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INBOX II

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[He can only hear his breathing at first. Heavy and hard, his lungs sucking in air as he dreamily drinks in the rest of the scene at a distance. A wolf, good, that's a good form, he thinks vaguely, knowing he doesn't really understand what's happening, not in detail. It's enough to register, with a nauseating sort of drop, that Astarion is safe; it's enough to know that the threat has been conquered (but what if it hasn't? How many times had that lesson been beaten into him, how many times did it take for him to learn that Danarius always wanted him on his guard, always check for another mage, always make sure you've slaughtered everyone, too many of my peers have died because they were careless, boy, and he won't lose Astarion, he won't be a fool, he won't—)

And then cool fingers grip his cheeks. The voice he loves more than anything in all the world speaks to him in such a panicked tone, and he has to pay mind to it. Loqui ad me, let me see you, and Astarion wouldn't be acting like this unless there were no more foes.

Leto exhales. His head tips forward, sagging into that gentle grip.]

Im purus, im purus— are you?

[For who cares about Leto? There's a gouged-out chunk missing from his shoulder, the wound deep and bloody; gouges from talons line his torso and hip, ranging from skittering scratches to something deeper. He'll take care of those, for this is how it always goes: he gets hurt and then he takes care of himself, and sooner or later he's all right again. But there are more important things to focus on right now.

His other hand cups Astarion's cheek, thumb brushing over the curve as he drinks him in. as his eyes finally focus. They dart around his face, his torso, seeking out wounds that might or might not be there.]

Tell me— did they touch you? Did they hurt you? Are there more that might come?

No. [To all of the above.

There's blood upon his throat, but Leto won't see that it's his; no self sacrifice required when he'll heal in but a span of minutes or hours depending on the depth of Petra's' clutching grasp, ergo there's no point letting it slip to the surface now, not when his darling half is hurt. Not when adrenaline runs thicker in green eyes than sense.

There is blood upon the fingers caressing at his cheek; he can smell the iron clearly, and it twists beneath his ribs into a knot of barbed wire rage. A twitch of all his muscle at the sight of Leto bloodied, calling him towards the streets. Towards the Upper City spires where he knows his master dwells, hungry for a death Astarion will damned well deliver after this—

But the moment that he starts to rise, he stops— sinks back those bare centimeters to his knees. Nothing more than a twitch.

He can't leave Leto like this.

(He can't leave him.)]

Arms up if you can move them. Hold fast to me. [It's not a question: Astarion lifts him into his arms without a second spared past warning, carrying him to the bed and its swath of expendable sheets— tourniquets or bandages yet untorn, albeit not for much longer now.

First: the familiar summoned from midair, whispered to before a flurry of flapped wings sees it off. Second, a cool hand at his shoulder, appraising wounds for depth. What he mutters in Tevene, he mutters to himself.]

Brave thing, you'll be the death of me— again.

[He's sicker from the adrenaline drain more than he is the blood loss: a nauseating pitch to his stomach that makes the room spin and leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It means he doesn't fight it when Astarion picks him up and carries him to the bed— though he doesn't lie down, not fully, not yet. Resting on one elbow, Leto stays half-up, dazedly determined even now to stay on his guard.

Though ah— maybe the blood loss is affecting him, for he swears he sees an enormous bird appear out of nowhere. Big and black and so utterly inexplicable that Leto stares dazedly at it for a long few seconds, so baffled he doesn't fight it when he's pushed back onto the bed. But then it's gone, and there's nothing left in the room but that murmur of Tevene, which— oh.

Oh.]

I will always be there to protect you.

[He says it simply, his eyes focused utterly on his mate.]

And I will never let them come close to taking you, nor killing me, no matter how many waves he sends.

[There's more to be thought about (they'll have to move tomorrow, he thinks vaguely, and with that thought comes the shadow of another— that such a move will have to precipitate an attack, that they'll need to strike soon, that Cazador knows where they are, but one thing at a time). But not right now. Just for now, they can afford to be breathless and soft in this dizzying aftermath.]

Astarion . . .

[He catches his wrist, pausing his ministrations just for a moment.]

Look at me.

[For tending his wounds can wait. More important is his chosen mate, who cannot be as unaffected as he's pretending.]

We are both still here, and not going anywhere. I promise you. I will heal from this, but . . .

[He squeezes his wrist.]

Are you all right?

[And what a different question that is from are you hurt.]

[If there's an answer to be given that could satisfy any of this, Astarion doesn't know it. He'd need awareness for that, or more accurately: the ability to slip outside perspective into objectivity of any stripe— self-preservation or analytical, anything but the ringing in his ears he has to strain around. A scalding fury roiling in his bones that still won't abate no matter how the storm has passed. Instead he seethes that much more without numbness in the way, and it's trapped there where it boils. Bottles lividly, ready to tear its way out of him if need be just to keep his bondmate safe—

Too late, of course.

The soaked sheets he presses to tanned skin more than readily attests as much, watering his mouth and aching beyond that. Astarion spares a hand to close around the one that's caught him, though he's strong enough that he could ignore it if he wanted to.]

We are, and you rescued me just as effortlessly as you always do. [A mild squeeze compresses round those fingers, the sincere, fretful sense of love more than just a guise for the mending pressure of his palm.

He can't think on it now. If he does, he'll shatter; he can feel it. Go to pieces like a barren figure in every tragic stageplay, undecided whether he should gnash his teeth and tear the world apart for its audacity, or curl up on the floor. Come here, his deadened heart insists, stooping down to drag their profiles together— intermingling their scents again and again and again. The grounding line that keeps him here. The sole light in the dark.] But dare lift another finger and I'll finish what they started. [Comes with a nip that can't connect— doesn't dare connect—

There's too much blood to risk it. Too much instinct.

Too much love in an unbeating heart that saw its own reflection in those anguished eyes and ruddy fangs.]

[That isn't an answer, but what had he expected? Of course Astarion isn't all right. He must be feeling a thousand things, each more overwhelming than the last, and none of it easy to parse, never mind articulate. Leto knows better than to ask that, but now, years later, he can finally appreciate why Hawke had once asked him that very same question. It doesn't mean are you okay, but rather: come here, come fall apart on me.

A better answer: the way their profiles touch. Leto leans up into that butting affection, his eyes closing as he returns every nuzzle with as much love as he can muster. Come here, come here, and he isn't quite aware of what it does for their scents (how his own becomes smothered gently by Astarion's once more, claiming and protective in equal measure), but there's something to be said for the comfort of touch.

It ends too quickly, and Leto's eyes follow Astarion as he draws back.]

You wouldn't dare.

[It's offered mildly, the retort more about breaking the silence than any real banter. He wishes he knew what to say, and knows even as he thinks it that there isn't anything to say. Tell Astarion to leave and he'll gnaw on himself in bitter, miserable rage; beg him to come down on the bed and he'll grow frantic over Leto's injuries, overwhelmed by the scent of blood and the sight of gore. Beg him to share how he feels and he'll snarl and snap, but ignoring it doesn't feel right either.

And so Leto waits. Patiently, his eyes soft, and shifts accordingly each time his mate needs him to. Cold fingers brush feather-light against the gouges on his stomach, measuring their span before he presses another sheet to his torso. At one point, Ataashi leaps up onto the bed, her massive paws so careful as she makes sure not to jostle either of them. Her bulk is a comfort, even if she shivers in belated fear as she beds down next to them. She even manages to quiet down the pup's crying: craning down off the bed and grasping them carefully in her mouth so she can bring them up one by one, nuzzling at them each time they get it in their tiny heads to try and wander towards Leto.

It's quiet for so long. Long enough that his shoulder begins to clot; long enough that Astarion can begin to wrap a bandage around it rather than just stem the gushing flow. And when he does, finally, Leto breaks the silence to murmur:]

Will you lie with me soon?

[He wants to hold him. He wants to kiss his forehead and nuzzle against the top of his head, holding him close as he shakes himself into terrified, enraged pieces; he wants to hear that those were Astarion's enslaved siblings, each an unwilling enemy. But not yet. Not until his mate is ready.]

[I would, if it meant saving you, Astarion stubbornly reiterates throughout one bridging whisper, impressed soft against a salt-rough cheek. Languages and sentiments. Shaky-legged rituals as a stand in for self-soothing while the sun's still far from risen, and the hairs along the back of his own neck won't settle, more certain by the second that there's more to come (adrenaline draining through the tips of his fingers, leaving a disorienting sense of pins-and-needles numbness in its wake; emptier than he's felt in ages), bleeding out in the streets a second time.

But gods, he won't lose the life he's built to this.

Not the wolf hushing her packmates. Not the warm hands straining to find him in the dark, all too beautiful to the broken vampire that'd beat his hands bloody over iron, begging for a scrap of mercy. Another voice beside him. Anything to defy the cruelty Cazador made law.

Anything.

He nods to that request. Hikes one leg up into the softness of the mattress and what remains of its torn bedding just to (carefully) rearrange Leto's alignment, wrapping himself (arms, legs, ankles and clawed fingers— even his profile he buries) against his wounded hero. Still dashing as ever, as it so happens.] Until the others arrive and patch your wounds properly, compared to my own shoddy handwork.

[A nosing nudge. A bit of care to avoid the damage to that shoulder whilst they wend into each other, and then:]

Are you in pain....?

[Does it hurt?

Questions he'd never asked anyone before, save.... ]

[There, now. There he is, and Leto nestles himself within that protective hold: wrapping his arms around Astarion as his chin tips up to make room for that burrowing. Come here, whispered as his vampire settles atop him protectively. Come here, come be with me, me fortes amatus, his lips brushing against his forehead as he draws Astarion in close. Their legs intertwine, their arms lock around one another— and though the danger has never been closer to their doorstep, still, here and now, Leto feels some part of him quietly exhale.

It's always been them against the world. Thedas or Toril, Riftwatch or Cazador . . . so long as they're together, there's nothing they cannot handle.

At his side, Ataashi has taken to licking both the pups, settling herself and them both with uncharacteristically affectionate grooming. So, too, does Leto settle in with Astarion: his fingers coming up to card through his hair, stroking through silver curls patiently, nuzzling and nosing at his forehead all the while. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here, as much a comfort as the steady beat of his heart or the slow rise and fall of his chest.

And then there's that question.

Spoken with such devastating, tender tentativeness— so much so that his heart aches to hear it. On sudden impulse he turns his head, kissing Astarion's forehead with as much devotion as he can muster as his arms wrap even tighter around him. For a moment he thinks of lying— but ah, what good would that do either of them?]

Not as much as before.

[It's true: the bleeding has stopped. Pain thunders through him, but it's hot, dull pain, easily accepted and ignored.

He's quiet for a little bit. And then, softly:]

Tell me what you're thinking.

[His voice is pitched low enough that Astarion can ignore him if he wants. His fingers keep up their steady rhythm, carding through his hair as Leto stares up at the ceiling. This late at night, the only light comes from the dappled patterns of the lanterns on the street, flicking so faintly you might mistake them for stars.

Beloved, oh, beloved, and his heart aches for how distant Astarion's voice sounds. Not cold, but dissonant. Part of him isn't here, Leto knows, but in a palace in the Upper City, where the air smells of iron and no light nor joy ever reaches.]

[He is always there, in truth. The years pass as they wont, and he smiles more, and feels the warmth of his husband's skin as a proxy for the sunlight that even Kirkwall graced from time to time, made more alive by the day despite his own afflictions.

But at night, in the dark, in the cold or wet or most fenced-in— sometimes even in the mildest of conversations— something slips in his own footing, and he realizes why he's so off balance: that it's impossible to stay upright when his other ankle's still shackled to those endless hallways and their slack-jawed nightmares. The sense of emptiness they imposed upon his shoulders still clutching from across the distance, for like their own dear master, the estate was always hungry.

And to the tune of clotted copper, he knows he's never once left.]

I don't know.

[Comes with a feathering sound at its end. Air let out through his nose like a fragile facsimile of a laugh, bittersweet and well-resigned and swearing that he doesn't want to leave this bed (the coffin is a mess beside them; he'll force himself to take stock later, and force his mind to swallow down the notion that the damage isn't disastrously prophetic).]

A thousand things at once— [although that's nothing new] how much I should've done to prevent this. How I should be on my feet already locking the door and carting you elsewhere, [but be can't do that now that he's sent for help— it'd only prolong Leto's suffering, and they'd be more exposed out in the open searching for a new rathole than shut in here with allies close at hand. Maybe Cazador's even banking on that; Astarion did always love to run, as he so eloquently put it.] and if not that, how I should be giving chase. Seizing what might well be my only opportunity to turn the blade when he would least expect it, tearing out his throat for what he almost cost me tonight.

[There's an unintended growl cast over those last words, rippling in his throat unnoticed, fangs only briefly bared— and then, in his own voice:]

....That wasn't how I'd hoped you'd meet my siblings.

[A thousand desperate plans to prevent a fate that seemed relentlessly inevitable. A thousand what-ifs always running through his mind, his eyes constantly darting around the room like a rat in a cage, his ears always straining for the sound of footsteps, he's coming, he's coming, he's coming—

It's been so long since Danarius has died, but Leto has never forgotten that terror. That nauseating, breathless panic that festered in his chest and boiled in his veins. It wasn't until long after his corpse was rotting on the Hanged Man's floorboards did Leto finally feel that merciless weight lift.

So none of those thoughts surprise him; he hums his agreement, listening to each and every one, knowing them for what they are: comfort in the eye of the storm. An attempt at finding solid ground, even when there's none to have.]

I can think of a few families who had a worse beginning, [he murmurs into Astarion's hair, the joke as humorless as his husband's earlier laugh. He presses another kiss to his forehead, then adds:] But not many. It is a rare sibling-in-law that tries to bite a chunk out of you.

[There's another long moment of quiet, for this is a conversation filled with endless ebbs and flows. Leto watches the lights play out over their bed, half-imagining he can feel the thoughts racing through Astarion's mind as he goes over the ones already articulated.]

This was inevitable, amatus. We knew that from the start. And when trouble came to our doorstep, we sent it running.

[There's no pity in his voice, but no condemnation either. He cannot afford to pity Astarion's siblings, not now, but nor does he revile them the way he does Cazador.]

Tonight is not your only opportunity. It's true we must act, and soon— but you lost nothing tonight. In fact . . . I would argue you gained an advantage.

[It isn't that Astarion doesn't know all this. He spent so long hunting, after all, and tactics are far from an unknown to him. But it's Leto whose mind is calm right now. It's Leto whose thoughts lay out in methodical pieces on a chessboard, moves and countermoves playing out in his imagination.]

He expected you alone, and found you with an ally. Now, I suspect, he will think he has the measure of you, but he has no idea there are more than he could ever dream ready to fight at your side.

[But that's for later. Planning their attack, weighing what's known versus what might be guessed, plotting their movements and timing . . . that will come tomorrow, when dawn's light breaks and there is some relief to be found.]

Which was which, among your siblings?

Edited 2025-01-31 02:03 (UTC)

[Another attempt at a laugh that can't quite reach, reflexive and just so damned stupid considering the state of more than just their little rented hovel. The pricking tension at the back of his neck; the scents that he can't overlook— not this close. Not when even nosing at the only creature dear to him invites the thought of what could have been were he not a little bit faster (what good are all these senses if he cannot even use them when it counts—) or Leto a little bit slower.

He'd be a monster to lean into such a thing at a time like this.]

Yousen was the first I saw you fell [oh but he could smell the others. More familiar than his own reflection— in the literal sense, of course— he'd shared quarters with them, kennels and all, tended to their wounds and fears and intolerable hopes.] the gnome, white-haired.

Always Cazador's fetish, that. [Is a joke solely because it isn't a joke at all, in truth.]

Dalyria was the one that bit you first. [You were magnificent; I should have been faster.] Violet the other you dispatched shortly thereafter. Two out of three sisters— meaning one of the initial spawn you eliminated was Aurelia, the ever-ambitious tiefling.

[I should have been faster.]

Leon, capable and made dangerous for it as always, was the one that nearly killed you were it not for your deft maneuvering. [I should have been faster. I should have been faster. I should have been— ]

Leaving Petras last, as is right and proper.

[A long, drawn out beat winnows through his fangs in memory of biting down over contempt beyond contempt.]

....the only thing that was strange is that they didn't die.

[Leon, Yousen, Petras. Aurelia, Violet, Dalyria, and he tries to match names to blurry, smeared faces, knowing even as he does he'll have to try it again tomorrow. He's still too overwhelmed by the battle to recall anything but the barest details: a snapshot image of purple skin or terrified scarlet eyes caught behind glistening teeth. Shrieks of pain and panic among cried out words to Astarion, but nothing that he can truly parse right now.

But oh . . . now that Astarion mentions it, that is strange, isn't it? A frown crosses over Leto's face. He hadn't even thought about that, not beyond registering the threat was gone. But gone where? Back to Cazador, no doubt, and yet . . .]

They left, once their injuries mounted. Vanished . . . teleported, it seemed. But that was never one of your powers.

[It's mostly a statement, but there's a question of confirmation woven in there, for he's thinking again of the sudden appearance of that raven. Leto fits his fingers against the back of Astarion's neck, rubbing gently against tensed muscles and cool skin.]

Perhaps Cazador granted them that.

[And if so . . . what else has he given them? And why now? Has his desperation reached a feverpitch? That could be useful. Haste makes waste, to put it tritely, and desperation will mean Cazador might overreach.

But ah . . . he's making the very same mistake: his mind trying to leap forward into tactics, when that isn't what tonight is about. His other hand rubs soothingly against Astarion's back as he adds, his voice softer:]

Are you sorry that they did not die?

[For they are his siblings, when all is said and done. Hated and despised, beloved and pitied . . . it would have been a mercy and a tragedy and a blessing to kill them, all at once.]

[They are your family.

No, they aren't. They never were, no matter how many times it'd been embossed into their minds or wedged into cramped corners with too few beds to speak of. Rejected over the course of sprawling lifetimes in all directions save from on high because no family was ever made like this. Not his kin. Not siblings, nor friends, nor lovers. Not the life he left behind. Not the people that he must have loved— (had anyone at all cared for him before Cazador set in?)— scraped off and replaced in the blink of a fetid eye as empty as any of Godey's hollow sockets. It was forced caring, like sick surrogacy, that flourished in those rooms. Those halls. Those mattresses and parties and greasy little whorehouses. Hearing another animal yelp close enough when you're in pain, and anyone— anything— would feel a tug of polarity stringing them together, whether they wanted to or not.

(And yet—)

He resists the urge for candor. Leaves it burning a hole through his throat like bitter bile, more nauseating by the seconds as they pass.]

I don't know.

[Was meant to have been yes. Was meant to have been It'd have been easier that way. For everyone. Is— ]

....I don't know.

[His face folds into shadow in retreat, a scant difference of inches for he can't bear anything more than that, even whilst needing cold air in his lungs. Old habits. Less old than the rest. Farther than the rest, too, still leashed to Thedas by its touch.

And there at last, under the law that dictates anything frozen runs hard:]

Yes.

[It isn't a lie.

(Hatred had run so hot through his veins when he'd turned to face Varania. Any semblance of brotherly affection he'd ever held for her— born while two elven children played giddily under the Tevene sun, rekindled with scrawled words and familiar phrases echoed and relearned— was long dead. Murdered by a cowardly woman who was too stupid to see the vipers she'd allied herself with would have disposed of her the moment she ceased being useful. About to be murdered now by the being she'd once called brother, and it would be no less than she deserved. He wanted to do it. A screaming in his ears and all the years of torture and humiliation and agony all bearing down on him in that single moment where he'd wanted to rip her heart out and make the bitch suffer—)

It isn't a lie. They aren't his siblings, not by blood (what worth is a sister you don't even remember?). Their deaths would have deprived Cazador of six potential allies in this upcoming fight; it would have been a mercy to them, slaves that they all are, put down like rabid dogs finally granted rest. It would have been for the best. It would have been smart. Yes.]

Yes.

[The echoing answer lingers in the air between them, underscoring his own in low agreement. Moonlight streams in from a half-open window, turning Astarion's pale skin into something almost ethereal: pale and cold and distant. Not a monster, not at all— but something different from Leto, withdrawn into his own nature.

Only after a few seconds pass does Leto's hand slide up, cupping one chilled cheek with aching tenderness.]

. . . and no.

[It's somewhere between a question and a statement. A way to articulate that churning mass of uncertainty and rage and pity and grief without having to make Astarion actually take the first step. His thumb strokes the curve of Astarion's cheek, ignoring the sharp throb of pain in favor of keeping that gentle contact.]

It would have been better had I left Varania's corpse lying next to Danarius'. But I did not. And I do not regret it.

I cannot say I love her. I cannot say I do not loathe her. But she is still my sister, despite it all.

Edited 2025-02-05 21:55 (UTC)

[So many times he'd aspired to what Leto simply exuded without effort: his master slain, rich confidence his burning crown, one full decade come and gone beneath his belt that holds to all triumph and tragedy as something hard won, well treasured. He's netted just a sliver of that time before grim reality's come knocking for its due, and despite the calcified resolve he's clung to for weeks— months— he scarcely feels ready to face it.

He scarcely feels himself at all.

The fear is there again, clotting in his throat. Staved from overtaking by the wearied stroking of sore fingers, caught by clawed hands a moment later just to keep Leto stilled whilst he's still aching. Still wounded. Still bleeding. Like all else in this equation, Astarion's malformed dread can't supersede greater priority; his beloved's safety brooks no competition, nor will it ever.

His voice is thin. Runs like a shadow of itself, slipping soft between sharp fangs. It sounds like grief.

A mourning pall for none other but himself.]

Yet she wasn't foisted on you. [Perhaps unfair, that. Astarion lacks any metric by which to measure it, and the words would've left him anyway, even if he did grasp the tactlessness that drives him.] She really was your sister, your own flesh and blood....not just a tool for some madman to inspire guilt.

[A hitch, tongue pressed to the roof of his own mouth.]

....wasn't she?

[He makes a soft noise of disagreement as his hand is caught, but doesn't fight it after a cursory tug. Leto would have happily pushed through any amount of pain to keep his beloved soothed, for he has done it before. In Thedas: gathering Astarion close in wake of a nightmare, ignoring the way his lyrium screamed in protest in favor of running his palms down sweat-chilled skin: I'm here, I'm here, you're in Thedas and he has not come, I promise you, you're safe . . .

He wants to do that now, insomuch as he can. But fight too hard and it will only add to Astarion's distress. Instead, he curls his fingers around Astarion's own, determined to hold his hand as best he can. You aren't alone, I won't allow it, and if it keeps the panic at bay, that will be enough.]

She was.

[Gentle. Astarion could curse him out tonight and there would be no offense nor unfairness.]

Perhaps a half-sister . . . our coloring was not the same. But she was flesh and blood to me, yes. And I will not deny you that it made a difference when she wrote to me. I would not have responded the way I did had she been a mere friend or long-lost companion.

[A shallow inhale, his eyes locked on Astarion's face.]

But it was familiarity, not blood, that made her betrayal so vicious. We wrote to one another for months before I sent her money to arrive, and in that time, in my own way, I grew to love her. [His thumb strokes a steady path against Astarion's hand, soothing and familiar.] I do not think I would have cared so much had she simply shown up . . . and I suspect Danarius knew that, too.

[Manipulations upon manipulations . . . oh, their masters are so similar sometimes.]

I suspect he instructed her to write to me, and monitored the contents of her letters enough to ensure a bond built. Perhaps he did not guide her hand, but I doubt very much he left it all to chance. And yet: that knowledge does not change how I feel.

[But maybe he's not asking the right questions. Leto lets that hang in the air for a few seconds, and then, so gently, continues:]

They were foisted upon you, and he insisted that you all call one another family. Perhaps that term does not apply. Perhaps they aren't your siblings. But . . .

[It's Anders he thinks of. Anders, who blazed so bright in his fury; Anders, who could not and would not stop fighting for what he believed in, no matter who tried to shut him up. Anders, who was obnoxious and stubborn and wrong in so many ways, who had suffered cruelties and was bitter and twisted because of them, who ran from his torments and yet was determined to face them, challenge them, conquer them . . .

But then another comparison comes to mind. Orana, small and meek and mild, always flinching at loud noises and clinging to the edges of the walls, even in freedom. Orana, who could not understand that her mistress would have sacrificed her in an instant for the smallest of rewards; who wept in baffled confusion over the dissonance of being good and still being punished. Who had to fight not to address him as sir, no matter how many times he told her that she shouldn't.]

You can despise someone and still want their suffering to cease. You can pity them even as you revile them for what they remind you of within yourself.

I could not stand to see the slaves of Tevinter simpering for their masters, no matter that I understood them. I could not bear to be near Orana, Hadriana's favorite slave, even as I instructed Hawke on how to converse with her.

[Months. For months Varania had led him in with penned mendacities, tightening the lead and all but ensuring her sought after outcome. The thought festers, even in hindsight, like an illset blister— irritating and chafing when he should be focused elsewhere: not on her (for that's hardly the endpoint of discussion, nor the goal of it to begin with), only Leto's choice. Only the outcome of it, and the knowledge that he gleaned. The harsh sum of everything tallied, and the lack of regret brought on in hindsight.

But.

(Would he have made the same choices were Varania at Astarion's throat? Were she an outstretched set of claws and an extension of ember eyes hunting for the throat of his amatus? Would his heart feel lighter still?)

Pale digits turn themselves over living ones, quelling the throbbing pulse beneath; stroking time and time again until his mind runs clear— and Leto's wanders elsewhere, into deeper waters as Astarion sets in at his side. Slow pressure on the bed, one leg crossed above the other, leaning nearer. Keeping everything close.

Crimson eyes meandering over injuries all the while.]

To....[Ah, but those eyes flicker like shutters in the next false breath. A snapback to the present he can't flee, only strain to follow pace with, contorting darker brows.]

....Hawke spoke to her? Did she recognize you?

[Oh bloody hells, Astarion, the man's covered in glowing lyrium tattoos, how could she not?]

Mm, more than that: Hawke hired her the moment we ran into her.

[It's easier right now. Not easy, not when every breath is too shallow and their sanctuary lies in splintered wood and tattered rugs, but at least marginally less overwhelming. And he hopes the same is true for Astarion, but it must be: it's far easier to speak of someone else than it is linger on your own problems, even for a few seconds.

He can grant him that. Fenris curls in a little closer, though he keeps enough of a distance that his mate can still look him over. His pulse still throbs hotly in the wounds, blood run tacky and brown now that time has passed.]

But yes, she recognized me, and I her, though we never spoke. She was frightened of me, I suspect, and her father likely told her to stay away.

I tried to speak with her once she was situated in Hawke's home. It did not go well. She flinched most of the time, and would not meet my eyes. She called me ser and spoke of home longingly. She approved of Hawke, but could not convince her to give her orders, no matter how much she begged. And she wanted to recall times when we had served them both together at some function, or passed each other in the hall, and I . . .

[Mm . . . his mouth twists into a sardonic smile.]

It was too familiar. And I could not stomach it.

[He lets that linger in the air for a few long seconds, and then:]

I kept my role to advisor: telling Hawke how to introduce her to the concept of money. Of freedom— letting her know that she was free to leave, free to stay up, free to eat what and when she wanted, or argue back if she disagreed with something . . . though I doubt she would ever dare such a thing.

She took to it, more or less. It helped that Hawke's mother was a noble and far more used to how to order a servant around. But I still avoided talking to her, for I was angry and sharp-tongued each time we met.

Hardly your fault. [Stands in for absolution's overt presence when Astarion wasn't there to fully grant it, but what he knows by heart is the gut-rotting twist of glimpsing a past you once inhabited by proxy. Meeting neither your eyes nor your master's, but something close enough that catching it inspires bitter hatred for the creature you once were. Not who you'd choose to be. Not who you are.

Contempt a tightness in his throat even now, as his nimble touch unwinds to set itself back upon what few bandages are tentatively tied— brushing away the worst of ruddy streaks.] Were our places swapped I doubt I'd have wanted her within my sight at all, and doubtless would've found myself attempting to chase her off or rip her to shreds at the first opportunity— pathetic little creature. [And you know, between the downturned lip curl or the snarl within his voice, it's certainly believable. Like the cold streak that bristles underneath his skin each time Gale attempts to cite familiarity, or when the packmates of Evereska's verdant byways came trotting into his space unannounced; Astarion bleeds warmth for Leto, but for the world? Oh, he can— and will— be harsher than a cat batting at a wounded hatchling. No second thoughts, no mercy or regret, just the plunge of talons into tender skin, and the relief of being rid a nuisance.

(But this is also the same elf that couldn't turn his back on abandoned slaves in Orlais despite feeling repulsed each time they clung to his side in shadow. Who sought contacts and made deals unseen so that they would remain untouched by Tevinter, half a continent away and staunchly out of reach.

It gnawed at him for weeks, their gratitude, their wounded, clinging hands. Left him restless.

Unmade.)

A hopelessly weak heart, just as Cazador had always claimed.]

But I'll tell you one thing: if I spare my supposed kin the same fate as their beloved Master, they'll know to keep their distance.

They will. I doubt any of them would have survived for long if they did not possess enough instincts to know that.

[If he spares them, and the truth is that no matter what Astarion decides, Leto will back him regardless of personal feeling. He'll hold the knife or keep his siblings from fleeing, stoic-faced and determined, there's no question of that. But privately, in his heart of hearts, he hopes Astarion won't.

Killing Varania would not have destroyed him. He still believes that even years later. Murdering her would have been a twisted form of justice, and though it might have embittered him further, he does not think even now it would have been wrong. But . . . nor can he deny that sparing her helped him. In some intangible, unknowable way . . . it helped him move past the betrayal more easily, perhaps, by knowing that he was better than her. That, if given the choice, he could be more than just a mindless caricature of an elf dancing along a magistrate's strings.

But that's for later. He strokes his fingers against Astarion's own, soft and soothing, before gently nudging them back.]

Help me sit up . . .

[Grunted out as he struggles to rise without exacerbating his injuries. It's just for a few minutes— just long enough that he can focus himself, for this isn't a spell that comes naturally to sorcerers. Still: the benefit of having an excellent wizard as one's tutor means (as Gale told him) that so many spells can be taught, if one's pupil is dedicated enough. Simply twist your hand like this, and repeat after me, and the words were so easy to remember when they always sound like a bastardized form of Tevene.]

Pone terrorem . . .

[He glances over at the puppish pile (Ataashi's blazing eyes fixed anxiously upon him, her chin resting atop the two fat little orbs that have passed out in their terrified exhaustion) and adds:]

Sine catulis et lupo.

[There's a faint tang of iron in the air, cold and brittle, as blue sparks fly from Leto's fingers out towards the room. They nestle in the window and doorframe, in the wreckage of the coffin and out towards the bloodstained floor: embedding themselves into every surface they can reach, wriggling into the wood before disappearing with a little pop.]

There.

[There, now, and he leans on Astarion's guiding hands as he eases back down, biting back a wince as he does.]

Now we will have an alarm if anyone, save you or I or our hounds, will come near.

[It will not put Astarion fully at ease, but perhaps it will help. Leto glances up at him through dark lashes, taking in the coiled tension in his muscles and the way his eyes dart around the room, his attention split only by the way he turns to ensure Leto isn't bleeding out or suffering unduly.]

They are licking their wounds, amatus. Trust I know the terror of yet another wave being sent— but I doubt any enthralled slave is as deadly as a vampiric spawn, and he has no more left in reserve right now.

That we know of. [Astarion corrects in that stiffened way of his, the one that signals when he's more intent on being calm than actually calm at present— but it's a half step closer to reality for trying, and oh, it matters what he wants to be in this fragile snapshot of a moment. That for all the rage he feels (and the deeper beat beat beat of terror working its jaws against his nape), what he wants is to let azure sparks find a place to den within him as well, and wash away the memories he can't ignore to, quite literally in this case, save his bloody life.

Yet gods how he melts around his mate without an ounce of hesitation to be seen in segue. His fierce, fearsome mate, who brought himself right to the brink to keep him safe—

And who did so again (eliciting a mild hum as Astarion noses in against his cheek much like Ataashi herself is prone to; scolding and appreciating all at once: don't exert yourself, don't drive me to drain you— turn you— I'm not ready to take your life away; I'm not ready to be like him....) all for the sake of their security.

His security.]

It's been years, and if the Devil wasn't lying when he said that Cazador grew more desperate by the day, then there's hardly any telling what thralls or bought-out allies he might send our way. [The thought's a nauseating shiver, rattling along his spine and threatening to bite him: how many would it be now? A third of the city? Half?] He could have the duchy's assets on our heels, the Steel Watch, the Gur— knowing or played for fools, it makes no difference, we—

[Ah, but the alarm. The magic woven through the floorboards, and if it comes to it he'll flee with Leto in his arms— Ataashi will teleport the pups away and manage on their own, while he at least spirits his better half to safety. The old apothecary might do. The one they'd met in in this world— yes, yes all right. That'll work. That's fine. He can calm with that, after all a vampire (even a lone one), is more than enough to fend off—

It's a tension in the air before that magic, thoughtfully applied, is already called to screaming service in a flash of movement quick enough to leave Astarion on his heels— fangs and claws viciously bared to guard the creature laid behind him, obscuring Leto from view mere seconds before the door to their room buckles under pressure, then clicks, then gives way with a fresh burst of tavern air as half the flock of Gale's talked-about companions come spilling in, armed to the teeth and looking for a fight.

'Are you hurt? I smell blood,' presses a warbling, delicate and delicately out of breath voice belonging to the dark-haired half-elf at the fore, her eyes darting round the room towards the ruddy pools that clearly didn't come from Astarion, 'Selûne's breath—'

'Move. MOVE.' Growls the massive tiefling behind her, barreling past in a mad rush— snarling for the adversaries she can't find— and then practically grasping Astarion by his cheekbones and ears: cupping his (comparatively) tiny face in her warm hands, looking him over with teardrops welling in both eyes and then—

—oh and then she hugs him like she'll crush his bones to dust if she doesn't suffocate him first. 'He's all right! Guys, Astarion is—'

(Squawking. Seething. Barking in trapped indignation and feeling like a clay piece in a collapsing kiln between her biceps and the scalding center of her chest, and oh, the curses he howls out in livid outrage fit to end the world itself in every language that he knows— )

'—oh shit,' Karlach gasps from overtop those silver curls, gawking down at the other elven stranger she's not met. The one Astarion had been squirreling away like a mother tiger poised before her laid out cubs, and Karlach—

(It's a hiss-pop of vampiric magic. A fluttering of displaced Weave, and chittering with volatile enmity a small white bat flutters out of her arms, lashing out with claws and fangs for good measure on its way to transformed freedom— little difference that it makes to hide as thick as hers—)

—blinks in stunned surprise. Lifts one now empty hand up towards her shoulder, and waves down at Leto as if he were every bit a tender wonder. A little tiger cub. A delicate, pretty, very special thing for what she knows he means to her companion. 'Hi.']

Fuck off- 'hi!?' 'HI??!' The gall to to to to even DARE— after an entrance like that— to just act like nothing happened, fucking hells I thought you were—

[Oh his gazes slides past the tiefling. Past the half-elf. The humans, the....gith? The flying cat. Past them all to the wooden fixture that's behind them creaking in the wind like a broken, swinging arm.]

My DOOR!!!!

[He shrieks to the point of cracking his own voice by the end of it, clawed hands outstretched in utter bewilderment and shock.]

[It's such a chaotic mess.

Of people (a young swordsman has already crossed the room, speaking in a low tone to the gith (gith?) woman at his side, the two of them pointing at the bloodstains and speaking of foes and tactics). Of voices (Karlach's cry setting Ataashi off, who whines in distress as she shoves the pups out of the way and attempts to crawl atop Leto— only settling for fretfully nosing at his cheek instead once he grunts in protest, white-hot pain flaring through him). Of a swirl of information and overwhelming presence, Astarion's unhappy shrieks not dissuaded at all by Gale's assurances that he can repair it; the pups have woken up and begun leaping around on the bed, torn in a thousand directions and excitedly overwhelmed— it's too much, it's too overstimulating, it's—

Gods, it's like home.

He swears he'll sit up and see Anders just out in the hallway, debating with Varric as Isabela blatantly switches sides again and again. He stares at Wyll and Lae'zel and wonders that Aveline isn't there, serious-faced and assertive, offering up her own opinions on how best to respond. Gale's given up on placating his fretful companion, and instead has focused on Karlach, who still stares down at him with such a strange mixture of adoration and wonder, and surely Merrill belongs just at her side, peering over one broad shoulder in wide-eyed curiosity.

It's so similar he nearly reels from the dissonance. A wave of grief sweeps over him momentarily, a lonely mourning that he won't dwell upon. Instead, he focuses up on the woman. Truth be told, the look she's giving him is a little baffling, but not unpleasantly so.]

Hello.

[It's a deceptively simple reply, especially in wake of Astarion's shrieking. But he likes the look of this woman. She's pleasantly straightforward in a way that he can appreciate, and anyone that shows that much affection (however misplaced) towards his Astarion must be halfway decent. With a little groan (ignoring the nauseating wave of pain that flares through him, white spots dancing in front of his eyes), he struggles to sit up again, feeling foolish for lying down in front of everyone.]

You missed the fun. Though there may yet still be time for more.

['We should be so lucky,' the half-elf drawls. Her tone is teasing, but her eyes are more worried than she wants to let on. A pale white glow fills her palms as she makes her way over to Leto, sitting on the bed with far less care than Astarion had. 'Stay still, now.']

Which are you? Gale has spoken of you, but I have not— ah—

[Heedless of his conversation, the half-elf gets to work. She sets her palms firmly over the gash on his stomach— and then, frowning, leans in a little as the white glow grows brighter. In an instant relief floods through him, cold and crisp, and without thinking his eyes flutter closed, a ragged exhale finally bursting past his lips. The pain isn't all gone, not yet, not when his shoulder is still on fire— but oh, gods, any kind of reprieve is worth relishing. In an instant his head starts to clear, the thundering of his own heart lessening as his brain feels less like it's trying to pound its way out of his skull. He can feel his flesh begin to knit itself slowly and steadily,

He can hear her muttering to herself, though whether it's an assessment of his injuries or some kind of incantation is anyone's guess.]

Fenris is my name.

['Karlach!' the tiefling answers with a grin. 'And that's Shadowheart there fixing you up— that's Wyll with Lae'zel, and you know Gale— oh, and that's his cat!'

'Tressym,' both Gale and the cat correct, which is just insane enough to derail Leto's entire line of thought. He's used to animals talking, sort of, but it's one thing to hear the pups' excited cries when he's cast a spell. Quite another to just hear one talking like it's a godsdamned person. Like, admittedly, it's the least of his worries right now, but also: Leto stares hard at her for a long few seconds. She, for her part, ignores him utterly as she settles herself neatly on the bed.

'Cease your caterwauling,' Lae'zel says crisply, glancing up to stare at Astarion. 'You told us to hurry. What is a door in face of that?']

There were—

['Stop moving,' Shadowheart says firmly, and Leto huffs softly as he sinks down, unable to help it. Karlach's nose crinkles in amusement as she glances over to catch Astarion's eye— and oh, Leto realizes, she thinks he's young. She thinks he's a teenager at best, grown and yet not, crabby because he's being told what to do.

And he doesn't quite know what to do with that.

But Astarion matters more. Leto glances over, trying to read his face. The yowling is a good thing, no matter what Lae'zel says; it's an easy way for him to let off steam, for it's so much easier to shriek about a door and an unwanted bear hug (oh, precious little bat) than it is to linger on what came before.

'You shouldn't linger here,' Lae'zel continues, her tone gruff but not unfriendly. 'They may attack again, and it would be foolish to give them such an advantage.'

'We have room,' Shadowheart adds. She's still frowning down at his injuries, but her tone seems light enough. 'We rented a room, actually, just outside the edge of the city. You could stay with us, so long as you don't mind the company.']

Edited 2025-03-20 06:24 (UTC)

['How's that even a question?' Karlach barks back almost immediately, shocked to find her attention snapping away from Leto for even a narrow second— but it makes sense, doesn't it? Like the whirring of turned gears her pause gives her the answer after a half-turn of intense thought, and like its predecessor is put immediately and unwaveringly to speech, 'Look at 'em, Shadowheart. They're like....little baby birds or something— ']

—EXCUSE me???

[' —they need to be WITH us so we can protect them, otherwise this kind of thing's gonna just keep fucking happening.'

The look of immense distress on her face doesn't leave, halfway between silently begging the others in the room to agree with her or elsewise flat-out trying to garner whatever pity that she can. It doesn't sit right with her, the idea that they might be late again at the moment when it matters most.

Unfortunately it's also lost on Astarion, now distracted by the way that Gale— roused to action by his promise that he can, in fact, repair the crux of all immediate furniture related stress with but a wave of his magic, has already placed his hands on the door's center mass— what's left of it anyway— which means that conversely Astarion's already childishly rushed to clap both his own hands over Gale's wrists trying to pull them off, hissing that enough damage has been done already and that if they REALLY want to put things right they'll hire a gods damned carpenter who works nights.

Ergo, craning his neck towards his shoulder to intercede in that secondary (tertiary??) conversation, Astarion adds:]

If what's on offer is this amount of chaos, we very much do mind—

['It is not usually so terrible as this.' Lae'zel presses through the richess of her voice, making her point before poor, mildly exasperated (and yet pup-covered) Wyll can argue otherwise: 'It is often much, much worse.'

Ah.

Wyll nods as Montressor attempts to climb his chest, artfully stopped short. So it is. 'At least there aren't dragons involved this time.'

'Yet,' says Karlach, her tail flicking wildly back and forth in its irate disappointment that not a single soul's agreed with her yet. 'Know what kind of shit-fuckery devils get up to? The kind that makes things way, WAY worse when they're already in the dirt. So you lot better believe me when I say that if that Cazador made a deal with one, he's got a lot more than a bunch of fangs up his sleeve. They need us.']

Need is a strong word.

[He likes Karlach already, but his pride is stung by the way she looks at him— and besides, it's true. He won't deny they require allies if they have any hope of storming Cazador's palace, but Leto is stubbornly certain he can handle whatever other foes might appear tonight. Baby birds indeed, and his expression had gone as indignant as Astarion's at that comparison.

As for living with others . . . Gods, as much as he likes this crew already, there's such a difference between befriending them and living with them, however temporary. Even in Kirkwall, his mansion (however lonely) was a refuge from all the chaos and excitement that their friends brought; he was never built like Isabela or Varric, thriving by being in the center of things, and Astarion is the same way. Gods, Ataashi is the same way— even now, she hasn't stopped whining and burrowing against him, overwhelmed by so many people.

On the other hand . . . he winces as Shadowheart's hands glide up his side. Those claws had sunk deep, and though they hadn't hit any major organs (he hopes), it's still an injury that will take some time to heal. And that's to say nothing of his arm . . . he could fight through the pain, of course, but it would be better not to.]

We are more than capable of taking care of ourselves. I will not deny that we are grateful for your aid, but—

['Yeah? And what if we aren't in time next time?' Karlach snaps. 'What if they attack again tonight? Whatever devil he's made a deal with will be all the more eager to get his paws on all those souls now that Astarion's back— do you really think he won't throw all his forces behind Cazzy? You're going to get hit and hit hard, sooner rather than later!'

'It'll take time for me to finish this,' Shadowheart adds, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. 'You aren't going to be up on your feet for at least another day, if not longer, never mind fighting. And I'll need to monitor for infection.'

'See? You do need us! And I wasn't asking,' the tiefling adds, glaring at her companions meaningfully. 'We have the room, and even if we didn't, we'll bunk up. We're not leaving them behind.']

We'll think about it.

[Firmer, that, and in answer to Karlach's beseeching tone. Putting one hand on Shadowheart's in silent pause, Leto sits up properly, his countenance sterner than before. Take me seriously, for he cannot stand being pitied, much less babied.]

As for tonight . . . you may as well stay, if you wish. There is a bar below, and that will serve well enough as resting place. [Yes, Montressor mumbles, unheard by anyone save her sister. Yes stay yes, her little tail wagging sedately as she snuffles at Wyll.] Some of you, anyway. But this is not a move we would make lightly, and we need time.

[To discuss it, to reel from all that's happened tonight, to steel themselves to the very real possibility of suddenly having a whole handful of roommates . . . it's a lot. It isn't the answer Karlach wants to hear, clearly, but before she can continue arguing her case, Wyll interrupts.

'Come on,' he says, ostensibly to the group but to her as well. 'Shadowheart needs room to work, I bet— and if there's a tavern below, we can settle in and plan further. No decisions need be made right this second, and nobody will be unprotected.'

It's a neat compromise, and it seems to settle some of Karlach's fretful urgency. She glances between Leto and Astarion, a little frown on her face, before nodding. 'Right,' she agrees. 'Come on, then.'

'I could have that done in a moment,' Gale says to Astarion as they begin to file out (the pups dutifully following Wyll, two little sentient orbs fixated on their newest adoration). 'Are you certain you want a carpenter?']

Edited 2025-03-21 22:32 (UTC)

Shut. Door. Get. Out.

[Astarion briskly retorts, his chin held so authoritatively high throughout the gesture that someone from another lifetime might be forgiven for thinking Astarion the Magistrate's come back from the dead. As things are, Gale bows formally in acquiescence, he and Tara take their leave, the waddling pups are snatched up arm-in-either-arm by their curly-maned patriarch who then kicks what's left of a haggard, now borderline barnyard door 'shut': it's a few vivisected planks hanging loosely off one hinge, wind still flowing steadily in through a dwarf-sized hole in what was formerly its bottom.

And then he turns, inhaling to reset himself through a trained performer's rituals. Spine straight, eyeline leveled, expression more like a resigned and resentful shrug than anything else when he finally meets Leto's stare.

A stand in for what the fuck was that, staved off only because he'd prefer not to potentially piss off the one person here capable of healing his amatus. He doesn't know her well enough to guess, after all.]

Well.

[Is a blink. A bitter monosyllable, nearly scoffed.]

That was....something.

[Ah, but it's the healer herself who reacts first: snorting out a little laugh as she keeps up her steady work.

'They are, aren't they?' she says, nothing but immense fondness in her voice. 'I thought so too at first. Neither of us liked them very much at the start . . . but they mean well.'

She risks glancing up and away from her work so she can catch Astarion's eye. There's just as much fondness there as Gale had, though it's tempered and hidden behind some sympathy. 'Sorry. I know how annoying it is when people talk about things you can't remember. That's right, isn't it? Gale told us. You don't remember any of our adventures . . . or perhaps you weren't part of them. He wasn't very clear.']

Things seldom make sense when traveling between worlds. Less so when time becomes involved.

['You were in another world, then . . . how bizarre,' Shadowheart says. She shifts, resettling herself on the bed so she can keep both of them in her sightline. It's a little calmer with just her here, Leto thinks. There's none of Karlach's fervent protectiveness or Gale's well-meaning know-it-allness . . . there's intelligence behind those dark eyes, but she's more reserved, and that's a comfort right now.

Beneath Astarion's arms, the pups wiggle wildly, squirming until they're released and can leap to the bed. In an instant Shadowheart's face softens, her eyes crinkling with amusement as both pups immediately head towards her, snuffling at her thigh with intense interest. She doesn't smell quite so interesting as Wyll, to be fair, but it's still something new, and oddly refreshing at that.

'What— easy,' she chides gently, and grins when Montressor absolutely ignores that command. 'What do you remember, anyway? If anything.']

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