If I tell you [he exhales tepidly (reflexive noise only obtuse when it hits the roof of his mouth; sighing because it is a matter of linguistuc conformity even after centuries of undeath, not because he is annoyed— not because Fenris' assumption somehow directly prompts it— instead like blinking, like drawing air into his lungs, it is better to maintain the habit than forget it at a crucial junction), his focus far away for a little while: steeping himself in the dull pressure rolled against his throat] it will only make you restless.
[Try to be better, try to forgive the past, try not to cling to the coattails of humanity lost (or in the case of his most precious companions: elfhood lost), tenets that rarely bring Vakares comfort when he palms at them like worry stones— their weathered surface tractionless from decades of overuse. But if he hadn't insisted on etching them into his own bones from the very start, the city would be wearing a very different skin these days.
Let it go, and trust he has—
His faintly filed claws nestling against the nape of Fenris' neck, toying with white strands at the junction between spine and skull. He can well imagine Fenris flashing teeth for years to come at anyone he assumes even partially to blame. His sire asleep and safe and unharmed, the past relegated to the same.
And it would change nothing in those once-green eyes.]
But you know I keep no secrets from you [a narrow pause takes flight, and then, with a lowered hum of adopted affection (he has always been somewhat clumsy with language, more so than even Astarion):] my amatus.
I was turned by a Duke in the midst of a power struggle that had grown out of control, many centuries ago. His aims were simple: unliving dominion over each of the noble houses, and to ensure his indiscretions, lavish indulgences, and grotesque bloodletting could continue unimpeded behind closed doors. [This, no doubt, comes as no surprise to Fenris.]
He did not remember humanity is capable of bloodlust fit to rival our own.
[Such an oversight, if something so critical could be called that.]
Like Avernus and its unmasked vampire monarch, there was irony in how his monstrous nature was only revealed by a servant delivering parcels during one raucous fête. [Even the mighty, as they say.] None of which he was aware of at the time.
He was too busy planning on turning me to solidify his insurrection. A majority of pawns prepared to first oust then slaughter the other Dukes in order to create a ruling council defaulting only to his desires.
Instead, they hunted him, killing him as he bled me.
His blood mingled with mine in the seconds before he turned to ash, and the wounds he left behind were already mended by the time they drew me to my feet, caked in what remained. [Mm.] I was so faint they assumed it was shock. And because they hunted his allies— who then slaughtered each other equally— once my transformation completed itself inside the walls of this estate some days or weeks later, very few were left that didn't mistake my brown eyes as always having been a deeper shade of red. Or isolation the excuse for my pallor.
no subject
[Try to be better, try to forgive the past, try not to cling to the coattails of humanity lost (or in the case of his most precious companions: elfhood lost), tenets that rarely bring Vakares comfort when he palms at them like worry stones— their weathered surface tractionless from decades of overuse. But if he hadn't insisted on etching them into his own bones from the very start, the city would be wearing a very different skin these days.
Let it go, and trust he has—
His faintly filed claws nestling against the nape of Fenris' neck, toying with white strands at the junction between spine and skull. He can well imagine Fenris flashing teeth for years to come at anyone he assumes even partially to blame. His sire asleep and safe and unharmed, the past relegated to the same.
And it would change nothing in those once-green eyes.]
But you know I keep no secrets from you [a narrow pause takes flight, and then, with a lowered hum of adopted affection (he has always been somewhat clumsy with language, more so than even Astarion):] my amatus.
I was turned by a Duke in the midst of a power struggle that had grown out of control, many centuries ago. His aims were simple: unliving dominion over each of the noble houses, and to ensure his indiscretions, lavish indulgences, and grotesque bloodletting could continue unimpeded behind closed doors. [This, no doubt, comes as no surprise to Fenris.]
He did not remember humanity is capable of bloodlust fit to rival our own.
[Such an oversight, if something so critical could be called that.]
Like Avernus and its unmasked vampire monarch, there was irony in how his monstrous nature was only revealed by a servant delivering parcels during one raucous fête. [Even the mighty, as they say.] None of which he was aware of at the time.
He was too busy planning on turning me to solidify his insurrection. A majority of pawns prepared to first oust then slaughter the other Dukes in order to create a ruling council defaulting only to his desires.
Instead, they hunted him, killing him as he bled me.
His blood mingled with mine in the seconds before he turned to ash, and the wounds he left behind were already mended by the time they drew me to my feet, caked in what remained. [Mm.] I was so faint they assumed it was shock. And because they hunted his allies— who then slaughtered each other equally— once my transformation completed itself inside the walls of this estate some days or weeks later, very few were left that didn't mistake my brown eyes as always having been a deeper shade of red. Or isolation the excuse for my pallor.
[It was not mercy. It was not love.
It was misfortune.]