illithidnapped

Surely that’s not so bad, at least. [Astarion presses, lowering his chin as he says it.]

Could’ve been nothing. Could’ve been absolute oblivion.

[That, after all, is the sort of loss you can’t come back from.]

Not so bad for them, mayhap. They could not know anything different.

[His voice is quieter again, there, lower in tone.]

But they did not know us. They hardly could tell that we were there-- and when they could, the people we once knew, that we did everything to save-- they looked at us as strangers.

[Maybe it would have been easier to struggle to save them from oblivion, than to save them from this.]

Which was it you wanted more? [Asked almost idly, though his gaze— when it turns— is a touch too direct to match the tone. A little too focused, unblinking.]

For things to go back to the way they were— or for you to be remembered.

[He doesn't meet that gaze, his own already turned elsewhere, but he takes the question in-- contemplates it in silence, for several long moments.]

Are they not one and the same, in many ways? For things to return to the way they once were would surely include the return of their memories.

[-it isn't the question, though, and when he glances up to meet Astarion's eyes once more-- that confirms it's probably not the sort of answer he's seeking.

Another moment of silence, before:]

Had I been made to choose then, though, if I were able to have only one of the two... it would have been the former. I would have seen it all restored even so.

Hm. [Slight. Quiet. Lips curling at the corner ever-so-slightly.

Is it selfish, that wish, or selfless? Astarion can't quite decide, though he imagines in its full span it's likely some tangled, wicked little mix of the two. His eyes turn towards the ceiling once more before he rolls upright, toeing off his boots and slipping beneath the covers to clearly settle in for unceremonious sleep.

If he cares that company's settled across from him, he certainly isn't showing it.]

Stay if you want, leave when you like. And if you're inclined to leave those stars up a little longer, well.

I certainly won't complain.

[It's all in the past, is the thing. What he wanted then is different from what he wanted when he died, or what he would want now. Remember that we once lived, he had asked, in a moment that feels both all too recent and all too distant.

He doesn't say so. He just hums a little acknowledgement at Astarion's words, settling in himself, gaze flicking back upward to the stars.]

I will maintain them while I am able.

[Until his magic fails him, until he finds his new limits.

And at that point-- well. He's uninclined to make the trip at this time of night, so if Astarion is offering, he'll just sleep right where he is.]

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walks back into this bar 500 years late

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