That's what it is, Astarion realizes after a narrow handful of seconds pass by in stunted silence, with only the dull roar of his own blood (his own blood, gods— ) hissing in elongated ears as a surrogate for sense of any stripe. Beneath the dull fear and the far more acridly present nausea bumping up against his heart, the truth is far far smaller than its casing.
He doesn't want to crawl away from subjective safety just to face it. He doesn't want to swallow shame to lift his chin, or to smile, or to laugh with comfort at his side, trusting he'll be looked after. Call it instinctive or intelligent, there isn't any difference to the pale elf's hunched spine and anxious pulse: despite craving the glory of confident transcendence, Astarion might not know himself after two hundred years of shackled torture— but he still knows what he isn't.
He isn't like the elf seated closer. Striking in that stretch of dawning red, and committed to the beauty of won freedom. Astarion, meanwhile, can practically feel his own tail tucked between his crossed legs when he gives in to the horrifying press of dignity: sacrificing pride to save it, in an ironic twist. Better scorched than a sniveling coward, he supposes, as he peels himself out of his own bedroll to slink across diagonally till they're settled side-by-side. Licking his lips like a nervous dog, yet leaving his eyes— his expression— even enough to pass for complete and utter calm.
(A farce it may yet be, but it'll be a believable one before it all goes to shit.)]
I'll note those sort of lines are usually of the 'famous' and 'last' variety, just to keep things in perspective. [Thin as paper; thin as the smile he adopts out of the corner of his eye, sticking close as anything to Fenris' side without touching, palms adopting a similar pose.
His left hand seethes, throbbing like a splinter. He barely feels it.]
no subject
That's what it is, Astarion realizes after a narrow handful of seconds pass by in stunted silence, with only the dull roar of his own blood (his own blood, gods— ) hissing in elongated ears as a surrogate for sense of any stripe. Beneath the dull fear and the far more acridly present nausea bumping up against his heart, the truth is far far smaller than its casing.
He doesn't want to crawl away from subjective safety just to face it. He doesn't want to swallow shame to lift his chin, or to smile, or to laugh with comfort at his side, trusting he'll be looked after. Call it instinctive or intelligent, there isn't any difference to the pale elf's hunched spine and anxious pulse: despite craving the glory of confident transcendence, Astarion might not know himself after two hundred years of shackled torture— but he still knows what he isn't.
He isn't like the elf seated closer. Striking in that stretch of dawning red, and committed to the beauty of won freedom. Astarion, meanwhile, can practically feel his own tail tucked between his crossed legs when he gives in to the horrifying press of dignity: sacrificing pride to save it, in an ironic twist. Better scorched than a sniveling coward, he supposes, as he peels himself out of his own bedroll to slink across diagonally till they're settled side-by-side. Licking his lips like a nervous dog, yet leaving his eyes— his expression— even enough to pass for complete and utter calm.
(A farce it may yet be, but it'll be a believable one before it all goes to shit.)]
I'll note those sort of lines are usually of the 'famous' and 'last' variety, just to keep things in perspective. [Thin as paper; thin as the smile he adopts out of the corner of his eye, sticking close as anything to Fenris' side without touching, palms adopting a similar pose.
His left hand seethes, throbbing like a splinter. He barely feels it.]