They will. I doubt any of them would have survived for long if they did not possess enough instincts to know that.
[If he spares them, and the truth is that no matter what Astarion decides, Leto will back him regardless of personal feeling. He'll hold the knife or keep his siblings from fleeing, stoic-faced and determined, there's no question of that. But privately, in his heart of hearts, he hopes Astarion won't.
Killing Varania would not have destroyed him. He still believes that even years later. Murdering her would have been a twisted form of justice, and though it might have embittered him further, he does not think even now it would have been wrong. But . . . nor can he deny that sparing her helped him. In some intangible, unknowable way . . . it helped him move past the betrayal more easily, perhaps, by knowing that he was better than her. That, if given the choice, he could be more than just a mindless caricature of an elf dancing along a magistrate's strings.
But that's for later. He strokes his fingers against Astarion's own, soft and soothing, before gently nudging them back.]
Help me sit up . . .
[Grunted out as he struggles to rise without exacerbating his injuries. It's just for a few minutes— just long enough that he can focus himself, for this isn't a spell that comes naturally to sorcerers. Still: the benefit of having an excellent wizard as one's tutor means (as Gale told him) that so many spells can be taught, if one's pupil is dedicated enough. Simply twist your hand like this, and repeat after me, and the words were so easy to remember when they always sound like a bastardized form of Tevene.]
Pone terrorem . . .
[He glances over at the puppish pile (Ataashi's blazing eyes fixed anxiously upon him, her chin resting atop the two fat little orbs that have passed out in their terrified exhaustion) and adds:]
Sine catulis et lupo.
[There's a faint tang of iron in the air, cold and brittle, as blue sparks fly from Leto's fingers out towards the room. They nestle in the window and doorframe, in the wreckage of the coffin and out towards the bloodstained floor: embedding themselves into every surface they can reach, wriggling into the wood before disappearing with a little pop.]
There.
[There, now, and he leans on Astarion's guiding hands as he eases back down, biting back a wince as he does.]
Now we will have an alarm if anyone, save you or I or our hounds, will come near.
[It will not put Astarion fully at ease, but perhaps it will help. Leto glances up at him through dark lashes, taking in the coiled tension in his muscles and the way his eyes dart around the room, his attention split only by the way he turns to ensure Leto isn't bleeding out or suffering unduly.]
They are licking their wounds, amatus. Trust I know the terror of yet another wave being sent— but I doubt any enthralled slave is as deadly as a vampiric spawn, and he has no more left in reserve right now.
no subject
[If he spares them, and the truth is that no matter what Astarion decides, Leto will back him regardless of personal feeling. He'll hold the knife or keep his siblings from fleeing, stoic-faced and determined, there's no question of that. But privately, in his heart of hearts, he hopes Astarion won't.
Killing Varania would not have destroyed him. He still believes that even years later. Murdering her would have been a twisted form of justice, and though it might have embittered him further, he does not think even now it would have been wrong. But . . . nor can he deny that sparing her helped him. In some intangible, unknowable way . . . it helped him move past the betrayal more easily, perhaps, by knowing that he was better than her. That, if given the choice, he could be more than just a mindless caricature of an elf dancing along a magistrate's strings.
But that's for later. He strokes his fingers against Astarion's own, soft and soothing, before gently nudging them back.]
Help me sit up . . .
[Grunted out as he struggles to rise without exacerbating his injuries. It's just for a few minutes— just long enough that he can focus himself, for this isn't a spell that comes naturally to sorcerers. Still: the benefit of having an excellent wizard as one's tutor means (as Gale told him) that so many spells can be taught, if one's pupil is dedicated enough. Simply twist your hand like this, and repeat after me, and the words were so easy to remember when they always sound like a bastardized form of Tevene.]
Pone terrorem . . .
[He glances over at the puppish pile (Ataashi's blazing eyes fixed anxiously upon him, her chin resting atop the two fat little orbs that have passed out in their terrified exhaustion) and adds:]
Sine catulis et lupo.
[There's a faint tang of iron in the air, cold and brittle, as blue sparks fly from Leto's fingers out towards the room. They nestle in the window and doorframe, in the wreckage of the coffin and out towards the bloodstained floor: embedding themselves into every surface they can reach, wriggling into the wood before disappearing with a little pop.]
There.
[There, now, and he leans on Astarion's guiding hands as he eases back down, biting back a wince as he does.]
Now we will have an alarm if anyone, save you or I or our hounds, will come near.
[It will not put Astarion fully at ease, but perhaps it will help. Leto glances up at him through dark lashes, taking in the coiled tension in his muscles and the way his eyes dart around the room, his attention split only by the way he turns to ensure Leto isn't bleeding out or suffering unduly.]
They are licking their wounds, amatus. Trust I know the terror of yet another wave being sent— but I doubt any enthralled slave is as deadly as a vampiric spawn, and he has no more left in reserve right now.