#oc tag: seeing past ichor | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

clansayeed · 4 years

Text

Bound by Choice ― II.ii. Behold, the Dawn

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The armies of the faithful purge the catacombs with fire. Serafine uses that light to discover the darkness hidden at the heart of their community.

[READ IT ON AO3]

This the chaotic dance with which he is all too familiar. This the slaughter of his kind — his kind, but not his people. They will never be his people. This the bloodshed that has consumed him, fueled him, ignited the flames of war at his heels ever since the Crusades.

All around him motions of life, motions of death; that he cannot even stand the briefest moment to appreciate the beauty of it is beautiful in itself.

Behind him; rusted metal coiling tight, creaking wood struggling to hold together, the sheen of sharpened blades scraping against one another as the bolt is drawn—loaded—fired.

Cynbel waits until the last possible second to catch the bolt before it sinks home in his heart. He would kiss it for luck had he the inkling — but he doesn’t need luck.

Metal-tipped crossbow bolts; fashioned tough and as tempestuous as to whom they belong. Designed to puncture even the finest of armors — meant for the enemy.

Because he wants to savor in the first of his victories for the night Cynbel makes sure to rip off the breastplate first. Casts it aside no better than maiden’s veils in what good it does the knight; in how effective it is in stopping his adversary from spearing him through with his own weapon.

The helmet goes next. Young eyes wide in panic and young lips stained with blood and spittle yet he feels nothing for this child on the cusp of manhood. Why would he? The butcher does not feel for his supper.

Cynbel smears his tongue flat and wet across the young man’s chin. Tastes the salt and fear in his blood brimming near to a boil and it makes him hard.

Though most of it is wasted — spills on flagstones beside the slick shine of oil. The color, though, is a welcome accent on his damned finery.

Victory runs red along his teeth and he pulls his hand free from the bled meat. Lets him collapse to the floor to join his blood. Unlikely that he’ll live unless the Knights have discovered a miraculous way to shove ones organs back inside their bellies.

But they are only as fun as they are alive. So he moves on to the next. The crossbow yields, splinters apart underfoot.

A high-pitched cry sounds to his right — Cynbel turns just in time to see the youngling from earlier, Marcel, launch himself with bared fangs and eyes that match the blood staining his coat at another Knight.

The Knight braces for a light impact, perhaps even to catch him mid-flight. But what collides is much heavier than they anticipated and the pair go flying across the ballroom.

The chaos is stifling. The smoke clinging to the Gothic ceilings is, too. A sign of fires raging somewhere in the distance and, knowing the Holy Knights, growing closer. Meant not to choke them but to burn them alive; to trap them in with the rest of the dead here.

Beautiful, rapturous carnage.

And it means nothing without them at his side.

Cynbel doesn’t have to call for them — his heart leads him bound and chained to where it belongs. To his lovers; to the reason all this has come to pass.

To Isseya — who rips a head clean from its neck helmet and all. Who stands in perfection among a growing pile of bodies of the dead and dying without a stain on her.

To Valdas — the thrill of the hunt ignited like the burning catacombs despite all of his past protests. Whose nails and frilled sleeves drip ichor where two hearts beat their last in his unyielding clutches.

The distance between them all ceases to exist when the Trinity look up — when they find one another in the fray. Fascinating; how the look of a lover can bend the very laws of reality like that.

As glorious as they look naked, he’s starting to prefer them drenched in the blood of their enemies. As if he didn’t already.

But any hope of union is quickly dashed at the echo of battle cries on hollow bones. As many Knights as have already been dealt with there are more on the way. More than he accounted for — but hindsight meant nothing to the dead.

Masques scatter the floor, the ashes of their owners kicked up in the frenzy. Cling to boot heels and skirt hems and catch on their tongues. The last wish of the fallen to be carried with the victors into battle.

No rest for the wicked — a new wave of clanging iron erupts and Knights pour in from all sides. Faceless foot soldiers frantic for fame. For the glory that comes with their oh-so-noble purpose of ridding the world of vampire kind one by one.

The Holy Sacred Knights of the Rising Dawn have come ready for war.

And war they shall receive.

Isseya dances aside, the breeze of a blade missing her just so. And hellion that she is the vampiress grabs the sword by the opposite end and wrenches it from its owner’s grasp — returns it to them generously and all the way to the hilt.

She kicks the fleshy sheath astray, shouts “Cynbel!” with barely restrained delight, and tosses him the weapon. Caught with the ease of a master of both the blade and her love given with it.

He decapitates the nearest Knight with his back turned.

It is a dance the guests know as well as—if not better than—the Prestige Waltz. One that consumed many of their mortal lives — and their mortality with it. And one that follows them now in death. With the collective experience and knowledge of the battlefield in this room alone how could the Knights even imagine victory?

“Seal the West! Let none flee!”

There was fleeing? Who would be foolish enough to flee from such decadent bloodshed?

Only when the words finally ring in his ears as more than another wail of death does Cynbel turn and see a huddle of vampires being led to safety by none other than Serafine herself.

Though blood has saturated the oil spilled it still ignites when a Knight tosses their torch to the ground. A towering blaze alighted that races in winding tendrils from one end of the hall to the other and claims two of the doorways.

He can feel the heat licking at his skin even from a distance. Watches the cries of shock, anguish; agony when those unfortunate souls trapped in the midst of escape are consumed in the threshold. The rest forced back.

Well that’s a new development.

By the time they realize the Knights plan to corral them inside the ballroom like a tomb it’s too late. It’s already happening.

Serafine directs those left to staunch the flames as best they can. Capes and cloaks and skirts torn carelessly to smother what they can. But that leaves them open — vulnerable. Three felled by one Knight alone in a cloud of ash.

And with no time to savor the victory; not when the Godmaker tears the human in two with his bare hands.

“Monsters! All of you!”

The sight is stunning enough to still Cynbel, momentarily taken aback, before a crack and the clatter of armor sends him staggering backwards to avoid being toppled by the dead Knight.

Valdas, glare now too close for comfort; something that makes him feel like a scolded child, joins him in standing over the fresh corpse.

“You seem to have underestimated your adversary, darling.” Says his god through gritted teeth.

“What,” so cocky, so certain, “not having any fun?”

He knows the anger is not for those who have been lost but for the overwhelming number surrounding them. For two of their exits blocked by fire and their chances of escaping before the fight is done now all but dashed.

With a grunt Valdas pulls them together; the kiss as nourishing as it is reassuring. Tongues tangled, tasting the blood of their enemies in each other’s mouths until only pleasure is left.

“I forbid you from dying tonight. Forbid you from denying me the satisfaction of punishing you for your arrogance.”

Oh the things that voice does to him. “Yes, divine one.”

“You choose now to fuck, of all times?!”

Both heads turn as Isseya spits a chunk of the enemy’s throat to her feet. Cynbel erupts in laughter, staggers when Valdas pushes him back and has to quickly gain balance before he trips over another body.

“Jealousy does not match your dress, beloved!”

“Nor desperation, yours!”

Even in the fray she is as sharp of tongue as she is of wit. In times like this it feels like the old days; where bloodshed and war are as common as regalia and waltzes.

Easier, then, to forget that they are not alone.

“We must retreat!”

“One step back, Westbrook, and I will take your head myself.”

“My love…”

“I will not abandon our people!”

A trio of their own; the Godmaker, his Bloodqueen, and the soldier. That they could even consider retreating in the middle of all this sours the blood on Cynbel’s tongue. But even he would be fool to deny this… this is more than he expected from the Knights.

Perhaps he may have miscalculated a bit.

“Gaius, mon cher! Everyone! Allez, viens!”

The sacrifices of the lessers have not been in vain. Flames staunched by cloak and foot, Serafine calls from the blackened doorway with soot in dark stains across her face and blood dripping from her red lips — the body fresh at her feet still twitching in vain.

A hand closes tight around his upper arm, makes Cynbel look back to see the stern face of his Maker resolute.

“If we run now, they win! This could all have been for nothing!”

“If we stay, it surely will be.”

But the decision is already made for him as Isseya speeds to their side and takes each of them in bloody hands. The look she gives him nothing less than frustrated desperation.

The memories it brings back haunt him still; nightmares like reliving the terrible past over and over again.

Ash grinds like glass against their foreheads come together; tastes harsh on her lips in the bruising intensity of her kiss. “You cannot control everything,” she echoes, far more important now than in the innocence of mere hours ago, “but you can control this.”

This. Their escape.

“Rragh!” He whips the sword in hand with blind fury. Watches it lodge itself in the stone and sink deep.

They comfort him because they know his choice. They know him; his mind for strategy, his acute sense for war. And they know he would never risk their lives for the sake of his war.

They already have him spirited away from the center of the carnage by the time he realizes his feet are moving.

A look back—only the bodies of the enemy remain before they, too, are consumed too bright in fire. Flames leaping from table to table, catching on long tapestries woven in recognition of a victory they assumed with naivete.

The ashes of their fallen mingle with burned wood. He watches until he can no longer; sees the dark shapes of those still left to pursue them begin to amass at the other end of the hall.

His victory — gone up in flames.

“We can lose them in the labyrinth!” cries Serafine from up ahead, where the voices of the desperate meet her; their shepherd.

They will have to. The rattling sound of armor-clad footsteps grows louder with every wasted moment. The acrid smell of burning oil curls his lips back.

Even in the flames Cynbel had nothing to fear. Not with his beloveds in his eye and at his side. But when the chaos becomes too much, when he feels their hands slip from his grasp, fear takes her opportunity and slips into the dual voids left behind.

No. No no nonono—

“Valdas! Valdas! Isseya!”

“Cynbel?!”

“Cynbel!”

The threat of breaking his neck — head whipping back and forth to see them hoarded down different passages — means nothing. Let it snap. Let him pass through this terrible loss unconscious; unaware.

Bring them back to him. Bring them back!

His height; a blessing and a curse — keeps them in his sights but he can do nothing through the throng of panicking survivors as they are each pushed in different directions. As they become just another movement in the mass of darkness.

Smoke burns at his eyes but he keeps them open for as long as he can. Knows the tears are not for his own pain but for the pain that comes when the cord that keeps them as one strains, frays, and threatens to snap.

“—sieur! Monsieur!”

High-pitched panic breaks through the thundering of his three hearts. Draws Cynbel down with a small pale hand to the face of a cherubim’s devil.

“Monsieur!” The child Marcel cries again, this time it works to bring him from his own pit of despair.

They are not dead yet.

“I cannot find him!” he wails, “I cannot find Banner!”

“Wh-Who?”

Tear-tracks break through the soot on his round cheeks and really, really he does not have the time for this. Yet as he looks around they are nearly alone — left behind in his panic to rip himself in two and carry each part of him to where his lovers now wander.

They will endure. They have always endured.

And should his pride, his hubris be the reason they are taken from him in this life then he would not hesitate to seek them swiftly in the next.

“Marcel, petit!” A familiar voice calls from the other end of the skull-lined corridor; turns both heads to where Serafine beckons them from around the curved path.

At the sight of her the young vampire’s eyes alight, a cry of “Serafine!” leaving wet on his lips as he rushes to her. Tugs Cynbel along with.

There is no ignoring the suspicion that clouds the woman’s face when they meet. Darkness in her eyes, on the downturn of her lips where blood dries and flakes around her mouth.

He doesn’t have to ask what makes her so. Their brief moments leading up to the climax of the night still hanging, unfinished, between them over the child’s head.

A thousand questions, accusations unspoken. Pushed aside by the urgency of the hour.

“They mean to seal us off in the crypts. We must find a place to surface.”

“Banner—Kamilah—Serafine I cannot find them!”

She gently pries his grip from her skirts and cradles the boy’s cheeks. “No doubt Gaius protects them both, petit. Come, we must go now.”

Were the boy not between them Cynbel isn’t certain Serafine would not have left him behind. Yet with both of their hands in his he now leads the charge with fervor.

The farther they run from the grand hall the less they should smell the blood and smoke. Or so reason would dictate.

But this is not a reasonable time for anyone trapped beneath Paris; alive or undead.

With every turn the smoke chokes them harder; grows blacker and more like a disease than the omens before it. The gaping eyes of the skulls that witness their escape seem to bear down on them larger and larger with every step. We see you, they say, we welcome you — whether you want it or not.

But this—this flight of theirs—goes against his very nature. He can only succumb to it for so long. And when they catch sight of gleaming silver armor at the end of the corridor, when Serafine pushes Marcel behind her with a cry for him to double back, to change their direction, it is no longer a nature he can deny.

“Go,” he snarls, and does not rush to meet them, “get him to safety. Yourself, as well.”

“As much as I am growing to desire your true death…”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Martyrdom does not suit you, Monsieur D’or.”

“I find too much pleasure in survival to be a suitable martyr.” He throws a look back her way; sees the resisted smile on her lips. Offers up one of his own…

“Go.”

They both know he hears the falter in her footsteps at the end of the passage. The rustle of her skirts as she turns to watch the collision between them. But there is no savoring this victory without them at his side — he can’t imagine even the thought of it.

The way he tears into them is animal. Cracks and crumbles the skeletal walls and leaves their bodies to rot, decay, and soon bloom new skulls to join them. Save the one he takes in hand and crushes with a wet noise between his palms.

What did she expect to see?

“You tackle them as one with experience.”

He blows a strand of hair from his eyes. “Mademoiselle, may you learn this lesson soon; experience is the only thing that separates the likes of us from those already dead.”

But even as he shoves her back the way they had come, he can feel the burn of her gaze. “The Knights and I have tangled before, yes. Their order changes names, locations, ranks; but they are always the same. Always with the same holy doctrine.”

He follows her turn — the scent of their companion caught but waning fast.

“The eradication of our kind.”

“Most ardently. Their resources are vast, those who line their coffers may not even know to what end their gold meets. I assume you know of the oh-so-charming King Coppernose.”

Serafine’s eyes widen. “Truly?”

“There was a reason he chose such a… publicly gruesome execution for dear Queen Boleyn.”

His left hand closes tight on instinct. Craven for the beloved that is not there. But just because he cannot see Isseya does not mean she is back beneath the sword. And only because it is here — only because she has seen his weakness firsthand, Cynbel allows himself a shuddering exhale. “The influence of the Knights at the height of their control of England. Though his death led to a division of funds and they turned their sights to Spain shortly after.”

Weak are they who gossip like follies in the midst of the chase. The silence that follows stretches out — but only their rustling footsteps fill their ears.

“You speak as if they have come close to —”

“Once —” —the acrid air burns through his nostrils; pain a startlingly useful motivator— “— and never again.”

With as much as humanity has changed in the past centuries it’s not unlikely someone of the Lady Dupont’s age has come across their persistent enemies. Maybe not in name, maybe not en masse, but somewhere along the line surely.

Cynbel, however, refuses to lie in wait for their inevitable collision. He seeks them out; has done to the protests of his beloveds for decades now. In England — now here in Paris.

“I would hardly be surprised if there was not an alliance among them—those feeble rulers. They’re so easily frightened of anything that might protest their power. Power they claim is theirs by divine right — the arrogance…

“And our very nature calls that divinity into question, does it not?” He waits for an answer but none comes. Fine with him. Valdas and Isseya — they’ve grown bored with his constant complaints of the Knights and their machinations. Fresh ears to help pass the time.

“And in that fear… came the numbers to bolster their forces. Masses desperate for something to believe in. For answers to reach out to them; a light in their dark, pitiful years.”

“A congregation for your sermon then…” she mutters under her breath, but luckily such things are easily ignored.

“What we lack in numbers our kind makes up for in strength. You saw the ballroom — you partook in it! Glorious battle, victory against the multitudes of dispensable faithful.”

“What victory is there in the losses we suffered?”

“No doubt their losses were far greater in number.”

“So callous, your regard for life.”

“Why would I care about a few meager vampires?” Cynbel’s grin is wry. “Especially those who were so easily struck down.”

The shape and breath of their masques meant nothing. They were always insignificant. Would always be so. Extinguished wicks in comparison to the holy flames of his god and beloved.

Serafine; only under his protection for the consequences possible. Proving herself less and less the more she fixates on the means rather than the end.

“I just don’t understand how they could have known…” says she eventually, and he sees the way the wheel turns in her mind even through the darkness of the smoke. “Do you think the Knights have one of our own held imprisoned?”

“Does it matter?”

“How else can we ensure this never happens again?”

“We leave as many bodies as we can. That tends to send a message.”

“Even to those as vengeful as the Knights?”

Cynbel doesn’t answer right away. A grave mistake on his part — one that skids Serafine to a halt. He continues—stops only because she is obviously familiar with Kamilah, because the Godmaker might find some way to punish his lovers should she perish.

“Unless your intention is to turn back and clear the rest of the righteous horde I suggest we keep moving.” Regarding the now soot-stained skulls near the ceiling with disdain; “Who knows how many of these passages have been sealed off — they’re learning.”

But she and he are of a similar ilk; Turned in those years when doing so was a rare honor, not the desperate means of procreation it had become. Such power did not underestimate easily, surely. One look at the blazing wit behind her eyes and he, too, would have been taken with the mere potential of her.

In another life perhaps.

“I am well-versed in the depths of the depravity of Les Trois Amants… but this…”

Which makes him have to choke back gagging on the guilt she tries to push at him in torrents. How could he do anything else? How could he have thought she would understand?

“Is now really the moment for this?”

“No — and the fault lies with you for it.”

“Your point?”

Her eyes widen. “Those dead — and those yet to die — they were unnecessary.”

“War is not war without casualty.”

“This so-called war is none but your o—!”

Her words end in breathless lungs and chipped bone fragments falling and catching in the finer embellishments of her dress. Such things tend to happen when one is shoved against a wall.

Fury brims forth — Cynbel’s strength holds her firm but there is no denying the tension coiling in the muscles of a huntress.

The crossbow bolt hisses through the smoggy air and sinks home in a different kind of dead; straight through the eye socket. Were he not facing her he isn’t sure he would have seen it coming, seen the glint of light reflecting on dirtied armor.

Utterly silent — but how?

Wordlessly the vampires agree for a stalemate in favor of their mutual enemies. They charge like a wall, crossbows cast aside for close-range swords and daggers. Yet they are fools — children playing with toys. Their feeble minds unable to comprehend the sheer number of years between their foes combined… how small they are in the grand design.

Their fall is nothing like their arrival. Noisy and impossible to ignore how they pile upon one another in the corridor’s confines. The dirt beneath their feet has seen too much blood already and refuses to take more; splatters their heels as the vampires continue their flight.

It is not enough to discuss war lest one forget the war never ends.

At the end of the passage they come upon a metal rod dug and rooted into the ground. A lantern hangs from a rusted hook; the candle inside dim and near close to consuming itself — no wick left to sustain it.

He watches as Serafine unlatches the lantern with interest. Sees the silent words on her lips as she runs her fingertips over the waxy bottom until they find whatever she was looking for. A set of grooves dug into the metal.

“Rue de la Mortellerie,” she says finally, as though it’s supposed to mean something to him, but her relief is explanation enough; “up ahead — no more than a hundred paces. Enfin, la liberté…”

Yet even with the tears brimming in her eyes—relief given form—there’s no mistaking the way she looks Cynbel up and down. Saving her life has, apparently, meant nothing. Thoughts once thought cannot be removed from the mind.

And were he in her position, were the tables turned and it was he mere strides from freedom with a dead weight behind…

No; there’s no question. He would strike her down without a second thought.

But perhaps he is lucky the lady is not as selfish as himself. That she waves him to follow with a rasped “Allez!” and gathers her skirts with dried blood flaking from underneath her nails and leads the way to freedom.

The least he can do is take the first steps from the lowly chapel basement into the freedom of the night to ensure the Knights aren’t there to meet them.

But the streets of Paris still slumber, still dream. When a noise sounds distant he stills, blends himself into the shadows and watches the lumbering journey of a mule and her master none the wiser that the world is burning beneath their very feet.

Cynbel ducks his head back inside. “All is clear.” And watches her as Serafine takes great care in sealing the entrance to their secret court with an entire coffin as guise.

As far as he is concerned their alliance ends there. Is already well into the fresh night, getting his bearings on the unfamiliar part of town she has led him to when she notices he no longer stands at her back.

“Arrêtez!”

Her cry stills him though likely not as she intends. His eyes flicking this way and that to reassure himself they are still alone.

“Louder, perhaps,” he snarls low, “I fear the remaining Knights may not have heard you, since you mean to lead them to us!”

“Such is not an unreasonable course of action, as I am quickly beginning to learn.”

If her intention is to get his full attention—it works. “What did you just say to me?”

“I am no fool.”

“A fool’s proclamation.”

“Remorseless even now…” He would be lying if he said this was the first time he has been looked upon with such disgust as Serafine does now. It drips from her every word, from the blood that stains her chin. “But you said so yourself. You take this as a victory — even in the wake of all that has been lost.”

The river must be close, he can hear the lapping of the current against the banks. Foul and putrid as ever but with it, faint but very much there, the smell of burning flesh.

Likely it will cling to Paris; her streets, her people, her dead, for years to come.

With a single step Cynbel crosses the distance he had tried to put between them. Cups her face in broad hands and tilts her up to the light of the nearest lantern. Beautiful now even more than below; the blood-red dress splattered on her cheeks and throat… lingering in her eyes…

“Let us dispense with these games Mademoiselle Dupont,” he croons close, breathes against her lips with a lover’s intimacy, “I abhor them so. I see it there—you think it hidden in your eyes but not as well as you would hope.

“You have a question as I have an answer. But… you cannot have one without the other.”

The same performance on a different stage. Still surrounded by the dead as they were in the crypts like no time had passed. Fulfilling, almost.

And with the knowledge that should she even attempt to wrench herself away the woman would only succeed in snapping her own neck.

But her hesitation is an insult. Cynbel tightens his hold; feels the scraping grind of her jawbones together like music to his ears.

“Paris is my home, my love; my life. Were the ranks of the faithful closing in on our people… I—I would have known.” Though it sounds awfully like she’s trying to remind herself rather than tell him. “I would have known if the Knights knew of the catacombs. I would have known.”

“Apparently not.”

“You brought them down upon us.”

“I did.”

“Upon your own kind.”

“A debate of philosophy for another time.”

And when she finally—finally—asks it is broken, strangled. The strength of her swept out in a single tear rolling down her cheek.

“Why?”

“Because he loves us as much as we love him.”

Serafine takes advantage of his immediate relief; pulls herself free. Maybe even means to flee, to find other survivors and maybe even the Godmaker himself to announce his deeds with violent condemnation.

But however fast she is Isseya is faster. Strikes down their hostess with the back of her hand and rides the high of conquest (that he gave her, though he doesn’t expect to hear thanks any time soon) with a well-placed foot.

Crack. Her lower leg shatters within. Her screams fill the air loud enough to wake — well, the dead.

Cynbel’s eyes flutter shut when he feels the familiar permanence at his back. Turns his head unbidden and offers his neck into the vice of Valdas’ grasp. Feels the familiar shape of Isseya’s body molding against his side and feels complete with it.

Serafine looks up at them through grit fangs and bloody spittle. Her eyes a torch ablaze on a stormy night; the passion—rage—fierce but flickering near-dead.

“You risked…” blood dribbling down her chin, “all our lives… Lives you do not know—the very existence of our kind here…”

“True enough.”

Everything — every death a debt paid, every fight a test — was worth it. For this.

For them.

“But your lives are a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

#bloodbound #bloodbound fic #kamilah sayeed #gaius augustine #serafine dupont #oc: cynbel #oc: isseya #oc: valdas #oblv: bound by choice #oblv: new chapter

3 notes · View notes

shiinonomee · 4 years

Text

Time of Rest

Behind four (three and a half?) walls, it’s easier to relax. A little easier...

Word Count: ~2,500

OC centric, Third POV, Code Vein Fic

Rhodey may not have any concrete memory about the specifics of her own life, but concepts she remembers just fine.

She remembers churches, for example. And churches don’t normally house bars and hot springs. The one Louis leads them to after a harrowing fight with what used to be Oliver Collins does, though—along with several other seemingly out of place additions.

She can see a jukebox along the far wall, surrounded by candy machines and posters. There’s a board covered in research, pictures and maps and red yarn connecting one thing to another. There’s a big safe in the wall, too, set up as a kind of weapons shop. All corners of the place seem to be dedicated to something else—one place seems to be a mini library, while another is a common area, and another seems to be dedicated to mostly trading. Louis shows them around briefly, explaining what it is they do here.

“We needed someplace to act as a sort of headquarters for our blood spring research. It used to be a lot more run down, but thanks to Yakumo it’s much more livable than when we first got here.”

It doesn’t take long for everyone to notice the newcomers. They gather as if sensing the coming announcement.

“Taking in more strays, eh?” Says one woman with a husky voice. She puts a hand on one cocked hip. She has short blonde hair and sharp-looking eyes, like there is nothing they could hide from her. Still, she doesn’t seem unfriendly. “Should’ve known it was only a matter of time.”

“This is Rhodey, and her friend Io. They’re former thralls, but I think they’ll be invaluable to our research efforts. Please, make them welcome.” Louis smiles almost bashfully, as if this was a thing she called him out for often.

“You sure this is a good idea?” Asks a tall, broad man with deep red hair. Piercing green eyes settle on Rhodey’s calculatingly, and she can feel her heartbeat stutter uncertainly. “No offense, but you’re the trusting sort, Louis. It’s gotten you into trouble before.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing we have you around, Yakumo.” Louis replies without missing a beat, unruffled. He offers a wry smile, and Yakumo smirks relentingly.

“Ooh! What a gorgeous piece of work!” A girl much shorter than Rhodey flits over to her, eyes sparkling brightly as she gazes at the golden rapier. Her sudden arrival startles both Rhodey and Io considerably. “And that Bloodveil, too! Where’d you get your hands on those?!”

“U-uh...I...I don’t really...well, remember...”

“Don’t mind Murasame, she’s supernaturally friendly.” The blonde woman speaks up, again. “Call me, Coco. I’m a merchant by trade; you two let me know if there’s anything you need to get your hands on, I’m sure we could strike up a deal.”

Io nods obediently without saying anything, too busy gazing around at the building to respond beyond that.

“This place feels...” She starts, leaning closer to Rhodey as she speaks in that soft voice of hers, “warm. Vibrant, somehow...”

“I hope you end up liking it here. If you’d like, I’m sure Murasame and Coco would help set you up in a room.” Louis glances at the small, orange-haired girl called Murasame, who perks up excitedly and nods before taking Io by the arm and leading her away. Curious, and none too worried, Io follows along.

Rhodey visibly tenses for a moment, but Io seems in no danger with these people. She forces herself to relax.

“Rhodey, if I could talk to you, for a moment? There are still a few things to discuss before you make a final decision—I’d feel better if you had all the information, first.”

She turns to Louis, and Yakumo who has moved to stand a ways behind him. They’re close, she can tell—and maybe he feels as protective of Louis as she feels of Io. She can respect that.

“I’m all ears.” She agrees with a smile and a nod.

“This way,” he motions with his head towards the living area, behind which lies the fruit of all his research so far—the boards and maps. They turn and lead her in that direction—past the makeshift balcony where the wall is completely missing and you can see the sky for miles. Louis notices her staring out and smiles almost fondly. “Quite the view.” He says, and she nods, still awestruck.

“People have taken to calling it all the Gaol Of The Mists. No living thing can pass through the border. Ever since the Queen was defeated, that mist has kept us all confined to this place, cut off from the outside world.” Yakumo explains, still watching her closely. She turns to face him still looking a little dazed from the thought of it all. Even when she can’t see it—the bright red haze in the distance that cut through the horizon like giant caution tape is stuck in her mind.

“The Queen...” She murmurs absently.

“You don’t remember?”

She shakes her head, the few hairs that have escaped her tight ponytail swaying before her eyes.

“She told me that both her and Io’s memories are essentially wiped clean. When they woke, Rhodey was near frenzy before Io led her to a nearby blood spring.” Louis explains to him.

“Lucky thing, that.” He crosses his arms over his chest, raising a brow. Rhodey offers a bashful smile.

“I’ll, uh, be more careful in the future.”

“Hope so, for your sake.”

His intensity makes her want to gulp, so she lowers her gaze a bit before looking back at Louis. “Sorry, I got distracted.”

“It’s no trouble, at all, I’m happy to answer any questions you have. It can’t be easy...”

“I try not to think about it.” She chuckles weakly, adding, “at least until I realize that with no memory there really isn’t much else to think about. No thoughts, head empty.” She knocks her knuckles lightly against her scalp a few times with a bright smile. The other two exchange amused glances before continuing on to the research board.

“Wow,” She hums, awestruck yet again, if by something else this time, “you have a lot here, already.”

“You know the gist of what blood springs are, yes?” Louis asks her, and her face lights up as she nods enthusiastically. Finally, something she does know; albeit because someone beat him to explaining it.

“Yeah! Other than humans, they’re the only source of anything bloodlike for revenants to drink. The lost have ichor, but drinking that only speeds bloodlust along, which is why it needs to be filtered through the purifier masks.”

Louis smiles wide like a proud teacher. “That’s right. So far, we’ve discovered that all blood springs have tubes running underground—like capillaries. We call these blood veins.” He crosses his arms. “Blood’s become scarce these days; in the time after the Queen was defeated the government began housing all the humans, and many of the blood springs ran dry. The levy system helped for a time, but even that couldn’t last forever. Now, more revenants than ever are starving...losing themselves to bloodlust. Even the ones who aren’t lost yet are likely to turn to violence if they think you have something of value on you.”

“But you think if you find out where these blood veins are going...”

Yakumo nods, “We’ll find the source; maybe figure out how to end this drought.”

“And given what you can do, we should have an easier time tracking the blood veins. We won’t have to rely on luck leading us to a blood spring that hasn’t dried up yet.”

Yakumo tilts his head. “Oh? What’s this special talent I’m just now hearing about?”

Louis turns to face him a little more. He looks almost startled at the fact that he hadn’t brought it up, yet. “I scarcely believed it myself. I was heading over to greet her in the caves earlier today when I saw her activate a mistle with a few drops of her own blood. I’d only ever seen it happen with the medicine made from the Queen’s blood, before. And then just a little while later she brought a blood spring to bloom the same way.”

Yakumo’s eyes blow wide as he turns back to Rhodey. “Well, I’ll be damned...”

She flushes. “It really is that strange, huh?”

Louis chuckles. “I told you.”

“I see why you want her to tag along a little more, now. To have blood that can do something like that...”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Louis snaps the fingers of one hand, eyes alight with an idea. “I meant to ask—would you mind giving me a sample of your blood? There’s a theory I want to test. If I’m right, you’ll get quite a bit out of it.”

“Oh?” Rhodey says, taken aback.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be a lot, so you won’t have to worry about bloodlust.”

“I...suppose if it’ll help.”

“Perfect! Come with me.”

—————

After he’s taken a sample—she tries not to flinch too much at the needle—he leaves her to get comfortable in the room that would be hers from now on. She’d figured after giving them her blood things were pretty much a done deal—she and Io would be staying. It’s not like a better option would just come knocking, anyway.

Besides, Louis is nice. She’s had a chance to speak with some of the others, as well and they’ve all been kind to her. Murasame made it very clear that it would be to her immense pleasure to work on her gear whenever she needed a tune-up. Coco had let her peruse some of her stock.

She’s spoken to a large man in a white uniform called Davis, who works for Cerberus—the provisional government—about the depths and what she could expect if she were ever to go exploring down there.

Yakumo has mostly kept to himself after the talk with Louis. She could tell he was keeping an eye on her the whole time she’d been wandering. It didn’t surprise, though—he was built like a brick house and dressed in fatigues; definitely the muscle of the place. He’d probably defended against threats to the group before. She’d even noticed the gun he has strapped under his arm.

He’s been the most closed-off out of all of them, though—not outright unfriendly, but definitely cautious—it is natural that she be curious about the one she knows least. That’s what she tells herself, anyway.

“I should check on Io...” she mutters to herself aloud. The girl is endearingly spacey, but it makes her worry all the more about her. Io is the one reason Rhodey hadn’t joined the ranks of the Lost—her gratitude alone would have been enough to make her care for her, but something else pulled them together like a magnet--she could feel it in her chest.

Maybe they’d known each other before. Maybe one day they’d remember.

Rhodey stands from her place on the bed and exits the room. Io, for some reason, had decided that she wanted her place of rest to be near the congregation of couches in the living area, right next to the balcony—despite at least one other room besides Rhodey’s being free. Perhaps she enjoyed the draft.

Rhodey finds her there, seated on the edge of her bed, surrounded by the glow of candlelight. She’s gazing down at the bandages on her leg.

“What happened?” Rhodey gasps.

“I was injured by the Lost before you arrived. Coco helped me dress the wound.” She speaks with that same dreamy quality she had since they first met, completely unbothered. “It feels fine now.”

Rhodey wants to ask more, but she stops herself. She doesn’t want to hover too much and overwhelm poor Io. Instead, she glances around. “So what do you think of this place? Are they treating you alright?”

“They ask me many questions I have no answers to.” She replies. “But...I am glad we are staying. They are good people, I think.”

“I think so, too.” Rhodey glances over to Murasame’s workplace, where the girl is still fawning over the equipment she’d surrendered—having no need for it here. She’d promised her a better mask, too—newer model, more durable and efficient and easier to breathe in.

First upgrades are on the house. She’d said, waving off any attempt to try and pay her for her trouble. Really, it’s nice to have some new weapons to work with. Such nice ones, too! You’re doing me the favor, here.

She’d practically squealed as she got to work.

“Maybe a little strange, though.” She sees Io’s faint smile at this and grins back. “I guess we aren’t ones to talk.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a tall form take a place at the bar. She turns to watch as Yakumo gathers up the scattered deck of cards there and begins shuffling them absently as if just giving his hands something to do.

“Maybe I should go make nice...” She ponders aloud. Io glances over.

“He watches over them all so diligently...” She notes. “It would be good if he trusted us.”

“I’ll assume that means you agree, then.” Rhodey laughs softly. “Rest up, Io. It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?” With a quiet agreement, Io decides to curl up on her side as Rhodey strides confidently over to the seat beside where Yakumo sits. He watches from the corner of his eye as she slides in beside him, and she wonders if his lips are really quirked up at the corner—it’s too faint for her to be sure.

“Room for one more?”

“Depends. You play?” He holds up the deck of cards in his hands briefly before shuffling again.

“...I think I remember how to play war...” She offers slowly, bearing teeth in a smile that’s almost apologetic. He snorts, eyes mirthful. “Oh! Go Fish might be coming back to me, too, now that I think about it.”

That one earns her a real laugh.

“Go Fish, I can get behind.” He says and starts dealing.

“Right on!” She exclaims, pumping her fists in victory. “You’re about to be demolished.”

“You say that, now,” He shrugs, cocky grin in place, “but I’m about to reel in this win.” It’s her turn to snort.

“A dollar for the bad joke jar...” She shakes her head, sending her ponytail flailing. She feels a light, playful kick against her shin.

Several games in and Louis finally emerges with the results of the impromptu blood test. He seems endlessly amused at the sight of his very smug best friend leaning cockily back in his barstool as Rhodey weeps animatedly over yet another loss.

“Seems like you two are bonding, alright. To think that I was actually worried.”

“Bonding?” Rhodey peers from the nest she’s made of her crossed arms on the bar top. “He was just in the midst of actively declaring war on my entire bloodline. This betrayal will not go unpunished. His grandchildren’s grandchildren will fear me.”

“Eh, I suppose we can keep her around; she makes me look good at cards, at least.”

“If you keep bullying her, she won’t want to stay.” Louis chuckles. Yakumo thinks for a moment before reaching over to pat the top of Rhodey’s head.

“There, there. You just need to train—I’ll be waiting on that rematch; so stick around, okay?” She makes a show of sniffling and pouting.

“I suppose...”

“Ah, good—then I can assume you’re ready to hear about my findings?” Louis asks with a smile.

She sits up, looking curious. “Hit me, doc.”

Louis nods, ready to get down to business.

#code vein #oc ; rhodey #fic ; carrier of the blood

3 notes · View notes