His hand, on the handle of the bathroom door. Pausing.
The connection between maker and fledgling isn't unknown to him, but it's been close to half a millennia since he has known it beyond the sensory absorption of the vampires around him, their little tangles, their frayed threads of connection.
"Yes," he says. "And I can feel you."
An awareness, at its most basic. He could close his eyes and identify the shape of Daniel in the room, like he is also on his hands and knees, also feeling fangs grow in his mouth like it's all new again. And in return—
Well, there is no concealing anything. What they lack in precision, telepathic whispers, clear thoughts, the divulging or discovering of secrets, this connection makes up for in the way there is no ability to block it, manipulate it, erase it, no more than you can will your blood to flow in a new direction.
And there is something in Armand that feels like a closed, shaking fist, grasping onto that tether. Frightened in a way that seems far from existential.
"Sundown is in three hours," he says, as if he could speak over it. "But you can leave the room as you like. I'll clean up, this time."
Opening the door. Inside, a spike of panicky breathing from the stranger inside, who has been commanded to lay still, a sacrificial goat.
no subject
The connection between maker and fledgling isn't unknown to him, but it's been close to half a millennia since he has known it beyond the sensory absorption of the vampires around him, their little tangles, their frayed threads of connection.
"Yes," he says. "And I can feel you."
An awareness, at its most basic. He could close his eyes and identify the shape of Daniel in the room, like he is also on his hands and knees, also feeling fangs grow in his mouth like it's all new again. And in return—
Well, there is no concealing anything. What they lack in precision, telepathic whispers, clear thoughts, the divulging or discovering of secrets, this connection makes up for in the way there is no ability to block it, manipulate it, erase it, no more than you can will your blood to flow in a new direction.
And there is something in Armand that feels like a closed, shaking fist, grasping onto that tether. Frightened in a way that seems far from existential.
"Sundown is in three hours," he says, as if he could speak over it. "But you can leave the room as you like. I'll clean up, this time."
Opening the door. Inside, a spike of panicky breathing from the stranger inside, who has been commanded to lay still, a sacrificial goat.