Wakes him up by biting into his neck and drinking. A lot. :)
@bloodlustiing // Unprompted!
Artair has kept on the move. He can't go home; he spends his nights on aimless moonlit walks and crashing in obscure in-between spaces. He runs like a leveret, like prey. It's his only option, when safety for him means danger for everyone else.
And that protection is.... it isn't real. It feels safe compared to everywhere else, but it never has been. His home isn't a sanctuary that wards off the horrors. It's a lie. And staying there furthers everyone else's chances for their necks to meet the guillotine in his stead.
No. He can't risk it. Not them. Not anyone.
They don't come back. So if it's him, it's okay. If it's just him.
So he moves, never the same space twice. Tonight his starlit travels find an abandoned pocket space of some long lost fae. It is wild and overgrown and in utter disrepair, but it is also empty and far more comfortable than some of the places he has stayed just to keep his distance. The green of it-- of hanging flowers and vines on the walls, of a moss stitched blanket on a grass-woven bed-- it is all a meager comfort, but he is too selfish not to cling to what he can. The primeval sense of belonging allows him an exhausted slumber, one he cannot stave off any longer.
But nowhere is safe.
Ares descends like a shadow that does not rouse him. He sleeps light, but that bone-deep fatigue buries him deeper, too far below in twisted dreams to sense the danger. The nightmare is shattered by fangs daggering his skin, by the gush of wet that splatters the bed he's claimed. He wakes to the agony and burn of teeth bracketing his throat, scissoring their way into his artery to feed.
Artair screams and thrashes, a caught rabbit in the maw of a predator. He scratches, kicks, bites the palm that moves to cover his mouth with his sharp fangs, until his lips are smeared with the black-red ichor that is Ares' blood.
None of it helps. His vulnerability has cost him. He is alone. Others would make it worse.... but isolation sits like weights against his ribs. He's alone and he seldom feels it as stark as the moment he is helpless and he knows just like most times, no one will help him. It's better. It has to be-- it's better than anyone else suffering too. But it means once he's pinned with the right leverage, the resistance is just a formality. A cold comfort for his own psyche.
He knows it. He knows there's little to no chance this ends different. He was weak, he let down his guard, and this is the result. But the rage that boils in his core, the pain and anguish threaded through his being, still craft his body into every weapon he can make himself into. He's a flurry of limbs and teeth and wings, desperate for some edge to turn the tables with. His body keeps slowing, withering with his spilling lifeblood that Ares sucks down like a gorging tick. His heart thuds as more and more blood is pulled from him, leaving him cold and numb. His pulse ruptures through his skull at a breakneck pace and his breath comes short and gasping. The adrenaline soaking him has his body termoring without control. Or maybe it's the blood loss. He doesn't have enough thoughts to think.
Still he tries, he fights, even as those digging fangs puncture further. Blood chokes him as it floods his windipe and lungs and throat, and his body seems to only strengthen in his need. Claws get sharper, teeth sink deeper, he kicks like a hare trying to leave a concussion where he can land a strike. Anything. Anything.
He gurgles wet and it spills, mingling with what is on his face. It is bubbling with froth where it sticks to his face and chin. But he holds on even still. Artair grabs Ares by the hair like a ponytail and pulls as hard as he can, thoughts only to wrench him away and OFF. Even if it will take tearing flesh and muscle to do so. The sacrifice does not matter to his screaming thoughts and trembling body. He just needs to survive.
