[It's not enough. No. No, it'll never be enough. They could run across the whole of Faerûn and it wouldn't make a difference in the slightest. Tear open a portal from blood and bone and scrying glass down, down, down into the Hells— and it wouldn't damned well matter in the end: because it's real, now. And it'll never stop. Never end. Never let him be.
The moment his once-sibling's voice uttered his name not five full strides' distance from them, that hateful needle shifted irreversibly, he's sure of it. Feels it large and looming overhead like the sword of Damacles, twisting as if dragged into unnatural position by cold, forceful hands; unwilling and unable to return to the weightlessness present not half an hour before — blithely draped in pearled hope, decadent confidence— folly, in other words. Shaded hideous as a lover plucked from a dim tavern only to see hack-carved features exposed in brighter lights.
We'll dine and dance till morning. We'll mingle with the haunts of High Hall and watch the bawdiest of plays— no, we won't.
No we fucking won't.
Another vampire will get there first. (Correction: is there first.) Waiting like a spider in its web the way he's always been. Always done. Always wanted. Striking the second that they're spotted, greedy fangs plunged deep down to the bone. Astarion can see it clearly; masked against the backlit glow of leaded glass, there is no calculable limit to the black-eyed measure of his quickened hunger— the resentment— oh, it's been longer than a week. Much, much longer than a week. He's touched another. Sworn his heart to them. Bedded them. Bled them. Tsk tsk, Astarion.
He can't hear a thing over Cazador's imagined purr.
Long after Leto' stopped and brought them home, possibly kicking or nosing the door shut, he doesn't realize it. Stays put, curled up tighter than a locket in that kerchief, ready to bite down on anything that dares to agitate his sanctum.]
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The moment his once-sibling's voice uttered his name not five full strides' distance from them, that hateful needle shifted irreversibly, he's sure of it. Feels it large and looming overhead like the sword of Damacles, twisting as if dragged into unnatural position by cold, forceful hands; unwilling and unable to return to the weightlessness present not half an hour before — blithely draped in pearled hope, decadent confidence— folly, in other words. Shaded hideous as a lover plucked from a dim tavern only to see hack-carved features exposed in brighter lights.
We'll dine and dance till morning. We'll mingle with the haunts of High Hall and watch the bawdiest of plays— no, we won't.
No we fucking won't.
Another vampire will get there first. (Correction: is there first.) Waiting like a spider in its web the way he's always been. Always done. Always wanted. Striking the second that they're spotted, greedy fangs plunged deep down to the bone. Astarion can see it clearly; masked against the backlit glow of leaded glass, there is no calculable limit to the black-eyed measure of his quickened hunger— the resentment— oh, it's been longer than a week. Much, much longer than a week. He's touched another. Sworn his heart to them. Bedded them. Bled them. Tsk tsk, Astarion.
He can't hear a thing over Cazador's imagined purr.
Long after Leto' stopped and brought them home, possibly kicking or nosing the door shut, he doesn't realize it. Stays put, curled up tighter than a locket in that kerchief, ready to bite down on anything that dares to agitate his sanctum.]