on the grand scale of things, concerns about or adjacent to his well-being rate on the lowest possible rung. they are often not even on the ladder. he cares about the potential of hurting astarion's feelings quite a lot, and what might happen to himself comparatively very little. he has a knee-jerk aversion to the notion of being bitten, of course, as much as any other person. but he did in fact ask for proof, and he can't very well complain about the way astarion chooses to furnish that proof. not if he agreed to it, anyway. and there is a non-zero chance that astarion really is having him on. and if he isn't, well...
he knows enough of astarion, even if it isn't much, to believe that the vampire(?) isn't going to deliberately be hurting him here. maybe not even inadvertently β though it's hard to imagine a bite not being, at bare minimum, a trifle uncomfortable. and that's fine, is the thing. if rand wants his curiosity sated, and he does, then he can bear a little risk or a little discomfort for it. if it's worse than that, then so much the better that it was only him.
all this to say, he has plenty of time on his walk over to consider. so by the time he ducks under some low-slung branches and tosses himself into a sprawl near astarion, he's already wearing an easy smile. ]
Are you trying to talk me out of this already? I thought the demonstration was your idea.
[ Not that he'd ever admit as much to Rand's face, but that selflessness is a trait he finds shocking in how earnest it is, in how totally devoid it is of pretension. Even to the small extent they're familiar with each other thus far, he thinks any joke he'd likely make on Rand's nature would backfire by virtue of being proven true. To wit, the expression he wears as he arrives is halfway between amused and bemused. Were he anyone else, he might try to disguise his disbelief, butβ well, it hardly seems necessary. ]
You do make it terribly difficult to argue with you, [ he says, in lieu of pointing out that they wouldn't be here at all were it not for Rand's own curiosity. (He also, graciously, forgoes adding, it's like arguing with a stone.) ]
I suppose I owe you a little further explanation, seeing as you're the source of my next meal. You see, I can sustain myself on the blood of beasts β deer, boars, rabbits, the like β but ... it's like water. A human could live on water alone for some time, but it wouldn't truly stem hunger, would leave you weak. Now, I won't die, without human blood, but even just a taste of it β I can think more clearly. Be better. More useful.
[ He pauses a moment, largely to try to gauge whether or not Rand believes any of it (funny, really, he usually only needs to be so concerned when telling a lie, and yet, here, telling the truthβ), before continuing: ]
Well, if you're ready ... it'll only hurt for a moment. [ Then, almost as an afterthought: ] I'll be gentle.
[ there's the unfortunate but very real chance that rand would take any comments about his own mulish hardheadedness as a point of pride, if not a compliment. two rivers folk are famed for their stubbornness; and even if rand isn't a two rivers man by birth, he is one by upbringing. that has to count for something, he thinks. it has to count. whatever else he may be, by birth or destiny, the two rivers will always be home.
(which is why, of course, he will never see it again. but better a home you can cherish in your heart, if nothing else, than none at all.)
but he listens carefully, anyway, to astarion's explanation. he keeps his eyes on astarion's face, nodding, eyes slightly narrowed in thought. it makes sense, in a funny way, why he apparently the needs the blood of a human. at least β the water comparison makes sense. in another way, it makes no sense at all. how should the blood of beasts be any different from human blood? it is all...well. it's all blood, isn't it? but if astarion had told true about the deeds of a person affecting the flavor of their blood, then it sort of adds up. maybe.
more to the point, astarion's giving far too much detail for this to be some elaborate ruse. rand isn't a suspicious person by nature; he's learned it through hard experience. he can't imagine what astarion would get out of lying about this, anyway. there are easier ways to get a taste of rand's blood, willingly even. and the promise of being gentle has a half-smile tugging at his mouth, sincere and rueful and fond all at once. ]
I'm ready.
[ he'll crane his neck if that's what astarion moves in to bite β everything he knows about vampires suggests they prefer the neck β so it's easier to get to. and as for the taste,
how to describe the nature of a ta'veren such at this one, of the dragon reborn? on the one hand, there's rand β sweet-natured, inclined to quiet living, loyal to a fault, stubborn as stone, quick to put himself between others and harm, and slow to admit the harm he takes. but on the other hand there's the dragon reborn β brimming with channeling potential, bright with the searing Light that has filled his veins time and again, and will yet until he dies. he burns like the sun, but there's the aftertaste of something wrong and rancid, the slow build of poisoned saidin from repeated exposure. and there's something else too. there's lews therin, faintly, and previous lives fainter still. but lews therin kinslayer saw the utopia around him crack and dissolve into a drawn-out and brutal war, was betrayed and did betray until some of those he loved best turned to the shadow, and the end of his life was so steeped in madness and blood and anguish that the echoes shape into nightmares that shake rand awake most nights.
how much of that translates into flavor for astarion? hard to say. but rand al'thor is likely to taste memorable, if nothing else. ]
Edited (lord god this got long dslkfj) 2023-11-02 00:01 (UTC)
[ Sincere, rueful, fond β Astarion can't begin to understand any of it, or perhaps he's simply unwilling to confront his metaphorical reflection in the face of such traits, lest it dig up his weakness for that brand of heroism. He's long buried that part of him, not just for his childhood predisposition for tales of bravery β strange that he should remember that, and so little else β and for the punishment he'd incurred the one time he'd indulged it after being turned. (A full year sealed inside a tomb, starving but unable to die, months spent scratching at the stone around him until his fingers bled. There's nothing, no one, for which he'd suffer that again.)
But two centuries' worth of stubborn compartmentalization means that the flicker in the vampire spawn's gaze is only momentary, giving way to a smile as Rand offers him his neck. He seems almost confident as he draws close, raising a hand to gently cup the back of Rand's head, the better to support him as he bares his fangsβ and bites.
For Rand, the sensation will manifest as a brief flash of pain; twin needles, cold as ice, pricking his flesh. It lasts only a moment before subsiding, fading into a heady sort of numbness. For Astarionβ
βfrom the first second Rand's blood fills his mouth, he feels as though he's been struck by lightning. He flinches, even, though it's not quite enough to get him to pull away immediately. There's a little of what he expects β the taste of something sweet, easily palatable, inviting β but Rand's blood tastes rich. He doesn't know how to process it all, the sharpness of the Light (a degree of power he's never encountered β had avoided, in a sense, given his mortal aversion to the sun), and thenβ
(βtoo much too dark too heavy sour madness lives upon lives upon lives lived and taken andβ)
βwhen he pulls back, it's not nearly as smoothly as he's been thus far. Rather, it's like he's been slapped (as much for how unexpected this has all been as to avoid the temptation to keep drinking), a hand quickly rising to his face to brush away the red that remains on his lips. The rise and fall of his chest is quick for how composed he tries to seem, a glint in his eyes conveying both an immediate surprise and renewed interest. There's nothing for him to compare the taste to, besides knowing that he's never, ever tasted anything like it before. It's too late, he supposes, to pretend that he isn't surprised, so, pointedly: ]
Normally, I'd start with a thank you, but ... well, let's just say I assumed I'd always be the less forthcoming of the two of us.
[ 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 β and astarion has so thoroughly explained just what it is that determines the taste of blood β 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 β 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 β 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. ]
[ Surprise shifts intoβ uncertainty, at worst, curiosity, at best. But nothing close to revulsion or any similar impulse to turn tail. Rather, Astarion seems to settle, leaning back on his elbows as he continues to look at Rand, a slight furrow forming in his brow.
It'd be easier for him to simply think he'd been duped if not for the fact that he's just had a taste of his blood. It's not unlike coming across a text in a language he doesn't know how to read; illustrations help demonstrate the broader points, but the finer details are lost upon him, indecipherable without someone else's assistance or knowledge. As scant as his experience with feeding upon humans may be, he still knows there's something else going on with the would-be shepherd. (And it all does serve to shed a sliver of light upon their previous discussion of the nature of souls.) ]
You'reβ
[ He laughs, hesitates, then tries again. (He can see the line of tension in Rand's shoulders, and as much as he'd deny it if pressed, it makes him feel almost guilty. The petty part of him wants to say, well, why, it's not as though I've done anything wrong, but that's not the issue, is it? The issue is that he can see that this is something that's changed the flow of Rand's life, that there must be a reason why someone who has otherwise demonstrated themselves to be incredibly, painfully honest would keep a secret.
And it's a little bit of quid pro quo, isn't it β just as much as Rand wants to avoid hurting Astarion, materially or otherwise, the opposite holds true as well.) ]
You're more complicated than I'd thought, [ is what he settles on, which he feels to be about as diplomatic as possible. ] Shall I inquire further? Or would you prefer we both pretend nothing to be out of the ordinary?
[ Normally, he'd insist upon an explanation β and he does want to know, desperately, exactly why Rand's blood tastes the way that it does β but, in the interest of equivalent exchange, a respite from interrogation is what he'll offer in return for a meal. He doesn't take that lightly, despite how carefree Rand had seemed upon arriving. The world doesn't exactly look kindly upon vampire spawn, let alone the idea of baring one's neck. ]
[ rand, who had taken the bite quietly, flinches at the first syllable out of astarion's mouth β and is immediately infuriated with himself for it. he can only hope astarion misses it for the uncertain laugh, the attempts at deciding just what to say. of all the stupid instinctive reactions. he's learning the cost of vulnerability, when he is what he is, but not quickly enough. not well enough. astarion has no interest in hurting him β he's made that much clear, is making it clear even as he tries to speak with care β but rand ought to know better, is all. he does know better. there's no safety anywhere for the dragon reborn; and he is not, himself, safe. there will always be a monster in the room, when he's in it.
so he could almost laugh at being called complicated. it is diplomatic. it's gentle, in truth, just as astarion had promised, and so is the question. he's beyond grateful for the offer. it is incredibly kind. there's nothing in the whole world he wants more than to pretend nothing is out of the ordinary.
he says, ]
You may as well ask what you're wondering.
[ there's nothing sharp in his tone. after a moment, he'll even meet astarion's eyes, a hand still pressed to the bite marks, and then shrug. they will need to have this conversation sooner or later, won't they? there's no real reason not to do it now. rand brought this on himself by hearing out astarion's entire explanation about what drinking blood feels like, and then offering his own neck. he doesn't regret the given meal β at least, he doesn't if astarion doesn't, and he's still not convinced either way of that β but he does regret that it had clearly revealed more than he'd meant to. whatever astarion knows now, however vague, it can't be un-known. rand can wish he'd had better foresight, but if wishes were wings. ]
[ If Astarion could hear Rand describe himself that way β a monster β he'd laugh until his ribs hurt. He's seen true ugliness and, for all that Rand's blood sketches out the picture something too titanic to be easily contained, the young man certainly isn't it. (And to call Rand a monster would be to damn himself to the appellation β a monster by dint of what exists in his blood rather than by his own choices and actions.)
But, for now, all that he offers is a quizzical gaze, willing as ever to accept an invitation but made a little more hesitant by Rand's manner. It clearly makes him uncomfortable β he's suffered for it, that much is evident β but, like his vampirism, it does feel like a hump they'll have to surmount sooner or later. And as he knows full well, what really matters is less the telling of it than how it's received. ]
I'm almost afraid I don't know how to ask the right question, [ he begins, ] "Why does your blood taste like that?" Let alone the fact that I doubt you know what your own blood tastes likeβ [ other than the typical iron tang that non-vampires can register, which doesn't count ] βit seems ... too simple.
[ Another pause, before Astarion seems to settle on trying for as light a touch as possible. ]
Well, how about this, thenβ
[ He fixes his gaze upon Rand, intent but hardly interrogatory. ]
(it's a funny thing. he can easily hold both thoughts in his head at once: that astarion is no monster simply for the vampiric influences upon him, and that rand is one for being born with the spark. that if it had been mat, as they'd feared, then he would've still been nothing to flinch from.)
there's a huff of a laugh, bitter and mirthless, as he turns that question over in his mind. there was a time not very long ago when he could've answered: sheepherder from the two rivers, son to tam and kari al'thor, no one of any real import. but that was before the trolloc attack on winternight; that was before he found out he'd been born to a stranger during the blood snow; that was before he'd begun to channel; that was before the eye of the world, before falme. ]
What do you know, [ he starts, slow, before meeting that curious gaze, ] about the Dragon Reborn?
[ (in a way, there's no contradiction at all. rand can't recognize himself anymore, but he hates what he sees. the same can't be said for what he sees of astarion, vampire spawn or no.) ]
[ Despite the short answer being not that much, that title alone β the Dragon Reborn β is enough to give Astarion pause. What he knows, of a legendary hero and a cycle of reincarnation, he might once have called the stuff of stories alone, tales told to comfort children and teach them a little about morality, butβ well, he's been through a lot, recently, and even if that weren't the case, there would be the fact of what he'd just tasted in Rand's blood.
Just as slowly: ] I see.
[ Because the implication is clear enough, even if Astarion isn't immediately sure not to make of it. Not out of fear, but a lack of a blueprint to follow when it comes to meeting legendary figures made flesh.
(Still, some part of him finds the revelation almost reassuring β when one imagines a champion, who Rand is by nature isn't far off.)
He's not quite sure what else to say β whether he should offer sympathy, surprise, honor at having been allowed to feed upon the Dragon's blood, disbelief, supplication. Every option demands a certain level of deference, of care. Yet, instead, Astarion's expression shifts into one of fairly clear mischief before he says, in the kind of tone one might use after being told a piece of particularly salacious gossip: ]
[ he's beginning to think astarion hasn't heard of the dragon, after all.
the slow surprise makes some sense. it's an outlandish claim, in truth. hard to prove, too; any fellow could claim to be the dragon, though no one decent β and in his right mind βΒ would. (no one can say any of the false dragons were either of those two things, he thinks.) he knows astarion tasted something strange in his blood, but he doesn't actually know what. that's not proof. and how could he prove it? channeling? talking about the forsaken? repeating the prophecies he's begun to hear, that speak of his birth and foretell his death?
(blood, it's always his blood that they call for. why should he deny astarion a meal when millennia-old writings insist that his blood must be spilled soon anyway?)
it's when he notices the mischief, the playful tone, that his eyebrows draw together and he thinks he hasn't been clear at all. ]
Really, [ he says uncertainly. off-balance. he's mostly sure that's because of the confusion here, and not the blood loss. he does have to narrowly stop himself from saying "that's me," because that sounds daft even in his own mind. ] I am the Dragon Reborn. [ helpfully, ] The channeler that brought the Breaking.
[ Astarion debates, for a moment, continuing the full-court bitchy press, butβ however funny he finds it, however lightly he might try to take it, Rand certainly doesn't, and, as strange as it feels for him to ever let up on a source of teasing, well. Rand is a little too earnest for it to feel entirely good, and far be it from him to forget that the entire reason they're having this conversation at all is because Rand trusted him enough to offer his neck. The least he can repay him with is consideration.
And so his expression sobers, a hint of apology to the line of his mouth, though he doesn't offer the thought out loud. ]
That's quite the burden to bear, [ he says, at length. Again, he can't really argue the point, not when he's tasted what he's tasted. It's a little difficult to reconcile between systems of beliefs β he's not certain he's ever put much serious stock in reincarnation β and any further introspection is begging for an existential crisis he's not inclined to have in the presence of another person.
So, instead, he offers up the thought he'd had before, a kernel of honesty he wouldn't normally be inclined to share: ]
Well, I suppose we're all lucky it's you.
[ A beat. Haven't you more important things to be doing than dallying around with me? ]
Iβ assume I ought to keep that information to myself, should anyone ask?
[ if rand looked confused before, he's flabbergasted now. he cants his head, finally letting his hand drop from his neck, and gives astarion a long look.
the newfound seriousness just makes it odder, really. that's quite the burden; we're all lucky it's you; should i keep that information to myself. has anyone ever looked at him and wondered what it's like for him, instead of considering the ramifications for the world, even rightfully for themselves? someone had told him, not long ago, that she was the only person in the world who cared for him. she was wrong, of course; but she'd asserted that everyone else cares about what he can do, not about him. it's proved hard to deny.
(is that a fair assessment of his friends? he's run and run to avoid finding out how they'd respond to the revelation. and, anyway, reactions from people who knew him from the cradle and reactions from people who haven't known him half a year are βΒ bound to differ.)
it's proved hard to deny, except right now. he looks at astarion like he's never seen him before; almost like he's never seen anyone before. ]
You really don't think it matters, [ he says wonderingly, half-unaware he'd done so aloud.
or, more to the point, astarion clearly thinks that it matters to him. and he's right on that count. but aside from that...light, how bizarre. every reaction he'd been braced for, and instead there's this. even lanfear had pretended to flinch from him at first, aware that was the most ordinary response. ]
[ It's a kind of look that makes Astarion uncomfortable β not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way that reminds him why he has generally been so averse to what most would call "good deeds" or "earnestness." He staves off the feeling with a huff of laughter and a half-shrug, as if to say, well, of course not.
He has the benefit of time and experience, he supposes, in that, had they met just months earlier, Astarion might have taken Rand's true nature as an enticement more than a statement of fact β a power he could use to his advantage, someone he could sway to his side. Lucky, then, that they've met as they are now. (Then again, had they met any earlier, Astarion wouldn't have been able to feed on him, anyway, not without consequence.)
Then again, perhaps not. Everything he's experienced has bred a particular view of freedom that divorces a person from what's been imposed upon them β from things like, for instance, endless cycles of reincarnation and the lives one is supposed to have lived before.
But there's no real way of knowing one way or the other, and it's not as though he's keen to roll the dice back in time. ]
I can say it does, if you'd rather, [ he says, a little wry β an easier answer for him to give than what matters is you. ] Or I could feign awe. Well, not totally feign, but you get what I mean.
[ Then, sharp (but not mean): ] Whatever will get you to stop looking at me like that.
[ just as well he didn't say what matters is you. there would've been no keeping rand from regarding him, thoroughly awestruck, like a strange, rare thing. as it is, rand reflexively contradicts, ]
I'm not looking at you like anything.
[ even as he obligingly casts his eyes down, looking instead at his own fisted hands in his lap. he makes himself unclench them, smooth them out, focusing on the task like it's terribly important. hard to say how good a job it does at taking that expression out of astarion's view, but. he's trying. ]
I'm sorry, [ comes after a moment, dissonant with his own denial. ] You don't have to feign anything. [ he'd really rather astarion didn't, and it shows in his voice. ] And I'd rather you didn't tell anyone, but...
[ he shrugs, still looking down. it doesn't ultimately matter, what he'd rather. you cannot escape your fate. the dragon declared over falme. destiny and prophecy and past lives. he's more concerned for the vampire spawn's safety, truth be told, than his own. but surely astarion wouldn't risk himself unnecessarily. not for the sake of someone he doesn't know well. ]
Was it bad? [ is it a stupid pivot? it's an easier thing to wonder, looking back at the vampire spawn now. ] The taste, [ clarified. ] You seemed surprised as soon as you bit me.
[ is he on the cusp of genuinely apologizing if astarion says he tasted bad? yes. is he wondering how astarion's assertion that you can tell a person's nature reflects on him? also yes. ]
[ 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 β 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 β what he prizes β 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 β 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 β you β 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.
[ rand is, of course, no hero. not really. born with the echoes of lews therin reverberating through his soul can't much count, least of all with all the harm he'd done three thousand years ago. going to the eye of the world doesn't count, by his estimation, either. maybe he'd been willing to give his life there, but he hadn't, and in the end had only made things worse. can falme count? why in light's name would it? no, there's no point to comparison, no point to seeing him as any better than he is.
(and no reason why he of all people wouldn't sympathize with wanting control over one's own life. thank the light that, at least, astarion has been able to reclaim some.)
a banquet table is, perhaps, an understandable extension of the metaphor. he can understand the meaning, he thinks, at least. far more flattering than he would've expected; but then astarion goes on, and becomes much more flattering than he would've expected. sweet, palatable, strong. delineating between him and everything else. it's like a knot in his chest, having this kind of care extended his way.
but he scoffs at the end, finally finding it in himself to look up, indulgently amused. ]
Come off it.
[ back in emond's field, he only had eyes for egwene for nearly as long as he's had eyes, and so had never had reason to assume anyone else ever noticed him at all. and selene β lanfear β was, well. she had her own agenda. the reasonable assumption, therefore, is that astarion really is just trying to make him feel better! which is kind but misguided. ]
Well, if you ever do need β more, [ because light only knows how many people are offering astarion their necks, ] I don't mind helping. When I can, at least.
[ It's for the best, really, that Rand takes it as a joke β Astarion wouldn't know what to do if he took it seriously beyond attempting to play it off. But whatever display of earnestness he's freed from as such is brought back into play by the offer that follows.
Granted, the feeling it sparks is not dissimilar to the way in which he's thrown off by almost every answer Rand gives him. To agree to one bite had already been quite the shock (not to mention the revelation that had followed on its heels), but to offer himself up as a meal in relative perpetuityβ
The look on Astarion's face is not unlike the expression Rand had worn just moments previously; awe, in some measure, though filtered into something more like uncertainty on the more permanently skeptical canvas of Astarion's face. He's not about to refuse the offer β the assumption that people aren't exactly falling over themselves to give blood, as it were, is true, complicated by the status of vampires and their spawn as monsters β but he also doesn't quite know how to accept it.
He settles on a breath of laughter, the sound carrying something life as he flops onto his back in the shade. ]
Careful, petal, else I'll drink you dry.
[ Of course, it's a jest β as much as it's within his control, he's not trying to repay kindness with exsanguination β but it's the only way he knows how to respond other than to be honest, which is a horrible prospect. Still, he swallows his pride, if only because Rand isβ well, Rand.
With each word measured: ] But ... thank you. Iβ I don't take such a thing for granted.
[ as it turns out, it's no easier to be on the receiving end of a look like that. he swallows, shifts his weight, and finds himself relieved when astarion flops over. he breathes out, soft and slow, but finds astarion's huff of laughter contagious. ]
No, you won't.
[ contradicts without a lick of hesitation, mouth curving into a smile despite himself. astarion didn't do so today, after all, didn't even come close. maybe astarion has to battle the danger of losing control, but...so does rand, every day. and if the vampire spawn is ready to act like that's no large thing β ready to believe, rand has to correct himself. there's no act to treating him the same. maybe rand struggles to believe that his identity β light, his identity β makes no difference, but he can believe in astarion. that is so much more easily done.
so he leans sideways, angling to prop himself up on an elbow; get closer to eye level, as it were. he has to move carefully, gingerly, mindful of the wound in his other side. a fine thing it'd be, to pull it open and begin bleeding right after making astarion this offer, right after letting him have some blood. well, he considers wryly, maybe it'd serve as proof of his sincerity. see, he really did mean that astarion could have blood any time.
but β he gets there, anyway, stretched out in sweet-smelling grass. astarion is rewarded with a broader smile than before. ]
Well, that's good. I wouldn't offer to just anyone.
[because he knows so many blood drinkers β see, he's funny!!! he's hilarious!! in fact!!!!! ]
[ It's a pity, Astarion thinks faintly, that their paths cross each other rather than running parallel, at least for the moment; it robs him of the ability to go back to camp and immediately ask Karlach if he's correct in thinking that Rand's behavior is deranged, or at least deranged-adjacent, consult with Wyll as to whether or not this really is acceptable normal behavior, and generally gossip with people who have about a good a handle on the subject's behavior as he does. But, alas, Rand has yet to meet the little band of misfits he's been traveling with, and so he has no frame of reference to consult but his own.
As such, his expression goes from dubious at that no, you won't (confident!), to even more dubious at what follows, his brow wrinkling and his mouth pressing into a line that attempts to convey that the notion of laughing didn't even cross his mind once. But, really, it's a case of protesting too loudly β he's grown fond, for better or worse, and the fact that he isn't immediately acquiescing to anything and everything is proof enough of that. ]
If I find out it's an offer you've extended to anyone else, I shall be extremely cross with you, [ is what he settles on as a response, spoken lightly enough to make it clear that he knows Rand isn't exactly encountering vampires left and right. Other sorts of danger, surely, butβ well, he wouldn't have been as curious as he was if Astarion's condition were a common one, would he?
Speaking of whichβ ]
Well, now that we've gotten the big one out of the way β did you have any other questions for me? You won't have a better opportunity to ask whatever else you'd like about vampirism, I can guarantee you that.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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on the grand scale of things, concerns about or adjacent to his well-being rate on the lowest possible rung. they are often not even on the ladder. he cares about the potential of hurting astarion's feelings quite a lot, and what might happen to himself comparatively very little. he has a knee-jerk aversion to the notion of being bitten, of course, as much as any other person. but he did in fact ask for proof, and he can't very well complain about the way astarion chooses to furnish that proof. not if he agreed to it, anyway. and there is a non-zero chance that astarion really is having him on. and if he isn't, well...
he knows enough of astarion, even if it isn't much, to believe that the vampire(?) isn't going to deliberately be hurting him here. maybe not even inadvertently β though it's hard to imagine a bite not being, at bare minimum, a trifle uncomfortable. and that's fine, is the thing. if rand wants his curiosity sated, and he does, then he can bear a little risk or a little discomfort for it. if it's worse than that, then so much the better that it was only him.
all this to say, he has plenty of time on his walk over to consider. so by the time he ducks under some low-slung branches and tosses himself into a sprawl near astarion, he's already wearing an easy smile. ]
Are you trying to talk me out of this already? I thought the demonstration was your idea.
[ says the person who started it, but okay. ]
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You do make it terribly difficult to argue with you, [ he says, in lieu of pointing out that they wouldn't be here at all were it not for Rand's own curiosity. (He also, graciously, forgoes adding, it's like arguing with a stone.) ]
I suppose I owe you a little further explanation, seeing as you're the source of my next meal. You see, I can sustain myself on the blood of beasts β deer, boars, rabbits, the like β but ... it's like water. A human could live on water alone for some time, but it wouldn't truly stem hunger, would leave you weak. Now, I won't die, without human blood, but even just a taste of it β I can think more clearly. Be better. More useful.
[ He pauses a moment, largely to try to gauge whether or not Rand believes any of it (funny, really, he usually only needs to be so concerned when telling a lie, and yet, here, telling the truthβ), before continuing: ]
Well, if you're ready ... it'll only hurt for a moment. [ Then, almost as an afterthought: ] I'll be gentle.
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(which is why, of course, he will never see it again. but better a home you can cherish in your heart, if nothing else, than none at all.)
but he listens carefully, anyway, to astarion's explanation. he keeps his eyes on astarion's face, nodding, eyes slightly narrowed in thought. it makes sense, in a funny way, why he apparently the needs the blood of a human. at least β the water comparison makes sense. in another way, it makes no sense at all. how should the blood of beasts be any different from human blood? it is all...well. it's all blood, isn't it? but if astarion had told true about the deeds of a person affecting the flavor of their blood, then it sort of adds up. maybe.
more to the point, astarion's giving far too much detail for this to be some elaborate ruse. rand isn't a suspicious person by nature; he's learned it through hard experience. he can't imagine what astarion would get out of lying about this, anyway. there are easier ways to get a taste of rand's blood, willingly even. and the promise of being gentle has a half-smile tugging at his mouth, sincere and rueful and fond all at once. ]
I'm ready.
[ he'll crane his neck if that's what astarion moves in to bite β everything he knows about vampires suggests they prefer the neck β so it's easier to get to. and as for the taste,
how to describe the nature of a ta'veren such at this one, of the dragon reborn? on the one hand, there's rand β sweet-natured, inclined to quiet living, loyal to a fault, stubborn as stone, quick to put himself between others and harm, and slow to admit the harm he takes. but on the other hand there's the dragon reborn β brimming with channeling potential, bright with the searing Light that has filled his veins time and again, and will yet until he dies. he burns like the sun, but there's the aftertaste of something wrong and rancid, the slow build of poisoned saidin from repeated exposure. and there's something else too. there's lews therin, faintly, and previous lives fainter still. but lews therin kinslayer saw the utopia around him crack and dissolve into a drawn-out and brutal war, was betrayed and did betray until some of those he loved best turned to the shadow, and the end of his life was so steeped in madness and blood and anguish that the echoes shape into nightmares that shake rand awake most nights.
how much of that translates into flavor for astarion? hard to say. but rand al'thor is likely to taste memorable, if nothing else. ]
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But two centuries' worth of stubborn compartmentalization means that the flicker in the vampire spawn's gaze is only momentary, giving way to a smile as Rand offers him his neck. He seems almost confident as he draws close, raising a hand to gently cup the back of Rand's head, the better to support him as he bares his fangsβ and bites.
For Rand, the sensation will manifest as a brief flash of pain; twin needles, cold as ice, pricking his flesh. It lasts only a moment before subsiding, fading into a heady sort of numbness. For Astarionβ
βfrom the first second Rand's blood fills his mouth, he feels as though he's been struck by lightning. He flinches, even, though it's not quite enough to get him to pull away immediately. There's a little of what he expects β the taste of something sweet, easily palatable, inviting β but Rand's blood tastes rich. He doesn't know how to process it all, the sharpness of the Light (a degree of power he's never encountered β had avoided, in a sense, given his mortal aversion to the sun), and thenβ
(βtoo much too dark too heavy sour madness lives upon lives upon lives lived and taken andβ)
βwhen he pulls back, it's not nearly as smoothly as he's been thus far. Rather, it's like he's been slapped (as much for how unexpected this has all been as to avoid the temptation to keep drinking), a hand quickly rising to his face to brush away the red that remains on his lips. The rise and fall of his chest is quick for how composed he tries to seem, a glint in his eyes conveying both an immediate surprise and renewed interest. There's nothing for him to compare the taste to, besides knowing that he's never, ever tasted anything like it before. It's too late, he supposes, to pretend that he isn't surprised, so, pointedly: ]
Normally, I'd start with a thank you, but ... well, let's just say I assumed I'd always be the less forthcoming of the two of us.
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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 β and astarion has so thoroughly explained just what it is that determines the taste of blood β 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 β 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 β 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. ]
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It'd be easier for him to simply think he'd been duped if not for the fact that he's just had a taste of his blood. It's not unlike coming across a text in a language he doesn't know how to read; illustrations help demonstrate the broader points, but the finer details are lost upon him, indecipherable without someone else's assistance or knowledge. As scant as his experience with feeding upon humans may be, he still knows there's something else going on with the would-be shepherd. (And it all does serve to shed a sliver of light upon their previous discussion of the nature of souls.) ]
You'reβ
[ He laughs, hesitates, then tries again. (He can see the line of tension in Rand's shoulders, and as much as he'd deny it if pressed, it makes him feel almost guilty. The petty part of him wants to say, well, why, it's not as though I've done anything wrong, but that's not the issue, is it? The issue is that he can see that this is something that's changed the flow of Rand's life, that there must be a reason why someone who has otherwise demonstrated themselves to be incredibly, painfully honest would keep a secret.
And it's a little bit of quid pro quo, isn't it β just as much as Rand wants to avoid hurting Astarion, materially or otherwise, the opposite holds true as well.) ]
You're more complicated than I'd thought, [ is what he settles on, which he feels to be about as diplomatic as possible. ] Shall I inquire further? Or would you prefer we both pretend nothing to be out of the ordinary?
[ Normally, he'd insist upon an explanation β and he does want to know, desperately, exactly why Rand's blood tastes the way that it does β but, in the interest of equivalent exchange, a respite from interrogation is what he'll offer in return for a meal. He doesn't take that lightly, despite how carefree Rand had seemed upon arriving. The world doesn't exactly look kindly upon vampire spawn, let alone the idea of baring one's neck. ]
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so he could almost laugh at being called complicated. it is diplomatic. it's gentle, in truth, just as astarion had promised, and so is the question. he's beyond grateful for the offer. it is incredibly kind. there's nothing in the whole world he wants more than to pretend nothing is out of the ordinary.
he says, ]
You may as well ask what you're wondering.
[ there's nothing sharp in his tone. after a moment, he'll even meet astarion's eyes, a hand still pressed to the bite marks, and then shrug. they will need to have this conversation sooner or later, won't they? there's no real reason not to do it now. rand brought this on himself by hearing out astarion's entire explanation about what drinking blood feels like, and then offering his own neck. he doesn't regret the given meal β at least, he doesn't if astarion doesn't, and he's still not convinced either way of that β but he does regret that it had clearly revealed more than he'd meant to. whatever astarion knows now, however vague, it can't be un-known. rand can wish he'd had better foresight, but if wishes were wings. ]
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But, for now, all that he offers is a quizzical gaze, willing as ever to accept an invitation but made a little more hesitant by Rand's manner. It clearly makes him uncomfortable β he's suffered for it, that much is evident β but, like his vampirism, it does feel like a hump they'll have to surmount sooner or later. And as he knows full well, what really matters is less the telling of it than how it's received. ]
I'm almost afraid I don't know how to ask the right question, [ he begins, ] "Why does your blood taste like that?" Let alone the fact that I doubt you know what your own blood tastes likeβ [ other than the typical iron tang that non-vampires can register, which doesn't count ] βit seems ... too simple.
[ Another pause, before Astarion seems to settle on trying for as light a touch as possible. ]
Well, how about this, thenβ
[ He fixes his gaze upon Rand, intent but hardly interrogatory. ]
Who are you?
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(it's a funny thing. he can easily hold both thoughts in his head at once: that astarion is no monster simply for the vampiric influences upon him, and that rand is one for being born with the spark. that if it had been mat, as they'd feared, then he would've still been nothing to flinch from.)
there's a huff of a laugh, bitter and mirthless, as he turns that question over in his mind. there was a time not very long ago when he could've answered: sheepherder from the two rivers, son to tam and kari al'thor, no one of any real import. but that was before the trolloc attack on winternight; that was before he found out he'd been born to a stranger during the blood snow; that was before he'd begun to channel; that was before the eye of the world, before falme. ]
What do you know, [ he starts, slow, before meeting that curious gaze, ] about the Dragon Reborn?
[ (in a way, there's no contradiction at all. rand can't recognize himself anymore, but he hates what he sees. the same can't be said for what he sees of astarion, vampire spawn or no.) ]
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Just as slowly: ] I see.
[ Because the implication is clear enough, even if Astarion isn't immediately sure not to make of it. Not out of fear, but a lack of a blueprint to follow when it comes to meeting legendary figures made flesh.
(Still, some part of him finds the revelation almost reassuring β when one imagines a champion, who Rand is by nature isn't far off.)
He's not quite sure what else to say β whether he should offer sympathy, surprise, honor at having been allowed to feed upon the Dragon's blood, disbelief, supplication. Every option demands a certain level of deference, of care. Yet, instead, Astarion's expression shifts into one of fairly clear mischief before he says, in the kind of tone one might use after being told a piece of particularly salacious gossip: ]
βReally?
wobblehands at mashup world au history
the slow surprise makes some sense. it's an outlandish claim, in truth. hard to prove, too; any fellow could claim to be the dragon, though no one decent β and in his right mind βΒ would. (no one can say any of the false dragons were either of those two things, he thinks.) he knows astarion tasted something strange in his blood, but he doesn't actually know what. that's not proof. and how could he prove it? channeling? talking about the forsaken? repeating the prophecies he's begun to hear, that speak of his birth and foretell his death?
(blood, it's always his blood that they call for. why should he deny astarion a meal when millennia-old writings insist that his blood must be spilled soon anyway?)
it's when he notices the mischief, the playful tone, that his eyebrows draw together and he thinks he hasn't been clear at all. ]
Really, [ he says uncertainly. off-balance. he's mostly sure that's because of the confusion here, and not the blood loss. he does have to narrowly stop himself from saying "that's me," because that sounds daft even in his own mind. ] I am the Dragon Reborn. [ helpfully, ] The channeler that brought the Breaking.
[ and may yet bring another, before he's done. ]
"that's me" lirl
And so his expression sobers, a hint of apology to the line of his mouth, though he doesn't offer the thought out loud. ]
That's quite the burden to bear, [ he says, at length. Again, he can't really argue the point, not when he's tasted what he's tasted. It's a little difficult to reconcile between systems of beliefs β he's not certain he's ever put much serious stock in reincarnation β and any further introspection is begging for an existential crisis he's not inclined to have in the presence of another person.
So, instead, he offers up the thought he'd had before, a kernel of honesty he wouldn't normally be inclined to share: ]
Well, I suppose we're all lucky it's you.
[ A beat. Haven't you more important things to be doing than dallying around with me? ]
Iβ assume I ought to keep that information to myself, should anyone ask?
he is trying so haRD
the newfound seriousness just makes it odder, really. that's quite the burden; we're all lucky it's you; should i keep that information to myself. has anyone ever looked at him and wondered what it's like for him, instead of considering the ramifications for the world, even rightfully for themselves? someone had told him, not long ago, that she was the only person in the world who cared for him. she was wrong, of course; but she'd asserted that everyone else cares about what he can do, not about him. it's proved hard to deny.
(is that a fair assessment of his friends? he's run and run to avoid finding out how they'd respond to the revelation. and, anyway, reactions from people who knew him from the cradle and reactions from people who haven't known him half a year are βΒ bound to differ.)
it's proved hard to deny, except right now. he looks at astarion like he's never seen him before; almost like he's never seen anyone before. ]
You really don't think it matters, [ he says wonderingly, half-unaware he'd done so aloud.
or, more to the point, astarion clearly thinks that it matters to him. and he's right on that count. but aside from that...light, how bizarre. every reaction he'd been braced for, and instead there's this. even lanfear had pretended to flinch from him at first, aware that was the most ordinary response. ]
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He has the benefit of time and experience, he supposes, in that, had they met just months earlier, Astarion might have taken Rand's true nature as an enticement more than a statement of fact β a power he could use to his advantage, someone he could sway to his side. Lucky, then, that they've met as they are now. (Then again, had they met any earlier, Astarion wouldn't have been able to feed on him, anyway, not without consequence.)
Then again, perhaps not. Everything he's experienced has bred a particular view of freedom that divorces a person from what's been imposed upon them β from things like, for instance, endless cycles of reincarnation and the lives one is supposed to have lived before.
But there's no real way of knowing one way or the other, and it's not as though he's keen to roll the dice back in time. ]
I can say it does, if you'd rather, [ he says, a little wry β an easier answer for him to give than what matters is you. ] Or I could feign awe. Well, not totally feign, but you get what I mean.
[ Then, sharp (but not mean): ] Whatever will get you to stop looking at me like that.
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I'm not looking at you like anything.
[ even as he obligingly casts his eyes down, looking instead at his own fisted hands in his lap. he makes himself unclench them, smooth them out, focusing on the task like it's terribly important. hard to say how good a job it does at taking that expression out of astarion's view, but. he's trying. ]
I'm sorry, [ comes after a moment, dissonant with his own denial. ] You don't have to feign anything. [ he'd really rather astarion didn't, and it shows in his voice. ] And I'd rather you didn't tell anyone, but...
[ he shrugs, still looking down. it doesn't ultimately matter, what he'd rather. you cannot escape your fate. the dragon declared over falme. destiny and prophecy and past lives. he's more concerned for the vampire spawn's safety, truth be told, than his own. but surely astarion wouldn't risk himself unnecessarily. not for the sake of someone he doesn't know well. ]
Was it bad? [ is it a stupid pivot? it's an easier thing to wonder, looking back at the vampire spawn now. ] The taste, [ clarified. ] You seemed surprised as soon as you bit me.
[ is he on the cusp of genuinely apologizing if astarion says he tasted bad? yes. is he wondering how astarion's assertion that you can tell a person's nature reflects on him? also yes. ]
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(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 β 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 β what he prizes β 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 β 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 β you β 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.
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(and no reason why he of all people wouldn't sympathize with wanting control over one's own life. thank the light that, at least, astarion has been able to reclaim some.)
a banquet table is, perhaps, an understandable extension of the metaphor. he can understand the meaning, he thinks, at least. far more flattering than he would've expected; but then astarion goes on, and becomes much more flattering than he would've expected. sweet, palatable, strong. delineating between him and everything else. it's like a knot in his chest, having this kind of care extended his way.
but he scoffs at the end, finally finding it in himself to look up, indulgently amused. ]
Come off it.
[ back in emond's field, he only had eyes for egwene for nearly as long as he's had eyes, and so had never had reason to assume anyone else ever noticed him at all. and selene β lanfear β was, well. she had her own agenda. the reasonable assumption, therefore, is that astarion really is just trying to make him feel better! which is kind but misguided. ]
Well, if you ever do need β more, [ because light only knows how many people are offering astarion their necks, ] I don't mind helping. When I can, at least.
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Granted, the feeling it sparks is not dissimilar to the way in which he's thrown off by almost every answer Rand gives him. To agree to one bite had already been quite the shock (not to mention the revelation that had followed on its heels), but to offer himself up as a meal in relative perpetuityβ
The look on Astarion's face is not unlike the expression Rand had worn just moments previously; awe, in some measure, though filtered into something more like uncertainty on the more permanently skeptical canvas of Astarion's face. He's not about to refuse the offer β the assumption that people aren't exactly falling over themselves to give blood, as it were, is true, complicated by the status of vampires and their spawn as monsters β but he also doesn't quite know how to accept it.
He settles on a breath of laughter, the sound carrying something life as he flops onto his back in the shade. ]
Careful, petal, else I'll drink you dry.
[ Of course, it's a jest β as much as it's within his control, he's not trying to repay kindness with exsanguination β but it's the only way he knows how to respond other than to be honest, which is a horrible prospect. Still, he swallows his pride, if only because Rand isβ well, Rand.
With each word measured: ] But ... thank you. Iβ I don't take such a thing for granted.
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No, you won't.
[ contradicts without a lick of hesitation, mouth curving into a smile despite himself. astarion didn't do so today, after all, didn't even come close. maybe astarion has to battle the danger of losing control, but...so does rand, every day. and if the vampire spawn is ready to act like that's no large thing β ready to believe, rand has to correct himself. there's no act to treating him the same. maybe rand struggles to believe that his identity β light, his identity β makes no difference, but he can believe in astarion. that is so much more easily done.
so he leans sideways, angling to prop himself up on an elbow; get closer to eye level, as it were. he has to move carefully, gingerly, mindful of the wound in his other side. a fine thing it'd be, to pull it open and begin bleeding right after making astarion this offer, right after letting him have some blood. well, he considers wryly, maybe it'd serve as proof of his sincerity. see, he really did mean that astarion could have blood any time.
but β he gets there, anyway, stretched out in sweet-smelling grass. astarion is rewarded with a broader smile than before. ]
Well, that's good. I wouldn't offer to just anyone.
[ because he knows so many blood drinkers β see, he's funny!!! he's hilarious!! in fact!!!!! ]
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As such, his expression goes from dubious at that no, you won't (confident!), to even more dubious at what follows, his brow wrinkling and his mouth pressing into a line that attempts to convey that the notion of laughing didn't even cross his mind once. But, really, it's a case of protesting too loudly β he's grown fond, for better or worse, and the fact that he isn't immediately acquiescing to anything and everything is proof enough of that. ]
If I find out it's an offer you've extended to anyone else, I shall be extremely cross with you, [ is what he settles on as a response, spoken lightly enough to make it clear that he knows Rand isn't exactly encountering vampires left and right. Other sorts of danger, surely, butβ well, he wouldn't have been as curious as he was if Astarion's condition were a common one, would he?
Speaking of whichβ ]
Well, now that we've gotten the big one out of the way β did you have any other questions for me? You won't have a better opportunity to ask whatever else you'd like about vampirism, I can guarantee you that.