[It is a shock. That's the first thing Leto thinks, caught in those breathless moments between uncertain sentences. It's a shock, but of course it is, for they are so intimate with one another. Their worst secrets have long since been laid bare, their most private terrors whispered to one another in the dark— but ah, there's such a difference between a torment that lasted two centuries and a nightmare that might well be easily forgotten . . .

Is Leto hurt by the lack of admission? He oughtn't be, but still, he asks himself that. As visions of Astarion strapped to a table pass over his mind's eye, writhing in terror and begging for mercy, please no oh god please anything I'll do anything please, as all the while a wriggling thing gets closer and closer to his eye . . .

No. No, he is not hurt by it. How can he be, when even the mere thought is enough to turn his stomach?]

So do I.

[It's a nothing-sentence, a way to fill the air while he tries to process all this.]

The Ilithids kidnapped you. And then Thedas did.

[But that makes it too simple. And so does any reconciliatory sentence he can think of: it's over now or but they didn't manage to implant it within you. The glassiness in Astarion's tone is too brittle, too bright, for it to be reduced to a near-miss.]

. . . tell me how it happened. What happened. I would understand.

[If he wants to, that is. If it's something he feels like revisiting— but then, he must. He would not have brought it up otherwise.]