[They both know the answer, but Leto writes it anyway, for it's important. Important to answer the question so no fear can form; important because sometimes things need to be said more than once, not because there is any doubt— but because Astarion deserves to hear it.]
No less than you might think of me for being relieved just now, for I care so much less about what fates those unlucky wretches suffered so long as it was not turned upon you.
If I thought anything at all, [his words coming more slowly now, thought given to each one,] it would be only that you have grown since last we broached this kind of conversation— and that you could see the truth of the matter instead of the lies we have been fed all our life.
Their fates do not rest on your shoulders. Their pain is not your fault. And recognizing the cruelty and sadism that he terrified his slaves with does not make it your sin to bear.
And it does not make you a bad person to feel that way.
I simply, [a pause,] I would not see you start down the path of championing every wretched soul's plight as your own, for I have seen how that ends.
[And that's his own fears, he knows. Astarion has never been a noble martyr, and gods, he is so far from Anders that it's night and day. But still, the scars linger and ache— and just as Astarion asked that question while knowing the answer, so too does Leto say that, knowing full well the truth of the matter.]
It was, from the very beginning, a ghost. Visible and hunting every barefooted step forwards. Every footfall.]
You're in no danger of that. [Astarion pens for the same reason that No had been the leading line in Leto's own response, well ahead of everything else. Old fears never die, after all. They only shrink back and recede, packing themselves into unlit corners for about as long as it takes to be forgotten for a time, hibernating throughout every glancing mention. But when their name is called— well— the image of something feeble and thoroughly conquered proves itself nothing but a joke in the end.]
I risked my neck freeing a pack of them once. Slaves from your world. Guiding them away from an occupied city in Orlais, taken over by Tevinter. When the dust settled, I was their sole contact. They looked to me to be the one to draw them to more work or
I don't know. Another master, maybe? They had nothing. No one. It gnawed at me.
I wanted justice.
When morning came and the dust settled, I contacted one of Riftwatch's agents in the Free Marches, and washed my hands of the whole thing. [If he turns his own thoughts briefly to Shirallas, or the idea of closeness and consequence therein defined, he writes nothing of it.]
I've grown softer than I was. I tempt myself from time to time with thoughts of heroism for coin, or for the sport of following in your stride because I love the creature that you are, no matter how absurd those principles might seem to me in those seconds when I coil from the light.
But rest assured, my darling, I am selfish.
I will never care so much about the world to destroy everything in its name.
[What a strange thing: that he is glad both of the assurance of selfishness and that reminder of his lover's soft streak. Not Anders' fanaticism, a determination to break the world for the sake of his beliefs, but something smaller. Gentler. Something arguably more impactful: I contacted one of Riftwatch's agents, Astarion says, and that is worlds away from I fled in the middle of the night, leaving them alone and helpless.
Still: he is more relieved by that assurance. I am selfish, and here and now, it's as sweet a declaration as I love you.]
Just yours, always.
[An echo and an assurance both. And then, just beneath that:]
Thank you.
[For saying it. For assuring him. For promising that there is no revelation to come; for swearing that he will not destroy the family they have made for the sake of something larger. For being who he is, dark and light both— and so to that end:]
I love you— I like you— as you are. Softened and yet selfish. Sweet, in your own way, but not overly sentimental, nor a bleeding heart. Dabbling in light without being blinded by it.
And when our business is done in Baldur's Gate, I would gladly set out at your side for coin and heroism both, freeing slaves or rescuing kidnapped souls. I would like that a great deal, I think. Heroism suits you. You certainly wear it well.
[But though a part of Leto wants to linger, to what end? It will do neither of them good to grow too mired in the past, for it's never easy when they're apart, and thinking too much will only make it worse. So though he lets those words sit there for a small time, he soon adds:]
Though I cannot count decisiveness among your many virtues. All this, and you have yet to tell me your answer.
[For that hypothetical, he means. His words gentle, not boisterous; it's a transition, and he is clumsy at those, but he's trying.]
But I will allow you changing your answer to Abarm. And I will let you pick "kill" for all three, if you so wish— so long as you are inventive in how you would accomplish it.
[It isn't heard, but he laughs, then. Strong and clear, and in his own voice, no less.]
Oh please, I'm no coward.
Fuck Abarm for the obvious reasons. [No thank you to fucking either of their masters, thank you very much.] Kill Cazador, marry Danarius because the man is far, far from immortal and once his body lies yet again in tatters across the floor of a tavern owing to the violent efforts of a once-crossed bodyguard, I'll find myself free yet again.
Swooning in the arms of said bodyguard being an optional component.
On the contrary: it isn't optional in the least. And though I relish the thought of rescuing you, I will not deny part of me is sorely disappointed not to be able to watch you rip the throat out of Danarius.
Though seeing you do it to Cazador will more than make up for it, I think.
[Happy thoughts, and he lingers there for a few moments, relishing the imagined gore. But hmm . . . he does rather like this game of back and forth, but while he tries to come up with a good hypothetical . . .]
Tell me: do you have any artistic merit? Was that part of your upbringing too?
[Like, this isn't the most dignified challenge he's ever come up with, but also: after a certain point you stop caring about dignity when it comes to your beloved.]
[On the paper there comes a rudimentary collection of lines and penned-in curves, forming the look of what must— probably— sort of....ly?— undoubtedly be a representation of a cock.
Leto's cock.
Embellished with lyrium (?) tattoos that definitely don't exist there in reality.]
I still refusing piercings anywhere near my cock. It needs no oomph.
[But fine, fine, he'll give it a go. And it's worth mentioning that this is a drawing that goes through several, if not revisions, at least attempts at it: an invisible finger smudging out what first begins as an incredibly pointy cock, and ends up with . . .]
[There were a few revision attempts mid-process, which, alas, does not turn out well when one is working with ink. Thus the artist learns.]
[It's majestic. A testament to who they are. What they stand for. If there was a symbol of their love, enduring, this would be it. Their coat of arms. Their eternal hallmark.
Their— ]
Well. That was easy.
What do I get for winning?
[Excuse you, Astarion, art is fucking subjective.]
and you are allowed on the slight of technicalities— though I notice you call the man you love— your future husband, no less— a slur over a matter of drawn cocks
Aren't you meant to be the older, more mature one?
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[They both know the answer, but Leto writes it anyway, for it's important. Important to answer the question so no fear can form; important because sometimes things need to be said more than once, not because there is any doubt— but because Astarion deserves to hear it.]
No less than you might think of me for being relieved just now, for I care so much less about what fates those unlucky wretches suffered so long as it was not turned upon you.
If I thought anything at all, [his words coming more slowly now, thought given to each one,] it would be only that you have grown since last we broached this kind of conversation— and that you could see the truth of the matter instead of the lies we have been fed all our life.
Their fates do not rest on your shoulders. Their pain is not your fault. And recognizing the cruelty and sadism that he terrified his slaves with does not make it your sin to bear.
And it does not make you a bad person to feel that way.
I simply, [a pause,] I would not see you start down the path of championing every wretched soul's plight as your own, for I have seen how that ends.
[And that's his own fears, he knows. Astarion has never been a noble martyr, and gods, he is so far from Anders that it's night and day. But still, the scars linger and ache— and just as Astarion asked that question while knowing the answer, so too does Leto say that, knowing full well the truth of the matter.]
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It was, from the very beginning, a ghost. Visible and hunting every barefooted step forwards. Every footfall.]
You're in no danger of that. [Astarion pens for the same reason that No had been the leading line in Leto's own response, well ahead of everything else. Old fears never die, after all. They only shrink back and recede, packing themselves into unlit corners for about as long as it takes to be forgotten for a time, hibernating throughout every glancing mention. But when their name is called— well— the image of something feeble and thoroughly conquered proves itself nothing but a joke in the end.]
I risked my neck freeing a pack of them once. Slaves from your world. Guiding them away from an occupied city in Orlais, taken over by Tevinter. When the dust settled, I was their sole contact. They looked to me to be the one to draw them to more work or
I don't know. Another master, maybe? They had nothing. No one. It gnawed at me.
I wanted justice.
When morning came and the dust settled, I contacted one of Riftwatch's agents in the Free Marches, and washed my hands of the whole thing. [If he turns his own thoughts briefly to Shirallas, or the idea of closeness and consequence therein defined, he writes nothing of it.]
I've grown softer than I was. I tempt myself from time to time with thoughts of heroism for coin, or for the sport of following in your stride because I love the creature that you are, no matter how absurd those principles might seem to me in those seconds when I coil from the light.
But rest assured, my darling, I am selfish.
I will never care so much about the world to destroy everything in its name.
Just yours.
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Still: he is more relieved by that assurance. I am selfish, and here and now, it's as sweet a declaration as I love you.]
Just yours, always.
[An echo and an assurance both. And then, just beneath that:]
Thank you.
[For saying it. For assuring him. For promising that there is no revelation to come; for swearing that he will not destroy the family they have made for the sake of something larger. For being who he is, dark and light both— and so to that end:]
I love you— I like you— as you are. Softened and yet selfish. Sweet, in your own way, but not overly sentimental, nor a bleeding heart. Dabbling in light without being blinded by it.
And when our business is done in Baldur's Gate, I would gladly set out at your side for coin and heroism both, freeing slaves or rescuing kidnapped souls. I would like that a great deal, I think. Heroism suits you. You certainly wear it well.
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Though I cannot count decisiveness among your many virtues. All this, and you have yet to tell me your answer.
[For that hypothetical, he means. His words gentle, not boisterous; it's a transition, and he is clumsy at those, but he's trying.]
But I will allow you changing your answer to Abarm. And I will let you pick "kill" for all three, if you so wish— so long as you are inventive in how you would accomplish it.
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Oh please, I'm no coward.
Fuck Abarm for the obvious reasons. [No thank you to fucking either of their masters, thank you very much.] Kill Cazador, marry Danarius because the man is far, far from immortal and once his body lies yet again in tatters across the floor of a tavern owing to the violent efforts of a once-crossed bodyguard, I'll find myself free yet again.
Swooning in the arms of said bodyguard being an optional component.
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Though seeing you do it to Cazador will more than make up for it, I think.
[Happy thoughts, and he lingers there for a few moments, relishing the imagined gore. But hmm . . . he does rather like this game of back and forth, but while he tries to come up with a good hypothetical . . .]
Tell me: do you have any artistic merit? Was that part of your upbringing too?
It's relevant.
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well
what I've drawn in here. At you. For you. Why?
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[Like, this isn't the most dignified challenge he's ever come up with, but also: after a certain point you stop caring about dignity when it comes to your beloved.]
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Ah
no.
[Eloquent.]
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[On the paper there comes a rudimentary collection of lines and penned-in curves, forming the look of what must— probably— sort of....ly?— undoubtedly be a representation of a cock.
Leto's cock.
Embellished with lyrium (?) tattoos that definitely don't exist there in reality.]
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I see. And that is your attempt, is it?
A few points of clarification:
1) Are those scars and piercings?
2) Is that meant to be come?
3) Do you remember that most people, myself included, have two balls?
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2: obviously
3: there ARE two. it's the paper making them look as though there isn't
Let's see you do so much better
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So that's meant to be me, then.
Me in a world in which my cock is tattooed.
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Is it that you do not recall what my cock looks like, or . . .?
It's just that there are subtler ways to tell me that you've missed me.
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Besides, I just thought I'd spruce up the poor thing. Give it a little extra oomph as they say.
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[But fine, fine, he'll give it a go. And it's worth mentioning that this is a drawing that goes through several, if not revisions, at least attempts at it: an invisible finger smudging out what first begins as an incredibly pointy cock, and ends up with . . .]
[There were a few revision attempts mid-process, which, alas, does not turn out well when one is working with ink. Thus the artist learns.]
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Their— ]
Well. That was easy.
What do I get for winning?
[Excuse you, Astarion, art is fucking subjective.]
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Yours looks asNo one won here today. Gods help either of us if our pricks looked like either of these.
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But mine at least has two balls.
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Mine has embellishment. And come.
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[They'll get back to the matter of dicks in a minute.]
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Don't tell me you're precious about it.
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[In other words: no, not at all.]
and you are allowed on the slight of technicalities— though I notice you call the man you love— your future husband, no less— a slur over a matter of drawn cocks
Aren't you meant to be the older, more mature one?
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voice;
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