INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

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[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.