[It really is. Not just Astarion's quiet assertion, which is sweet in a way that Fenris hadn't expected, but that awe, too. It's validating, even now.]
But you are not wrong when it comes to slaves and owning things. I was glib before, but . . .
[He settles back on his heels, glancing around as he waits for tinder to finally catch.]
In truth, I think there is a part of me that still refuses to believe it is mine. Danarius has been dead for nearly fifteen years, and his heirs were swift to follow— and yet there is a part of me that wonders even now when the other shoe will drop.
[He takes another sip of wine, and then, a little wryly:]
But you own things now too, you know. How many times since you got your dagger have you checked to be sure it hasn't been stolen or fallen off?
[For he remembers that, too. Treasuring the newfound possessions the Fog Warriors gave him like a dragonling with his first bit of gold, caring for them fastidiously. The bedroll was abandoned long ago, and he has no use for fishing lines . . . but he still has the knife, for he has never broken the habit of running his thumb over a knife's pommel, feeling out blunt Qunlat markings.]
no subject
[It really is. Not just Astarion's quiet assertion, which is sweet in a way that Fenris hadn't expected, but that awe, too. It's validating, even now.]
But you are not wrong when it comes to slaves and owning things. I was glib before, but . . .
[He settles back on his heels, glancing around as he waits for tinder to finally catch.]
In truth, I think there is a part of me that still refuses to believe it is mine. Danarius has been dead for nearly fifteen years, and his heirs were swift to follow— and yet there is a part of me that wonders even now when the other shoe will drop.
[He takes another sip of wine, and then, a little wryly:]
But you own things now too, you know. How many times since you got your dagger have you checked to be sure it hasn't been stolen or fallen off?
[For he remembers that, too. Treasuring the newfound possessions the Fog Warriors gave him like a dragonling with his first bit of gold, caring for them fastidiously. The bedroll was abandoned long ago, and he has no use for fishing lines . . . but he still has the knife, for he has never broken the habit of running his thumb over a knife's pommel, feeling out blunt Qunlat markings.]