[Those words, so far from brittle assurances, finally lift the sunken line of Astarion's stare.
He talks about it often, his past. Colored by the shades of his own mood: sometimes bitterly, sometimes morosely or entirely tranquil— most often it’s like ripping off a bandage, the way he drags it rapidly to light. Quick to horrify whoever’s beside him with a wicked laugh, if they believe him. Like defining all the little things that could cut if they're reached for.
Don’t come too close, or leave me be or, at times.... don’t go.
But now he feels the solid weight of fingertips wrapped around his own, the way the mattress tilts itself under pressure towards where Fenris sits, and in forcing one dread back on its heels, another starts to coalesce, inch by crawling inch.
Astarion wasn’t lying when he said there were some things they’d never discussed. Shallow truths he can always paint in a better light (better, as if glossing over bits and pieces changes the story in any real capacity), but confessing it all...what if Fenris recoils? What if he’s disgusted? Not by what Astarion’s endured, only by what he is.
What if those fingers yank themselves away— and in response to that thought, Astarion’s own tighten, trying to cling of their own volition; he’s forgotten sparing Fenris the pain of touch, too greedy in wanting him near.]
It...
[He should hear it. He wants him to as much as he dreads it.
Just once.
Just once, maybe he should know it all.
....and that means starting from the beginning.]
Vampirism is an affliction that doesn’t exist in Thedas, [Astarion’s learned that well enough by now.] but you should know I wasn’t always like this.
[And maybe that’s obvious despite being a Rifter; he’s learned some people see him as an elf with strange teeth more than they think of him as something else entirely, a kind of mirror puzzle that reflects whatever seems most familiar.]
The night I became his, I’d been attacked. Not all that different from tonight, I suppose, only I was weaker, then. A lone elf, fending off a pack of humans— only to wind up bleeding to death in the street, staring down my own finality, second by passing, terrible second.
Before I knew what was happening, he was there at my side. [It lingers in his memory when so much else has faded into nothing: the sight of Cazador bathed in moonlight, dark as night and equally alluring.] He chased them off, took me into his arms, and offered to save my life— the only condition being that I agreed to become a vampire, like him.
And what choice was there, really? I was dying....and he was beautiful. Not quite like anything you’ve ever seen. Powerful beyond measure, able to pour himself right from shadow as if it belonged to him. Indescribably ancient.
You wouldn’t be a fool to look at him and think he was something else entirely.
[Who wouldn’t choose that over death? Who wouldn’t bare their throat if asked?] But while vampires— true vampires: immortal, blood-drinking, all-powerful creatures capable of ruling the very night itself— spread their curse by taking in the blood of a mortal to its last drop, the catch is that after you’ve been bitten, you need to drink their blood in return.
[There might not be a need to say what comes next; Astarion does anyway.]
Cazador never intended to let that happen, of course.
Because the second my blood was on his lips, I changed— not into a vampire, but instead into a vampire spawn: an unwitting slave to its sire's every whim, able to think but not to refuse. An eternally living puppet. Cazador only ever needed to speak, and my body would obey.
Always.
[His laugh isn't a laugh. The crease between his brows sharp enough to cut for how it pinches.] And he was so endlessly cruel.
Whatever memories existed of my life before him, I lost them— all of them— to his obscene torture. To the monstrosity he inflicted. I fetched his meals, and oh, he was so very particular about the sort of well-bred creatures he wished to dine on. The kind that had to be lured to him by hand, alive and so dearly enamored that they never suspected a thing.
[Astarion's stare drops once more, lost beneath the heavy hang of dark lashes, tracing the outline of pale blue lyrium in the dark.]
For two lifetimes I bled for him, begged for him, dreamt of him— knowing I could never escape his shadow, whimpering and weeping senselessly in the dark for salvation that never came.
[No dashing heroes, no sympathetic gods. No mercy.]
no subject
He talks about it often, his past. Colored by the shades of his own mood: sometimes bitterly, sometimes morosely or entirely tranquil— most often it’s like ripping off a bandage, the way he drags it rapidly to light. Quick to horrify whoever’s beside him with a wicked laugh, if they believe him. Like defining all the little things that could cut if they're reached for.
Don’t come too close, or leave me be or, at times.... don’t go.
But now he feels the solid weight of fingertips wrapped around his own, the way the mattress tilts itself under pressure towards where Fenris sits, and in forcing one dread back on its heels, another starts to coalesce, inch by crawling inch.
Astarion wasn’t lying when he said there were some things they’d never discussed. Shallow truths he can always paint in a better light (better, as if glossing over bits and pieces changes the story in any real capacity), but confessing it all...what if Fenris recoils? What if he’s disgusted? Not by what Astarion’s endured, only by what he is.
What if those fingers yank themselves away— and in response to that thought, Astarion’s own tighten, trying to cling of their own volition; he’s forgotten sparing Fenris the pain of touch, too greedy in wanting him near.]
It...
[He should hear it. He wants him to as much as he dreads it.
Just once.
Just once, maybe he should know it all.
....and that means starting from the beginning.]
Vampirism is an affliction that doesn’t exist in Thedas, [Astarion’s learned that well enough by now.] but you should know I wasn’t always like this.
[And maybe that’s obvious despite being a Rifter; he’s learned some people see him as an elf with strange teeth more than they think of him as something else entirely, a kind of mirror puzzle that reflects whatever seems most familiar.]
The night I became his, I’d been attacked. Not all that different from tonight, I suppose, only I was weaker, then. A lone elf, fending off a pack of humans— only to wind up bleeding to death in the street, staring down my own finality, second by passing, terrible second.
Before I knew what was happening, he was there at my side. [It lingers in his memory when so much else has faded into nothing: the sight of Cazador bathed in moonlight, dark as night and equally alluring.] He chased them off, took me into his arms, and offered to save my life— the only condition being that I agreed to become a vampire, like him.
And what choice was there, really? I was dying....and he was beautiful. Not quite like anything you’ve ever seen. Powerful beyond measure, able to pour himself right from shadow as if it belonged to him. Indescribably ancient.
You wouldn’t be a fool to look at him and think he was something else entirely.
[Who wouldn’t choose that over death? Who wouldn’t bare their throat if asked?] But while vampires— true vampires: immortal, blood-drinking, all-powerful creatures capable of ruling the very night itself— spread their curse by taking in the blood of a mortal to its last drop, the catch is that after you’ve been bitten, you need to drink their blood in return.
[There might not be a need to say what comes next; Astarion does anyway.]
Cazador never intended to let that happen, of course.
Because the second my blood was on his lips, I changed— not into a vampire, but instead into a vampire spawn: an unwitting slave to its sire's every whim, able to think but not to refuse. An eternally living puppet. Cazador only ever needed to speak, and my body would obey.
Always.
[His laugh isn't a laugh. The crease between his brows sharp enough to cut for how it pinches.] And he was so endlessly cruel.
Whatever memories existed of my life before him, I lost them— all of them— to his obscene torture. To the monstrosity he inflicted. I fetched his meals, and oh, he was so very particular about the sort of well-bred creatures he wished to dine on. The kind that had to be lured to him by hand, alive and so dearly enamored that they never suspected a thing.
[Astarion's stare drops once more, lost beneath the heavy hang of dark lashes, tracing the outline of pale blue lyrium in the dark.]
For two lifetimes I bled for him, begged for him, dreamt of him— knowing I could never escape his shadow, whimpering and weeping senselessly in the dark for salvation that never came.
[No dashing heroes, no sympathetic gods. No mercy.]
...and then your world found me.