Of Trials- Part 3/3 (Ask)
The courtroom smelled of polished wood and old paper and ink. It was a grand place, decorated intricately with carvings in the wood. Each wall told the story of great pioneers, from the Original Sire to, the great Vlad, without forgetting the lady Carmilla,
The judges all looked different from the second – the first seat was surprisingly empty – to the last, the ninth. Some of them, he recognized, like Madame Rossignol, and he wondered why such a woman was ever voted to be part of the council for the next 18 years. There were three men and five women. He took note of two elderly-looking people, a man and a woman, with graying hair. It wasn't every day that he saw vampires turned at such an old age.
For his part, Dorian sat poised on the defendant's seat, looking up at the members. It wouldn't do to appear unruly on such a night, so he had taken great care to look presentable.
"Dorian de Beauvoir," called the first judge to stand up, the man who looked old with a gray beard. Despite his late stage of life, his burgundy eyes remained vibrant, contrasting with his dark skin. "You have been accused of the siring of an immortal child, a crime that, as you must already know, is punishable by death." There were whispers, but he held his head high. "We ask you now; how do you plead?"
"Not guilty," he answered, portraying no hesitation. There were even more whispers, and he himself was astounded by his own ability to remain calm.
"Very well," nodded the man, "I, Marius Thorn, member of the vampiric council, therefore announce the beginning of this session." He regained his seat.
On the fourth seat to his left, Madame Rossignol rose. She cleared her throat, then frowned at him. There was at least one person on his side, it seemed. He did not particularly like the woman, but the support wasn't unwelcome.
The atmosphere grew tense as the other judges exchanged glances. Dorian’s mind raced, but he kept his exterior composed. He knew that any sign of weakness could be detrimental. The charges were severe, and he needed to maintain his dignity.
Madame Rossignol's voice rang clear and authoritative. "We must remember that each accused is entitled to a fair trial. Dorian de Beauvoir stands before us, claiming innocence. We owe it to our laws and traditions to hear him out fully."
“Duke, when did you first come in contact with the young (Y/n)?” the interrogator asked, her voice slicing through the tense silence of the courtroom.
“Autumn of 1856," Dorian responded, his tone measured. "I am unsure of the specific date."
"And her parents?" she pressed, her gaze unwavering.
"Dead," he replied, his voice devoid of remorse. He believed firmly that it had to be done; they were links to her life that needed severing.
The interrogator raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing there was more to the story. "Before or after your encounter with her?" she asked, her tone sharper.
"After." His responses were succinct, unsure how his admissions would be received.
She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. "Were you responsible for it?”
He hesitated for a moment before acquiescing, "I was," he finally admitted.
Most in the courtroom remained stoic, but a few whispered amongst themselves in disapproval, viewing his actions as a significant risk to their status of secrecy. Their concern was not for the mortals, but for the potential exposure his actions could bring to their kind.
He glanced up at the spectators' seats, something he had avoided since the trial began. His gaze first fell upon Elizabetta, the vile woman seated in a prime spot with a perfect view of the proceedings. When their eyes met, she waved at him mockingly. His eyes narrowed, and he quickly looked away.
Finding Killian was not difficult; he sat at the very front, his brows furrowed and lips pursed. Dorian scanned the area around him, searching for his daughter. His eyes landed on his partner again, silently conveying a clear message: 'Where is my daughter?' Killian didn't respond, averting his gaze, causing Dorian to grip his seat in frustration.
"Duke, I believe you were asked a question," Madame Rossignol's voice cut through his thoughts, bringing his attention back to her. He quickly apologized. "When did the decision to turn the young girl first come to mind?"
"A few weeks after our first meeting,” he replied after clearing his throat, though his eyes continued to wander, searching for his child.
"How old was she at that time?"
"Eleven years old," he answered. Noting their outrage, he added, "I did not plan to turn her until her twelfth birthday."
"And when did you turn her?"
"A week after her birthday," he stated plainly.
Madame Rossignol leaned forward, her eyes boring into his. "And that, even while knowing the risks of turning a child," she said, her tone heavy with accusation.
"She was twelve," he reasoned with a scoff, defiance in his voice.
Another woman stepped forward to stand beside Madame Rossignol. "Be that as it may, the law against immortal children takes many factors into account: their age at the time of turning as well as their own self-control." She glanced around at the onlookers. "I am sure you all remember the case of Maxim Penryhouse."
Everyone did, of course. The boy and his sire had created such chaos within their society, leading to years of suppressing rumors and whispers about vampires in the country. Maxim had been deemed an immortal child despite being turned at fifteen. Both he and his sire had their daylight rings removed and were left to burn under the sun's unforgiving glare.
"She can control herself," Dorian hissed through gritted teeth, desperation creeping into his voice.
The second woman looked expectantly at Madame Rossignol. She bit her lip, her brows furrowing into a soft frown. “It is neither true nor false," she declared, her power to recognize lies revealing the uncertainty of his statement. This ability was precisely why she held her seat on the council.
Dorian drew in a deep breath, his hands clenching and unclenching. "By the gods," he whispered to himself, feeling the weight of his uncertainty. Even he was unsure of his own answer now, and he suddenly felt awfully foolish.
The courtroom seemed to close in around him as he grappled with his own doubts. His gaze flickered back to the spectators, finding Killian once more. His partner’s face was stony, unreadable, offering no comfort or reassurance. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint murmurs of the audience.
Madame Rossignol's voice cut through the tension. "Dorian, the council needs assurance that the child you turned can indeed control herself. Her actions, should they go unchecked, could expose us all."
He nodded, swallowing hard. "I understand. She is different, though. She has a strength of will that is rare. I have faith in her."
The younger judge with piercing green eyes spoke again, skepticism clear in his tone. "Faith is not enough. We need evidence. We need proof that she will not be a threat to our secrecy. Bring the girl in."
Then, the door swung open to reveal (Y/n). His child hesitated to step forward, but beside her stood a man whose very presence commanded respect, a testament to the centuries he had witnessed. His skin was a golden tan, and his ebony black hair fell in waves.
His gaze was sharp, dark eyes seemingly aware of everything happening around him. This was a man who could not be caught off guard, having seen it all. Their eyes locked, and Dorian sucked in a sharp breath. Mikhail smiled at him, his sharp white fangs gleaming in the candlelight.
Dorian stood, driven by a sudden urge to pry (Y/n) away from Mikhail, to scream at him, attack him, or worse—but he was promptly ordered to settle down again. With great difficulty, he complied, feeling utterly powerless. If his sire dared to harm her, though, Dorian would not hesitate to pounce.
Mikhail rested a hand on (Y/n)'s shoulder and crouched down to whisper something in her ear. (Y/n) nodded with a small frown. Mikhail straightened, looked at the council members, and nodded in turn.
"Very well," Madame Rossignol said, "let the human in."
This time, a door opposite the one (Y/n) had entered through opened. A young maiden, who could not have been older than twenty, was forced in, shoved by two vampires. She struggled and pleaded for her life as she was thrown at (Y/n)'s feet.
"What is this?" Dorian demanded, his voice tight with fear and anger.
"A test. To assess her self-control."
He knew what this entailed: one sip of the human’s blood, and (Y/n) would sign both their death sentences.
(Y/n) did not react to the human trashing and weeping, demonstrating her remarkable ability to control herself. She wasn't a rabid animal ready to pounce on anyone, obviously. Her restraint, however, was only the beginning of the ordeal.
When the mere sight of the mortal failed to incite her, the woman was slashed, a shallow cut on her neck causing blood to pool on the floor. "Please!" she cried out, desperately clutching her neck in a futile attempt to stop the blood flow. "I don't want to die! Have mercy!" Yet he was certain his child was not listening; the sweet scent of the blood was probably more enticing to her at this moment. She wasn't one to care about the pleas of her victims.
"(Y/n)..." he whispered, his voice barely audible, as he saw her eyes turn red and her canines grow. He witnessed the fierce battle within her as she fought to restrain herself, to resist giving in to her primal instincts.
She approached the woman slowly, and he blanched, hoping—no, praying—that she would turn away, that she wouldn't seal her own fate and—
She put both hands over her mouth, clenched her eyes shut, and turned her head away. He leaned back in his seat, exhaling a breath of relief, as he heard the onlookers whisper amongst themselves.
(Y/n) was led out of the courtroom by the same man who had escorted her in. Once again, he whispered something in her ear and flashed Dorian a grin. The tension in the room was palpable, but for now, she had resisted.
The next hour was a blur to him as he awaited their decision. Fairness was not a word in vampires’ vocabulary and this test, Dorian knew, was more for theatrics than anything. It was for them a small, yet entertaining performance that wasn’t likely to change their mind had they already deemed him guilty in their cold, unbeating hearts.
Mikhael sat on the only empty seat reserved for the council. He supposed he should have expected him to have this seat, Dorian thought bitterly. Why him of all people?
He had to wait hours before the sentencing finally came. As the last member of the council advanced to announce their decision, Dorian stood rigidly unable to think of anything other than the next words that would come out of his mouth.
The burly man shuffled papers in his calloused hands and cleared his throat before speaking in a gruff voice. He rambled on about the evidence, summarizing the entire session as if they hadn't all been present. But finally, the words Dorian had been anxiously awaiting were directed at him: "Dorian de Beauvoir, this court has found you not guilty of the siring of an immortal child."
Relief washed over him like a tidal wave, and he nearly collapsed, pulling his face into his hands and sighing deeply. Dorian had never imagined he would feel this light again.
"This is preposterous!" cried out someone in front of the spectators box. It was Elizabetta who had risen to protest, "She is clearly–"
"This council has made its decision," warned the first council member, "Are you questioning it?"
"That child, as well as her sire should be -".
"Elizabetta," snapped Mikhael, and Dorian couldn't help but flinch at the authority in his voice. "Your opinion on the matter is neither here nor there."
He watched as Elizabetta quietly sat down, shooting Dorian a bitter look. He instinctively wanted to listen, or just make himself as small as possible because, while these words weren’t directed at him, he felt as much like a scolded child as she did.
As he left the room, he soon came across Killian. He smiled and held him in a tight embrace, resting his face on the crook of his neck. Killian smelled of spices and wood. Stepping back, Dorian asked, "Where is she?"
"Outside, that's what they told me," Killian answered, and they walked together towards the entrance.
Opening the door, Dorian's eyes scanned the entry hall until he spotted her. (Y/n) was engaged in conversation with his sire. Dorian quickened his pace until he reached them.
She turned around at the sound of his footsteps, giving him a bright smile. But on the corner of her mouth, he noticed blood, and her eyes were red.
"You're here!" she cried out happily, though she didn't move away from his sire, who was also smiling.
"We are," replied Killian, stepping forward with a handkerchief to wipe the red liquid off her mouth. "When did you feed?"
"Just recently," she chirped. "Mr. Mikhael told me I could have the screaming lady after the trial."
His sire pinched (Y/n)'s cheeks affectionately and remarked, "What a sweetheart she is." Then he looked up at Dorian. "You chose her very well, Dorian."
"Get away from her," Dorian ground out hatefully. Killian shot him a surprised look.
The older vampire raised both hands mockingly. "I do not wish her any harm, Dorian."
Killian leaned in to whisper in Dorian's ear, " (Y/n) and I will be waiting outside."
He left promptly without waiting for a response, clearly uninterested in being part of any quarrel between Dorian and his sire. Was Killian even aware that this was the blond’s sire? Now that he thought of it, he had never mentioned him to the other as he had always wished to squash any memory of the older vampire.
Dorian watched them depart but reluctantly remained behind.
"A lovely little family you have," commented his sire casually.
"You do not get to do that,” seethed the blond.
He lifted an eyebrow. "Pray tell, what do I ‘not get' to do?"
"You may not just waltz in. This is my family, you may not come into contact with them."
Mikhael stared at him, and Dorian found himself unable to hold his gaze. "I... apologize for Elizabetta's actions," Mikhael said after a moment. "I can assure you that she prepared this entire thing without my consent."
He hummed thoughtfully, processing Mikhael's words. "So she is indeed yours."
"Younger than you. She is good and took to our way of existence very quickly. Though not as quickly as you," Mikhael acknowledged.
Dorian's eyes narrowed as bitterness settled within him. "Of course. This must be why you left me to fend for myself the same night you turned me."
"You turned out so well," justified the older one, “mature and independant– more than your sister would ever be." Dorian scoffed, "I am serious. It had not been an easy decision, but I did it nonetheless, despite my instincts telling me to come back. You were the first vampire I sired and to now see you with your own little fledgling is heartwarming.”
"You would do well to remember this sight as it is one you will never gaze upon again," Dorian stepped forward, pointing a finger accusingly. "I know what you are trying to do. You’re attempting to get close to our girl so you can approach all of us and play happy little coven as if nothing happened. I will not allow that."
"Dorian..." Mikhael whispered, his eyes narrowing in response.
"NO! YOU LOST ANY CHANCES OF THAT THE NIGHT YOU LEFT ME—THE NIGHT YOU MADE ME FEAST ON MY OWN PARENTS' BODIES BEFORE VANISHING INTO THE NIGHT!" Dorian's voice echoed through the hall, drawing the attention of everyone present—judging him, questioning him, and perhaps even scoffing at him. But he paid them no mind.
It took him some time to collect his thoughts and calm himself once again and, when he did, his gaze hardened. "I will now step away. We will say our goodbyes and go our separate ways," Dorian declared firmly, leaving no room for argument. "Am I clear?"
He looked as though he might argue, but then he smiled and chuckled, disregarding the curious onlookers just as Dorian did. "I see myself in you. Even now, I do not regret turning you," he sighed. "Good evening to you, Dorian."
His hands trembled, and words failed to come out as he sent a final gaze and curt nod toward his sire. Turning on his heels, he left swiftly.
Arriving at their carriage where Killian and (Y/n) were already waiting, he collapsed into Killian's arms, using him as his lifeline. Dorian didn't care about (Y/n) seeing his tears at that moment; he just needed comfort.
"What is...” Killian began, concerned.
"We must go, Killian," Dorian interrupted, his voice cracking. “Let the three of us leave Britain behind."