INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

VOICE | ACTION | TEXT

[previous inbox]

Comments

[illithidnapped]

[His laugh is soft. Throaty. Proof it's caught him by surprise, that question. With his thoughts pinned so far on the future (nevermind their storied past), a jolt back towards the present feels akin to stumbling headlong to a halt from a sprint: dizzy with the absence of momentum, and slower when it comes to catching his own bearings.

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.]

[doggish]

[He can see the man that Astarion used to be in moments like this. Not the prostitute with the silver tongue who had to learn how to forget dignity and sell himself each night to survive; not the feral, half-starved spawn who learned how to swallow fetid blood and say thank you to the man who tortured him— but something more dignified. Something fairer and nobler . . . something more dignified, and able to afford such notions like fairness.

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.