The impulse flashes through his mind like lightning as delicate fingers trace over his bandages, reminding them both of what might be at stake. And it would make things easier, wouldn't it? Having two vampires ready to strike, and one of them not under any kind of blood compulsion . . . it would give them such an advantage. Astarion needn't worry about just how fragile his mortal lover is, either; he won't spend the battle fretting over every claw and fang and cry, his attention desperately split between fighting and protecting.
But . . .
Leto isn't ready.
For the very first time, the reality of what he'd be giving up sinks in. Not just the abstract, a heartbeat or the notion of life (and he has never known what it is to not have those things), but something more real. He thinks of his friends— of lying on a rock in Evereska, content as a cat as he'd basked in the sun and listened to his friends goad one another to leap down a waterfall. There'd be no more of that. There'd be no more excursions or random adventures, not when he'd have to become a reclusive thing, shying from sunlight and steeling himself to the sound of their hearts.
He thinks of the joy of walking through a crowded marketplace, unseen for how ordinary he is and yet still a thriving part of something bigger than himself, something living. He'd never had that before here, and even a year later, it's still something novel and wondrous to him. He thinks of the pups, and how they'll shy and whine and shiver until they learn to tolerate the scent of death; he thinks of how he'll never be able to befriend anyone easily again, not without keeping them at an arm's length for fear of how they might react to what he truly is.
He doesn't want to give that up yet. Not when this world gives him a life, dignity and strength and joy as he has never known it, oh, he isn't ready to give it up just yet.
No wonder Astarion had spoken so cautiously of changing him. No wonder he had painted it as something to be given at the end of centuries, when Leto's mortal lifeline finally faded. For it will be worth it to spend an eternity with his beloved, oh, yes— but at the end of his mortal life, not the very beginning. Not when he isn't even yet fully grown.
The thought lasts for only a flicker of a second before he pushes it away, focusing back on Astarion. Not yet, he affirms to himself, and cups Astarion's cheek, stroking him as he lingers close.]
This will be the last.
[It must be. It will be. They will reincarnate again and again (and oh, how that terrifies him as much as it thrills him), finding one another in every world, but not Cazador. Not anymore. He nuzzles fiercely against him, noses bumping and scuffing in familiar ritual equal parts adoration and assurance, and murmurs against his lips:]
You will slaughter him, and there will never be another moment where you need think of him again. He will become a footnote in your life, as Danarius is in mine, and you will know freedom as you never have before. And as the years pass, I will watch you grow as you have not been able to until now. In a decade— in a year— you will not recognize yourself, for the weight of two centuries will finally be off your shoulders. And you will know in your heart, as I know now, that you are so much more than a mere extension of him.
[Oh, he can't wait. He truly can't. It's nothing to do with the past and everything to do with the present: you are so much more than he ever let you be, and years later, Leto can still remember looking at himself in awe, watching himself do and say and be things without flinching, never once fearing what the repercussions might be.]
I would show you more . . . the memories that he does not taint. The dreams I have had that show us happy afterwards, or the ones where I suspect he has not entered our lives at all— for there are more than a few where that occurs, and we find bliss all the more easily. But . . .
[But first . . . he cocks his head, and asks, his tone gentle:]
Is there a part of you that wishes to turn me now?
[It's a question, not a trick— for if the thought had flashed through Leto's mind, perhaps it had flashed through Astarion's own.]
no subject
The impulse flashes through his mind like lightning as delicate fingers trace over his bandages, reminding them both of what might be at stake. And it would make things easier, wouldn't it? Having two vampires ready to strike, and one of them not under any kind of blood compulsion . . . it would give them such an advantage. Astarion needn't worry about just how fragile his mortal lover is, either; he won't spend the battle fretting over every claw and fang and cry, his attention desperately split between fighting and protecting.
But . . .
Leto isn't ready.
For the very first time, the reality of what he'd be giving up sinks in. Not just the abstract, a heartbeat or the notion of life (and he has never known what it is to not have those things), but something more real. He thinks of his friends— of lying on a rock in Evereska, content as a cat as he'd basked in the sun and listened to his friends goad one another to leap down a waterfall. There'd be no more of that. There'd be no more excursions or random adventures, not when he'd have to become a reclusive thing, shying from sunlight and steeling himself to the sound of their hearts.
He thinks of the joy of walking through a crowded marketplace, unseen for how ordinary he is and yet still a thriving part of something bigger than himself, something living. He'd never had that before here, and even a year later, it's still something novel and wondrous to him. He thinks of the pups, and how they'll shy and whine and shiver until they learn to tolerate the scent of death; he thinks of how he'll never be able to befriend anyone easily again, not without keeping them at an arm's length for fear of how they might react to what he truly is.
He doesn't want to give that up yet. Not when this world gives him a life, dignity and strength and joy as he has never known it, oh, he isn't ready to give it up just yet.
No wonder Astarion had spoken so cautiously of changing him. No wonder he had painted it as something to be given at the end of centuries, when Leto's mortal lifeline finally faded. For it will be worth it to spend an eternity with his beloved, oh, yes— but at the end of his mortal life, not the very beginning. Not when he isn't even yet fully grown.
The thought lasts for only a flicker of a second before he pushes it away, focusing back on Astarion. Not yet, he affirms to himself, and cups Astarion's cheek, stroking him as he lingers close.]
This will be the last.
[It must be. It will be. They will reincarnate again and again (and oh, how that terrifies him as much as it thrills him), finding one another in every world, but not Cazador. Not anymore. He nuzzles fiercely against him, noses bumping and scuffing in familiar ritual equal parts adoration and assurance, and murmurs against his lips:]
You will slaughter him, and there will never be another moment where you need think of him again. He will become a footnote in your life, as Danarius is in mine, and you will know freedom as you never have before. And as the years pass, I will watch you grow as you have not been able to until now. In a decade— in a year— you will not recognize yourself, for the weight of two centuries will finally be off your shoulders. And you will know in your heart, as I know now, that you are so much more than a mere extension of him.
[Oh, he can't wait. He truly can't. It's nothing to do with the past and everything to do with the present: you are so much more than he ever let you be, and years later, Leto can still remember looking at himself in awe, watching himself do and say and be things without flinching, never once fearing what the repercussions might be.]
I would show you more . . . the memories that he does not taint. The dreams I have had that show us happy afterwards, or the ones where I suspect he has not entered our lives at all— for there are more than a few where that occurs, and we find bliss all the more easily. But . . .
[But first . . . he cocks his head, and asks, his tone gentle:]
Is there a part of you that wishes to turn me now?
[It's a question, not a trick— for if the thought had flashed through Leto's mind, perhaps it had flashed through Astarion's own.]