[Said so gently to be sure it doesn't come out as a rebuke. And he wants so badly to reach out in that moment, you know. His palm to Astarion's cheek, a cherishing touch (and how he used to nuzzle so freely against it, all but purring in his contentment— but ah, don't fall into that nostalgic trap, not now, or you'll never go to your rest).]
He needs you.
[It's simple. More importantly, though, it isn't a lie.]
He is such a young thing, Astarion. He know nothing of politics, or how to maneuver through the ebbs and flows of nobility. He takes the bluntest approach possible, and it will not be long before that backfires on him. He does not know how to flatter without falsely promising things, or insult without being direct . . . and he does not know how to hide what he is.
[He never has.]
And if he fled these halls, it would not be a year before he was killed, either by some rival coven or a mob who decided they did not want a vampire in their midst.
[But that isn't the only thing he can offer. Vakares pauses for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, before continuing:]
And I fret for your solitude. I will not deny that. I ache for what is to come for you, and I do not relish leaving you. Many times . . . [No, don't go down that path.] I would see you two bond, yes. I would be happy to wake and find you two companions instead of rivals, I will not deny that. You have far more in common than either of you realize.
But I do not do it in a paltry effort to combat the ache that will come when we are parted. I do not think that he will serve as substitute for me— and I do not expect you to give him anything save your guidance and your protection.
[He exhales slowly, allowing that to sit in the air for a long few seconds. Then, his voice a little more raw, he adds:]
You know I have no gift for poetry. I do not pretend to be as deft with words as you. And so I cannot tell you just how much I ache to think of leaving you— nor how badly I will miss you, and dream of you with each passing year.
[Gods, will he ever. So much it aches. So much that he has put this off over and over, just one more year, for even when all the world was exhausting and dark, Astarion shone like starlight, bright and beautiful and perfect.]
no subject
[Said so gently to be sure it doesn't come out as a rebuke. And he wants so badly to reach out in that moment, you know. His palm to Astarion's cheek, a cherishing touch (and how he used to nuzzle so freely against it, all but purring in his contentment— but ah, don't fall into that nostalgic trap, not now, or you'll never go to your rest).]
He needs you.
[It's simple. More importantly, though, it isn't a lie.]
He is such a young thing, Astarion. He know nothing of politics, or how to maneuver through the ebbs and flows of nobility. He takes the bluntest approach possible, and it will not be long before that backfires on him. He does not know how to flatter without falsely promising things, or insult without being direct . . . and he does not know how to hide what he is.
[He never has.]
And if he fled these halls, it would not be a year before he was killed, either by some rival coven or a mob who decided they did not want a vampire in their midst.
[But that isn't the only thing he can offer. Vakares pauses for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, before continuing:]
And I fret for your solitude. I will not deny that. I ache for what is to come for you, and I do not relish leaving you. Many times . . . [No, don't go down that path.] I would see you two bond, yes. I would be happy to wake and find you two companions instead of rivals, I will not deny that. You have far more in common than either of you realize.
But I do not do it in a paltry effort to combat the ache that will come when we are parted. I do not think that he will serve as substitute for me— and I do not expect you to give him anything save your guidance and your protection.
[He exhales slowly, allowing that to sit in the air for a long few seconds. Then, his voice a little more raw, he adds:]
You know I have no gift for poetry. I do not pretend to be as deft with words as you. And so I cannot tell you just how much I ache to think of leaving you— nor how badly I will miss you, and dream of you with each passing year.
[Gods, will he ever. So much it aches. So much that he has put this off over and over, just one more year, for even when all the world was exhausting and dark, Astarion shone like starlight, bright and beautiful and perfect.]