[So many times, he'd wondered how true that was. When you're the only person leveraged between affirmation and denial, nothing ever feels concrete.
And nothing ever will.
Leto changes that in half a single breath.
Start to finish (Fog warriors— how Astarion remembers that soft-spoken story, imekari still the first word to come flitting in by association; the simplicity of service more tempting than dignity at times) it resonates in the smallest ways. The most unseen ways, in fact, for he's never been one to let anyone see the rootwork of these particular scars. Like a blemish hidden under expensive silk. Like half-picked skin; he'd only had himself to blame for its unsightliness (or so he thought), and here, blinding as bloody daylight while he's shut away safely in the dark, Leto absolves him of it so quickly that he almost forgets this is a conversation. Stop-start buffets of emotion taking the place of every last civilized instinct.
A relief, not a burden.
I miss it less now (not I missed it), ergo: it is better. Ergo: it gets better. Over ten years to Astarion's pitiful one, and maybe there's something to be said yet for a restless, deadened heap of muscle that doesn't know how to stop oscilating between longing and fear and resentment turned ever deeper inwards.
(He's not alone. He's not to blame. He's not some cowed inchworm of a thing like the spawn he'd known here or the slaves he saw in Thedas, all simpering over crumbs like bleating, thoughtless livestock. Every bit the epitome of all mockery thrown their way: unaware of the hunches in their submissive spines or how they shook endlessly in their own skin. Repulsively unable to exist without someone else's hand coaxing them along. They need it, you see. They're compelled to it even without magic or shackles. 'Oh yes, of course,' he remembers one young apprentice in the Free Marches commenting at a melting pot of a gambling affair, 'the way Mabari must be loyal or a gamehound has to chase— it's inescapable.' Bred deep into their blood. And they'll always, always crave it.)
But they won't.
Not Astarion. Not Leto-once-Fenris. Not in the way Cazador had promised time and time again. Not like Danarius' insistence, either— or the Orlesians or Tevinters or Kirkwall-bound drunks whose own guttersnipe whores sometimes leapt at the chance to bare their teeth and hound someone lower on the rung than themselves.
If Leto believes, that's enough.]
....is it?
[The words don't feel right. He tries again:] No I—
I know.
[And he means that in ways maybe only they two can understand: I know. Whatever it is said or unsaid right now— it's mine just as much as it is yours. It's what I feel just as much as you do.
You're right.] I wouldn't dare go back.
[Correction:]
I won't ever go back.
....but.... [But, and this is the moment that sticks. This is when his tongue runs sour in its dryness, clinging to the back of his throat until it hurts against all rising pressure. Spit it out, Astarion.] The worst part is there was a sickening comfort to that collar that I sometimes catch myself straining for, even when I realize it's your touch.
[There, he's said it. The worst part of all this. The ugliest, most unsightly little facet to this long-lived pain, buried in the outline of their coffin— and the fact that he doesn't have to see the disappointed look on Leto's face when he finally admits it.
Which might be why he darts away again, as always.]
It's only been a year. [Like you said, Leto. It lessens. It'll wither. It's fine.] I'll outrun it, eventually. I swear.
no subject
And nothing ever will.
Leto changes that in half a single breath.
Start to finish (Fog warriors— how Astarion remembers that soft-spoken story, imekari still the first word to come flitting in by association; the simplicity of service more tempting than dignity at times) it resonates in the smallest ways. The most unseen ways, in fact, for he's never been one to let anyone see the rootwork of these particular scars. Like a blemish hidden under expensive silk. Like half-picked skin; he'd only had himself to blame for its unsightliness (or so he thought), and here, blinding as bloody daylight while he's shut away safely in the dark, Leto absolves him of it so quickly that he almost forgets this is a conversation. Stop-start buffets of emotion taking the place of every last civilized instinct.
A relief, not a burden.
I miss it less now (not I missed it), ergo: it is better. Ergo: it gets better. Over ten years to Astarion's pitiful one, and maybe there's something to be said yet for a restless, deadened heap of muscle that doesn't know how to stop oscilating between longing and fear and resentment turned ever deeper inwards.
(He's not alone. He's not to blame. He's not some cowed inchworm of a thing like the spawn he'd known here or the slaves he saw in Thedas, all simpering over crumbs like bleating, thoughtless livestock. Every bit the epitome of all mockery thrown their way: unaware of the hunches in their submissive spines or how they shook endlessly in their own skin. Repulsively unable to exist without someone else's hand coaxing them along. They need it, you see. They're compelled to it even without magic or shackles. 'Oh yes, of course,' he remembers one young apprentice in the Free Marches commenting at a melting pot of a gambling affair, 'the way Mabari must be loyal or a gamehound has to chase— it's inescapable.' Bred deep into their blood. And they'll always, always crave it.)
But they won't.
Not Astarion. Not Leto-once-Fenris. Not in the way Cazador had promised time and time again. Not like Danarius' insistence, either— or the Orlesians or Tevinters or Kirkwall-bound drunks whose own guttersnipe whores sometimes leapt at the chance to bare their teeth and hound someone lower on the rung than themselves.
If Leto believes, that's enough.]
....is it?
[The words don't feel right. He tries again:] No I—
I know.
[And he means that in ways maybe only they two can understand: I know. Whatever it is said or unsaid right now— it's mine just as much as it is yours. It's what I feel just as much as you do.
You're right.] I wouldn't dare go back.
[Correction:]
I won't ever go back.
....but.... [But, and this is the moment that sticks. This is when his tongue runs sour in its dryness, clinging to the back of his throat until it hurts against all rising pressure. Spit it out, Astarion.] The worst part is there was a sickening comfort to that collar that I sometimes catch myself straining for, even when I realize it's your touch.
[There, he's said it. The worst part of all this. The ugliest, most unsightly little facet to this long-lived pain, buried in the outline of their coffin— and the fact that he doesn't have to see the disappointed look on Leto's face when he finally admits it.
Which might be why he darts away again, as always.]
It's only been a year. [Like you said, Leto. It lessens. It'll wither. It's fine.] I'll outrun it, eventually. I swear.