[Oh, gods. Oh, gods, and for a moment he's grateful they aren't face to face, for Leto can let his expression twist into nauseated horror without fear. When they imprison you, and he does not miss how Astarion dances gently past the moment of implantation— nor does he blame him for it. Squirming behind your eye, and his own hand rises, brushing against the socket of his left eye, his mind involuntarily trying to imagine what it would be to feel something writhing there. And all the while there's that note in Astarion's voice, dead and dull, so terrified that it comes out the other side into numbness, even now.
How long, he wonders, does it take between implantation and conversion? Does Astarion know? He doesn't dare ask, but he wonders. If Astarion counted the seconds, the minutes, caught desperately between trying to escape and knowing that it was futile, savoring what freedom he had . . . the first in centuries, oh, the irony is so embittering. And as for the rest . . . he wonders, vaguely, if that man is somewhere around here. If someday they'll run into him on the city streets— or perhaps he's long since lost, mutilated into a monster.
It doesn't matter.
Cruel, maybe. Selfish, almost certainly. But Leto cares little about some unknown stranger; all that matters to him right now is that Astarion never have to face such a terror again. Anger, hot and dull, writhes in the pit of his stomach, and he knows it will not leave easily, not for months.]
I think I can follow those rules.
[He says it a little numbly, truthfully: so caught up in his own thoughts that it's hard to surface. A brief moment of confusion for the note about the door, but ah . . . no, that does make sense, doesn't it, when vampires are the peak of what they have to fear— or nearly so.]
Do you . . .
Is there a chance they will ever return?
[For his thought aren't on himself, but Astarion. Leto has long since sworn not to seek out Cazador unless Astarion wishes it, and he'll abide by those rules— but if this is a new threat to be wary of, he would know. He would train for that, too, for there is nothing that will take his Astarion away from him. Not vampiric lords too old and rotted to realize their time has come— and not some monstrous species determined to use his amatus for their swelling ranks.]
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How long, he wonders, does it take between implantation and conversion? Does Astarion know? He doesn't dare ask, but he wonders. If Astarion counted the seconds, the minutes, caught desperately between trying to escape and knowing that it was futile, savoring what freedom he had . . . the first in centuries, oh, the irony is so embittering. And as for the rest . . . he wonders, vaguely, if that man is somewhere around here. If someday they'll run into him on the city streets— or perhaps he's long since lost, mutilated into a monster.
It doesn't matter.
Cruel, maybe. Selfish, almost certainly. But Leto cares little about some unknown stranger; all that matters to him right now is that Astarion never have to face such a terror again. Anger, hot and dull, writhes in the pit of his stomach, and he knows it will not leave easily, not for months.]
I think I can follow those rules.
[He says it a little numbly, truthfully: so caught up in his own thoughts that it's hard to surface. A brief moment of confusion for the note about the door, but ah . . . no, that does make sense, doesn't it, when vampires are the peak of what they have to fear— or nearly so.]
Do you . . .
Is there a chance they will ever return?
[For his thought aren't on himself, but Astarion. Leto has long since sworn not to seek out Cazador unless Astarion wishes it, and he'll abide by those rules— but if this is a new threat to be wary of, he would know. He would train for that, too, for there is nothing that will take his Astarion away from him. Not vampiric lords too old and rotted to realize their time has come— and not some monstrous species determined to use his amatus for their swelling ranks.]