Disclaimer: I do not own Legacy of Kain, Eidos and Crystal Dynamics do. Nor do I profit from this.

Springkink prompt – July 5 #43 - Legacy of Kain, Vorador/Janos: Loneliness, Lost, Wingplay. - "Odd as it seemed, they were almost the same age."


A long time ago, long before the corruption had set in, Nosgoth had been a beautiful place.

Now, they looked through the slits of a shuttered window over the decrepit city of Meridian. Vorador's gaze lingered, but his sharp ears noticed the sound of Janos turning away from the sight. He turned and saw his sire's retreating (why did that word spring to mind?) back, as he headed towards the bed of this guest room, only a few down from Kain's.

Vorador missed his sire's touch, but after so long he would need his space: it wouldn't do to assume he would want to share Vorador's quarters.

Was his sire angry at him for failing to realize he was alive? For failing to rescue him? That had fallen to Kain.

Kain, the scion of balance. Kain, the destined hero, if not the one Janos had been waiting for. Kain, the irritating little brat.

But his sire looked so lonely, lost somehow, and it frightened Vorador, who followed him to comfort him.

Vorador knew that Janos had crises of faith, but Vorador was always sent away for them. His sire had always been the serene one, the one who awaited, the one of unfaltering faith despite it all.

And in the end, what had it brought them?


Janos' wings were hunched in, a clear signal to Vorador that he needed comforting. Before, Janos had always hidden this from Vorador, but you couldn't tend to fledglings for millennia, fledglings filled with doubt and fear by their new life, and not recognize the signs, not feel the misery and rage vibrating off him.

It was easy enough to tug Janos down into the bed, murmur words of comfort that were first objected to but then allowed. Janos always felt he had to be the elder, the pillar of strength for all the lost children of his race… Vorador laughed when he realized that counting the five centuries Janos had spent dead, he was now older than his sire, but shushed Janos when he questioned the laugh.

Taloned hands dug themselves into Janos's wings, scratching lightly under the feathers. Janos shivered with pleasure and lay still finally, head on Vorador's shoulder.

Vorador knew what Janos had wanted when he headed towards the bed. Sex, quick and rough and hard, to make him forget, a stolen moment between the torment and the battle. But as much as Vorador wanted that, it wasn't what Janos needed.

There would be time for that aplenty.

As enticing as his sire was like this, moaning softly as dead feathers were worked out of his thick wings. Vorador nuzzled the nape of his neck, noticing the greenish hue. His sire needed to feed, but there were no blood fountains here. Janos had always refused to feed from innocent humans, and he had counted all humans as innocent, even the original Sarafan.

"Drink, sire," Vorador urged him. He would take up the task of feeding this sire-turned-fledgling, and hope that Janos was too hungry to think of where Vorador was getting his own food.

Fangs were carefully placed: none of the ravenous savaging of a true fledgling here even though the throats Janos had bitten through could be counted on an Ancient's two hands. Janos had fed Vorador enough times to know how this went.

Janos' hands tightened around him, perhaps in thanks, perhaps in instinct to keep the prey from escaping. Vorador's talons never paused in their work: he had always loved grooming his sire.

This felt peaceful, somehow: a needed reprieve from centuries of war. He felt happy, secure wrapped in his sire's wings, and only hoped he could give the same feeling to his sire.

Finally, fangs withdrew and the last of the blood was lapped away from the instantly-healed wound.

By the dark gods they both were, he had missed Janos, even if by the end he rarely saw him. At least he had known he was there in that eyre, though foolish pride and their old argument kept Vorador from visiting. Now, he wished he had.

"Vorador," Janos said quietly.

"Shush, sire."

Janos's wings flared, pushing against Vorador's talons, and he realized the movement of his hands had stilled.

"I missed you, my son." Janos kissed his throat where he had earlier drank so gently one could forget the fangs as Vorador renewed his efforts, careful to avoid digging in too deeply. Gentle movements soothed, rough ones inflamed, he had learned, and as much as he desired to taste his sire's blood and seed again…

"Aaah!" Janos' head was flung back, exposing the most beautiful neck in all of Nosgoth.

Even if now, reunited, they would have eons to share…

Vorador had learned by now to not waste time.

He wished he had allowed Janos to disrobe before climbing into bed. These new clothes looked too good on him to just be ripped to shreds.


Yes, Janos still reacted the same way to Vorador undressing him with his teeth.