I have wondered many times why La Bohème is such a famous opera and so highly recommended to those who are new to the art form. I enjoyed it just fine, but it’s hardly in my top ten - it’s probably in my top five least favorite operas. However, there is something I learned long ago from fanfiction: if a work is going to be popular, then the quality of the work is almost exactly as important as the fan-quality of the work.
I can think of so many decidedly mediocre movies, comics, and television shows that have gained extreme popularity online not because of their fantastic content, but because they were extremely easy to expand upon in art. Even otherwise good works are practically elevated to the level of scripture in the eyes of dedicated fans, because they cease to love merely the work itself and fall in love with a complex fan-developed extrapolation of it. Sometimes, the object of fan obsession bears no resemblance to the work itself at all (see the Undertale multiverse).
I believe that this is the case for many historically important works of literature, as well. Some stories just nudge their ways into the social consciousness.
La Bohème, in particular, is a familiar blend of strong characters (there is a lot of extrapolation to be done about every single member of the main cast based on their interactions), dramatic plot (who in fandom doesn’t react to falling in love and then having their heart broken), and a variety of moods (each of the four acts could practically be its own one-act story). There are holes to fill in, relationships to consider, and, of course, that romanticization of freedom and art that makes the viewer just wish that life was just as picturesque as in the fiction. Honestly, I find it a little silly and self-obsessed, but I’ve also written an undefinable number of chapters of fanfiction on this work that I “don’t like very much,” based on extrapolations that are perfectly reasonable given the libretto.I can explain every single character decision I made, to the point where I spent some time actively searching for evidence that some of those decisions might have been canonical. (ahem. Schaunard shows a remarkable lack of female love interest for a charming man in a romantic opera.)
Said fanfiction is also, ostensibly, about Lucia di Lammermoor, but that’s because when I saw the Met Opera’s Anna Netrebko rendition, I and all of my friends instantaneously agreed that this was definitely about vampires. No denying it. Vampires. What’s more fanfiction-inducing than a vampire AU?
Notes: Arturo and Lucia both survived their wedding night.
Main character: Marcello (for the most part)
Author notes: Whatever
When Rudolfo was taken upstairs via a ladder through a disused lavatory which lead to the kitchen through a small courtyard. He was beginning to wonder at the architecture of this place. When he entered the kitchen, a small army of kitchen maids began to scold him for getting in their way, which put him in a rather awkward situation, because the Lord Ashton had completely vanished from sight. When he finally managed to break their ranks and lodge himself in the trench that had been dug in the downstairs hallway to provide shelter from the heavy culinary artillery, he had a moment of respite to consider what he had just seen and what it meant.
Ashton had charged him with silence. Therefore, he had to ensure that the secret got out. The trouble was doing this in such a manner as to prevent implicating himself, and thus damning his companions. As crawled through the mud and into the safe-zone, he tried to piece together what they knew about the situation so far. Lord Ashton’s sister had been in love with a human. She had married a fairy instead. She went mad and attempted to kill the fairy, then Ashton turned the lover and locked him in the basement, then went to kidnap a small posse of Frenchmen to serve as a potential foodsource for the brood. While he was there, he picked up one such Frenchman’s ex-lover as his own fiance.
Aside from the fact that it would make a damn good opera, this was certainly the most useless conspiracy that Rudolfo had ever stumbled upon. It was so needlessly convoluted that it had surely been devised by a fairy for the express purposes of entrapping somebody in some sort of bargain or contract, except that the fairy was obviously stupidly amateur considering it hadn’t really succeeded in trapping anybody, so much as connecting a variety of disparate (and each uniquely melodramatic and pointless) parts.
---
Marcello had spent days agonizing over his paintings and their dilemma. He was not convinced (none of them were) that the mere knowledge of the scandal would help their case with Bucklaw, considering the information was safely sealed away. Fairies did not necessarily take well to blackmail.
Scandal did fill his mind, though, and he was something of an expert at making them - an art learned from the greatest master of all: Musetta. There were skeletons in this family’s closet, and people who hid their skeletons were usually adept at making more of them.
There was an unexpected knock at his (open) door. It was unexpected because nobody in this house ever bothered to knock except a few of the servants, and they were always conveniently out of scene. He looked up from his painting to see the Lord Bucklaw himself standing just outside the doorway with a charming, yet somewhat bashful smile. Marcello’s first thought was to redirect him to Schaunard’s room.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Arturo said. “Since I was by, I thought I would stop to visit. Are you well, since last we spoke?”
Marcello, in that meantime, had accidentally invented surrealism in his ever-growing frustrations with the painting, but he was also making a steady advance on the larger commission itself. He allowed himself a deep sigh. “If you can define ‘well’ loosely in order to encompass this never-ending monotony and imprisonment, I suppose I am quite well.” He rubbed his temples, inadvertently getting paint in his hair.
“I’m again apologetic for my brother-in-law’s ill treatment of you,” Arturo replied with a frown and a quirk of his lips. “As a man, I’m horrified at this situation. Unfortunately, I’m not just a man, and I can’t violate the law of his house while I’m in it.”
“But these paintings are for you, are they not? She’s your wife, correct?”
“That merely puts me in more of a bind. You are, for the purposes of this exercise, one of his resources; and he is freely using his resources to provide this service. I’m no more bound to him than the laws of kinship demand since she is his sister, but it would be impossible to violate our terms.”
At first, Marcello’s lungs were alight with fiery rage, but it was short-lived. He sighed, his body sagging under the weight of it. This isolation was wearing on all of them. In particular, as the difficulties mounted, his more self-reflective friends were beginning to withdraw in their various ways; Marcello, for his part, was of a much more social temperament, and he was getting lonely. Rudolfo was his chief companion, but Rudolfo’s contemplations were becoming more private by the day, and Schaunard was often occupied with his usual employment in the vampire’s dining room or parlor. Colline, it seemed, had all but vanished; they saw him frequently, but he enjoyed their company from a silent corner, and often slipped away so furtively that not even Schaunard dared to follow him.
He had intended to make a quip. None came to mind. He wanted at least to complain. He wanted an excuse to throw fists and to shout until the rafters rattled. At the moment, he didn’t have that energy, nor the foolhardiness that came with being presented with the cause of anger. He had spent too much time considering Arturo as a potential ally to become overcome by rage for him.
“May I come in?” Arturo asked quietly, breaking into Marcello’s thoughts.
“Why don’t we walk instead?” Marcello suggested, brightening his voice as best he could. “I’m dreadfully cooped up here.”
Arturo fidgeted uncomfortably. “I don’t know that it’s wise to go together into the parts of the house frequented by Ashton,” he said.
Marcello shrunk further in despair. He knew this was wise, of course, but he needed some sort of company, some sort of stimulation.
“It’s still daylight, though,” Arturo hastily added. “are you permitted in the courtyards? I’m sure we could both do with some fresh air.”
“That sounds acceptable,” Marcello said, although he was certainly days away from a complete breakdown.
~~~~
Of the four of them, Schaunard spent the most time with their vampire overlord. This was because, of the four of them, he was the only one whose art the vampire actually liked. Schaunard had taken some drastic actions in the past to get out of unpleasant positions, but four things had prevented him from embarrassing his host or sneezing on the hors d'oeuvres. The first was a sense of professional pride: he loved to sabotage his employers, but rarely in a way that made him look bad. He simply hadn’t thought of a way of getting out of this one that didn’t involve making himself look incompetent. The second was that, despite it all, the vampire (though Schaunard cursed his name with every stroke of the bow) was not a bad host; he was obsessively dedicated to proper manners and a proper aesthetic; he was always perfectly cordial to Schaunard. The third was the delightful opportunity it afforded Schaunard to see Musetta. He wanted to keep an eye on her, ensure she wasn’t being maltreated; and, when she was being maltreated, he loved to see the fallout that reigned down upon the vampire’s head.
Schaunard enjoyed playing, even as much as he hated the mere sight of his captor, even as his stomach roiled with bile. He imagined it sometimes, vividly; in his mind, Schaunard became a soldier of fortune, had been all along in fact, waiting merely for the opportunity to take a sword and a stake and drive that living corpse into the wall. He thought of tearing his shoulder like Grendel’s and mounting it on a spire, of laying his pale body in a tomb and mounting his head on a pike. Schaunard was not one to enact violence, but the scenes filled his head vividly as he played, pulling him far away to another reality. A reality where Schaunard could protect them again, keep them safe as he had in the past.
But Schaunard was not a personally violent man, and when he considered even moderate acts of defiance, a different image forced itself into his mind. That image was Colline, eyes alight like a child’s with fear, that terrifying instant when the pain had pulled him from the vampire’s enthrallment and he had been staring at his own hand, engulfed in flame, the cuff of his old shirt smoldering as it began to catch.
His breath caught, and his bow hitched on a note. The vampire didn’t take notice.
That was the fourth reason for staying compliant; in fact, in many ways, it was the only one. He wasn’t sure that the vampire would take out his wrath on him, when there were convenient scapegoats so close by. Not when Colline’s safety was at stake.
It was just a little bit harder to breathe now that that thought had entered his mind, but he pushed himself through the muscle memory of the routines. He focused, as hard as he could; he had been practicing earlier and had found himself switching from Mozart to Strauss halfway through a piece, and his hands shaking so badly that the legato came out as a trill.
He couldn’t think about things now. Later. Tonight, when he was alone. For now, he had to get through the evening; then he would have a delightful tea with Marcello and whoever else was around, then, when all was well and he had grounded himself in the sanity of companionship, he would retreat to his room. And then he could let his mind do whatever it pleased. He would compose a song; he would let Rudolfo write the words. He would fill it with rage and fear and pain and unrequited love. That would free his mind to be happy, like he was supposed to be, like he had to be too keep Marcello alive and Rudolfo sane. Like he wanted to be.
~~~~~
“Why did you consent to this marriage? Why did he?”
“Lord Ashton was in dire straights when the engagement was arranged,” Arturo said. “It isn’t obvious from the arrangements here, but his status is not what it once was. He lost some key military campaigns in the north that cost him a lot of face; face, status, money, and troops that he needed to gain political allies. Had I not joined his family, he would likely have been executed.”
“Executed for what?”
“Get creative,” Arturo said, waving the question away with his hand. As it flew by him, Marcello realized he had just asked for incriminating evidence about a fairy’s brother in law, and Arturo might be physically incapable of giving it.
“Surely,” Marcello said carefully, “it would merely have been a political execution; surely there was no crime.”
“Because surely,” Arturo responded, “you would not be so bold or so crass as to suggest anything ill of my family.” He said it with a casual flair, but it confirmed Marcello’s hypothesis; Marcello had spoken nothing but ill of Lord Ashton, and that had never been an issue before.
”You care deeply for his sister, after all,” Marcello said, slowly, experimentally.
“I do care for Lucia,” Arturo confirmed. “Very much.”
“And surely that love extends to her brother as well.”
“You would be quite wise to say that.”
They had caught onto a game. Arturo, a fairy, could not lie or cause injury to the family. He could confirm any number of statements in roundabout ways, however, careful never to lie or to directly permit harm. He could point them in the right direction, a compass needle in a twisted cave.
Marcello needed a drink. He needed Colline’s brain, he needed Rudolfo’s thoughtful attention, and he needed a drink. What he had was less than an hour of daylight and a vaguely compliant fairy, which was about as compliant as fairies tended to get. It was like he had won a high-stakes card game, but the pot was all in credit.
Author notes: I’m trying to write my absolute favorite tragic literary heroine in the form of a badly-written YA romance female protagonist. I feel dirty. :(
Character guide
The party was abuzz with excitement, and Violetta, who was beautiful and witty but very frail, had two beautiful men from whom she had to chose. Her best bosom friend (except for Flora), the Viscount Gaston, had introduced her to a handsome young man with beautiful eyes and a wonderful body. Violetta felt her chest heave with excitement as her eyes ate up his beautiful features. His own beautiful eyes stayed locked on hers. When Gaston introduced them, the man (whose name was Alfredo) kissed her hand.
Violetta refused to be taken in, though. She could have her pick of any man at the ball, and the whole world knew it.
“Oh ho,what a charmer!” she said flirtatiously.
“Alfredo here is madly in love with you,” Gaston said, leaning in close.
“Oh, is he now?” Violetta winked at him.
As the evening wore on, it became obvious that Violetta’s most recent flame, the Duke, was jealous.
“Alfredo thinks of nobody but you, Violetta,” Gaston said.
Violetta blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“Alfredo came here every day to ask about you while you were sick,” Gaston said.
“Ooo,” Violetta said with delight. “You never never so nice to me,” she said to the Duke.
“I’ve only known you a year,” the Duke grumbled jealously. His eyes burned with jealousy.
“Alfredo only just met me,” she teased, whacking the Dukewith her fan, who looked annoyed and upset.
“You haven’t said a word all evening, sir,” said the Duke to his rival.
Another friend of hers, a the Marquis, leaned over conspiratorially: “Only you can get him to talk,” he said, and winked.
“Oh is it then?” Violetta said with a coquettish grin. “Then I’ll be Hebe and pour him some wine.”
“May you live forever like Hebe,” Alfredo said, in a smooth, beautiful voice. Violetta’s heart skipped a beat.
Gaston thumped Alfredo on the back. “Now you have to make a toast!” he said. “No, a song!”
“No, I don’t sing,” Alfredo said.
“Make him sing, Violetta!” Gaston said.
“Please?” she asked. “For me?”
“Well,” Alfredo said, smiling shyly, “for you.”
He raised his glass and opened his mouth.
Suddenly he was interrupted.
A loud horn sounded through the hall, and the room was abuzz as a stranger strode in, casting off the servants who tried to pull him back.
The jaws of every guest in the room dropped as Siegfried took over the party.
Notes: Arturo and Lucia both survived their wedding night.
Main character: Marcello
Author notes: The word of the day is Hopeful!
Character guide
"I've spoken to the Lord Fairy," declared Marcello. "He won't help us."
"What!" exclaimed Colline.
"Such a potent discovery, and it will have no further bearing on our lives!" moaned Schaunard.
"And in such relatively good prose, too," muttered Rudolfo.
"However," cut in Marcello, "all is not lost."
"Have you good news?" asked Schaunard, with hopeful eyes.
"Better. I have scandalous gossip about His Illustrious Lordship, our host."
All six eyes lit up, and Marcello sat on the piano while they struck schoolchild poses around him. He told them everything he had seen and heard, in lurid detail; of the dark hall, of Lord Bucklaw, of the portrait, of the hithertofore unmentioned sister. The boys drank it up with rapt attention and barely restrained glee.
"What will we do with such gossip?" asked Colline.
"mayhaps we can blacken his name somewhat," Schaunard suggested hopefully.
"That wouldn't work," Colline said. "The servants already know, and he takes no guests except the lady's husband."
"But so many extrapolations to be made!" Rudolfo exclaimed. "With such detail he gave those impassioned descriptions to Marcello's hand!"
Schaunard seemed to have an idea of where this was going, and leaned foreward in his seat with glimmering, hopeful eyes.
"He forbade their love, his heart swelled with rage at the thought of his sister in such a man's arms - a man whose features he had studied empassionately!"
"Of course!" Schaunard exclaimed, leaping up. "And on the night of the wedding, the night when at last he had dismantled the risk of their love..."
"Rejected, and distraught!"
"The maid, locked away, for fear of the memories she brings."
"The name banished away from the face he knows so well."
"Rudolfo, we must write a ballad!"
"Once we change the names and make the maid a boy, why, we shall fill the opera houses all over France!"
"Why suffer that, when we can sing it in the streets of Paris, unedited?"
"Of course!" Marcello said, leaping on the pianoforte. "What a song the hopeful paupers will sing, of a passionate young sir and his tender feelings towards the man he longs for! All of Paris will know the name Ashton!"
"Are you up to the task?" Colline asked of Schaunard and Rudolfo, lounging on the rug. Marcello looked hopefully over to Schaunard.
"Writing passionate songs of tender love towards longed-for young men is the work I was born for," Schaunard said, while Rudolfo and Marcello stole hopeful glances at one another. Colline silently grinned, down towards the rug and away from their faces.
---
Colline reflected long and often on their captivity. Many philosophers, many of the men who he admired most, did the best of their worj in caves - in social slavery to unjust governments - in the midst of great hardship - trapped, alone and friendless, in the isolation imposed by circumstance or by black bile.
Colline was desperately unhappy. Despair was nothing new to him, and its taste in his mouth was familiar and bitter. He had resigned himself to material helplessness long, long ago, to a world where it mattered not what he did or said; only that the fire stayed lit another night and their bellies stayed empty of starvation.
Lady wisdom was a prize to be cherished above all discomfort. To her bosom he fled the daily drudgeries and the gnawing nerves. He lost himself in her bliss, drinking in the words of his great teachers from their cream-colored beds on the pages of old, musty books, world left behind as he fled the reaches of wisdom.
Colline was desperately unhappy. He found less and less energy in his mind to be with the others each day. He was slowly withdrawing from others, eating less, reading books from the Ashton library to the exclusion of any other pursuit.
This is how he found the Ashton family baptismal records. And the family tree. And several generations of diaries.
Colline was a philosopher, whose mind was trained to higher things and who bent his efforts to the pursuit of wisdom, but even a philosopher is riveted by good, juicy gossip, and there was plenty to be had here.
---
“Marcello,” Colline said, “Bucklaw told you that we have to solve this problem without his help, yes?”
“That is correct,” Marcello said. “Fairy law would require payment in the form of an object of equal value.
“But he saved you from the Lady Bucklaw without making any further demands.”
Marcello blinked. “That... That’s true.”
“What are you thinking?” Schaunard asked, confused, and knowing that this had to be going somewhere.
“I have an inkling why,” Colline said. “Lady Bucklaw, as he said, is his wife, and his responsibility. You were intruding in a realm, but not in his realm - merely a forbidden wing in his brother-in-law’s house. Which means that your injury would have been nothing short of manslaughter, and his responsibility.“
“I see. That’s quite interesting,” Marcello said.
Schaunard raised an eyebrow. “What use is this to us?”
“It has to do with the wedding,” Colline said. He sat down, perching on the arm of a chair. “In his library, Lord Ashton keeps all kinds of records, as any lord would - ledgers, family records, the works. He is meticulous with his filing, as was his father, although I think their grandfather had a few bats in his belfry.”
Rudolfo arched an eyebrow at Marcello. Colline was quiet, the vast majority of the time, but he was also fascinated by knowledge of all kinds, and when he became fixated, he was not easy to stop.
“Well, at the date previously mentioned, the Ashtons were in debt - far more in debt than the lavishness of this estate would make clear. The union with the Bucklaws included significant financial and political gain.”
“Now that is something,” Maracello said, interest piqued.
“There’s more,” Colline said. “There are missives and letters scattered about their records as well. About one year ago, there is one regarding the disappearance of one Sir Ravenswood, a name we know well.”
“The time of the wedding?” Rudolfo asked.
“Precisely. If you go back earlier, there is a land acquisition from that same family in their ledgers, and directly before that, remarks on the funeral of another Ravenswood, this one with the title of Lord. He died in a duel with our dear Ashton’s father.”
“A family enemy, then?” Schaunard asked, hope sparking in his eyes.
“Indubitably,” Colline said. “But it goes back further.”
“Just how much of this madman’s journal did you read?” Marcello demanded.
“He’s literary, Marcello, you don’t understand!” Rudolfo rebuked. “Please go on, Colline.”
“Well, the earliest mentions I saw - as early as I got, that is - we find, when the Lord Ravenswood was still certainly young, the death of a girl - a cousin - at the hands of a previous Ravenswood. This one was mentioned without a title. The girl, who was eighteen at the time, was a cousin of the Ashtons. Her death was supposedly a crime of passion.”
“So we have a feud on our hands,” muttered Schaunard.
“Or the dredges of one,” said Rudolfo. “Sir Ravenswood is disappeared, yes? Does he have any kin?”
“I think not,” said Colline. “The missive I found was by a fellow Scott and political ally. I got the distinct impression that Lord Ashton was the only possible contact he could think of.”
Marcello slumped down, looking defeated. “Then our only possible human ally is gone.”
“And our chance of getting in with Lord Bucklaw is back,” Schaunard said, stroking his chin. “The Ashton family is his responsibility. If we have the means to expose them to scandal or injure them in some way, it would reflect on his wife. We may have our equivalent exchange.”
---
Later that day, Schaunard caught Colline by the arm.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said. Colline looked confusedly up at him, and Schaunard felt awkward. “You’ve been spending a good deal of time with your books lately, and, well, I hope it’s been good for you.”
“Of course it has been,” Colline said pausingly.
“What I mean to say is-” Schaunard sighed deeply and frustratedly and scrubbed his face with his hand. “You’ve been avoiding us lately. If it’s because anything is wrong, then please--”
“Nothing is wrong,” Colline said, a bit to quickly, a bit too wide-eyed.
“Then please,” Schaunard pleaded, “don’t be afraid to tell me.”
Colline still looked confused, but he nodded, then went on his way back to the library.
Us, Shaunard realized a moment too late. I meant don’t be afraid to tell us.
Notes: Arturo and Lucia both survived their wedding night.
Main character: Marcello
Author notes: Whatever
Character guide
Rudolfo did not want to be a martyr; no, he wanted to live free as much as any of the rest, but they all did. His companions did not deserve the punishment that this prison left them. Schaunard became wearier each day; he and Colline deserved to go home and be together. Marcello's temper would get him killed, and soon enough Musetta would grow bored of this dreary estate and seek him out again, as was the nature of their fickle love. Rudolfo deserved this no more than the others, but his temper was even and his lady love was dead. A poet's heart could survive captivity, if it was in sacrifice for his friends.
"Tell me your conditions," Rudolfo said. "If you will let the others go free, I will comply with them, absolutely and without struggle. Pity me, please, my lord."
Ashton stared coolly down at him, but there was a calculation behind his features.
"Their freedom for yours? No tricks, no fighting?"
"I swear it."
"Then come with me."
The vampire led him down to the east wing, where he lived himself, and down a stairwell there. At the bottom, there was a heavy door into what Rudolfo first supposed was a wine cellar, but which had at the end of it another heavy door. There was another hall and another door, this one smaller. They turned tothe left, through a portal and a passageway, lined with old stone but otherwise empty. To the right was a metal gate, and they passed through that, closing it behind them. Ashton handed the candle he was holding to Rudolfo for a moment to lift a heavy bar, and when they passed into the room behind it, he took the candle from Rudolfo and had him open the next. There was another stairwell behind a trapdoor, and Rudolfo wondered what could be at the other end of it, but they did not take it; instead, they made an egress from that room through a red exit which opened into a dark chamber. From there, there was a heavy, barred iron door. Inside this one, as soon as it was opened, there came a hissing.
The figure inside, chained with shackles to the wall, jumped at their approach. At first it was huddled in shadow, too dark to see, but when it jumped up against its iron chains towards them, a man’s face was clearly exposed even in the dim candlelight.
Rudolfo’s heart beat fast with fear and he pressed himself up against the steel door behind him. It wasn’t the fact that this was a clearly feral vampire and it was actively trying to kill him that frightened him so much, although that certainly didn’t help and should probably have been a higher priority. It was the fact that he recognized that face.
It was from Marcello’s portraits.
Each successive painting had started with the blurred and broken images on damaged canvases and had been working slowly towards this goal. This was the creature.
“Hideous, isn’t he?” Lord Ashton asked almost casually.
“He’s wild.”
“More than wild. Fresh.” Ashton struck the bound vampire, which pulled back with a growl for mere seconds before shooting forward again at Rudolfo. “It’s an ‘it,’ not a ‘he’ right now. A freshly turned vampire won’t calm down and become a man again until certain conditions are filled.”
“W-what conditions?” Rudolfo asked, as his blood ran icy cold and drained from his face. He already had his suspicions.
“As of yet, he has never tasted blood,” Ashton said. “It’s difficult to help a young vampire drink his fill without killing the victim or turning and enthralling it. It requires proper preparation and a victim who knows how to respond. Usually it’s done in circumstances much like the one you see before you: the feral vampire in chains, the room barred, an elder vampire ready to tear the two apart.”
“But why him? Why me?”
“This,” said Ashton, “is Sir Edgardo Ravenswood, my sister’s former suiter.”
Rudolfo almost forgot to feign surprise; Ashton didn’t know that he and his companions had figured that out weeks ago. “You have a sister?” he asked, lamely.
Ashton nodded gravely. “She is married now, for a year; you will likely never meet her. But this man was almost her ruin.” He circled the room, practically floating with his nobleman’s grace, candle still in hand, casting Edgardo’s face in an uncomfortable shadow. “This creature, when he was still alive, was a bitter enemy of our family, sworn to destroy us. He attracted her affections by chance one day, and nearly seduced her. When at last I persuaded her to leave him and his treachery and to agree to the marriage that had been arranged for her - with a kind, respectable man, I might add - he entered our home unwelcome, broke into the wedding, and made a spectacle in front of the guests. He humiliated her, called her a faithless whore, and were it not for a man of god who stopped him, almost took his sword to me. The shame almost destroyed my sister.” Ashton turned back to Rudolfo, standing behind Edgardo now. He held the feral vampire with one arm, held the candle out in front of him so that their faces were lit dramatically. “I challenged this man to a duel that very night. We met at dawn. In my rage, I hardly knew what I was doing; I claimed his life and bound him to me.”
Rudolfo swallowed. “But why do you keep him-”
“I refuse to let him out now,” Ashton said, interrupting. Rudolfo shut his mouth, not willing to interrupt a monologue. “It would be a reminder of my sister’s shame, and he is a blot on the family. To release him as a feral would be condemning the peasants as they work in their fields. To tend him as a thrall and son would be to expose my servants to him, my own household. Nobody knows that he is alive.”
“How has he not starved to death, yet?” Rudolfo asked under his breath. Ashton continued to ignore him.
“I cannot keep him here forever; the longer he is starved, the more his bloodlust will grow, and the longer his rampage when he is finally released. Be that tomorrow or a hundred years from now, the world will pay for his hunger. I have no choice but to give him a household of his own, and to charge him to leave this place, never to return.
“You and your friends, Rudolfo, were to be that household. You were urchins from Paris, paupers who would not be missed. You were peasants, humans; educated enough, but such scoundrels that it brought me no moral shame to take you from your homes, never to be missed.”
“You said that you would release us, in time,” Rudolfo said.
“I did under the condition that you would comply with my wishes,” Ashton said. “Not one of you has even made an attempt. Colline, through fear, has avoided getting caught, and you, Rudolfo, have shown the barest semblance of sense. Based on my initial conditions, I am not bound to release any of you. Ever.”
“You are a liar.”
“I took advantage of your savage nature, but I did not raise that nature in you. That was your own curse.”
Rudolfo raked his fingers through his hair and leaned against the wall. “Why are you telling me this? Have your plans changed?”
“Because I would prefer compliance,” Ashton said. “Your lot are unbelievably annoying when you don’t act of your own accord. I am not a barbarian, as you have so creatively called me. I prefer not to kill, turn, or entrance if there is a civilized alternative. If I am to give this feral beast a household, he will either need willing servants or vampire thralls. Which will it be, Rudolfo? One willing human or four vampire sons?”
Rudolfo swallowed. “I will have to consider this.”
“Consider quickly,” Ashton said. “You know the secret of Lammermoor now, hidden in this basement behind this door. I will not allow that secret to leave this room; and if it does, then you know who will suffer for it.”
Notes: Arturo and Lucia both survived their wedding night.
Main character: Marcello
Author notes: today is improbable anatomy day.
Character guide
"It looks nothing like him," Ashton said as he inspected the portrait. "The nose is too thin. Try again."
“This the best I can do on these ruined, water-stained pieces of trash!” Marcello said, loosing his temper despite the concerted efforts he had been making to keep his head on his shoulders and not flying about he room.
“Which is why I don’t begrudge you a second attempt,” his captor responded, “I am telling you now the most glaring of errors, which is that the nose is too thin. The eyes are also too wide, the jaw too soft, and the mouth in a distinctly unrealistic expression.”
“If you know the man, why not sketch him for me yourself, or at least give me a description to work with!”
“He was monstrous,” the vampire spat through his lips, “a barbarian. Human, and the very worst of his kind.”
“I cannot work with a moral description, sir!”
But the description was forthcoming. In excruciating detail, each word delivered with the voice of a bitter enemy, but as though describing the body of a lover. It made Marcello wonder who exactly this man was to Lord Ashton.
“Who was this man to you?” Marcello asked.
“My enemy,” Lord Ashton said, “and his father was my father’s enemy before that. He slighted our family many times, acted bitterly against us, and even-” The vampire cut himself off and took a long breath, which he let out with hate. “His name is cursed in this house.”
“....Then why am I painting his portrait?”
Lord Ashton practically slapped him with his wild eyes. Marcello half expected him to slap him with his real hands.
“You are to obey me. That is your only concern.” And with that, Ashton swooshed out of the room.
When Marcello had completed the second miniature, it received similar scorn from the pleasurless Ashton. “Better,” he said, “but still not right. His face is rounder than this. And he should be smiling.”
“You went to great lengths to make it sound as though he would never smile.”
“He smiled like a snake or a wild wolf before its pray,” Ashton hissed, teeth barred. “He was quite a kind man to his friends, or would have been, if he had any. He was alone in the world by the time of his disappearance.”
Disappearance? That was interesting. “So I am painting a kind villain with a round, angular face and friendly, vicious eyes?”
Ashton’s face flickered with annoyance, but all he said was: “Try again.”
The third portrait was detail for detail Lord Ashton himself. The only thing that saved Marcello from severe punishment was the fact that he was already working on a fourth before Ashton ever saw it. The vampire did grab him by the wrist though, push him back so his chair was wedged against the bed, and hold his teeth very close to Marcello’s neck when he said:
“I hope you remember what will befall you if you test me.”
Marcello did remember. But he was growing accustomed to the steady chill of fear that always accompanied his captor, and it did not affect his mood too much. Later that day, he reenacted the scene with Rudolfo for the laughing Schaunard and Colline, but with Rudolfo (in the role of Marcello) wearing a bed sheet as a skirt and his own lines (in the role of Lord Ashton) modified into a breathless proclamation of love.
---
“So am I the only one who is curious,” Schaunard asked one day, “who the Lord Ashton’s lady love is? We have not seen her at all, but his attention is always on her.”
“She’s making him miserable, whoever she is,” Marcello said with a laugh, “so I fully support their union.” They were playing cards in the parlor, Schaunard playing for them sporadically on the piano when he got bored of awaiting his turn. His hands were little dancers on the keys, plinking out a melody almost coquettishly, never quite committing to a tune.
“I heard from the staff that she’s a human,” Rudolfo said. “They are quite disapproving.”
“That their master would cavort with a human, or that a human would cavort with their master?” Colline asked.
“Oh, we already know that the Lord Ashton has a passionate love for humans, but is too proud to express it!” Schaunard called out, spinning in a pirouette from his seat. “That is why he keeps us here. He cannot bear to know that we are far away, but nor can he admit to his burning passion!” He let himself fall across their card game, holding his head and hip as though he were a woman named Rose who had fallen in love on a now-sunken ship.
“Of course!” Marcello jumped up onto his chair and struck his best Aphrodetian pose. “He is a slave to our beauty, and so he holds us captive out of jealousy. He cannot bear the thought that we might be won by a greater vampire!” He fluttered his eyes and gazed limpidly at Colline.
“What else can we do?” Colline said with a deep sigh, stretching himself across Rudolfo’s lap. “To part from him would be an insult to the powers of his great love!”
“Indeed!” Rudolfo said with a flourish, and stood, causing Colline to tumble to the ground. “We must teach the man to approach his feelings, to express them with the heart of a true poet! Only then can he and we be free!”
Marcello lifted his arms in mock horror. “Oh, no, don’t teach him poetry.”
“Certainly not,” Schaunard said.
“We can’t possibly release vampire poetry upon the world,” Colline said from under the table.
Notes: Arturo and Lucia both survived their wedding night.
Main character: Marcello
Author notes: written before chapter 3, and published before chapter 3.7
Character guide
"This is quite a life we are living, is it not?" Schaunard said, throwing open the door to the parlor. "Our captor feeds us, bars us with palace doors, orders our fire lit, and acts the most devoted patron a musician could hope for!"
"He is a villain and a scoundrel," Marcello snipped back. Rodolfo looked between Schaunard and Marcelll, conspicuously keeping his wide mouth shut.
They had been left blessedly alone for the evening, and all were grateful for it, but an air of gloom and exhaustion pervaded the air, and Schaunard could not put his finger on it. They were all sick at heart, missing their freedom and their home. But this, among struggles, was the least they had endured. If Ashton had hurt one of them, or some atrocity had been committed, then there would only be more revelry, more jokes to go around. None of the boys ever behaved like this, except-
Except.
Rudolfo placed a hand on Schaunard's back and pulled him aside.
"We have caught sight of Ashton's mistress," he said. "She is a woman known to us."
"You can't mean--"
"Musetta is courted by the fiend."
Of course it was a woman. The only thing that could turn their heads and ruin their moods must be a woman.
“Musetta? But how did she get here?”
“The same way we did,” said Colline.
“If by that you mean in a carriage,” Marcello said. “We, bound behind and enthralled, behind bars; she in velvet by his side.”
“It’s true,” Rudolfo confirmed. “We overheard them arguing.”
-----
The west wing was off-limits. The vampire had made that perfectly clear. After the first night, Marcello had been recovering from his injuries, and had not been tempted to make another attempt - but now he was well, and energetic with rage and jealousy. If that blasted fiend was going to try and restrict his movements, he was going to have to keep him weak, because no force on earth could keep Marcello from doing whatsoever he pleased in exactly the manner he pleased to. The door was locked and the servants frustratingly hard to coerce or seduce, but he was a Parisian painter. He had jimmied a hatch before.
The west wing was lavish and clean, but it was dark, almost too dark to continue. Marcello had to take a taper from a nearby desk merely to proceed down the hall. Even among the vampires, this darkness was eerie; lamps stayed lit in the house so that the servants might go about their business, and since he and his companions’ confinement, the fire stayed lit. Marcello walked down the hall, a corridor of dancing shadows. There was a thrill to it, and in his mind, he composed a painting; an undertone in red, bold streaks of black dancing up the walls, a figure with a tapering going down the way. He would call it “Dante enters Dis.” The rug was plush, the walls lined with ugly paintings, and as he progressed down the room it occurred to him quite suddenly that servants entered into the west wing to clean it; there was almost certainly a feral vampire here. A coursing of fear went through him for just a moment, and he turned quickly.
His hasty movements doused the flame of the taper, but in the moment before it flickered out, what he saw made his heart stutter in fear.
There was a woman. She had smiled at him.
“Edgardo?” her voice said, a bright soprano in the darkness.
“Who are you?” Marcello asked, his voice shaking. Cold hands touched his sleeves, and he froze.
“It is I, Edgardo, your love, your bride, Lucia. Have you come for me?”
“I- I am not Edgardo. I am Marcello.”
“I have waited, Edgardo, waited faithfully for you. Have you come to me at last to forgive me for betraying you?”
“I am not Edgardo,” Marcello tried to insist, but his voice was thin and quavering. “I am Marcello, I am not who you think I am--”
“I love you, Edgardo,” she said. Although her skin was cold and her mouth dry, he could feel the soft movement of breath brush forth from her lips and onto his own. His heart was pounding now, and her arms snaked up his shoulders. He was afraid to speak, afraid to move, because he did not know if she was going to kiss him or kill him.
“Lucia, NO!!”
Something pushed them away, and there was a spark of light as Marcellus stumbled back, onto a chair. He saw Lucia clearly, now - pale and raven-haired, in a red dressing-gown. She bore a clear resemblance to the Lord Ashton. Sister? Cousin? Mother? There was no knowing with ageless vampires.
The room was now lit by a face that was round, red, and quite literally glowing. It was the fairy man who they had seen coming and going before. His face was always jovial, but sad; now it was twisted with concern. His arms held back Lucia, but his eyes were on Marcello.
“What were you thinking, coming in here?” he said. “My wife is mad. She might have killed you.”
“I did not know,” Marcello said. It was all he had the breath to say, collapsed as he was in an old wooden chair.
“But the west wing is forbidden for guests! Don’t you know better than to wander a vampire’s house at night? Even the servants wait until noonday to enter, when she’s locked up!”
In the glow, Marcello caught sight of something set against Lucia’s dressing gown - something gold and glimmering, something he recognized.
“What’s that?” he asked.
The fairy blinked in surprise and looked. “What’s what?”
“The necklace. The miniature. May I see it?”
“Is that what you want from her? Is that why you’re tormenting the poor girl?”
“No, you don’t understand. That- I painted it.”
The Fairy turned back to Marcello, and his face began to settle from confusion down to a calm understanding.
“Edgardo?” Lucia asked again, beginning to move this time towards the fairy.
“You’re the painter,” the fairy said. “I understand now. Come with me while I take her to the sitting room. I’ll explain everything.”
--
“She she thinks everyone is him.”
“She recognizes her minister,” the man, whose name was Lord Arturo Bucklaw, said. “She knew who I was for a while; she tried to kill me on our wedding night, when she first went mad, but, well, it didn’t stick.” Compared to fairies, vampires were easy pickings. “She doesn’t do that anymore, but I think... Well, I hope she thinks of me as a friend. She may be mad, but she is my wife. I intend on taking care of her.”
A lamp was lit, but Arturo himself provided most of the light; it was a softer, whiter light than a candle would be wont to cast.
“So those paintings I have been doing. Who are they?”
Arturo stood and moved to Lucia, who was peacefully embroidering while shackled to a sitting chair, a precaution Arturo had insisted on for as long as there was warm blood present in the room. “This,” he said, holding out the necklace, “is supposed to be Edgardo. But of course you never knew his face. I was hoping that having a resemblance of him near would help to.... To relieve her pain, a bit. My brother-in-law is against it, but it isn’t his call anymore.”
“I take it that it was of no use.”
“No. I’m commissioning a larger one that we can place on her wall. Are you working on that one, as well?”
“I am, although it is frustrating working only from damaged miniatures.”
“I’ll gladly help as best I can, but I did not know him well - we only met once. I know Enrico would rather the name Edgardo was never mentioned in this house again, so I’m sure he’s of poor use to you.” Arturo moved gracefully back to his chair and sat down. Lucia smiled, muttering to herself. “You never did answer me. What were you doing here? Surely the lord of the house warned you to stay away.”
“He did. I refused.” Marcello curled his lip distastefully at the thought of Ashton; he was sick of humiliation, of pain, of captivity. “If I’m to be kept prisoner of his walls, then he will have to bind me up in chains to keep me more a prisoner than that.”
Arturo was visibly shocked. “Prisoner?... Ashton has trapped you here??”
“My friend slighted one of his vampire servants while he was in Paris,” Marcello said. “He came himself seeking apology and retribution. When we did not provide it, he took the the whole lot of us - myself and my friends - as hostages to his wounded pride. We found ourselves here, unable to leave, and threatened with force if we disobey his commands.”
Arturo scrubbed his face with his hands. “It’s quite a family I bonded myself to, is it not? Even for Enrico, this is ridiculous behavior. Has he hurt you?”
Marcello shifted uncomfortably, rubbing at his wrist instinctively. “When first I tried to enter this wing and satisfy my curiosity, he drained my blood until I was unconscious while the others watched. I suspect. He has stricken us or had us beaten more than once since our arrival. “
Arturo looked away and scowled. Marcello had seen fairies from a distance before, but almost none lived in cities such as Paris. Seeing him now, he began to understand what people said, about how fairies were a vision of beauty until you aroused their scorn, at which point they became demonic. The fairy’s face twisted in a way that wasn’t quite human. It made Marcello’s blood chill.
“I don’t know about the others, but he keeps you to dishonor my requests,” Arturo said. “He refuses to pay someone an honest wage to fulfill them.”
“You can free us, then!” Marcello said. “You’re like him, Lord Bucklaw, you are nobility.”
Arturo shook his head uncomfortably. “I cannot fulfill that request for you, Marcello.”
“Captivity tortures me more than his hands or fangs ever could, sir! I will gladly complete the painting, but I cannot stand another minute in this prison!”
“Calm yourself, sir!” Lucia was looking distressed at Marcello’s shouting. Artura went to her, shooshing and soothing.
“How can I be calm when my heart burns with rage?” Marcello said. “We were poor but we were free, Arturo. I would rather paint with frigid hands in Paris than stay trapped in luxury here, slave to his pride and envy.”
“That is precisely why I cannot help you,” Arturo hissed in the whistling whisper of a fairy. He walked to Marcello, standing over him.
Marcello stood up to be face-to-face with the fairy.
“Marcello,” Arturo pleaded, “surely you know that if you ask my help and I grant it to you, you will be more a slave than you were before. Fairies cannot act out of charity. We can only bargain, and you’ve professed yourself that nothing you can give is equal in value to your freedom.”
Marcello’s heart was aflame with despair. “You’re denying me my request.”
“I cannot provide it,” Arturo insisted. “I will pray for you and I wish you luck, but you humans must tend to your own affairs.”
Marcello could barely speak; his vision was red and his lungs felt full of fire, not air. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and paced the dark hall, fists clenched. At the end of the hall, there was a small window; he knew this now because the sun was beginning to rise, and its light peaked through the curtain. He opened it and watched the world outside, trying to calm his nerves.
It didn’t work. After a few minutes of gazing, walked down the hall and left the wing.
Notes: Arturo and Lucia both survived their wedding night.
Main character: Marcello
Author note: It has come to my attention that I cannot possibly claim to be writing “bad fanfiction” with nary a metaphor in sight. I shall hitherto attempt to endure a minimum of one metaphor per paragraph.
Edit: I called this “Roommates, Chapter 3″ instead of “Captives, Chapter 3″ by accident. I can’t decide whether or not to fix this.
Character guide
Two of Lort Ashton’s valets came to help Marcello to his room, which Ashton had shown to them earlier. They dragged him like a sack of flour while his friends followed helplessly, still reeling from what had happened and afraid to make a wrong move.
Marcello’s limbs were cold, as though it had been snowing in the room, and his heart rate fluttered in his chest. He was exhausted, but after the initial shock, it wasn’t as bad as he would have expected - really, it felt more like he was high on something than injured. Colline’s stinging hand deserved more attention than his weak wrist. He did not look high, so much as like he had hurt his hand.
Marcello slept easily through the night; when he awoke the next afternoon, he found that Rudolfo had fallen asleep leaned up against the wall. He was a limp mannequin, snoring gently, eyes heavy and sad with exhaustion.
The door opened. Lord Ashton came in.
“I see you are recovering well,” he said.
Marcello glared at him. “I can forgive what you have done to me, but I cannot forgive you for hurting Colline.”
“Then don’t forgive. Perhaps you can act to ensure he is not injured further in the future.” Lord Ashton pulled a wooden chair from the desk by the wall and sat facing Marcello’s head. The noise awoke Rudolfo with a start; Rudolfo leapt to his feet with a cry.
“How dare you enter here,” he shouted at Ashton.
“It’s my home,” Ashton said calmly. “I go where I please.”
Rudolfo’s mouth moved open and closed like a fish with potential angry words, but he seemed to realize that all threats were empty threats.and all pleas were hopeless pleas. “What do you want here?” he asked at last with a keening tone.
“I simply come to speak to you friend about his role here,” Ashton said. “I mean no harm.”
“You’ve proven willing to harm whether you will to now or not,” Rudolfo spat. Ashton shrugged his shoulder slightly as though to say that Rudolfo had a point, but an irrelevant one.
“You are a painter, are you not?” Ashton said, turning back to Marcello.
Marcello glared at him with fiery eyes.
After a beat, Ashton continued: “I don’t intend on keeping you unoccupied while you are here. I have a painting to commission of your, a miniature.”
“And why should an artist work in captivity?” Marcello asked.
“Because to refuse would be to disobey me,” Ashton said, “and because I will repay your obedience in time. Punishment or pleasure; it’s your choice. If you are particularly fickle, I can take matters into my own hands and bind you to my will.”
“You are a barbarian,” Rudolfo hissed.
Marcello, however, was weighing his options. If Schaunard had followed him to the red hall instead of Colline, and if Lord Ashton had chosen to prolong the punishment, then the musician might never play his violin again. If the vampire was fair,then Marcello would fight him like a gladiator against a lion, for life and glory. However, Marcello was not convinced that the vampire was fair in anything but complexion, and he did not want to take the risk that harm would come to his fellows.
“What miniature?” Marcello asked. “A woman’s adornment, a child’s brooch?”
“A portrait,” Ashton said, “to be set on a necklace. The subject cannot sit for you himself. There are some damaged paintings that will serve as your guide; hopefully they will suffice, for one with such vision as yours.”
“What choice do I have?” Marcello asked, quietly.
“None,” Ashton replied.
---
It only took a couple of days for Marcello to regain most of his strength. None of the men went far from his room in that time. On the same day as Lord Ashton’s visit, some of his servants came in with paints and supplies. None of them ever spoke to or acknowledged Marcello and his friends, as though they were nothing but nameless, voiceless plot devices.
Marcello almost immediately splattered all of the red on the rug and wall. Senseless vandalism seemed the best course of action at times such as this.
But he did work on the miniature, as soon as enough strength returned to his hands to keep them from shaking. He bent over the desk with the damaged paintings presented to him - they were really quite bad - and did his best to approximate the face in them. he was glad that the likeness was small, or he might never have managed it. There was something calming and quiet, now that he at least had something to do with himself. His desk was a little sanctuary of peace in this larger sanctuary of doom.
Rudolfo pulled a second chair into the room and sat it at the table in the corner so he could write poetry while Marcello painted, as they always had in the past. Schaunard was given a violin, which he practiced regularly in the next room. Colline did... whatever it was that Colline did. Even in Paris, that had not been entirely clear.
They all had their own rooms, but none of them spent their waking hours alone. None of them wanted to be caught alone when they passed Lord Ashton in the hall, or one of his vampire thralls. They all always felt like prey.
They didn’t actually see much of him for a while, though. He spent most of his time alone in his study, or off with his lady friend, who they had yet to see or meet; she might as well be a ghost. Few guests visited the Lammermoor estate, although there was one man - a jolly, round-faced man with sad eyes who would greet anyone he met amicably but continue on to some unknown destination.
“What do we know about him?” Marcello asked one day, while they were all sitting in the parlor, drinking Ashton’s scotch.
“He’s certainly a relative,” Schaunard said, “or Ashton would never tolerate his presence. They clearly despise one another.”
Notes: Arturo and Lucia both survived their wedding night.
Main character: Marcello
Character guide
After Marcello left the room, a heavy, gloomy silence fell upon it. Rudolfo sat in the chair where he had fallen and stared at the rug. Schaunard paced along the wall. Colline stood for a minute, quietly reflecting, and then left the room without a word, likely to go after Marcello.
It so happened that there was a pianoforte in the corner of this parlor. Maracello ran his hand along it, and then sought solace in its keys.
“What is this ghastly noise you make, Schaunard?” Rudolfo asked, after a minute or two of music.
“The most bland and uninspired piece I could think of,” Maracello said. “It seemed that it would fit well to the aesthetic tastes of our noble host.”
“….Is that Schumann?”
“One of the two. I don’t recall which.”
“But Schaunard, I thought you loved Schumann.”
“I love certain performance pieces. They are well-received.”
“But this is awful.”
“Paying customers have bad taste, Rudolfo.”
“That they do,” Rudolfo said with a laugh. “What do you think– will the one who does not pay us have better taste?”
“He has a respectable flair for the dramatic, certainly,” Schaunard said. “Rudolfo, this cannot possibly be made worse. Perhaps you could lyricize it?”
“A ballad?” Rudolfo walked over to lean against the piano. “In my sleep, provided you don’t intend on wooing any women with it.”
“Rudolfo, nothing could be further from my mind.”
“Oh lovely eye, who gazes down
upon these eyes adoring here,
Toss down a lock of golden hair
that it might banish all my fear–”
“Really, Rudolfo,” Schaurnard cut in, “such a masterwork is fit only for the wealthiest of patrons.”
“And are you to have me at a disadvantage, man? You have the meter, change up the tune!”
Schaunard laughed, and he improvised, taking full advantage of the forte available to him. The old walls resonated. In moments, Rudolfo could not recite, even badly; his body was wracked with laughter.
Schaunard felt as though some order had been returned to his world.
He had always felt responsible for his friends. Responsible for their bellies, their hearths, their laughter. Had he Marcello’s passion, he would have ripped that vampire to shreds with his bare hands, but caution stayed him. He was afraid of what would happen if the beast was further provoked.
The door opened. Rudolfo turned towards it and for a moment grinned, began to improvise with an even bigger voice - then stopped, dread suddenly pulling at his face. Schaunard turned to follow his eyes and his fingers froze on the keys, a quavering dominant 7th hanging in the air.
Ashton was in the doorway. His right hand dug into the neck of Marcello, who was clearly feeling the pain of his fingers; he was twisted at an angle, holding onto Ashton’s arm for support with his own vice-like grip. Behind them was Colline. Something was off about Colline. His expression was vacant and hollow.
“I made it clear that you were to obey my orders,” he said. “You two are a nuisance, but a nuisance I can tolerate. This one,” he said, moving aside and gesturing Colline to enter - Colline whose movement was too stiff, whose back was almost too straight - “has some sense, and will not suffer too harshly for it.”
Schaunard’s heart began to beat so wildly that he could scarcely move his body. Colline walked and knelt beside the hearth. Schaunard tried to run to him, to pull him out of it, every thought in his head screaming for this to stop, but his limbs were too weak.
Colline placed his hand into the fire. Suddenly he was awake and screaming, pulling his hand out and clutching it to his chest.
Schaunard’s lungs caught at the sight, but there was some relief there, too; Colline likely had barely blistered himself. The pain had pulled him out immediately, in no more than a second or two. Still, even as Schaunard’s eyes stayed locked on Colline, behind his vision danced scenes of tearing the vampire to pieces, preferably with a shovel, and scattering them across the yard.
Colline, now awake, pushed himself away as he stared with big, wild eyes at the man who had just a moment ago had him entranced. He scooched across the floor until his back met a rack, which rattled but supported him surprisingly well.
“Now for the other,” said the vampire. He pushed Marcello away, whose breath was heavy with anger and who clutched the bruises that were quickly forming on his neck.
The vampire advanced on him, pushed him back-first against the back of an armchair, stretched out his wrist, and dug in his fangs.
The rest could only watch in horror. Marcello struggled in vain, and slowly, his struggles faded. By the time Ashton dropped him, he fell to the floor, limp. Rudolfo ran to him and embraced him, pulling off his ascot and pressing it to the wounds on his wrist.
“I will send in a servant to tend to him,” Ashton said. “He will need to eat when he awakens, this can be quite exhausting.”
He left them there, Colline still curled against a hatrack, Marcello breathing shallowly in Rudolfo’s arms, and Schaunard feeling completely and utterly helpless in the chair of a pianoforte.
Notes: Arturo and Lucia both survived their wedding night.
Main character: Marcello
Premise: the four roommates offend Lord Ashton while he’s in Paris, and then he kidnaps them for some reason, I dunno
CW: Vampire dude totally beats people up in this.
Lord Ashton looked each of them dead in the eye in turn, which no true nobleman would do of a peasant or a servant but a vampire. Each of them, in their spines, felt a shiver as the trance began to overcome them, but was broken off when he moved to the next.
“While you are here,” the vampire said, “you will be treated with respect for as long as you obey the rules I lay forth. You will each serve your own function and be provided you necessary materials, but you will answer directly to me for any trouble you cause. If you ever wish to return to your home, you will comply.”
“You haven’t even told us why we’re here!” Rudolfo said, while the others were still at a loss for words from disbelief. “How can we win our freedom if you won’t give us the conditions?”
The vampire looked at him. He did not smile, and it struck Marcello that he didn’t seem capable of it; his face seemed not to bend that way.
“You do not need to know the conditions. You will know if you displease me.”
“That is madness!” Rudolfo attempted to protest, but he was cut off by the crack of a steely vampire hand against his face. Rudolfo fell; Schaunard leapt to his feet, and Marcello rushed the vampire without thinking, blind panicky rage overcoming him at the sight. He was rewarded for his efforts by a sharp pain when Lord Ashton grabbed his arm and twisted it sharply.
“Keep your hands off of him,” Marcello hissed through the pain.
“I’ll do what I please with my hands,” Lord Ashton said casually, tossing Marcello aside onto the floor. Marcello looked over at Rudolfo. He was clutching his red face, eyes bright with hurt and shock. Behind him was Colline. Colline clutched the back of Rudolfo’s chair with white knuckles. He was angry and terrified.
Marcello looked to Schaunard. His muscles were tense, but his eyes moved between Rudolfo and Colline, and he remained still.
Lord Ashton glided his eyes across the room, waiting for another attempt. When he got nothing but angry glares, he continued.
“You have freedom of the house. You will find that you cannot leave it. If you have any sense, you will mind your own business; you may not like what you find in a vampire’s chambers. The only exception is the west wing, at the end of the red hall. If you are are found anywhere near that door, you will be punished severely.”
“You’re a fiend,” Schaunard said, quietly, “and you will not get away with this.”
The vampire shrugged languidly. “You’ll find that I get away with most things,” he said, and left the room.
The four men were left there in the parlor alone, in a strange country without so much as a change of clothes.
It was too much for Marcello. He chose a door at random and stormed from the room.
---
Marcello was storming through every unlocked door, shaking door-handles and windows. Even thresholds that were unlocked defied him, like they were stuck by some strange force. The front entrance had actually burned him, made him pull back with a yell and a red mark on his skin.
He was in some sitting room on the southern part of the second floor, now, pulling in vain at a window-latch.
There was a soft clicking sound next to him, and he spun.
It was only Colline. Damnable Colline; for someone so clumsy, he walked with the silence of a cat. He had placed a paperweight on the desk beside Marcello.
“This might be worth a try,” he said.
“A capital plan, general,” Marcello said, taking the hefty stone in his hand. “Would you like to do the honors?”
“The deed is yours to commit, lieutenant,” Colline said. He stepped back and stood at attention, saluting Marcello.
“At your command, general.”
“Ready. Aim. FIRE.”
Marcello heaved the paperweight at he window with all of the force he could manage; he had played rugby with his school-fellows as a boy, and he had not quite lost the technique of it.
The window glowed and the paperweight ricocheted perfectly. Marcello and Colline ducked their heads as it flew over their heads and crashed into a glass display cabinet at the far wall. The sound of class and ceramic falling to the floor filled the room like an orchestra while they surveyed the damage.
“I believe the fortress is too well-fortified, lieutenant,” said Colline, sadly.
“Cheer up, sir. At least we bruised them,” Marcello said. They stepped over to admire their handiwork. He nudged a broken vase with his foot shoe. “I think this was imported from Egypt. It looks genuine.”
“Well, what are we to do now?” Colline asked.
“Leave this wreck for someone else to find,” Marcello said, skipping from the room.”
“Where shall we go?” Colline asked, following.
“To the only place we can go,” Marcello said.
“The West Wing?” Colline suggested.
“The west wing.”
---
It was on the west side, and the hall was red. That was all they knew about the West Wing; they couldn’t even place how big it might be, because none of the windows they had found so far afforded a good view of it. They had never seen the house from the outside.
“He surely knows that we’re doing this,” Colline said.
“Without a doubt. He’d be a simpleton to think otherwise.”
Colline stopped behind him when he opened the next door - clearly an ill-used, dark hallway, of which there were many in this house. Marcello looked back to him from the threshold, questioning with his gaze.
“Marcello, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“It was your idea! Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Colline’s hand was shaking slightly by his side. “He will reciprocate,” he said. “This is a test. He wants us to fail it.”
“Then it would be a shame to disappoint him,” Marcello said, getting irritated. “What’s gotten into you? You’re afraid of this imbecile? Have some courage, man!”
“His threats are not in vain,” Colline said. “He hurt you, he hurt Rudolfo.”
“I’d rather die honorably now,” Marcello said, flinging the door open - and a grin came across his face unbidden. This was the red hall. “....Then as a coward to his whim.”
“Marcello,” Colline called out, but Marcello heedlessly marched in, stepped down towards the door at the end, a plain white door with a simple glass knob.
“Marcello-”
Just as Marcello was approaching it, Colline called out to him again, and this time the word was cut off with a hitch that made Marcello freeze. He turned, slowly, to see what was the matter.
Framed by light at the end of the hall was short Colline looking up at a tall, dark silhouette. It stood in front of Colline, and held him gently by the back of the neck with one hand.
“You should have heeded him,” Lord Ashton called out.
Marcello felt the blood drain from his face. Colline was still and staring, clearly stuck in a vampire’s trance.
“Come. I believe we have things to discuss,” the vampire said. He turned away from Colline, whose eyes stayed staring distantly up where they had been before.
Marcello did some careful calculation in his head. He did not truly believe that Lord Ashton would hurt Colline for his own offenses. Especially if he acted now, the vampire was more likely to devote his attention to stopping him.
Marcello made a dash for the door.
He didn’t reach it of his own accord. His head hit it with a crack before he had made two steps. The impact dulled the pain of the heavy force that hit his back. Next thing he knew, he was being dragged down the hall by his hair towards a chillingly unaffected Colline.
Lucia had always been drawn to the fountain, far from the gaze of men and ripe with the memory of blood in the water; the fountain sang in a voice that she couldn’t quite hear, . It was not the fragility of her body that killed her, but the voices of madness that kept her soul pulling, pulling from that fragile mortal coil to chase after them. Edgardo was everywhere, in her marriage bed, in the faces around her, staring staring staring, calling her back to him while she reached out her hand to touch him. Enrico chased behind him, voice loud and demanding, face wild with anger. She wanted Edgardo, wanted to live, for the two were the same thing. She cried and cried and cried out, until finally, quietly, she fled towards the singing at the fountain and the peace she found there.
Life was a dream, no more, no less. It passed by like a specter, paper leaves on stage-set trees, all color lost. Once she had slipped out of her skin like a silkie her ghost danced fast as light past the gazers, the mourners, the nurses and the staff. It followed the moon out the window, the rain through the air, the shadows in the forest as though they were garden footpaths. Only when she reached the fountain did she come to rest.
At last, she saw something real, the only real thing she had seen since Edgardo had been banished from the wedding feast: a girl, not ghostly pale but lily-white and rosy-lipped, like a girl from a story.
The girl smiled at her. “You came,” she said, in a voice that Lucia had never quite heard before.
“I ran,” Lucia said. “My love has left me, scorned me. He cursed me for my betrayal.”
“Mine did as well,” the girl said, a girl no older than Lucia.
“I came here because we used to meet here. This is where love blossoms.”
“And falls away,” the girl said. “You came, but he always kept you away from me.”
“He said such sweet things to me, brought such light to my life...”
“Don’t you see?“ The girl touched her hand to Lucia’s lips, and Lucia came out of her reverie. “Where is he now?”
“He...” Memories of life were fading, more rapidly than she could quite catch them. “I don’t remember.”
The girl smiled and took her hands, like a best friend or a sister might. “If he were here, what would you do?”
Lucia gave a playful smile, delighted to suddenly have a co-conspirator. “Why- why, I would take his arm.”
“Like this?” the girl asked, slipping her hand into the crook of Lucia’s elbow. Lucia laughed, and straightened her spine like a man.
“Yes. And we would walk together around the yard- like this.”
“How romantic,” the girl sighed. “Does a man really have such sense of the romantic?”
“We would stop by the fountain, and sit on its stoops, on the rock where the specter was killed.”
The girl seemed to catch a breath for the first time since her death as they sat, close together, on the rocks. Lucia held her in her arms with a firm grip, a man’s grip, and stretched her head up above the specter’s as Edgardo’s might have been above her own.
“And then?” the girl asked.
“Then he would kiss me. Like this.”
Then Lucia kissed the girl as a woman would; she was gentle, and soft, and infinitely sweet, eyes closed so as not to see a lady blush and hands gentle so as not to hurt a lady beloved’s skin.
And the beloved, like a lady, leaned into her touch. They were the only real things in the world at that moment.
“And then,” asked the girl when at last they parted and the silence of sweetness had passed, “what would he do?”
“Why, he would take me to the chapel, of course,” Lucia said.
“I do hear that is the place for happy souls.”
“If only more souls were happy, then the chapels would surely be packed with them.”
In the distance, the heavy iron bell began to toll.
“I think they are calling us to church,” the girl said.
“I do think that they are,” Lucia said. “Will Ravenswood and Ashton come to the ceremony?”
“The ceremony cannot continue without them, my lady.”
"We have no choice, then,” Lucia replied, taking her lady’s hand in her own.
Edgardo Ravenswood was where he expected him to be, alone in the dark of his parlor; even from outside, Lord Ashton could smell the reek of his despair. Ashton didn’t knock, didn’t bother with butlers or maids, as he slipped through the deep gloom of the house and to his stairs.
The brooding of suicidal self-loathing was banished from Ravenswood’s face at the sight of an Ashton in his home.
“You dare to cross my threshold?” he spat, full of disbelief, even astonishment.
“You entered my home unwelcome, did you not?”
Ravenswood had to smirk at that, and turned away. The despair seemed to creep back as he realized his fatal mistake. “What are you doing here? Your house is celebrating as we speak.”
“Even now, Arturo is taking my sister to their marriage bed.” Another twist of rage. Inwardly, Ashton smiled at the ease with which he could bring pain to his old enemy. “I couldn’t bear the festivities.”
He stepped forward, unimpeded by Ravenswood, who didn’t even look up. Ashton slid his hand silently along the fading velvet of Ravenswood’s chair, and leaned in close to Ravenswood’s ear.
“I came for you.”
Ravenswood scoffed. He was admirably unconcerned at the teeth so close to his throat, but Ashton was an honorable man. Ravenswood was not just some hired man, contracted for feeding, nor was he a common criminal fit for an execution. Ashton didn’t want to kill Ravenswood. He wanted to destroy him.
“What use have you for me, Enrico? Your family has taken everything from me.” Ravenswood stood, spun, met eyes with Ashton - a dangerous move. “My father, my family line, my good name, my bride - you even denied me a just death. You wouldn’t kill me then, what use have you for me now?”
“I wouldn’t kill you then, at my sister’s wedding, before the very eyes of the minister, Sir Ravenswood,” Ashton said, in the calm, even, icy tone he reserved for politics, as he stripped the glove from his hand. “But you - you humiliated me. You intruded on my house, on my sister’s wedding. And so I have come to do things as gentlemen.”
He threw the glove at Ashton’s feet, whose eyes lit up with a fierce delight. “We are agreed.” He pulled his own glove and tossed it, almost casually, to the floor. “With swords at dawn. I will destroy you, or the Ravenswood line will end.“
“In the graveyard. Let your body fall into your family’s tomb, save the undertakers the hassle. I will relish your death, Edgardo.” Ashton grabbed Ravenswood’s arm, who winced with pain but never pulled his eyes away or softened the fierceness of his scowl. “You are mine. MY prey. Anyone else who dares to kill you has me to answer to.”
“Your father orphaned me, your sister betrayed me, and you have insulted me at every turn, Enrico. I’ll enjoy shearing your head from your shoulders.”
Ashton smiled at him, flashed his sharp fangs, before pulling back. He grabbed his cape from the hook and stormed up the stairs. “At dawn, Ravenswood. Don’t be late.”
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