illithidnapped

...please tell me you're not so bored you're aiming to leap from the highest tower in Kirkwall.

Which yes, I know, sounds absurd— and yet. [If he had a sovereign for every time someone's said it.

He'd have one too many to feel like this idea might be beyond the pale.]

Now, why in the world would I do that?

[An arched brow accompanies his incredulous tone, there. All that effort immediately gone to waste? Absolutely not.]

The view is much improved.

Not important. Don't ask. [Says the man who's already been asked, waving a dismissive hand as he takes to strolling right past Emet-Selch, towards the nearest set of branching stairs.]

You'll want Hightown probably, but getting somewhere high there without being thrown into jail at this hour might be an entirely tricky feat. The Gallows would be safer.

It will do.

[He follows easily enough, steps faster for just a few moments until he keeps pace with Astarion, at which point his pace eases once more.

And then he adds, idly:]

Do others often declare to you their intent to test the forces of gravity?

Perhaps my winning personality is what drives them to.

[He says proudly with a flourish— before his tone drops like a stone.]

Or at least that's what they'd probably tell you.

You might've noticed it by now, but Kirkwall isn't the loveliest of cities. Its history is...sordid at best, and the only way that miasmic discomfort could be undone is by tearing the entire place down, I imagine. Which, naturally, they won't do.

Not unless it either served the purposes of those in power, or-- well, if people took it into their own hands. But the world has larger problems; imagine tearing the place down in the middle of a war.

[It isn't the most practical of decisions, after all. These things are not often spurred by practicality, no, but... still.]

Honestly, in any given world, every other city has a sordid history all its own.

[That earns Emet-Selch a look.]

Some histories are arguably worse than others.

And which do you consider the worst to be, personally?

[Just a slight, curious tilt of his head, there, despite the look he's being given.]

You answer it first. Then I'll tell you. [Sharp, that. Sharp as claws. Sharp as razors.

Sometimes it's easy to resent the colder curiosity in those gold eyes.]

[A little personal, is it? Well. Fair is fair, and if he wants to make a trade of it, that's fine.]

If you ask me... they all stem from the same root. The inherent flaws of humanity give rise to any number of atrocities, each no better than the last-- and they repeat them over and over again, when they aren't busy coming up with new ones.

Though if you were to insist I be more specific... the worst histories are often created by those who thirst for power.

[His hackles settle. Carefully, slowly. As if bled from him, the next few steps are easier. Softer in their footing.

He isn't wrong.]

And what do you thirst for?

Now...?

[A few moments of silence follow, a few drawn-out seconds of contemplation, before he eventually shrugs.]

Nothing in particular, I suppose.

Bullshit. Everyone wants something.

[The look angled across his shoulder is sharp. Searching.]

So they do-- in most cases.

[His tone remains casual enough, that searching look met with a neutral one.]

But I have already told you that I died, prior to arriving here. Everything I pursued ended there, so I suppose if there is anything I want... it is to determine precisely what to do with the additional time I find on my hands. I was fully prepared to rest, after all.

[He's not the first to talk like that. And it's almost irritating, how something like 'my task is done, my goals are gone, I don't want anything for myself' seems to apply to everything from ageless ancients to creatures younger than Astarion himself.

Even so, it drives him all but mad each time he hears it.]

What point is there in resting?

I know you're old, darling, but I didn't think you were senile: have you forgotten what the whole point of being alive is?

I have not given up on it yet, have I?

[If he truly thought there was no point in being alive-- well. He just wouldn't be.]

Though I suppose that depends on just what one considers the point to be.

[In a sense, maybe he has.]

Enjoyment. Vigor. Thrill. Lust, love, bravado, stupidity— feeling, bright and awful and nauseating. All of it. [Emet-Selch might protest that he hasn't given up on it, but as far as Astarion's concerned, despite their perpetual banter and propensity for trouble...well. Something's missing.]

There was a time when I’d kill to be able to have felt anything for myself. [He turns, taking the opportunity to tap a few fanned fingers against the center of his chest.] Now you’re here, squandering it.

[A moment longer, and then, without any real weight to it:]

Have you ever tried elfroot?

I never was one for all of that. I derived satisfaction enough from my duty to my people-- all of us did. From the responsibilities we carried out, from the things which we created.

[From their shared love for a world that no longer exists, now; his voice is a bit lower, there, a little softer.

He falls quiet for a few moments, before finally answering Astarion's question.]

...I have not tried it, no, nor would I say I've had the intention.

[It's not an immediate no, though.]

[It's personal. Poignant. At last, the first real signs of pain from a creature that seemed almost unshakable up until now.

And Astarion handles it exactly as Astarion always does:]

No wonder you're bored. [He huffs, brow crinkling tight.

Self-sacrifice. Duty. Responsibility.

Awful.]

Come on. Follow me. I keep some on hand in my own home for times like this. No high towers, but I imagine being high will make you just as content.

Yes, yes, I would hardly expect you to agree. You would have been horribly bored, there.

[Just thinking of Astarion in his home leaves him wondering how many minutes the man would last before he started complaining. Very few, Emet-Selch suspects.]

We may go, but I will make you no promises.

I would have lost my damned mind, more like. [More than he already has.

As they walk, he asks:] What were you anyway? A king? A Duke? Something else entirely?

Most recently, an emperor, but that was only a role.

[Not his original position, not his original life.]

I was a member of our Convocation-- fourteen of us in number, chosen for both dedication and our particular skills. Each seat had its own purpose among the guiding members, and as such, they were filled by those most suited to their given duty.

An emperor?

[It’s almost gasped, eyes alight with gleaming interest.]

What...sort of convocation? An alliance?

[Purely because the emperor part sounds like it might be of more interest to Astarion, he chooses not to answer it for the moment.]

An elected group of guiding hands for our world. Just as the stars above served as guiding lights, so too did we associate the symbols of various constellations with each seat, for we were meant to serve as the same for our people.

[Astarion snorts. Emet-Selch has such a way of sounding so high and mighty— as if he’s looking down his nose at the world.

Royalty.]

Oh. I see. So a collective of emperors. Rulers. Etcetera.

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marks this for canon spoilers also

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