[Whatever Leto believes, he's wrong. And he's right. There is no middle ground, only an ocean of experience formed in the suddenness of freedom. Starting at the beginning might indeed make it easier to list, but not to quantify by any means, and yet still: Astarion has to set in somewhere. Has to try to put it into words, when for all the world he's certain he'd stand a better chance of bottling the Hells themselves with a cork and empty phial. (Laying entire worlds away from the ground he'd been born to know, bleeding hot through pallid fingertips in a body not his own, Fenris is owed that much.
Even if Astarion's never been any good at sincerity laid bare.)
Outside, there's the clattering of shuttered windows. Baying dogs. Rising voices— muffled by thin walls and heavy drapes— all loud to vampiric ears, making it difficult to find the quiet beat of one nearby, submerged pulse. So (just as always, no less), Astarion does what he can with the deck he's been given: slim fingers readjusting over the injuries they hold until pressure reveals the steady thud thud thudding that he needs to quiet all his thoughts into something resembling sanity. Cohesion.
Chin still pushed against one shoulder, eyes still thinly lidded.
And then, with the smallest intake of false breath:]
The first person I laid eyes on entirely of my own volition. [It comes with a twisting of his lips, that murmur.] I still can't think of my first few moments of freedom without smelling that odd magic of yours. [And more than that:] The first person to ever extend their hand, let alone rescue me throughout two centuries of silent pleading.
[(Real. All of it real. And for a single, overwhelming moment, Astarion thinks he can feel his heart stop once more: the drop of it as it plummets to a standstill, so very much like the night he died in Cazador's arms.)]
The first to listen. The first to understand. The first I trusted, willingly. No lies, no safeguards.
The first creature I grew protective of. Beautiful boy that you were. Shining thing. Little light— I thought— for so long I was afraid you'd leave if you knew the truth of what I was. Not just a bloodsucking monster when blood magic had been your terror, but the anchor shard. Demonic accusations. [But you never did goes unspoken.]
The first to....
[To—
Like a snag in pristine threadwork, his confession finally hitches. A certain catching of his voice that brings it lower across tanned skin. Makes it stumble as it stalls....albeit briefly.]
I bedded others before you. Even amongst Riftwatch, it was a habit. Like the informants I kept.
But after Rialto, I turned them all away. I know it broke their hearts, but what I gave them wasn't real. I made that clear before I took them.
With you....there was never a question.
[Another first. Not the grandest or most damning, just....]
no subject
Even if Astarion's never been any good at sincerity laid bare.)
Outside, there's the clattering of shuttered windows. Baying dogs. Rising voices— muffled by thin walls and heavy drapes— all loud to vampiric ears, making it difficult to find the quiet beat of one nearby, submerged pulse. So (just as always, no less), Astarion does what he can with the deck he's been given: slim fingers readjusting over the injuries they hold until pressure reveals the steady thud thud thudding that he needs to quiet all his thoughts into something resembling sanity. Cohesion.
Chin still pushed against one shoulder, eyes still thinly lidded.
And then, with the smallest intake of false breath:]
The first person I laid eyes on entirely of my own volition. [It comes with a twisting of his lips, that murmur.] I still can't think of my first few moments of freedom without smelling that odd magic of yours. [And more than that:] The first person to ever extend their hand, let alone rescue me throughout two centuries of silent pleading.
[(Real. All of it real. And for a single, overwhelming moment, Astarion thinks he can feel his heart stop once more: the drop of it as it plummets to a standstill, so very much like the night he died in Cazador's arms.)]
The first to listen. The first to understand. The first I trusted, willingly. No lies, no safeguards.
The first creature I grew protective of. Beautiful boy that you were. Shining thing. Little light— I thought— for so long I was afraid you'd leave if you knew the truth of what I was. Not just a bloodsucking monster when blood magic had been your terror, but the anchor shard. Demonic accusations. [But you never did goes unspoken.]
The first to....
[To—
Like a snag in pristine threadwork, his confession finally hitches. A certain catching of his voice that brings it lower across tanned skin. Makes it stumble as it stalls....albeit briefly.]
I bedded others before you. Even amongst Riftwatch, it was a habit. Like the informants I kept.
But after Rialto, I turned them all away. I know it broke their hearts, but what I gave them wasn't real. I made that clear before I took them.
With you....there was never a question.
[Another first. Not the grandest or most damning, just....]