[ That same light softens her features further, hiding another scatter of pink underneath her blue markings, the stretch of a smile making it easier. You must tell me, and her eyes roll without any malice. To perhaps keep her hands busy, or to buy herself valuable time, Tav touches her own hair. Gently pulls the ties securing the braids together, undoing them one by one.
She hums. Considering, quiet. ]
Are you,
[ —happy? What a silly, trite thing to ask. None of them are very happy, not with the tadpoles that fester in their ocular sockets, how searching for a cure only leads to more and more obstacles. Tav isn't sure she is happy. Content, maybe. But they are so very close to Baldur's Gate, and how very long a pilgrimage it has been to get there, and soon there must be something better, clearer, on the horizon, something that means that life can feel less... less.
She could ask other things. What does he keep reading? Is there a story that is his favorite? Would he mind telling it to her? Was it true, that he can no longer remember what he looks like?
Those seem like real secrets. Indulgent and quiet. Tav looks into the crackling fire and feels the warmth spread through her chest. ]
You didn't like me very much, when we first met.
[ Well. There had been many extenuating circumstances. A knife to her throat, for example, and lies, which she didn't like; kindness, which Astarion liked even less than a refusal of coin. With an apologetic but truthful tone in her voice, she adds, ] I did not like you very much, either. [ But of course, life changes. As secure as the seasons, as beasts live and die, as an arrow slides true.
Maybe it is childish to ask. But like he's reminded her: just because someone asks doesn't mean you have to tell them. It would sound silly to say Do you like me, now? Is it still the same, do you think? and so she settles on, simply, ]
He smiles a little β a rare expression in that it's meant purely for himself, though it unfolds across his face for her to plainly see. His features only shift again when she speaks up, when she finds what she wants to say, because you didn't like me very much β despite the very broad boundaries drawn by his prompting β hadn't been very high on the list of things he'd expected her to hear.
What's also unexpected is the faint sense of guilt that accompanies it. She doesn't say it to scold him, hence the second part of her lead-up, which pries a laugh from his mouth, but he feels that twinge nonetheless. To be good still doesn't come completely easily to him, but he better understands the reasons why someone would choose such a path, rather than considering it outright foolish, as he once had.
So he looks at her in the firelight, at the loosened braid of her hair, the terribly earnest way in which she regards him, and says, ] Can you not tell?
[ Once, he thinks, he would have loathed answering a question like this, would have sidestepped it or supplied some sugar-coated lie. Every other question that occurs to her would have been preferable to having to confess or feign affection or care.
To that end, he understands his initial answer to be almost cruel, considering that she's given voice to something that ... to say she was worried about it would be to oversell it, and to say that she cares, well. It begs something more concrete, doesn't it? His gaze drifts into the fire, that small smile coalescing again on his face β his voice is soft, as though betraying some sort of secret. ]
Of course it has.
[ A breath catches in his throat, as though he's stopped himself from saying anything further. From saying, do you think I would still be here if I did not care for you?
Instead, wry, a tease to set him back on a wavelength closer to his usual self: ] I find you quite tolerable, now.
Deft fingers push through the odd knot, continuing the untangling of her larger braids. Plucking at them, separating; the same, quick way she might for the fletching in her arrows. It is, now, a vie for time, but it happens yet again: a pleased smile, pitched not to the fire but the red of Astarion's eyes. Her own little flit of joy.
No. She cannot tell at all. But something inside of herself feels awfully rewarded, from cold to flush, now that he has handed her something very—
—well, concrete. ]
I am only so tolerable?
[ Mischief crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her hands drop to her lap, palms upward and relaxed. She leans, only the slightest fraction, into the circle of his space; sotto voce as she adds solemnly, the same way she might pass judgment on something much more serious: ] I believe you. [ Adds, with her own, very plain truth, ] I like that you do.
[ Tav wouldn't dare ask more of him, now. There are so many things she understands about the world, and so much more that she would like to — curiosity is her crutch, the thing that sends her peering at barrels and old shelves and standing before locked doors, thinking, only to mutter his name like a question — but, by the day, Astarion becomes that much clearer in shape.
She feels quite satisfied with herself, actually. Maybe that's terribly rude, but it buoys her. Her hands make short work of her loose hair, carding through quickly but haphazardly, rebraiding into two even parts. It takes a small beat of silence, but afterward, she wordlessly turns her head for him: a silent request to check that her work is even, since she only did so by feel.
And, perhaps, it is because her head is turned away that she can tell him: ]
He could find it in himself to be annoyed at that sheer earnestness, to deflect it, butβ instead, he bites the inside of his cheek, only half-stopping the slight smile that spreads across his features in return. He knows, to some degree, that the warmth she offers to him now is worth hanging onto, if only because he'd experienced firsthand the way it had faded, changed in shape, in the first portion of their journey, when he'd still had more of an air of coldness about him β when he'd found it easier to lie.
(She'd blushed for him so easily, once. Maybe that's not something he ought to be chasing, but, wellβ he's always been a little greedy. And it's hardly as though she lacks any freedom of choice.)
So, ] I thought it was only fair, [ is all he says in response to her thanks, as he scoots a little closer.
His fingers are gentle as they find her braids, teasing out one or two uneven spots β as deft with her hair as with any lock or trap. Not that they really need so much adjustment, but she'd asked, and it's in his habit, now, to answer. Besides, he's a creature given to preening, and an extension of that trait to another isn't so much of a burden.
Other answers hang on his tongue β don't get used to it; it's our little secret, alright; similar half-thoughts β and he swallows them all, a long moment passing with just the crackling of the fire between them. Then his hands fall away, andβ he doesn't move any further away, instead only repositioning himself to face the flames. ]
βHas it changed, for you?
[ A question she's already sort of answered, but, in the spirit of asking such things, he allows himself to speak the words aloud. ]
[ It's a little trancelike, at first. How warm it is, and how smoothly he rearranges the knots at the back of her skull. Her blinks slow, and then become slower still, like a moth coming to rest over light. She thinks, briefly, maybe impossibly, that this might be the last — the only, in some measure — another might do this for her. Who knows what awaits them in the city? After the cure, what will their lives look like? Hers will return, she is certain, to more of living just outside Baldur's Gate, to chasing birds and game through the woods, to Bosky's whines when he has mud on his nose. The two of them, just two, in amongst all the green.
But thoughts like that do so little to chase away the feeling that sits in her chest. It beats very strongly. It's that that emboldens her, makes her turn to look at him with a glint in her smile. ]
Yes. [ There's a laugh somewhere, tucked into the shape of her mouth as she echoes, ] Can't you tell?
[ Surely, it is very easy to guess, but he is speaking the words aloud anyway. It would be silly to mimic him much further, so Tav keeps her boldness. Offers more, and further. ]
I don't have anything very pretty to say. [ She hums lightly. ] I did not always see you very well. You are a very good liar. I did not always understand what you wanted, and it was very frustrating. Sometimes you are still very frustrating. And even when you said these things to me, about what you thought of, and what you needed, I could not always let myself trust them, because of the things I imagined you to be. It was very unfair. But I see you better now.
[ A fissure of something unpleasant worms its way past all that very solid surety. It always happens like this, in these times when it is more quiet at camp, late at night with her companions. Doubt. Self-consciousness. Her cheeks flush when she adds, a little haltingly, ]
[ He doesn't fear the idea of life after all of this β but he finds himself relishing it less than he once might have. Against his better judgment, he's grown used to their little camp β even fond of it, though he likely wouldn't say as much out loud. And he would miss them β miss her β were they all to splinter. The thought makes him uncomfortable, twists his gut into a knot he doesn't know how to untie.
Lonelinessβ he'd never liked it, per se (preferred it, perhaps, for the sake of self-preservation), but the idea of fearing it is somehow humiliating.
But she jokes, mimicking his cadence of speech, and it makes it easy for him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to think about other things β to think only about how close they are to each other, about the blush that colors her cheeks (that he'd once thought lost to him). ]
It doesn't require flowery turns of phrase for one's words to be considered pretty, little dove.
[ He glances at her sidelong, letting her parse his meaning for herself. Then, an allowance β a gentle confirmation:]
We see each other better, now. Besides, it wasn't so unfair.
[ A shrug, not argument so much as an understanding of what he is, how he works β he'd presented her with an image of himself that had not been entirely genuine. That she'd noticed the differences between what he'd put forth and what he was is not a fault. ]
All that to say β I'm glad of it. I suppose you'll do, as far as a mirror goes.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
now that i am sufficiently warmed up a month later, thank you queen
She hums. Considering, quiet. ]
Are you,
[ —happy? What a silly, trite thing to ask. None of them are very happy, not with the tadpoles that fester in their ocular sockets, how searching for a cure only leads to more and more obstacles. Tav isn't sure she is happy. Content, maybe. But they are so very close to Baldur's Gate, and how very long a pilgrimage it has been to get there, and soon there must be something better, clearer, on the horizon, something that means that life can feel less... less.
She could ask other things. What does he keep reading? Is there a story that is his favorite? Would he mind telling it to her? Was it true, that he can no longer remember what he looks like?
Those seem like real secrets. Indulgent and quiet. Tav looks into the crackling fire and feels the warmth spread through her chest. ]
You didn't like me very much, when we first met.
[ Well. There had been many extenuating circumstances. A knife to her throat, for example, and lies, which she didn't like; kindness, which Astarion liked even less than a refusal of coin. With an apologetic but truthful tone in her voice, she adds, ] I did not like you very much, either. [ But of course, life changes. As secure as the seasons, as beasts live and die, as an arrow slides true.
Maybe it is childish to ask. But like he's reminded her: just because someone asks doesn't mean you have to tell them. It would sound silly to say Do you like me, now? Is it still the same, do you think? and so she settles on, simply, ]
Has that changed?
π
He smiles a little β a rare expression in that it's meant purely for himself, though it unfolds across his face for her to plainly see. His features only shift again when she speaks up, when she finds what she wants to say, because you didn't like me very much β despite the very broad boundaries drawn by his prompting β hadn't been very high on the list of things he'd expected her to hear.
What's also unexpected is the faint sense of guilt that accompanies it. She doesn't say it to scold him, hence the second part of her lead-up, which pries a laugh from his mouth, but he feels that twinge nonetheless. To be good still doesn't come completely easily to him, but he better understands the reasons why someone would choose such a path, rather than considering it outright foolish, as he once had.
And he better understands her, most importantly β that what he'd taken for naΓ―vetΓ© is instead a sort of strength. She's gotten them all this far, which is no mean feat, even if one accounts for an unusual helping of dumb luck.
So he looks at her in the firelight, at the loosened braid of her hair, the terribly earnest way in which she regards him, and says, ] Can you not tell?
[ Once, he thinks, he would have loathed answering a question like this, would have sidestepped it or supplied some sugar-coated lie. Every other question that occurs to her would have been preferable to having to confess or feign affection or care.
To that end, he understands his initial answer to be almost cruel, considering that she's given voice to something that ... to say she was worried about it would be to oversell it, and to say that she cares, well. It begs something more concrete, doesn't it? His gaze drifts into the fire, that small smile coalescing again on his face β his voice is soft, as though betraying some sort of secret. ]
Of course it has.
[ A breath catches in his throat, as though he's stopped himself from saying anything further. From saying, do you think I would still be here if I did not care for you?
Instead, wry, a tease to set him back on a wavelength closer to his usual self: ] I find you quite tolerable, now.
no subject
Deft fingers push through the odd knot, continuing the untangling of her larger braids. Plucking at them, separating; the same, quick way she might for the fletching in her arrows. It is, now, a vie for time, but it happens yet again: a pleased smile, pitched not to the fire but the red of Astarion's eyes. Her own little flit of joy.
No. She cannot tell at all. But something inside of herself feels awfully rewarded, from cold to flush, now that he has handed her something very—
—well, concrete. ]
I am only so tolerable?
[ Mischief crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her hands drop to her lap, palms upward and relaxed. She leans, only the slightest fraction, into the circle of his space; sotto voce as she adds solemnly, the same way she might pass judgment on something much more serious: ] I believe you. [ Adds, with her own, very plain truth, ] I like that you do.
[ Tav wouldn't dare ask more of him, now. There are so many things she understands about the world, and so much more that she would like to — curiosity is her crutch, the thing that sends her peering at barrels and old shelves and standing before locked doors, thinking, only to mutter his name like a question — but, by the day, Astarion becomes that much clearer in shape.
She feels quite satisfied with herself, actually. Maybe that's terribly rude, but it buoys her. Her hands make short work of her loose hair, carding through quickly but haphazardly, rebraiding into two even parts. It takes a small beat of silence, but afterward, she wordlessly turns her head for him: a silent request to check that her work is even, since she only did so by feel.
And, perhaps, it is because her head is turned away that she can tell him: ]
That was a very good secret, Astarion. Thank you.
no subject
He could find it in himself to be annoyed at that sheer earnestness, to deflect it, butβ instead, he bites the inside of his cheek, only half-stopping the slight smile that spreads across his features in return. He knows, to some degree, that the warmth she offers to him now is worth hanging onto, if only because he'd experienced firsthand the way it had faded, changed in shape, in the first portion of their journey, when he'd still had more of an air of coldness about him β when he'd found it easier to lie.
(She'd blushed for him so easily, once. Maybe that's not something he ought to be chasing, but, wellβ he's always been a little greedy. And it's hardly as though she lacks any freedom of choice.)
So, ] I thought it was only fair, [ is all he says in response to her thanks, as he scoots a little closer.
His fingers are gentle as they find her braids, teasing out one or two uneven spots β as deft with her hair as with any lock or trap. Not that they really need so much adjustment, but she'd asked, and it's in his habit, now, to answer. Besides, he's a creature given to preening, and an extension of that trait to another isn't so much of a burden.
Other answers hang on his tongue β don't get used to it; it's our little secret, alright; similar half-thoughts β and he swallows them all, a long moment passing with just the crackling of the fire between them. Then his hands fall away, andβ he doesn't move any further away, instead only repositioning himself to face the flames. ]
βHas it changed, for you?
[ A question she's already sort of answered, but, in the spirit of asking such things, he allows himself to speak the words aloud. ]
no subject
But thoughts like that do so little to chase away the feeling that sits in her chest. It beats very strongly. It's that that emboldens her, makes her turn to look at him with a glint in her smile. ]
Yes. [ There's a laugh somewhere, tucked into the shape of her mouth as she echoes, ] Can't you tell?
[ Surely, it is very easy to guess, but he is speaking the words aloud anyway. It would be silly to mimic him much further, so Tav keeps her boldness. Offers more, and further. ]
I don't have anything very pretty to say. [ She hums lightly. ] I did not always see you very well. You are a very good liar. I did not always understand what you wanted, and it was very frustrating. Sometimes you are still very frustrating. And even when you said these things to me, about what you thought of, and what you needed, I could not always let myself trust them, because of the things I imagined you to be. It was very unfair. But I see you better now.
[ A fissure of something unpleasant worms its way past all that very solid surety. It always happens like this, in these times when it is more quiet at camp, late at night with her companions. Doubt. Self-consciousness. Her cheeks flush when she adds, a little haltingly, ]
I— think I see you better now. You let me.
no subject
Lonelinessβ he'd never liked it, per se (preferred it, perhaps, for the sake of self-preservation), but the idea of fearing it is somehow humiliating.
But she jokes, mimicking his cadence of speech, and it makes it easy for him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to think about other things β to think only about how close they are to each other, about the blush that colors her cheeks (that he'd once thought lost to him). ]
It doesn't require flowery turns of phrase for one's words to be considered pretty, little dove.
[ He glances at her sidelong, letting her parse his meaning for herself. Then, an allowance β a gentle confirmation:]
We see each other better, now. Besides, it wasn't so unfair.
[ A shrug, not argument so much as an understanding of what he is, how he works β he'd presented her with an image of himself that had not been entirely genuine. That she'd noticed the differences between what he'd put forth and what he was is not a fault. ]
All that to say β I'm glad of it. I suppose you'll do, as far as a mirror goes.