illithidnapped

He fiddles, one-handed, with the hem of his glove. The non-anchor hand, like he's tempted to free his shard to visible sight. He isn't, of course. He isn't even aware he's doing it. The nervous tic only lasts a few moments, till the next time he reaches for his glass.

"Yeah," he agrees to all parts of that, nodding. "They were infected with red, glowing crystals." Astarion's sharp, is the thing. He doesn't have to draw the comparison to anchors. "There's something like it where I come from. Not much like it, but they look a little alike. I've seen a lot of people dead that way."

Something like 100,000, to be exact. To say nothing of the Caliban project.

His voice twists mocking, but only of himself. "It scares me."

There's nothing wrong with being afraid, contrary to popular belief. It's healthy in the sense that it's preventative. In the simple truth that anyone who's been alive long enough to know real, unsuppressed ugliness knows there's plenty worth fearing, and too much of it well within reach.

Holden's right to be afraid. It's only confessing it that's dangerous.

"If it was anything like red lyrium, then it's a very ugly way to go, I'd wager."

He would never think less of anyone for their fear. He'd tell them, easily, how normal it is. It's not exactly his own fear he dislikes, but the places he knows it's led him. The person he has the capacity to be. It's difficult to trust his own judgment, and he doesn't have Amos or Naomi or Alex anymore to make sure he does the right thing. He'd endangered, too, Gwenaëlle and Gabranth for his fear.

Prickly, difficult Astarion, who'd lashed out even as this wine bottle has been open, might seem like a strange person to answer about this. But there's been no point to distrusting him since Tantervale. Forget point: there's no distrusting him right now.

"Worse than ugly."

Devoured, and not even able to get the peace of death.

"Go on, then." He says, shifting back in that rotted little seat, wood creaking faintly as one leg crosses— ankle to knee— the wine glass goes with him; he drinks in expectant silence.

There's the option to deny the vampire's muted pressing, of course, but Astarion isn't so gentle as to offer it.

He doesn't have to.

Jim's quiet a long moment. But this conversation has dredged up a lot already; his worst fear is Venatori with something like the protomolecule, and the night the undead attacked had made him think it realized. Talking about it so soon after discussing the dangers the Venatori pose, how eager they are to get their hands on people like the two of them, the things they could extract out of him —

he shakes his head, draining his glass.

"Trust me, you're happier not knowing." He glances towards the bottle, adding, "Besides, I'm out of time."

They've emptied it between the two of them, and he remembers the terms of Astarion's attention.

“Two hundred years, and I’ve found that’s still the most untrue statement anyone’s ever bothered to utter.” Ignorance equates to bliss only until the hammer falls. Unrelated as this might be to Thedas, it isn’t unrelated to Holden: knowing what might have him freezing or wary is still its own advantage. A ward against disaster. “No one’s better off not knowing. Doesn’t matter what the subject is.”

The room's gone dark from waning daylight outside. Nighttime in Lowtown brings nothing good.

“But you’re right,” he says, leaning forward to set his glass along the table’s edge. “We had a deal.”

Until the wine’s gone. Astarion’s own rule.

“You’ll owe me the rest of that story.”

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