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My account on Discord, VampiricButterfly, has been hacked. If you have this account on your friend list, do not engage with it. Report it and remove it. Above all, do not download anything from this account. You will lose access to your account, and get a message extorting you for money. It has already affected other friends on my list I wasn't able to warn quickly enough.

#discord #warning #security breach

Voices

“I want… to live…”

“I can’t… die…”

“I don’t want… to die… There’s so much more… I have left to… do…”

There were so many voices, unhindered by the barriers of language, whispering in his mind. He didn’t know what to do. Many times, Le Comte had envied humans for their shorter lives, for that ability to fade into nothing, to cease the never ending walk of life that he had already traveled. But… now he wasn’t certain. These humans were terrified. They didn’t want to go. They didn’t see death as a welcome release. Of course, that didn’t mean no humans did. But those voices wouldn’t reach him now; they wouldn’t be looking for salvation. No, if there were people who died in contentment, or complete despair, they would not be crying out. Either they were willing to go, or they had decided there was nothing left to fight for.

The voices came from those in the middle, those who rejected the idea of death, those who felt there was something more that needed to be done. They filled Le Comte’s mind until it was the only thing he could hear, or feel. Pressing in, from all sides, even though they didn’t physically exist. He sank to his knees, putting his hands up on the side of his head. Was this… some sort of punishment? For taking his life for granted? Were these voices seeking him to attack him? He had suffered a great deal of physical pain at times, but he always survived. It was nearly impossible not to. Mental anguish, however, was not something that a Pureblood was immune to. So, it was a perfect attack.

But, despite the pressure building inside his mind, Le Comte quickly abandoned that notion. None of the voices gave any indication that they were aware of him. There were many cries to gods of varying flavors, or last words murmured to loved ones, words he felt he had no right to hear, but could only respect in silence. He wanted to leave now, a mad impulse to abandon his ideals, to destroy the door. He had no place here, intruding on these lives. What had he done?

And yet, he couldn’t move, pinned to the spot with all these plaintive cries, intruding on his thoughts. His mansion, it was big, but empty. This corridor, it was small, but way too full. Perhaps, even if he couldn’t save everyone, he could perhaps even things out a little. He would have to make himself move though, for that to happen. It was harder than he could have imagined; his body simply refused to obey his commands. Could he… actually die here? In this place that belonged everywhere, yet nowhere at all. Though the thought was terrifying, it was also oddly exciting. Could he, give up, right now?

“Take my hand.”

It was a new voice, and somehow it seemed louder than the others. No, not louder. Closer. Le Comte’s eyes flew open. The corridor didn’t seem to have changed at first glance. It still stretched on forever. Yet, at the end, he saw a light. Focusing on it for a few moments, he realized it wasn’t merely a light, but a shape. Humanoid. A lifeline, perhaps? Or was it some new torment to discover? He couldn’t even be sure if it was connected to that last command, or request: take my hand. Looking around, he didn’t see any other plausible source, and so he moved towards the light.

The closer he drew, the more the shape took a distinguishable form. Though, by the time he reached it, he realized some of the details were off. From what he could tell, it was the shape of a young woman, mid-to-late teens. He couldn’t even tell if she was pretty or not, since as soon as he seemed to form a picture in his mind of what he was seeing, her features would shift and slide into something slightly different, as though she rejected classification entirely. Even her clothes seemed to shift and change, defying any means of identify where, or when, she might have been from. He was left with the vague impression she was always wearing a dress of sorts, however. And, as strange as this encounter was, it didn’t fill him with any sense of dread or revulsion, but just a confused curiosity. Her hands, however, in contrast, were fixed in shape as well as posture; one was resting by her side, while the other was extended towards him.

He took it.

The voices faded away.

“That’s better, isn’t it? I can tell by your face.”

Again, he heard the voice in his mind more than through his ears, but without the cacophony of thousands upon thousands filtering into his mind, it was bearable. Even, pleasant, in a way. He nodded his head.

“Yes, thank you. How did you do it?”

“Me? I did nothing but give you a single voice to focus on,” she said quietly in his mind, her voice calm and even, though he couldn’t have guessed whether she had a soft voice, or a loud one. A high voice, or a husky one. A sweet voice, or a rough one.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m just another one of the dead. One of the lost. You… you built the door connecting to this place?” Le Comte nodded his head, unsure of whether it was a good thing to have done or not, but not willing to lie about it. “Then, I must warn you. Not everything is as it seems.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard the voices. So many voices. But, that’s not even a fraction of the people who have died. Barely a drop. Most people move on. Their voices silenced as they are forgotten. Some of us… are not so lucky. Beware. Not all people who achieve greatness are good. And even the ones who are both good and great, they did not reach their greatness without a price. Sometimes, the price is steep.” The figure raised her free hand to her neck. Peering closer, Le Comte saw a circular scar wrapping around the entire thing, as far as he could see. He shuddered.

“Are you…?

The question was cut short as the young woman put her finger against his lips. He didn’t feel it the way he would the finger of a living being, but, it silenced him nonetheless. In fact, it was the cold sensation without pressure that made him not wish to speak further. Finally the finger was withdrawn, and the cold went with it.

“Speak not my name; I didn’t come here to look for the aid that you wish to offer. I am… not ready for the world yet. Not even after two and a half centuries. But, there are others waiting. Please keep in mind what I’ve said. Sometimes the help offered, is not the help we need.”

The figure grew dimmer by the second, until she disappeared into the darkness. Once again the voices started to nudge their way into Le Comte’s mind, but this time he was feeling more tranquil. Slowly he let them wash over him, as though they were waves on a beach. Straightening up, he left the corridor, back into the solid sanity of his mansion. Perhaps this would take more planning than he realized, and he would be alone for a little while longer, but, once that was done, he would be well and truly ready to… begin.

#cybirdcreativechallenge #ikemen vampire fanfic #comte de saint germain #nonedited

boxbusiness

Wrestling Event when? I would like some Devildom Wrestling Entertainment (DWE) please???

Mammon is John Cena btw.

otomememento

But... we can still see him though. :D

yoko-goto

Reblog if you think a woman can be complete without children

cj-can-art

Y’ALL HAVE TIME TO REBLOG THIS. IT TAKES LESS THAN FIVE SECONDS.

otomememento

Agreed.

But no censure against people who do feel completed with children.

Everyone's has to find what works for them.

thalfox

Firstly: I love the effort you put into writing these theories and the easy to follow layout, including screenshots! They're such a joy. I have so many questions, it's hard to pick just one. But, I'll start with something relatively small. The House of Lamentation is called a dorm in the beginning by Mammon. Is it just a dorm, or is it actually their home regardless of RAD association? Translation error, or some deeper meaning, that they wouldn't have a home if not for their role in RAD?

Thank you! I'm really glad you enjoy 💕

And this is such a good question, I've never been asked this one 🤩

I think this is one of the areas in which OM has a bit of a disconnect between its opening scenes and the story as it continues.

Early on, everything is very much set out academically - dorms, papers, classes, uniforms, and so on. It's my guess that this is partly to get the player on board with how the game works - the story is told in 'Lessons', we gain rewards from a 'To Do' list, we get strength from a book (grimoire), aka Nightmare.

This is all a lot more relatable than plunging headfirst into hell! Most of us have been a pupil/student at some point, and for those that haven't, it's generally still familiar because of our pop culture portraying such experiences so often.

So we are shown the House of Lamentation as a dorm, and told Purgatory Hall is the same.

However, as season one progresses, it becomes apparent that HoL isn't just some dorm. It has a unique history, one that Lucifer knows well. It is from the human world, meaning it was brought purposefully to the Devildom (perhaps by Lucifer).

And within it there is a secret room, laid out as an exact match for Lilith's old bedroom in the Celestial Realm.

While below the house is the underground tomb, featuring a monument to Lilith, and the demons grimoire, protected by Cerberus.

This isn't just a dorm, clearly, it is the demon lords' home.

Indeed, HoL is never again referred to as a dorm, but it is frequently referred to as their home.

I reckon the first handful of chapters are designed to not overwhelm the player with new info, but to introduce things in a relatable manner that is relatively easy to pick up.

It's something that Obey Me really succeeds at, which I hadn't given much thought until I started Tears of Themis a while back. In comparison that game has a huge learning curve, multiple new mechanics, and it all relates to a system (law) that isn't universally known in the same way school is.

That's not to criticise ToT as this is very much the norm for most games, but it does really highlight just how easy it is to get into Obey Me, with everything introduced in ways that are simple to make sense of.

otomememento

YAAAAY!

#obey me

monfufu

forsakenoathkeeper

if u dont acknowledge the fanfics u read, the writer won’t think anyone is actually taking the time to read their stuff, which makes our effort feel wasted and our passions feel worthless

wintermoonqueen

Tell. The. Fanfic. Writers. How. You. Feel.

starscheme

I will always reblog this. It’s important.

monster-bait

Don’t be a fandom vampire! Support the creators whose content you consume. Treat other people’s work the way you hope your own will be treated.

slowdissolve

Do it.

miss-v

It’s how I know that people are still liking it and interested in the story, when people comment, I produce faster, because I’m more motivated, it’s that simple.

theresebelivetirl

omg i LOVE getting comments and learning how people feel abt my content !!!!!

otomememento

While I will say, I prefer a longer comment then just "Ahhhhhh!" the message of this PSA style comic is spot on. Effort and thought is put into fanfics, and a little reciprocity is always appreciated.

#about fanfiction

The Smell of Autumn

Esme hummed softly to herself. It was a jaunty little tune that children had been chanting for quite some time. The smell of autumn in the air was enough to remind her of her childhood days of dressing up and going door to door. Granted, the scent wasn’t quite the same, since she was in another country, and another time, but it was familiar enough to tickle her nose and raise her spirits. While it was true the last several Halloweens had been less than happy for Esme, the earlier memories were stronger and they were the ones that sprang to her mind now. There was something charming about the mansion in the fall, with the fog hanging heavy around it to give it an air of mystery befitting its very unique residents.

“What’s that you’re humming, luv?” The sound of Arthur’s voice made Esme turn rather rapidly, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment. Even though he used the term frequently, Esme often had to remind herself that the term was common enough that it wasn’t to be taken personally. Not that she ever figured she’d be seen that way by any of the residents. Or anyone at all, for that matter. Still, it was hard not to blush when she heard his voice, with that accent, and a handsome face to match.

“Oh, um, nothing much. Just a silly song that we used to sing as kids,” Esme said. She often used the term ‘we’ when talking about her childhood. It spoke of the close connection she had had with her siblings growing up.

“Do tell,” Arthur suggested, leaning against a wall. Esme blushed harder.

“It’s, well, it’s very silly. Like, the kind of thing only kids would come up with,” she protested, not really wanting to sing that song in front of anyone here.

“I can’t promise I won’t laugh,” Arthur said with a cheeky grin. “But I won’t be laughing at you.”

Esme just stared at Arthur. Well, at least he wasn’t even going to try to convince her he wouldn’t laugh, which was fair enough. If he had, Esme would have been way more suspicious. But even though Arthur often unnerved her, she couldn’t honestly say that she mistrusted him. She didn’t sense any sort of malice from him, but she really couldn’t tell what he was thinking otherwise. But, given that he wrote one of the most infamous detectives out there, she could only imagine how terribly clever he was. So she simply never attempted to match wits with him. Ever. But she also had trouble flat out saying ‘no’ to most of the residents, and she couldn’t tell if it was the fact that they were historical greats that compelled this obedience, or the fact that they were vampires. Quite likely, if she thought about it, it was both. Sighing, she took a few breaths.

“Trick or treat

Smell my feet

Give me something good to eat

Not too big

Not to small

Just the size of Montreal.”

As promised, it was completely ridiculous, and Arthur was glad he didn’t make his own promise not to laugh. How could he hold back after that little performance? His eyes crinkled up as he gave a genuine laugh, not one for show, but because he was truly delighted and entertained. It wasn’t the words themselves that Arthur found charming, but simply how easily Esme repeated something that was evidently from her youth. A fond youth, by his estimation. Esme blushed again, her cheeks getting quite the steady infusion of blood since this meeting began.

“I told you it was silly.”

“I won’t argue that. But you obviously were humming it for a reason, and you looked happy, not melancholy. So I can only conclude that this song means something to you, if only to tie back to some fond memory,” Arthur said. Listening to his words, Esme nodded slowly. It was pretty much spot on.

“A lot of us would sing it around Halloween. I’m sure our Halloweens are probably a lot different than ones now. Or ones that anyone else here enjoyed. Well, except maybe Sebastian, but I don’t know much about how they celebrate in Japan…” Esme trailed off. Suddenly it occurred to her that she would most likely be alone in her enthusiasm for the season. While it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, it was something she had to process.

“You’re probably right. I might be terribly clever, but I can’t see the future. History does tell us, though, that things change, and sometimes quite rapidly. So, it only makes sense that you wouldn’t have the same experience as anyone here.” Seeing Esme’s face fall, Arthur continued. “However, apart from the two brothers who were raised together, it’s unlikely that any of us have shared the same holidays and traditions as anyone else.” This seemed to slow the decent of Esme’s mood.

“Arthur, you’re right. I’ve often focused too much on how I’m different from all of you, I haven’t stopped much to think on how different you all must be from each other.”

Arthur reached out a gloved hand to ruffle Esme’s hair. To his surprise, she allowed the contact. Esme had always been so skittish around him, and while he knew that he deserved it, he was pretty sure that it would be a permanent fixture in their interactions. As for Esme, there wasn’t much about touching her hair that bothered her; it seemed an innocent enough gesture to her, unlike a lot of Arthur’s flirting and teasing, so overly laden with innuendo that it was hard to miss. But, her limited understanding of his life showed that he was quite a bit older; old enough to have been a grandfather to someone her age. It was hard to reconcile those two sides to him, but she suspected many a person would be happy to have their youth restored, even at such a cost.

“You’re a duck, Esme,” Arthur said. “Just be careful; most of us here are a selfish lot, and you’re a lot more considerate than most of us deserve.” Strange, how being called a bird felt uncomfortable, yet being a specific bird, a duck, was complimentary. Esme took a few moments, just trying to unpack that.

“I don’t know about that,” Esme said thoughtfully. “After all, Le Comte seems very generous, and he’s the one who brought you all back. I don’t think he would have exercised such great powers without thinking things over carefully. Which means he wanted each of you here,” she points out. “I’m the one that came by accident.” She didn’t know about Napoleon’s situation; it simply had never come up.

“Well, if it was an accident, and I still have my doubts about that, then I’d say it was one of the best accidents I’ve seen in my life.” Arthur paused. “And, all told, it has by no means been a short one.”

“That’s very sweet of you to say, Arthur,” Esme said, looking equally pleased and embarrassed. “But I really should get back to work,” she was a little too quick to say. She just couldn’t handle that kind of praise gracefully, and needed to get away to sort it all out. Arthur watched her scamper away in amusement. She was very transparent, which might have been dull if not for the fact that he couldn’t quite fathom how someone could reach her age and still be so delightful. Anything from his time, moving backwards, he could anticipate, but as he had said so firmly to Esme, he could not predict the future. And without knowing the time and place she was from, she was beyond even his keen ability to completely sort out.

#ikemen vampire #ikemen vampire fanfiction #halloween

The Lie

At first glance, a casual observer would take the woman for another prostitute, leaning against a flickering street lamp for a moment of rest. But Arthur was not a casual observer, and he never glanced only once. Generally he didn’t pay much mind to these women; why pay for what they were willing to give for free? At least, that’s what he said on the surface. But deep down he was still the doctor; these women were less safe. And, as much as he enjoyed the company of women in a more intimate fashion, a lot of ill came from the exploitation of such women. After all, he was a cad, not a straight up villain; there were lines he wouldn’t cross. Besides, some of these women were incredibly ruthless, a few by nature but mostly by necessity. While his vampiric nature protected him somewhat, he still had a secret to keep. He wasn’t looking for a confrontation with these women, just a friendly romp based on a mutually beneficial understanding.

This woman, however, seemed all wrong. Her body was withdrawn, rather than being flaunted. She wasn’t holding herself to attract the attention of a man; in fact she looked like she was exhausted or in pain. Perhaps both. The clothing she wore, although torn, was obviously designed originally for modesty; the cut and fabric showed that the garments were likely expensive. From beneath the jagged hem, he could tell that she was wearing a full compliment of proper undergarments, something that most street women didn’t bother with. More layers were not practical for their line of work. Under the lamplight, he could see streaks of moisture, the tracks that tears had left that hadn’t quite dried up. But really, it was the eyes themselves that were most telling. Arthur had seen eyes like them before. Eyes in distress. Innocent eyes. It wasn’t hard to deduce that this woman needed help.

Ah, but Arthur was no hero, no gentleman. It was the lie he persistently told himself. The lie was a painful one, but not nearly as painful as the truth. He passed himself off as a cad, a rake, a man whose only interest was in the fleeting, carnal pleasures of life. Because that was better than being someone who believed in doing good, and had simply failed. At least, with this lie, he was succeeding in something, even if that something was far from exemplary. No one would expect Arthur to save them. No one would be disappointed when he was little more than a debauched gambler. And every time he sank his fangs between a woman’s thighs, every time he buried himself inside one, he was burying his hope. Hope hurt too much.

He could feel the darkness creep up behind his eyes, the fear of failure causing his heart to hammer. It was too tempting to turn and walk away, pretend that the woman didn’t exist, pretend that he wasn’t hoping she would be alright. But a shift in her expression made him stop before he even turned around. Her fear before had been somewhat passive, a general anxiety in the tilt of her eyebrows, the press of her lips, the corner of her eyes. Something had caused her eyes to open in a more active fear; her body was trembling now. In the distance the sound of footsteps could be heard, heavy with intent. With each step, she shuddered, eyes growing wider. Arthur knew then that he couldn’t turn away. Whatever she was afraid of seemed real, not a malignant force lurking in her mind, in her memories.

“Hello there, luv,” Arthur said smoothly, stepping over towards the young woman. “Lovely night for it, isn’t it?”

The sound of footsteps stopped, leaving a stillness behind in the night. The woman looked up at Arthur, her expression relieved, yet wary. It reminded him of a deer, deliberating whether it was more dangerous to stay still and hope that no one saw it, or flee and hope that nothing would catch it. When the sound of footsteps started to recede, the sound becoming rapid and then fading into the distance, she seemed to relax somewhat. But now her eyes were fixed on Arthur. And he gave her a smile that meant no good.

“Not so much,” she responded, somewhat curtly, her body language shutting him out. She didn’t trust him. But she didn’t have to, and Arthur preferred it that way.

“So, you haven’t been out here waiting for a little bit of…company?” he inquired, as though he couldn’t believe she was out there for any other reason.

“No, certainly not.” She stared at him, her eyes narrowing a little, as though she was trying to divine his intentions. Arthur was very keen to observe others, but he wasn’t fond of being too closely observed himself. He didn’t want anyone seeing into his heart.

“Then I would advise you run off to somewhere a little safer. After all, the next man might not believe you,” he cautioned. “I’m not entirely sure I do myself.” He reached for her, the motion deliberately slow. But it was enough: the woman bolted. Hopefully off to somewhere safer. Hopefully to someplace where she trusted someone. Arthur looked up at the stuttering lamp, which gave a final mighty flicker and died away, leaving him in the dark. It was just as well; it was where he belonged after all. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he sauntered off, not feeling much for another round of misdeeds that evening.

#ikemen vampire #ikemen vampire fanfiction

Ravages of Time

France was quite a modern country, having been through its share of wars and tragedies, to come out on the other side with its identity mostly in tact. It seemed like a place where most of the mysteries were left in the past, but sometimes a person could stumble across something quite forgotten.

A group of young people, fresh out of high school and looking to take on the world, had traveled to France together just for the experience. At first they stuck to the main tourist areas, but eventually they roamed off the beaten path, looking for something a little more daring.

It was during one of these forays that Julie got separated from the group. Lost in a bit of untouched forest, she wandered around until she found a large estate, tucked back away where the average tourist, or even the average citizen, would be unlikely to chance across it. Curious, and perhaps hoping to get a hold of a land-line phone, she slipped through the slightly unhinged gates and knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again. Although the place didn’t look very welcoming from the outside, she told herself numerous reasons why it might possibly be better on the inside. Maybe the owner had come down on hard times. Maybe they were getting on in years and didn’t have the energy to keep up the grounds. Maybe they had been unwell.

The thought even crossed her mind that it was abandoned completely, and she should turn her attention elsewhere. But it was starting to rain, and the manor was high enough up that perhaps looking through the topmost window would at least give her an idea of where to go. Taking the chance, and not wanting to catch cold, she knocked a final time before entering the place.

It was dusty and shadowy, seeming darker than it should even given its state of disrepair, almost as if the sun feared to shed its light inside. Pulling her shirt up over her mouth, Julie looked for the first flight of stairs to bring her upwards; perhaps then there would be more light as well. The grand staircase wasn’t hard to find, and the floors creaked slightly as she made her way towards them. But before she managed to lift her foot off the bottom step, a voice from behind stopped her.

“You should have never come back, Cherie,” said a man, his tone polite, but with a hint of threat beneath it. Turning around, Julie could only stop and stare.

Dressed in tawny golden colors, with hair and eyes to match, was a man. He didn’t look old or ill, as she might have surmised, and was actually quite handsome. At least, the features of his face would have been, if the entire presentation wasn’t all wrong. His hair fell in long, uneven locks, clearly in want of a cut. His clothing, which might have been good quality at one point, had become worn and threadbare. But what was most alarming were his eyes: they looked dead.

“Come back? But I’ve never been here before. I just found this place by chance,” Julie protested. The man must surely be mad.

“Hm.” The man took a few steps closer, and while Julie’s mind screamed for her to back off, she found herself rooted to the spot. She trembled as he took her chin in one of his hands and looked at her eyes. “You may be right. There is something…missing,” he agreed. But, this didn’t ease Julie’s worries at all. The way his lips curled slightly gave the impression that he entirely loathed her…and she had no idea why.

“I…I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll just be going now,” she said, her voice sounding uncertain. She hoped he would simply let her go, and boy would she be giving her fellows a piece of her mind when she caught up to them. At the very least, she wouldn’t be so quick to run off the beaten path again.

“Oh, no. I can’t let that happen. For you see, even if you are speaking the truth about never having been here before, you will be here again, and it will not end well.” There was a sadness in the man’s voice as he shook his head. It was a worn out kind of sadness, not the raw passion of a newly felt grief. But, sad or not, his words made little sense.

“I promise to never come back. I’ll even stay out of France. I just want to go home,” said Julie, her own eyes starting to sting.

“Ah, but don’t we all wish that, at some point. To be able to return home.” The man moved his hands so that they were both grabbing Julie’s upper arms, the grip tight enough to send a ripple of pain and panic through her mind. “This was my home once, but now it’s merely a shell.” Julie wasn’t sure if he was talking about his house, or his self.

“But who are you?”

“Once upon a time I was known as Saint Germain, but now….now I’m just a shadow. And shadows don’t need names.”

Julie was certain by now that the man was completely mad. But his eyes looked into hers so directly that for a moment, she wondered if perhaps she was the one who had gone mad. She wanted out, she wanted to get back to the cafes and the bright lights. She wanted to find the most trappy of the tourist traps and indulge in all the pandering. Or, as she said, go directly to the airport and be on the quickest flight home. Vainly, she attempted to pull away, but the man had a grip like iron.

“Welcome to the shadows, Julie,” the man said.

“How did you know my na…?”

And in the next instant, Julie’s fears took physical form as he pulled her close and bit deeply into her neck. The pain was intense at first, but soon it was warring with an intense pleasure that threatened to overwhelm her completely. And though her mind screamed that this was dangerous, she could feel herself sinking. Her end didn’t matter now: surrender was sweeter than victory. But her last conscious thought, before the end, was that a Shadow was exactly what the man was. For a shadow cannot exist without light, and the warmth she felt now was only made sweeter by the darkness around her that was swallowing her whole.

#ikemen vampire #Ikemen vampire fanfic

An Honest Mistake

The idea of such a large bathing room was intriguing to Orella, but something she was a bit cautious about at the same time. The place she had been raised didn’t have such luxuries, and though she did have a bath, it was nothing like the Thermae in her Uncle’s home. It seemed awfully risqué to bathe in a place where any of the men of the household could walk in on her. But, she had been assured that the schedule kept before had been a success, and was encouraged by Le Comte to try the large bath at least once, in order to properly make up her mind about the experience. Although she had caught several allusions to the other female guest, she had never been given any great details about the matter. Even Arthur, who seemed to talk quite freely about any number of subjects, was rather tight-lipped about the entire affair. The most information she could get was that the woman had left after a falling out with some of the residents, and that was that. She had departed peacefully and returned home in good health.

The first time Orella used the bath, she triple checked the schedule. While her later teachers had taught her to be a little more open minded, her earliest caregivers had been nuns at one point, and so modesty was highly stressed, as well as the virtues of such. Yet sometimes it seemed a lonely thing, since she was the only woman there, and she knew that sometimes the men would go into the Thermae in twos or threes, just to have company. She didn’t think any further on this, taking what she was told for its surface value. Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like to visit when the other woman was there. Would they have gotten along? Could they have sat in the bath and chatted while relaxing? Orella felt she was unlikely to ever know. But even if she went in alone, she was at least going to follow her Uncle’s advice and try it.

It was a successful venture, as far as Orella was concerned. Her misgivings were easily washed away by the warmth of the water, and the clouds of steam that wafted upwards. Bathing before had been a quick process, purely with cleanliness as the goal, rather than this relaxing experience. Even though she had been raised with some level of advantage, she had rarely been full on pampered. There was always so much to learn, and do, that simply sitting on her own to idle away the time was unheard of. Despite the view many nobles had of indulgences, Orella was carefully given enough to occupy her time that she was never left feeling that anyone owed her anything apart from a respectful demeanor and common courtesy. But, since she was also cloistered away from the general population, she didn’t have anything else to compare her life to, save what she read in books. And none of those books had included luxury bathing.

After a few weeks, such baths were becoming more common place, and she wouldn’t go back to the way things were. There had been no mishaps and so she relaxed her guard a bit. But one evening, after checking the schedule, she slipped into the Thermae to find it occupied.

For a moment she could do little but stand and stare. While she wasn’t entirely uneducated in the differences between men and women, she hadn’t had the experience of seeing one in his natural state before. Though the steam hid quite a bit, there was no mistaking the form of one Leonardo da Vinci, relaxing with his back against the edge of the bath, his body submerged beneath the water from the waist down. Orella hadn’t had much to do with him since arriving; he seemed reluctant to talk to her, and even kept his distance from many of the other residents. And, like them, she could often see a sadness in his eyes. Eyes that were closed now, leaving him oblivious to her presence there. It was this detail that helped Orella regain her wits. Rapidly she turned around and fled the Thermae, not comfortable with the vague feeling that she was, somehow, taking advantage of him.

Breathless, by the time she reached her room, she was at least able to sit and process what had just happened. Closing her own eyes, she could see him there, the definition of his muscles, the steam dampened hair, the few droplets falling from his bangs, the curve of his neck as he tilted his head back. Even alone and relaxed, there was a self-depreciating twist to his lips that was almost painful to see. Orella was certain she had never witnessed an image so striking. Her fingers twitched slightly, as she wondered how it would feel to run them over the surface of his arms and chest, or brush those unruly bangs from his face, or to make his face lose that sad expression. Her heart was beating fast as she tried to quell such thoughts; he had shown no indication that he wanted her anywhere near him, and it bothered her that she would even consider such actions contrary to his wishes. But her mind would not behave itself, and kept wandering back to that image.

Even though she had left the Thermae behind, her body felt warm. Too warm. A drink was exactly what she needed, just to cool herself off. She was quiet as she slipped back out of her room to find some Blanc, which she downed rapidly along with a glass of water. And though it soothed her somewhat, there was an empty feeling left behind that she had never experienced while drinking Blanc. Shaking the sensation away, she decided that maybe a long walk in the cool air would be even better. And while her temperature slowly slid back down to a manageable level, all it took was a brief flash of the memory for the heat to rise in her cheeks again.

Over the next week, Le Comte noticed a difference in his niece. Without being told, he could only put the pieces together to guess what had happened. But as much as Leonardo had been avoiding Orella, she seemed to be avoiding him now as well, though it wasn’t just Leonardo that Saint-Germain sensed a difference with. Orella was having trouble meeting the eye of any of the residents. For now, he would let it lie, but if this kept up, he would have to make inquiries. Still, he couldn’t miss that her cheeks would often flush, far more than they used to.

#ikemen vampire fanfic #ikemen vampire

Forbidden Fruit

Panic.

It was the first emotion to filter through Shakespeare’s mind when he realized his papers were missing from his person. Of course, an outside observer would notice nothing, not a hiccup in his practiced façade. To fall out of character in the past meant to go hungry, or even worse, fall into obscurity. Now, the stakes were even higher, but so was his command over himself now that the weaknesses of mortality had been shrugged off. Still, as much as his outward self remained unflappable, his mind was already retracing his steps back to where he had last seen his precious notes.

Tracing them back, he found Esme sitting on the balcony where he left her. Even dressed in the finery of a masquerade, she was easy to spot, not for any particular gift or talent, but her apparent lack of more than the most basic of graces. No fine feathers could hide who she was. At least she had been easy to please so far, even without putting on a show. Merely speaking to her seemed enough to make her smile, though she often was quite tongue-tied around him, once she knew who he was. This left his mind and energy free for more pressing, more difficult, matters.

But now the two had collided. In this simple woman’s possession was his valued papers. Clutched in her hands was his notebook, dainty fingers curled around the edges. His first impulse was to rush over and reclaim what was his, but he couldn’t abide such a crude discarding of his mask. Breaking character was unforgivable, so he was already planning the best way to enter, and exit, the stage before him. The biggest question was, had she espied the pages inside, or had her eyes only glanced across the cover?

Shakespeare watched Esme from the shadows, waiting to see what information she would betray with every look she gave, every breath she drew. There was nothing serene or placid in her actions. She didn’t merely hold the book for safekeeping until it was returned to its owner. The miniature drama that unfolded was one of the things that could sum up human weakness: temptation. Her eyes were troubled as they looked over the cover of the book. Sometimes she seemed right on the verge of opening it up, and reading it, but each time, something stayed her hand. Sucking on her bottom lip, she passed a hand over the smooth surface, as though trying to divine the insides by touch alone.

The Bard considered this. Was her curiosity such a weak and pallid thing that she would not open the book? Or was it the strength of her respect for another’s privacy that kept her fingers from flipping through the notes? It was too easy to believe the first option; Esme had never struck him as impressive in any form. But the second was far more intriguing from his perspective. Was there perhaps more to her than he had first assessed? And if so, would she then be an actual threat to his well laid plans? The latter seemed unlikely, though the former was possible. Still, he would have to be careful. There was too much to lose. Beginning with his notes.

Having seen enough to satisfy him, Shakespeare’s only requirement now was to act. Smoothly he entered the balcony, looking for all the world as if he had just arrived, feigning surprise to see her still there. With his silvered tongue, he explained that he had lost something, and Esme returned his property to him with a smile. And behind that smile, he saw relief. He had removed the temptation from her, had slipped away the fruit of knowledge away from a lonesome Eve, leaving her unpunished in innocent ignorance. Whatever might happen to her in the future, for her association with Le Comte and his residents, her fall would not be tonight.

William Shakespeare, writer of plays, was uncertain whether or not he should pity her…or envy her.

#ikemen vampire #ikemen vampire fanfic

Information Interrupted

What was blood? In the most basic terms it was one of the many substances that kept a person alive. And for that reason, it became a word of many meanings, some positive and some negative, but all carrying the weight of life and death lingering in the sound. All humans depended on it. But to Esme, it was equal parts a blessing and a curse. For even as it kept it alive, it was also killing her. Medical aid had kept her going for the last several years, but here, in Paris of the late 1800’s, the medical field was far less advanced. Though she had gone to Paris to escape the never ceasing doctors appointments, it had led her down a different path. And now that she wanted to linger a little longer, the means by which she was lingering were out of reach.

One morning she woke up, her head pounding in her ears. Her body felt tired, sluggish, sore. She hadn’t felt it this bad in some time; the regular appointments with the doctors made sure of that. But she had gone off the treatment, and now it was coming back in force. Still, she didn’t want her hosts, or fellow house mates to worry, so she forced herself to get up.

If Sebastian noticed how ill she was, he said nothing, and was fairly mild when it came to correcting her mistakes. He had almost gotten her to a point where she was doing her chores to his satisfaction, though he realized she would never quite match him. But he could hardly hold it against her when she was obviously trying her best. Still, there was concern in his eyes as he watched her, though he kept it schooled when she was looking directly at him. He would have to speak to Le Comte about their guest. Perhaps she had caught something when she was in town…

The opportunity didn’t present itself right away, and time took care of the rest.

Esme often ran little errands for people in the house, fetching and carrying items or messages. In the shadow of their greatness, she felt that she could at least make sure they had what they needed to continue their various works, whether it was ink for writing, a book from the library, a preferred sweet or snack. It didn’t matter to her, really, as long as it was something she could manage. And it even made her happy to do so. Some of the residents were more grateful, on the surface, than others. She never expected much gratitude from Mozart or Theo, as it wasn’t really in their personality to do so. Vincent was probably one of her favorites to see, simply because he was just so kind and cheerful to everyone; she never had to worry about a harsh word from him. Even his blond hair was welcome, not simply because it was a bright color, but because it was so close to her own shade of hair that it gave the illusion of a connection.

On that day she had been bringing in some paintbrushes that he had requested. While Sebastian often did the shopping, Esme was often the one to disperse the goods among the residents. Her steps were slower on this occasion, more unsteady. Vincent, who was busy at work, thanked her kindly, but didn’t turn to look at her when she entered the room. However, he stopped the moment he heard the thud, turning to see that she had collapsed on the floor. Worried, he called out to her, but she didn’t respond, and when he knelt beside her, she looked so very pale. So Vincent did what was most natural to him: he called for Theo.

While he was often acerbic with Esme, Theo meant the girl no harm, nor did he wish her any ill will. When he joined his brother and saw how unwell Esme looked, his concern was real, and he chastised himself for not noticing she was so weak. He had a fine eye for art, and for people, but it had been too easy to dismiss her. He should have known better. But, then it occurred to him that no one had really done, or said, anything to indicate she wasn’t well. Not even the resident doctor, who certainly had spent enough time staring at her, but not as a medical subject. And, of course, that was the next person he contacted: if anyone knew what to make of the situation, it would be Arthur.

It took a few moments for Theo to impress upon Arthur the seriousness of the matter, but once he reached through the flippant façade, Arthur didn’t waste any further time being clever and hurried with Theo back to Vincent’s room, where the painter was still keeping a watchful, but worried, eye on the fallen girl. Vincent, who hadn’t known of Arthur’s medical position, was surprised at first, but when he saw how methodical Arthur was, he didn’t question it, but quietly stood back so he wouldn’t be in the way, and watched, ready to fetch anyone else if it was required. After a cursory examination, Arthur stood up, expression grim.

“We’re going to move her to her room. I’ll carry her. Theo, go ahead of me to open doors and make sure no one gets in the way; we can answer questions later. Vincent, go fetch Le Comte.” There was nothing of the playboy in his mannerisms now, and while Theo could be belligerent towards the arbitrary authority of the upper class, this was the authority of experience speaking, and he didn’t balk at Arthur’s commands. He simply opened the door, determined to follow the orders. Arthur was firm, but gentle, as he scooped up Esme, carrying her with a good balance of speed and caution. Vincent’s room only had a narrow couch, and it simply wasn’t the best place to keep her.

Theo dealt tersely with anyone they met in the halls, and seeing no trace of Arthur’s usual levity, it was easy for them to believe that the situation was serious. Hushed voices trailed behind them as the residents dispersed, not wanting to get in the way. While they all had their issues, and not all of them were fond of Esme, none of them had a sense that they were so much more important than her when her health was at stake. Le Comte joined them when they were almost at Esme’s room, Sebastian hovering in concern behind him. As the other human in the mansion, this was particularly worrisome to the generally stoic butler.

Arthur lay Esme down carefully in her bed, working to loosen any tight clothing, already checking her vitals again in various places. Near the door, Theo and Vincent explained everything so far, from the moment Vincent heard Esme fall. Le Comte, although eager to hear from Arthur, let the man finish his work, knowing that rushing him would not do anyone any good. He could be patient; living for so long had given him that gift at least.

Part way through the examination, Esme stirred and slowly opened her eyes, her unfocused gaze gradually gaining clarity and settling on Arthur’s face. Although she looked very startled to see him there, of all people, she didn’t exactly look alarmed. In fact, she mostly looked tired and a little foggy-headed.

“What happened?”

“You passed out. I carried you here from Vincent’s room.”

“Oh.” There was a long pause. “Thank you.” Esme tried to pull herself to a sitting position, but Arthur put out a hand to stop her. She didn’t resist this, and slumped back against her pillows. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t make a mess or anything, did I? I remember…I was delivering paintbrushes.”

“Don’t worry about the brushes. Even if they were damaged, I don’t think Vincent is the type to make a fuss,” Arthur reassured her.

“I suppose that’s right,” Esme agreed, though she didn’t sound too certain. Not that she didn’t believe the words, but her mind was just not working the way she wanted it too. Something was nagging at her, but she couldn’t put a finger on it.

“I will have to ask you some questions about your health. But Le Comte is worried, and he’s waiting for me to talk to him. Do you want everyone to leave while I ask these questions? He might be the master of the household, but your privacy is important.” It seemed almost funny to hear Arthur talk so seriously about privacy when he had shown such little regard for personal space when they first met. Finally Esme’s thoughts clicked into focus.

“Oh! Are you a doctor?” she asked him. She knew he was a writer, of mystery novels no less, but she also knew that a lot of authors had other jobs as well. Most people didn’t have the fortune to just be a writer all along.

“Yes.” It was a single word, blandly spoken, betraying nothing. It wasn’t much like Arthur’s usual, glib responses. Esme blinked a few times as she tried to absorb this other side to Arthur. She wanted to ask him about it, but her head was starting to really pound again. Wincing she closed her eyes. “Where does it hurt? What kind of pain is it?” The questions, while concerned, were also very direct.

“My head, mostly. Makes it hard to think.” Esme didn’t shake her head, knowing that it would just rattle her more, but she looked around, her eyes moving slowly as though even such a thing was hard to do. “Ask your questions.” It wasn’t a command, as the words might suggest, but Esme didn’t have the energy to waste the words required to be as round about as usual. Arthur waved everyone else away.

“Do you know what is wrong already?” asked Arthur when the room was cleared. Esme started slightly. It seemed strange that it was the first question he asked, but then she vaguely remembered that he was so very clever. Of course he would pick out something like that, though she didn’t know how. She just couldn’t piece it together herself in the state she was in.

“Yes, it’s…my blood,” she managed to say before passing out again.

Blood. The word itself sent a thrill through Arthur, fight it though he may. Whatever she meant by it, it certainly wasn’t an invitation to the predator inside him. No, he would have to work to rouse her again to get the answers out of her, since she seemed to know what was going on. Meddling around with her health could have negative consequences that could be mitigated by information. Already he was on his feet, issuing orders to bring him a variety of things he would need. Even the master of the household listed to such orders. For now.

#ikemen vampire #ikemen vampire fanfic

Chopsticks

“And you’re positive the girl knows nothing?” Nobunaga’s posture was partially reclined where he sat, but by the sharpness of his eyes and the scowl on his face, he couldn’t be described as lounging. Instead, he was very attentive to what Mitsuhide was saying.

“Absolutely. Mixing my tone of voice and the words I was saying, I questioned her. I am completely confident that she doesn’t understand our language at all. Nor does she understand the language of the foreign traders, though my vocabulary in their language is far less extensive. However, she proved she wasn’t deaf and clearly understands emotions, for she responded to my tone of voice only, regardless of what I said. I could make the vilest suggestions, or most horrific threats, and use gentle or neutral tones, and she would barely react. I could quote poetry or the lessons for a young child in a harsh voice, and she would shrink away. I even tried a suggestive tone, and when I reached for her, she bit me.” Mitsuhide held up a bandaged hand. “I watched her expressions very closely, and never once did she give the slightest hint that my words meant anything to her.” Mitsuhide offered a dry smile to his lord. “I’ve seen hardened warriors flinch at some of the words I spoke. It was an interesting exercise. In either case, the few words she spoke back to me seemed to be as meaningless to me as our language is to her. It is unlikely she could collaborate with our enemies at all. I doubt very much she would be any use to them.” His tone gave away no suggestion as to whether she could be of use to Nobunaga either.

Nobunaga filed all that information away. He had a great discernment for the talents of others, and always used his followers in the positions they excelled at. If Mitsuhide said that the girl was genuine, then he had no doubt that she was. Which, unfortunately, brought up another line of questions. At least if she had been a spy or planted distraction, he would know what to do with her. Yet, at the same time, the unknown was far more interesting. There was a large world out there, one that he wanted to see and experience, but it could not happen until his home was stable. And it was for those two goals that he fought now, even though his enemies were many. Minus one, now that the girl had been ruled out.

“Any idea where she is from?”

“I can only tell you where she is not from. Physically she looks far more like the foreigners that came here on ships, though she’s much paler than the Portuguese; perhaps they keep their women inside all the time. However, the traders didn’t bring their women with them, and the Priests that came have no women at all.” The Catholics were strange that way. “If they had lost one of their own, we would have heard about it by now,” Mitsuhide observed. “Either officially or unofficially.” Meaning spies, of course. “I have, of course, sent out cautious feelers to see if anyone might be looking for her, but there hasn’t even been a whisper of it. She’s truly a mystery.”

“Even the foreign barbarians seem civilized compared to her,” noted Nobunaga with a smile, remembering how they had ‘met’.

He had been sleeping at the Honnō-ji temple when a scream woke him up. Rolling to the side, he saw someone fleeing the scene, abandoning an attempt to kill him where he lay. Meanwhile the girl had stood there, looking extremely panicked. At first he just took it as a warning, or the shock of his near-demise, but the girl didn’t calm down at all once he was safe. Instead, she alternated between screaming, crying, and flailing about rather uselessly. Looking past her rather extreme display of emotion, he observed that her clothing was strange and she was certainly not among any of the people of Japan. Neither questions nor demands seemed to get much of a response. Any movement towards her was met with her recoiling away. It wore on his patience, but he was aware that, had she not screamed, he might not have lived to have any patience at all. Still, it would have been preferable to owe a favor to someone that communicated with something other than screaming or hissing like a wild creature.

It occurred to him at the time that perhaps she was mad and being cared for by the monks, but after questioning them, he dismissed that idea. They had never seen her before, nor heard of such a person as he described. At least she had been sane enough to leave the burning building, and though she seemed wary of Nobunaga, she didn’t run away from him either. Instead, she remained crouched up in a rather miserable ball, chattering to herself in words he couldn’t understand, and peering around, her eyes occasionally resting on him for a brief moment before she’d look away in panic. The arrival of his men, while it improved his mood somewhat, was no help at all to the mystery. Even the quiet, inoffensive ways of his retainer’s retainer, Mitsunari, couldn’t garner a positive reaction from the girl. It had been a struggle to get her back to Azuchi, but his orders to take her alive were followed to the letter, even if she got a few good kicks in before they subdued her.

“There is one more, small detail to note,” Mitsuhide said, his words interrupting the Daimyo’s reminiscence.

“What would that be?”

“She has a surprising skill with chopsticks.”

“Chopsticks?”

“Even most of the foreigner traders seem rather awkward with them, and yet this wild girl seems to hold them as though she’d been here her whole life.”

Nobunaga just shook his head. Of all the details to note, this one seemed the most absurd. Within moments he was laughing.

“We will just have to unravel this mystery, won’t we?”

#Ikemen sengoku fanfiction #ikemen sengoku

Trapped

“What are you thinking about, Chèrie,?”

Orella wore a rather severe expression, her lips pressed into a thoughtful line, brow creased with worry. Startled, she looked up at her Uncle, a faint smile of apology coming to her lips.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” was her somewhat cryptic response. At least, it seemed cryptic at first, but Le Comte realized that it was said in all honesty. “Something has been nagging at my mind, but I can’t quite sort it out, so I’m thinking about thinking.” It sounded funny, but the look of consternation on Orella’s face kept Le Comte’s laughter at bay. The two of them were quiet for a while, Le Comte reading his paper, and Orella staring out the window.

“Do you remember the fox?” Orella asked, breaking the silence.

“Yes, of course.”

Orella had been young during that incident, but not so young to be easily mollified by the assurances of adults. When taking a walk through a wooded area with her Uncle, she had heard a mournful sound. Her caring being stronger than her caution, she pulled away from Le Comte’s hand to investigate the source. Caught in a trap was a fox, it’s paw bleeding. Feeling bad for the little thing, Orella approached, only to have it snarl at her. If she hadn’t heard a warning from her Uncle, it may well have bit her. Being so young, she tried to explain that she wanted to help it, but words were rarely effective against wild animals, especially ones that were cornered and in pain. Le Comte sent her home, while he dealt with the fox. There was little to be done, and simply releasing the beast would only make it prey to larger predators, so he mercifully ended it.

His first instinct had been to hide the animal, and pretend as though everything had turned out okay. But then he thought better of it. Bringing the limp creature back in his arms, he told Orella that the fox couldn’t be saved. Sadly she pet it’s fur and insisted that they bury the animal. It didn’t matter that they were the only ones to know about it, or that it’s pelt could be worth something. No, she could only remember seeing a living creature in pain, and in her mind she felt that burying it would soothe some of the hurt she felt on its behalf. Again, the world didn’t really work that way, but Le Comte saw the worth in her thoughts. She didn’t see the fox as disposable, or garbage. It was a mentality that could lead to a lot of tears, but he would rather see tears than never see proof again of an unhardened heart.

“But what brings up such a memory here and now?” he asked.

“The men here, your guests. They make me think of that fox.”

“Go on.” Le Comte didn’t really see the connection. But he could tell the matter weighed heavily on Orella’s mind, and that she had paid a lot of effort into thinking it over.

“Usually they seem like anyone else. Working, or joking with each other over meals, or testing their skills in the games room,” Orella began slowly. “But sometimes I see a look on their faces that reminds me of that fox. Trapped and likely to snarl or bite whenever someone tries to help them. They look…injured.” Orella shakes her head. “You brought them here to help them, didn’t you?”

“I did.” There was no sense in denying it. But it wasn’t the whole truth either. Le Comte did it to help himself as well. It wasn’t a story he wished to share with Orella, however. Yet, at the same time, if she uncovered what lay in his heart, he wouldn’t be able to lie and make it go away. As much as he dreaded that level of exposure, of telling her anything sordid in his past, he couldn’t bring himself to make her doubt her own mind, her own observations, unless he could, with complete honesty, tell her he couldn’t see what she saw. He realized, right then, that Orella was much sharper than he had anticipated, and that it was only the gentleness of her nature, and perhaps the tempering of the methods used to raise her, that kept her from being an intrusive, or harmful, force. “But a heart, human or vampire, is a very tricky thing to mend. More so the minds of the same,” Le Comte said, sadly. “Sometimes we can’t help people if they don’t want to be helped…or if they don’t realize they require it.”

Orella was not wrong. Each one of them was trapped by their past, by their own failures, or perceived failures. And sometimes he could see the weight of those traps crushing down on them. He had wanted to help them, but such astute beings could also feel the distance between them. Distance in age, distance in power. Perhaps even distance in moral strength. It was hard to say. But Orella, with her shorter life and barely nascent power, might have a stronger chance of being the balm they needed.

But he wouldn’t tell her that in so many words.

“I see.” Orella’s words were short, but they didn’t have the vacant quality of someone merely agreeing with a more dominant personality. “Can I help?”

Bless her heart. Le Comte wished that she could do exactly that. But, while the fox had been quite obvious in its rejection, most animals were far more basic in their actions than a human, or vampire, would be. He was protective of all his residents, even if the damage was done internally.

“Just observe for now. Trying to help without understanding them can make matters worse. But you’re both intelligent and kind, Orella. I have no doubt that you will find an answer to that question on your own. Unlike the fox, time is on their side, and yours.”

He only hoped that no one would have to be buried this time.

#ikevamp #ikevamp fanfiction

A True Reading

“A few coins for your fortune, Monsieur.”

Le Comte turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. She was young, pretty in a rather common way, and dressed to sell the wares she was peddling. It wasn’t such a rare sight at fairs and other gatherings to see a fortune teller. While there was no true magic in such things, someone with a good eye for observation and a cool head could sniff out a few entertaining truths to warrant the passing of, as she said, a few coins. And, being a man of both wealth and charm, Le Comte was used to being approached with all manner of offers and requests. The weather was fine, and Le Comte was in a good mood, so he accepted. What was a few moments of his time would give the woman just a little more money in her pocket. He had little to fear from her; his secrets were well guarded.

It turned out to be a mix of hubris and carelessness on his part.

The young woman guided him inside her tent and sat at a table, gesturing for him to sit opposite. While the place was decorated much as Le Comte expected, some of the furniture actually looked old and refined, rather than being cheap imitations, something that he took note of, but paid no further thought to.

Monique thought she was lucky to have such a guest in her tent. Even though a reading only took a short while, all things told, it would at least be a short time spent with a good looking gentleman who, by the appearance of his clothes and the way he carried himself, was well off. The color of his hair and eyes alone evoked a sense of wealth; his whole personage seemed golden and gleaming. Somehow he made the inside of her tent seem shabby and insignificant, when she had always been quite pleased with it’s effects before. Pushing that thought aside, she waiting for him to sit, which he did with elegant grace.

“Lay your hand on the table please.” The hand the man put on the table looked smooth and firm, truly the hand of someone who didn’t toil and sweat for a living. And while some people took pride in the roughness of their hands, as a badge earned by hard work and diligence, the feel of a smooth hand was much nicer in Monique’s line of work. So it was with some eagerness that she reached out to touch the palm, meaning to trace the lines on the hand while weaving a tale of fortune, but never so much fortune as to seem impossible, and still a fair distance from implausible.

What happened next was something neither host nor guest anticipated.

Monique’s sight clouded over. No longer was she seeing the man in the tent before her. Instead, her eyes were filled with a rapid sequence of visions. Hands played gracefully along a piano, pulling beautiful sounds from the ivory keys. Another pair of hands were busily pulling apart a clock, swarthy fingers poking at the insides, trying to make it work again. A lighter pair of hands grasped a paintbrush, lovingly swiping it over a canvas as the blankness there was transformed with dabs of color. A very slight pair of hands toiled with some equipment, the purpose of which was beyond Monique’s ability to fathom, but she knew it was scientific in nature, the very opposite of her craft. The next set of hands, slightly sallow in color, grasped tight to a window sill, tensing as they pulled up the owner of the hands, who seemed to climb into the window and land on the floor behind with a soft, satisfying thud. Large, strong hands grasped a pen…or was it a scalpel? It was hard to tell, for the vision seemed to waver, unable to stick to a single object in use. Eventually the pen won out, scratching fervently across a page as the other hand reached for a mug of something warm enough to steam. Another set of hands, smaller, but still strong, lifted a wooden frame hidden by cloth, carrying it as though it were the most precious thing in the world. The vision blurred slightly as it jumped between two pairs of hands, each of which held a sword of a different make, one backed by dark fabrics, and the other backed by white, both blades singing as the metal clanged against each other. A gloved pair of hands carefully washed and dusted a number of items, not a spot or speck missed by the owner, whose diligence was obvious. A last set of hands held a much more antiquated pen, which scratched elegantly across parchment, the lines of varying length and measure, before the pen streaked across it hard enough to tear the page in two.

Then the vision panned to an hourglass. For a moment, everything was still. Then a final pair of hands encircled the glass, and inside the reflection, Monique could see all the hands from before working from inside the glass. It seemed to shrink, or perhaps it was simply growing more distant, but soon she could see that the hands hovering around the sides of the hourglass belonged to the gentleman in front of her. His golden eyes were fixed on the glass, as the images came together under his hands as he picked up the timepiece. Behind him, his shadow seemed unbelievably long, and peering from within its almost impenetrable darkness were three sets of eyes: red, green, and opalescent.

The world went dark.

Le Comte startled as his hostess let out a gasp and fell from the chair. While he knew that such people often had a bit of a dramatic side, he hadn’t expected the drama to come so soon, before she had even started speaking of what she saw in his hand. He waited a moment, but when she said nothing, he furrowed his brows.

“Mademoiselle? Are you quite alright?” he inquired.

“I…I can’t see!” the young woman responded in a panic. Thinking it was just part of the show, and willing to play along, Le Comte knelt beside her. But what he saw shocked her.

Her eyes, which were dark blue when he met her, had gone completely white, clouded over.

It was no wonder she couldn’t see.

“What happened!” His alarm was genuine.

“So many hands…that’s all I saw,” Monique whispered, her tone almost a sob. “Hands, an hourglass, and a long shadow.”

The words sent a chill down Le Comte’s spine. Alone, the words might have been a coincidence, but with the sudden change to the young woman’s eyes, it had to be more than that. Whatever force had sent her that vision knew something…but he had no way of knowing what force, or what information she had gleamed from her unfortunate vision.

“Monsieur?” Monique’s voice trembled; she couldn’t see and the man had said nothing. Had he left her alone? Was she now abandoned without even the aid of her guest to find her way out of the darkness that had once been her tent. She was afraid to move.

“I’m still here. Come with me. I’ll…see that you’re taken care of.”

But what that meant would remain to be seen…by anyone who had the sight left to do so.

#Ikevamp

Dust

She should have been used to it by now.

That’s what Esme told herself, when she was being particularly hard on herself. She had been lonely for so long, it felt like she had never been anything else. In the past, or the future, (as time travel tends to screw up with perspective), she had been surrounded by family, but was still lonely. Many people equate loneliness with the state of being alone. Certainly the words were related, so it was an understandable mistake. However, a great many people are alone, and perfectly content, while others are rarely alone but crying on the inside. Proximity and belonging were two completely different things, and quantity didn’t guarantee

Even though she was not alone, there was something that set her apart, keeping her out of touch with the world around her. It was human nature to look to the future, to plan, to dream. But each day was a struggle for Esme as she battled her illness, and though she schooled herself not to complain too much, she felt that she was divided by a great glass, trapped on the outside, looking in. And no matter how much she figuratively yelled and banged, the glass would not break. She never told anyone these things: no matter how good their intentions, her family couldn’t be in her shoes, they could only imagine. Sometimes it was enough to empathize, but sometimes, it simply wasn’t. Esme had enough imagination to spare to know that this was one of those times.

But now, things were even more isolating. Stranded from her native time, she was now in the past, among some of the world’s most famous, or infamous, greats. Accomplished scientists, artists, warriors. And they were no longer human. As for Esme, well, she was just a normal girl, lost in time, and scrambling to stay just a few steps ahead of an illness. What did she have in common with these men? Precious little. It wasn’t as though they were particularly unkind to her. She wasn’t even really scared that they were vampires. No, she was much more intimidated by the fact that they shaped the world. They were remembered, in her time, long after they had died. And when she died, for it was inevitable that she would, Esme would just be dust.

And dust, while it is everywhere, is a very lonely thing indeed.