['No, you aren't,' she agrees evenly, unperturbed by that growing tension. 'Even if you were in two places at once, memories change a person. You aren't who we know, and it's foolish to act as though you are.'
She finally raises her hands off Leto's stomach. The flesh there is tender and sore, with blackened bruises taking the place of tan skin, but still: the wound is closed. His shoulder comes next, and she grimaces in sympathy as she peels away the bandages.
'They certainly dug into you,' she says to him, and doesn't miss the way Leto's eyes dart over to Astarion as the scent of blood wafts in the air.
'You know,' Shadowheart begins, pressing her hands to the wound, and presses her hands to the wound. The glow is brighter than before, so much so that Leto has to turn away— but he can feel her magic working harder. Trying to speed up the process at least a little, just so the scent of blood isn't quite so prominent. 'When my memories were taken from me, I was desperate to find out who I used to be. I told myself I wasn't, of course, and there's still so much that I don't know . . . but I met a friend once, and asked her all I could about who I used to be. It was odd. Dissonant, and yet not bad.']
You find yourself in similar company, then, if your memories were stolen.
[Gods, what a duo they make. A trio, maybe, but Leto won't insult Astarion by saying so.]
How were yours—?
['I once worshipped Shar,' Shadowheart says, as if that's any kind of explanation. 'And she valued darkness and secrecy above all else. My memories were taken from me so I couldn't betray my cloister . . . though I think, now, it was done out of cruelty. Which suited her too.
'Don't get me wrong,' she adds. 'I'm not trying to hint that you're secretly pining to find out who you— or this other Astarion— were. I'm just saying: you aren't speaking to someone who doesn't know what it's like to have people assume you're someone else, that's all. And you don't need to convince us. Gale and the others will learn soon enough. Though . . . how did you know to seek us out?']
no subject
She finally raises her hands off Leto's stomach. The flesh there is tender and sore, with blackened bruises taking the place of tan skin, but still: the wound is closed. His shoulder comes next, and she grimaces in sympathy as she peels away the bandages.
'They certainly dug into you,' she says to him, and doesn't miss the way Leto's eyes dart over to Astarion as the scent of blood wafts in the air.
'You know,' Shadowheart begins, pressing her hands to the wound, and presses her hands to the wound. The glow is brighter than before, so much so that Leto has to turn away— but he can feel her magic working harder. Trying to speed up the process at least a little, just so the scent of blood isn't quite so prominent. 'When my memories were taken from me, I was desperate to find out who I used to be. I told myself I wasn't, of course, and there's still so much that I don't know . . . but I met a friend once, and asked her all I could about who I used to be. It was odd. Dissonant, and yet not bad.']
You find yourself in similar company, then, if your memories were stolen.
[Gods, what a duo they make. A trio, maybe, but Leto won't insult Astarion by saying so.]
How were yours—?
['I once worshipped Shar,' Shadowheart says, as if that's any kind of explanation. 'And she valued darkness and secrecy above all else. My memories were taken from me so I couldn't betray my cloister . . . though I think, now, it was done out of cruelty. Which suited her too.
'Don't get me wrong,' she adds. 'I'm not trying to hint that you're secretly pining to find out who you— or this other Astarion— were. I'm just saying: you aren't speaking to someone who doesn't know what it's like to have people assume you're someone else, that's all. And you don't need to convince us. Gale and the others will learn soon enough. Though . . . how did you know to seek us out?']