Fenris watches, memorizing the shape of Astarion's body, his clothing, his profile. Every inch of him a sculpture, crafted marble. The frustration is unmistakable, though, and Fenris rises to Astarion's side.

"Lyrium," he says, a gentle hand on Astarion's wrist, "aids magic."

Does Astarion realize what a capitulation this is, offering aid this way? It doesn't matter. Fenris would almost prefer Astarion not know.

Blue light flares across the veins in Fenris' hand, wrist, arm.