The Chains are only the beginning...
Brest, France, 1889
The railway system was still a relatively new method of travel in France, and reserved for those with the ability to afford it; as such, it was no shock to either Bastian or Ambrose that their compartment was unoccupied. They feasted that night. The inauguration of the Eiffel Tower in Paris was enough to draw out enough drunken revelry to leave the younger kindred well-fed; he basked in the second-hand inebriation, lulled by blood and champagne as the late night scenery passed them. Bastian flipped through an old newspaper, comfortable in silence, until Ambrose spoke.
"I have been thinking of leaving." His voice was idle, half-lidded cobalt eyes trained on the night outside.
"To America?" Bastian asked, his gray eyes lifting toward the man across from him. "You have been travelling there more frequently as of late."
"Yes." There was more left unsaid hanging on his tongue, poised.
Bastian watched him, read him like any of the books in his library; the train's whistle pierced the air, the sound of it echoing across the countryside. "You have a childe there," he murmured. "Don't you?"
Cobalt eyes met Bastian's storm-gray and the silence hung again. Quietly, the elder kindred folded his newspaper. "That was very foolish of you, Ambrose." There was no admonishment in his tone, only tired observation.
"He was to die, Bastian." Ambrose shifted in his seat, drew himself closer to his sire -- to try and make him understand. "The trials of their false-witches there.. they were going to kill him."
"Some people are brought to death's door for a reason, Ambrose -- some that creatures like you and I are not meant to pull back." Unyielding, Bastian frowned at the scorn he saw in the younger man's eyes.
"People like me." His words came with the snarl of rejection, cobalt eyes gone as cold as the sea.
Bastian's lips thinned to a line. Yes, he thought. People like you.
Brest, France, 1889
The railway system was still a relatively new method of travel in France, and reserved for those with the ability to afford it; as such, it was no shock to either Bastian or Ambrose that their compartment was unoccupied. They feasted that night. The inauguration of the Eiffel Tower in Paris was enough to draw out enough drunken revelry to leave the younger kindred well-fed; he basked in the second-hand inebriation, lulled by blood and champagne as the late night scenery passed them. Bastian flipped through an old newspaper, comfortable in silence, until Ambrose spoke.
"I have been thinking of leaving." His voice was idle, half-lidded cobalt eyes trained on the night outside.
"To America?" Bastian asked, his gray eyes lifting toward the man across from him. "You have been travelling there more frequently as of late."
"Yes." There was more left unsaid hanging on his tongue, poised.
Bastian watched him, read him like any of the books in his library; the train's whistle pierced the air, the sound of it echoing across the countryside. "You have a childe there," he murmured. "Don't you?"
Cobalt eyes met Bastian's storm-gray and the silence hung again. Quietly, the elder kindred folded his newspaper. "That was very foolish of you, Ambrose." There was no admonishment in his tone, only tired observation.
"He was to die, Bastian." Ambrose shifted in his seat, drew himself closer to his sire -- to try and make him understand. "The trials of their false-witches there.. they were going to kill him."
"Some people are brought to death's door for a reason, Ambrose -- some that creatures like you and I are not meant to pull back." Unyielding, Bastian frowned at the scorn he saw in the younger man's eyes.
"People like me." His words came with the snarl of rejection, cobalt eyes gone as cold as the sea.
Bastian's lips thinned to a line. Yes, he thought. People like you.