Rather, it does, but only the world Astarion is glad to watch shrivel up and die— eclipsed by a replacement with more patience than perversion to its name. The overlap shrinking whilst flint bites into his fingers through thick leather, and his hazy stare can't stop gawking at the handsome thing before his eyes.
Not outraged. Not incensed. Soused, perhaps, and close enough to evoke a certain dryness in his throat, but— gods, there's something in that stare he's never seen before. (Again. Again. Someday he'll stop being taken wholly by surprise by Fenris' ability to carve out first after first in the catalogue of never known experiences,) But for a palmful of silent seconds Astarion feels....
Oh, stupid. Dumbstruck, with a literal emphasis on the term dumb, because he ought to be rejecting this disarmament. Waiting for the hammer to fall in any which way it might, finally catching the curtain call that's been beckoning it back to center stage: Astarion is feeling again. Astarion's gone weak. Astarion's fled his lead again, and now—
He blinks before his head tilts down, glancing up once more to be sure it's still all right— then back towards the hearth and its debris. The flint held in his hand. The mess of tinder there to light, scarecrow remembering the gesture when he enacts it: a rough click-clack snap of steel against stone and an ensuing hiss of sparks.
Ultimately lifeless.
It doesn't take.]
Tsk.
[Just his luck.]
It's defective.
[Astarion. Sweetheart. Flint and steel can't be defective.]
[Serenely countered, though the look he offers Astarion is a bit more gentle. His eyes dart about the other elf's face, still trying to pick out what threads are genuine and what are put-on affectations. But this look . . . oh, he knows this look very well, for it was the same look he himself aimed up at the Fog Warriors once. The first time he'd trampled through some fishing lines without meaning to; he'd told them, all of him steeling for the blow that was sure to come—
Only to find nothing. Some exasperated sighs and rolled eyes, and they had set him to repairing them, but there was nothing like the hell he would have caught from Danarius.
But while he does know that feeling, he also knows how damned patronizing it can be to hear something like that laid out starkly. I know why you flinch, I know why you cower, and never mind that he knows through experience— still, it's a humiliating thing to hear directly.]
Try again. And if this fireplace continues to fall apart, as everything in this house is apt to do, there are at least a dozen more we can try.
Positioned this way, shoulders angled forwards and knees dug into the hearth, Astarion has to lift his head again to get the measure of Fenris' expression. And no, there's nothing there he doesn't expect to see once done. Nothing that rattles the moors of all present suspicion a second time, save for the one small detail sought out to begin with.]
By the place where I live falling apart, or your hand in it?
[It's a bit of a wry answer as he catches Astarion's eye deliberately, but he adds:]
If it is the former, no. I cannot say it is ideal, but this was Danarius' manor, and I have spite enough even now to watch it fall apart. And, lever aside, I have carved out a place for myself in here that is comfortable.
[But still, admittedly, dilapidated. A hole in the ceiling does not a skylight make, no matter that Fenris enjoys the view. And while that's a very nice explanation, it falters a little when one looks around and notices all the cracked tiles and dusty shelves . . . what's the difference between letting something rot out of spite and being too miserable to take the time to care for it?]
As for the latter . . . break what you please, so long as it is not my sword or my personal gear. But the mansion itself I care little for.
[Flint and steel. The click of it quick, though not distracting, let alone detracting; he's trying again simply to try again, not to pull himself away.]
I've never known a slave to own anything like this— not even by right of succession, not even freed.
[If there's a note of awe traceable in his voice, there's little there to mind.]
Can't say I know what you're feeling about it going to pieces, but I know that.... [A glance towards that lever. A glance back, mouth twitching wryly (he hadn't spoken it aloud when they came in, and granted, he still isn't— but it's a tip of his hand as much as any). Click. Click.]
[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.]
[He might be waiting a long time. Click. Click. Click—
And a gentle scoff that leads into sudden silence.]
I sleep with it. All night. [The first thing he's ever owned, and in the spirit of its impavid gifter: what keeps him safe from the worst this city has to offer.] Start a timer as to how often I reach for it and in less than five minutes you'll have run out of viable numbers to count with. Even dreaming my fingers run to it like magnets— convinced it won't be there, and that all the benefits I'm starting to believe in will vanish along with it.
Logically, I know it won't. Logically, according to the sort of logic I've kept company with for ages, it will.
[It isn't impulse that pushes him to settle back across his heels in the middle of a canting glance; he measures something about the way Fenris drinks, the way he talks, too, backlit by a series of gaps in rotted ceiling tiles— but mostly how he drinks. And with a little flick of lengthy ears, Astarion scoots forward onto all fours, reaching out to yet again wrap his hand around the bottom of that bottle, and tugging till either Fenris relinquishes it, or it comes loose regardless.
A few dashes of it over the shavings stuffed inside that hearth (tucking the bottle inside the crook of his arm), a few snaps of flint and steel, and voila—
Just like that, there's fire.]
But unlike you, I actually wear shoes, so at least I've an excuse.
[....but satisfaction in the warm glow of lit coals doesn't last long. Not when he starts to actually feel the ageworn dust caked onto the surface of that bottle where it meets his forearm. Not when the memory of why he'd fought— and won— suddenly decides to flood back in.
This isn't the cheap bottle from the rooftops.
This isn't one of the pilfered no-names from the bar.
And with a whip-quick yank he's pulled the bottle out into the firelight just to get a better look at its label, searching for— ]
[It happens so bewilderingly fast. The thrilling sight of Astarion on his hands and knees, the wine bottle plucked neatly from his unresisting fingertips— and then all at once, the sudden swerve of alcohol poured not between two reddened lips but doused over the fire like so much cheap ale. Hundreds of gold coins wasted in ten seconds flat, and the only response afterwards is a tiny, belated curse—
And what can Fenris do but laugh?
Inelegantly, loudly: a snorting little chuckle that swiftly turned into something harder. It's not that funny and he doesn't care; he's drunk and happy and there's something, even now, that's so bone-deep satisfying about watching the waste of a magister's wealth.]
That is cheating.
[He says it with a grin, then reaches for the bottle, grabbing it just as swiftly as Astarion had so he can put it to his lips once more.]
Drunken thing . . . should I cut you off if you are going to make mistakes like that? I warn you: I am not going to supply you with wine when we go on the road. You will have to be put to the test sooner or later.
[Mm. The bottle's half-empty now— more than that, actually, he thinks, giving it another swig, and offers it back to Astarion.]
Finish it. Or don't. But throw it at the wall when you're through.
Is it cheating, or is it leveraging cleverness unchecked? [Asks the elf who's smirking at the bottom of that bottle as it's raised in high salute— long sip looking so sweet judging by the bob in Fenris' glittering throat as he drinks, bewitching garnet eyes. Lending a hazy quality to everything in Astarion for a beat, beyond just drunkenness alone, for he hasn't felt this lax throughout his joints (and sinew, and bone) at all till now. Pleasant and slow-smouldering, like the blooming heat beside him, and he hardly minds that it makes his grip nigh ineffective when he tries to take that bottle back, nearly fumbling at first—
Doing better on the second try.
He sprawls after he's succeeded, flaunting dagger-long teeth with that first pull (and oh, it is ambrosial)....]
[He mimes the action, as if the issue might be that Astarion just doesn't understand. And oh, the other elf looks so comfortable like that . . . with a little grunt Fenris crawls over towards him, as impudent as a pup as he half leans over him, reaching towards his bed to grab some of the pillows and blankets piled there. He likes to sleep in a nesting heap of them, pillows and sheets and blankets all piled atop one another, both to ward off the chill and for sheer indulgent comfort.
Useful, now, when he seeks to make a little nest of their own: a few pillows to lean back against, a few blankets to put some softness between himself (and Astarion, as he nudges one or two over to the other elf) and the floor. And once he's resettled:]
Do not tell me you have never wanted to destroy your master's things. All the finery, delicate silks or pretty jewels or a well-carved staff . . . and how they would value such things so much higher than you or I. There's something spiteful to be found in destroying it.
I cannot give you your master's things. But I can lend you mine.
[A beat, and then, with all the consideration of an elven brat that grew up with bare feet and sticks to play with, adds:]
For just a moment. Just a single moment as he's reached over, when luxury hitting the back of his throat slams hot against his windpipe.
Not a miracle that he can choke again like any mortal thing, but that he might choke over this, his fingers laced like iron over the belly of that bottle, immobile till it passes, heart racing in his ears.]
Mm. [Vibration brings on clarity, and he shakes his head in turn before another sip (where widened eyes cast peripherally and lifted ears could still read as curiosity alone).]
I always wanted his things.
[But Fenris has it all inside these crumbling walls, and that last line elicits a smile. A huffing laugh.]
Destruction, though....
Fun in the moment, I'll give you that— and tempting— but astonishingly less fun in the inevitable clean up, I'd assume.
Does it look as though I bother much with cleaning?
[Dryly said, though that's not entirely fair. Give Fenris this: his little room, at least, is somewhat orderly. There's a rug and a working fireplace, a bed and a bookshelf filled . . . he does try to clean up after himself. It's the structural damage that he hasn't ever tried to repair.
But fine, fine, and he grins as he settles down, lying on his side and propping his head on one hand.]
Then tell me what you want, if you refuse to indulge in destruction. We have another bottle of wine . . . what would you have stolen from him if you could have?
[Fenris lounges. Astarion does too (There's the theme eternal since arrival: Fenris does anything, Astarion does too). Bottle in one hand (slosh, go its dwindling contents with every pull), though his stare never leaves the outline of the other elf's face in growing firelight— still drafty, but starting to feel warm. First through his soles, and he knows it won't take long for ambient diffusion to take over.
Quick, his next intake of breath, kissing the lip of that bottle.]
[Someday, Fenris will notice that echoing behavior. He is no stranger to it, after all— but it's so much harder to spot when Astarion eternally seems more developed to Fenris' eyes. He is no stumbling fawn, wide-eyed and bewildered to the shape of the world; he does not wait for a master's instruction, not to Fenris' eyes. He is so much more than Fenris ever was in his first days and weeks and years out of enslavement— and so how can he help but be a little blind to it?
His power, though . . . Fenris cocks his head.]
I will not say I do not know the feeling. Though I think, if you had asked me when I was younger, I would have said his wealth.
[There's no judgement in his gaze nor his voice. He watches the flicker of firelight slowly grow over Astarion's face, casting him in ever-shifting reds and yellows that highlight the glimmer of his skin and the shadows around his eyes.]
[Facades are powerful things. They run both ways, as present pleasantries avow— where the reflection (or is it refraction?) in the mirror holds itself at the level of a raised chin or a lifted gaze, and the rest of the story simply fills itself in as needed: I have this, so I'm well. I'm fine. I'm confident. I'm free.
Never mind the holes in the ceiling. The blind spots firelight can't touch, bleeding focus like dense crimson.]
....just his wealth? [A tilt of his head, curiosity leveraging a perked-up ear. He's read up on Tevinter, though there's still so much to learn; sleepless nights have taught him that there's a limit to how far even gold might take a slave.]
Hmh. [He's only mulling for a moment. Don't worry, it's not evasion:] Ideally, Cazador's curse. His dominion over life and death and adoration— so many who came to his halls were utterly blind to his true nature as a monster they should fear, but far more than you'd ever expect did know. Understood it either conceptually or completely, and it took a long, long time for me to comprehend how those were the ones that loved him more.
[The bottle rolls between his fingers, glass gritting where its base meets tiled flooring, barely noisy.]
[Mm. It would be wrong to say he doesn't understand it, for he does. It is not a fantasy he dwells on nowadays, but when he was younger, oh, there were dreams of having power. Not of magic, but sheer power: the ability to do and say whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted— shaping the world to suit him, indulging in hedonistic desires or weathervane whims . . . he never understood those magisters who complained of boredom. He and Danarius were alike in that. There is such a world of possibility at their fingertips, he would scoff, and Fenris would silently nod his agreement. And yet they are limited— not even like children, for at least a child has an imagination.
So yes, he understands it. And he won't mention it now, but Fenris takes note of the word loved in the midst of all that, and wonders at its inclusion.]
So was it the power you wished for, or the devotion? There are few who actively wish to become monsters, after all— and you need not if it is purely hypothetical.
[He shrugs after a moment.]
Though I will not say I do not understand the desire for power, either. I will never wish for magic, but . . . wealth is power in this world, and I suspect in yours too. The power to never be beholden to others, or have to compromise yourself for the sake of earning food . . . perhaps it's somewhat the same.
[It's all safety, isn't it? One way or another, the picture's starting to take shape. Commonality a binding thread between anything once-muzzled.
But that's a deep well to drink from, awareness. Uncomfortable as well, and so with better scenes in sight, he casts himself towards the surface only; cognizant— like an itch in the back of his skull— that something leviathan lurks further down, but only smiling. Only drinking.
The bottle's empty by the time he pulls it back. Scarcely a few drops left.]
Honestly?
[He scoffs.]
I think I was just jealous. Half the city or more under his control, and he gets fawned over like it's some revolutionary thing to host a murderous fête?
People die all the time. Just because someone's bled to death instead of choking on a cheese wheel or beheaded for being caught fucking a grand duke's mistress doesn't make it special. [Hells, from what he's read even Tevinter dabbles in a little bloodplay before hors d'oeuvres.]
[He snorts, for oh, yes, he knows what Astarion means. Bloody parties weren't the norm in Tevinter by any means, but in certain circles, on certain days? Oh, it could be awful. Blood magic performed with a wink and a nudge, veins pricked and lives lost for nothing more than whim and demonstration of power. And they all of them would gasp and fawn and, secretly, plot how to outdo the host in question, for Tevinter is nothing if not an endless sea of backstabbing sycophants.]
Ah, but to be able to flaunt repercussions . . . I will not call it clever, but I can understand the jealousy and the desire. Even Danarius would be wary where and when he performed blood magic— for he was not so powerful he could flaunt all the rules.
[But Astarion's master was . . . hm.]
People are petty and dull, and easily impressed by the most foolish displays, I have learned.
Did they fawn out of fear, or because they wished to get close enough to steal his secrets?
[Like sleeping giants, all cities have fangs. The smaller the beast, the more avoidable its appetites; larger ones— the sort that choke out starlight and sunlight itself— become leviathans unsated soon enough. Dangerous, and driven by desperation's vulgar maw. And what it doesn't devour, it poisons. And what it doesn't poison dies anyway, or flees, if it knows better. (The smooth weight of his name hitting his ears, assurance given through a gentle darling.) On and on and on (never to be heard again).
Tempered glass twists once within his grip, bottleneck shifted up around lithe fingers, and then—
—crash—
Against the farthest wall, that oh-so-priceless bottle shatters into a thousand little shards, glittering as if it were a sea of stars.]
Hm.
[Thoughtful, that sound, curling the corner of stained lips.]
[A short, sharp bark of a laugh, surprised and all the more delighted by it. It's louder than he usually allows himself and he's too drunk to care: he grins as he glances between shattered glass and Astarion's face, absurdly pleased by that bit of indulgent rebellion.]
I told you.
[So drunkenly smug. So drunkenly enthusiastic (and no matter those revelations of this conversation, for that is something Fenris will have to think about. He is too attached to Astarion to be upset by them, but nor will he ignore those implications; merely incorporate them into his understanding of his newfound companion). He reaches for the next bottle, his fingers idly picking at the label. There's no rush, not tonight, but nor does he see any reason not to get even more drunk.
Whatever hangover he has is a tomorrow-Fenris problem.]
Well?
You have had your first night of drunken revelry, as promised, and seen a fair bit of Kirkwall to boot. Is it everything you hoped it would be?
You were on the nose about one thing, sweetheart. Don't let it go to your head. [Someone still has rocks between his toes, thank you.
And the second bottle? Same as the first once weightlessly snatched as deftly as stray coin from its owners' grasp. He takes a sip, and for a moment—
Oh, it's a little blinding to his senses, yet again. Too sweet. Too beautiful. Too wondrous, by any stretch. And really, beneath the casual lay of this moment, that's his answer too, though he's far too soused for striking self reflection. The best he can do runs far less deep.]
Mmh. Well you know, what I'd actually hoped for was never to be collared again. Shackled to a place that I can't flee, despite the best of all my efforts. [Mildly said, his hand turns over, flexing. Through thick, dark leather, nothing visible shines through. He can still feel it though, like a burr. Like a weight somehow atop and pushed within the center of his palm— docile, for the moment. Sedate. His smile's slanted, but sincere.]
In lieu of that, tonight's surpassed everything I ever pictured in captivity. Your old city included.
[He's coming round on Kirkwall, now that he's seen more than just the Gallows by way of one closed-off (assigned) room.
That, and the warm fire helps. The drink in his hands— dust-laden bottle cool between long fingers and against the lower measure of his belly where he sprawls. The space itself, empty and overlooming like a promise that all the grandeur of its prior master lies dead, inherently unlike the weeping walls of Cazador's estate. And the presence at his side—
His smile's slanted, but gods, it truly is sincere.]
But then again, I never exactly had the most inventive imagination.
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no subject
Or—
Rather, it does, but only the world Astarion is glad to watch shrivel up and die— eclipsed by a replacement with more patience than perversion to its name. The overlap shrinking whilst flint bites into his fingers through thick leather, and his hazy stare can't stop gawking at the handsome thing before his eyes.
Not outraged. Not incensed. Soused, perhaps, and close enough to evoke a certain dryness in his throat, but— gods, there's something in that stare he's never seen before. (Again. Again. Someday he'll stop being taken wholly by surprise by Fenris' ability to carve out first after first in the catalogue of never known experiences,) But for a palmful of silent seconds Astarion feels....
Oh, stupid. Dumbstruck, with a literal emphasis on the term dumb, because he ought to be rejecting this disarmament. Waiting for the hammer to fall in any which way it might, finally catching the curtain call that's been beckoning it back to center stage: Astarion is feeling again. Astarion's gone weak. Astarion's fled his lead again, and now—
He blinks before his head tilts down, glancing up once more to be sure it's still all right— then back towards the hearth and its debris. The flint held in his hand. The mess of tinder there to light, scarecrow remembering the gesture when he enacts it: a rough click-clack snap of steel against stone and an ensuing hiss of sparks.
Ultimately lifeless.
It doesn't take.]
Tsk.
[Just his luck.]
It's defective.
[Astarion. Sweetheart. Flint and steel can't be defective.]
no subject
[Serenely countered, though the look he offers Astarion is a bit more gentle. His eyes dart about the other elf's face, still trying to pick out what threads are genuine and what are put-on affectations. But this look . . . oh, he knows this look very well, for it was the same look he himself aimed up at the Fog Warriors once. The first time he'd trampled through some fishing lines without meaning to; he'd told them, all of him steeling for the blow that was sure to come—
Only to find nothing. Some exasperated sighs and rolled eyes, and they had set him to repairing them, but there was nothing like the hell he would have caught from Danarius.
But while he does know that feeling, he also knows how damned patronizing it can be to hear something like that laid out starkly. I know why you flinch, I know why you cower, and never mind that he knows through experience— still, it's a humiliating thing to hear directly.]
Try again. And if this fireplace continues to fall apart, as everything in this house is apt to do, there are at least a dozen more we can try.
no subject
Positioned this way, shoulders angled forwards and knees dug into the hearth, Astarion has to lift his head again to get the measure of Fenris' expression. And no, there's nothing there he doesn't expect to see once done. Nothing that rattles the moors of all present suspicion a second time, save for the one small detail sought out to begin with.]
You're not bothered by that?
no subject
[It's a bit of a wry answer as he catches Astarion's eye deliberately, but he adds:]
If it is the former, no. I cannot say it is ideal, but this was Danarius' manor, and I have spite enough even now to watch it fall apart. And, lever aside, I have carved out a place for myself in here that is comfortable.
[But still, admittedly, dilapidated. A hole in the ceiling does not a skylight make, no matter that Fenris enjoys the view. And while that's a very nice explanation, it falters a little when one looks around and notices all the cracked tiles and dusty shelves . . . what's the difference between letting something rot out of spite and being too miserable to take the time to care for it?]
As for the latter . . . break what you please, so long as it is not my sword or my personal gear. But the mansion itself I care little for.
no subject
I've never known a slave to own anything like this— not even by right of succession, not even freed.
[If there's a note of awe traceable in his voice, there's little there to mind.]
Can't say I know what you're feeling about it going to pieces, but I know that.... [A glance towards that lever. A glance back, mouth twitching wryly (he hadn't spoken it aloud when they came in, and granted, he still isn't— but it's a tip of his hand as much as any). Click. Click.]
Well.
I don't want to be the one that does it.
[That's all.]
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.]
no subject
And a gentle scoff that leads into sudden silence.]
I sleep with it. All night. [The first thing he's ever owned, and in the spirit of its impavid gifter: what keeps him safe from the worst this city has to offer.] Start a timer as to how often I reach for it and in less than five minutes you'll have run out of viable numbers to count with. Even dreaming my fingers run to it like magnets— convinced it won't be there, and that all the benefits I'm starting to believe in will vanish along with it.
Logically, I know it won't. Logically, according to the sort of logic I've kept company with for ages, it will.
[It isn't impulse that pushes him to settle back across his heels in the middle of a canting glance; he measures something about the way Fenris drinks, the way he talks, too, backlit by a series of gaps in rotted ceiling tiles— but mostly how he drinks. And with a little flick of lengthy ears, Astarion scoots forward onto all fours, reaching out to yet again wrap his hand around the bottom of that bottle, and tugging till either Fenris relinquishes it, or it comes loose regardless.
A few dashes of it over the shavings stuffed inside that hearth (tucking the bottle inside the crook of his arm), a few snaps of flint and steel, and voila—
Just like that, there's fire.]
But unlike you, I actually wear shoes, so at least I've an excuse.
2/3
This isn't the cheap bottle from the rooftops.
This isn't one of the pilfered no-names from the bar.
And with a whip-quick yank he's pulled the bottle out into the firelight just to get a better look at its label, searching for— ]
3/3
no subject
And what can Fenris do but laugh?
Inelegantly, loudly: a snorting little chuckle that swiftly turned into something harder. It's not that funny and he doesn't care; he's drunk and happy and there's something, even now, that's so bone-deep satisfying about watching the waste of a magister's wealth.]
That is cheating.
[He says it with a grin, then reaches for the bottle, grabbing it just as swiftly as Astarion had so he can put it to his lips once more.]
Drunken thing . . . should I cut you off if you are going to make mistakes like that? I warn you: I am not going to supply you with wine when we go on the road. You will have to be put to the test sooner or later.
[Mm. The bottle's half-empty now— more than that, actually, he thinks, giving it another swig, and offers it back to Astarion.]
Finish it. Or don't. But throw it at the wall when you're through.
no subject
Doing better on the second try.
He sprawls after he's succeeded, flaunting dagger-long teeth with that first pull (and oh, it is ambrosial)....]
I wouldn't d—
[A beat.]
2/2
'....throw it at the wall?'
no subject
[He mimes the action, as if the issue might be that Astarion just doesn't understand. And oh, the other elf looks so comfortable like that . . . with a little grunt Fenris crawls over towards him, as impudent as a pup as he half leans over him, reaching towards his bed to grab some of the pillows and blankets piled there. He likes to sleep in a nesting heap of them, pillows and sheets and blankets all piled atop one another, both to ward off the chill and for sheer indulgent comfort.
Useful, now, when he seeks to make a little nest of their own: a few pillows to lean back against, a few blankets to put some softness between himself (and Astarion, as he nudges one or two over to the other elf) and the floor. And once he's resettled:]
Do not tell me you have never wanted to destroy your master's things. All the finery, delicate silks or pretty jewels or a well-carved staff . . . and how they would value such things so much higher than you or I. There's something spiteful to be found in destroying it.
I cannot give you your master's things. But I can lend you mine.
[A beat, and then, with all the consideration of an elven brat that grew up with bare feet and sticks to play with, adds:]
And it's fun.
no subject
For just a moment. Just a single moment as he's reached over, when luxury hitting the back of his throat slams hot against his windpipe.
Not a miracle that he can choke again like any mortal thing, but that he might choke over this, his fingers laced like iron over the belly of that bottle, immobile till it passes, heart racing in his ears.]
Mm. [Vibration brings on clarity, and he shakes his head in turn before another sip (where widened eyes cast peripherally and lifted ears could still read as curiosity alone).]
I always wanted his things.
[But Fenris has it all inside these crumbling walls, and that last line elicits a smile. A huffing laugh.]
Destruction, though....
Fun in the moment, I'll give you that— and tempting— but astonishingly less fun in the inevitable clean up, I'd assume.
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[Dryly said, though that's not entirely fair. Give Fenris this: his little room, at least, is somewhat orderly. There's a rug and a working fireplace, a bed and a bookshelf filled . . . he does try to clean up after himself. It's the structural damage that he hasn't ever tried to repair.
But fine, fine, and he grins as he settles down, lying on his side and propping his head on one hand.]
Then tell me what you want, if you refuse to indulge in destruction. We have another bottle of wine . . . what would you have stolen from him if you could have?
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Quick, his next intake of breath, kissing the lip of that bottle.]
His power.
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His power, though . . . Fenris cocks his head.]
I will not say I do not know the feeling. Though I think, if you had asked me when I was younger, I would have said his wealth.
[There's no judgement in his gaze nor his voice. He watches the flicker of firelight slowly grow over Astarion's face, casting him in ever-shifting reds and yellows that highlight the glimmer of his skin and the shadows around his eyes.]
What aspect of his power?
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Never mind the holes in the ceiling. The blind spots firelight can't touch, bleeding focus like dense crimson.]
....just his wealth? [A tilt of his head, curiosity leveraging a perked-up ear. He's read up on Tevinter, though there's still so much to learn; sleepless nights have taught him that there's a limit to how far even gold might take a slave.]
Hmh. [He's only mulling for a moment. Don't worry, it's not evasion:] Ideally, Cazador's curse. His dominion over life and death and adoration— so many who came to his halls were utterly blind to his true nature as a monster they should fear, but far more than you'd ever expect did know. Understood it either conceptually or completely, and it took a long, long time for me to comprehend how those were the ones that loved him more.
[The bottle rolls between his fingers, glass gritting where its base meets tiled flooring, barely noisy.]
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So yes, he understands it. And he won't mention it now, but Fenris takes note of the word loved in the midst of all that, and wonders at its inclusion.]
So was it the power you wished for, or the devotion? There are few who actively wish to become monsters, after all— and you need not if it is purely hypothetical.
[He shrugs after a moment.]
Though I will not say I do not understand the desire for power, either. I will never wish for magic, but . . . wealth is power in this world, and I suspect in yours too. The power to never be beholden to others, or have to compromise yourself for the sake of earning food . . . perhaps it's somewhat the same.
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But that's a deep well to drink from, awareness. Uncomfortable as well, and so with better scenes in sight, he casts himself towards the surface only; cognizant— like an itch in the back of his skull— that something leviathan lurks further down, but only smiling. Only drinking.
The bottle's empty by the time he pulls it back. Scarcely a few drops left.]
Honestly?
[He scoffs.]
I think I was just jealous. Half the city or more under his control, and he gets fawned over like it's some revolutionary thing to host a murderous fête?
People die all the time. Just because someone's bled to death instead of choking on a cheese wheel or beheaded for being caught fucking a grand duke's mistress doesn't make it special. [Hells, from what he's read even Tevinter dabbles in a little bloodplay before hors d'oeuvres.]
I've been to better parties.
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Ah, but to be able to flaunt repercussions . . . I will not call it clever, but I can understand the jealousy and the desire. Even Danarius would be wary where and when he performed blood magic— for he was not so powerful he could flaunt all the rules.
[But Astarion's master was . . . hm.]
People are petty and dull, and easily impressed by the most foolish displays, I have learned.
Did they fawn out of fear, or because they wished to get close enough to steal his secrets?
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[Like sleeping giants, all cities have fangs. The smaller the beast, the more avoidable its appetites; larger ones— the sort that choke out starlight and sunlight itself— become leviathans unsated soon enough. Dangerous, and driven by desperation's vulgar maw. And what it doesn't devour, it poisons. And what it doesn't poison dies anyway, or flees, if it knows better. (The smooth weight of his name hitting his ears, assurance given through a gentle darling.) On and on and on (never to be heard again).
Tempered glass twists once within his grip, bottleneck shifted up around lithe fingers, and then—
—crash—
Against the farthest wall, that oh-so-priceless bottle shatters into a thousand little shards, glittering as if it were a sea of stars.]
Hm.
[Thoughtful, that sound, curling the corner of stained lips.]
You know— you're right. It is fun.
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[A short, sharp bark of a laugh, surprised and all the more delighted by it. It's louder than he usually allows himself and he's too drunk to care: he grins as he glances between shattered glass and Astarion's face, absurdly pleased by that bit of indulgent rebellion.]
I told you.
[So drunkenly smug. So drunkenly enthusiastic (and no matter those revelations of this conversation, for that is something Fenris will have to think about. He is too attached to Astarion to be upset by them, but nor will he ignore those implications; merely incorporate them into his understanding of his newfound companion). He reaches for the next bottle, his fingers idly picking at the label. There's no rush, not tonight, but nor does he see any reason not to get even more drunk.
Whatever hangover he has is a tomorrow-Fenris problem.]
Well?
You have had your first night of drunken revelry, as promised, and seen a fair bit of Kirkwall to boot. Is it everything you hoped it would be?
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And the second bottle? Same as the first once weightlessly snatched as deftly as stray coin from its owners' grasp. He takes a sip, and for a moment—
Oh, it's a little blinding to his senses, yet again. Too sweet. Too beautiful. Too wondrous, by any stretch. And really, beneath the casual lay of this moment, that's his answer too, though he's far too soused for striking self reflection. The best he can do runs far less deep.]
Mmh. Well you know, what I'd actually hoped for was never to be collared again. Shackled to a place that I can't flee, despite the best of all my efforts. [Mildly said, his hand turns over, flexing. Through thick, dark leather, nothing visible shines through. He can still feel it though, like a burr. Like a weight somehow atop and pushed within the center of his palm— docile, for the moment. Sedate.
His smile's slanted, but sincere.]
In lieu of that, tonight's surpassed everything I ever pictured in captivity. Your old city included.
[He's coming round on Kirkwall, now that he's seen more than just the Gallows by way of one closed-off (assigned) room.
That, and the warm fire helps. The drink in his hands— dust-laden bottle cool between long fingers and against the lower measure of his belly where he sprawls. The space itself, empty and overlooming like a promise that all the grandeur of its prior master lies dead, inherently unlike the weeping walls of Cazador's estate. And the presence at his side—
His smile's slanted, but gods, it truly is sincere.]
But then again, I never exactly had the most inventive imagination.