[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
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.]