That's how you survive. That's how they've always done it, whether suffering through torment or tending to their fretful hearts. One more minute, one more hour, one more day, and in that way you build a life. Three years is nothing compared to two centuries, but give it another decade, perhaps, and some of that fear will have lessened through sheer repetition alone. I'm not leaving, and it doesn't matter how often they need to have the conversation, only that they have it. I won't ever leave you, my heart. I could not bear it. I have never known a love like yours; I have never known the kind of joy you bring me. I want to worship you, devote myself to you, serve you, adore you, keep you safe from all harm. I love you more than anything in this world, every world, and there is nothing that would make me stray from your side.
Every slow nuzzle whispers it; every brush of his lips and purring rumble deep in his throat swears it. I love you, I love you, I love you, and he stares into those tired eyes, thumbing at his cheeks in echoing supplication.]
Tonight is enough.
[He murmurs it and leans in, kissing his forehead with aching tenderness. A muted sort of relief and a quiet joy twist together to form a bittersweet sort of ache in his heart, amplified as he draws back to smile down at him.]
I love you.
[Just a little briskly: a fact, not a sweet lie, and punctuation to this conversation. His thumbs sweep over the curve of his cheeks again, one last bit of tenderness, before Leto tips his head.]
Now come to bed.
[Come to coffin, in fact. They part only so they can finish their preparations for the night (Astarion donning dark silk while Leto shimmies solely into a pair of sleeping pants, for even in winter the coffin is a surprisingly insulated thing). And when they settle in and Astarion closes the lid over them, they murmur in the darkness: the conversation drifting this way and that, nonsensical and a little silly, until at last, without quite meaning to, Leto falls asleep.
And wakes to the sound of growling.
Low and vicious, an endless snarl that only rises in volume as the seconds tick past. It's Ataashi, Leto realizes dimly, still struggling to wake. Ataashi as he has never heard her, coward that she is, and for one bewildered moment Leto wonders if perhaps she's spotted herself in the mirror or gotten bitten by Montressor—
Until he hears voices.
Low murmurs and urgent whispers hissing at one another. 'Shut her up,' a woman snaps, her voice rising above the rest. 'Kill her before she wakes him—'
And suddenly the world narrows as adrenaline floods his system, sickly sweet and nauseating, panic turning into terror turning into that distant dissociation that marks entering a battle. The voices blur (but not fade), individual words nonsensical and yet each one marked for later examination. Time slows, each second passing like molasses as a thousand thoughts race through his mind— and then disappear, eclipsed by the burst of white-hot clarity that sears through this mind.
Attack—
With a bang the coffin lid flies open as Leto leaps out, his sword materializing in his hand. No time to stop, no time to think: he takes in the frozen snapshot scene (six foes with hollow eyes and glistening fangs stand before Ataashi, their presence foreign and strange and so achingly wrong amongst all their familiar trappings) even as he rushes forward. And as his heart thunders like a drum in his chest, as his blade whips through the air, he does not think so much as feel the words—
They will not take him.
It's a searing command carved into his very bones; he could no more disobey it than he could fly. Adrenaline screams as it floods his veins, but there's nothing but hissing silence as without warning he throws himself forward (don't waste your breath, focus on your attack). Like a wraith he darts among them, weaving his way between their ranks, and it isn't until steel meets flesh that his foes seem to realize what's happening. With a shout they turn on him with inhuman speed, claws outstretched and teeth bared, ready to rip him into shreds—
Only to be met with a blade that crackles with lightning and sings with lyrium. He moves so fast that it seems inhuman, his blade an endless whir that's impossible to track. Six on one isn't a fight, it's a massacre— but if that's true, no one told Leto, for he fights with a feral, fixated intensity. Seething rage and deadly focus have twinned to revive a creature who was once broken and reshaped to become the perfect killing machine (who still smells the surf somehow beneath everything else, who has slaughtered far more than just six at a time). Again and again his sword meets whatever flesh it can find, blood spraying from countless wounds to thighs and arms and torsos.
Two of them are downed almost immediately (two vanish with a flash of black light and a gesture, though only later will Leto realize what that means); the other four waver, hesitating, and that's their mistake, for Leto does not. One flick of his hand and a whirling tornado of shattered glass and knives suddenly appears right where the gnome stands. He shrieks in pain as he rushes forward, only to gut himself like a fish on Leto's waiting blade.
(Three).
Two of the women leap upon him, grabbing his arms (one wrenches his right arm back as , his bones creaking warningly, as another bites down deep into his left)— only to scream in terrible harmony as a burst of blinding light fills the room, the scent of seared flesh suddenly thick in the air. Lightning crackles through Leto, coating his sword and pulsing through him; with a bellow he follows after them, stabbing one after the other square in the chest. They cry out— they beg— they howl in pain and he does not care, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing until with a feeble burst they too vanish.
(Five—)
But even as they disappear, the male elf leaps with a snarl, his hands wrenching Leto's head to one side; it's only with the greatest of efforts that Leto twists, the bite sinking deep into his shoulder instead. The spawn tears away a chunk of flesh and spits it out with a gag, reeling as he wretches— and then screaming as Leto's blade stabs back and slices deep into his side. Leto twists, turning wildly, only to be met with claws that rake deep into his throat and chest, splitting flesh open wide; he staggers back, faltering, gasping for air that won't come, and the elf follows with a triumphant cry—
Only to shriek as the illusion vanishes and Leto leaps from the side, grabbing him by the throat and yanking him forward. Their foreheads smash together with a sickening thunk; the spawn reels, dazed but not downed, and so Leto does it again, ignoring the searing burst of pain that that blossoms behind his eye. And then his blade rises, swinging so sweetly through the air in a perfect arc to connect with the spawn's neck and slice right through—
And continues swinging as the elf abruptly vanishes.
And what then? And what then? And what then, and Leto turns, his eyes wide and wild, his teeth bared in a snarl as he searches frantically for another enemy, another foe, another vampire, they will not have him—]
no subject
That's how you survive. That's how they've always done it, whether suffering through torment or tending to their fretful hearts. One more minute, one more hour, one more day, and in that way you build a life. Three years is nothing compared to two centuries, but give it another decade, perhaps, and some of that fear will have lessened through sheer repetition alone. I'm not leaving, and it doesn't matter how often they need to have the conversation, only that they have it. I won't ever leave you, my heart. I could not bear it. I have never known a love like yours; I have never known the kind of joy you bring me. I want to worship you, devote myself to you, serve you, adore you, keep you safe from all harm. I love you more than anything in this world, every world, and there is nothing that would make me stray from your side.
Every slow nuzzle whispers it; every brush of his lips and purring rumble deep in his throat swears it. I love you, I love you, I love you, and he stares into those tired eyes, thumbing at his cheeks in echoing supplication.]
Tonight is enough.
[He murmurs it and leans in, kissing his forehead with aching tenderness. A muted sort of relief and a quiet joy twist together to form a bittersweet sort of ache in his heart, amplified as he draws back to smile down at him.]
I love you.
[Just a little briskly: a fact, not a sweet lie, and punctuation to this conversation. His thumbs sweep over the curve of his cheeks again, one last bit of tenderness, before Leto tips his head.]
Now come to bed.
[Come to coffin, in fact. They part only so they can finish their preparations for the night (Astarion donning dark silk while Leto shimmies solely into a pair of sleeping pants, for even in winter the coffin is a surprisingly insulated thing). And when they settle in and Astarion closes the lid over them, they murmur in the darkness: the conversation drifting this way and that, nonsensical and a little silly, until at last, without quite meaning to, Leto falls asleep.
And wakes to the sound of growling.
Low and vicious, an endless snarl that only rises in volume as the seconds tick past. It's Ataashi, Leto realizes dimly, still struggling to wake. Ataashi as he has never heard her, coward that she is, and for one bewildered moment Leto wonders if perhaps she's spotted herself in the mirror or gotten bitten by Montressor—
Until he hears voices.
Low murmurs and urgent whispers hissing at one another. 'Shut her up,' a woman snaps, her voice rising above the rest. 'Kill her before she wakes him—'
And suddenly the world narrows as adrenaline floods his system, sickly sweet and nauseating, panic turning into terror turning into that distant dissociation that marks entering a battle. The voices blur (but not fade), individual words nonsensical and yet each one marked for later examination. Time slows, each second passing like molasses as a thousand thoughts race through his mind— and then disappear, eclipsed by the burst of white-hot clarity that sears through this mind.
Attack—
With a bang the coffin lid flies open as Leto leaps out, his sword materializing in his hand. No time to stop, no time to think: he takes in the frozen snapshot scene (six foes with hollow eyes and glistening fangs stand before Ataashi, their presence foreign and strange and so achingly wrong amongst all their familiar trappings) even as he rushes forward. And as his heart thunders like a drum in his chest, as his blade whips through the air, he does not think so much as feel the words—
They will not take him.
It's a searing command carved into his very bones; he could no more disobey it than he could fly. Adrenaline screams as it floods his veins, but there's nothing but hissing silence as without warning he throws himself forward (don't waste your breath, focus on your attack). Like a wraith he darts among them, weaving his way between their ranks, and it isn't until steel meets flesh that his foes seem to realize what's happening. With a shout they turn on him with inhuman speed, claws outstretched and teeth bared, ready to rip him into shreds—
Only to be met with a blade that crackles with lightning and sings with lyrium. He moves so fast that it seems inhuman, his blade an endless whir that's impossible to track. Six on one isn't a fight, it's a massacre— but if that's true, no one told Leto, for he fights with a feral, fixated intensity. Seething rage and deadly focus have twinned to revive a creature who was once broken and reshaped to become the perfect killing machine (who still smells the surf somehow beneath everything else, who has slaughtered far more than just six at a time). Again and again his sword meets whatever flesh it can find, blood spraying from countless wounds to thighs and arms and torsos.
Two of them are downed almost immediately (two vanish with a flash of black light and a gesture, though only later will Leto realize what that means); the other four waver, hesitating, and that's their mistake, for Leto does not. One flick of his hand and a whirling tornado of shattered glass and knives suddenly appears right where the gnome stands. He shrieks in pain as he rushes forward, only to gut himself like a fish on Leto's waiting blade.
(Three).
Two of the women leap upon him, grabbing his arms (one wrenches his right arm back as , his bones creaking warningly, as another bites down deep into his left)— only to scream in terrible harmony as a burst of blinding light fills the room, the scent of seared flesh suddenly thick in the air. Lightning crackles through Leto, coating his sword and pulsing through him; with a bellow he follows after them, stabbing one after the other square in the chest. They cry out— they beg— they howl in pain and he does not care, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing until with a feeble burst they too vanish.
(Five—)
But even as they disappear, the male elf leaps with a snarl, his hands wrenching Leto's head to one side; it's only with the greatest of efforts that Leto twists, the bite sinking deep into his shoulder instead. The spawn tears away a chunk of flesh and spits it out with a gag, reeling as he wretches— and then screaming as Leto's blade stabs back and slices deep into his side. Leto twists, turning wildly, only to be met with claws that rake deep into his throat and chest, splitting flesh open wide; he staggers back, faltering, gasping for air that won't come, and the elf follows with a triumphant cry—
Only to shriek as the illusion vanishes and Leto leaps from the side, grabbing him by the throat and yanking him forward. Their foreheads smash together with a sickening thunk; the spawn reels, dazed but not downed, and so Leto does it again, ignoring the searing burst of pain that that blossoms behind his eye. And then his blade rises, swinging so sweetly through the air in a perfect arc to connect with the spawn's neck and slice right through—
And continues swinging as the elf abruptly vanishes.
And what then? And what then? And what then, and Leto turns, his eyes wide and wild, his teeth bared in a snarl as he searches frantically for another enemy, another foe, another vampire, they will not have him—]