A burst of azure lightning, the scent of ozone filling the air as a sudden swift sense of pressure suddenly dips in the atmosphere, the world trying desperately to make sense of that which is no longer there— for he exists in two planes now, a ghostly echo that doesn't exist. A sense of movement, a blurred motion, and the nauseating sensation of something bursting through Astarion's chest, ghostly fingers passing through flesh and blood and bone—
And then pain.
So starkly abrupt that it might take the pale elf sluggish seconds to realize from whence it came— a blade suddenly erupting from the center of his chest, jagged spikes dripping with crimson blood (and never mind how close it is to his heart, for the point is that it didn't pierce that most vital of organs). And then another slicing through his belly, slamming so hard that it erupts out the other side and sinks deep into the mattress, ripping cushion and piercing the wooden headboard— and another, another, in his shoulder and chest and stomach, stabbing through his thighs and embedding themselves within the bed, and all of it from nowhere—
Until suddenly Fenris reappears. His thighs brace on either side of Astarion's hips, all of him so very careful not to touch the wriggling, writhing body beneath him. There's a wicked-looking dagger in his right hand, its blade yet unbloodied. His teeth are bared in a snarl, but there's nothing but cold, cruel satisfaction in his crimson eyes as he drinks in the gore below.]
That will keep you put.
[Just long enough for him to make his point. Blood soaks through the sheets and into the mattress below, crimson so dark it's nearly black. He feels it against his knees; the scent of it is nauseating, a cloying filth that nonetheless overwhelms his senses.]
Settle, now . . .
[The tip of his dagger traces so sweetly against the curve of Astarion's lips. His twin must be in such pain right now, poor thing, but he'd best hold still. The blade is sharp, and it takes so very little to pierce the thin skin of one's lips . . .]
And count yourself lucky I do not cut out your tongue instead.
[For a long moment, there's silence.
There are a thousand things he wants to say. A thousand points to be made, a thousand seething statements to triumphantly throw in Astarion's face now that the tables have finally turned. Little wolf, and he could reverse the nickname now, reminding Astarion of just what he sought to collar. He could taunt him on what the future might hold: wagging tongues chattering endlessly about how Duke Astarion couldn't even tame his own consort, never mind lead an entire coven; gods only know how long it will take them to eagerly exploit Astarion's apparent weakness. Or he could be crueler still, dripping the worst sort of poison into his mate's ear: Vakares knew this would happen. He told me as such. He knew you were too foolish to ever manage on your own, arrogant and shortsighted and cruel . . .
But perhaps the past few days have finally caught up to Fenris. Instead of the rush of triumph that he anticipated, there's only a hollow sense of grief. A sickening pitch in the pit of his stomach, embittering and awful, and though it's not fair, he hates Astarion all the more for it.]
You wish for a war? Then you will get it. Stubborn, idiotic thing that you are, if you will not allow for a partnership, then I will force you into one. And as your allies desert you one by one over the coming months and I muster a force fit to leave you staggering to your knees, know that you could have avoided such a fate.
[His voice trembles, though even he cannot say whether it's due to rage or grief.]
And know that this is the least I will do to you if you still dare try and oppose me.
no subject
A burst of azure lightning, the scent of ozone filling the air as a sudden swift sense of pressure suddenly dips in the atmosphere, the world trying desperately to make sense of that which is no longer there— for he exists in two planes now, a ghostly echo that doesn't exist. A sense of movement, a blurred motion, and the nauseating sensation of something bursting through Astarion's chest, ghostly fingers passing through flesh and blood and bone—
And then pain.
So starkly abrupt that it might take the pale elf sluggish seconds to realize from whence it came— a blade suddenly erupting from the center of his chest, jagged spikes dripping with crimson blood (and never mind how close it is to his heart, for the point is that it didn't pierce that most vital of organs). And then another slicing through his belly, slamming so hard that it erupts out the other side and sinks deep into the mattress, ripping cushion and piercing the wooden headboard— and another, another, in his shoulder and chest and stomach, stabbing through his thighs and embedding themselves within the bed, and all of it from nowhere—
Until suddenly Fenris reappears. His thighs brace on either side of Astarion's hips, all of him so very careful not to touch the wriggling, writhing body beneath him. There's a wicked-looking dagger in his right hand, its blade yet unbloodied. His teeth are bared in a snarl, but there's nothing but cold, cruel satisfaction in his crimson eyes as he drinks in the gore below.]
That will keep you put.
[Just long enough for him to make his point. Blood soaks through the sheets and into the mattress below, crimson so dark it's nearly black. He feels it against his knees; the scent of it is nauseating, a cloying filth that nonetheless overwhelms his senses.]
Settle, now . . .
[The tip of his dagger traces so sweetly against the curve of Astarion's lips. His twin must be in such pain right now, poor thing, but he'd best hold still. The blade is sharp, and it takes so very little to pierce the thin skin of one's lips . . .]
And count yourself lucky I do not cut out your tongue instead.
[For a long moment, there's silence.
There are a thousand things he wants to say. A thousand points to be made, a thousand seething statements to triumphantly throw in Astarion's face now that the tables have finally turned. Little wolf, and he could reverse the nickname now, reminding Astarion of just what he sought to collar. He could taunt him on what the future might hold: wagging tongues chattering endlessly about how Duke Astarion couldn't even tame his own consort, never mind lead an entire coven; gods only know how long it will take them to eagerly exploit Astarion's apparent weakness. Or he could be crueler still, dripping the worst sort of poison into his mate's ear: Vakares knew this would happen. He told me as such. He knew you were too foolish to ever manage on your own, arrogant and shortsighted and cruel . . .
But perhaps the past few days have finally caught up to Fenris. Instead of the rush of triumph that he anticipated, there's only a hollow sense of grief. A sickening pitch in the pit of his stomach, embittering and awful, and though it's not fair, he hates Astarion all the more for it.]
You wish for a war? Then you will get it. Stubborn, idiotic thing that you are, if you will not allow for a partnership, then I will force you into one. And as your allies desert you one by one over the coming months and I muster a force fit to leave you staggering to your knees, know that you could have avoided such a fate.
[His voice trembles, though even he cannot say whether it's due to rage or grief.]
And know that this is the least I will do to you if you still dare try and oppose me.