[Being alone has cooled Fenris' temper some, but not entirely. The moment Zevlor says that (and it isn't an accusation, no matter what his stung ego howls) Fenris' head snaps up, indignance already leaping to his tongue.]
I was not the one who started it!
[He wishes he hadn't said it the moment it flies out of his mouth. He sounds like a child, not a very-nearly-almost adult. And Zevlor, for all that he can be exasperated with them both, doesn't usually leap to blame one over the other until he has all the facts. It was a question, nothing more.]
He—
[The briefest of hesitations, for some small part of Fenris doesn't want to tell Zevlor about this part. Best to go quick, then:] He wanted me to help him practice, and so I did. [Practice, yes, that's the term: far more innocuous-sounding than making out. A little faster, then:] Then he got pissy just because I'd done it before and he hadn't, and kept telling me I wasn't listening, and that I was only there to help him get in practice, and then he kicked me.
[His mouth twitches, and he adds with some small measure of satisfaction:]
It was the only hit he got in, though.
[So there.]
I did not start it. I simply finished it.
[And he's not displeased by that. But then, nosily:]
Obviously it was the only hit he got in. The boy's made of silk and senseless ambition. [Is dry enough to signal how much he is not playing along with petty teenage warring, wherein the greatest of their fears is how they're seen. A sense of pride extending only to the borders of their fingertips.
They don't have bills to pay. They don't have children to feed. They certainly do not have a play to be finished before Christmas ready to knock the whole of Paris off its feet, elsewise foreclosure's in the very real cards.]
Honestly, Fenris. [More a wearied sigh than anything else.] You bit him on the neck?
[He scowls as he glances away. Hours later, he's still not sure why he did it, if you want the truth. It'd been an impulse to the extreme, childish and yet not. Emotions he has no real name for churned in the pit of his belly— some mixture of lust and frustration and anger and confusion, all roiling and mixing together into one dizzying brew, and he'd had to get them out somehow.
But that's too hard to say. And he'd rather die than admit he'd gone even stiffer as he'd felt Astarion writhe beneath him, that sharp cry echoing in his ears. In fact, he thinks, his mind skipping ahead to where this conversation might go, he'd rather die than continue it at all.]
It was convenient.
[As excuses go, it's pretty weak, but hopefully the sharp shrug he offers will add some credibility. And just so they can move on:]
Did it interrupt the play?
[It's a real question, for all that he's suddenly trying to dodge the topic of Astarion.]
[There's little to be done about the way in which his features soften at a line of questioning that stands as the very definition of sincere; it is so much easier to deal with Fenris owing to that habit alone— the boy punishes himself before Zevlor has the chance.
Of course that won't free him from add added slew of chores, but it merits a shift in demeanor at the very least. A softened edge of leveled weariness come through, still defining just how much he hopes this won't become a regular occurrence.
....and just how much he knows about this entire situation that Fenris doesn't, apparently. Gods save them all from a pair of teenage boys.]
You did. [Is to the point, albeit soft-mouthed.] And no.
The entire company heard you two caterwauling about Elise. If they get the worst of their gossip out of their system by morning, enough to have relative focus during tomorrow's rehearsal, it'll be a bloody miracle, I suspect.
[Oh, Elise, and Fenris' ears lower further, his chin sinking down into his chest as he remembers what he'd shouted. Slut isn't a particularly unusual term in the Moulin Rouge, but still. It hadn't been his proudest moment.
(Even if she is kind of a slut, still).]
Was she upset?
[If they gossip about he and Astarion, well, that's one thing. He isn't happy about it, but nor can he deny they brought it on themselves. And maybe he's being a little too fretful, but on the other hand, she hadn't done a damn thing wrong, and it was unworthy of him to go after her just because he was upset.
And then there's that bit about the play . . . he peers up at Zevlor, his scowl eased into a grimace.]
Can I help at all? I realize things are . . . difficult, right now. And while I cannot get them to focus, I . . .
[But what? He's a willing pair of hands, but that only counts for so much.]
[He does, admittedly, feel a little bad for the poor boy. Wincing like that, knowing the lad can't act to save his soul. It's a fair sight different from Astarion's dramatics, and so immediately pained that it's everything Zevlor has in him right now to not sit beside him in earnest sympathy.
Instead he smiles dryly. A small, small gesture.]
On the contrary: I think she believes you're both fighting over her affection.
[Did they foresee that in all their scrapping? No, likely not.]
The rest I wouldn't worry about.
Most everyone on the Moulin Rouge's payroll tends to align more with the slut side of things.
[Well, at least she doesn't feel terrible over it, that assuages Fenris' guilt a fair bit. Those sorrowful puppydog eyes ease up, only to be replaced in the next instant by the most disgusted expression. He knows, in theory, that Zevlor must have some knowledge of sex, by virtue of being in a committed relationship and also running a goddamn whorehouse.
But it's one thing to know that in theory; it's quite another to hear his adopted father say something so crass as slut.]
[Don't, says the young buck that just upset an entire upscale whorehouse with his adolescent folly. It shouldn't be as amusing as it is.]
Oh it's had an effect, all right, and you'll be tending the whole of the bar yourself this week so that my performers can make up for the day they've lost.
[His head tilts in thought for just a moment, folded arms shifting.]
[His mouth tightens again, annoyance at (what he perceives as) blatant patronization flashing over his face. He isn't fully grown, no, but he's grown enough to try and help— and yet Zevlor has the irritating habit of trying to box him out. It's my concern, not yours, worry about your own tasks, and perhaps the tiefling means to be soothing— but more and more, Fenris finds he chafes under such protections.
He's argued against them before. He'll argue against them again, but not today.]
No.
[Of course not. But then:]
Maybe? It was not over her. I simply . . . I did not think Astarion cared about her. I only told him because I thought he'd want to know— and I still don't think he gives a damn about her. But he got so upset when she got brought up, and he kept talking about how we thought we were better than him— and she was the one who kissed me!
[Indignant, that last part, for it's still not his damn fault that happened.]
Either he wants her too— not that it would be so hard to get her— or he's upset because I beat him in this, but either way, it isn't my fault.
[And there's a third answer, of course, but it's not such an easy one to say. Not such an easy one to even acknowledge, not when it's so stomach-knottingly terrifying. Because there's so many ways it could go wrong; so many ways Astarion might hear of such a thing and laugh (did you really think it could be real? Someone like you with someone like me, and it's not that Astarion has ever been so cruel, but he might be).
No, it must be about experience. First times beaten, and he scowls.]
....mm. [Mmhmm, in fact, a low, digestive sort of humming as he mulls over the information he's been given....all at once, he might add. That he's taken aback by it doesn't show, thank the Maker himself for a business owner's inclinations: the ability to take in information whilst showing nothing in response.
Clawed digits rest against his chin, weighing his options with far more respect for risk than anything else thus far. It doesn't take a genius to grasp just how fragile a matter it is, dealing with adolescent elves possessed of both hormones and interest.]
Well....no, it isn't your fault. But— and I expect you to say nothing about this to Elise. Ever. [A stern look for added punctuation, left to linger.] —Astarion never struck me as the sort who would take interest in a woman like her.
[His stung pride is soothed by that admittance it wasn't his fault (because it wasn't, and he wants to be very clear on that point), and it makes the next part a lot easier. Something in Fenris relaxes as he wrinkles his nose.]
I don't. It was just . . . she just sort of . . . happened.
[He gestures vaguely in front of him, attempting to encapsulate the baffling proclivities of women.]
So you think he is jealous because I got there first. Like he wouldn't be crowing about it for a month if he had, calling me virginal and telling me I didn't know what I was doing— and I was only kissing him because he didn't want to look like an idiot in front of his teacher!
[Evidence somewhat indignantly presented, for Astarion has rubbed off on Fenris in any number of ways.]
If anything, he should've been thanking me. He wasn't even that good at it . . .
Things I did not need to know, thank you. [So flat he could wear it as a burial shroud— and might need to, if he keeps hearing offhand details like that from his adopted sons. Hells' teeth.] And for the record, telling Astarion anything along those lines likely didn't help settle things either.
[Which is gentle, but he has a point worth making:]
You're growing, Fenris.
So is Astarion.
[And now is when he moves to sit beside him, craning his head lower just to leave them eye-to-eye.] All those petty squabbles, the drama of this place— it's going to become part of your lives, too, I'm afraid.
[He doesn't say I don't want it to, for wanting means very little in this world, and he's known that since he was a child. But maybe some hint of it comes out in the way he hunches forward, shoulders rising up to his ears as he glances back at Zevlor.]
They're gossiping about us already.
[Not an argument, but a confirmation. He's heard the jokes, endured the teasing questions, but it's all different now. And he could so quickly get in over his head, he realizes. How many times has he seen that play out? The starlings of the Moulin Rouge are friendly enough, it's true, but that friendliness can turn vicious in the blink of an eye, for social creatures have such a tendency to pick on the weak. His being Zevlor's adopted ward won't change that. It might even make it worse.
It'll certainly make things worse for Astarion. What kind of Diamond is caught rolling around with his bodyguard? Whether because of a scrap or— or other reasons, no one will ever let him forget it. He already has so much to fight against, for he will have to earn his place as Diamond— prove it so thoroughly that no one will ever have leave to say it's only because Zevlor has a soft spot for his son.]
I'll . . .
[What? He doesn't know. There's no foolish thoughts about stopping their friendship, for he could not tolerate a life without Astarion in it. But . . . he cocks his head at Zevlor, something a little more canny in his gaze.]
His tutor . . . your Diamond.
She never once got into fights like these, right? She can't afford to.
[Because the second you show weakness, there's always someone hungry to take your place. Astarion isn't alone in that dream, not at all.]
He's going to have to learn to be . . . to not do that. How to control himself, no matter what happens or who insults him. And until he learns how, I'll do it for both of us.
I won't let things go so far. I won't let it dissolve into fights like that.
[For isn't that what it means to protect someone? It isn't always external fights. Sometimes it's from within. Sometimes it's even from yourself, and your confused, traitorous heart that wants more than it should.]
[Well, that means yes. Well, that means he won't be the one to say it aloud, but to his knowledge— to everyone's knowledge, in truth—she maintains her distance with good reason. No scandals save the gossip manifested from thin air, amounting ultimately to nothing.
His nod is acquiescing. A tactful, judgment-lacking agreement.]
She had the benefit of growing up outside these walls. Although I can't imagine childhood foolishness posing an insurmountable problem for any Diamond worthy of the title.
[It's heartwarming, that stalwart determination. That selflessness unflinching, burning brightly in the depths of Fenris' stare. He remembers adopting something like it when he and Kanan first met.]
You can't carry the burden of all his work, Fenris.
[He does. Oh, not as well as he will when he's an adult, but being raised the way he has— first in slavery, then in a brothel— will mature anyone beyond their years. He knows he can't do it all for Astarion, but . . .]
Not all of it. But enough. Some of it, until he can handle it all himself.
[Because Astarion, unlike Fenris, has such big dreams. He has passion beyond anything that Fenris can conceive of, and he, Fenris, will not be the one to stand in his way. He won't ruin things even inadvertently, even if it hurts. Better a little heartache now than to see his most cherished friend— his rescuer— lose it all just because Fenris couldn't control himself.]
He's getting better. He is— and if I encourage him, he'll get there faster. I'm good at controlling myself, Zevlor, it will not be hard to teach him. And doesn't he need to know that to be a Diamond, anyway?
[It's low, the long hum Zevlor lets out. Drags on longer than just consideration could ever possibly merit, and comes with the most weary, unsure glance from over the flat top of his spectacles.
Shooting holes in Fenris' determination now is akin to kicking a puppy, he's very quickly realizing. A very noble, very earnest, very hopeful green-eyed puppy.]
You know, there was a time when Astarion— much, much younger than you'd been when he brought you here— realized he could very easily pull, with some effort, the little jar of candied cherries from its shelf beneath the bar. At first we'd been keeping it on the lowest rung, you see, and once we caught him the first time we started moving it higher and higher—
[His hand raises, in horizontal alignment with the floor, in order to mimic successively higher shelving.]
—to which he then responded to by stacking shallow crates on one another and climbing onto them.
His hands were so small then, we thought he wasn't capable. Or at least, after the first few attempts that surely he couldn't go any higher. Yet inevitably he did, and so we spoke to him. Scolded him. Told him he'd be sick if all he ate was cherries, and that in time he'd fall and break his neck.
[He listens, despite his own internal turmoil. He's heard the story of the starlit boy countless times (and enjoyed it just as many, for Zevlor is surprisingly wonderful at taking the mundane and making it fanciful), but rarer do the more ordinary stories of Astarion's youth come forth. And he likes hearing those, too: little clues as to who the pale elf was, before he became Fenris' savior.]
He didn't break his neck.
[Gentle rebuttal, for he can sense there's more yet to come. Some of the misery ebbs out of his expression, his back straightening as he regards his foster father.]
So, what, the point is that he won't ever stop or shut up, even when he should?
[Ah, still a sullen teenager beneath it all, for the backsass comes out no matter what.]
The point is: he spent the better part of an entire day and night vomiting cherries.
[Matter-of-fact and unoffended, purely tolerant of any and all grousing that might be sent his way, as he's now fared the entirety of his play being disrupted beyond salvage for the rest of the evening.
Compared to that grease fire, a few terse words are, on all accounts, as nothing.]
His white curls stayed as pink as his palms and mouth for weeks. And the very sight of cherry cordial red was so nausea-inducing that I think you'll find he still flinches away at the sight.
[His chuckle is for no one but himself. Distant as an inside joke, though he's only remembering the fat, wet tears rolling down pink cheeks after what felt like a gods damned heart attack: a murder scene where the only one hurt was an entire jug of cherries larger than Astarion's small head— ears included.
That was how he learned. How they all learned back then, come to think of it. One disaster at a time.]
Better that he doesn't break his neck, but it's the hard lessons that stick, Fenris. And I'd prefer it if he didn't drag you into every last one of them in the process.
[Zevlor is right. Zevlor is nearly always right, which is both exceedingly annoying and incredibly helpful, depending on the circumstance. And yet . . . that's my job, some part of him wants to say. There's a dull flush to the tip of his ears for that reminder of bodyguard, though the gods know Zevlor has never once mocked him for the assertion. It's my job to keep him safe, no matter what— what good am I if I just let him fall?
He hesitates.]
Then how do you— how did you balance it?
[As one fighter to another. As one besotted warrior to another, how did he ever stand it? Kanan isn't Astarion, of course, and Zevlor was a commander, not a bodyguard, but still.]
I do not seek to coddle him, and I know you speak the truth: I cannot protect him from everything. Nor would I want to. I simply fear . . . so much of what happens here hinges on a single word, a glance. How can I let him learn such things when his aspirations are so high, and so easily shattered?
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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I was not the one who started it!
[He wishes he hadn't said it the moment it flies out of his mouth. He sounds like a child, not a very-nearly-almost adult. And Zevlor, for all that he can be exasperated with them both, doesn't usually leap to blame one over the other until he has all the facts. It was a question, nothing more.]
He—
[The briefest of hesitations, for some small part of Fenris doesn't want to tell Zevlor about this part. Best to go quick, then:] He wanted me to help him practice, and so I did. [Practice, yes, that's the term: far more innocuous-sounding than making out. A little faster, then:] Then he got pissy just because I'd done it before and he hadn't, and kept telling me I wasn't listening, and that I was only there to help him get in practice, and then he kicked me.
[His mouth twitches, and he adds with some small measure of satisfaction:]
It was the only hit he got in, though.
[So there.]
I did not start it. I simply finished it.
[And he's not displeased by that. But then, nosily:]
Did he tell you I started it?
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They don't have bills to pay. They don't have children to feed. They certainly do not have a play to be finished before Christmas ready to knock the whole of Paris off its feet, elsewise foreclosure's in the very real cards.]
Honestly, Fenris. [More a wearied sigh than anything else.] You bit him on the neck?
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But that's too hard to say. And he'd rather die than admit he'd gone even stiffer as he'd felt Astarion writhe beneath him, that sharp cry echoing in his ears. In fact, he thinks, his mind skipping ahead to where this conversation might go, he'd rather die than continue it at all.]
It was convenient.
[As excuses go, it's pretty weak, but hopefully the sharp shrug he offers will add some credibility. And just so they can move on:]
Did it interrupt the play?
[It's a real question, for all that he's suddenly trying to dodge the topic of Astarion.]
Is everything still going okay?
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Of course that won't free him from add added slew of chores, but it merits a shift in demeanor at the very least. A softened edge of leveled weariness come through, still defining just how much he hopes this won't become a regular occurrence.
....and just how much he knows about this entire situation that Fenris doesn't, apparently. Gods save them all from a pair of teenage boys.]
You did. [Is to the point, albeit soft-mouthed.] And no.
The entire company heard you two caterwauling about Elise. If they get the worst of their gossip out of their system by morning, enough to have relative focus during tomorrow's rehearsal, it'll be a bloody miracle, I suspect.
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(Even if she is kind of a slut, still).]
Was she upset?
[If they gossip about he and Astarion, well, that's one thing. He isn't happy about it, but nor can he deny they brought it on themselves. And maybe he's being a little too fretful, but on the other hand, she hadn't done a damn thing wrong, and it was unworthy of him to go after her just because he was upset.
And then there's that bit about the play . . . he peers up at Zevlor, his scowl eased into a grimace.]
Can I help at all? I realize things are . . . difficult, right now. And while I cannot get them to focus, I . . .
[But what? He's a willing pair of hands, but that only counts for so much.]
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Instead he smiles dryly. A small, small gesture.]
On the contrary: I think she believes you're both fighting over her affection.
[Did they foresee that in all their scrapping? No, likely not.]
The rest I wouldn't worry about.
Most everyone on the Moulin Rouge's payroll tends to align more with the slut side of things.
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But it's one thing to know that in theory; it's quite another to hear his adopted father say something so crass as slut.]
Don't—
2/2
It is something to worry about. You talk about how strained we are all the time, and this cannot help— it has an effect, do not pretend it doesn't.
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Oh it's had an effect, all right, and you'll be tending the whole of the bar yourself this week so that my performers can make up for the day they've lost.
[His head tilts in thought for just a moment, folded arms shifting.]
Was it really her you were fighting over?
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He's argued against them before. He'll argue against them again, but not today.]
No.
[Of course not. But then:]
Maybe? It was not over her. I simply . . . I did not think Astarion cared about her. I only told him because I thought he'd want to know— and I still don't think he gives a damn about her. But he got so upset when she got brought up, and he kept talking about how we thought we were better than him— and she was the one who kissed me!
[Indignant, that last part, for it's still not his damn fault that happened.]
Either he wants her too— not that it would be so hard to get her— or he's upset because I beat him in this, but either way, it isn't my fault.
[And there's a third answer, of course, but it's not such an easy one to say. Not such an easy one to even acknowledge, not when it's so stomach-knottingly terrifying. Because there's so many ways it could go wrong; so many ways Astarion might hear of such a thing and laugh (did you really think it could be real? Someone like you with someone like me, and it's not that Astarion has ever been so cruel, but he might be).
No, it must be about experience. First times beaten, and he scowls.]
He's such a sore loser . . .
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Clawed digits rest against his chin, weighing his options with far more respect for risk than anything else thus far. It doesn't take a genius to grasp just how fragile a matter it is, dealing with adolescent elves possessed of both hormones and interest.]
Well....no, it isn't your fault. But— and I expect you to say nothing about this to Elise. Ever. [A stern look for added punctuation, left to linger.] —Astarion never struck me as the sort who would take interest in a woman like her.
Then again, neither did you.
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I don't. It was just . . . she just sort of . . . happened.
[He gestures vaguely in front of him, attempting to encapsulate the baffling proclivities of women.]
So you think he is jealous because I got there first. Like he wouldn't be crowing about it for a month if he had, calling me virginal and telling me I didn't know what I was doing— and I was only kissing him because he didn't want to look like an idiot in front of his teacher!
[Evidence somewhat indignantly presented, for Astarion has rubbed off on Fenris in any number of ways.]
If anything, he should've been thanking me. He wasn't even that good at it . . .
[Oh, that's not true at all.]
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[Which is gentle, but he has a point worth making:]
You're growing, Fenris.
So is Astarion.
[And now is when he moves to sit beside him, craning his head lower just to leave them eye-to-eye.] All those petty squabbles, the drama of this place— it's going to become part of your lives, too, I'm afraid.
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They're gossiping about us already.
[Not an argument, but a confirmation. He's heard the jokes, endured the teasing questions, but it's all different now. And he could so quickly get in over his head, he realizes. How many times has he seen that play out? The starlings of the Moulin Rouge are friendly enough, it's true, but that friendliness can turn vicious in the blink of an eye, for social creatures have such a tendency to pick on the weak. His being Zevlor's adopted ward won't change that. It might even make it worse.
It'll certainly make things worse for Astarion. What kind of Diamond is caught rolling around with his bodyguard? Whether because of a scrap or— or other reasons, no one will ever let him forget it. He already has so much to fight against, for he will have to earn his place as Diamond— prove it so thoroughly that no one will ever have leave to say it's only because Zevlor has a soft spot for his son.]
I'll . . .
[What? He doesn't know. There's no foolish thoughts about stopping their friendship, for he could not tolerate a life without Astarion in it. But . . . he cocks his head at Zevlor, something a little more canny in his gaze.]
His tutor . . . your Diamond.
She never once got into fights like these, right? She can't afford to.
[Because the second you show weakness, there's always someone hungry to take your place. Astarion isn't alone in that dream, not at all.]
He's going to have to learn to be . . . to not do that. How to control himself, no matter what happens or who insults him. And until he learns how, I'll do it for both of us.
I won't let things go so far. I won't let it dissolve into fights like that.
[For isn't that what it means to protect someone? It isn't always external fights. Sometimes it's from within. Sometimes it's even from yourself, and your confused, traitorous heart that wants more than it should.]
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[Well, that means yes. Well, that means he won't be the one to say it aloud, but to his knowledge— to everyone's knowledge, in truth—she maintains her distance with good reason. No scandals save the gossip manifested from thin air, amounting ultimately to nothing.
His nod is acquiescing. A tactful, judgment-lacking agreement.]
She had the benefit of growing up outside these walls. Although I can't imagine childhood foolishness posing an insurmountable problem for any Diamond worthy of the title.
[It's heartwarming, that stalwart determination. That selflessness unflinching, burning brightly in the depths of Fenris' stare. He remembers adopting something like it when he and Kanan first met.]
You can't carry the burden of all his work, Fenris.
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[He does. Oh, not as well as he will when he's an adult, but being raised the way he has— first in slavery, then in a brothel— will mature anyone beyond their years. He knows he can't do it all for Astarion, but . . .]
Not all of it. But enough. Some of it, until he can handle it all himself.
[Because Astarion, unlike Fenris, has such big dreams. He has passion beyond anything that Fenris can conceive of, and he, Fenris, will not be the one to stand in his way. He won't ruin things even inadvertently, even if it hurts. Better a little heartache now than to see his most cherished friend— his rescuer— lose it all just because Fenris couldn't control himself.]
He's getting better. He is— and if I encourage him, he'll get there faster. I'm good at controlling myself, Zevlor, it will not be hard to teach him. And doesn't he need to know that to be a Diamond, anyway?
It's for the best.
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Shooting holes in Fenris' determination now is akin to kicking a puppy, he's very quickly realizing. A very noble, very earnest, very hopeful green-eyed puppy.]
You know, there was a time when Astarion— much, much younger than you'd been when he brought you here— realized he could very easily pull, with some effort, the little jar of candied cherries from its shelf beneath the bar. At first we'd been keeping it on the lowest rung, you see, and once we caught him the first time we started moving it higher and higher—
[His hand raises, in horizontal alignment with the floor, in order to mimic successively higher shelving.]
—to which he then responded to by stacking shallow crates on one another and climbing onto them.
His hands were so small then, we thought he wasn't capable. Or at least, after the first few attempts that surely he couldn't go any higher. Yet inevitably he did, and so we spoke to him. Scolded him. Told him he'd be sick if all he ate was cherries, and that in time he'd fall and break his neck.
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He didn't break his neck.
[Gentle rebuttal, for he can sense there's more yet to come. Some of the misery ebbs out of his expression, his back straightening as he regards his foster father.]
So, what, the point is that he won't ever stop or shut up, even when he should?
[Ah, still a sullen teenager beneath it all, for the backsass comes out no matter what.]
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[Matter-of-fact and unoffended, purely tolerant of any and all grousing that might be sent his way, as he's now fared the entirety of his play being disrupted beyond salvage for the rest of the evening.
Compared to that grease fire, a few terse words are, on all accounts, as nothing.]
His white curls stayed as pink as his palms and mouth for weeks. And the very sight of cherry cordial red was so nausea-inducing that I think you'll find he still flinches away at the sight.
[His chuckle is for no one but himself. Distant as an inside joke, though he's only remembering the fat, wet tears rolling down pink cheeks after what felt like a gods damned heart attack: a murder scene where the only one hurt was an entire jug of cherries larger than Astarion's small head— ears included.
That was how he learned. How they all learned back then, come to think of it. One disaster at a time.]
Better that he doesn't break his neck, but it's the hard lessons that stick, Fenris. And I'd prefer it if he didn't drag you into every last one of them in the process.
Bodyguard or not.
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He hesitates.]
Then how do you— how did you balance it?
[As one fighter to another. As one besotted warrior to another, how did he ever stand it? Kanan isn't Astarion, of course, and Zevlor was a commander, not a bodyguard, but still.]
I do not seek to coddle him, and I know you speak the truth: I cannot protect him from everything. Nor would I want to. I simply fear . . . so much of what happens here hinges on a single word, a glance. How can I let him learn such things when his aspirations are so high, and so easily shattered?