→ untitled vampire!au
Tags: Namjoon, angst, olden day au, PG
“You swore to father you would protect me, yet here we are, halfway ‘cross the damned country as you deliver me to the Capital that got him killed in the first place.”
“Well if you ask me-”
“-Better to someone we know than to a creepy old Lord on the other end of River Maisely.”
“There you go.”
Namjoon was a man that could not be out-talked, thus the headache that was slowly beginning to throb in crescendo at the back of your head while you tried to reason with him was warranted and expected. Or perhaps it was just the heatwave kicking in as your entourage of horses, carriages, carts and footmen pursue your third day of journey through the Drylands, an expanse of abandoned land that laid between the Capital and the rest of the nation.
Sparse of words, you had made sure to announce your defeated frustration with a huff from your cracked lips, and your body angled away from the stiff authority that sat straight-spined, leveled-chin, fists-to-knees, opposite of you, the authority that you called brother. Namjoon made no comment of your otherwise characteristically petty response, one which you have unfailingly, for the past seventeen years of life, delivered when you yet again lose an argument to the boy that was your senior in every aspect you could think of.
Determined to navigate away from the dreadful topic and even more dreadful destination that loomed ahead of your party, you had raised a tentative yet curious hand to the thick velvet drapes that hung protectively over the carriage windows, drawn shut for the entirety of your occupation in the suffocating, claustrophobia-inducing wooden box on wheels.
The moment your fingertips had come into contact with the smooth, furry fabric, your brother’s voice had sounded, knowing and warning, “Don’t.” To this you were normally obedient of, particularly during the fragile months following the loss of a parent and a half, but call it the stormy adolescence of a flowering vampiric beauty, your brother’s warning went unheeded, and the drapes were drawn.
There had been no deafening shriek, your skin did not burn, neither of you turned to ash. There was only gentle warmth upon cold, snow-like skin, a mild-temperatured breeze (much cooler than the stuffiness within) drifting past the small cut-out from which you were currently looking out.
“That’s enough now, they are our men but the scent of a Pureblood tempts all men the same, especially when they are worn from travel.”
You had allowed for your arm to drop, and the drapes swung back into place. You turned back to look at him. “So let them rest. Dusk is upon us, they’ve been on the move for days.”
“We cannot afford to stop now. We are in the Drylands, we will not be able to fend off an attack by savages in their own territory. We will keep moving until we’ve reached Capital outskirts, then I will let them rest for two moons.”
It was a tendency of all younger sisters to retort their brothers, but you knew well enough that Namjoon was right. The Drylands was twice the size of the Capital, home only to creatures who have spent decades building skills and tolerance against the harsh elements of this desert. Nobles from all corners foreign to the territory would stand no chance if left unprepared.
Of the many unspeakable species that call the Drylands their home, Rabids were the most notorious. Far lower than the sinful product of a Pureblood Vampire and Human, Rabids were the final destination once Halfbloods completed their inevitable degradation, and they would suck the life out of anything remotely living, be it animal, man, or the Vampire they once were. The carcasses, completely dry of blood, left scattered throughout the plains was how the territory earned its’ name.
Void of sanity and moral, Rabids were those who had fallen out of Vampiric rank, pests of the Council and predators of those who could not afford to build hundred-foot walls on the perimeters of their homes. The primary source of unrest and terror to the people, torching Rabids were the only way to properly exterminating them, so the Council had set fire to the area housing the highest concentration of Rabid-incited killings, thus the Drylands have and will continue to expand as the centuries go by.
“I still cannot believe you are sending me away.”
“The prince is shallow, simple-minded, predictable, and therefore controllable. It is much safer for you there than in the castle of some foreign Lord you have never even met. The prince you have at least seen before!”
“Yes, once.” Upon noticing the attitude that began to slip under your tone, the man diagonal to you had angled his chin down, and cat-like, amber eyes up in intolerance, as well as palpable condescension with just expression alone. But you forthrightly pushed forward with your argument, for you knew there was nothing else you could do but pitifully protest once a man like your brother had finalized his calculations. He was always more like father than you were. “Do you not remember what happened the last time we visited the Lunar Palace? He quite nearly executed a handmaiden for accidentally stepping on my dress- on his own inaugural!”
“Alright.” Along with the release of a breath that he might have been holding from the time you departed from your castle six days ago, Namjoon had broken out of his stiff posture, back hunching and shoulders deflating, arms folded loosely across his broad chest. “His decisions are not always the wisest or most merciful, but one thing is for sure and that is he will be the last person to ever hurt you.”
“How do you know that?”
“The prince likes pretty things, and rumours of your beauty have spread far beyond the Drylands.”
“Flattery is not going to change my position on this matter, if my position even means anything at all to you. He’s a tyrant, Namjoon, you’re marrying me to a maniac who gets off beheading anyone who dares drop an opinion atop his!”
When your sweet, tangerine hued eyes, bearing dead resemblance to your mother’s was raised to meet his, your brother only shifted his position so that he was now sitting directly across you instead of diagonal, his longer, thicker and sturdier legs meeting your own daintier, but not any less-travelled, ones at the tips of bent knees in the cramped confines of your carriage. In mulled silence, he took your fists, previously clenched agitatedly at your sides, into his broad and warm palms, clasping your ivory-skinned hands tight within his own.
“See? You already know what not to do around him. You are a smart girl, my sister, you will know how to protect yourself in the palace. I have my eyes in there too, I will not allow for any harm to come to you whilst you are there. And… if it comforts you any, at least the prince is young and handsome.”
“I don’t care for any of that.” Your voice had grown soft, inevitable when you were borderline terrified of the events that laid ahead of you once you have arrived at the Capital. “If father were here, he’d never let this happen.”
Your brother’s grasp sharply tightened, startling you enough for him to at least curb his voice into a gentler chide at last minute, all the while remaining darkly firm and reminding of the lack of presence of your valued guiding figure when he spoke his next words: “Well father’s not here.”
You had always strove to avoid bringing your father into any matter since his passing, out of pride that you did not want to be the one dragging your brother on a guilt trip when he was so young when the title as head of the family was thrust upon his shoulders and yet had still managed to wear it like a champion. But just as unprepared as he was in the beginning, you were, after all, a girl who grew up knowing only the warmth of her father’s cloak.
“… We are the only ones left, we have to look out for each other. I only want the best for you, just as father has.”
“But I will miss you very much.”
In response to your affection, Namjoon had allowed for the first smile since you had left behind the familiar comfort of your home to smooth out the worried creases in his forehead, to even out the pinch between his brows. Now much more tender, more brotherly than leaderly, he said, “You may cry on the first night. But no more after that. Daughters of the South are as strong as sons, you must never forget that.”