illithidnapped

[Very little sustains Astarion the way that gifts do. Granted, attention, desire, flattery, petty obsession, envy and— all right, a lot of things sustain Astarion, but given the general hierarchy of needs, offerings run high enough to eclipse an impressive number of alternatives.

Or slights.

His eyes widen as he unwraps the heavy bundle only to find the star-specked contents within, pupils dilating in a way that speaks volumes where the rest of his expression seems leashed to the confines of entirely unexpected surprise. For a long moment, he's speechless. Blinks a touch too much, exhales a touch too sharply, incapable of forming a single coherent thought until he's plucked one up in his own grasp, weighing the feel of it in his hands.

Admiring it in his mostly shaded little corner of the room.

And after the longest pause imaginable, he breathes:]

You do realize we've already slept together, right? You're not going to get more than what you've got for this, so to speak.

[He's watching, of course, quiet as Astarion takes that in-- and already satisfied, before he ever opens his mouth to say a word. When he does, though, it gets an amused little exhalation in response, not a full fledged laugh, but something halfway approaching it.]

I do realize, yes. But I have no interest in buying your attention or time-- occasional minor bribery, mayhap, but this is hardly intended to be one.

[Astarion is who he is, after all, and so Emet-Selch doesn't discount it entirely. There are things Astarion could ask for that he just might give.]

Surely it isn't so unthinkable that I simply wished to do this.

[It is.

To a paranoid mind, at least. One as active as Astarion’s. One that knows the difference between a dense, blunted personality, and an intellect clever enough to decisively rule. Emet-Selch is the latter, of course, and that in and of itself comes with a certain amount of risk when dipping toes into the murkier waters of acute friendship, beyond shoreline stretches of teasing and owed favors.

But the man’s old, to the point of dulled sensation and tired eyes, and he hardly seems driven by the sort of hunger that plagued Cazador, or Corypheus, or even Astarion himself. So yes, instinctively, behind the jokes and softer look scrawled across his own face, Astarion is already searching for ways this gift might be a tactical play—

And then he sets that notion aside.

It isn’t an absolute dropping of his guard, but all things considered, it’s about as good as it gets given the circumstances.]

It’s a little unthinkable, you know.

[His lips purse slightly, he’s tapping one manicured nail against the glassy pommel in thought.]

And besides, I didn’t get you anything in turn.

I suppose it might be.

[They know each other well enough to keep that mutual assessment of risk in mind. To be cautious in opening up further, despite what's happened already in the time they've known each other. But he's seen enough not to be completely wary; he's borne in mind how easily they could have left the caves, how Astarion didn't want to simply leave the others behind. Remembered the look on his face watching the stars, which led him to this idea in the first place.

He leans back against the wall, settling in.]

But I did not do it with any expectations in mind, either.

You are so strange.

[Not just because of this, though Astarion's brows are still pinched slightly when he goes through the process of rewrapping the blades within the confines of their packaging. But all the selflessness, all the stubborn adherence to his own self-assured way of doing things— it's nothing Astarion has ever had it in himself to comprehend, really. Their worlds are too different, or...the way they see things is.

And yet what normally would be a deterrent for Astarion, isn't in this case. He's still here. Still talking.

Still keeping the damn gift.]

I expect many would think so-- not to mention that I doubt this is the last time I will hear it from you, either.

[He's accustomed to it, to being separate from nearly everyone else he might encounter, to having that gap between himself and most others. It's shrugged off, as many things are.]

I do not necessarily consider it a negative. You're quite the strange person at times, yourself.

Untrue. [Astarion counters coolly, chin lifting proudly for the sake of emphasizing his point.]

I have it on good authority I’m quite charming.

By what authority, your own?

[Certainly not the 'good authority' of anyone who found him charming enough to sleep with, given his commentary on his luck.]

You need not object, regardless; I never claimed that detracted from any charm you may in fact possess.

By yours now, too, thank you.

[:)

Drawing himself back into his seat, he pulls his bundled gift with him, folding it (and his own hands) across his chest just beneath the endpoint of his ribs.]

How are the others treating you, by the way? Just out of curiosity.

[Always good to know how the group at large might view a perceived enemy.]

Well, I've no knives in my back yet, so I suppose it could certainly be worse.

[He exhales a little huff, at that, shaking his head and folding his arms.]

Tolerated, at the least.

Good.

Unless it's my own knives— particularly this lovely little set, [he says, tapping lightly at those well-buried pommels with the edges of his gloved fingertips] I'd rather not see you sporting any new, painfully protruding accessories.

That said, if anything starts to feel...[mm] off around here, you know how to reach me.

I assure you, I would prefer the same.

[Dryly, just passing over the implied threat there as he waves a hand. Ungloved, this time; that's been more frequent around Astarion lately.]

It has already felt off since his initial message, by my own estimation, but I will reach you if it becomes anything to be truly concerned about.

[-and that's primarily because he was thrown off track by it, somewhat, and yet to fully settle back in. Still re-evaluating, still observing.]

Fairly certain the only one you’ll really need to worry about is the Judge himself.

He’s not exactly charismatic. Probably means he isn’t in possession of very many friends that might overeagerly take to action. And I’d be shocked if Riftwatch wasn’t also preparing itself for that possibility, anyway, between you and me.

Those escorts might be for your protection as much as anyone else’s.

[He pauses before adding coyly:]

Not that you’re not fearsome in your own right, I’m sure.

Mm. I doubt it, personally; I may have... tested him, slightly, when we met, and he regretfully managed without incident. Chose to withdraw and issue that warning of his, instead-- which I am sure has still ensured eyes on him, but I do not believe he will act unless he believes I have given him a reason. If the man wanted me dead, I should think he would have tried it when he had the chance.

[A sigh's exhaled on the tail end of that.]

Best to watch, regardless. Others may well be more opportunistic, faced with a perceived threat, even if the Judge Magister himself was not.

Tested— regretfully?? [Astarion scoffs sharply, sitting up slightly in his seat.]

By the Hells. Do you have a death wish, darling? Is that it?

He would have been easier to handle, had it gone otherwise.

[Sometimes you just have to engage in a little provocation? Surely Astarion of all people understands that.]

...though, yes, I suppose you do have a point. It is still easy enough, at times, to forget this body may not be disposable.

You mean it would’ve been easier to drag him down with you which, yes, fine, fair— but all I’m saying is a little caution wouldn’t hurt. Even if he’d lashed out, you might’ve died before getting the satisfaction of seeing him locked away for being an overreaching prick.

[self preservation please, Emet.]

Did you really not have to worry about that before now?

I did not, no. If I died, I would simply find a new vessel-- I've maintained a supply of them, before, when there was a need for it. My grandson was at times quicker to shoot than to argue.

[-he says, as if that's just a minor inconvenience on the level of losing a button on one's coat.]

Another adjustment I am in the process of making, before you start trying to scold me further about self-preservation.

Huh. [Thoughtful. Curious.

Possibly entertaining the idea of some scenario in his head involving multiple copies of the man resting idly in front of him, but that’s not really important right now.]

Can’t imagine what that must have been like.

—children, I mean. Not dying.

I’ve done that one already, after all.

An empire does need heirs, after all.

[Casual, idle-- but he doesn't say much beyond that. He just adds:]

But I think people like ourselves are better suited without.

People like us?

[Asked through the lopsided edge of an inquisitive grin, head cocking just to one side, angling the set of his stare.]

[He shrugs one shoulder, as he clarifies:]

Those with longer lives.

[People who would outlive them.]

[The way he's phrased it...] Did your children not also have immortality?

Seems a little stingy of you, if they missed out.

[A brief moment of silence follows, before he answers.]

The bodies I make use of are mortal, themselves. I cannot pass on the nature of my soul.

[Somewhere in his head, Astarion's doing the rough-cut math: fourteen thousand years versus the nominal span of a typical mortal life? It's beyond night and day. Quicker than the blink of an eye. The vampire's eyes narrow slightly as he studies closely the set of Emet-Selch's otherwise passive expression, searching for a glimpse of something lurking just beneath the surface.]

So they didn't inherit your gifts.

[He sits upright in his seat, elbows across his knees, bundle still tucked in the crook of his arm.]

Did it bother you, that disparity? Watching them trudge on without you?

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