[An old habit, but a beloved one. Has Leto ever told him that? How much it touches him even now (perhaps especially now) that his mate takes such care to never hurt him. Always he has minded his markings; always he has tended to them, whether that meant stoking the fire during the worst of winter or simply making sure he always took his arm instead of grabbing his hand. It's no mean feat, not especially when so much of his body is covered in those markings, and yet Astarion has never once erred. Leto's fingers curl, his body shifting as he makes room for Astarion to rest more fully against him: come here, his other arm wrapping tight around his shoulder, his thumb stroking gently against the curve.
It helps. To feel familiar weight against his chest, the two of them fitting together as naturally as anything; to hear that steady voice, no matter what words slip out. It keeps him grounded in the present instead of lingering in the miserable past— and it means that he can huff out a wry laugh in response to that observation.]
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
[Another kiss to silver curls, and this time Leto lingers there, comforted by the familiar scent.]
Recover in the sense of going back to how one used to be . . . no, I think not. I will never be the person I was before Kirkwall— nor, indeed, the person I was before Shirallas. Or the Fog Warriors.
[A breath, and then:]
But recover in the sense of learning how to become something more than just a scarred creature reeling from his hurts . . . yes, I think so. It may take time, but . . . it took me seven years to recover from Danarius and all the effects fleeing had on me, and even then, I was not fully healed. But in the past three years . . . I have watched both of us grow and recover. I have seen you become so much more than you were . . . so much more than Cazador or Riftwatch ever gave you credit for.
You are kind, Astarion. To me you are, [he insists, knowing what protest Astarion will offer.] Thoughtful. Devoted in ways that I did not ever dream I was capable of having. You are clever in ways I am not, [and there's a little smile for the memory of the day that Astarion had tried and failed to teach Leto even the basics of picking locks.] You face your fears rather than flee from them, and that is more than I could ever accomplish when I was only three years out of freedom.
I told you once that I was in awe of how well you functioned only a year free. I still stand by it.
I will not say that our enslavement hasn't left scars. [He catches Astarion's cheek with his palm, tipping his head up and drawing back so their eyes can meet.] And I will not dare pretend that it is not a deeply embittering thing to look back at recovered memories, wondering what might have happened if you had not been broken and suffered the way you did.
It hurts. It hurts to see what you might have had, whether via my memories or yours. But do not mistake that for thinking you are broken irreparably.
You cut those things out to save yourself. And yet now, slowly, you are allowing them back in. Piece by piece . . . and there is no rush.
no subject
It helps. To feel familiar weight against his chest, the two of them fitting together as naturally as anything; to hear that steady voice, no matter what words slip out. It keeps him grounded in the present instead of lingering in the miserable past— and it means that he can huff out a wry laugh in response to that observation.]
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
[Another kiss to silver curls, and this time Leto lingers there, comforted by the familiar scent.]
Recover in the sense of going back to how one used to be . . . no, I think not. I will never be the person I was before Kirkwall— nor, indeed, the person I was before Shirallas. Or the Fog Warriors.
[A breath, and then:]
But recover in the sense of learning how to become something more than just a scarred creature reeling from his hurts . . . yes, I think so. It may take time, but . . . it took me seven years to recover from Danarius and all the effects fleeing had on me, and even then, I was not fully healed. But in the past three years . . . I have watched both of us grow and recover. I have seen you become so much more than you were . . . so much more than Cazador or Riftwatch ever gave you credit for.
You are kind, Astarion. To me you are, [he insists, knowing what protest Astarion will offer.] Thoughtful. Devoted in ways that I did not ever dream I was capable of having. You are clever in ways I am not, [and there's a little smile for the memory of the day that Astarion had tried and failed to teach Leto even the basics of picking locks.] You face your fears rather than flee from them, and that is more than I could ever accomplish when I was only three years out of freedom.
I told you once that I was in awe of how well you functioned only a year free. I still stand by it.
I will not say that our enslavement hasn't left scars. [He catches Astarion's cheek with his palm, tipping his head up and drawing back so their eyes can meet.] And I will not dare pretend that it is not a deeply embittering thing to look back at recovered memories, wondering what might have happened if you had not been broken and suffered the way you did.
It hurts. It hurts to see what you might have had, whether via my memories or yours. But do not mistake that for thinking you are broken irreparably.
You cut those things out to save yourself. And yet now, slowly, you are allowing them back in. Piece by piece . . . and there is no rush.