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therookery2022-07-20 03:59 pm
illithidnapped) wrote in therookery2022-07-20 03:59 pm
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.]
no subject
[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?]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.)]
1/2
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
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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.
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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?
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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.]
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[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.]
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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?
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.
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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.]
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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.
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(His sins are stitched into his skin. He wears them the way he wears his fangs, his scars, his corrupted gaze and wicked hands— and yet Leto looks at them and confesses he fears he's not good enough. How? How, when he remains the most breathtaking thing Astarion's ever set eyes on. Something too perfect to ever take for granted, knowing what he does of the dark.)]
You would look good in earrings. [Low, that confession. Thumb pressing softly, against the lobe of one of Leto's ears, rubbing at it for a few steady beats.
He's overwhelmed; they both are, and this is how he tries to wind them both down, rolling pressure running smoothly over warm skin.]
But I'd rather you have something that you can keep close, without requiring my fangs nibbling at your ears to puncture a pretty little hole or two for it to fit through— [he mimics the act of piercing with one dull pinch of his fingers] mm. Not that I'm against the idea overall.
[Something to revisit later, maybe.]
....but are you certain you want one from me?
[Neither one of them are chivalric creatures. Leto— Fenris— isn't a knight in shining armor any more than the vampire-turned-elf wrapped protectively around him. For all his talk of Eladrin and their brilliant glory, Astarion grasps precisely how far he's fallen. How they, both of them, don't slot beautifully into Thedas' neatly drawn lines enough to warrant gilt tales of timeless devotion.] You remember what I am, don't you. What vampires are. We're not—
Typically speaking, no one would ever offer a gesture like this. It'd be like....[his voice trails off in temporary thought] asking a demon to thread a ribbon through an inscribed band. Stand on a balcony so that you could serenade it, or kiss your armor before battle.
[Of course Astarion gathered strands on his own. Of course he hoarded it all away like a pining villain in a picture book, dragging claws over mementos too delicate (I would sit for a locket portrait, if that's what you wish, and he'll greedily return to that later), but:]
I wouldn't even know what to give you.
2/2
It's Astarion that sits up first.]
No. No, absolutely not, you mangy beast— this isn't going to be one of those cutesy little scripted affairs where a dog coughs up a narratively relevant item so that everyone around them cheers. No thank you.
Shoo. Shoo!
[And with that swatting show of disapproval aimed at her snout (none of it connecting, of course), she skitters away, plodding off the bed and vanishing through the nearest wall in a blaze of green light.]
Tsk.
The nerve.
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He chuckles in the aftermath, glancing towards the wall where she'd disappeared before aiming a small smile up at Astarion.]
I know what I ask of you. And from whom I am asking it.
[It's calmer. No less honest, but at least missing some of the raw intensity of before. Setting the damp sleeve down, he twists a little further, settling in to once again halfway face the other man. One hand grasped between his, his thumb patiently stroking against the curve of his palm.]
Truly, Astarion. I care little for what others might do or what foolish notions they might have; they are irrelevant, and always have been. I know what you are. A vampire. A fearsome predator. A creature that stalks the nights in search of victims to drain. A murderer. A seductor and corruptor, one that uses and uses until their victim is spent in every possible way.
Yes. I remember.
[He doesn't smile, not for this, but there's still that gentle warmth in his gaze.]
I remember you making me dinner three days ago. Burning it, admittedly, but still, the attempt was sweet. I remember you tucking the blankets close each night around my body during the colder months, fussing over whether I was warm enough— an act I loved, for it made me feel safe, and yet that I feared pointing out lest drawing attention to it made it cease. [Ahem. Anyway.] I remember you, menace that you are, distracting me from my nightmares with wicked tales of how you'd take me the next morning— and when that did not work, telling me stories of Baldur's Gate instead, and the sights you had seen in the city.
Yes. I wish for a token from you, and only you, for no other will serve. You are a vampire. And you are a high elf. And you are mine. My amatus. My kadan. I do not use those words as mindless endearments, and you know that. Astarion, I know what you have done to the rest of the world, but truthfully, I am little better. What I look at, truly, is how you treat me— and you are kinder and more thoughtful, than any I have ever encountered before.
[Remember this. Remember I cannot lie to you, and remember these words, for I mean every single one. He holds his gaze for as long as he dares, trying to convince him. Know that I love you. Know that you mean more than anything or anyone.
The moment passes, and he adds:]
As for what . . . scold her all you like, but she was right. A bit of fabric— not, not this, I do not wish for it to be covered in wolf drool— will serve. I would ask for something with your crest on it, if you had such a thing, but in lieu of that . . . something with your initial on it, perhaps.
Think on it. I do not need it right away.
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No more beating around the bush, so to speak.]
If I ever had a crest, I couldn't tell you. It's as gone as the rest of my old life. My memories. [Astarion isn't saying it to deflect; obvious in the next moment when he adds:] Still, I'll think of something—
You have my word.
[Wicked as he is, he means it: discarding the ankle-deep concept of forced honesty, it's the first time anyone has looked at him in absolute full (all his ugliness, all his attempts at open-handed trust), and— so unmistakably— embraced it not just for what it is in shallow comfort, but what it could be, disentangling the jagged wire left knotted through his chest after two centuries of bloodied palms.
He'll be worthy of that trust. He'll pay it back in kind.
That, or he'll die trying, thinking it worthwhile to his last sip of sallow air.
Chased by a crude imitation of noble gallantry as his caught hand is raised and turned: cold lips kissing the edge of tattooed knuckles, pressed down for one drawn out beat. Fangs settling (light) over skin a moment later, possibly a clever play on the notion of how he ('I know what you have done to the rest of the world, but truthfully, I am little better.')— how they— oscillate freely between dignity and beastliness alike, driven only by their own unshackled whims.]
Mm. I want something from you in turn. Something that isn't stolen. Whittle for me, or find something for me to wear of yours. I would take you up on that locket, but [ah] I'm afraid I still can't picture something so delicate wrapped around my throat without getting lost or broken.
After all, I adore finery, but as you can see—
It doesn't survive around me.
[His chin dips once, nodding towards the sleeve at Leto's side, mangled and utterly defeated, and forming a darker pool of drool over soft sheets.]
But speaking of things around my neck....[There, narrow fingers turn as they free themselves from a matching grip: sliding around to settle Leto's hand in the dip between thumb and forefinger, gentle when they're framed around the base of Astarion's throat once more.]
I should confess, I hid that collar to keep it from upsetting you; I told you anything I had was yours, and I meant it, it's just that I knew you'd struggle if you saw it without warning.
Possibly with warning, too.
Yes, my darling. [He leans into that pressure across his neck, a steady difference of degrees.] I've a weakness for the idea, though I know far, far too many— my former master included— who would delight in discovering that truth.
[A beat, crimson shining along the lower rise of shadowed irises.]
....you, on the other hand, I wouldn't mind being tethered to.
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Anyway. A problem for later, for now they're focusing back on the collar. And oh . . . he knew it was true from the moment he found it (so carefully tucked away and hidden, buried beneath layers of silk shirts and carefully pressed trousers), but still, something in him warms for that confirmation. I knew you'd struggle, and how easily he says that; how openly he acknowledges it, without patronization or cloying sympathy. Yes, he did struggle with it. He stared at it and remembered, just as he is now.
But the memories aren't overwhelming. They're there, and it would be foolish to pretend they aren't, but that's all they are. They don't control him. He feels the pliant span of Astarion's throat beneath his fingers, the subtle rise and fall as he takes a breath, and startles himself with the inclination— quiet, certainly, and only ever incremental, but still‐ to press down. To control that narrow span, so that what air the other man gets is controlled only by him . . .
And that's to say nothing of Astarion being tethered to him.]
How . . . tell me what you thought of. How it would take shape.
[Maybe that's the way to do this. The trauma is in the room with them, so indominable that it's hard not to defer to it. But why not replace it with something better? They only ever go as far as they wish to; a filthy fantasy is not a promise of execution. And perhaps it would help them both grow used to it. For that's the other factor, you know. Astarion was right about it. Both their masters would have gotten such sick, sadistic delight out of knowing that they— or he, Leto thinks, for he can only do so much at once— had such proclivities.]
I would collar you. Leash you. Have you be mine.
[(And the thing about Danarius' collar was this: it was not inherently sexual. There was a sexual component there, oh, yes, undeniably so, but its primary purpose was not to remind everyone that Fenris warmed his master's bed. Rather: it was subjugation. Miserable humiliation, and a pointed jab towards the Qunari, but it's not as if he ever kept it on when his master called for him at the end of the night. It was such a bulky thing, heavy and inconvenient; it did not hinder his fighting, but there was little purpose to keeping it on when no one else was around to see it).]
Have you always on hand . . .
[Still gripping his throat, Leto's thumb strokes upwards, idly pressing against Astarion's pulse. And then: gentle pressure. Exerting, but not demanding, not with the intention to cause pain. Just . . . guiding him back, pinning him to the headboard behind him, his grip on his throat slow and inexorable, as Leto crawls atop him. Straddles him, surging up to hover above him, his expression still oddly curious.]
Utilize you for my pleasure only, and never mind if you got off or not . . . yes? My . . .
[Pet, and no, he cannot say that word, hesitating visibly. But all right: not that word, then.]
Mine. Utterly and completely mine. Mine to dress up or strip down, mine to torment with pain or pleasure . . . you wish to be locked in that collar and surrender the most terrifying aspects of freedom.
Yes?
[For he needs to understand (and, maybe, see if his own desires are reflected or refracted).]
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[Astarion reiterates comfortably, at ease beneath every tentative step deeper into opaque shallows.
It's an echo, and a promise, and an answer all at once: yes, Leto, every inch of his body drawn out over tangled bedding and wadded-up pillows wedging itself back against all that exploratory pressure. Yours, he says, voice running noticably tighter across the flat of his tongue as corded muscles tense beneath roughened fingerpads, and it means yes and it's all right and I'm not shying from this, keep going— conversation condensed down into a single breath. This is safe. This is fine. This is welcome.
Their masters don't live here.
Not in this room. Not between them.
Not for a long, long time.]