[This time, he waits for a few seconds before casting the spell. Calm, he tells himself, and tries to let his anxiety ebb with his next few slow, deep breaths. Focus, the thought fiercely repeated as his thumb continues to rub absent patterns against Astarion's forearm. He won't make the same mistake twice. Astarion wants to see his friends (and Leto wants him to see them); he wants to know what it felt like to let that wariness melt away, and have companions remind him of who and what he is. Not a slave. Not a runaway elf squatting in a forgotten mansion, snarling and snapping at the world if they got too close. But a person, a companion, a friend . . .
It's still a string of memories— but whereas his recollections earlier were chaotic things, voices layered atop emotion atop sensation all scrambled together into one confusing cacophony, this is smooth. One memory leads to another, each a rich, brief burst of sights and sounds and feelings all neatly stitched together.
If Astarion's memory began with warmth, Leto's begins with cold: there's an eternally present chill when you camp on the coastline in Kirkwall, even during high summer. Sand cold beneath his feet and the endlessly whipping wind colder as it bites through his clothes; the roar of the Waking Sea echoes in his ears as it crashes rhythmically against the jutting rocks. Anders looks pale and wan beneath a half-moon, his earring glittering as he turns to face Fenris. It's a rare moment of civility, Anders' voice low and sardonic as he drawls out a joke about Merrill and Marian sharing a tent; it's a rare moment of returned camaraderie as Fenris huffs out a laugh, amused despite himself. For a moment they exchange a wry expression, adolescent and amused, but he can see the warm surprise that fills him reflected back on the mage's face—
And then it shifts, night into day, the sea into the city: Lowtown as it was before the Qunari invasion and the Rifts, full of vendors and endless crowds eager to spend coin. Marian kneels in front of a dwarf, methodically unpacking all the useless junk she'd picked up on their last expedition. It adds up, her voice musical and her expression glittering (and for a moment the memory veers, Astarion's voice replacing Marion's, his home in Lowtown and all the glittering magpie heaps fondly recalled). Anders grousing on his left side and Sebastian on his right, his grin bright against his tanned face and his blue eyes piercing as he'd caught Fenris' own. There's plenty who'd admire all you've accomplished, his compliment so fiercely direct that it sparks an anxious fluster, Fenris' mind torn between scoffing disbelief and delighted surprise— and then, after that, a shock of realization and subsequent self-examination, am I that, am I so admirable, his mind whirling even as he awkwardly replies, I haven't accomplished anything, you're being kind, and he'd spent so long ruminating on those compliments in the aftermath.
Another shift, another memory: the mansion as it used to be, dilapidated but warm thanks to the fire roaring in the corner. The hand of cards Fenris holds isn't worth very much, but Isabela and Varric don't know that; with a false smirk he raises the bet, amused by Isabela's subsequent pout. Donnic's long since folded; he and Anders bet instead on who will win, goading and cheering their subsequent picks in turn. The world is blurred and soft in that way it gets when he's tipsy, and as he watches Isabela try and fail to distract Varric via a suggestive swig of her beer, something a little like joy flutters in his chest. Belonging, that's what this feeling means. Understanding all the jokes and knowing how to play with the others; knowing that they enjoy his company just as much as he enjoys theirs (yes, even Anders). Feeling as though he could say almost anything and be listened to, and what a relief that is after years and years speaking to no one at all—
And there's more. Snatches of memories of Merrill and Marian, Carver and Bethany, snippets fondly recalled if not lingered upon, and always, there is that longing ache. I miss them, I miss them, I miss them all, and time has made the mantra more sweet than bitter, though it will never stop hurting. Until at last the connection ebbs and Leto opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) to stare up at his amatus.]
Like that?
[It's not a real question. Just a way to break the silence, his expression soft and a little unsure.]
no subject
It's still a string of memories— but whereas his recollections earlier were chaotic things, voices layered atop emotion atop sensation all scrambled together into one confusing cacophony, this is smooth. One memory leads to another, each a rich, brief burst of sights and sounds and feelings all neatly stitched together.
If Astarion's memory began with warmth, Leto's begins with cold: there's an eternally present chill when you camp on the coastline in Kirkwall, even during high summer. Sand cold beneath his feet and the endlessly whipping wind colder as it bites through his clothes; the roar of the Waking Sea echoes in his ears as it crashes rhythmically against the jutting rocks. Anders looks pale and wan beneath a half-moon, his earring glittering as he turns to face Fenris. It's a rare moment of civility, Anders' voice low and sardonic as he drawls out a joke about Merrill and Marian sharing a tent; it's a rare moment of returned camaraderie as Fenris huffs out a laugh, amused despite himself. For a moment they exchange a wry expression, adolescent and amused, but he can see the warm surprise that fills him reflected back on the mage's face—
And then it shifts, night into day, the sea into the city: Lowtown as it was before the Qunari invasion and the Rifts, full of vendors and endless crowds eager to spend coin. Marian kneels in front of a dwarf, methodically unpacking all the useless junk she'd picked up on their last expedition. It adds up, her voice musical and her expression glittering (and for a moment the memory veers, Astarion's voice replacing Marion's, his home in Lowtown and all the glittering magpie heaps fondly recalled). Anders grousing on his left side and Sebastian on his right, his grin bright against his tanned face and his blue eyes piercing as he'd caught Fenris' own. There's plenty who'd admire all you've accomplished, his compliment so fiercely direct that it sparks an anxious fluster, Fenris' mind torn between scoffing disbelief and delighted surprise— and then, after that, a shock of realization and subsequent self-examination, am I that, am I so admirable, his mind whirling even as he awkwardly replies, I haven't accomplished anything, you're being kind, and he'd spent so long ruminating on those compliments in the aftermath.
Another shift, another memory: the mansion as it used to be, dilapidated but warm thanks to the fire roaring in the corner. The hand of cards Fenris holds isn't worth very much, but Isabela and Varric don't know that; with a false smirk he raises the bet, amused by Isabela's subsequent pout. Donnic's long since folded; he and Anders bet instead on who will win, goading and cheering their subsequent picks in turn. The world is blurred and soft in that way it gets when he's tipsy, and as he watches Isabela try and fail to distract Varric via a suggestive swig of her beer, something a little like joy flutters in his chest. Belonging, that's what this feeling means. Understanding all the jokes and knowing how to play with the others; knowing that they enjoy his company just as much as he enjoys theirs (yes, even Anders). Feeling as though he could say almost anything and be listened to, and what a relief that is after years and years speaking to no one at all—
And there's more. Snatches of memories of Merrill and Marian, Carver and Bethany, snippets fondly recalled if not lingered upon, and always, there is that longing ache. I miss them, I miss them, I miss them all, and time has made the mantra more sweet than bitter, though it will never stop hurting. Until at last the connection ebbs and Leto opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) to stare up at his amatus.]
Like that?
[It's not a real question. Just a way to break the silence, his expression soft and a little unsure.]