My quite different rendition of the Bite Nite™ and beyond, because you have to respect the classics. Or rather steal one wheel off its car and run away with it :D
After the bite night gone wrong, Astarion is left to deal with the consequences of getting carried away with his hunger, and thus, Inara's lifeless body. A lot of flailing ensues. Maybe Withers can help? Also a tiny bit of creachuuurstarion at the beginning, as a treat.
(3/6 chapters published, 12k words thus far)
He should stop, let go. Get up and leave, then find a quiet place until those unabating waves of euphoria had passed. Groaning, Astarion licked an openmouthed line across the wound for another tang of the blood that brought it on. His fangs were still buried in her corded flesh as they should, as it was meant to be. Gods, only another aspect of too many he’d been robbed of by Cazador, to be forbidden what was innate to his being. Instinctive and just… natural. Because there had been nothing like this, not in two-hundred years of his miserable existence, not ever.
No animal could ever compare with the experience, the sheer primal drive and satisfaction of sinking his fangs into her neck as he did tonight. Rabbits, squirrels, even deer always broke away too easily under his bite, far too brittle as he drank what little they had to offer. Not like her. She’d been solid, strong, all pulse and heat underneath his mouth, yet with delicate, honeyed skin so effortlessly pierced as if made for biting, his fangs.
Oh, if only he could stay like this, burrowed in her throat and draped all over her corded body. Engulfed in her warmth and aglow with her blood brimming hotly and luminous through his veins, it was the closest Astarion had come to feeling alive, ever. As if brightening his whole being, it pushed away the dark, twisted corners in his mind and within his filthy, blackened soul, vivid and radiant. His hips snapped into her at their own violation, seeking more of the connection he’d already anchored with his teeth.
Just a little longer, more of the pressure and newfound heat, this vivacity, and the wonderful, all novel satiation of gnawing hunger in the pits of his stomach. Oh by all gods, what an impossible gift of never before bliss by this strange elven woman; this ranger and monster hunter underneath him.
For her so willingly aiding in his small act of rebellion against Cazador, to help him break those chains. What a surprise after they clashed and collided more often than not. A few soft rasping gasps more, steeling himself to let go, and leave her be. Astarion detached his fangs from her and mouthed along the set of puncture wounds where he’d prior sunk his teeth into. He’d made a beautiful mess out of the column of her neck, a strong, scattered line of three deep double fang marks, next to dots of freckles and an old long vertical scar.
This monster hunter would be most useful indeed if won over for this, for never returning. Not to Cazador, nor the misery and anguish endured for centuries, or back to sickly twisting vermin. Never again. Not after tonight, with the smoothness of freedom still velvet and heady upon his tongue, coating his throat and coursing through his veins. Winning her over would not just promise another relish of her thoroughly succulent blood, but also his survival, first and foremost. Get her to defend him, to never turn on him. Very much achievable too, with how eager and receptive to his closeness she'd been tonight. It simply needed the right amount of... incentive and she'd yearn and beg for his teeth and cock before long.
Whatever was needed to come out alive and free out of it. And maybe he even could find his own enjoyment here, if not in sex then at least in her blood. Yes, good. Astarion opened his eyes at last, grappling for some sense so forlorn in this strange, foreign happiness lingering inside. The first of its kind in two hundred long years, sweet hells.
The hunter however lay there still, too motionless for the past minutes of his rapture and that pierced through its haze now. Did he go too far, too greedy for— Drawing away, Astarion checked the pulse at her throat. No thrum met his fingertips, not even a quiver, despite its vigor underneath his lips before. Several hearts beat in a serene cacophony of sleep in camp, as he attuned his ears to the other mortals here. Hers, though…other than the phantom pitter-patter in his chest originating from her blood’s vibrancy, only stillness followed in its wake.
Oh no. No. This could not be happening. No no. Astarion scrambled backwards, away from where she lay, lifeless. Dead.
Fuck.
He perched next to her body, all the while her blood roiled with warmth aflutter through his stomach, as if mocking him. Head sunken sideways onto her shoulder, the moonlight hued her bronzed skin into a pallid, greyish shine. With her eyes closed, the hunter at least didn't stare at him with the weight of her life claimed with cold, dead eyes. Her lips turned upwards, she bore a peaceful, serene expression that made no sense. Ridiculous how she didn't even put up a fight in her final moments, she simply… died. So strong, capable to overpower him with ease before and yet ultimately so fragile, same as every other mortal. Astarion scoffed, wrapping himself in scorn and disdain as a protective armor, as natural as a second skin.
What a dull-witted, gullible moron. She should have known better than to trust him in this, especially as a monster hunter, damn it! With bloodlust and hunger taking over any rational thought, of course he would break his promise of just a taste as soon as he had it. Nothing else mattered anymore than the heat, the pressure of her underneath, his teeth anchored in her neck, the smooth richness of her blood. What a strange urge to crawl and bury himself into her veins and skin, into her.
Astarion screwed his eyes shut. This addled frenzy still carried on even now, through her blood rushing, pulsating inside of him. He teemed with her lifeforce, incandescent. Similar to feeding on the deer before entering the ruins a few days ago, but the satiation and euphoria fled quickly again, then. Unlike here, where ripple after ripple it flowed unabated through him, impossibly full of everything, even whole.
His senses were sharper too, heightened to a point where it got uncomfortable. Animals hushing through the underbrush far away from camp, the chirping of cascades thrummed like drums in his ears and the glittering of stars above pierced his sight, all too bright. The colors around him too were over-saturated now. Woodsmoke bit in his nose with its acridity, mixed with fresh herbal scent of the grass around his feet, the salty tang of dried sweat on her skin and the musk of–
Astarion shot to his feet, turned away from her body. No. Silence was unachievable in this state of a nigh sensory overwhelm and its newly alive songs within nature and blood. Astarion picked up her discarded tunic and threw it on her throat and face to cover up the bite marks he'd been so proud of before. Now, however— “Fool!“
Why did she not stop him? Ugh, but why should he care, even? The elf was nothing to him, just another victim of many he procured in centuries for Cazad– But Baldur’s Gate was far away now and so was his sadistic former master. He couldn't reach him, not anymore. It no longer had to be… that. Still, that didn't change anything of what already happened here, by his hands or rather teeth. His belly pushing distended against his waistband was yet another evidence for his greed, his bloodlust beyond any rational reason. “Sorry, darling.”
Astarion turned away. Well-fed as he was, he should cut his losses while he was still ahead and the others in camp none the wiser about this event. This adventure had been doomed from the beginning, nothing to gain here anymore with her… gone. So best if he’d use the cover of darkness to get away, put as much distance between those then-murderous, so-called companions and himself. Glancing upwards, the last quarter moon stood high on the night’s firmament, which guaranteed a few hours before sunrise until they would find her. Enough for his escape, to save himself from certain lynching and staking by them for killing their oh-so elected leader.
“It was an accident, okay?” Astarion blurted, and drove a shaky hand through his mussed locks, as he paced up and down next to her corpse. Shit. “Should have… stopped me.” Warmth flooded through him, as if her blood was sentient enough to reply. How ludicrous and bizarre a thought. And yet, his cheeks flamed with the facsimile of shame expressed through her essence. So mortal and useless. Baring his fangs, he spun around, looming over her. “It’s who I am, dear.” A filthy creature of the shadows, now dragged into the light and yet still ruled by his baser instincts and urges. That sanguine hunger, eternal, gnawing.
She should have known.
And yet… she did not see him as a monster, even after– ugh. What good was it to dwell on it, when she was gone now? What was done, was done. Then why did he still linger and didn’t leave when he should have long sought an escape from here already? Otherwise they would kill him too, throw him on a pile along with her. Misadventure, his failure completed. No. He’d survived and endured pure shit for so long, this could not be the end of it now.
“Wouldn’t be the dumbest thing I have done in my one hundred and eighty three years of life…”
These words echoed in his mind, unbidden. Nearly two-hundred years for her too, before he came along and— He stiffened as his stomach twisted with a dull ache, the warmth momentarily pushed out by ice-shards pricking his guts. So heavy and sudden, his knees buckled underneath its force, driving him down into the grass. Thus back at one level with her and his remorse that wasn’t supposed to even exist, dammit! Astarion’s hand trembled as it cusped his mouth to quieten the stuttering gasp escaping. Unneeded ones, but unstoppable as well. With all too much pressure in his chest, halting his breath entirely wasn’t viable.
Astarion hunched over as the weight inside spread, his muscles clenching all over as if bracing for an all too familiar lash of a whip. None followed, naturally. So Astarion seized the moment for several exhales, releasing some of the tension skywards this way. What the– was her blood doing this? Did it heightened his emotions too? Just what he needed, great. His teeth ached with how hard his jaw clamped together despite the prior relief. The pressure rose further up his face, reaching his eyes. There it pricked and prodded, his throat tightening along. Astarion blinked fast to get rid of it and sat back on the balls of his feet to breathe more freely, methodically. Or to hold it altogether. Not the first time his emotions were all erratic, nor the last either. He could handle this, whatever it was now. However it didn’t stem from a past remembrance, more like–
“You!” Astarion’s accusatory finger landed on the ranger’s body. Figures. Even in death she managed to get under his skin. This vexing, damn woman. Hells, if the first five days were any indication, she would find a way from beyond the grave to haunt him, just to further piss him off. Maybe she already did so, or cursed her blood before offering it to him. That made the most sense. Why else would it be this potent otherwise and— “Fine. Wanna live that badly, huh?” Admittedly, an understandable notion for a mortal, but still, ugh. “Let me fix it, then.”
Easier said than done, though. However, Faerûn was full of magic after all, there must be a way, and hopefully before sunrise and his impending impaling. And she better be grateful too, instead of murderous. Or his efforts of undoing her death would result in his own killing then. Great. Maybe he shouldn't— no. He had to do this, and hoping that this would be sufficient for a peace-offering then, come morning. No idea where to start or how to go about it, though. It wasn't as though he could wake up the wizard and ask to help him with resurrecting their leader he, oops, kinda murdered. By sheer accident in getting carried away, but it was highly doubtful they would care for this fact. No, the others couldn't know, preferably ever. But at least till the next morning with her crawling spry and alive out of her tent again, as if nothing untoward transpired in the night.
Gods, if only it would be this simple.
With a sigh, Astarion's eyes flung over to the elaborately decorated tent at the opposite corner of camp. Where did he even get all the stuff, though? Never mind, the wizard with his many conjured creature comforts would be a good start either way. He had to have magical items, scrolls in particular that could… bring back a mortal. Her.
Her blood chittered with warmth in his belly and his veins, as if agreeing. “Yeah, you would like that, huh?” Kneeling forward, Astarion fixed the tunic thrown onto the hunter, so it no longer covered her face. Not that she needed to breathe, not right now anyhow. It simply, well, was marginally more dignified to leave her here with her chest…covered again. “Don’t go anywhere, darling.” He got up on his feet and half-expected her to grab his ankle like a wrathful ghost as he stepped over her, to… undo his fuck up, at last.
The wizard’s snore tore through the stillness of night long before Astarion reached his tent, gasping, grating. It was in moments like these where he was grateful for oxygen no longer being a necessity for him, because gods, he would murder anyone snoring like that close to him. Though those unhealthy bouts of air also helped to locate the wizard’s position in the tent. Close to the singular entrance with its flaps closed. Thus Astarion snuck around to enter it from behind instead. Crouching down, he lifted the blue canvas up far enough to slip inside. Well this was the easy part now– He froze as Gale choked on a snore and adjusted his limbs, but thankfully he did not flip around, or worse, woke up. Still lying with the back turned to Astarion on his padded bedroll, he continued his slumber. Now was as good a time as any to fully stop breathing, also because… something reeked absolutely vile in here.
As quiet as possible, he approached the wizard in the middle to pass him, targeting his belongings at the left-hand-side. Astarion just needed to reach and take the small leather bag of holding in the corner next to too many books and — ouch. He hissed as a strong electric current stung him while touching the bag, cramping the muscles in his arm for a few seconds. Astarion involuntarily inhaled upon the pain rippling through him. Another mistake with his senses so heightened, because…it was the human who reeked. Or more like his blood did. Like… bile, absolutely rank. What the—
Clasping his mouth with the hand not affected by this… magical trap, he went back to not breathing at all to swallow down the nausea. Perhaps all the better he did not pick the wizard for his first ever humanoid bite, then. Bless the stars. Yet how could the differences be this stark, when her blood had been absolutely divine— Astarion shook himself. Focus, this wasn’t the moment to dwell on what brought him into this situation to begin with.
He reached out toward a book to use it to shove the bag underneath the canvas and outside of the tent. He could deal with the trap then afterwards without a stinky Gale in the way. Bending over the sleeping man, the trap triggered again. Not zapping him this time, yet the electric currents were far too bright and noisy. Especially next to a sleeping person. Thus, Gale’s snoring halted and he stirred. Oh, no, no. Fuck! Astarion could not be caught now, this would be bad. More than bad, actually. With the book still in hand, he retreated out of the tent’s back and into the safety of night.
Well, that went utterly awry. Leave it to the damn wizard to magically booby-trap his own belongings to repel thieving hands. Now what? He could try again in a bit, but all means of dealing with the trap in the tent would also risk waking him. Hmm, maybe he could try the cleric… of course! The danger of her mace getting planted in his face was considerable, bu—
There was movement at the other end of the camp, where she lay. His stomach swooped uneasy, or her blood inside him did. Dropping the book, Astarion sidestepped away from Gale’s tent and the nearby fireplace, back into the shadows. Hunkering down in its relative safety, he slowly snuck closer for a better view, and froze midstep. A large, slender figure hunched over the hunter's body. An intruder? It couldn't be… had he been found? Was it—
Astarion squeezed his eyes shut, went still as stone, even as his mind screamed to him to flee. No, if he moved now, he would be seen. Cazador would not forgive this transgression. The breaking of rules, the walking in sunlight.
He would be dragged back into the shadows, into the kennels, for disappearing, disobeying. Displeasing. Again. His limbs burned with the phantom of constraints, suspended. Mold and rot bit in his nose, acrid and sour. Their dried blood was plastered on its cracked stonewalls, a lot of it his own. Stale and wrong. Rope, chains cut into his flesh. Arms and legs stretched, ripped, too tight, further and further. His shoulder popped, limbs broke, hang askew. Godey jeered, taunted, but Astarion swallowed his screams like so often. Better be still, silent. Escaping into his mind for refuge. The only solace existing in an eternity of agony.
Trembling, Astarion cowered into the grass, making himself even smaller. Every nerve in his body flared alight with terror, the remembrance. Spitting, cutting, sneering, belittling, his voice from the nightmare boomed in his mind and overtook every corner of it.
“Do not forget who made you. You are mine… forever.”
The echo of Cazador’s mad laughter reverberated everywhere and nowhere around him. It wasn’t real, he had to just open his eyes and— Astarion’s fingertips clawed into the earth beneath, seeking anything for purchase, to ground himself. A rush of warmth flooded through him, as if to help him come to himself. The presence, the intruder, now loomed next to him. No. Please. He could not go back, and be punished again. Perhaps if he explained— “I swear I was coming to find y…”
“Thou art afeared by the wronged person!” The voice, while old and bearing authority with every word like Cazador, was yet different. Lacking the cruelty. Astarion’s eyes flew open and he blinked fast to clear his vision from the remnants of horror gripping him. He was here, in camp, not in the mansion nor the kennels. He exhaled, allowing himself to breathe out the tension, to feel less stretched to the seams. He was, well, not safe, nowhere was, yet still far away from his grasp. Good enough for now. Astarion straightened himself and snarled, not at the large, spindly figure in front, but at himself and swallowed down bile threatening to rise. Disgusting, how quick he had been back to groveling again, when— No. He shook himself, got back on his feet. Not important now, because even if not the person as feared, an intruder was still to be treated as such.
“Who—” Oooh. His mouth plopped shut as recognition dawned. The creature was the skeletal undead they’d freed, or rather awakened in the abandoned ruins and its crypt only two days prior. “It’s you!” Found his way into camp as promised –or threatened– after all, if a bit late and, well, at a very ill-opportune time. Definitely not the standard variety of shambling, mindless corpses either with the composure and dignity he bore himself with here. And this despite his bleached bones clad in tattered, once-regal robes and pretty much being so mummified that basically he’d leather for skin. How lovely, if very useless to him. No time to find out for whatever he’d descended onto camp for. The creature wasn’t Cazador, nor a threat, and thus, there ended Astarion’s level of care for his presence.
He'd bigger problems, like a still dead, very much exsanguinated hunter elf, which, given she'd been chosen their leader, painted a large target on his back. Or rather threatened an even bigger stake to his heart to follow. And all efforts in spite, he was no step closer to undo any of those morbid circumstances.
“Yes. Thou may call me Withers,” he prattled on, in spite of Astarion’s disinterest. “'t is quite the predicament, thee findeth yourself in hither, vampyre!”
That did stop him in his tracks and he whirled back around to the not-quite skeleton. How could this Withers know of his identity? Maybe he saw the bite-marks, then. Either way, time to play dumb, until he had more of an idea of the creature’s intention. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Withers slanted his all over gold-circlet adorned skull as if discerning him with a sharp, eternal awareness in those light blue… eyes. How unsettling to be under their stare. Nevertheless, Astarion put back his shoulders, stood his ground. “I hath't a question for thee as well: What is the worth of a single mortal life?” He pointed a bony finger behind Astarion, toward her.
For a moment the cold dread returned into his stomach and he rushed up to her place in the grass. Oh. The elf was still there. Sweet hells. And why wouldn’t she? Mistaking the intruder for someone… he was not, had been all it was. He wasn’t here, could not take her away either as he always did — No. After all, the elf never had been Cazador’s victim or target, and yet as equally dead as the rest of them. Almost ironic and amusing, if the blame for her demise wouldn’t fall to Astarion directly. Pushing the thought away, he turned toward the spindly creature again. “Why are you asking me this?” Him of all people? He’d asked her the same upon meeting, but her answer wasn’t of importance at the time. Or at all. Just some useless heroic bullshit they all sprouted in reply then.
“Simple curiosity.” The whiff of ozone clad to his leathery, mummified body. Magic, power. Oh interesting. Hmm, Wither’s appearance wasn’t such a coincidence after all. “Wilt thou answer my question?”
Perhaps best to humor him then. “I don’t care…” he blurted instead and earned himself another indiscernible stare of this old as balls creature. “They… die so easily. Expendable. Useless.” Night after night, after night. An endless tedium in perpetuity. Like cattle led to slaughter through the promise of an unforgettable night. By Astarion, at his command. Drunks, idiots, miserable wretches no one would miss. Groping, pawing at him, hurting him without care, invading space and his mouth, demanding what was promised and he obeyed. Always obeyed as he was bid, without any choice not to, because the alternative was worse. Had been…worse. Nausea rose in tune with disgust in his throat and his skin crawled. His fingernails ached a phantom pain.
A hot stab of anger spread within Astarion’s guts, turning his voice into a growl. “Screw them all.”
No one ever cared for him in centuries, what he suffered. Why should he?
“Is this thy answer to mine question?”
His breath ragged and erratic, Astarion blinked, first at Withers, then at her figure in the grass. Yes. “No.” The anger in his guts shifted to a twinge of regret, then skittered as an indeterminate pang within her blood inside of and all over him. Annoying how she bothered him so much, even now. He should just tear her lifeless body to shreds and be done with it all. But this wouldn’t do, outside of some very short term satisfaction. Because where would he go? What would he do then? No, no. Let’s be smart about it. In order to be free, Cazador needed to die, but tonight had shown he wasn’t ready to face him. Not yet. She, however… “I need her to live.” Expendable, but maybe not so useless like all the other mortals. At least until Astarion could throw her at his wretched master as a distraction and save himself.
She had to be good for at least that.
“I see.” Withers nodded in his grating composed way, one that already pissed him off after only five minutes of knowing this guy. “So thou require a resurrection of thy soul companion?”
“R-resurrecting?” What was this? A solution to his problem for once? Freely presented to him, and without him having to seduce – ew. Ew. Not going there, no matter how desperate. He had standards, thank you very much. “You can do that?” Astarion shook himself as the creature just stared, waiting. “I mean, yes. Please do. Resurrect my, err, companion. Whatever. Yes.” He sighed out in relief. Finally, some dumb luck for once, and about time after two centuries.
“Thou hast to pay two-hundred gold for this service.”
“W-what?” Withers, that arsehole, stared at him unblinkingly at his question. Oh, but of course. Carding a shaky hand through his hair, Astarion’s laugh veered into scorn. He should have known. Nothing was ever free. Not even from a bony undead that could possibly have no need for money in any way or form. And even if, he certainly did not invest it in his appearance, unlike he did. Crypt dwelling, leathery bastard. “B-but… why?” Ugh, way too whiny of him. Abort, adapt, charm, even if it was an undead mummy at the receiving end. “I mean… can’t you just, I don’t know, wave your hands or something? Give me a free demonstration this time? So I know it works?”
“No.” His reply was instant, final. Tch. No regards for his plead…charming words at all. Gods, what an arsehole. “This is the price of the balance thee wilt heed.”
Ugh. Another dead-end of many in this night. Since all he had was, hmm, maybe, thirty-ish gold, looted from the ruins and dead bandits, before she got her greedy hands on it all and swallowed it up. Meant to be his ‘fuck off’ fund too, should things go too awry and he needed to get away. Like, now for example, but it was supposed to be later. Much later, because doubtful this current pittance would get him anywhere or anything. Least of all a resurrection, apparently. Bloody hells. “Well, I don’t have the money now. How about I pay you later?”
“No.” Same resolute, dickish answer. Worth a try, though. Best not to antagonize this uncooperative pile of bones further however… and yet Astarion bared his fangs in annoyance at him. Withers simply regarded his sulking with an unmoving glance, stoic as his posture and demeanor. Skeletal twit, who unfortunately held him by the proverbial balls. Either pay up or bugger off. Such a simple but effective business model. Almost admirable.
Astarion glanced about, then leaned over the elf once more. With the way she lay there, the long wavy strands haloed around her head like the evening sun he’d watched go down just several hours prior. It was as vibrant in its varied shades of copper red. In contrast to her brown skin, which warmth and color had started to fade. Dark freckles birdwinged her straight, elegant nose and high cheekbones. A pretty corpse in a way and one she had to remain a bit longer since she had no coins on her body either after patting her down. Disappointing but to be expected, because nothing ever worked out for him as it should.
Some one hundred gold remained to collect and only a few hours till sunrise. How — oh, of course. He snipped his finger, rose back to his feet from his crouch to turn toward the ranger’s tent. This woman had been a long-lived adventurer, so there had to be something useful in her bag of holding. And all free for the taking too, now where she was… indisposed. With no booby traps to avoid or stinky wizards needed either for financing this cut-throat mummy. Perfect. And it was only fair that she did her part here too for her own resurrection. After all, she failed to stop him.
Withers still stood rooted in place. He better not leave before — “Can I entrust her to your watch? To, ah, find the money?”
Withers nodded. “Thou mayest.”
Good, this hopefully would ensure him staying rooted and annoyingly in place there. But was it safe to leave her with him, well — Astarion halted, tilting his head. Eh, who cared. Certainly not him. Dead was dead, unless he’d whisk her away to make her his leathery mummy bride, she’d be still there upon his return where Astarion had— yeah.
My quite different rendition of the Bite Nite™ and beyond it, because you have to respect the classics. Or rather steal one wheel off its car and run away with it, and let the disaster feline gremlin actually deal with the consequences of his bite-y actions. As in what to do when you, as newly outed vampire, accidentally have slurped dry the one person in camp willing to help in spite of everything?
(2/6 chapters published, 8k words thus far)
[...] “I didn’t…don’t want to hurt you. I am just… so hungry, but I’m too weak to hunt.” Blinking, his eyebrows shot up and Astarion was frantic to elaborate, to correct himself. “I mean… I haven’t killed anyone, if that’s what you are thinking.“ A scoff, laced with bitterness for reasons unknown. “Not for food, anyhow. I feed on animals instead. Rabbits, deer, boars, whatever I can find.”
“I know.” His head snapped up at her due to the admission, and Inara snorted in return. Well, he hadn’t been exactly subtle in sneaking out of camp either. The only question remained as to why? Why hadn’t Astarion killed them all in their sleep in the past five nights and drained them dry already? Why was he going through the trouble to leave camp in secret and hunt animals for blood, risking detection each time? Something wasn’t adding up. This vampire in front of her… wasn’t exactly vampire-ing. Not according to the books she’d studied, anyhow.
The vampires in there were described as inherently evil, twisted creatures. As unfeeling, very manipulative and cunning. And without a soul, ever-hungry for blood, possessions and power, too. Whereas… Astarion, well, was more of an annoying runt, a lost stray pretending to be a roaring manticore. His ego and snobbishness was, anyhow. Not exactly—
His chuckle tore into the momentarily silence between them. “Well, I have indeed underestimated you then.” He mock-bowed his head. “My apologies.”
