[He mumbles it, an inane statement that isn't even true (for Astarion is a deft hand at cheating, it's just that Leto knows his tricks by now). But he's listening, and gods, does he appreciate Astarion for not lying. No, not really, but he knows what he's asking for. He knows what he's inviting Leto to do. And in all likelihood, Leto thinks, he'll know what it feels like if it goes right— or not.
The gently brush of cool skin against his own makes him glance up, catching Astarion's eye ruefully.]
I . . . yes.
[Yes, he is. And yet the word doesn't quite fit. What is he nervous about, anyway? That it will go wrong? Perhaps. That's always a vague worry, though it's lessened as he's learned more and more. Talindra has shown him time and again what it means for a spell to fail— there are consequences, yes, and they have the potential to be catastrophic, but only if he's working with enormous spells. Low-level ones like conjuring flames or, indeed, even detect thoughts, ought to have minimal backlash. Likely the only thing he risks is giving himself a migraine, and even then, perhaps not.
So if not that . . . what? He keeps up the steady rhythm of his hands, comforted by the routine, and takes his time in answering. Until finally:]
Apprehensive, perhaps, suits more. I . . . it makes me uneasy to cast magic, still. Especially upon you. I know you will not be harmed— indeed, I know I am capable of the spell. I simply . . .
[Mm.]
I suppose it just . . . it reminds me of Tevinter, still.
[All of it. All the countless years spent watching fledgling apprentices and aged masters cast their spells and weave their charms, the world changing at a twist of their fingertips. It didn't matter if what they did caused harm or not, for it repulsed him all the same. And magic is different in this world, he knows; Talindra has taught him more than enough control to keep himself safe, he knows. But . . .
The association is there. And each time he lifts his hand up and calls magic to his fingertips, he cannot help but taste turmeric on the back of his tongue.
But he wants to see this. He wants to share this with Astarion, even if it pains him a little to do so. Leto takes in a breath, slow and steady, and nods just once: all right.]
You're—
[No, he won't ask him again. Astarion knows what he wants. Leto lifts his hand, watching as the fat sparks of azure light roll lazily up his tattoos. And with a low murmur, he casts the spell.
And it's so easy. As easy as standing up to get a glass of water; far easier than it has any right to be, and yet there they are. In an instant Leto feels himself become more, mmph, aware, for lack of a better word. Like listening to a noise at the very edge of hearing; like seeing a hair glinting in sunlight— it's a deft trick and yet not to turn his thoughts towards Astarion's own, slipping beneath the surface and gliding uneasily there.]
no subject
[He mumbles it, an inane statement that isn't even true (for Astarion is a deft hand at cheating, it's just that Leto knows his tricks by now). But he's listening, and gods, does he appreciate Astarion for not lying. No, not really, but he knows what he's asking for. He knows what he's inviting Leto to do. And in all likelihood, Leto thinks, he'll know what it feels like if it goes right— or not.
The gently brush of cool skin against his own makes him glance up, catching Astarion's eye ruefully.]
I . . . yes.
[Yes, he is. And yet the word doesn't quite fit. What is he nervous about, anyway? That it will go wrong? Perhaps. That's always a vague worry, though it's lessened as he's learned more and more. Talindra has shown him time and again what it means for a spell to fail— there are consequences, yes, and they have the potential to be catastrophic, but only if he's working with enormous spells. Low-level ones like conjuring flames or, indeed, even detect thoughts, ought to have minimal backlash. Likely the only thing he risks is giving himself a migraine, and even then, perhaps not.
So if not that . . . what? He keeps up the steady rhythm of his hands, comforted by the routine, and takes his time in answering. Until finally:]
Apprehensive, perhaps, suits more. I . . . it makes me uneasy to cast magic, still. Especially upon you. I know you will not be harmed— indeed, I know I am capable of the spell. I simply . . .
[Mm.]
I suppose it just . . . it reminds me of Tevinter, still.
[All of it. All the countless years spent watching fledgling apprentices and aged masters cast their spells and weave their charms, the world changing at a twist of their fingertips. It didn't matter if what they did caused harm or not, for it repulsed him all the same. And magic is different in this world, he knows; Talindra has taught him more than enough control to keep himself safe, he knows. But . . .
The association is there. And each time he lifts his hand up and calls magic to his fingertips, he cannot help but taste turmeric on the back of his tongue.
But he wants to see this. He wants to share this with Astarion, even if it pains him a little to do so. Leto takes in a breath, slow and steady, and nods just once: all right.]
You're—
[No, he won't ask him again. Astarion knows what he wants. Leto lifts his hand, watching as the fat sparks of azure light roll lazily up his tattoos. And with a low murmur, he casts the spell.
And it's so easy. As easy as standing up to get a glass of water; far easier than it has any right to be, and yet there they are. In an instant Leto feels himself become more, mmph, aware, for lack of a better word. Like listening to a noise at the very edge of hearing; like seeing a hair glinting in sunlight— it's a deft trick and yet not to turn his thoughts towards Astarion's own, slipping beneath the surface and gliding uneasily there.]
Show me . . .