[That, first and foremost, written back quickly enough his already jagged handwriting becomes even more of a scrawl. It's a fierce promise, undercut only by the fact that they both know he had never intended to leave the first time, either.]
Count down the hours. And get ready. I will write to you when I am outside the city limits, and you will have an hour to pick a bottle of wine and get yourself ready for me.
Count on it.
[But, ah . . .]
. . . on that note: I would ask a favor from you when I return.
I wish to seek out Varania. It will not be easy, and I imagine my duties to Riftwatch will make it all the harder. I do not even know where to begin.
It is not something you need to help me with, if you do not wish to. But I would have answers from her one way or another, and I would not undertake such a task without informing you first.
[It's a smart idea. Objectively speaking, there's a great deal of merit behind the notion of hunting down a viper in its lair long before it seeks out yours. It's what Astarion would do for most potential threats, in fact—
But that doesn't mean he likes seeing it there on the page.]
No.
[And like a word said too quickly, he's written it down too fast.
It takes longer for the rest to follow, albeit in a steadier hand.]
I'll go with you.
[And then the dot of a pen pressed to the page— lifted just as quickly so it doesn't blot. A moment later the spot widens. Just a little.]
You're going to need someone smarter than you at your side if you're digging into Tevinter and all its current nonsense.
Edited (shh I'm not tired at all) 2022-05-21 02:58 (UTC)
[Oh, he's teasing. It's easier to jest than to admit to the quiet, fierce adoration that had just washed over him. Not a shock, not really, not when Astarion has proven his loyalty time and again— but a suffusing of love, then. A reminder that he need not beg, borrow, or steal for Astarion to aid him; he need only say the word.
How strange, for a man who is so used to doing everything alone.]
Thank you.
[A beat, and then he underlines it.]
Truthfully, I do not know where to begin. She may be within Tevinter; she may have fled. We wrote to one another for months before her betrayal, and I do not believe all of it was a lie. She is not stupid. Indeed: she is terribly practical.
[And what is love or familial loyalty to the potential for growth? Ruthlessly clever, and yet again not clever enough to see that Danarius would have made her apprentice only to use and abuse her.]
She may be dead. And my memory loss may have nothing to do with her.
[A long pause, and then, carefully:]
And if it does not, I do not want to kill her.
[He says it so that they both know. So that if he feels his rage rise and his lyrium howls in his veins, he will balk at least for a moment, knowing that he had told Astarion differently.]
[He laughs first, on his own end of things. Sharp and quick, nose crinkling as he stares down at the open book laid out in his lap. Despite everything, there's that.
It doesn't last long enough.]
It'll take time.
[That much, Astarion knows already. Barring luck or chance or simply the misfortune of her hunting her once-brother, it's unlikely she'll turn up on their doorstep in any way that'll work in their favor on a shorter timeline.]
I know an esteemed Tevinter merchant, though. A sadistic creature with a love of all things cruel— but he favors me, and he doesn't know I'm part of Riftwatch.
I could reach out to him. The man thinks I belong to an Altus, and one elf asking after another wouldn't be so odd, I imagine.
...still, whether or not he decides to lend me any sort of aid will be anyone's guess.
[They can cross that bridge when they come to it.
Which leads him to the next topic. Something that comes tacked on after a lengthy pause, nearing the bottom of the page:]
Even if she isn't responsible, she's still a danger to you, Leto.
[There's a significant pause. A hesitation, as Leto stares down at his notebook by the light of the fire and tries not to say something stupid. Distantly he appreciates that offer for what it is: a risk, and a generous one. By all rights Astarion ought not to use such a connection for Leto's sake; certainly he oughtn't to bother even a Tevene merchant, if he's so sadistic; such a creature can only ever be dangerous, and used only when necessary. And yet Leto will not offend Astarion by refusing it.
But ah . . . his eyes linger on that bit about Varania.]
I know.
[He knows. And he wishes it wasn't true. And he knows it does not matter what he wishes, not really. It doesn't matter if there is some small part of him (the bit, truly, that is Leto, sixteen and brash and brave; Leto who held a small hand in his own and guided her through Minrathous' busy markets, who furiously hushed his sister the first time she showed him how she could mend a blister on his palm, who used to play giddily with her while their mother scrubbed at marble floors) that wants things to be right. Varania made her choice long ago, and an aching heart won't change a damn thing.]
But she is my sister. And that is not a good reason to keep her alive, but still, it is why I spared her life in the first place.
If she is responsible for my memory loss, so be it. I will treat her as I would any other guilty party.
But I made my choice long ago, in the Hanged Man when I killed Danarius. I will not renege on it now.
You need not tell me how foolish I am being by saying so. I am well aware.
[Yes, there is a part of him driven to call it foolish. Pointless. Reckless. It was Leto's memory that'd been lost, yes, but it was Astarion who lost him— in the snap-turn rush of his rabbiting mind (predictive from two hundred years of mind games and manipulation of the cruelest caliber), all he can think of is what if.
What if she lies.
What if they meet, and she survives, and in knowing where Leto is, devises the sharpest trap imaginable.
What if she's planned for this inevitability; what if her allies run thicker than their collective caution. Smart and resourceful in Leto's retelling, there is such a danger to her having the upper hand when they already hold so little.]
▇▇▇
[He tries again. Scribbles on the page all too quickly scratched out.]
If she swears she isn't responsible. If you let her go
it'll be your choice.
[The pen nib hangs there, clinging to the end of that sentence. Choice. How can he possibly take away something so indescribably important to both of them?
How can he sit idle and watch the man he loves skirt along the edge of ruin?
Neither option satisfies.]
▇▇▇▇▇▇
I can't lose you again.
So when we find her, be damned well certain she tells you the truth, this time.
[That's enough. That's more than enough. He can only take so much of this on his own in an otherwise quiet mansion, the sound of his pen scratching away louder than it should be.]
And when you come home in a day or two, you bring the wine.
I can only shoulder so much heavy lifting on your behalf, no matter how pretty you are.
[Choice. Yes, it is his choice, and he appreciates that recognition now of all times. He can feel Astarion's hesitation, those ink blots saying more than paragraphs of explanations ever would— and that's fine. Astarion is right to be wary; he's right, even, to think Fenris a fool for staying his blade instead of ending a potential threat the moment he sees it.
But Varania is his sister. And she will always be that, no matter what. And perhaps Fenris has lost too much to willingly lose something else, even at his own hand. Especially at his own hand.
In any case: Astarion moves them along and Leto goes along with it willingly, for what else is there to say?]
Lazy thing, there is wine in the cellar. You need only go down a set of stairs to fetch it.
[And yet he will buy a bottle before he comes home tomorrow. Such is the form his affection takes; Astarion is going to be so terribly spoiled before half a year is up. And oh, this has nothing to do with anything, save for the fact he's been curious about it, and it's as good a time as any to bring it up.]
How long have you been studying Tevene and Qunlat?
I've lost my taste for your collection.[Untrue, he's going to drink another bottle from it in an hour or so— but Leto doesn't need to know that.]
It all reminds me of being on my own, now.
[Astarion, it's been one day.]
Anyway, since that night after the Crossroads, to answer your question. The one where you taught me a little of both. The roles they played in your life.
What they mean to you.
And while it actively pains me to admit I'm not exactly flawless at any of it just yet, I'll get there eventually.
You are nasal when it comes to Qunlat. And your verb conjugation is nonexistent. You are better in Tevene, but we will see when you begin to learn proper sentences.
And I love you very much for learning them. For even bothering to try. And I do not expect you to continue, not if it is too arduous a task. It is enough that you learned enough to surprise me with it.
Do not whine when I bring home a white wine. You brought this on yourself.
[And of course Astarion does. And of course Leto retorts, threatening to bring him home watered down juice and little else if he's going to be a brat. And of course it goes on and on, until at last his fire dies down and he has to write by the light of the moon— and even then, he only ceases when he finds himself falling asleep mid-sentence. But it's a soothing thing, to wake up and see the words from last night still there. He feels the weight of them as he catches his bounty; as he makes his way home, blood on his hands and proof in his pocket, and buys two bottles of wine before heading home.
One shatters when Astarion leaps upon him the moment he gets into the door, but that's all right too.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
2/2
no subject
[That, first and foremost, written back quickly enough his already jagged handwriting becomes even more of a scrawl. It's a fierce promise, undercut only by the fact that they both know he had never intended to leave the first time, either.]
Count down the hours. And get ready. I will write to you when I am outside the city limits, and you will have an hour to pick a bottle of wine and get yourself ready for me.
Count on it.
[But, ah . . .]
. . . on that note: I would ask a favor from you when I return.
I wish to seek out Varania. It will not be easy, and I imagine my duties to Riftwatch will make it all the harder. I do not even know where to begin.
It is not something you need to help me with, if you do not wish to. But I would have answers from her one way or another, and I would not undertake such a task without informing you first.
no subject
But that doesn't mean he likes seeing it there on the page.]
No.
[And like a word said too quickly, he's written it down too fast.
It takes longer for the rest to follow, albeit in a steadier hand.]
I'll go with you.
[And then the dot of a pen pressed to the page— lifted just as quickly so it doesn't blot. A moment later the spot widens. Just a little.]
You're going to need someone smarter than you at your side if you're digging into Tevinter and all its current nonsense.
no subject
[Oh, he's teasing. It's easier to jest than to admit to the quiet, fierce adoration that had just washed over him. Not a shock, not really, not when Astarion has proven his loyalty time and again— but a suffusing of love, then. A reminder that he need not beg, borrow, or steal for Astarion to aid him; he need only say the word.
How strange, for a man who is so used to doing everything alone.]
Thank you.
[A beat, and then he underlines it.]
Truthfully, I do not know where to begin. She may be within Tevinter; she may have fled. We wrote to one another for months before her betrayal, and I do not believe all of it was a lie. She is not stupid. Indeed: she is terribly practical.
[And what is love or familial loyalty to the potential for growth? Ruthlessly clever, and yet again not clever enough to see that Danarius would have made her apprentice only to use and abuse her.]
She may be dead. And my memory loss may have nothing to do with her.
[A long pause, and then, carefully:]
And if it does not, I do not want to kill her.
[He says it so that they both know. So that if he feels his rage rise and his lyrium howls in his veins, he will balk at least for a moment, knowing that he had told Astarion differently.]
no subject
It doesn't last long enough.]
It'll take time.
[That much, Astarion knows already. Barring luck or chance or simply the misfortune of her hunting her once-brother, it's unlikely she'll turn up on their doorstep in any way that'll work in their favor on a shorter timeline.]
I know an esteemed Tevinter merchant, though. A sadistic creature with a love of all things cruel— but he favors me, and he doesn't know I'm part of Riftwatch.
I could reach out to him. The man thinks I belong to an Altus, and one elf asking after another wouldn't be so odd, I imagine.
...still, whether or not he decides to lend me any sort of aid will be anyone's guess.
[They can cross that bridge when they come to it.
Which leads him to the next topic. Something that comes tacked on after a lengthy pause, nearing the bottom of the page:]
Even if she isn't responsible, she's still a danger to you, Leto.
no subject
But ah . . . his eyes linger on that bit about Varania.]
I know.
[He knows. And he wishes it wasn't true. And he knows it does not matter what he wishes, not really. It doesn't matter if there is some small part of him (the bit, truly, that is Leto, sixteen and brash and brave; Leto who held a small hand in his own and guided her through Minrathous' busy markets, who furiously hushed his sister the first time she showed him how she could mend a blister on his palm, who used to play giddily with her while their mother scrubbed at marble floors) that wants things to be right. Varania made her choice long ago, and an aching heart won't change a damn thing.]
But she is my sister. And that is not a good reason to keep her alive, but still, it is why I spared her life in the first place.
If she is responsible for my memory loss, so be it. I will treat her as I would any other guilty party.
But I made my choice long ago, in the Hanged Man when I killed Danarius. I will not renege on it now.
You need not tell me how foolish I am being by saying so. I am well aware.
no subject
[Yes, there is a part of him driven to call it foolish. Pointless. Reckless. It was Leto's memory that'd been lost, yes, but it was Astarion who lost him— in the snap-turn rush of his rabbiting mind (predictive from two hundred years of mind games and manipulation of the cruelest caliber), all he can think of is what if.
What if she lies.
What if they meet, and she survives, and in knowing where Leto is, devises the sharpest trap imaginable.
What if she's planned for this inevitability; what if her allies run thicker than their collective caution. Smart and resourceful in Leto's retelling, there is such a danger to her having the upper hand when they already hold so little.]
▇▇▇
[He tries again. Scribbles on the page all too quickly scratched out.]
If she swears she isn't responsible. If you let her go
it'll be your choice.
[The pen nib hangs there, clinging to the end of that sentence. Choice. How can he possibly take away something so indescribably important to both of them?
How can he sit idle and watch the man he loves skirt along the edge of ruin?
Neither option satisfies.]
▇▇▇▇▇▇
I can't lose you again.
So when we find her, be damned well certain she tells you the truth, this time.
2/2
And when you come home in a day or two, you bring the wine.
I can only shoulder so much heavy lifting on your behalf, no matter how pretty you are.
no subject
But Varania is his sister. And she will always be that, no matter what. And perhaps Fenris has lost too much to willingly lose something else, even at his own hand. Especially at his own hand.
In any case: Astarion moves them along and Leto goes along with it willingly, for what else is there to say?]
Lazy thing, there is wine in the cellar. You need only go down a set of stairs to fetch it.
[And yet he will buy a bottle before he comes home tomorrow. Such is the form his affection takes; Astarion is going to be so terribly spoiled before half a year is up. And oh, this has nothing to do with anything, save for the fact he's been curious about it, and it's as good a time as any to bring it up.]
How long have you been studying Tevene and Qunlat?
no subject
Fussy thing, too.]
I've lost my taste for your collection.[Untrue, he's going to drink another bottle from it in an hour or so— but Leto doesn't need to know that.]
It all reminds me of being on my own, now.
[Astarion, it's been one day.]
Anyway, since that night after the Crossroads, to answer your question. The one where you taught me a little of both. The roles they played in your life.
What they mean to you.
And while it actively pains me to admit I'm not exactly flawless at any of it just yet, I'll get there eventually.
[A solid beat, just before:]
Why? Impressed by my talents already?
no subject
And I love you very much for learning them. For even bothering to try. And I do not expect you to continue, not if it is too arduous a task. It is enough that you learned enough to surprise me with it.
Do not whine when I bring home a white wine. You brought this on yourself.
[And of course Astarion does. And of course Leto retorts, threatening to bring him home watered down juice and little else if he's going to be a brat. And of course it goes on and on, until at last his fire dies down and he has to write by the light of the moon— and even then, he only ceases when he finds himself falling asleep mid-sentence. But it's a soothing thing, to wake up and see the words from last night still there. He feels the weight of them as he catches his bounty; as he makes his way home, blood on his hands and proof in his pocket, and buys two bottles of wine before heading home.
One shatters when Astarion leaps upon him the moment he gets into the door, but that's all right too.]