[Disappointment, hot and hard, drops in the pit of his stomach unexpectedly. And yet no matter how he feels, it matters far more that Astarion has made his choice. Whatever motivates him (and Fenris suspects he knows some of what lurks beneath the surface of that charming grin), it's still his choice, and Fenris will not take that from him.
Even if he rues asking it.
So he nods, affirming that, and yet compromises by saying:]
Not every moment, no. You would grow weary of me, I suspect, and I am not a social creature even on the best of days. But I would not mind spending more time with you, if ever you should wish it.
[Still: what's said is said. Fenris glances up at the building, a little grimace stealing over his face.]
But let us see what this organization entails.
[And what it entails, as it turns out, is . . . well. It's an attempt.
Fenris is being unfair, he knows. He does not trust organizations as a rule, and he's already in a filthy temper thanks to being back in Kirkwall. And it is a good thing that someone is trying to understand these rifts, never mind house and shelter those who have tumbled through worlds and fallen into this one— for it isn't just Astarion, he swiftly discovers. Whatever else these rifts are, they're portals to countless worlds— worlds far, far stranger than Baldur's Gate and her ilk.
And it is good, too, that there is a power dedicated to opposing Corypheus that isn't aligned with anyone but themselves. That's why Fenris agrees to help: because the so-called god needs to be killed. Because he does not trust the Chantry, and he is suspect of any organization that thrills in starting another Exalted March, no matter that it's against Tevinter. And because he has not had any real purpose these past few years beyond freeing slaves, and . . . perhaps he misses it. The thrill of having someone else to guide him, the joy of working towards something bigger than himself . . . he has missed it.
And perhaps he agrees, too, despite his doubts, because he wants to keep an eye on Astarion.
Not coddle him, nor indeed even keep track of him, if the elf discovers he wants little more to do with Fenris. But there's a connection there, undeniable and strong, and Fenris will not ignore such a thing, not after so many years of loneliness.
But nurturing it will have to wait. By the time his guide has finished showing him around, Astarion has been whisked away to quarantine— a precaution, the woman says crisply. We can't know what kind of diseases this world is inoculated against, and having a Rifter transmit the next Black Plague is a particularly bad look.
Her mouth purses, and she tucks a stray strand of red hair behind her ear as she adds: They distrust us enough as is, superstitious as they are.
(They, Fenris thinks as she walks away. They, not you, and he wonders at that inclusion— but perhaps she can well guess his lyrium already marks him as different).
And of course he can't see him, that's the entire point of a quarantine. And of course it really is a necessary thing, Fenris can see that plain enough. Astarion likely understands it too, and really, it's not as if they're locking him away in a room: just keeping him within the confines of these walls for the next fortnight.
(I wouldn't know. I've never been allowed to leave.)
no subject
Even if he rues asking it.
So he nods, affirming that, and yet compromises by saying:]
Not every moment, no. You would grow weary of me, I suspect, and I am not a social creature even on the best of days. But I would not mind spending more time with you, if ever you should wish it.
[Still: what's said is said. Fenris glances up at the building, a little grimace stealing over his face.]
But let us see what this organization entails.
[And what it entails, as it turns out, is . . . well. It's an attempt.
Fenris is being unfair, he knows. He does not trust organizations as a rule, and he's already in a filthy temper thanks to being back in Kirkwall. And it is a good thing that someone is trying to understand these rifts, never mind house and shelter those who have tumbled through worlds and fallen into this one— for it isn't just Astarion, he swiftly discovers. Whatever else these rifts are, they're portals to countless worlds— worlds far, far stranger than Baldur's Gate and her ilk.
And it is good, too, that there is a power dedicated to opposing Corypheus that isn't aligned with anyone but themselves. That's why Fenris agrees to help: because the so-called god needs to be killed. Because he does not trust the Chantry, and he is suspect of any organization that thrills in starting another Exalted March, no matter that it's against Tevinter. And because he has not had any real purpose these past few years beyond freeing slaves, and . . . perhaps he misses it. The thrill of having someone else to guide him, the joy of working towards something bigger than himself . . . he has missed it.
And perhaps he agrees, too, despite his doubts, because he wants to keep an eye on Astarion.
Not coddle him, nor indeed even keep track of him, if the elf discovers he wants little more to do with Fenris. But there's a connection there, undeniable and strong, and Fenris will not ignore such a thing, not after so many years of loneliness.
But nurturing it will have to wait. By the time his guide has finished showing him around, Astarion has been whisked away to quarantine— a precaution, the woman says crisply. We can't know what kind of diseases this world is inoculated against, and having a Rifter transmit the next Black Plague is a particularly bad look.
Her mouth purses, and she tucks a stray strand of red hair behind her ear as she adds: They distrust us enough as is, superstitious as they are.
(They, Fenris thinks as she walks away. They, not you, and he wonders at that inclusion— but perhaps she can well guess his lyrium already marks him as different).
And of course he can't see him, that's the entire point of a quarantine. And of course it really is a necessary thing, Fenris can see that plain enough. Astarion likely understands it too, and really, it's not as if they're locking him away in a room: just keeping him within the confines of these walls for the next fortnight.
(I wouldn't know. I've never been allowed to leave.)
Fenris goes home.]