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[illithidnapped]

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[arkitect]

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.

[illithidnapped]

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?

[arkitect]

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.

[illithidnapped]

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.

[arkitect]

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.

[illithidnapped]

People like us?

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

[arkitect]

[He shrugs one shoulder, as he clarifies:]

Those with longer lives.

[People who would outlive them.]

[illithidnapped]

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

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

[arkitect]

[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.

[illithidnapped]

[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?

[arkitect]

Of course it did. After all, everyone was nigh-eternal, once.

[There's a little more softness to his tone, less of an edge in his expression.]

They should never have become so short-lived. Susceptible to such fragility, vulnerable to illness. 'Twas best never to become attached to such a fleeting presence, when it was I who went on without them.

[illithidnapped]

[Silent for a few beats more, Astarion pauses before he sets his intended gift aside— rising to his feet and crossing the distance, making the matter of meeting that mattress and straddling Emet-Selch with shapeless, shifting ease all the more nominal. Simple as breathing.

His gloved palms rest flat against Emet-Selch's chest, thumbs sinking into fabric.]

But you did grow attached.

[arkitect]

[It gets him to glance up, watching Astarion-- evaluating, mostly, just what this is. Whether just a distraction from the topic, despite not changing the subject, or whether he simply has something else in mind beyond talking.

Emet-Selch doesn't reach up in turn, not at the moment, leaving his hands resting on the bed.]

...a momentary lapse, with the first of them. I did not repeat the same mistake with my other offspring, nor their own children.

[illithidnapped]

[Astarion hadn’t expected a stirring response to his touch, truth be told: predatory as he is by default, the scent of figurative blood in the water will always draw his interest— and he can’t claim innocuity in this moment, knowing exactly what he himself was made for.

Well. Remade for.

And some learned habits don’t die easily.]

You know, [He starts, focused only on toying with the embroidered front of Emet-Selch’s coat.] your life could be normal here. You could have a family, if you wanted. One that’ll outlive you instead— though you’d need to find a native that wouldn’t shiver at the idea of that shard in your palm. Or the fact that eventually it’ll poison you.

But still. Small road bumps in the way of a little normalcy.

[arkitect]

There is naught guaranteed to anyone with a mortal life.

[A quiet correction-- he outlived one child in his human lifetime, after all, and two more members of the royal family didn't make it much longer than Solus did. There are no promises in life, nothing to say they would not be lost as well.

One hand lifts, fingers wrapping around Astarion's wrist, but he doesn't pull his hand away for the moment; just holds it still.]

Nor is it completely certain that I have one, despite working under the assumption that I likely do. And assuming that should prove true-- I would have to have an interest in pursuing such a life to begin with.

Just how much do you believe I would even have in common, at this point, with those who have always dwelled in this world?

[Even among those who work here, who are more used to Rifters-- it's a heavy gap to bridge, between a being with his lifespan and anyone who has only ever been mortal.

It's a different thing entirely to consider whether he would want to share a life with anyone at all.]

[illithidnapped]

[There's no objection to the way he's stilled; Astarion simply falls in like with it as though it were a correction, crimson stare lifting briefly now that there's nothing else left to distract him.]

Would you need to have anything in common just to care for someone? To let them warm your bed for a decade or two?

Plenty of people seem to get on just fine without it... [Well.] sometimes.

[arkitect]

I do not know that I would care for them if we did not. If there were not at least some similarity, some capacity for them to understand.

[It's something that's been missing for a very long time. Something he only really had with a pair of people who he never would see in that sort of way, who used to be a brother and a colleague-- and then something that felt almost close enough to touch with a third, but which could never truly solidify.

It might exist here, just-- not with someone like that.]

[illithidnapped]

[Astarion is quiet, settled easily like silt. Like dust.

His fingers flex, smile twitching as it widens by the faintest measure, though his expression remains unreadable.]

I suppose everyone has their type.

[arkitect]

I would not call it having a 'type,' to simply desire some form of common ground. Far too broad, for one.

[Entirely too simple, too easy.

He arches a brow, though, as his other hand finally shifts to settle on Astarion's hip.]

But I would not have expected you to have much interest in the subject.

[illithidnapped]

[It's a welcome weight. Welcome warmth, too, and his snared hand shifts only a little lower, as if testing the limits of Emet-Selch's patience.]

What, romance? Or your preferences.

[arkitect]

I suppose both.

[He lets that hand drift, the slight flexing of his fingers at Astarion's wrist the only outward sign he's paying attention to it at all.]

After all, surely you've little reason to be concerned about my preferences, when you've had what you want.

[-and can likely continue to.]

[illithidnapped]

[There, he shrugs, letting his shoulders lift and fall with little in the way of fanfare or fuss. Assuming a lax grip is something akin to permission, he begins tugging idly at the fasteners lining Emet-Selch's coat once more.]

I find it fascinating, really. Novel in a way that very few things are.

Everyone tends to gravitate at times— like craving salt or sugar, water or wine.

[arkitect]

And just what manner of craving is it for you, in this case?

[It's permission enough, it seems-- or at least Emet-Selch isn't stopping him, allowing the coat to be undone and shrugging it from his shoulders as it loosens. In turn, he reaches to tug at one of Astarion's gloves in a moment where his fingers aren't occupied, trying to pull it free.]

[illithidnapped]

[That, at least, is a slower process. More reluctant despite the fact that no one is present that will bat so much as an eyelash at Astarion’s shard.]

Royalty, apparently.

Though I hadn’t planned on it. Hadn’t even considered it until recently, when I was tallying the score, so to speak.

[The glove falls away, and Astarion shifts forward to sprawl as lazily as the cat drawn out somewhere off in sunlight, folding his forearms across Emet-Selch’s chest: the man is significantly taller than Astarion himself, which means he’s a luxury of space to admire.

And, come to think of it:]

Tall royalty.

[arkitect]

[It's a process he pays more mind to, once he notes that reluctance; he spends a little more focus on it, long fingers entangled with Astarion's, working the glove off at a more leisurely pace rather than simply pulling faster to get it free. He still finds it more comfortable to leave his own on, around others-- this is something he doesn't question, much as it makes him wonder.]

Well, you do have a taste for the finer things, do you not?

[The fact that he hasn't been royalty since he cast off his last mortal identity is something he chooses, for now, not to make a point of. Astarion rests against him, and the hand at his hip shifts for that arm to drape around his waist instead.]

Here I thought I had a more unique manner of appeal to you, and now I find I am merely one among a list of the same.

[Said lightly, amused; the exaggerated sigh that eases its way from him carries no true disappointment in its tone.]