[He holds his breath while Astarion writes all that out. He doesn't realize what he's doing until that last word appears and he suddenly exhales, one great gusting sigh as some of the tension releases from his shoulders. Good, he thinks, and does not wonder at his own tension throughout. Good, and perhaps it isn't the rousing assurance his heart would have liked, but it's something. More than a wisp of a hope easily dismissed by the encroaching dawn; it's a handhold in the darkness, firm and unyielding.
For Leto's certainty is like iron. He knows who is lover is; he knows very well that he is not a shining picture of flawless morality. That he is a selfish thing, dedicated to himself and those he loves first and foremost; that he has taken hundreds, thousands of lives— but ah, that's the trick, isn't it? His most damning actions were taken not of his own volition, but at the behest of his master.
And that does not a monster make.
He won't say so now. It might come across as cloying, and above all else he does not want to ruin this moment with something that seems insincere. But he will have to come back to it, Leto thinks. To double down on that assurance, quiet and steady, until Astarion learns to believe it for himself. And he will, of that Leto has no doubt— for they have centuries now, and all the time in the world to spend together.]
I'm glad.
Not just that you trust in my judgement— although I am glad for that, too, and that you know I would not lie to you about such a thing.
But I am glad you know it, too. You are no more monster than I am— and trust I know of what I speak. You never have been, not as long as I have known you.
[And he means it. No cloying sympathy, no exaggeration to soothe . . . he writes with total honesty, and he hopes Astarion knows it.]a
If ever we go back, I will tear that organization apart, and make each one of them answer for what they did to you. Know that, too.
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For Leto's certainty is like iron. He knows who is lover is; he knows very well that he is not a shining picture of flawless morality. That he is a selfish thing, dedicated to himself and those he loves first and foremost; that he has taken hundreds, thousands of lives— but ah, that's the trick, isn't it? His most damning actions were taken not of his own volition, but at the behest of his master.
And that does not a monster make.
He won't say so now. It might come across as cloying, and above all else he does not want to ruin this moment with something that seems insincere. But he will have to come back to it, Leto thinks. To double down on that assurance, quiet and steady, until Astarion learns to believe it for himself. And he will, of that Leto has no doubt— for they have centuries now, and all the time in the world to spend together.]
I'm glad.
Not just that you trust in my judgement— although I am glad for that, too, and that you know I would not lie to you about such a thing.
But I am glad you know it, too. You are no more monster than I am— and trust I know of what I speak. You never have been, not as long as I have known you.
[And he means it. No cloying sympathy, no exaggeration to soothe . . . he writes with total honesty, and he hopes Astarion knows it.]a
If ever we go back, I will tear that organization apart, and make each one of them answer for what they did to you. Know that, too.