[ Astarion wonders, first, if his mother and father felt anything at all, when their son went missing. His turning had been so absolute, such a point of no return, that the idea of letting them know had either never crossed his mind or never been an option.
He thinks, second, of the curse of knowing. Of knowing something is bound to happen, of being powerless to stop it. It's that inability, at the end of the day, that makes it so horrible to bear. ]
I'm sorry.
[ Because what else is there to say? What other sentiment truly matters? ]
I hope, for both your sakes, that the prophecy bears out to be false. Or that you both forget it, as cold as that sounds, and experience his passing as you were meant to.
For now, at least, we will catch the wolves, and bring this accursed game to its end.
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He thinks, second, of the curse of knowing. Of knowing something is bound to happen, of being powerless to stop it. It's that inability, at the end of the day, that makes it so horrible to bear. ]
I'm sorry.
[ Because what else is there to say? What other sentiment truly matters? ]
I hope, for both your sakes, that the prophecy bears out to be false. Or that you both forget it, as cold as that sounds, and experience his passing as you were meant to.
For now, at least, we will catch the wolves, and bring this accursed game to its end.