Tʜᴇ Pᴀʟᴇ Eʟғ | Asᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ Aɴᴄᴜɴíɴ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
INBOX II
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
no subject
He wonders if this is how Fenris might have felt returning to Kirkwall. Met by a story with his name in it, and not a single memory to go with it.
(And if he were objective— which mind you, he isn't— maybe he'd realize that's part of why he's brimming with tepid hostility. Like Ataashi when she squirms and growls and writhes within their arms come bath time, trying to force it along only makes things worse.)
And that's not including his bristling contrarianism by default.]
Eugh. [Sound acting as deflection. The uncomfortable made comfortable through a crinkled nose and the folding of his arms at distance.] You're useful.
Don't make it weird.
[Easy to forget it was Fenris that saved him from the Fade. Fenris that drew him up and gave him hope as something— someone freed. Fenris who protected him, cared for him, followed him. Leto, who he loves. And so it's Leto who warrants the soft mouth, the gentle glances as if they were second nature, sole nature. Leto who finds himself proudly doted on by a dagger of a creature, all sharp edges and sharp claws.
Everyone else, very much not so.
Still, he knows what he needs to tip the scales (or at the very least keep Leto safe), and what the cost may well prove to be in the end. It isn't sheepishness that makes his cattish dismissal start to sink down into tepid acceptance, just a realistic comprehension of that age old saying regarding flies and vinegar.
And if they're risking their lives, he should probably be grateful. Maybe.]
Just focus on getting all those schoolyard lessons of yours straightened out for our resident Bladesinger first, and if you get that far before we have an enthralled army on our doorstep, then I might consider taking protips on vampirism from a fangless mage. [Wizard? Whatever.]
Ah, but—
[His gesture's loose, index finger untucked just to sweep through nothing in midair, indicating sudden thought alongside a modicum of self-awareness.]
You can tell the cleric to visit.
[That's fine. She seems fine. (He hopes to bloody Andraste that she's fine. Someone with the name Shadowheart hardly seems the sort to go throwing arms about necks upon reunion, but then Violet doesn't shout 'murderous harlot with a penchant for making everyone else miserable' from the rooftops, either.)] Something to chip away at whilst you two conjure mephits and whatnot.
[He's checking his nails now. That's how you know he's only playing at indifference, dipping too far into theatrics in attempting to prove he doesn't care.]
Didn't you say there were others too? The last time we spoke I remember you mentioning— [Did Gale mention other allies? It's been an eternity since the man flickered in and out of Thedas like a spirit given form, swearing that he knew Astarion before evaporating into thin air not two days later.] —I was under the impression it wasn't just you and a cleric on our side.
no subject
'Oh, yes,' Gale agrees benignly. There's a similarly endeared sort of smile on his face now, his earlier waspishness forgotten in favor of amusement. He missed him, Leto thinks with surprise. He missed him and he knows him well enough not to push the sentiment, and that's . . . he does not know how he feels about that, save that it's a pleasing feeling. He likes the thought of Astarion having others who care for him; gods know he deserves it— and it would be good for him, just as the little elven pack was good for Leto.
Ah— Fenris, now.
'A few, in fact. Aside from myself and Shadowheart, Wyll and Karlach— two adventurers who now specialize in hunting down devils— in fact, Wyll actually stylizes himself as the Blade of Avernus now, but in any case, they're return from Avernus just as soon as they can find a portal out. Lae'zel, a gith warrior, is already in the city— in fact, she asked about you, Fenris. She has never sparred against a Bladesinger, but I told her that master of the blade you might be, but we would have a bit more training to get through before you could fulfill the singing portion of it all.'
He chuckles, and then, when Fenris stares at blankly, coughs and continues on. 'Right. In any case: Jaheira and Minsc are still working in Daggerford clearing out an infestation of goblins, but they promised to return within the month. Beyond that . . . we have a number of allies we can call upon. Zevlor, a former commander, is in the city and feels he owes us. A few others, too . . . '
Gale pauses for a few moments, looking thoughtful as he glances from Fenris to Astarion. Then, a little abruptly, he says to Astarion, 'Including a group of Gur. Though perhaps help isn't quite the right word for what they intend . . . they wish to work with us, for they feel you owe them, Astarion.'
There's no elaboration, and it doesn't take Fenris long to realize it's because of him. Gale keeps glancing between them: not furtively, but waiting for permission from Astarion to continue.]
no subject
That I owe them?
[Bile in the back of his throat curdles those words right from the start. What toothless bristling Gale had earned doesn't hold a candle to the anger Astarion finds now. A bright, inhuman flare around his irises.]
They think that I owe them?
[He's hunched forwards when he asks a second time, lips peeled back around his fangs. He's seeing red with all the avidity of a man that's forgotten his own sin and kept stock of the worst that've been done to him. It's been so long, after all. So much bliss imbibed that what he thinks of when reminded of their existence isn't one more unpalatable task given in the dead of night, but of bruises split wide open like cracked fruit. Bile in his throat, sour in the preset as the past bleeds out around his ears.
Fuck them.
Fuck them for the audacity.]
They should be grateful I'm not hunting them for sport after what they did to me. [Raptorish twisting. Anger hot, not cold.]
If any of their lot survive this ill-advised coup against Cazador Szarr, they can count themselves lucky to be alive. That can be my gift to them, in thanks for their....generous cooperation.
[It won't be until he sees their camp— or sees them— that he'll remember that secondary clan. Not until it's darker and quieter and safer, and the buzzing in his ears mercifully quietens down. Right now, he can't.
And it isn't fair, but anger isn't fair.
So few things are.]
no subject
'That isn't the incident they have in mind, I believe, but a more recent one. One involving the settlement just outside of the city gates.' He watches Astarion for a few seconds, searching his face for something. Whether or not he finds it, he adds swiftly: 'But they can tell you themselves later, and you can decide what you will do with it later on.'
It isn't condemnation or a brush-off, but gentle defusion. Again Gale's gaze darts from Fenris to Astarion before he adds: 'In any case: they are determined to help either way, for the sake of killing Szarr if nothing else.'
There's more said, of course, but none of it particularly interesting. He arranges for a time to meet with Fenris (tomorrow at ten in the morning) so that an initial assessment might begin, and from there lesson plans and instructional spars. He gives them the names of all those companions that he had mentioned, along with a list of where to find them and what they can offer in terms of a fighting force, and then makes his goodbyes.
'It was good to see you,' he says to Astarion before he goes. 'Truly, Astarion. You've been missed.'
And then he's gone, and they're left in the aftermath.
There's so much to say, but none of it can be from him first. Fenris— Leto— knows that. Whatever Gale was hinting at is something that either happened during the course of Astarion's lost memories (if they can even be called that, but what other term is there?), or something else. Something that happened before, and was only a revelation made during the course of that adventure . . . and it must be the latter, Leto thinks, for Gale would not expect Astarion to know it otherwise.
So it's something from the past. Something involving the Gur, and gods know Cazador has a sadistic sense of humor. Leto can think of a thousand cruelties he might force his spawn to enact against his murderers, and who's to say if the intended victim was Astarion or the Gur— or both. But whatever it was, it must have happened recently. Call it within the past half-century, maybe, but something fresh enough that this encampment leapt upon the chance to join in.
And whatever it is, Leto knows already, he will stay by Astarion's side. That isn't a question.
But one thing at a time.
He sits heavily on the bed, watching Astarion whether he rants or paces or shuts down. But when there's a breath, a pause, Leto murmurs:]
Tell me.
[The rage. The grief. The resentment. Tell me.]
We need not use them if you despise the idea. We have forces enough that they are not vital.
no subject
That said, three years of freedom is such a long time in terms of iron trust: he's not the fretful thing he used to be when they first met, constantly looking towards his partner and seeking out approval (or assurance, whichever worked best), afraid to stray too far from what was always desirable for how it might divide them. They've grown close enough these days that they qualify as ingrown by design: irreversibly intertwined, almost grotesquely so— because where sweetness reigns, there are those days when Astarion can't bring himself to leave or sit alone. Can't stop thinking about where Leto is, or what he might be doing on his own. Not jealous, but restless. A true vampire would never be that soft.
They could confess anything. Ask anything. Do anything— and where love (never) ends devotion overtakes. Not a question. More than instinct. Deeper than the tightest bond.
Admitting the truth in that hadal bay of understanding is, by any stretch, easy.
....but the way Astarion moves to pull of his shirt and redress for bed rather than company is a telltale sign he's stalling. Putting it off by seconds. Keeping his hands and eyes and focus busy, though his voice is even enough to read as disinterested when he finally makes use of it.]
We don't, but you're sweet to offer. [Balls his shirt up between clawed fingers, tossing it into a satchel hung higher than the pups can reach— dirty laundry only. Threats of bite marks or piss on silk keep him tidier than he would be otherwise.]
They're monster hunters. The clan that Gale mentioned, that is. The ones that are willing to help us fight back, if I understood his hints correctly. [And he does think so, alludes the underscoring glance across his shoulder, catching Leto's eye.] Most are....
[Tsk.]
Vagrants, for lack of a more revolting term. The sort to take on odd jobs of any shade— much like the Gur that killed me. That's what sets this pack apart, and what set them in Cazador's sights as a nuisance, before Thedas was kind enough to offer my freedom from his rule.
[A plaintive pause; he isn't looking anymore. Only staring down into his clothing dresser, distant for that single, solitary beat.]
He took their children from them.
[He took, but it's no far reach for any slave to remember that it's never the master's own hands that commit to any work.]
no subject
That's the underlying truth. Not the whole truth, for in this they are the same: there is not a single doubt in Leto's mind that their blood is on Cazador's hands. What slave can be blamed for his master's sins? None of them. It's so easy for others to claim otherwise— to condemn those in bondage for not rising up and breaking their chains, stopping those in power from evil acts . . . gods, he can remember that in Minrathous. Some disgraced laetan had been stupid enough to get caught using blood magic, and the magisterium was making a grand show of punishing him by stripping him of his title and his land. For morality's sake, they claimed. And the next day, all anyone had been able to talk about was how awful it was that none of those dead slaves had made a move to save their fellows, even if it was at the cost of their own life.
Those children aren't Astarion's fault, no matter what their kin thinks.
He watches Astarion carefully as he moves, caught somewhere between direct focus and distant reflection. Almost without realizing it he studies the lines of his bare back, tracing the scar tissue in all its jagged, vicious glory. Seven beloved vampire spawn and seven thousand souls, and even now, Leto fancies he can smell the ash and brimstone as Raphael's voice echoes in his mind. Seven spawn and seven thousand souls . . .
Seven thousand, the number so vast as to overwhelm, and how would you accrue that many? Mortals need upkeep. They need food and water and shelter, sleep and maintenance; gods know Leto remembers Danarius grousing over how much money it cost him to keep his slaves relatively healthy and hale. They need to be kept in a place where they can't kill themselves easily, either, and mortal bodies are so very good at dying, especially in despair. And the disappearance of seven thousand would alert anyone, even if all the souls you stole were vagrants and thieves . . .
But if you did it slowly— if you turned them all and kept them in walls, in cells, in dark, secret places where they could be stored away like silverware, their sanity optional so long as their soul was still intact . . . some were eaten, Leto has no doubt. Astarion fetching prey was no mere lie, but suddenly the scope of it begins to take form. A thousand souls per spawn, drawn out over the course of centuries . . . oh, yes. Oh, yes, you could do that easily, so long as you didn't mind being patient.]
Is it possible to turn a child?
[A beat, and then, almost to himself:]
I wonder if they expect revenge or a rescue . . .
[And it doesn't matter, not really. Not compared to the here and now. Leto's eyes flick up, focusing more on Astarion as he adds:]
Do you remember them?
no subject
It could be self preservation is a monster like none other, and it protects him with a fierceness that scarcely knows thin words like decency or fair.
His brows knit. He sets the edge of a thumbclaw beneath the underside of its twin, twisting. It's a glimpse of vulnerability.
It's gone in the next breath.]
I very much doubt there's anything in this world that can't be cursed, but even so that doesn't change the fact that there'd be nothing to rescue of their pups when it comes down to it: those creatures are long dead— [sounds harsher when it's held up like a shield.] even if they could be used for some absurd ritual, what good are children to a demon? No, Cazador wanted to punish them. Make it hurt.
[Leans on that nail. The sharp jab of springing pain in palest minor.]
There's nothing there, I'm sure of it.
no subject
It will hurt either way, no matter what we find.
[He isn't talking about the Gur, not really.
For he saw that guilt, but what good will come of drawing too much attention to it? Do you feel bad, tell me how much, crucify yourself for my pleasure, and why should he ask Astarion that? Why should Astarion feel bad for the crime of forced obedience? There's sympathy in the way Leto speaks; there's also a wearied sort of knowledge there, forewarning Astarion to steel himself for what might be to come.
As if his mate needs that. Better, then, to rise up off the bed, crossing the room so he can rest one warm palm between Astarion's bare shoulderblades. I'm here, and he is, always.]
And it is not your fault.
[There. That's a little better. And he knows Astarion hates directness, especially when it comes to emotion— but sometimes he needs Leto to push, just as sometimes Leto needs his own bluntness softened.]
I know you are aware of that . . . but do you know it?
[In his heart, he means. In that place where guilt and grief and shame grow and fester and twist— and that's to say nothing of how vampirism amplifies such feelings.]
no subject
Haunted things can hardly outrun their own shadows. And like any haunting it will, habitually, loiter in the margins at times not so dissimilar as these, lancing like the sharpness he imbibes by way of tender fingertips.]
Even if I did, what difference would that make?
Those children won't come back. The other Gur won't stop themselves from their resentment or their blame: it was Cazador that wanted it, I'm still the one that did it.
[Bare skin upon bare skin; the warmth of Leto's touch smooths across the measure of his spine when he turns to glance behind him, trailing over countless scars. Numbness back to feeling; deadened nerves to shallow dips that shiver to be traced. There's naught but Leto in the mirror, and so the look he aims— resolute and beseeching— has to be leveled directly at its target.
For it means the world that Leto cares. Knows he'd endure, yet still thinks to coax him back to comfort just for comfort's sake just so that he won't keep gnawing himself raw like the animal that he once was when fear ruled him. It means the world— Thedas and Faerûn, both— that Leto won't just leave him to it, and that's what tips the scale the other way, heavy though it stays: amplified emotions mired in distress don't war with something muted, only the blazing flare of affection that enwreaths a lifeless heart. Saturates it, now.]
I don't care if the world hates me, my Leto.
That you don't is enough.
1/2
But that soft voice rises again, and there is no world in which Leto doesn't attune to it. His features soften in the mirror's glass as he takes a step forward, pressing their bodies together and sliding his hands down Astarion's bare arms in soothing echo: I'm not going anywhere. Never, ever. Not even when the gods themselves have worked to split them apart, oh, never, he'll never stop chasing after him, loving him every step of the way.]
I love you.
[He murmurs it against Astarion's neck, nuzzling behind one tapered ear as he does.]
And I will always love you, even if there are days you struggle to love yourself. Even if the world is blind, and cannot see who you are— and what you were forced to be.
[He kisses his head, bumping his nose gently against soft curls— and then hesitates. Something like guilt crosses his expression, and he adds:]
Astarion . . .
no subject
There's something else.
[He hesitates, but then:]
I wanted to— [No.] Months ago, I asked you to limit your diet. I begged for you to hunt only those whose deaths would not hurt my morality, aiming for criminals and evildoers— and when you objected on the practical logistics of that, I ignored it, instead imploring you again.
[It isn't the worst sin in the world, he knows, but nor is it something he's proud of. It's why he needs to lay it all out, exorcising his guilt and his regret.]
I should not have.
It was cruel and foolish, and I asked too much of you— especially knowing that there is little you will not strive to give me. [His eyes flick up, something knowing in his gaze: you have such a soft heart when it comes to me, and he loves him so much for it.] I did not understand what I was asking . . . or perhaps I did not want to understand what it meant to be vampire. What you would need to survive . . . I acted as though it was an option, as if I take any kind of the same consideration over my meals.
It was cruel, [he says again, his eyes flicking away once more,] and you abided by it anyway. And I am sorry for that— and for demanding it of you at all.
[He forces his gaze upwards; he will not cower, not after all these years.]
Eat who you must, as often as you will, for I do not want to ever see you starved or lean. Not as we prepare to face Cazador— and not after, either.
no subject
Theme of the hour, he supposes; he's never known what to do with too much freedom, and it takes a great deal more of his focus to resist the immediate temptation just to take them back. But confessions are distinct enough to recognize by their preludes: he doesn't miss the way Leto pauses before he swallows— or before he speaks— how his lips draw thin into a straightened line, drawn down like that handsome stare. Like the tips of those sweet ears. Down, down, down....
Grounding and braced for the plunge.]
I—
[Astarion blinks. Pauses.]
....I don't know what to say.
[There’s true concern in those forced out words, like tangled thread, they wind together to spell out the knotted heart of this: for my peace of mind, I starved you. And, well yes, for a little while, that had been true.
(He'd expected a cold dive; his ankles are scarcely in the water.)
It makes it simple, reaching out to close the narrow sliver of distance forced between them— pulling lifewarmed cheeks (the rigid edges of a set jaw)— right into his open palms.]
My darling, darling heart, it was a choice.
I'd even go so far as to name it a vital one, in fact.
no subject
And though his heart warms to hear that, still, some nagging sense of doubt lingers.]
It was still wrong to force it upon you.
[Stubborn pup, insisting upon that, but he will not let himself off the hook so easily.]
Choice or not . . . I should not have made it such an ultimatum. Not when it comes to the things you need to survive— and not when I know full well what it is to be kept lean and starved.
[But with that said . . . he frowns faintly.]
What do you mean, a vital one?
1/2
[Stubborn pup is right.
Astarion presses their foreheads together, profiles dragging, scuffing. The little sting of it's a comfort— pleasant friction kissing those thin places where the bridges of their noses bear in hard and heavy, intertwining scent and sweat— marking Leto with the claims of resonant affection, swearing that devotion binds them more fervently than what any missdoing might've done to tear them apart.
It intermingles with their fingertips. Their bound and boundless touches, and all the little things unsaid.
And said.]
If I'd wanted to shake myself free of your demands, believe me, I'd have well done it right from the start—
Or made more of an attempt to argue till it wore you down.
[Mild, that. Words like lodestones, but he doesn't lay them lightly.]
2/2
No idea what they're— what we're truly like. How little worth life of any stripe merits in the focus of cold, deadened eyes. [Cattle, was the word so often used. The word that comes to mind after years gone unheard outside of dreams.] Nothing but another means to feed. To sate that endless, endless hunger, as if there'll ever be such a thing as a moment void of invidious desire.
And I— in my fear and overwhelming distress once I realized where we were— would've been all too glad to disregard my opportunity to choose a different path. Swear rote brutality in as just one more necessity amongst the rest and never thought on it again.
[His lashes don't lift. He isn't staring at Leto; close as they are, he doesn't need to.]
....if not for you.
[A vital choice, indeed.]
no subject
But it helps to reconnect. And so he returns each one eagerly, and takes those words to heart.
Though his eyes open once more as Astarion continues. And that . . . oh, he thinks, and in lieu of catching Astarion's gaze, he scuffs against him once more, for there's no such thing as too much affection when it comes to them.
And what can he say? You would have come to your morality eventually, but maybe he would have and maybe he wouldn't, for a person can justify almost anything in their terror. You are better than that, I know you are, and that Leto believes wholeheartedly— but that trait still needs coaxing after two hundred years. There's no shame in that.]
Perhaps, then, I showed you the path— albeit not in the best way.
[Another nuzzle. Another heavy push, as Fenris (and it is Fenris sometimes, especially when he is at his most mature and Theodosian) underscores his own forthcoming point:]
But it was you who walked it.
[There's a little smile in his voice as he adds:]
I will still take some credit, for I am not so selfless as all that. But it was you who abided by it, amatus.
[Agreement, not insistence— and a good reminder, should that guilt rise within him once more. Another nuzzle, but before Astarion can pull back, he adds softly:]
Were you worried? You looked so stricken when I began speaking . . .
no subject
Mmph.
[It's a hum and a smile all at once. His head falls back by half an inch or so when pressed by that hard nuzzle, and the taste of it— the throbbing scuff that lingers right between his brows— holds his focus hostage in the middle of a far more serious conversation for just a few scant beats too long.
Someone with more sense might realize he's halfway to pulling the poor elf into his lap.]
no subject
[But whatever he was about to say is interrupted by that insistent pulling, and with a little huff, Leto acquiesces. Not such an easy task when they're positioned like this, mind you, but still: he arches his back and spread his thighs, letting Astarion guide him into holding him however he pleases— so long as he carries his weight.
It gives him room to slide his hands up his bare chest. His palms smooth against cold skin as his thumbs glide against the twin scars he'd gifted his vampire, stroking them again and again in gentle reminder. I gave you these, every pass whispers. I bestowed them upon you for the same reason you marked me, and his own have long since stopped hurting, but still sometimes he thinks he can feel them. Twin aches around his spine, reminding him that no matter what happens, some part of him will always have a way back to Astarion.]
Someday, [he murmurs, and nudges their foreheads together again in buckish insistence,] a century or so from now, I will ask you that question again. And when I do— when Cazador is dead and rotting and his palace become something you and I have made our own . . .
[He draws back, though whether he can catch Astarion's eye isn't fully up to him.]
When you have whispered to me all the deeds you have ever done, and confessed what blood still lingers on your hands and hurts your heart . . . I hope you will be able to tell me that such worries occupy your mind only infrequently.
I love you. And there is no revelation from your past nor event in the future that will make me leave you. Not willingly. Not by choice.
no subject
If he had blood left to give or a heart still beating, he'd be quite literally colored by what he feels now. Warmed by the comfort he still has to remind himself won't flee. Won't be taken from him.]
....Have I ever told you how much a nuisance you are? [He's overcome. He can almost hear his voice crack when he tries to play it off, holding fast through his fingers only to the press of Leto's hands across his scars.] Can't even let me reel in relative peace. Always saving me from myself.
no subject
You knew what I was when you agreed to marry me. You have only yourself to blame.
[Soft. Playing at amusement for dignity's sake, even as his lips brush against cold skin. Take my heat, my heart, my devotion— take everything, for it has always been yours.]
Ask me, when you feel that fear. Ask me and I will answer you, again and again.
no subject
Whose fingerpads settle low across the supple divots spanning still-clothed ribs, rucking thin fabric as they go. Action without an endgoal, only meaning: like the scrape of their mouths meeting without staying latched, or the way he noses through it, still carving out warm friction that smells rich from their entanglement to the sort of senses that can trace it, what he wants is that permeating closeness. The one thing that always brings him back from a thousand different lifetimes.
—that's right. They are married now, aren't they? How quickly all the beautiful details of their entanglement are lost in grander horrors when they've been intertwined for years. Not forgotten, just....
His smile is a scoff, tipped close. (I will, is what he wants to say. Yet....)]
I don't know why it happens.
[No, that's not true: he does, just like any animal jerks towards baring teeth over scraps knows that it is hungry, it's fear that underscores the instinct. Drives him like it never left, and leaves him unwilling to face it. Leaves his eyes tipped down between the working of their mouths, lashes heavy where they lower.]
I've never doubted you.
no subject
It doesn't matter, not really. It doesn't change anything between them, for their souls are intertwined, and always will be. And yet somehow, on some subatomic level deep in his heart, it does matter. There is a difference, though if asked Leto couldn't name it. And he will mark that difference with a ring, for perhaps the weight of it will bring them both some comfort.]
Now that, [he says, and nuzzles deliberately against Astarion as he says it,] I do not fully believe.
[He isn't trying to catch him out. This isn't a trick. Don't reel from me, as he brushes their lips together again.]
Perhaps they are fleeting, or only come when I am not near you . . . or when the silence of your coffin is too much to bear alone. But it is no sign of ill-faith to have fleeting doubts or fears, even for me. Even if all of you knows better.
[He hesitates, and then:]
And you would not be alone in that. Or did you assume my apology from earlier was wholeheartedly from simple reflection?
no subject
[There was an ocean's measure of lament laced through it all, to the point it comes to mind so clearly in hindsight. It lingers still, he realizes— guilt— tender and well-hidden, wrapped around his caught finger before his returns the effort. A little ouroboros. A simple, childish sort of promise, like the kind shared on rooftops between young things.
And it means the bloody world to him.]
But I waited for you for so long. I latched myself onto the hollow imprint of your footsteps in Kirkwall even when I doubted you'd ever come back— hells, I even killed for the unpalatable consolation it lent by the time I'd thought you'd been slain or moved on, finding neither hide nor hair of the Blue Wraith despite it all.
[And those words don't come from self pity, transparent as they run when they trail the corner of Leto's chin, pathed by the backs of nimble fingers; they're together, now. That's all that matters of it.]
You can't imagine a thing like what I sink my teeth into matters enough to change a thing in that respect.
no subject
[Of course not. Questions of blame aside, it's so easy to push that away and dismiss it as something ultimately irrelevant, barely worth remembering. Even later, when Astarion lies in an undead slumber and Leto nestles sleeplessly at his side, he will be able to recall this conversation and take solace from it.
But . . .]
But when I brood over all the mistakes I have made since coming to this world— all the ways in which I have put you in danger, or asked things of you that are not fair, or even simply misunderstood who and what you were . . .
I am not used to that, you know. [It's said a touch abruptly, his wandering thoughts consolidating into a singular point.] We have always been alike. I have always had a point of reference when it comes to the things you have suffered and lived through, even if the torment was not the same. From the moment I first met you— both times— I understood you.
And now . . . it is a little harder.
[Not impossible. But it takes more effort than it once did, and that frightens him.]
And I fear that there are times where that divide is too much. That I am too— too young, too foolish in this world, not understanding that I was starving you, unwittingly setting the very same limits upon you that Cazador once had, and all in the name of naivety. Speaking too loudly of stakes and sunlight and coffins, or lying poorly when my friends asked why you never came out during the day.
And sooner or later . . .
[He doesn't know. Something, a nebulous dead-drop that ends the way it always does for Leto: alone and bitter. Whether that means Astarion tires of having his life endangered by his youthful companion or something goes dreadfully wrong, still, somehow it will all end badly.
He draws back just enough to glance down at Astarion, though he does not force him to catch his eye. His hand cups his cheek, his thumb sweeping gently over the curve.]
When you were stolen by the Rifts, I ran for you. I had slaughtered and threatened my way through Kirkwall and down the trade routes, confirming you hadn't been kidnapped or killed, and when I did . . . I ran to the Crossroads, mourning you all the while, and made my way through.
And make no mistake, amatus: I was terrified. Every moment spirits flocked to my lyrium which felt as though it would tear my skin asunder, and it was agonizing. I heard their whispers and cries, offering me anything in the world if I would only submit . . . and there was such a slim chance of finding you. I was tempted. More than once, I was tempted, for to find not just the right door, but the right time . . . I thought it nigh-impossible. I feared that I might wander there forever, unable to find my way back or forward, until at last death or madness overtook me.
[A slow, steady exhale, and then he continues:]
But there was no other option. Not in my mind. It was not a question of if, for I would not be separated from you, not if there was even the slightest chance I could find you again.
[Gently:]
You cannot imagine, after all that, that I would leave you. Not for any slight, large or small. Not for any blood on your hands, nor sin that wears at your soul. There is nothing that could ever make me not love you . . .
And yet here we are.
no subject
Something low and pretty in his throat that listens just as well as he does in the silence, holding onto present conversation whilst he cant; one foot in the rivers of three years ago, when they really were more alike in essence: refugees and slaves that aside from Astarion's niche pecularities were both worn down in the same ways, thought the same things in confrontation— even fed the same, for the most part. It makes the words 'a little harder' sting with recollection like an echo. A broken-record of a pulse that aches along his ears again and again as his mind wanders back towards it, as if it were the softening of truth, rather than the truth itself.
That thought, that poisoned little thought.
All this for the man that always speaks his mind (and what solace said bluntness has ever been right from the start; he trusted Leto with his life before he knew what trust was, moreso than other outstretched, lying hands), which sparks a rueful twisting of his lips. Not spite— amusement, albeit brief.
Red eyes lift to meet their counterpart. To note what he can feel with more than just his hands, his skin, his senses or his frigid, listless heart. This is the creature that walked through the Hells themselves to reach him. The one living soul who bared the magic he reviled as a means to bring him home, and how wretched a tread that must've been for all the fears they'd spoken of. Bargains and regrets and nightmares, all visited there for what Astarion assumes was an eternity of waiting.]
Death or madness.... [Trails his claws light across the fringe edge of white hair at Leto's brow, grown longer now. Easily tucked behind an ear.] ....Death and madness, [he corrects with one more wry puff of stolen breath,] as one would have to be to come so far for the glory of a Lower City hovel filled with fur, dust, and the inimitable inevitability of my dedicated love for you.
And only you.
[There is a pinch of thumb and forefinger; as if teasing a rapt child, he squeezes the lobe of that twitching ear that he'd tucked pale hair behind. Fortitudo.]
You are nothing like Cazador Szarr.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)