[He half-expects Raphael to appear in a burst of brimstone and smoke, but there's nothing. The dull murmur downstairs doesn't alter; their room stays silent and contained, the door barred and the windows shuttered (for all the good it will do them).
Leto watches Astarion so carefully: direct where his lover is elusive, steady where Astarion might feel overwhelmed. His role now is to be a rock, steady and strong: not without malleability, but something Astarion can dash himself upon again and again without fear of consequences or lingering resentment. Someone to help Astarion stay grounded when two centuries of terror and grief will inevitably overwhelm him again and again, rising up like bile in his throat and smothering him into incoherence.
A breath, and then:]
. . . but they do not know you are here. They wondered where you had gone, and marveled at the fact you have stayed hidden. Cazador still thinks you alive— but he has no evidence to prove it just yet.
[They're facts offered steadily, and Leto tries so hard to keep anything else out of his tone. Above all, he doesn't want to offer any kind of false optimism: see, it isn't so bad!, when of course, it is. It's terrifying and nauseating and so overwhelming that there's nothing but the clawing panic of a trapped animal hearing the hunter approach step by heavy step—
He knows. He remembers.
And yet inevitably, Leto thinks, Astarion will lash out. That's part of it too.]
He does not know anything more than he did a day ago, or a week ago, or since we returned here. Nothing has changed.
[That's not true. He knows that's not true and he regrets it the moment he says it, but it's too late now. Stupid.]
I mean simply that— that we are in no more or less danger than we were before.
no subject
[He half-expects Raphael to appear in a burst of brimstone and smoke, but there's nothing. The dull murmur downstairs doesn't alter; their room stays silent and contained, the door barred and the windows shuttered (for all the good it will do them).
Leto watches Astarion so carefully: direct where his lover is elusive, steady where Astarion might feel overwhelmed. His role now is to be a rock, steady and strong: not without malleability, but something Astarion can dash himself upon again and again without fear of consequences or lingering resentment. Someone to help Astarion stay grounded when two centuries of terror and grief will inevitably overwhelm him again and again, rising up like bile in his throat and smothering him into incoherence.
A breath, and then:]
. . . but they do not know you are here. They wondered where you had gone, and marveled at the fact you have stayed hidden. Cazador still thinks you alive— but he has no evidence to prove it just yet.
[They're facts offered steadily, and Leto tries so hard to keep anything else out of his tone. Above all, he doesn't want to offer any kind of false optimism: see, it isn't so bad!, when of course, it is. It's terrifying and nauseating and so overwhelming that there's nothing but the clawing panic of a trapped animal hearing the hunter approach step by heavy step—
He knows. He remembers.
And yet inevitably, Leto thinks, Astarion will lash out. That's part of it too.]
He does not know anything more than he did a day ago, or a week ago, or since we returned here. Nothing has changed.
[That's not true. He knows that's not true and he regrets it the moment he says it, but it's too late now. Stupid.]
I mean simply that— that we are in no more or less danger than we were before.