Hardly your fault. [Stands in for absolution's overt presence when Astarion wasn't there to fully grant it, but what he knows by heart is the gut-rotting twist of glimpsing a past you once inhabited by proxy. Meeting neither your eyes nor your master's, but something close enough that catching it inspires bitter hatred for the creature you once were. Not who you'd choose to be. Not who you are.
Contempt a tightness in his throat even now, as his nimble touch unwinds to set itself back upon what few bandages are tentatively tied— brushing away the worst of ruddy streaks.] Were our places swapped I doubt I'd have wanted her within my sight at all, and doubtless would've found myself attempting to chase her off or rip her to shreds at the first opportunity— pathetic little creature. [And you know, between the downturned lip curl or the snarl within his voice, it's certainly believable. Like the cold streak that bristles underneath his skin each time Gale attempts to cite familiarity, or when the packmates of Evereska's verdant byways came trotting into his space unannounced; Astarion bleeds warmth for Leto, but for the world? Oh, he can— and will— be harsher than a cat batting at a wounded hatchling. No second thoughts, no mercy or regret, just the plunge of talons into tender skin, and the relief of being rid a nuisance.
(But this is also the same elf that couldn't turn his back on abandoned slaves in Orlais despite feeling repulsed each time they clung to his side in shadow. Who sought contacts and made deals unseen so that they would remain untouched by Tevinter, half a continent away and staunchly out of reach.
It gnawed at him for weeks, their gratitude, their wounded, clinging hands. Left him restless.
Unmade.)
A hopelessly weak heart, just as Cazador had always claimed.]
But I'll tell you one thing: if I spare my supposed kin the same fate as their beloved Master, they'll know to keep their distance.
no subject
Contempt a tightness in his throat even now, as his nimble touch unwinds to set itself back upon what few bandages are tentatively tied— brushing away the worst of ruddy streaks.] Were our places swapped I doubt I'd have wanted her within my sight at all, and doubtless would've found myself attempting to chase her off or rip her to shreds at the first opportunity— pathetic little creature. [And you know, between the downturned lip curl or the snarl within his voice, it's certainly believable. Like the cold streak that bristles underneath his skin each time Gale attempts to cite familiarity, or when the packmates of Evereska's verdant byways came trotting into his space unannounced; Astarion bleeds warmth for Leto, but for the world? Oh, he can— and will— be harsher than a cat batting at a wounded hatchling. No second thoughts, no mercy or regret, just the plunge of talons into tender skin, and the relief of being rid a nuisance.
(But this is also the same elf that couldn't turn his back on abandoned slaves in Orlais despite feeling repulsed each time they clung to his side in shadow. Who sought contacts and made deals unseen so that they would remain untouched by Tevinter, half a continent away and staunchly out of reach.
It gnawed at him for weeks, their gratitude, their wounded, clinging hands. Left him restless.
Unmade.)
A hopelessly weak heart, just as Cazador had always claimed.]
But I'll tell you one thing: if I spare my supposed kin the same fate as their beloved Master, they'll know to keep their distance.