All decisions are difficult, Fenris thinks, and they always will be. From what to eat in the morning to whether he ought to return to Kirkwall or not . . . it's so difficult when you've spent so many years waiting only for your master's whims and never consulting your own. And make no mistake: Fenris relishes each and every choice, endlessly marveling over the ability to say yes or no— but never is it easy.
But he doesn't say that aloud. It's a bittersweet realization, but one that Astarion needs to come to on his own. After so many years being held on a puppet's strings, it's up to him to learn how to function without them, and he needs no word that might be misconstrued as disheartening. But perhaps some of that gravity is in his gaze as he looks at Astarion.]
It is yours, nonetheless.
[And he doesn't see the panic. Doesn't register all that goes through Astarion's mind, for the other elf is too good at hiding it. But he hears the confusion, and perhaps that's enough to grant an inkling of, if not understanding, at least empathy.]
And I will not take that from you. It is not the first choice you've made in freedom, but perhaps it will be the first significant one.
[But he will not press for an answer now. Fenris shifts again, tugging his pack near so he can dig through it. It's not just idle busy work, but it does give them both an excuse to take a moment to regroup.]
But such things are for tomorrow. Here—
[An extra bedroll, and he nudges it towards Astarion.]
It is not the most comfortable thing, but it will keep the elements at bay. If you decide to join me tomorrow, we will set out sometime mid-morning. And if you do not . . .
[He catches Astarion's eye again, realizing only in that moment that he would be sorry if he woke to find the other elf gone.]
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All decisions are difficult, Fenris thinks, and they always will be. From what to eat in the morning to whether he ought to return to Kirkwall or not . . . it's so difficult when you've spent so many years waiting only for your master's whims and never consulting your own. And make no mistake: Fenris relishes each and every choice, endlessly marveling over the ability to say yes or no— but never is it easy.
But he doesn't say that aloud. It's a bittersweet realization, but one that Astarion needs to come to on his own. After so many years being held on a puppet's strings, it's up to him to learn how to function without them, and he needs no word that might be misconstrued as disheartening. But perhaps some of that gravity is in his gaze as he looks at Astarion.]
It is yours, nonetheless.
[And he doesn't see the panic. Doesn't register all that goes through Astarion's mind, for the other elf is too good at hiding it. But he hears the confusion, and perhaps that's enough to grant an inkling of, if not understanding, at least empathy.]
And I will not take that from you. It is not the first choice you've made in freedom, but perhaps it will be the first significant one.
[But he will not press for an answer now. Fenris shifts again, tugging his pack near so he can dig through it. It's not just idle busy work, but it does give them both an excuse to take a moment to regroup.]
But such things are for tomorrow. Here—
[An extra bedroll, and he nudges it towards Astarion.]
It is not the most comfortable thing, but it will keep the elements at bay. If you decide to join me tomorrow, we will set out sometime mid-morning. And if you do not . . .
[He catches Astarion's eye again, realizing only in that moment that he would be sorry if he woke to find the other elf gone.]
I am glad we met, if nothing else.