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illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
INBOX II
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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.]
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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.
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(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.
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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?
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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.
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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?]
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[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.
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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.
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[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.
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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.]
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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.']
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—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.']
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[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?']
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[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.
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'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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At her final question, though, he bitters.]
There's nothing to remember. Whoever you know— knew— hells, I don't know— however you want to interpret it, that wasn't me.
I was with— [Leto, he starts to say] Fenris, the whole time. [Ah, up until he wasn't. But it was just so short a stint apart....wasn't it? And what of proper timelines? Memories.
He's bristling again. Growing sharp despite himself.
(He loathes the thought of having no control over himself. His life. His mind. His very presence. Can't stomach the suggestion that yet again there may yet lie one more cavity inside him where something vital ought to be.)]
I remember being kidnapped by illithid monstrosities, barely bracing my way through a calamitous crash that ought to have been the second death of me— and then jolting upright in the overwhelming chaos of an entirely different world. And there wasn't any remotely conceivable way that I could've been in two places at once.
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She finally raises her hands off Leto's stomach. The flesh there is tender and sore, with blackened bruises taking the place of tan skin, but still: the wound is closed. His shoulder comes next, and she grimaces in sympathy as she peels away the bandages.
'They certainly dug into you,' she says to him, and doesn't miss the way Leto's eyes dart over to Astarion as the scent of blood wafts in the air.
'You know,' Shadowheart begins, pressing her hands to the wound, and presses her hands to the wound. The glow is brighter than before, so much so that Leto has to turn away— but he can feel her magic working harder. Trying to speed up the process at least a little, just so the scent of blood isn't quite so prominent. 'When my memories were taken from me, I was desperate to find out who I used to be. I told myself I wasn't, of course, and there's still so much that I don't know . . . but I met a friend once, and asked her all I could about who I used to be. It was odd. Dissonant, and yet not bad.']
You find yourself in similar company, then, if your memories were stolen.
[Gods, what a duo they make. A trio, maybe, but Leto won't insult Astarion by saying so.]
How were yours—?
['I once worshipped Shar,' Shadowheart says, as if that's any kind of explanation. 'And she valued darkness and secrecy above all else. My memories were taken from me so I couldn't betray my cloister . . . though I think, now, it was done out of cruelty. Which suited her too.
'Don't get me wrong,' she adds. 'I'm not trying to hint that you're secretly pining to find out who you— or this other Astarion— were. I'm just saying: you aren't speaking to someone who doesn't know what it's like to have people assume you're someone else, that's all. And you don't need to convince us. Gale and the others will learn soon enough. Though . . . how did you know to seek us out?']
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Shar.
That's no light confession, as far as grim secrets go, and there's the disarming way she admits to pressing for nothing in return. Not a shared admission, but an offered one.
It makes a difference.]
Gale, as it so happens.
[He's not surprised the man didn't share the details with his companions; irritating as so much virtue might be when it's poised opposite to Astarion's own self interest (or fun), the wizard's brimming with it: he'd been kind in Thedas for the hours that they'd shared; kind in Toril, when he sought to keep them safe and train an unknown elf. Little wonder that he decided not to recant Astarion's assumed amnesia or transplacement— it wasn't his story to tell.]
He turned up in Fenris' world whilst I was there. A stranger out of the blue, telling me that he knew who I was. That he knew Cazador, and was glad to see me free.
[His scoff is featherlight, rather than disdainful.]
It's a damned miracle I didn't slit his throat.
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Amusement flits into her expression, and she adds wryly: 'I'm surprised you didn't cut him up, at least a little. You're losing your edge. What stopped your blade?']
The fact he would have been imprisoned in a heartbeat for the crime of murdering a human, for s—
[He cuts himself off with a sharp hiss, his whole body flinching as a bolt of pain flashes through him. With a frown Shadowheart leans forward, the glow around her hands brightening as her magic intensifies. There's a long moment of silence, and then she exhales sharply, her mouth a thin line.
'It's deeper than I thought,' she says, and splays her fingers, covering more of his shoulder. A moment, and though the pain doesn't dissipate, the edges soften, becoming something sharp and throbbing instead of searing. Leto's head ducks down, the fingers of his other hand clutching the blanket tightly as he fights to keep still. Pain is awful, of course, but pain can be managed and controlled; it's just a matter of focusing. Keeping still and keeping calm as sweat beads on his forehead.
'We nearly fought him,' she says distantly, her attention now split. And then, focusing more: 'Cazador, I mean. We planned on it, right up until he— the other you— disappeared. We spoke of it, but never got a chance to act upon it. I'll be glad to rectify that mistake. From what little I heard of him, he sounds like a monster.']
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He moves to stand opposite to Shadowheart, cool cloth taken up between his fingers (though the redness flooding pearl-white fingertips makes its water laden sum look hotter than it is), pressed slowly to Fenris' forehead— brushed across the sides of his face. A temporary distraction for the moon elf's visibly overtaxed nerves.
In the end, what he really wants is for this to have never been his plight to begin with. For none of this to have happened, least of all the agonized flickers in a focused, drawn down expression lost within his shadow.]
The word hardly does him justice. [Astarion murmurs, distant through the hollow thrumming of each syllable. Somewhere else, for just a few, scant seconds.
His stare lifts.]
That other woman.... ['Karlach,' Shadowheart offers.] Karlach, [Astarion corrects in turn,] she was right about him. That there'll be no peace if we stay here like this.
Considering it's nearly morning, I'm not worried about tonight. [And he'd rather not move Leto yet, if they can afford the extra time for him to heal. He's no weak heart, of course, but gods, he deserves better than to limp off like a wounded dog— no time to choose for himself, less time still to reconcile with departure.] But....
[There's something masked in his expression, silently conveyed. Petitions he can't bring to the forefront of his wearied throat.]
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But tomorrow, we will move into your rented rooms.
[There's still strain in his voice, his fingers flexing and tightening with every slow pass, but this is something to focus on. Already his mind darts forward, sorting through what needs to be done. They don't have half as many things as they did in Thedas, and at worst, they can pack the bare minimum and come back for more later— but oh, there's so many hands to help now . . . yes, they can do it before next nightfall, Leto is certain. He nods, his eyes hard as he affirms that to himself— only to soften in the next instant as he looks up at his vampiric mate.
I know. I know, my love. Astarion, who gives so much of himself even now: dipping his hand in water and ignoring the pain that must be shooting up his arm in favor of trying to soothe his Leto, and all the while his mind must be miles away, lingering in a palace in the Upper City . . . it's beyond difficult. Impossible in a way that's almost too hard to comprehend, for dulled panic has a way of clouding the mind and smothering the senses.
So let Leto return the favor, and free Astarion from having to think at all. Let them go to a place where he can, if not relax, at least rest assured that he is not the sole person between himself and his mortal mate's demise.]
We'll need privacy, still. And a place where no sunlight can possibly reach . . . if not, we'll build it ourselves. Curtains to begin with, and something more sturdy after tomorrow.
[What else? The pups will go anywhere they're loved, so no worries there. Ataashi will be incredibly unhappy, but at least he now has the ability to tell her why they're moving, and negotiate with her from there. Possibly she can roam outside the city's boarders for stints, though he suspects she'll only ever do that if she's going absolutely stir-crazy.
'Privacy may be difficult to come by,' Shadowheart remarks. 'But sunlight we can do— or not, as the case may be. There's a corner in the tavern inn that has no windows—']
Good. We'll settle there.
[From there, he falls silent. It's another half-hour before Shadowheart finishes her work, and by that time, she looks as exhausted as Leto feels. Dropping the bloody bandages onto the bedside table, she stands with a yawn. 'Rest for another few hours,' she orders him. 'I'll check on it again in the morning, but it should be fine.'
He's left with blackened bruises a soreness that pervades, but nothing gaping. Nothing bloody, and thank the gods for that. He listens to Shadowheart's slow footsteps as she heads downstairs, and wait until she's called out to the landlord (who has since risen, delighted at the thought of even temporary paying guests) before he reaches for Astarion's hand.]
It will be worth it, [he murmurs, and strokes his thumb against his palm.] No matter how irritating.
. . . call it motivation for killing Cazador, perhaps.
[Moving . . . happened. The less said about the sheer amount of chaos it was, the better. Five extra sets of arms were useful, especially once Wyll managed to pay a few local boys to help carry things. But there were pups to hide and a wolf to cajole; a near-catastrophe with the sheer amount obscene items they own (that Leto would rather die than let anyone else see); keeping Astarion covered and out of the direct sunlight while they moved from one inn to the other, and having to fend off his worry whenever Leto came in with a suitcase, favoring his left arm. It's full of cross-conversations and serious debates on how best to move something bulky (Lae'zel prefers the clever tactics, while Karlach is in favor of just shoving anything though a doorway until it fits); it's full of sweat and frustrations and camaraderie.
By nightfall their old home stood empty, all their things carefully arranged around the bed they're to share.
At least there's a vague sense of privacy. Leto had made sure of that. Not just sheets tacked up on a ceiling, but a proper four-poster curtain surrounding their mattress. Fasteners are tacked into the openings (to be sewn in properly tomorrow), cinching them shut all around. It's no coffin in terms of security (nor familiar, longed for comfort) but it's the best they can do on short notice. And really, considering they're shoved in a corner where the sun never reaches, it will work for one night as precautionary measure.
Around them, the others are in bed, if not fully asleep, and the room is blissfully quiet. Not the peaceful silence he and Astarion have grown used to over the past few years, perhaps, but still lacking in the endless chattering demands for attention. At their feet, Ataashi snores faintly, her weight a pleasant bulk atop Leto's legs and feet. It's a little warm, but pulling Astarion into his arms solves that.
And now they lie together, Astarion tucked beneath Leto's left arm, his fingers carding through his hair and his mouth pressed against his scalp.]
The sooner we do, the sooner we get our privacy back.
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A second layer of privacy, thinner than those curtains.] Here I was wishing there was something actually compelling to press me into tearing off the metaphorical bandage that is murdering my old, terrifyingly vicious madman of a master.
[At their feet, Ataashi groans in her sleep; little restless puppy paws pad wobbly over stone, distant, and nearly lost to the crackling of the fire for how they've no intent to sleep when so many new smells and hands await inspection; someone treads about, and although Astarion reasonably knows it must be one of their companions on watch (for someone is always on watch, the flock insisted whilst outlining their arrangement), his right ear turns itself into a sharper angle just to track the sound. Steady. Matched by a pulse, and masking nothing else. No noise from the pups or the other mutt in camp.]
Freedom? Mm. Your safety? Overblown so far as motives go. But a little peace and quiet?
Peerless.
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You jest now, but just think of the next time you want to have sex. You'll tear through him in a heartbeat just so you can spread my legs by dawn.
[Another comforting little nudge of his nose against the top of Astarion's head. Don't fuss. Don't fret, and of course Astarion will. Cazador has gone from a distant terror to something viciously, vividly real within the span of twenty-four hours, and there's no escaping that. Soon— in a day, maybe, or a little longer— they'll go to confront him. They'll go to kill him, and it will be worth it, but oh, what a daunting task it will be.
But little comforts help, for all that they won't soothe. Little reminders: I'm alive and so are you; I'm free and so are you. Nothing will come for you, not tonight.
In the distance, he can hear Wyll teasing the pups, spoiling them with belly rubs and cooing praise for nothing more than existing. Diligent man that he is, he resumes his patrol a few moments later, accompanied by the soft padding of paws. He listens to it for a time, his hand drifting up and down Astarion's back. Then, his voice quieter:]
. . . tell me what you're thinking.
[During the eve of battle, when all they've worked for and done for the past three years hangs in the balance . . .]
Or I will distract you, and we shall speak no more of it.
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Mm. [Rumbles in his throat with tigerine inflection, almost managing to distract his pricked-up ear.] Little else rouses my will to act like the thought of burying myself between your legs—
[Effortless even now, the turn of his head that draws cool lips closer to a tattooed throat. His smile subtle, the edges of his mouth upturned and barely parted in anticipation, more than ready to submerge (ignoring the bandaged trackmarks of his siblings, wrapped gauze stringent with ointments that obscure the way Leto should smell otherwise— yet that too is a comfort; it stands to reason he'll be safe if he doesn't wear Astarion's scent), and it means that allowing himself indulgence would only really be tantamount to self-preservation, really. An exercise in obscured invisibility. In devotion. In—
'Tskvaa—'
'Lae'zel, hush,' Karlach whispers coarsely through cupped fingers at a distance. Something akin to a bed frame's buckling creak following thereafter, loud against the silence.
'Why is it that I must hush when it is Astarion and his mate who have awoken me with their discussion of legs and how they wish to breed where we can hear it?'
Astarion's throat clears. Sharply.
(On the opposite side of that rented floor, Fortunato's claws skitter over wood in anticipation of being scolded whether or not she's the one in trouble. She knows that noise by heart.)]
I realize the notion of privacy in our current situation is performative at best, but do try and refrain from eavesdropping....
[It's all too sudden when his voice twists over itself like a serpent rattling its coils, growing deeper.]
....elsewise your peace and fucking quiet isn't the only thing I'll be violently dismembering tonight.
[And there in the lull, without a word, the Weave twists via Gale Dekarios' deft hand— a bubble of suffusive silence expanding till it blankets the curtains round their bed, acting as a bulwark for privacy's fully overdue sake.
It's the first unchecked sliver of gratitude afforded to that wizard since the second they first met.]
Thank the gods. [Is a melt-inducing sigh that slacks his spine and shoulders; sinks the weight of his own neck into the crook of Leto's arm once more.]
Any more of that nonsense and I'd be weighing how much murdering-our-allies I could get away with before the odds started shifting irreversibly into Cazador's wretched hands.
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Which means he can groan so wretchedly without fear of being overheard. Petulant and sulky and embarrassed, and he rubs a hand over his face, trying to scrub away the belated flush that's set in.]
We were quiet.
[How sharp can githyanki ears possibly be? But it's fine. It's fine, it really is, and it's not as if half the city hasn't heard them rut at this point, never mind just talking about it, but even so . . . gods, and Leto sighs as he settles back and gathers Astarion to him, trying to put the issue of his mind. If his ears and cheeks are flushed for a few minutes longer, well. Only Astarion need know about it.]
The feeling might well be mutual . . .
[But it's more a wry grumble than any real fuss. He can remember his own aggravation during those long nights in Sundermount, when Marian and Merrill would dissolve into hushed giggles and unsubtle moans . . . and how he would, despite his increasing exasperation, still feel more or less the same about them come morning. Odd, now, to be on the other side of it— but then again, there's that same odd feeling. Not quite of comfortable camaraderie, but . . . something close to it, maybe.
His head tips down, nuzzling faintly at silver curls as they resettle.]
The odds are in our favor, Astarion.
[Quiet. Gentle. He will shift gears if need be, for he is happy to distract with filthy talk and spread legs . . . but it's in his nature to want to address the tension that fills the air.]
I will not try and sell you that it is not dangerous, nor that we have such a large chance that you need not worry. But . . . I would not say that if I did not believe it.
He will fall.
[And soon you'll be free, but such a thought is too painful to articulate just yet.]
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