[ 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}
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
(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.
no subject
(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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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!!!!! ]
no subject
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.