#though his ability to hold another true higher vampire in

[anyzek-a]

god and he talks to ravens just the tastiest tropes

#hc. #to be fair he doesn't 'talk' to them but his thrall #abilities are very strong even for his species it's his sort #of 'special' ability unique to him that he is able to hold in #extended thrall animals / people / even other vampires #though his ability to hold another true higher vampire in #thrall is very limited and he's only ever practiced it on #dettlaff who urged him to try it just to encourage regis to #'be himself' or allow himself to occupy his body and #abilities as a vampire after living as a human for so long #but regis can establish thrall with only his vision and #the use of his voice makes it especially potent if needed #he does not need to touch or bite to do this but when #he fed from humans his thrall after biting was unbreakable #even by magick the few times he fed on a sorcerer #but #regis does not ever use his powers unless his safety is #threatened and /sometimes/ in his role as a surgeon or #doctor when a patient needs to be calmed or to ease pain #also if you're sick / injured and refuse to rest he will 100% #konk you out against your will it's the vampire equivalent #of threatening to strap you into your hospital bed

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

[SPOILERS FOR LEO’S ROUTE❗️] okay so i just got to the bit after leo reveals what he is, and mc and comte are talking on the balcony & comte offers to turn her into a vampire if she would like. obviously mc declines but i guess my question is, how do you think leonardo would react if mc DID agree to that offer? i am enjoying his route, but i kinda get the feeling he mostly/only loves mc because she is human :/ im interested abt what might happen if she didn’t say no? thank you v much💖💖ly lots

Aww, ily3 hun tyty 💕💕💕I’ll offer my thoughts below, I hope I can answer your questions to satisfaction! 

Ah yes, the point in Leo's route where I essentially get shot in the leg and limp through my walk of shame

Jk jk, but I think there has been a considerable degree of displeasure associated with Leonardo's line in the proverbial sand. No life with him can be spent as a vampire, MC must remain human. Despite his easygoing nature, he remains stalwart in his opposition no matter what the MC or Comte has to say. To summarize it quickly, Comte’s relieved exasperation at the end of Leo’s MS gets more across than I think any of my analysis can convey “Thank heavens one of you has good sense.” It offers the implication that he has tried to broach the topic with Leonardo out of concern, only to be met by a brick wall--or doesn’t try at all for fear that he’ll only ensconce Leonardo further into rejecting a greater future for him and MC.

As to how he would react I......really don’t think it would go well? Only because I think it would serve to reinforce the rifts that already exist in Leonardo’s self-perception. He would believe it was his own fault for pushing her in that direction, and while I don’t think he would hate Comte, he would definitely become estranged from one of his only close friends in life. (What GUTS ME about Comte offering to turn MC is that he is probably well aware Leo might beat the shit out of him, never talk to him again, or both--and he still fully accepts that he could lose his best friend to guarantee a future for both of them. Excuse me while I bawl in the corner) He probably wouldn’t hold it against Comte for too long, but he wouldn’t be any less aggrieved and hurt. And when Leonardo is vulnerable, he will hide and nurse his wounds until he can behave with some level of calm--or at the very least until he can pretend he’s okay after an initial explosion. He doesn’t feel comfortable troubling people with his own problems, so he tends to fall into silence when personal things come up. This doesn’t necessarily mean he resolves all of his emotional turmoil, or heals that fast; it only means that he wallows in those feelings alone unless they’re tugged out of him and worked through forcibly.

Basically, I see only one of two possibilities coming to fruition. The first is that he and MC would wobble only to completely fall apart if some kind of resolution could never be found. He’d continue to blame himself and start sabotaging his own happiness, and that would likely mean some level of selfishness directed at MC--resulting in anguish for the both of them. If MC takes on too much without complaint or Leonardo goes too far...I get the feeling that relationship would either end in shambles immediately, or result in a kind of twisted union in which both feel responsible for the other’s hurt but neither one can relieve it (until they’d be forced to split up before someone gets seriously hurt). They would be the source of each other’s suffering, so much so that the walls climbing between them might never again lower. 

This might sound odd, but if there’s one thing that Leonardo needs it’s control when it comes to his relationships with others. It is a subtle, but acute trait that might not seem obvious knowing his magnanimous disposition. He decides if MC gets to be a vampire, he bargains with Sebastian because he refuses to be a test subject, he refuses to validate Comte’s conclusions (despite knowing he’s right) because he doesn’t want to cede the power silence/smokescreens offer his emotional vulnerabilities. Even around villains like Shakespeare and the final serial killer, pay close attention. Shakespeare begins revealing deeply personal information and wishes that Leonardo holds close to his heart on purpose, snatching Leonardo’s agency and ability to control how his feelings are being conveyed. How does Leonardo respond? With explosive, forbidding anger--instantaneous and barely contained, nothing at all like his breezy attitude and calm.

If you think about it, it’s a fairly obvious extension of the humiliating powerlessness by which he was raised (he needs to be in control; he needs to be the one who decides who gets to walk away and who doesn’t. He doesn’t come on to MC because he wants to, he does it for the sole purpose of scaring her out of wanting to be a vampire. He doesn’t even attempt to explain where he’s coming from because he falls into whole-scale panic. When he loses control of the trajectory of others--of how they perceive certain things about him--all of his charisma fails him. If he can’t explain or justify where he is mentally, when he’s too afraid they won’t hear him or care, then he needs to redirect the opposing party). Additionally, he feels responsible; that he can better adjust the outcome with his experience--and while that may be true for some things, sometimes he gets ahead of himself. Only an individual can decide their own future and their own happiness, the most others can do is enhance or worsen aspects of life. He doesn’t have enough faith that his presence is positive or worthwhile enough to guarantee his spouse’s happiness ;-;

The other possibility I see is MC coaxing him as best she can into reassurance that she’s happy with her new life. While he may have doubts, there is absolutely room for her to help him approach those fears little by little. If Leonardo has even a hint of doubt in regards to his dismal feelings about her being turned, a potential for acceptance may be nurtured. I don’t think his uncertainty would ever fully vanish; there will always be a lurking fear that a fate tied to his can only mean suffering and disappointment. Prove his worth and compassion with time, and this man will be unable to remember how life was lived before her. It would take a great deal of patience and a sizable obstacle, but it wouldn’t be impossible. His heart is much too big for that, I think.

I don’t think happiness with a turned MC is impossible, only that it would take a lot of work to swing it after a heated moment of decision. I think the way to go with Leonardo is a more enduring effort. He shows much more receptivity after years of being together. I think time, ironically, helps him relax into the possibility of forever as a couple. I think he cannot conceptualize a world in which he is in love, and that this love is not conditional--not dependent on his ability to be the perfect companion, the brilliant inventor, the equanimous mentor. I think he needs to see for himself that love can be gentle and real and whole even when he’s at his worst (by his self-perception). 

Also I put some extra meta under the cut because I have brainworms and just can’t stop thinking about Leonardo rn so read if you like, but it’s more related to why he feels this way abt turning MC than necessarily about the outcome. 

That being said, I'm conflicted because I don't necessarily think Leonardo only loves MC because she's human? (Rather, I think it’s more a result of his history and the values he’s developed in response to that upbringing. But I’ll loop back to this in a bit, so stay tuned)

I say this for two reasons. Firstly, I don't want to say that no person in this period shared his values (I mean look at Comte)--this would be an overstatement, even if it was rare. But it does appear that Comte and Leonardo are acute exceptions within vampire society in elevating human beings to an equal status among vampires (if not a higher status at points or depending on the person). As such, a vampire partner he’d be comfortable living with is unlikely. Human beings are more optimal in some regards (more adaptable and more egalitarian than vampires, most likely), but he also knows that he’s more susceptible to falling in love with a human; so he makes sure to squash his feelings or remove himself when his feelings become too intense. 

Secondly, he's in close quarters with MC by necessity, and reacts to her isolation by virtue of the situation. That's probably half the reason they get together at all; he was fully intending to keep his distance despite his initial curiosity. One thing this signals to me is that even when Leonardo did feel attraction to any person he was in contact with, he would avoid them until they were removed from his presence--or he deflected their romantic approaches enough times for them to give up. With this in mind, it can come as no surprise that Leonardo has kept to himself for nearly five hundred years now. If it was another vampire hitting on him (especially a pureblood), he would be playing into his parents' expectations and would approach the vampire social hierarchy he was working so hard to escape. If they were human, he would deem himself a burden; he could never love them within the normal expectations of a human couple (growing old together, raising a family, etc etc). So ultimately I think it's less her being human, and more their compatibility and context.

As such, I think he just locks himself into a kind of Catch-22? Because in the end I think this is more about his own fears and insecurities--that he can never make someone happy, that he himself will never be enough (hello child of abusive home). Not to oversimplify his character, but one crucial element of his upbringing must be considered if he is to be analyzed properly.

There's something I often think about:

Comte, quoting Leonardo: "‘Not all parents love their children, or even think of them as such.’"  [Though he got away and was able to make a life for himself, he had to do it alone.]

There is. A LOT to unpack here. While we may not have evidence of what his familia is like firsthand, this description tells us...so many heartbreaking things. It tells us that Leonardo never once felt like anything more than a child intended to carry on a legacy. The likelihood that his insights, his feelings, or his entire self-hood were acknowledged is pretty much at a hardcore negative three. While it's been a good number of years since he was the problem child/family disappointment, I feel like so many of those experiences seep into his capacity to properly accept the love of another person. It's a good portion of the reason he struggles so intensely with being loved despite his unfathomable wealth of affection for other people. When a person is diagnosed with unlovable and cringe for having positive feelings for others, it's not really surprising that a person might have trouble accepting a commitment or attraction to another person. There is...a kind of Sisyphus dilemma that surfaces in the wake of that kind of life, a constant push + pull between craving acceptance and either expecting it’s loss and/or fearing it’s disappointment. Though he shows signs of healing from it, there are still portions that linger. (Jean-Paul shakes him from this self-berating in his MS, but after four hundred years he still struggles to overcome those instincts. I wish there were words for the extent to which that knowledge breaks my heart...Many say time heals all wounds, but sometimes I think only others can heal them.)

Keep in mind, I don't think his enduring fallacy that "human beings are the epitome of untainted purpose and vitality" is irrelevant or less problematic here. I just think it's a reflection of a deeper disturbance and loss. It's a reflection of his parents' unilateral rejection of the kinder parts of him; his devotion to patience and understanding. It's a kind of reiteration or what he's already known: he's doing exactly what his parents did in an odd way, he's rejecting vampirism whole-scale despite evidence of both pros and cons (just as it is for humanity). I will always offer that his fear of something going wrong during the change is completely valid--but it does feel more like a fear of admitting that vampires (and eternity for that matter) aren't inherently awful. He ran away from his parents for good reason of course, but for all his running he didn’t escape their black and white logic.

It’s funny too, because his absolutism is kind of reflected in his inability to commit to a single discipline in some ways; while part of it is that he probably exhausts study, I have to wonder how much of him oscillating is a fear of eventual failure. (Think his reaction to MC’s knowledge that he can’t dance, his mortification and utter...shock that she wouldn’t use it as a way to make him feel terrible about himself). He probably prefers to hone his skills helping people because the motivation of providing relief is a much more powerful motivator than knowledge for knowledge’s own sake. He needs the impetus, that drive to move him.

Granted, I won't fault anyone for feeling like Leonardo only loves MC for her humanity. At first glance it really did feel that way! But the more I think about it, the more I feel it has more to do with the weight of his life's experience, and the parts of himself he hasn’t been able to reconcile.

Sometimes, with Leonardo, I urge gentleness. So much of who he is disguises all the ways in which he has been hurt. While his decision is selfish and foolish, it comes from a broken place. My unhappiness will always lie predominantly with the fact that he believes to his core that happiness and self-respect is something he doesn’t deserve. 

#asks #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp mc #ikevamp meta #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp comte #er this response got a lot longer and more detailed than i meant it to be but uh #i hope it's helpful? #this is just how i tend to think about the game but then im also a feral leo stan alhkjadagd #im just that meme like 'i love you but i hate you but i love you' with leo LMFAO #sometimes u just gotta smack some sense into the man (which is why i love that Jean-Paul does exactly that HAHAHA) #but yeah most of the time i look at leo and have to resist the urge to cry and the recent event has been absolutely no exception #i would die for him

[lunarxdaydream]

Spar with Kensei

Pinned beneath him, his hold remained firm as his ego got the better of him. So sure he was that he had her caught within his grasp, ready to admit defeat, that he let down his guard. Foolish, he knew, especially where Josefine was concerned. And yet... it was difficult not to end up distracted. Him, the next head of the Kuranagi clan. Only bested by one other within the clans when it came to skill. So easily distracted by this woman, the close proximality. The way each breath had her chest nearly pressing against his. Her face so close that the stray locks of raven nearly brushed against her.

And yet, all thought goes out the window, his name slips so softly from her lips. How little they’ve used names during their encounters, and to use it like that? If he allowed himself the moment to truly think about it, he would have known that it was but a distraction. A way to throw him off guard, buy her some time. Anything for her to get the upper hand. And it had worked. And yet, if her simply using his name had been unexpected enough, nothing would compare to her next move.

Lips press against him, silver-blue irises growing wide. Part of him knew this was just another distraction, one of the many tricks she had up her sleeve. Though that did nothing to stop the Pureblood from falling right into it. Eyes slip closed, diving headfirst into her trap without hesitation. Her lips were far sweeter than he could have ever imagined, stoking the flames that he had so long since thought burned out. A yearning, one that he couldn’t allow to come to the surface, began to boil beneath his skin. Fingers ached to touch though the refused to move.

As she pulled back, he’d barely had the time to process and let his eyes open, her moves quick and precise. But nothing could mask the scent of her blood the moment it permeated the air. Once blue eyes quickly flashed crimson, but for nothing more than a moment. He couldn’t allow himself to lose control. To lose his head any further than he already has. And it is only once the vines drag him off her that finally he was able to catch his breath.

Don’t hold back on me.

The words ring out within his head again and again, unknowingly she had done him a favor. Allowing the distance to come between them, his thoughts could clear once more. And now that he knew for a fact how dirty she could play, well... now he was even more determined to win. “Don’t hold back, hm?” A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, head tilting as his eyes began to glow once more. Alright then, if that’s what she wanted...

No vampire was ever as powerful as when they were in their true form. Speed, endurance, strength and even their abilities were hindered while in their human form, some even up to five times stronger once released. Very few knew exactly how much of a difference it was depending on each vampire. It just so happens that Kensei was one with a higher margin than most others. 

A fanged smirk appears, distorting usually stoic features as light begins to form around him, so bright a blue that it nearly rivaled his usual shade of his eyes. It was but a moment later that silver gleamed in sight, pale fingers wrapping around the handle of a sword as his wrist twisted, the blade slicing through vines swiftly to free himself. 

“You play dirty, I can appreciate that,” the hand free of his sword dusted his frame off just the slightest, as if sullied by the vines that had once been wrapped around him before turning his attention fully to her once more. “Now if you want me to give it my all, then you should do the same.” His stance shifts, feet spread apart as shoulders tense and his smirk returns once more. His sword at the ready, his hand signals for her to make her move. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Distance is a welcomed reprieve from the prison of his iron hold. The haunting sensation of cold flesh lingered as a reminder. Too close he teetered to the edge of victory. Practically enough to taste it. “What can I say? Even a woman such as I can only handle so much temptation.” Features retain the same glimmer of humor. No elaboration is made. No color rising to cheeks. Her mask still worn, all truth sealed behind a single smile.

Soles kick back against firm ground; freed hands supporting weight as back arched to flip. Deep breath collects all thoughts. The response of icy lips had been less than expected. Perhaps a shock to his senses. A break to his concentration. To create confusion to maximize the short window of opportunity. Abuse the proximity between them in her favor … but the willingness of his reaction? It had nearly undone her. Or rather the sensation it pulled from somewhere deep inside ...

Eyes never break from the figure before her. Emanating light nearly blinds. Air shifts, pressure building as hidden power finally breaks through the surface. Adrenaline rises in reaction. A rush of excitement flowing – screaming to dive into the moment. Far more hides under fanged grin. Tricks still held close to his chest. Anyone with half a brain could see he is a threat. A deadly predator to avoid at all costs. Her instincts know it. Years of experience are all too familiar to various creatures … but he a specimen that has caught her eye.

-- Finally, she will know the prowess that has fueled such pride in him …

“Fair enough.” Index brushes along lower tier; crimson streak blending with burgundy lipstick. A vermillion glow radiates from the witch as blood continues to drip from pierced wound. Palm extends, thin trail free to stain the ground until it ceased. Like a serpent with a will of its own, beads of shed blood have connected. They slither up and coil tight against upper arm, firm as a carmine bracelet sealed to flesh.

Two levels of binds are undone. Coven crest, faint in appearance, just barely seen from open collar. Dangling rubies from earrings burst into fine dust that gather on open hands; glow concentrating upon the center where dual blades are born and held. Steel as dark as a starless night are lined with red edges. Ready – no, eager to clash with the Pureblood before her.

The rush is intoxicating. Heat building beneath her skin as cells respond in like to the release of restraints. Raven vine spreads like a choker across porcelain neck. Thorns etched, as if it were a mark long set that had remained under lock and key. Breaths are all that steady the adrenaline bursting through her. Too long has passed since anyone like Kensei has dared to stand in her way. And the sight of him – the feel of the aura radiating from him – it fuels the excitement pooling in her stomach.

No warning is uttered. There is no need when she knows his reflexes will react to movements. Josefine refuses to waste a single moment more. Heel kicks off, closing the distance in one fell swoop. Speed, agility, even strength has increased. How it could compare to the Pureblood is left to be seen. In nearly three centuries, one of his caliber has rarely ever crossed her. The extent of his abilities are unknown. The power lurking beneath strong muscles a variable she yearns to know.

|| @cxrsedsouls ||

#( Josefine || thread ) #cxrsedsouls #( i swear these two are intense in all spectrums here ) #( put it under read more because of the length but OMG I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS )

[secretsofthedarkestkind-arch]

@storieswrittcn from here

My Dearest Heart, Chicago, truly there of all places Katerina? I have never, however, I do hear the stories and rumors of what this war is causing. Whether it be in passing of Father’s acquaintances or discussion among those in town. Chicago is near the front lines. You do love chasing the danger don’t you? Though with everything happening in the city, it would be a place easy enough to hide among others without someone questioning your presence. 

Feeding from the lower end of the food chain is not one I thought I would ever see you do. Even if it does keep you safe and the suspicion of who you are low, I am not completely agreeable to that. But as you have said, you must do what you have to. Do the drugs affect you after you have drank from them? I have only ever seen a few under the influence, only a small number made me laugh at the way their minds were altered. Soon enough you will have the blood of something cleaner, purer, and one that, if by your own reactions tell me, has become your favorite. 

A witch? To have you seeking her out she must be powerful. I hope she can show you what you seek to learn. It warms my soul knowing part of the reason you wish to continue your knowledge in the art of magic is to protect me. I cannot wait to see what you are able to do or the beauty of which you speak. Concepts of light and dark are ones I do not fully believe in. I understand them and begrudgingly admit are there but who has the right to deem what is light or dark? Both can cause harm can they not? Both can provide protection when needed just as well correct? So when then do we always have to label items or actions in categories of ‘good’ or ‘evil’. Actions as people move between the two. Though that is simply my opinion and I may admittedly be naive. 

Though I do not possess the abilities you do, I feel the same way about you. Harper, though a fallen soldier so possibly not the best teacher, has offered to give me a few lessons in self defense when we can slip away. I’ve learned to fire a rifle and small pistol as well. My aim continues to improve and I dare say it’s better than Damon’s. One day I will be able to protect you as you protect me. You may be Katherine Pierce, a survivor and fighter, but everyone needs someone at times to be there in a time of need. I will be that person.

Please, my heart, do not taunt your enemies. I know they are a necessary downfall of the life you are forced to live and they are to be expected. But that does not mean you need to make a situation worse. Tie up the ends you must, do what you need to do, but come back to me unharmed. 

Parties? Hm, I do not envy you in the least. You are correct, dresses and corsets make my skin itch---they made me feel suffocated and trapped. Being forced into them, keeping up appearances and appearing as society states I must...it kills a part inside of me each time, Katerina. I want to scream, break things, tear the dresses to shreds just to be free. But I cannot. I must continue to lie, to kill my soul, and hide a part of myself away just to avoid the wrath and closed mindedness of my family as well as society. My only freedom you, my aunt, and now those you have deemed worthy of our family. 

But for you? I would try. There might be a day when I can go as myself, dressed in a suit only made of the best linens that are appropriate to be seen beside your beauty. That is a dream I will hold on to. That we will find a time, within our eternity, where I can be myself with you on my arm attending events that please you.

My type of food or yours, my heart? I am smirking as I write that question. For with you, it might be both or just yours.

I will not try to pull you here sooner than you see fit. Even if I wish I could. Part of me believes if I set my mind to doing just that I could succeed. I know you have your reasons, that there are things that need to be done before you are here with me. As I have told you before, I will always wait for you and be patient with what you must do. As before, do what you must for I will be here when the time is right. I trust you, Katerina. Which means if you say this wait and your planned time here in Mystic Falls is needed or the only way...then it is. 

Pearl and Annabelle have become people I can see one day as the only family, outside of you, that I will ever need or wish for. I had thoughts that you had sent them here partly for my benefit as I mentioned in my last letter, but knowing those thoughts were correct? I continue to fall more and more in love with you. Constantly, you show me in actions how much you do love me and care for me, that I am wanted. To know my love, loyalty, and feelings are returned just as deeply means more than you will ever know. All I can hope is that I can do the same for you.

You tell me not to worry about vervain but as you say it can harm you if you feed on someone who has consumed it. My Heart, if a vampire ingests vervain, the vampire's throat and digestive tract will be burned. You would become feverish and extremely weak. I have seen what it does to the flesh of your kind if even the plant comes into contact with your skin. You cannot tell me to not worry when it exists in this world. The amount in this town turns my stomach. I have asked Pearl to help me do my best to avoid it for your sake. Though it seems the council here has plans for it, plans my father is a part of as a way to try and get back into the community's good graces. He has no idea that I am aware of that or my knowledge of those that walk among us. Something I plan to always keep from him, it may come in our favor one day. 

I am not certain if it only grows here. It is a plant that grows at the base of white oak trees, we have a higher concentration of those trees but surely it grows elsewhere? If I can I will see what I can learn. I feel that research may have to wait until we are free of this town. But I will still try until then. 

You have never broken a promise to me yet nor given me reason to doubt you, so I will believe in the promise that you will be safe. 

Lavender will now be a smell that I always associate with you, once more you take control of something small in my life. You do consume me and are always in my mind--always a part of everything I do. My anxieties, worries, and darker thoughts are all rooted in this town. They have created them, fed them, and caused their growth as the years have gone by. This town has taken much of me, I just do not wish for it to either take you or harm you. The idea of Vervain is not my only concern but you know that. My worries are always far away when I am with you, however. As silly as it might sound, you chase the demons away. You make me stronger and braver. Or at the very least you show me who I could be, who I could grow to be with your helping hand and love.

The Falls much like my favorite oak tree--not white oak I have checked-- is a place no one ever searches for me. They are peaceful and beautiful. A part of nature that has been untouched and left alone. The sound of the water going over the cliff soothes me. The fall is from what I can guess is at least fifteen foot drop, it’s highest point as tall as some of the trees below it. The pool of water below it is just as deep, if not more. Though I have not swum to the bottom since meeting you or jumped from it’s peak, though Annabelle did try to convince me. I was tempted to jump once more but I know you would not be pleased if something happened when you were not with me or if something more ill fated than being harmed happened. It leads into a river, wide and long. After it rains, the water is too dangerous to get in or be near as it then flows so much quicker. But I do love to watch it. Harper will bring you a few of my sketches of the area so you may see it. I still plan to take you there, my dearest heart. It will be one of our adventures. 

I promise you, there is nothing to be jealous of. No one should ever cause jealousy within you. My heart belongs to you and no how close I become with another--such as Annabelle--that will never change. Some say jealousy is a darker emotion, one that can lead a person to become controlling. I do not believe that. Jealousy, to a point, is healthy. It shows the depth of your love. Others would argue it shows insecurity. Maybe we are both correct. But it just means one does not wish to lose another. I know I will become jealous of others near you, I will not deny it as something that will happen. But I hope you will see it as I do when it happens. I never wish for you to change--dare I say the jealousy you admit to makes me feel ways I didn’t know I could. I enjoy it.

Stefan has never seen me truly be friends with another before, female especially. You know the tale of my first kiss, how Father reacted when Damon told him of catching myself with Abigail Sommers. She had been my only friend, only allowed by both our parents because of our families connections. The view of being me being demonic or a punishment to my parents for the way I was born made it hard to find friends. Now with the town's knowledge of my alignment, makes it even harder. So Stefan simply believes every woman I talk to or try to befriend is someone I seek to have more with. 

His mind believes the way of the church, Katerina. His words and actions over the years showing that. So there is no possible way his mind will ever be able to wrap around the fact two women could be together. It makes me laugh to picture his face when he learns of our love---especially once he has seen your beauty and met you. How could someone as posed, beautiful, and a true lady in the world's eye ever be so sinful and dark as to love me? A question that will no doubt be his as it is no longer one of mine. I will behave how you ask of me in front of the town and do as you ask regarding my brothers, but I will not go as far as to not spend time with you or appear as your friend. Part of your reason for being here is for me, I intend to take advantage of that. Not to mention, could you truly be so close to me and deny yourself my heart? I could not and I will not.

My father’s life is to do with as you please. I know many would recoil from you for those words or thoughts of murder, but I will not. The act of you killing him, torturing him, may actually give me pleasure and peace as well. I am not strong enough, physically, to do it myself. He does not deserve to be a part of this world but yet he acts as if this life is God given right and his actions have no consequences. He is vile and the scum of this earth truly.

Your possessiveness is showing my love. It thrills me. Others might disrespect that claim, but not Pearl nor I. There is nothing in this world that could ever make me drink the blood of a vampire that is not you. I know the offer would only come either at the dire need for me to heal, a situation that is not what we have planned for my time to turn, or if you knew you would be able to insure I was not going to die shortly after. I know to deny any that tries to give me some, you’ve made sure of that. Your friendship and trust in Pearl is well founded and centuries old, she knows better my love.

Speaking of Pearl, she has mentioned the thought of possibly having me wear something with Vervain within it to keep the vampires in this town--one’s that she is unsure of their loyalty to you as the number seems to grow each time we speak-- away from me. I do not know if I agree with this. Could it harm you and is it something that you would want? Only a gift from you will ever find a way to my skin that is potentially dangerous to you.

Enjoy the sketches and I will wait for your reply as always.

Eternally yours, Lee

#the love letters #love letters series: 1864 #v: right kind of wrong

[thenightgazer]

The Epistle of Forgiveness

Almost a month after the event of The Finding of Almagest, Vergil takes his visit to the library. Instead of reading, he wants to apologize to Lyra. What will Lyra do? Will Vergil get his forgiveness?

--

The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

-Oscar Wilde

 The Literarium looks a little bit crowded today.

It’s not a regular view for Lyra.

Some guests are reading and enjoying coffee at the reading sections. Others are gather around sale section. Some of them approach her to ask for book location or her book recommendation. While walking around the reading sections to offer coffee refill, she spots her co-worker—Nate— is busy flirting with a group of school girls, completely forget his duty to rearrange book display. Lyra rolls her eyes in disgust, but do nothing since she doesn’t like being bossy.

Lyra was going to change her direction to the Rare Section before she remembers the loyal guest of that section isn’t present today.

Almost a month, she ponders. New record.

She starts to think that maybe she made a mistake for trusting a stranger.

Because the truth is, she knows that Vergil gave her a fake ID on their first meeting.

A true bibliophile won’t betray another bibliophile, Mr Steiner had said that. A way too innocent perspective, but this time she believes it.

Maybe because it’s Vergil, not anyone else.

“Your eyes, Librarian,” she remembers Vergil’s odd words. “Those eyes spoke nothing”

Lately, she finds herself drown to those vague words. No, more like haunted. Why did he say that? What does he mean about ‘I’ve seen thousand stories behind every eyes, but yours telling me nothing’? Does he sees something in her that she herself can’t see? But whatever it is, Vergil said that with suspicious tone. A kind of tone which Lyra translates as a potential danger.

But how could that man be a danger to her? He is indeed an intimidating man, but what she sees is just a gentleman who has a divine passion in literature and using poems as his unique way to express his perspective towards the world like a man of letter. A man with profound knowledges who held flowers delicately— a lenient manner which reflects nothing like his stern appearance at all.

Is it a mistake, she laments. To offer him a friendship?

“Lyra!” Mr Steiner shouts from receptionist table. “A little help here, please.”

“Just a second!” Lyra hurries her steps back to the receptionist table, making mental note to not accidentally spill anything about Vergil and Almagest in front of the owner of the library or she would get herself into bigger trouble.

--

The elder son of Sparda is furious.

He was on his way to take a brief visit to The Literarium after weeks of exhausting mission at Fortuna before a sudden demon attack ruins his day. Doom will always come upon those who try to mess with him, and that demon chooses the wrong person to deal with.

But this time is different.

Because the demon scatters something important for him.

He slaughters that demon out of rage, unlike his usual calm demeanour when he’s fighting. He wasn’t just stab it; he sliced it into dusts.

I was angry with my foe

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

He sheathes the Yamato and mentally curses himself.

Will I ever get my atonement?

--

As much as she loves her job as a librarian, Lyra loves closing time more than anytime.

It was almost an hour since Nate left this place, and yet Lyra hasn’t finished her task to account today sale. Tomorrow is Saturday, so she takes no haste in her work. Not that she has plan for weekend—in fact, she rarely has any plan for anything— she just prefer to do her things in her own pace. That’s why working in this small library suits her. It grants her more personal space without abandoning her passion of literature.

She grunts in annoyance whens she hears the doorbell is ringing.

“Sorry, we’re closed.” Lyra says, her eyes still focus on her paperwork.

Her suspicion grows when the person says nothing as she sees a shadow of a tall man looms behind her. She turn around to see the man and gasps excitedly.

“Oh! Hello again, Vergil!” Lyra greets him. “What a surprise! You know it’s closing time—wait, tell me it’s not blood on your glove.”

Vergil glances at his stained glove, “It wasn’t my blood.”

“Uh… good then,” Lyra nods anxiously when she sees Vergil is holding the Yamato. “I thought you were hurt.”

“I did not,” the hybrid assures her. “And you may put that thing away. I mean no harm at all.”

Lyra lets out a sigh and reveals a cutter she hides behind her back, “My apologies. You look like a hitman who wants to rob this place, by the way.”

“So I’ve been told,” Vergil admits, sending the Yamato into thin air. “I didn’t mean to scare you in any way. Please put that thing down. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“I don’t fear you, Vergil. I’m only making a prevention. Though I assume the cutter won’t have any effects on you,” Lyra lowers the cutter and put it back on her desk. “So… what brought you here, all that with katana, blood stain, and pale face?”

It’s difficult to instantly get a direct answer from Vergil’s stoic face. For a moment, the hybrid doesn’t say anything but flip his hair frustratedly. Expressing feelings isn’t easy for a man who avoids any interactions like him. He’s a man of action, not words. He might have the ability of memorizing and reciting poems in splendid way, but poem is poem. He recites because he can’t find any better words for himself. For once in his lifetime, he regrets his choice of mastering demonology and martial arts rather than improving his communication skill.

He sighs more than three times in less than a minute, must be a terrible problem, Lyra thinks suspiciously. She actually wants to rant about how Vergil could send his katana into thin air like magic, but she holds her tongue.

“Uh… do you want a cuppa? If that could help you a little bit relax,” Lyra offers. “I can brew it now if you—“

“No, thank you,” Vergil declines hastily. “I need to tell you some—“

They hear a crack from the office door. Mr. Steiner’s whistling as he wears his coat. The old man stops his whistle when his eyes catch the presence of a tall, menacing man who looks like he wants to murder someone. He glances doubtly to Lyra, who’s hiding her panic behind a polite smile.

“Mr Vergil here wants to return a book,” she explains in white lie. Her hand quickly grab a book from her desk as she reads its title, “The Interview with the… Vampire? Right, Mr Vergil?”

She counters Vergil’s unapproval glare by glares back at him, like she’s trying to tell him to be quick and answer before Mr Steiner suspicion gets any higher.

“Yes,” he finally answers without stopping his glare to the librarian.

“I’ll take care of this quickly, Mr Steiner. Don’t worry,” Lyra reassures her boss.

Mr Steiner nods slowly, “Alright, then. I want all the entries done for Monday. Lock the door when you’re about to leave.”

“Understood.”

“See you around, child. Don’t sleep too much.”

“Be careful on your way back home, Mr Steiner.”

“Good day,” Mr Steiner says to Vergil as the hybrid steps back to let the old man make a way. He and Lyra wait in anticipation until the owner of The Literarium heads out from the library and they can’t see his figure anymore.

“Whatever is that vampire book from all the books you could come up with?” Vergil scolds.

“I just grabbed whatever book I could grab at that moment!” Lyra surveys the front cover of The Interview with The Vampire. “Anyways, do you still want to tell me your unfinished story?”

“… about that… I’m obligated to tell you… my sincerest apologies.”

The man looks terribly grim, like he’s choked by his own words. Whatever reason behind his apology, Lyra can spot a heavy guilt inside his voice. His absent for almost a month and the sudden, buffling arrival give her an amount of hunch. Perhaps he lost the Almagest? If that’s true, I swear—

“For what? You lost the Almagest? Or broke it into pieces?” she chuckles jittery, half-hoping that her hunch is nothing but a mere negative thought. But her smile is fading when Vergil says nothing, confirming her question.

“I didn’t lost it,” Vergil takes out the Almagest from the back of his coat. The book looks horrific with the front cover is almost ripped off entirely, revealing the front page of the book. “I was attacked. A demon clawed the cover off. I managed to save the rest of the book, but still…” he sighs frustratedly. “I will pay the fine, no matter how much it takes.”

Much to his surprise, Lyra doesn’t even make a sound. She takes the book and inspect it carefully, flipping pages in silent. Her silence isn’t really a new thing for Vergil, since she isn’t a loud person. But this time is different. The silence is colder. There is no serenity behind it up to the point he finds her demeanour… almost intimidating.

Look at that eyes, Vergil surveys. It’s getting more hollow than usual.

“… well, well,” she mutters after a quite long silence. “Aside from the front cover, the contents are still complete. I guess this is your lucky day.”

“Which means?”

“I won’t charge you the fine.”

“… thank you?”

“You’re welcome. But you are not going anywhere before I fix the cover, sir. Hurry up!”

He follows her to the office, which is larger than he thought it would be. There are dishwasher, pantries, coffee brewer, old bookshelves, a large desk and a set of traditional bindery tools. Lyra tells him to take a sit while she collects some equipments.

“So… you are a devil hunter?” she asks.

“Apparently I am.”

“Ahh! Now I remember where I thought I’ve seen you around before! About five months ago, there was a devil hunter who has the same hair colour as you exterminating demons in the neighbourhood. His stature somewhat looks like you, except he has longer hair and rugged face. But I know it can’t be you. He talked too much.”

The picture of Dante bragged around this neighbourhood makes Vergil gets dizzy, “How unfortunate for you to meet my brother in such a manner.”

“Oh that’s fine. I wasn’t the one who call for his aid,” Lyra giggles as she cuts the strands of old binding threads of the Almagest to separate the old cover and the sections of assembled pages with a scalpel before she realized that Vergil just said something about ‘brother’. “Wait! That man was your brother?!”

“A younger twin brother, to be exact.”

“Ahh, so both of you are sons of Sparda!”

The half-devil narrows his eyes, “How do you know that?”

“The wealth of information of this neighbourhood is quite impressive. When your brother was around, they whispered something about ‘son of Dark Knight Sparda’, ‘strongest devil hunter’, ‘owner of Devil May Cry’ and ‘the legendary devil hunter’. I remember they mentioned his name, but I can’t recall it…”

Dante would blabbered rubbish if he heard this.

“Then you realized I’m a hybrid,” Vergil concludes.

“Righty-ho.”

Vergil waits in anticipation. People who know about his true identity mostly will pretend he doesn’t exist because being a descendant of Sparda means danger and dangerous. Only a few of them will taking interest in him for the sake of power and benefits, like Arkham and The Order of Sword to Nero. He’s ready for whatever Lyra’s reactions after this confession, but the librarian does nothing but cutting strands from Almagest. He catches no apprehensive reactions from her.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” he murmurs curiously.

“Should I?”

“Most of people do. A common reaction when they discovered that I’m son of Sparda.”

Lyra shrugs, “I don’t find any reason to fear you.”

“Even when you saw the blood on my gloves and my sword mere minutes ago?”

“Told you already, I was only making prevention. And to be honest, I actually suspected it since our first meeting. I heard Sparda’s human form had white or silver hair like yours. No wonder you try so hard to cover your true identity.”

“You know my ID card is fake.”

“Yup.”

“And you still made me a member card, knowing I could be a threat to this library.”

“I just wanted to know what are you going to do in this library, yet nothing happened. You read and borrow books like normal people. You were never late to return the books and never complained. You bought one and two books with real money. Had you do something malicious to this library, I would’ve report you to the authorities. Though I doubt they could handle you, but at least this library has insurance,” she giggles mischievously.

“You could let a man cause trouble because of your curiousity, Librarian.”

“But you didn’t. And that’s that,” she winks. “Now I’m going to make a new cover. We don’t have modern equipments to make this process quicker. So this is the only way. Cutting the strands of all seven-hundreds pages.”

“I… uh… sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. It’s been a long while since the last time I do the bookbinding. It’s fun, actually. Strengthen the philosophy of never judge a book by its cover, because cover is replaceable.”

“All readers have different understanding of the book,” Vergil adds.

“Ahh, you are right!” Lyra glances at Vergil. “Like all books, you may find people who’s not interested in you, fear you, taking advantages from you. But it will take fewer people to really understand you, flip the pages carefully and waits for another chapter from you. You could change your cover, Vergil, but you are what you are now. As you said earlier, all readers have different understanding of the book. But that doesn’t mean the book is ill-favoured. The reader can only concludes the essence of the book, and decide whether they’d like it or not.”

“Your point is…?”

“That you being a hybrid and all doesn’t change anything to me. You’re still my friend.”

Will you still consider me as a friend, Vergil recalls all horrible things he did in the past. If you know I almost destroyed this world twice?

Yet he can’t deny the relief in his heart when she said that. Once again, he finds her philosophy charms him. He admires how she always perceives things in different point of views, never judges anything easily. Her silvery voice always calm him, as if it assure him that everything’s fine. His lips curve up into a subtle smile as he thanks her for her understanding. She just give him a playful wink in return.

“Let me guess then. Your brother’s name is…” she watches Vergil’s stoic expression attentively, searching for a clue. “… Dante?”

The half-devil says nothing.

“For real? Dante?!” Lyra laughs. “I was just having a thought about The Divine Comedy and guessed if you are Vergil—or Virgil, then your brother must be Dante!”

“It’s a common deduction,” Vergil’s eyes are soften. “My father fancied Dante Alighieri and my mother had an odd obsession of Virgil. She recited Aeneid for our bedtime story.”

“It’s better than those silly bedtime stories. My mother once read me Cinderella and I told her the prince was an idiot, because he searched for a girl based on her shoe size! He was supposed to be a king! He could have describe her face to a painter or distributing pamphlets, anything but running around the whole country and wasting resources only for searching a girl whose glass slipper was lost!”

Her cynic commentary amuses Vergil up to the point where he practically covers his mouth with his palm to hide his uncontrollable smile, “Since you said that, I guess you’re right about the prince.”

“Ugh—!”

“What’s wrong?”

“This shear machine is broken,” Lyra tries to operate the machine, but it fails to properly cut the papers. “I need to cut the extended part of pages to make the edges neat. But it looks like the shear wasn’t sharp anymore.”

“Let me handle this,” Vergil summons the Yamato and draws it. “Where is the part you want it to be removed?”

“Over here,” she points her mark on the page, then gazing to Vergil’s sword. “Please be careful. You don’t want the cut goes too far from the mark—“

— and a second later, the pages are already neat and free from the extended parts.

Vergil puts the Yamato back into its sheath, “Was that enough?”

The librarian blinks her eyes in disbelief, “That was… quick. Thank you.”

A smug grin curves on Vergil lips when he watches an awestruck Lyra, who’s still processing how fast Vergil’s slash was that her eyes alone can’t even follow its motion.

Lyra puts the pages into a book presser and draws lines across the spine of the book. Then she saws each lines carefully to make a groove of binding cord. Once she’s done, she reconnects the pages on a sewing frame. She sews a linen thread horizontally, looping it around the cords, linking each pages.

“Do you want to try sew it up?” Lyra offers, notice Vergil is silently observing her work. “It might seems complicated at first, but soon after you try it, it will get easier.”

Vergil doubtly glance at the sewing frame. His experience of sewing is zero, moreover to sew a book he just broke a moment ago. But again, guilt consumes him. He takes off his gloves and approaches Lyra as she immediately teach him how to sew and connect the pages. He feels something weird in his heart when his hands accidentally touches Lyra’s fingers. It’s getting weirder when his eyes meet Lyra’s. This kind of physical encounter always torture him since his body isn’t familiar with any physical contacts with humans for years except with Dante and Nero.

“You’re getting better, Vergil. Keep it up!” the librarian praises him, oblivious of Vergil’s reaction. “I’ll make the cover. Let’s hope we still have some leathers left here… ha! Here it is!”

As he sews, Vergil silently observes her measuring the cardboards and leather. She seems to enjoy her work, despite the fact that she should’ve leave for home at this time. I guess I owe her a little too much.

“By the way,” Lyra says all in sudden. “Speaking of Dante, I know a book that has the same theme as The Divine Comedy, but approximately 300 years older than it.”

“I thought The Divine Comedy was the first of… eschatological tourism in literature?”

“Well… according to the historians, this book was composed by an Arabic poet named Al-Ma’arri around 1033 while Dante’s The Divine Comedy begun circa 1308.”

“And what, pray tell, is the title of this book?”

“It’s called Risalat al-Ghufran in Arabic, but here we call it The Epistle of Forgiveness, or A Pardon to Enter the Garden. Some academics say that Dante was inspired from Al-Ma’arri, but there’s no evidence of it. The Epistle was completely unknown in Dante’s time, but those books have something in common; the journey of the protagonists through Heaven and Hell, as well as the encounter with the souls of illustrious people.”

“Curious… I’ve never heard about that book.”

“The book was banned for hundred years from its own country because many considered Al-Ma’arri as a heretic. He was famous for his skepticism and nihilism towards common beliefs and religions. Even his statue was beheaded by fanatics out of hatred!”

Vergil furrows his eyebrows, “Fascinating.”

“I can understand his bitter perspective. He was blind, bullied and underestimated by fellow poets. But in my opinion, he was one of the greatest freethinkers and his works are extraordinary!.”

The half-devil smirks, “Then prove your conversance. Recite one of his works for me.”

“Wha— no!” Lyra blurts. “Declamation isn’t my… thing.”

“Then I will take your explanations as nothing than a babbling chatter,” he grins smugly. He knows the librarian doesn’t like being considered as incompetent. His smirk grows wider as she stops her work and cross her arms.

“Fine. One poem it is.” Lyra clears her throat fitfully. She holds the urge to not slap the hybrid’s smug face as he pauses his sewing work. He leans himself on the chair in challenging demeaonour, ready to hear the librarian’s recitation.

The librarian takes a heavy sigh before she starts to recite :

“Had men followed me, confound them,

Well had I guided them to truth

Or to some plain track

By which they might arrive there soon.

For here I’ve lived until I’m tired

Of Time, and it of me;

And my heart has sipped

The cream of life’s experience

What choice has a man but solitude and loneliness,

When fate grants him nothing that he craves?

Do what you will, make peace or war

The days with arbitrary hand bestow

Their measure to warrior and man of peace.”

Lyra takes a slow exhales once she finishes reciting, her head turns over to Vergil to see his reaction. Poetry has never become her speciality, even though she is fond of it. That’s why she admires Vergil’s way of recitation. She pins it in her head, how remarkable he was when he recited poems on their last encounter. Her self-confidence drops to the lowest point when she notices Vergil isn’t even looking at her. His eyes focuses to nowhere in a weary manner, as if her recitation bores him.

“Ummm… Terra to Vergil?” she chuckles and waves her hand in front of Vergil’s face. “Am I that bad?”

“Interesting…” the hybrid mumbles. His voice is low and his brows are still drawn together in a frown, yet the blue eyes of his spark in enthusiasm.

“Pardon?”

“This poet Al-Maa’rri… he welcomed death and loneliness like old friend,” Vergil states. “He even craved for it. Even if he was blind—“

Lyra’s brown eyes widens as she continues Vergil’s statement, “—he saw things in the opposite perspective—“

“— and that lead him to see the true beauty of life itself. His bitter point of view wasn’t precisely tell people that everything is meaningless, in fact it was the other way around—“

“— he tried to correct human’s hypocrisy with his irony. Telling them that everything they do, it will measure—“

“— and create the person they are right now.”

There’s a quiet pause among them before the room surrounds by laughter.

“Blimey, Vergil! Did you just read my mind?” Lyra tries to hold her giggle.

“I thought you were the one who read mine,” the half-devil grins. “Now you are successfully making me want to read the book.”

“Oh, we have it! Have a look at it on the sale section!”

“Is this how your marketing technique works? Alluring your customer into deep discussion and out of nowhere, you mention a book you want to sell and trap them with your enthralling knowledges?”

Lyra’s giggle turn into louder burst, “That’s what all salesmen do!”

It’s strange for him. This small talk, the joke, the easiness of letting himself to interact with a human. Hell, he smiles and laughs even more than he ever did in his life! He watches Lyra laughs while she continues her cover-making work, wondering why he doesn’t even get annoyed of any jokes she throws at him. Maybe this is how friendship works—enjoying each other company by talking about anything and wisecracking. He thinks it’s good for his mental health, keep him sane and grounded.

Don’t ruin this, Vergil warns himself.

“I’ll give you The Epistle for free,” Lyra’s eyes twinkles in mischief. “Only if you agree with my terms.”

“I’m listening.”

“There will be syzygy tonight. Commonly known as ‘planetary alignment’. We can visibly see Jupiter, Mars, Saturn, Venus and Mercury at once. All the planets sit on a flat plane but have different yearly cycles, so for those planets to line up is something worth seeing! The trouble is, it isn’t visible from this town. Thus, if you still interested in obtaining The Epistle of Forgiveness, join me to see the syzygy as my bodyguard.”

“And why would you need a bodyguard?”

“Because I should see it from nearest city that has a clear landscape and it’s quite… dangerous.”

“Which city?”

“Red Grave.”

Speak of the devil and he doth appear.

“The city was abandoned since the tragedy of mysterious tree nearly two years ago. It’s basically a necropolis now, but I heard there are still some homeless people looking for shelter and fortune there. Not to mention demonic presence that still haunts the town. But since it will took only 30 minutes with train from here, I guess I have no option left but choose Red Grave.”

If anything in this world that Vergil wants to avoid the most, it will be returning to his hometown. Not because he hates his childhood memories, but mainly because Red Grave was his most abominable sin. He destroyed that city and killed hundred thousands of the citizen for the sake of the fruitless Qlipoth Fruit.

“Well… what say you?” Lyra asks. “I won’t be long. I promise.”

One must deal with his sin. It’s settled. He can’t run off forever from the past, “Alright then. I do believe we have a deal.”

“Great! You can go take The Epistle. It’s on the first line of left shelf. Here, I’ll continue the sewing. I’ve finished measuring the cardboard and the leather anyway.”

“It’s already done.”

Lyra examines Vergil’s work in awe, “Bee’s knees! This is the fastest book sewing I’ve ever seen! Thank you, Vergil. Now give me some space to work.”

The hybrid shrugs as he takes his step to open the door and goes to pick the book from the sale section. It takes him no time to find The Epistle. His knowledges about Middle-East literature isn’t much, although he did read Rumi in his youth at Red Grave library out of boredom. Luckily, the book has comprehensible footnotes and glossarium to help his lack of understanding about Middle-East references and vocabularies. He takes the book back into the office as he spots Lyra creates a headband and sew the threads in order to attach the headband to the spine of the book.

“Do you need help with that?” Vergil offers.

She shakes her head, “Thank you, but this pattern is a little bit complicated. I’d like to handle it myself. This won’t take long.”

“If you say so.”

While waiting for Lyra to be done with her work, Vergil starts to read The Epistle in silence. He appreciates Lyra’s understanding for being always super quiet whenever he reads. For a moment there is only the sound of their breath and flipped pages. Occasionally, he will glance to Lyra just to see what’s she doing right now.

“It’s written in prose,” Vergil mutters. “I thought The Epistle was just for the title purpose.”

“Yes, it’s an epistle written for a grammarian named Ibn Al Qarih who mocked Al Ma’arri. He replied Al-Qarih’s hypocrisy by imagining he has died and arrived in Heaven but had difficulty to enter it, thus he must seek the answer from poets and philologists from the past, various heretics, and the Devil.”

“This book is rich of linguistic complexity and concentration in grammar rather than depends on precise language like Comedy.”

“That because in Al Ma’arri’s age, writing became complex in its methods and syntax. Most academics see the complexity of language was intentional to hide his irony,” Lyra answers while sticking the book on the cover she has just made. “In the Comedy, Dante used simple and direct language in the poetry, which is easy for common reader to grasp his ideas. The Epistle, however, depicts Al Ma’arri proficiency but prevent the readers from understanding his real beliefs and intentions.”

Vergil’s nod concludes his approval for the explanation. He continues to read until Lyra finishes her work.

“Behold, the new face of Almagest!” she announces proudly. She shows Vergil the entirely new leather bound hardcover with beautifully written typography on the front cover; Almagest by Claudius Ptolemy. “Since you are the tallest person in this room, would you mind to put it back on Rare Section? I’ll clean up here, then we can go to Red Grave.”

It’s not a secret anymore that Vergil is a man of proud. If Dante or someone else asked him to do something, he will absolutely grumble and mostly refuse to do the favour. Why should he do something for anyone? He should be the one who tell people to do. He is the master of himself! Yet, right now, he put the book to the shelf just like Lyra’s instruction without any hesitation although he mentally curses himself for obeying a human.

“Ready?” Lyra says as she prepares to head out from library.

“Where are you going?”

The librarian furrows her brows, “To lock the door, of course. Then we go to the station.”

The hybrid sighs, summoning the Yamato and open a portal, “Get in.”

On four seconds, Lyra fixes her gaze from the Yamato to the dark portal. Her face show a mixture of excitement and confusion, “Is that…?”

“A portal. The Yamato cuts anything, including the space. The portal will lead us directly to Red Grave. Now, do you want to stare at it for eternity or free yourself from wasting your time for running to the railway station?”

“No—no, wait! You made an Einstein-Rosen bridge only with your sword! It’s not something I could see everyday! How could you do that?!”

The hybrid rolls his eyes, “We can discuss about it later. Now get in. Don’t waste my time.”

He leads the way to reassure the still-in-awe librarian that he mean no harm and that the portal is really heading to Red Grave. He can senses Lyra’s creeping behind him until they’re arrived at the exit; a wide, flat horizon at Red Grave. A bit far from the city’s ruins.

The dark sky is clear and free from any light pollution. For a minute in silence, Vergil solemnly admires the night sky. He immediately catches the syzygy; the five planets almost align in a straight line with Jupiter being the pole of the alignment. They look brighter than the rest of the stars.

“In Roman mythology, the god Jupiter drew a veil of clouds around himself to hide his mischief,” he mutters. “It was only Jupiter’s wife, Juno, who could peer through the clouds and reveal Jupiter’s true nature.”

“Must be easy for her. The clouds on Jupiter are only 50 kilometers thick. Below those clouds, it’s just hydrogen and helium, all the way down.”

“And even though it’s rich of hydrogen and helium, Jupiter can’t become a star,” he adds, remembering some astronomy facts he read on the internet. “It doesn’t have nearly enough mass to trigger a fusion reaction in its core.”

“You did your homework,” Lyra affirms as Vergil observes her takes out a binocular from her backpack. It seems to him that even though he can clearly see the syzygy with his advanced eyes, it won’t be satisfying for human if they don’t use binocular or telescope to look at it even better. “And the Red Spot on Jupiter’s surface is a huge storm on Jupiter. It has raged for 350 years.”

“I wonder if my father witnessed the origin of Red Spot 350 years ago.”

“Surely he told you bits and bobs?”

“He never talked about himself and back then, I didn’t know he was a demon until one day I found a book of folklore about him. Here, at Red Grave Library.”

The fact hits Lyra immediately, “You should’ve tell me this city was your hometown. I should’ve realized it when I saw your hesitation at my office! Now I’m making you sad.”

“I’m not sad,” Vergil shrug off.

He really doesn’t feel sad about his family. The memories are always too far off like a shattered dream with a glimpse of familiar faces; Dante, Eva and Sparda. It’s getting worse after Mundus and his life in the Underworld, yet he cherishes it. He just can’t tell anyone his fear and guilt for going back to his hometown, Red Grave. The silent witness of his crime.

“Why didn’t the Dog Star laugh at the joke?” Lyra abruptly asks after a long silence.

Vergil narrows his eyes, “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a riddle.”

“Didn’t I tell you I don’t like riddles?”

“You did. So, what’s the answer?”

If you are not a person worth my time, I’d certainly eliminated you. “I give up.”

“I never thought you would give up this quick!”

“Because I refuse to play your game.”

“That explains why you look like the gloomiest person in the world. Anyway, why didn’t the Dog Star laugh at the joke? Because… it was too Sirius.”

The hybrid can’t help but try his best to swallow his laughter, “That was the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

“But it makes you smile!”

“I am most certainly not!”

“You are!”

After a minute of struggle, finally the half-demon has retained his stoic face, “You are an annoying little creature, Lyra.”

“I take that as a compliment.” Lyra snickers before she looks at Vergil’s icy eyes. “Pardon my terrible joke. You look terribly sad. I thought I should breaking the ice. I’ll think for better jokes later.”

That wasn’t your fault! Vergil screams in his head. Is his sadness too obvious that it reflected on his face? Whatever it is, Lyra clearly notices it. She turns to observe the syzygy with her binocular, but in truth, she actually waits for him to spill his burden. She’s just too polite to ask. Vergil almost could sense the flight or fight instinct around them.

You tell her, and it will be endgame.

Yet he says, “I was here when the mysterious tree appeared and destroy the city.”

Lyra puts down the binocular, her brown eyes fixates on Vergil.

“In fact,” he continues, sensing the change of atmosphere between them. “I was the one who summoned the tree.”

He tells her everything. His childhood, his resentment towards Dante, his regret for not being able to save Eva, Temen-ni-gru, his defeat from Dante, his years of torture in the Hell, the creation of V and Urizen, Nero, and his time in Hell again with Dante. All of his sins. Unfiltered.

If Lyra hates him after this, it will be perfectly normal. Vergil appreciates Lyra so much that he couldn’t bare to hurt her in any way, so if leaving him could spare her from the burden for being his friend, he will do it. His sins were too despicable, repugnant. He feels like he doesn’t deserve any form of kindness, moreover from her.

Much to his surprise, Lyra still stands beside him. Her head motions small nods as she lost in her own mind.

The hybrid waits for her to say something. Anything is better than a dreadful silence. At least he will know what to do rather than just standing there like a statue.

“You… just….”

Here it is.

“… described me the extreme effect of a whole new level of dissociative identity disorder.”

What in the seven hells— “Pardon?”

The librarian shrugs, “Dissociative identity disorder. Some people call it multiple personality disorder. In the case of human, it characterized by alternating between multiple identities. Often this identities may have names, characteristics, mannerisms, and voices. It usually develops as a way of dealing with trauma and long-term abuses. Of course your case was different, not an actual DID but similar… splitting yourself into your human part, your nightmares and demon part because trauma and abuses…”

She’s still describing the overview of DID in almost child-like manner, a contrast with Vergil’s perplexion. He just told her about his sins, and all she does just describing a mental illness? She doesn’t even react to his crimes! Is she always this oblivious whenever someone tell her their secrets?

“I’m afraid I have to interrupt your explanation,” he says. “But, with respect, didn’t you think—“

“Do you expect me to get angry and insult you for your horrendous crime?”

The hybrid can’t find any words to reply the question. He doesn’t want her to get furious and leave him, of course. But he deserves it, and it’s totally a normal thing to do if anyone knows his secret. Yet her reactions aren’t exactly what he expects from her. She’s unpredictable and Vergil should’ve hate it, for the uncertainity is dangerous thing. Yet with Lyra, he doesn’t know why he let her surprise him.

Realizing Vergil won’t answer, Lyra continues, “Alright then. You are obviously a nutter. All those massacres and efforts only for a power fruit. You slaughtered thousands of people who weren’t even responsible for your family drama.”

Dante had mocked him about that too, and it still stings Vergil— he caused the devastation of thousands people and he might never get away from his sins—

“But that’s a good thing,” the librarian adds in softer tone.

“How could you say that?” Vergil bristles, his tone is harsh. “What is the good thing of massacre?”

“None,” she replies. “But should you never do that, you wouldn’t have realized what a scroundrel you were once.”

Vergil sighs dismissively, “It justify nothing.”

“It justify nothing,” Lyra repeats. “Yet you helped those humans in that tragedy. Trying to atone your crimes. You realized, if I may quote, ‘the gravity of crime’ you made. Your selfish agenda of using your son to defeat your demon turns into compassion and a vow to protect him forever. You put down your pride and rekindled your relationship with your family.”

“That’s still nothing but a selfish action. The fact that I did the genocide won’t change anything.”

“It won’t. It’s unexcusable, but I can’t fully blame you. Sigmund Freud said, ‘unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways’. And here is why; you are the eldest child and supposed to be the protector of your family since the disappearance of your father. You were not in the condition to know that the death of your mother was not your fault and clearly not your brother’s fault. All of you were attacked abruptly and there was nothing you could do but survival. You hate yourself for not being strong enough, and that lead you to swore an oath to never be powerless again and you will gain more power, no matter what the cost. Now I understand why you hated humans, because you saw them as a powerless being—a reminder to you that your mother was a human. And you were all alone that time. No one guide you. No one to support you or correct your mistakes. You thought you were right all along.

When Dante defeated you, he also defeated your ideology, your path of life, your beliefs. I won’t judge your resentment towards him. It’s normal, because what are we without what we believe? Then you jumped to the Underworld to validated your beliefs, yet you lost and tortured in Hell like… 20 years? No human would survive for two seconds there, but you did and still wanted to prove that you are right. That Dante was wrong. That humanity part in you is unneeded. That your nightmares are just obstacles. See, your humanity part, V, was everything you wanted it to be wrong and perished, but then your son showed up, proving that you were wrong. That even Urizen, your demon part, can’t even defeat Dante and Nero’s beliefs and forced to re-emerged again with your human part. Because you are one and the same. That you wouldn’t become Vergil without each other.”

Vergil stands astonished. It’s not just that Lyra shows no sign of anger or disgust towards him, but she also depicts his subconsciousness and predicaments in simplest way. She admits his crime, yet she also sees the reason behind it.

“Now, you see,” she continues after taking a deep breath. “I can’t really blame you. You already wrote your epistle of forgiveness.”

Then she does something which Vergil never expects her to do—she smiles at him. A warm, genuine smile, not a polite or playful one like her usual habit. She turns to look at the sky again, “Do you know what I like about syzygy?”

He can’t bring himself to answer.

“I always believe in the concept of synchronicity rather than calling it ‘coincidence’. I know the existence of time itself is debatable, but it still doesn’t change the fact that everything will happen in time and in sync. No matter how far those planets are from each other, they will be always synchronized in alignment eventually,” she states. “What you did was just in time, Vergil. Should you never do that, you would never find yourself again.”

The irony bites him, all these years he wanted to get rid of his humanity yet humanity saved him over and over again. All this time, and you still don’t get it, Dante had said to him—as Urizen. Now he’s being psychoanalyzed by a human who barely knows him but capable to summarized his entire journey in five minutes. It bites him, how humanity always give him more point of view to see the world.

“Thank you,” he finally says it sincerely. “You see right through me.”

“Think nothing of it. I was just trying to give you some insight.”

“And you did. You never fail to surprise me with your wit and the use of apotelesma philosophy.”

“Apo- what?”

“It amazes me that you, an enthusiast of astronomy, have no information of what apotelesma is,” he remarks. “It means the influence of the stars on human destiny.”

“Aah! Apotelesma… that’s an exquisite word!” Lyra exclaims. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it? What stars could give to humanity? Whenever we look at the sky, we look at the past— the very relics of the universe.”

“They guide humanity by simply existing. We are stardust brought to life, then empowered by the universe to figure itself out—and we have only just begun.”

“We are stardust brought to life...” she repeats.

Vergil shrugs idly, “I read it somewhere.”

“Speaking of the stars, I have another riddle.”

The hybrid groans in frustration, “I don’t want to hear another of your terrible riddles.”

“Why did the star get arrested?” she completely ignores Vergil’s caution.

“I’m warning you—“

“Because it was a shooting star!”

“I’m leaving,” Vergil walks away without waiting for Lyra, but he’s just teasing her. He hears her following him, giggling and pleading to wait for her.

“Alright, no more riddles then. But I have this short story,” she offers, following Vergil’s steps. “Copernicus’ parents might deserve some credit for his discovery.”

“How so?”

“At his teenhood, his parents said to him; ‘Copernicus, one day you will realize that the world does not revolve around you!’”

“Your jokes have potential to cause severe headache.”

“But you laugh at it!”

“Because no one will laugh at your jokes except me.”

“Is that a compliment or sarcasm?”

“Go figure it out yourself.”

“A compliment, then.”

“Whatever.”

They walk on the dark footpath through the ruins of the city. Vergil spots some homeless people taking shelter inside a building. They watch him cautiously, but do nothing. Those people just want to survive and live in peace. This view stings him. Even though he embraces his human part, he is still indifferent about human life. He cares a little about them, except for his family and a few of his acquaintances. But these humans in this ruins are victims of his greed. It’s his responsibility. He looks away, thinking of how tremendous the effect of his destruction, before he quickly catches a group of children. Lyra notices this too—glancing to them sharing their food. One of them approaches and gives her a stargazer lily hairpin. She realizes the boy hopes for a trade.

“Here,” Lyra takes out some of her money and a packet of gummy bears from her backpack. “Share it with your friends.”

The boy timidly turns his sight to Vergil, hoping for some trade too. His innocent face reminds him of Nero and Kyrie’s adopted children whose cheerful behaviour isn’t compatible with Vergil’s cold nature, but he tolerates them because children do childish things. The hybrid’s hand reaches inside his coat, then he hands the boy an amount of money.

The boy smiles delightfully, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

As the boy takes his leave, Lyra turns her head over to Vergil and takes the palm of his hand, much to his surprise. Then she pours a little amount of gummy bears on his palm, “For you. It’s blueberry.”

The half-devil frowns and presses his lips, “This is the most childish thing someone had ever gave to me.”

“If you don’t want it then return it to me.”

He eats them all in one swallow, “Absolutely not.”

Lyra smiles smugly and eats her candy.

“It’s been almost two years after I escaped the Underworld and I still can’t get used to these taste of food…” Vergil contemplates, chewing the candy as his tongue tastes the strong mixture of sugar and blueberry extract.

“Do hybrids need to eat?”

“Physically hybrids don’t need to eat. But we can eat human’s food if we want. My foolish brother has an appetite for pizza and anything included strawberry.”

“I see…”

The two of them head out to the empty road as Vergil unsheaths the Yamato and open up a portal back to The Literarium. This time she allows him escort her to her house, which is quite far from the central of the town, located in a secluded suburban. He takes a note the distance between Devil May Cry office and Lyra’s house, calculate and store it inside his brain, just in case he needs a portal to her house someday. After almost forty minutes of walk, they arrive in front of a minimalist house, but seems comfortable with a small garden and pleasant fragrant of homemade foods. This house belongs in The Shire, Vergil ponders.

“Thank you for today,” Lyra smiles. “Next time maybe I’ll hire you as my bodyguard again.”

“I’ll think about that,” The hybrid says. “Besides… you are a pleasant person with whom to… spend time.”

Lyra chuckles, “I’m glad to hear you chose the word of ‘spend time’ rather than ‘waste time’.”

“Probably because you’re less infuriating than the rest of the people.”

“Well… thank you?”

“You are very welcome.” Vergil shrugs, silently happy to see a delightful smile on Lyra’s mouth. He notices the eyes of her twinkle in amusement. That suits her, he thinks. I’ve never imagined I have to do this ridiculous bodyguard roleplay to spark some joy in her eyes.

“Thank you,” the librarian cackles, tightens her grip on the strap of her backpack. “For being a great company.”

“The honour is mine.”

“See you tomorrow,” Lyra gives him a small wave before she turns around to get inside her house.

“What happened to your leg?”

The question sounds like a storm inside the librarian’s ears.

“Oh right, I forgot you’re a hybrid. You must’ve easily recognized my limp,” Lyra glances at her right leg. “I fell from a tree when I was seven. My landing position wasn’t exactly very comfortable. Then… voila,” she mimics her limping. “It was getting better time to time but somehow I could never get rid of this limp. Thankfully, it’s too subtle for human eyes, so people won’t notice.”

The hybrid has seen too many scars and injuries to know that her limp will be most likely permanent. The fall changes her bone and joint structure. Even if she was transfused by demon blood or planted demon cells, it won’t change anything because it was an old injury. Although magic or witchcraft might manipulate her leg to work properly, but it won’t cure the wound.

“I’ll get inside then,” her solemn voice shatters Vergil’s contemplation.

“Very well. Auf wiedersehen, Lyra.”

“Auf wiedersehen, Vergil.”

As the librarian closes the door, Vergil turns his back to the lonely road. The moonlight illuminates his way as he receives a call from Dante, who invites him for dinner with Trish and Lady. By dinner, he means more pizza and beer. Before Dante could finished his question about his twin brother’s whereabouts, Vergil quickly answers he’ll soon arrive at Devil May Cry. He draws his sword, staring to the dark portal. His face is somber.

Because when she told him the story behind her injury, he knows those eyes of her speak different thing. It’s not sadness nor joy. Not even a void one.

It’s the eyes of humans when they feel threatened. Or worse, when they tell lies.

“You didn’t finish your story,” his voices sounds like a whisper wind as he walks through the portal. “What are you not telling me, Lyra?”

We grow accustomed to the Dark

When light is put away

As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp

To witness her Goodbye.

--

List of mentioned poems and quotes:

A Poison Tree by William Blake

What Choice Has Man? by Al Maa’rri

Astrophysics for People in a Hurry by Neil deGrasse Tyson

We Grow Accustomed to the Dark by Emily Dickinson

In case you wonder Vergil’s expression when Lyra gave him gummy bears, @drusoona​ captured the perfect angle :

And thanks to @andieperrie18​ for this extraordinary work of art!

Special tags : @queenmuzz​ @drusoona​ @harlot-of-oblivion​ @andieperrie18​ @shiranyaaww​ @lovemadnessharleyquinn​

#devil may cry #devil may cry 5 #devil may cry fanfiction #dmc #dmc fanfic #vergil #vergil sparda #vergil x lyra #vergil x oc #vergil x reader #oc #original character #astronomy #syzygy #star #constellation #poem #classic poem #al maa'rri #friendship #astronomy riddle #astronomy jokes #mutual pining

[perspective-series]

Vampire Perspective (2/17)

By: @arc852 and @hiddendreamer67

Warnings: talk of death/eating people (that’s gonna be another common one, it’s called vampire perspective what did you expect?), kidnapping, unwanted touching, fear, i dunno

First Chapter || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

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“Where’d you find this one, anyways?” Virgil asked, growing curious.

“Um, at Thomas’ place.” Patton admitted. “He let me come in for the first time, and then…” Patton put his hands forward slightly, as if to show off the borrower again.

“The building on Maplewood?” Virgil watched Patton confirm with a nod. Virgil smirked, stretching his arm. “I think I’m gonna do a little hunting on my own, then.”

 Roman’s eyes went wider than ever. “No!” His heart beat rapidly inside his chest. He couldn’t let Logan get caught by these things. “I-I mean, you won’t find anyone. I was the only one in that entire building.” Roman lied.

“Uh huh.” Virgil looked unconvinced. “Is that why you’re ‘thriving’?”

 “Um..y-yes?” Roman said, not knowing what else to say. He could tell his lie wasn’t working though. Oh, he hoped that Logan stayed inside the walls.

“Virgil, please don’t.” Patton pleaded, feeling terrible even if he knew it was the circle of life. Patton was just very bad at being a part of it.

“Oh come on, it’s not as though they don’t have a chance.” Virgil argued. “I doubt your human friend would be generous enough to let me in. I’ll just scope the perimeter out and if I don’t see an easy target I’ll take a human one instead.”

“Virgil…” Patton spoke in a warning tone, giving his friend a stern look.

“Non-fatal human.” Virgil rolled his eyes. Patton was always so picky, even if Virgil hadn’t messed up in decades.

 “Well, you’re just wasting your time! You’re not going to find anyone!” At least, Roman hoped not.

Virgil didn’t even bother deigning the borrower with a response. With a puff of smoke the vampire vanished, the only sign he had been there at all was a little black bat fluttering out the window.

“Be careful!” Patton called after him, despite everything.

 “...Did he just turn into a bat?” Roman asked, watching as the bat disappeared from sight in the dark sky.

“Oh! Uh, yeah, that’s one of our abilities.” Patton explained. “Well, one of his at least.”

 “R-Right.” He thinks he remembered hearing something like that. Hesitating for a moment, Roman started pushing against the hand again but not as hard as before, knowing it didn’t matter anyway. Didn’t mean he wasn’t panicking any less though.

Patton sighed, his heart breaking at the weak attempts to escape. “I know you probably don’t want to hear it right now, but… I really am sorry about this.”

 Roman felt a chill run down his spine and he turned to face the vampire. The dull red eyes, though not quite as frightening as Virgil’s, were still more then enough to make him tremble. “P-Please, please don’t…” 

Patton’s eyes widened. “Oh, no no no!” Patton winced, realizing he should have reassured the poor borrower sooner. He could hear and feel just how fast that miniature heart was rapidly pumping away, a sure sign of the little one’s terror.

“No, I’m sorry, please don’t be scared.” Patton pleaded. “I’m not going to eat you, I promise.”

 “H-How do you expect me to believe you! You’re a vampire!” Roman shouted more out of fear then the anger he was trying to convey. “And-And it’s not like I didn’t hear you tell the other one that you were planning to.”

Patton flinched at the harsh tone, knowing the borrower was just lashing out. “I only said that so Virgil would leave you alone, honest! I can’t even stomach the thought of drinking from humans half the time. I could never kill somebody, no matter the smell of their blood.”

 Roman bit his lip, a little bit of hope rising inside of him. “If you’re telling the truth...then does that mean you are going to let me go?” Does that mean he could go home, grab Logan, and move the heck away from that apartment?

“I… I can’t.” Patton sighed, having considered this himself. 

 “W-What?” And just like that, Roman’s hopes were dashed. “Why not!”

“You heard Virgil.” Patton’s shoulders crept up to his ears, feeling guilty despite knowing he was right. “If I let you go, he’s just gonna get his hands on you instead, and even if Virgil’s...” Patton shook his head, not even sure what had gotten into his best friend. “I’m not letting you get hurt.”

 Even if Patton was telling the truth, he wasn’t at all comfortable with staying with a vampire. The fact he kept bringing up how he smelled was putting him on edge. “So then...so then what are you going to do?” He pushed against the fingers again, hoping one of the things the vampire would do would be to put him down.

“...that’s a very good question.” Patton murmured, having not thought this far ahead. Honestly, even just holding the borrower made it hard to think clearly, his instincts always right near the surface. He shook his head, trying to distract himself as he walked further into the house. “Um, I guess we could set up a place for you to stay? I need to get something to eat too, actually. Wait, sorry, not used to living people here, I’m gonna have to find you some food… what do you eat?”

 “Um...normal stuff?” Roman said, looking around the house as they moved. It certainly gave off a vampire vibe. “H-Human food?”

“Okay, coolios, that- that’s good!” Patton tried to look on the bright side. “Thomas goes out with me all the time, I can just get the food to go for you instead of eating it myself.” 

 “O-Okay?” Roman wasn’t sure if he should eat any food he was given. What if they were just trying to fatten him up? Make his blood even tastier? Should he risk starving so he wouldn’t be eaten? It was a slow death versus a fairly quick one but Roman was still inclined to take the former in this instance.

“And, I guess you can stay in my room…” Patton murmured, pushing open the door. He tried not to think what Virgil would say if (or more likely, when) he found out Patton decided to harbor the borrower instead of drinking his blood.

 Roman looked around the room. Unlike the rest of the house, it felt much less dreary. But still kind of off. Almost like it was trying to hard to create a cheerful atmosphere. “Er...where?” He hoped he wouldn’t be trapped. If he was, it would be a lot harder to try and escape.

“Good question again.” Patton chuckled, beginning to scope out his room for any potential containers. After all, it’d be even worse if the borrower just got loose in the house. 

Patton paused, looking down at the borrower in hand. “...hang on a moment.”

 Roman blinked. “Wh-What?” He really did hate looking at these vampires in the eyes.

“I just realized I didn’t ask you your name!” Patton gasped. “I’m so sorry. I’m Patton, what’s your name, kiddo?”

 Kiddo? Well, he supposed that nickname made sense. Patton was probably way older than him. “Er, Roman. My name is Roman.” What was the point in learning your meal’s name though? Was Patton simply trying to trick him?

“It’s nice to- er, nevermind.” Patton let that greeting trail off, knowing Roman likely didn’t agree. His eyes scanned the room, spotting a small chest from a century ago...was it that old? Or older? Patton couldn’t remember. But it was certainly roomy, easily locked, yet far from airtight.

“Oh, perfect!” Patton’s eyes lit up. He set Roman down briefly on his bureau, in favor of using both his hands to dig out the various memorabilia already inside the chest. Being immortal meant collecting a lot of… well, admittedly junk throughout the years.

 Roman blinked. Watching as Patton seemed to be looking through a chest. He was about to ask what he was looking for, when he realized that Patton was distracted. It might be a stupid move to try and escape but Roman couldn’t just not try at all. So, he quickly made his way to the edge and started to scale down.

Patton blinked, noticing movement out of the corner of his eye. That, and it was certainly hard for Patton to not sense the borrower moving, considering every aspect of his vampire side was focused intently on Roman’s existence.

“Roman…” Patton gave a sad sigh, not bothering to give chase as he continued to empty out the chest. He knew it would be simple enough to catch the borrower again considering Patton had an unfair advantage. “Please don’t.”

 Roman ignored Patton and only climbed down faster as he knew he had been spotted. But Patton had yet to move, which meant he had a chance, right? As his feet hit the ground, he couldn’t help but feel another wave of hope rise in him. He glanced once more at Patton before taking off running.

Patton lunged, his fingers easily squeezing around Roman’s tiny form.

 “Ah!” Roman yelled, once again finding himself struggling in the vampire’s grip. Patton had been so fast. He had forgotten how fast he could be. “Release me you vile creature of the night!”

“Hey!” Patton frowned, lifting the borrower higher to glare at him. “There’s no need for name calling.”

 Roman felt himself freeze at the glare the vampire gave him but he forced himself to ignore it. “I think there is. Especially if it’s true!” It really was a bad idea to make a vampire mad but he was going to die one way or another anyway. Might as well get in a few hits.

“No it’s not!” Patton insisted. “I’m not a- a vile creature. I’m a perfectly pleasant creature.”

 “Really? I have yet to see any pleasantness. In fact, I would call planning to keep and eat someone the exact opposite of pleasant.” Roman growled, trying his hardest to kick his legs against the grip. However, he could barely budge them as they were held firmly within the hand.

“I already told you, I’m not doing that.” Patton’s gaze softened. “I know I can be...scary, but you’re safe here. I promise.”

 “Well I don’t feel very safe.” Especially not with Patton’s hand wrapped around him tightly. It didn’t hurt, thankfully but it was still uncomfortable. Not to mention, he still didn’t believe Patton’s claims.

“Okay, fair enough.” Patton sighed. He supposed it would take some time for Roman to get used to this. He grabbed a spare blanket, lining the bottom of the chest. Satisfied, Patton set Roman down in the center. “Alright, I need to go, er, hunting. Just- stay here, okay?”

 Roman blinked, looking around where he had been put. “Wait-no! You can’t leave me in here!” What even was this? Wait, was this the chest Patton had been looking through?

“I promise I’ll be back soon.” Patton grabbed the top of the chest, slamming it shut and locking it for good measure.

 Roman jumped as the top was closed with a heavy thud and he was masked in darkness. He spent several minutes looking for a way out but the chest was sturdy. He was trapped.

 He let out a long and suffering sigh as he slid down against the wall, head in his hands. What was he going to do?

#vampire perspective #vampire!patton #vampire!virgil #borrower!roman #perspective series #part 2

[funeral-clown]

for @wormbabie

merry christmas/happy belated birthday!

It was cold. That was the first thing that registered. Any lingering warmth hiding in his body was being drained out by the cool impassive stone he lie on, drank up greedily only to fade and freeze. He felt this, the cold that went beneath his skin. Cold veins. Cold guts. Cold bones. The second thing he notices, as his eyes slanted open, was that it was dark.

Oh, he thought, in that cold dark stillness. I’m dead.

And he was. Yet his fingers twitched, and his eyes rolled, and down in the core of him something pulsed. Not a heart, his heart was as good as dust. It was different. The only living thing left of him.

Hunger.

It twisted his belly. His throat scorched with a dry unbearable heat. His fingers clawed and his eyes squinted against the desperate throbbing thirst that overtook him. There was nothing there, only cold and dark, and in fear and need he began thrashing. The heavy stone tomb, for that was what it was, flew off as though it were a styrofoam prop. Slow, aching, he lifted himself out, staring silently at his epitaph.

Gabriel Reyes.

No, he thought. Not any longer. Gabriel Reyes was a good man, a passionate man who’s heart beat and veins wept. His eyes didn’t glow red in his sepulcher. His skin didn’t have an ashen grey tone. He loved and lived and didn’t freeze. He fought monsters. He wasn’t-

He wasn’t a monster.

Gabriel Reyes was dead, and now he stood alone and cold and so very very hungry. Snarling, he burst open the door to the crypt and swept silently out into the night.

Reyes was alive. He brought hope. But something- someone, had killed him. Hollowed him out, then brought something hungry back in his place. Someone had changed him. He wasn’t Reyes anymore. Already, he could feel the pull on his gut, the call of some higher power. A summons he could not ignore.

Reyes had brought help.

The Reaper brought only death.

-

Jesse hadn’t waited around after the funeral. No one had expected him to, and the only one to look a little disappointed at his hasty exit was little Fareeha, too young to understand.

“Jesse,” Ana has whispered, gathering him into her arms, “My sweet boy. You will always have a home with us, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he had dutifully replied, letting himself go soft for a moment. 

They both knew he wouldn’t stay. Not when the thing that had killed Gabe was still out there. Killed his mentor, his friend, his everything. The beast in his blood howled out mournfully at the loss, demanded he hunt her down. Hunting was what Jesse McCree did best. So with a quick good bye and a fierce scrub down in the church bathroom with cold water until his eyes weren’t burning anymore, he strode out into the burning morning. He didn’t wait to see where they laid him to rest. Rest was the last thing on his mind.

-

The first year had been about control. Specifically his lack of it. That had come with time, for which Reaper was quietly relieved. His head no longer pounded with aching need whenever he heard the pulse of a human heart. His teeth no longer grit through his lips at the faintest hint of blood. He was hungry, yes, but he was no longer mad with it. He could coil the hunger down tight into a small ball at the base of his belly, present but not persistent. 

Under the Witch’s employ, he was often sated.

Still, long stretches came where she had no need of him. He would roam freely in the night, learning his new abilities. It had been 5 years since he had woken up, cold and alone, and the Reaper was a quick study. His tenuous control was iron clad now. He was never a man to be easily swayed in life, and in death he was practically stone. He answered to his Mistress, yes, but outside of her order he did not often feel ruled. Not by his hunger, not any longer. Not by the former members of his organization, hunters to the last. Jack was a bittersweet distant memory now. 

The Reaper moved from town to town, feeding when necessary, spreading fear when bored. He was often bored.

Eternity offered little entertainment.

When he caught on to the hunter on his trail, it was almost delight that rustled in his chest. At last, a distraction from the cold and dark emptiness. The hunter was skilled, he could tell. They had to be, to stay on his track. Skilled, but fool hardy. He walked right into his trap, reckless. 

Reaper laughed, letting the shadows grow long. The distraction had gone on long enough, playing cat and mouse and leaving fox trails with dead ends and cold tracks. He was ready to pick off the nuisance dogging his steps. He wasn’t ready for a familiar face.

Neither was Jesse.

-

He had been hunting the bastard for a while now. Another one of the Bitch of the Waste’s little henchmonsters. The Reaper, they called it. Jesse wanted to scoff at the dramatics. Gabe would have had a laugh about all this, were he still around.

The screaming girl in the warehouse was a trap, and an obvious one, but Jesse had his own ace in the hole, and he wasn’t afraid to go in guns blazing.

It was cold, and it was dark, and he was alone. But he wasn’t alone, was he? He bit back a snarl at the lingering presence in the back of his mind.

“Why don’t ya make this easy for yerself? Come on out where I can see ya.”

Cold, cruel laughter echoed through his bones. He forced himself not to shiver.

“Where you can shoot me, more like. Eh, cowboy?”

Jesse grit out a short, harsh facsimile of a laugh.

“Well. If’n it comes ta that.”

Red eyes glared from the dark, but the teeth? The sharp white teeth were bared in a delighted grin.

“And what can bullets do against shadows?”

“I aim to find out,” he snarled, letting off two sudden shots from his hip. They illuminated the corners for a second before splintering into the wood of the building. The eyes kept watching from fine mist, as Jesse rolled away to take shelter behind a pile of boxes. The flimsy cover offered little comfort.

“Don’t you know anything about vampires, boy? Did they not teach you before they set you on my trail?”

“I know plenty,” He called back, “Which is why these bullets are blessed!”

“Blessed. But a blessed bullet can’t do anything to smoke and mirrors, can it?”

The voice came from over his shoulder, and Jesse struggled not to flinch as superhuman strength dragged him backwards and threw him against the cold wall. He grunted at the impact, hoping his ribs were only bruised. A clawed hand grabbed him by the throat, pinning him with the somber threat of a crushed larynx. Not a fun time, even if it wouldn’t kill him. His guns were stripped and thrown into some dark corner. The line of stakes on his chest were plucked away. His holy water taken, Jesse’s weapons were all sought out, found, discarded, by freezing fingers. His skin was electric, every brush a shock that sent needles of angry protest down his spine. He ground down his sharpening teeth, kept his eyes closed to hide the glow. It wouldn’t do to give himself away so soon.

Then the sharp click of teeth by his ear, The rumble of laughter.

“Did they really send you to kill me? You?”

There was a rustle as his free hand rose to remove the bone white mask shielding the top half of his face, faux teeth like daggers framing his mouth, where his true fangs glinted death. His free hand tightened in warning.

“Oh, Jesse. I thought I trained you better, pup.”

His eyes shot open, gawking openly at his face. His throat worked hard against the palm of his hand.

“R-R’y. R’y’s?”

He brought his head down, leaning it against Jesse’s in a mockery of affection, stealing what little breath he had left.

“I missed you, runt.”

Moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes, and Jesse tried to tell himself it was the lack of oxygen.

“Y’r. Dead?”

Gabriel hummed, nodding his agreement. The slight movement brushed their noses together.

“Dead as a doornail, kid. And you.” A cold gust sighed against his cheeks. “You’re so warm.”

Gabriel released his throat, only to bring both hands up to tenderly cradle his face. The hunger he throttled down was raging, pulsing in time with his former partner’s heartbeat. His whole body throbbed in time with it, teeth aching to bury into his hot neck and drink greedily until all the warmth was inside him. But there was more. His dry empty veins were singing out in joy, and the feverish warmth was siphoning off into his skin, sparking underneath. This wasn’t just prey, a quick draining and casting the body aside. This was Jesse. His family. His boy. Reyes wanted to keep him. Wanted to make a feast of him, slow and sweet. Wanted to wrap him up in shadows and hold him tight and fast like a grave, so he couldn’t leave.

“Jesse,” he whispered, “Don’t you want to help?”

“Yeah, Boss,” Jesse choked out, holding back his sobs. “Yeah, I wanna help.”

“I’m lonely, pup. I don’t have anybody to kick around or keep me warm. Don’t you wanna come with me, kid? Just like old times?”

McCree wrapped his arms around him, ignoring him burying his face in his neck. Ignoring the twinge of teeth that sent every one of his instincts howling.

“Just a taste, Jesse. Promise, just a ta-”

Jesse dug his sharpened teeth into Gabriel’s throat, and tore. The dead flesh came apart in his mouth like tissue paper, black recycled blood gushing down his throat like cold death. His eyes glowed gold as he watched his mentor shriek, flying back, hissing and clutching his throat.

“Sorry, boss. Things change on the road.”

Gabriel glared at him, fangs bared, before going deadly still and calm.

“You really are a pup now, huh? Some mutt used you as a chew toy.” Gabriel laughed, a gurgling sound. “Does Jack know? Does Ana?” He took his hand from his throat, flesh already knitting back together. “How long did it take before they cast you out, Jesse. Or did they try to kill you first?” His sneer was an ugly, harsh thing.

“I left,” he replied simply. “Nobody chased me.”

“They didn’t know.”

“They didn’t need to.”

Gabriel smiled, wide, genuine.

“So you’ve got a touch of beast blood now. And you turned tail and ran. Right after me.”

“Right after you. To put you down. To end it. And your witch.”

Gabriel chuckled. No dramatic, booming laughter. No eerie snickers. Genuine humor, a soft remnant of his life.

“You got bit and you just ran off after me. God. You’re a smart man, Jesse, did you even stop to read up on weres?”

Jesse stiffened.

“I know enough. I know how to put em down.”

Gabriel laughed harder, setting his nerves on edge.

“Stop laughin’ at me.”

Gabe paused.

“Oh, Jesse. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at fate. You have my blood in you too now, don’t you?”

Jesse growled.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Gabriel was before him in a flash, crowding him again, but his hands were gentler now. Easing himself into his space.

“Did you know, Jess? A part of you must have. That little whimpering puppy part that wants to show it’s belly.” 

He shoved at him, only to be caught in a firm, controlled grip. Reyes grabbed him by the scruff, eyes flashing with warm pride at the small, choked off whine.

“Did you know?”

“Know what,” Jesse muttered, cringing at his own inability to look up from the floor.

“Vampires and werewolves have a long history, Jesse. Back in the day, it wasn’t unheard of for a whole pack to be under a vampire’s command. Beastblood. It makes you want a pack, doesn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. “Makes you want leadership. But that’s no different than it was before, was it cielito? You still need a firm hand.” The one on his neck clenched down softly, and Jesse’s face burned at the indignity of it. “You drank my blood, runt.” Gabriel dragged him forward, into his chest, and Jesse wanted to scream at himself for going lax in his grip. “You’re as much mine now as you ever were. More, even.” Teeth snapped teasingly at his shoulder. “You’ll do what I tell you. Just like old times. You and me against the world.”

“I won’t,” Jesse whispered. “I won’t do a damn thing you say.”

“Jesse.” Shadows crept in around him. “You won’t have a choice.” 

The last thing he felt before the shadows overtook his mind was the sharp pain in his shoulder as the Reaper’s fangs tore into him, followed by the warm floating acceptance. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream.

He slept.

-

When he woke up, it was warm. That was the first thing that registered. He was bundled up on a bed softer than any he had slept in for years, blankets thick. It was warm, and it was dark. He was not alone. An arm was curled around his shoulders, pinning him against someone’s side.

Oh, he thought. I’m alive.

Gabriel grumbled, sensing he was awake, and pulled him in closer.

“Mine,” he muttered, tucking Jesse’s head under his chin and nuzzling his nose into his hair. Jesse sighed, hot breath lingering on cool skin. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

“Mine,” Gabriel repeated, softer, before languishing in the warmth again and joining him. He felt sated.

#merry christmas erika!!!! #sorry it's late ajgfjfgigrf #mcreyes #i hope it's everything you asked for

[bigskydreaming]

What kind of house/apt do adult successful Scanny have?

I think it would be something smallish and unassuming on the outside, very approachable. Maybe even like, a townhome or a duplex or something like that, depending on what city Scott ultimately settles in with whatever pack he builds up around him there vs whomever stays in Beacon Hills.

I don’t have any specific headcanons for where Scott relocates to, its just very important to me that he does, because like. He deserves to get far, far away from Beacon Hills. There are too many bad memories there. Its where he died. Its where Allison died, Boyd, Erica. Like, all the bad things that linger with Scott came from Beacon Hills and that damn evil attention-seeking tree stump, and all the good things that linger with Scott are one hundred percent the product of his own actions and the relationships he fostered with the people that became important to him. 

There’s nothing in Beacon Hills that gives Scott anything he doesn’t already have by this point, no reason for him to stay other than his mother, who can literally just move as well. But not with Chris Argent. On account of like, well he died too. It was very sad and tragic, I don’t want to talk about it. Tears were shed, its all still really fresh and raw, we should probably just move on. Its what he would want. Probably. Also who cares, ding dong he’s dead and Melissa’s married to some nice doctor who’s never pulled a gun on her son, as well as possessing other qualities that meet somewhat higher standards, I’m sure.

Anyway. We were talking about Scott saying hasta la vista baby to Beacon Hills followed then by a slow motion dramatic walkaway shot before he gets on his motorcycle, adjusts his mirrors, revs the throttle all action movie star-esque, and also sexily -  look, they’re not always automatically the same thing -  and then he drives away forever from that toxic cesspit of a homicidal zipcode where square footage is calculated in terms of dead bodies. Leaving behind all the like, million and one reasons for him to say Bye Beacon Hills, see you never, try not to become a central locus for evil, but also, I don’t care if you do, it is hashtag NotMyResponsibilityAnymore. But also, I mean. It never was. Just FYI.

And then he flips the town off and accelerates off into the sunset while the town eats his dust, and admittedly Scott isn’t really the type to throw around middle fingers even where deserved, but fuck it, I’m projecting onto him and its my headcanon and I say that pile of excrement in real estate form needs to be flipped off and also, like. Its just an aesthetic thing. For the visuals. Its the whole dramatic end scene, roll credits, “I came, I saw and I blew shit up and now I’m off to reunite with my love interest and have vigorous victory sex” vibe. You get it.

So they relocate somewhere, wherever that is. I honestly don’t care, so long as its nice and doesn’t murder them or inflict gratuitous bodily harm every week and the nearest Satanic foliage is at least two statelines away. Preferably with a thriving supernatural community where Scott and his pack can all feel welcome and like they belong, rather than outsiders eternally hiding in plain sight among potential enemies. Like, somewhere where their neighbors are all vampires and Fae and other supernaturals, but only so long as like, the only reason they ever come over is to borrow a cup of sugar. Never to betray them to randomly resurrected enemies or guilt trip them into solving someone else’s centuries old and completely pointless grudgematch of Unnecessary Drama and Also Doom.

And wherever it is, the pack have their own dwellings and much needed privacy. Far enough apart that even supernatural hearing and smell don’t have them all playing Peeping Tom whether they like it or not, every time a couple wants to get frisky, but close enough together that they’re all still together, and know that more pack, more community, is always just a short walk away.

Scott and Danny’s place is some sort of small but cozy townhome or duplex or something like that, as I said. Scott’s always very aware of his presence and reputation and the power he both commands and also is afforded by peoples’ embellished expectations regarding him. So it was really important to Scott, and thus important to Danny, that their home be unpretentious. Inviting and approachable and not ‘above’ anyone else, or trying to be. Somewhere that when you got to their street and checked the address if you’re new in town and looking for an audience with True Alpha Scott McCall, you stop and do a double take and almost have to revise whatever preconceptions you have, or at least put them on hold, because like…this is where the famous True Alpha lives? Its so…ordinary.

But that’s the point after all….because the more he was looked at as standing apart from all others, the more ‘ordinary’ became the only thing Scott’s really ever aspired to be.

So its not poor, by any means. They do well for themselves, the whole pack, like you said, Scott and Danny are successful in this future. They have jobs that afford them both a sense of purpose and fulfillment of longheld interests, as well as the potential for discovering more, rather than getting locked into things that grow stale overtime as they outgrow fantasy careers that seemed more validating when they were kids dreaming of the future.

Also their jobs, whatever they might be, make them at least successful enough that it allows them both a large degree of autonomy. They can pick their own schedules, more or less. They have finances, but none that will be massively disrupted or stress-inducing if Scott has to take time off for a couple weeks to help a neighboring pack relocate somewhere new after they flee from hunters. Something where Scott’s never forced to choose between his job and keeping him and his pack financially afloat, versus someone needing his help and it not immediately apparent how long that might take resolve. The dream is stability and comfort, and enough personal agency for Scott in how and where he gets both of those, that he never feels like he’s letting down either his pack or innocents asking for his help, because the demands of his job or finances make him feel like it has to be one or the other, he can’t possibly do both.

Ideally, that flexible schedule means that when Scott isn’t helping others, something he now does by choice and simply because he wants to and he can, not because he’s made to feel he has to, like its his responsibility and his alone, because certain boundary-blind best friends have decided they want to play Peter Parker but are gonna need Scott to step up and play the actual Spider-Man part and lend his power even when someone else gets to decide for him when its his responsibility. Oopsie, I tripped and fell and my Bitter Resentment and Still Not Over It slipped out. Oh no. How terrible. Much woe.

Ahem. Anyway. As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by myself, Scott’s flexible schedule means that when he’s not using it to help others, he has enough left over that he can afford (and justify to himself) using it for himself and his own personal enjoyment and interests, actually prioritize and commit to his own self-care, because a healthy, happy Alpha is a healthy, happy Pack. Someone said that once, probably. Probably not Hobbes. Definitely heard that somewhere though. Trust me, I’m a doctor. 

So with the aid of this newfangled invention produced by cutting edge technology, this quote unquote “Free Time…”  Scott explores other interests. His own. Le gasp, le shocking, le about the fuck time. He explores the novelty of being able to even have hobbies, because depressingly (why am I like this, science side of tumblr), there was once a time when Scott stopped bothering trying to figure out what all he was interested in, because he kinda assumed he’d be long dead before it ever had a chance to matter.

But by the power invested in me by Fuck You, Jeff Davis, in this future, none of that comes to pass. So free time and personal passions for Scott. He has them, in abundance. So like. He gardens, for sure. That’s why I specified a duplex or townhouse instead of an apartment in a complex or building….they live somewhere where they at least have their own garden or yard. Scott designs and implements it personally, something like his own personal Zen garden on a scale commensurate with What He Deserves. He goes outside whenever he’s starting to feel stressed about some obligation or commitment or another, and just….plays. 

That’s what it is to him. He just plants things. Prunes things. Adds fountains or bird feeders or statuary, little personalized touches here and there that make his own personal territory uniquely his and his alone. Gardening in his yard is His Time in His Space, and all the pack know better than to interrupt him when he’s out in his yard working away, unless its an absolute emergency. 

Danny enforces this with an iron fist and an ability to tank your credit score and spread all your most embarrassing pictures internet-wide with just a single keystroke. And Danny is the enforcer Scott doesn’t have to be. People forget that everyone loves Danny….but in no small part due to his usual proximity to Jackson. Next to Jackson, everyone looks like an angel. But Danny, on his own? Can be mean. Will be mean, if you touch or hurt or threaten or even just inconvenience his man, because like, who the fuck do you think you are and also it doesn’t even matter because he just replaced your whole identity online and if you’re nice and apologize and kiss ass without Scott ever having to know What You Almost Did, maybe Danny will have mercy on you and actually let you know what your new identity is, so you can use it to like, make a new life with the details he made up to replace your old personal info that no longer gets you anywhere. 

Danny - that’s Miss Nasty if you mess with his husband - is chaotic neutral with an exception for “this is my list of special people. Touch any of them and my alignment is Chaotic Evil for however long as until I have personally escorted you to your Doom and physically kicked you into a bottomless pit where you will suffer for eternity.” 

But then he smiles and charms everyone into only remembering lol oh yeah, everybody likes Danny, so that once again, everyone forgets that’s at least partially self-preservation because if you don’t love Danny and everyone Danny loves, like, you’re dumb and also screwed. Why are you bad at making good choices. 

Don’t feel bad though. Danny’s very good at making people forget this part, t least until the next time he reminds people of that little piece of trivia. Have you seen him smile? Its like that flashing bulb thing Will Smith uses in Men in Black to make people forget what they just saw or were doing. Except without any supervision and/or morality because fuck your ethics, its Danny’s bewitching smile, he’ll use it however he wants. Get your own.

(The thing is, any best friend of Jackson has to have at least a little capacity for Evil. Danny just hides it well, thanks to the cloaking camouflage of Actually Having a Soul in Addition, and like, being a people person who actually understands how people work and how not to alienate them by being a total uncaring jackass 24/7. Its a fine line, except its really not, and Danny is very talented at all things and possesses an abundance of charm. Plus he’s just hot, and like. Let’s face it. That always helps. I mean, definitely never hurts).

The end result of all this tangent-having, is that Scott has enough him time and enough of a barrier from people constantly distracting him, that the exterior of Scott and Danny’s place, for all its otherwise ordinary appearance, Scott has over time turned into his own personal slice of paradise, and is exactly what that looks like to him. 

See, the thing about Scott is no matter how hard he tries to be ordinary and value being just like everyone else and get lost in the crowd…..he never will quite manage it, because Scott just isn’t like anyone else. He’s good, in a way that too few people even aspire to be, because so many people just think its not possible. Especially not after having lived through the kinds of traumas Scott has, been dealt an especially unlucky hand. But Scott manages it anyway, in spite of everything, spiting every thing that tries to make him be anything lesser….and because of that, he’ll always stand at least a little apart from the crowd, be a little distinct from the rest, impossible to ever fully be lost or muted by any crowd of any size.

And the little slice of the world Scott makes just his and Danny’s, no one else’s. He doesn’t even need to share it with his pack without it being any less inviting to his pack for all that. It reflects this understated aspect of Scott, this impossible to quantify essence of him that he himself is too unassuming to ever fully realize is there, and everyone else just accepts without questioning…because they’ve learned by now when you’re given a gift, just accept it and appreciate it.

So in structure and layout, their home is nothing special, but amidst a neighborhood of similar structures, it pops all the same. It draws the eye without dominating your vision. It makes you want to look at it, want to come closer, want to be around it, much like the man who designed it. Who made it, cares for it, and never neglects it or takes it for granted. Its always green, year round, and filled with a variety of flowers that come from all over the world but can all complement each other and coexist without endangering any of the neighboring plants. None of them overgrowing the garden or in any way being at any of the other plants’ expense. 

They’re like Scott’s pack in that way….of all shapes and sizes, coming from all around the world, of all kinds of types, not even just limited to werewolves. All beautiful, all unique, all existing in harmony. Even though Scott’s never shared this with anyone else, in his mind, each flower or plant he adds to his garden represents one specific member of his pack. Its Theirs, its what he associates with them. In this way, they’re all represented, it reminds him whatever conflict arises internally, its nothing they can’t ultimately all work out without compromising any single individual. And with each plant needing its own special attention and time devoted to cultivating it and caring for it, they serve as proxies for the pack members they represent.  

Due to this, Scott can tell himself with just a glance at his garden - reassure himself, whenever his self-doubts get the better of him and he starts to beat himself up for not being there enough for someone or neglecting someone or not doing better - but with his garden, just going outside and checking it over can remind Scott that he’s not neglecting anyone. Because every time he tends to the plant that represents a pack member, Scott reflects on that pack member as he does so. Just going over what they’ve been up to, mentally checking in on them, casting about to see if he’s noticed any sign something’s been bothering them, making sure to spend one on one time with them. 

He can’t tend to a plant without associating it with their linked pack member….and in this way, as long as he can look around and take in with a glance the sight of his garden, all carefully tended to, no plant neglected, all watered and pruned and harmonious and appreciated….and it serves as a visual reminder with which to reassure himself….he’s not forgetting anyone, overlooking anyone. Nobody’s being neglected, he’s always thinking about his pack and keeping their best interests at heart and if any problems do pop to mind while he’s tending to one of his plants or flowers, of course that would be the first thing he’d make a plan to go check in on and address personally, once he’s making his rounds later and having a little face time and conversation with his various packmates.

Of all the flowers and various plant types in his garden, there’s only one fruit….a single eye catching and lovingly attended orange tree. That’s Danny. They’re his favorite, and orange is his favorite color. There’s just something unique about it. Especially in the midst of so much green.

The flowers nearest the front door and around the external structures of the building, a pillar underneath the small, roofed-in entrance way, perhaps, a gate at the front of the property, next to the driveway, maybe a trellis along the wall just next to the door…..the flowers adorning and framing the entrance to their home are a carefully arranged spray of seven different hues. 

A literal rainbow, advertising this House and All Who Live Here Be Gaaaaaaay.

Scott’s always had a sly, understated sense of humor. Mischievous, but not usually at anyone’s expense, and subtle enough that most people don’t tend to credit him with having much of a sense of humor. He does though….he’s just never needed words to express it.

Advertising himself and his personal pride with a literal year round rainbow that’s still subtle enough that most people don’t clue into its layered meaning or implications without being told. Later in life, stable and safe and more centered, Scott gets a pretty big kick out of how often people fail to see what’s right in front of them. Him living his best life on his own terms and not even being shy about it….and if other people can’t connect the dots on their own….its a pity, Scott muses with a mostly internalized laugh, that most people are just in too big a hurry or too eager to take things at face value to truly see what their surroundings look like and are full of.

Danny gets the joke, and thinks its hilarious how few other people figure it out. But that’s mostly just because Danny can be kind of a dick. He’s sorry not sorry. Its not his fault people are dumb. RIP to 90% of humanity, but he has braincells.

He and Scott complement each other well.

Similarly, just as Scott’s personal space is outdoors, natural, and helps him feel part of the world, feel part of nature, connected to it and in harmony with the natural order of things and not something completely separate….Danny’s personal space is indoors, the extra room converted entirely into his personal office or Batcave. Filled with monitors and screens and hard drives, a Hacker’s Paradise that keeps Danny plugged into the grid, manmade tools and his own cultivated expertise giving him the world at his fingertips. Any needed information or a satellite view of something happening with allies on the other side of the world is just a few clicks of a mouse away.

He’s also got every video game console known to man, because Danny’s Me Time is kicking ass on whatever game the latest redditor or twitterbaiting bigot to catch his ire is high-ranking on. 

And if he also happens to use his gameplay as an opportunity to backdoor into said Wankstain’s systems and do whatever needs doing to make his life and those of all his enabling social circle’s a living hell and a lesson in empathy that comes too late cuz nobody has any for them because they suck and are Satan….

Well. Sucks to be them, and also, what kind of moron makes enemies while online gaming without first erecting even a nominal defense against Superior Intellects who might feel like retaliating against his jokes, that aren’t really jokes so much as the synaptic misfiring of racist braincells and proof that sometimes, evolution shits out a turd?

“That sounds like victim blaming,” Scott notes in an absent kind of tone when watching over his husband’s shoulder one day. Not really judgmental so much as just something to say.

“You say victim blaming, I say pest control,” Danny hums unapologetically. “Sides, can’t be victim blamed if you’re not a victim, and you can’t be a victim if you’re really just a human-shaped mistake who has no redeeming qualities, an online presence that’s the virtual equivalent of bad BO with no medical cause for an excuse, and a social media history that makes a strong case for your best possible contribution to society being a qualifier for a Darwin Award. Would you blame a cockroach for getting itself stepped on by stepping out into the light? I mean, you could, I guess. Just doesn’t seem terribly productive if you ask me.”

“Why do you hate cockroaches? They’re living creatures who never did anything to you, why would hurt them by comparing one to this guy?” Scott asks, because that’s really the more important part of the conversation.

“Dunno,” Danny shrugs. “I’m sure I could find some way to blame it on childhood trauma if you really need an answer.”

“No, just wondering if you’re gonna be done in time for dinner. I’m making tortellini.”

“I’ll be done in ten minutes, I swear. And ready to eat like a metaphor that’s more appropriate to you. Righteous vengeance really works up an appetite.”

“Uh-huh. Just out of curiosity, who exactly are you righteously avenging at the moment?”

“Humanity? Good taste? God, who couldn’t possibly have foreseen this free will thing would go so very wrong? That poor defunct condom that tried its best but in the end, just wasn’t up to the task of keeping this shithead from being unleashed unto the Earth? I dunno. Do I have to pick just one?”

Not really. As stated, Scott’s not actually judging anymore than Danny’s trying to hide this from him. They’re both in total agreement about the kind of people Danny cyber-vigilantes. They just have different approaches about how they should be handled. Scott, while not violent by choice for the most part, does tend to favor the direct approach. He just feels its right that a person know why exactly he thinks they’re a terrible person who deserves what they get. So he tends more towards the approach of: punch a bigot in the face, wait for a second for a whiff of remorse or sign someone might be suddenly reevaluating life choices, because he’s Scott and hope springs eternal, but when no such revelation comes, just shrugging and walking away. Oh well. He tried. Sorta. Well, kinda.

Danny, in contrast, prefers to go for the jugular and leave no hint of who or what might have been behind the all-encompassing full frontal assault that hits every online trace of his target’s miserable and miserly existence. It keeps them paranoid and this keeps him sated. Plus, his stance is when they don’t know what exactly earned them an enemy of his caliber, it forces them to reflect or at least call to mind every thing they can think of doing wrong to someone that might result in that someone hating them this much.

The ironic thing of course is Danny doesn’t even really hate them, because that implies a level of giving a shit he can’t ever quite seem to muster. He mostly just thinks they suck and should suffer for that. And he gets bored a lot. 

Look, his husband and fellow werewolves are off saving the world every other week and being all kinds of kick-ass and action adventure movie-star types in the process. A guy sitting behind at home all the time has to get his jollies somehow. Also, he’s compiled a very engaging soundtrack to accompany his personal heroic undertakings, and it does wonderful things for his self image. Danny’s all about that self-care.

Plus, the first time he and Scott had something of a disagreement on their approaches, Danny unapologetically stated that loving him meant loving his vindictive side, because he personally was quite fond of it and thought it was really something of a Look. Also, making that Look into a Thing might be something of a dealbreaker for him, because he really didn’t want to undersell his capacity to be petty, and how little shame he felt about having said capacity. His essential life philosophy boils down to sometimes people just suck and somebody needs to say so. Maybe by draining their bank account and redirecting the funds to an ironically relevant charity.

“Fine,” Scott had conceded with a sigh. “Just be careful about making enemies like this, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

(That was really his only real concern all along. He’s a Nurturing Nelly. Scott can’t help but be a worry wart when his husband roams the internet highways under a masked IP address, taking on bandits and bigots all willy nilly, with not a bit of concern for himself. Its their biggest common ground, and Danny doesn’t have claws or a killer bite to protect himself with. A bite fetish, maybe, but that’s not quite the same thing, and also neither here nor there, and also also, he would like to plead the fifth while reminding you he can access and pull up your full porn-browsing history if you’d like to press that line of conversation further. Pervert).

Anyway, alls well that ends well, and thus Danny couldn’t help but be charmed at the reminder that his hubby is a man with clear priorities and his biggest is always gonna be the safety of his loved ones. Aww, sweetums.

“Aww, sweetums,” he said, just to see Scott squirm, because the more unexpected the endearment, the more Scott doesn’t know how to take it. And a squirmy Scott is an adorable Scott, Danny has always felt, and he is a man who appreciates his eye candy, as well as a go-getter who knows what he likes and goes and gets it, even if that means playing dirty. Especially if that means playing dirty. Danny likes dirty. 

After all, dirty men need to shower, and showering together conserves water, and having sex while showering together is just a solid application of having eyes, a hot husband, and a healthy libido. It just makes good sense. He’s goal-oriented and a linear thinker, what do you want, leave him alone. He’s valid and you’re just jealous.

Still, exotic endearment applied, he’d then followed up with:

“How dare you accuse me of being so bad at the thing that I am most skilled at that you imply I’m even capable of ever leaving digital tracks like a total N00b. What do I look like to you? A 4chan poster who just figured out how to spoof their GPS for the first time?” 

Danny rolled his eyes, exaggerating his wounded pride. It was the principle of the matter, and he was very principled. Sometimes. Kinda. If principles mean whimsy and whimsy means shh, don’t interrupt me, I’m doing bad things to bad people and this is very important work that must be savored or you really don’t get the full oomph of the revenge-gasm. Yes, he said revenge-gasm and he meant it. No he will not elaborate. Imagination is free.

“Ten points from Gryffindor for your low opinion of me, your valued and valuable life partner. Also, no sex for you, until…..okay maybe that’s too far. You seem like you’ve learned your lesson.”

“You’re too merciful,” Scott had said drily. 

“Nobody’s perfect,” Danny had said lackadaisically. “Also, not to disrespect your tortellini-making expertise, but any chance we can put a pin in dinner until after we go have wild, passionate sex? This pending revenge-gasm is making me horny and I really hate to waste a good head of moral crusading.”

“That was a terrible pun.”

“I have never made a pun in my life, how dare you, my sense of humor is sophisticated. I’m not a peasant, Scott. And where did we land on the sex.”

“Didn’t we just do it this morning?”

“I have needs, Scott.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“And water is wet. I don’t see the relevance. Also, if you don’t want me jumping you 24/7, you have no business being so hot. Its your own damn fault, deal with it.”

“There you go with the victim-blaming again.”

“I’ll do five Hail Marys after I finish doing sinful things to you and racking up another five. Its more efficient to tackle them all at once.”

“Not sure that’s how that works, babe.”

“Eh, guess I’ll just go to hell then. Still worth it. Still your fault. Oh look, I’m naked all of a sudden, how did that happen?”

Scott sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

“R is for Ravish me, if you’re really looking for suggestions. I can probably do the whole alphabet if you need. Or just do me. Whichever.”

Scott cut off further melodramatic peacocking with a kiss.

Things proceeded to a total media black out from there. Further voyeuristic attempts at seeing the Alpha and his mate get down, get down, would necessitate the invocation of the cautionary tale of the last pack member to not properly respect the sanctity of the inner sanctum of the Vindictive Master of Digital Identities and Other Important Details. His name is Chester, middle initial A., surname with a phonetic similarity to certain orifices. That wasn’t always his name, but it was once Danny got done with him, and that was only after Scott gave him the Pointed Stare of One Who Will Look More Benevolently On Those Who Demonstrate Both Mercy and Restraint.

Tis very much a tale of woe, as Chester is 6′5″, 260 lbs of visually intimidating werewolf muscle, and facial features that when accompanied by choice words and phrases, rather does call to mind certain similarities to certain orifices.

Like I said. Danny is very good at what he does. And everybody loves Danny.

….Aside from all other motivating reasons, its just a good idea in general. 

Y’know.

Practically speaking.

#scanny #future fic not fic #idk #look call it whatever you want just dont quote me #like I ever know how to describe half the stuff that comes out of my head #lol as ifffff

[riviae]

@domusaeternitatis requested angsty hansa headcanons so i am here to deliver (but i also did sneak some fluffy hc’s in too!!): 

Geralt: 

geralt’s ability to use a crossbow in tw3 is due to training he received from milva in the books 

he lost his headband during the stygga castle fight. & even after he regained his memories, he didn’t want to style his hair like that anymore... angouleme used to tease him about his headband/hair-style even tho she wore a headband too. it’s just another one of geralt’s old aches from the past that he tries to ignore.

the first night he crawled into his bed at corvo bianco (so pre-regis reunion), he had a dream that the hansa visited him. he saw milva & regis in the meadow, basking in the warm summer weather, a book between them as regis taught milva to read. milva looked confused at some points, but was earnestly trying & geralt saw a spark of excitement in her eyes when she was able to read an entire page in common speech. he saw angouleme petting one of the cats that made the estate its home--which turned into about 30 stray cats when she pulled out a few pieces of leftover fish from her rucksack, causing a general ruckus as she was so apt to do. he saw cahir sitting in the shade of the tree that overlooks geralt’s property. his hair was shorter, the scars from his incident with the hatchet peeking out from underneath his dark locks. he looked a bit older, perhaps even wiser as he watched the clouds float by. when he makes eye contact with the witcher, cahir gives a small smile. he even sees dandelion. between them there is a small wooden table and a few empty wine glasses. it looks like they’re in the middle of a game of gwent, which ends with dandelion forfeiting the match before he loses, opting to pull out his lute & sing. it’s a silly toussaint nursery rhyme, something geralt had heard children singing as they played in the fields, but soon, the gentle melody washes over the estate as everyone joins in--including geralt himself. when he later wakes to an empty house, a deep sense of melancholy burrows itself into his chest. a longing for something that could never be...

stress is the #1 trigger for his knee injury to flare up. despite the warm climate of toussaint otherwise helping with his general aches & pains, if he comes across a place where he & his hansa had visited before, it often sends him into a fit of sudden & blinding pain. on his worst days, he has to use a cane to get around. 

Regis: 

regis really did all the odd jobs as the barber-surgeon of the group. from haircuts to dressing wounds, regis also found himself mending clothing (with geralt’s help--as he too was able to assist in sewing holes shut or fixing busted chainmail). which suited regis just fine; he preferred domestic tasks over fighting, having seen enough bloodshed at the battle for the bridge. it wasn’t until stygga castle that he truly fought again

while he didn’t fight often, he did spar & train with the rest of the hansa (minus dandelion of course). given his agility, stamina, & regeneration, he acted as a great sparring partner. with milva, he stayed mostly in his smoke form, only reappearing for a few seconds to give her a chance to hit him w/ an arrow as they both ran through the forest to work on her accuracy & stamina. he often sparred with geralt & cahir at the same time, letting both swordsmen lunge at him. it helped them learn to fight & cooperate together as well as improved their general ability to communicate w/ others in the midst of battle. angouleme was more curious about regis’ vampiric powers than anything else, knowing full well that she was much more of a sneak-behind-someone’s-back-and-stab them kind of fighter--something that would be otherwise impossible when sparring with a higher vampire. instead, regis taught angouleme about different powers that higher vampires could possess & was the only one who saw regis’ bat form before stygga castle. 

the first thing regis did upon regenerating enough that his mental faculties returned was to determine the fate of his friends. the ravens we see in the base-game are regis’ & upon hearing that, at the very least, geralt, yen, and ciri survived stygga castle (and that dandelion was still alive too), immense relief washed over him. it was only later that he let himself mourn--& he mourned in the most human way he knew: despite having abstained from alcohol before, he had a drink for each of his fallen comrades. alone, he spoke of his favorite memories of his friends. times that bonded them together, that made it so they were family. he reminisced for an entire night, voice growing hoarse as the sun rose & he gave his final farewell. 

definitely a headcanon i’ve seen floating about, but during his period of regeneration, regis begins using his ravens more often; they become his eyes & ears in toussaint as he recovers since he can’t move around much at first. the ravens he is closest to he lovingly names after the hansa members who fell at stygga castle. perhaps even more bittersweet, but the 3 ravens (milva, cahir, and angouleme) become a family unit of sorts. while they still remain with their flock, the 3 corvids are the only ones that remain close to regis & are the first to answer his call. he always gives them extra chin scratches & fruit or grain. sometimes he even thinks he can see a spark of their personalities in the birds’ eyes. milva tends to lead the group & isn’t afraid of any of the other animals in the forest. angouleme is the most playful of the three, often pulling on the other 2 corvids’ tails or cawing loudly & repeatedly in a manner that reminds regis of laughter. cahir is generally quiet & brings up the rear of the trio, but when he senses danger, he’s the first to go swooping in, recklessly attacking whatever threatens them with his beak & claws. 

Milva: 

during their travels, milva & cahir were mostly in charge of hunting for food. while milva caught wild game, cahir fished. it became a ritual of sorts; milva would return first, then cahir. the rest of the hansa would then help prepare the food, often making soup or skewering the meat & roasting it on an open flame. despite the often meager rations split between 6 people, the food still tasted better than anything milva ate when she was alone. 

milva was also the first to readily accept regis as a friend after his true nature was revealed. when she accidentally sliced her hand a few days after regis returned to the group, she didn’t even bat an eye when regis appeared before her, having smelled her injury. “well, vampire? am i gonna live?” she asked, holding her bleeding hand out expectantly while she pressed her other hand to her hip. it was a wound she could have easily cleaned herself, but she trusted regis enough to let him tend to the cut. one bandaged hand later, milva apologized for having recoiled the first time she saw his teeth. she squeezed his shoulder in apology--the first time she had initiated contact with him since he was revealed to be a vampire--and she rolled her eyes when she noticed regis’ hand hovering at her back. “tell anyone we hugged & it’ll be the last time you get to use that hand,” she said, no real malice in her voice as she pulled the vampire into a hug. she didn’t get to see the wide, fanged grin that regis gave in return. 

as mentioned above, milva taught geralt how to better use a bow. along the way, she ended up teaching cahir, angouleme, & even dandelion too. geralt was the best at hitting far-away targets, but angouleme was downright dangerous in that she was enthused about using a bow. angouleme somehow convinced regis to let her try & land a trick-shot (an apple perched on the poor vampire’s head)... & to everyone’s surprise, she landed the shot with ease in front of the group. it was only later that milva noticed the absurd amount of holes in regis’ cape & he later confessed that he had secretly practiced with angouleme beforehand so she could make her trick-shot easily in front of everyone. 

a few weeks after her miscarriage, milva woke from a frightening nightmare--but couldn’t remember anything about it except she knew she had seen an arrow flying through the air. it was still dark when she woke, but being unable to sleep, she carefully slipped out from her bedroll & went deep into the forest, far from where they had set up camp, & climbed the tallest tree she could find, going up until she reached the uppermost branch. staring up at the stars, she took a deep breath & screamed. all the emotion she had been holding in since the battle for the bridge poured out of her in a flurry of anguished screams & angry tears at the unfairness of the universe. she screamed into the dark until she no longer felt sad--only tired. that morning, she approached the group & chopped off her braid. it was time for a change. the group needed her just as badly as she needed them--the world had never been kind to her, but she’d be damned if she gave up now, not when there was still a child that could be saved. 

Dandelion: 

dandelion often acted as the comedic relief for the group--& he knew it. did he ham up some of his actions & words to rouse a chuckle or two from his friends? yes, but it was something dandelion chose to do. he wasn’t a fighter. he couldn’t brave the fray the same way everyone else could. he was a minstrel, a bard, a poet, & he vowed to use his talents to improve morale & bring some joy to the hansa as they traveled through treacherous lands to find ciri. 

most nights he ended up playing his lute as the final embers of the campfire smoldered away. assuming he wasn’t drunk, he usually played until he was sure that everyone was asleep, though he could never quite tell if regis was truly asleep--or if the vampire even needed sleep at all. regardless, despite the selfish facade he often wore like a second skin, he did know the importance of a good night’s rest. & though he couldn’t stop the nightmares that his friends often woke from in the dead of night, he hoped his music could at least give them a few hours of blissful, dreamless sleep. 

dandelion was completely prepared to sacrifice his life to save ciri. he owed geralt that much--the witcher having been both is best friend & one of the few people who saw past his exaggerated persona. he’d even saved dandelion’s life more times then he could count. so why did he remain in toussaint when everyone else traveled to stygga castle w/ geralt? simply because geralt asked him to. before leaving, they had one final private conversation where geralt asked dandelion to stay. to remain safe. he’d gone far enough, braved enough bloodshed to last him a lifetime. geralt knew it was likely no one in the hansa would survive the events at stygga castle & he wanted, at the very least, for dandelion, his oldest friend, to survive. to survive & tell their story, no matter how it all turned out.

when regis showed up at the Chameleon one night, looking as frantic & pale as a nightwraith, dandelion actually passed out in fear & shock. when he awoke & saw that regis was truly alive, whole, & still had all his memories, dandelion cried. it was the first time he had ever hugged the vampire, but he couldn’t help it; he had accepted the fact that only geralt had survived the events of stygga castle, but regis was here, looking a tad worse for wear, but as solid & corporeal as he had been before. once regis explained why he had come to visit, needing help to get geralt out of jail & out of what would likely be a death sentence, dandelion rose to the occasion. though regis had said his help was indispensable, something that definitely stroked his ego, dandelion had been prepared to face the duchess. prepared to finally make good on his vow that he’d die for geralt if he had to--but he didn’t need someone as keen & perceptive as regis realizing that dandelion could be brave, ‘lest he be asked to perform even more heroic deeds. furthermore, dandelion had plenty of practice hiding his true intentions/feelings since he had been working as a redanian spy for some time (even if his loyalties to political powers waned from time to time). 

Cahir: 

in a perfect world, one where destiny & war did not care to know his name, he’d have lived a simple life. he never would have had as much blood on his hands, never would have used a sword to cut down people in the first place. he would have been a fisherman, selling his wares at different ports while he traveled the seas, charting his way by the stars. he would be able to have a blissful, dreamless sleep, no longer confronted with prophetic dreams about an ashen-haired woman. his name would have been left unknown, no legacy to speak of, no longer associated with the White Wolf, but it would have been worth it, if such a peaceful universe existed.

cahir was surprised to learn that dandelion and geralt weren’t fans of fishing. “it’s a long tale better suited for another night,” dandelion would say, geralt grunting in agreement. it confused cahir, as he had never seen someone so skittish of fishing like dandelion was, but he didn’t pry, knowing better than to do something that could disrupt his already tumultuous relationship with geralt. instead, he found himself teaching angouleme to fish, who took to catching fish with her bare hands surprisingly well for someone of her stature. it was like fishing with a child, cahir noted, bc every time she caught a fish, she’d holler with glee... even if she caught something as small as a minnow.

cahir appreciated how readily milva trusted him--while geralt had still insisted on seeing him as an enemy, milva had offered a metaphorical olive branch. unbeknownst to her or the rest of the hansa, cahir always tried to keep sight of milva during battle, hoping to lend a hand when he could. it was after a few months of traveling together that cahir stopped keeping track of her, believing entirely in her near-supernatural archery skills... something he regretted moments before he died at stygga castle. 

there are many times in the books where cahir is completely silent as the rest of the hansa banters. my interpretation? cahir, while being well-versed in common speech, & having the ability to speak it w/o too distinct of a nilfgaardian accent, still had some trouble understanding the group at times. regis already made translation difficult as he often said words that cahir had never heard before despite being trained in proper common speech, but then angouleme made it so much worse. her use of slang & weird phrases confused him beyond belief. so, when it got too confusing, cahir just pretended to follow the flow of conversation. sometimes he even just decided to take a nap if it got to be too confusing. 

Angouleme: 

angouleme wasn’t used to trusting people. in her life as a bandit, & even before that--when she was being raised by distant relatives who took every chance to let her know that they didn’t love her & then her hellish nightmare at the orphanage--no one had given her a reason to truly trust them. but geralt had. he asked for her freedom & allowed her to travel with him & join his hansa despite her past, despite how if they had met only weeks earlier, she would have tried to kill him without a second thought. so while she hadn’t trusted the rest of the group at first, she did trust geralt implicitly, which was enough. it was partly why she tried to raise the rest of the group’s hackles--wanting to see just how they would act towards her if she didn’t play nice. she was surprised to see that they still accepted her as a part of the hansa, even when she continued to purposefully annoy milva & regis. 

after getting to know milva, angouleme immediately started to see her as an older sister. she had been an only child, but having spent time at an orphanage, she knew the merit of creating a family for yourself--a family you choose rather than one bound by blood. similarly, she genuinely saw regis as her uncle & was delighted whenever the vampire slipped in one of her sayings into his colloquial speech. he took extra time to teach her about higher vampires since she joined the hansa much later than the others & was kind enough to answer any of her questions about vampires, no matter how personal they were. as for milva, angouleme took to the archery lessons with exuberance because she wanted to both impress milva and also just enjoyed spending time w/ her. one time after a particularly fluid shot, angouleme got so excited that she squeezed milva into a tight hug w/o thinking. she was surprised to find milva return the hug with a similar intensity, stroking her hair. & if angouleme openly cried at knowing milva also saw her as family, at being given the sort of physical affection she didn’t realize she was craving, milva never mentioned it to the rest of the hansa. 

in toussaint, angouleme became a cat magnet. she spent her extra coin on fish from the docks &, true to her family crest, she would hand out pieces of fish to the stray cats in the city. at the sound of her boots hitting the wooden docks, scores of cats would come racing to her in search of free food & affection. they were the hardest thing about toussaint to leave behind

before they made it to stygga castle, geralt pulled her aside to make sure angouleme really wanted to participate in the battle. he also tells her the truth about how he originally had mistaken her for ciri--but now trusts her & sees her as a member of the hansa from her merit & courage alone. “you’ve come with us far enough, angouleme. i don’t want you doing this just because you think you owe me. you don’t. you can walk away now. return to toussaint. live a happy & long life.” in response, angouleme flicked him off & stuck out her tongue. “no one’s ever forced me to do anything before & it’s too late for you to try & scare me off now. we’re comrades, remember? a hansa. family. besides, i’m not gonna die here; i’ve got a high-class brothel to open in beauclair, remember?” her words ring hollow when she collapses to the ground, bleeding out in ciri’s arms. she asks to be made a countess before she dies, a characteristic smirk still on her lips at the thought of finally having her royal bloodline acknowledged in some way. 

#geralt of rivia #emiel regis #milva barring #dandelion #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #angouleme #angoulême #witcher headcanons #sorry this took so long!! i kinda.... went off on this post lol #// long post

[justanartsysideblog]

Children of Fate

Part 1 of Melarue’s origin story for the Vamp AU! Warnings for typical vampire themes, sexual themes, and violence.

---

They do not remember their parents. They know they must have existed but beyond that, little else. Was Melarue given to the temple by their mother and father like Geldauran? Or were they an orphan found on the streets like Anaris? They do not remember. The only parent they have ever known was Fate.

The great Temple of Fate stood atop a hill overlooking the small city of Nevarra; still young, but quickly growing and full of promise.

The people of Nevarra brought tribute to the temple, in the hopes that Fate would smile upon them; animals for the slaughter, fresh incense, fine wines and rich, silken cloth…

...and beautiful children to serve the temple as acolytes.

Children of Fate, the people of Nevarra called them. But Melarue and the others called Fate by another name. To them, she was Mother Moonlight.

She only came to them at night, after the sun had set. She would smile and sing to them, and call them her precious children, and she was the most beautiful person Melarue had ever seen. Her skin was frigid to the touch but her smile was warm, and so was the magic that danced at her fingertips.

At night she would show them her magic, show how she sowed it into the very soil to help the people that worshiped her have strong crops. Or take them all down to the banks of the Minanter River and show them how she would calm the waters, or call fish to the boats.

“These people believe I am their god,” She would say, and laugh in a way that always made Melarue’s chest tighten. “It is as it should be. I must be what I must be.”

---

The children keep up the temple: they sweep, and wipe the dust from the polished altar pieces, and make sure there is always incense burning. Melarue’s favorite part is tending the large garden behind the temple. The other children like roaming the dark tunnels below where Mother rests during the day, but Melarue loves nothing more than the feeling of fresh soil beneath their bare feet and the sight of hydrangeas in the sunlight.

Anaris is the eldest of them, and comes of age when Melarue is still young. He is the first that Mother turns, made to be her childe in full, to live in the dark with her and join in the destiny she has crafted for them all. The night of his turning Melarue sits with the other children in the upper chambers, and waits.

Mother Moonlight comes just before dawn, and tells them that Anaris is well.

“You must wait to meet him, my darlings. He must learn to control his hunger now, as I do.”

It is several months before they see him again, at Mother’s side when she comes to visit them all. Though physically he looks much the same, there is a sharpness to him that accentuates his beauty. His skin and eyes seem to glow from within, and his usual teasing charm seems amplified.

A vampire’s charm, now.

One day I will be that beautiful. I will be Mother’s childe truly, and she will be so proud of me. Melarue looks into Anaris’ eyes and smiles to themself.

When Anaris leaves the upper chambers, a new acolyte is brought in. Thremael, so young he can barely walk, orphaned by war, the son of a refugees seeking safety in the city of Nevarra. He looks so small in Fate’s arms, held close as he sleeps.

Melarue and Merith braid his hair, and weave flowers into the thick strands, and feed him goat’s milk when he cries out with hunger.

Merith is Melarue’s best friend.

He is kind and bright, and so very unlike themselves. They are always noticing faults in others, even if they do not say them aloud. They are good at lying, at telling stories that the others always believe. They are good at hiding, and getting their way. The others says it isn’t fair that they can always ask Mother for things and she will make certain they get them, but it is just because the others don’t use the right words.

Merith tells them that lying isn’t a nice thing to do, and that they should try to tell the other children how they feel properly. That seems foolish, because if they told some of the others how they really felt about them, well, Melarue thinks they’d probably get angry.

Merith is the only one who never gets angry.

Melarue counts down the years till their turning as they grow older, and taller. They are told they are beautiful and when they look at themselves in one of Mother’s mirrors, they find that they agree. Vanity, it seems, is another of their faults.

Merith is the same age, but he never gets quite as tall as them. His hair is wild and unmanageable, and his face is plain. Melarue still finds his smiles warm, and his friendship a comfort. He is still their dearest friend, even if he is not as eager as themselves, to receive Mother’s blood.

“What will it be like, to never feel the sun again?” Merith whispers to them one evening. Mother and Anaris have gone out to hunt so there are no lessons that evening, and the others have all gone to sleep. Melarue inches forward in the darkness, and wraps their long arms around their friend.

“We will all be together with Mother, forever. That is better than sunlight, is it not?”

“What will you do without your flowers?” Merith continues.

It has been one of their worries, certainly. “Mother is all that matters,” They say at last, “The flowers will still be there, even if I cannot see them bloom.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

Melarue holds him closer. “I am afraid of failing Mother.” It is the first honest thing they’ve said that evening, and they know that Merith knows it is so as well. He has always been so very good at seeing through their lies.

“I am not special, like you or Anaris or the younger ones.” Merith shakes his head, and his curls brush against their cheek. “What if I am not strong enough?”

“You will survive the turning,” Melarue vows, “You will survive because you must. Mother has chosen us, we will not fail her. She has never been wrong before.” Melarue knows that if either of them fail, it will be through a fault of their own, and not a decision Mother has made. Still, they think of the two they are the most deficient. If one of them were to fail, surely it would be them.

When Melarue and Merith turn twenty, Mother tells them they will undergo the turning at the next full moon. Melarue can barely contain their excitement, and even Merith seems pleased. They spend the next few weeks listening to Mother’s instructions, to Anaris’ descriptions of what will happen, and preparing their rooms down below where they will soon make their permanent home.

The night of their turning, Merith is taken below first. Melarue remains in the open chamber at the foot of the stairs, and listens to the sound of Merith’s screams. They can feel their heart beating wildly in their chest—out of fear for themselves or Merith they do not know. It is the last time they will ever feel their heart beat, they know, whether the turning is successful or not.

Finally, Anaris comes forward and gives them a smile, “Merith is well. Come with me.”

Some of the tension in them eases, at that. Merith succeeded! He is a true childe of Mother now, just as they will be. Please, they think, as they follow Anaris deeper into the lower chambers. Please let me succeed. Let me make Mother proud. Let me stay with my family.

Mother awaits them in the ceremonial room. It still smells of blood and Merith is nowhere to be found. They suspect that Mother has taken him to his rooms before letting Melarue inside. She opens her arms wide, and they walk into them without hesitation.

“My clever Melarue,” Fate sighs, “It is time.”

“I am ready,” Melarue answers, and they are not certain if it is a lie or not.

Fate lowers them gently to the cushions on the floor, her smile gentle and kind. Her eyes are bright, nearly glowing in the dim torchlight. They can feel the magic in the room, heavy, like a blanket being draped over them as Fate whispers words of bonding.

She uses her nail to slice along her wrist, tilts Melarue’s head back, and places it to their mouth. Mother’s blood is thick and sour, it burns as it trails down their throat. For a moment their mouth is full of the taste, and then everything goes white.

Pain lances through their body as their skin burns. They try to tear it away, but Mother is holding them close, whispering in their ear. They cannot hear her, can only think I have failed her. I have failed Mother. If I cannot do this, I am worthless.

They remember being alone, being small and without purpose. A world before Mother. They cannot go back to that. They can’t.

They blink, and look up at Mother’s beautiful face, and smile.

The hunger is...jarring. They do not fully remember their first feeding. Mother praises them, as they drain the body before them to the last drop, their stomach full, the blood so sweet they nearly weep.

“Clever, clever Melarue, you have done so well,” Fate pets their head, “You did not spill a single drop.”

Fate teaches them not to kill as well, teaches them how to feed and when, and who to choose from. Teaches them how to wipe the minds of those they leave alive. They find they are very, very good at it. They learn early on that they can alter those memories, turn them into other things that they wish. It earns them more praise, even as Fate tells them that even if they do not always kill, it is their right to do so.

Their ability to choose is what separates them from the other vampires, Fate tells them. Beasts that gorge themselves on human blood, who hide in caves and think that they can take what they will; base creatures that do not understand the higher calling of their immortality, of Fate’s plans.

“The mortals of this world pray to us for protection. We are their gods. It is our right to take what we must in return.”

That, they learn, is Fate’s true plan.

To become the God of all the mortals, to be worshiped forever. Is it her calling, she claims, and theirs as well. “My children will be gods at my side. The mortals needs us, just as we need them. We feed from them, and they do as we command, and we provide them with protection. It is nature’s way.”

Fate shows them what she has done with her magic, what she has used her thralls to make down below, where none of them have yet traveled; miles upon miles of tunnels and chambers below the surface. A city beneath a city.

“One day this will stretch across all lands,” Fate whispers, and Melarue can feel the certainty of her words in their bones.

“Why not find a way to block out the sunlight instead?” Thremael asks mother years later, after his own turning. “Surely that would be better. Let us walk outside without fear, instead of hiding beneath the ground.”

“And what would happen, if there was no sun?” Fate hums, weaving magic into a dark cloak.

“The mortals would die,” Merith answers for her. “They cannot survive without the sun. Their food would perish, and the air would be too cold.”

“And without their blood we’d die as well,” Anaris adds, sneering, “Come now Thremael, think for once.”

“Children,” Fate warns, even as she looks at them all fondly. “Do not fight among yourselves. It was a simple question, and Merith has provided a simple answer. Let this be the end of it.”

Melarue watches her siblings joke with one another, the moment of tension gone immediately, and looks back to the cloak in Fate’s hands. “What is that for, Mother?” They have not seen that type of magic before. They have been learning, over the few hundred years. Magic comes easily to them, and they have become more adept at it than even Anaris in this short time, a fact that they tell him often when he annoys them. They pick up the nuances very quickly, learn to manipulate and add, to twist what was seen. To trick and deceive. Mother says they are clever, they want to prove it true.

Fate holds the fabric up for Melarue’s inspection. “A minor protection, against the sun. It will not give more than half an hour’s worth of time, but it is enough, should you find yourselves in need.”

“Why would we have a need for it? We never leave the city,” Anaris sighs, curling up on the cushions beside Fate. There is a wistful tone to his voice; he does not like being so confined, even if there is an entire city to explore. He has always craved more; always the first to leave for a hunt in the evening and the last to return.

“I am sending you on a very important mission.” Fate responds, “War is upon the horizon. The people of Nevarra have asked for Fate’s aide, to turn the upcoming battle in their favor.”

It is not the first time they have been asked to help in times of war. They had even helped Mother sink enemy ships in the harbor with rough waves, once. Mother had needed to draw on the strength of all four of them for it, and it had left them all drained for weeks, but by the time the magically summoned storm had passed, not a ship had remained.

“The enemy army of Orlais is large, and has gathered on the edge of the Fields of Ghislain. The Emperor’s sons lead the force.”

“Their army is thousands strong.” Thremael shakes his head, “We cannot kill them all.”

“Kill the princes, and their top generals.” Fate orders. “You must fill the armies of Orlais with terror. You must show your power, so that when the bodies are found in the morning, Orlais will tremble in fear at the might of Nevarra.”

Merith swallows. Melarue catches the uneasy look in his eyes; aside from the night of his turning he has never killed a mortal he has fed upon. He does not enjoy killing, or the thirst they all have. Fate knows it as well, as she motions for him to sit on her other side, and gathers him close; even now they all seem so small in her arms. “I know it will be difficult, my childe, but this is your destiny. You are serving a higher purpose than yourself, and for that you must do things you do not wish to.”

Fate dismisses the others, so that she can continue to speak with Merith.

“Merith is going to get us all killed if he hesitates,” Thremael mutters, as the three walk down the hallway toward their rooms.

“Do not speak of Merith that way,” Melarue warns.

“You know it as well as I do. He does not believe in Mother’s plans. He thinks we should live as others of our kind do, and keep to ourselves rather than take the positions of greatness that Mother sees for us. He is weak.”

Melarue snarls, baring their fangs as they shove Thremael up against the wall. They are taller, but he is more muscular, and he quickly shoves them away with a growl of his own, eyes glowing in the darkness.

“It is a wonder he even survived the turn,” Thremael gives one last huff before storming off toward his rooms. Melarue watches him go, nails digging into the palms of their hands as they hold themselves back.

“He is not entirely wrong,” Anaris points out, after a moment of silence. He holds up his hands as they turn toward him with a glare, “I do not mean that Merith is weak. I just worry he will hesitate at the wrong moment, because he is too kind.”

“He would never disobey her.”

Anaris sighs, “Come into the city with me tonight. We should enjoy ourselves before tomorrow.”

---

Melarue enjoys themselves quite thoroughly, at Anaris’ prompting. They know being well-fed is important for the task at hand, and they drink a bit more from their targets than they would usually do so. They twist memories, plant fake ones, get inventive because they can and because a dozen different bloods are swimming in their system and their lips taste like fire.

Thremael joins them halfway through the night, and despite their earlier irritation with him they pull him close and into the pile of bodies twisting beneath them. Merith is absent, they note, but it is a fleeting thought before they return to the moment and the feeling of hands on their hips and between their legs.

It is a long night.

When the sun sets the next evening, Melarue takes the cloak Fate hands to them with reverence. It is a powerful magic, and for her to have made one for each of them...they can feel a bit of Merith’s magic in the weave as well, and feel a rush of fondness for their friend. He must have stayed with Mother to finish them the night before.

“Do as I have instructed, and we will finish this war before it reaches the walls of the city.”

Slipping across the bridge and through the forest is the easy part. The four of them are quick, as Anaris shifts shape and goes ahead, leaving the others to travel on foot. Even without wings they do not take long, immortal bodies moving without strain or need of rest at a pace no mortal could match.

The four pause on a hill overlooking the edge of the woods, and survey the scene before them. Little glimmers of torchlight move across the fringes of the army camp; sentries and guards, moving between rows and rows of tents that stretch as far as Melarue can see.

They remember the map Mother had shown them, with the locations of the princes and generals among the soldiers, they remember where they must go, to the far west of the camp, where the second prince lies sleeping.

They look to Anaris and Thremael, who nod and head into the shadows without a word, and look back at dear Merith. His expression is conflicted, eyes worried as he looks ahead. “They have not tried to harm us, Mel. Isn’t this too cruel?”

“The mortals that worship Mother will be harmed if we do not kill them.” Melarue points out, “And the Orlesians bring with them their worship of the Maker. They would tear down our temple if they overran the city. They would rape and pillage the people that come to us for protection.”

“I know,” Merith whispers. “I know.”

Melarue leaves him with a reassuring kiss to the forehead and goes where they must. They hear him move somewhere behind him, heading off to complete his own task, albeit reluctantly. 

It is not difficult to walk unseen, to deflect the gaze of guards, to silence their footsteps, to make their image hazy. They navigate through the tents until they arrive at their destination, and slip beneath the folds of the heavy fabric.

The room is dark, but they can smell smoke from the nearby candles, not long doused, and feel the warmth rising from the furs on the bed in the corner. The prince shifts, mumbling to himself as they walk forward.

He is not the first they have killed; but he is the first they will murder in cold blood. They know that Mother is right, and they do not hesitate, as their nails lengthen and they tear open his throat. His eyes open wide, full of panic and confusion as he chokes. His body surges forward but they pin him down, keep him quiet as the light fades from his eyes. Still, they do not think they will ever enjoy killing for the sake of killing.

They lick the blood from one nail and frown. It tastes no different than blood they have had before. There is nothing special about you, they think as they look down at the corpse. You may be a prince, but you are still just a man.

The next part they enjoy even less. They must make the Orlesians afraid, make them fear monsters in the shadows, make them think their God has forsaken them to the whims of demons.

They place his head upon the map in the center of the room, blood soaking through the vellum, crimson blossoming out from the center of Nevarra City and traveling outwards. The rest of him they pull apart and toss around the room. They leave his torso in bed, his limbs to the four corners, fill wine glasses with the blood that remains...and it is over so quickly they hardly register that they have done it.

Not so difficult, to take a life.

Two more they must take, before the night is through.

They kill the generals in a similar fashion, just as easy, but a tightness begins in their chest, a noxious twisting in their stomach. It may not be difficult, but it makes them feel wretched.

When they return to the hill they find Merith waiting for them, smelling of blood, eyes glossy and expression lost. He crumples into their arms and they let him sob as they wait for Thremael and Anaris.

The two arrive together, laughing over something, mouths crimson. Anaris catches their gaze and his smile fades a bit, but Thremael does not seem to notice as he walks forward, “Did your prince taste royal, Melarue? I thought I noticed a hint of rosewater with my own, though it could have been from the prostitute in his bed.”

“Enough,” Melarue mutters, both to Thremael and to Merith who still clings to them. “We must return before the sun rises. Even with Mother’s magic we will need to move quickly.”

“It isn’t like you to be so serious,” Thremael pouts, as the four head home.

---

When they return they learn that Mother has made the twins, Oranani and Felralan, true children in their absence. Welcoming their new family into the fold eases the tightness in their chest, and by the end of the week they have pushed it aside entirely. It was all Mother’s plan, and it works exactly as she had claimed. The Orlesians run, panicked, when they find their princes and generals slaughtered in the night.

Merith never forgets; the hollowness in his eyes never leaves him, no matter how comforting Melarue tries to be. They argue over it more than once, when Merith comes to their rooms to rest and seek solace, and asks them if they think it was right to do such a thing.

“It was Mother’s decision and we will obey it. Mother knows what she is doing. She has always known what we must do. Do not question her again,” Melarue whispers, holding him tight.

They know Mother would never hurt any of her children, but a part of them worries, deep down, that Merith would be in danger if someone else were to hear his doubts.

People continue to bring offerings to the Temple of Fate, as years go by.

New acolytes, as well.

The beautiful Geldauran, who Melarue can’t help be jealous of. His beauty outshines their own, they think, and he believes it as well. It takes a while for Melarue to warm to him, to see that there is more to him than conceit. They are both vain, and that vanity makes them competitive at first.

They learn that each of their new siblings has their faults, but their strengths as well. And no matter how much they fight, they are all children of Fate, and that connection is more powerful than any other.

Daern’thal is the last.

Shy, eager-to-please Daern’thal, all gangly limbs and sharp, perceptive eyes.

Not all who were given Mother’s blood survive the turning. Okri, Harra, Tamlen...Melarue mourns each of their deaths silently, for when Daern’thal had wept openly Geldauran had slapped him viciously.

“They were not worthy of being Mother’s true children, do not shed tears for them.”

There were others, they know. Others that ran through the marble halls and ate and laughed with them, whose faces they do not remember. Blurred visages, hints of memories that never quite surface.

Melarue focuses on their magic, as the city grows around them. They learn to shift their form, to take on shapes previously unknown to them, how to turn to mist, to pull themselves apart and put themselves back together.

They spend long evenings discussing new books and languages with Daern’thal and Oranani, or reveling in the growing brothel district with Anaris and Thremael. They try to pull Merith out of his melancholy to no avail, and quickly go frustrated, leaving him to sulk with Felralan, whose own somber demeanor matches him perfectly.

It is a phase, they tell themselves. Give him time and he will become his old self.

Wars rage around Nevarra. The city becomes a kingdom, borders spreading further and further. If Fate is worried by this new development she does not share her worry with them, simply continues her work. She shuts herself off in her chambers for longer periods of time, distant in a way they have not seen before.

One evening she calls all her children into her chambers, expression sober. She gives them all a gentle smile, the kind that warms Melarue still, a feeling of love and safety and belonging filling them. “My children, war looms upon the horizon once more, and my loyal worshippers call for aid.”

“I guess the Orlesians have forgotten our last battle,” Anaris jokes, and Melarue frowns as Merith stiffens beside them.

“It is not the Orlesians,” Fate continues, “The growing empire of Tevinter seeks to conquer Nevarra.”

“Then we will do to them what we did to the Orlesians,” Thremael shrugs. “There is no need to worry, Mother.”

“Orlais worships the Maker. Their strengths are limited. The Tevinter Imperium disregards many of the false god’s teachings.” Fate shakes her head, “They are not above seeking the aid of vampiric forces.”

Other vampires? Melarue swallows. They have never fought another vampire, never seen one aside from Fate and their coven. The concept seems so foreign to them, that others would exist out there in the world, or that they would somehow be a threat to Fate.

“This battle will not be easily won.” Fate holds out her hands with a soft smile, “But I have faith in you, my children. Nevarra’s pantheon must defend it against all who threaten this city. This is the beginning of what I have foreseen for you all.”

“Of course Mother.” Geldauran grasps one of her hands between his own. “Tell us what we must do.”

---

The night before the battle Melarue goes into the city with the others, managing to drag even Daern’thal, Oranani, and Felralan along to feast and revel. A distraction, something to remember instead of the bloodshed that will come the next they awaken. Only Merith remains behind.

“You are acting like a spoiled child,” They snap, when he refuses.

“Why must we fight our own kind?” Merith asks them, “What if they only wish to speak with us?”

“Stop doubting Mother. If she says they are our enemy then they are our enemy.” Irritation rises in them, hot and sharp, and then guilt overrides it, as they see the pained look in their greatest friend’s eyes. Their shoulders slump, and they gather him in their arms. “Oh Merith, I am sorry. I wish I knew how to make you smile again.”

“I love you Melarue,” Merith sobs into their neck, “I am sorry I cannot be like you.”

“I am glad you are not,” Melarue laughs softly, “I think you are much better as yourself. Come with me? It will do you good to get out of the temple. Enjoy yourself tonight.” They kiss his lips. “It can be just the two of us. Or would you like me to ask Anaris to join?”

Merith simply pulls away with a shake of his head. “Go without me. I do not think I would be good company.”

In the end they do not press him. They leave, and spend the evening with the others. They dance with a drunken Geldauran, and ride his slender body as he digs his nails deep into their thighs, and whispers adorations against his skin until he begs them for release.

They are sated and exhausted by the time they return to their chambers to rest before the sun sets, and do not think to check on Merith to see if his spirits have lifted.

It is their greatest regret.

---

Merith is gone.

Melarue is inconsolable, as they search the entirety of the temple and its underground chambers for him. Gone, as if he never existed at all. Fate holds them, and whispers comforting words, sings them into a state of calm to keep them from lashing out, sends the others to look for signs of him in the city.

“We cannot waste time,” Oranani states matter-of-factly, “If we do not leave now we will be unable to return before the sun rises. We must continue with your plan, Mother, before the Tevinter forces enter the city.”

“We must find Merith!” Melarue turns to her, glaring, “What if he was taken? What if he went out last night and could not return before the sunrise? What if he is waiting for us?”

“Melarue,” Fate sighs, brushing hair from their forehead. “My sweet, clever Melarue, it pains me to see you so distraught, just as it pains me that Merith is gone. We cannot let the city be taken, we must go and fight.” She pauses, “Would you like to remain behind? It will be difficult without you, especially now that Merith will be absent, but I understand your grief. I share in it.”

It is a rebuke, even if a gentle one. Melarue feels guilty over their reaction. The others are worried about Merith as well, how could they have let themselves act so shamefully? How could they have assumed Mother did not worry about Merith even more than themselves? They shake their head. “No...no I will go with you, Mother. I will look for him when we return.”

“We will all look for him,” Mother nods, “I promise you that.”

---

Melarue moves through the forest mechanically, following the presence of Fate as they fly through the air. They remind themselves that they are doing the right thing, that Mother needs them, and even though it rings hollow, they force themselves forward.

Merith left you and Mother when you needed him most. He is the traitor, not you.

It does not help.

They are so caught up in their thoughts that they nearly collide with Thremael in front of them, catching themselves just in time, shifting back into their vampire form as they land on the soft grass beside him.

Mother stands several feet ahead of them, looking into the woods ahead, as if she can see past them to the enemy that lies beyond. Perhaps she can. Melarue can sense the vampires somewhere ahead of them in the trees. So alike themselves, yet so different.

“They have set an ambush ahead,” Mother murmurs, turning toward her children. “Once they attack, I will leave the vampires to you, and move toward the mortal force.”

“Anaris should go with you,” Oranani responds, “There are too many. The size of the force will overwhelm you.”

“Leave the mortals to me.” Fate repeats, before she moves forward.

Melarue agrees with Oranani, but knows better than to defy Fate. They follow behind her, the comforting presence of the rest of their coven around them as they move deeper into the forest. They know from studying the maps of this region with Daern’thal that the forest continues for several miles before the ground drops to a wide, flat plain.

That is where the mortal army lies, waiting to move forward through the nearby ravine.

It does not take them long to find a small clearing—the ideal place for an ambush. The others know it as well, as they exchange glances, and feel the unmistakable presence of vampires around them; incapable of masking themselves. Young. Foolish.

Abundant.

Melarue dodges to the right just as the ground where they had stood erupts in a pile of stone and dirt, a shadowed figure standing in the small crater left behind. They hear the sounds of battle around them, the shouts of their coven,  the tang of magic in the air sour in their mouth.

So it begins.

They press their hand to the earth, feeling the roots of a nearby tree surge upward with their magic, shooting from the ground as a mass of vipers.

The vampire screams as they are torn to pieces, but Melarue has already turned, throwing up a barrier as flames encompass their form. They can feel the heat against their skin, but their own magic keeps it from burning as they brush the flames aside and redirect them, orange fire turning black.

It becomes a blur, after that. They do not remember how many they kill. They channel their grief into rage, imagine each of these shadowed strangers as the one that has taken Merith from them. These vampires are younger, less experienced, their magic weak. Many resort to claws and fangs or mortal weapons in the end, and Melarue slaughters them all.

Even so, Melarue does not come out unscathed.

They do not notice the pain at first, as the last vampire falls at their feet, and the clearing goes silent. Then their body begins to ache, the cuts along their arms begin to sting, and they notice that a large chunk of their side is simply gone.

They clamp a hand to their ribs and grit their teeth, pouring healing magic into the gaping wound. They feel their skin knit itself together beneath their palm, but know that it will take a good feeding to recover fully.

“Melarue!”

It is Anaris, who seems unharmed save for a cut along his forearm. He slings their arm around his shoulder and they gratefully put their weight against him as his own magic finishes mending the damage beneath the skin.

“Where is Mother?” Melarue manages, as Anaris leads them through the forest.

“I do not know. We separated after the ambush.” Anaris answers.

They burst through the trees just as the sky turns white. They both lift their hands to cover their eyes, but the light burns through their fingers—not painful, but blinding. The wind roars in Melarue’s ears, and blood trickles down their nose as the magic in the air condenses and then seems to pull itself apart.

The light slowly begins to dim, and Melarue blinks back tears, their blurred vision coming into focus to see Anaris staring ahead of them, eyes wide in shock. They turn as well, and let out an audible gasp.

Standing at the base of the cliff is Fate, arms outstretched before her, surrounded by three prone figures—the last of Tevinter’s vampire forces.

Beyond her is a field of corpses.

Melarue does not know what magic Fate has wielded, only that in its wake, the army of Tevinter is no more. Soldiers charred and turned to ash, husks left in place of bodies. The heavy magic they had felt moments before lingers like a fog among the corpses, before dissipating fully.

“...she truly is a god...” Geldauran whispers from Melarue’s right.

---

They do not find Merith.

Melarue searches for him for months, going as far as they can each night, always returning empty handed. They cannot understand why he would leave them, cannot bring themselves to think that he was killed by Tevinter’s vampires, or had taken the morning walk.

Surely he had not been so miserable as to leave them behind without a goodbye.

They mourn, they clean his chambers, hoping he might return. Mother lets them, mourns just as keenly. It is a comfort, knowing they are not alone in their grief.

They cannot stand to sleep alone. They fear one of the others will disappear, and cling to the thought that if they are with them, then at the very least, they cannot be fully abandoned.

It takes years for them to accept that he is gone, and that he is never coming back. He has left them, they are certain. Not dead, surely not dead, but gone. Unable to shoulder the burden of Mother’s great vision, Geldauran claims, and his words sting but they are meant as a balm, they know. Meant to give them hope that he lives.

As time passes, more city-states and kingdoms begin to rise and rain power, and the borders of Nevarra grow. Fewer worshipers come to the temple.

They stop sending offerings.

“After all we have done for the city,” Geldauran rages, “How could they do this?”

“Mortals are foolish,” Oranani frowns, “They will see the error of their ways soon, when they face danger and their city needs protecting.”

“Mortals feel like they do not need us anymore,” Daern’thal points out, and shrugs when all of them turn toward him. “Some of us speak with mortals instead of always feeding off them.”

“Or fucking them,” Anaris grins, and Oranani rolls her eyes.

“Speaking of fucking and feeding,” Thremael throws an arm around Geldauran’s shoulders, ignoring the younger man’s glare, “I say we enjoy ourselves tonight.”

Most of the others head into the city, to drink their fill and enjoy the night. Melarue remains behind, despite Thremael’s protests.

Mother has begun to isolate herself, calling on them less and less. Something is worrying her, has been ever since their fight with the other vampires in the mountains. Anaris has gone to speak with her, Melarue knows. If anyone can find out what is trouble their mother it is him, her first child.

Still, Melarue finds they cannot enjoy the night. They read for a while, look through their collected scrolls but cannot seem to focus on the words. Their mind is elsewhere.

Daern’thal, they know, has stayed behind as well, to study a book of drawings he received from a merchant at the river market; designs for buildings of some kind that he had found fascinating. Perhaps he can sufficiently distract them, and the two can wait out the night until the others return.

They head toward his rooms, only to find them empty, the door still open.

A surge of magic catches their attention, sharp and unmistakable, running through the ground like an electric current. It makes the hair along their arms stand on end. They follow its source, deeper into the maze of tunnels and chambers beneath the temple, fear rising as they realize where they are heading.

Mother’s chambers.

They are not ready for the scene before them.

Anaris stands over Fate, body trembling, her blood dripping from his fingertips. Daern’thal lies still beside her, throat torn open.

For a moment Melarue thinks he is dead, before he gasps, choking, blood pouring from the wound. They hurriedly use their magic to close it, feeling Fate’s own lying in the wound, fighting them. But Fate’s magic fades quickly, and they realize it is because she is gone.

Dead. Mother is dead.

It is hard to focus, with Daern’thal’s head in their lap and Mother beside them, unmoving. They do not know what is happening. Mother is dead, Anaris—Anaris has killed her. How? Why? It hurts. Something in their chest throbs, pain lancing throughout their limbs at the loss.  

“What did you do?” Melarue gasps out, tears streaming down their cheeks.

Anaris looks down at them, as if only then noticing their presence. His lips tremble, and he is crying as well. “I...I had to. I—” Before he can finish his explanation the door opens. Oranani and Felralan walk inside, smelling of fresh blood, talking together before they both stop in their tracks.

Melarue wonders how this all must look, watching as Oranani’s pupils dilate in full, pitch black against her pale skin, as her mouth opens to reveal growing fangs. “What have you DONE?” Her voice roars like thunder, and her form grows as she charges forward before either Melarue or Anaris can speak.

Anaris throws up a barrier just as Oranani’s claws carve through the air, sparks flying where her nails dig into the obsidian disc in front of him, chips of sharpened glass flying across the room and shattering; A sliver slices into Melarue’s cheek, jolting them out of their own stupor.

“I had to—” Anaris begins, but Oranani does not let him finish as she shrieks, stones flying from the walls and launching themselves toward him.

“Murderer!” She screams, grabbing the granite table from the floor and hurling it in his direction.

Anaris holds up a hand and slices it clean in half, the large chunks falling to either side of him. A flicker of movement on their side, and Melarue turns just as Felralan surges from the shadows on Anaris’ left.

Melarue had never thought of who they loved more among their coven, had never seen it as a scale or quantifiable difference. But their body reacts before their mind can process what is happening and they throw up a barrier, black flames eating away at the twisting vines that shoot from Felralan’s outstretched arm.

They have chosen Anaris.

The two halves of the table move, slamming together just as Anaris turns to mist, seeping between the cracks before reforming a few feet away, the golden beads in his hair beginning to glow.

Melarue twists their flames, burning the vines that erupt from the ground near their feet, grasping for them.

A bramble slams into their midsection, three inch thorns tearing into their flesh as they are thrown back against the stone wall. They let out a chocked gasp and swallow a mouthful of blood as more vines encircle their arms and legs.

They can feel poison seeping through their veins, burning their skin, as Felralan walks toward them to deliver a finishing blow. His expression is unreadable, the upper half of his face hidden behind an ornate, eyeless mask. This one has rubies in the place of eyes, an odd detail to notice, they think.

“I am sorry,” He murmurs, as the vines tighten.

So am I, Melarue thinks, as they close their open right hand and watch as the metal mask crumples, hearing Felralan’s skull crack as he falls to the ground, headless.

The vines around them turn to ash and they stumble to their feet, turning to see Anaris on his knees, kneeling atop Oranani’s prone form, his golden beads scattered on the ground around them, stained crimson. Melarue hooks a hand under his trembling arm and pulls him to his feet and off of their sister.

“...what will we do when the others come?” Anaris asks numbly, staring at the bodies before them.

They had laughed and loved with these two, had lived with them for centuries. Melarue had shared secrets with Oranani that no one had known, had gardened at night with Felralan who had taught them that some flowers flourish in the moonlight.

What have they done? They have killed their family. There is only one thing they can do, now. The one thing they are so very good at. They must lie.

“Oranani and Felralan murdered mother,” Melarue claims, voice oddly cold. They seem to have gone numb.

Anaris blinks, “But—”

Melarue grabs his face between his hands, their fingers still slick with blood. “They killed her, Anaris.”

They see the pieces falling into place as he nods, but a part of them feels sick. They have failed mother. They are letting her real killer go free because they are a coward, and they are afraid of losing more of their family. “They meant to kill Daern’thal as well, and nearly did so. We barely managed to stop them.”

A bit of tension leaves Anaris’ shoulders. “Yes.”

Melarue swallows, and tries not to look at their Mother. They can feel her eyes upon them, wide and unblinking; accusatory. “Let me tell it, when the others come. I am better at lying.”

---

The other two believe them, as Melarue knew they would. Geldauran mourns the most, his beautiful visage twisted by grief and rage, and the fear in him so sharp they can nearly see it rising from his skin like steam. Thremael takes Felralan and Oranani’s bodies outside without a word, to be turned to ash in the morning sun.

When Daern’thal wakes he cannot remember the night before...and despite Melarue’s rushed healing, he never regains the use of his voice.

“The mortals will keep coming for Mother’s blessing.” Thremael says at last, once they have all gathered in the lower chambers that had once belonged to their Mother. She is lying in the room off of this one, clean and covered in a crimson shroud. They had all gone to pay their respects to her, save for Anaris, who refused to enter the room.

Melarue’s own vigil they had spent apologizing, sobbing against her unmoving form, begging for forgiveness. How could they have let this happen? How could they have let Anaris live after doing such a thing?

You are no childe of mine, they can hear her whisper, curses crawling through their head like a writhing mass of serpents. They will never forget the feeling of numbness that had settled in them when they had seen her at Anaris’ feet. No rage, no desire to kill him for what he had done. That was their largest betrayal, they know. That they could not find it in them to want him dead.

They do not know what led Anaris to killing Fate. He does not tell them, does not speak of the night ever again. It is his penance, they think, to hold in the truth of that night and blame himself for it.

None of them have had the strength to suggest sending her off in the morning light. If they do so it will seem too real, make her death final.

“We will take up the duty, then.” Geldauran murmurs. “We are Fate’s Children, it falls to us. She said we would be gods beside her, let us take up the mantle now.”

“The world is changing. The Andrastians are gaining strength with their god, even here. The mortals are smarter now. They are learning ways to kill us.” Melarue shakes their head. “I am no god.” I cannot stay. I cannot stay here knowing that Anaris killed Mother and that I helped murder my siblings and lied to the others. I am not worthy of Mother’s plan. I have destroyed it.

“Where will you go?” Thremael asks softly.

Melarue shakes their head. “I do not know.”

Anywhere but here.

#vampire au #melarue #anaris #fate #daern'thal #thremael #oranani #merith #felralan #I apologize for the angst #I had to split this all up because this part was horrible enough without adding sariandi in #XD

[fallbahediusjournal-blog]

06

July 15th. 2013

Morning. 6am

I have not made an entry in so long, and i am safe to say that everything is going well. So well in fact that i dont know who i am anymore, to anyone else this would seem a bad thing, it would mean they are losing touch and all else. Yet for me it is a very good thing, i am losing the sides to me that held the devestation of rage and all that bares with it. It seems to be slipping away and i can only find one cause for that being true and that is the human. How could i possibly call him that after everything, Yeti, my love, my one and only escape. It seems strange to read the entries of so long ago of how filled i was with hatred to all as well as the boy. But now i find light in some things, this isnt a time i say i am a changed man however. I still have hard times, i still get upset. Yeti has done everything for me in order to change, yet he is doing it all so understandably, as if he knows. I feel more connected with him than i ever had. We are in love, he is now my fledgeling after mishaps in the twon Krul resided in and i turned him purely because i cannot trust him enough human to look after himself. He is sweet, innocent, child like, if it came to life or death i doubt he would know how to fight it. So i hope with my given vampirism to him he will use it as a blessing in its curse to get stronger in any way he can.

We, yeti and i, have gone reasonably well. There were upsets at first in that town and once things were settled enough for krul i left with the boy to some place better. I wokt jot down where however, but it is peaceful here, its just us up in a snow cabin perfectly snug and sound considering. And i say considering because there are small things i havent told him, things such as this journal. My other abilities, my work, my family, my dreams. Hell. Thats about everyhing, its as though yeti is living with a stranger. And he is to innocent to pry with questions since the moment i sound angered he begins to cry or close too, which i have come to not mind. In a way i am thankful that he cries so i can hold him and care. Care. Thats why i dont mind it, because i feel a strong gut urge to care for him and i know part to the reason is he is my fledgeling. So here we are and everything is perfectly well, so perfect in fact that i will not make another entry for the time, i need to spend it with him. So i wil make this last entry /for now/ somewhat decent enough to everything.

The urges to kill have subsided and work has been dull enough to not be heavily reminded as to who i am. I can now safely say that i do not have to worry for some demonic entity to arrive at the doorstep in order to drag me back for another shift. I havent explained wholey what i do and i believe this is the time for it since i will not regret it later due to yetis company. By the way he is asleep by the bed. I am merely an armchair away and using my ability in order to be as quiet as possible. It is quite hilarious seeing his reaction every time i appear with no noise or quick to get to other places.... but any who. I have a lot of business lines that i attend, i like to jumble it up. Nowadays they call me something of a workaholic, i dont think i remember a time before now that i hadnt spent a day without a business paper in hand. First i will start with more human of jobs, i own three fashion outlets, yes i know, how odd for an assasin. You may think so until you look to the stock markets and just how rising the fashion is becoming these days. Of course i dont sit home coming to designs each day tiresomely. I have many, many peoplein order to look after things without me. I simply own them and grow profits. This is the same case for four other lines to work, i manage military exports and imports for almoat every country, the ones that side to french and america, britian. In simpler terms i handle a lot of 'who gets what?' In human military reources. Yes, they are quite away i am a very old vampire, we have an agreement in contract that is beyond a simple paper script to lawyers and such. I cannot say exactly what i do, but that is a good general basis for you. Yes, i also do this with the aid of other very trusted and secreted members so i do not have to rarely lift a finger. How can i do that? Its the military. Governments are well aware of the higher authority to the devil and the fact i am his right hand man, so they also understand i am busy doing business of more importance. In honesty i do not want to handle their play things yet i do. Money.

Now for my last jobs, in total i have 13 organisations to run and mess about in. But the alst are my personal favourites hence to the reason why i left them to last and why the ones i have now explained i don't participate fully in. See i am an assassin of sorts although i dislike that title greatly. I am a mix of species that many people, wonce they find out i am murderous... well lets say they want my help also. So therefore i go about as a hit man, i am given a folder of heads with their location and i go and knock those heads off one by one. This is where i get most of my money since i enjoy it. Who wouldmt? ... mixed breed yes. My father is the king of Alfheimr and that means he is a white elf, the higher classed elves of pure royalty. Not my scene one bit. My mother however is a vampiric empress of pure blood. Not only that but she is a dark necromancer of the highest levels, even though ahe is petty as all hell. So that leaves me carrying all three traits unlike my brothers who stuck to the two. With this being said it meant childhood was nonexistent, i was paraded a rare species, one to be studied and concealed. My father was sure on it and was the reason for a lot of dark days in my past. Since he did not let me study my magic as mother pleaded because it would bring burdens to Alfheimrs pure elven crown. I was left to feel.. detached in a way. I have never once classed them as a family only by the relation to blood. Nothing more. It was because of my mixed kind that my father lay many tests onto me, i cannot count how many soecialists came to see me, to study me and research how on earth one of the genes didnt die off. It was pointless of course since they never came to a conclusion.

Ah, yeti is turning in hia sleep. I must retire back to his side for now. Until the next entry

[anyzek-a]

while we’re on the subject: 

i think maybe regis only calls dettlaff ‘my love’ like it’s just not an impulse he’s ever had for anyone else before

they do this thing where they sort of press / graze their foreheads together when they greet one another or are displaying affection, it’s 100% a true higher vampire thing, and it makes regis a bit overwhelmed with emotion in a way that he is rarely seen, and might be a bit alarming to see since, though he is a physically affectionate person once he gets to know you, it’s sort of startlingly intimate / close gesture to see him just walk up and butt his head into the side of another person’s face since he’s normally so poised and gentlemanly

dettlaff is very much in constant need of physical reassurance / touch from his bondmate to help stabilize his moods in stressful situations, and regis will literally just hold on to him in some capacity 90% of the time they are near one another in order to satisfy that soothing behaviour. he’ll just lay a hand on his forearm or his shoulder or hold his hand / sleeve, touch his face, etc, it’s not healthy behaviour, but a lot of their bond is definitely not healthy despite the fact that regis is attempting to enable a path to a healthier emotional balance, the nature of the bond is toxically codependent

also the forehead thing is absolutely a vampire equivalent of a kiss, and dettlaff is thoroughly amused when regis, who has never had another true higher vampire as a lover, first kisses him ‘like a human would’. he enjoys it, of course, and it becomes engrained, but he finds it both quaint and bewildering (and sometimes detrimental) how ‘human’ regis is, how thoroughly he behaves according to human custom

along that vein, dettlaff often gets frustrated with regis’ unnecessary performance of humanity, and the way that he limits himself to human behavior at the expense of a loss of self. encouraging regis to occupy his body and his abilities and not see them as inherently monstrous / dangerous / invasive is probably the most positive thing that dettlaff gives to regis apart from just love itself, because regis does spend a large portion of his life repenting for his past behaviour by only half-occupying his own vampirism, and it interrupts his ability to feel connected to himself

#rel / dettlaff. #WHILE WE'RE ON IT #the truth is that #vampire romance is never healthy immortal love is toxic #dettlaff is obviously prone to toxic passion / possession #question is whether those behaviours can be processed #the fact that they literally cannot hide from one another is

[berriestart--lilacsweet]

Once Bitten, Twice Shy Chapter 1: Part 2

Picking up midway. If you need a refresher on what happened in the last bit heres a link: https://berriestart--lilacsweet.tumblr.com/post/173970201703/once-bitten-twice-shy-chapter-1-unexpected

When these parts are finalized and put up on FF.NET and AO3 they will be one consecutive chapter. 

Its not alot, but a smidgen more for: @wholelottatiffy @marmottine

I have another complete chapter of about 5000-6000 words... but it takes place a bit further in the future, so I’m holding off on posting it until I’m able to write more of the inbetween parts. 

----------------------------

SUMMARY: Regis and Evangeline begin to travel together. The two get to know one another a little better. 

_____________________________________

"It certainly seems that way at times." She muttered, trying to hide the blush spreading across her face by turning to assess the area around them. The ground was now saturated with a shade of crimson that matched Evangeline's hair.

"We had best gather our things from the inn forthwith and slip away before anyone notices these fellows are missing."  

"Good idea." She said turning back towards him, the blush faded from her face. "My horse and supplies are in the stable around back of the inn."

"Mine as well; we should be able to slip in and out unnoticed then."  

"Only if we make haste. Let's go." She said walking past him with large steps. Regis nodded and followed her lead.  

"Where are you heading from here, if I might inquire?" He asked as he took a spot beside her on the dirt path.

"Why? Are you going to follow me?"

"I thought, perhaps, I should accompany you, for a ways, for my own safety, that is. If any unruly mob came after me, what would I do without your assistance?"  

"I suppose having company for once wouldn't be too bad. Someone who can defend themselves is a plus, and..."

"And what?" He asked, a faint smile playing across his thin lips.

"Someone interesting and knowledgeable." She finished, the corners of his mouth turned up more at her flattery. She paused a moment before she continued. "I didn't use magic on that man, but you did."

He groaned and nervously ran his hand up the back of his neck, ruffling his hair. "I was hoping no one would notice that."  

"You might be able to hide things from most peasants, but not from me. You should keep that in mind if you're going to be my traveling companion. I know you're hiding who or what you really are." She said holding his gaze.  

Regis swallowed nervously and looked away from her. She stopped in her tracks about a hundred yards from the inn.  

"You helped me out back there. I owe you a debt now; I won't force you to tell me but be aware that I'm watching you. I will figure it out, one way or another. Don't abuse my trust, Regis, it's something I rarely hand out."

He blinked a few times at her, taking a moment to process her words. "Of course. I thank you for your trust and discretion."  

"Enough chit chat. Let's gather our things and be rid of this place." She stated moving alongside the shrubbery, concealing herself as much as possible.

"Agreed." He said following her lead to the back of the inn. Luckily for them no one was around. They took their belongings mounted their horses and fled north, along the byway. The land was lush and fertile, the dirt road lined with plentiful grasses and trees. It was a much better view than the dessert land Evangeline had previously been traveling through, but it also gave monsters and men ample places to hide. She focused her attention to her senses; keeping herself alert for anything that might be lurking in the picturesque scenery.  

They rode a distance in silence, the hours passing along from dusk to midnight, before Regis broke their silence.  

"You never did answer me."  

"Hmm?"

"I asked you where you were traveling to. There can't be many contracts for witchers this far south; considering this part of the world has 'moved on' and most monsters have hunted into extinction by you and your brethren."  

"Jobs are sparse but still lucrative. I'm heading to Neunreuth."

"The merchant city. I wonder how much its changed since I was last there..." He pondered to himself before continuing. "Of all places, why there?"

"I received a contract form the merchant guild there. I must get there as quickly as possible; this won't be a pleasure quest. We will ride hard. I won't slow down for you. You'll keep up or I'll leave you behind." She said her eyes forward.  

"I see, this must be a contract of some importance then."

"It seems their city is being plagued by a vampire; of what kind I'm still not certain."  

Regis tensed at her words. "A... A vampire you say?"

"You can go your separate way before we get there, if you're worried."

"Aren't you? Worried, that is."

She shrugged. "I've battled all kinds of monsters before. It's all I know."

"But...  Forgive me for my ignorance, but I've always heard vampires, of certain sorts, can blend in quite well and be a formidable foe, for even the best witcher. Does that not worry you?"

"Yes, and it's true some vampires are more intelligent than others. They also have different abilities compared to their lesser cousins. If this vampire is of the higher kind, which I'm thinking it is, it quite possibly will be the deadliest foe I've ever faced."  

"But yet here you are, almost rushing into its deadly grasp."

"I'm a witcher, Regis. What else should I do?"

He shook his head. "Not bloody run off to your death head first."  

"Would it bother anyone if I did? It's my job to rid the world of villainous creatures. I've trained my entire life for that purpose, underwent countless mutations to my body to be able to help rid the world of these monsters that plague, not just humans but all races. Who should care if I die attempting my job, other than the people I failed in doing so?"

"I'd care." He murmured, staring down at his hands as they rested on his saddle horn.  

"Pardon?" She asked leaning over in the saddle, peering down at him.

"If you died, I'd care." He replied turning his gaze to meet hers.

"We've only just met. Why would you care if I died? You seem plenty capable of fending for yourself; you slaughtered those men to ribbons back there as quickly as I finished off those others, that is quite a feat in itself. You can bend people to your will with magic, something only sorcerers and witcher's can do proficiently. You don't need me to protect you, I'm not so ignorant as to believe that." She stated straightening up in her saddle and casting her eyes forward again.

"Then why did you allow me to accompany you? If you find me so suspicious." He asked cutting her off by pulling his horse in front of her blocking the path.

She bit her lip and looked away. "I told you why already."

"For the same reason you stared me down in that inn? For the same reason you -"

"I'm lonely..." She sighed gazing up into the moon. "I suppose, anyway. It's been so long since I've had someone of any kind of intelligence to talk to, I forgot what it was like. Perhaps, this is my last chance to have some human contact before I die. Because you're right, most assuredly this will be the hardest fight of my life." she finished turning her golden eyes back to him.  

Regis swallowed hard and pulled his horse back. "I-I'm Sorry. Please forgive my actions. I don't know what possessed me to talk to you in such a way. I had no right."

"Let's make camp." She said feigning to ignore him, pulling her horse off the path into the copse of trees at the top of the hill. Regis nodded and silently followed her. They tied their horses to a tree a few yards away from a small clearing and dug a fire pit. They worked in silence as they both spread out to gather twigs and branches for their fire.  

"You know, although I've heard tales of you, I'm afraid I don't know your name, Fair Witcher." Regis stated, breaking their silence as he lay his catch of twigs and branches into the pit.  

"My apologies, I assumed you knew already. It's Evangeline." She said over her shoulder tossing some kindling into the pit

"Evangeline... the bearer of good news. Beautiful name; one seldom heard anymore."  

"I've yet to meet another." She said as she kneeled next to the pit casting igni to light the fire. She walked away and gathered her bedroll from her horse and spread it near the fire.  

"I thought I might go hunt and forage a bit."

She stared at him a moment contemplating her options; was a safe idea to let him wander the woods, or to turn her back to him this early on?

"I won't wander far or get lost. Promise." He smiled, holding a hand up in the air as if taking an oath.  

"Damn, here I was hoping to lose you in the forest like a stray." She muttered with a roll of her eyes.

"I'll be the stray that comes right back, the one you can't get rid of." He smirked over his shoulder as he made his way into the woods.

"Just my luck." She grumbled finding a good tree to prop up against. He chuckled as he faded into the dark forest, leaving Evangeline to her thoughts.  

'He's not natural. There's something off with him. He's uncanny. He's not a wticher, obviously not part elf but yet he's not a normal human either... if he is, he's a sorcerer and hiding it somehow, for some reason. Mysterious though, he may be, I still am drawn to him. Could it do any harm to let my guard down this one time? To live in the moment, with him... To let something happen... It's been so long.' She thought to herself as she kept watch. Her thoughts wandered as time went on; contemplating her options and trying to solve the conundrum of the man that accompanied her.  

----------------------------

"The hunter returns." She stated as she heard him approaching.

"With a brace of coneys." Regis said holding up a pair of long eared rabbits. "And a few parsnips, onion and mushrooms as well. And I think I have a few good cooking herbs left in my satchel, come to think of it."  

"However did you manage-"

"Throwing knives." He said pulling a small knife from his belt. "Another-"

"Trick of the trade?"

He nodded as he began to skin and gut the surprisingly, plump rabbits.  

"I'll be damned. We couldn't have this good of a meal back at that inn." She said finding some branches to cut and make a roasting spit as he worked on the meat.  

"There's also a small stream nearby; I filled my water-skin full. We can boil the vegetables and then add in the meat and herbs to make a decent stew, if you happen to have a proper receptacle that is."  

"I have a mess kit in my bag; there's small stockpot along with some utensils and bowls." She said making her way over to her horse and rustling around in the saddle bag.  

"I daresay, that will do quite nicely." He said with a quick smile as he made a mirepoix with the vegetables. "And roast the vegetables in the coals until the water boils." He muttered to himself as he took a large piece of rabbit fat and stuffed it, along with the parsnip, mushroom and onion, into the caul fat of the rabbit's stomachs. He twist the membrane around the vegetables to make a casing and slid it into the coals.  

"Keeping you around might be beneficial after all." She joked as she handed him the stockpot and sat the bowls and spoons to the side.  

"Just because one is in the woods does not mean one cannot have a decent meal. There are plenty of ways to cook in the wilds, and plenty of food to forage and hunt." He said holding up a finger and wagging it at her. "As long as one knows their surroundings."  

"I've been on the path for years and I never eat this good; unless I'm in a city and paying a decent sum for it."

"I shall teach you then. We can eat like this almost every time we camp." He declared pulling out some herbs from his bag.  

"Hmmm, I'll hold you to that." She said giving the rabbit a turn on the makeshift spit.  

"Why don't you go ahead and get some rest. I'll take watch and finish cooking. I'm assuming you want to leave at first light."

"I do, we need to cover as much ground as possible." She paused a moment and gave him a hard stare.

"What?" He said with a crooked grin. "If you keep staring at me like that people will begin to think things." He said leaning in towards her seductively.  

Evangeline rolled her eyes and pushed him away with the palm of her hand on his chest. "Don’t be getting any ideas, I'm only trying to analyze you."

"You doubt my ability to keep watch? Or cook? Perhaps both?" He said sarcastically.  

She rolled her eyes again. "Wake me up when the food is done, O' Keeper of the Watch." She stated tucking into her bedroll.

"What's this? The witcher is trusting me to do something on my own? -"

"Shut up Regis." She muttered turning away from him and the fire, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

He chuckled. "Goodnight, Evangeline."

She paused a moment, the words feeling foreign on her tongue. "Goodnight, Regis." She said with a slight blush, glad that her back was to him.

#witcher #the witcher #wiedźmin #emiel regis #fanfiction #fanfic #vampire #emiel regis rohellec terzieff-godefroy #my oc evangeline

[inhumansforever]

Black Bolt #3 Review

spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers

It's another wild and gorgeously rendered installment of Saladin Ahmed and Christian Ward’s Black Bolt. Full recap and review following the jump.  

Maximus’ trickery has left Black Bolt stranded in a strange cosmic prison nestled off in the corner of some far off galaxy.  The prison is lorded over by the immensely powerful Jailer and his chief lieutenant, The Spyder.  Black Bolt has made allies among his fellow inmates, specially Crusher ‘The Absorbing Man’ Creel, The Metal Master, a Skrull pirate named Raava and a telepathic alien child incarcerated simply due to poor circumstances named Blinky.  

Black Bolt has agreed to participate in a break-out and no sooner than he agrees then the plan is engaged.  The Metal Master has somehow regained the use of his magnetic powers which he employs to tear open the cell holding BB and his new allies.  It’s a good first step, but only a first step and if they are to make it all the way to freedom they are going to need to regain the use of their own powers.  This is Black Bolt’s role in the scheme.  He has to take on The Spyder, defeat the villain and procure from him a box-like device that works the prison’s power dampeners.

Searching through the labyrinth of the prison, Black Bolt comes across the Spyder, who is in the process of paying the intergalactic bounty hunter, Death’s Head, for his delivery of a new inmate.      Death’s Head originates from marvel comics United Kingdom imprint; although he has only appeared in a handful of comics here in the States, the cyborg mercenary enjoyed a good deal popularity overseas.  He’s also a total badass and, without his powers, BB really has no chance against him.

The matter aside, Black Bolt leaps into action, attacking The Spyder and taking the box from him.  The Spyder orders Death’s Head to attack and a firefight ensues.  

BB is outmatched, yet before Death’s Head can go in for the kill a slight signal goes off.  The signal indicates that the transfer of funds that Death’s Head has been paid for delivering new prisoner has successfully gone through.  The cyborg is only interested in fees for service and now that he has been paid his interest in the affairs of the prison is over.  He disengaged from Black Bolt and goes about his merry way; leaving the Spyder at Black Bolt’s mercy.  

Having accomplished his task, Black Bolt rejoins the others.  Young Blinky embraces Black Bolt, so happy to see him.  It’s a neat scene that highlights artist Christian Ward’s skill for relating story and emotion in subtle facial features.   It’s quite clear that Blinky is very much in need of a parental figure; as is it clear that BB is quite uncomfortable fulfilling this role.  It looks quite likely that we are going to get to see a lot more of the father/daughter relationship developing between these two as the series progresses and I’m quite looking forward to seeing how it goes down.  

Disabling the control box returns Black Bolt and the others their powers.  Which is fortunate fore as Black Bolt and his colleagues open a new corridor then come face to face with the giant creature known as Monstroso (the new inmate that Death’s Head had delivered to the prison).  Rather than fighting the behemoth, Blinky uses her psychic powers to communicate with it.  It turns out that the creature is little more than a child whose destructive acts were simply the results of his being scared and separated from his parents.  

They leave the child-like Monstroso in peace.  Raava expresses her annoyance that they opted not to recruit the creature to their cause; The Metal Master retorts that using the creature to their bidding would make them no better than the sinister Jailer who has toyed with them all with such cruelty (though the explanation does little to assuage Raava’s bemusement).  

As for Black Bolt, he in no longer interested in simply escaping.  This whole torture chamber of a prison is an effrontery to his sensibilities and he is now committed to destroying The Jailer and bringing an end to his sadistic ways.  

Venturing deeper into the shifting labyrinth of the group come across what appears to be an enormous engine.  Creel (showing a bit more insight than one might expect from him) ascertains that the whole thing is a power cell, a dynamo through which The Jailer fuels himself, feeds, off the anguish and pain that he subjects to his inmates.  The Jailer is some sort of psychic energy vampire who gains sustenance from the pain brought about from killing and resurrecting his prisoners.

The Jailer himself arrives, still prattling on about penance and repentance.  The team attacks.  Black Bolt summons his willpower and control over molecular energy into a single punch, a move referred to as ‘the master blow.’  This tactic has fallen the likes of The Thing and the Incredible Hulk, yet The Jailer is able to endure it without falling.  Left with no option, Black Botl releases his ultimately weapon, his voice, uttering the word ‘die.’  

The resulting sonic blast knocks the jailer through a wall, opening up into a large antechamber where The Jailer’s true being resides.  The Jailer’s body as we have seen it thus far appears to be little more than an automaton... a psychical vessel for his psychic powers.  The true Jailer is a series of organs, brains, eyes and hearts each contained within orbs of crackling psychic energy.  Somehow these disparate, dissected organ work in concert, wielding an awesome power.  The sight of it, the raw power created by this grotesque mechanism, strikes fear into Black Bolt’s heart.  

Yet this fear will not stop him and Black Bolt rats forward, attacking the being head-on.  And it is with Black Bolt’s valiant thrust into action that the issue comes to a cliffhanger end, to be continued with the next installment.  

Ahmed and Ward’s tale continues to be the kind of Inhumans book I have very much longed for.  It feels less like your typical Marvel Comic and more like a neat science fiction tale one might come across in an old issue of Métal Hurlant.  The ideas and visuals make for a bizarre feast for the mind and eyes.  Although Ahmed draws a lot of random characters from Marvel’s backlog, the story stands very much on its own.  It’s kind of like an Image Comic that’s been furtively snuck into Marvel.  

Ahmed is still building upon and developing the characters who make up the ensemble cast.  At times this process ends up a little heavy on the dialogue, with a bit more spoken exposition than is necessary.   Yet I don’t mind it in that the characters themselves are rich and a lot of fun to get to know.  Whereas Crusher Creel kind of stole the show last issue, Raava takes over some of the spotlight in this issue.  She’s fascinating; I’m really digging her.  

This is not to say that Black Bolt himself isn’t being offered further character development.  Unlike his newfound colleagues, BB’s development is handled with a good deal more subtly.  Ward’s style is a bit minimalistic when it comes to facial expression, yet he still manages to relay a great deal with the few lines he utilizes.  BB’s feelings are easy to read on his face.  He’s no longer a king, but that sense of responsibility and need for justice is still a significant part of who he is.  He is determined to end The Jailer not just for what the Jailer had done to him, but rather because he is a blight on the universe and BB feels it his duty to end this menace.  

Yet, while fulfilling what he sees as his kingly duties comes naturally to Black Bolt, being close with others, the bond he has forged with Blinky and his colleagues seems to strike him as unfamiliar and difficult.  Creel’s playful banter, Raava’s flirtation and Blinky’s affection all seem to make BB bristle and he reacts in a clumsy fashion to it,  It feels like, though he is unaccustomed to such closeness, what is actually jarring about it all is that it is nice, that it’s something that he actually wants.  The action is all exciting and wonderfully, richly depicted… yet it is BB’s emotional, interpersonal journey that I find myself the most interested in seeing more of.    

Some further notes:

Although a Skrull, Raava chooses not to utilize her powers for shapeshifting.  She had never leaned to cultivate this power and explains that it is because she likes how she looks and has no interest to altering it.  It’s not exactly a good decision on a tactical level, but has a nice body-positive feel to it.  

Rather than shapeshifting, Raava possesses powers not usually seen in Scrulls, such as the ability to fly and generate energy swords.  Each of her swords are named after her dead son and daughter.  

It was an interesting twist to hear that The Metal Master had once had a husband.  Some might roll their eyes over what they see as the progressively-mandated mindset of including a gay character into he cast.  Yet, keep in mind that The Metal Master heralds from an alien world and the idea that heterosexuality is the de facto norm on other worlds is a presumptive fallacy.    

Monstroso is one of the lessor known entries of the bevy of monsters that Kirby, Ditko and Lee created in the early issues of Tales to Astonish.  Monstroso himself first appeared in a backstory to Tales to Astonish #18 written and illustrated by Steve Ditcko.  The creature also made a brief appearance in the much more recent Monsters Unleashed miniseries.  Although, given this version of Monstroso’s more child-like nature, it is possible that he is the offspring of the original Monstroso.  

It remains unclear what exactly The Jailer is and how he came to be.  The dissected pieces that work in concert to generate his powers must have been built by someone or something; and I’m not sure if or when we will learn how he came to be.  The technology employed in the prison is of a higher order than anything we have seen from such peoples as the Kree or Shi’Ar.  The whole matter remains a mystery.    

Fans of Death’s Head will appreciate that Ahmed’s dialogue is very much in tune with the signature cadence of how the character talks.  

Blinky’s telepathic powers will allow her to continue to communicate with Black Bolt now that he has his powers back.  

Ward illustrates Black Bolt in his own unique way.  His costume appears quite a bit different compared to his original outfit as well as the redesign he’s been sporting of late.  I quite like Ward’s take on BB’s look, although I’m not that into how he draws BB’s wing’s.  Rather than the accordion bat-like wings, Eard draws BB’s wings as being more like a slight filament that generates from his wrist to hip, appear and disappearing as needed.  It’s a neat looking effect, but personally I prefer the bat style wings.    

Christian Ward sneaks in a neat homage to fellow artist, Steve McNiven, in the scene where BB first enters into the antechamber where the Jailer’s true form resides.  Black Bolt’s silhouette is reminiscent to the cover art McNiven provided for Uncanny Inhumans #0.    

Another can’t miss issue.  Five out of five Lockjaws!

#Inhumans #Black Bolt #spoilers #Christian Ward #Saladin Ahmed #review

[obscuraxrp]

The smoke settles to reveal KIM TAEHYUNG, a 21 year old light and heat-aligned fae of Sunseong. He is a photographer and camera assistant who appears to be adept in ward and charm crafting — but like most things in Sunseong, there must be more to him than meets the eye.

APPEARANCE:

His true form leans towards the appearance of a person, but when his illusion loses grip his skin becomes a shade more translucent, and it becomes apparent that his veins don’t run blue the way they would for a person - they glow. On occasion, little pinpricks of light dot his skin, and his eyes tend to spark. Oftentimes his body temperature rises as well, holding true to the warmth he’s aligned towards.

BIOGRAPHY:

Taehyung thinks he should consider himself lucky.

His parents had rushed. They’d hurried to have their child, and, when he’s born rather ironically in the dead of night in the dead of winter in the midst of darkness in the chill of a world living in fear, his alignment is clear in his true form as the soft glow of his veins shifts with every innocent movement, sparking in wide eyes. Concern is palpable from the first minute of his existence – he feeds on light and warmth, and there are no natural sources to be found at this time of year. His parents had rushed, and they pay for it at first with the worry that their child won’t survive the first week.

He manages, but only just. They’re older and stronger – they can survive on less to be further from the wrath of the Queen and the Lord in a move that they’d hoped would be safer for Taehyung, but his inheritance of their natures forces them to return to their original hometown of Daegu with their little light-up child in tow. They’re closer to the danger now, but it’s worth it if it means his first year will be spent in good health.

As soon as he’s old enough to master his illusion, they send him to school with human children – blending in, either to humans or other supernatural beings is their safest bet, and they’re always on hand in case he slips and loses control of his illusion. They keep in contact with the Seelie Court but also a healthy distance, and for an amount of time Taehyung grows up normally, albeit with few human friends and even fewer fae ones. Everything they do is to protect him.

And it’s all for naught.

He’s eleven when his magic catches attention, but it’s not by a human – it’s by a vampire. Taehyung, young and inexperienced as he is, makes for easy prey, and the vampire is looking to curry favour from the Lord. 

The year that follows is- It’s bad.

His parents are besides themselves when he doesn’t return from school, and there’s no sign nor hide nor hair from him to be found. They search, and search, and search.

Taehyung spends the year in darkened rooms and iron bindings in hopes of keeping him captive, and the only reason he’s not taken to the Lord immediately is that his captor is aware that his magic will only grow as he grows. He’s lucky, he repeats to himself, keeping his darkened corners aglow dimly.

It’s luck that sets him free too.

Or maybe it’s desperation that brings in another ability and laces contractual obligations to his words, that has one of the guards promising to set him free and take him back home, but whatever it is, it works – and that’s all that matters. It takes a year, but twelve-year-old Taehyung is returned, traumatized, to his home.

His parents take one look at him, and join the Seelie Court for protection in numbers. All of a sudden he’s surrounded by fae, in numbers he’s never seen before, and it’s as chaotic as it is soothing. There’s still a heavy blanket of fear for the situation in the country at hand, and Taehyung remains terrified of repeat incidents happening, but he heals, if slowly. At seventeen he ventures out from the protection of the court, cautious still, to head towards Sunseong to acclimatise to city life at first with fellow fae and then on his own, slowly integrating himself amongst society there. By the time 2016’s battle rolls around, he’s not forgotten what happened but he can manage its trauma now, and no one is more relieved than he is when the Lord and Queen fall.

Even though it’s still dangerous, he’s willing to take on different jobs, eventually landing himself as a camera assistant for a particular videographer (if his ability to tweak light a bit helps, he doesn’t mention it) and that fascination with light and cameras leads into his interest in photography. It’s a little more work - technology has always been a little finicky for him - but it’s worth it. Slowly but surely, he settles.

CHARACTERIZATION:

+ve traits: curious, quick, creative, large-hearted -ve traits: cautious, impatient, distracted, tactless likes: summer, activity, photography, new foods, animals dislikes: darkness, cold, excess laziness, extended solitude

taehyung’s not necessarily fond of humans but he doesn’t mind them, and other supernatural beings intrigue him greatly - it’s just vampires that he’s largely still terrified of

he has a sweet tooth and generally isn’t a picky eater when it comes to human foods, but he does prefer certain sources of light and warmth over others

technology fascinates him, and he hates that it takes that much more effort to work with, but he puts it in anyway - regardless of the fact that any pair of earphones he touches is destined to meet its end a month later. learning how to handle it is a small price to pay to continue to work with his own camera

his parents don’t share the same fascination, so if he wants to talk to them he actively has to go find and meet them

he used to speak slower when he was a child because he had to think a lot more carefully about his words

he used to have to work harder at keeping his illusion, but after the incident has kept tight control on it, worried about capturing another vampire’s attention

he used to share a flat with other fae who chose to attend higher education, but now has a smaller flat for himself

he has to spend a little more for it, but even if the flat is small it has phenomenally large windows to allow maximum amounts of sunshine

SPECIALTIES:

ward/charm crafting - rank I (20 pts) : instantaneous charms are well and good, but taehyung’s been looking into ways to bring about more permanency to his own magic, and has started to look into work with wards under the tutelage of another fae from the court. he can currently do a wide variety of basic ones, and while they’re nothing near permanent they do last longer than those done with inherent fae magic.

minor detection ward (5 pts) : after what happened, taehyung is often on edge, so he asked the fae who’s teaching him ward creation to craft two for him - this is the first. it’s a little moon on his inside left ankle, and it alerts him as to whether he’s being tracked or not.

minor weather detection ward (5 pts) : this is the second ward. if it’s particularly cold or there’s not much sun outside, this ward lets him know so and he plans his activities accordingly. it’s not as useful in the city when there are weather forecasts, but it helps some when he’s visiting his parents. it’s a little sun on the inside of his right ankle.

#obs: follow #*kim taehyung #*v #*bts #kidnapping tw #imprisonment cw #mild torture cw

[ultimaxell]

Until we fall: A vampire au

“How do you plea to the defense?”

“Does it matter? You’re going to kill us any ways. Hey? What’s it gonna take for a girl to get a glass of water over here? I’m thirsty and I don’t think with my impending death you should be treating a person so brutally. It’s all I’m saying, I’m done you can go on… What was the question?”

Dulche watched with a smirk on her lips as the ‘judge’ behind the grand wall sighed, his hands moving to soothe back white hair that could have easily been hidden by a good dye job. Those fingers sliding down wrinkles that she did not even think a vampire should have. Brown eyes paused on the motions when those eyes locked onto her again, his mouth opening so that those wrinkles that caught her attention sagged, and she could not help but scrunch her nose at the sight, blonde locks falling around her as she leaned forward.

“Can’t you guys get rid of those or something? The wrinkles I mean? Like with blood sucking, or vacuuming? I don’t know what you guys call it but you know what I mean… It just seems like a hassle to be an immortal hag… “

“You are accused of killing three ranking officers of the court, how do you plea?”

His voice shook as he spoke, the rage that was caught up in his throat slipping through the words like venom.

“Just because you speak louder does not make it mean more. Can we just get to the subject that you so rudely ignored? Like really? Hear a girl out, dying wish and such, how is it you keep your skin so ancient? You know so if I do survive this I do the exact opposite of that.”

“Just take her to the court. They’ll deal with her how they like.”

There was no victory won, she was not ignorant to that, but she had worked the man up into a big enough steam that she could not hold the smile back as he stood, hunched over the table, those thin fingers working over the paper to move on with his torment of innocent human beings.

“Look Sloane!!! We get to die together, cute right?”

She turned her gaze to her biffel, the beautiful brunette looking up at her from the gag with an expression was too used to by now. She winked in a mock delight as Sloane gave her the thumbs up. The guards moved in on her quickly after that, pulling up on the gag but not before she got a few words out first.

“Nobody has like had this in their mouths or anything, right? It’s been wash-“

And there it went that gag pulling into her mouth with no repercussions. The guards yanking her to her feet from the position they had put her in on her knees. They were rough handlers there was no doubt about that as they pulled her down on the seat next to Sloane, Shawna and Miranda looked at her with wide eyes, fear clinging to them like a second skin. Where Kato and Diedre only seemed vaguely annoyed.

It was not much time after wards they were standing again, all six of the girls forced to the middle of the room while the vampires exited. Only a guard standing at each door the indication that anything was even up. There were no whispers, no echoing winds in the room, just opens seats circling around them. Something that was only a little ominous compared next to the roaring thunder outside of the building.

It would be a lie if she said she wasn’t scared, that her heart was not racing a million miles an hour, that her body was not shaking over the unforeseen future.

She was fucking terrified to be honest, but she was not going to let a single viewer see that. Not even the ever beautiful Sloane that was leaning into her.

----------------------------

Tick…. Tock… tick….. tock….

It was almost hypnotizing to watch the dark gold metal flicker, back and forth, back and forth, and to realize that each tick of the grandfather clock that sat across from him was another second passing, each second moving, sliding, slipping through his fingers like running water.  His eyes followed the tarnished gold, bright eyes never leaving the sway that had him so captivated, though the vision of it was upside down, as his back pressed flat against the edge of a lounging couch, the one open edge allowing his head to dangle over the side, ink black hair spilling, reaching for the wooden floors beneath him.  His foot tapped to a unheard rhythm, his fingers moving, tapping along with each second to play over his exposed stomach, shirt hitched up as his body stretched to watched the metronome.

Time passed slowly, too slowly, and it was almost funny to him that no matter how long he watched this clock, time, for him, would have no effect. He was a bolder in the river, unmovable, unchallenged, time splitting around him to continue its path, leaving him here, right here, where he had always been, had been since the moment his father had changed him.

He would be here, long after this clock stopped and long after humankind stopped recording every moment, second that passed them by, brought them closer to the death they so rightfully deserved.

There was a noise, the sound of a door opening that caught his attention, but his eyes remained glued to the metal, his fingers never stopping, the only hint he even heard someone enter the light quirk of his lips as he began to speak, to address whoever dared to interrupt him as such a time.

“You better have a good reason for coming to me. I’m very busy.”

His tone was soft, playful and smooth as he continued his little motion, and he heard them shuffle on their feel, the slight creak of one as they looked around, possibly trying to decipher what it was he was busy with, not that they would ever really understand.

“My lord…”

Not a Squad member.

The smile on his lips never faded, but there was a hardening to his eyes, one that caused the man addressing him to stumble over his words and cough as the slight change.

“My lord,” He started again, “Your presence is requested in the Court room.”

“And do tell me, why is my presence required?”

Balthiair was many things, A killer, a trickster, a little bit of a man man…. but a fool was not one of them. He was not stupid, especially not when it came to his standing in the world. When it came to matters of the court, there was a ladder of people that judgement was passed to. It started with the True Kings, The Lee’s, Dhouti’s Arenello’s, Power’s and Khaset’s… the ones that had been dictated eligible to rule after the True son decided that he didn’t want the position as  the king… just A king. If, by the grace of the original vampires, none of them were available, it moved down the ladder, to the most logical, the well calculated, the ones who have proven themselves, over and over again to be able to make a stable minded judgement when it came to all matters, ones who did not allow something as trivial as emotions to get in the way.

Balthiair was not one of those people.

It was no secret the boy was… strange, and that he held very little regard for human life. It drove Carson mad when they ate together, how careless He was, but Really, the green eyed boy could not find it in him to care. Humans, by nature, were disgusting, deplorable things, no better then the animals they so persecuted for simply not having the ability to communicate with them. They were filthy, they scurried like roaches when the lights came on the moment they saw a vampire, they were nothing, a plague to the earth, the very destruction to a beautiful planet. They were nothing to him, every human he had come across just as vapid as the last, just as dull, just boring. They held nothing bust selfish desire and fucked one another over easily, no loyalty among them, and what sliver they had…. That could easily be broken.

He hated them.

The smile never faded as the man cleared his throat.

“It… well…. No one else is available.”

Balthiair knew that. He knew the reason, had logically put it together with just the few words the man had spoken to him, But he had wanted to hear it…. He wanted a reason, and the moment the man spoke, as soon as the words left his mouth, Balthiair was moving, a blur against the background as he flipped over, feet landing easily on the floor with a silent thump, and he was before the man, a easy going expression disassociated with the flashing darkness of his eyes.

“So you mean to tell me that You’ve come to me as a last resort? You think of me last?”

The man Gulped. Balthiair grinned.

“You disrespected a king. You think I’ll go just because you ask?”

His hands were around his throat before he could even scream, and it was the sound of gurgling blood and ripping flesh that greeted him as he flung the man’s head to the wall, the blood splattering against his face, the grin never leaving as he moved to swipe at it with the edges of his black jacket.

“Seems like fun though… why not?” he laughed, and the room fell silent, save for that small passing of time.

Tick…. Tock… tick….. tock….

----

Now, what do we have here.

The thought moved through his mind as he pushed open the door to the Court room, his gaze sliding along the stone floors as the thunder roared overhead, a clash loud enough to rattle the windows that lined the walls of this particular room resounding as the door slammed shut behind him, almost with an ominous toll. He made no motion that he even saw the rest of them, the bodies lining the higher tiers of the staggered seating, his eyes locked, solely on the figure of a girl who was kneeling in the center of the Courtroom,. He watched her, a slow interesting building, Her eyes flickering, watching him, the guards, and the others that walked in. He heard Titus as he moved through the doors, heard the voices of Logan and Parker as they spoke in low whispers to each other, but Balthiair payed them no mind. His attention was focused, sure, and there was really only one thing that interested him.

He moved like a predator, all sleek movement and smiles as he walked to the edges if the seating, his foot coming up to push himself up to the railing, standing there for a moment as he bounced on the balls of his feet, before he  flipped over the railing that lead down the to the court floor.  He landed witha thump, the room silenced as they watched one of the most unstable of The United States Kings stand slowly, moving with reptilian grace toward the humans in the center of the circle. His expression, easy, playful, calm, never changed, that same smile on his face as he dropped, slid on his knees, closer to this blond human Until he was in front of her, this literal definition of perfection that was wrapped up in a disgusting human flesh.

She was perfect, the most gorgeous girl, Human or vampire for that matter, he had ever seen. Long blond hair framed a perfect heart shaped face, bright green eyes, framed by thick dark lashes, watching him as he moved, his hands coming up, tracing over her lips and the bit of her gag. Her skin was flawless, pale against his, not a blemish or scar or mark in sight and only the skid of dirt and ruin that she had been dragged through by his kind. She was small, such a small little thing, her body curved perfectly like she had been hand crafted to turn every head she came across. Her eyes flashed at him, bringing him back as his fingers trailed over her features in a mesmerized sort of movement, a small breathy hitch the only indication that something was different before he moved, taking the bit off, Balthiair blinking at her slowly, taking in her every move. She licked her lips, trying to get her lips to feel something again as she shifted her gaze, and a flash of anger surged in him at it.

Balthiair brushed his knuckles over her cheek, bringing her attention straight back to him, where it belonged.

“What’s your name?”

There was a moment of shocked silence after he spoke, and he was very aware of the whole Courtroom watching him, wondering what it was he was doing, why he was even talking to her, considering her filthy human status. The girl looked equally surprised, her gaze flickering with thoughts she would not say, taking in his smile, the one locked on his lips, the one that was now taking a sort of dreamy effect as he looked upon her longer. She was so pretty, a perfect ideal in a physical form.The girl never looked away, her lips parting as she sucked in a breath.

“Cynthia.”

Balthiair’s grin grew wider. His motions never stopping.

His hand snapped solidly against her cheek, making her whole head snap to the side. Even his hand stung a little, and eh could see the rest of his hand print already beginning to appear on the previously unmarked skin. The gasp that slipped past of her didn’t go unnoticed, but Balthiair made no indication, no mention of hearing it at all. Instead his fingers moved, sliding along her cheek to grip her chin with his fingers and then yanking her jaw to face him again. He could see a little redness on her lip, here the force had pressed her inner cheek into her teeth. It must have cut her a little.

“Ow, For one, that Hurt you know, I –“

“What is your name?

She paused, clearly not used to being cut off, as her expression changed to on of indignation, before answering again.

“It’s Beth.”

Balthiair’s smile never wavered, though he could feel it as his brows furrowed slightly at this. This time the slap was harder, and He watched as she dropped, her body slamming against the ground as she coughed slightly, her cheek bright red and her lip gaining a small cut that had not been there before. Balthiair moved, hovering over her slightly as he looked down on her, His expression never changing, his tone still soft, still friendly, casual. He seemed more like a friend, asking if she was okay then an attacker, his expression friendly, open, his tone soft and welcoming. His head tilted as he looked down on her.

“What is your name?”

“Fuck… Shit… that hurt.” Her words came out a little slurred, like she had drank a little and it was finally starting to hit her. Her eyes looked dazed as she opened them again.

“What is your name?”

“It’s Joan, Okay?”

The resounding smack reverberated through the near silent room. He could hear the girl behind them move, struggling against her bonds, but his attention never shifted. Her cheek was bright red now, and the cut elongated, a dribble of blood starting down her chin as she gasped in pain at the remaining sting. His own hand burned, but he made no motion to change his expression.

“What’s your name?”

“You just wanna go at it huh? Why don’t you take a girl out first before you smack her around, that's the gentlemanly thing to do ya know.”

Another slap. This time he could see her lips split again, even more painfully than the last, the whole bottom of her lip ripped through, painfully as his hand crossed her cheek again, his body moving now, crawling over her to straddle her body. He placed himself,  either knee on the side of her hips as he looked down at her, face schooled in an expression that was far too friendly for his actions. The smile never dipped, only widened as his eyes did, his heart hammering against his chest, his breathing coming in slow shallow pants. His features were that of a friend, lips pulled, quirked, never failing.

“What is your name?”

“Are you broken? Or Deaf? Or maybe just stupid? It’s Delena, I told you.”

This time his fingers clenched, and the feeling of her flesh under his fist was a reverberating heave that sent shiver down his spine. The girl under him coughed as his hand drew back, a splattering of blood bubbling up as her lip split again, her body shaking as she sucked in a pain filled sob.  He looked down at his hand, looking, for all the world, only mildly amused. There was blood on his fingers now, and god she smelt so heavenly. He wanted more, just as much as he wanted to know her name.

“What is your name?”

“… Andy…”

Another punch, the sound of her teeth clashing together as his fist connected synonymous with the sound of her control breaking. He wondered if she knew, knew he could heard her lies, could hear her heart accelerate with each little lie she told, could see the little ticks in her face that sang of her falsities. It was so easy to tell when a human was lying. It was a little more difficult with vampires, he would admit, but alway, always, always,he could tell. He had long since studied body language, had studied what it meant to lie and the signs of it. He had heard lies, lies telling him he was attractive, he wasn’t a monster, he wasn’t scary, so much so he could pinpoint them with a  sniper's ease. He assumed that she didn’t or she wouldn’t have continued this way, or maybe her human nature made her stupid, like the rest of them, and she foolishly thought she could deceive him.

“What is your name?”

“Dulche… It’s Dulche.”

Finally… the truth.

“Dulche….” He spoke softly, tasting her name on his tongue. He liked it… he liked it a lot.

“That’s pretty.”

“What? You could tell?” Her words were slightly muffled, gurgled as blood welled in her mouth and she had to spit again, her head turning to allow the red to paint the ground, a little getting on his jeans. He didn’t mind. He only tilted his head, that grin never leaving as he skimmed her cheek again, enjoying the way she leaned away from him.

“Yes. I can tell when you’re lying.” He told her, expecting her to look horrified and for her to lean away again, to curse him, scream at him. She did none of those.

“Oh… Cute~” She spoke, her voice gurgled and slurred…. But truthful. She was telling the truth.

“What?”

That caught him off guard. Balthiair blinked, his eyes widening and the smile finally sliding off his face as he looked down at this bloody, broken mess of a girl. She didn’t seem apologetic for what she said, her heart beat the same speed as it had been before, no acceleration, no stall…. Her face remained the same, broken, but there wasn’t a single tick to it, not a single indication of lies he had come to associate with that word and him. She simply stared back at him as she allowed her words to slowly sink into the vampire king’s head, and as they did, Balthiair could feel the slow rising of warmth flooding over his skin as the blush built up, finally taking over his face and making him completely red.

Balthiair was anything but stupid. He wasn’t attractive, wasn’t smooth or pretty like the others, People didn’t call him cute, they called him hideous, intimidating, scary…. His heart hammered again, and he could feel his mouth gaping as his entire face ran bright, bright red.

“What?”

“Hard of hearing suddenly? Please tell me you aren’t actually deaf, I don’t think my face can take any more.”

“What?” He couldn’t think, couldn’t place together her words to him.

“Oh I’m screwed.”

“No, I just….”

Balthiair, suddenly, was at a loss of words. Luckily, he was saved from having to respond by Logan’s soothing voice, his tone hesitant but also impatient.

“Balthiair… Care to tell me what that was about?”

The dark haired boy looked up, his face still red and his eyes a little wide and watery from the raging emotions this situation had created in him. His eyes stung as tears welled up, green blurring as he but his lip. No one ever called him cute, very few people ever really said nice things about him. It was always monster, scary, demon… He had forgotten what affection, even the slightest bit of it, could feel like. He swallowed around them, pushing them down as he nodded, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling.

“Dibs. She’s mine… Dulche…. Is mine.”

#Dulche Unduler #Balthiair Dureaux #Vampire au #Post 5 #UltimaWrites #XellWrites #renekostudios #Story #Until We Fall : Vampire AU