illithidnapped | INBOX II

INBOX II

VOICE | ACTION | TEXT

[previous inbox]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

[A world-transcending god-killer, and you know, it's true, but it's still strange to hear. Stranger still to apply it to himself— or perhaps strange to apply it to himself while he lives in this world, where gods and their ilk are so much more common than in Thedas. It makes it more awe-inspiring, strangely enough. Corypheus . . . Corypheus was not unlike a god, and indeed in many ways was a god, but to Leto, it always felt like . . . well. A job. An exceedingly difficult job, admittedly, and a job he'd done as a favor to his friend, but still: a job, and one he would either succeed at or fail and die.

Or maybe it's not about Corypheus at all. Maybe it's that Leto's gotten so used to Astarion being the more remarkable one that he forgets the more unbelievable aspects of his own life.]

. . . . I thought about it.

[Yes, he had. Over and over, when it was late and the conversations grew more intimate . . . yes, he had wanted to. But . . .]

. . . I think they would understand, or at least try to. They are a loyal group, for all that they are immature, and I think ultimately that loyalty would win out no matter what. But . . .

I will not risk you. I have learned again and again that I am not familiar with all the intricacies and social norms of this world, and I will not risk my having missed some vital clue that might lead to disaster in any form. And . . .

[Mmph. Emotional honesty is difficult, even between them. Perhaps especially between them.]

I suppose . . . I have found it easier to enjoy their company when it is not me they know, either. I am not dishonest as a rule, but . . . as far as they know, I am merely a particularly well-traveled elf who can handle a blade and enjoys strange tattoos. I am not an ex-slave, or a god-killer, or friends with the Champion of Kirkwall. And I . . .

I suppose a part of me did not want to tell them, for fear it would make the inevitable loss of them all the harder.

[He can't do it again. He can't give himself away to a group of friends just to watch them disappear; it hurt too badly the last time. No matter that it would be vastly different now, still. Some part of Leto will always bear those scars, recoiling at the thought of true friendship for fear of how he will inevitably lose it.]

I know it would be different than— than Kirkwall. That they are not Anders, and the stakes are far different. Even the emotions are, for those bonds took nearly a decade to cultivate, and even if I had been honest with this group, it still wouldn't be the same. But I still . . .

[He can't bear it.]

I did not want to risk you. But I suppose, selfishly, I did not want to risk myself, either.

[There didn't used to be a heart to break at confessions soft as this. Nothing in his chest and lungs but selfishness alone, or so he's told himself in hindsight, swearing that he learned it. That it grew in him. That resonance is something he had to figure out how to quiet himself to feel.

Instead he's gone to pieces.

Like he always has when it comes to the sound of Leto cracking like split glass around the borders of his grown-in confidence. His own voice acting as a mirror of sorts, thinner than he expects when it slides free.]

....you really think you're going to lose them?

Just like that?

[Tsk. Who is he to ask that question— when all his years he can remember, it was loss that colored everything.

Even Fenris wasn't exempt from that.]

Yes.

[He says it simply, but there's far more exhaustion in his voice than he means there to be. Yes, and though he can feel something buried deep in his heart lurch for that admission, always felt and so long denied. He doesn't want to feel it, and yet—]

When have I not lost someone? There has never been an instance in my life in which I have not lost someone I loved, and that includes you. It was a miracle I found you in Thedas again; it was even moreso that I found you here, and I—

[Start again, for this is not really about he and Astarion. That makes up part of it (and Maker knows that Fenris is equal parts resentful and grateful for the fact he cannot remember losing Astarion the first time), but it isn't what this is about.]

Seven years in Kirkwall. Seven years of swearing we would be there for one another, and were, and it vanished in an instant. No matter that I saved their lives and they saved mine. No matter that we were so close-knit that I thought of them as more family than friends. It took one single act of madness, and all of that was undone.

Just like that.

It is . . . it is a matter of time. Or so it feels.

[It was a miracle the first time. A miracle the second. Fate-defying, one might call it, but there's no point at which a gambler feels safer for winning after being forced to bet it all— only more sure that they'll lose. And as many times as they've surpassed the damage of being torn from Thedas without a trace, it doesn't change the fact that just as Fenris says it now (and every time before that in the shadows of the past): he left.]

Still got a long way to go before I earn my keep, don't I?

[Awash with painful sympathy, as if late coming home from an errand, since that's the bottom line: I'd have found you. I won't say it again, but I'd have done that and more.

But still, it doesn't change a thing.

Ataashi. Kirkwall. Astarion. His newfound friends. Migration makes it hard. Awareness makes it harder.]

You know, what truly makes it maddening is that I can't even argue that you're wrong. Loss comes. Life changes.

But in defense of trying from someone who didn't believe in it before I ever met you....

[Little love.

Little fighter.]

I know you. You don't give up so easily as that.

[This is why he loves Astarion.

Because he does not say: it won't happen again, you'll see. He does not say: but that was different. He does not tell Fenris (Leto) that his fears are unfounded; he does not dismiss his grief and his fear, but simply hears them and says: yes. Yes, he knows why he is scared. Yes, it makes sense that he still flinches from the thought of companionship. Even that aching acknowledgement stings so bittersweetly: still got a long way to go before I earn my keep, don't I?, and Fenris exhales breathlessly in something far, far less than a laugh, for it's true. Two years, he thinks sometimes. Two years, and perhaps when they surpass the seven year mark, he will stop waking in the middle of the night, anxiously glancing about until he finds his beloved next to him once more.

Maybe.

But nor does he allow Fenris to sink utterly in despair. And that, too, is why he loves him, for Fenris needs that sometimes. Someone to count his misery and grief; someone to light a candle instead of joining him in cursing the darkness. Not a false promise. Not a cheery dismissal. Simply a reminder: when have you ever given up before?

Despite himself, a rueful sort of smile flickers over his expression, there and gone, utterly unseen. You don't give up so easily as that, and gods, but what a pain that is sometimes.]

You know me too well.

[It's a soft murmur. And what he really means is:]

Thank you.

[For the reminder. For the refusal to allow him to sink into despair. For being himself, steadfast and loyal and adoring.]

Do you? Believe in it now, I mean.

[For it is one thing to know a lover's general mood and thoughts and beliefs, and even, indeed, to know that you inspired some part of them. It's another to hear it laid out so starkly. And there's no right answer, not really— but he's curious.]

[It bolsters him, that first murmur. The second does him in; if his chest feels lighter, gods swear, he knows the reason why.

He's gone to cinders. Ignescent sparks shivering with more warmth against his wicked lungs than the kiss of life itself— and as they say: heat rises. Curls under his breastbone and drags the corners of his mouth higher in a reflex he can't stop.]

Strewth, darling, now you're thanking me? I'm starting to think you've forgotten I'm the reason you're stuck here in a body you never asked for, wrestling children and pups and perfumed oil day in and day out. Let alone your own magic.

[Faint flick of parrying brevity running like a vein through his otherwise sobered tone: insistence sweet in the face of so much weight. So much bloody gravity that the tips of his ears and toes feel lifetimes away from one another while he tries to drag his lover onto shore (no, he won't let his kadan sink into despair), even if all he can offer is a second or two at best against a higher tide. Laugh with me, my dear. Come on. Just for a moment.

Life might yet surprise you.]

[Which is to say, with all the softness he can muster:] But as for your question....

[He licks his lips. He curls his claws, unseen. Unheard.]

....you've no idea how much.

[And yes, there's iron proof of that in what's ahead of them. In why they're leaving at all. Proof, too, wedged tightly in the past, with so much yet left to confess about the very start of his first (last) enshackled centuries before they ever met. And that it wasn't solely time that backed him into a corner full of slack obeisance for the longest stretch— that it was Cazador. The difference between the prey he took then and the prey he takes now all laid out in its naked ugliness, and why it nearly tore him into tatters at the seams.

All things he starts to confess with the slowest puff of false breath drawn in before the line begins to pop and crackle with harsh static, tension winding in the air around the crystal caught in Leto's palm.

Tighter. Tighter.

Liminality twisting like elastic sinew yanked too hard, only it's everywhere, clotting thick and suffocating—

—until an overladen gush of volatile magic cracks open in waning daylight somewhere between Fenris and the tavern, its shockwave knocking over tarps and scattered mercantile goods. A shriek first. A yelp second. Gathered bystanders fleeing in a panic—

As a blur of pitch black fur and blazing emerald eyes goes rushing through the streets on hulking paws, snarling and snapping at their heels.]

[He thinks—

He doesn't know what to think at first. The tug of magic is so strong that for a moment he flashes back to the ache of his lyrium; in the next moment there's a harsh crackle, static cutting off Astarion's words and terrifying him to the point that he scrawls a message:]

are you alrigt i canot hear you

[Hasty and misspelled as he dashes forward, skidding down the street and heading for the tavern (for no matter what it is, innocuously misfired spell or attack from Cazador, they will handle it together). He cuts through the crowds, darting past elves shrieking in panic as he heads towards the danger. His hand goes to his blade, his fingers aching as they grip the handle; someone shouts don't, and as Leto finally reaches the cleared-out space, he sees nothing but a black mass leaping towards him.

He tenses up, but it doesn't matter: even braced, a hundred pounds of dead weight slamming into his chest is enough to knock him off his feet. The air bursts from his lungs as he goes down hard. His head spins as he's pinned to the dirt road; heat from savage breath and a glint of glowing green are the only things he has time enough to notice as the beast's maw opens, tongue lolling out as it darts forward—

And begins to lick him.]

[Furiously, in fact: tongue soaked with saliva lapping at every bit of Leto she can find, spittle in his hair and over his cheeks as her tail wags wildly. Her cold wet nose snuffles at him, inhaling every bit of his scent. Fenris, her Fenris, her papa, her papa who left her all alone for days-months-years (hours at most), that she had to travel worlds and worlds to find, but she has. She has she has she has, and now that she's found him she'll never let him go. Soft whines sound between them as Leto dazedly lifts his arms and wraps them around her, some part of him numb with shock.]

Ataashi . . .

[She yips in recognition, and that's all the confirmation he needs. With a soft cry he wrestles her in close, not caring for all the stares he attracts; his fingers scrub furiously through her fur, her large paws slamming against his body as she grows more excited and wriggles against his grip.]

Ataashi, Ataashi— clever girl, how did you find me here? Oh, good girl, good girl, my clever, clever girl, you found me—

[Explanations to the poor terrorized elves will come later, for this is his darling. Nothing else matters. Not explanations, nor destroyed property— nor even the book at his side, still crackling from magical discharge, temporarily forgotten in the fray. The world swims as tears fill his eyes; it barely matters, for she licks those away too, so determined to smother him in her scent. His words tumble into Tevene, his tongue adoring the familiar syllables as he coos and rumbles praise after praise:]

There you are, you clever thing . . . Ataashi, my Ataashi, my good girl, look at you, did you eat? Are you well? We will find you food, sweet thing—

[She bites at his fingers (well, mouths at them)— so excited that she can't help but tangle up inside his space with even the sharpest parts of her oversized form— claws and giant fangs all— wiggling and wagging and shoving so close the moon elf underneath her doesn't stand a chance of getting up until she's finished whimpering her hellos and chuffing in response to his Tevene.

Yes, she is so clever. Yes, she is so good. Yes, she is absolutely fucking starving thank you very much, particularly when both her doting parents dared to roam so far away that she's been forced to tear right through the Fade itself to find them. And she won't punish them for that oversight just so long as they soon feed her and swear to never do it again, assured by the joyous rumble in her throat, because those four hours were—

Oh.

Oh, she snorts once, hard.

She snorts again, blowing condensation against his cheek before her snout crinkles and her lips peel back, displeasure played out in a grimace, her great head shaking back and forth in the middle of backing away.

(And when she sniffs at him again: it repeats. He smells wrong. Like fur that isn't hers. Spit that isn't hers. Glowering, grousing, grunting angrily as she sniffs him in various other places just to check. And check. And check.)

C h e a t e r.]

[Oh. Oh . . . oh, he hadn't even thought— but of course she'd smell the pups, clever girl that she is. And it's silly to feel guilty for her jealousy, for it isn't as if he ever set out to replace her, but still, oh, he does feel his own ears lower in quiet contrition.]

I know, I know . . . I'm sorry, I know, you do not know them yet, but you will—

[Well, presumably she will. She has to. He cannot abandon the pups, but nor will he ever let Ataashi out of his sight again. But ah, perhaps now isn't the time to assure her of that; she's been left alone for Maker-only-knows how long and deserves all the pitying and coddling he can offer. His hands move in tandem with her signals: stilling when she growls and scrubbing briskly when she quiets, trying to assure her that he hasn't forgotten all the ways that she likes to be babied.]

They are small, and they were abandoned . . . I could not leave them where I found them, they would have died.

[It's stupid to say it. As if she can understand him (not yet, oh, he cannot wait to speak to her properly, he cannot wait to hear all her clever thoughts and learn her mannerisms). But maybe it helps his own guilt.]

But they did not replace you, my Ataashi, they could never. I missed so much, I thought of you each day—

[And he intends to go on and on for as long as she'll let him— but ah, people are returning. Cautiously, admittedly, for she's still an enormous wolf, but it's easy enough to see she isn't savaging him.

'Are you all right?' someone calls, and Leto waves a hand, trying (and perhaps failing, depending on Ataashi's mood) to sit up a little.]

I'm fine. She is a pet I had thought lost . . . but she will not hurt anyone, I promise you.

[She might fret from all the attention, though, and he keeps one hand pressed against her, rubbing soothingly.]

Come on. Come home with me, come greet Astarion— he has missed you as much as I have, and the pups could use someone to teach them how to behave. Come home, come on—

[Soothing and cajoling both, and he does not stop his quiet litany until they approach home. Not their home, nothing like the mansion in Thedas, and he hopes that does not set her off all over again. She's such a beast of routine, their Ataashi, and she has never enjoyed change of any kind. But ah, they'll learn. They'll adjust. It doesn't matter how long it takes; it doesn't matter if she sulks at him for weeks about the pups or pisses all over his belongings in pointed punishment, for she's back. She's here, and she isn't going anywhere— and that's so much more than he has ever thought he would ever get.]

[Lost animals— even the wildest ones— aren't so odd in Evereska, so if there's anything to be thankful for, it's that it's here Ataashi has turned up, rather than back in Baldur's Gate with the whole of the Flaming Fist ready to leap right down their necks en masse over even the smallest unbribed sin. Because talented sorcerer or not he'd be risking a great deal chasing her down in daylight, and as things are even in tolerant spaces while onlookers both calm (warm to the idea of a lost companion reunited) and agitated assess the situation, so too are the local guards, apparently.

Which is just one way of saying maybe it's for the best that Leto quickly decides to move on, disagreeable wolf a doting shadow plodding along at his hip: oversized paw pads keeping step with his bare feet in the same patterns they used to back in Thedas— just on unfamiliar streets. And maybe it's a little different between them considering the way they bonded (their language or their understanding, or the ancient Dalish stories of Elven guardians and their kept wolves), because whether it's for body language or kinship, despite the way she still happens to growl and snuffle and irritably flick her tail in the middle of his talking, there's a way she watches him— responds to him— that seems to saturate itself in a wordless form of listening; he says he's sorry and there, trailing along the droop of his ears comes her own with slow licks pushed low across placating fingers; he talks about the pups and oh— oh how she growls again (and again and again when he explains), clearly asserting their orphanship is not her problem.

But also that she missed him.

And that's enough to get them to the inn, past the first few puzzled looks and sideways glances, past the negotiation and/or sneaking required to cajole her inside and upstairs without a fuss.

And then they're home.

New home.

Smaller home.

A home that reeks of little mongrels as much as both her parents— and there she is prowling around every corner of it just a second after the front door opens, skittering in a harried hunch with her nose to the floor, her shadowy form suddenly a smear of shifting black and a series of anxious (audible) sniffs— all blowing right past Astarion and the set of sharpened blades he's holding up, both high and angled and white-knuckle-gripped within his claws.

Because gods and hells alike, he was certain of the worst. A series of messages already having been etched inside that book for nearly half an hour:

I'm fine. But I can't hear you.

Leto?

Fenris

Write something.

Where are you

what happened

are you all right

talk to me please

Apparently all ending with one anxiously bewildered vampire standing in the middle of their room trying to process....]

What—

[His eyes drop. Whip back to where they started, crimson flaring as hollow lenses refract light with every shift. He doesn't know where to look first. Leto— Ataashi—

Ataashi??????]

How did— what did you—

[Please. Please factory reset your vampire. He's still in his sleep clothes gesturing with the tips of his daggers, hair a mess, attire a mess, blinking through the bleariest stare gone wide in sharp confusion.]

Is that....?

[What?

What?????]

But it....can't be....

[In two strides he's crossed the room, catching Astarion's face with both hands so that he might kiss him: sweetly, exuberantly, his demeanor so very excited (and oh, those daggers, oh, those written words, he'll make it up to him, he will). With a grin he draws back by only an inch, his eyes darting about Astarion's face and the most inelegant grin spread over his lips.]

It is. She found us— she must have figured out a way to cross the worlds, or traverse the Fade— it barely matters, does it not? She's here.

[Oh, his baby, his Ataashi— and just this once, everything is going to go right. Just today, this perfect illogical day, he cannot be his normal dour self, hedging doubt and looking for the catch; just today, everything works out in their favor.]

Her magic cut us off. Ah— did I worry you?

[Well, obviously, for those daggers speak volumes. Some of the giddy mirth fades from his expression, and his next motion is a gentle one: nuzzling up against Astarion's cheek, his body language a little more animalistic right now.]

My apologies . . . she kept my attention, first in greeting, and then in displeasure— and in truth, I was in shock. But I did not mean to worry you.

[And he does mean it, for what it's worth.

There's an intruder in their midst.

A big intruder. A giant intruder. A very big, very giant, very large dog that wanders so freely in their territory, and the pups aren't quite sure what to do with that. Obviously this kind of blatant invasion can't stand, but also, she is a very big invader . . . and the way she snuffles and growls intermittently is deeply worrying.

But curiosity wins out over wariness, and it's not long before they scurry out: two rotund little bodies (though not as rotund as they used to be, their fur more grown in now) darting forward, yipping tentatively in greeting—

Only to be firmly and utterly ignored. Ataashi pointedly continues her survey as both pups stand at a slight distance, staring at her warily. Then, with a nervous little yip, Montressor darts forward. Eagerly she leaps and snuffles about Ataashi's paws, (oh she smells so interesting, like Papa and magic and dirt), her voice rising in a whine for attention—

Only to be met with a growl, low and utterly unamused. Ataashi's lips peel back, her teeth bared as she glares down at this little interloper that dares try and engage her— and oh, that's all it takes for both pups. With a whimpering yelp Fortunato skitters backwards, racing to the other side of the room so she can dive beneath the bed and quake there; Montressor is only marginally braver, dashing towards where her fathers stand, whimpering as she dances around their feet.

With a dismissive snort, Ataashi returns to ignoring them, her tail swishing faintly in self-congratulations.]

[Oh, it's the worst kiss he's ever given—

Astarion, that is, not Leto.

Master of carnal finesse humbled by shock to the point that Leto's mouth breaks across his stone-still lips while he's busy gawking for another handful of beats inside the bounds of those overwarm hands (that smell of Veilfire and dirt, musk and mending scrapes clinging to rough skin); his mind whirring while it fights to follow what he's hearing, feeling, seeing—

Overwhelmed in the best way, undoubtedly yes, but overwhelmed all the same.

And he was never a fast thinker outside of matters of reflex or pure survival, it's just that he's practically senseless putty in Leto's hands for all he's turned and scuffed and scrubbed at and kissed and adoringly reassured while his awareness lags dumbly behind: tripping again and again over sentences he can't start until his blades are slackened at his side (and until the wolf somewhere behind him growls, sending one fat little orb of a pup darting right into the back of his heel before clambering for Leto's own, squalling up a storm in her alarm).]

I—

[Yes, you worried him, but that's not half as important at the moment as the thing he cranes his head to get a look at— scrunching his cheek against the edge of Leto's palm, muttering:] Did you do this?

[The moon elf doesn't have his lyrium anymore, which in a way makes it a bit of a stupid question, but gods, he can't connect the dots to save his life. Just a half an hour prior they were talking about inevitable loss, inevitable change, inevitable surrender without surrendering as they mourned what they couldn't keep in favor of pressing forwards side-by-dauntless-side.

And yet here said thing-that-couldn't-be-kept is, proudly swishing her tail and returning to prowling and lifting her leg and p— ]

—oh no no— nononononoNO NO, Ataashi!!

[Yank— snap—

The hardest twist imaginable with vampiric speed as he tears himself free of Leto to rush backwards, lunging in a blur towards the hunching wolf that stands perched over their fresh laundry.]

Not my GOOD SHIRT— prohibere!! prohibere!!!

[He can't help it: he laughs.

It's more out of shock than anything: the abrupt swerve from stunning miracle to utter normalcy, heralded only by Astarion's barked out commands and Ataashi's vaguely embarrassed expression as she lowers her leg. She whines up at him, snorting in displeasure; does he not understand the entire place reeks of those little brats? And it's so ordinary (how long had it taken to train her out of doing that in the mansion, and even then, each time they brought home something new it was always a gamble); it's so stupid, just like the frantic yelps as puppy claws scrabble against his ankle. It's everything he's ever wanted, and oh, he's sure the fear of loss will come in time— but right now, he's basking.

Biting back his next laugh, he reaches down, scooping up Montressor. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, whimpering pitifully as he rubs one hand soothingly over her back and approaches.]

It was not me.

[Oh, he can't help but smile. Ataashi huffs up at him, unamused by the mere reminder of these pups, and presses her bulk up against Astarion in blatant favoritism. He doesn't manhandle the pups. He hasn't replaced her with this idiotic brood. He still smells of all the things he ought to— though she sneezes just once against his palm as the subtler variations in his scent register.]

She simply showed up— easy, [he adds, scrubbing Montressor a little more briskly. Settle down.] There was magic in the air . . . I thought it an attack, truthfully. But she simply tore through the veil as though it was nothing. I suppose to her, it wasn't. No more an obstacle than a door.

We're going to need somewhere bigger when we return to Baldur's Gate . . .

[Gods, smuggling in not just two pups, but a wolf . . . though then again, he thinks, a dog is not a wolf; surely a ban on one isn't a ban on the other. At worst, they'll bluff they're trying to bring Ataashi to the circus or something. ]

Eugh....

[It's a weary groan, overly deflated, that seeps from the back of his throat as his palm is made wet— thank you, daughter— though it's all fond resignation up front; he'd be yowling like a barnhouse cat for anything less than having truly missed the creature shoved against him now with all her hip-high weight, imagining for so long he'd never see her again.

Through the veil though, Leto says. As if it was nothing.

(All the leviathan gravity of that assertion just impossible to take in all at once; he can't begin to pick apart what it might mean for them— for her— for everything, least of all whether or not there's a way to go back. So if his thoughts shutter to it in favor of fixing on the handsome thing across the room from him scrubbing softly at the little furball in his arms (the bulk of fuzzy muscle propped against his own side sporting adoration), it's only natural progression at this point.

He's had enough of world-shattering revelations.)]

If it was that easy....I'm shocked she didn't come back before now. [Said as his damp palm passes over the top of Ataashi's head, both wiping it off and passing assurance back onto her form through pets too heavy-handed to be anything but deeply doting.

And then, with a snort of his own to that final comment:]

We're going to need a less reputable set of professions.

[A beat— oh it's not even a joke he wants to make, but it's there, it's right there and it's too perfect and too easy, and really, when have they ever shied from laughing at their own ordeals?]

....or one more dead Master.

Give or take.

[And Fortunato, coward that she is, is on the move.

Ohhh she's ambling on those pudgy legs, terrified but jealous of the love Montressor is getting. Prowling for the corner of Leto's left foot to huddle up against it.

Hello, she is scared, too. :C]

[It's not funny and Leto scoffs out a laugh anyway, for such is their way when it comes to their former masters. Laugh or despair over it, and they have had too much of the latter not to try and cling to the former when they can. Besides: it's good Astarion points it out. Gods know Leto has been thinking about it: returning to Baldur's Gate, and all the inevitable confrontation it might or might not bring. Even if they don't talk about it now (and they won't, for he doesn't want to spoil this joyful reunion), still, it's good to remember it.

But ah, his cowardly puppy . . . Leto makes a rather undignified noise under his breath as he bends down, oorugh, a cooing sort of chiding as he scoops up his jealous pup. She wriggles in his hand, leaping to try and lick at him; pay attention, and he holds her close. Which isn't the same amount of affection he'd offered her sister, and so in the end he simply has to sit on the edge of the bed, letting them both settle in his lap.

Needy little darlings.

But his mind circles back to that joke, and he adds curiously:]

Would you want to live in his estates?

[It's not such an outlandish thought, not when he'd lived in Danarius' mansion for years on end. There's something to be said for free housing. And he asks the question so lightly, knowing what weight it might carry and perfectly ready to shift the topic if it turns sour.]

[Two little blobs patter around in his offered lap, tumbling, nipping, yipping as they lick at his hands and fingers— stumpy little hindquarters wiggling so hard they topple completely off-balance with happiness, now that they've forgotten the Big Bad Wolf that sent them sprawling with a growl (and is it really a bad thing when her appearance led to this? Their favorite father already home early after barely having left this morning— ) it's a good sign in their teeny tiny books. The best sign ever, in fact.

As for Ataashi, her fussy, fussy master's found it in him to sit down on the floor beside her, giving her ample room to— well, not ample room, but enough room to sort of stuff her gigantic body into Astarion's lap instead, fastidiously grooming white hair with the longest drags of her tongue between sessions of little gnaws pushed hard against his scalp.

All he manages to do is grimace and mutter the occasional 'uhfff' or 'oh— don't—' in a tone about as sopping wet as his fussed-over curls, gigantic tail smacking at him for good measure.

But from over her shoulder he has a perfect view of that vibrantly blooming elf settled firmly on their bed.

And to tell the truth?

He feels it, too.]

My old home?

[His fingers scrub over a heaving spine, ruffling fur.]

Hm. [It's a good question. A valid question. One he sets his mind to about as avidly as he can in the realm of shielded abstraction: weighing things like grand ballrooms and palatial towers against musty carpet— walls without windows. And the conclusion he comes to?

It's fucking shocking how much their masters really did share a similar sense of taste.]

I don't know, actually. It'd need remodeling, that much I can say.

But you know, the more I think about it the more I suppose it's not that far off from our old stomping grounds, and we made that dank old place into something worth missing, didn't we?

—ah—!!

[The scraggliest grunt thanks to someone (Ataashi) smacking her gigantic muzzle directly into his face so that she can give him yet another kiss, quickly winding herself up into a wiggle.]

Enough— ENOUGH. Ataashi, iam mitesce.

[Iam mitesce, and after all the hours of semi-successful training with the pups, it's a wonder to watch how obedient Ataashi still is. With a low wuff (and a few extra wiggles) she slumps heavily against her father, tail whacking him over and over as she wiggles her way down to lie in his lap. Hello. Hello, hello, favorite father, beloved father who doesn't reek of pups and is now her favorite, and Leto pretends not to notice the way she pointedly glances over at him, checking to see if he's jealous.]

She missed you.

[She did. Jealous ploys or not, she does so love her father. Ataashi happily sighs as she turns her attention back to Astarion, cold nose intent on shoving against his stomach in joyful nuzzling.]

Obedient thing . . . learn from her, [he adds to the wriggling pups in his lap, who take absolutely no heed of that command. Sedere is obeyed a solid eight out of ten times, but it's a journey. Besides, Leto thinks fondly, their wolf is so much smarter than the two little sausages currently intent on getting as many scritches as possible.]

We did, though. And we will do it again if it pleases us— or sell it if it does not. I cannot imagine some wealthy patriar wouldn't want to buy such property just to say he had it— and we could afford something more manageable with the money we get from it.

[Real Estate Simulator 1494 . . . and of course, that's ignoring the fact that the master of that palace is still very much alive (in a sense, anyway). But today is a good day. A bright day, a miraculous day, and Leto will not spoil it with dour talk of all the things they've yet to face. Better to find bitter mirth in the thought of flipping their masters' property and benefiting from their death.

But ah . . . he cannot keep his mind from wandering utterly. And yet he does not want to ruin this day— so, a compromise. A gentle question, and one they might answer without getting into the larger implications.]

. . . would you go back, if you could?

[To that dank old mansion. To Thedas. To a thousand struggles and fears and joys and hopes; to a way of life that seems as appealing as it does repulsive.]

Faster than a spark—

And....[oh, give him just a moment to readjust after being shoved at with Ataashi's muzzle yet again (though she's being such a good girl this time, gentle as a monumental lamb with the largest tail you've ever seen, sweet girl)]....not just because Cazador can't reach it.

[Grin a sideways flicker just to add:]

Although it certainly doesn't hurt.

[And though he could elaborate— will elaborate, even— it's a change in subject he doesn't want to skip over on either end, clawed fingers sinking deep until they disappear in Ataashi's fur once he finally glances upwards towards the bed, making his corner of the room a sort of glowing-eyes-in-the-relative-dark-convention 1494.]

....what about you, kadan?

Would you go back, if you had an open doorway here right now?

[He asks it innocuously; there's no depth to it, no flaring coyness or sly curl across his tongue.

(He doesn't know about the devil's offer.

He wouldn't think it mattered if he did.)]

[Oh, and Astarion knows him well enough to read the mild surprise in his expression. And he wants to hear the elaboration, but that will come in time.]

No.

[Simple, but just as swift and certain as Astarion's answer. And perhaps there is a slight edge to it, perhaps he says it more intently than he might have otherwise done— but then again, perhaps not, for his expression is still light. He wiggles his fingers, amused as both pups leap upon them, gnawing with idiotic, overwhelming joy.]

I would if you wished to. If it was a question of Cazador, or whether or not you wished to live as a vampire . . . it would not be the worst thing to return. I miss Kirkwall. Our home— though not our wolf, not any longer, [he adds with a small smile.] And I miss the things I was accustomed to: foods they do not sell here, or spices whose names I have no hope of translating. And my friends, too . . . little matter that in all likelihood I was never destined to meet them again, there was still ever a chance. That, yes, I miss.

[A breath, and then he continues:]

But this world is a paradise to me. It is far from perfect, and its dangers are numerous, but to be able to walk freely down the street or find a home without fear of discrimination or mindless retribution . . . that alone is worth more than I can say. To live without pain, and to know that I have centuries to get to spend with you . . . that, too, is worth so much.

[He hesitates for a moment, his ears lowering as he internally debates, but then:]

Even the magic here . . . I will never love it. And I will never love the fact that it has been forced upon me. But it is less . . . horrifying than it was in Thedas. It is kept more in check. And its powers less volatile— and, truthfully, more wondrous.

[Gods, to be able to talk to the pups— and now Ataashi, too, he realizes with a pleased jolt. It's a wondrous gift, no matter that this world thinks it little more than child's play; he will never stop being delighted that he will someday be able to do such a thing.]

So: no. Not unless you wished it.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

2/2

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/3

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

2/2

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

2/2

no subject

no subject

no subject