[Of course he sees that balking. He'd have to be blind not to notice it— but he thinks it the hesitation of a former slave who has long since learned that taking too much is the right way to earn his Master's wrath. Don't waste this on me, an elf so clearly treated as mere property says with a wan little smile, and gods, but Fenris remembers that mindset.]

You can, I imagine.

[An agreement as he dampens the cloth and sets the skein down. There's a momentary hesitation on his part, his wariness of that emerald mark present in his mind— but though they're close, there's no warning buzz from his lyrium. Perhaps it's direct contact; perhaps what happened before was akin to static shock, painful but temporary. It doesn't matter.

Gently, he presses damp cloth to the bloody cut over his companion's eye, unaware of how monumental a thing that truly is. His eyes narrow as he focuses on his work, steadily wiping away dried blood before pressing down firmly enough to encourage a clot. And as he works, he murmurs:]

But you are allowed to aspire to more than simply making do now.

[His eyes flick over, catching Astarion's gaze for a moment, before focusing back on his work. It doesn't seem so deep now that all the blood and dirt is being washed away; likely the pale elf won't even need stitches.]

And though I can understand why you fear such a thing, trust me: you are at no risk of losing me. This world holds many dangers, but I am more than a match for most of them.

[It's not a brag.]