Fire crackled in the hearth, heat snapping the logs in into dust as the glow reached out to caress her in her seat. She was as unaffected by the warmth as she was by the cold, indifferent to clash of temperatures while thoughts raced and jumbled and clamored in her mind. There was a book in her lap that she hadn’t even bothered to open. Delicate fingers traced absent lines over the embossed cover as she stared blindly into the flames.
An irregular rhythm had taken hold of her heartbeat. The muscle was rattling incohesively in her rib cage, thrashing against its prison of flesh and bone with a feeling she could only identify as apprehension. What would happen now that Arran was fed, healed, and bathed? She could not bear to lose her son, not in any sense, but also recognized that it wasn’t her decision to make.
With barely two centuries to his name, he was still a newling, a child. Her child. Could she stand aside and allow herself to be discarded by him? If it was what he wanted, could Amory watch as he walked away from the love and protection that she and Hadrian were so desperate to give him?
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not now, not in a hundred or a thousand years. He was her son whether he liked it or not. Arran could run to the end of the earth, as far and as fast as he wanted to, but he would never be able to outrun that singular truth. He was her son, and she would never let him go.
Time drifted past unawares. For minutes or hours all Amory did was stare into the fire and fight back her fear that she was already too late. The thought that Arran had already made up his mind was one that churned her stomach with nausea. It filled her with dread. Her songbird was stubborn. Once his mind was made there was nothing to be done to change it again.
An ear pricked at the sound of the door pushing open, followed by soft, graceful footsteps. Not moments later there was a rap on the study door and Amory turned her face only slightly to answer the inquiring beat. “Come in,” she called quietly, knowing he would be able to hear the words even if she had whispered them. The study door swept in with a soft creak and Amory didn’t turn to watch him as he entered.
Arran’s gaze was down cast as he took his place in front of her as a servant might, waiting for direction or instruction, anticipating a punishment that would never come. For several long moments all Amory did was stare at him. It was all she could do, ignoring her wariness for the wave of relief that washed over her.
He was upright. He was clean and he was healed, her blood having worked more efficiently than any balm or salve. Dressed in fresh, white garb, her son appeared as an angel before her. A comparison that might have pulled a fiendish smirk to her lips, were the circumstances different than what they currently were.
“Yes,” she finally responded to his desire to discuss his position within their family. Amory placed her unread book atop the table beside her seat, and smoothed out the skirts of her robe before pushing herself from the chair. As she strode toward the fireplace, to claim the space beside where Arran stood at attention, she stared into the crackling fire. Not looking away from the dancing flames, she agreed, “It’s time you understood your position in this house, Arran.”
Amory held her hand, wringing her fingers a bit as she continued to stare into the flame, not seeing the fire while inserting, “For you to understand I must tell you something that I should have told you long ago.” She looked away from the fire’s rapturous flicker and sway to stare sidelong at her son beside her. “All this time you have yet to realize what it is you mean to your father and I, and it is because I have kept a truth from you, my beautiful songbird.”
In spite of her vow to herself to not touch him until her story was told, Amory reached up to caress knuckles onto Arran’s cheek. Her gentle touch followed the strong line of his jaw and she stared woefully at his beautiful face for a moment before pulling away again. Her words sat heavy on her heart, pulling it down into her belly as though they were a lead chain secured to a heavy stone, tossed into the black of a bottomless lake.
“I had a son once,” she stated abruptly, forcing the words from her mouth and her heart so the truth could spill into the world to be examined by them both. Still not looking at Arran, Amory muttered and amending, “Decades before you were born I was meant to have a son, but I… he…” Her voice caught in her throat and she scrubbed the pad of her thumb into the top of her palm.
Shaking her head, she forced a breath to steel her resolve. The story was started, now it must be finished. Arran needed to know, he needed to understand. She needed him to understand, not just for her sake but for Hadrian’s as well.
Quietly, but not weakly, Amory explained, “Hadrian and I had been trying to conceive for nearly two centuries. As you know, infertility is the curse of our kind. A turned vampire will never produce young, born vampires are rarely an exception. Hades and I, we both hail from old bloodlines. The oldest recorded. There are few with blood purer than we.”
She stared down at her hand, her thumb still rubbing aimlessly at her heart line. “We knew it would be difficult. Breeding between vampires always is. But we could do it. If we just kept trying… I wanted so badly to give him a son.” The tears had snuck up on her, pricking at her eyes and sinuses in a surprise attack she had not prepared defences against.
When a tear rolled from the length of her nose and fell into her palm, Amory quickly sniffed the rest back and wiped the bead of moisture from her hand. She cleared her throat, loosening the tension, before speaking again. “We nearly gave up hope when I learned I was with child.” Something of a smile surfaced to her lips at the memory of that discovery. “You cannot imagine the joy I felt, the dreams I had, the plans I made.”
Amory’s smile fell away. Another tear dropped. This time Amory caught it before it could stream down her cheek. Discretely dabbing her face dry, her story continued. “I lost the babe. It is far from uncommon, especially with our kind. Every moment from conception to birth is a danger to both babe and mother alike, but I had thought… our bloodline is so old, our blood so pure… Surely…” She shook her head and shut her eyes, the smile on her lips a miserable thing as silent tears broke through her lashes to slash down her cheeks. “Five months into the pregnancy and an agonizing pain in my middle woke me from the dead of sleep to discover bloodied and ruined sheets.”
Wiping at a cheek, she couldn’t allow herself to stop. Not yet. No matter how painful the memory was, it was more important that Arran understand. “I still had to birth him, you see. Knowing that he was dead in my womb, and that he would soon be dead in my arms, I still had to push him from my body.” Amory stared down at her hands, blurred by a wall of tears, as her mind filled her palms with that bloody little thing that never got to so much as cry. A sob broke loose with a tight, “He was so tiny. So impossibly tiny. Adon. We were to name him Adon.”
With a shuddering breath, Amory wiped her face clean of the tears she’d allowed to run free before straightening her spine. She peered up at the tall portrait that stood vigil over the fireplace, not seeing the painting but hoping gravity would ally her in keeping her tears in check. A moment was stolen to level her breathing and calm her heartbeat. She struggled to gather herself once more.
Though not done with her story, Amory could not break the silence she’d fallen into just yet. She could not trust her voice to not crack under the phantom pain of that night centuries ago. The silence held for a moment too long.
His steps towards Amory’s chamber were slow, heavy and from elegant. Even if he was dressed the part it seemed showing it in his movement was still beyond him. Though it was an improvement, before his bath he’d been barely able to hold himself upright without legs trembling akin to those of a new-born doe... New-born. The term along made him grit his teeth and pause between steps.
The pause caused him to reach a hand out and grip the wall, slumping against it for a few moments. If he listened hard enough, beyond the crackling of fires and the muted voices of those still awake he could hear it, a fine, light breathing that was just a touch quicker than all others within the estate. It was a necessary action, not one brought about by habit. That tiny, light breathing... it had destroyed his life.
What kind of existence would he have now? Even when he was a human he may have been powerless, but legitimate. Now... here he’d be a ward at best, a weaker, unnecessary position that could (and was) so easily discarded to the way-side.
His fingers curled, leaving tiny dents in the wood before he withdrew the hand and slumped a shoulder against the wood instead, eyes closing from fatigue and misery. Childish though the sentiment was, it wasn’t fair! Had he not been a good enough ward?
He must’ve been complacent, been lacking in his progress, failing in his training and in his position. So his parents... his sires, had gone and created a new life that would in turn snuff his out. Would this new life be worth living? Yes... Anything would be better than the heat of that accursed sun; anything was better than death.
So he continued on, down the corridor on shaky legs that hit the floor clumsily until he reached a door that months ago he wouldn’t have hesitated to simply knock once and walk in. Now he knocked and waited, a lower position needed permission and he was given it. He pushed the heavy (to him) door open and stepped inside, closing it behind him and hanging his head when Amory didn’t even turn to acknowledge him.
The silence was oppressive. If not for the crackling of the fire he felt as though he might go mad and break the damnable quiet. But that wasn’t his place anymore. A ward could speak first, talk as though to family yet he was less than that now, to speak out first would be an act of rudeness; he couldn’t bare to make his punishment any worse.
At least he was somewhat presentable now. These clothes, they’d been a gift for his last birthday. He’d thought it somewhat funny they still celebrated such events when they lived so long but now... he lamented that he’d unlikely to receive such gifts again. He’d instead need to rely on the joke behind them, playing at innocence.
His gaze lifted slightly at her single-word response. He saw her move the book and refused to raise his gaze any higher, it wouldn’t be seemly. Instead he followed her movements towards the crackling fire and waited for her to continue, burning with trepidation as he was, Arran wouldn’t allow himself to act in such a manner. When Amory finally did speak, he swallowed and nodded his head slightly, curiosity kindling at her words, a secret? Had they planned to be rid of him all along!? “Yes, Amory.”
Unable to help himself, he rose his tired eyes just enough to take in more of her frame, noting, perhaps for the first that, a sense of ill-ease within Amory. The way she moved her fingers and continued to look away from him. As she turned to look at him his gaze once again dropped; the nickname she spoke so easily making his shoulder’s rise just so. It had once symbolised his position as their son, as a favourite, now it only held echos of such privilege, it hurt to hear.
He didn’t move as her hand rose to touch him, the softness of the gesture causing him to lean in, just slightly, before he forced himself away, such feelings would be rarer now, he couldn’t treat them as though they’d be so common anymore. Only when she turned away from him once more did he raise his eyes a little more to see her better, forcing fatigue away out of curiosity and trepidation to hear what she had to say.
He couldn’t hold in the small gasp her words caused; his mind began to twist and swirl around the information, what it meant, all the experiences it showed in a new light, why had she- no. He forced the questions down and continued to listen; she wouldn’t tell him something so personal (and tragic) without good reason. And if it was related to his own place here... Well, already ideas formed.
He knew. He’d asked why there were no children within the estate a few weeks into his new life and been told the curse of their kind, it hadn’t bothered him to know he’d not have a child, it had never been at the forethought of his desires.
Their place within the vampire community, the hierarchy they held, he knew too, it had been a point of pride for him to be chosen by two of such standing. But... Knowing they’d tried so hard to have a child of their own, a true heir... He’d been a replacement before he knew. They’d always wanted a child, he’d simply been a last resort.
It was natural, the bloodline, the lineage, the next generation. Family, to continue it was what they existed for. His human father had always talked with pride about how so many sons ensured his future, that he had done his work. It hurt Amory so to be lacking a son, an heir. His small looks caught the tears... he’d never seen her cry before this eve.
She’d always been a creature he’d thought incapable of it, not out of a cold heart, just out of strength. Her, Hadrian, they were ancient, what could hurt them now? This. A child. What he was a substitute for. “I understand.” he said softy, pausing a second, hoping his words were acceptable, “A child is what all wish for.” Save himself it seemed. Perhaps that was one more failing. One more defect within him.
He’d assumed the child was no more, whether through tragedy or accident Arran now knew. Miscarriage. It wasn’t uncommon, even amongst humans, but he felt for her, truly he did. To loose the place he had here was awful, but he loved Amory, seeing her in pain made his chest tight. He wanted to comfort her... But it wasn’t his place. And what could he do? A failure, a substitute such as him. “It’s a strong name; he’d have born it well, Amory.” He said quietly, eyes looking mournfully to the floor. He’d have given up all this to give her her Adon back, after all, he couldn’t miss what he’d never had. He’d have remained a sixth-born son, damned to obscurity. But she’d have had what she wanted, a true son.
He swallowed, the pain in her story so piercing his hands twitched with a desire and punishment or not he could hold back no longer. Taking a step he placed a hand upon her shoulder and ducked his head, as though afraid of recompense, before licking his lips, “I...I cannot imagine.” his soft voice almost beaten out by the crackling of the fire. “A mans burdens are nothing to those a woman must endure.” They seemed uselessly formal words to speak but what could he say? He’d never understand that pain; even if he now understood why she’d do desperately wanted a surrogate. A substitute.
“And... I understand. You wanted a child. Your own child, long before I was within this world.” he let out a shaky breath, “And when you thought it beyond you, you saw a being who needed you and you could need in return. You’ve been nothing but good to me, you and Hadrian. I’ve had a life I never dreamed I could have. And I understand it has to end.” His hand slipped from her.
“You have that child now. A true Mordecai heir, a babe you can suckle, watch grow and your beauty and Hadrian’s grace. You don’t need a substitute anymore. It’s alright. I can leave. You can have the family you’ve truly wanted, what you both deserve. I... I’d only wish you happiness. And thank you wanting me, even if it wasn’t to be forever.”
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