That's the underlying truth. Not the whole truth, for in this they are the same: there is not a single doubt in Leto's mind that their blood is on Cazador's hands. What slave can be blamed for his master's sins? None of them. It's so easy for others to claim otherwise— to condemn those in bondage for not rising up and breaking their chains, stopping those in power from evil acts . . . gods, he can remember that in Minrathous. Some disgraced laetan had been stupid enough to get caught using blood magic, and the magisterium was making a grand show of punishing him by stripping him of his title and his land. For morality's sake, they claimed. And the next day, all anyone had been able to talk about was how awful it was that none of those dead slaves had made a move to save their fellows, even if it was at the cost of their own life.
Those children aren't Astarion's fault, no matter what their kin thinks.
He watches Astarion carefully as he moves, caught somewhere between direct focus and distant reflection. Almost without realizing it he studies the lines of his bare back, tracing the scar tissue in all its jagged, vicious glory. Seven beloved vampire spawn and seven thousand souls, and even now, Leto fancies he can smell the ash and brimstone as Raphael's voice echoes in his mind. Seven spawn and seven thousand souls . . .
Seven thousand, the number so vast as to overwhelm, and how would you accrue that many? Mortals need upkeep. They need food and water and shelter, sleep and maintenance; gods know Leto remembers Danarius grousing over how much money it cost him to keep his slaves relatively healthy and hale. They need to be kept in a place where they can't kill themselves easily, either, and mortal bodies are so very good at dying, especially in despair. And the disappearance of seven thousand would alert anyone, even if all the souls you stole were vagrants and thieves . . .
But if you did it slowly— if you turned them all and kept them in walls, in cells, in dark, secret places where they could be stored away like silverware, their sanity optional so long as their soul was still intact . . . some were eaten, Leto has no doubt. Astarion fetching prey was no mere lie, but suddenly the scope of it begins to take form. A thousand souls per spawn, drawn out over the course of centuries . . . oh, yes. Oh, yes, you could do that easily, so long as you didn't mind being patient.]
Is it possible to turn a child?
[A beat, and then, almost to himself:]
I wonder if they expect revenge or a rescue . . .
[And it doesn't matter, not really. Not compared to the here and now. Leto's eyes flick up, focusing more on Astarion as he adds:]
no subject
That's the underlying truth. Not the whole truth, for in this they are the same: there is not a single doubt in Leto's mind that their blood is on Cazador's hands. What slave can be blamed for his master's sins? None of them. It's so easy for others to claim otherwise— to condemn those in bondage for not rising up and breaking their chains, stopping those in power from evil acts . . . gods, he can remember that in Minrathous. Some disgraced laetan had been stupid enough to get caught using blood magic, and the magisterium was making a grand show of punishing him by stripping him of his title and his land. For morality's sake, they claimed. And the next day, all anyone had been able to talk about was how awful it was that none of those dead slaves had made a move to save their fellows, even if it was at the cost of their own life.
Those children aren't Astarion's fault, no matter what their kin thinks.
He watches Astarion carefully as he moves, caught somewhere between direct focus and distant reflection. Almost without realizing it he studies the lines of his bare back, tracing the scar tissue in all its jagged, vicious glory. Seven beloved vampire spawn and seven thousand souls, and even now, Leto fancies he can smell the ash and brimstone as Raphael's voice echoes in his mind. Seven spawn and seven thousand souls . . .
Seven thousand, the number so vast as to overwhelm, and how would you accrue that many? Mortals need upkeep. They need food and water and shelter, sleep and maintenance; gods know Leto remembers Danarius grousing over how much money it cost him to keep his slaves relatively healthy and hale. They need to be kept in a place where they can't kill themselves easily, either, and mortal bodies are so very good at dying, especially in despair. And the disappearance of seven thousand would alert anyone, even if all the souls you stole were vagrants and thieves . . .
But if you did it slowly— if you turned them all and kept them in walls, in cells, in dark, secret places where they could be stored away like silverware, their sanity optional so long as their soul was still intact . . . some were eaten, Leto has no doubt. Astarion fetching prey was no mere lie, but suddenly the scope of it begins to take form. A thousand souls per spawn, drawn out over the course of centuries . . . oh, yes. Oh, yes, you could do that easily, so long as you didn't mind being patient.]
Is it possible to turn a child?
[A beat, and then, almost to himself:]
I wonder if they expect revenge or a rescue . . .
[And it doesn't matter, not really. Not compared to the here and now. Leto's eyes flick up, focusing more on Astarion as he adds:]
Do you remember them?