[ Gods, he's sweet. His attitude almost feels less that of a hero than that of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, subsequently told that the theft is of no great consequence. Except, in the latter case, the issue would be a willful misdeed, whereas in the former, it's hardly as though Rand has asked for the mantle he's been forced to assume.

(He'll wonder, later, what he'd do were he in the same position. To a degree, his initial reaction to the tadpole is answer enough — given even the slightest measure of freedom, of power, his instinct had been to exercise it, to shy away from responsibility. On top of that, he's had enough of his life dictated to him that the ideas of fate and destiny are hardly appealing. What he wants — what he prizes — more than anything else is control over his own life.)

Quickly: ] Oh, no, my darling, not bad at all.

[ Still, he hesitates to elaborate, if only because he's searching for the right words to describe what is not exactly a common taste or sensation. ]

I'd compared the differences in taste to differences in vintages of wine, before — drawing further upon that metaphor, your blood is a full banquet table.

[ But he understands, kind of, what's being asked, which is specifically about Rand, not the other lifetimes he carries with him. As strange as it may sound given the words that leave his mouth, he relents, letting his usual flirtatious tone drop in favor of something slightly more honest: ]

You — you — taste ... good. Sweet, palatable. Strong.

[ Then, with a degree of flippancy to cover up the fact that it's still sort of true: ] Were I still a boy, I'd be quite stricken with you.