Right now, with your voice in my ears and your arms around me? No.
[Of course not. Questions of blame aside, it's so easy to push that away and dismiss it as something ultimately irrelevant, barely worth remembering. Even later, when Astarion lies in an undead slumber and Leto nestles sleeplessly at his side, he will be able to recall this conversation and take solace from it.
But . . .]
But when I brood over all the mistakes I have made since coming to this world— all the ways in which I have put you in danger, or asked things of you that are not fair, or even simply misunderstood who and what you were . . .
I am not used to that, you know. [It's said a touch abruptly, his wandering thoughts consolidating into a singular point.] We have always been alike. I have always had a point of reference when it comes to the things you have suffered and lived through, even if the torment was not the same. From the moment I first met you— both times— I understood you.
And now . . . it is a little harder.
[Not impossible. But it takes more effort than it once did, and that frightens him.]
And I fear that there are times where that divide is too much. That I am too— too young, too foolish in this world, not understanding that I was starving you, unwittingly setting the very same limits upon you that Cazador once had, and all in the name of naivety. Speaking too loudly of stakes and sunlight and coffins, or lying poorly when my friends asked why you never came out during the day.
And sooner or later . . .
[He doesn't know. Something, a nebulous dead-drop that ends the way it always does for Leto: alone and bitter. Whether that means Astarion tires of having his life endangered by his youthful companion or something goes dreadfully wrong, still, somehow it will all end badly.
He draws back just enough to glance down at Astarion, though he does not force him to catch his eye. His hand cups his cheek, his thumb sweeping gently over the curve.]
When you were stolen by the Rifts, I ran for you. I had slaughtered and threatened my way through Kirkwall and down the trade routes, confirming you hadn't been kidnapped or killed, and when I did . . . I ran to the Crossroads, mourning you all the while, and made my way through.
And make no mistake, amatus: I was terrified. Every moment spirits flocked to my lyrium which felt as though it would tear my skin asunder, and it was agonizing. I heard their whispers and cries, offering me anything in the world if I would only submit . . . and there was such a slim chance of finding you. I was tempted. More than once, I was tempted, for to find not just the right door, but the right time . . . I thought it nigh-impossible. I feared that I might wander there forever, unable to find my way back or forward, until at last death or madness overtook me.
[A slow, steady exhale, and then he continues:]
But there was no other option. Not in my mind. It was not a question of if, for I would not be separated from you, not if there was even the slightest chance I could find you again.
[Gently:]
You cannot imagine, after all that, that I would leave you. Not for any slight, large or small. Not for any blood on your hands, nor sin that wears at your soul. There is nothing that could ever make me not love you . . .
no subject
[Of course not. Questions of blame aside, it's so easy to push that away and dismiss it as something ultimately irrelevant, barely worth remembering. Even later, when Astarion lies in an undead slumber and Leto nestles sleeplessly at his side, he will be able to recall this conversation and take solace from it.
But . . .]
But when I brood over all the mistakes I have made since coming to this world— all the ways in which I have put you in danger, or asked things of you that are not fair, or even simply misunderstood who and what you were . . .
I am not used to that, you know. [It's said a touch abruptly, his wandering thoughts consolidating into a singular point.] We have always been alike. I have always had a point of reference when it comes to the things you have suffered and lived through, even if the torment was not the same. From the moment I first met you— both times— I understood you.
And now . . . it is a little harder.
[Not impossible. But it takes more effort than it once did, and that frightens him.]
And I fear that there are times where that divide is too much. That I am too— too young, too foolish in this world, not understanding that I was starving you, unwittingly setting the very same limits upon you that Cazador once had, and all in the name of naivety. Speaking too loudly of stakes and sunlight and coffins, or lying poorly when my friends asked why you never came out during the day.
And sooner or later . . .
[He doesn't know. Something, a nebulous dead-drop that ends the way it always does for Leto: alone and bitter. Whether that means Astarion tires of having his life endangered by his youthful companion or something goes dreadfully wrong, still, somehow it will all end badly.
He draws back just enough to glance down at Astarion, though he does not force him to catch his eye. His hand cups his cheek, his thumb sweeping gently over the curve.]
When you were stolen by the Rifts, I ran for you. I had slaughtered and threatened my way through Kirkwall and down the trade routes, confirming you hadn't been kidnapped or killed, and when I did . . . I ran to the Crossroads, mourning you all the while, and made my way through.
And make no mistake, amatus: I was terrified. Every moment spirits flocked to my lyrium which felt as though it would tear my skin asunder, and it was agonizing. I heard their whispers and cries, offering me anything in the world if I would only submit . . . and there was such a slim chance of finding you. I was tempted. More than once, I was tempted, for to find not just the right door, but the right time . . . I thought it nigh-impossible. I feared that I might wander there forever, unable to find my way back or forward, until at last death or madness overtook me.
[A slow, steady exhale, and then he continues:]
But there was no other option. Not in my mind. It was not a question of if, for I would not be separated from you, not if there was even the slightest chance I could find you again.
[Gently:]
You cannot imagine, after all that, that I would leave you. Not for any slight, large or small. Not for any blood on your hands, nor sin that wears at your soul. There is nothing that could ever make me not love you . . .
And yet here we are.