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Series: Ikemen Prince
Characters: Gilbert Kloss
Words: 900
Tags: Pre-Canon, Main Route Spoilers, Child!Gilbert, Blood & Violence, Angst, Hurt No Comfort
A/N: This was my submission for @ikemen-watch 's Ikemen Series Fanzine. You can find the free zine on itch.io, which was released on February 14th. The theme was "First Times."
Deep crimson gushed down the thin blade Gilbert held in his trembling hands. Coating his numb fingers and staining his shirt sleeves, dripping heavily on the stone floor. Thwap plap. Thwap plap. It was almost the sound of a heartbeat.
A gurgling sputter brought his uncovered eye up to his brother's shocked face. The man, fifteen years his senior, reached for the wound where Gilbert still held the stiletto deep in his chest, grasping at it to remove it, slicing through his hands in the process.
He was much stronger than the seven-year-old Gilbert, and after a few seconds of unfocused scrambling, he found the dagger and pulled it free from his body with a squelching sound followed by an enormous waterfall of blood. Like a cask of wine cracked open, it splashed violently onto Gilbert and the floor below. Even when he clutched at the wound to cover it with his own hands, the pool continued to grow beneath their feet with seemingly no end.
So much blood.
It crawled up Gilbert's white shirt, bleeding into the fibers. Like clawing hands reaching towards his own heart, the stain spread over him, burning scars beneath the skin into his very being.
Gilbert slid an uneasy step backwards, smearing the mess below him. Dagger desperately choked tightly in front of him as if he weren't sure he would need to use it again.
He wasn't sure if he did.
He had never taken a life before.
He had never considered taking a life before. Not until he had returned to Obsidian to find his mother and Albert welcoming him home as nothing more than heads on spikes. Not until he had heard his grandfather sneer haughtily about how weak and unfit they were. Not until he had heard the man in front of him laugh about how he encouraged the actions that led to their executions.
The man slumped to his knees, splattering more ruby droplets across the dark flooring. They shone in a way Gilbert hadn't expected, full of life. But soon they would dim and become tacky and dull as that life left them. Just like the man in front of him would soon do as well. He could already see the light leaving his eyes. His skin was dulling an ashen color, the blood on his lips browning as it dried. His red eyesâthe same as Gilbert's, darkened with rageâwere locked on Gil, hardening as his heart slowed to a stop. Losing their luster until they were as lifeless as stone.
Finally, he toppled onto the floor fully and Gilbert sucked in a deep breath.
It was rancid.
He could taste the rotting copper. He was covered in it. The bile that threatened to force its way from his stomach scorched the back of his throat as he swallowed down a gagging sob.
It was vile.
Pain needled his chest. His heavy heart convulsed unevenly. His lungs burned with every shallow gasp. The man was dead and yet he felt no relief to the heartache he had been carrying since his return home. The scars stung as if acid had been applied instead of salve, corroding the wounds further and poisoning his soul.
The world began to swim and warp and it was then that he realized he was crying. Hot tears filled his vision between each blink.
It was wrong.
Gilbert shakily turned to retreat back to his room. Dress shoes invented for graceful dancing slipped effortlessly in the thickening pool beneath him, causing him to stumble. His cheeks flared red from embarrassment.
So pathetic.
Anger spurred his steps faster until he was running, ramming into his bedroom door, throwing it open and then slamming it closed behind him.
Finally, he dropped the dagger. His hand cramped from being so forcefully curled around the handle that it wouldn't open fully resulting in a bloody claw for his eye to set on.
Finally, he let out an anguished cry. It all hurt so badly. He felt like his very being was being torn to shreds. He clutched his chest on the next ragged inhale and a violent coughing fit wracked his small form, forcing him to his knees.
His head was pounding harder than his feet had slapped the stone flooring. His heart was bleeding out quicker than the brother he had just murdered. His tears came easier, unbidden, unwanted.
He was dead. He caused the deaths of Gilbert's loved ones, and he was dead, but it still hurt so much. Nothing changed. Nothing was better. The hollow expressions of their weathered faces tormented him behind eyes shut tight. Now a third lifeless face haunted him and it wasn't fair!
He deserved the death he received, and yet⊠and yet Gilbert was still shedding tears.
Gil curled in on himself, wrapping his blood-stained knees with his blood-stained arms. His muddy crimson fingers were numb as they clutched at his clothing. He could taste the rotting copper with every shallow, gasping breath. His heart beat loudly in his ears, and his tears wet his cheeks.
He had never considered killing someone before. But now that he had experience, there was only room to improve.
Tag List: @bakersgrief @specters0rd @scummy-writes @rkmaru @oh-my-otome
If you would like to be added or removed from my tag list please comment or send a message. I'm very bad at remembering, so I'm sorry if I forgot you.
Ending A/N: The idea for the fanzine was first times, and you know I like my angst. I figured most people would write something fluffy or sweet dealing with a romance game, and I'm still on a mission to make people cry, so I decided to go with what I thought might leave a lasting impact.
The idea was, obviously, his first murder, but I wanted to highlight how it was tied in with the loss he suffered and show that he would continue to suffer that same grief over and over again for twenty more years. He never moved on from that day. Every life he took would bring him back because he couldn't kill the boy he was.
A/N: y'all heard of Ikemen-zine from @ikemen-watch hosted by @lorei-writes and @dicenete ? Mhm. Your favourite potato participated in it too đâ€ïž hope you enjoy!
The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the music room, casting golden rectangles across the polished wooden floor. Ten-year-old Leon Dompteur stood in the doorway, his unruly chocolate hair even more disheveled than usual from running through the palace corridors.
"Yves?" he called out, his amber eyes scanning the elegant room until they landed on a smaller figure seated near the window.
Eight-year-old Yves Kloss looked up from tuning his violin, his honey-blonde hair like spun gold catching the sunlight. His radiant blue eyes narrowed slightly as they met Leon's gaze.
"You're late," Yves said with a huff, although his cheeks held the faintest pink tinge. "A prince should always be punctual.â
Leon scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Sorry, I got caught up in helping the kitchen staff move some heavy sacks. I couldn't just leave them struggling."
"Of course you couldn't," Yves muttered, but there was no real annoyance in his voice. He gestured to the violin case sitting on the nearby chair. "Well, don't just stand there. Come get your instrument."
Leon approached eagerly, his eyes bright with curiosity. "I can't believe you agreed to teach me! I heard you're the most talented musician in the whole palace."
A deeper blush spread across Yves' face as he turned away quickly. "I-It's not like I wanted to teach you or anything! It's just... it would be improper for a prince to go around playing terribly and embarrassing the royal family.â
"Right." Leon grinned, recognizing Yves' particular way of showing care. He carefully lifted the violin from its case, holding it like it might break at any moment.
"Not like that!" Yves exclaimed, standing up so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. "You'll drop it! Here, let me show you."
The younger prince moved to stand beside Leon, his movements precise and graceful. "First, you hold it like this." He demonstrated with his own violin, tucking it under his chin with practiced ease. "The violin rests on your left shoulder and collarbone, not in your hands."
Leon tried to mimic the position, but the violin immediately began sliding. "Whoaâ"
"I said not like that!" Yves reached out instinctively to steady the instrument, his small hands covering Leon's larger ones. The contact made Leon freeze, his eyes going wide.
For a moment, they stood very still, both suddenly aware of how close they were. Leon could smell the faint scent of roses that always seemed to follow Yves around, probably from the expensive soaps their tutors insisted the princes use.
"Um," Yves cleared his throat, his voice suddenly smaller. "You need to... to support it properly."
He gently adjusted Leon's grip, his touch careful and warm. "Like this. Feel how the neck rests in the curve of your hand?"
Leon nodded, trying to focus on the lesson rather than how seriously Yves was taking this, or how the younger boy's brow furrowed in concentration. "Yeah, I think so."
"Good. Now, the bow..." Yves picked up Leon's bow and placed it in his right hand. "You don't grip it like a sword, Leon. It's not a weapon."
"But swords are much easier to hold," Leon laughed, earning himself an exasperated look.
"This is a delicate instrument that creates beautiful music, not something you use to fight with!" Yves protested, although his lips twitched as if fighting a smile. "Now, hold the bow like... like you're holding a small bird. Firm enough that it won't fly away, but gentle enough not to hurt it."
Leon tried again, his natural athleticism helping him adjust more quickly this time. "Like this?"
"Better." Yves stepped back, crossing his arms and trying to look stern. "Now, try to play a simple note. Just draw the bow across the G stringâthat's the lowest one."
Leon drew the bow across the string, producing a sound that could generously be described as a wounded cat.
Yves winced, his hands flying to his ears. "By all the roses in the kingdom, that's terrible!"
"Hey!" Leon protested, though he was laughing. "You said you'd teach me, not insult my first attempt!"
"That wasn't an attempt, that was an assault on music itself!" But Yves was fighting back giggles now, his formal facade cracking.
"Okay, okay," Leon conceded, grinning. "What am I doing wrong?"
Yves took a deep breath, composing himself. "Everything," he said matter-of-factly. "But... but that's normal for a first try, I suppose. Here, watch me."
The younger prince lifted his own violin and drew his bow across the strings in a smooth, flowing motion. The sound that emerged was pure and sweet, filling the room with warmth. Leon watched in fascination as Yves' expression softened, his usual haughty demeanor replaced by something peaceful and content.
"Wow," Leon breathed when the note faded. "That was beautiful."
Yves' cheeks flushed pink again. "It was just a simple note," he mumbled. "Nothing special."
"It was special," Leon insisted with the earnest conviction that made him so well-loved throughout the palace. "You made it sound like... like sunshine sounds, if that makes sense."
"That doesn't make any sense at all," Yves said, but his voice was gentle, and he was smilingâreally smiling, not his usual practiced royal expression.
"Can you show me again? Slowly this time?"
"I... I suppose I could." Yves moved closer again, his earlier flustered state returning as he reached out to adjust Leon's posture. "Remember, straight back, relaxed shoulders. The music comes from here." he pressed his small hand briefly to Leon's chest, "not just from your fingers."
As the afternoon wore on, Leon's attempts gradually improved from "traumatic" to merely "unfortunate." But what struck him most wasn't the difficulty of the instrumentâit was watching Yves teach. The prideful, sometimes sharp-tongued prince everyone knew as gone; in his place stood someone patient and passionate, someone who forgot to be self-conscious when he was focused on sharing something he loved.
"You know," Leon said during a brief break, wiping rosin dust from his hands, "you're a really good teacher, Yves."
"Of course I am," Yves replied automatically, then caught himself. "I mean... you think so?"
"I know so. You could probably teach anyone to play beautifully if you put your mind to it."
Yves looked down at his violin, running his fingers along its polished surface. "Music... music is one of the few things I'm truly good at," he admitted quietly. "Not just good for a prince, but actually good."
"Hey." Leon's voice was firm, drawing Yves' attention back to his face. "You're good at lots of things. You're smart, you're kind when you think no one's looking, and you make the best tea in the whole palace."
"I do not make the bestâ"
"You do," Leon interrupted with a grin. "And now you're teaching me violin, which means you're also brave enough to subject yourself to my terrible playing."
Despite himself, Yves laughedâa real, bright sound that made Leon's chest feel warm. "Your playing is getting less terrible, I'll admit."
"High praise from Prince Yves," Leon teased.
"Don't let it go to your head," Yves said, but he was still smiling. "We have a lot more work to do before you can play anything that won't make people run away screaming."
"Does that mean you'll keep teaching me?"
Yves was quiet for a moment, twirling a strand of his blonde hair around his fingerâa nervous habit Leon had noticed before. "Well," he said finally, "someone has to make sure you don't embarrass the royal family with your musical attempts. It might as well be me."
The grin Leon sent him as an answer was brighter than the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. "Thanks, Yves. Really."
"It's nothing," Yves mumbled, but the pink in his cheeks suggested otherwise. "Now, let's try that scale again. And this time, try not to sound like you're torturing the violin."
As Leon lifted his instrument again, he caught sight of Yves' reflection in the windowâthe younger prince was watching him with an expression of fond exasperation, his blue eyes soft with something that looked remarkably similar to pride.
Maybe learning violin would be harder than Leon had thought, but with Yves as his teacher, he suspected it would also be much more rewarding than he'd imagined.
hiii everyone!! It's been awhile since I've shared literally anything on this platform... yikes...
Although! I'm here to post my submission for the @ikemen-watch First Time For Everything zine!! (run by the amazing @lorei-writes and the also very amazing @dicenete), which you can find here!
This fic really took me back to the a time of when I was first introduced to the series back in 2019! As a result, I wrote my piece as a love letter to my favorite character from Ikemen Vampire.
I'm so extremely grateful to be apart of a fan project so amazing, and I hope you enjoy my fic, and the project the team has made together!! <3 (don't mind i'm over a month late to posting this shhh...)
Character(s): Theodorus van Gogh, Mentions of Vincent van Gogh and Mitsuki (mc)
Genre: SFW, a smidge angsty hehe...
WC: 900-ish
Warnings: Spoilers for one of Theo's endings!!
Dear Broer,
Itâs been a few months since I left you back in the mansion to follow that Hondje here into the âmodern worldâ. So I ask, how are you doing Broer? Is King well or did Arthur completely taint him? Is your life just as lively as mine? Iâll admit, I have found a part of me that misses you dearly, and wishes youâre still with me, although I would never admit it out loud. I would have never thought to write a letter to you, but perhaps you may receive more letters in the future, at least if that Hondje was truly right about this being a way to help with my feelings. She had told me to be as open and honest as possible in this letter because youâre never going to read this and itâs more so for me to express myself (that Hondje said that I needed to do that more often instead of holding everything in). Since this is my first letter about opening up my feelings, donât expect this to be good.
During these past months, I have been following Hondje around the world for her job. Iâve visited many places across the globe with her; visiting cities and countries I never thought I would visit, doing things I never thought I would do. Iâve been searching for undiscovered talents who have shown great potential to be appreciated by a wider audience, and admittedly, iâve been searching for the paintings created by you that have been preserved to this era. I like to think back to my time selling your art. To be honest, itâs quite odd Broer. In this age, you can almost go anywhere in a matter of hours or days. You can even make pancakes in a blink of an eye by turning a knob that heats up quicker than the stove would have back in the mansion⊠Not to mention the multiple new flavours of syrups they have in this age. I would have never imagined flying in the air inside a cylinder with two wings or all the brand new ways to cook and eat sweets in this era if I had stayed with you, so I have to admit, I donât entirely regret leaving you.Â
Some days, it's hard not to think of you. Especially after everything weâve been through. I had originally come back to this world for you, Broer. You were my everything. From when we were small children you had always looked out for me and our siblings despite how awfully our parents treated you; you wore a soft smile on your face and kept looking brightly towards the future. Originally, you were a life that ended so soon, that same bright future you so eagerly looked towards was taken in a blink of an eye with no remorse. I, so angry with your death, had thrown my life away to the same hands that stole you away. I wonder what youâd think of that if you ever found out. I must say, being offered another chance at life to see you again felt surreal. Prior, I never believed in a second chance at life, but I'm glad I had taken the opportunity to be reunited with you.Â
From the days of childhood until now, my world has grown so much larger than just you. You will always be my dear broer, the one who cared for me from when I was just a child. Now however, that Hondje means a lot to me as well. Honestly, when I first saw that woman lying on the ground at the foot of the door, I thought she was a weakling; a Hondje with no training who had no survival skills to last an entire month with bloodsucking predators at every corner. I pitied her honestly, so much so that I took her under my wing to protect her. I would never normally do that for just a mere hondje! Although she did stab me in the back by stealing my heart while I wasnât looking, she had proven to me that my first impression of her was dead wrong. I had originally underestimated her potential due to her fragile looks but seeing that hondje back in her world really made me realize how talented and knowledgeable she really is. The amount of time sheâs saved me from unfamiliar situations, itâs utterly humiliating to me. Perhaps this is how she felt in the mansion those first few weeks, and for what itâs worth, she adapted far better in a single month than I have in a few here.Â
I wish I was more open with you before I left, Broer. It truly feels like there was so much more we could have shared with each other. That is my one regret I have. It would have been nice to sit with you and eat pancakes and just talk about how we truly feel; âletting everything outâ as that Hondje puts it. I think this letter, however, has really made me realize that, and has helped me miss you less.
In the end, Iâm wishing you well, Broer. I hope youâre finding inspiration in your day to day life, and painting away without worry.
Warnings and Tags: just fluff, maybe some eeriness :3
lace dividers by @/yeritos
A/N: Did you know that there was a fanzine for Ikemen Series hosted by @ikemen-watch ?? Did you know that I wrote two fics for it?? :D
Itâs been over a month since its release, but you can still download it for free here -> (đ°ïž)
Enjoy many amazing pieces from our talented writers and artists, and enjoy one of my entries below âš
Also, sorry this took a while to upload, Tumblr thought this was mature for some reason?????? I found the issue and "fixed" it.
Where His Gaze Fell
Elbertâs fingers tugged at the twine of the brown-paper parcel. As the knot came loose, he unfolded the wrapping, expecting porcelain perfection.
âHmm...â He tilted his head, studying the small figure cradled in his hands.
âPainted bisque, pink cheeks...â His voice was deliberate, like counting sugar cubes before dropping them into a teacup. What should have been a lifeless trinket seemed to breathe faintly beneath his sapphire gaze.
He had spotted it earlier that day, after returning from a mission with Alfons. It was still early in the morning; the cobblestones were slick with rain, and fog still surrounded them. And there it was, centered in the antique doll shopâs window display. The shopkeeper rarely had any new stock, not since Elbert had emptied his shelves months ago. Yet there was a fresh row of bisque faces neatly arranged on lacey fabric.
âAlâŠâ he began.
Alfons sighed, âNo, Elbie. Such things will collect dust quickly.â
But Elbert had stood transfixed before the doll with pink-tinged cheeks and ebony hair. It wore a ruffled blue dress, and its painted lips curved into a sorrowful smile.
Ignoring Alfonsâs advice, boxes of dolls once again lay scattered across Elbertâs room. He knew Alfons would take most of them away before nightfall, yet the one before him lingered close to his heart.Â
Setting aside the wrapping paper, Elbert examined it closely. He lifted the hem of its dress, traced its tiny stitches, and brushed his fingertips along its curls and glassy eyes. At last, he met its gray gaze.
âI understand why I noticed youâŠâ he murmured.
Beyond his window, Crownâs garden shimmered beneath the afternoon sun. Rafaela was there, tending to the flowers. Her black hair gleamed in the light as she noticed his stare from above and waved politely. Elbert hesitated, but before he could respond, she disappeared into the castle with a smile.
Elbert rose from his seat. Alfons followed closely, recognizing the impulse. Rafaela had just stepped into the hall when he approached.
âRafaela,â he said softly.
She blinked as he extended the porcelain doll toward her.
ââŠFor you.â
His long, pale fingers secured it well. Behind him, Alfons leaned against a wall, grinning with anticipation.
âElbie found it this morning,â he drawled. âHe wouldnât stop staring at it. You shouldâve seen him.âÂ
Elbert gave no reply. He waited with his hands outstretched, the dollâs jeweled eyes catching the light like glass shards scattered on the road.
â...Will you take it?â
âOh~!â Rafaelaâs eyes widened. She hesitated before glancing down at the doll. âCan I really have it?â
Elbert nodded. âYes⊠You can have it.â
His expression barely shifted, yet a quiet hunger resonated in his voice. He watched her intently as she accepted the doll and studied its features.
âOh my! It almost looks like... me?â she said, tilting her head.
âIt does,â he murmured, his gaze lingering upon her face like he was comparing the two.
âIt's beautiful, thank you.â She drew the doll close to her chest.
Elbertâs eyes followed her movements. The sight of her cradling his gift filled him with a strange satisfaction.
Alfons straightened back up with a smirk. âHonestly, I think itâs you he finds more interesting than the doll⊠at this rate, weâll need a bigger cabinet soon.â
âHuh?â Rafaela blinked, but Alfons was already out of sight. Only Elbert remained.
He stood silent, his presence lingering like fog before he stepped closer to adjust the tiny ribbon on the dollâs head. His fingers hovered near hers; he could have held them, but he withdrew before he got a chance to. His eyes followed the curve of her arms as she cradled the porcelain figure.
âDo all dolls look beautiful,â Elbert asked softly, âor is it only because of who holds them?â
She smiled faintly. âWell⊠it certainly is beautiful because you gave it to me.â
âOh?â His voice deepened with the sudden thought. âDolls are unfeeling, motionless, yet you find this one beautiful?â
âYes,â she said gently.
He shouldnât have been so surprised. A slab of porcelain meant to resemble a human might excite a child, but what good was such a thing to an adult? It was only a husk in his hands, but in hers breathed life.
âWhen youâre given something, you feel appreciated.â Rafaela continued with her gaze lowered. âI know I just joined Crown. I kept my distance since I thought I was intruding, but I feel welcome now.â
Something in him shifted. Rafaelaâs sincerity unsettled him, not unpleasantly.
âI welcome you,â he murmured. Without thought, he reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. His touch was feather-light, as if he were afraid he might shatter something.
âYou belong, like everyone here,â he assured quietly.
Rafaela blushed at his words; she was almost ready to tear up. âTh-thank you, Lord Elbert.â
A strange flutter rose in Elbertâs chest. His hand hovered near her cheek. For a moment, he nearly traced the line of her lips, but he drew back, clearing his throat.
âYou donât have to call me âLord,ââ he said. ââŠYou may just call me Elbert.â
Her laugh came soft and uncertain. âAlright⊠Elbert.â
He froze. Her voice wrapped around his name like silk. He hadnât expected it to sound so intimate.
ââŠGood.â He nodded.
His gaze drifted once more to the doll in her arms. That same strange hunger returned. His lashes lowered; a sigh escaped him before his eyes met hers again.
âYou really do resemble the doll.â
âHehe, I hope she doesnât haunt me,â she teased.
âHaunt you?â Elbert tilted his head. âWhy would it haunt you?â
âIn horror novels, cursed dolls are always haunted,â she said, glancing down at the doll. âBut you gave it to me with such earnest care. I wouldnât think for a second that sheâs cursed.â
âCursedâŠâ he echoed, the word lingering on his tongue. âMaybe it bears your Snow White curse?â
Rafaela laughed. âHehe, I certainly hope not. She doesnât deserve that.â
Elbertâs gaze flicked to the doll, then back to Rafaela.
âYou care about⊠her?â he asked.
âItâs a gift from you, of course, I do.â She held it closer, as though afraid someone might take it away.
Stillness settled between them. The exchange had gone well, perhaps too well. Her smile lingered in his thoughts as they parted. Elbert had taken a few steps toward his room whenâÂ
âOh! Elbert!âÂ
The sound of Rafaelaâs voice pulled him back.
She hesitated, then looked up at him with a hopeful smile. âWe should have a play date. My dolly and your bunny plushie on that shelf.â
Elbert blinked. For a moment, the words didnât register. His gaze followed hers toward the shelf; the small bunny plush with its dusty white fur, a fraying blue ribbon still tied around its neck.
ââŠPlay date?â he was startled at her suggestion.Â
She couldn't help but laugh a bit. âIs that too childish? Then maybe we could have tea in the garden instead and let them sit together, like theyâre friends.â
He didnât answer right away. His eyes lingered on the bunny, his expression unreadable, as though something long-forgotten stirred within him.
âTea in the garden,â he repeated.
And yet, the image of sitting with her in the afternoon sun, their dolls beside them as silent witnesses, stirred something unexpectedly warm.
âI like the idea,â he said at last. âWeâll have some tea⊠and let them spend time together.â
Rafaelaâs smile grew bright like starlight. A faint one touched his own lips as he turned to the shelf and lifted the bunny plush, handling it with the same tender care heâd shown her. Perhaps it was simply knowing this gave him another reason to be near her.
âKeep up,â he said, stepping down the hall. âI donât want to lose you.â When he looked back, his blue eyes were strangely bright. He knew how easily she lost her way in the castleâs winding corridors. Her laughter followed him closely.
Somewhere in the back of Elbert's mind, he recalled Alfonsâs earlier words; he truly might need a bigger cabinet soon.
Pairing: Arthur Conan Doyle x OC (Alouette Lunavega)
Warnings and Tags: just fluff, comfort, and a thunder storm :3
lace dividers by @/yeritos
A/N: Did you know that there was a fanzine for Ikemen Series hosted by @ikemen-watch ?? Did you know that I wrote two fics for it?? :D
Itâs already been a month since its release, but you can still download it for free here -> (đ°ïž)
Enjoy many amazing pieces from our talented writers and artists, and enjoy one of my entries below âš
Shelter from the Storm
All was well in Le Comteâs mansion. Gentle warmth softened the halls, shielded its vampiric residents from the brewing storm outside. It was quite the perfect weather for a steaming cup of coffee and snuggling under covers with his beloved, the blue-haired mystery writer thought. What better way to motivate himself for his self-imposed deadline?
Arthur dragged a hand through his hair, leaving it faintly tousled as he leaned back from his manuscript. His eyes lingered on the ink-stained pages longer than necessary. Words had begun to blur together until his attention drifted elsewhere. His nose led him, as it often did, toward the kitchen.
âOh, Arthur!â Alouetteâs voice greeted him just as he rounded the corner. âI was just about to bring your coffee.â
She held out the mug with both hands.Â
âYou truly are a marvel,â he said, accepting it with care. The porcelain warmed his palms before he took a careful sip. His newfound girlfriend smiled at him, prominent fangs peeking through.
âExcellent timing,â he added. âPerfect for this storm we will be having tonight.â
âThe storm?â she asked. Her posture straightened, sharp enough to catch his notice.
Arthur nodded. âThe pressureâs been building for hours. It wonât be a mild one.â
Heavy clouds pressed low across France, leaving the once-twilight sky completely covered in gray. The cold had begun to sweep every ounce of warmth away. Concern crossed Alouetteâs face as if the thought just reached her.
âI guess Iâve been too busy to noticeâŠâ She stepped away. âI think Iâll turn in early, then. You shouldnât stay up too late either.â She leaned in, brushing a kiss against his lips before he could fully meet her eyes. âGoodnight.âÂ
Her footsteps faded down the corridor faster than usual.
âGoodnight then,â Arthur called after her as the door shut.
The sky flashed a stark white, briefly illuminating the halls before plunging back into darkness. A faint rumble of thunder vibrated through the mansion's thick walls. Arthur had just returned to his room and set his mug down when a sharp yelp cut through the sounds of the incoming storm.
Immediately, Arthur hurried down the corridor, drawn by the sound of his beloved's distress.
âLove? Are you alright?â He knocked gently, but there was no answer.Â
He pushed Alouette's door, as it gave way with a slow creak.
âLove?â he repeated.
Darkness enveloped the room, broken only by distant flashes beyond the open curtains. The bed lay neatly arranged. Clothing from the day was scattered across the floor.
Uneven breathing reached him first, followed by the faint rustle of fabric. He approached the wardrobe and opened it cautiously. Inside the narrow space, sat Alouette, her knees drawn tight and her hands clamped over her ears as though the pressure might silence the world.
âThere you are,â Arthur said softly.
Her shoulders shuddered at the sound of Arthurâs voice, echoing within the small wooden wardrobe.
Kneeling before her, he gently covered her frigid hands with his own.
âShh,â he murmured, easing her grip away. âIâve got you.â
Alouette shook her head, keeping her eyes shut. âIâm fineâ Iâm fine!â The words came too quickly to convince either of them.
Thunder cracked again, close enough to rattle glass, and her breath hitched into a quiet, broken sob.
Arthur drew her into his arms without hesitation, settling back against the floor as he gathered her into his lap. One arm around her back, the other pressed gently over her ear, shielding what little he could. Her face pressed into his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as though it were the only solid thing left.
âThis doesnât look âfineâ to me.â His voice remained low. His hand slid through her hair in slow, deliberate strokes.
Another flash lit the room. Her grip tightened, and Arthur adjusted his hold before reaching back to draw the curtain closed, plunging them back into darkness.
âBreathe with me,â he said. He slowed his breathing, exaggerating the rhythm so she could replicate it. âThatâs it. In⊠and out.â
The storm raged on beyond the walls, but Arthur did not loosen his hold, not even as her uneven breathing began to follow his.
âJust listen to me breathe,â Arthur repeated. He kept the rhythm steady as a ticking clock. It took time, but her breath gradually began to hitch less.
âThere, thatâs it.â
Arthur pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. Even so, small shivers ran through her frame. Her arms tightened, clinging as though she feared he might vanish at any moment.
âDo you need anything, dear?â he asked.
âIâm⊠cold,â she whispered.
Rising slowly, Arthur kept her close as he carried her to the bed. The way her nightgown sat half-slipped at her shoulders did not escape his notice; fabric wrinkled, tugged on in haste. She must have been changing when the storm broke.
Gently, he settled her onto the bed and drew the comforter up around her, draping it over her shoulders. Though the lamp cast a warm glow across the room, she couldn't take her eyes off her hands, still faintly trembling in her lap. When another sob slipped free, she turned away, hiding her face.
Arthur caught her hands and brought them together, steadying them beneath his fingers.
âLook at me,â he said softly. âDo you feel me?â
A slight nod followed. Her fingers traced his face as though confirming he was real; his cheeks, the line of his jaw, the familiar curve of his lips. Only then did she lift her gaze to him.
His chest ached, seeing the tears slipping down her cheeks.
âI cannot leave you like this.â
âBut your manuscriptâŠâ she managed weakly.
âIt can wait,â Arthur replied at once, brushing her hair back from her face, âyou cannot.â
He cupped her cheeks and wiped the tears away with his thumbs.
âYouâre safe,â he whispered.
Beyond the window, the storm had eased into a steady patter of rain. Arthur let out a quiet breath, seeking a distraction.
âThe sheets smell rather pleasant,â he said mildly. âYou helped Mitsuki with the laundry again, didnât you?â
She nodded. âI didâŠâ
The faintest smile touched his mouth as he noted how her breathing had steadied. If the storm returned, at least this time she would not face it alone.
âWould you like some Rouge?â he asked.
âYes,â she said, âbut donât go yet. Please.â
Her fingers curled into his sleeve, holding him there. Another low rumble passed through the mansion. She drew the comforter closer and turned away again, hoping to escape his gaze.
âIâve noticed,â he said, âthat you havenât been looking at me.â
After a pause, she brushed her eyes with her sleeve. That nervous little laugh followed.
âIâm sorry,â she said. âYou must think I look like a frightened little girl now. Itâs embarrassing⊠acting like this in front of you.â
Her head shook as if to dismiss the thought, but it lingered more; that bitter confession only stung.
Arthur slipped his hand beneath the covers and found hers again.
âDonât say that,â he chided. âYouâre not a child. Everyone has moments of fear.â
His thumb traced slow circles against the back of her hand. After a momentâs hesitation, he spoke again.
âBut⊠would you hate me if I admitted that sometimes I feel the urge to protect you as though you were one?â
Silence stretched between them.
âWellâŠâ she said at last. âYou donât find that embarrassing for yourself?â
The motion of his thumb never stilled as he watched her closely, unwilling to rush the moment.
âMay I tell you something?â Arthur asked.
Alouette lifted her gaze to his, pulling the comforter even tighter around herself. Arthur leaned in, his voice lowering like he was ready to tell a secret.
âI have never seen you like this,â he admitted, âso I find it⊠very dear when you tremble and when you cry to me as though I were your only comfort in the world.â
His thumb traced slowly along her hand.
âAnd I treasure that,â he continued, ânot as a weakness, but as trust.â
A distant rumble passed through the mansion. Before the sound could fully register, Arthurâs arms tightened instinctively, drawing her in.
âI see a woman,â he murmured, his voice barely audible in her ear, âwho carries herself as though nothing could ever shake her, and yet still needs comfort when the world grows too loud.â
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Something luminous rested there, the same quiet certainty she had always loved, like a familiar puzzle falling into place.
âAnd every time you cling to me like this,â he didnât let the silence linger, âI find myself wishing I could comfort the little girl who remains hidden inside you.â
Her breath caught in her throat. She pressed closer to him, body tensing all at once but not with fear. Arthur could not know the memories for sure, but her stillness spoke volumes. Long nights of thunder and solitude and learning, far too young to endure fear without anyone to reach for. Someday, he wished to know for sure.
âNot anymore,â he whispered. His voice was comforting like sunlight against the window. âYou donât have to face the dark alone ever again.â
Arthur moved swiftly as the thunder cracked louder. One hand cradled the back of her head, the other tracing slow, grounding circles at her back, steadying her before panic could take hold.
âOh, ArthurâŠâ she breathed.
The tears that followed slipped free as grief finally loosened its grip. He answered them with a tender kiss on her temple.
âListen to me,â he said. âIf I could reach back through time and tear every one of those nights from your history, I would.â
His hands framed her face, thumbs brushing away the tears as they came.
âBut since I canât,â he said softly, âlet me spend every storm left making up for them.â
Lightning flashedâbright and suddenâyet she didnât flinch. She held on tightly. Arthurâs arms wrapped her as though shielding her from the world itself.
âYouâre safe here,â he murmured. âHold onto me, and you wonât run and hide, will you?â
âI wonât,â she whispered. âNot anymore, not unless itâs with you⊠and we can cry together.â
âGood,â he chuckled. âGood girl.â
His fingers traced slow, gentle patterns on her shoulder blade, as though sealing the promise there. He rested his chin atop her head.
Outside, the storm rolled on; it wouldnât be a mild one. Arthur did not loosen his hold. And if his manuscript was forgotten by morning, he knew he would not regret it.
Chevalier x OC (Esther Materna); Comfort; From The Diary of the Late Queen; my contribution to "First Time For Everything Ikemen Fan Zine" I and @dicenete hosted together on @ikemen-watch ^^
The royal palace of Rhodolite was a place of things rather than people, inhabited by thinly veiled memories shielded from the prying eyes by white sheets and closed doors. It was a hollow, cluttered space, thirsty for the sound of steps or warmth of human breath. The artworks lining its corridors were like bait, set to lead astray those who did not mind their step and wandered aimlessly, opened up old questions without any care for the consequences that might follow. Inquiries often find the inquiring, however. Esther hadnât pried â the portrait, or much rather, the woman forever trapped in barbed brushstrokes, had been the one to approach her as two servants carried her off to a vault. Blue piercing eyes. As pale as a frosty morning on a cloudless winter day. Stern. Strict. Regal. More than anything, familiar. The private quarters of Blanche Michel, the late Queen and the mother of Prince Chevalier, were being cleared out.
Donât you want to hold onto anything as a keepsake? the words remained caged in her throat. Esther waited patiently for a moment to free them, but her love eluded the crux of her concerns with half-hearted, transparent excuses and silence. Chevalier was covered in a thin sheet of frost, the sleet growing all the thicker the more she tried to read him, until he began to avoid her eyes entirely. Guilty, Esther turned blind towards him and listened to the call of the past still lingering in the west wing. Too afraid to crack his armour and break what was hidden underneath, she allowed the voice to lead her down to the core of the matter. The rustle of her skirt soaked into the parched walls, the old curtains rousing from underneath the dust-duvets as she passed by them. Her steps like thunder, the corridor shivered in anticipation of each strike of her heels, the ladies and lords stuck inside of the sparse paintings twisting their necks to stare at her. The picklock trembled in her fingers. It was wrong, but no other choice felt right. The grain of the oaken door stretched under her knuckles. The brass knob yawned against her palm.
The room that opened before Esther had already been largely cleared, a gaping hole of an empty space sitting right where a bed once might have been, a few old bookcases still keeping watch over its peace. It was rich, deep forest green tapestry, warm wooden floors, a round Benitoitian rug spread in front of the fireplace, and a rocking chair huddling at its edge. Esther could easily imagine the Queen sitting in it on a cold day, curled up under a blanket with a cup of warm tea or perhaps a novel, but that was where the echoes of Blancheâs presence ended. Whatever else was there, the barren shelves kept it to themselves.
Hesitant, Esther walked along the walls, counting splinters on the skirting boards. She approached the last remaining dresser, pulled out its drawers, opened up the wardrobe filled with hungry moths. At last, she sat down in the rocking chair, her eyes fixed on the crystal chandelier hung above her head. Sometime during her search, the void had sneaked underneath her skin and turned her inside out, bleeding her thoughts into the surrounding space.
There is nothing here.
Chevkaâs just tired. Heâs been working late into the nights again.
Why couldnât I just trust him?
I need to tell him Iâm sorry.
Her heart heavy, Esther stood up. Yet before she left, she glanced towards the hearth and the half-burned logs inside of it. Something peeked from beneath them. She crouched on the rug and pushed the ashes aside.
November 1st, read the first line. The palace.
Today marks the fifth birthday of Chevalier. He ate his piece of cake, but didnât smile when the ministers offered him toys. My little boy seems too mature for hobby-horses even at this age. What luck it is to have a child like him.
My husband was not present for the dinner. Another of his mistresses has gotten pregnant, but I do not think he cares for her. Perhaps he still holds me in favour â he did visit my chambers last night.
I want to see my father for Christmas. He ought to see what a proud Queen he has raised.
The next page had been ripped out. Esther pulled out the pieces of the torn notebook and placed them in her lap.
November 5th. The palace.
The mantuamaker visited the palace to prepare my gown for the New Year celebrations. I also ordered a new outfit for my little king.
His teacher praised him. He deserves a gift.
...
November 10th. The palace.
My boy has been poisoned. Chevalier is taking it well like the little knight that he is. He doesnât cry. The doctors at the infirmary are taking good care of him.
I havenât seen my husband today. Heâs back to that whore, even though I tried my hardest.
I need Leticia to soothe my worries, but sheâs with her son again. I donât understand how she can manage with a child as snot-nosed as Clavis.
âŠÂ
November 12th. The palace.
I went to town today after hearing that Chevalierâs fever had broken. I bought him a cake, and he ate it in little more than one bite. Would he feel a difference if I baked it? I havenât tried that for a whileâŠ
Clavis must have been feeding him some ridiculous ideas. Chevalier asked whether he could sleep in my bed tonight. I had to refuse. His nanny will watch over him while he sleeps. If the king came⊠I donât know what Iâd do if the king came and my boy was with me.
âŠ
December 18th. The palace.
Chevalier was poisoned again. The minister who did it laughed in my face.
How can my husband remain this indifferent?
Leticia cannot help me. Clavis ate the soup as well.
December 19th. The palace.
My child turned all yellow. The physician says it was expected. He wants me to be with him, but I canât stomach the smell.
December 20th. The palace.
I will not see my father this Christmas.
December 21st. The palace.
Chevalier isnât waking up. He needs to wake up.
December 22nd. The palace.
My husband passed me in the corridor without saying a word. I need Letica, but he took her away from me too.
âŠÂ
December 24th The palace.
I readied the burial clothes, but my boy came back from the dead. He is so thin and sickly. He asked me again to let him sleep in my bed, but I couldnât agree. His father came again yesterday.
âŠÂ
December 30th. The palace.
My father paid us a visit. What a sorry display I must be â I had to wave off his concerns.
Leticia watches over both of our boys now. I have to attend the banquets with my husband. Somehow, he is wholly untouched by worry.
âŠ
January 20th. The palace.
The whore miscarried. Serves her well.
Us and the commoners, we do not mix.
âŠ
February 17th. The palace.
My boy spends a lot of his time in the library. What a fortunate mother I am. Most children loathe learning, or so Iâve been told.
I hope that Clavis doesnât lead him astray. Leticia is spoiling him too much with all those smiles. If she was stricter, heâd be sure to behave more like my sweet knight.
âŠ
March 5th. The palace.
My boy can recite entire books. Isnât he great?
âŠ
May 12th. The palace.
Chevalier has bested his tutor in a duel. I did not know a child could wield a blade this well.
âŠ
June 27th. The palace.
My boy discovered the ploy to poison us. He nearly fed the meat to the maid that brought it out.
âŠ
June 30th. The palace.
I saw Chevalierâs room. Why does he sleep with a knife?
âŠ
July 3rd. The palace.
Chevalier injured his tutor. A child shouldnât move in this way.
âŠ
August 10th
He was poisoned. Is it wrong that Iâm relieved?
He doesnât cry. Iâd rather he cried. His eyes scare me when he reaches for me.
âŠ
September 4th
He recovered. Why did he recover again. They tried three times and he cannot seem to die.
âŠ
October 29th
He corrected the king in front of the ministers and he was justified. I tremble when he stares me down.
âŠ
November 1st
My father paid us a visit for Chevalierâs birthday. I want to spend Christmas at home.
âŠ
December 25th
Another pregnant whore. Why do they have to keep on coming? Do their legs open on their own?
I need another child. This one⊠he is wrong.
Esther swallowed; her throat had gone dry.
January 9th
This is my punishment for not being a good enough wife.
âŠ
January 13th
I can feel them staring at me whenever Chevalier cuts down their suggestions and complaints. Canât he just shut it?
âŠ
February 28th
Leticia thinks Iâm tired. I am; and I am so jealous of her son. Clavis, for one thing, actually smiles.
âŠ
March 6th
I now see what I birthed and it is not a human. It doesnât die. No matter what I throw at it, this demon still reaches for me. When it finally succeeds, I am certain it will crawl into my womb and tear me apart from there.
No⊠That is not right. I had a son, but he is long dead. The demon merely replaced him. I did not create this.
March 7th
I broke a vase on its head. It didnât flinch even as it bled. The fire poker didnât scare it either.
March 8th
I can see it covered in blood whenever I dream. Chevalier would have never killed his nanny, but I cannot forget his face as it cut her stomach open.
Why does the demon have to torment me so? Is it a warning? Am I next?
I can feel it reaching for my entrails. I need Leticia, I need Leticia and her arms⊠Why is she with that brat again. Why is my husband with sluts instead of me.
March 9th
I can hear the nanny gargling on blood whenever I go. The demon is close, but I will not let it have either me or the child in my belly.
The door sighed wearily, the floor groaning underneath heavy steps. Esther pushed the diary back into the fireplace.
âI presume you found what you were searching for,â Chevalier stated, voice calm. Uncertainty lurked underneath the surface of his gaze, flickered briefly to disappear far into its depths.
âAlmost.â Esther dusted her skirt and got up. âLean down for me. Please.â
He did as she asked, patient while her fingers combed through his hair, diligent as they inspected the root of every strand. At last, she found a smooth, scarred-over patch, longer rather than wide.
âSorry⊠I made you look like a mess.â
âIs that all?â
âNo.â Her lips brushed against his forehead. âIâd like to start a fire in the hearth.â
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I think it may be one of the most intimate things Iâve ever shared on this page. Itâs not perfect. Itâs dark and light at the same time. And Iâm pretty much in love with this piece, because it found me when I was extremely anxious, fragile and tired.Â
Thank you so much, @lorei-writes and @dicenete, for hosting the First Time For Everything Zine and having me despite so many obstacles. Whether you realise it or not, you bothâve done something really fundamental for a relatively small community like ours. I still canât believe we had such a long journey, and Iâm very excited for the future projects to come đ
Character: Leonardo da Vinci
Promt: First Times
Warnings: minor spoilers, mentions of death
The full Zine is here. Please, support all the wonderful writers and artists who gave their everything to the project and the Ikemen community.
Part I. The wonder of meeting
The cracking sound of shutters being thrown open broke the silence of a tiny studio in the attic of one yellow brick house. A broad-shouldered figure appeared in the window, gasping desperately for cool morning air, then broke into a cough from the smell of horse sweat and road dust. With a quiet curse, Leonardo rummaged in his pocket for a pack of cigarillos. Another month had passed since he arrived in that bustling Italian city. Another helpless attempt to findâŠwhat? It was about time he had accepted the ugly truth â a good excuse to win a patronage of local nobility and become a military architect was still an excuse, whereas in reality he, Leonardo, was spending most of the days in the studio, hiding in his lair from people, from the city and especially from them. Those damn letters.
A single spark from the cigarillo landed only a stoneâs throw away from where, among hundreds of sketches, laid a pile of tightly sealed envelopes. Every one carried the same message â a gentle ask that gradually turned into a firm order to marry. To continue the family line. The vampireâs jaw clenched unintentionally, and a pair of sharp stakelike fangs pierced the paper in halves. Leonardo thought with poignant irony that the question of his marriage must have been brought up the moment he left his motherâs belly. Leoâs father, a man as conservative as he was vain, probably first bent over the cradle to check whether the infant was indeed a boy. As he did so, the old fool took Leo in his hands and babbled with that awkward smile of his, «Say your first word, figlio. Say âbri-i-ideâ.»
A mere memory of his fatherâs face made Leonardo grimace with disgust. He spread the shutters wider and leaned over the window. The streets had already been full of citizens by the time he woke up. All of them, whether they were rich aristocrats dressed in red brocade or peasants with dirty hands, were extremely beautiful in his eyes. People were always in a rush, prone to mistakes, too weak not to cry and strong enough to stand and continue the never ending battle against time. Maybe they didn't have what creatures like him possessed, but they were full of pride, life, passion â something his immortal heart desired to understand.
The rustle of birdsâ wings caught his attention, urging Leonardo to examine more closely the bustle outside. Thatâs when he saw her. A gown the color of gold mixed with snow[1], head raised high and absolutely unremarkable face except for her eyes that were burning with unnatural heat. So curious, so bright, so helpless.
The reeling creaked as Leonardo unconsciously leaned towards, not wanting the strange woman to slip away. The said woman walked fast but seemed to have no directions to follow. She approached several groups of apprentice painters, whose hands were stuck with easels and brushes, but they walked away as if the mysterious stranger didn't exist. Or they simply wanted to humiliate her, those arrogant young bastards. Only once was she greeted by a busker who then began to play a soft melody on his bagpipe. Leonardo vaguely remembered that local people often gathered on that particular spot, searching for an opportunity to earn some money. Although that woman didn't look like she was poor, who knew what kind of hardship she was going through? Maybe she was lonely. The feeling Leonardo wasn't a stranger to.
When the woman in white reached for the yellow brick house, he called to her with a voice that seemed hoarse from long-continued silence, «Listen, cara mia, I may need a hand to help me with my work. Are you free now?»
She looked up, and once again Leonardo noted what an unusual face she had. Difficult to forget when being heart to heart but easy to dismiss once lost in a crowd.
Covering her eyes from the sunlight, she asked loudly, «Who are you? What do you do?»
«Iâm»âthe man took a quick look at the crumpled lists of paper on the floorâ«painting things sometimes. Right now I want to paint you.»
«Nah, an artist! I know people like you. You always want to take everything from me yet give nothing in return.»
Taken aback by such audacity, Leonardo couldn't prevent a wide smile slowly spreading across his face.
«I think weâll get along all right,» he said, rushing towards the exit.Â
âââââââ±ââ°ââââââ
«So, this is your studio,» muttered the woman when she sat on a stool in front of the dusty easel, «and you, Signor da Vinci, are a famous artist, right?»
«Wouldnât be so sure about the âfamous artistâ part,» Leonardo replied with a crooked smile, taking a bunch of brushes in his hand.
Those strangely burning eyes lingered on the brushes, most of which were broken, and a shadow of a smile touched the womanâs lips.
«You work hard everyday on your paintings, donât you?» Her smile grew even bigger as the «artist» opened with a loud pop a can of absolutely dried red paint.Â
«Every day is different.»
«Thatâs what I thought! How often do you paint someone like me?»
A rush of her quiet laughter caught him like a summer rain. Warm. Soft. Gentle.
«I think youâve asked too many questions, cara mia, forâ»
Unspoken words got stuck in his throat when Leonardo saw what she was pointing at with her tiny little finger. Drafts. Sketches of battering rams. Agricultural devices. Portable bridges. Not a single drawing of a human being.
«My, my, what a clever piccolina Iâve found.» Ancient eyes the color of melted gold were wavering with deep feelings â a mix of curiosity and longing.Â
Someone slammed the door and interrupted them. A head so red it seemed to be set on fire occurred in a doorway, and soon a handsome young man entered the room, bringing bags full of food and wine. Â
«Oh, thatâs you, Giovanni,» Leonardo drawled with badly hidden irritation. Poor boy, he was trying so hard to become his apprentice. How could the old vampire explain to that human kid that his life was so full of uncertainty it left no room for strong bounds? Love, friendship, even mentorship â those were words that could never enter the lives of immortals.  Â
«Be polite and greet a new acquaintance of mine»âLeo gestured at the person behind the easelâ«this girl agreed to become a model for my very first portrait, her name isâŠÂ»Â Â
He paused. The unknown woman never told him her name, nor did she mention where she came from. At first, Leonardo was too busy to mention it, butâŠÂ
Giovanni glanced at the roomâs corner where the woman in white was sitting. His lips pressed tightly. Without further words, the boy bowed to his «master» and quietly left the studio.
Being a witness of such childish behaviour, Leonardo smirked.
«Donât take it personal, cara mia. The boy is simply jealous.»
No reply followed. Leonardo turned around and realised the girl was gone. A white scarf she had dropped on the floor was the only evidence of her presence. Leo leaned closer to better examine it and clicked his tongue in disappointment. Hot cigar ash on the floor managed to burn a hole in the delicate fabric.   Â
âââââââ±ââ°ââââââ
Autumn brought alarming news: unknown plague reached the borders of the neighbouring country. The population of the city was gradually decreasing, which affected Leonardoâs life in a very unusual way. People came to visit him. They knocked at the door of his studio with an earnest plea. To order portraits of friends, relatives, those they loved. To remember. To be remembered.
The heat of creativity possessed the body that was immune to the heat of fever. Leonardo was stunned to realise he couldn't bring himself to part with oils and canvas. And all of it began with her. The woman in white who sparked the desire to paint in him but remained an enigma. She came to the studio whenever she wanted. Helpless. She always left in the middle of work. Never allowed Leonardo to learn more than he already knew yet could coax him into telling the most sacred secrets of his soul.
«Master Leonardo,» one day the girl asked him, «when we first met, you offered me to model for your painting. You have this studio, and many people would die to attend it as your apprentices. Yet youâve never called yourself an artist. Why?» Â
Splash. A few drops of oil paints dropped from the brush and mixed with water, creating the serenity of watercolor blue. «Master» Leonardo, as she called him, lazily stroked the canvas with his calloused fingers. Then he replied in a most casual tone, «Have you ever heard of the great void, cara mia?»
She shook her head. Another splash. The light blue sky in the glass was stained with deep indigo.
«Ancient Greeks believed our world to be one giant abyss of nothingness. A void with no beginning and no end. Only the motion of the tiniest invisible bodies or atoms, as they called them, and their random collision created more complex substances â trees, oceans, even our bodies. For me»âLeonardo's gaze pierced into her calm faceâ«art is just a single atom among a thousand ones that exist in the great void of my life. Itâs beautiful, but it can't serve my true and only purpose â to help people.»    Â
The woman in white looked at the sketches that remained untouched since the day they had met. Fighting vehicles. Flying ships. Portable bridges.  Â
«Thatâs why you came here, right? You think that serving as a military architect will help you do good?» It was hard to guess what was hidden behind that inscrutable tone of her voice. Was it melancholy, sadness or compassion?
«I have to do good. Since Iâll live longer and see more thanâŠÂ» A hand with a brush shook, leaving drops of oil on the floor. «âŠthan a person who died yesterday, then why not devote myself to it? What else am I useful for?»
His lovely compagna lowered her eyes once again. That time, however, she was staring at the recently finished drawings, still warm to the touch. A shoemaker whose features looked ridiculously angry as though their owner scalded his leg. A beautiful flower girl with a foxy face. Her daughter, a little doll with blonde curls.
«Maybe youâve already found the answer?» the woman asked gently, grabbing the drawings and giving them to Leonardo. «Not all these people will make it through until tomorrow. Some of them will be carried away by plague, others â by time. It is your talent that will give them a second chance to live. Your art will relieve the pain of those they'll never be able to meet again. Your passion will introduce them to friends who havenât been born yet. Isn't it enough for a human being? To remember. To be remembered and be granted a taste of eternity.»
Leonardo's jaw clenched so hard it sharpened the already well-sculpted cheekbones.
«But to become an artist means to leave part of yourself in every piece you make. Not something I wantâŠnot something Iâm allowed to do.»
Her cold fingers caressed his big and warm palm. Nothing was said, but everything was clear. For the first time in his life, Leonardo felt understood.
Splash. A few drops of oil paints slowly dropped from the paintbrush and mixed with water. Watercolor blue met grey, got caught into a lilac whirlwind and turned into the blue-black of the night sky before a tornado. A storm was coming.
Part II. The pain of realization
«Were you planning to leave without saying goodbye?»
The tiny studio in the attic of one yellow brick house looked like a storm had hit it. Opened chests, mountains of butts and spilled ink on the table. Clothes all over the place, dead fire and dust. The female figure standing in the doorway appeared antique among those ruins â Helen watching the fall of Troy.Â
With a loud noise, Leonardo puffed streams of smoke in the air. The city government ordered all windows to be shut in order to avoid the spread of plague, and the bittersweet smell of tobacco permeated the whole studio.
Something had changed within him, and he didn't even notice it. No. He saw everything but was too much of a coward to admit the changes to himself.Â
He began to realise.
He couldn't paint any longer.
He couldn't paint any longer without her.
Creating in her presence was so easy. It was like intoxication. Or illumination. It felt as if he fell asleep at dusk with a mere ghost of the Moon on the horizon and got awake in the middle of the night with the Great Bear and Orion watching him from afar. They didn't even need to talk, the silence between the two of them was comfortable enough. Sensual. When she was gone, though, all the joy and simplicity of Leoâs new life disappeared. He began to realise one simple thing â bearing the suffering of eternity was less painful than being deprived of her presence[2]. Surely, he did try to move on and continue painting on his own.
He failed.
Being famous as Jack of all trades, Leonardo knew from his own experience that one had to be very cautious when working with the heart, a rather complex mechanism. One half of his soul that gravitated towards beauty, arts and human warmth told the great vampire to succumb to his feelings and let them guide his path. However, another half â the one that was in charge of exact sciences and research infallibility â cynically argued that every broken mechanism should be taken to pieces and thoroughly studied by a scientist, not a poet. So, guided by an odd, almost sadistic joy of self-destruction, the Italian polymath â half scientist, half poet â edged his way through the void of his soul in search of the answer he feared to voice.
He was in love with that woman.
For an ordinary man, love was a blessing. It could become his safe place, a wish made come true. Love allowed people to create something utterly beautiful from the noble impulses of their hearts. Yet for immortal beasts, love was a heavy burden that fettered them with shattered hopes and unavoidable pain. Love was a curse. Leonardo was certain about that and, therefore, he chose the only familiar method to escape from the irresistible force that was coming his way.
«Iâm leaving this place.» Â
A web of wrinkles adorned the corners of her eyes, turning the woman in whiteâs facial expression from sorrowful to gloomy.
«When did you want to tell me? And why so suddenly?» Â
Leonardo dropped a cigar butt on the dirty floor full of paint strains and pinned it down with his boot several times, either buying himself some time or trying to hide his own frustration.
«Itâs getting more and more dangerous here, bella. Itâd be better if we stopped meeting forâŠfor a while. Once the situation in the city gets betterâ»
«For God's sake, Leonardo!» Rage colored her strange eyes in the shade of the frozen sea. The woman slid into the room and stood in her usual place â in front of the canvas. «We both know it has nothing to do with an unexpected fit of prudence. What are you hiding from me?»Â
Straightforward as always. That was what made him fall inâŠthat was why he had to leave. A few large steps brought him to the woman he loved. A gloved hand froze just a touch away from her face, silently caressing the wind where she stayed. Â
«I want you to be free, cara mia.» Despite the pain in his chest, the heartbroken man still wanted to smile. In the world full of so much sorrow, he couldn't leave her being the one who was hurt.
«You say you want me to be free, yet you control my will.» The voice that used to sound so gentle was shaking with anger.
«Trust me»âLeonardo suddenly felt scared she might have known him too well to play along with his liesâ«itâs not your destiny to be a prisoner of a relationship with someone like me.»Â
«Someone like you,» she echoed. Leo frowned as he heard her voice losing all colors.
She stepped aside and turned her back to him. Refusing to watch her leave, Leonardo silently observed the silhouette of her shadow. At some point, he thought he saw it slowly fading.
Was his vision blurred by tears?
A minute, an hour or eternity later, he heard her quiet voice.
«You search for the eternal remedy, yet you deny the part of yourself that makes you immortal. You want to save people, but you hide here from them. One cannot live half a life, Leonardo. You have to choose a side.»
Then there was a rumbling. Massive white curtains that used to hide a tiny corner of the room behind the canvas dropped with a loud sound, raising a cloud of dust. When it all sank to the ground, Leonardo saw himself clenching fists in a giant mirror reflection. The room was empty. Ink was spilled on the table. A few brave merchants were talking loudly on the street. Nothing reminded him of the woman in white. Silence of the studio fell on the shoulders of the ancient vampire like an unbearable burden. For the first time in his life, he felt that way. He felt completely helpless.
A minute, an hour or eternity later, when the whole room sank into the darkness of Italian winter night, Leonardo went away from the mirror and leaned towards one of many papers left on the floor. An unfinished drawing of the girl with blonde curls. Striking a match, he lit the candle and put it near the canvas. Then the artist came back to work.  Â
âââââââ±ââ°ââââââ
During winter nights the whole city went completely dark. Still, there was one place where lights never stopped burning. A district of wine and pleasure, its walls were witness to both great tragedies and great happiness. That night one particular local pub was full of guests. One room was reigned by sorrow as people gathered to remember the poor flower girl with a foxy face â she was carried away by plague. The other one rang full of laughter as local artists, street musicians and jesters came to listen to each otherâs stories. One of the stories was told to them by the handsome young man whose head was so red it seemed to be set on fire.
He drained another glass of wine, wiped his mouth with a starched sleeve and drawled in a crying voice, «Told you, this man is crazy. Heâs locked himself in the studio since summer and been working like a damn horse since then. Oh, have I mentioned that he speaks to his own reflection while painting? Poor, poor master LeonardoâŠÂ»Â
Harlequin popped out of nowhere and laughed.
«Why are you so shocked, Giovanni? Everyone knows artists are far from sane. Thatâs the price for being talented.»
 «What is worse, every time I approach him, Leonardo says that thereâs a woman sitting in front of him. Trust me, this is going to end badly.» Young Giovanni already doubted his decision to be apprenticed by that eccentric outlander with ancient eyes and lack of any manners. The only thing that prevented him from giving up on Leonardo was his beautiful paintings. Within a couple of months, he created so many works, and even though many of them remained unfinished, they were full of life, love and passion. A strange combination for someone who was rumored to be insane.
«Maybe she visited him?» asked a local busker who was sitting in the corner and hugging his bagpipe.
«She?» For a single moment it looked like all the people in the room sobered up immediately as they turned their heads towards the busker.
«Everyone calls her in their own way. A muse, a plague of heart or inspiration. They say, she appears unto many people but stays only with the one who will let her break their heart. Thatâs how it was with that sculptor who carved a statue of a nymph and fell in love with her. Same happened with the poet who once saw beautiful Laura and wrote his poetry in her name.»
The room went silent. The poor busker looked around, fearing he might have spoken too much. However, the burst of loud laughter quickly cooled him off, and the man turned away in disgust.Â
«Better have a mad master than a mad master with a broken heart,» Giovanni mumbled, laying his head on the table and gratefully succumbing to sleep. Even in his dreams the young man saw Leonardo. The artist probably was still sitting in the studio. Deep concentration was reflected on his eternally beautiful face as he painted another line. The floor was strained with paint, and papers were everywhere. Giovanni thought that inspiration gave his master a purpose, whereas strong will and an innate ability to work hard gave him strength to fulfill it. He also thought that inspiration would definitely visit Leonardo again. Maybe in another place and time period. That would be fine. Truly fine.
For inspiration may break oneâs heart when it gets lost for the first time. Yet itâs still worth waiting for.      Â
  Â
[1] From Petrarch, poem 323: Standomi un giorno solo a la fenestra/ One day, standing alone at my window: «and she had on so white a gown, so woven it seemed gold mixed with snow: but the crown of her head was hidden by a dark mist.»
[2] From Petrarch, canzone 267: «it is for you I burn, in you I breathe for I am yours alone; deprived of you, I suffer less for all my other pains.»
Hereâs my IkeVamp piece for the @ikemen-watch zine!
Working on this project was an absolutely wonderful experience! I had a lot of fun with everyone. We poured a lot of love into this zine, please check it out if you havenât yet! đ»
This is my story Bittersweet, originally written for the First Time For Everything Zine ( @ikemen-watch ), awesomely organized by @lorei-writes and @dicenete. Writing for this zine was a wonderful experience. It was nice to know that Lorei and Dicenete were there for me if I needed them and I loved having their support for the ideas I brought to them. I would absolutely do this with them again. Thank you both!
If you haven't yet, you can (and should) download the whole Zine here.
Title: Bittersweet
Characters: Shingen, Kennyo, Yukimura, and (briefly) Mai
Logline: Shingen takes two quiet rainy moments to think about time and mortality.
BitterâŠ
Nothing could chase the metallic tang of blood from his tongue. The acrid powders handed to him by a succession of healers and herbalists only compounded the problem. Sweet desserts never fully covered the taste of death in his throat. Even the softness of anotherâs lips beneath his own was just fleeting pleasure made more painful by the knowledge of mortality.
Mortality.
True, Shingen had always been aware that life was finite. He lived through wars, experienced the loss of loved ones, felt despair when his homeland fell. But he had never felt, down through the marrow of his bones, that his life would end. That he might not have enough time to revenge broken promises, retake stolen lands, or bring security to his people. He could no more avoid his own death than he could erase the flavor of blood from his throat.
Perhaps that was in fact what mortality was. Not death itself, but that first understanding that he must die, that realization of the inevitability of death.
Steady footsteps behind him, as another came to join him in the temple gardens. âMy friend, you are soaking wet.â Kennyoâs words were dispassionate. Factual. His tone of voice, however, didnât disguise his concern.
Shingen turned toward the monk, noting his friend was gesturing at the warmth and shelter of the temple. âI want to enjoy-â His throat constricted, as the words âthe rainâ drowned into a thick cough. He swallowed the blood before it could surface and reveal his state.
But Kennyo was, as always, observant. âYouâll make yourself sick. Sicker.â
Had he told Kennyo that wet weather made his cough worse? Maybe once, when he was brushing off the manâs questions about the lingering cough. Heâd explained it was only a reaction to weather, something to be endured, something that always vanished in the sun. Unfortunately, there was no more strength to deflect the truth. âNothing will prevent that. I might as well take pleasure in the rain.â
It might be his final autumn rain. If it was, then he would at least savor the sight of the orange and yellowed leaves, glistening as droplets of water rolled across the surface, reflecting the light of the evening lanterns.
One such leaf detached itself from the branch and spiraled to the muddy earth below.
Thanks, leaf.
With a mental sigh, Shingen allowed Kennyo to shepherd him inside, and after shrugging off his damp cloak, accepted a cup of tea. It too, was bitter. âIs this your version of medicine?â
âIt, perhaps, will be of help to stave off a throat infection.â Kennyo filled an incense pot and set it nearby. âAs might this. Breathe.â
Nothing would help, but Shingen allowed his friend the illusion. For a long while, they sipped their tea in silence, as he tried to ignore the tightness of his lungs. Ignore the lump he could feel pressing him from the inside. It was no longer a matter of if, but when. âWhat is time?â
âAre you asking a philosophical question?â Kennyo settled himself on a prayer cushion, looking like ⊠well, like the sage teacher he was.
âI might be.â He took one last gulp of that horrible tea, vowing to hunt down some Nanban sugar candy to replace the flavor. âI never considered the concept⊠before. At least no more consideration other than ensuring I would not arrive late for anything.â
âTime does not exist. We are all one moment, and yet all moments. One place, and yet all places.â
Trust Kennyo to jump right into mysticism. In another reality, Shingen would have enjoyed the debate, appreciated the game of parsing the theory out until the conversation turned into two friends sharing thoughts over tea or sake. But that reality was⊠before. âIn that case⊠it was not a theological question. Because I am unable to stop thinking of everything in my life as before â and after.â
âWhat you are discussing is not time. It is simply your mind organizing knowledge.â Kennyo swirled tea around in his cup, apparently, and mysteriously, enjoying the flavor. âYou have always been able to take the long view of things. To step outside of details; to understand the whole.â
True. Until now. Now the whole revolved around the moment when he stopped avoiding the knowledge that whatever lived inside his chest was killing him. When he accepted that he would not die honorably on the battlefield. He would not slip away peacefully, surrounded by a beloved wife, children⊠grandchildren.
Everything that followed that epiphany would be considered after. He wondered if this, the first autumn rain after would also be the last. Shingen closed his eyes and let his focus turn to the gentle thrum of rain on the roof, the warmth of the cup in his hands, the sharp aroma of incense⊠and the taste of bitterness in his mouth.
No. He refused to fill his after with despair. What would be the use in that?
If his end was in sight, he would be wise to take on Kennyoâs conception of time. Every day would be the last and the first. Every bitter would be turned to sweet.
SweetâŠ
âWhat the hell are you doing out here?â Yukimuraâs exasperated tone trailed off when Shingen turned and gave him a look. A look that said, âIâve known you since you were a skinny boy hitting out at the world with sticks.â With a guilty expression, Yuki added, âMy lord. Itâs raining.â
Shingen turned his face to the sky as the spring rainfall cleansed the sleep from his eyes. When the first patter of water hit the roof, he had gotten up, leaving his lovely angel slumbering in their bed. Heâd been tempted to wake her up, so they could enjoy a relaxing morning, cocooning safely from the elements. But the water called out, beckoning him to drink in its sweetness. He caught a droplet on his tongue, allowing the refreshment to slide easily down his throat. âIâm aware, Yuki.â
âYouâll get sick.â The threat was half a grumble, half an unspoken worry.
Before⊠he indeed would have. Shingen took a deep breath, reveling in the feeling of his lungs expanding. He stretched his arms outward, as if he could hug the sky to him. âI might. But I will get better.â
No matter how many times he explained to his Sengoku family that the voyage to⊠the future cured his disease, that the doctors in the future removed the âtumorâ and therapists taught him how to breathe unfettered again, that after years of sucking air through an increasingly small passage, he knew he was unlikely to die from a spring rain⊠they did not understand. Maybe it would only take time for them to accept his renewed health.
âThatâs no reason to catch a cold.â For all his impetuousness, Yuki could be an old grandmother when addressing the issue of Shingenâs health⊠and his eating habits. âMy lord.â
He reached over and ruffled Yukiâs hair, causing it to stick out all over, despite the rain tamping it down. âGive me this moment Yuki. I thought I would never see another spring rain. It isnât cold out.â In fact, even the sun was visible, low on the horizon, rays threading through the raindrops. They gleamed on the petals of a budding rose, turning beads of water into shining gems. âAnd stop âmy lordingâ me. We both know you only do that when youâre annoyed.â
âI am not, my lo-.â Yuki broke off, looking like he wanted to slap his hand over his mouth.
âCaught!â He sent a smile of triumph to his young friend and was rewarded by Yukiâs obvious sulk. âGo back to the castle, Yuki. Iâll be inside soon enough. Thereâs an angel waiting for me.â
The sulk turned into a blush, then an awkward bow as Yukimura escaped.
Shingen laughed at himself. He likely shouldnât have teased Yuki, but sometimes it was too easy. It always had been. At least where Yukimura was concerned, there never were any âbeforesâ or âafters.â Yukimura lived in the now.
He cupped his hands together, collecting rain from the sky, filling his palms with clear cool water. Raindrops bounced on the surface of this miniscule pond, rippling outward. When heâd visited the future, during those long weeks of rehabilitation and recovery, heâd run across a poem that stayed with him to this day. To see the world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour.* He could see infinity in the water, rippling to the edge of the circle, then bouncing back to center.
âShingen?â The sleepy voice of his angel. She stood in the doorway of his quarters, her yukata loosely tied. âItâs raining.â
âSo it is.â
âCome back to bedâŠ?â She reached out to him, and he took her hand, squeezed it gently. Holding her⊠holding eternity in the palm of his hand.
âOf course, goddess.â There would be more spring rain in his future. This was only the first one in his restored life. The thought was neither bitter, nor sweet. It was neither. It was both.
Maybe that was what Kennyo had been trying to say all those years ago. Whatever moment he was in, if he stood still and simply breathed, he could see all the befores and all the afters, all the lasts and all the firsts, all the bitter and all the sweet. He could hold it all in one breath.
This is my contribution to the First Time for Everything zine organized by @lorei-writes and @dicenete at @ikemen-watch .
Like for many others, participating in a project of this scale was a first for me as well. All the contributors worked so hard, Lorei and Dice were so dedicated and put in so much effort to make this happen. It was pretty inspiring to see everyone work together for this . I learnt a lot, made mistakes but had fun throughout the process. I wish I could have done more but there's always a next time. I'd love to be part of something like this again <3.
If you haven't seen the zine yet, you can download it for free here. Both desktop and Mobile-friendly versions are available. Do take a look!
Thank you again for organizing this, @lorei-writes and @dicenete.
