[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
no subject
[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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
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?