'Ange', so simple and kind, perhaps not really anything warranting much surprise by most. He never uttered such a word to his sire, yet Leon always knew it was the image in his mind. Ambrose has looked up to others and seen goodness and grace, strength and conviction, from his happy place on the grassy earth. Looking within now, the sight to be seen appears darker and raw, something scorched that has gone cold. He sees something of demonic ilk, unsettling and wrathful, because he has nothing else to put to it. Then again...Lucifer was an angel once too, was he not?
It doesn't feel condescending, or cruelly incorrect... Ambrose might be naive enough to mistake it for forgiveness, a pardoning of what sins of his had grasped him and pulled him under. He wonders what it is -- a recognition of familiar monsters, or is Ambrose really not so lost as to be damned? He doesn't need to be seen as angelic, omnipotent, to feel assured, but even such a small word strokes him with a strange, even if difficult, relief.
It seems that his ask was not an invasive one. Ambrose watches with an admiring eagerness to his curiosity, fingers strolling lazily along the shapes and skin on the back of Magnus' hand as it rests against the side of his throat. He's given something, context of some kind, a piece of some past. His eyes grow round with keen attention at the mention of the Bastille alone, but the confirmation of the year is perhaps more staggering. It sounds so easy, as if remembering something from simpler, younger years. Ambrose isn't startled, for he knew Magnus was just like he is, long-lived as long as no fatal harm comes to either of them. Through time and illness, they will remain.
The expression on the pale face is full of awe. "I see," he breathes, though not completely racked with shock. Leon is centuries old, has recalled events from ages ago with the touch of seeing them occur first hand, but he has been the only long-lived immortal in his life, until recently. And until now, Ambrose could only guess at the scope of Magnus' life.
"Then France may well be a new home for you to return to," he begins, tone hopeful, almost asking. Ambrose travelled briefly, but years ago -- not that many years, alas! -- and not extensively. "Something we may discover together."
Are they really sure the tour must be forestalled? Slowly a smile sinks into his lips. It makes him want to ask so much more, he can virtually feel his head buzzing with all kinds of questions. Not too many, not too soon. This knight is protective...and Ambrose understands the need quite deeply. He mustn't be ungrateful; the promise to be there with him is alone is a gift, and the assurance to keep seeing the wolf until then will fuel Ambrose for the months ahead -- indeterminate time, as it stands.
"Is it not too much to ask? Your interference with the tour...whatever it is you have in mind." Magnus did offer, but Ambrose can hardly fathom that simply sharing time is an equal outcome to the effort.
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It doesn't feel condescending, or cruelly incorrect... Ambrose might be naive enough to mistake it for forgiveness, a pardoning of what sins of his had grasped him and pulled him under. He wonders what it is -- a recognition of familiar monsters, or is Ambrose really not so lost as to be damned? He doesn't need to be seen as angelic, omnipotent, to feel assured, but even such a small word strokes him with a strange, even if difficult, relief.
It seems that his ask was not an invasive one. Ambrose watches with an admiring eagerness to his curiosity, fingers strolling lazily along the shapes and skin on the back of Magnus' hand as it rests against the side of his throat. He's given something, context of some kind, a piece of some past. His eyes grow round with keen attention at the mention of the Bastille alone, but the confirmation of the year is perhaps more staggering. It sounds so easy, as if remembering something from simpler, younger years. Ambrose isn't startled, for he knew Magnus was just like he is, long-lived as long as no fatal harm comes to either of them. Through time and illness, they will remain.
The expression on the pale face is full of awe. "I see," he breathes, though not completely racked with shock. Leon is centuries old, has recalled events from ages ago with the touch of seeing them occur first hand, but he has been the only long-lived immortal in his life, until recently. And until now, Ambrose could only guess at the scope of Magnus' life.
"Then France may well be a new home for you to return to," he begins, tone hopeful, almost asking. Ambrose travelled briefly, but years ago -- not that many years, alas! -- and not extensively. "Something we may discover together."
Are they really sure the tour must be forestalled? Slowly a smile sinks into his lips. It makes him want to ask so much more, he can virtually feel his head buzzing with all kinds of questions. Not too many, not too soon. This knight is protective...and Ambrose understands the need quite deeply. He mustn't be ungrateful; the promise to be there with him is alone is a gift, and the assurance to keep seeing the wolf until then will fuel Ambrose for the months ahead -- indeterminate time, as it stands.
"Is it not too much to ask? Your interference with the tour...whatever it is you have in mind." Magnus did offer, but Ambrose can hardly fathom that simply sharing time is an equal outcome to the effort.