Work Text:
“You know, I was not aware Lord Lodovka had a grandchild. I’d always thought the leaves on that family tree were rather barren.” Daeran’s voice betrays the spark of curiosity he hides behind a disinterested look at his wine glass.
“You should write to him and tell him just that, he would be overjoyed to know his efforts to conceal my existence weren’t in vain.”
“Oh, maybe I will.” He smiles and recites: “My Dearest Lord, forgive me, how could I be so unaware of your lovely grandson? You have deprived the Court of a truly interesting guest, how glad I am that my dear cousin has seen fit to elevate him to this new command. I daresay there’s not a soul in Kenabres who doesn’t know the name Cyril Lodovka now. I am thrilled to finally have a fresh face to add to my guest lists.”
Cyril chuckles, smiling into his own glass. “You may send him into a conniption. Throw in some reference to bacchanal blood-drinking feasts and the fashionability of the Undead and even the chirurgeons will struggle to mend him.”
“Oh, that does give me some ideas. A grand feast in your honor. I’ll need to make arrangements,” The Count is looking at him in that way he does, innocently amused.
Cyril is once more thankful of his incapability of blushing. He thought himself beyond such idle flirtations from young, foppish nobles. Plenty had seen him as a rebellious amusement in Brevoy, the danger of dhampirism alongside bastardy. He’d allowed himself to be used in his younger days – relished their attentions, their bodies, their blood – and then they’d become annoyances. He’d turned his attentions to alchemy and lost the fascination and yearning for a glimpse of the noble life he would never know. All he could achieve was a facsimile of it and the entitlement of young dandies and noblewomen had become grating.
And yet… this boy. He’s clever and he knows it. Beautiful and talented and all too aware of that, too. Even his complaining isn’t enough to sour Cyril entirely.
Daeran continues, looking at him through his golden lashes, “Any preferences on the libations?”
Cyril pauses, a finger to his lips as if he truly is in quiet contemplation. “The elven blood served here is suitable, as suitable as anything not directly from the source can be.” He looks directly at the Count. “Although, if it is to be a lavish affair, I’ve always been partial to aasimar .”
The Count’s eyes narrow and then he laughs and Cyril hears the performance in it. “Then so be it: an aasimar maiden, ready to be devoured. I did always believe that the centerpiece should be a talking point.”
“So be it.”