location: stanislav compound
time: late evening
status: closed
background information: elias has always felt that he is âmoreâ than what he is, wanting to be turned (which has always been a contentious issue between him and dilan)
Itâs all very hush hush, he decides, the large package of papers tucked beneath his arm as he makes his way from his car to the great looming behemoth of a mansion that stands before him. Secret entrances and a late night time slot, and Elias briefly wonders if this is all some sort of a trick. But as far as he knows, and as much as heâs aware from word of mouth, it doesnât seem to be a trick and if he knows enough of the Stanislavâs, itâs that theyâre not ones for trickery and tomfoolery.Â
Each footfall seems to echo each dull ache in his chest and he thinks back to the sunset hours ago, slowly falling across an autumnal afternoon, the sun slowly slinking its way into a sliver and the into nothing, and thoughts had raced through his mind. The cacophony of sounds refused to diminish, even though the insistence he had on reading through the dense legal documents now secured beneath his arm as he makes his way up the pathway to the side door. Heâs seen the front door once, and he canât recall why he had, but it mirrors the austerity of the family heâs manages to skirt his way around during his years, and the poetry of now finally meeting one of them isnât lost on him.
Of course, he refuses to think about her. The voice that will surely slice through the chaos that roams, the one touch that has the potential the still his erratic heart, is ignored as much as he can. As much as the voice lingers in recesses of his mind, her voice somehow dimly reverberating, he tries just as hard to ignore it. Apologies and a departure moment isnât what he wants, and Elias has convinced himself itâs not what she wants either. His hands are fists in his pockets as he makes his way up the steps to the door, and the walk feels like it takes eons.Â
But heâs convinced this is what he wants. In fact, it is the only solution to the problem that has felt like itâs plagued him for the better part of the majority of his life, the little digging thought of an idea that has refused to give him reprieve, that infinite reminder that heâs destined for something else; something he can never define. And itâs this, he has to believe in it, he realises, else come to the conclusion that thereâs nothing else, and that thought is darker than the reality heâs accepting.Â
His clenched hand finds itself out of a pocket before he realises whatâs happening, raising to knock on the ornate door and his face is a composition of calm, despite the raging tempest beneath and waits.
The smell of a human is unlike any other, and for Vasili, thereâs a sick pleasure in the scent of a terrified one. But this one is somehow different. More something, and he doesnât quite know what it is. But he can define it, and itâs intoxicating, itâs cerebral, itâs invigorating, as he makes his way down the large staircase to the side door. Following a tradition set out eons ago, he crosses the threshold towards the door.
Sometime around the fourteen or fifteenth century, Vasili lost any ability to derive pleasure from the things that wealth afforded himself. It was almost as if he could pinpoint the moment, or the general atmosphere of it at least. Heâd been with Diana at some party, both of them lounging in their chosen spot beside a column observing the crowd in a way that didnât seem to excite him anymore. Their first thousand years had been passed in a whirlwind of games and excitement and like the penultimate moment before the finality of an eventful party, Vasili found himself at the two am of his own life, sobering up and contemplating the fleeting ephemerality of his own life. A shock, heâd stumbled upon that thought all on his lonesome, and the drink was bitter in his mouth, the laugh now feeling more like a mask than anything, the clouded exuberance giving way to reality that his entire existence had culminated in what was a rather lacklustre penultimate moment.Â
It had taken another few hundred years to realise that the vaults of the family bank could not be emptied, and heâd turned his attention to experiences - the rarer, the less fated, the more profound, the better. And there seemed to be nothing more profound than taking a life that, for all intents and purposes, he was legally sanctioned to do.Â
He makes his way past the cloakroom, where hidden beneath some nondescript shelves was a pile of unsigned contracts for this very occasion and he adjusts his cufflinks as he does. Theyâve always made a show of it, a spectacle, somehow in his mind, it honours the moment, and who is he to refuse it? Though heâll vehemently deny watching the series, the small Japanese woman who had been introduced to him by Diana on a rainy afternoon, he had taken away quite an interesting titbit; and in fact, moments like these did bring the youngest Stanislav joy.Â
Heâd heard him at the door before the knock, and the entryway is empty when he opens the door, noting the other also dressed impeccably. Ceremonious. He likes that. A lone heartbeat picks up, and he recalls the very present memory of that feeling and finds a resolute happiness in it not being part of his every day monotony any longer.
âCome in,â he offers with a smile, wider than normal to show his incisors. Itâs notices by Elias, of course, and his mind somehow effectively empties itself. The bundle of papers is handed over, the other flicking through it quickly as the door shuts and then theyâre the sole occupants of an ornate, dark room, lit only by candles, flickering gently.
Elias isnât used to many people towering over him, but Vasili Stanislav does and heâs coming to realise the finality of this moment. He canât back out now, not when the paper lies in the cold hands of the other, and he stands where instructed, does what is instructed.Â
Cold hands flip through the papers, counting off the number of signatures required and places it onto the mantle before turning to the other. âWell, letâs not drag this out more than we need to.âÂ
If Elias has any reservations, itâs perhaps not saying anything to Dilan, but itâs far too late for that now, and he slowly reaches to undo his tie, sliding the knot from around his neck and thinks back on the warmth of that last sunset, his hand grazing past his racing heart and rests, taking in the feel of it steadily beating against his closed fist for a moment, almost savouring it, and nods. âLetâs not.â
The sharpness of the teeth sinking into his skin isnât what he had anticipated, but it stings and he doesnât wince, just allows the swirling pit of darkness to take him. He doesnât know how long it lasts, and a strange sensation begins to spread. Itâs warm, oddly enough, and Elias sinks, slumps, feeling weaker by the second, but registering strong hands grip his shoulders as his mind vacates in the way that feels as if heâs sliding into a numbing void. All thatâs left is the slight tinge of a burn on the edges of his consciousness, the last reminder that itâs what he wants.
Vasili doesnât linger, nor does he care to watch the rest, having played his part. He pulls away, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, and grimaces as the other slumps to the ground, but steps towards the silver tray that houses a handkerchief, cleaning the wet crimson as best as he can from his hands. His eyes brighten, having staved himself for this moment, his shoulders straighten as he pulls himself to his full height, and he makes his way back to the door, breezing into the entry way.Â
âLeave him,â he instructs the two who had appeared in the space, waving them away. âWeâll know when he wakes.â
Fire rages through him, Elias upon that expensive carpet in a sequestered room in the Stanislav compound, drawn to the area for no other reason than fulfilling what he thinks he must, and burns. He wants to scream, his body pliant and unruly, he wants to cry out, to wish for water to quell it as it burns through his body, and he accepts the moment for what it is, trying to draw a blank, trying to remind himself that itâs what he wants. He imagines the venom slowly filling his veins, imagines the rebirth that fulfils a calling, but somehow, it all just tastes like ash in his mouth.
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