Story inspired by RP. Takes place in the 1920s, Romania, after Nicolas escapes the clutches of @marcusofrome
The fresh blood he drank ran wildly through his veins, fear and excitement mingling into something dark and familiar. The establishment suited his needs and the needs of others like him, mortals and immortals. He felt ashamed and still he craved this. Craved something to ground him and help him put back the mask he wore so easily these days. Play a part. That’s all he had to do. Get back into some sort of rhythm of matters. Polish the act he had adopted.
He had been found by a band of clan-less vampires. Some knew the laws, others had heard of the Covens. Nicolas decided to play on his knowledge. He didn’t give too much but asserted quickly a place for himself because he knew the rites and what had to be done. The old laws flew from his lips as easily as he had broken them in the past and he found himself enjoying being asked about interpretations. Still, he didn’t give too much. Nicolas de Lenfent was presumed dead. For the time being, he allowed the tale to follow its course. He was Nicolas Visconti of Naples. His mother was descended of one of the noble families of Naples and his accent helped. Play the part. It became easy. Being himself was hard.
He stepped inside the dark hall and forced his mask to stay still. Don’t betray fear. Force his blood to flow slower. All the lesson taught brought him quicker to the red door and his hand settled on the door knob with ease and calm. Memories he tried to bury struggled to lay low. Memories of blood, whips and course hands inflicting pain. Memories of screams. He had screamed. He had screamed until his throat was raw. Marcus enjoyed his screams. He played his pain for more screams. For more blood. For pleasure and pain and he took them with passion.
I feel your breath
I feel something deep in my chest
There's something in the way you move
I cannot explain
I give myself
To every drop of blood you've taken
My heart remains the same
And I'm
An utter fool
To give myself to you
“What do you desire?” the blood-drinker’s voice before him slithered as he was measured from head to toe. He had learned from an early age to play on his looks. He was slowly becoming vain about his physique. Dressing according to the fashion of this age but still playing it low. Fitted pants, fitted shirts, black. He didn’t feel other colors embracing him like the black fabrics. No more reds or ivory. Black. Everything baptized in the color of the night sky.The color of his soul.
“Nicolas, all you have to do is ask. Ask and you shall receive” the man was joined by another. He counted the vampires present in the room. His eyes locked with the Turkish born vampire.
“What I always want from this place and your services. Pain. Pain and pleasure” he walked past him and began unbuttoning his shirt, steadying his fingers to finish the task. Play the part of confidence although his soul was struggling with everything he felt. He deserved this. Every lash, for every death. Their death was on him. Every treachery. On him. Every drop of blood. On him. Laurent,Eleni, Felix, Eugeni, his Santiago, his beloved Santiago. Butchered, vanished and he still looked for them, forsaking the image of the burnt theater he had found when he returned from Paris.
Nicolas hissed, straining his arms against the shackles as the whip felt on his skin. Tarik knew how to handle the leather and how to the deliver the strokes. Not to strong to brutally maim but sure enough to awaken pleasure.
He moaned as the whip felt again and again against his skin.
“You deserve this, Nicolas. All you had to do was to control yourself. You coward. You would be still be with them. In the arms of Santiago. His death his upon you. All of their deaths are upon you, lad” Nicolas forced his eyes upon as the all too familiar voice found its way in his mind.
“You’re dead” he wanted to sound more confident, straining against a too well skilled whip from Tarik.
“Nicolas, I will always be with you. I made sure of it. Look at you now. Still craving the pain you so well deserve. You will never get rid of me” the mocking laughter of Marcus rang in his ears and Nicolas strained against the restrains, his body chasing the pleasure from the pain. He let himself under Tarik’s ministrations. He stopped counting and stopped caring about time. He bleed and he revealed from it. He accepted the hands gliding against his flushed skin, stirring him alive.
Half a night, step in pleasure and agony before he could put back the mask he had began to wear so easily. He stood in the bathtub, the smell of blood, his and his companions filling his senses. He stood still, watching the men before him kissing lazily. Reaching for a plump hand, Nicolas turned it to meet the wrist and sank his fangs, the warm blood doing its biding. Harden the heart. Harden the heart because he would end up driving himself crazy and he needed his wits and his strength. And maybe of these nights, Marcus voice will cease to haunt him and the cravings will stop and he will be stronger and not needing this sort of treatment. Love himself more. The fact was he hated himself and loved himself with equal passion. And right now, Nicolas was constructing the image he will project to the world. The violinist had burned long ago, the man in love had perished under the whip, the violence and the abuse of Marcus, Nicolas was putting together the man he needed to be in order to survive. All the lessons learned. From Armand, from Santino, from Marcus. Before he could resurrect the man he wanted to be, he needed the man he required for this world.
To every drop of blood you've taken
My heart remains the same
"Santino, the good Samaritan. If I wouldn't have sampled the truth in the blood, I wouldn't have believed you had become the patron saint of lost causes. However, I should bestow gratitude, you raised him well, still, you should had ripped the emotions like weeds. They weakened Nicolas, like chains of servitude. Tell me, have you noticed the changes in his demeanor? Consider them an upgrade. How you tolerated his emotions is beyond me"
“So... I suppose you would be the one who found Nicolas once he left my tutelage. I have heard of you from the mind of my former pupil... and I do not approve of your methods of teaching. You should be gone from my city.”
"My, my, my. If there isn't the lovely cherub himself. Pray tell, aren't you aware you are trespassing on owned ground?"
“I beg your pardon? I am doing no such thing.” Armand scoffed, rolling his eyes a bit. “There are no true territories anymore, or haven’t you noticed? The Prince has done away with that petty nonsense.” Though of course he knew that was a lie. Many of the older ones, himself included even, were still highly territorial.
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He realized he had been foolish trying to escape from Marcus. He had tried nonetheless to get away from the constant punishments. He had been dragged back and received what he had expected. Nicolas laid on the stone floor, in a pool of fresh blood. He had gotten used to the ache and the pain and being hungry. He just waiting, barely moving until the flesh would stitch itself back. His mistake. He should had followed the counting of the lashes but he felt sick and he was tired and could barely speak. The offense didn’t go unnoticed and the cursed Roman General started again and this time, Nicolas counted loud, pulling at the chain holding him still, clinging to whatever stone and crack in the wall and counted until it was over and his body slumped to the floor and he closed his eyes.
He became alert when the door opened and the familiar heavy footsteps came into his vision, turned on his back like an animal, the elder enjoying the way he hissed in pain “What do you want?” he should had bit the retort but it was too late and a heavy foot closed on his ribs. He coughed, a thin blood trail falling from his lips. A broken rib, a punctured lung. Maybe. By now, he had become versed into how long it took to heal from the punishment delivered under the duress of barely being allowed to drink some fresh blood.
“Stop dawdling,Nicolas and get up if you still hope you will sample some blood tonight” and he obeyed, lifting himself up. He kept quiet knowing this would condition the time spent drinking the much needed blood and it came from the vein of an elder, almost dying from old age and illness. He felt sick just from the taste but he knew he couldn't be picky about it. He drank as much as he could and meet his captor, bracing himself for what laid ahead.
“Come, Nicolas. Since you feel like venting up some rage, I’ve arranged a special treat for you” the special treat was a spectacle for other depraved ancients like Marcus. A mocking simulacrum of gladiator fights and his opponent was another vampire, perhaps another captive held by one with whom Marcus was speaking.
And so he fought. Fists and fingernails and fangs like they were some wild dogs for the entertainment of the powerful. All he knew was he had to survive and he did, bloodied and broken, tearing through the neck of his opponent. The one who had the other vampire who was gasping, drawing laborious breaths on the floor rose and stormed past Marcus, picking up his protegee. So much for mercy as Nicolas watch the one who lost become him, ripped apart. It wasn’t the first time nor the last. His eyes rose and meet Marcus, waiting for what laid ahead.
How do you feel now that you've learned that Santiago is alive and has been in the hands of Marcus for over a century?
"It's a bittersweet feeling. Don't get me wrong, knowing and seeing my Tiago is alive has stirred back to life my soul. It felt like I had lived so far numb, without half of my soul, without the presence, the voice, the touch, the laugh, the eyes which made me whole. Yet knowing the amount of suffering Tiago endured is agony. He didn't deserve this and Marcus delivered his punishment for my treachery hitting were it hurts the most. My beloved spent a century in his hands, a century of pain, of torture and abuse. I will not run anymore and I will face what lays ahead. I will protect and help Santiago heal. I won't abandon him. I know I don't deserve his love. Not after everything I put him through. Marcus is my shame to bear and one way or another, I will figure out a way to close this chapter of our lives and his shadow won't break and hurt anyone, anymore. I ran too many times in this life. I was a coward. Afraid of shadows and my own demons. I'm not the best nor the worst of our kind but I lived so far and defeated some odds. Might as well try and fix my mistakes. I'm not suicidal or playing the hero but I'm a realist. Many of my friends would get hurt if they would face Marcus and I'm no miracle of a vampire but I survived with that bastard enough to know his weak points. And I will use that knowledge. Ti amo, Tiago. Always and forever"
Armand jerked back away from the elder vampire, hissing threateningly. "Do not touch me, or it isn't Lestat you should be worried about," he spat. "You should be more worried about what my Maker would do to you if you were to harm me," he spat. "But I doubt I'll need much rescuing. If you want a war, you have but to ask for one, leave me out of it." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "I may not have fought on a battlefield, but I know what it's like to draw blood on a sword, so don't you even begin to lecture me on 'wars'. A war need not always be between countries, you know."
He shook his head. "I have had enough of your grandstanding. He turned away from the other male, throwing a hand up into the air as a gesture of fair-well. "I'll be off now. Have fun with your ramblings, sir."
