illithidnapped

"You're ruining it." He says pointedly, watching Fenris down what ought to be savored. Even so, whether he's referring just to the wine, or something else entirely, isn't particularly clear.

Still, the scowl scrawled across his lip fades a moment later into something a little more pleasant, dwelling on another sip of his own before he moves to refill Fenris' own cup.

"Take it slowly, or not at all. No point in wasting a lost vintage."

Fenris drinks wine to waste it. A slave would never have drunk the vintages he had, back in the Kirkwall of before, and-

And he is past that time.

Slowly, carefully, Fenris drinks it as Astarion just did, slowly letting a sip settle over his tongue. Reticent to admit a loss, he grumbles, "did that pass muster?"

"Better."

And charming.

Satisfied enough, he lets a little ease fall back into his posture, folding his fingers around the cup in his lap. "You know, you needn't worry so much. I realize I like to tease, but I genuinely do intend to stick around and make myself useful."

A mild pause before he adds:

"...I need you lot as much as you need me."

"That is the nature of war," Fenris says, choosing not to push too hard. Astarion strikes him as someone who does not enjoy admitting weakness. "How do you intend to make yourself useful, then? I once knew a woman who liked to tease, as you say, and she was for ten years the most useful woman alive in this blighted city."

Correct enough observation, Fenris, and a good tack to take.

Another sip of wine warms him. Warms him, in ways he hasn't felt in an absolute eternity, and he finds he's more content in this moment than he has been up until now— or, maybe that's just because he's drinking an excellent vintage on an empty stomach. Right. Alcohol does that.

"Ten years is quite a long time. Whatever happened to her, then? Not dead I hope."

"None have heard of her since war broke out in Kirkwall. I assume her dead, as most do."

He doesn't sound overly choked up about it, but neither, for once, is he spiteful.

"There's an utterly inaccurate statue of her down by the docks, if you're ever passing through."

"You'll have to take me there sometime. So I don't get lost, of course."

Inaccurate could mean a lot of things— Astarion hopes in this case, it means in all the absolute best ways. A little exaggeration after (alleged) death never hurt anyone, after all.

Also, thank you for absolutely letting him sidestep your initial question, Fenris. Very helpful.

Astarion will make his own mistakes. In the end, Fenris can only push him so far, and he recognizes that.

"Do you want a tour of Kirkwall? I lived here a very long time." A bitter smile crosses his features. "I should see how my mansion in Hightown has weathered the years."

He's halfway through yet another finishing sip from his own cup when that question registers, widening red eyes with eager interest. Oh, normally a tour might be a chore in and of itself, but he finds he enjoys his current companionship— and anything's bound to be an improvement over spending an afternoon picking at his own fingernails or topping off chores.

And really. A mansion. Gods. He could use the sight of one of those. Comfortable bedding, high ceilings, a roaring fire—

He leans forward, stealing yet another pour from the bottle to top himself off before any and all departures, already rising to stand in the process.

"I thought you'd never ask."

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