Astarion melts like smoke through shadow, and there is no part of Fenris that does not think he is beautiful. Even the anger, kept always in reserve, a ready weapon, transmutes itself around this thought. He keeps trudging along, occasionally fiddling with his piece of antler, leaving chips behind as he saws pieces off.

He walks, and he lets himself cool off. He does not forgive, but he knows he'll receive no apology. And, ultimately, no blood magic was used. No demons were summoned. He isn't angry enough to end things.

It is simply a wrong that will remain unrighted. He has many.

"The same," Fenris answers through the dark. He is tired, this is true, but he will survive it. "Are we lost?"