She bites her lip to not cry out loud, not wanting to attract the attention of anyone else to her tent, certainly not wanting anyone else to come running it. It would kill the mood, although the fact that she finds it a mood that he's cleaning her wounds one by one carefully and with focus is probably speaking volumes of her.
She's always been the odd one, even in the school, even before it all went pearshaped with Riddle trying to take over, even before it went bloodied with Bellatrix let loose on the student body.
Her mouth feels dry with the inevitable memories. She doesn't feel fierce right now, her back riddled with puncture wounds, her nerves frazzled. She definitely doesn't feel like a clever beauty.
"Don't be cruel," she murmurs, in response to that, letting her head drop forward, chin against her chest. She's nothing - what is she? Compared to the dazzling beauties he's likely seen in his significantly longer life? Compared even to the ones in camp right now.
She reaches up and pulls her head out of her shirt, clutching it gingerly to her chest with both hands. The gesture makes the fabric slip now from her shoulders, the sleeves bunched up around her elbows. In the candlelight glow, he may spot the scar on her arm too, if he is lucky; her own experience with torture, which she's kept hidden from everyone else. It would be fitting, too. Astarion has seen more of her than anyone has in years now.
She looks over her shoulder towards him, shifting on the stool. "You can stand behind me, you know? It can't be comfortable to crouch where you are."
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She's always been the odd one, even in the school, even before it all went pearshaped with Riddle trying to take over, even before it went bloodied with Bellatrix let loose on the student body.
Her mouth feels dry with the inevitable memories. She doesn't feel fierce right now, her back riddled with puncture wounds, her nerves frazzled. She definitely doesn't feel like a clever beauty.
"Don't be cruel," she murmurs, in response to that, letting her head drop forward, chin against her chest. She's nothing - what is she? Compared to the dazzling beauties he's likely seen in his significantly longer life? Compared even to the ones in camp right now.
She reaches up and pulls her head out of her shirt, clutching it gingerly to her chest with both hands. The gesture makes the fabric slip now from her shoulders, the sleeves bunched up around her elbows. In the candlelight glow, he may spot the scar on her arm too, if he is lucky; her own experience with torture, which she's kept hidden from everyone else. It would be fitting, too. Astarion has seen more of her than anyone has in years now.
She looks over her shoulder towards him, shifting on the stool. "You can stand behind me, you know? It can't be comfortable to crouch where you are."