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INBOX II

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[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.

[There is so much to say. So much to feel with every word.

Bittersweet as it all might be in its full measure he warms to it like sunlight, that confession. Everything in him— from his expression to the angles of his shoulders— rounded out with a sort of indescribable bliss that he can't hide. Talk of the future or tomorrow feels far away compared to the all-encompassing eternity of this moment, and he before he knows it, he's already opened his mouth. Sucked in air around his fangs. Ready to ask for the one thing that wounded him most in its disappearance aside from Leto himself.

(And his fingers curl a little more along the outline of knotted tissue gone glossy with time. Tangible. Unmistakable. 'I will not forget you.' Here. Just here. This is where— if the worst comes to pass and he returns to Cazador, or the world does its damndest all over again to rip their chapter apart at its seams— this is the place he'll remain.)

A thickened pair of knitted scars; lie down about to be the next thing said— ]

[It's just that Ataashi beats him to it.

Leto said `I miss Kirkwall. Our home— though not our wolf, not any longer.`

Leto said he missed her.

And if she understands those spoken concepts or doesn't, the glance he gives her with a smile does register, and before Astarion can soulfully request to carve up his own mate in a return to older spaces, she's already outright trampling her first keeper just to hop up onto all fours (Astarion yelps as he's bowled backwards, the noise strangled to its root), vanishing in a puff of vibrant green—

And then returning a moment later.

Leto's long-abandoned sword and its enchanted lyrium contours tucked between her fangs, glowing the brightest shade of silver-blue.

Tail wagging hard enough for takeoff.]

Oh!

[It's a bright burst of an exclamation, a shocked cry as he reaches to take Ataashi's present from her jaws with hands that can't quite believe what they're holding. For a moment his bewildered mind struggles to reassign it: a sword she'd stolen from someone in the tavern, maybe, or in the marketplace, only to realize that such a thing would be impossible. Lyrium does not exist in this world, not even within him— and even if it did, there's no mistaking that uniquely familiar pattern. The inlay blazes blue as he pulls the sword from her sheathe slowly, delighted to discover the edge is just as sharp as it was in Thedas.]

How did you—

[But she must have brought it with her. Or perhaps . . . oh, but he cannot think about if she has just gone back to Thedas, for the implications there are staggering. On a whim, he leans forward, sniffing at her fur as one hand scrubs insistently against her neck, but no, she only smells of herself, not the damp wood of their mansion in Thedas. Later, he promises himself. Later he and Astarion will talk about this, but for now:]

Good girl, [he rumbles in Tevene over and over, the sword falling in his lap as he devotes both hands to scrubbing her at her cheeks and neck and body. With a pleased wuff she careens forward, paws bracing on his thighs as she leaps up and licks at him joyfully, chuffing all the while.

And as for the little sausages in his lap— oh, they don't like this sudden intrusion at all. With a fearful little yip they race to the other side of his body, cowering behind his back with distressed little whines. He'll pay them mind soon, soothing them softly, but gods, he can't not right now.

It's his sword.

Never tested. Never used, for Astarion had wanted that gift to special— and oh, it is, it is. His hands keep up their frantic praise, scrubbing and scritching, even as Leto dodges that lapping tongue so he can peer around Ataashi's bulk and catch his darling's eye.]

Come here.

Come here so that I can offer you all the gratitude I was never able to before. I have mourned—

[He hesitates. Mourned the loss of this gift sounds silly and childish, but he truly had. It wasn't just about the blade, but the loss of such a magnificently thoughtful gift, and all the time and effort and coin Astarion had spent on his behalf.]

I have mourned its loss. The loss of something you gave me, and so therefore the loss of something I treasured.

[Oh, it's so hard to say, especially when so many other emotions are ricocheting through him. Joy and elation and shock and adoration, and none of it helped by the overly affectionate wolf determined to try and fit his face in her mouth. With a little aht he dodges her mouth and adds, a little more exasperatedly:]

Come here and save me from one of these beasts, at least— and so that I might tell you how grateful I am for this. For you.

[For him. Him. His sole beloved....

....sprawled out in an illustriously flattened heap. The-vampire-known-as-Astarion even more of a mess than he'd already been at the start of their conversation thanks to one notably excited wolf— a handful of mangled (tangled) curls sprouting up from the ruins of his sleepshirt's rucked-up silhouette and awkwardly angled legs, complimented by limp claws, twitching fingers. If he can see Leto from the wreck of himself at half-past noon (he can't), he's certainly not any more inclined to move to take stock of the situation, no matter how utterly lambent it might be.

It's too bloody early for this shit, thank you very much.

(Or too late??)

Look. Whichever it is, all he knows is that he was barely awake having deep conversations about animal cantrips, childish parties, bruised reputations, love and longing and the red-hot flare of hope itself— and then their mongrel wolf (affectionate; thinly) came home, loved on him for less than forty seconds total, and then trampled him alive.]

No.

[No, as in absolutely not.]

No, that's it— I'm done! [No, as in absolutely-very-much-over-this not.] No more slobber, no more paws, no more dirt and teeth and mangy, smelly claws; no more interplanar ramifications, in fact! No more gods or magic or nonsense or Fade-bound-rotheshite or ANYTHING that isn't my damned bed, and my damned sleep and a little peace and quiet in your naked, filthy, undistracted arms [he's going to turn into a bloody bat and hide in the rafters and—

....]

[....]

Is that....

[The sword?

His sword?

Hold on. Hold on.

Hair still in his face. Entire mien still rife with dishevelment. Crawling up onto his knees and palms before he's upright, moving over. Pushing the worst of the morning out of his line of view in a secondary reprise just as soft-mouthed as the first.

Particularly when he exhales.

(Oh, there it is: that otherwordly scent. That same, unnatural glow....)]

Fuck, I never thought I'd see it again.

[In a mind where survival and practicality are an unchallenged, total monarchy:] I'd all but forgotten about it.

I hadn't.

[And he doesn't mean it as a rude counter to Astarion's statement, nor indeed an argument of superiority. It isn't I hadn't in the sense of I remembered something you didn't, but meant only as a statement of awe: I longed for this gift that you spent so long having made for me. And yet it's hard not to interpret it as the former, Leto realizes in the next moment, and his poor disheveled lover has been through enough already. Hastily, he adds:]

I simply— it meant a great deal to me. It was difficult to forget.

[But ah, ah . . . his poor Astarion, and though Leto is internally grinning, he knows better than to say so. Even if the mental image of him sprawled out in an ungainly, utterly undignified heap of pale limbs and errant claws will amuse him for months to come. Even if he looks utterly precious like this, his hair rucked up and his sleepshirt with more than a few nicks in it, scrambling forward on his hands and knees so he might crawl up and join Leto, oh, it's such a far cry from the picture of superior dignity he tries to emit at all times.

And maybe some of that amusement is visible in his gaze, but still, Leto tries to bite it back. He reaches up, gently smoothing back a stray curl in a vague attempt to soothe his belabored darling. There, there, poor neglected thing.]

Are you all right?

[His scoff is disbelieving, the corners of his mouth curved upright. Altogether lighter than a feather— or at least lighter than all the thoughts that are running through his mind when he tentatively moves to touch that blade instead.]

Better than all right.

[He sits down on the bed, shoulder-to-shoulder once slow pressure settles in, Ataashi and the little runts having been ushered off into space that better suits them, making it a sort of ebbing-fade compared to the calm inside their shared bubble right now. Pale fingers skirting over pale blue light.] ....scratches and mud included.

[Wistfulness borders on absence; he's not less of himself, just....

Less here.

Less aware of himself, rare a treat as it is.]

Funny, it's been so long since I smelled you again. [Leto— and lyrium. Thedas and Toril, now. Less the imprint of Danarius rather than an anchor, at least to the creature that hadn't been born into screaming over the scent of molten magic. Privileged like that, yes, but he supposes it's no different than his eyes. His fangs.

Whatever he looked like before Cazador laid hands on him, Leto wouldn't recognize.]

[His mouth cocks up in a rueful sort of smile as as Astarion says that. It has never been their way to shy from truths, no matter how potentially hurtful— and honestly, Leto doesn't disagree. The smell of lyrium fills the air, and it smells like him, like home, the familiar scent of lightning nostalgic.]

I have never smelled it like this— without my own as a buffer, I mean. I did not realize how sharp a scent it was . . .

[But scent isn't quite the right word. It's the lightning-static-shock of it, a feeling that makes his teeth buzz as he skims his fingers against the handle.]

And it is strange not to feel my own react.

[Strange not to feel the familiar bumpy texture he'd long since gotten used to: divots in his skin filled by lyrium making it so every touch was a lesson in sensory patterns. There's a thought in his mind, quiet but insistent, that wonders what it would be like to apply his own magic to the blade— and yet he knows even as he thinks it that he isn't ready for such a thing yet. Not yet. Not here and now, when he's so happy and things are so peaceful.

So ask a different question. One he'd been meaning to ask for a while now:]

Have you missed it?

I do not mean it as a trick question, and I will not take offense if the answer is yes. But . . . in the same way I would miss the bite of your fangs or the glow of your gaze in the darkness . . . have you missed my lyrium?

Naturellement. [Orlesian— what scant little of it he'd learned for the odd mission here or there— sliding through his overlong teeth before he even has a chance to think about it, inadvertently making tonight the unexpected den of honesty itself: what started off as teasing over cantrips ends (or is it starts) with the weight of them set side by side, gaunt chin already needling its way in against the curve of Leto's shoulder while they both stare at bright contours.

He's not ashamed to say it.

Any of it.

What he felt before. What he feels— or thinks— now. And over the scuffling of little pup claws on wood and the agitated growling of the wolf already ambling away from her successors at an irritable rate, he oddly finds he's not really afraid of anything. Not numb, exactly, but....maybe free is the better word. Free of all that static dread. The pettiness of opinion or secondhand discovery all wrapped up in what he lost. Kept. Fights to have a hold on still. The little gaps in all his broken thoughts that usually remind him he's not whole.

But honestly, being whole is overrated.

What he lacks in himself, he gets to find in Leto.]

You made the most stunning nightlight, you know.

[A little pause, index claw picking at his thumb in thought, before:]

Took me a long time to get used to just how dark the backs of my eyelids felt without it around to sleep to.

[He huffs a laugh, though he knows Astarion isn't joking. Teasing, maybe, but with the truth interwoven.]

I know the feeling.

[They're pressed too closely together for Leto to catch Astarion's eye; instead, he reaches up with one hand, fingers blindly combing through silver curls once or twice in affectionate greeting. Hello, as they stare down at the vibrant blade in his lap. Hello, my darling, and it's important right now to feel Astarion beneath his fingertips.]

The first few days after I came here are a blur. I was so focused on finding you I did not think about my lack of lyrium, save cursing the fact I was hindered in fighting. But there were . . . moments, I suppose, of strangeness. The darkness of the night. The lack of pain. Even how I felt things . . . I have never known what it was to touch something without my lyrium cutting through the sensation.

[It's more interesting than anything worth mourning. Wryly, then, he adds:]

And I miss, too, the ability to rip hearts out of people's chests. As pleasing a gift as it was in Thedas, I cannot imagine how much more you might enjoy it here.

[He lifts the blade up, holding it out before him with one steady hand. The lyrium fades and glows in rhythmic patterns steady as breathing (and that's another interesting thing, for Leto had always thought it was him who set that pace). Power radiates from it, faint but unmistakable— and to his surprise, Leto realizes that he can feel it call to him. Not as it used to (lyrium ore vibrating in time with his own embedded scars, a sweet song that set his teeth on edge; its scarlet counterpart a jarring dissonant note that called all the stronger). Not as if he still carries it in him, but rather . . .

As a mage. A sorcerer. It sings to his magic, eager to taste it and empower it; the sword thrums against his palm.]

Perhaps it is time I relearned how to fight here. Not just as a warrior, but . . .

[Mmph.]

Talindra told me . . .

Do you know the term bladesinger?

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