[He barks it out alongside a disbelieving laugh, though the bitter scorn woven therein is all directed inwards. It's not Zevlor's fault that Fenris gave his heart away to the one person destined to shatter it, after all. It's certainly not his fault that Fenris realized too late just what it meant to be in love with a Diamond— gods, there's not a soul alive in these halls (save the one currently fretting next to him) that would have pity for such a foolish mistake. He's seen it play out a thousand times: lovesick suitors clutching print-smeared jewels or half-dead flowers hovering outside the Moulin Rouge's halls, hoping for a glimpse of the courtesan they swore promised them the world . . . pathetic, Tilses had laughed the other night, and he'd agreed with a grin. Can you imagine paying for someone and still deluding yourself into thinking they love you?
(But it's different, a voice calls, trying to be heard over the roaring waves of misery that crash about in his mind. It's different, Kanan was different, Zevlor was different, Astarion is different, and I—)
He grips one of his sleeves tightly with his hand, fingers bunching in thin fabric.]
He won't. You know he won't. He's wanted this for as long as I have known him, he won't back down now no matter what. Forbid him and he'll only be driven to it more. Attempt to persuade him it's a mistake and he'll only be angry.
[His voice is terse and tight, but there's a resigned quality to the swift way he spits out each word: he's thought about this before. An endless gnawing misery that eats away in the pit of his belly and rises to the surface of his mind each morning when he lies to sleep.]
He's going to, to be with someone else. Not just once, but over and over, each and every night, until sooner or later he picks a patron.
And I'm going have to figure out a way to— to deal with that.
[Gods preserve him, he's sighed so many times tonight it's as though he's still seated hunched over his ledger, numbers boiling in his brain— this time, however, the sum he's left with is a single, burning question: just how long has the weight of the world sat on his child's barely-grown in shoulders? For a man convinced the day before his boys were carefree yearlings, his hands are clammy with unease now. Ineptitude, shaped like all the solutions he can't offer. The things that he can't solve.
He listens, because that's all that can be done (Fenris is right; Astarion would only take it as a challenge). He watches his son quake in pain, longing for the days when that expression needing no more than a blanket or a crust of freshly buttered bread to see it settled. Not because he wants the little boy and his fisted hands back, but because as a man of action he reviles his own impuissance. It's no way for a father to feel.]
I won't say a word.
[Comes first. Fenris has enough to fret over already, no need to add on the worry that someone else might go and make it worse by intervening.]
What I mean is....[careful, watching the measured rise and fall of his son's chest where it's thick with too much tension] when the war finally freed me from its yoke a month later, when he understood I wasn't going to vanish as a result of a blade or wanderlust— or perhaps that I was toying with the thrill of the Moulin Rouge's new up and coming star— [words mean so so little; shared meals or conversations were never long enough] Kanan resigned from his position.
So. If you two feel for each other as deeply as you say you do, then it's possible Astarion will, as he grows closer to the stage, find he prefers the limelight itself rather than the title he didn't fully understand as a child. Or that he prefers you..
There are plenty of troupes in Paris, Fenris. His training here alone could net him a decent salary. And yours.
[Maybe. Maybe Astarion will decide he loves the limelight and not the groping hands; maybe he'll come to the conclusion that acting is far more worthwhile than being a courtesan. Maybe he'll decide to leave all he's ever known and loved (What if I don't ever get bored? a voice calls from childhood. What if I stay here forever and drink sherry and perform every night for strangers that you hate?
And he'd replied, steadfast and so, so in love even then: then I'll stay).
It's too little a promise against too insurmountable a problem, and that's no one's fault. He cannot blame Zevlor, for all that the tiefling would surely weather any unfair lashing out (for how many times has he endured Astarion's petulance or Fenris' brooding?). It certainly isn't Astarion's fault, for his brother has been clear on what he wants to become from the moment they met. And it isn't Fenris' fault (except it is, sort of, in that he should have seen this coming a long time ago). It's just . . .
It's just something he's going to have to learn how to bear, he thinks miserably.]
It's possible.
[He echoes the words dully, though he doesn't mean to. It's too hard to try and be strong just this second, no matter how badly he wants to be. And again he thinks of Zevlor's half-formed belief that his son might try and leave, and wonders if that will be his future. If he will even be able to tolerate staying— and how in turn even that thought makes him miserable, for he doesn't want to leave, not really.
It's a problem with no solution. A misery that will happen no matter how he tries to brace against it. Fenris inhales slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face just once before he looks up at Zevlor.]
I will learn to bear it. And if, when the time comes, I find I cannot . . .
[Well. They'll cross that bridge when they come to it. He nods to himself, resolute (and soothed by the promise that Zevlor will not spill his secret). He'll stow away his misery and pain, refusing to htink of the future, and when it comes, he'll deal with it as best he can. Astarion need never know his anguish until then, for such a thing would be selfish, Fenris thinks. It would be cruel beyond measure to make him choose between his dream and his lover, so Fenris won't.
But ah . . . one last bit of preparation before he faces the future. With the air of a wounded soldier grimly facing another charge, he asks then:]
How badly did it hurt, those nights when you did not see him?
A paladin learns not to feel [(when things are at their worst)] in the line of duty.
Emotions on the battlefield are costly, after all, and a soldier's luck is just as poor as he is. [Said gingerly, it comes only with a strong hand laid around the back of his son's neck, bringing him closer to his shoulder. A place to sit, or lean, or do nothing for a while— mutual survivors of the wreckage caused by meeting their own limits face-to-face. Knowing that all that's left is to stay standing....and that, to the best of their abilities, they will.
Sterner stuff, as the saying goes.
He tries to flex a smile, though its as aching as the iron-limned expression Fenris wears. Brave boy.]
I remember nothing but the waiting on those nights.
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
[He barks it out alongside a disbelieving laugh, though the bitter scorn woven therein is all directed inwards. It's not Zevlor's fault that Fenris gave his heart away to the one person destined to shatter it, after all. It's certainly not his fault that Fenris realized too late just what it meant to be in love with a Diamond— gods, there's not a soul alive in these halls (save the one currently fretting next to him) that would have pity for such a foolish mistake. He's seen it play out a thousand times: lovesick suitors clutching print-smeared jewels or half-dead flowers hovering outside the Moulin Rouge's halls, hoping for a glimpse of the courtesan they swore promised them the world . . . pathetic, Tilses had laughed the other night, and he'd agreed with a grin. Can you imagine paying for someone and still deluding yourself into thinking they love you?
(But it's different, a voice calls, trying to be heard over the roaring waves of misery that crash about in his mind. It's different, Kanan was different, Zevlor was different, Astarion is different, and I—)
He grips one of his sleeves tightly with his hand, fingers bunching in thin fabric.]
He won't. You know he won't. He's wanted this for as long as I have known him, he won't back down now no matter what. Forbid him and he'll only be driven to it more. Attempt to persuade him it's a mistake and he'll only be angry.
[His voice is terse and tight, but there's a resigned quality to the swift way he spits out each word: he's thought about this before. An endless gnawing misery that eats away in the pit of his belly and rises to the surface of his mind each morning when he lies to sleep.]
He's going to, to be with someone else. Not just once, but over and over, each and every night, until sooner or later he picks a patron.
And I'm going have to figure out a way to— to deal with that.
no subject
He listens, because that's all that can be done (Fenris is right; Astarion would only take it as a challenge). He watches his son quake in pain, longing for the days when that expression needing no more than a blanket or a crust of freshly buttered bread to see it settled. Not because he wants the little boy and his fisted hands back, but because as a man of action he reviles his own impuissance. It's no way for a father to feel.]
I won't say a word.
[Comes first. Fenris has enough to fret over already, no need to add on the worry that someone else might go and make it worse by intervening.]
What I mean is....[careful, watching the measured rise and fall of his son's chest where it's thick with too much tension] when the war finally freed me from its yoke a month later, when he understood I wasn't going to vanish as a result of a blade or wanderlust— or perhaps that I was toying with the thrill of the Moulin Rouge's new up and coming star— [words mean so so little; shared meals or conversations were never long enough] Kanan resigned from his position.
[More than that:]
I never asked him to.
2/2
There are plenty of troupes in Paris, Fenris. His training here alone could net him a decent salary. And yours.
no subject
And he'd replied, steadfast and so, so in love even then: then I'll stay).
It's too little a promise against too insurmountable a problem, and that's no one's fault. He cannot blame Zevlor, for all that the tiefling would surely weather any unfair lashing out (for how many times has he endured Astarion's petulance or Fenris' brooding?). It certainly isn't Astarion's fault, for his brother has been clear on what he wants to become from the moment they met. And it isn't Fenris' fault (except it is, sort of, in that he should have seen this coming a long time ago). It's just . . .
It's just something he's going to have to learn how to bear, he thinks miserably.]
It's possible.
[He echoes the words dully, though he doesn't mean to. It's too hard to try and be strong just this second, no matter how badly he wants to be. And again he thinks of Zevlor's half-formed belief that his son might try and leave, and wonders if that will be his future. If he will even be able to tolerate staying— and how in turn even that thought makes him miserable, for he doesn't want to leave, not really.
It's a problem with no solution. A misery that will happen no matter how he tries to brace against it. Fenris inhales slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face just once before he looks up at Zevlor.]
I will learn to bear it. And if, when the time comes, I find I cannot . . .
[Well. They'll cross that bridge when they come to it. He nods to himself, resolute (and soothed by the promise that Zevlor will not spill his secret). He'll stow away his misery and pain, refusing to htink of the future, and when it comes, he'll deal with it as best he can. Astarion need never know his anguish until then, for such a thing would be selfish, Fenris thinks. It would be cruel beyond measure to make him choose between his dream and his lover, so Fenris won't.
But ah . . . one last bit of preparation before he faces the future. With the air of a wounded soldier grimly facing another charge, he asks then:]
How badly did it hurt, those nights when you did not see him?
no subject
Emotions on the battlefield are costly, after all, and a soldier's luck is just as poor as he is. [Said gingerly, it comes only with a strong hand laid around the back of his son's neck, bringing him closer to his shoulder. A place to sit, or lean, or do nothing for a while— mutual survivors of the wreckage caused by meeting their own limits face-to-face. Knowing that all that's left is to stay standing....and that, to the best of their abilities, they will.
Sterner stuff, as the saying goes.
He tries to flex a smile, though its as aching as the iron-limned expression Fenris wears. Brave boy.]
I remember nothing but the waiting on those nights.
[A breath.]
And then it was done. You'll be fine, Fenris.