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illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
INBOX II
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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.']
no subject
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.']
no subject
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.]
no subject
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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[Nor regrets for that matter— although proximity to acrid gauze holds still his resolution. His lungs. Time will bleed the sting out of what happened (the fear he feels churning in his throat like nauseous bile), but for now....
The bed is luxuriously soft when he shifts into it, letting his weight slacken at last in the silence. Even if it is a farce, without anything left to tug upon ever-vigilant vampiric senses, it seems he can trick his own subconscious into believing nothing more will come for them tonight.
(Gods, it is strange to rest in such grand surroundings as these. They'd scrounged enough for finery here and there, but accommodations always bore the brunt of their constant budgeting. The others, on the other hand, are renowned heroes of the city if the innkeep's to be believed, and Wyll Ravenguard took care of all the rest, as his namesake would imply.)
With his chin pressed to the edge of Leto's chest, red eyes scan those tacked-on curtains.]
....I only wonder what the cost might be.
[Nothing comes free. Not in this world or any other, and most of all not when it involves a bond that he can still feel each time he flexes his own shoulders or lies flat across his back: the places where severed nerves transmit nothing between bright pops of sensation, incapable of healing.
He catches one downturned ear between his fingers. Feels the warm shiver of a living pulse fluttering just beneath the surface, possessed of a gravity all its own, and so painfully fragile.]
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Pain.
[His hand comes up, resting over Astarion's as he tips his head into that affectionate touch. Don't stop, and not just because he loves it when Astarion plays with his ears. Don't fret, don't panic, his skin searingly hot against chilled fingers, promising him with every gentle touch that this is all right. That they can speak of this.]
Exhaustion. I have no doubt I will sustain some injuries . . . perhaps I will lose something. An eye. A hand. An ear, [as his own flicks fondly into that pinching touch.] And so will you. It will hurt, and it will be a long battle.
And we will not come out unscathed.
[Oh, yes. He's thinking of Corypheus, you see, and remembering just how many hours it took to bring the bastard down. Chipping away at his defenses until he was vulnerable, only to be forcibly reset over and over . . . but they managed it. Blood in his eyes and a sour taste in his mouth, but he can still remember the god's gurgling last gasp.]
He is old, and he is powerful. But he is not infallible. And he is far, far from invulnerable.
You will not lose me. [For there is no world in which one of them survives and the other doesn't. They'll either live together or die together, but there will be no grieving widower at the end of this tale.] I aim for no self-sacrifice. I will not compromise our future. We will kill him, with our magic and our blades, and you will be free of him once and for all.
[But what if I'm not. But what if it fails. But what if you die, and the truth is, neither of them can say anything with any certainty. But . . . he reaches down, cupping Astarion's face with both hands and drawing him up. His thumbs stroke over two arched cheeks, affectionate and soothing.]
Will it distract you too much if I am there?
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His halfhearted smile instead twitches when it pulls higher, snagging against the tip of an elongated fang— shifting in the center of warmed palms into something that much brighter with a vivid flash of white— lean body rising from the bedsheets just to perch above his better half without jostling that hold: braced by one hand, the muscles of his arms and chest run thick with iron tension so that he can meet that gold-green stare head on....and trail his opposing touch from ear, to scalp, to temple (to cheek, where it anchors like a grounding wire), adoring in every last sense of the word.]
Only if I'm not there with you.
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[Firm, if not warm: a decision made, a line crossed. No matter when this happens (and it will be soon, for all that Leto and Shadowheart both need time to recover), they'll do it hand in hand.
Which leaves only tonight, and the tension wracking through his lover's lithe frame.]
Do you know why I am so certain we will kill him, amatus?
[He tips his head into Astarion's palm, nuzzling faintly against him, as he keeps their eyes locked together.]
Not just because I trust in you and your abilities. Not just because I have seen the way your friends fight, and how loyal they are to you on the merest suggestion of danger. Not just because I know you, and I know that when you face him, you will conquer . . .
But because I have seen it, too.
[He'd agonized over whether to say it before the battle. Whether the knowledge of Cazador being another factor in both their lives would only demoralize Astarion, convincing him of the worst instead of the best. But here, now, it feels right.]
I have watched you as you ripped his shriveled heart from his chest and crushed it in your palm. I have seen you make a mockery of him, ruining his reputation and leaving him with nothing more than spite and feeble desperation. I have watched you kill him over and over, and I will watch it again, here, now, in this lifetime. For if all that you have told me is true, and those are our past lives . . . I will not say it is fate that you win, for I do not believe in such things.
But I do believe in you.
[Oh, more than anything, he believes in Astarion. In his will, his strength, his determination . . . there is no doubt in Leto's heart, not a shade of it.]
Let me show you.
[There's no thought involved with this spell, not anymore. Leto's palms glow as he allows his mind to open, letting Astarion in, and showing him . . .
Kill him, amatus. He bores me, and he sees it through his own eyes: Astarion's fingers wrapped around his master's heart as unimaginable triumph roars through his body, reflected in his mate's expression. Cazador gasps, gurgling, choking on his own blood and bile; in the distance the sound of battle echoes up stone halls and marble floors. His corpse falls to the floor, unheeded and unnoticed, as they embrace, kiss, touch one another over and over, neither quite daring to say it just yet: it's over, it's done, we won, surreal in the sweetest way after so many decades of enslavement, and it takes so long for them to truly believe it— even later, when they stand hand-in-hand and watch the palace burn, it's hard to believe . . . but it's real. Isabela stands on one side, Anders on the other, and it's real, it's real, it's real . . .
Or another memory . . . Cazador younger, his hands wrapped around Astarion's wrists, begging him not to crush his skull. Pathetic and sniveling, promising fealty and loyalty and anything, anything at all, if only Astarion the Decadent would let him live. Everything has a red haze, pain and searing heat pulsing through every one of Fenris' muscles, but even near death, he can still summon up awe and shock over the sight of Astarion snarling over him.
This is an insult, he seethes. To think you could lay a finger on my consort—
My apologies, I— Cazador begins, and falls silent as Astarion's fingers tighten around his throat.
You will be, the vampire lord promises, and without another word throws Szarr to the floor, ignoring his pathetic groveling as he thanks him for his life. I'm not done with you just yet . . .
But oh, before they sink into that one, another rises, and this time, the flavor of it changes. The lights are artificially bright and dyed scarlet, so that the vast room is tinted in an alluring red. Nearby, half-dressed prostitutes apply makeup as they gossip to one another just backstage, while busy employees scurry about, arranging tables and dusting windows, prepping things for when the Moulin Rouge opens her doors tonight. The main stage looks perversely empty, devoid of the entertainers that will fill it tonight; no one pays it much mind, which makes it the perfect place for he and Astarion to huddle.
And the prize diamond himself, the peerless courtesan of Paris, the most desirable man in Europe . . . lies on his stomach, dangling halfway off the edge of the stage. His hair is mussed, his face devoid of makeup, for he's taking the night off to spend with his lover. They can do that now, Fenris thinks with some pride, and bites back a smile as he feels fingers brush idly against his hair.
My darling, how many times are you going to reread about him? Astarion drawls, but his boredom is a feigned thing, for his eyes are as eager as Fenris' are. He shifts a moment later, arranging himself so he can rest his chin over Fenris' shoulder, nosy little thing that he is.
As many times as it takes to satisfy, Fenris replies, tipping his head to make room. His eyes scan over black ink, for this is an old story now, and while it will be revived again and again as more details come out, most papers have finished their initial report. But— there, oh, there: an article tucked away on page four about the tragic downfall of the Szarr family. Suddenly impoverished and massively in debt, with no noble family willing to touch them for fear of the scandal spreading by association. Cheating and whoring and brutally exploiting others for fun and profit is one thing, but murder? Murder where one is caught? Oh, that's another entirely. Szarr will stand trial for the murder of two noble elves and the attempted kidnapping of their son, and there's no new details there, though the paper tries valiantly to milk some via speculation.
He must have read the story a dozen times by now, but the satisfied thrill never fades. Absently, he reaches back, carding his fingers through silver curls, smiling when Astarion turns his head and steals a swift kiss. Setting the paper aside, he shifts, hopping up on the stage so he can offer a hand to his sprawling lover. Come on, he says, and smiles as he says the words, unable to quite believe they're true. We have a date to make, and the restaurant I found you will not hold our reservations, not even for the Sparkling Diamond.]
There are others. Other memories . . . ones where he does not touch our lives.
[Soft.]
I would show you them, too, but . . . these first.
[These so Astarion knows: it may be a constant that Cazador Szarr is in their lives, yes . . . but it is a constant, too, that he dies at their hands, over and over.]
no subject
It means it holds true, Cazador's promise Astarion would never be without him. It means that to him, death was no more than an open door rather than a dead end— the foothold by which he sank his claws into their shoulders again and again and again.... (Does he know, then? Did he once dream as Fenris does now? Does he remember every slight? Every rejection?) There's a sudden ache battering his shoulders, boring through his scars; questioning if that razor sank in deep for retribution worn in place of bitter muscle memory. Dark streets. Darker prospects.
Yet there's still an echo of spent triumph lingering in his veins from that same source.
The picture perfect glimpse of what it might be (—no ) —was like to laugh after the storm. To outlive it, outstrip it, outmeasure it, rather than simply run until his legs give out or luck itself does, whichever one comes first.
For the thousandth time, what began in Thedas finds its voice again: he wants it. Like a fever that won't break, like an addiction he can't muzzle, he's brushed against an ending to this story worth more than its own prose, and by the second it's begun to calcify— or fester, either might be true hinged solely on perspective— each half-breath spent searching those tsavorite eyes for any sign of misdirection is one more drop of lost determination brought back from the grave.
Again: there's hardness setting in beneath the angle of his brows.
Again: it's nearly dawn, but he's tempted to leave now— allies and entourage be damned, he could tear his former master's throat from its soft housing. Oh, he couldn't, of course— but fury promises he could.]
This'll be the last.
[His fingers alight on Leto's cheek, bridging the gaps between past and present. Like the thought before that assertion, truth and possibility weigh less than his desire.
Less than the press of his forehead against Leto's own.]
I'll send his soul screaming back to whatever demon he made pact with, and I'll make you immortal, and he will never come to haunt our lives again.
[One final pause, touch sinking low enough to trace along thin gauze.]
Death can't harm what it can't touch.
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The impulse flashes through his mind like lightning as delicate fingers trace over his bandages, reminding them both of what might be at stake. And it would make things easier, wouldn't it? Having two vampires ready to strike, and one of them not under any kind of blood compulsion . . . it would give them such an advantage. Astarion needn't worry about just how fragile his mortal lover is, either; he won't spend the battle fretting over every claw and fang and cry, his attention desperately split between fighting and protecting.
But . . .
Leto isn't ready.
For the very first time, the reality of what he'd be giving up sinks in. Not just the abstract, a heartbeat or the notion of life (and he has never known what it is to not have those things), but something more real. He thinks of his friends— of lying on a rock in Evereska, content as a cat as he'd basked in the sun and listened to his friends goad one another to leap down a waterfall. There'd be no more of that. There'd be no more excursions or random adventures, not when he'd have to become a reclusive thing, shying from sunlight and steeling himself to the sound of their hearts.
He thinks of the joy of walking through a crowded marketplace, unseen for how ordinary he is and yet still a thriving part of something bigger than himself, something living. He'd never had that before here, and even a year later, it's still something novel and wondrous to him. He thinks of the pups, and how they'll shy and whine and shiver until they learn to tolerate the scent of death; he thinks of how he'll never be able to befriend anyone easily again, not without keeping them at an arm's length for fear of how they might react to what he truly is.
He doesn't want to give that up yet. Not when this world gives him a life, dignity and strength and joy as he has never known it, oh, he isn't ready to give it up just yet.
No wonder Astarion had spoken so cautiously of changing him. No wonder he had painted it as something to be given at the end of centuries, when Leto's mortal lifeline finally faded. For it will be worth it to spend an eternity with his beloved, oh, yes— but at the end of his mortal life, not the very beginning. Not when he isn't even yet fully grown.
The thought lasts for only a flicker of a second before he pushes it away, focusing back on Astarion. Not yet, he affirms to himself, and cups Astarion's cheek, stroking him as he lingers close.]
This will be the last.
[It must be. It will be. They will reincarnate again and again (and oh, how that terrifies him as much as it thrills him), finding one another in every world, but not Cazador. Not anymore. He nuzzles fiercely against him, noses bumping and scuffing in familiar ritual equal parts adoration and assurance, and murmurs against his lips:]
You will slaughter him, and there will never be another moment where you need think of him again. He will become a footnote in your life, as Danarius is in mine, and you will know freedom as you never have before. And as the years pass, I will watch you grow as you have not been able to until now. In a decade— in a year— you will not recognize yourself, for the weight of two centuries will finally be off your shoulders. And you will know in your heart, as I know now, that you are so much more than a mere extension of him.
[Oh, he can't wait. He truly can't. It's nothing to do with the past and everything to do with the present: you are so much more than he ever let you be, and years later, Leto can still remember looking at himself in awe, watching himself do and say and be things without flinching, never once fearing what the repercussions might be.]
I would show you more . . . the memories that he does not taint. The dreams I have had that show us happy afterwards, or the ones where I suspect he has not entered our lives at all— for there are more than a few where that occurs, and we find bliss all the more easily. But . . .
[But first . . . he cocks his head, and asks, his tone gentle:]
Is there a part of you that wishes to turn me now?
[It's a question, not a trick— for if the thought had flashed through Leto's mind, perhaps it had flashed through Astarion's own.]
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But no less amused for it at that, quirking one dark brow beneath thicker cascades of snow white curls.]
Mm, I'd thought about it. [Astarion confesses easily in that far too sincere tenor of his, most often worn in Leto's company— and Leto's company alone. There's a subsequently chasing pause where his knuckles knock soft against the underside of his husband's jaw, tipping it in lieu of a much more weighted scuff.]
If only to keep you safe.
....but [and there it is, a momentary melodic dip that acts as segue and punctuation both, reminiscent of the noble thing he might've been before Cazador first laid claws on him] it was self-serving, that notion. Flawed, to say the least: Cazador's no stranger to murdering his own kin. His competition even more so. And the thought that you'd be strong enough to withstand whatever initial efforts he might've spent attempting to lash out at you in retribution was about as far as that guarantee could ever run.
All it'd take is a bit of sunlight or a clever, paid off hunter actually worth a damn, and I'd still lose you.
[His sigh runs thin. His expression wearies, eyelids sinking till they shut.
And open.]
At least like this there's a second chance if it all goes wrong.
[If I can't save you the first time, then believe me, darling, I will the second.]
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For just a moment, Leto feels like an adolescent caught in the crowd, spotting some fair prince on procession. It's the oddest feeling, there and gone, leaving him only with an odd sense of adoring melancholy as he listens to Astarion speak.]
On such chances are victories made. Astra inclinant, sed non obligant . . . fate does not dictate our chance. Only preparation.
[He turns his head, knocking gently against Astarion's fingers as his eyes stay locked on him all the while.]
I felt what it was to be a spawn in those memories. I remember how cold I was . . . how warm you made me feel. How I saw you not just with my eyes, but with scent, too . . . how much we thrilled in claiming one another that way, however temporary. I did not— [Mm, well. Anyway, and whatever mild embarrassment he feels is evident only in the sudden flick of his ears, there and gone. In any case:] I remember leaping up on the rooftops, giddy at my strength and power, and you chasing after me— eternally the experienced hound corralling his energetic pup, it seems.
It was pleasing, that memory.
[He catches one hand, drawing it up so he can kiss his palm gently.]
If my transformation happens centuries now, I will not be displeased. I like this mortal life, and I mean to savor it for as long as I can. But if my change comes after this battle— if I am killed, and you need to revive me— I would not mind that either.
So long as it is by your hand— so long as you remain at my side— there is little I ever mind.