I just had some Shikama ideas and experimentation I did a while back and thought it’d be great to post one of them here, it’s not exactly a fic, but gimme your thoughts on what you think. Honestly proud of this one ngl.
Will be posting more thoughts and shorts soon.
Ignore the grammar mistakes I did not get it proofread lmfaoo
@eluxcastar bc y e s
“Eh? It’s not stopping yet?” You ask your… friend. You’re not really quite sure if that’s the right term to refer to someone who you once thought just existed in a pretty shittily told story. But here you were, probably some time in the Pleistocene epoch or further back, with a fallen Angel you’re pretty sure is this world’s equivalent of Satan.
“Unfortunately not yet.” He replies to you softly, hands poised on his lap as he briefly peeks out of the tent to see the still turbulent storm outside.
It’s been two days of rain, and no signs of it stopping.
“Are you really that eager to get out?” He turns to you with a soft grin on his face, you shift from the heap of thick sheets and rugs that functioned as a bed, tucking more of yourself into the warmth and he almost laughs at the grouchy look you give.
You don’t notice Shikama get under the sheets beside you til you can feel him close to yourself, it’s weird, with him being warm. You always assumed he was cold before, like all vampires, but then he’s not really a vampire.
“The rain is too loud.” You reason, and it’s not entirely untrue either. “And it’s too *cold*.”
There’s not much for company aside from your friend and his dead son currently encased in a coffin right beside the bed— you know who this boy really is, but clearly his father doesn’t. You find it funny that this used to be such a reasonable child capable of thinking, then simply reduced to someone so *stupid*.
You don’t notice Shikama get under the sheets beside you til you can feel him close to yourself, it’s weird, with him being warm. You always assumed he was cold before, like all vampires, but then he’s not really a vampire.
“Do you feel somewhat better now?” He asks, nudging closer to you as the sound of rain and wind grew louder.
A hundred years of undeath turns into two hundred, two turns to three, and three turns to four.
You once thought his affections for you were a joke, an inside joke meant to tease you by people who once treasured you because you were favoured. All you really wanted was to survive in this unfamiliar world you once read in a story, and so with little choice, you stuck with the strongest.
You too once thought it would be alright, that you would be brushed off as insignificant and unchosen and left to die by the hands of time like you desired— something natural. Something that was normal.
And yet, here you stand.
Four hundred years and alive and young and well but not quite a living corpse like the rest of who he deemed worthy to be chosen.
No longer a slave, and your memories of your original world being nothing more than distant lifetimes away, you were a princess now, wife to a prince, and wife to a monster that’s somewhat of a friend. You hate him and cannot hate him at the same time because you know the truth behind all the atrocities committed by his hand; you do not condone them, and yet you cannot condemn him.
“My beloved wife.” Sika warmly addresses you as you move to sit across from him for dinner. He doesn’t really quite need to eat— blood is what he needs, not human sustenance like the luxurious meal laid in front of you, something you need and one of the few things that tethered you to humanity aside from your beating heart and warm body.
“Hello, beloved.” You barely get the last word out through gritted teeth. It was a rather strange term to refer to him despite the outward nature of your relationship. Three centuries of being bound to him and multiple weddings for every lifetime you had to endure coming back to him, and still, you couldn’t really see him that way. Marriage was a strange affair no matter the time period, and in these times, even more so.
He seems to be relatively pleased with your response as he gestures to the food, he too eats from his own plate. He’s not too interested in knowing what went on with your day as you spent it idly. It’s his fault for having given you nothing to do other than the pile of scrolls and books, ink and quill, and a loom you didn’t quite use as much as the books. You eat the food and find that it’s been cooked how you liked it back when you were a servant and made meals yourself. Was this perhaps his way of a peace offering for not giving you enough activities to stall your boredom?
Neither of you really speak, aside from a question and an answer here and there, as you dine to your heart’s content. You look up at as you place food inside of your mouth and find him absentmindedly touching his throat, and you sigh.
“I’ll have Lyra purchase you a boy.” You tell him. You’re not bothered by the thought of buying slaves now, and in a distant thought, you think that back then, when you were younger, it would have disgusted you. Especially for this purpose, as if you were buying a bag of milk to feed to your husband rather than perhaps a child, barely an adult, to be drained of blood. Briefly, you wondered if you’d be the same way as him if you had accepted his offer to “godhood” back then, no longer being able to enjoy the simpler things and looking at people he’s speaking to as beasts and food rather than beings with their thoughts and feelings.
Sika Madu’s offer of “godhood” meant damnation more than a blessing to you. You shudder, and the thought gradually disappears from your head after dinner.
Like you promised, you had one of your handmaidens— Lyra, purchase your husband a boy. No one in your villa questioned your husband’s odd choices or what he does with the people he’s ordered them to obtain. No one’s bothered to bring up what they had to dispose of either, and once again, you are reminded that the morals of your time and your world do not apply to this one.
You feel bad for the child, you really do, but you don’t do anything about it as he’s washed and presented to your husband. He smiles at the child, greets him warmly and gently gestures for the new boy to come closer, pale fangs peeking from delicate pink lips and golden eyes crinkling at the edges.
It’s twisted, you think as the boy approaches him, unaware of what will come next as Sika looks at you, then down at the boy in his arms— you look away the moment he opens his mouth, and once more, you hear the gurgle, the wet sound of someone choking on their own blood and a child’s strangled, shrill scream.
No one outside of your villa, or even in the hallways, seems to hear it.
And that night too, Sika Madu proclaims his love for you in a wet, bloody kiss. The unpleasant scent and taste of iron only serves to remind you of your differences.
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