illithidnapped

[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.

Hardly. I have taken on that role since, yes, but we were not intended to rule.

[It's a quick correction; the dynamic simply wasn't like that.]

[One silver eyebrow arches dramatically. His lips purse.]

You’ve lost me.

[Guiding stars? An assembly that doesn’t rule? What else would they be meant to do, then?]

I expect it may be difficult for those who have not lived it to understand fully, but- there was no need for anyone to be a ruler. The Convocation had a degree of authority, yes, and was expected to handle problems when required, but not of the sort most would assume; none in our society would act merely on their own interest. There was no need for the sort of laws known to worlds such as this one, no need to punish anyone for harming others, because it did not happen. One of our members would, on occasion, be reprimanded for their rash decisions in carrying out their duties, but they would simply have been replaced if necessary.

[It was a more ideal society. A utopia, of sorts. Boring to someone like Astarion, likely, but perfect to him.]

I....what?

That sounds awful. [And judging by the look on his face, he means it.] How long did you live like that for?

What need is there for the immortal to count the years?

[An idle shrug, at that, and if the response offends him-- he doesn't show it.]

I could not tell you how long. Long enough for me to establish a reputation as a powerful enough sorceror to qualify for my position, certainly, but we were less focused on time than on our work, on the creation and engendering of new concepts and creatures to introduce to the world.

And here I thought I was the one that suffered more.

[They reach his narrow hovel of a Lowtown flat a few seconds later. Door unlocked, iron creaking as it swings slowly open, heavy as anything. The whole city aside from Hightown is so prison worthy that it's a wonder more people aren't perpetually depressed.]

Tell me you at least made something interesting in all that time. An animal with a thousand legs. Or a spider with enough mouths to match its eyes— that sort of thing.

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marks this for canon spoilers also

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