Chapter Text
Nearly six years ago, the comet lit the skies, then as it fell, as it exploded in shards of dust and starstuff, it darkened them, vast clouds of debris turning the atmosphere to a lasting shroud. In their wake, the snows came, and the land descended into the wailing winds of winter. In the wake of the winter dark, everyone assumed, came the blood drinkers. Oh, the rumors had been there all along, but before, they had been scattered, isolated. Now, that had changed.
No one seemed to know exactly when the conversion had happened, when the rash of deaths, especially among the poor and desperate, had stopped being mostly about a lack of food and safe housing and begun to become disappearances. When the church had begun to open its doors late in the night, in the dim hours when clouds choked the sky. When the clergy had become paler, sharper around the edges, everyone had thought it was lack of sleep, the stress, the poor food.
They did remember when the dragon-blooded had begun to disappear, those who had been born with greater strength, speed, power, who had been the protectors to the land against their ancient ancestors. Almost a year had gone by since the meteor, then, and their ranks were never vast, especially with the dragons eager to take advantage of the chaos, but within a mere handspan of months only a score were still known. When some of them reappeared, eyes glazed and dull, and trotting obediently in the wake of the clerics and temple knights, well, so what if something seemed off? At least they were there, at least the people felt more protected.
When the revelation came at the height of the next winter, when Thordan ascended the dias and showed his fangs, when the Ward surrounded him, white teeth gleaming like daggers in the dark, there was no one left to fight or protest. Too many nobles converted, the Temple Knights lead by his mortal son, the dragon-blooded now either bound in blood and magic to their rulers, or running desperate, hiding in the wild as their richer veins were eagerly sought to flood the new vampiric masters with power.
If Estinien Wyrmblood had been a smarter man, or a less loyal one, that was when he would have fled Coerthas entire. Instead, he had taken himself into the surrounding wilds, avoided the city, trusted that the friendship he and the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights had forged as soldiers together would protect him, that the good, kind man he had known would not betray anything that led to him, and he could continue his own mission, fighting the dragons that preyed on the people, gathering tokens of claw and fang, using them to strengthen his own inner power. He had forgotten that even if Aymeric de Borel was not likely to betray him, it was all too likely that the Commander himself would be betrayed.
He should have fled when he was stopped out hunting by a goblin in the Hinterlands, who had asked him if he was 'a dragon man', then on confirmation, said, "We told tell you, 'Too late, time to go'." Instead of leaving immediately, he'd felt stupidly confident in his bolthole, deep in the ruins of one of the Sharlyan buildings, trusting to its concealment again that night as he'd considered options. He was all but buried in the depths, behind crumbled walls and tangling vines, trusting to fractured mosaics and rubble to announce unfamiliar feet on the floor. A scrape of metal on stone woke him, deep in the dark, and he had rolled to reach for his lance, and stopped at a familiar frame silhouetted dimly against the weaker shadows outside of the small fortified room he'd claimed, broad shoulders and hard muscles, and even when it was just a shape, disconcertingly arresting. Instinct was a betrayal; even if he should not have been here, not now, not here, the old trust, the old habit was too easy, and he's mouthed a name before his mind is fully awake. "Aymeric?"
Even years later, he can't really remember what came after in any coherent fashion. He knows that the man moved too fast for the person he'd known, who was a mighty warrior but not one of dragon blood, not someone who should have been able to be from the doorway to against himin less than a blink of an eye. Aymeric said… something, in a low choked voice. No matter how much he tries, Estinien can never recall the exact words, only the strain of them. He thinks it was some sort of apology. The rest is a muddled jumble of sensations; lips on his neck, then teeth sliding in like needles. Heat, pleasure, pain, a sensation like floating… The bite was good. The bite has to be good, so they can keep feeding. Then the pain became overwhelming, centered around something that slips below his ribs and spears through him, a nova of awareness and agony until it becomes too much, his mind snaps under the strain, and it all goes dark.
When he wakes again, it was somewhere very different. Gone were the decaying stones and withered vines, gone was the hard surface of his bedroll and the cool, crisp scent of the Hinterlands air. Instead, his surroundings are dark, but soft, almost unbearably warm and the air is heavily perfumed with sandalwood and the no longer at all comforting smoke of church incense, making Estinien's head swim. He tries to jerk upright and finds himself held almost casually in place by a hand that had been buried in his hair, stroking it. The touch is gentle, but trying to resist is like trying to fly through earth; there is no arguing with the laws of nature. With a low groan, he gives up the attempt and lies back down against what turns out to be an overstuffed bed, swathed in silk sheets and furs and radiant in its decadence.
Slitting his eyes open, he tries to take stock of the situation more fully, resolve it with his memories. The spots of high heat in his neck; the ragged ache of something deep in his torso that throbs disconcertingly like a second heartbeat. The darkness starts to resolve into an elegantly appointed bed chamber, and when that binding hand starts to drag through the uneven silver strands of his hair again, he remembers enough that it is as if he's suddenly immersed in a river of ice. Aymeric, too fast, too strong, too inhuman. Aymeric, fangs in his neck, feasting. His gaze snaps open fully, and sure enough, curled around him like a maiden nursemaiding her lover is his longtime friend. Estinien stares, takes in the bronzed skin fading now into white gold, all the sharper against the rook's plumage of his hair, the flash of too sharp teeth when a gaze still pale blue but now almost electrically surging with power catches his own. His voice rasps in his throat, low and horrified, and he whispers, "Aymeric, what did you do?"
He expects guilt or shame in response to the question; that would have been the answer from the man he thought he knew. Instead, a jaw that might have been shaped by a sculptor's chisel sets firm with stubbornness, and when the vampire - because there is no denying that word, now, no question what happened while he was hiding in the snows - answers, those fingers continue to pet through his hair, each touch spreading like rime over a windowpane. "I kept you alive, my dear friend, which they had been so very sure I would not." There's a challenge boiling in the depths of his eyes, but the anger is aimed elsewhere, beyond this stifling room and redolent air. "You have apparently been inconvenient, with your powerful blood, and letting me kill you in my presumed clumsiness would have made for a useful blade to hang over my head. Fortunately, I have often been more capable than others assumed and unwilling to discard a beloved weapon." Too smug, those words, a surety that could have only come in the transformation, the burning away of too many fragile pieces of a man's soul.
"You didn't just keep me alive, damn you, that wouldn't have taken biting me or --" Estinien cuts himself off, reaches for his back, feeling the pull of a bandage on his skin as he does so. "Did you STAB me, you blood-drinking bastard?"
Aymeric's voice is downright petulant when his hand fists in Estinien's hair, tangling the moonglow strands til he can't move. "Estinien. You know I would rather that you restrain your temper outside of battle." He waits a moment, almost visibly counting to ten, then slowly loosens his grip, starting to undo what he's knotted. "But yes, I would have to admit that I did indeed. It was necessary. Bonding a blood-servant is… unpleasant, but it was take you myself, kill you, or let some member of the Ward claim you as their own plaything." His eyes glitter menacingly in the darkness as they meet the dragon-blooded's, and his voice deepens, gains a rough edge. "I was not letting someone else possess you."
Estinien's mind flashes back to one of his last days in Ishgard before he fled, when he'd gone to the market to buy supplies. While there, he had spotted Heustienne, who if not precisely a friend, had been a respected rival in training, and a solid ally in the field since. She had seemed to look through him without seeing. At the time, he had dismissed it as her developing airs after a rise in power, since she had recently begun to be seen around the city with Ser Zepherin of the Ward. He'd assumed a romance, that her sense had fled and she'd started chasing after the vampiric high like far too many noble women. Now…
Deep blue eyes dulled with regret, he turns his gaze to the wall behind Aymeric, avoiding his gaze. "That's what happened to Heustienne. He… Did whatever you did to her and took her will away." In the edges of his gaze, he can see Aymeric nod. Then, fury floods back into his voice and he tears himself out from under the hand, scalp stinging as more than a few strands of silver are left behind, tangled between the vampire lordling's fingers. "Alberic. What happened to Alberic? Who has him?"
He knows the truth almost as soon as Aymeric's shoulders fall in an artlessly boneless slump. "Ser Alberic gave up much of his power in artifacts to you… But not his strength of will. They could not take him alive. Which is why they were so sure I would have to slay his protégé."
Most of Estinien wants to weep, even as he glares barbed daggers at the desecrated body of his one time friend. More terribly, a small part of him is glad; his foster father is no plaything to a vampire, but died clean and in control of his own sense. Unlike himself. He keeps his eyes on that too lovely face, lets rage and sorrow distort his own into a grotesque mask. "But you took advantage of my trust in who you were."
Finally, Aymeric has to look away. "Yes." It's not an apology, but it is an admission, and if there's any remnants of his original self, the shame of it should be burning him within. Good. Gathering his dignity once more, the transformed Commander stands. "You should rest. Recover. I'll have food and drink sent in." After he turns and leaves, Estinien flops back down into the bed, allowing himself a brief time for mourning. It's just as well he does, because it's a long time before he ever gains another opportunity.
((-----))
When he wakes again, Estinien is less discombobulated and takes better stock of his surroundings. The lack of windows in the room is a disappointment, but not a surprise -- they were falling increasingly out of favor in Ishgard before he left, all too many bricked or boarded over to protect the newly transformed residents from the risk of sunlight or, more rarely, to keep out the transformed. The throbbing ache from his wound has dulled, although it feels strangely… heavy? Tugged downwards? The sensation is confusing and he prefers not to dwell on it too much.
Further exploration reveals that the door is unlocked, but even when he finds windows or doors to the outdoors, his body simply… stops obeying if he tries to pass through them. Given that discovery, he expects the failure of response in his system the night he waits til his food arrives and he tries to attack the servant. Frustrating, but he didn't expect so little in the way of imprisonment unless there was coercion more subtle than actual bonds or bars to keep him behaving. His teeth grind and he supposes he should just be grateful his mind has remained his own.
Several days pass in that same hazed state; he is free to roam and explore the house, meals are brought to him, but there is no freedom beyond that, no access to weapons or armor. The lord of the manor seems to be avoiding him, for whichever of many possible reasons, and it leaves him with little to do but brood and pace in frustration.
((-----))
He knows he's not going to like what comes next when the servants silently bring his armor to his room, then begin laying out a set of new additions next to it; a golden ear cuff dangling crystal in a too familiar shade of blue and wide bands of gold for his neck and limbs, each holding a pattern formed from inset slices of dragon tooth and claw. The power in them is almost palpable to his senses, setting his blood to singing, and to resist the draw of it, he seats himself firmly on the edge of the bed.
The chances that he'd just be handed enough power to fight back against the hold Aymeric has on him are nothing. As such, fantasizing about using the power to break free or fight back is going to be a waste of his time and energy. That raises the question, however, about why he is being handed it, and the only answers he can come up with are ever more concerning.
When the door opens, he's still perched cross-legged on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands curled under his chin, contemplating the pile of gear. He flicks his gaze to Aymeric's form, watching as the vampire in his old friend's form eases the door closed behind him, leaning against it. He seems uncomfortable, slightly tensed, and it takes a second or two before he straightens and speaks. "I have been attempting to be patient and allow you time to adjust to the new situation. Alas, it seems my ability to put off the insistence that I 'show you off', by which I mean, prove that I haven't killed you and lied about it, has reached an impasse. So, you will need to prepare yourself for tonight. And…" His voice trails off, and it slowly becomes clear to Estinien that whatever comes next, even this Aymeric is uncomfortable discussing it.
This is not a thought he likes. He waits a few heartbeats, then asks quietly, "And what? You must think I won't approve, whatever damning detail it is." Sure enough, Aymeric looks away, although he's still blocking the door.
"I will not force you, understand." Aymeric is hesitant, and that's almost worse, because it makes him too much like the man he used to know, shows the bones that make up the vampire he is now and reveals that even if damaged and twisted, he's still there. The raven-haired man shifts his weight slightly, and the movement draws attention to how simply he's dressed, not armored for battle or public display, but still clad in trews and tunic, showing the vulnerability of being safely ensconced at home. Finally, he continues speaking. "It would be for the best if I feed before this meeting. And given the challenge I am likely to face for bringing you there whole…" His gaze flicks back, that icy blue going electric again, and it's full of desperate hunger. Not the sort of quiet admiration or wistfulness that Estinien used to think he saw peering around the edges of friendship, but something naked and raw, and tinged by more appetites than just that for food.
Suddenly very aware of the confines of the room, the dragon-blooded man swallows deliberately, keeping his eyes on the vampire's face as he brushes long silver hair back behind his shoulders. Sure enough, that gaze locks onto his neck and shines with desperation. It takes more than a small exertion of willpower to keep from shivering. "You mean you want to feed on me, because that's the whole point, isn't it? Having all that power to drink and augment your own, kept under your hand?" He's sure bitterness is seeping into his tone, but he can't make himself regret it. "What happens if I say thee no?"
He watches as Aymeric's arms cross over his chest, almost protective, then uncross again. "Then as I am still the least experienced and well-fed among them, I imagine I will have another evening of being used as an outlet of aggression for whomever is irritated that my father 'allowed' me to claim you, versus someone more properly loyal." The words are bland, too much so, as if the man has practiced at keeping the venom from them. Which is another trait that is too familiar, that tendency to accept his own pain at the expense of another.
Estinien shifts, knowing his mind is made up even as he continues to argue internally. It's not that he has any liking for this situation, because he does not, but he is inarguably alone, and if it is only grasping at the shadows of a dear friend, well… perhaps it is better to be consumed by a shadow than be alone in the sun. "Fine. If you must. Just…" He trails off, and realizes he has no idea what to follow that up with. Any request he could make seems ludicrous. "Just get it over with, then tell me what I have to do, if it's more than show up and try not to talk."
This would be much easier if the way Aymeric walks towards him doesn't look so much like a wolf stalking through the trees, full of predatory grace despite his unease. Estinien turns his head and his gaze away as much as he dares as the other man leans over him in his seated posture, setting his gaze on the flames on the fireplace, telling himself that he will just focus on that, let his mind go, and… absent himself from his body as much as possible until it's done.
That idea does not make it past the first instant when cool fingertips touch under his chin, notching it up gently, another set brushing his hair back further, then tracing along the column where his pulse runs, no doubt feeling how wildly it's fluttering under the skin. Which it is, damn it all, no matter how much Estinien wants to pretend otherwise, the blood is pounding in his head at even the glimpse from the corner of his eyes of Aymeric's face, soft and gold-limned with firelight, tracing his features with open appreciation and pleasure. Slowly, almost delicately, the hand on his neck slides back, cradling along his spine, and the vampire leans down and nearer, nearer…
Somehow, like before, when he finally strikes, it's fast enough to be a shock despite the anticipation that has drawn his skin into electric tingles. The sensation is wet, hot, and sharp; lips soft and cool before rapidly warming to match his own body, the almost finessed feel of something just barely piercing through the skin, slipping into him, and a rush of pulsing intense pleasure that starts at those tiny pinpricks and ripples out and through him like the heady effect of the most powerful liquor. There's a faint, low sound from a throat, satisfied and thick, and the corner of his mind still holding onto rationality realizes he has no idea which of them it comes from, if it's Aymeric sating himself on his power or the way his body has instinctively swayed into the bite, leaning closer, finding he's curled one hand around the other man's forearm, holding him in place gripping his neck. A wash of mingled shame and confused desire floods his system, and he has never been as grateful for anything as he is when the slight spark of pain disappears and the vampire's mouth lifts away from him.
The sound of overly fast breathing seems to echo in the room, stone walls bringing every minute sound back to his ears. Estinien can see a slight flush on Aymeric's face as he looks away, tongue briefly flickering over those too sharp canines to clean them. "I think… that is enough for the first time. I would not want to leave you overly weak before a potentially stressful evening." Gathering his decorum once more, the vampire rises, his gaze flicking to the artifacts. "I'll return shortly after dark. Please be dressed by then." He stalks from the room, and after a slightly shaky breath out, Estinien goes to dress in the returned armor, along with the… unfortunate accessories. The wide bands around every limb are bad enough, but it's not til he fastens the clasp of the ear cuff around one ear and feels the constant slight swaying pull of the crystal that he feels just how thoroughly marked by possession he is.
((-----))
Once they depart the manor, the short walk to the Cathedral is chill and dark. With this first opportunity to examine the changes in Ishgard since his departure, Estinien finds himself less than reassured. The houses are full and lit with hearths aglow with heat, but most of the lanterns on the street are left untended, and the uncomfortable feeling dogs his heels that if he was not walking at Aymeric's side, the darting shapes in the shadows would resolve themselves into less than friendly forms eager to stop a traveller out alone in the dark. The one piece not returned to him had been his helm, and he feels painfully exposed without it.
When they enter the Cathedral itself, Aymeric follows a winding series of hallways into the depths and the more private areas. Long before they actually reach their goal, the air grows thick and heavy with clouds of incense, almost suffocating in the reek of myrrh and frankincense and rockrose resin. It's not until they're almost upon a set of great double doors that something else snakes its way into his senses -- blood and sweat. Almost hidden beneath the smoky haze, but little question now the true purpose of its covering aroma. Whatever will be found lying beyond those doors, it will be far from holy anymore.
As Aymeric reaches for the door he pauses, looking back over his shoulder, voice soft with warning. "Remember. Talk as little as possible. No fighting but in my defense or your own. Please, do not make me enforce either rule beyond your capacity to resist." There's a silent request for apology in his eyes, and for a moment, the world tilts, vertiginous, as Estinien contemplates what in there may be so bad that he is given this request, in this way. Then the doors swing inwards and the room beyond blooms into view.
The high stone ceilings and formal architecture reveals enough of the religious origins, enhanced by the drifting fumes, but the hard lines have been softened with hanging swathes of dark velvet, the stark furniture now more ornate, often lushly upholstered. There may be a downside to that, as a glance catches a large, rather concerning faded stain on one and Estinien quickly resolves not to look more closely. The room is crowded, a swirl of chaotic color and hue, although it leans heavily to the side of dark. The thought flits through his mind a moment later, better to hide the bloodstains. Swallowing, he tries to focus on the people.
It is far easier than he might have believed to pick the vampires out from the rest. Not by the expected things; their skin may have paled a little, away from the sun, but hasn't all of theirs? Not by the flash of light on fangs, although that betrays some. No, it's the way they stand or sit, confident in their roles as the centres of the heavens, as nobles and the most exquisite of forms swirl around them, flirt, flatter, turn their faces towards them like flowers to the sun. They are the locus of power, the heart of it all, and each one seems to know it into the very rotting marrow of them.
The Ward are easy to pick out, all sleek silver and brilliant blue, each claiming some niche of luxury, surrounded by sycophantic forms. Like a lodestone, the cornsilk blonde gleam of Ser Zephirin's hair pulls his gaze, and he finds what he was looking for, and what he feared. Legs curled beside her, seated on the floor at his feet like a loyal hound, is Heustienne. Her gaze is as empty as it was near a year ago, other than a brief second when it lands on him as he paces behind Aymeric as he cuts through the crowd; for a single heartbeat, there is a deep wellspring of regret before it fades. Then she is once more seeming lost in her own mind, bedecked in dragoon's mail that's been draped in beaded swaths of dragon claws that sway with her movements, beat a soft tattoo against her bared belly as her eyes turn up to the vampire looming over her. Suppressing a shudder, Estinien locks his gaze on Aymeric's back, a meager attempt to keep it from wandering further as the vampire he shadows seeks some yet unseen goal.
They're almost to the far wall when a slim robed form in white and silver, shining blue, steps in front of Aymeric, lifting one soft tan hand. "Stop. No further until we're sure that your new toy is really what we claim. After all, we can't go assuming your loyalty to your father yet, can we?" Ser Charibert, it seems, has changed little, either in the arrogance that comes from being a Tribunal and able to question anyone at will, nor at his sadistic pleasure at getting to do so. Already, his lips are curled to reveal fangs, the candlelight gleaming off of the dark sparkle of his eyes as he considers them. "I trust you have enough control to make sure he doesn't move if you order, no matter how many of these little talismans you show off." One slim finger flicks, striking against the golden band at Estinien's wrist and it takes a great effort and the memory of the warning words before they entered to keep him from lashing out in return with voice or body.
Then Aymeric speaks, and he can not, even if he wishes to, the lord's voice carrying a low, rich thrum of power as the pale blue of his eyes meet the dragon-blooded's, bearing another of those damnable silent apologies. "Do not move, do not speak, until I say you may again, Estinien."
The reason for the dramatics -- and worse, the utter loss of self control -- becomes clear as Charibert reaches for him, picks up one mail clad arm, and turning it over, unlatching gauntlets and baring his lower arm. When he draws fingers over the bared skin, too familiarly, the touch less like a lover than a man admiring a fine chocobo, it is unsettling… and then in a flash, it becomes burning, as flame wreathes the vampire's fingers in a close halo, sinks into the skin he touches. If he could, Estinien would scream, pull away, strike back, but he can do nothing but pant for air, his eyes widening as the scent of flesh cooking adds a horrible, meaty addition to the sickening atmosphere.
It seems like forever. It can't have been, though, because while he thinks he can almost see Aymeric move this time, it's more than fast enough as he roughly pulls the other man's hand back, his voice thick with rage and tension. "I agreed you could test that I had control over him, not that you could use him as one of your sick playthings. Keep the need to torture fear into them to your own food." His face is twisted, snarling to display the gleam of fangs in implicit threat, and it's a relief when he adds as an afterthought, "You are free to move and speak as you will again."
Instinctively, as soon as he's free to move, Estinien hisses in pain, cradling his arm to his chest before he dares to look down. The damage is far less than he feared, but three round circles from pressing fingers have been seared into him, the skin red and weeping pus in the wake of the flames. With luck, if treated before the end of the night, it might not even scar. Still clasping his arm close with the other, he looks back up the other two men, Charibert's face all but aglow with pleasure from his pain and in response to the barely contained fury in Aymeric's eyes.
"Come now, it's my duty to keep Thordan safe. You wouldn't want me to fail to properly protect your own father, would you?" The sadist is all but purring the words, clearly hoping to bait Aymeric into a mis-step. Such a simple gambit is all but guaranteed failure, and so it does, as the more newly-sired vampire tenses his shoulders, then relaxes them, falling back into his usual cool, confident stance.
"I would like for you to stop delaying and allow me to present my prize to my father, as he ordered." The voice is more calm and even than expected given the accompanying hints of tension subtly visible along muscles, but it does well enough as the two transfigured men lock gazes and wills for a long few seconds. Then Charibert is sweeping aside a curtain and ushering them into a small alcove beyond.
Particularly compared to the sybaritic decadence beyond, the space where Thordan made his nest, the spider at the center of the web, was almost austere. The floors and walls retained no more decoration the original high quality of the stone and carvings. If the chair where he sat resembled a throne, well, so it always had. Perhaps the only significant difference was that the heavy smog of the incense that lingered beyond was just as rich here now, and the lighting was dimmed and cozy, banked braziers casting a golden glow and throwing off waves of wavering heat.
As a vampire, the man in question had changed, however. Gone was the slight stoop and the tired droop to his features; he was not returned to youth, but vigor was there again, an animating force and strength of will that took his confidence and aura of power to an entirely new level. As with his son, the strength of what he could command all but crackled in the pale blue gaze, alight like levin, and as he leaned back in the chair to study them, those hooded eyes were as chill and calculating as a couerl on the hunt.
Aymeric's body dips low into a bow, and Estinien jolts himself into following the gesture in turn. The scar, if that's what to call it, of where Aymeric bound him is starting to throb deep inside his torso, a knot of tension at odds with the calm mien of the vampire's face. Taking it as a cue, he holds himself tensed, tries to make sure he's calmed his temper as much as possible as the dark haired man begins to speak. "As requested, I have brought my bondservant to the court to prove a successful completion of my assigned mission. I hope that my efforts have brought some small degree of improvement to your night, sire."
Estinien can feel the weight of it when Thordan's gaze turns to him, and the elder vampire commands, "Let's see what all of the bother was about." For a few moments, he is studied, then all but dismissed. "On the surface, no more remarkable than any other of his kind. However, it seems from what I overheard that you were at last motivated to make proper use of your abilities. Even able to keep him still through Charibert's overzealousness, weren't you? Good, it's past time you pushed beyond the remnants of your childish sentimentality."
The dragon-blooded's nostrils flare, but he doesn't need the intense tension of the scar to tell him not to respond any more than he already has. A moment longer, and there is a very slight nod from Thordan. "Since he's damaged, I supposed we can put off displaying what skills he brings a while longer. I would, however, like to see how a better quality of food has benefited you." The man's eyes narrow, and he waves a nearby servant over. "Tell Ser Janlenoux to prepare one of the rings for a brief bout." The man scurries off, and Estinien risks a moment's glance towards Aymeric, whose hand rests lightly on his sword pommel, the picture of confidence. He's sure, however, whether it's the magical link or long experience with the man he once was, that that confidence is a sham, and is horrified to recognize a sinking fear in his gut as he thinks about the fact that the only times Aymeric has had this supposed better quality food was the night he found him and this one, and neither was anywhere near the stories of what he's heard in terms of amount taken.
((----))