[In truth, it's a more in-depth answer than Leto had expected. No, that was more or less his thought. Gods, no, not after two hundred years of torment— but then again, there's a difference between believing in a god and expecting them to save you.
And gods, Astarion is right: surely they're not the only two who have ever crossed worlds. There have to be a fair few, and who would ever say anything about it? Safer and easier to keep it to yourself, just as they're doing. Perhaps the Maker is a god from this world. Perhaps he and Astarion come from the same genetic origin. There are stranger thoughts, and after all he's seen and done, Leto won't argue.
Besides: he's growing used to the idea of gods as a more casual thing. Not an unfathomable maker, all-knowing and infinitely powerful; rather, simply a being with a great deal of power, just as fickle and petulant as any person. Like Corypheus, perhaps.
But ah: that earns a proper laugh this time, amusement and fondness tangling together.]
He has a great deal to answer for, I assure you.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes. There would be no reverent deference, not when Leto has seen too many atrocities in his day. But ah, let's go back for a moment:]
You won't let me die?
[It's a little easier to talk about now that he knows they have, at minimum, centuries to spend with one another. It's so much time he can't conceptualize it properly, not yet; he might as well be immortal for all that it registers.]
And what will you do to ensure it? Fight Death himself?
There are a lot of different Deaths, as it so happens. [A scattering of fickle gods presiding over even more fickle planes: what virtues or vices one extols, their given race or magical affinity or who they favor. Cruelty, kindness, cunning, care— or curse. A thousand different afterlives and mysteries an undead spawn will never see.
(Which is fine, actually. There's a plane where everyone gets turned into formless blobs of astral, ascended light.
How in the Hells is anyone meant to fuck like that?)]
Possibly even some we don't know exist, for lack of personal experience.
[There's a grin in his hushed murmur. An unseen flash of teeth that anyone who knows Astarion could recognize without even trying, owing to the enriched rumbling of his throat.]
And I'd fight them all for you.
[Which sounds a lot better than: 'I'll turn you to keep you with me, if I have to.']
[He was teasing, but the sincere rumble in Astarion's voice leaves Leto smiling softly. It's sweet, for all that they're joking.]
I know you would.
[Oh, Maker, yes, there's no doubt in Leto's mind. And though he has no intention of courting death, still: there's a part of him that would happily watch Astarion raise hell for his sake, biting out throats and murdering a god just to save his amatus from certain death . . .
It's a warming thought.
. . . it also comes before Leto circles back in that conversation, belatedly frowning.]
How are there different Deaths? It's death. How many ways can varying gods split it up?
[That's to say nothing of the concept of worship in this world. How do you bow down to a god you might conceivably meet on the street? It's like worshipping the postman.]
The murder, the rampaging through the nine Hells themselves, elysian blood dripping from his palms. The fact that Leto— in spite of laughing earlier— trusts in that possibility the same way Astarion does in turn.
But that's the black and white portion of all this talk.]
Oh, infinitely. To simplify: there's murder, order, chaos, death embraced and death rejected— not to mention elven and dwarven and so on— but most of the old gods reportedly died ages ago, and it's hard to say what's only myth or occult fanaticism when compared to the truth. A half-bred child could always be a con or a powerful product of old magics given new form, and trust me when I say the ones that brag the loudest are usually the weakest of the bunch.
A real god is— I assume— a great deal like a leviathan in endlessly vast oceans. [Like Shar. Like Selune. Kelevmor. Corellon. Oberon. Massive doesn't begin to cover it.] We're the krill. A minnow at most. If there's a purpose, it doesn't involve us.
[It's the only way imprisonment like his makes sense. Why his prayers fell on deaf ears and silence laden with the sound of screams.
It also doesn't change his resentment, but that's not the topic on the table, for now.]
[On paper, at least, that makes sense to him. It's when he tries to apply it to something more practical that Leto's head spins, for he has lived with the idea that gods were untouchable beings for all his life. The thought that he might conceivably run into one at the market is . . . unnerving. The leviathan comparison suits his mindset far more— after all, what's a god to a moral, and a mortal to an ant (or something like that). It makes far more sense that singular lives don't even register to something so vast and powerful.
Just so long as they stay away from he and Astarion, Leto thinks, he'll learn to live with it.]
Let us hope it stays that way.
[Death and gods . . . Astarion had started to tell him a bit about other planes of existence, but that's a conversation for another time.]
All right. Gods I will avoid, and bandits I can dispatch without issue. One tried to jump me already, actually, though tried is perhaps the key word there.
What other things should I be wary for as I travel through this world? Tell me something I do not yet know.
[Talk to me, for it has only been a day or so, but he misses Astarion's voice.]
[It's all mutual pining; there was a reason why Astarion made this call to begin with, and despite the truth lurking squarely in one particularly obvious facet of it, it wasn't solely out of boredom.
A fact that doesn't do anything neuter Astarion's eagerness to play, however:]
Mm? Which one, a bandit or a god?
Or a bandit god?
—kidding.
[Mostly.
Poor bandit likely never knew what hit him, and it's a petty (and equally pretty) thought that flits through his mind in such a shallow set of seconds there— though Hells themselves attest Astarion would still feel better if his better half had access to his old lyrium-locked abilities, all drawbacks aside. Power is power, after all, and in a world as categorically befanged as this one, it doesn't ever hurt to have more.
[On his lips without a second thought, alas. Too late now to turn back.]
Monstrous, tentacled— things. Possessed of the power of mind control beyond what anything short of a vampire lord can enact. And they'll use it, if they get the chance, whether you're aware of them or not.
[Ilithid, and Leto's mind searches back, but he cannot ever recall Astarion mentioning those before. Then again: when on earth would they have come up? Cazador is a threat. Bandits and murderers and slavers, those are threats. Even gods, albeit distantly, might come up. But tentacled monsters . . .
It's not that he doesn't believe Astarion. If his amatus says that this is something to be wary of, then it is; it's as simple as that. But there's so many things to adjust to in this world, and how fast he can do it varies from issue to issue.]
[Looking back on his own warning, Astarion supposes that on figurative paper it doesn't sound so bad. But the difference between saying 'death by poison' and 'death by Midnight Tears' are entire worlds of horror apart: without elaboration or insight, there's no telling whether it'll be a lulling nap or a screaming, foaming transformation involving disintegrating bones and punctured skin.
Ugh. He's kicking himself for going down this trail, but— well. He's never been one to refuse Leto on even the worst of days.]
Assimilation of all relative life.
[And that's to put it lightly.]
They steal whoever they find, without discretion— and if they don't outright clamp their parasitic jaws filled with finger-long teeth into your skull and devour your mind in both the metaphorical and literal sense, or pry their tentacles into your ears or mouth to do the same, they choose the worser fate: they imprison you, and implant a larval worm within your skull that'll eventually hatch, thus condemning its host— i.e. you— to a nightmarish conversion into one of their hive-bound brood, the details of which I'll mercifully spare you. Just know it's—
[It's horrifying. So much so that his mind almost rejects it at first: hearing terms like tentacles into your ears and larval worms, oh, it's nauseating. Like a horror story crawled out of the depths of the Deep Roads, that's all he can compare it to. Like the worst sorts of rumors about broodmothers and darkspawn, and perhaps he'd compare one to the other, but—
But that tone. That glassy, brittle tone, and it isn't that Leto isn't familiar with it. He is. Of course he is. It's just that he is not used to hearing it in Astarion's voice anymore; it's just that he almost never hears it in his voice anymore, not nowadays. Perhaps in the very beginning, when they would speak of Cazador and his cruelties; when Astarion told the story of the vivid scars on his back, that awful precise pattern . . .
And of course, Astarion is whole and hale. There are no tendril scars on his body, and trust Leto would know. But . . .
Larval worm, he thinks, and feels himself grow cold.]
Astarion . . .?
[It's gentle. Tentative, because he does not want to tread too firmly on something he doesn't yet understand. And it makes no sense, for when even would such a thing have happened? But perhaps it wasn't to him. Perhaps it was some companion, some potential prey or another spawn . . . but there must have been something. He knows Astarion well enough to know that, at least.]
Ahah. [Flinty. Soft as soaked skin underneath; neither sentiment at odds with the other.]
All those souls across the years that couldn't manage to tell I was never actually smiling. Sat right in front of their damned faces the whole time.
[Across sending stones and crystals, Leto makes them all fools. Dead ones of course. Naive, peerlesly spoiled, deeply carefree fools, lost to the open jaws of Cazador Szarr and the stained edge of his once-far-less-pitch-dark dining table— but still. As far as victories go: it counts.]
You're the only one aside from Cazador himself who's ever seen right through me.
—Such a pain, you know that?
[Warm. Appreciatively cast, no matter how falsely scolding. Tailing sigh a little more meandering, though he can't pluck up much more in the way of time without confessing anyway: Leto will spot a silent admission just as keenly with that tirelessly attuned nose regardless.
....I....always told myself it was nothing but a bad dream.
[It in context being damningly self explanatory. Add to it: his tone. Add to it: his evasion. Add to it: the fact that this whole time they've been discussing Ilithid-borne kidnappings, and now all he's mentioning are dreams. Old, old displacements.]
Part and parcel when it comes to traversing the Fade, or— something like that, anyway. [Simple enough theory, really:] Fall asleep, have a nightmare or two, wake up on the other side of all the Realms themselves just like any other misplaced Rifter. It made a great deal of sense.
Coincidentally, I also don't think I ever really believed it. [Lying to oneself is an art; Astarion's only ever been half-good at it.]
Looking back, I suppose I probably just preferred the story that way. It felt better. Cleaner overall— not to mention so much easier to explain: Thedas was the one who stole me from my master. Thedas decided to imprison me. And it was Thedas that gave me a home, a life— you.
[A tepid beat, like bartering for breath he doesn't need.]
[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.]
[Another noise like an answer. Like the knife he wishes he had— or had the good sense to use at the time. A sort-of laugh that isn't one at all, and when it dies on his lips, there's nothing else left but empty air and the wafting noise from Leto's end of the line; the coffin lid's closed. There's nothing but dead air and deader memories, and the nagging, restless pressure of a phantom that's long gone.]
I know you would.
[Again: warm. Again, it's that bruised quality that's more tender than guarding. Something that swears even in its clumsiness I know you would, and I'm grateful for it— but the rub is that even with all their secrets shared, he's still not used to this sort of vulnerability. He might never be, not in any way that lets him make this a clean transition. One without stop-start faults where anyone listening in could clearly hear every moment where he has to spur himself into giving Leto the truth, bit by scattered bit.
Which is different than fear or pain, for whatever it's worth.]
I was hunting for Cazador when it happened— I can remember that much. [A beat, his lips a little too dry to go without licking them.] The rest was....just a nightmare.
When they imprison you, after the torture of implantation, they have to keep tabs, you see. So there's this glass— [He's trying with his hand to convey the barrier itself in order to find the word, but it doesn't really come, and honestly doesn't really matter, either.] thing. A pod— and they leave you there in it awaiting your inevitable fate, feeling that hellish little death sentence squirming behind your eye. Watching them do the same, turning willful creature after willful creature into a mindless slave or a waiting monster.
—and then, out of nowhere, their ship crashed. I was free. Alive. [A scoff.] Albeit temporarily.
Thedas put that right.
[And again: he owes that world too much to truly ever resent whatever ugliness it held. Even words like knife-ear or rattus only ever stung once he'd been there long enough to dull old dread.]
But then Thedas had the idea of very briefly letting my path cross with a man who swore he knew who I was, and seemed distraught that the same wasn't true in turn.
He told me he had one, too. A tadpole. That we'd met after the crash, our goals aligned in freeing ourselves from its grip. Like most Rifters, he soon vanished after that. But afterwards I knew I couldn't keep pretending that it was just one long, protracted nightmare tailing my master's routine commands, and preceding my arrival here.
[Tsk.]
Anyway, to keep it simple: two rules, my love.
Never open the door at night when I'm not there to keep you safe. And two— you stay far the Hells away from those tentacled beasts and their ilk.
[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.]
It's not a choice, and isn't an argument to be debated— it's not even a request, no matter that the end result is obviously only so much in Astarion's own power to control. But rational thought means acknowledging that there's a chance it might play out for the worst despite the best of their efforts....and he can't. He just can't. (He's too bloody old, too tired, too weary of loss and too rife with scar tissue that never wanes in all its aches, though he never knows which is worse: the hideous marks he's been left with, or all the thousands more that'll never even show.)
But he knows there are other things on the table right now.
Related and distracting, and difficult to swallow. His red eyes flicking upwards somewhere across the line, unseen. Fixing on that glassy set of frosted lines drawn into the marrow of their coffin lid.]
It wouldn't be unthinkable....
[His voice sounds settled now. Even. Life for the average soul in Toril behind city walls is— largely— peaceful. Calm. Say what you will about roaming monsters and unthinkable terrors, but despite endless stories of heroism or horror there aren't whole portions of the civilized world being plunged into chaos at any given moment. No, it's the little dreads that accumulate when one least expects it: the odd shadow wandering at your back, the wolfish show of teeth after a not-so-distant catcall, the cold brush of clawed fingers at your neck. The microcosm rather than a macrocosmic nightmare.
So yes, those monsters have a high likelihood of returning— but not specifically for him. They'd have no way to track him, after all. Not with the tadpole already having vanished from his skull.
(....or at least he hopes not.)]
They were a threat once before, there's no reason to think I might not trip over one again if fate decides to be unkind.
[A beat.]
Still, I roamed these streets unbothered for two hundred years. My ancestors for centuries before that. If I had to choose my worries, believe me, that'd be on the lower rung. Somewhere between serving the wrong wine for dinner, and having Corypheus turn up on our bakery doorstep.
[He hums softly in acknowledgement, some part of him . . . mm, not relaxing, but at least settling just a little more. Sometimes bad things really do just happen at random— and while he will not forget this issue, nor cease researching it, at least he knows just how much he has to fret over it. Cazador (and any other spawn that might be roaming this city) is still their biggest threat.
He glances around. It's a nice day, or at least it was. What had been bright and inviting suddenly seems wrong: too bright, too sunny, too raw. He has never been an elf comfortable in nature, and though he knows full well Astarion was snatched from the city streets, still, some part of him aches to be nestled safe among buildings and people.
Or maybe it's not about being safe. Maybe it's about having Astarion somewhere where he can see him: safely tucked away in their home, with Leto and his sword standing between him and the doorway. Him and all of Toril, with its vampiric lords and strange tentacled creatures and gods that walk among men . . . it's not that it's so much worse than Thedas. Frankly, it's still better than Thedas, if for no other reason than Leto had walked out of the city boundaries without being followed or asked sneering questions. But so much is strange and different here, and that brings its own form of homesickness.
Anyway.]
Were you ever going to tell me if I hadn't asked?
[It's a real question, not an accusation. He understands tucking away painful memories; gods know there are a few he hasn't mentioned to Astarion yet, simply because they're too awful to talk about. But he wonders.]
About your own experience, or that Rifter . . . what was his name?
[Fumbling aside, that part's surrendered (relatively) easily, at least. And he rides his initial spark-quick response like a segue, letting it carry him from one beat to the next without rising up for air:]
But my kadan. When it comes to you?
I've learned everything comes out in the wash eventually, no matter how I fight to keep it tucked well away in hand. [So deflective, his candor in that moment. Playfully deflective, that is, in a way that smacks of habit— the sort old enough to have lost nearly all relevance one year after having fallen recklessly in love.]
[And it's with that in mind that a few trickling seconds pass before he reluctantly drops his sense of play, fiddling instead with the notion of isolated discomfort.
Regardless of how frigidly unsettling it feels.]
....yes....I think I might've. Probably.
Although I'm not sure when. [Don't misread him:] It wasn't anything I wanted to consider again, you understand.
There aren't a thousand skeletons hiding in my— well, figuratively speaking, I suppose there are after all these years. But I'm not keeping anything from you, if that scares you.
[This banter isn't about survival or currying favor; Hells, he knows he doesn't need to grovel or whimper the way he'd done with Cazador or even Riftwatch's own collective, guarding the safety of his fragile belly at all times.
Even so, it's like an itch he can't scratch.
A cruel, barbed touch pulls at the edges of his mind until he's sinking one canine down against the corner of his lip, whittling shallowly at his own skin.]
[The answer comes so swiftly that he almost sounds harsh, which is the last thing he wants. It's just that he can hear that vulnerable little note in Astarion's voice, and gods know he can picture the face that goes with it. The uncertain flicker of his eyes, followed by the doeish stare that begs for sincerity and love in equal shares . . . oh, amatus. His footsteps are hurried now, wandering off the beaten path so he can settle himself beneath the shelter of a large tree— all the better to focus on what matters.]
Kadan. [Softer. Soothing. Safe.] There is a difference between things that are kept away out of malicious intent or guilt, and things that are too difficult to talk about until they come up. This was the latter, not the former. And I do not fear the former, not from you. Not ever.
[Leto closes his eyes, tipping his head back to thump gently against the trunk.]
There are things in my past I have not told you. Things that fit that category. Not secrets, but . . .
[But it's hard. But there are things that haunt them both, and things that are too hard to admit to, even when it's dark and quiet.]
I trust you, Astarion. I asked only because I know what it is to not want to think of such things . . . and because I did not expect the admission. It frightens me, but only ever for your sake. I . . .
[Mm.]
It is hard, even now, not to think like a warrior and a bodyguard. I suspect I always will. It is why I seek to know all that I can learn of vampires and how to defeat them— and it is why this took me aback, for it is not a threat I have ever had to factor in before.
[An exhale comes on so swiftly that it catches Astarion himself off guard; he didn't realize he was actually holding his own breath until it sticks to the roof of his mouth. Like a rubber band snapping all that tension goes away. At least he doesn't feel ridiculous for having asked, at least. Something to do with that swerve—
Of course he doesn't need a reminder to know that Leto isn't anything like Cazador or his coven— not like his spawn or his family, not even his suitors or his endless, wretched lackeys. It's just that he thrives on it, that potent reiteration. Each time the past is proven fallible, one more rung is plucked from the impenetrable weave of his former master's armor. It's not the same, and the world he knew before grows smaller, shrinks back into the cage it really was. It's not the same, and he doesn't know if it's the wonder of this rare, impossible creature rushing to settle down across the line, or if there's the potential out there for more— more discovery, more newness, more—
Ah. No.
No, he knows better than to open that particular door. One and a half years spent in Riftwatch, fluttering between Orlais, Kirkwall, Antiva, Nevarra, Tevinter: he knows what people are like. And there's only one exception to the rule.
Oh, kadan indeed.]
I don't know how to be much more than a liar and a whore— [Bright again. A pleasant lilt along the line. They are what they are; that's fine.] Albeit a fanged and clawed one.
You might've picked the wrong creature to safeguard.
....are you sure you're any good at this?
[Thank you, he means. Thank you, darling. Even if the words don't come, and his head is reeling and his deadened heart shudders in its moorings for the thought he understands what it is to bury what you can't stand, rather than hold it to the light.
For the odd fragility of a protector who still tries to keep him safe.
And has secrets of his own.
(Give him a second to breathe, Leto. Let him pretend to be alive— laugh with him, a liar and a whore— and he'll come around to helping you dig through the dirt.)]
[He huffs a laugh, more in acquiesce of that silent desire than anything truly related to humor. (In truth, he does not like it when Astarion refers to himself as a whore, save in bedsport— but it is what it is, and he will not scold solely out of his own discomfort). Leto stretches his legs out, kicking off the hated boots so he can sink his toes into the cool grass.]
You're still alive, are you no— ah . . . well, you may have a point there.
[You know, because he's a vampire? Undead? Get it? Ah, humor.
And they linger there for a time. Catching one another up on their respective days (or nights), little incidents and jokes offered up easy as anything. It's gentle, and as much a way to move on from the emotion of that moment as it is simple exchange.
But eventually, they quiet down. And Leto murmurs:
I'm glad you asked. About if I was worried or distrusted you . . .
I am glad to confirm the opposite. And I am glad, too, you trust me enough to ask.
[Admittedly, he says it a bit stiltedly. Emotions are hard, and articulating them harder still. But he is glad Astarion asked, for no other reason than to assure him.]
Don't start being too proud of me over there in all that sunlight. [The throatiest little puff of fond surrender, therein residing the difference between trust and raw submission: that to be terrified of what someone else sees in you means becoming perfect in pure presumption— the impossible infallibility of a kept slave— versus the small, fragile, unreliable and occasionally irrational reality of someone with a will all his own.
He can wear his flaws without immediately rolling over onto his belly now that the storm of ancient uncertainty's passed. He's glad, too. And grateful— even if he hasn't said it yet (they're both trying their level best, and Leto's tone is proof enough of that).
Although the broader spectrum of that also means admitting:]
Not five minutes later and already I want to ask about everything you've got tucked away inside that lovely little skull of yours. [Painful secrets, unsightly memories, old, shut up nightmares. Every impulse. Every fear. Every last shuttered hope.
[Oh, what a question, and distantly, Leto is grateful Astarion offers it so vaguely. It gives him leave to let his mind wander where it will— for fair is fair, and Leto does not mind delving into his past for this. But ah . . .
He's quiet for a time. Not ignoring Astarion, but simply letting his mind cast back. Things that he's pushed away in the past, silently marking them for later. Later: the ghost of his mother rising in the back of his mind, ignored for a time when they weren't laughing softly in bed, giddily hushing one another as guards walked by. Later: a shopkeep who echoes an old saying that Danarius had loved, the connection saved for when they weren't in public. Later: a woman he'd passed this morning with black hair and blue eyes who stared at him so boldly . . .]
I have not told you much of Hadriana, have I?
[No, he hasn't.]
She used to delight in collaring me and chaining me to the wall. Sometimes there would be no chain, and it would simply be my neck and hands bolted to the wall. Typically she would put my food just out of reach and watch as I crawled for it, but . . .
[Mmph. This does not compare to being kidnapped by tentacled monsters. It does not compare, even, to the horror of living for two centuries as whorish bait. I do better on my back than my feet, and it's been over a year, but still Leto thinks of Astarion's face as he had said it. The way it so deliberately wasn't gaunt or grim, a bright mask put on so naturally you almost couldn't see the seams.
But they have never played the game of who had it worse.]
Danarius was not the only person who bedded me.
She would . . . I do not know if it was meant to humiliate or if she was lustful, but it barely mattered. She would . . . there were times she would take me along on one of her illict trysts, and take pleasure in rutting where I could not help but hear. And other times, when she had me chained and gagged, she would ride me. Over and over, using her magic on me as she did. Amplifying the sensation, or using elemental magic . . .
[And it is what it is. And anyway, the bitch is dead. And anyway, it's nothing. Danarius had done the same thing with his magic, and that happened far more often. Leto shrugs sharply.]
It was only a few times. She did not have me alone often. Apprentices don't get such toys.
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And gods, Astarion is right: surely they're not the only two who have ever crossed worlds. There have to be a fair few, and who would ever say anything about it? Safer and easier to keep it to yourself, just as they're doing. Perhaps the Maker is a god from this world. Perhaps he and Astarion come from the same genetic origin. There are stranger thoughts, and after all he's seen and done, Leto won't argue.
Besides: he's growing used to the idea of gods as a more casual thing. Not an unfathomable maker, all-knowing and infinitely powerful; rather, simply a being with a great deal of power, just as fickle and petulant as any person. Like Corypheus, perhaps.
But ah: that earns a proper laugh this time, amusement and fondness tangling together.]
He has a great deal to answer for, I assure you.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes. There would be no reverent deference, not when Leto has seen too many atrocities in his day. But ah, let's go back for a moment:]
You won't let me die?
[It's a little easier to talk about now that he knows they have, at minimum, centuries to spend with one another. It's so much time he can't conceptualize it properly, not yet; he might as well be immortal for all that it registers.]
And what will you do to ensure it? Fight Death himself?
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(Which is fine, actually. There's a plane where everyone gets turned into formless blobs of astral, ascended light.
How in the Hells is anyone meant to fuck like that?)]
Possibly even some we don't know exist, for lack of personal experience.
[There's a grin in his hushed murmur. An unseen flash of teeth that anyone who knows Astarion could recognize without even trying, owing to the enriched rumbling of his throat.]
And I'd fight them all for you.
[Which sounds a lot better than: 'I'll turn you to keep you with me, if I have to.']
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I know you would.
[Oh, Maker, yes, there's no doubt in Leto's mind. And though he has no intention of courting death, still: there's a part of him that would happily watch Astarion raise hell for his sake, biting out throats and murdering a god just to save his amatus from certain death . . .
It's a warming thought.
. . . it also comes before Leto circles back in that conversation, belatedly frowning.]
How are there different Deaths? It's death. How many ways can varying gods split it up?
[That's to say nothing of the concept of worship in this world. How do you bow down to a god you might conceivably meet on the street? It's like worshipping the postman.]
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The murder, the rampaging through the nine Hells themselves, elysian blood dripping from his palms. The fact that Leto— in spite of laughing earlier— trusts in that possibility the same way Astarion does in turn.
But that's the black and white portion of all this talk.]
Oh, infinitely. To simplify: there's murder, order, chaos, death embraced and death rejected— not to mention elven and dwarven and so on— but most of the old gods reportedly died ages ago, and it's hard to say what's only myth or occult fanaticism when compared to the truth. A half-bred child could always be a con or a powerful product of old magics given new form, and trust me when I say the ones that brag the loudest are usually the weakest of the bunch.
A real god is— I assume— a great deal like a leviathan in endlessly vast oceans. [Like Shar. Like Selune. Kelevmor. Corellon. Oberon. Massive doesn't begin to cover it.] We're the krill. A minnow at most. If there's a purpose, it doesn't involve us.
[It's the only way imprisonment like his makes sense. Why his prayers fell on deaf ears and silence laden with the sound of screams.
It also doesn't change his resentment, but that's not the topic on the table, for now.]
Not usually, anyway.
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Just so long as they stay away from he and Astarion, Leto thinks, he'll learn to live with it.]
Let us hope it stays that way.
[Death and gods . . . Astarion had started to tell him a bit about other planes of existence, but that's a conversation for another time.]
All right. Gods I will avoid, and bandits I can dispatch without issue. One tried to jump me already, actually, though tried is perhaps the key word there.
What other things should I be wary for as I travel through this world? Tell me something I do not yet know.
[Talk to me, for it has only been a day or so, but he misses Astarion's voice.]
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A fact that doesn't do anything neuter Astarion's eagerness to play, however:]
Mm? Which one, a bandit or a god?
Or a bandit god?
—kidding.
[Mostly.
Poor bandit likely never knew what hit him, and it's a petty (and equally pretty) thought that flits through his mind in such a shallow set of seconds there— though Hells themselves attest Astarion would still feel better if his better half had access to his old lyrium-locked abilities, all drawbacks aside. Power is power, after all, and in a world as categorically befanged as this one, it doesn't ever hurt to have more.
But on that note— ]
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Ilithid.
[On his lips without a second thought, alas. Too late now to turn back.]
Monstrous, tentacled— things. Possessed of the power of mind control beyond what anything short of a vampire lord can enact. And they'll use it, if they get the chance, whether you're aware of them or not.
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It's not that he doesn't believe Astarion. If his amatus says that this is something to be wary of, then it is; it's as simple as that. But there's so many things to adjust to in this world, and how fast he can do it varies from issue to issue.]
To what end?
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Ugh. He's kicking himself for going down this trail, but— well. He's never been one to refuse Leto on even the worst of days.]
Assimilation of all relative life.
[And that's to put it lightly.]
They steal whoever they find, without discretion— and if they don't outright clamp their parasitic jaws filled with finger-long teeth into your skull and devour your mind in both the metaphorical and literal sense, or pry their tentacles into your ears or mouth to do the same, they choose the worser fate: they imprison you, and implant a larval worm within your skull that'll eventually hatch, thus condemning its host— i.e. you— to a nightmarish conversion into one of their hive-bound brood, the details of which I'll mercifully spare you. Just know it's—
Just know that you don't want to know.
[That glassiness in Astarion's voice— is he— ]
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But that tone. That glassy, brittle tone, and it isn't that Leto isn't familiar with it. He is. Of course he is. It's just that he is not used to hearing it in Astarion's voice anymore; it's just that he almost never hears it in his voice anymore, not nowadays. Perhaps in the very beginning, when they would speak of Cazador and his cruelties; when Astarion told the story of the vivid scars on his back, that awful precise pattern . . .
And of course, Astarion is whole and hale. There are no tendril scars on his body, and trust Leto would know. But . . .
Larval worm, he thinks, and feels himself grow cold.]
Astarion . . .?
[It's gentle. Tentative, because he does not want to tread too firmly on something he doesn't yet understand. And it makes no sense, for when even would such a thing have happened? But perhaps it wasn't to him. Perhaps it was some companion, some potential prey or another spawn . . . but there must have been something. He knows Astarion well enough to know that, at least.]
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All those souls across the years that couldn't manage to tell I was never actually smiling. Sat right in front of their damned faces the whole time.
[Across sending stones and crystals, Leto makes them all fools. Dead ones of course. Naive, peerlesly spoiled, deeply carefree fools, lost to the open jaws of Cazador Szarr and the stained edge of his once-far-less-pitch-dark dining table— but still. As far as victories go: it counts.]
You're the only one aside from Cazador himself who's ever seen right through me.
—Such a pain, you know that?
[Warm. Appreciatively cast, no matter how falsely scolding. Tailing sigh a little more meandering, though he can't pluck up much more in the way of time without confessing anyway: Leto will spot a silent admission just as keenly with that tirelessly attuned nose regardless.
Might as well make it plain.]
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[It in context being damningly self explanatory. Add to it: his tone. Add to it: his evasion. Add to it: the fact that this whole time they've been discussing Ilithid-borne kidnappings, and now all he's mentioning are dreams. Old, old displacements.]
Part and parcel when it comes to traversing the Fade, or— something like that, anyway. [Simple enough theory, really:] Fall asleep, have a nightmare or two, wake up on the other side of all the Realms themselves just like any other misplaced Rifter. It made a great deal of sense.
Coincidentally, I also don't think I ever really believed it. [Lying to oneself is an art; Astarion's only ever been half-good at it.]
Looking back, I suppose I probably just preferred the story that way. It felt better. Cleaner overall— not to mention so much easier to explain: Thedas was the one who stole me from my master. Thedas decided to imprison me. And it was Thedas that gave me a home, a life— you.
[A tepid beat, like bartering for breath he doesn't need.]
That part in particular, I always liked.
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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.]
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I know you would.
[Again: warm. Again, it's that bruised quality that's more tender than guarding. Something that swears even in its clumsiness I know you would, and I'm grateful for it— but the rub is that even with all their secrets shared, he's still not used to this sort of vulnerability. He might never be, not in any way that lets him make this a clean transition. One without stop-start faults where anyone listening in could clearly hear every moment where he has to spur himself into giving Leto the truth, bit by scattered bit.
Which is different than fear or pain, for whatever it's worth.]
I was hunting for Cazador when it happened— I can remember that much. [A beat, his lips a little too dry to go without licking them.] The rest was....just a nightmare.
When they imprison you, after the torture of implantation, they have to keep tabs, you see. So there's this glass— [He's trying with his hand to convey the barrier itself in order to find the word, but it doesn't really come, and honestly doesn't really matter, either.] thing. A pod— and they leave you there in it awaiting your inevitable fate, feeling that hellish little death sentence squirming behind your eye. Watching them do the same, turning willful creature after willful creature into a mindless slave or a waiting monster.
—and then, out of nowhere, their ship crashed. I was free. Alive. [A scoff.] Albeit temporarily.
Thedas put that right.
[And again: he owes that world too much to truly ever resent whatever ugliness it held. Even words like knife-ear or rattus only ever stung once he'd been there long enough to dull old dread.]
But then Thedas had the idea of very briefly letting my path cross with a man who swore he knew who I was, and seemed distraught that the same wasn't true in turn.
He told me he had one, too. A tadpole. That we'd met after the crash, our goals aligned in freeing ourselves from its grip. Like most Rifters, he soon vanished after that. But afterwards I knew I couldn't keep pretending that it was just one long, protracted nightmare tailing my master's routine commands, and preceding my arrival here.
[Tsk.]
Anyway, to keep it simple: two rules, my love.
Never open the door at night when I'm not there to keep you safe. And two— you stay far the Hells away from those tentacled beasts and their ilk.
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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.]
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It's not a choice, and isn't an argument to be debated— it's not even a request, no matter that the end result is obviously only so much in Astarion's own power to control. But rational thought means acknowledging that there's a chance it might play out for the worst despite the best of their efforts....and he can't. He just can't. (He's too bloody old, too tired, too weary of loss and too rife with scar tissue that never wanes in all its aches, though he never knows which is worse: the hideous marks he's been left with, or all the thousands more that'll never even show.)
But he knows there are other things on the table right now.
Related and distracting, and difficult to swallow. His red eyes flicking upwards somewhere across the line, unseen. Fixing on that glassy set of frosted lines drawn into the marrow of their coffin lid.]
It wouldn't be unthinkable....
[His voice sounds settled now. Even. Life for the average soul in Toril behind city walls is— largely— peaceful. Calm. Say what you will about roaming monsters and unthinkable terrors, but despite endless stories of heroism or horror there aren't whole portions of the civilized world being plunged into chaos at any given moment. No, it's the little dreads that accumulate when one least expects it: the odd shadow wandering at your back, the wolfish show of teeth after a not-so-distant catcall, the cold brush of clawed fingers at your neck. The microcosm rather than a macrocosmic nightmare.
So yes, those monsters have a high likelihood of returning— but not specifically for him. They'd have no way to track him, after all. Not with the tadpole already having vanished from his skull.
(....or at least he hopes not.)]
They were a threat once before, there's no reason to think I might not trip over one again if fate decides to be unkind.
[A beat.]
Still, I roamed these streets unbothered for two hundred years. My ancestors for centuries before that. If I had to choose my worries, believe me, that'd be on the lower rung. Somewhere between serving the wrong wine for dinner, and having Corypheus turn up on our bakery doorstep.
[These things don't just happen, is the point.]
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He glances around. It's a nice day, or at least it was. What had been bright and inviting suddenly seems wrong: too bright, too sunny, too raw. He has never been an elf comfortable in nature, and though he knows full well Astarion was snatched from the city streets, still, some part of him aches to be nestled safe among buildings and people.
Or maybe it's not about being safe. Maybe it's about having Astarion somewhere where he can see him: safely tucked away in their home, with Leto and his sword standing between him and the doorway. Him and all of Toril, with its vampiric lords and strange tentacled creatures and gods that walk among men . . . it's not that it's so much worse than Thedas. Frankly, it's still better than Thedas, if for no other reason than Leto had walked out of the city boundaries without being followed or asked sneering questions. But so much is strange and different here, and that brings its own form of homesickness.
Anyway.]
Were you ever going to tell me if I hadn't asked?
[It's a real question, not an accusation. He understands tucking away painful memories; gods know there are a few he hasn't mentioned to Astarion yet, simply because they're too awful to talk about. But he wonders.]
About your own experience, or that Rifter . . . what was his name?
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[Fumbling aside, that part's surrendered (relatively) easily, at least. And he rides his initial spark-quick response like a segue, letting it carry him from one beat to the next without rising up for air:]
But my kadan. When it comes to you?
I've learned everything comes out in the wash eventually, no matter how I fight to keep it tucked well away in hand. [So deflective, his candor in that moment. Playfully deflective, that is, in a way that smacks of habit— the sort old enough to have lost nearly all relevance one year after having fallen recklessly in love.]
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Regardless of how frigidly unsettling it feels.]
....yes....I think I might've. Probably.
Although I'm not sure when. [Don't misread him:] It wasn't anything I wanted to consider again, you understand.
There aren't a thousand skeletons hiding in my— well, figuratively speaking, I suppose there are after all these years. But I'm not keeping anything from you, if that scares you.
[This banter isn't about survival or currying favor; Hells, he knows he doesn't need to grovel or whimper the way he'd done with Cazador or even Riftwatch's own collective, guarding the safety of his fragile belly at all times.
Even so, it's like an itch he can't scratch.
A cruel, barbed touch pulls at the edges of his mind until he's sinking one canine down against the corner of his lip, whittling shallowly at his own skin.]
Which it doesn't.
[Of course it doesn't.]
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No. No, Astarion—
[The answer comes so swiftly that he almost sounds harsh, which is the last thing he wants. It's just that he can hear that vulnerable little note in Astarion's voice, and gods know he can picture the face that goes with it. The uncertain flicker of his eyes, followed by the doeish stare that begs for sincerity and love in equal shares . . . oh, amatus. His footsteps are hurried now, wandering off the beaten path so he can settle himself beneath the shelter of a large tree— all the better to focus on what matters.]
Kadan. [Softer. Soothing. Safe.] There is a difference between things that are kept away out of malicious intent or guilt, and things that are too difficult to talk about until they come up. This was the latter, not the former. And I do not fear the former, not from you. Not ever.
[Leto closes his eyes, tipping his head back to thump gently against the trunk.]
There are things in my past I have not told you. Things that fit that category. Not secrets, but . . .
[But it's hard. But there are things that haunt them both, and things that are too hard to admit to, even when it's dark and quiet.]
I trust you, Astarion. I asked only because I know what it is to not want to think of such things . . . and because I did not expect the admission. It frightens me, but only ever for your sake. I . . .
[Mm.]
It is hard, even now, not to think like a warrior and a bodyguard. I suspect I always will. It is why I seek to know all that I can learn of vampires and how to defeat them— and it is why this took me aback, for it is not a threat I have ever had to factor in before.
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Of course he doesn't need a reminder to know that Leto isn't anything like Cazador or his coven— not like his spawn or his family, not even his suitors or his endless, wretched lackeys. It's just that he thrives on it, that potent reiteration. Each time the past is proven fallible, one more rung is plucked from the impenetrable weave of his former master's armor. It's not the same, and the world he knew before grows smaller, shrinks back into the cage it really was. It's not the same, and he doesn't know if it's the wonder of this rare, impossible creature rushing to settle down across the line, or if there's the potential out there for more— more discovery, more newness, more—
Ah. No.
No, he knows better than to open that particular door. One and a half years spent in Riftwatch, fluttering between Orlais, Kirkwall, Antiva, Nevarra, Tevinter: he knows what people are like. And there's only one exception to the rule.
Oh, kadan indeed.]
I don't know how to be much more than a liar and a whore— [Bright again. A pleasant lilt along the line. They are what they are; that's fine.] Albeit a fanged and clawed one.
You might've picked the wrong creature to safeguard.
....are you sure you're any good at this?
[Thank you, he means. Thank you, darling. Even if the words don't come, and his head is reeling and his deadened heart shudders in its moorings for the thought he understands what it is to bury what you can't stand, rather than hold it to the light.
For the odd fragility of a protector who still tries to keep him safe.
And has secrets of his own.
(Give him a second to breathe, Leto. Let him pretend to be alive— laugh with him, a liar and a whore— and he'll come around to helping you dig through the dirt.)]
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You're still alive, are you no— ah . . . well, you may have a point there.
[You know, because he's a vampire? Undead? Get it? Ah, humor.
And they linger there for a time. Catching one another up on their respective days (or nights), little incidents and jokes offered up easy as anything. It's gentle, and as much a way to move on from the emotion of that moment as it is simple exchange.
But eventually, they quiet down. And Leto murmurs:
I'm glad you asked. About if I was worried or distrusted you . . .
I am glad to confirm the opposite. And I am glad, too, you trust me enough to ask.
[Admittedly, he says it a bit stiltedly. Emotions are hard, and articulating them harder still. But he is glad Astarion asked, for no other reason than to assure him.]
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He can wear his flaws without immediately rolling over onto his belly now that the storm of ancient uncertainty's passed. He's glad, too. And grateful— even if he hasn't said it yet (they're both trying their level best, and Leto's tone is proof enough of that).
Although the broader spectrum of that also means admitting:]
Not five minutes later and already I want to ask about everything you've got tucked away inside that lovely little skull of yours. [Painful secrets, unsightly memories, old, shut up nightmares. Every impulse. Every fear. Every last shuttered hope.
How's that for fairness, hmm?]
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He's quiet for a time. Not ignoring Astarion, but simply letting his mind cast back. Things that he's pushed away in the past, silently marking them for later. Later: the ghost of his mother rising in the back of his mind, ignored for a time when they weren't laughing softly in bed, giddily hushing one another as guards walked by. Later: a shopkeep who echoes an old saying that Danarius had loved, the connection saved for when they weren't in public. Later: a woman he'd passed this morning with black hair and blue eyes who stared at him so boldly . . .]
I have not told you much of Hadriana, have I?
[No, he hasn't.]
She used to delight in collaring me and chaining me to the wall. Sometimes there would be no chain, and it would simply be my neck and hands bolted to the wall. Typically she would put my food just out of reach and watch as I crawled for it, but . . .
[Mmph. This does not compare to being kidnapped by tentacled monsters. It does not compare, even, to the horror of living for two centuries as whorish bait. I do better on my back than my feet, and it's been over a year, but still Leto thinks of Astarion's face as he had said it. The way it so deliberately wasn't gaunt or grim, a bright mask put on so naturally you almost couldn't see the seams.
But they have never played the game of who had it worse.]
Danarius was not the only person who bedded me.
She would . . . I do not know if it was meant to humiliate or if she was lustful, but it barely mattered. She would . . . there were times she would take me along on one of her illict trysts, and take pleasure in rutting where I could not help but hear. And other times, when she had me chained and gagged, she would ride me. Over and over, using her magic on me as she did. Amplifying the sensation, or using elemental magic . . .
[And it is what it is. And anyway, the bitch is dead. And anyway, it's nothing. Danarius had done the same thing with his magic, and that happened far more often. Leto shrugs sharply.]
It was only a few times. She did not have me alone often. Apprentices don't get such toys.
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