𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙼𝙴𝙻𝙻 𝙾𝙵 𝙰𝚂𝙷 𝙸𝚂 𝙾𝙿𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙸𝚅𝙴, smoke & fog heavy on her senses, weighing her down beneath the stolen time of afternoon irretrievable from the claws of war. her head aches with it, her eyes sting from it, & there is little else for her to do but to steep herself in it, LONE & ALIVE. if she closes her eyes, lets the scent of burning thread - carcasses & dust wash over her, fingers the silver star she keeps hanging from her neck, she might make - believe her own death & dying. perhaps, with her wolf at her side, she does not need to pretend.
he is a balm to the open wound, an ice - press to the inflamed gristle & cracked bone that has become the woman once known by the name of natalya, the tsaritsa once known as a sparkling flash of ruby, & not the waif of gray - marrow skin that he holds in his arms. WAR - TOUCHED, WORN DOWN, WOMAN DOWN, she has no protest nor encouragement to give when he strips her down to her bruises. this is a rhythm they have come to find for themselves. it is not the first & not the last time that he is sent from okalingrad, his orders passed from the kamenserdtse to watch over her where the occupied eyes of her husband cannot. no protest, no encouragement, he knows what is to be done & knows all it is that she wants of him, SMOOTH - LIPPED & FANGED ALIKE.
her skin is too harsh to shiver in the cold as she is bared to nakedness, callouses & wounds & hard muscle every evidence the surgeon eyes & lover’s eyes alike would need to know how much she has worked herself away for this war ( 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚂𝙾 𝙳𝙸𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃 : 𝙱𝙾𝚃𝙷 & 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙰𝙼𝙴. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁 & 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙻𝙴𝚁 ). there is no flinch nor hint of pain to show as he uncovers her last wound & places the last pieces of her breaking armor neatly to the side. jonathan’s gaze is so soft, featherlight along her figure she nearly feels the push of tears against her eyes — SO UNUSED TO GENTLENESS NOW SHE CANNOT REMEMBER WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO TAKE IT WITHOUT WRETCHING IT UP AGAIN. natalya’s eyes squeeze shut against the sight of him, & in the darkness she feels his touch glide along her shoulders, cool & unfed fingertips trailing where none have in months. [ 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝚂𝙷𝙴, 𝙱𝙴𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚁 𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝚄𝙿 ? 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝚃𝙾 𝙵𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙷 𝚄𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝙽 𝚄𝙽𝙴𝚇𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚂 ? 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚆, 𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝙾𝙵𝚃𝙴𝙽, 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝙰 𝚆𝙾𝙼𝙰𝙽 ? ] the devil knows she is far past hungering — her starvation has swallowed her whole & sallow — & far past wanting. what has rooted & calcified itself into her bones is a need she does not have the stomach to look upon herself.
but he knows. he knows every corner & crevice of her where her desires may hide themselves. when he looks into the shadowed stone of her eyes he can find the unspeakable pleas that have piled & pressed themselves into rubies, edges sharpened by time & disregard. my love, he calls her. of all the names & endearments that might leave his lips in his polished cobblestone english — natya, natalya, your highness — this stands as the sole beacon that pulls her from darkness & loneliness alike. they are not human any longer, no, but together, perhaps they do not need to be.
in the midst of her thoughts, jonathan’s touch reaches her jaw, his cool fingertips ( a warmth lingers, small enough that it does not warm her own cold skin but enough to know that it has not been long since he last fed ) calling her eyes open to meet his gaze. the barest hint of bloodshot - veins color the whites, a starkness against the paleness of undeath that contours his face & shades the growing desire that pulls taut between them. HER BODY IS BEGINNING TO KNOW ITS ACHES, the adrenaline of battle dissipating into her arteries with each passing second, but the pain & hurt know no place in her mind when he takes her mouth in a kiss. jonathan’s own war - issued clothing litters the uneven floor in seconds, their hands finding one another as they likewise find themselves atop the rugs laid out in the tent. UNCEREMONIOUS, UNCOUTH, UNCARING, they fall into one another in the self - same rhythm they have played time & again : battle, blood, & body ; & when he takes her there on the ground [ 𝙵𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝙳 & 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚅𝙴𝙳 ], the hardened shell of the warrior she has so meticulously made for herself breaks free, & SHE CAN FORGET ( if only for a moment )
the blood that still stains her cheeks, her own & enemy’s alike, is mouthed away by his own growing hunger, & she feels the sharpness of his fangs nick at her skin ever more insistently with each movement of his hips against hers. natalya sighs, an exhale lost from her lungs as they press out the remaining distance between them & she holds his body close to hers : CHEST TO CHEST, no inch of skin spared in their nearness. it is his name that leaves her lips now, followed closely by her own mother - tongue endearments : her shadow, her wolf, her darkest night : & when he hears them he knows as intimately as he might know the ache of yearning & the taste of flesh what she asks of him. she remembers his reluctance when she had first asked it of him, the softness of his care, the worriedness so tied to his affections for her [ 𝙱𝚄𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙴, 𝙰 𝙺𝙽𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃’𝚂 𝙶𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝙵𝙴𝙰𝚁 𝙸𝚂 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙶𝙴’𝚂 𝙿𝙰𝙸𝙽 ], & here she feels a satisfaction so strong that it stings her eyes to know he would give her even this when given her assurance.
the hurried pace of his motions slows, & even the monster learns tenderness before tempest. you’re sure ? natalya catches hold of his gaze, a hand reaching to cup his face, the other taken to moving the thick curtain of scarlet hair that unfurls along her breasts to give him answer. SHE WATCHES HIM, wolfish, as his eyes drop to her skin & his fingers follow their path along her heart - vein. his touch traverses collarbone, hand cradling the heavy shape of her breast so gently her belly sings & her eyes well over, & she implores him only once, ❝ please. ❞
HER BREATH SHARPENS IN AN INHALE as his teeth puncture her flesh, breaking open her artery. her hands find purchase in his hair, only to slacken as the sting of pain cedes, replaced by the pleasant numbness she is so accustomed to that so heightens her bliss as he picks up his movement again. her lungs hold nothing back now, her throat all but an instrument of song as she gasps & whines beneath the sheer weight of sensation. SHE BURNS, even as he drinks from her, even as her blood warms him, even as her eyes roll back & her head swims with dizziness & lust alike. he is not greedy, has taken precaution against it in feeding beforehand, so the moment is over as quickly as it had begun. still, natalya’s moans do not stop as he pulls his fangs from her and suckles at the wounds instead, persisting FOUNTS OF SCARLET that he stays with his tongue. but her grip in his hair tightens once more, & she pulls his bloody mouth to meet her own.
it is with an uneven thrust & staggered breath that her undoing comes, the knot between her thighs bursting & every muscle in her body tightening around him. he follows suit, a lung - heavy growl eaten up in their kiss as he paints the hills of her belly red. her heart thunders against her ribcage as her body releases every hold on itself & she relaxes into the ground. jonathan likewise rests himself atop her, their bodies lost in the haze of pleasure’s forgetfulness. a droplet of crimson that had trailed from the edge of her lips to the edge of her jaw catches his sight, & he mouths the smear clean, whispering his affectionate praise against her ear, punctuating with a kiss to her cheek. when her lungs find their rhythm again & she once again takes stock of the bustle of night & the cool wind outside the thin cloth - walls of the tent, she manages a smile, arms moving to wrap about him.
she would’ve thought her second chances had run out by now. how many has she had ; two, three ? more than she deserves, plunged into the grave & brought back out to see the light of day again, & again, & again. IS IT FATE, LUCK, OR SOMETHING ELSE ALTOGETHER that keeps her from the eternal pit of death where so many have threatened she would go when her final days were up ? [ THEN AGAIN, SHE’S BEEN TO HELL, & FOUGHT HER WAY OUT. ]
once more, it seems this life isn’t quite finished with her —— but is it the same life, or something else entirely that has dug its claws into her mortality ? does she still possess such a thing at all ? when she convulses & rises from her lying, heaving with lungs that no longer need breath, IS IT EVEN THE SAME WOMAN ? it can’t be.
EYES SNAP OPEN, green irises so often thought to be alluring are now sickly saturated ; ENVIOUS FOR LIFE. she is caught between aching & learning how to ache again, between awareness & the lack of it, & when her chest swells & recedes with instinct, she does not know why it feels so odd, or why she forgets this oddness in favor of a thirst so heavy & ill within her that it is the only thing her senses can take. amidst it all, she takes in what she can of her surroundings, STRIKINGLY MONOCHROME, except for a jolt of red against a dark & shadowed canvas. were she standing, natasha would have stumbled forth towards it — but she is on her knees on the dull mattress & begins to crawl with all the gracelessness of the wakened dead.
𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 in the kitchen, watching winter tighten its grip on the land outside. Ice locks the ground into a slick and deadly state, impenetrable to the crack of any shovel. They are stranded, at least for the night, not even an Ekon can outmaneuver the elements. Jonathan sips his breaths through clenched teeth, tasting the frigid atmosphere just beyond these walls. The cold hooks into his sinuses like a shot of gin, burning rest of the way down. His heart is a metronome, a steady rhythm by which to mark the hours, a countdown to the true consequences of his actions.
A particularly vicious gust of wind rattles against the windowpanes, howling like a wolf in the desolate chill. Jonathan places his hand against the frost-fogged glass, his skin acclimating to the temperature so that it leaves behind no mark. The cold hasn’t bothered him for the last hundred years, but he’s still drawn towards heat like a serpent, seeking out the warm slashes of red the beast so desperately craves. He is alone in this apartment, Natasha a dark and motionless silhouette within the walls of her bedroom.
Until suddenly, the blossoming of a pulse in his periphery, weak as a guttering flame, the unsteady flicker of a new life; a newborn. An apt term for the state of second childishness they all awaken into. Infantile clumsiness, motivated solely by the sand in their throat.
He’s in the doorway of her bedroom in an instant, crowding the frame. It was in these first few moments he committed the greatest atrocity of his unlife, he will not allow Natasha to make the same mistake.
❝ Natya— ❞ He’s not sure if she can hear him over the blood frenzy, all senses set to the nearest flowing artery. He’s opened his veins for her before and will gladly do it again. ❝ Natasha, do you understand me? ❞
` you are quite cautious , mister reid , to so consistently skirt around the truth . ` it is the dead of night when he approaches the man beneath the light of a small lamp in amidst a more run-down part of the hospital . i knew that the streets weren’t safe at night–neither were they during the day–and had told my friend as much but he had deigned not to listen . intent, he was, on remaining in the building until the object of his curiosity slithered out from the woodwork . 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐬 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦; as instructed . he stuck to his word, of course, and had been sat in a dark corner of the room for a good few hours before his target arrived .
` i must admit ; this is a first for me . in all of my career i do not think i have ever spoken with a dead man . ` @unalived
𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍, 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 man, what do you see : your past rushing up to meet you where you stumble, loose ends unraveling into a million tiny threads; but it only took one to follow it back to the source. All these futile efforts to quell the rumors surrounding his death— how a man can go from missing in action to a locally contested mystery in only a few nights was a mystery to Jonathan. If he tried to keep his head any lower he’d end up burying it in the sand.
The good doctor turned to identify the voice, matching stares with well-dressed gentleman who, upon removing his hat, nearly reached Jonathan’s height. Expensively tailored and expertly bred, a fellow member of the upper class stuck out sorely in the dampened trenches of the East End.
❝ Pardon me, Sir? ❞ The bewilderment muddling his composure was genuine, he clearly hadn’t been expecting any kind of confrontation tonight. ❝ I don’t believe I was ever officially declared dead, even if that were the case, you can very well see for yourself the opposite is true. ❞ Sound in body and mind but not alive, not truly. ❝ I’m not sure what it is you’re implying, but if you wish to discuss this matter I would appreciate not doing it in my place of employment. ❞
dr. jekyll was the sort of man who liked to keep himself busy. between his usual work as a physician and his chemical experimentation on the side, he hardly had much time to spare, but when the plague had begun to stretch its creeping tendrils into the heart of the city, he’d been quick to volunteer his services. taking on works of charity was not entirely an unselfish decision — if he were to confront his motivations honestly, more weight would rest on the idea of how charity made him look in the public eye than on the genuine benefit of his actions. nevertheless, regardless of his reasons, here he stood. without smiling, he reached out a hand for dr. reid to shake. “ dr. henry jekyll, sir. a pleasure. ”
𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 proffered hand after only a moment’s hesitation, his touch as cool as the night air beckoning them further inside. ❝ Dr. Jekyll? I know your work. It’s an honor to have you. ❞ Any and all helped was needed, but that of a renowned physician was worth as many as ten extra pairs of untrained hands. ❝ I’m afraid there’s not much time to get you acclimated, I myself only started here a few days prior, but I would be happy to give you a quick tour of the hospital, if you so desire. ❞ A luxury he was not afforded upon accepting his position, but was willing to offer.
❝ uncle vanya ? ❞ she repeats the title while still stood at the counter - top, tending to her tea, though it is hardly a few seconds afterward that she turns to approach jonathan & read the promotion over his shoulder. ❝ i do like chekhov. ❞ natasha sets her mug down on the table, & leans forward to rest her chin into the crook between his neck & shoulder. ❝ that would be more than lovely, darling. ❞ & OF COURSE, she puntcuates the endearment with a kiss to his temple.
❝ 𝐈 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐘 mother having a copy of the original English translations. She was a great admirer of the theatre. ❞ She’d taken him to see a production of Salomé in the original French as a boy. The dancing princess who asked for prophets’ heads on silver platters. The image of the actress pressing John the Bapist’s cold lips to hers haunted his dreams for months after.
The newspaper slides out of view, replaced with a cool hand he sets against Natya’s cheek. ❝ Not your favorite of his plays? We could always find something else. His work always seems to be absolutely understood by the director, or not at all. ❞
𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 the sound of rain, lurching out of a nightmare he can barely rend to reality. Groping wearily at the side table, he snags ahold of his pocket watch, eyes instantly focusing in the darkness. Four o’clock, less than an hour before he’s expected. Jonathan throws himself out of bed not long after the sun sinks below the horizon, running from the memories he can feel brimming like a tide at the back of his skull. He knows nothing about the sleep of the undead, but something tells him it’s not meant to be so restless.
Routine helps, surrounded as he is by temptation. He’s been given the opportunity to reclaim and perhaps even justify this new existence; one foot in the world of the living, while the other sinks six feet under. One wrong step and he could fall forever.
He’s only just made it out of his office when a voice tears the wool from his gathering thoughts. ❝ Dr. Reid! ❞ A very harrowed looking Nurse Hawkins ascends the stairs to meet him, apparently unwilling to wait the thirty more seconds it would have taken him to reach reception. ❝ I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a patient here who needs to be seen and Dr. Tippets hasn’t had a moment’s rest since he started his shift. ❞ He does his best to allay her apologies, knowing full well she doesn’t mean a single one. ❝ Her name is Miss Vanessa Ives, she says she was previously treated by Doctor Swansea for the flu and is worried about her symptoms returning. She don’t need a bed, just a look-over. ❞
Jonathan nods calmly, accepting a clipboard with the patient’s information. ❝ I’ll see what I can do. Thank you, Nurse. ❞ She gives him a satisfied nod before taking off back down the steps.
A woman in black sits waiting for him in one of the less occupied corridors of the hospital. For a moment he’s stricken by the sight of her, dressed in shades of funereal gloom and looking everything like Mary did in her final moments. It isn’t until they lock eyes he finds the incentive to stop staring. ❝ Miss Ives, I presume? I’m Doctor Jonathan Reid, what can I do for you this evening? ❞
subtlety has never been a thing easily grasped by her. too domineering. too brash. she commands a room with her shadow alone. these attributes, beneficial at times, rears its head in sought after quiet moments. she does not want to be seen. not now, anyway.
her newfound interest in solace had been abrupt, sharpening her presence to a curt standoffishness that encouraged her family to give her space. not thinking much of it, reducing it to the very human desire of simply needing a break, violet had distanced herself from the tumult of her familial surroundings to experience the banality of every day life. uncharacteristic of her, perhaps, but a thing necessitated all the same. careening herself into boredom had left her surprisingly content. it also didn’t hurt that such a break vastly reduced her chances of being on the business end of a knife.
dwelling on her proverbial state of nonexistence, it is only when she rounds the corner of a bookshelf that her thoughts are baited back into reality. it’s not that she isn’t particularly delighted to see him, but her initial silence & the way the cloud of some ambiguous emotion washes over her face for the briefest moment would suggest otherwise.
violet studies him with all the enthusiasm of watching paint dry, eyes glossing over his face before she decides upon a tight-lipped smile. ❛ good to see you, too. i’d like to think my injuries build character. ❜
𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 what to expect, encountering Violet in such mundane conditions given the usual context of their relationship. She’s a creature in captivity and about as noticeable as a car crash with the way she rubbernecks passersby. One cannot blend into the background if they do not match its setting.
❝ I’m sure your assailants feel the same way. ❞ Jonathan’s eyes pinch with amusement, apparently taking no affront in her lack of enthusiasm. He can imagine it’s difficult to summon any kind of excitement for someone you’ve come to associate with pain; even if it is the kind of pain that comes by healing. His exasperation for her recklessness has just begun to border on endearment; a clearly dangerous sentiment for a woman so caught in her own mortality. Nine lives down and counting.
The pause in the conversation presses on his nerves, he’s always been better at asking questions than simple conversation. ❝ What book do you have there? ❞ He gestures, a brand new Gray’s Anatomy tucked under his arm. He wonders briefly how many stereotypes he might fulfill by explaining his intention to collect every volume.
He’d never placed much sentimental value in the things he owned before moving back to London; now it seems, material objects offer him a tether to the natural world, a way to define his increasingly nebulous identity. Immortality offers little permeance other than your own, and even that starts to rot after a couple hundred years, given the purulent company most of his kind makes.
❝ 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏 further! ❞ Jonathan makes himself known in the weary glare of the ranger’s torchlight. He does not so much step out of the shadows as they seem to part around him, dissembling like smoke in a breeze. ❝ Apologies, it wasn’t my intention to startle you, but you’re about to step on my mold. ❞ He gestures to the animal tracks he’d scrupulously filled with plaster twenty minutes prior to the ranger’s arrival.
She stopped in the middle of the hallway, turning to address the man who she assumed was speaking to her because she was the only other person there. Vera blinked in 𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚔 surprise, the action made fluid with practice, and she smiled. ❛ It’s quite alright. I was hoping to get myself situated tonight instead of in the morning. Could I 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 you to lead me to the correct wing? ❜
𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 more with uncertainty, unable to ascribe any logic to the gut-clench feeling of wrongness that comes by her stare. The shadows of her face seem to fall subtly awry, skewed by some impossible angle. ❝ Certainly. Do you know which unit you’ve been assigned to... ❞ He feigns the need to peer closer to her badge in the relative darkness of the corridor ❝ ...Dr. Romilly? ❞
Bright blue, near cyan her eyes, emitting a soft glow. A fault in her making, the supernatural pushing through her system, demanding to take up more in her than might be necessary. Perhaps her sire’s passion punished her so, but she knew not the reason for it. It could be the same reason why her senses spread beyond those of the living and her ears could pick up on the chatter and cries of those long dead yet still lingering. An abomination, an affront to nature. She is marked by those eyes, making hiding away very difficult, although her powers allow her to mask it should she choose to, but right now she is all too frazzled by what she just witnessed.
Her dress, though beautiful and now somewhat dirtied, is out of fashion by give or take twenty years. She blinks, her body still tense from fear, the comfort slowly starting to settle on her mind as she finally encountered a soul who seem to show kindness. “ I- I did not know, I was so lonely, I just needed friends. I thought London will welcome me back, I missed it so and now this… “ Her voice shakes, mind still trying to make sense of it all, the shock making it all the more difficult to gather her thoughts, but the shaking is starting to subside and although still out on the cold, dark streets, she believes his presence brings safety, even if her muscles twitch with the desire to flee every time she hears another one of those terrible shrieks in the distance.
“ Forgive me, I was roaming the streets, looking for familiar places but I had no idea what I would find. A creature, terrible looking gave me a chase and I ran for my life… I don’t understand what’s happening. “ Voice slipping in and out of collected and desperate, she is fighting to keep her manners and composure. No matter how bad things get, we always hold our heads high, her father would say and she tries her best to live up to it.
𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐒 𝐀 savior in him, not the tall, dark stranger to be warned about, not another synonym for slaughter. An honest mistake, in the right kind of darkness anyone can look like light. What qualifies a “kind face” if it’s the last one a person ever sees?
Jonathan loosens her grip on the lapels of his coat, gently coaxing a few centimeters of space from her grasping fingers. ❝ Have you not heard? There’s an epidemic, Madam, the city is under quarantine. ❞ It’d be nigh impossible for her to avoid the news; the flu is an international crisis, claiming more lives than the war that preceded its gestation. The newspapers call it the the most deadly outbreak of the modern age, neither civilian nor soldier is safe.
❝ The disease has certain—ah—mentally debilitating side effects... ❞ It’s not a graceful lie and he’s not sure how much more comfort it provides in comparison to the truth. To most people, anything is better than the unknown. Pulling back the curtain of night requires certain revelations not everyone is prepared for, Jonathan certainly wasn’t— isn’t, even as he attempts to settle her trembling form. His hands on her shoulders drop down like armored pauldrons, unyielding weight meant to reassure and defend.
With more than a scant of distance between them, he’s finally able to make out the peculiar way her eyes catch the light; before realizing they are in fact, in near complete darkness, and he’s only able to see her as well as he can because of what he’s become.
❝ Your eyes... Are you...like me? ❞ Not quite perhaps, he can sense similarities in their biology as well as contrasts. Different branches of the same, desiccated tree.
nonplussed, she watches him with a careful sort of anticipation as if awaiting the punchline to a joke that hadn’t had a particularly humorous set-up. even when the flame is proferred to her, she passively disregards it in a refusal to sever eye contact for even the most succinct of moments. after the silence stretches itself thin, thinner even more, violetta barks out a laugh that is equal parts disbelief & genuine amusement, albeit at the expense of herself.
❛ this may come as a shock to you, doc, but my level of eloquence leaves much to be desired. ❜ curt & critical. she thinks of how that had been her father’s expertise, bending insincere words into something salvageable & lovely. such a skill had forsaken her entirely. ❛ look, you know me better than they do. i hope you did the smart thing & told them they’re batshit if they think that’s a good idea. ❜
𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 a particularly deep inhale, smoke curling out the corners of his mouth when he flicks a burning ember directly into the ashtray. ❝ Not in so many words, but yes. ❞ The answer blurs his features, an ashy fog gathering above the doctor’s head like storm clouds.
❝ I’m afraid it’s not my call and I thought it would be suspicious to protest the choice too vehemently when I’ve been a staunch advocate of your family’s involvement in the hospital’s renovations. ❞ And to think, this all started with a stray bullet and the assumption that no one would be working as late as Jonathan was the night they met. ❝ Of course, you’re under no obligation to accept, but the administration may attempt to contact other members of your family in your stead. ❞
a man comes to the reversed , inside-out bowels of the world. the place which is no place , emerging from itself. here is the creaking wood , the howling wind which makes haunting. the king under the hill opens his eyes like night opens itself , dark , darker. he opens his body like he opens his eyes. here is the man in black unbodying himself from the shadow space , the shadow-light. this is almost-birth , the almost-genesis of him. the king stands in the middle of the room — and defines it. a room which returns to itself , not timidly , but feral. & confounding and chimerical and cannibalistic. the vines are bleeding from their thorns; the red like a flower , the flower like an eye , the eye watching and waiting. the man stands before the red eye of the hill.
have you ever seen a place be dismembered , jonathan reid ? , says the hill. ( the kingdom under it is a hall of mirrors. realm of lack , house of abundance. ) here is bloodflower , belladonna , dogbane , hyacinth. here is the wasp , the serpent , the spider , shrike , thorn and carcass. & ruthlessly , sweetly , like a lover’s mouth , the room that is not a room swallows them. deliciously , violently , a throne sprouts from the earth and spreads out its arms to the king. he sits. ❛ the children of the morrígan used to remember the stories. and they would refrain from walking into my kingdom. ❜
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐙𝐄𝐒 and expands around him, as if he were walking through the pumping valve of some massive organ. He is devoured, the belly of the beast opening up into an overgrown throne room; meat-red flora gently budding from the pulsating walls. There is a man who is not a man at the center of it all, crowned in blood and bone, the self-proclaimed sovereign of this underneath place.
Jonathan is an uneasy subject, hesitant to bow even when beckoned by the circumstances, but he does not shirk decorum. In this world of kings and queens slumbering beneath the earth, he’s come to learn that primordial creatures respect etiquette almost as much as the English. So he bows, low and formal and hoping to appease. Flowers rise to meet his face, sticky with pollen, and he feels a sneeze rise up to the roof of his mouth. Such a human reaction, he’d nearly forgotten how to suppress it.
❝ Forgive me, your Majesty. I didn’t realize I was trespassing. ❞ He finds the longer he tries to look at the King, the more fiercely he has to struggle to see him; eyes endlessly dilating in an invisible penumbra. ❝ I will gladly leave your kingdom, I need only know the way out. ❞ He tries to remember the rules about bargaining— is it the fae or gods you should never tell your full name?
HE EXTINGUISHES HER HOPES in the unforgiving nature of his words, affirming a deeply saturated disquietude within her person. The moment his grip relents, she yanks the blade free, white-knuckled hold drawing its serrated edge to the throat of Carrel. The metal plunges through the soft & damaged flesh of his throat where Jonathan’s fangs had already torn. The crime is thusly masked. Elisabeth lets the body fall upon its own weight, dropping the knife nearby with a clatter. YES, she had intended on making it appear a suicide, not unlike many whom evaded justice through this method; Carrel would become another statistic in a gradually growing ledger. Her eyes follow his collapse.
❝ Long ago, I asked you once if you trusted me. ❞ Elisabeth’s voice bridges the gap between the thud of Carrel’s deadweight & the heaviness that lingers in the air.
That gaze lifts a long moment later. She didn’t imagine meeting Jonathan’s eyes would ever cause her such grief as it does now. The war had taken too much. He did not understand that to be both judge & executioner would send him upon a path she’d already undertaken. There were far too many who perhaps deserved their wrath, but the addiction would overcome all reason. Eventually, deciding who should live & who should die becomes an impossibility; all that tends to matter in the end is the blood upon their lips.
❝ If that hasn’t changed, I need you to trust me now, Jonathan. ❞ So comes the plea. Even now, she finds herself becoming overwhelmed by the alluring scent of blood within the room. She’d starved herself for too long; the temptation was utterly dizzying, a familiar call to drown. Elisabeth steps over the body of the man towards her partner, her hand seeking out his as she had done many times before.
❝ I followed you here because I am concerned for you. This role you have assumed – it is a dangerous one. I’m disappointed, Jonathan, but above all I am scared. It needs to stop. You must let it go. This is far beyond any concern regarding your ability to cover your own tracks. We are not the law! ❞
𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐘 as she stabs through the wound, marring the inelegant tear of flesh even further. Once, he would have looked upon the sight with equal amounts of nausea and hunger. Now he feels nothing, not even that ever-present itch in the back of his throat, beckoning him towards heartbeats like low-hanging fruit.
Emotionally anesthetized by abundance, as if he’s fled behind the walls of his own righteous anger, peering out at the wreckage through an armored slit in his mind. Yet, he’s hyperaware of the way her eyes land on him, Carrel’s body slumping from hand and crumbling back to the floor. It’s a look he recognizes from their harrowed past, once backlit by open flame; a rictus of pain and desperation that frames her every word with a terrible sense of finality.
❝ Trust is meant to be reciprocated, Elisabeth. ❞ He retreats further into spite, bunkering down behind old defenses. That dark seed his father had warned him about, planted deep in the marrow of his rage; he feels it sprouting, choking his reason with red-hot vines. Their enemies followed their whims with loaded guns, never hesitating on the draw— why should he now that they’re the ones running?
❝ The law would have let him go free! ❞ His hand tears away from her grasp, gums flashing on the edge of a snarl. There are forms of justice far older than the court. Eye for eye, one death might counterbalance a thousand if the victim’s crimes are great enough. Conductor, soldier, sympathizer, a list of his own, tallied to illegibility. ❝ The law doesn’t mean anything anymore. Look around us, this city is a graveyard. ❞
❛ GOD PLAYED NO HAND IN OUR CREATION. ❜ and that is the beauty of vampirekind, by dracula’s humble estimation. the immortals, dracula’s bestial descendants, prey wholly upon that which GOD loves. ❛ the vampire is my vision, and my progeny, alone. if that is unnatural… so be it. ❜ this, he utters with grim satisfaction.
@unalived / ♡
𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 on abomination; a god of rot and withering. He does not offer the guiding hand of a father, but the whip of a tyrant. Dracula, general to his offspring, making child soldiers of full grown men. ❝ You may be my creator, but you are not my master. ❞
the first sound of a voice in the darkness nearly stopped frankenstein’s heart in his chest. with a yelping cry, he whipped around, scrambled back, and flung a hand down to the knife at his belt, which, with some difficulty, he extracted from its sheath. he had always kept a weapon on him as a precaution, but he had hoped he would never have cause to use it. his surprise at the arrival of this pale-skinned gentleman, however, was very soon struck away by the sudden thrill of sheer terror that went shooting through his blood at the sound of the unholy shriek from further afield. sucking in a short, panicked breath, frankenstein twisted his head aside to stare into the blackness that surrounded the cemetery.
“ —what was that? ”
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐃 on him, a small knife clutched between his trembling fingers like a rosary. ❝ It wasn’t my intention to scare you, I apologize— I mean you no harm. ❞ The sun had long slunk below the horizon, trading way for his silver cousin’s auspicious beams. Stars feathered the atmosphere, cold glints piercing the summer gloom; a good night for gazing, if not for the increasingly dangerous setting. ❝ A vagrant, sir, nothing more. ❞ Another inhuman screech punctured the air, undermining his explanation. ❝ Allow me to show you the exit. ❞ A hand outstretched in front of him, offering escape as if from on a silver platter.
AN ANALYSIS: The UNIQUE & INNATE ABILITIES / SKILLS of EKONS
WITHIN PROVIDED VAMPYR LORE, we come to understand there are two main classification types of high-blood ekon ( vampires ) – SHADOW & BLOOD. Each bloodline comes with its own unique & EXCLUSIVE branches of skills/traits that are non-transmutable to the other, save for the exception in an exceedingly rare third type, which I will deem a HYBRID of the two bloodlines. INNATE ABILITIES are also included below. I will begin the study with an analysis of each bloodline, then conclude with with skills ELISABETH herself possesses. This study is dually created with the generous help & resources of @twelvedreamsfortheredqueen. I have cut the post simply to be courteous to those on the dashboard ; the entire study is below the read-more. Every ability has visual reference provided for your convenience.
