Holding a quill between long fingers disguises too much of the truth. That his claws, now trimmed off and blunted, were designed to hook into the animals around him; his eyes for scanning every detail; his voice for honeyed words. It isn't hard to say the right thing— it's easier still to jot it down, circling the sum of Fenris' bleeding past with an instinctive nose for blood. And if he did, it would be as it always was: ultimately nothing. Ash and soot across his tongue, just like all the others made a fine means to an end. (Because it's true, that Fenris stays here now. True, that he's possessed of no desire to leave as Isabela had. But a city full of ghosts hardly sleeps. How long until it grows unbearable, then? How long until Fenris realizes that just like his old friend, he's tired of the leash and longs to run?) The last time Astarion let himself feel anything, it ruined him.
Gods swear he's all but primed himself for an encore.
But he can't stop staring at that last line. Feels it tugging again and again on the shallows of his chest with every glancing read, unable to discern whether he feels sick from wine or—
—or his own heartbeat, atrophied and delirious all at once.]
That's a relief, considering I can't leave. [Is an attempt at giving levity a place to live so much overbearing acritude.] Though on the upside of things, you'll always know right where to find me, won't you? No vanishing acts. No open seas.
and
just for the record [I'm no good at these things. Endless centuries spent spinning stories of fondness and affection solely Cazador's amusement subsequently make any attempt at talking all this over feel as if I'm barely capable of anything but lying.]
no subject
Holding a quill between long fingers disguises too much of the truth. That his claws, now trimmed off and blunted, were designed to hook into the animals around him; his eyes for scanning every detail; his voice for honeyed words. It isn't hard to say the right thing— it's easier still to jot it down, circling the sum of Fenris' bleeding past with an instinctive nose for blood. And if he did, it would be as it always was: ultimately nothing. Ash and soot across his tongue, just like all the others made a fine means to an end. (Because it's true, that Fenris stays here now. True, that he's possessed of no desire to leave as Isabela had. But a city full of ghosts hardly sleeps. How long until it grows unbearable, then? How long until Fenris realizes that just like his old friend, he's tired of the leash and longs to run?) The last time Astarion let himself feel anything, it ruined him.
Gods swear he's all but primed himself for an encore.
But he can't stop staring at that last line. Feels it tugging again and again on the shallows of his chest with every glancing read, unable to discern whether he feels sick from wine or—
—or his own heartbeat, atrophied and delirious all at once.]
That's a relief, considering I can't leave. [Is an attempt at giving levity a place to live so much overbearing acritude.] Though on the upside of things, you'll always know right where to find me, won't you? No vanishing acts. No open seas.
andjust for the record[I'm no good at these things. Endless centuries spent spinning stories of fondness and affection solely Cazador's amusement subsequently make any attempt at talking all this over feel as if I'm barely capable of anything but lying.]But I'd stay even if that wasn't true.