[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.
In a fraction of a second, Astarion does more than that. Narrow knots inside his chest finally unwinding, right down to the last bit of deadbolt tension, brought down by the compound nightmare of his overturned world meeting the mark of its antithesis.
And in less than that same second— ]
I've no idea.
[A puff of air. A scoff tugged just at the corner.]
Trying not to think about that, actually. [Tone clipped in a willfingly open show of total honesty, managing the effort of keeping his chin held so high that Fenris' hold barely has any resistance or gravity to speak of; he doesn't mind if the one person he trusts in this place actually knows he's not infallible— knows he won't be judged for any of this like the prized idiot he's been treated as— but the thing is he does actually mind that blot of red on his guardian's torn sleeve. The one he only partway saw through the gash in nighttime clothing.
Everything in his silhouette's gone aristocratic in response. Strictly: crisp. Authoritative.
He's not terrible at being a magister, when it's all said and done.]
Hold still. Let me work.
[That said, he's not pulling away from the fingers curled against his chin. There has to be something deliberate in the fact that he only works around them, eyeline dropped.]
[You should, he thinks as he watches Astarion work. His eyes drift over the fixed way his eyes are set upon his work, his mouth a thin line and his hands busy, and knows it will be only a matter of time before the other penny drops. He's seen it happen too many times— gods, he can still remember going through it himself. Not once or twice, but over and over until at last he'd gone numb to the horror and terror that such a violent life brought.
It will take an hour, or a day. Maybe even a few days— but when all is said and done, there will be a moment when it hits. There will be a hairline crack in those crumbling defenses, and rushing forward will be the shuddering stark shock ready to consume him.
But when it does (if it does, for Fenris does not know all about what Astarion has experienced), Fenris will be there.
And in the meantime: it's good he's melted beneath Fenris' hand. That release of tension will serve in the longrun— and honestly, there's something immensely soothing about watching some of the pain in his charge's frame ease. He tugs his fingers back only so he can run a calloused palm along the side of Astarion's neck, his thumb smoothing over his pulse. From there, it drifts down his shoulder, palming gently at his chest (and if Fenris takes solace in the steady pulse of a beating heart, so be it). It's a meaningless pattern, an endless press that only means: I'm here, I'm here.
He does it because he cares. Because he can read the tension in that clipped tone; because he knows too well what it's like to reel in nauseated shock. Because the lithe figure beside him is the only person who has ever given a damn about what happened to him in the aftermath—
And perhaps, too, he does it out of fear. If Astarion's tone is his displacement mechanism, then call this Fenris' last defense against facing the truth of the situation.
I care about you. I care about what happens to you. I worry for you. What am I supposed to do if you're out there and I'm in here, and they start tracking you down? And it isn't that he thought Astarion so callous; it isn't that he doesn't understand why his ward wants to fuss over him. It isn't even that he's opposed, it's just—
It's new.
And he cannot help but flinch against it, no matter how much he has longed for such a thing.
But nor will he squander this moment. With a soft, deflated exhale Fenris settles, letting Astarion rip away dead fabric. His wound oozes blood steadily now; the gash itself is a large thing, deep and ugly. It won't need stitches, but it will need tending.
And there's something a little lovely about it: the soft sounds of Astarion working, his fingers deft as they gently pry at unbroken skin and muscle. The gentle puffs of exhaled air against Fenris' skin, and the look of fierce concentration as his charge dotes upon him.]
Do they teach tending wounds in law school?
[He murmurs it after a time, his eyes peeking up from beneath his lashes.]
Or was that simply something you picked up after Petras was poisoned?
[It will take time— Fenris is right about that. But for now, at the very least, there's a rare (and much-needed) comfort in the unexpected sanctuary of this moment. Forged mostly by the little things, like the subtle shred of fabric under his fingertips, or the fact that once he's pulled the lamp closer he can at least relax at the sight of a wound that's not as bad as he'd expected when he found it. And like being left alone together, too (even if it means knowing he'll have to put up with the opposite: waking up without anyone beside him later, which is a real damned shame considering he'd just started getting used to the idea of not having to be on his own anymore), at least until this whole nightmare gets resolved.
It was nice, while it lasted.
Click go his nails against each other, the little makeup kit left behind by the servant that normally stays here doing better work than his manicure at plucking out shards of abrading glass— but he still has to make sure the pieces don't pop off into space after he's finished catching them, so it's turned into a nominally joined effort on two fronts: picking the fragments free and then carefully maneuvering them onto the nightstand's edge. Clack go the pieces when they finally drop onto the wood, a few of them looking gruesomely big for how deeply they'd been embedded.
After that, comes the scissors, and a freshly uncapped bottle of alcohol for cleaning makeup (the very same kit again) saves the day, using a few cotton eyeshadow pads as gauze through the wrap of disinfected sleeve cloth.
One good soak, and he sets in on cleaning.]
Dalyria. [Astarion almost laughs when he admits it, though he's still fairly grim-faced on principle thanks to the task of daubing up blood. All tight lip lines and an angled stoop across his folded ankle, leaning forward. His eyes aren't as good as they used to be (if they ever were that good when he was a kid, he hasn't any idea, really)— but they're not that bad, either.
And frankly: fuck getting glasses. He refuses.]
She and I— well, mm. [All right, all right:] Mostly her, got him back up on his feet and vomiting using charcoal from the nearby fire. There wasn't much that much poison in his system, so once she mixed it with cold water and forced him to drink it, a handful or so seconds later: out came the rest.
He was lucky he lived at all, but then I suppose that's the way of Petras in general.
[A beat, and then.]
After that, I was mostly just curious. She wasn't terrible to listen prattle on about blood and gauze and whatnot. Kept me from losing my mind from all the usual bleak mundanity, anyway.
[There's something so precariously wonderful about this moment.
He's so aware of it. Even as he basks in it (the tension easing out of his body in ticks, his whole self gently but surely slumping towards his charge), there's a whisper in the back of his mind that urges him to savor this. Memorize it. Remember every detail (the buzz of the lantern irritating to elven ears and the warmth of its glow; the feel of the mattress groaning between their combined weight, ancient springs creaking each time Astarion draws out another sliver of glass). Remember the way it feels to have chilly fingers gently pressed against bare skin, Astarion's expression pinched as he focuses. Remember how it feels to be cared for . . .
And how it feels is, not to put too fine a point on it, good.
Simple and soft and warm in a way Fenris knew once, a long, long time ago. Memories that linger only in whispers and faint sensations . . . his mother's hand stroking through his hair, her scent all around him and her body soft as he curled in close . . . and it's not the same right now. He isn't so soft-eyed as to go doeish, his body still upright and still as he lets Astarion work, but the feeling is there. Warmth blooms in the center of his chest, every soft touch feeling like sunlight dappling on his skin.
Intimacy. That's the word, isn't it? Intimate, to allow Astarion so close. To listen to these stories and know them for the secrets they are, not because the information contained therein is so valuable, but because he knows for a fact Astarion has never told anyone before.]
Clever thing.
[Dalyria, he means, though from the way he stares at Astarion as he works, perhaps he means both. There's a faint smile on his lips, and let them both pretend it's leftover from the derisive little snort he'd made about Petras.]
Is that how you grew close? Trying to escape that bleak mundanity?
[The words fascinate him a little. It isn't that Astarion's never spoken of his frustrations before, but that was limited to his family. If my father didn't put a leash on me, if my brother wasn't such a stuck-up brat, but always there was the assurance that it was internal, not external.
And Fenris won't be a brat about it. He won't scoff over the perceived problems of the rich; he won't sneer that Astarion knows nothing of hardship. He might have a few weeks ago, but . . . things are different now, and he is not so callous as all that. His gaze is softer, his expression more settled as his voice rumbles between them.]
[Maybe yes. Maybe. Maybe. It feels likely if only because what pulls in the back of his throat towards the word yes is just this moment: the culmination of wanting to escape, in every winding facet. First absurd lust, consumptive and recklessly demanding. The dizziness of drug and drink, then anger, spite, conflict—
Then the brush of warm fingers on his neck. The soft smile in the mirror. The way they'd laughed before that fucking gunshot—
Gods.
(Don't think about it. Don't think about it.)
Clink goes another shard of glass against the nightstand. He has to squint (and press, in fact, more than a few times while cleaning) just to make sure there's nothing left hiding in there, merciless as glass can be: the last thing he wants is to leave something in there if it takes days for Fenris to take the time to see a healer. Not that he imagines his father would go that far in selfish pursuit of seeing this mess through to a quick completion, but....well, as tonight more than effectively proves: things happen.]
Never really gave it any thought, to tell you the truth. I mean, I suppose some part of me probably did in the moment, but how much of that was the culprit if we're weighing the naivety of her sincerity and the convenience of having that little circle of hopeless hearts loitering around to lean on....?
Mm.
[Again, the bottle. Again, the frigid press of cloth that bites Astarion's own undamaged fingers.
He can't imagine how it feels for Fenris.]
You were going to tell me about someone before, though. The one Violet reminded you of. [There. Mostly clean. Enough to wrap up, at least, packing it with treated cotton and a makeshift bandage, all tied fastidiously in place, his bloodied nails doing well with fastening those knots.]
And considering there's no windows in this room to be shot through for daring to broach the subject....
[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.
[He stays stock still. Lets his guardian work while he listens— for once, at least— without any amount of fussing on his own end. His left ankle's falling asleep by now, but there's nothing in him that minds the leveled cost of kindness on a night that could suck the notion marrow-dry without expending anything more than what's already played out.
It feels....nice.
Stinging cold and all, it really does feel nice. Right down to the swipe of damp cotton underneath his nail beds, dragging away caked-on grit and powdered glass and blood all at once, and for a little while he realizes he could lose himself in this. The return of their truce, and the settled sense of comfort it provides.
What Fenris talks about: less so.
(Though that brief mockery? Adorable.)]
Either that, or they'd tear each other to shreds from the sound of it. [One smooth scoff forging the segue between one thought to the next.]
Cant say I don't know the type.... [in theory] but being jealous of an enslaved guard d—ian is a new one, even for me. [Whew. Smooth recovery there. Job well done, Astarion.
But gods, fumbled thoughtlessness aside there's still so much more to unpack now than ever before as far as all those monumental revelations go, most of all when they're settled down like this: in absolute silence otherwise. No phones, no interruptions. No worries about listening ears or watching eyes. His bed, Fenris said. Did that mean— was only Hadriana that to Danarius? Was intimacy her sole means of thwarting jealousy (or).... and never mind that generations implies a longer time in service. And while elves are long lived anyway, and Astarion doubts Fenris is older than his father, it still begs the immediate(ly stupid) question:]
[He glances up at that near slip of the tongue, quiet amusement clear in his expression. I heard that, but he won't press it farther than that. Sometimes intent does matter, and Astarion putting in the effort to sheathe his tongue is worth more than perfection in doing so.
Then it's back down to cleaning— only to raise his gaze again, that amusement richer now.]
I was not lying. I told you around three hundred, and I meant it . . .
[Which is true. But they're in a far different place than they were all those weeks and months ago, and this is a far different conversation than a heated alleyway exchange.]
. . . but I cannot tell you more than that. I do not have an exact year, and memories of my past are . . . cloudy at times. Danarius cited it as the result of repeated concussions.
[He shrugs a shoulder. The explanation had made sense at the time, and it was rare enough his master would answer questions as-is.]
I know whom I have served. I remember being recruited to serve Danarius' grandfather, and watching both he and his father grow. [It always happened so fast to his elven eyes, ages and milestones blurring wildly.] And I know, based on their lineage, that I must be at least three hundred. But beyond that . . . I guess, and I keep track as much as I am able.
[And the thing is: he assumes that's what it's like for everyone. Oh, perhaps his memories are a bit more blurred due to head trauma (and never mind he does not make it a habit to wander around with a concussion; never mind that it has been a long time since he's been injured that badly), but surely all long-lived races undergo similar forgetfulness. Not being able to recall a name or a face, not remembering details or when or where or why something happened—
Surely that's how it must be for everyone. Why wouldn't it be? He has no trouble when it comes to day-to-day matters, and what bits of his past he remembers, well. That must be the only significant bits worth mentioning, hm?]
[And not out of suspicion that initial passing mention had been a lie, but because time served isn't exactly life. Because what if there was more beyond that stretch, when everything else seems so brittle according to phrases like memories of my past are cloudy at times. Repeated concussions. (Repeated concussions doing what? Fighting? Training? Being beaten? Punished? Protecting an entire line the way he's stuck doing the same damned thing now, just for a bunch of elves instead?) Stupid, the way Astarion reaches to pull those fringe-heavy bangs out of Fenris' eyes just to squint at him like something might be visible behind autumnal eyes or their housing, but also consider in reverse: he doesn't care. He doesn't care about futility or whether or not he matches its intensity in terms of playing the role of an overinvested idiot—
Maybe there's a crease somewhere. A wrinkle in the right place; a lack of one in another; a memory rattling around in that unsettlingly attractive head. Something waiting to be glimpsed.]
Recruitment could've been a bloody lifetime. Or— mm.
[Pulling back with a scoff, he resituates himself: pulling up off his own now-asleep heel (ow) and wiping rapidly drying fingers on his shirt as he drops back to lay down fully.]
Maybe I haven't got a clue what I'm talking about.
[The bed's so cramped. There's barely any room for laying parallel; Astarion has to wiggle more on his side so he can knock at the empty space beside him in a demand for Fenris to come too.
It's been a long night. He's still loitering at the edge.
Not lately. Not as far as I can ascertain, anyway.
[The bed is cramped and uncomfortable and Fenris doesn't care. They could be lying on the damned floor and he'd still follow where those patting fingers led, squirming and wriggling until he's fitted himself within that small space. Their bodies jostle together, elbows and knees and ankles, and oh, it's been too long a night for this. With a soft grunt of effort Fenris pulls the pale elf towards him, gently urging him into resting half atop him, safely encircled by his arms.
The searching look that Astarion had given him lingers in his mind. There must be something there, but so far as Fenris is concerned, there isn't. They have not divulged everything to one another, but there is nothing he is actively keeping back. And yet there was such concern in those narrowed silver eyes . . . he exhales slowly, long and loud, and doesn't realize how much like a wearied hound he sounds when he does it.]
But in the past few years . . . very little. A day or two here or there . . .
[And it sounds so much more suspicious now that he says it out loud. It's not that he wasn't aware of it before, it's just . . . that was how it was. Always, that was how it was. Danarius never seemed to mind, and the few times Fenris had gotten up the courage to ask, the answer was always the same. You were injured. You were hurt. You practiced too much. You were foolish and clumsy.
His fingers stroke gently through Astarion's hair, a small frown on his face now.]
What did you mean, recruitment could have been a lifetime?
Just— nothing, I don't know. [It's stupid to try and explain it, whatever it even is. Some kind of nagging hunch clawing at the back of his mind, despite the fact that it doesn't even make sense: trying to leap into accusations of magisters abusing magitech for crude experimentation beyond the scars Fenris already has without proof is about as ridiculous as calling them villains.
They're people.
shitty, shitty people.
They don't get the excuse of a narrative; they don't deserve it, besides. What sane person could look at a soft-mouthed hound like this and not value the kindness of his odd, lingering presence. The way he presses in, though gods know it has to ache when he's scraped up and bandaged tight via the most makeshift treatment known to all elfkind.]
Did you....I mean did....erhgh. [He's thinking. He's thinking.] Was it always after something happened? A bad fight? Punishment?
Maybe could get our estate healer to help, once this is all over.
[After all:] It'll be a problem if you wake up with a start one day and don't recognize the people you've been hired to safeguard. I don't think my parents would look all too kindly on that kind of workplace mishap.
[Gods, what a language Astarion speaks in. And not just him: his friends, his family, all of them so fluent in it as to almost become mundane. Meanings softly veiled behind gauzy misdirection, just so they all of them can have the deniability of not being truly sincere if it backfires. But unlike all those months ago, Fenris has found he's becoming more fluent in it. He can hear the meanings hidden beneath layers; he knows to look more to the softness in Astarion's silver gaze than listen to the words that slip past his lips. I don't want you to forget me, and oh, he hears it. He knows it. I'm scared. I don't want to lose you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, I can't stand the thought of losing you, and perhaps he oughtn't take too much credit, for it's the same song his own heart is whimpering.]
Hah . . . no, I imagine not.
[He murmurs it as he stares at the ceiling. The thing is: he is not of Astarion's class. Knowing how to bite your tongue as a servant or a slave is one thing; it's quite another to speak it fluently. And now that he knows he will not face repercussions for speaking his mind (at least around Astarion and his friends), ah, he won't waste the opportunity.]
. . . and I would be sorry to forget you.
[No. Say what you mean. It's just that it's a little terrifying, but it's worthwhile too.]
I would mourn your loss, Astarion. More sorely than I am able to say . . . more sorely than I could comprehend if it were to happen.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes. And it doesn't matter that the ground beneath them is uncertain, nor that they're still figuring out what they are. He says it because Astarion is mouthing at the edges of his joke of a life; because he keeps asking questions, picking at the loose threads for no other reason than he frets. Because the word courtship keeps echoing in the back of his mind; because of the way his heart had all but stopped when he heard glass shatter. Not you, it can't be you, please, and he has never felt so weak protecting anyone before. His heart has never screamed in terror before, not like that.
I don't want you to forget me, and it goes both ways. They're two fragmented beings clinging to each other with both hands, desperately trying to keep a spark alive in the darkness. What matters more than that?
But ah, ah: he cannot be too emotional. Fretful anxiety and gnawing uncertainty mean he clears his throat, ignoring the heat in the tips of his ears as he adds:]
But as I recall . . . mph, it happened most often after I failed, yes. Or if I grew too agitated or frustrated . . .
He called them symptoms of the concussions. And he would call a healer, though I do not know who he was. He never spoke to me.
[Never looked at him. Never once addressed him like a person instead of a bit of livestock, there to have his teeth checked and his stamina increased.]
Symptoms? [His sneer sharper than his demeanor in that moment, wrinkles spreading across the full span of his nose (its outline nearly buried against Fenris' shoulder)— and there's something fortunate in that acute misery, only because it distracts from his initial thought of don't you dare. Don't you dare talk about mourning my place in your life like a promise it'll happen— it won't. It won't.
Trailing pale fingertips (stained pink from irritation) around the top of one sunset-colored ear, stubbornly asserting all their worth by way of touch alone. The recognition he was never gifted.
The recognition neither of them have, really, apart from one another.]
Did Hadriana ever have any of these 'concussions?'
[He shouldn't press the mood by stepping on it, but it's bile. Bitter, livid bile. Stuck inside his throat and hot after tonight.]
[It's the first question that stops him short. For a long moment Fenris doesn't say anything. The soft press of warm fingers is only distantly registered (though his ear flicks involuntarily in response, pressing eagerly into that gentle touch), for now his mind is churning.
Finally, quietly:]
She did, yes. Twice.
Once early on, when she was new in her apprenticeship. And later, much later . . . call it five years ago, perhaps. I recall only because I had to take her place . . . call it a week, ten days, she was gone each time.
[He made for such a poor apprentice but such a fantastic conduit; Danarius was never so energized as when he conducted his experiments with Fenris near. Slowly, he continues:]
But Hadriana is an apprentice. She whines if she's tasked with lifting anything heavy, never mind proper combat— and the one time I have seen her fight, it was at a distance, merciless and remote. I do not know . . .
[How would she have gotten a concussion? He's never thought about it before, too preoccupied with his own survival to bother sparing a thought for her. Even now, he realizes, his mind struggles to linger on the topic: his thoughts keep flitting away, darting towards— oh, anything. Danarius. His estates. Astarion in his arms and how warm he feels. Hadriana, and he has to fight each time to wrench them back.]
Is that . . .
[Gods, even thinking too much about these concussions is a struggle now. His mind feels foggy, his brain struggling through the most basic thoughts. He spoke slowly before because of emotion, but now it's an effort to piece words together. Think of something else, anything else, and the urge is so strong his grip on Astarion goes tight, fingers digging into his body without his realizing it.]
Oh, logic becomes a different beast in the second that those words are spoken. Ten days feels like a sinking in his gut— ribs in the pit of his stomach— vertigo humming hard across the borders of his ears, trying to tip him backwards even when he's laying down, a centrifuge that now neither of them can escape: consistency devours deniability. Makes a meal out of every argument that this is purely happenstance or crude, childish suspicion. Astarion's overactive imagination run wild.
It's not.
It's not, he thinks, the midline of his fingers tightening softly around fabric, leaving half-moon dents in the places where they settle.
Ten days, and even Astarion's acidic bloodline isn't anywhere near as wicked to go stealing memories from their slaves servants— or whatever else it might have been (all things that send a sickly shiver crawling up the young elf's rapidly straightening spine).]
I....Hells.... [Soft, soft, that intercession; hitting the roof of his mouth like the exhale that it truly is. He needs to breathe, and gods swear he has to get it wherever he can in the middle of this talk that reeks of iron. Of nightmares.
Because even at its tamest, it is a nightmare.]
I don't know enough about Tevinter, [or about Magisters— those who wield the very framework for civilization itself through the bones of its arcane technology— always well off, and with good reason, but there's a difference between classes and culture in that sense; they don't swim through the same circles. They don't share the same beliefs as simple aristocracy.
And so:] I couldn't begin to guess.
It could be....I mean, anything, honestly. Even technology or— [he gestures loosely in the nonexistent space between their reclined bodies.] some kind of device or magic embedded under your skin. Or—
[His eyes flick up. He licks his lips.
There's the precipice. The dark edge to his assumptions. Not the limits of possibility, but the limits of what he wants to suggest.
He won't cross that line.
Not tonight. Not ever.
Not without some kind of proof.]
It doesn't matter. You haven't had issues since you came here, like you said. We should just forget about it.
[He blurts the word out without meaning to, his attention suddenly and swiftly focusing in on that hesitation. The other possibilities ricochet endlessly in his mind, technology, magic, a device embedded in your skin, each more nauseating than the last— each more plausible than the last. How many times had Danarius called him in for upkeep? How many times had Fenris sat and endured endless inspections, nameless liquids hanging heavily in IV bags while prying fingers moved him this way and that…
Gods, it need not even be so subtle. Perhaps it was something planted within both he and Hadriana from the start, waiting to be used. Some extra line of code: a last failsafe from a magister eternally determined to keep one step ahead of the world.]
Tell me. What else do you think it might be?
[It’s a plea, not a command. He has to know. No matter how abhorrent, he has to face it.]
We'll find out together. I'll take you to the healer the second this is over, Fenris.
[It isn't empty air. It isn't unwillingness to play the hypothetical game of supposition (his mind is racing behind the placidity of an expression pinned against his own guard's shoulder in the windowless dark, already wondering how long it's been), knowing there could be barely any time till dawn— if it isn't here already, heralding the steady rap of knuckles at the door insisting that Lord Ancunín needs his hound.
And that's the crux of it, really. There is no time.
No time, no calm, aside from what they've scraped up from the wreckage of broken glass and shallow cuts.
It feels like those thin milliseconds all over again. The shattering span between a bullet whizzing through the air, and the hard slam of the ground rushing up to meet them, not knowing if it was safety or ruin that guided them down.]
If he did something to rewire or— or to control you, we'll figure it out. [Insists the elf with too-large ears curled up tight against his side, too short to keep his knees from digging into Fenris' thighs when he shifts to take that face in both his hands.] We'll undo it.
I don't know anything about magitech, but I have more than enough money to find people that do, so there's that, at least. And it won't be long before whoever was careless enough to shoot at us will be found. [His thumbpad traces over a banded line of lyrium, glowing from soft friction (weaving him wondering at what might lie beneath)....] They were stupid for that. Almost as stupid as your old master.
And the Ancunín line won't suffer either. Trust me on that.
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.
Echo that back, and you'll have the undistorted truth.]
You know how many people would call you crazy for that alone?
[Deflection's just the temporary means to swallow. To blink. To remember how to breathe for those few seconds when thumbprints wash over his face, carrying with it the weight of worth he's never had before: being needed— relied on. For the little boy that was either an expectation or a burden inside walls where small fingers had strained for comfort, it means....
Oh, it means everything.
Outlined by a windowless room. A guarded sense of quiet and a locked door and a given gift soon to be taken back come dawn, there's no forgetting what he looks like to the world outside this room.
He can't escape it.
Except for when he looks at Fenris— when Fenris looks at him. When words like that slip underneath his ribs to pry him open even to himself, and you know, as much as it stings to have the rust knocked off of his perception when it's all grown in so deep around his offered mien, it's also the most remarkable relief. Like he's been waiting years to feel it, every time.
(Hells, he really has though, hasn't he?)]
The Ancunín line the first of them, in fact.
[Said with a soft clicking of his tongue, already squeezing in tighter for good measure against Fenris' side as he starts to fix that bandage again. Its borders going faintly red from pressure already.]
[He does intend to finish that sentence, but it's hard to focus when Astarion is tugging at his bandages. There's something uniquely wonderful about feeling those slender fingers tend to him. It's a soft feeling, warm and contented, glowing in the center of his chest, endearing him with every touch. Fenris watches, amused at the fastidious way Astarion picks at the knot, warming for the careful way he rewraps soft linen. Every brush of skin-on-skin is its own euphoria, quiet and yet resonating all the more.
I will take care of you, and someday, that sentiment will not surprise him.
He gathers Astarion up when he finishes: tugging him in clumsily, tangling their bodies together until Astarion ends up half atop him. It's as much for his own comfort as it is anything else: the security of having him there, right there, tangible and warm and real within the boundaries of his arms. And whether that's because it's assurance that Astarion is alive and well (oh, he will have nightmares tonight, waking with his hand shoved over his mouth as visions of a corpse linger in his mind) or simply because he, himself, needs someone to cling to is up for debate. Both, perhaps, is the right answer. Both, as the terror from before ripples through him once more.]
There are not many people out there who know you as I do, I suspect.
[No, they don't. They know the facade Astarion puts on: not wholly false, not at all, but it's still a facade nonetheless. It's the Ancunín heir, the noble firstborn; it's the brat who stripped in front of Fenris his very first night, teasingly tempting him just to see if he'd be like every other guardian he's ever had. It's all the ways in which Astarion shores up all the necessary defenses in the world he lives in, and they are not false, but oh, it's not him.
But when Fenris thinks of Astarion, he thinks of the gun range. Of the breathless eagerness in his voice as he'd pleaded for another hour, wait, I can keep going, so pleased to learn a new skill. He thinks of the word courtship; he thinks of the clumsy way their mouths had met, fierce longing overcoming good sense. What would all those nobles know of that boy? That bright, clever, frustrated little starling, his wings clipped and all of him so eager to fly.]
And they do not know what an ally they are missing.
[His head tips, his lips pressing against the top of Astarion's head in something not quite a kiss.]
I— Astarion, there will be times—
[But whatever he was about to say is interrupted by a sharp knock. Filit, Talindra's voice calls softly. It's time. And then, louder: Fenris. The lord of the house wishes for you.
And there's nothing for it. He cannot delay, not in this house, not if he wants to keep within his lord's good graces. Fenris allows himself the luxury of one more kiss, his lips brushing sweetly against Astarion's forehead, before he rises.]
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
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?
no subject
In a fraction of a second, Astarion does more than that. Narrow knots inside his chest finally unwinding, right down to the last bit of deadbolt tension, brought down by the compound nightmare of his overturned world meeting the mark of its antithesis.
And in less than that same second— ]
I've no idea.
[A puff of air. A scoff tugged just at the corner.]
Trying not to think about that, actually. [Tone clipped in a willfingly open show of total honesty, managing the effort of keeping his chin held so high that Fenris' hold barely has any resistance or gravity to speak of; he doesn't mind if the one person he trusts in this place actually knows he's not infallible— knows he won't be judged for any of this like the prized idiot he's been treated as— but the thing is he does actually mind that blot of red on his guardian's torn sleeve. The one he only partway saw through the gash in nighttime clothing.
Everything in his silhouette's gone aristocratic in response. Strictly: crisp. Authoritative.
He's not terrible at being a magister, when it's all said and done.]
Hold still. Let me work.
[That said, he's not pulling away from the fingers curled against his chin. There has to be something deliberate in the fact that he only works around them, eyeline dropped.]
no subject
It will take an hour, or a day. Maybe even a few days— but when all is said and done, there will be a moment when it hits. There will be a hairline crack in those crumbling defenses, and rushing forward will be the shuddering stark shock ready to consume him.
But when it does (if it does, for Fenris does not know all about what Astarion has experienced), Fenris will be there.
And in the meantime: it's good he's melted beneath Fenris' hand. That release of tension will serve in the longrun— and honestly, there's something immensely soothing about watching some of the pain in his charge's frame ease. He tugs his fingers back only so he can run a calloused palm along the side of Astarion's neck, his thumb smoothing over his pulse. From there, it drifts down his shoulder, palming gently at his chest (and if Fenris takes solace in the steady pulse of a beating heart, so be it). It's a meaningless pattern, an endless press that only means: I'm here, I'm here.
He does it because he cares. Because he can read the tension in that clipped tone; because he knows too well what it's like to reel in nauseated shock. Because the lithe figure beside him is the only person who has ever given a damn about what happened to him in the aftermath—
And perhaps, too, he does it out of fear. If Astarion's tone is his displacement mechanism, then call this Fenris' last defense against facing the truth of the situation.
I care about you. I care about what happens to you. I worry for you. What am I supposed to do if you're out there and I'm in here, and they start tracking you down? And it isn't that he thought Astarion so callous; it isn't that he doesn't understand why his ward wants to fuss over him. It isn't even that he's opposed, it's just—
It's new.
And he cannot help but flinch against it, no matter how much he has longed for such a thing.
But nor will he squander this moment. With a soft, deflated exhale Fenris settles, letting Astarion rip away dead fabric. His wound oozes blood steadily now; the gash itself is a large thing, deep and ugly. It won't need stitches, but it will need tending.
And there's something a little lovely about it: the soft sounds of Astarion working, his fingers deft as they gently pry at unbroken skin and muscle. The gentle puffs of exhaled air against Fenris' skin, and the look of fierce concentration as his charge dotes upon him.]
Do they teach tending wounds in law school?
[He murmurs it after a time, his eyes peeking up from beneath his lashes.]
Or was that simply something you picked up after Petras was poisoned?
no subject
It was nice, while it lasted.
Click go his nails against each other, the little makeup kit left behind by the servant that normally stays here doing better work than his manicure at plucking out shards of abrading glass— but he still has to make sure the pieces don't pop off into space after he's finished catching them, so it's turned into a nominally joined effort on two fronts: picking the fragments free and then carefully maneuvering them onto the nightstand's edge. Clack go the pieces when they finally drop onto the wood, a few of them looking gruesomely big for how deeply they'd been embedded.
After that, comes the scissors, and a freshly uncapped bottle of alcohol for cleaning makeup (the very same kit again) saves the day, using a few cotton eyeshadow pads as gauze through the wrap of disinfected sleeve cloth.
One good soak, and he sets in on cleaning.]
Dalyria. [Astarion almost laughs when he admits it, though he's still fairly grim-faced on principle thanks to the task of daubing up blood. All tight lip lines and an angled stoop across his folded ankle, leaning forward. His eyes aren't as good as they used to be (if they ever were that good when he was a kid, he hasn't any idea, really)— but they're not that bad, either.
And frankly: fuck getting glasses. He refuses.]
She and I— well, mm. [All right, all right:] Mostly her, got him back up on his feet and vomiting using charcoal from the nearby fire. There wasn't much that much poison in his system, so once she mixed it with cold water and forced him to drink it, a handful or so seconds later: out came the rest.
He was lucky he lived at all, but then I suppose that's the way of Petras in general.
[A beat, and then.]
After that, I was mostly just curious. She wasn't terrible to listen prattle on about blood and gauze and whatnot. Kept me from losing my mind from all the usual bleak mundanity, anyway.
no subject
He's so aware of it. Even as he basks in it (the tension easing out of his body in ticks, his whole self gently but surely slumping towards his charge), there's a whisper in the back of his mind that urges him to savor this. Memorize it. Remember every detail (the buzz of the lantern irritating to elven ears and the warmth of its glow; the feel of the mattress groaning between their combined weight, ancient springs creaking each time Astarion draws out another sliver of glass). Remember the way it feels to have chilly fingers gently pressed against bare skin, Astarion's expression pinched as he focuses. Remember how it feels to be cared for . . .
And how it feels is, not to put too fine a point on it, good.
Simple and soft and warm in a way Fenris knew once, a long, long time ago. Memories that linger only in whispers and faint sensations . . . his mother's hand stroking through his hair, her scent all around him and her body soft as he curled in close . . . and it's not the same right now. He isn't so soft-eyed as to go doeish, his body still upright and still as he lets Astarion work, but the feeling is there. Warmth blooms in the center of his chest, every soft touch feeling like sunlight dappling on his skin.
Intimacy. That's the word, isn't it? Intimate, to allow Astarion so close. To listen to these stories and know them for the secrets they are, not because the information contained therein is so valuable, but because he knows for a fact Astarion has never told anyone before.]
Clever thing.
[Dalyria, he means, though from the way he stares at Astarion as he works, perhaps he means both. There's a faint smile on his lips, and let them both pretend it's leftover from the derisive little snort he'd made about Petras.]
Is that how you grew close? Trying to escape that bleak mundanity?
[The words fascinate him a little. It isn't that Astarion's never spoken of his frustrations before, but that was limited to his family. If my father didn't put a leash on me, if my brother wasn't such a stuck-up brat, but always there was the assurance that it was internal, not external.
And Fenris won't be a brat about it. He won't scoff over the perceived problems of the rich; he won't sneer that Astarion knows nothing of hardship. He might have a few weeks ago, but . . . things are different now, and he is not so callous as all that. His gaze is softer, his expression more settled as his voice rumbles between them.]
no subject
[Maybe yes. Maybe. Maybe. It feels likely if only because what pulls in the back of his throat towards the word yes is just this moment: the culmination of wanting to escape, in every winding facet. First absurd lust, consumptive and recklessly demanding. The dizziness of drug and drink, then anger, spite, conflict—
Then the brush of warm fingers on his neck. The soft smile in the mirror. The way they'd laughed before that fucking gunshot—
Gods.
(Don't think about it. Don't think about it.)
Clink goes another shard of glass against the nightstand. He has to squint (and press, in fact, more than a few times while cleaning) just to make sure there's nothing left hiding in there, merciless as glass can be: the last thing he wants is to leave something in there if it takes days for Fenris to take the time to see a healer. Not that he imagines his father would go that far in selfish pursuit of seeing this mess through to a quick completion, but....well, as tonight more than effectively proves: things happen.]
Never really gave it any thought, to tell you the truth. I mean, I suppose some part of me probably did in the moment, but how much of that was the culprit if we're weighing the naivety of her sincerity and the convenience of having that little circle of hopeless hearts loitering around to lean on....?
Mm.
[Again, the bottle. Again, the frigid press of cloth that bites Astarion's own undamaged fingers.
He can't imagine how it feels for Fenris.]
You were going to tell me about someone before, though. The one Violet reminded you of. [There. Mostly clean. Enough to wrap up, at least, packing it with treated cotton and a makeshift bandage, all tied fastidiously in place, his bloodied nails doing well with fastening those knots.]
And considering there's no windows in this room to be shot through for daring to broach the subject....
I want to hear about her.
no subject
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.
no subject
It feels....nice.
Stinging cold and all, it really does feel nice. Right down to the swipe of damp cotton underneath his nail beds, dragging away caked-on grit and powdered glass and blood all at once, and for a little while he realizes he could lose himself in this. The return of their truce, and the settled sense of comfort it provides.
What Fenris talks about: less so.
(Though that brief mockery? Adorable.)]
Either that, or they'd tear each other to shreds from the sound of it. [One smooth scoff forging the segue between one thought to the next.]
Cant say I don't know the type.... [in theory] but being jealous of an enslaved guard d—ian is a new one, even for me. [Whew. Smooth recovery there. Job well done, Astarion.
But gods, fumbled thoughtlessness aside there's still so much more to unpack now than ever before as far as all those monumental revelations go, most of all when they're settled down like this: in absolute silence otherwise. No phones, no interruptions. No worries about listening ears or watching eyes. His bed, Fenris said. Did that mean— was only Hadriana that to Danarius? Was intimacy her sole means of thwarting jealousy (or).... and never mind that generations implies a longer time in service. And while elves are long lived anyway, and Astarion doubts Fenris is older than his father, it still begs the immediate(ly stupid) question:]
How old are you really, anyway?
no subject
Then it's back down to cleaning— only to raise his gaze again, that amusement richer now.]
I was not lying. I told you around three hundred, and I meant it . . .
[Which is true. But they're in a far different place than they were all those weeks and months ago, and this is a far different conversation than a heated alleyway exchange.]
. . . but I cannot tell you more than that. I do not have an exact year, and memories of my past are . . . cloudy at times. Danarius cited it as the result of repeated concussions.
[He shrugs a shoulder. The explanation had made sense at the time, and it was rare enough his master would answer questions as-is.]
I know whom I have served. I remember being recruited to serve Danarius' grandfather, and watching both he and his father grow. [It always happened so fast to his elven eyes, ages and milestones blurring wildly.] And I know, based on their lineage, that I must be at least three hundred. But beyond that . . . I guess, and I keep track as much as I am able.
[And the thing is: he assumes that's what it's like for everyone. Oh, perhaps his memories are a bit more blurred due to head trauma (and never mind he does not make it a habit to wander around with a concussion; never mind that it has been a long time since he's been injured that badly), but surely all long-lived races undergo similar forgetfulness. Not being able to recall a name or a face, not remembering details or when or where or why something happened—
Surely that's how it must be for everyone. Why wouldn't it be? He has no trouble when it comes to day-to-day matters, and what bits of his past he remembers, well. That must be the only significant bits worth mentioning, hm?]
Is that older or younger than you expected?
no subject
[And not out of suspicion that initial passing mention had been a lie, but because time served isn't exactly life. Because what if there was more beyond that stretch, when everything else seems so brittle according to phrases like memories of my past are cloudy at times. Repeated concussions. (Repeated concussions doing what? Fighting? Training? Being beaten? Punished? Protecting an entire line the way he's stuck doing the same damned thing now, just for a bunch of elves instead?) Stupid, the way Astarion reaches to pull those fringe-heavy bangs out of Fenris' eyes just to squint at him like something might be visible behind autumnal eyes or their housing, but also consider in reverse: he doesn't care. He doesn't care about futility or whether or not he matches its intensity in terms of playing the role of an overinvested idiot—
Maybe there's a crease somewhere. A wrinkle in the right place; a lack of one in another; a memory rattling around in that unsettlingly attractive head. Something waiting to be glimpsed.]
Recruitment could've been a bloody lifetime. Or— mm.
[Pulling back with a scoff, he resituates himself: pulling up off his own now-asleep heel (ow) and wiping rapidly drying fingers on his shirt as he drops back to lay down fully.]
Maybe I haven't got a clue what I'm talking about.
[The bed's so cramped. There's barely any room for laying parallel; Astarion has to wiggle more on his side so he can knock at the empty space beside him in a demand for Fenris to come too.
It's been a long night. He's still loitering at the edge.
Come here.]
....do you often struggle with memory issues?
Aside from the past, I mean.
no subject
[The bed is cramped and uncomfortable and Fenris doesn't care. They could be lying on the damned floor and he'd still follow where those patting fingers led, squirming and wriggling until he's fitted himself within that small space. Their bodies jostle together, elbows and knees and ankles, and oh, it's been too long a night for this. With a soft grunt of effort Fenris pulls the pale elf towards him, gently urging him into resting half atop him, safely encircled by his arms.
The searching look that Astarion had given him lingers in his mind. There must be something there, but so far as Fenris is concerned, there isn't. They have not divulged everything to one another, but there is nothing he is actively keeping back. And yet there was such concern in those narrowed silver eyes . . . he exhales slowly, long and loud, and doesn't realize how much like a wearied hound he sounds when he does it.]
But in the past few years . . . very little. A day or two here or there . . .
[And it sounds so much more suspicious now that he says it out loud. It's not that he wasn't aware of it before, it's just . . . that was how it was. Always, that was how it was. Danarius never seemed to mind, and the few times Fenris had gotten up the courage to ask, the answer was always the same. You were injured. You were hurt. You practiced too much. You were foolish and clumsy.
His fingers stroke gently through Astarion's hair, a small frown on his face now.]
What did you mean, recruitment could have been a lifetime?
no subject
They're people.
shitty, shitty people.
They don't get the excuse of a narrative; they don't deserve it, besides. What sane person could look at a soft-mouthed hound like this and not value the kindness of his odd, lingering presence. The way he presses in, though gods know it has to ache when he's scraped up and bandaged tight via the most makeshift treatment known to all elfkind.]
Did you....I mean did....erhgh. [He's thinking. He's thinking.] Was it always after something happened? A bad fight? Punishment?
Maybe could get our estate healer to help, once this is all over.
[After all:] It'll be a problem if you wake up with a start one day and don't recognize the people you've been hired to safeguard. I don't think my parents would look all too kindly on that kind of workplace mishap.
[I don't want you to forget me.]
no subject
Hah . . . no, I imagine not.
[He murmurs it as he stares at the ceiling. The thing is: he is not of Astarion's class. Knowing how to bite your tongue as a servant or a slave is one thing; it's quite another to speak it fluently. And now that he knows he will not face repercussions for speaking his mind (at least around Astarion and his friends), ah, he won't waste the opportunity.]
. . . and I would be sorry to forget you.
[No. Say what you mean. It's just that it's a little terrifying, but it's worthwhile too.]
I would mourn your loss, Astarion. More sorely than I am able to say . . . more sorely than I could comprehend if it were to happen.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes. And it doesn't matter that the ground beneath them is uncertain, nor that they're still figuring out what they are. He says it because Astarion is mouthing at the edges of his joke of a life; because he keeps asking questions, picking at the loose threads for no other reason than he frets. Because the word courtship keeps echoing in the back of his mind; because of the way his heart had all but stopped when he heard glass shatter. Not you, it can't be you, please, and he has never felt so weak protecting anyone before. His heart has never screamed in terror before, not like that.
I don't want you to forget me, and it goes both ways. They're two fragmented beings clinging to each other with both hands, desperately trying to keep a spark alive in the darkness. What matters more than that?
But ah, ah: he cannot be too emotional. Fretful anxiety and gnawing uncertainty mean he clears his throat, ignoring the heat in the tips of his ears as he adds:]
But as I recall . . . mph, it happened most often after I failed, yes. Or if I grew too agitated or frustrated . . .
He called them symptoms of the concussions. And he would call a healer, though I do not know who he was. He never spoke to me.
[Never looked at him. Never once addressed him like a person instead of a bit of livestock, there to have his teeth checked and his stamina increased.]
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Trailing pale fingertips (stained pink from irritation) around the top of one sunset-colored ear, stubbornly asserting all their worth by way of touch alone. The recognition he was never gifted.
The recognition neither of them have, really, apart from one another.]
Did Hadriana ever have any of these 'concussions?'
[He shouldn't press the mood by stepping on it, but it's bile. Bitter, livid bile. Stuck inside his throat and hot after tonight.]
Did you even have them before Danarius?
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Finally, quietly:]
She did, yes. Twice.
Once early on, when she was new in her apprenticeship. And later, much later . . . call it five years ago, perhaps. I recall only because I had to take her place . . . call it a week, ten days, she was gone each time.
[He made for such a poor apprentice but such a fantastic conduit; Danarius was never so energized as when he conducted his experiments with Fenris near. Slowly, he continues:]
But Hadriana is an apprentice. She whines if she's tasked with lifting anything heavy, never mind proper combat— and the one time I have seen her fight, it was at a distance, merciless and remote. I do not know . . .
[How would she have gotten a concussion? He's never thought about it before, too preoccupied with his own survival to bother sparing a thought for her. Even now, he realizes, his mind struggles to linger on the topic: his thoughts keep flitting away, darting towards— oh, anything. Danarius. His estates. Astarion in his arms and how warm he feels. Hadriana, and he has to fight each time to wrench them back.]
Is that . . .
[Gods, even thinking too much about these concussions is a struggle now. His mind feels foggy, his brain struggling through the most basic thoughts. He spoke slowly before because of emotion, but now it's an effort to piece words together. Think of something else, anything else, and the urge is so strong his grip on Astarion goes tight, fingers digging into his body without his realizing it.]
. . . what else would it be, if not a concussion?
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Oh, logic becomes a different beast in the second that those words are spoken. Ten days feels like a sinking in his gut— ribs in the pit of his stomach— vertigo humming hard across the borders of his ears, trying to tip him backwards even when he's laying down, a centrifuge that now neither of them can escape: consistency devours deniability. Makes a meal out of every argument that this is purely happenstance or crude, childish suspicion. Astarion's overactive imagination run wild.
It's not.
It's not, he thinks, the midline of his fingers tightening softly around fabric, leaving half-moon dents in the places where they settle.
Ten days, and even Astarion's acidic bloodline isn't anywhere near as wicked to go stealing memories from their
slavesservants— or whatever else it might have been (all things that send a sickly shiver crawling up the young elf's rapidly straightening spine).]I....Hells.... [Soft, soft, that intercession; hitting the roof of his mouth like the exhale that it truly is. He needs to breathe, and gods swear he has to get it wherever he can in the middle of this talk that reeks of iron. Of nightmares.
Because even at its tamest, it is a nightmare.]
I don't know enough about Tevinter, [or about Magisters— those who wield the very framework for civilization itself through the bones of its arcane technology— always well off, and with good reason, but there's a difference between classes and culture in that sense; they don't swim through the same circles. They don't share the same beliefs as simple aristocracy.
And so:] I couldn't begin to guess.
It could be....I mean, anything, honestly. Even technology or— [he gestures loosely in the nonexistent space between their reclined bodies.] some kind of device or magic embedded under your skin. Or—
[His eyes flick up. He licks his lips.
There's the precipice. The dark edge to his assumptions. Not the limits of possibility, but the limits of what he wants to suggest.
He won't cross that line.
Not tonight. Not ever.
Not without some kind of proof.]
It doesn't matter. You haven't had issues since you came here, like you said. We should just forget about it.
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[He blurts the word out without meaning to, his attention suddenly and swiftly focusing in on that hesitation. The other possibilities ricochet endlessly in his mind, technology, magic, a device embedded in your skin, each more nauseating than the last— each more plausible than the last. How many times had Danarius called him in for upkeep? How many times had Fenris sat and endured endless inspections, nameless liquids hanging heavily in IV bags while prying fingers moved him this way and that…
Gods, it need not even be so subtle. Perhaps it was something planted within both he and Hadriana from the start, waiting to be used. Some extra line of code: a last failsafe from a magister eternally determined to keep one step ahead of the world.]
Tell me. What else do you think it might be?
[It’s a plea, not a command. He has to know. No matter how abhorrent, he has to face it.]
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[It isn't empty air. It isn't unwillingness to play the hypothetical game of supposition (his mind is racing behind the placidity of an expression pinned against his own guard's shoulder in the windowless dark, already wondering how long it's been), knowing there could be barely any time till dawn— if it isn't here already, heralding the steady rap of knuckles at the door insisting that Lord Ancunín needs his hound.
And that's the crux of it, really. There is no time.
No time, no calm, aside from what they've scraped up from the wreckage of broken glass and shallow cuts.
It feels like those thin milliseconds all over again. The shattering span between a bullet whizzing through the air, and the hard slam of the ground rushing up to meet them, not knowing if it was safety or ruin that guided them down.]
If he did something to rewire or— or to control you, we'll figure it out. [Insists the elf with too-large ears curled up tight against his side, too short to keep his knees from digging into Fenris' thighs when he shifts to take that face in both his hands.] We'll undo it.
I don't know anything about magitech, but I have more than enough money to find people that do, so there's that, at least. And it won't be long before whoever was careless enough to shoot at us will be found. [His thumbpad traces over a banded line of lyrium, glowing from soft friction (weaving him wondering at what might lie beneath)....] They were stupid for that. Almost as stupid as your old master.
And the Ancunín line won't suffer either. Trust me on that.
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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?
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Echo that back, and you'll have the undistorted truth.]
You know how many people would call you crazy for that alone?
[Deflection's just the temporary means to swallow. To blink. To remember how to breathe for those few seconds when thumbprints wash over his face, carrying with it the weight of worth he's never had before: being needed— relied on. For the little boy that was either an expectation or a burden inside walls where small fingers had strained for comfort, it means....
Oh, it means everything.
Outlined by a windowless room. A guarded sense of quiet and a locked door and a given gift soon to be taken back come dawn, there's no forgetting what he looks like to the world outside this room.
He can't escape it.
Except for when he looks at Fenris— when Fenris looks at him. When words like that slip underneath his ribs to pry him open even to himself, and you know, as much as it stings to have the rust knocked off of his perception when it's all grown in so deep around his offered mien, it's also the most remarkable relief. Like he's been waiting years to feel it, every time.
(Hells, he really has though, hasn't he?)]
The Ancunín line the first of them, in fact.
[Said with a soft clicking of his tongue, already squeezing in tighter for good measure against Fenris' side as he starts to fix that bandage again. Its borders going faintly red from pressure already.]
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[He does intend to finish that sentence, but it's hard to focus when Astarion is tugging at his bandages. There's something uniquely wonderful about feeling those slender fingers tend to him. It's a soft feeling, warm and contented, glowing in the center of his chest, endearing him with every touch. Fenris watches, amused at the fastidious way Astarion picks at the knot, warming for the careful way he rewraps soft linen. Every brush of skin-on-skin is its own euphoria, quiet and yet resonating all the more.
I will take care of you, and someday, that sentiment will not surprise him.
He gathers Astarion up when he finishes: tugging him in clumsily, tangling their bodies together until Astarion ends up half atop him. It's as much for his own comfort as it is anything else: the security of having him there, right there, tangible and warm and real within the boundaries of his arms. And whether that's because it's assurance that Astarion is alive and well (oh, he will have nightmares tonight, waking with his hand shoved over his mouth as visions of a corpse linger in his mind) or simply because he, himself, needs someone to cling to is up for debate. Both, perhaps, is the right answer. Both, as the terror from before ripples through him once more.]
There are not many people out there who know you as I do, I suspect.
[No, they don't. They know the facade Astarion puts on: not wholly false, not at all, but it's still a facade nonetheless. It's the Ancunín heir, the noble firstborn; it's the brat who stripped in front of Fenris his very first night, teasingly tempting him just to see if he'd be like every other guardian he's ever had. It's all the ways in which Astarion shores up all the necessary defenses in the world he lives in, and they are not false, but oh, it's not him.
But when Fenris thinks of Astarion, he thinks of the gun range. Of the breathless eagerness in his voice as he'd pleaded for another hour, wait, I can keep going, so pleased to learn a new skill. He thinks of the word courtship; he thinks of the clumsy way their mouths had met, fierce longing overcoming good sense. What would all those nobles know of that boy? That bright, clever, frustrated little starling, his wings clipped and all of him so eager to fly.]
And they do not know what an ally they are missing.
[His head tips, his lips pressing against the top of Astarion's head in something not quite a kiss.]
I— Astarion, there will be times—
[But whatever he was about to say is interrupted by a sharp knock. Filit, Talindra's voice calls softly. It's time. And then, louder: Fenris. The lord of the house wishes for you.
And there's nothing for it. He cannot delay, not in this house, not if he wants to keep within his lord's good graces. Fenris allows himself the luxury of one more kiss, his lips brushing sweetly against Astarion's forehead, before he rises.]