Joscelin stares at the box in blank disbelief, feeling its weight in his hand but unable to open it for fear that it won't be the single thing he's wanted more than anything. His nightly obsession.
His ring.
Finally, as the sky lightens around them, he opens the box. There it is, a battered ring of Ancient Roman make, set with a single blood red stone. Aurelia's ring, the one he'd taken off his sire's hand moments after her murder.
The sun is climbing now and he has seconds before its rays hit him and turn him into ash, so he hurriedly puts it on, even though it is far too big for his small hands. The practical part of him makes a note to find a new chain to hang it on, but that doesn't matter right now. Not when he is standing in daylight for the first time in one hundred and twenty years and sobbing his gratitude into Jean-Claude's shoulder.
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His ring.
Finally, as the sky lightens around them, he opens the box. There it is, a battered ring of Ancient Roman make, set with a single blood red stone. Aurelia's ring, the one he'd taken off his sire's hand moments after her murder.
The sun is climbing now and he has seconds before its rays hit him and turn him into ash, so he hurriedly puts it on, even though it is far too big for his small hands. The practical part of him makes a note to find a new chain to hang it on, but that doesn't matter right now. Not when he is standing in daylight for the first time in one hundred and twenty years and sobbing his gratitude into Jean-Claude's shoulder.