And it's strange to think that Astarion's affliction— his curse— has a name. Does that mean he isn't the only one? Perhaps. Even as he wonders, Fenris tries to recall if he's ever heard the term . . . but no. Perhaps in passing once, a long time ago, when Danarius had spoken of old legends, but even then . . . no, it means nothing to him, not really.
Now he makes a note of it. Vampire, the word utterly synonymous with Astarion: the first and most intense association, and the one that will endure even years from now. Vampire, he will think when he meets Cazador, or Dalyria, or Petras. Vampire, measuring them all up against who Astarion is and what he embodies— and finding them wanting).
But those thoughts come later. The term is lesser right now. Far, far more important: that confession. Even as some part of Fenris twists in sympathetic horror, a darker part of him whispers: of course that's part of it.
What low will a master not stoop to? What horrors will they ever hesitate to inflict upon their slaves? Two centuries, Astarion had said, and now his mind doubles back, I was never allowed to leave, and how could he? When even sunlight was lethal . . . how could any slave ever hope to leave? Especially if you'd been conditioned into helplessness. Especially if there were so many things you were vulnerable towards . . .
He doesn't understand it. Not fully, and even the fractured picture he holds in his mind is off-kilter. But what details escape him matter little in face of the here and now.
If I am to die, I don't want to die alone.]
You won't be.
[His voice emerges rougher than he expects, fierce determination thrumming through his veins. He cannot make this better. He cannot fix this. He cannot even offer Astarion sympathy, not really, not without it being felt as pity (and what slave ever wants that? You poor thing is no balm to ancient wounds).
But he can do this. He can wake with Astarion and stay with him as the sun rises, and then . . .
Come what may.]
I will be there. And I will not leave, no matter what happens.
1/2
And it's strange to think that Astarion's affliction— his curse— has a name. Does that mean he isn't the only one? Perhaps. Even as he wonders, Fenris tries to recall if he's ever heard the term . . . but no. Perhaps in passing once, a long time ago, when Danarius had spoken of old legends, but even then . . . no, it means nothing to him, not really.
Now he makes a note of it. Vampire, the word utterly synonymous with Astarion: the first and most intense association, and the one that will endure even years from now. Vampire, he will think when he meets Cazador, or Dalyria, or Petras. Vampire, measuring them all up against who Astarion is and what he embodies— and finding them wanting).
But those thoughts come later. The term is lesser right now. Far, far more important: that confession. Even as some part of Fenris twists in sympathetic horror, a darker part of him whispers: of course that's part of it.
What low will a master not stoop to? What horrors will they ever hesitate to inflict upon their slaves? Two centuries, Astarion had said, and now his mind doubles back, I was never allowed to leave, and how could he? When even sunlight was lethal . . . how could any slave ever hope to leave? Especially if you'd been conditioned into helplessness. Especially if there were so many things you were vulnerable towards . . .
He doesn't understand it. Not fully, and even the fractured picture he holds in his mind is off-kilter. But what details escape him matter little in face of the here and now.
If I am to die, I don't want to die alone.]
You won't be.
[His voice emerges rougher than he expects, fierce determination thrumming through his veins. He cannot make this better. He cannot fix this. He cannot even offer Astarion sympathy, not really, not without it being felt as pity (and what slave ever wants that? You poor thing is no balm to ancient wounds).
But he can do this. He can wake with Astarion and stay with him as the sun rises, and then . . .
Come what may.]
I will be there. And I will not leave, no matter what happens.
[That he can promise.]