[ he must be an adroit dancer, shadowheart muses to herself, for how quickly he steps from honest secrets to a sharp turn in subject. despite the twists and turns of astarion's demeanor and the dizziness they bring upon her, she follows the rhythm he sets, temporarily indulges him with a quiet, ]
— You can.
[ whenever he returns his attention to her, the pensive lines that crease her forehead are easy to interpret: she hasn't conveniently forgotten, in the span of a few heartbeats, what's been shared, no matter his attempt to spin her away from it. it's funny, in the way that tragic poetry carries irony, that she's come to realize they're tethered by more than the wriggling parasite in their heads. her brainwashed zealotry, astarion's subjugation, karlach's servitude, lae'zel's dutiful obedience — they've all been pawns on a board, all suffered the moods of a master, all had their worlds turned on an axis, all struggled to adapt to new freedoms.
(if she believed strongly in such a concept, she might be so bold as to call it fate. as it stands, it's both fortunate and unfortunate coincidence to have found herself in the company of those who understand that unique pain to such a personal degree.)
she slinks onto her side, elevates herself onto one elbow — open body language that reflects the empathetic twist in her expression. vulnerability for vulnerability only seems to be a fair exchange, a show of trust from astarion's end that convinces her to confess, ]
I'm familiar with that breed of singular devotion. When everything you have, everything you are, is given in service of another ... you forget you ever had wants of your own at all. I've been a vessel for Lady Shar for so long that her dreams, her ambitions, became my own.
[ and now she is simply ... floating. aimless. not unlike astarion, given the newfound freedom to stumble as much as a newborn exploring the world, now that she is allowed to exist beyond shar's schemes. her eyes flutter across the expanse of astarion's face, from temple to chin, before they return to his eyes. ]
So, [ comes her warm drawl, low. ] I prefer you as the nervous, bumbling fool over the rake who always knows the right honeyed words to say.
It's honest, Astarion. I haven't had much of that in my life, lately. [ a brief, poignant pause. ] Perhaps not ever.
no subject
— You can.
[ whenever he returns his attention to her, the pensive lines that crease her forehead are easy to interpret: she hasn't conveniently forgotten, in the span of a few heartbeats, what's been shared, no matter his attempt to spin her away from it. it's funny, in the way that tragic poetry carries irony, that she's come to realize they're tethered by more than the wriggling parasite in their heads. her brainwashed zealotry, astarion's subjugation, karlach's servitude, lae'zel's dutiful obedience — they've all been pawns on a board, all suffered the moods of a master, all had their worlds turned on an axis, all struggled to adapt to new freedoms.
(if she believed strongly in such a concept, she might be so bold as to call it fate. as it stands, it's both fortunate and unfortunate coincidence to have found herself in the company of those who understand that unique pain to such a personal degree.)
she slinks onto her side, elevates herself onto one elbow — open body language that reflects the empathetic twist in her expression. vulnerability for vulnerability only seems to be a fair exchange, a show of trust from astarion's end that convinces her to confess, ]
I'm familiar with that breed of singular devotion. When everything you have, everything you are, is given in service of another ... you forget you ever had wants of your own at all. I've been a vessel for Lady Shar for so long that her dreams, her ambitions, became my own.
[ and now she is simply ... floating. aimless. not unlike astarion, given the newfound freedom to stumble as much as a newborn exploring the world, now that she is allowed to exist beyond shar's schemes. her eyes flutter across the expanse of astarion's face, from temple to chin, before they return to his eyes. ]
So, [ comes her warm drawl, low. ] I prefer you as the nervous, bumbling fool over the rake who always knows the right honeyed words to say.
It's honest, Astarion. I haven't had much of that in my life, lately. [ a brief, poignant pause. ] Perhaps not ever.