth, he isn't. It would horrify him; gods know he's had nightmares over the scenario. But the possibility is so remote, and anyway, his mind is fixated on Hadriana, not Danarius.]
A pity she is in Tevinter. [He glances up at Astarion, his gaze a little lighter.] It would be fascinating to watch you and your pack tear her to bits. Violet alone would make a meal of her, I suspect.
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And in the end, he knows he falls short. There's something lurking in the back of Astarion's mind that he isn't privy to. Later, he'll put it together in canny guess, thinking more of himself again and all they've gone through instead of Dalyria and her keen touch, but for now . . . he takes those words and tucks them away, categorizing them as another piece of the puzzle that makes up his Astarion.
He's quiet as the other elf ties the bandage in place. It's a surprisingly neat job done well, and he full well intends to compliment him on it, startled and all the more impressed for it. He intends to take those blood-stained fingers and return the favor, and indeed, even catches Astarion's hand in his own—
And then there's that question.
Ah.
And the way he freezes and stiffens has nothing to do with Astarion. It isn't a bad question to ask. It's just that the thought of her will always raise his hackles and make him bare his teeth in a snarl; that's just the way of it.]
Hadriana.
[You could blaspheme with less derision. With his free hand, he snags one of those alcohol soaked pads, his mouth tight as he carefully begins wiping at Astarion's fingers. It won't take much to get the blood off, but still, Fenris focuses on his work.]
Do not mistake me: I am no friend of Violet's. But she is what Hadriana wished to be, I suppose you might say. If she had been born here, she would have been one of her hangers-on, I have no doubt, eagerly enacting any of her schemes in the hopes that it might raise her social rank, never once realizing that your friend was merely using her for cheap labor and easy sport. A loyal dog, [and there's a wry, self-loathing little smirk that twists over Fenris' face during those words,] and useful assistant.
She is my former master's assistant. His heir, at least in theory. A spiteful, petty thing, but a useful one. She is a middling mage, clever with technology and magic both, but too low-born to ever accomplish anything without riding the coattails of another. She dreams endlessly of glory she will never have, and she loves my master so very much.
[Blech. He sticks his tongue out for that bit, an immature bit of mockery that's there and gone.]
She competed with me for a long time. Impudent little brat, for I had been part of that family when her mother's mother was still a babe, and we both of us had no reason to think I would not be there long after she passed. And yet she thought she could usurp me when it came to who our master's favorite was. Her ploys were petty and childish, not unlike your friend Violet's social schemes. And I will not say they always failed: they didn't. There were plenty of times when she won, but it never lasted, for she never understood that it was in Danarius' best interests to keep her on a short leash. Better to have a fanatically loyal apprentice than a drunk-on-power mistress that would ruin your favorite toy as soon as she could.
[Beneath the nails next . . . for all that his hands are calloused, he's surprisingly delicate when it comes to washing away the dried blood.]
Now, I suppose, she has all she wanted: I am gone, and he cannot get me back. [Maybe, maybe, the eternal warning of his heart whispering in the back of his mind.] I doubt very much he's raised her up, but I am certain that he's fixated on her in his loss. Likely he's drowning his sorrows with her in his bed while he scours the world for more processed lyrium to forge a replacement for me.
[And it's funny, for he says it so wryly. Pathetic, his tone states, and he shouldn't be so cavalier about the possibility of another going through what he had— but in truth, he isn't. It would horrify him; gods know he's had nightmares over the scenario. But the possibility is so remote, and anyway, his mind is fixated on Hadriana, not Danarius.]
A pity she is in Tevinter. [He glances up at Astarion, his gaze a little lighter.] It would be fascinating to watch you and your pack tear her to bits. Violet alone would make a meal of her, I suspect.