Chapter Text
Time passed. Astarion was aware of little. He knew Halsin returned at some point, was enveloped by both the druid’s scent and his arms, heard his rumbling voice uttering some rueful observations about the state of Astarion’s trousers, followed by some truly feeble excuses from the wizard. He felt the weight of his body pressed into the bared stone of the table that had been serving as a bed—all the blankets and pillows cleared away—and a moment later thick fingers were unlacing his trousers, dipping into the waistline, tugging them carefully but inexorably off.
Astarion moaned, tossing his head, overwhelmed with relief to be free of the wet mess. His legs were cold for only a few seconds before being engulfed in the warm aura of Halsin’s salving magic. With a long sigh, Astarion willed himself to stop breathing, to drift fully into blessed rest.
The memories that rose during his trance were benign, mostly about Dalyria and his other siblings. He remembered a few of his victims—reviewed their faces, and the steps he had taken to lure them home. I’m sorry, he told them in his mind, even the ones who had been cruel, whose hands had bruised and voices had mocked, who had bent him over without hesitation, had used his body without remorse, care or concern. He was sorry.
When he woke, it was night. Whether the same night, or another, he could not tell. He was dressed again, his clothing dry and unsoiled, and his legs felt better. Halsin was sitting in a wooden chair next to the bed—too large for it; he couldn’t be comfortable—burly arms crossed over his expansive chest, head bowed forward as if in sleep.
Halsin’s eyes opened the moment Astarion stirred, and he straightened immediately, leaning forward to help Astarion sit.
“You’ve rested an entire day,” Halsin said, before Astarion could even ask. “How do you feel?”
“All right,” Astarion groused. “My legs…”
“As you well know,” Halsin explained, “for someone of your nature, injury inflicted by radiant magic is difficult to heal. Between Shadowheart and myself, I think we managed most admirably. You are whole, Astarion. Well and truly.”
Another day lost. Astarion cast his eyes about the darkened chamber. “Gale, he…”
“Gale has returned to your camp, with the others of your party. They plan to move on as soon as you are well enough.”
Astarion swung his legs over the edge of the bed, kicking his feet experimentally, feeling no pain. How novel. “I’m well enough,” he declared. After another moment’s thought, he added, “Move on to where?”
Halsin stood, and suddenly the room seemed much smaller. “Two of the refugees—Zorru and Yul—spotted a patrol of githyanki warriors searching the wreckage of the nautiloid crash. They followed the gith some distance, all the way to the Mountain Pass on the Risen Road.”
“Hmm.” Astarion stood as well, bracing himself against the stone slab of the bed, prepared for the dizziness that always came after a particularly lengthy healing session. “I expect that news has Lae’zel frothing at the mouth.”
“Very nearly,” Halsin replied with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “But she knows caution is warranted, with regards to her kin. They are certainly a fierce, protective people. The tieflings were seen. Zorru barely managed to escape them, and returned to the Grove alone. Yul was slain.”
“Ah.” Astarion said, uncertain how else to respond. He supposed he was expected to display some sort of empathy, a touch of sorrow, perhaps, for the life lost—but those were not the emotions he had been trained to pretend at. The best course of action, he decided, was the change the subject. “I take it things didn’t work out with that Ethel woman, then?”
Halsin shook his head, and Astarion noticed for the first time that the druid’s hair was different, his usual braids and half-bun undone and let down. His hair was longer than Astarion had thought, brushing the tops of his broad shoulders, and framed his face in a way that softened his stern features. Even the long-healed scars striping the druid’s forehead and chin, and the coiling, deeply pigmented red tattoo gracing the other side of his face, seemed less abrasive to look at.
“Ethel was a hag,” Halsin summarized plainly. “Whatever aid she sought to offer came at a price too costly to consider. The battle against her sounded fierce indeed, to hear Karlach tell of it.”
“She does tell good stories,” Astarion agreed.
The silence that followed was brief, but comfortable. Halsin maneuvered himself around the side of the bed, coming to stand next to Astarion.
“The tieflings are leaving as well,” Halsin said. “Zevlor suggested a celebration, first, before parting ways with you and your companions. As a means of thanking you all for clearing the road ahead of goblins and gnolls.”
“I had nothing at all to do with any of that,” Astarion mumbled.
Halsin overlooked his comment, and continued. “Tav has agreed to host the celebration at your camp, tomorrow night. That’s why Gale and the others have left. There was a bit of clean-up to attend to, after the Gur attack.”
Astarion suppressed the shudder that threatened at the mention of the Gur, at the memory of all they had done to him. “Please tell me those vagrants aren’t invited.”
Halsin did not laugh, as Astarion had expected, instead turning toward him with an air of solemn earnestness. “The Gur departed from these lands in the early hours of the morning, to rejoin the rest of their tribe. You need not fear any further attempts on your life. Not from them.”
Not from them. Astarion grit his teeth, felt his hands clenching into fists. He felt Halsin at his side, focused on the warmth radiating from the giant druid, and willed himself to calm down. He breathed, slow and deep, as Dalyria had instructed all those years ago.
“I can’t imagine it will be much of a party,” Astarion said with weak wit. “Refugees don’t strike me as the sort who know how to have a good time.”
“They may surprise you.”
Another thought occurred to Astarion, more troubling than the threat of a tedious party. “I wouldn’t have anticipated the tieflings wanting much to do with us after… well, after that silly bard…”
Halsin fixed Astarion with a stare that felt weighty, and entirely too knowing. “Alfira’s death was an unfortunate accident. Nature at its most violent, most cruel. She is mourned, and dearly missed, but there are none left who blame you. Even Wyll has firmly denounced his belief in your involvement.”
Astarion shifted, feeling ill at ease. He thought of Tav, spattered with the bard’s blood, how he’d helped her wash it off, and afterwards slipped his fingers into the slick warmth of her.
“Yes, well… so long as no one’s out there sharpening wooden stakes—” Astarion cut himself off, awash with a sudden chill. “I suppose a celebration sounds amenable. You’ll be in attendance, won’t you?”
“I will,” Halsin affirmed. “I’ve already made my preparations. Gale was kind enough to instruct me on the use of the waypoint sigil he created for your camp. I can escort you back as soon or late as you like. Zevlor intends to lead the tieflings from the Grove at first light, as they are greater in number, and slower.”
Astarion glanced about the chamber. The crumbling pillars, the floor a mix of packed earth and stone, the sparse, impersonal furnishings. This room didn’t suite Halsin at all, held none of his warmth, lacked all of his softness and humor. When his gaze traveled to Halsin, he found the druid already staring back.
“I can’t say I’ll miss it here,” Astarion said softly.
Halsin’s smile was sad. “I think I will, a little. In my way.”
Astarion sat back on the bed, keeping to the edge, his bare feet swinging a few inches from the floor. He hated how weak he felt. Weak since the nautiloid, since the onset of his infection. Had his vampiric strength not been sapped by the parasite, the last several days would never have occurred as they had. He could have beaten back the goblins, or escaped them at least. He could have torn Dror Ragzlin into pieces. He could have destroyed the Gur, drained every last drop of their life’s blood. He would never have been in a position of such vulnerability and fear that he’d had to rely and a warlock and her devil patron to save him.
He was pleased, to be sure, that the parasite had given him back the sun, had culled back the brittle edges of many of his condition’s less appealing side-effects. But his strength—he would have liked to have kept that.
With some difficulty, Astarion dismissed his thoughts and settled back into himself, reengaging with his surrounds, recalling the last thing spoken. He turned his face up toward Halsin, frowning.
“What do you mean, you’ll miss it?” Astarion asked. “The Grove? It’s just a party, my dear bear. We won’t keep you.”
Halsin uncrossed his arms, straightening to full height with a look of mild alarm. “Much has happened—been decided—while you remained in your healing meditation. I am sorry, I should have told you straightaway.”
The druid cast a glance over Astarion’s shoulder, eying the wall behind him, at the pegs hammered into the stone where he hung his armor and sash. “I have stepped down as First Druid of the Emerald Grove, effective tomorrow. I’ve summoned a replacement from another Circle. It is my intention to leave, to join your party.”
Astarion stared, dumbfounded. “Join us? But… why?”
“A great many reasons. From the goblins, I learned of where these strange, altered tadpoles are originating from: Moonrise Towers, in the heart of the Shadow-Cursed lands. Even if your party does manage to locate a githyanki crѐche and procure a means of removing the tadpoles, Tav and several of the others have agreed to continue on. To follow the trail of the Absolute to its source.”
Halsin paused, his breathing becoming more labored, though he hid it well. “I have business of my own at Moonrise. A task to complete, long overdue. I will lend what services I am able to you all; you will not find my presence a burden. Though I harbor no tadpole of my own, the Cult of the Absolute has proved a danger to all. After my task is seen to, I will give myself over fully to the cause of defeating the Absolute.”
Astarion’s mind was racing, but he nodded numbly. He’d been prepared to part ways with the druid—the archdruid—having failed in every effort to lure him close, to secure his protection. Now, Astarion had been gifted with more time. He had no intention of squandering the opportunities Halsin’s decision presented.
“Are you all right?” Halsin asked, and Astarion realized he had stopped breathing.
He resumed now, drawing slow, even breaths, furious with himself. He could hardly make himself appealing to one so in love with nature if he kept suppling reminders of his status as a lively corpse.
“I’m always all right,” Astarion said. “Just… pleasantly surprised is all. I’m glad we don’t have to say goodbye just yet.”
“As am I,” Halsin agreed. “Dangerous as the path ahead will surely be, traveling the wilds in your company will ease the burden of dire circ*mstance.”
Astarion lowered his voice, looking up at Halsin from beneath the curtain of his long eyelashes. “Aren’t you just the sweetest bear in Faerûn.”
It was difficult to tell in the darkness, but Astarion was almost certain he saw a flush bloom across Halsin’s tanned face.
“Would it be all right to ask you a few questions?” Though Halsin’s words were hesitant, his tone was direct, his gaze unwavering.
Astarion adjusted his balance on the edge of the bed, leaning back slightly, making a display of his torso. “So long as you come closer to ask them. I’m cold.”
He was surprised when the druid stepped forward so readily. Halsin reached for one of the blankets folded in a neat stack at the end of the bed, unfurling it swiftly before gently setting it about Astarion’s shoulders. Not what he’d expected but… Astarion grasped at the finely woven cloth, drawing the length of it tighter around himself. It was blessedly warm.
Halsin withdrew, briefly, retrieving the wooden chair from the opposite side of the bed and dragging it to the side where Astarion sat. He lowered himself into the chair, facing Astarion.
“You look so serious,” Astarion laughed. “Should these questions of yours concern me?”
Halsin extended his hands, palms up, knuckles hovering just over the curve of Astarion’s knees. An invitation, not a demand.
Astarion pressed his lips together, genuinely troubled now by Halsin’s somber demeanor. But he placed his hands atop Halsin’s all the same, curling his fingers around the edges of the druid’s palms, applying enough weight to the gesture that he felt Halsin’s knuckles brush the tops of his knees before pressing in.
“If I ask something that makes you uncomfortable, or that you wish not to answer, I trust you will let me know. But please—answer all you are able. I assure you it is not the indulgence of mere curiosity that drives me to ask.”
“It’s no wonder you and the wizard get on so well. You both stumble toward conversation with similar… finesse.”
“Very well, Astarion, I will be plain.”
Astarion lifted one hand, burrowing his long fingers into Halsin’s loosed hair, dragging his fingertips against the druid’s scalp until he had a good handful. Halsin’s hair was coarser than Gale’s but wonderfully thick and heavy, much like the rest of him promised to be. Astarion pushed the handful of hair back, tucking it over and behind the pointed summit of Halsin’s ear, letting his fingers linger on his jaw before slowly returning his hand to Halsin’s.
“Go on, then,” Astarion said.
Halsin nodded, his scarred features more prominent now that his hair had been pushed back to reveal more of the left side of his face. “Have you truly borne your vampiric condition for two centuries?”
Astarion relaxed. An easy question. “Perhaps a bit less,” he replied. “More likely—a bit longer. I don’t remember what year it was when I died. When Cazador turned me. At first, he had odd little ceremonies to mark the time. He made my one hundredth birthday quite… special. But he hasn’t bothered of late. It’s easy to lose track.”
Halsin frowned, and Astarion’s shoulders tensed. Had he said something wrong?
“In all that time,” Halsin said, “you fed solely on the blood of animals? No humanoids?”
“I told you already, darling. You were my first. Well—my first success. Gale’s told you, I’m sure, that I tried to feed from him.”
“He has, as well as the reason you were unsuccessful.”
“I wasn’t going to hurt him,” Astarion insisted, defending himself against an accusation that hadn’t been made. “I just wanted to—needed to—know if I even could.”
Halsin held Astarion’s hands loosely, making it clear he was free to pull away at any moment. “That does a fair job answering my next question. You fed on rats because you were forced to. Compelled to do so by your master. Not because you chose to.”
Astarion smiled—almost laughed, but sensed that was not the desired response. “Darling,” he said instead, in a breathy whisper. “I’m a vampire. By the hells, do you think any monster, when presented with the option of sewage or fine dining, would choose the sewage?”
“You’ve been denied true sustenance for centuries.”
“Positively starved,” Astarion affirmed, his tone playful, flirtatious, even as something slimy and slithering began to writhe and take root in his stomach.
“It would have driven anyone mad.”
Astarion blinked, his willful grin faltering. The muscles in his face felt stiff, frozen in place, locked in an expression of unconvincing amusem*nt. “What are you saying?”
Halsin sighed. “I meant no slight, only to convey admiration. I have seen starvation, in animals, witnessed the desperate violence it brings.”
“I am not,” Astarion said through his teeth, “an animal.”
“I have seen starving people as well, Astarion. The behaviors are not dissimilar.”
Astarion tilted his head. “Well. I’m not quite a person, either, am I.”
“You are the first of your kind I have ever knowingly encountered,” Halsin admitted. “I do not consider myself learned in the study of vampires, but all the lore—no matter the author, no matter the era—has been unanimously clear on one thing. Your hunger should be an undeniable force within you. It should govern you. But you stopped yourself too soon when you fed from me in the woods, that night you escaped the Gur. You did not take your fill. And last night, after Mizora left, you nearly lost yourself with Gale. But then—even then, hungry and hurt—you resisted.”
Astarion glared. “The wizard very kindly reminded me how little I would have enjoyed him as a meal.”
“Even while you rested, while you healed, I could not entice to you eat. You have been through a great deal, these last few days, and fed very little.”
Astarion didn’t know how to respond. As much as he had fantasized through the long years about someone, anyone, taking pity on him, he found himself rather at odds with the feeling of being pitied. He knew he could—should—turn this conversation to his advantage, play the damsel in need of rescue, but he’d never practiced those words.
How could he ever explain to someone like Halsin that the last few days of what the druid considered hardship had, to Astarion, felt like nothing at all. They were among the best days he could ever recall living. He would have stayed with Ragzlin, happily, if it meant not returning to Cazador. The Gur were troublesome, certainly, but Gandrel’s blows had been imprecise, driven by rage. Godey would never have been so gentle. Godey, who had made an art of finding new ways to make Astarion scream, would have been amused by Gandrel’s pathetic impatience.
And the hunger? How to explain that? His discipline may seem an admirable quality to an archdruid, but to Astarion, it was merely another symptom of Cazador’s continued influence, the firm hold he still held over Astarion’s every waking thought. There were no words to describe his first few months as a spawn.
He’d clawed out of his own grave, coughing up dirt and congealed blood, to find his new master waiting, red eyes gleaming in the darkness. Astarion had followed him to his new home, and Cazador had taken his clothes, had washed his body, putting his hands everywhere. Astarion had sat in the soapy water and allowed himself to be touched and tended. He had still, in those first few hours fresh from his grave, viewed Cazador as his savior.
He vividly remembered the first words he’d spoken as a monster, staring up into his benefactor’s impassive face as he was dried off and wrapped in a blanket.
I’m hungry.
Cazador had smiled, had led Astarion deeper into the palace, into a room of cold stone and iron, that reeked of old blood and fresh terror. The kennel. A man had been chained against the wall, suspended upright by hooks in the ceiling. Astarion recognized him; his face had been one of the last he’d seen as a mortal elf. One of the Gur who’d beaten him to death.
Astarion had moved closer, salivating, so pleased. He made it almost to the Gur’s side before Cazador’s voice filled the chamber.
Stop.
The first order. The first compulsion.
Sit.
The second.
You will not partake.
The third.
Cazador had left him in that room, with the Gur. Astarion sat, and watched as the Gur died slow, his blood dripping with little splashes into a congealing puddle at his feet. He sat, perfectly still, as the hunger grew. It was unbearable, and yet he bore it. He had to.
The Gur had started to rot before Cazador returned. The body was taken away, replaced by a fresh one. Another of Astarion’s murderers. Astarion had been overwhelmed with gratitude, so certain that this one was for him. The first had been a test of his will, surely, and he’d proved himself, and now he could eat.
You will not partake.
This had continued for months, until every Gur who had attacked him that night was dead and decayed. Astarion had gone mad. Feral with hunger. He had, once, taken to gnawing on his own arms, his own flesh. Cazador had punished him for that, forbidden him from harming himself unless explicitly instructed to do so.
When the last body had been dragged away, Astarion’s final murderer removed from the kennel, Cazador had brought him a rat. The creature was freshly slain, still warm in Astarion’s weak hands. Cazador left again, and Astarion had stared in confusion at the rat. He held it, keeping himself perfectly still, and waited. The rat had grown cold, stiff. Days passed, and the putrid stench was worse even than the Gur had been, because it was Astarion’s own hands that held the corpse as it decomposed.
Bits of the rat’s flesh had sloughed away before Cazador returned.
Very good, boy.
Astarion realized then, too late, that he not been forbidden from eating the rat. There had been no compulsion placed upon him, and still he had not partaken. Cazador had seemed pleased. He would feed Astarion now, as a reward for his obedience. At last, his hunger would be sated.
Cazador had loomed over his spawn, observing him carefully. Astarion was filthy again from months in the kennel, weak from the lack of nourishment, half-crazed. Cazador’s eyes had lit with that sickly red glow, and Astarion felt the pull of compulsion stabbing into the base of his skull.
Eat it.
And Astarion had.
All his meals, for the next two hundred years, were few in number, hard-won, and never enough. Astarion felt himself shudder bodily, his thoughts turning next to the dark year, the year of solitude and silence, alone in that too-small sarcophagus, clawing his hands and feet to the bone, so desperate to be free. That was the longest he’d gone without anything to eat. A year.
The threat of starvation didn’t frighten Astarion. Not anymore. He could—he had—survived his hunger. And anything he could survive was nothing to be feared. Cazador’s first lesson, and the only one for which Astarion bore some semblance of appreciation.
Astarion shuttered away his mind, drew himself out from his thoughts and returned to the dank chamber of the First Druid. He must have really drifted far, this time, because Halsin’s position had changed and Astarion hadn’t even noticed. The druid was standing now, his big hands cupping Astarion’s face, calloused thumbs wiping at tears Astarion had no memory of spilling. He detested crying. While Godey viewed every tear as a triumph, Cazador had ridiculed him mercilessly every time he submitted to such displays. Astarion preferred denying both of them the satisfaction of reducing him to such a state. Cazador had often had to compel him to weep.
As Astarion settled back into his body he realized how dry his mouth was, how sore his throat, how tired his tongue. He understood, then, that he hadn’t been reviewing his memories in his mind alone. He’d been speaking them aloud, blabbering. He’d told Halsin everything, and being so forthright and honest was never the plan. He’d revealed too much, made it far too apparent what a pathetic, mindless husk of a person he was.
“Astarion,” Halsin said, his tone indicating it was not the first time he’d called to the vampire. “Can you hear me? Look at me, please.”
Astarion shivered, his fingers clenching into the rigid edge of the stone bed, his thighs trembling. But he lifted his eyes to Halsin’s. He did not see disgust mired in the druid’s expression, as he’d expected.
“What is it, darling?” Astarion’s playful words sounded especially jarring coming from such a broken voice.
“The road ahead of us will be long and perilous,” Halsin said. “You may feed from me as often as you wish—you need only ask. If you require more than I am able to give, there may be others in the party willing to contribute. If not, I will gladly hunt with you. For you. You will be provided for. You will not starve any longer, and never again. I just need you to tell me when you’re hungry. Can I trust you to do that, little one?”
Astarion blinked up at him, this beast of a druid too gentle for how large he was.
“I… I’m hungry,” he whispered.
Halsin smiled. “That’s very good. Thank you. If you’ll allow me a moment, I’ll fetch a bowl or goblet. I’ll bleed into it, and heal myself before I return. You may consume it privately, if you wish.”
Astarion tilted his head, refocusing. He’d already started drifting off again, envisioned twining his limbs around Halsin’s immense body, imagined the pulse of hot blood splashing into the back of his throat, warming his shriveled belly. “A bowl? Whatever do you mean?”
Halsin responded bluntly, and without hesitation. “Your body responds to humanoid blood in a manner some may mistake as arousal. I realize that is not the case, and would never take advantage of you in such a state. But I also cannot deny the effect it has on me. Feeding you has proved a deeply pleasurable experience, and it is a pleasure to which I do not feel entitled. I think it would be wiser, for both of us, to give vicarious feedings a try.”
Astarion was very rarely shocked into silence. He heard himself blustering, trying for words and failing. He pulled away from Halsin’s arms, wiped at his face with his shirt sleeves, and tried again.
“What possible pleasure could be had,” he asked, “from having a vampire siphon away your life’s blood? It’s an experience I’m well familiar with.”
His hand flitted to his neck, his fingers easily finding and pressing into the divots left by Cazador’s fangs all those years ago. “Not just this, you understand,” he added softly. “Cazador fed from me often. Not so sustain himself, of course, my blood has no nutritional value to other undead. He drained me to keep me weak, compliant. To punish me. He liked it, sometimes, when I had the strength to fight back. But usually not.”
He glared at Halsin. “Trust me when I tell you I felt no pleasure when he fed from me.”
Halsin returned his gaze. “You are not Cazador. You feed because you need to. Because you hunger, as every creature does. You do not feed for the sake of cruelty alone, and the history you share with your former master is not the history you are building here, with me. I understand now, acutely, what a shock it must be for you, that I’ve offered myself in such a way. How overwhelming humanoid blood surely is, when you’ve previously survived on animal blood alone. And so little of it, for so long.”
“Answer me, then,” Astarion said evenly. “What pleasure do you take, when I drink from you?”
Halsin’s expression softened. “There is a certain satisfaction in feeling you grow warm in my arms, knowing it is my blood returning to you that semblance of life. To see color flood into your cheeks, your neck… the tips of your ears, chasing away the pallor of death and restoring your vitality—pleasure is hardly an apt description for what I feel in those moments. The bear is… very near the surface, almost beyond the scope of my control. I want to nurture you and devour you, all at once.”
Astarion couldn’t help himself. Years of relentless conditioning took over, and he leaned forward, lifted his arms, pressing his hands against the broad expanse of Halsin’s chest. The blanket fell away from his shoulders, pooling around his hips.
“What if I wanted to let you?” he said. “Devour me.”
Sadness crept back into Halsin’s tremulous smile. He reached up, took hold of Astarion’s wrists, shackling them together in one hand, and returned them to Astarion’s lap. “If that was something I was convinced you truly desired, I would have you now. On this table. You are beautiful, Astarion—achingly so—and you’ve a strength of spirit that greatly appeals to me. But I do not wish to have my feelings toyed with. It is not your intention to be malicious. I know that. People look at me, at my size, and think my feelings cannot be hurt. But seeing you like this, playacting at passion… it hurts.”
Astarion felt his face twist, embarrassment masked as rage. He wrenched his hands free from Halsin’s grip, leapt off the table, strode with purpose toward the ladder at the chamber’s far wall. He’d been unable to climb it, the night prior, but had no difficulty now that his legs were healed.
Halsin did not try to stop him, or even call after him.
Astarion tossed open the square hatch at the ladder’s summit, crawled out, and slammed it shut. He cast his eyes about the overlook in search of a large rock, something heavy to place over the hatch. Finding nothing suitable, he sat on it himself, knowing his own weight wouldn’t be much of a deterrent, should Halsin seek entry. The druid had lifted him, carried him, with laughable ease on several occasions now.
He stayed up there the rest of the night, until the final vestiges of darkness were overcome by dawn’s approach. Only then did he re-open the hatch, and cautiously climbed back down into the First Druid’s chamber.
He had an apology poised on his lips, but it’s intended recipient was not present. The room was vacant and silent. Halsin’s leather cuirass and white sash of station were missing from their pegs, and many of the books and maps had been cleared away.
Centered on the otherwise empty stone table was a wide, shallow bowl, filled to the brim with blood that was still warm.
For half a moment, Astarion entertained the idea of turning the bowl over, or picking it up and smashing it against a pillar. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Blood was too precious, and there was no way of knowing when Halsin’s charity would run dry.
He lifted the bowl to his lips, spilling not a drop. He drank it down, and licked it clean after.
And still, he was hungry.
