illithidnapped | INBOX II

INBOX II

VOICE | ACTION | TEXT

[previous inbox]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

[Oh, oh, those little squeaks. That overexcited, overeager wriggling and writhing and squeaking that can't stop, won't stop, that Leto never, ever wants to stop— they're precious. So sweet and earnest and excitable, and his tail wags all the faster in response, his puppish heart thundering giddily as he endures every bite and lick that his overstimulated darling needs to offer.]

Shh, shh— all your things are as you left them, and I am not ill. Nothing is wrong.

[There's an irrepressible grin woven into his voice, his rough tongue darting out to steal a quick, fond little lick.]

I despise all of those things, it's true. Just as you despise dive bars and fighting rings and pups that drool all over you in their sleep and refuse to share me when they've a mind to snuggle. And yet you give me those things anyway . . . it is far past time I indulged you in the same manner.

Besides, [he adds, lowering his head just far enough that Astarion might drape those pearls over his head whenever he sees fit, emerald eyes still locked on his chirping mate,] it makes me happy to make you happy. Not just in a day-to-day sense, but giving you the things you desire. Watching your face light up or listening to you chirp in your excitement— it is a gift unto itself to watch you melt. Darling thing, you are not the only one who likes making your mate happy.

You deserve this. My only mistake was not proposing this months ago.

It wasn't a mistake.

[Correction quicker than a flood when it wells up. When it stays.]

None of this was.

[Touched, and he's bristling again, pushing necklaces over Leto's listless ears and climbing up his snout to manage. Restlessness becoming his, but it's warm beneath the surface, fussing closer to the chest than anything outwardly arranged.

Someone's toddering old nan with fur.]

Hold still. You're shaking far too much and I don't intend to watch you choke yourself just because you've gotten all wound up. Stay seated. [This isn't your world, is what his mind is thinking truly in those margins. Accommodations made for an elf who can't go home solely because he followed a sinner into the dark— intrusively swearing that's the story of his life since Cazador: drawing brightness out an open tavern door until it's lost to kin and kith forever— put away, because at least now he's years enough removed from that old life to see it clearly: like the promises they'd made in the bustling heart of Evereska, they look after one another.

Calling it balanced might not be fair, but it is equal.

Astarion reminds himself each day that he can live with that. Each night even moreso.]

And— [He wraps his little wings around the corner of a crown on his next trip back, fighting to tug it loose from piled coin with next to no success, cutting short whatever his intended reply might've been. Replacing it with a chorus of snarls and grunts, and the endless jingling of bracelets.]

[He goes still, or at least as still as he can manage beyond the endless thump-thump of his tail. He bows his head and flattens his ears as best he can, patient to the last— for the mood Astarion is in, he needs room to fuss. To bristle. To squeak (adorably) and flap and huff and worry over Leto, so overwhelmed that he has to let it out somehow. Leto knows. He's seen it before, and now, after years together, he knows just how to smoothly counterbalance it.

But Astarion gets stuck on the next trip, and there's a difference between being calm and being passive. Leto pads over carefully, catching the crown between his teeth and tugging as gently as he can. It comes loose with a pretty jingle, coins cascading everywhere as a triumphant rumble sounds in the base of his throat.]

And what?

[Soft, as he sets the crown down. Let Astarion drape it over his head, for he's gone back to sitting still. His head cocks, his eyes locked on that small, fluffy shape, trying to read a body he's unfamiliar with. The mood is familiar, yes, but this particular version of it . . . perhaps it's still too much, even now. Perhaps he ought to have tempered it, softened it, made it more palatable— and yet even as he thinks it, Leto disagrees.

Better to suffer the preliminary sting of hot water before getting the reward of sinking into a hot bath than to endure a tepid one. Perhaps this is overwhelming, but what he promises is nothing less than Astarion deserves, and Leto aims to give it to him.]

Take a moment. We are in no rush . . . and I sprung this on you.

I would know what you're thinking.

Mmph. We will be if the priestesses return to find us helping ourselves. [Sees the crown fastened in place around Leto's now inordinately regal throat. Necklaces and chokers glittering beneath it in wild absurdity for contrast, compared to the ocean-slicked pup they lovingly adorn.] Existence as a dog and bat won't save us— I don't know if you're familiar with the Bitch Queen's devotees, but they'll off even their own kin for stepping out of line.

Hells, they celebrate just drowning— not even for a purpose, just the whole debacle itself like it's their mad-as-a-mepmhit's-tit of a goddess calling them home.

[He tucks rings around his ankles like anklets, and adds a few bangles onto Leto's own furry heels whilst muttering something along the lines of 'if anything severs in unpredictable transformation on our way home, we'll just pick up whatever pops off on our way to the nearest healer. Nothing to worry about.'

Before he's fighting to clamber into that cloth kerchief. wriggling and squirming to get in, and once unseen, answers:]

—and....I....was going to say I'd like it. To be a part of it, that is.

Your offer.

Seeing the places in this city that i can't remember, and can't scarcely forget in my own dreams.

[To see if I'm right.]

[Astarion's such a comforting weight nestled against his chest, Leto thinks as he begins the (jingling) trek up the coastal path. He sways gently with every step, bouncing so rhythmically that it's not unlike a heartbeat, and that's comforting right now. He cannot take Astarion into his arms as he wants to, nuzzling against his throat and soothing him with slow touches, but until he can, this is a decent substitute.]

Then we will plan it together. Start and finish wherever you please, for however long you please.

[His voice is low and warm. And though there's a hint of distraction woven within (how to get them home when he has minimal navigational prowess in this winding city), there's nothing more important right now than this conversation.]

We can even start now, if you wish.

[A little leap and his paws hit sun-warmed cobblestones, the scents and sounds of a city neatly drowning out their murmured conversation.]

Where would you like to go?

[He has a spot in mind, but he will not suggest it unless Astarion does. There's a headstone. A grave, and he has not forgotten in all the weeks since they spoke of it last, but it isn't his place to bring it up. This is meant to be a day to spoil Astarion, and while the gravesite is important, Leto will not judge him for not wanting to include that during a night on the town.]

[Though every step jostles and jingles, there's something to be said for snugness: every word huffed out in transit rumbles through him, and what confidence doesn't calm, the beat beat beat of Leto's hounding heart manages with little effort.

It's dark, and soft, and warm, and those three facets fit together spell out safe when all is said and done. Act as a steady balm for a shiftless, otherwise brittle soul.]

There are rumblings of an exclusive dining club in Manorborn, open to only the creme de la creme of this city's most notable patrons. A cabaret run by devilkin, a drinking club for those with magic in their veins— shopping near high hall and taking in the views of the city on high long before dawn steals its glittering splendor....

[Oh, he could go on for hours, he realizes; a catalog of long-held snippets of soirees and sorties amongst the higher echelons— no longer wholly out of reach.]

[He rumbles contentedly low in his throat, a sound meant to soothe the little bat nestled so close as much as it is encourage him. I like this, that's what that sound means. I like hearing this, tell me more, I want to make you happy . . . he does not know if it helps. Perhaps it doesn't. But Astarion is still so new in some ways to being indulged like this, and if he can encourage it in any way, he will.

Besides: he cannot deny those things sound intriguing. They aren't to his taste, no, and he wouldn't want to attend an endless circuit of them, but he cannot deny that there's something thrilling about being admitted to somewhere so exclusive. To indulge in the hedonism of the Upper City, watching a cabaret or drinking fine wine with Astarion at his side, thrilling in every second . . . yes, he can understand the appeal quite well.

This will be fun, he thinks to himself.]

We will have to stretch it out over the coming weeks, then. I would not mind trying more than one of those.

[And even if he did, he'd do it anyway.]

But the cabaret sounds intriguing— I have never seen one, not beyond the bawdy "plays" the Blooming Rose put on at times. As does the drinking club— though a room full of nothing but drunk mages sounds like a recipe for disaster.

[Another little leap as he reaches the streets proper, and then Leto hesitates. Pauses for just a moment in uncertainty— and then pads forward into the sunlight proper, his muscles tensed and ready to dash away the moment he hears a protesting cry.

But there's nothing. No smell of burning flesh, no agonized shriek— and so he continues forward, some part of him still ready to run if need be.]

Tell me of your shopping plans. I remember Rialto fondly for a thousand reasons, but you dressing us both is one of them. I will submit to whatever you feel is appropriate, so long as you thrill in it.

[And then, because he can't resist:]

Are you all right?

[Just making sure, as he darts from shadow to shadow as swiftly as he can.]

—you went to those plays too?

Tch— now I'm bitterly jealous we never went together. It'd have made A Midwinter Night's Cream moderately bearable. [Is a radiant chitter readily inclined to mimic the waves they soon leave behind, tucked between oppressive layers of cloth that blot the worst of the sun's glare (and yet, much like the carriage ride from Evereska, it's the heat that draws in tenderly against fur and skin alike; pressed in from the other side, if he closes he eyes, he might just manage to pretend— )]

Hm?

[All right?

—oh.

Oh.

Gods above, he'd been so preoccupied with the bulk of their plans and the mollifying inpress of Leto's presence (houndishness detracting nothing) that he'd completely forgotten the risk in play: his rampant paranoia laid low without a whimper.]

Yes.

Yes— of course. [Flustered. Or stumbling. Or elated. Or distracted. Or— ] Aside from the whole being-shaken-about-like-a-rodent-in-a-trap, it's practically sybaritic down here.

[Good. He has suspected as much, but the confirmation allows something in him to exhale. He's better than he was, but there is ever a part of Leto still grimacing at himself, remembering how foolish he has been with his lover's limitations before. Nothing has happened, nothing has ever happened, but still: Leto would never forgive himself if his own idiocy led to Astarion getting hurt.

But all is as it should be, and Leto's steps are a little lighter as he bounds his way down streets and alleys. Most don't notice him, or if they do, it's just long enough to earn a bewildered remark (is that a bloody dog?). It will take quite a while to make it halfway across the city, but he's making good time.]

You enjoy the shaking.

[It's a retort with no meaning, offered up as they head forward. He's moving as fast as he can, but there's few things that attract more attention than the gleam of gold— and though no one has made a move just yet, Leto can hear the murmurs of surprise and interest around him. Better, he thinks, to avoid detection by wandering deeper into the hidden alleys and half-forgotten byways of the city, trotting past derelict slums and bars that take the phrase hole-in-the-wall quite literally.

It works right up until it doesn't: when he finds himself frustratingly boxed into place by a petty squabble just up the street. Two drunken idiots are fighting over something with two members of the Flaming Fist trying to separate them— but one of them conjured a few devilkin, and now it's an all-out fight. And while Leto could risk sneaking past them, he doubts he wouldn't be spotted (or worse, singed).

So he hides them both behind a stack of boxes and heaves a doggish sigh, impatient as he settles in.]

[And out of one of those dingy bars, a voice floats out. Unknown to Leto, and thus utterly unremarkable at first— but his ears prick and swivel rapidly as he hears a familiar name.]

Where do you think Astarion went?

['Does it matter?' another voice answers sharply. It's a woman's voice, and it softens as she continues: 'I don't know. Somewhere far, if he had any sense. But Master would have heard if corpses started going missing in Waterdeep or Candlekeep . . . I don't know. More than likely he's dead somewhere.']

Master doesn't think so. He still refuses to believe it, and he would know . . . he must have some indication of how many of his spawn are still alive.

['Maybe. But—' Another sharp exhale, and the woman continues: 'As I said: it doesn't matter. And this is depressing me, Dalyria. Go check and see if the sun has gone down yet.'

Footsteps as a slim figure rises and sticks her head out of the shadowy doorway, only to scowl at the fight breaking out down the street, and all the gleaming daylight illuminating it.]

It hasn't, but there's a fight. Come see.

[Two sets of footsteps now, and neither tiefling nor drow (for that is what they are, no matter that they smell strangely familiar to his houndish nose) seems to notice Leto behind all those boxes.]

Edited 2024-10-10 00:48 (UTC)

[It takes no time at all for Astarion to go still as death itself; he doesn't need to hear his own name when the voice that utters it registers as quickly to long ears as if only yesterday he'd last heard it calling— three full years vanishing in a blink. A breath. For in that moment when he shrinks inside his cocooned safehaven, he feels himself again, not as he's become, but as he was: one lowly spawn cowering in gutterways, counting out precious minutes until dawn, and praying to the gods themselves he'd found a worthy mark by then— panicking already for the hour somewhere against the white-blank canvas of his mind.

Worse, those words that follow: he still refuses to believe it. And hells, of course Cazador does. Of course it'd never be so easy, never mind that it's been a handful of years where the whole of Toril was wiped clean of Astarion's existence, never mind his tracking efforts must've failed to that end for so long that it made the Szarr estate's once famed persistence sloppy, never mind that any other vampire could simply make another spawn, no— never mind all that, because it's clear now the devil had been right. Fenris had been right. And here they are perched close enough to smell, saved only by transfiguration and a knotted bit of cloth.

He feels sick.

Feels the compulsion— stupid as it is— to claw his way free from smothering oppression and bolt away to anywhere else. Fuck, it doesn't matter where, just not here. Not here. Not here. Insistence hammering like the heart he lacks, yet panic holds him deaf and blind and dumb, but still. Completely, breathlessly still, not even daring just to blink, save shivering beneath the thinnest measure of risen fur.

Apparently the stricken, screaming urge to flee combined with the desperate desire to remain unseen alchemically translates to rigor mortis.

Someone smarter might make sense of that.]

[How many times has he felt Astarion go rigid in his arms?

His body shaking for how stiff he's gone as they huddle beneath the sheets and he grips Leto's hand like a lifeline, white-knuckled and desperate, his voice haunted as he recounts tortures the likes of which Leto can scarcely imagine. His skin soaked in sweat as he wakes up screaming from a nightmare that he refuses to recount; his muscles coiled tight with terror and paranoia even as Leto works to soothe him, settle him, fingers in his hair and a strong arm wrapped around his frame, it's all right, he isn't here, I have you, I have you, it's all right (and the mantra is so important, even though it never once works). Late-night confessions whispered between kisses or idle facts offered up with seeming glibness, but always, always, there is that stiffness.

Leto feels it now.

The cold little form nestled against his chest becomes a dead weight, so silent and still that even Leto's enhanced hearing can't discern him. It's only the most minute of shivers that let him know that his mate is still with him, and even then, they're all but imperceptible. Astarion is terrified— and it does not take a genius to understand why.

So these are his siblings.

Master, Master, and Leto forgets all he's ever known about Cazador's indomitable power. Every time that title slips past their lips is another damning mark against them, deference both a pathetic show of loyalty and a blazing warning sign: they will not hesitate to turn him in. Cazador hunts his mate still, and it's nothing they didn't know, but it's so different to think it in the abstract and to have dizzying confirmation. They will take him, and it's a shrill warning, a piercing shriek as his heart thunders, they will steal him away, they will hurt him, they will torture him—

And then rising out of the abyss, a voice made of steel hisses: they will not touch him.

It isn't a declaration of intent but fact: he will not let it happen. He will not let anything come close to touching Astarion.

He's shifted without realizing it: his stance now alert and low, his ears pinned back against his skull and his teeth bared in silent, seething snarl. He knows better than to growl— to snarl— to bark and bite and tear, ripping into soft flesh and ravaging this threat until it's no more, scaring it off or killing it with one powerful bite— he knows better, he knows better—

But it's so hard to fight instinct.

For a long, sickly moment Leto teeters between his rational mind and his animalistic one, staring up at the two figures before him. But attacking won't help— and so though his every instinct screams to leap forward, Leto jerks one paw back, then another. And another, his movements jerky, his eyes locked on those figures. He's silent as the grave as he retreats, stepping so carefully to avoid jewelry clinking, and it's not that he makes a sound. It's not that he is trying to be seen. There's nothing that gives him away, nothing that should alert either of those figures—

But at the last possible second, the drow turns her head, her blazing eyes coolly intelligent as she stares at him. And though she does not make a sound to alert her companion, she sees him, he has no doubt. A beast that doesn't belong adorned in jewelry and with a heavy parcel slung around his neck, but there's nothing that might give Astarion away. There's nothing.

And just as her mouth opens (to say what? but what could she possibly say; doctor dalyria doesn't believe in such fanciful notions as like calling to like, and yet—) Leto turns tail and runs.

Dashing down alleyways and darting beneath passing carts, uncaring for being seen, uncaring for his own comfort or safety, running til his paws ache and his barrel chest heaves for air— for the more distance between them, the better.]

Edited 2024-10-11 03:26 (UTC)

[It's not enough. No. No, it'll never be enough. They could run across the whole of Faerûn and it wouldn't make a difference in the slightest. Tear open a portal from blood and bone and scrying glass down, down, down into the Hells— and it wouldn't damned well matter in the end: because it's real, now. And it'll never stop. Never end. Never let him be.

The moment his once-sibling's voice uttered his name not five full strides' distance from them, that hateful needle shifted irreversibly, he's sure of it. Feels it large and looming overhead like the sword of Damacles, twisting as if dragged into unnatural position by cold, forceful hands; unwilling and unable to return to the weightlessness present not half an hour before — blithely draped in pearled hope, decadent confidence— folly, in other words. Shaded hideous as a lover plucked from a dim tavern only to see hack-carved features exposed in brighter lights.

We'll dine and dance till morning. We'll mingle with the haunts of High Hall and watch the bawdiest of plays— no, we won't.

No we fucking won't.

Another vampire will get there first. (Correction: is there first.) Waiting like a spider in its web the way he's always been. Always done. Always wanted. Striking the second that they're spotted, greedy fangs plunged deep down to the bone. Astarion can see it clearly; masked against the backlit glow of leaded glass, there is no calculable limit to the black-eyed measure of his quickened hunger— the resentment— oh, it's been longer than a week. Much, much longer than a week. He's touched another. Sworn his heart to them. Bedded them. Bled them. Tsk tsk, Astarion.

He can't hear a thing over Cazador's imagined purr.

Long after Leto' stopped and brought them home, possibly kicking or nosing the door shut, he doesn't realize it. Stays put, curled up tighter than a locket in that kerchief, ready to bite down on anything that dares to agitate his sanctum.]

Edited 2024-10-12 19:34 (UTC)

[Their home is quiet, for whatever that's worth. The twins, pups once more, have fallen asleep snuggled up together, exhausted after their bewildering day. Ataashi lounges on the bed, her blazing eyes locked on Leto as he enters the room but otherwise motionless. Clever darling that she is, she can always sense when something is wrong. There's no desperate leaps for attention or panting exuberance; she watches silently as Leto transforms back, her posture attentive but not overwhelming.

Gingerly he lifts the small bundle from around his neck and places it on the bed. There's not a stir, not a sigh, but that doesn't surprise Leto. He makes short work of ridding himself of their treasure, fumbling only slightly in his haste, and slings on a pair of trousers. The entire process takes less than two minutes, and yet not once does he remove his gaze from that little bundle.

He climbs into bed. Scoops up the still, silent form of his lover and rests him against his bare chest, nestling him close to his beating heart. One hand lays gently but firmly atop the bundle, fingers close without becoming confining.

And Leto waits. Perhaps not forever, no, but he will wait a long time for Astarion to emerge. He has a book on hand, and there is nothing more important to him than his mate. There's a part of him that longs to tug him free, unwrapping that cloth and whispering assurances, but . . . no, it will not help to be forcibly torn from his shelter, Leto suspects. Better to let him come out in his own time, and they will take it from there.

Until then: it's quiet. The room fills with familiar noises: Ataashi's steady, slow breathing nearby (her eyes half-closed, her body pressed up against Leto's own), and in the distance, the twins snoring and snuffling in their sleep. The steady turn of a page here or there, and at a great distance, the sound of workers below lazily cleaning as they wait for the evening to come. And always, always, there is Leto's heartbeat: steady and sure, calm and unflagging no matter how long it takes.]

[He's waiting for the end.

Whether or not he believes it's truly coming hardly makes a difference when certainty's still breathing down his neck, choking out the inside of his den with its pervasive exhalations. And beyond the bubble that it forms— nothing.

Nothing.

Through branchwork, balled-up limbs and a buried snout, he's moved, but there's no sound. No real sensation, either, compared to the huff puff flow of paranoia. Gravity. Wet and dark and deep, with no end to sprawling bounds, that nothingness that reeks of iron rust. Evokes the memory of spent spittle burning in his throat— as close to true sensation as it gets when he's been shut in and forgotten. Albeit for what, he can't recall (but it's not unusual, is it?) he'd been dreaming. Is dreaming, perhaps. Like the snap of misaligned gears, his burned out brain keeps thinking with all the grace of a drowning figure: ugly reflex, quick in action yet sluggish in regards to reason, oscillating wildly in the hopes that something might connect. For Astarion, that's logic. He's curled up in the kennels, he thinks; he's dizzy and confused from steep starvation; it's then— it's now—

It's the crisp sound of a page turning, smearing against its kin before it pops like a stiffened joint, and settles.

The softer shoreline hiss of blood running in channels underneath him, and the bassy pulse that throttles it onwards, slowly shaking Astarion where he rests in ways that stone floors never would.

Well— not unless Cazador's constructed some sort of new and ultimately unseemly horror when it comes to architecture, but— no. No, that's not a possibility, not even for him. And for all his time spent underground, it'd been cold, and stiff, and lifeless, not at all like this.

One tufted ear drives its way out from darker cloth, flicking upright first, and then another. A wriggling muzzle with a wet, snuffling nose— and then two albinic ruby eyes, squinting sharply to adjust whilst they take in their surroundings. The slow start to a careful crawl down to Leto's chest, then up towards his chin. A place to shelter under that's familiar in its rediscovery— safe and steady and warm, and comfortably scented— little wings folding across the front of a tattoed throat.]

[And when he's finished (for Maker knows how long it's been since he first came to bundle underneath Leto's narrow chin), there's a quickened flood of movement that ushers him through the air— ending with an elven outline perched tall beside the very foot of their bed. Clawed fingers sheltering faint clicking (and clacking, no less) as he bundles his assortment of pilfered jewelry, pearlshine peeking through the gaps within his grip.

There's sobriety in his voice.

It sounds tired, if not level.]

What happened to them?

[He can't remember, but he assumes they weren't followed.]

[How long does it take? But it doesn't matter. Time never matters when they're tucked away in their home (the mansion in Thedas, the flat above the pub in Evereska, their roving apartments in Baldur's Gate). The minutes melt into hours melt into days unheeded, ignored in favor of sorrow or pleasure, joy or grief, for there is nothing more important than the two of them.

Thus: Astarion nestles beneath Leto's chin, his little body finding the places that feel safest, and lingers there for as long as he needs. Leto knows better than to say anything, but his hand comes up often: first for that wet little snout to snuffle at and recognize (you know me, you remember this scent), and then to gently pet when it seems he's wanted. His attention stays nominally focused on his book, for sometimes being perceived is too much to bear— even when most of your life has been spent begging for a scrap of attention.

Perhaps especially then.

There's no fanfare for when it ends. The only motion Leto makes is to sit up, watching Astarion as he finally comes back to himself.]

Nothing. The tiefling noticed me, I think, but she looked at me as much of the city did: with bemusement, not recognition or shock. I ran, and they neither of them followed.

[He checked. He made sure. Over and over, he made sure, circling endlessly in a wide perimeter around their home, using every bit of old training and newfound senses to make sure that no gleaming set of red eyes was involuntarily taking note of them.

(And the joke is: he did miss something, but Korrilla is so much more subtle than any spawn could ever hope to be).]

There was a drow, too.

[The question hangs silently in the air, but he won't utter it just yet. Better to let Astarion tell him their names, their stories, their views (if such things even exist; if they are anything more than fellow slaves— but they must be. Siblings, and Leto— Fenris— knows better than anyone how many memories such relations trigger).]

[I ran, and neither of them followed.

It isn't possible to love Leto more, but standing there in the shuttered darkness of a coming night, stripped bare of pretense alongside clothing, he'd swear himself as close to that margin as one could ever get. Both were enslaved creatures once; both understand the necessity of doggedly checking their own shadow to be certain that it matches— yet they are so far from Thedas, and Leto is so young. What was once familiar feels a full lifetime ago. Easily forgotten. (Never forgotten, no. He sees the truth of it lain across their mattress, in the fixated focus of autumnal eyes as they peer back in stoic earnest.

Young only in their form, not the wisdom held behind them.)

Astarion's expression relaxes, and the hang of his posture goes with it.]

Aurelia and Dalyria. [Sits suspended in midair for far too long before reason settles in, insisting that Leto will want to know what those names mean— who they are.

And rightfully he should.

There's a mulled flicker of sound as pale fingertips set gilded jewelry aside across a nearby table, moving no closer beyond that.]

....my siblings.

[So that was them. It's nothing he hadn't suspected, but the confirmation makes something lurch deep in the pit of his stomach. Aurelia and Dalyria, and he memorizes the names diligently, trying to remember the details of their faces and forms, matching each name up with its respective owner.

My siblings, Astarion says, and Leto silently changes it to: my sisters, for that is a grief he knows so much better. And what is it to have a sister? To be bound eternally to a person you simultaneously love and loathe, the only person in the world that knows exactly what you went through all those years . . . and the rest almost doesn't matter. He will never, ever trust Varania again— hells, he doesn't even know if he even ever wants to see her again. But there will always be a place in his heart for her, a strange mixture of resentment and longing that he has long since accepted will never go away.]

Do you remember what they spoke of?

[It's a gentle question. He wouldn't blame Astarion for being too petrified to recall a single thing; he also wouldn't blame him for memorizing every single word, devoting it to memory in the terrified false hope that such a minor thing might somehow help them evade Cazador a little longer.]

[A fair question.

What he thinks, what he feels in that moment, they're solely one and the same. A truth that solidified itself from the instant he heard his own name uttered, and a conversation whose participants were recognizable by sound, rather than sight— but memory beyond sensation? Beyond the palpable rise of fear and nausea, and the thunder of dread as a surrogate for his own pulse?

He has to look at Fenris peripherally. Keeps him there, but blurry in the borders of his own vision: taking care not to track the way he might be staring back. It doesn't matter that he knows Leto wouldn't stare at him with pity (or that Fenris most of all wouldn't, either).

The thought he might spot some unevolved glimpse of it is unbearable.]

Cazador. [And the name curdles on his tongue. A memory he's no desire to taste, but as much a guess as he can muster when the details still feel hazy.]

That your blasted devil was right.

Yes.

[He half-expects Raphael to appear in a burst of brimstone and smoke, but there's nothing. The dull murmur downstairs doesn't alter; their room stays silent and contained, the door barred and the windows shuttered (for all the good it will do them).

Leto watches Astarion so carefully: direct where his lover is elusive, steady where Astarion might feel overwhelmed. His role now is to be a rock, steady and strong: not without malleability, but something Astarion can dash himself upon again and again without fear of consequences or lingering resentment. Someone to help Astarion stay grounded when two centuries of terror and grief will inevitably overwhelm him again and again, rising up like bile in his throat and smothering him into incoherence.

A breath, and then:]

. . . but they do not know you are here. They wondered where you had gone, and marveled at the fact you have stayed hidden. Cazador still thinks you alive— but he has no evidence to prove it just yet.

[They're facts offered steadily, and Leto tries so hard to keep anything else out of his tone. Above all, he doesn't want to offer any kind of false optimism: see, it isn't so bad!, when of course, it is. It's terrifying and nauseating and so overwhelming that there's nothing but the clawing panic of a trapped animal hearing the hunter approach step by heavy step—

He knows. He remembers.

And yet inevitably, Leto thinks, Astarion will lash out. That's part of it too.]

He does not know anything more than he did a day ago, or a week ago, or since we returned here. Nothing has changed.

[That's not true. He knows that's not true and he regrets it the moment he says it, but it's too late now. Stupid.]

I mean simply that— that we are in no more or less danger than we were before.

Edited 2024-10-19 23:54 (UTC)

[Astarion's redirect is sharp. Agitated in the worst way and already rearing up to bite like a cornered animal: the warning wetness in red eyes that narrows to a gleaming point as it jerks Fenris' way—

Only to meet that amendment head-on.

(Only to soften at the seams, for it's the whirling lunge to bite that inevitably shows Ataashi that it's no assailant's hand across her nape, but the packmates she adores. No different than Leto startling awake in the dead of night, warm from the covers he'd been under and yet shivering out of his own skin, wide eyed and wild to the last heaving gasp; no different than the startled look Astarion wears now, only marking what's before him by the slow draw into focus half a moment too late to save composure.) Leto can't be so blind that he doesn't see right through it. Doesn't know, intimately, what's ticking underneath the surface.

It takes so long for Astarion to find his breath, false though it may be.]

For now.

[Thin as paper. Damp, small, limp within his emptied hands.]

If he thinks I'm not dead, it's only a matter of time. [Slow start, exhale thready when it leaves his throat.] Today was close enough.

For now.

[The answer accepted and echoed without amendment, Leto's head ducking down into a shallow nod in silent echo. But he watches him carefully as Astarion continues on. It's the farthest thing from hopeful, but nor is it utterly despairing, and that's good. That counts. Now that Cazador has become more real, it matters so much that while Astarion's knees might buckle and his terror might rear, his first impulse isn't to cower or ignore, but grimly face the threat head-on.]

What do you wish to do?

[For Leto has a thousand ideas born from a hundred plans plotted out in the dead of night. He has gone over how to best kill a vampire lord again and again in his mind, adding in details and drawbacks as Astarion has offered them. He's learned all the most deadly spells for vampires (sunlight a miracle of a one, but there are others); he's trained fiercely, throwing himself into combining his swordplay and his magic, honing himself to fight against a creature that, on paper, he's hopelessly outmatched by.

(But there's a reason vampires are so secretive. There's a reason they both mind their tongue when they're not alone, or take pains to ensure that Astarion is seen hanging around during the day, albeit indoors. Vampires aren't infallible. And though it would be a mistake to underestimate them, oh, they are far from immortal).

A beat, and he adds gently:]

It is a matter of time, yes. But not tonight. You need not have a plan just yet. You need not do anything tonight, save reel.

[His tongue sits shallow behind his fangs. His faintly glowing eyes are sunken under the shadows cast by listless curls; he stares at Leto for the longest second, framing it in his mind like something precious he could lose.

(More than the image. More than its constancy. When even the memory of it can be scrubbed clean and yanked away, it's hard to trust that it can stay.)]

Go back to Thedas....? [Is a hoarse-throated joke. Ultimately prying a degree or two of slant out of the corner of his mouth, but like everything else, it sinks after a beat, and his frown is that much deeper for it.]

....I don't know.

[Feels small. Tired. A lump in his throat where his tongue should be.

Appropriately weak, perhaps.]

All this time. [It's been weeks since the devil's warning in Evereska— what was he thinking? Did he ever have a plan? Did he forget it?] Wasted.

[He looks so small like that. No longer is he the proud, hedonistic vampire of the past year, his tongue curling wickedly and his prowess unmatched, but something smaller. Weaker. Broken, and yet stitched together over and over again, a shattered fracture of himself only held together through the most tenuous threads. His eyes are hollow and his head is bowed; exhaustion has stitched its way into every muscle. All of him so defeated already by the inevitability of Cazador Szarr.

All this time, his beloved says hollowly, wasted—

And before he realizes it, Leto is on his feet. He's closed the distance between them, one hand gripping Astarion's shoulder tightly as the other catches beneath his chin.]

No. Not wasted. None of it was a waste.

[His eyes dart about Astarion's face; after a moment, some of the urgency lessens in his voice. His thumb strokes against the curve of his shoulder, his expression softening.]

You do not know— but I do.

[He has to do this so carefully. Push too fast and terror will kick in; ease in too much and Astarion won't believe him.]

He is powerful, but he is not infallible. He is dangerous, but so was Danarius. So was Corypheus. And Astarion . . . I am built for this.

[Look at me. See past all the features that make him look like a pup only just grown into his paws; look past his ears, his eyes, his youth, the wrinkles that no longer line his eyes. Look at me and see me for who I am, Fenris thinks.]

For decades I was trained not just to fight, but in tactics. In control. [Do you understand? Do you realize? For his own days of enslavement were so relatively far behind him, and it's not that Astarion doesn't know his past— but there is such a difference between knowing and understanding.] I know how to subdue crowds and read the mood of a mob; I know how to plan for a battle, and what factors will aid or hinder it. I have studied magic and vampirism here, I have dedicated myself to it— not in the hopes of slaying him myself, but so I know how to offer you a plan.

[He hesitates for a moment, wondering if it's too much, but . . .]

One vampire lord. Six spawns who cannot help their compulsion. And an array of thralls and insane servants who are dedicated to him. I will not say the odds are in our favor just yet . . . but we have time to plan. To recruit.

Your friend Gale arrived today. I meant to tell you . . . his letter came. And with him are allies, are there not? Those who remember you, even if you do not remember them.

[Shadowheart, Wyll, Lae'zel, Jaheira, Karlach, and the names mean nothing to him right now, but if they can fight, if they will aid him . . . oh, that changes things indeed.]

We can lure him out, perhaps. Or prepare to siege upon his palace. We know the terrain, and that is more than some have before battle.

[But all of that is detail. What matters is what he says next, and to that extent, Fenris catches Astarion's eye, making sure he knows just how seriously he's taking this. That this is no hero playing at noble rescuer; that this will not end in terror.

Don't make me walk you to his table.

I won't, Fenris thinks fiercely. I won't, I won't, I won't.]

We have time. We have allies.

We can win this, Astarion. Believe in me, if you cannot believe in it yourself.

i noticed NOTHING

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

2/2

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/2

2/2

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject