[The softest demure as he stares up at Astarion, his expression as unguarded as he can make it. There's nothing he won't share with his mate, nothing he'll ever deny him— but that's different than the two of them being able to understand each other without a single word. Grief lines Astarion's face, misery making his eyes overbright and his mouth soft, but Leto cannot fully guess the source. Not yet, anyway.]
Come here, sweet . . .
[Petname intentionally echoed as he gathers him up more fully: leaning back against the bed and urging Astarion to fall further in his arms, so that the vampire isn't straddling him so much as sitting in his lap. Leto wraps his arms around him, kissing his forehead, his cheek, each motion gravely doting. He won't patronize, not now of all times— but gods, Astarion deserves some comfort.
Only once they're settled does he resume with a sigh.]
I did cut it out. All of it. After Kirkwall . . .
[A beat, and ruefully:]
I forget often that you did not know me back then, for at times it feels as though you have known me forever. But after Kirkwall's destruction . . . Astarion, you are more remarkable than you understand, for until you, I did not let a single person close to me.
[His mind drifts back. He does not like to think about those years, not if he can help it; they were long and lonely and hard, and the only good thing he can say about them is that he was at least useful during them.]
I was so hurt, and in my rage and confusion and grief, I became bitter. I wandered the wilds endlessly, desperate to find anyone and anything I could take my emotions out upon. I refused to go back to Kirkwall; I refused to allow myself the pleasure of any kind of company. Eventually, I found bitter satisfaction at killing slavers . . . and I will not say I did not get pleasure out of freeing their captives, but it was no altruism that motivated me. I was bloody and vicious and mean, and what allies I gained I kept at an arm's length, treating them like subordinates and little else.
[For the first time in a long, long time, his mind flashes to Shirallas. Perhaps if he had . . . but he has long since learned not to ask what if. What if I had been more to him, what if I had taught him better, what if, what if, what if, but who can say? For a moment Leto's eyes dart away, his brow furrowing— but though it is a painful story to relate, perhaps it will help.]
There was . . . an elf I knew once. A Dalish, believe it or not. Shirallas was his name . . . we worked together for some time freeing elves who had been captured and were heading to the slave markets. He was full of rage, just as I was, and that suited us both. I saw a great deal of myself within him, but he was young and inexperienced with magisters and their ilk.
There was a night by the fire . . .
[How do these things go? A touch, a glance, words unspoken and questions unasked. Roughened fingertips brushing curiously against his thigh, and Fenris—]
He made an overture, and I rejected him. I did not just demure, but warned him off so sharply he did not dare try it again. What might have been friendship or, indeed, even something more became a tense working relationship. And it was not long after that he disobeyed my commands and followed his own mad plan to take down a magister.
[A few moments pass, and then Fenris sighs heavily.]
He tried to go undercover. We knew there was a magister who was training slaves to become mage-killers; he wanted to pose as a captured Dalish and learn their secrets. But the magister saw through him in an instant, and I could not free him. I thought him lost, until years and years later . . .
[Another pause.]
The magister had found Danarius' notes. The sarcophagus he used to sear my flesh and prepare it for lyrium. And when I found Shirallas, trying to rescue him, he told me that he was close. That he wanted that power for himself. He deluded himself into thinking that his master wasn't pulling his strings, and that he was still undercover.
He got his wish, in a way. But whereas Danarius had used pure lyrium for me . . . he used red lyrium for Shirallas. And it drove him mad.
[Gods. Leto's face has gone grim, his eyes distant. Then, abruptly:]
I put him down. [Friend, he whimpered questioningly up at Leto, and years later, it still hurts to recall.] Beheaded him and buried his corpse . . . and I was all the more closed off for years after that.
1/2
[The softest demure as he stares up at Astarion, his expression as unguarded as he can make it. There's nothing he won't share with his mate, nothing he'll ever deny him— but that's different than the two of them being able to understand each other without a single word. Grief lines Astarion's face, misery making his eyes overbright and his mouth soft, but Leto cannot fully guess the source. Not yet, anyway.]
Come here, sweet . . .
[Petname intentionally echoed as he gathers him up more fully: leaning back against the bed and urging Astarion to fall further in his arms, so that the vampire isn't straddling him so much as sitting in his lap. Leto wraps his arms around him, kissing his forehead, his cheek, each motion gravely doting. He won't patronize, not now of all times— but gods, Astarion deserves some comfort.
Only once they're settled does he resume with a sigh.]
I did cut it out. All of it. After Kirkwall . . .
[A beat, and ruefully:]
I forget often that you did not know me back then, for at times it feels as though you have known me forever. But after Kirkwall's destruction . . . Astarion, you are more remarkable than you understand, for until you, I did not let a single person close to me.
[His mind drifts back. He does not like to think about those years, not if he can help it; they were long and lonely and hard, and the only good thing he can say about them is that he was at least useful during them.]
I was so hurt, and in my rage and confusion and grief, I became bitter. I wandered the wilds endlessly, desperate to find anyone and anything I could take my emotions out upon. I refused to go back to Kirkwall; I refused to allow myself the pleasure of any kind of company. Eventually, I found bitter satisfaction at killing slavers . . . and I will not say I did not get pleasure out of freeing their captives, but it was no altruism that motivated me. I was bloody and vicious and mean, and what allies I gained I kept at an arm's length, treating them like subordinates and little else.
[For the first time in a long, long time, his mind flashes to Shirallas. Perhaps if he had . . . but he has long since learned not to ask what if. What if I had been more to him, what if I had taught him better, what if, what if, what if, but who can say? For a moment Leto's eyes dart away, his brow furrowing— but though it is a painful story to relate, perhaps it will help.]
There was . . . an elf I knew once. A Dalish, believe it or not. Shirallas was his name . . . we worked together for some time freeing elves who had been captured and were heading to the slave markets. He was full of rage, just as I was, and that suited us both. I saw a great deal of myself within him, but he was young and inexperienced with magisters and their ilk.
There was a night by the fire . . .
[How do these things go? A touch, a glance, words unspoken and questions unasked. Roughened fingertips brushing curiously against his thigh, and Fenris—]
He made an overture, and I rejected him. I did not just demure, but warned him off so sharply he did not dare try it again. What might have been friendship or, indeed, even something more became a tense working relationship. And it was not long after that he disobeyed my commands and followed his own mad plan to take down a magister.
[A few moments pass, and then Fenris sighs heavily.]
He tried to go undercover. We knew there was a magister who was training slaves to become mage-killers; he wanted to pose as a captured Dalish and learn their secrets. But the magister saw through him in an instant, and I could not free him. I thought him lost, until years and years later . . .
[Another pause.]
The magister had found Danarius' notes. The sarcophagus he used to sear my flesh and prepare it for lyrium. And when I found Shirallas, trying to rescue him, he told me that he was close. That he wanted that power for himself. He deluded himself into thinking that his master wasn't pulling his strings, and that he was still undercover.
He got his wish, in a way. But whereas Danarius had used pure lyrium for me . . . he used red lyrium for Shirallas. And it drove him mad.
[Gods. Leto's face has gone grim, his eyes distant. Then, abruptly:]
I put him down. [Friend, he whimpered questioningly up at Leto, and years later, it still hurts to recall.] Beheaded him and buried his corpse . . . and I was all the more closed off for years after that.