Godfrey watches a shade of the tension slip from him. Astarion is still poised to spring away at the barest hint of aggression, but he's relaxing, bit by bit.
He exhales, and lets his gaze low. Watches his hands wring between his knees as he slips a little further into the conversation.
"I've known for some time. I stayed my judgment and watched you - and the others. I wanted to know that you would not hurt them."
Because, naturally, that has always been on the table. He had watched Astarion tensely once, hand resting deceptively gentle at the hilt of his sword. He had been ready, in those early and nervous days, to end him at the first hint of harm - but not before then. The Oath calls for compassion to all - even his enemies, though tempered with wisdom. That is what he gave him.
And Astarion had proven himself worthy of it enough times over that, though it hasn't totally been taken from the table, his hands might set to separating Astarion from whatever altercation befell him before they went to his sword and his magic.
His thumb presses into the white inside of his fingers, and they curl around it. A birdcall echoes from somewhere in the woods, deeper still than they are.
"But they have not cultivated the same insight that I have. They have found what you've left behind, and they are... discussing amongst themselves what they have seen."
Godfrey sucks in a breath, his fingers hard against his knuckles, and he looks back up to Astarion.
When he speaks, it's slow. All softness, all gentle and placating reassurance; "I think if you had wanted to hurt anyone here, you would have. But you haven't. And I suspect that if we tell them together - if you would trust me to help - they may be more inclined to trust you as I have come to."
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He exhales, and lets his gaze low. Watches his hands wring between his knees as he slips a little further into the conversation.
"I've known for some time. I stayed my judgment and watched you - and the others. I wanted to know that you would not hurt them."
Because, naturally, that has always been on the table. He had watched Astarion tensely once, hand resting deceptively gentle at the hilt of his sword. He had been ready, in those early and nervous days, to end him at the first hint of harm - but not before then. The Oath calls for compassion to all - even his enemies, though tempered with wisdom. That is what he gave him.
And Astarion had proven himself worthy of it enough times over that, though it hasn't totally been taken from the table, his hands might set to separating Astarion from whatever altercation befell him before they went to his sword and his magic.
His thumb presses into the white inside of his fingers, and they curl around it. A birdcall echoes from somewhere in the woods, deeper still than they are.
"But they have not cultivated the same insight that I have. They have found what you've left behind, and they are... discussing amongst themselves what they have seen."
Godfrey sucks in a breath, his fingers hard against his knuckles, and he looks back up to Astarion.
When he speaks, it's slow. All softness, all gentle and placating reassurance; "I think if you had wanted to hurt anyone here, you would have. But you haven't. And I suspect that if we tell them together - if you would trust me to help - they may be more inclined to trust you as I have come to."