[No, I don't want to talk about it, and years and years later, the memory of his own mocking snarl still rings in his ears. He'd been so full of emotions he had no names for, still shuddering from the whimpering of Orana and the rush of adrenaline that killing Hadriana had brought. Like a feral wolf, he'd snarled and growled and bared his teeth at anyone and anything, and what it had meant, more or less, was: don't you dare pity me.

And that isn't what this is. But it's something similar, maybe. Flinching from a helping hand even as you long for it, for some part of you wearily whimpers that nothing good ever comes for free, and no matter how sweet their words, no one is ever really altruistic . . . that, too, Fenris remembers.

So though he is gentle as he takes Astarion's unmarred hand, it's a brusque gentleness. Not coddling, but caring.]

I think you may be the first person to call me that, though I will not refute the compliment. That said: to start with, I can afford such generosity.

[Wry, that, and not untrue. But his smile is swift to fade, and he's quiet for a time as he tries to think of how to respond. His hand moves in slow, steady strokes, and his air is that of practicality, not tender doting (and someday, Astarion will learn to feel the difference).]

But is your question why are you doing this, or what price will you ask of me later? The former is more complex. The latter less so.

[The cloth finishes one hand, and Fenris glances up fully this time, so Astarion can see his expression.]

There is no price. Not for tonight. If you journey with me and take up my cause, then that will be a different conversation— and if you run off in the night and steal my horse, I assure you, you will not find me such a generous soul.

And as for why . . .

[Mmph.]

Call it paying it forward, perhaps. Or satisfying a debt to others— ones to whom I owe my own start in freedom.