[His deadened heart aches for all that his sire discloses.
Decadent horrors beyond imagination (and no wonder, Fenris thinks faintly, Vakares insists on such tempered morality within his halls). Betrayal (was he scared? hurt? How did his sire lure him in, and someday Fenris will ask him). The nauseating grief of death and the terror of being surrounded by a bloodthirsty population that wouldn't hesitate to rip you apart no matter that you were nothing like your sire. The loneliness that must have come from being a vampire all on your own, a lord in name only and yet so, so young . . .
Vakares wasn't wrong: it does make him restless. It makes his fangs ache in phantom longing, desperate to bite down on soft flesh and tear out an unworthy throat. In Vakares' sire, yes, but in all of them: the allies who schemed to ensure his ruin, and all the false friends who accepted him only because they thought him mortal. And there's nothing to be done about it, no bloody heart to offer up to his amatus, no comfort to be had . . .
It's over and done with. Long since past. And yet there is helpless rage in Fenris' eyes as he glares at nothing, his fingers curling and uncurling before he presses them so gently against Vakares' chest. There's nothing to be done, it's true, but . . . there is acknowledgement, at least. Belated grief hopefully appreciated for what it is: a mourning of a fate Vakares should never have suffered.]
It must have been lonely.
[He draws his head back, catching Vakares' gaze with a softened expression. A palm to his cheek drifting up to stroke gently through dark hair, over and over.]
How long before you had a companion . . .?
[A spawn. A coven, adopting him by proxy. Anything, but gods, he cannot imagine being a vampire alone.]
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Decadent horrors beyond imagination (and no wonder, Fenris thinks faintly, Vakares insists on such tempered morality within his halls). Betrayal (was he scared? hurt? How did his sire lure him in, and someday Fenris will ask him). The nauseating grief of death and the terror of being surrounded by a bloodthirsty population that wouldn't hesitate to rip you apart no matter that you were nothing like your sire. The loneliness that must have come from being a vampire all on your own, a lord in name only and yet so, so young . . .
Vakares wasn't wrong: it does make him restless. It makes his fangs ache in phantom longing, desperate to bite down on soft flesh and tear out an unworthy throat. In Vakares' sire, yes, but in all of them: the allies who schemed to ensure his ruin, and all the false friends who accepted him only because they thought him mortal. And there's nothing to be done about it, no bloody heart to offer up to his amatus, no comfort to be had . . .
It's over and done with. Long since past. And yet there is helpless rage in Fenris' eyes as he glares at nothing, his fingers curling and uncurling before he presses them so gently against Vakares' chest. There's nothing to be done, it's true, but . . . there is acknowledgement, at least. Belated grief hopefully appreciated for what it is: a mourning of a fate Vakares should never have suffered.]
It must have been lonely.
[He draws his head back, catching Vakares' gaze with a softened expression. A palm to his cheek drifting up to stroke gently through dark hair, over and over.]
How long before you had a companion . . .?
[A spawn. A coven, adopting him by proxy. Anything, but gods, he cannot imagine being a vampire alone.]