[There's so much he wants to say to all of that. Accursed, and he struggles to understand what that means, exactly. His companion is an elf mutilated to the point where running water burns and his lifespan stretches out beyond mortal comprehension, and what makes him use such a specific word as accursed? He does not need to know the details of his master's perversion nor his goals, but he would understand why Astarion defines himself that way. If he was defiled by blood magic the likes of which Fenris can barely comprehend, or if it was some magic even stranger and more perverse than he can imagine . . .
He would know. For knowledge's sake, yes, but . . . also so that Astarion does not need to go through what he just did, steeling himself to pain for no reason.
But that's for later, for all of his horror and confusion ebbs in the next moment: washed away by a tide of aching empathy. Fenris' eyes soften, his ministrations pausing for just one moment as an aching smile flits over his lips.]
You really are.
[Murmured gently. He has learned so much since that fateful encounter with Orana all those years ago; what had once earned a balking swell of fear now receives softened sympathy instead.
Two fingers tuck beneath Astarion's chin, keeping his head still as he resumes slowly wiping away the grit and sweat and dried blood that's splattered intermittently over the other elf's face.]
He is gone . . . more gone than I first thought, if you do indeed come from somewhere else.
[Another slow swipe, and then, as he draws back to wet the cloth again:]
I speak from experience: such a thing can be . . . overwhelming. Freedom is overwhelming. And it may take you a long while to comprehend what it means, or what you are meant to do. But it will come in time. And it gets easier the longer you work at it.
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He would know. For knowledge's sake, yes, but . . . also so that Astarion does not need to go through what he just did, steeling himself to pain for no reason.
But that's for later, for all of his horror and confusion ebbs in the next moment: washed away by a tide of aching empathy. Fenris' eyes soften, his ministrations pausing for just one moment as an aching smile flits over his lips.]
You really are.
[Murmured gently. He has learned so much since that fateful encounter with Orana all those years ago; what had once earned a balking swell of fear now receives softened sympathy instead.
Two fingers tuck beneath Astarion's chin, keeping his head still as he resumes slowly wiping away the grit and sweat and dried blood that's splattered intermittently over the other elf's face.]
He is gone . . . more gone than I first thought, if you do indeed come from somewhere else.
[Another slow swipe, and then, as he draws back to wet the cloth again:]
I speak from experience: such a thing can be . . . overwhelming. Freedom is overwhelming. And it may take you a long while to comprehend what it means, or what you are meant to do. But it will come in time. And it gets easier the longer you work at it.
And I will help, if I can. If you wish for it.
Give me your hands.
[So he might wipe the blood from them, too.]