A foolish and short-sighted set of restrictions to impose upon you.
[It's the first thought, blunt and childish, that flashes through Fenris' mind— and like so many of his thoughts, it slips right past his lips without filter.
But really: I cannot enter homes uninvited, I cannot dream, I cannot suffer running water, I cannot endure holy magic, and Fenris will not fault Astarion for a single one of those limitations, but oh, what a stupid master. Danarius would have agreed (and in the distant reaches of his mind, Fenris can hear his voice echoing in time with the rhythmic tap-tap of his staff. What if his master has need of him in the Chantry? What if he falls into the river and might drown if his slave doesn't dive in?). There are certain restrictions that make sense, in an awful sort of way— what Danarius wouldn't have given to ensure that Fenris could never, ever disobey— but the rest . . .
But he's being foolish. Curse, Astarion had said. Blood, he says now, his face buried in his hands. And blood magic (for it must be that) always has a price.]
Though little wonder you do not know how to cook . . .
[It's not funny, but he says it only to gently defuse, for he knows what it is to flinch in anticipation for the cry of monster. But lest Astarion mistake diffusion for irreverence, he adds:]
To what end did he impose those limitations? For magic for himself, for which you were forced to bear the consequences— or something else?
no subject
[It's the first thought, blunt and childish, that flashes through Fenris' mind— and like so many of his thoughts, it slips right past his lips without filter.
But really: I cannot enter homes uninvited, I cannot dream, I cannot suffer running water, I cannot endure holy magic, and Fenris will not fault Astarion for a single one of those limitations, but oh, what a stupid master. Danarius would have agreed (and in the distant reaches of his mind, Fenris can hear his voice echoing in time with the rhythmic tap-tap of his staff. What if his master has need of him in the Chantry? What if he falls into the river and might drown if his slave doesn't dive in?). There are certain restrictions that make sense, in an awful sort of way— what Danarius wouldn't have given to ensure that Fenris could never, ever disobey— but the rest . . .
But he's being foolish. Curse, Astarion had said. Blood, he says now, his face buried in his hands. And blood magic (for it must be that) always has a price.]
Though little wonder you do not know how to cook . . .
[It's not funny, but he says it only to gently defuse, for he knows what it is to flinch in anticipation for the cry of monster. But lest Astarion mistake diffusion for irreverence, he adds:]
To what end did he impose those limitations? For magic for himself, for which you were forced to bear the consequences— or something else?