therookery | CRYSTAL | MISS ME, DARLINGS?

Entry tags:

CRYSTAL | MISS ME, DARLINGS?

FORM: sending crystals, during the truth event, you know what to do
SENDER: your favorite rogue, Astarion xoxo
RECIPIENT: as always, everyone
NOTES: if you drank Truth Soup, cough up your feelings; if you didn't drink the soup, make it worse for everyone, I dare you

[Someone's bored tonight. And it's been over a year since the last time he felt restlessness stirring him into needling action— particularly when he's noticed a couple of blurted-out confessions running high and harsh in the air. He could sleuth around. Sniff about for any signs of volatile tampering (or ask if this is just the next phase of whatever sleepless affliction's still nipping at everyone's collective heels)....

But this is so much more fun.

Anyway— ahem, and all that:]

Name one thing you like about someone else in Riftwatch. Anything. Anything at all.

Bonus points if you feel like getting weird with it.

[And don't think he's generous enough to actually start this game himself: that, you're all going to have to do on your own.

Or maybe just ask nicely.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Mm.

[Yes.]

You're not as far off the mark as you could be, though. I was afraid—

[And apparently he's stuck narrating his process tonight, but there's no turning away from it unless they put this off until....who even knows, honestly. If they're locked in like this for weeks or months akin to all the nightmares, or even if it's a quicker bit of mischief, the fact remains Astarion can't stomach letting this sit another minute longer. Not when it's clearly been cording itself around Fenris— (out of the corner of his eyes, he casts a half-glance over his shoulder towards their crystals, active, yes, but far)— around Leto's perceptions.

He can only hold it off while it's perched on the top of his tongue for so long, though. So....as he moves to sit down along the edge of Leto's bed:] I was afraid you thought I saw you as your master did. Only worth what you could promise me. Something that I needed to be foolproof or inerrant. Strong enough to weather almost anything on his own.

I'd like it if you were— invincible, that is. I even used to think you were, back when we first met. It certainly felt that way for a little while.

[Red eyes lift, though his chin stays tucked in closer to his chest.]

I don't resent learning better.

[Not for a single second. And oh, fuck it, he's back on his feet again like an impulsive child, closing the distance for certain this time— ] No, I won't be happy to see you come home with a limp in your stride or half-dead, or with missing fingers or a notched ear, if it comes to that. I'll be distressed for a time, you're right. You would be too.

[One frigid palm rests itself against Leto's cheek; the other brushing back grown-out strands of silver hair along the opposite temple, tucking them behind a downturned ear.]

But I'm upset because I don't want to be kept out of your life. I need to know when you're in anguish. When you're hurt.

You can't ask me to lower myself to be tended to if I can't do the same.

[Something stricken crosses his face as Astarion confesses that fear. I was afraid you thought I saw you as your master did, and the impulse to assure rises. Of course not, I could never, and that is the truth, for there isn't a day that's gone by that he's ever thought of Astarion akin to Danarius. His beloved has never once equated performance with adoration; he's never held his affection or his love just slightly out of reach, meet me at this requirement or I shan't offer you anything. Morning spent sleepily demanding and receiving affection without thought for reciprocation, cold toes against his calf or the slow stroke of fingers through his hair; nights spent in companionable silence, the two of them content to do nothing more than soak up one another's presence, no, Astarion's love has never come with a price tag.

But maybe it isn't about Astarion.

For even as the pale elf speaks, Leto reflects it inwards. It isn't that he thinks Astarion demands a certain level of perfection from him, no, but . . . perhaps he, himself, questions his own worth. Perhaps it isn't about earning Astarion's love, but convincing himself he deserves it. It's not something that crops up during the day to day events of their lives, but . . .

When you left, Astarion had said to him once. The night he'd nearly been murdered; the night they'd gotten together. His voice strained as it almost never is, even with Leto; his face hidden away, the emotion too raw to cover with a sharp, brittle grin. Speaking on how he'd hoped for months on end, a fool with an aching heart pretending his beloved would return to him; a broken creature that still, after two centuries, found it in him to try and hope again. I waited, he said. Months and months later, there I was, still keeping at it.

And you know, Leto doesn't remember all that. He doesn't remember leaving, nor what he'd done in those subsequent months; he certainly knows he didn't return to Kirkwall with the express intention of finding Astarion. And he knows how that broke his beloved, a terror that expresses itself each time they part (oh, Astarion doesn't blame him, of course, but he does fret). The way they write to one another in those journals, and sometimes it's silly and sometimes it's sentimental and quite often it's sensual, but above all, what it means is: you're still okay. You're still all right. You haven't disappeared yet.

And he knows that it wasn't his fault, not really. He cannot hold himself accountable for someone else's actions.

But.

But maybe it's something in there. Maybe it's the nagging guilt of knowing he left, and no matter that it wasn't his fault, still, he hurt Astarion in his wake. Maybe it's the terror of going out and not knowing if he'll return; tensed up for an eventuality that he can't predict nor counter, not when he doesn't know what happened the first time. Guilt and fear and self-doubt and blame, and maybe it isn't so easy or fixable as putting it behind him and ignoring it as he's been doing for these past few months.

He doesn't know. It's too complex, too complicated, too confusing, and he can't possibly parse it all right now.

He turns his head into that rough coddling, allowing Astarion to scruff at him even as he soothes him. A unique form of affection and quiet scolding all at once, and he gladly melts beneath it, turning his head into the hand curving against his cheek.]

I know.

[Quiet. It isn't all he has to say, but there's a pause. His hand comes up, pressing against Astarion's own, keeping it there as he tries to think of how to say all this, for if he is to be honest, this is where it starts]

. . . I fear for you each time I leave.

I imagine only what I have done to you before. The pain I caused you. The agony of it— and I imagine it because I imagine that agony often. You dream of me hurt, and I dream of you stolen by the Rifts again, torn from my side without warning. I do not know if I could handle that level of pain, not after every other relationship in my life has ended abruptly and without warning. I would chase after you, of course, but . . .

[His eyes flick down. Lower yourself, that's how it always goes. Not in submission, exactly, but rather uncertainty.]

Sometimes it's too good when we're at home. Blissful. I have never known joy as I have known it with you. I have never known contentment as I have with you. Even if we bicker, or irritate one another . . . you make my life worth living.

And so when one of us leaves our home . . . I fear that perhaps something will shatter it.

[Maker. His mouth twists in frustration, irritation at himself flaring; what is he trying to say?]

I simply . . . I fear for us. And you. And me. I fear that this happiness cannot last, because when has happiness ever lasted in either of our lives? And I fear most of all when I leave, for I do not know how to stop what happened last time from happening again.

[Up, down, his eyes flicking up before glancing away again. And then up again, settling there, catching Astarion's gaze.]

And I do not think it will stop. Not until I find out what happened, and why. It is time to stop running from it, or ignoring it.

[Some things you don't choose.

Like walking alone in the middle of the night, and hearing a voice call out behind you in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck prickle with dread long before the others come into view. Like smiling at a stranger busy dabbing at her tears with a kerchief stained from an adolescence only just surpassed, alone in the upper wings while flocks of guests downstairs share the cake and champagne meant for her— and leading her out before midnight, gifting her the affection she so desperately wanted by vanishing without a trace. Like weeping in the dark, the taste of rot in all your senses. Like pale fingers beating against glass as the world goes dark— waking to sickly green light and the scent of splitting ozone, and for the very first time, an outstretched hand. Like war. Like hope. Like sunlight and warm sheets. Like lost memories, and the sight of Leto's back as it slipped past the boundaries of his doorframe.

I know, Leto says, and it could easily be Astarion speaking in that moment— cold hands caught (and stilled) against skin so flush with heat— because every word that follows works its way into his bones and howls to meet its twin, reverberating in a muted echo: I fear for you each time (you) leave. I dream of (you) hurt, and you dream of (me) stolen by the Rifts again. Torn from my side without warning. I couldn't bear it (I can't bear it, sometimes, when we're alone— my mind working to think up horrors that might justify a single second of unfiltered contentment in your arms). I love you. I have never known joy as I have with you. Even when we bicker or irritate, you make my life worth living.

I fear for us.

Some things you don't choose. Can't control. And every hypothetical is real as much as it isn't; held within their hands as they try and scrape control from the uncontrollable— knowing that it'll tear into their palms like an unruly animal, and that it might collapse around them before they have a chance to save it. Life— fate— the gods themselves, it's never been anything but fickle, and yet—

He takes Leto into his arms so fiercely that it aches (grateful for the heeled boots he wears; the added height making it effortlessly easy to use one arm to wrap around Leto's shoulders, fingers splayed across his spine), cheek fit tightly to his cheek, his temple, his brow— anything. Anywhere. It doesn't matter, just as long as he can feel it. The antithesis of all those scars.

I have you. Oh, I have you. It's all right.]

It isn't your fault.

[Implication speaks for itself, but compulsive sincerity is what holds them tonight, and so:] You didn't hurt me— not before, when you left. Not tonight.

Gods, you precious, endearing thing...

[They don't sleep well anymore at night— less than they ever used to, which was already a miserable mess of intermittent jolts into wakefulness or frantic screams. The best they can do is manage it with physical exhaustion and comfort, and still, it wears. But Astarion's certain what weighs on Leto now has nothing to do with nightmares.

It'd likely twist beneath his ribs just the same.]

All this time, and I didn't realize— [His breath almost clicks it's so quick, catching when it strikes the back of his fangs. He wouldn't say it normally. He wouldn't drag something so fragile for both of them out of the shadows.

His touch isn't quite light, but it isn't scolding anymore either. Steady in the course it runs, smoothing back over sharp features.] You were trying to stop yourself from wounding me any more than you assumed you already had, weren't you?

[There's more to be said, of course. The war-elephant in the room, lingering at the end of Leto's confession— it can wait a little longer.]

[You precious, endearing thing, and he almost— almost— flinches from it. Not because he thinks Astarion is mocking him (oh, never, not to his kadan), nor because he thinks he's being dishonest (how could he be right now?). But because words like that don't fit right when draped around Leto's shoulders. He is no precious thing. He is valuable, yes, and a good ally, and a clever fighter, oh, he's all sorts of things, but precious is . . . is something different. Fragile. Cherished. Sweet. It's the same with endearing, although not quite so bad. But surely someone wouldn't ever look at Leto, scarred and snarling, bitter and sullen on his worst days, and think of him as endearing.

It is what it is. And it will not be solved now, not when they've so many other things to address. But still, there it is, and someday they will acknowledge it, for oh, how Leto adores hearing it nonetheless. Like a cold palm pressed against his forehead on an unbearably hot day, oh, how he savors it, quietly and without quite understanding why.

But not now. Not when Astarion is gathering him so close, whispering words of stark honesty and forgiveness so blissful it's nearly divine. His head tips down, nuzzling fiercely against Astarion's own, cheeks and noses bumping together, his eyes fluttering closed as he sinks into it. It's not your fault, and he does know that. He does.

But it's in the same way he knows that he did not volunteer for these markings. He knows that Danarius manipulated they all of them into competing to be his guinea pig. And yet what his sensible head knows and what his wretched heart truly believes are two utterly different things, and the gulf between them wide and gaping. Some days it's easy to dismiss his emotions, and some nights— when Astarion wakes gasping out his name and clings to him with shuddering breaths, oh Leto I thought— some nights are harder.]

Yes. I thought . . .

I thought it would be easier. And I thought you would be better off, happier, if I did not trouble you with it.

[It wasn't a wholly conscious decision. He hasn't been carefully omitting truth after truth in a crafty web, eager to keep Astarion blind and deaf to reality. It's only been the one time, but still: yes, that is why he'd done it, and he presses roughly against him again, giving in to his own stubborn instincts. One hand catches against his belt loops, fingers tangling and hooking there with quiet insistence.

But ah, ruefully:]

And yet I did anyway. Then and now.

[He tips his head back just far enough to catch Astarion's eye, his brow furrowed and his eyes darting about his face.]

For I do not agree that I did not wound you when I left. Intentional or not, it left a scar. I see how you fear when I leave, how you hope I will return . . . do not tell me it did not have an effect, kadan.

[It is a little off admittedly. At least by someone else's standards. Somewhat like looking at a tiger and calling it a kitten after having seen it tear someone limb from limb once or twice.

....or more.

But these aren't someone else's standards. They're Astarion's. Vampire, at his core; dead nobility stubbornly drawing breath. With eyes the color of fresh blood, with teeth fit to tear through skin and bone alike. Beneath the scent of lilac and leather oil— when it wanes or washes away in the odd torrential downpour— he smells of what he truly is: a predator amongst the herd.

Even if that weren't true, though, Leto would be precious regardless. The first breath of mercifully compassionate air felt after two centuries of corroding despair (he remembers learned traits like thumbprints; how countless hands fit themselves to him: each digging press darkening old bruises— always the same). When he'd been convinced there was no such thing as a heart worth beating, that every soul was as sickeningly corrupt and despotic and selfish as the ones he'd suffocated under, there Leto was. A contradiction against natural order itself. Invaluable, priceless, wanted.

Precious, yes.

He's halfway through turning the bridge of his nose red from scuffing when Leto draws back— forcing the world back into focus.]

Of course it did.

But if I— [Ah, he can't bring himself to say it out loud. Superstitious. Paranoid. How is it that after hundreds of years whispering unanswered pleas, just one uttered hypothetical (if I slipped back through the rifts tomorrow....) feels like muttering a spell into fruition: he'll say it, and tomorrow Leto will wake up alone.

And Astarion....]

Mm. Come here. I refuse to talk about this like two ill-fated lovers on a terrace balcony, poised to run at any second. [He means that in so many ways; figurative. Literal. Metaphorical, too.

The fire isn't low, only scant. Everything is meager for an elf right now, even one as resourceful (read: thieving) as a roguish charmer with coin in his pocket and wholly sharpened assets to spare. In a way, it works out, though: the nights are getting warmer, and the drafts that occasionally waft in play well with tempered heat. He pulls Leto towards the foot of his bed, and when he sits, winds the man down between his legs into resting comfortably there— either facing him or away, so long as his cheek's fit to one comfortably clothed thigh (he's still half-dressed from the soirée: a dark shirt and collar, matching trousers and high-laced boots— the image of a dangerous stranger, albeit one that's now in his own home with little mystique left to spare), fingers combing over the marked elf's scalp in slower and slower patterns. Doting on him to the damning marrow.

Easier to just exist, like this.]

You're right.

You did leave, and for a while I shattered like a dropped glass. A bloody mess [and oh, his lips twist for a beat, wry in adding:] even got a man killed all for my own bitter spite— which was my choice, I'll emphasize. Not yours. [It drops away, that flicker of short-lived humor.] It'd be infinitely worse, now. You and I were only friends back then, after all.

[Now you're more. Oh, now you're everything, darling.]

Somehow, despite the bleakness of my wicked heart, you've grown as dear to me as life itself. More than even my freshly-acquired freedom, I suspect....though I'd prefer never to have to test that theory.

But I also know you.

The stubborn little cub that thought he could protect me from yet another gauntlet of restless nightmares if he simply stayed silent. The one who would gladly run himself ragged to make sure I never knew another second of suffering like the ones sealed away behind the Fade. [The same creature who sat up with Astarion in the middle of the night, having lost himself yet again, and still— still— he never once hesitated: I am here, with my sword and my lyrium, if that should change. He has not come to drag you back, Astarion. Not tonight.]

You wouldn't have walked out that door if you didn't intend to come back.

[Memories or not, Leto is still Leto: he doesn't need to sleuth out what happened the night he disappeared in order to know it was never really a choice. And if he didn't make that decision for himself— ] You're not to blame.

We'll find you your answers. [Understand, he hates the shape of those words, and it shows. But for Leto....] Just— no more omission.

I realize you're used to safeguarding what's yours.

Let someone else guard you for a change.

Edited 2022-07-27 13:16 (UTC)

[Despite their intense intimacy, still, some things take more getting used to than others. He doesn't anticipate the position Astarion arranges them in until they're already settled, curled up together in the sweetest way. There's a moment of tension, admittedly, more born of uncertainty than reluctance— but then he settles, staring up at Astarion as his cheek presses against his thigh. One hand absently reaches for his hip, fingers catching in belt loops again as his thumb slips beneath soft fabric, stroking against cool skin. Hello, beloved, his breathing slowing, lulled despite his guilt and uncertainty by that slow doting.

And oh . . . what it is to hear Astarion say that. In truth, this guilt has been long-lived, but that doesn't mean it's always been at the forefront of his mind: he hasn't spent days on end agonizing over it, writhing in silent torment, no. Rather: it's been like an old wound long since scarred over, perfectly fine up until it suddenly isn't. Until one of them says or does something and he remembers, and just like that, some part of him silently grimaces. Your fault, not for leaving, not for losing his memory, but for causing Astarion pain.

So here, now, what a balm it is to have that addressed. To hear from the man's own mouth that no, Astarion does not quietly hold him at fault. No part of his soul bears that scar— or if it does, it isn't Leto that held the blade that caused it. A weight off his shoulders, and he exhales slowly, uncertainly, his eyes closing for a precious few seconds as he tries to absorb that. You're not to blame, and he'll need to remember that the next time Astarion wakes from a nightmare in which his Leto is gone. This isn't your fault.

They open again in time for that quiet assertion, one that he agrees to with a short nod. No, no more omissions. No more lies for the supposed sake of the other person . . . and no more taking things on for himself. For Astarion is perfectly correct, you know. He is used to that. He was getting better at it the last time he was in Kirkwall, and then . . .

Well. And then Anders blew up the Chantry. And then everyone scattered to the winds, chasing after their own ambitions, living their lives, waking up from the dream they all of them had lived in for seven years.]

. . . it may be difficult at times.

[He isn't disagreeing, but rather simply commenting.]

I will not lie, not deliberately. But . . .

[Well. Astarion knows what it's like to only rely on yourself. To know, with all the certainty of one who has lived through it, how frightening it is to allow someone else to guard you from all harm.

But for Astarion . . . he reaches up, fingers stroking gently against his jawline for a few beats.]

I will try. For you. And with practice comes perfection.

[But ah, he saw the face his kadan had made. Not disapproval, necessarily, but . . .]

You will help me find them. But you wish I did not want to seek out such answers. Yes?

Why?

....yes.

[Yes, and he couldn't lie if he wanted to.

Head sinking into the meandering slide of warm fingertips for as long as that touch lasts— and when it's gone, Astarion's the one left unguarded. Every ounce of bravado snuffed out like a candle. There are paper thin creases caught between tensed brows. The normally cattish set to his narrowed eyes suddenly wide, and deep, and miserably sunken.

Eloquence would be nice to have in his pocket. Some way to slide from assurance to still-confident indemnity. But of course, they don't have that luxury right now. All Astarion can do is listen as he coughs up exactly what he's asked, entirely unrefined.]

I've thought about it since the day you first mentioned wanting to track her down. [Who, is obvious.] Varania.

I'd hoped time would change things. That the deeper into this fight you sank— mired in a thousand different causes and the comfort of our own insularity— your focus would eventually shift, and you'd forget all about digging up the details of what happened. [Forget is such a loaded word that Astarion outright winces to hear himself say it; considering biting into his own tongue again before realizing it wouldn't change anything. Swallowing blood isn't the same thing as making something better— isn't that the point of what he'd just told Leto only minutes before now.]

....and I could leave that penned letter to my contact unsent just a little longer.

[Ugly truths. Good intentions. The theme of the hour, it seems.]

You don't need me to tell you what a rarity you are. [So obvious that there's no masking it: even clothing can't subdue the glow that clings to tanned skin— growing all the more vivid as daylight wanes. The oddities they stand out as whenever they set foot in public, an albinic elf with fangs, a marked elf stitched through to his bones with a fortune's worth of lyrium; there's too little to be done to inspire protective discretion that could (at the very least) pass along some semblance of anonymity.] That even a passing stranger could spot you in a crowd. [Hungry, starving, bitter, desperate— one destitute palm with a coin pressed into it is sometimes better than the sharpest spy.]

Because even if it isn't her snapping at your heels, it's not as if the world forgot about you.

['Hawke was well known in these parts, and few wished to offend the Champion— nor any of her friends.' It was one thing when he had Hawke's reputation and Aveline's position as Captain of the Guard to protect him....but those days have long been spent already.]

And with each passing month in my spywork, I hear rumors. I intercept missives detailing how Venatori forces are picking over ruins like vultures in search of anything at all that might grant more power. Cursed cups, sacred bones, coins, rocks— Hells, I've even picked through their failed spoils myself.

Maybe it's nothing.

Maybe you went out, tripped over a rock, and smacked your skull against a statue. Came too close to a magical fissure. [His fingers have stilled. He isn't looking down anymore; crimson stare flicking towards anything at all....and nothing.] But there's so much worse out there, now.

Particularly when you were the one to kill him, once.

[It's not a hypothetical fear, it's a cautionary one.

What if it is him.]

He's not the creature you confronted years ago; almost half the continent bends their knee to his every word— and compared to that, what am I? What are you? What is Riftwatch. [Trust me, Astarion only just urged. Let me in, don't shut me out, I can handle it— and strewth if he doesn't feel foolish for chasing that insistence with every last paranoid fear he's ever entertained each time Leto roams out into the dark on his own.

Readjust, Astarion. Focus, Astarion.]

It's not a poor move, pressing in first.

[There, that's a start.]

There's a merit to it, yes. But we need to be careful— Cazador always thrived off the ease of it, letting curiosity draw in his prey. Why waste resources chasing down what you want, when all it ever takes is a little intrigue to ensure they slink right into your own waiting jaws?

—and I would know, I was that intrigue.

[And it isn't the same. Gods above, he's here to draw blood from anything that so much as sets a hand to Leto, but beneath it all....well, what else is it, when it was Astarion that told Leto his memories were missing in the first place?]

[It's not unreasonable worry, Leto thinks. Not at all. He has already been lured out by the promise of family and answers once, and it was only due to luck and Hawke's dedication to her friends that he had not been retaken by Danarius. Who's to say this isn't another plot? Whether by Varania or Corypheus or some unknown third party (and oh, there are so many who could fit in that slot; how many magisters coveted Danarius' property when he was still alive?). All have their motives. All (perhaps save Varania) have more than enough means to enact such a clever ploy. And Astarion is right: why would anyone waste time or effort when all they'd have to do is set such a familiar mystery before him?

Here, now, you've lost your memories again, but this time you've got a chance to find out more . . .]

I cannot remember a quarter of my life.

[There, now. Laid out plainly, and he says it not to scold, but as gentle counter. This is not just a dog chasing a bone. Leto sits up, inching in closer: still pressed up against Astarion, but facing him on more of an equal level (and, admittedly, quietly mourning the loss of those fingers in his hair).]

Danarius stole my entire childhood and teenage years. I have glimpses, but nothing solid. Nothing I can be fully sure is mine, and not just either fierce imagination or my own reflection based on facts I have gathered. Even now, I feel that loss sorely, and have from the moment I ran from him. There are things I will never learn about myself, nor my family; things missing I do not even know are gone, and never will.

And now there is this. Months that are missing, and who is to say what might have filled them? I imagine it sometimes. If it was for cruelty or an accident, and if it was the former, why? What did they want with me? I can imagine a thousand things that might have happened, things that would leave no mark nor scar, and I—

It frightens me. The more I question it, the less I think it mere accident, for why now? Why after I met you? Why should it be so specific, when I have never had this problem before? There are days when I obsessed over what might have happened, and the worst part is, I cannot ever be sure.

[Finding out who did this to him and how won't bring back his memories, of course. He doubts he will ever recall his and Astarion's true initial meeting (and oh, how he grows bitter over that some days), nor his first days in Riftwatch. His original relationship with those who populate it. Whatever companions he might have once had that have since disappeared back into the Rifts, no, it's all gone, lost to that silver mist.

But it might bring satisfaction.

And yet . . . almost half the continent bends their knee to his every word— and compared to that, what am I? What are you? It's hard not to let panic take over. Even now, his gaze steady and his voice even, he feels his heart flutter anxiously in his chest. Stay hidden, some part of him whispers. The part that had urged him to run all those years ago; the part that's kept him alive. Stay invisible, stay safe. Bad enough you work for an organization that opposes him; are you really going to venture out on your own? For he doubts very much Corypheus has forgotten him. Perhaps he is uninterested in chasing after revenge at this very moment, but oh, surely it lingers somewhere in the back of his mind.]

I do not mind being careful. I will take every precaution— indeed, I would like to. I have no intention of losing what we have made together, [his fingers absently sweeping a stray bit of hair behind one upturned ear.]

But I cannot . . . I cannot simply put it behind me. I cannot pretend that this second gap in my memory does not bother me. I resent it. I loathe it. I loathe that I cannot remember how we met, nor our initial friendship, nor anything involving Riftwatch.

And if there is a chance that finding out what happened will unlock some of those memories . . .

[How can he not take it?]

Tell me you understand. That if you could remember some bit of what was stolen from you, you would.

[It feels....distant.

That's the only way to describe it, when he's prompted. Or the only word for it— he doesn't know. Even in his own mind, there's an inexperience involved in trying to squeeze down loss into something mutable. Something easily defined. A place where his fingertips might trace over an outline with clear borders and crisp edges and whisper yes, here, this is what all erased misery is like. That thing you and I both share.

Astarion's lived for two centuries without remembering almost everything of who he was. He's lived for a year beyond that. There is an entire world between that life and this one, and if Astarion does anything at all out of persistent habit, it's that he pushes that echo of himself as far away as it gets—

And he pretends it isn't him.

And in a lot of ways, it isn't. Who he was one year ago isn't the sort of person who could stomach this conversation, let alone reach outside the span of his own needs (the trace scent of cracked ozone lingering nearby, even when he's the only one here) his own wants (the pressure of Leto's body pressed against his own, close as they are now) his own fear (the more I question it, the less I think it mere accident), in order to....

In order to....

The focus of his stare lifts finally, pitifully hangdog as it is. He meets the sight of bright green eyes and fringed white hair (much of it undone, now that Leto's moved upright after being on his side), and someone else looking on might think he was squinting into daylight for how often he blinks— like it hurts. Just a little.

(And it does hurt. Just a little.)]

No.

[He'd tried to say yes; defeat sluggish on his tongue.]

I don't understand. [They're touching, pressed side-to-side in the wake of Leto's roaming fingers, and the pale elf that always pushes himself into the greediest forms of contact (right down to nudges and intertwined pinkies), is entirely still within his own space.]

After everything you've just said, I realize that's impossible.

[I can't.]

Because I remember every second of it, from the moment I first woke in this world. Free for the very first time, and so....terrified to see you there. So damned awestruck as I watched you cut through everything around us like it was paper. When for as far back as my mind could turn, the universe was simple: I was expendable. Inconsequential. [Danarius coveted his prized bodyguard, but Cazador....] No vampire spawn was ever worth bleeding for— beyond a shadow of a doubt, I knew I had no one to rely on but myself.

Right up until the second I met you.

And until I lose that— until I look into those sunstruck eyes of yours and see for myself recognition I don't have— I won't ever fully grasp how it is you ache. [Not every loss is equal. Not to Astarion's mind.] Because who I was before Cazador found me....I don't care. That Magistrate is dead. Gone. Lost.

Who I am with you, though....

[Oh, maybe it is easily defined. Maybe this is what it feels like, clear borders and crisp edges and a muttered breath of yes, here, this is what scraped-up promise is like. That thing you and I both share.]

I meant it, when I said I'd help you find those answers. And if you wanted to know why, well. This is why. [Cold fingers raise themselves to settle beneath the underside of that lyrium-lined jaw, thumb resting against the soft bow of Leto's lower lip. Eyes lidded and dark when he promises, with all defiant, unbroken certainty:]

Because you asked, darling.

[Precious thing, Astarion had said a few moments ago. You precious, endearing thing, and here, now, is the reverse, for something in Leto's heart just aches as he listens to that confession. At first quietly alarming (for they share so much, and he does not expect to be told no, a short sharp shock to his system)— and then understanding, quiet and intense, suffusing him in a golden glow. Oh, and it makes sense, but of course it does. For there is a vast world of difference between losing a distant past and something far more present; even he knows that, if he really thinks on it. What he has lost in the form of his mother or his sister matters far less to him than those precious memories of first meeting Astarion. Of returning to the only city he has ever felt content enough to call home, no matter how embittered he grows with it.

Darling, he thinks, and it aches all the more because Astarion doesn't understand. Because this is not something he does as an extension of himself, justice enacted for the both of them in satisfying strokes, I'll do for you what no one did for me, no, this is nothing like that. This is not echoed trauma, but rather . . .

Rather: simple love. I do this for you because it will bring you peace, and I love you, and stupidly, absurdly, his mind drifts towards his companions.

That was how it was back then, wasn't it? They'd all go chasing after one thing or another for everyone's sake. Merrill's bloody Eluvian or Aveline's inability to ask Donnic out, oh, the task barely mattered, nor the feelings involved. That was the thing about them, you know. They might not all have gelled on a one-on-one basis, but always there was that inherent bond. That quality that kept them all together. He never liked Merrill much, but it didn't matter, because they were part of the same family. It was why Anders' betrayal had hurt so badly; it's part of the reason why he's still angry about it even years later.

And what he shares with Astarion is deeper, of course. More meaningful. They have an intimacy and a bond that goes far, far beyond mere companionship, but still. I do this for you because I love you, and he wonders suddenly how he had ever gotten through four decades without this wondrous, perfect elf at his side. How had he ever endured it?]

I love you.

[It's the most honest thing he can say right now. Quiet, his voice harsher than he means it to be, his head tipping to press into that chilly touch.]

We will do it slowly. Carefully. I will not risk being taken from you. But I . . .

[How to say what this means to him? How to articulate all the shock and adoration? Oh, he hasn't the words, and yet still they well up in him, inelegant but so starkly honest.]

I . . . I did not think there would ever be a time in my life again when I had someone the way I have you. Someone to rely upon, blindly and, if not without question, at least without hesitation. Whose only pauses stem from concern instead of selfishness. I did not think I would ever trust anyone like that again, not after all that happened last time. I ache for them still, all of them. I miss them, though I know not if they are alive or dead, or even the same people as they were years ago. But with them I had a family, a place, and when it all ended in fire and blood—

My heart could not stand it, I thought. I couldn't risk it, not again.

[He reaches for Astarion, fingers curling around his neck, his thumb gently stroking one long line there.]

But then there is you. And you . . . oh, you mean more to me than I know how to say. Not just because of our shared pasts, but . . .

Because of this. Because you are so afraid to lose me, and this will be dangerous . . . and yet you love me enough to do it anyway.

[It's too much. It's too much raw honesty, too much vulnerability, and yet he can't stop it. All he can do is look at Astarion, searching (and finding) the mirror of his own overwhelming love.]

I love you feels inadequate, and yet it is all I have to offer.

I love you. And I would start this soon, but . . . not immediately. Not today. It can keep a little longer.

I know.

[Oh, kadan, I know you do....]

And it'll never be inadequate.

[Not today, Leto says, his voice still rough with the echoing hum of I love you thrice repeated, and just as always it eases off the ever-nagging paranoia wedged tight against the back of Astarion’s own mind; everything in him softening cautiously beneath that hand curled around his neck— scent and warmth (and the faintest coalescing resonance that he's come to recognize after their shared night together in the bath) winding him down by degrees. A wild animal opting to sink into a familiar palm. Not fully tame, not kept— but devoted, yes. Warm to the point of loyalty itself.

Their foreheads meet.

The places where their bodies touch are anchor lines. Pressure points. His hand has already slid from chin to cheek to the back of Leto's head, their knees meeting from how they've turned into one another, and it reminds him of that first night they'd spent together— the one Leto can actually remember, shallow breaths (and shallower confessions) shielding them from the chill outside. Six months later, here they are: different backdrop, different impetus, bound together more tightly than ever before....

Astarion's stare drops, lost beneath the heavy hang of dark lashes, tracing the outline of pale blue lyrium in the dark.]

Listen, just— because I can't lie right now, I need you to hear this. [He needs that distinction; it's important.] Remember it, Leto, whenever you're drawn miserably thin.

[Subtle breath, sliding pressure.]

I love you with all my wretched heart.

No matter how I bite. Even when I'm utterly beastly with selfishness and vitriol, intolerable to the bottom of my own brittle core.

I love you, troublesome thing that you are.

[It's warm, that final addition; that's the only reason it slips free of his tongue. Troublesome Leto. Fierce Leto. Beautiful Leto, worth every spent drop of effort and blood, no matter where it leads.

But that mention of long lost companions looms large. Enormous in ways that Astarion had never considered fully before: they'd spoken of Hawke and Corypheus, of Isabela and— even more briefly— Anders. Only, what wasn't joking or playful was quick. Always a sharpened definition, wooden and concise whenever discussion started circling anything the elf clearly didn't care to remember, and the end result, it seems, is that Astarion knows almost nothing about one of the broadest chapters of Fenris' life left unerased and intact. The only family he truly remembers.

And someone doesn't need to be dead for their ghost to haunt.

(Once this moment has passed, he makes a note to ask about them. All of them, this time.)]

Edited 2022-07-31 03:22 (UTC)

[The conversation lulls. Not dies, but there are ebbs and flows to every exchange, and this is no different. They curl up together quietly, content to hold one another and bask in the glow of all that's just been exchanged. In the distance, he can hear Ataashi padding about, roaming the mansion until she finds something to drag in front of the embers in the fireplace and gnaw on. Astarion makes a face (she's so loud about it, their darling girl) and Leto laughs, and for a time, he's content.

But eventually, Astarion asks. And though he knows he could defer . . . Leto acquiesces.

Not because he has to, understand, but because he does want to, somewhere deep in his heart. They were one of the most important parts of his life, and Astarion deserves to know about it, but . . . they also deserve to be spoken of. And perhaps he has been silent for too long, so desperate to push off the pain of grief that he has suffered with it for years on end.

So for the first time in years, Fenris (not Leto, not now) speaks of his companions.

Not the way he had before, bare scraps of information offered fleetingly, but rather at length. Steadily. His voice is even for the most part, for any tears he had to shed have dried long ago. Their loss is not a gaping wound, but rather one badly stitched over, still visible but not actively festering.

Some are easier than others, of course, especially with all this forced honesty. He tells him of Aveline: her fierce steadfastness and warm loyalty; her ridiculous courtship of her husband, and her bashfulness regarding it. We had to hide out along an entire patrol route and encourage her, except her idea of courtship either dated centuries back— I believe she actually considered goats a proper dowry gift— or awkward to the extreme. "It's a real nice night for an evening" is not exactly suave, he tells Astarion, chuckling fondly as he remembers. Pathetic, and by the end, Donnic was so put off he nearly fled. She only won his heart when she came to her senses and acted like herself instead of an idiot. Varric, too, earns a nostalgic smile: the dwarf with a thousand tales. An author and spymaster all at once, and Hawke's closest friend. A thousand connections within Kirkwall herself, too, which was how so many of them managed to live illegally for so many years: I do not know if he bribed guards or blackmailed them, but evictors never came to remove me from Danarius' mansion. Nor did the Templars bother with— with Anders' clinic, and oh, he'll get there eventually, but not yet, not yet. He wrote a book about Hawke. I have not read it, though I know I am in it. We all of us are. But it is an exaggerated affair, and I do not like that he published it at all, though I can do little about it now. But it unnerves me, knowing that to some, I am but a character in a story.

The Hawke twins are next, and perhaps briefest, for he knew them least. Bethany, charming and sweet, magic at her fingertips; Carver, always sulking in his sister's shadow, too jealous to see that he was strong in his own right. Wardens, both of them, hardened but perhaps all the better for it, given the potential alternatives. Merrill, and Fenris doesn't actually roll his eyes as he describes the chipper Dalish, but it's close. A blood mage too caught up in her dreams of the past to understand what she did was foolish to the extreme, and the important thing about honesty isn't that it's objective truth, but subjective, and what is true to Fenris does not necessarily mean it's true all over. Still, it takes its toll: she believed she could elevate elves. Perhaps she could have. I do not agree with the method, but her reasoning was . . . credible. And then: I will not say we didn't have our moments. Allied in the prejudices we faced, if nothing else. She was . . . flighty, but not stupid, and knew well enough when she was being cheated in Lowtown. I was intimidating presence enough to ensure she got a fair price on food— and given she helped many elves in the Alienage, I suppose it was not too tasking a . . . task.

Anyway.

Isabela, beloved companion, and his description of her is threaded with immense fondness. Not blindness, though: she caused an entire Qunari invasion thanks to her sticky fingers. Be grateful you were not there to see the siege of Kirkwall, for the Qunari are fierce fighters, and living through that once was more than enough. But ah, that's in the past, and though he still holds a small measure of incredulity towards her, still, he misses her too fiercely to hold her to fault for long. We were intimate, he tells Astarion, and there's a touch of hesitance there, for he isn't sure how that might be taken, forgetting his own indiscretion on the crystals. For many years. Not romantically, but she was . . . she helped me understand what sex could be. I suspect she had her own traumas, but she was not the sort to ever speak of her past. She invited me to be one of her raiders, once . . . before Danarius died. Sometimes I think of what my life had been if I'd taken that path. Oh, Isabela, brave and bold and brash, throwing off all chains and ties with a hearty laugh, and if he could speak to any of them again, it would be her.]

[They've long since shifted positions: Leto bracketed between Astarion's legs, head resting against his chest and the two of them curled up together. Idly he plays with one of the pale elf's hands, thumb tracing the curve of his palm, absent affection and easy displacement all at once. And though he's told of all his companions somewhat steadily this past hour, still, there's a pause before he continues. Not quite a hesitation, but . . . this is hardest, and he knows it.]

Anders was . . . complex.

[Yes, start there.]

I did not agree with him. I never did. I still don't, I—

[No. Take a breath, slow and steady, and try again.]

The first thing you need to understand was that he was an Abomination. He willingly allowed a spirit of Justice to possess him in a fit of pity, and unsurprisingly, that has consequences. His own rage and grief corrupted it, turning it into a demon more akin to Vengeance. And over the course of seven years, it took its toll on his sanity and rationality.

He was complex. Adamant on freedom for mages, and endlessly vocal about it. To his mind, mages were a subjugated class, no better than slaves. They were persecuted and forced beneath the heels of the Templars, and never mind that they were dangerous themselves. No, to his mind, mages were nothing more or less than prisoners, and he was determined to break their bonds, never mind if it was a good idea or not. He wanted nothing less that complete and total unrestricted freedom for them, and oh, who cared that Tevinter was the perfect example of what might happen if such a thing were to pass. He looked at his fellow mages and saw nothing but victims of a terrible system, and I—

[His mouth twists, and oh, this damned honestly, for it pours forth no matter what he wishes.]

He was not always wrong. I know he was not. There are . . . I do not believe in his vision for freedom, but I . . . I know not all of the Circles were well regulated. Not all of them were the places they were meant to be: places of learning control, in an environment where one could learn it safely. I would be a fool to say otherwise. I heard the abuses. I read his damned manifesto. I saw the Tranquil in the Gallows, and I knew how some of the Templars would force themselves on others. Power corrupts, and there was no one to put a check on Templars. In that respect, yes, I understood him. I even . . .

[He cannot say he agrees, for that's a shade too far, and even he doesn't know if it's the right word. But he can see the merit of Anders' position. The current system is not what it should be, and unsuited for society, yes, he can admit to that. It's just the rest he has issue with.]

But what he failed to admit, what he refused to ever acknowledge, was that it only takes one mage losing control for a disaster to unfurl. I do not fear the child who learns how to make a pretty flame; I fear the adult who needs only say yes to a demon once in order to become an overwhelming menace. At best, they become Abominations and are put down; at worst, you end up with something like Tevinter.

[A beat, and then, with a thin smile:]

You end up with Kirkwall.

But no. He would not listen. I can control it, [and oh, Fenris' voice loses its accent, his tone a slightly whiny imitation of someone from the Marches,] and so everyone is able to! They're like slaves, you ought to want to help them, and he would never . . .

He would not listen. He would accept nothing less than his own vision. And that, coupled with the inherently corrupting influence of his demon, led him down a path I do not think he would have gone down otherwise.

[A pause. A breath, Fenris' head turned, his eyes unfocused as he stares out the window.]

But he was a companion, too. A healer. A friend. We were not always at each other's throats. He would . . . for years he would come here weekly to play cards, along with some of the others. He would heal us, all of us, with the same amount of care, though I wouldn't have blamed him for being more roughshod about it with me. I trusted him, even if I did not particularly like him. I even admired him in some select aspects— he ran a free clinic in Darktown, providing healing for those who could not otherwise afford it. I . . . I did not like him, not really, but he was a friend, and I knew him.

. . . or I thought I did, anyway.

[It's vital to get the details right, you know. It's very important. Because it's all backdrop for what he's about to say, which is:]

But he destroyed us when he blew up the Chantry. There was no going back after that. And it was not a fit of madness, a split-second decision, no, he had us collecting the ingredients for his bomb for nearly a year. Sela petrae and drakestone . . .

Everything fell apart in the aftermath. The Knight-Commander was a madwoman, and by that point, utterly corrupt. She demanded a choice from the Champion of Kirkwall, and we all of us followed her down the path she picked for us. She fought for the mages, and I . . . I aided her. Though I did not fully agree, though I despised Anders in that moment, still, we all of us fought one last time.

And after that . . . we went our separate ways. Fleeing, all of us, for we did not know how much we would be implicated in Anders' crime. Everyone had their own agendas, and I—

I felt abandoned. [Oh, Maker's breath, he's glad he isn't facing Astarion right now.] I thought of them as family for too long, and grew too used to having them all near. On having people to rely on, and socialize with, and enjoy. I thought it would never end . . . I thought that was what life was meant to be. Hard, oh, yes, but . . . not without its good points. And though I understand why we all of us went our separate ways, still, I . . . it felt like waking from a blissful dream.

It was too good. And if he hadn't—

Likely we would have all left Kirkwall sooner or later, but . . . perhaps not. But Anders' action was the catalyst, and it . . . it was easier to blame him for everything. I still blame him. I'm still angry, but I . . .

[He's stammering too much, drifting from thought to thought: an idle indicator of his own mind's uncertainty. Fenris speaks quietly now, his voice almost distant, as if he speaks of someone else.]

I mourn for what we all of us had. It weighs on me. I cannot go to the Hanged Man, for it was our tavern. I see guards and instinctively seek out Aveline and Donnic; I go to Darktown and find myself shocked even now when the mage's lantern isn't hanging out front. The ghost of what I had haunts me, and I miss them. I miss them every single day, and some days it is easier, and some days I cannot bear to face their phantoms, the barest echoes of them left only in my memory.

[He blinks heavily once or twice, his hair in his face, still refusing to look up.]

[Sometimes Astarion takes in information in sips: how easily Leto grows cold when he isn't on the move; how he prefers to stay up late and sleep in if left to his own devices; that he whittles and hates fish and longs for clear skies for more than just the ease in pressure that it lends to his markings. Sometimes it overwhelms though, and like swallowing lungfuls of air between breaking waves, Astarion has to commit it to memory first— and then process it later. Something he'll pore over time and time again while alone. (None like me. None that he kept so close, and none that he was so certain would never dare turn on him, for who did I ever have but him? What could tempt me into freedom? Not family. Not a lover, nor a friend, for the other slaves did not socialize with me, nor I them. I served as bodyguard and confidante, listening to him go on about spells and other members of the Imperium, gossip that would have ruined him if he had let it slip elsewhere.)

This is the latter.

He can't imagine how must it hurt. Before— talk of lost memories, that, at least Astarion could roughly comprehend— but here? Oh he tries in the tailing silence (he tries and he tries and he tries) to think of a handful of scenarios where something goes terribly wrong without warning within the inner focus of his closest ties: one time it's Leto, buckling under the weight of his markings after half a lifetime in control; the next it's Ellie, clutching Derrica's wrist as she damns them all in the embers of outspoken rebellion; after that, Loki, or Sylvie, or both— Bastien, maybe, apologizing in Orlesian for the bard he's always been. And when Astarion's done giving himself a painful pang of sickening dread over nothing at all, he finds....

Nothing, of course; no revelations, save for the fact that he can't possibly conceive of it.

Nothing could mirror having someone close to you destroy everything you've ever wanted. Even Leto's departure had been different (the betrayal a then-unknowing Astarion took it to be— trust me in ways you've never trusted anyone, and I'll leave you— ) still nothing but a fragment of losing a home, a life, a family. So he makes the only logical choice left: he abandons it, that pointless train of thought. It isn't about him, after all. It isn't his part in all this just to comprehend how much Leto suffered, only to listen to it, drawing it into him alongside everything else.

Sharing pain and promise like poison— the dosage lessened by traded pulls.

His unattended hand rises, fingers splaying along the other elf's scalp: not pulling back, only combing slowly in lulling patterns across grown-out trim lines and longer strands of vivid white. Working to make this mundane.]

....I heard about the damage he caused. Read about it on my own when I was first settling in. Three lines of writing on a page. Barely a paragraph, and most of the details were missing.

Likely by design, if one of the Circle's own was involved.

[There's a garden there now, the place where Anders leveled everything without barely a trace. Astarion wonders if Leto visits it sometimes....or if that's just one more spot he can't stomach treading near, no matter how close they reside to it.] I suppose, much like the Champion herself, most people prefer to push it all away over time.

I'm.... [He could never say it out loud, you know. Apologize, that is. Soft sentiment never fit beautifully across his lips— always sounding trite and pitying. Sickeningly false. Maybe it's lucky that tonight, he can't say anything he doesn't mean, even if he thinks himself too marred a thing to manage it the way Leto deserves.]

....sorry.

For everything you've been forced to lose. [To one full year of planning. Gods.]

If you don't want to say anything more, I won't pry it from you. Just lean into me, and we'll spend the rest of the night here in one another's arms, waiting for this wretched spell to break. [Ataashi's breathing is so noisy, pant pant panting as she gnaws on something that tears in her jaws (it's one of Astarion's very expensive shirts....no one tell him), but he's only focused on Leto. On steady weight drawn against him, and the quiet whisper of empty Hightown streets filled with nothing but the occasional gust of warm summer wind.

Along one downturned ear, that's where his thumb runs. Soothing and gentle throughout every tracing stroke.]

But if you do, amatus, then tell me.

Would you want to see him again, if you could.

[It's not a loaded question; it's a poignant one: the Circles are looming like a threat on the horizon, and if Anders was so deliberate in declaring war, well. If he's not dead, there's always a chance that might call him back from obscurity.

And if that happens, Astarion wants to know whether he ought to bare his teeth....or still them.

(We were friends, he'd said. Akin to she's my sister. Not he took everything from me— and if I see him again, I'll return the favor.)]

....would you want to see any of them?

Edited 2022-08-01 07:34 (UTC)

[Silence hangs in the air between them for a time after that question is offered up, broken up only by the small sounds of the household settling down for the night. Ataashi's incessant panting (and the minor snort of triumph as she finally gnaws a sleeve free, such a fearsome hunter) and the way the mansion creaks and groans as it releases the day's heat. Fenris notes them all, just as he notes the sensations around them: the steady rise and fall of Astarion's chest, the softness of the sheets beneath them. The lingering heat in the air, offset by his beloved's natural chill. Normal things. Grounding things, keeping him tied to the present even as he allows his mind (slowly, tentatively) to drift through the past.

For he does want to answer, you know. Here, now, in this place that feels more like home than it ever did during those Kirkwall years (and oh, if some part of him doesn't feel twistedly guilty over that, as if all his professed affection was somehow a lie). With Astarion beneath him, soothing him and adoring him all at once; with Ataashi nearby, as much a part of their pack as they are. Misfits and strays, all three of them, and there is nothing he can say tonight that will take that from him.]

I don't know.

[There. That's what this honesty allows him: uncertainty. Confusion. For both yes and no had stalled on his tongue, an odd choking wrongness that stopped him in his tracks.

He rolls over, tipping his head just far back enough to stare up at Astarion. His eyes still contain traces of brightness, but that's all right. That will dissipate in time, and the other elf knows better than to draw overt attention to them.]

I am . . . I do not know what I wish for. Some days I ache for them, all of them, and the dynamic we shared. Some days I long for Hawke to knock at my door too-early in the morning, dragging us up to Sundermount for some idiotic quest involving herbs, the mage bickering in my ear and Isabela alternating between flirting and egging us on.

Some days, [he says, reaching up to stroke Astarion's cheek gently,] I wish desperately that they were still here, so you could meet them. You are just as much my family as they were, [and oh! How casually that sentiment springs off his tongue, and yet there's no time to stop, not with this bewitchment,] and I wish for both at once. You are . . . I cannot regret the path that led me to you, for it led me to you, and you are the most important thing that has ever happened to me.

But they were important, too. And I . . . I wish for both. The serenity of having a group that I know and trust, wholly and completely, blindly and without question— and having you as part of it.

[His expression had softened during that confession; now it hardens again, his mouth a tight line.]

And then some days I am so angry at the memory of them that I know if they were to show up, I would snarl and snap and tear at them until they left me once again, for at least that way it would confirm all I dread and ache over. Hawke is dead, but some of them . . .

[He has no idea if they're alive or not, but the odds are fairly decent. It's not inconceivable they all of them are still out there somewhere. And just as he returned to Kirkwall, so too might they someday.]

Isabela I know I would happily greet again. Varric, though I would have a word or two with him about that damned book. Aveline . . . Sebastian, even, though I am unsure if he would ever leave Starkhaven again. Merrill . . . mm, perhaps. I would not ignore her utterly. And the mage . . .

[Oh, would he see him again?]

Yes. I would wish to see him again. And I do not know if I would snarl at him or ask him if it was worth it, but I . . .

I do not know what I would say. I would angry, I have no doubt, but I do not know what I would tell him— or if I could even stand to look at him. But I would not kill him. I would have happily cut him down once, but . . .

I see no point to it. Not now. What's done is done, and he was the catalyst, perhaps, but . . . not entirely the cause. And though I still think what he did was abhorrent, and I do not agree with him . . .

[Silence. Stretching out longer and longer, and he loves Astarion for not breaking it.

They're slaves! You should want to help them, Anders had implored him once. Years and years ago, back when they had first met. Back when Fenris was only a few years out of slavery; when Danarius' voice was always singing in his ear and it felt as though all he ever knew was rage and grief. He had no time for mages then, not when the most fundamental truth of his entire life had been mages aren't to be trusted. Oh, some are kinder than others, and he knew even then that there was such a thing as a good man who happened to have magic, but comparing them to slaves? Oh, no. Oh, he couldn't bear to hear such a thing, not then. Not when he was still so raw; not when his nightmares were still filled with the sensation of an elven heart pulsing in his palm and the delighted gasps of awe from a group of mages surrounding him . . .

He still doesn't think they're like slaves. Not even here. Not even now.

(Maybe we're more alike than you think. Down in the Deep Roads, not an olive branch so much as an idle comment, validated by Varric, an uneasy parallel that he had put out of his mind.)

But maybe they're something near it.]

But I understand his rage, I think. And his hopelessness.

[And then he thinks of his own rage at Wysteria. At Tony. At all of Riftwatch, and adds:]

When you know that something is wrong, and no one is listening, not even a little, and they patronize you or try to shut you up . . .

Yes. I understand his rage.

['I wish for both.'

And that's all the answer Astarion needs, in a way. Granted there's more to it than that, yes, but that's precisely the point (what a semisweet sting it is to imagine a time where that might've been possible: Ellie's scuffling presses as she winds in through unlocked windows or Abby's knuckles at the mansion door are always wanted, and the shuffling click-clack padding of Ataashi's massive paws always keep empty halls from feeling destitue even when Leto is away, and they are something of a pack, undoubtedly— but how much life would the bones of this old manor have if it still housed debates between mages over breakfast? A writer in the study or a friend amongst the guard? Someone rapping at their door come sunrise for something so paltry as simple herbs. To be drawn into Leto's world rather than sitting here always as the spectator that arrived far too late; welcome in his life—

No, welcome to live, for once. Not scraping out a crude facsimile of it with a noose looming over his head. Building stability out of nothing but sand as high tide creeps ever closer.)

So, yes, that's the point.

Complex as it is, should Leto's past return in part or in remaining whole, Astarion will let Fenris decide whether or not to chase it off or draw it in. Embrace it or resent it. A choice that doesn't warrant vocalizing the longer Leto presses on, wading knee deep into glossy-eyed uncertainty. Attention raised to find Astarion, roughened fingers sliding across his cheek— expression flickering in muted discomfort.

But the indignity of being shut out. Shut down. Overruled and overwritten. If you feel as if no one else is truly at your back, and the danger stretches on....

Their eyes meet almost indirectly.

He opens his mouth to say something in lowered agreement, that— Hells, even Astarion has crossed the line for less during a few sparse moments. Ones Leto can't remember owing to his own stolen memories; conflicts he wasn't there for. It's easy to do. And in some ways, they're doing it now, against the talk of Rifters and lyrium, maybe against the Chantry, too (a little ironic in perspective, isn't it) depending on how things begin to slide. Villainy isn't always cut and dry, though when Astarion inhales, it's to touch on the idea that demon or no demon, the final, shattering moment was likely something that the mage must have taken into—

....]

Wait.

[His fingers hover slightly, twitching before:]

Did you say Sebastian?

Of Starkhaven?

Princely. Shining armor. Beautiful eyes— [thank you again, filterless honesty] long-ish hair. That Sebastian?

Edited 2022-08-02 03:55 (UTC)

[Whatever he'd expected next, it wasn't that. Leto blinks up at him just once, his rage and grief set to the side in favor of sheer surprise.]

Er. Yes.

[Yes, that's a good summation of him. Chantry boy with pretty eyes and an accent that had, admittedly, quietly thrilled Fenris for a solid year at one point. And it's not that he's an unknown, but still, there's something in Astarion's tone that tugs at him. He sits up just a little, refusing to move from the haven of between his legs, but eager to see him face-up.]

He was a latecomer to our group. I was fond of him, though he was not as loyal as the others— he wished for the two of us to turn the mages in to the Templars at one point.

[And Fenris had refused him. Do your own dirty work, and years later, he still doesn't quite know why he hadn't gone with it, except that he was too loyal to Hawke to dare try such a stunt. And he's not a snitch, when all is said and done. It's one thing to disapprove of mages; it's quite another to turn them in.]

I was . . . fond of him, though. He offered me a position training guards in Starkhaven, and he was . . . kind to me. Complimentary in such a way that felt genuine.

You know of him?

[Like, obviously, but.]

Mhm.

[Not as loyal. That's....interesting.

You know in hindsight, maybe it was nothing but the grandness of Sebastian's bearing, or maybe it was the substantial distance between them, battlefields and armies being what they are— or maybe it was the wealth, when everything's said and done. The notion of royalty inherently favorable because of course it is, at least to one stranded elf busy scraping up coins when he knew luxury once, even in torturous captivity.

Either way, Astarion's surprised to hear it. It's not what he'd expected or imagined.

('You think he'd go for someone like you? Should I introduce you?' 'No human prince in Thedas is going to shack up with an elf— not officially, anyway. I'm just saying it wouldn't be the worst job, playing paramour to a regal thing like that. Lots of favoritism, influence, wealth.' 'Yeah, he's not bad to look at.' 'Shut up, darling.')]

I saw him. At Starkhaven over half a year ago, when Corypheus pushed south. [The clarification's important; he knows Leto can't remember.] Tantervale went up in flames, and everyone thought Starkhaven was next— but he was right there on the front lines, dressed in white and gold, putting up such a fight that even now I can't really deny that might've been what ultimately held the figurative line.

I can tell you he survived the fight. And that last I checked he's still there, hale and whole, looking after his people.

[It's one. One of Fenris' pack that survived, albeit one of the outliers, possibly; Astarion studying Leto's expression as they're left half-tangled around one another, sitting upright and sprawled oddly now— legs bracketing his companion's own. Trying to get a read on it all in his own practiced way.

Fond and kind are all well and good, and there's more he wants to ask, if not for:]

....you didn't turn them in, though? [It's a hunch. Something about the way Leto says it. Loyalty, always so important to him.

And Astarion can't help but wonder if it's because that's what he was attuned to, or because for anyone forced into it for so long— well, speaking from personal experience— that's the greatest gift to be given, isn't it.]

[Yes, that sounds about right. A gloriously fierce fighter, protective of his people and weighed down with the duties that he had unwillingly inherited. There was horror and grief in his past, but then, that was true of all of them. Not a stuffy man, no, for Fenris had teased out a tale or two of his debauched past, wine and drink and women. Cheerful and charming, and kind in his own way ( there's plenty who would admire all you've accomplished, Sebastian had told him once, his tone simple but genuine, you are your own man, living as you see fit, and he can still remember the warmth in his chest at that praise). Religious, oh, yes, with the ironclad faith of someone who truly believed (and Leto, truly, cannot imagine what it is to have such faith; he is wary at best, skeptical and unsure, mostly convinced that if there is a Maker, He does not care much for the day to day affairs of a single soul).

And maybe that was the problem right there. For Leto had always gotten the impression that Sebastian, fervently faithful creature that he was, knew in the depths of his soul that whatever the Chantry decreed was Correct and Good. And so it followed that if anyone opposed it, they were Wrong. And it was really as simple as that.

But you know, the Chantry is also the reason there are alienages. The Chantry was the one who struck Shartan's canticle from their official records. The Chantry led a March against the Dales and canonized a man whose greatest achievement was that he terrorized and murdered more elves than anyone else. The Chantry, Leto knows, says that anyone who isn't human is somehow farther from the Maker's light, and thus utterly unsuited for any kind of clerical role.

For the Chantry is only an organization. And every organization is made up of people: fallible, petty, prejudiced people. And it's not that they don't have faith; it's not even that they're being deliberately malicious. It's that it's so, so easy to justify just about anything under the header of religion. It's so easy to hear your own thoughts and think them divinely blessed, especially if those thoughts are reinforced and reiterated as Right.

Blind belief is a terrible thing.

Leto has plenty of opinions, and he certainly believes they're right. But he's also aware that he is, when you get right down to it, kind of a prick about some things. It is what it is, and he isn't a bit sorry for it, but it does affect his viewpoint. If nothing else, this past conversation has proved that: what he says isn't always what he believes, and his traumas and emotions both can cloud his mind and his opinions both.

He hadn't approved of Hawke sparing Anders all those years ago. But he hadn't threatened to raise an army and raze an entire city to the ground because of it.]

. . . no. I didn't.

[He's slow to say that, rising up out of the depths of his own thoughts.]

When she attained the position of Guard-Captain, Aveline once told me that there were reports with my name on them. Complaints from our neighbors, and inquiries from Danarius' agent. Thank you for getting rid of them, I told her, and she informed me that she hadn't. Another time, she told me to be more discreet about my very existence as an elf in Hightown.

[Now, why he had brought that up? He glances away for a few moments, but ah, this is much easier to deduce.]

I see the way we are looked at when we leave the house. I remember the way those in Teviner would stare at me when Danarius would send me on an errand. Elf. Slave. It barely mattered what they objected to, but the thought behind it was always the same: put a toe out of line, stop apologizing for your existence, stand tall and proud on your own, and we will put you right back in your place.

I suppose my running to the Templars would feel the same. Turning them in to a higher authority that I did not trust, for every organization is a little corrupt. I did not approve of them, but . . . nor did I have any wish to see them dragged off in chains, torn from our sides because I felt pettily malicious.

Does that make sense?

....no.

And yes.

[Does that make sense? Does anything, at times? Even compulsive enchantments have their limits, it seems, for Astarion fully grasps what Leto means when he draws his lines between the two comparisons despite the ways they drastically differ— the emphasis fit around trust and corruption: for him, he'd have felt the oppressor, even if he saw the reason behind the argument of mages being kept in check.

It's complex. And complexity doesn't do well in being shaved down into something so simple as true or false, good or evil. His mind stumbles over the conflict with the Chantry, all the promises of reason and civility— the assurances it wouldn't be so bad, or that things have changed, or that no one would let it reach a tipping point, or— or that the mages have Rifter's best interests at heart, to flip the coin to the other side and see just how much a pretty lie can be upsold.

And in the end, what is goodness if not something malleable?]

They were your friends.

[The bottom line, Astarion assumes.]

I imagine, given your closeness, that even if you didn't agree with one another, they still helped you— and you did the same in refusing to sell them out.

A little rough. A little unfortunate, that he wasn't close enough to do the same.

Or....[Hm. Astarion, who so often teases those most devoted to the Chantry, suspects he might know the type.] who saw that as his own way of helping them.

[Funny isn't it? Like slotting in a name into a convenient little phrase. The __ can't manage themselves, so we do it for them. Pick your poison: elves, mages, non-believers, the poor, too, if treading over Toril's own messier tendency to do the same; the pattern's very much there, and so soothing a thought to anyone that might take it in at face value, wanting it to be paradise rather than a shackling cage.

Still, though:]

Odd that he didn't actually just do it himself, though, when you refused.

Must've been a shattering blow, once—

Well. [It's been said enough already; maybe they don't need to trample over mentioning it directly every two seconds.]

[he hums softly in agreement for that first statement, for that matters too. They were his friends, and they had helped one another out: happily or grudgingly didn't matter, for they still did it. They were still there for one another, even if they disapproved of the task in question. And Sebastian . . . he hadn't felt that pull. Perhaps it was due to timing; he only joined them properly three years after everyone else. Or perhaps he simply cared more about the Chantry than anything else, and that relationship triumphed over any other.]

At a guess: he felt he owed Hawke.

[He shifts again: this time pressing himself up against Astarion's torso, urging him into reclining back a little more, his legs stretching out as he does. It's clumsy affection, thoughtless and a little hungry, more intent on proximity than anything involving settling in. It's neediness, yes, but more than that: it's a sign of vague comfort. Anders is a difficult topic; Sebastian far less so.]

Hawke helped him avenge his family, and I assume he felt he owed her a debt. He did owe her a debt, frankly, as did we all. But to explicitly betray her trust and turn in her friends . . . I suspect he felt it wasn't honorable.

[Or maybe he just hadn't wanted to lose his allies. Who can say?

He's quiet for a moment, letting the answer sit in the air. And then, quietly:]

I'm glad you know.

[Of all of them. Sebastian and Anders, Merrill and Aveline, Varric and Isabela . . . all of them are important.]

I . . . it has been a long time since I spoke of them. I was too angry to do so before. But I . . . they were more family to me than any blood relation I have ever had. And I am glad to share them with you.

I would tell you more, too, if you would like to hear it. But I have a question of my own, [and there's a hint of a smile on his lips, faint but noticeable,] so long as we are revealing such truths to one another. Concerning something I found in your room.

[Not a bad thing, certainly, not judging from his expression or his bearing.]

And in the end, that very thing he was most loyal to paid the price for that debt. [Consider it offhanded. A throwaway comment, abandoned just as Leto slowly winds himself down, the both of them finding their way into reconfiguring over cool sheets— limbs pressed against limbs once or twice before the sharper points (like elbows and shoulders) ease against comfortably lax muscle.

Before Astarion settles back more fully, content to be the equivalent of a fanged chaise lounge for his adored counterpart. Uniquely secure, and steeped in shared heat.]

Mm. I'm glad you told me. Normally I'm not the type for sentimentality, owing to my own jealousy and bitterness over owning nothing of the sort, and not quite knowing how to handle it if I did. [The puff of air in his throat is for his honesty. Forced, yet not wrong.] But given that it's you— that they're all part of who you are, even in their absence— I find I'm only drawn to it. The idea of warmth and comfort. What it meant to you. What it must have been like.

There's a great deal more I'd like to know. Questions I'd like to ask. And if you're not against writing to one very handsome— albeit possibly troubled— prince, it couldn't hurt to let him know you exist. Maybe after all this time, he's grown t—

[To.... slowing to a clunky stop at the edge of his mouth, one arm now wrapped loosely around Leto's shoulders like a shawl. Pale fingertips twitching for a beat.]

Err....in my room?

[If he sounds a little on edge, it's only because he's trying to remember what he actually has in his room, stockpile that it is of odds and ends— though much of what made his home in Lowtown a cluttered mess is now reasonably dispersed around the mansion at large.

Still, he's a magpie of a thing, and a pessimistic one at that. Given the change in subjects, he can't help but make a broader leap across all possible logic itself: had he unintentionally plucked up something belonging to Hawke? Leto's friends? Something more incriminating? Or— what, maybe it's drugs?

He has those, after all. Because of course he does.]

[Oh, that confession. Awful, and yet Fenris won't do Astarion the disservice of drawing undo attention to it (for really, what could he hope to accomplish save embarrass him?). Instead: he turns his head, kissing his chest gently, quiet assurance and soothing all at once: I know. I understand. I have felt that way too, and if Astarion wants to talk about it, they can.

But ah . . . better, maybe, to focus on other things. His eyes flick up at that uncertainty, and despite himself, his mouth twitches upwards in amusement.]

So nervous . . . now you make me wonder what else is in your room. I promise you I did not intentionally invade your privacy; Ataashi warped her way into your wardrobe, and I feared she would claw all your clothes to pieces before she found her way out again.

[But he won't leave him in suspense any longer. Hoisting himself up, he carefully fits his fingers around the base of Astarion's throat.]

I did not think your proclivities extended to collars.

[And then, mercifully (and brutally honestly):]

Do not misunderstand me: I am not upset. I was . . . unsure, at first, on what it meant or why you had it, and the immediate association to my own enslavement repulsed me. But . . . I am not upset, nor angry, for I've had time to think about this. And the idea of it— on you, at least— is intriguing.

Besides: with anyone else, I would assume they wished to fetishize my past, and they would suffer the price for it. I would be angry. But as always, you are different. You know what it is to suffer as a slave; I do not fear you playing at master and slave for bedroom sport.

[So. There, and then his mouth runs on:]

And I remembered what you wrote in our list. About being your prey . . .

[Well. That's for later, he thinks vaguely. Far, far in the future, for though he connected the dots, he can't yet bring himself to imagine a collar around his own throat. It isn't an impossibility, but . . . mm, well, one thing at a time.]

In any case: it intrigued me. And I wished to discuss it with you.

['So nervous....now you make me wonder what else is in your room.'

What potent punctuation, the sound of fabric tearing in the background: Ataashi's lowing growls painting an all-too-vivid picture of the would-be chaos Leto describes— and one that turns Astarion a far paler shade of bloodless than usual.

Or maybe that's just his rabbiting pulse, jumping hard beneath the alluring pressure settling around his throat, tangible and tentative. Crimson eyes running dark with dilation as synaptic impulse takes control of all his senses. His tongue wet, his throat dry, before— ]

Drugs. [Blurted out sharply.

And it's not that he's not fully immersed in considering the rest of what was said, overwhelming as it was, it's just— Leto asked; the compulsion is there.]

Aquae Lucidius. Under one of the stone panels in the far wall.

In the mattress' slats, too, beside a locked coffer full of stolen gold. Everything I took from Riftwatch, in addition to Thedas' wealthiest residents— in case their fortunes were marked or enchanted.

Black powder's stitched behind the painting of myself, the one hung over the fireplace.

And two stolen bottles of egregiously expensive Carnal 8:69 Blessed are tucked within a false panel in the back of the wardrobe, bundled up with a sword I commissioned for you. A gift. [which comes with the sheepish addition of:]

....alongside a few strands of your hair.

[When he clears his throat, it's sharp.]

That last one's for me.

[Not you.

Of all the things he didn't mean to confess.]

[Oh, and truly, he hadn't intended to force Astarion's hand like that. It was an idle remark, meant more teasingly than anything— but though he grimaces in apology the moment that first word slips out (drugs, and truly, he thinks he means elfroot and little more), oh, what a fascinating list it is.

In truth: there is a flash of . . . oh, don't call it hurt, for that's too strong a word. But Leto is startled to find that there's so much that he doesn't know about. Bits and bobs, little secrets that Astarion is well within his right to keep to himself, and it's not that Leto doesn't have his own secret little things hidden, but . . . he's gotten so used to the two of them knowing near everything about each other. It's a short, sharp reminder that such a thing isn't always true.

But it isn't bad. Black powder, truthfully, is the one that shocks him most at first; the rest is a surprise, but not an overwhelming one. Aquae Lucidius is interesting for some very specific reasons, one he's sure they'll explore some night together, and the same with the wine. The money makes sense, and Fenris nods faintly after hearing it— who cares if it's stolen? It's them against a world that tries to make life unfair and difficult, and they need all the help they can get. Besides, it's not like they're swimming in money; the mansion takes care of a lot of expenses, but not all.

And that isn't the reason Leto freezes to hear what comes next, but it's a reason.

A sword I commissioned for you. A gift. And that must have cost . . . oh, he can't imagine. A sword? A commissioned sword? One made tailored to him, a blade that suits him and only him, oh . . . and he has no idea what it looks like or what qualities it has, but even the plainest longsword isn't cheap, not when it's new. And it's not about the money, but then again, it sort of is— for though they show their love in a multitude of ways, still, still, it means so much that Astarion should go out of his way like this. To explicitly spend so much just for his Leto, when he knows damn well he never needed to, that Leto wouldn't dream of ever asking such a thing from him. From him, Astarion who has hoarded and stolen and saved every damn coin he could, for this world is so unkind to elves who have all the cards stacked in their favor, never mind an ex-slave Rifter from another world. Astarion who looks at Thedas with the keen eye of a survivalist, always pitting his own odds against all the dangers and horrors of the world. For Astarion to take that amount of coin and think yes, this is where it will serve me best—

He has no words, truly. He tries to come up with some, but all the things he can think of to say are paltry, and he looks a little frantic as he tries to think of them. Thank you and this means so much and I didn't know, no, none of them are right. And thank the Maker for a loose tongue, for Astarion continues on. A few strands of your hair, and he knows what that means. He knows why the other has kept it; why anyone keeps such a thing from their lover.

(And beyond that: why Astarion, functionally immortal, might look at his beloved and want a keepsake. Why he plans for an eventuality that he might need a reminder of his kadan, for they live in such a dangerous world).]

I want a token from you.

[Wow. It's blunt and comes out completely wrong, a bratty little addition that wasn't at all what he meant. Leto shakes his head and reaches for Astarion's hand, clasping it between his own.]

I mean only—

You mean so much to me. You are . . . I did not know you had these things, but I care little for your secrets, for they are yours, and I would not begrudge you them. They intrigue me— I want to try that drug with you, I want to drink those vintages when you are ready, if you wish to share— but they are yours to have and keep. But a sword—

No one has ever—

[Up, down. His gaze always goes a little anxious.]

I do not have the words to describe what that . . . what you mean to me. And what it means to me that you would get me such a gift. I find it overwhelming. No one has ever given me such a thing before, and I am not socially well-adjusted on the best of days, never mind equipped to handle such displays of affection, things I know must have cost you a great deal. But I am . . . I—

Thank you feels wildly inadequate, but I do not know how to tell you the depths of my gratitude. My adoration and love for you, how it refracts and grows as I see how much you adore and love me. My . . . my fear that I am not worthy of such a thing, but I look at you and . . .

[Oh, even with this forced honesty, you can't tell what isn't there. The words elude him, his emotions too large to disseminate in such a way. He takes a breath, and then, more steadily:]

You have a lock of my hair. I would have happily given that to you if you had asked. I would even sit for a locket portrait, if that's what you wish.

But I wish for something for yours. Something I can wear. A scarf, or an earring, or . . . anything. But that I can wear to declare to everyone that I am yours, proudly and boldly. I would have the world know that I am yours and yours alone, yours no matter what, loyal to my dying day.

CRYSTAL | MISS ME, DARLINGS?

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