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[thirsted]

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ASTARION

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cw: suicidal thoughts

[thirsted]

I've wondered, before, if I would have walked willingly into the sun, had I the chance.

[ An unusually open confession, one that intimates the circumstances following Astarion's turning. ]

What is the nature of the relationship between a vampire and their maker, in your realm?

[ A question he knows he will have to answer in turn, but— he wants to know. ]

[nishtha]

[ An easier question to answer. ]

His blood is my blood. His body is my body. When we are together, our hearts beat in sync. I feel the tides of him, the rise and fall. His love and anger. I can sense his presence before he appears. There's no connection like it.

But there is a veil between our minds. I can't listen to his thoughts like I can those of others. A small sacrifice to make.

[thirsted]

[ A pang. Jealousy, in some form. Envy at the idea of having been turned by a love like that, to have that kind of devotion in his hands. ]

I don't suppose the word "spawn" is part of your vampiric vocabulary?

[nishtha]

We prefer the term "fledgling". Fragile, on leaving the nest.

[thirsted]

[ Even there, a kinder word. ]

For us, for my kind, the term is not one that the passage of years can change.

Vampire spawn are subservient. There is no shared bond except the exertion of our maker's will. Only if our maker is undone or we drink of their blood will that domination break. That thing you felt in my mind, when we first met — it is the only thing keeping him from reaching me.

[nishtha]

[ It sounds horrifying to Armand, though not surprising. Certainly some vampires treat their fledglings in the same way. He wonders if Astarion has spoken to Lestat yet. ]

Is that why it remains? Why you haven't found a way to exorcise it?

[thirsted]

One reason, among others.

But I know it to be a stopgap. True freedom will require more than that.

[nishtha]

His death.

[ A guess, but that's usually how it works, with vampires. ]

[thirsted]

[ Affirmation: ]

My fondest wish, in truth.

[nishtha]

I know vampires who were captured by their makers. Forced to degrade themselves. Given into cruel hands. It is not always about love, between us. And love does not always survive as long as we do. I know my fledgling may come to hate me, in time. And wish for my death as fondly as you wish for your maker's painful end.

Still, I hope that it happens for you. I would not like to see you in chains.

[thirsted]

[ Sympathy is still strange to him, stranger still when it (seems) genuinely meant. He stares at the message for a long moment, the ephemerality of love an ache underneath his ribs. ]

Thank you, Armand.

And I hope what you describe — of you and your fledgling — never comes to pass.

[nishtha]

[ They might not know each other well, may not be more than far distant cousins joined by a legacy of pain, but Armand knows that were Astarion's maker here, he wouldn't hesitate to strike him down. He was a slave once; he won't see it happen again, to anyone. ]

We can only hope.