The nod is slow, but even without being able to brush even the most surface of his thoughts, she can heart it. The song in his blood. A primal scream like her own that threatens to rend asunder what stands before him. She hadn’t misjudged Frank at all, it seems. Makes her nostrils flare. The smell of adrenaline seeping through his pores, enticing even if it’s nearly smothered by the man’s fear soaked skin...and trousers. The same magick that offered Frank numbness before works as a paralytic, leaving the human filth aware of everything but unable to move. She wishes she could say the same about the stench.
She doesn’t answer until Frank has spoken his piece, worked out most of the relevant details on his own. She likes that about him, he’s quick. Especially when he’s upright. When he isn’t a patchwork quilt of new bruises and beaten bones.
“Own son. Dat file, right dere? Thick as ya chest?” She enunciates the word very clearly. “Every stitch I put into dat boy. Every bruise I salved. Head to toe, no less dan twenty visits, an’ dat’s just da ones I know about. Today he come to me. Gonna be out rest of da season wi’ a cast. All because someone don’ know how for hold his liquor. How for recognise he t’ree time biggah dan a ‘leven year old. I warned him. I did. Try so hard...”
Maybe she needs to repeat that, like it will absolve her of her own guilt, but she raises her chin and her eyes grow cold, as arctic as Frank’s perhaps. There is a reason why, amongst the Traditions, they call hers ‘the bloody bitches’ without irony. She does snort at the way he speaks the world Life. She understands all too well what the questions are, and they’re exactly like he says. And it’s that very life that stirs. That makes her nerves squirm under her skin until she can’t help but drag her gaze away from him. Only half of what he says is meant for her. The rest belongs to the man.
What remains unspoken though? A flash of those teeth. A little too sharp, a little too white. It isn’t a smile that has her lip pulling back in a sneer, but she keeps it to herself. What is she going to do? Wrestle Frank Castle to the ground over the privilege?
If she’s bloody...well. He has his own moniker that anyone with two brain cells to rub together should respect, and almost a foot-and-a-half on her, not to mention a hundred and thirty pounds that even she can’t pull out of nowhere. She’s not taking him without permission or an elephant gun loaded with tranquilisers.
“So you can plead his case...or help wi’ a shovel.”
She selects her favourite 10-blade.
TW: slavery implication, torture implication, blood, violence and gore.
There was a monotonous rhythm of chains rattling as he walked, the heavy metal scraping against his skin around his neck and his wrists and ankles. His cheeks sunken from malnourishment, looking like a walking rotten corpse than a living being. Well, as much of a living being an un-life could be. His eyes unfocused, merely following wherever he was led to by his Master’s carriage, dragging his feet with each step that he took. He would sometimes lose his balance and fall onto the muddy ground, letting himself be dragged alone before standing back on his feet. His hair unkept, bald patches here and there from where his Master had pulled his hair too hard, and some parts were cut haphazardly. He wasn’t given any clothes except for the clothe that covered his groin to humiliate him, exposing the mark under his right collarbone that he belonged to his Master, along with cicatrices from sunlight burnt and whips from his Master’s treatment, bites and claw marks and scars from fights he was involved in that didn’t quite heal.
He was now merely a shell of a man that he once was.
Days turned into months, then years turned to decades. Before he knew almost a century had passed. The heavy chains around him used to burden him greatly that he was unable to move a muscle became merely a nuisance now, and his Master had never bothered to remove them since he saw the strength that he had garnered. He was sure he saw the fear in his Master’s eyes once he learned of this, perhaps the reason for the scarce feeding over time. He relished on the idea as he clenched his hand into a fist, clinging foolishly onto hope despite the decades of abuse that there was still hope for him to escape before it faded into the back of his mind, becoming nothing more than a pipe dream.
There is no way to escape.
The realisation hit him hard, and he was once again reminded of the hopelessness that he felt, the ache in his chest that grew unbearable until he became numb with pain. What fuelled his retaliation against his Master’s abuse and the hope to escape this man-made Hell grew dimmer as the years stretched on, until he stopped hoping altogether and let the abuse continued, turning those hopes that he once had into something darker. That his Master’s abuse would be too much even for his body to bear, broken beyond repair that even his healing ability wasn’t able to fix.
His death would be welcomed then. But knowing his Master, it wouldn’t be as easy.
Sometimes his Master would praise him for his beautiful brown skin, his exotic feature that could never be found across the colonial country. His hands would reach out to him with open arms, a gentleness that belied his cruel intention. He would flinch whenever his Master tried to touch him, which soured his Master’s mood and resulted in his beating. He would be left in the small room for his body to heal what’s broken, lying on the cold hard ground without being able to move. He’d be fed with rotten corpses or dying werewolves or sickly bastards who dared to wrong his Master, and out of desperation and hunger he would feed upon them, only to be sick afterwards. He considered those to be the good days, since his Master remember to feed him.
His ears perked up at the hushed voices ahead. Two vampires. Guards. They were talking. Something about a mob in front of them, waiting. A group of hunters, larger than they had ever seen. Close to fifty. No. a hundred perhaps. Waiting deeper in the woods for them. An exaggeration. Perhaps, perhaps not. They couldn’t be sure until they investigate further.
Hunters. He’d encountered them before, when humans were brave enough to hunt down his Master. He would kill them in his Master’s stead, the promise of their blood to feed himself hung above his head than his own morale. He’d always leave one survivor, mortally wounded but not enough to end their lives. He told them, compelled them, to find him and his Master if they wanted revenge, risking his Master’s wrath just for that glimpse of hope that they would follow through. He wasn’t even sure that it worked, foolishly he had been hoping that it would. But after several more attempts and none of them had returned for him and his Master, he’d given up on the notion entirely.
The carriage stopped, and one of them tapped on the door, letting his Master know what awaited them. “My pet can handle them,” his Master’s voice rang through the night, and the guard looked at him, pity in his eyes, before looking back at the carriage. He tried to convince his Master that it was best for them to scout further ahead. “Are you underestimating me?” he felt shiver ran down his spine at the shout, panic rose inside his chest as he tried to make himself smaller, desperately hoping that he would survive this ordeal. It was funny to him, how his mind so often thought of death and dying, but when the situation presented itself, he became a coward and clinging uselessly onto hope.
“Fine,” he tuned back into the conversation, catching the last bits of what was being said. There was relief in the guard’s voice, looking back at him again before joining the other guard. Words were exchanged, and one of them slipped through the night to confirm their suspicion.
He tapped his thumb on his index finger to mark the seconds that passed, having something to focus on as he waited. He would need to kill again, from what he heard from his Master. That was fine. He was feeling hungry, anyway. He didn’t remember the last time he was fed. Was it few days ago, or was it last week? He couldn’t recall. It was leftover from his Master’s feeding, that he remembered. The corpse was fresh, and he lapped on the guzzling blood as much as he could. If he was careful, he could have his fill with these hunters, and it would last him for a few more days, perhaps.
Minutes passed, and there was still no sign od the guard returning. “What’s taking him so long?” His master grew restless, he could feel it in his skin and in the air, and he recoiled. It wouldn’t be long now.
There was a gunshot being fired, and shouts of several men. Had he been discovered?
His Master got out from the carriage, cursing loudly as another gunshot was heard, then another. The gunshots would not cease. Shadows moved between the woods, and it made him wonder how they hadn’t noticed them before. Then he realised that they had cover their scent with dirt and something else. Blood? Magic. Did they kill witches before they hunt the vampires?
The carriage wouldn’t protect his Master now, and he heard him cursed again. The chains that tied him to the carriage was released, but not those on him. “Kill them,” his master pulled the chains around his neck, his lips twisted into a smile. “They dare to challenge me. Come, I’ll let you feed on their corpses. Tonight, we’ll leave their corpses in our wake!”
He was then pushed aside, taking a step back as his Master challenged the shadows that lurked, their guns pointed at them. Didn’t they know guns were useless against them?
Another gunshot was fired, and his Master screamed in pain. He had never heard his Master screamed like this. he looked up, barely enough time to notice inside him as another gunshot was fired, saved only by his body moving instinctively. His mind grew blank as he moved through the woods, using his chains to wrap around one of the hunter’s neck and snapping it in half with ease. He crouched between the trees, watching as his Master moved erratically avoiding the bullets aimed at him. Bodies fell where his Master was. Blood gushing out and bathed his Master red as he fed.
But the healing was slow, and the bullets kept coming.
Gunshots were fired. The bullets made his Master screamed.
The bullets made his Master screamed.
They were prepared.
They could kill his Master and him.
His Master could be killed right here and now. This was his chance. His hope.
but he needed to be quick. The bullets would run out soon enough, and his Master would have time to recover. He needed strength and speed to match his Master and to avoid the hunters. But most of all, he needed to survive this. He wanted to survive this.
He desperately hoped to survive this.
He tore into the corpse, blood dripping from his chin as he gulped greedily. He felt his strength returning, but not enough. He needed more. So he grabbed the gun and fired at the next hunter, using it as a meat shield as he fired the next bullet at his Master. It missed, but it caught his Master’s attention. Confusion marred his face before shifting to rage, screaming his name as he charged forward.
And he was ready for him.
They fought while fending off the hoard of hunters. Guns fired and swords clashing at the speed human eyes couldn’t comprehend as they traded blow. It's a suicide mission, and he wasn't even sure if he would survive, but he didn't care. He wanted his Master dead. And he failed now, he wouldn’t get another chance. It was now or never.
One misstep was all he needed, and his Master faltered, not as battle worn as he was. He pushed the sword into his chest, pinning his master to the ground with his chains. “You bastard!” his Master spat, clawing at the heavy chains around his neck. “Release me! You dare defy me?! Release me!!” his Master landed a punch on his chest, his face, but he was relentless.
The hunters didn’t matter now. Their bullets would only hurt him, but it wouldn’t kill him. And they would run out of bullets soon, he was sure of it.
What matters now was his Master. Alexander.
His hatred boiled to the surface, and he was only seeing red. He wrapped the chains around his fist and slammed it against Alexander’s face, bashing his skull in. Blood splattered across his face. But he didn’t stop. He continued to land blow after blow until he was satisfied. Until Alexander was barely recognisable. Until his scream that echoed through the forest became a sob, a grunt, and then silence.
His body healed the wounds and still Tuah swung his fist until his own knuckle bruised and sore. He leaned back, watching as Alexander’s body tried to heal itself. He then grabbed the sword that he pinned Alexander with and pulled it across his chest, and Alexander’s scream renewed. He swung his fist once more, this time on Alexander’s chest where his heart would be, breaking the ribs that protected the precious organ. He squeezed the heart in his hand, his eyes locked onto Alexander’s as he screamed, before ripping it from Alexander’s chest.
“Hutang darah pasti dibayar dengan darah (blood must be paid with blood).” His voice sounded strange even to him, long had he spoke in his native tongue. He watched as light faded from Alexander’s eyes, but he could never be too sure. So he grabbed the sword and got up, the heart rolled from his hand and onto the ground with a squelch. Tuah grabbed hold of Alexander by the hair, the sword raised above him.
With a clean swipe, Alexander’s head was separated from his body.
Finally, he was free.
But his freedom felt hollow. There was no cheer or warmth that he came to expect from taking back what was his. He looked down at his chained wrists. Was he truly free?
He didn’t realise that the hunters had stopped their firing, waiting with bated breath as they witness to the vampire’s cruelty.
Tuah looked up, throwing Alexander’s head to the ground careless. He finally noticed that the night was starless, the eleventh month bringing biting cold that he wouldn’t have survived if he was still human. He felt a droplet on his face, then another, before November rain started to shower them. Fog started to cover the forest ground in no time.
He looked down at the headless body, taking both the sword in Alexander’s chest and in his hand and strolled towards the remaining hunters. "Are you going to stop me?" His question was met with a cock of a gun and a bullet flew pass him. He sighed, not wanting to shed anymore blood than he already had. He could’ve let them go, but he couldn’t risk of them chasing after him when he had only had his freedom.
When dawn came, when others were brave enough to venture into the woods, they would find bodies scattered across the floor, some mutilated beyond recognition, others were cleanly cut. There was one body that was badly burnt. And they would wonder what had happened the night before.
“May your God have mercy on you,” he told them, moving to pierce the sword onto their chest, watching the fear in their eyes faded as life slipped away. “Because I will not.”
This was the price of his freedom.
They never found the answer, as there was no witness to retell the story.
Richard cursed himself over and over as Kate closed the door behind them and he caught sight of the mirror again. His hand hurt. He deserved it- breaking Kate’s mirror had been a terrible thing to do-
“It doesn’t matter,” Kate said, and Richard realised he’d been babbling apologies. He also realised he was in bed, Kate had led him to- he relaxed a little. Beds were safe- Exton let him sleep in one sometimes if he’d been good or if he had been so bad something had broke or the bleeding wouldn’t stop and the doctor said they had to leave him alone until he was better, Richard thought this was probably a case of the latter. “I’m sorry,” he told Kate.
“I know you are,” she said gently. “It’s alright.” she hesitated. “Richard, remember what I told you? You’re not a prisoner any more. You’re not going to be- to be punished for things, especially when you didn’t realise you were doing them.”
Right. He still couldn’t remember actually hitting the mirror…he shivered. There were a lot of things he couldn’t remember that they’d told him he’d done, or times where he knew something had happened but he couldn’t remember what. It frightened him. He only had the vaguest sense of why he’d been imprisoned in the first place- he had been wicked, trying to usurp the King and- Richard shivered again. He wasn’t a prisoner anymore, but maybe he ought to be. Maybe justice demanded he be. “Why?” he mumbled. “Why did the King decide to let me free?”
King Henry was merciful, he knew that- he allowed Richard to live. Was he kind as well, did he pity him? Northumberland (Northumberland frightened him, Richard knew with certainty that the man wanted to hurt him) Northumberland was the King’s man, and he had said- in his custody, so maybe Richard wasn’t a prisoner, but he still had to be minded…house arrest, of course. And maybe if he could prove he didn’t mean the King any harm, they might let him…tantalising possibilities rose before him . Edward. They might let him see…and there was a girl, wasn’t there, his- his wife, but not Anne, but he loved her very much anyway only not quite in the same way…he would be good, he promised himself, he would do everything that was asked of him, and then, perhaps….
He was so lost in his dreaming that he didn’t notice Kate hadn’t answered his question, or the stricken look that had crossed her face. “The food is still over there if you decide you’re hungry,” she murmured, as she saw his eyes drift close. “Sleep well.”
Kate needed cuddling.
Harry had pretty much reached that conclusion anyway, but when she came back in looking on the verge of tears, it settled the matter. He scooped her up, carried her to the bed and settled down next to her, wrapping her in his arms. “What, love?” he murmured, nuzzling her hair.
“This isn’t going to end well!” Kate said. “He’s- Harry, you saw him, you’ve spent longer in his company than I have! He’s- he isn’t- he-”
“I know,” Harry said quietly.
“I think his fingers were broken,” Kate continued. “I felt- they’d healed well, at least, someone must have taken care of them but his fingers are so thin, I could feel…”
“Exton made it his mission to b-break him,” Harry said quietly, thinking back to the Warden. “To stop him being a threat to King Henry-”
“Exton?”
“The warden-”
“Richard said,” Kate told him, “I tried to give him one of his old robes, Richard said Exton wouldn’t let him-”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Both Kate and Harry sat bolt upright at the sound of Harry’s father’s voice. Harry blushed fiercely, though he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like they were doing anything they shouldn’t be, Kate was his wife, he was allowed to hold his wife on their bed, in their bedroom-
“Elizabeth,” Northumberland continued. “the King has requested your presence at Court. To go in to the service of Queen Isabelle.”
😏 - use mine for illegal experiments (if you feel like it, but vile and heinous experiments are good)
Mad Doctor Memes [x] Accepting
“Highly interesting... no wonder you lived this long considering all the things that has been to your body.“ The military could really go places when they were willing to actually enhance the human body. In the end though he like everyone did bleed and even if a normal dosage might not give accurate results she didn’t mind, that just meant she had a test subject for longer
“It’d be interesting to see where your pain threshold is before we continue though, I hope you don’t mind. You have my word that it’s standard procedure...” She chuckled lightly, she was honestly just spewing out pure bullshit. She couldn’t care less if he did mind and considering that he was no regular human in quite a few ways this was far from standard procedure.
Smiling warmly at him she placed a hand on his shoulder before continuing “And if it makes you feel better I’m pleased to tell you that what I’m about to do will be like a mosquito compared to the chemical weapon that will be tested on you...”
