[ unsure of what to expect, rand breathes in sharply when he feels that cold spark of pain at his neck. for half a second, he thinks it feels terrible; but then it dulls, growing less unpleasant, and a shiver runs down his spine. he doesn't exactly relax against astarion's hand, but he's less tense sooner than he would've expected.
and he isn't so lost to numbness that he misses that flinch. rand has, of course, no way of knowing what it is that astarion can taste in him. but he knows enough about what he is, and what he was, and what he will be — and astarion has so thoroughly explained just what it is that determines the taste of blood — that he can begin to guess. the thoughts remain hazy, half-formed, while astarion drinks his fill; and, in truth, a part of him needs to concentrate on not channeling, by accident, in this moment. his control is — poor, at the best of times. his control is worse when he's hurt or threatened.
but he isn't hurt, not really, and he refuses to entertain the idea of astarion as a threat. blood-drinker he may be, but friendly acquaintance he remains. friendly enough that rand would never, ever forgive himself for slipping and hurting him, no matter how accidental.
so it's a relief when astarion pulls away without incident. he breathes out, slow, raising a hand to his neck. he finds the punctures by touch, pressing his palm to his throat, and keeps his eyes on astarion. in some ways, what he sees is what he expects to see. the fact that astarion had flinched when biting him; how abruptly he draws back; the rapid breathing; the plain surprise. how long until that surprise becomes revulsion? can't be long, surely. ]
You don't have to thank me. [ he tests a small shake of his head, is pleased when it doesn't make him too dizzy. ] I suppose I don't have any reason to disbelieve you now.
[ rand holds himself as if braced for a blow to land at any moment. more than that — he knows one is coming, and has accepted it as inevitable. for the best, even, you might say. it wasn't so long ago that he walked away from his loved ones as safer without him, and more recent happenings have done little but exemplify the danger that always circles him. it doesn't occur to him to feel dismay about the confirmation that astarion really is some kind of vampire, because it doesn't really change rand's perception of him. and because rand grew up on more frightening tales of mad channelers and dragons who broke the world than vampires gobbling up naughty children. ]
no subject
and he isn't so lost to numbness that he misses that flinch. rand has, of course, no way of knowing what it is that astarion can taste in him. but he knows enough about what he is, and what he was, and what he will be — and astarion has so thoroughly explained just what it is that determines the taste of blood — that he can begin to guess. the thoughts remain hazy, half-formed, while astarion drinks his fill; and, in truth, a part of him needs to concentrate on not channeling, by accident, in this moment. his control is — poor, at the best of times. his control is worse when he's hurt or threatened.
but he isn't hurt, not really, and he refuses to entertain the idea of astarion as a threat. blood-drinker he may be, but friendly acquaintance he remains. friendly enough that rand would never, ever forgive himself for slipping and hurting him, no matter how accidental.
so it's a relief when astarion pulls away without incident. he breathes out, slow, raising a hand to his neck. he finds the punctures by touch, pressing his palm to his throat, and keeps his eyes on astarion. in some ways, what he sees is what he expects to see. the fact that astarion had flinched when biting him; how abruptly he draws back; the rapid breathing; the plain surprise. how long until that surprise becomes revulsion? can't be long, surely. ]
You don't have to thank me. [ he tests a small shake of his head, is pleased when it doesn't make him too dizzy. ] I suppose I don't have any reason to disbelieve you now.
[ rand holds himself as if braced for a blow to land at any moment. more than that — he knows one is coming, and has accepted it as inevitable. for the best, even, you might say. it wasn't so long ago that he walked away from his loved ones as safer without him, and more recent happenings have done little but exemplify the danger that always circles him. it doesn't occur to him to feel dismay about the confirmation that astarion really is some kind of vampire, because it doesn't really change rand's perception of him. and because rand grew up on more frightening tales of mad channelers and dragons who broke the world than vampires gobbling up naughty children. ]