Not just because of the fear (though that twists within him, his stomach writhing in knots as his heart whimpers what if, what if, what if over and over, a thousand questions with no immediate answers tormenting him), but the sincerity. The aching urgency woven in Astarion's voice that's so unfamiliar that he nearly flinches from it. Care and concern fill silver eyes, echoing in the soft press of his hands— I will fix this, his charge tells him. I will make it better, I will take care of you, I will keep you safe, I promise, I promise, and the sentiments pile on, each one layered atop each other in an almost unfathomable tower.
It doesn't erase the terror, but it does muffle it. We'll find you answers, and despite all his experience, despite his centuries of good sense, despite all his mistrust in masters and nobles and their intentions, it takes nothing at all for Fenris to believe him.
He presses his hand over one of Astarion's own as he gathers his thoughts, relishing the chill of his fingers and the softness of his palm. His arm throbs in time with his thundering heart, the bandage pulled too tight and his lyrium aching beneath that gentle touch; he'd suffer so much more if it meant that Astarion wouldn't stop this gentle caretaking.]
It is not the Ancunín line I put my trust in.
[A soft rumble. His thumbs strokes slowly against Astarion's hand, his emerald eyes soft. It's nothing they haven't implied before, adoration for one another and resentment for Lord Ancunín all tangling in one— but it's one thing to imply it. Quite another to verbalize it so starkly.
no subject
Not just because of the fear (though that twists within him, his stomach writhing in knots as his heart whimpers what if, what if, what if over and over, a thousand questions with no immediate answers tormenting him), but the sincerity. The aching urgency woven in Astarion's voice that's so unfamiliar that he nearly flinches from it. Care and concern fill silver eyes, echoing in the soft press of his hands— I will fix this, his charge tells him. I will make it better, I will take care of you, I will keep you safe, I promise, I promise, and the sentiments pile on, each one layered atop each other in an almost unfathomable tower.
It doesn't erase the terror, but it does muffle it. We'll find you answers, and despite all his experience, despite his centuries of good sense, despite all his mistrust in masters and nobles and their intentions, it takes nothing at all for Fenris to believe him.
He presses his hand over one of Astarion's own as he gathers his thoughts, relishing the chill of his fingers and the softness of his palm. His arm throbs in time with his thundering heart, the bandage pulled too tight and his lyrium aching beneath that gentle touch; he'd suffer so much more if it meant that Astarion wouldn't stop this gentle caretaking.]
It is not the Ancunín line I put my trust in.
[A soft rumble. His thumbs strokes slowly against Astarion's hand, his emerald eyes soft. It's nothing they haven't implied before, adoration for one another and resentment for Lord Ancunín all tangling in one— but it's one thing to imply it. Quite another to verbalize it so starkly.
It's you I trust. It's only ever you.]
Do you know that?