Height: 7âČ4. Heâs much taller/larger than most elves. All the Dracones are.
Appearance: Brutish, muscular, a champion athlete. His long black hair turned white when he became a vampire. He shaved it off and it never grew back. He occasionally wears wigs in public and a hood to hide his red glowing eyes.
Living Status:Â Undead
Romance:Â Mind-linked to @lillandyrshadowglade, falling in love with @seralahbloodhaven
Orientation: Bi/Pan heâs centuries old⊠tried it all
Profession:Â Dracone Heir (Dracones are obscenely wealthy treasure hoarders), No known professions. Records have been erased.
Interests/Skills:Â Fight and weapons training, hunting for cultists, blacksmithing, playing his harp, music, art books, all types of vice.
RP: Horror, Science, Dark Romance, Dubcon, Mature, Humor. No 'slice of life' RP, no happy endings. No babies, no children. He does not move within social circles anymore. You are welcome to try, or poke him with a stick for fun. Antagonistic.
Rumor has it...
...being the eldest of twins, he was never the same after his sister went missing, presumably slain when the scourge attacked. Despite fending off hundreds, they were no match for an unprepared house. Aronsen went to battle with his brother Heathcliff and their cousin Leonardo to seek something to sink their anger into.
Heathcliff came back dead, his head sewn back on. Aronsen... as a former San'layn slave and champion, his thirst forever his torment. Leonardo served the San'layn willingly but returned to give up any allegiances save the House Dracone as their spymaster. All are shunned from society but their money still carries heavy influence. They still enjoy the privileges of a long-powerful noble house.
Aronsen was rumored to once be a great champion, winning numerous tournaments and favored to be the Duke of House Dracone. Positioned for royalty, rule and riches. These honors long gone, he remains out of the champion circuit. Some say a fighter all in black will clean-up the Northrend Tournament every few years or so but these are probably fabrications.
Heathcliff and Aronsen watercolor by @lillandyrshadowglade:
TW: graphic description of remains, desecration of remains, murder, emasculation, violence, blood, implied self gratification, mind control
Tristan stood at the mouth of the cave under anemic moonlight, eyes flat like smooth, black river stones. He had not come here to stop an evil man, though it would be easy and inevitable as breathing to do so. Vividly, he fantasized about pulling this man apart by all the invisible particles that comprised him. He would erase him from the golden spiral lattice of existence until not a soul remembered him. Until he never, ever was.
But future prophecy compelled Tristan to endure the disgraceful company of this haunted meat.
The rotten, syrup sweet stench of decay fouled the spring evening breeze. He heard Rhuenâs gasping and grunting, animalistic in the dark mouth of the cave made humid by the off gasping of corpses. The flutter of something dark snagged his gaze and attention. It was a clump of long, dark hair, frayed by wind and exposure. Unbidden, he tormented himself with the memory of Nesnoraâs inky strands flowing through his fingers.
Disgust and fury propelled him farther into the cave, to stand before the shrine of an evil manâs depravity. Tristan removed the sound of his steps from the air so the kick would be more of a surprise.
When his boot connected with Rhuenâs ribs, it was as lovely and gratifying as heâd imagined it would be. The reddened face, dissolving from aberrant pleasure into agony. The strangled, cowardly yelp and whine. The woosh and hiss of breath. The dry twig snap of bone. His lips curled into a slow, self indulgent smile.
âYouâre getting sloppy again. Shitting where you eat. I could smell your littleâŠdin nearly a mile away.â Tristan canted his head, looking at Rhuenâs shiver and cry, rolling on the floor of the cave struggling to pull up his trousers. Amusing of him to think he had any dignity to preserve.
âOoh,â he said flatly, âI understand. A moment of clarity and in rolls the guilt youâve no right to.â He slid his gaze to the side to rest on the body of a woman, skin now a sickly green, delicate features warped and bloated from decomposition. Most of her dark hair had been shed but one of her eyes was less closed than the other and a brilliant blue.
To destroy beauty without purpose was so intolerable that he viciously kicked Rhuen over and over, spittle on his chin, black hair wild. Until the man squeaked like a dying pig.
Tristanâs chest heaved as he smoothed back his mussed hair. âYou will clean this mess properly,â he commanded.
âIt doesnât matter,â Rhuen wheezed. âI donât have anything left.â
âNo. You donât. The Dracones took all the things you coveted. Do you know why?â He smiled. âThey are better men than you. Stronger. More cleverâŠbetter looking.â He reached down and snatched up Rhuenâs discarded shirt and cleaned the bloodied tip of his boot as though heâd stepped in something unpleasant. âOf course beautiful Arinsen Dracone stole your young wife away.â He hmmâd. âShe fucked him on your wedding nightâŠin your house. And what is it you do? Destroy these women. Does it make you feel like the big man? Or is it the only thing that makes your pathetic cock hard these days?â
He tchâd at him sharply when Rhuen tried to blubber excuses, scolded him like a dog that had messed on the carpet.
âSpeak to me again and Iâll remove your tongue.â He heaved a sigh. âWhen I kill you, and I will, in the same way you tortured them,â Tristan said, making a sweepy gesture, encompassing the all the snuffed lives in the cave, âit will be my parting gift to the world. Existence with you removed from it.â His smile was thin.
âYou will give the bodies of these women to the sea. Tonight.â
He gave the dead woman a lingering look before he left and tried not to think of her.
Nycassia knew grief and disappointment. The sting of betrayal had been a companion before. She watched from the gray tower of Castle Dracone, letting the sun hurt her eyes. Even from her lofty perch, she knew the face of Tristan Black. And she would have braved the sun and a dragon to get her hands around his throat, but it all happened so quickly and he was gone, taken aloft on leathery wings.
Bloody tears of rage made angry little rivers down porcelain pale cheeks as she watched him take yet another precious thing from her. Her mother, her beautiful sister Eramyn, little, sweet Lillandyr. Her mortal life. He had made a monster of her father. Of her. Now he took love away from her too. To have it dangled in front of her long after she had lost hope to ever taste it seemed so cruel, Nycassia decided she must deserve this. It had to be some sort of divine punishment, a lash from a heavy hand to rebuke the evil she had done.
There could be no salvation for her, her soul was lost and gone in the greedy grasp of perdition. She knew this was true but wondered why it hurt so much.
For a moment, betraying her father and walking right into the enemyâs mouth, she felt brave. She let down her defenses and sought redemption. How had it all gone so wrong? She had tried to warn Nesnora. Sheâd spoken aloud breathlessly to the strange spirit of the castle, the source of its magic. Begged the threat be taken seriously. But it had all crumbled anyway.
It was this that sent her out of the now empty room. She looked like a wraith in her white nightgown and bloody curls, face streaked with crimson tears as she drifted down empty, dark corridors. A branch of the iron tree was somewhere within the labyrinthine walls.
âI will find it,â she hissed in the dark, her rage making her dangerously ravenous. âI will find it and sink it into Tristan Blackâs heart.â
It wouldnât be easy to find this time. Tristan had hoped to end every Dracone on the first try. Heâd come so close. He wouldnât leave anything to chance this time. He had retreated because heâd had a prize to take with him. Heâd be back and would put her head on a pike right next to the Dracones. He might as well. He had taken the last remains of her heart.
Her relentless search spanned days until she climbed over crumbling, ruined and ancient parts of the castle. Then she sank into its depths, reaching deep into the earth until tunnels bore her to a cavern that opened wide into the sea. Offerings of wine on rock slabs, moldering fruit and prayers rolled into tight scrolls. Incense and bones. Jewels.
Nycassia didnât like the silent pleading of mortal things, so desperate for a whisper from a god who wasnât there. She had tasted death and it had been only darkness. To worship was to hold a candle in a storm. Meaningless. Foolish. What would a god want with these paltry trinkets?
The tunnel collapse came shortly after. As if the castle began to fall apart without its magic. It became a great, ancient corpse and it trapped her in its stone belly. She knew the dangers of the waters outside. She heard the feral, keening song of the mermaids. Every night they cried for their lost sister. Nycassia did not want to die at their merciless hands. She would choose the obliterating sun over the madness of starvation.
Then the women came, looking for their god. They danced and enticed, offering slender throats and soft arbs without fear. They shed the trappings of their sacraments, pale skin luminous in the moonlight. Nycassia was gentle with them, allowing them their misguided worship. The heavens might be deaf and empty but she was here.
And hungry.
As the women left after they danced and took their pleasure, Nycassia took one woman by the hand.
âStay with me until the sun rises, sweet one. Iâll bless you and give you my deepest kiss,â she cooed.
It took no more convincing.
In all of her grief and rage and hurt, she was the devil, not a god. It was no gentle last kiss. Nycassia let herself become the monster again, except this time the choice was hers and no foul magic compelled her. Heartless and pitiless, this woman would not return to her temple with her sisters. Nycassia fed her body to the sea, to the mermaids driven mad with anger and grief.
Then, when the sun rose, her body leaden with torpor, she sank into violent, wicked nightmares of becoming a god trapped in a cave, devouring the faithful until her mind was gone.
Ahnariel returned to him and though she moved effortlessly in a gliding, spiral descent, Tristan saw her side painted with blood and a gash in her ring. He understood this meant she was attacked. He understood that meant she hadâŠretaliated. Good. One less Dracone to have to deal with, and the death of one of their own would leave them vulnerable with grief.
He gazed up at his half sister, assessing the clean slice through the thin, leathery membrane of her wing. âYou can still fly. You will bear me to the castle now.â It would pain her, perhaps, but it was time for both houses to know his face and to see the blood on his hands. The moment drew swiftly near and this time, all the pieces were in their places.
She lowered herself and extended her foreleg so he could climb on her back. He expected a fight, he realized. A muscle in his jaw gave a violent tic. He wanted a fight. Tristan had long ago tired of whispering into ears. He wanted to get his hands dirty. He allowed himself a brief smile of indulgent pleasure.
Tristan closed his eyes. It was the closest to true flight he would ever have. This taste would have to be enough. But it tasted bitter and was over swiftly. Once she landed at the end of the courtyard, looming behind him, huffing aggressively, he slid off her back. He strode forward, one hand on the pommel of his blade.
Through the gray haze of smoke, he saw two figures. Is that all they had to set against him? As the wind cleared the courtyard and whipped at his long, black hair, Tristan saw and knew the men who came to strike down the threat despite having no chance at success. Aronsen Dracone and Varistan Sunmourne. He held his hands out at his sides, fingers splayed, showing he came to talk.
But before he could even open his mouth, Varistanâs face twisted in rage and he took several steps forward, smoothly drawing his blade. âYou! You slick motherfucker!â He shouted.
Tristan smiled thinly and made no move for his own sword. âI never fucked your mother,â he said, voice smooth, amused, âI fucked your sister. Eramyn wasâŠquite insistent I distract her from her studies.â
Varistan made an inarticulate sound of rage and rushed him. In one smooth motion, Tristan pivoted on his heel and drew his blade. When Varistanâs swing inevitably went wide, Tristan smacked him hard on the back of the head with the flat of his blade. This made Varis stumble and cry out sharply.
âMove against me again and your father will have only a corpse to be disappointed in,â Tristan said. âLord Dracone, I have come to broker peace.â He stepped away from Varistan.
He stood before Aronsen Dracone who towered over him. Ahnariel growled, the low sound buzzing his teeth.
âYou will parlay with me and no more blood need be spilled. Test my mercy and refuse me hospitality?â Tristan leaned in, so Aronsen could see the dark glitter of pleasure in his eyes, hear it in his lowly spoken words. âThere are soft, precious things in your castle and I will delight in tearing them apart.â
He watched his words land, triggering immediate horror and fury and his body tensed, heart racing with the desire for this confrontation.
But it never came because the doors to the castle creaked open.
There she stood as though not a day had passed, like a beautiful, nightmare come to condemn him for his ill deeds. He couldnât recall commanding his flesh to move. The gravity of her drew him immediately into her orbit, his face stricken, his sword falling from numb fingers to clatter on the flagstones.
Eyes stinging with tears, he lifted shaking hands to cup her face. He had to know the solid warmth of her. Tristan felt he was going mad as his lips curled into a trembling smile. His breath huffed out of him.
âNesnora,â he said her name with such reverent care that it made the most ardent prayer seem pale. âYouâre alive.â
He had never been so pleased to see a plan of his fail. Of course it would fail with her. He dropped his hands when she recoiled, face twisted in righteous, beautiful fury. Nesnora drew back her hand and slapped him so hard it snapped his head to the side and spattered his blood to the courtyard.
Slowly, he turned his face back to her, licking at his bloodied lip. He knew that all that stayed Aronsenâs hand as he leaned into Nesnora was the snarling dragon displaying rows of serrated teeth in protective threat.
His lips brushed the elegant curve of her ear as he murmured to her, âThere is no other hand I would suffer such indignity. None but yours.â He drew back slowly, inhaling deeply, wanting to drown in the smell of her. Familiar but stolen from memory by time. His entire body hummed with the reminder.
âI will speak only to you,â he said, amending his plans swiftly. âNowâŠmy little, dark star. Invite me inside and make lasting peace with me.â
Seralah had never once questioned the methods of science and discovery. Creation, found through experimentation, required sacrifices. And sacrifice was supposed to hurt. There had never been a price too steep to pay for progress, even her own life and well being.
But watching Aronsen writhe in agony, seeing his back bubble and split open spewing black blood that eventually ran crimson, she felt the horrible crush of guilt and regret. Sera felt monstrous. His suffering was a price she never wanted to see him pay. Not for her. Not for anything.
When he screamed, the agonizing sound broke her heart and drove her to her knees, trembling hands hovering over him, afraid her touch would cause yet more pain.
Sera screamed too when the wings tore through his back, spraying her with his blood, knocking over furniture. She squeezed her eyes shut, wholly overcome with grief and terror. âPlease stopâŠplease,â she beggedâŠnothing. The air. No god would hear her. And the science she used to inflict this was cold and uncaring, without mercy.
When she blubbered that she would never do this to him again and begged him to please be all right, her face wet with tears, voice choked with sobs that smeared her words together to near incoherence, she still had her eyes squeezed shut.
It was Aronsen who grasped her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. Guilt that had to comfort her too nearly choked her, but then she opened her eyes and saw beauty her mind could scarcely comprehend. Aronsen stole her breath.
For once, the immediate desire to sample and study fled and she gazed into the burnished gold of his eyes. The hair, long and silky black, was such a surprise, she laughed through her tears.
âHow beautiful you are,â she breathed, touching his face. âIâm so sorry. I would rather die a thousand times than ever do that again.â
Her mind spun out with crashing thoughts and somehow found their way to Leonardo. She nearly sprang to her feet to go pull the silver needles, the delivery system of her tranquilizer, from his joints that had him pinned like a butterfly to a board. Lottie was right. Sheâd hurt him and pushed forward when she should have offered comfort.
But Aronsen captured her curious, ardent focus. She didnât want to solve the mystery of it just yet. She just wanted to love him in gratitude that he was all right. So, she showered his face in trembling kisses, fingers threaded through his hair, delighted by the novelty of it. He looked so much sweeter and softer with hair and sheâd never have the heart to tell him she preferred him bald. Sheâd get used to it.
The kisses grew passionate swiftly. Being reminded that life was precarious seemed to make Sera quite amorous and Aronsen never failed to rise to the occasion.
But then the lights went out.
At first, nothing could rouse her from the present task of trying to unfasten the too many buttons of her dress. It was clumsy business trying to disrobe and kiss at the same time.
Finally it was the cold and cavernous feeling the room took on suddenly that made her break away breathlessly.
In the pale moonlight, her eyes widened in horror. She was bathed in moonlight because there was a section of wall gone. And not recently gone. It looked as though it had crumbled away centuries ago.
âAronsenâŠ,â she said thinly, voice high with anxiety.
âSomethingâs wrong with Manus,â he said and Sera immediately agreed. The magic of the castle seemed to have vanished.
âIs itâŠbecause we skipped his dinner?â She wondered, feeling the bite of guilt.
Aronsen shook his head, expression so grave and serious, Seralah felt her insides shiver.
âNoâŠthis is bad,â he said, standing and pulling her up with him.
âWe should go to the lab. Bring everyone else there too,â Seralah said, helping Aronsen dress. A shirtâŠwasnât possible given the wings.
Aronsen agreed it was a sound decision. Heathcliffâs laboratory had been created with mundane labor and was not under the influence of Manus's magic.
Sera and Aronsen gathered her terrified and weeping cousins on the way. The laboratory was immediately comforting. The lights and sterile environmentâŠsterile save for the wrecked mess theyâd swept and gathered to one side, but even with that, seeing it unchanged gave her courage.
After a shot of whiskey she found in Heathcliffâs desk, Seralah calmed and soothed her cousins, with the help of an herbal tincture, while Aronsen went to find Roval and everyone else.
Seralah paced around Leonardoâs prone form, tapping her lips with her fingers. Sheâd called out to Lottie but her sisterâs spirit hadnât answered her. She didnât want to do not one more thing to Leonardo without Lottie there. She refused to hurt him again.
She fanned her stinging eyes and blinked rapidly, trying to dry her tears. There were too many things to fret over but Lottieâs silence frightened her the most. Was sheâŠgone? Gone forever?
Behind her Lenora shrieked. âWhatâs HE doing out?!â
Seralah whirled around, swiping a scalpel off a surgical tray in automatic instinct, brandishing it with protective bared teeth even as tears snaked down her cheeks. Leaning a hip on the doorway of the lab, holding his elegant hands up in a gesture of peace and surrender was Lord Varistan Sunmourne, Manusâs prisoner and Lady Lillandyrâs brother.
âSettle down, ladies,â he said smoothly, his voice indulgent velvet. âIâm here as friend not foe. And the library doors were openâŠeverything is a terrifying ruin. I wasâŠadmittedly frightened. Found my sword though!â He tapped his fingers on his rapierâs hilt.
âLord Varistan,â Sera began, voice trembling and low, âthis laboratory is full of things that could do worse than kill you and I know exactly how to administer all of them. At the first sign of shenanigans, I will show you no mercy!â
He held up his hands again as he strode into the laboratory. âOhâŠI think youâll find we have much bigger problems than me,â he said. âThereâs a fucking dragon outside.â
Seralah was still adjusting to living in the Castle. It's oddities thrilled her, but her personal problems persisted. Her employer confused her and Rhuen hadn't sent a thing for Valentine's Day, a day she used to quite like. As a child she delighted in making elaborate cards with pasted lace and ribbon to give to secret sweethearts. Candy that threatened to crack her teeth and red velvets worn unashamed. Now the Castle's walls felt like a nun's boarding school and it vexed her greatly. There was no one else to share these silly delights with and she was too polite to ask Manus for frivolous celebrations. It was also embarrassing to mention to Heathcliff. Frowning, she stirred her evening tea cold in the foyer feeling quite sorry for herself.
A low hum, the beautiful tenor of a man singing echoed closer until Aronsen appeared with a wide smile and energetic greeting. He nipped the fringe of Seralah's ear with his fingertips which startled her. Aronsen hadn't touched her since teaching her how to swim in the infamous pool.
"Good MorningâŠ" he yawned. It was nearly nine in the evening but for a hungry vampire, his day was getting started. His black shirt was open, beautiful bare chest distracting as Seralah watched him sprawl casually on the same couch she was sitting on. Her body lifted as he offset her with his on the same cushion. The clinking spoon was moving loudly and unnecessarily in her cup.
"Good⊠morning to you on this lovely evening, Aronsen. I didn't expect you up this early. I apologize for any intrusion." she set her cup down on the coffee table politely.
Aronsen sat up and looked her over like he was reading her silence. A slow smile crept across his face.
"You've had an awful day. Let me guess⊠nothing in the mail? No love letters or sweet chocolates?"
Seralah looked hurt, her face melting. "That's a presumption I didn't deserve to hear." she said, wounded. "I'm far too old for such frivolities. I decided to take an invigorating serum, if you must know." she said, smoothing her black dress. "So I may focus on work instead ofâŠ"
"Getting spoiled with treats?" Aronsen teased, leaning in with his elbow close to her on the couch. Her face flushed.
"Precisely. In fact, I have much to accomplish so unless you want to helpâ"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Yes, I want to help."
Seralah blinked rapidly, looking him in the eyes. He wasn't teasing and the gold veins threading through them soothed her as she stared. She stood, heart pounding as she acted professionally.
"Well. Ok. Meet me in the greenhouse with some clippers then. I could use your height." she smiled with excitement as he gazed up at her. It took her a moment to realize she was nibbling on her bottom lip. He rose slowly and stood in front of her. She forgot how tall he was until she had to look up.
"I'm bringing snacks. You need to eat if you're forcing your body to stay awake."
Aronsen didn't wait for her reply, he was already heading towards the kitchen. Seralah opened her mouth to protest but followed him instead, curious about what a vampire would make for a snack.
He asked Manus for a bowl of melted chocolate and a basket of strawberries. Seralah watched him dunk an entire strawberry in, stem and all while getting it all over his fingers. She scrunched up her nose and laughed.
"Not like that! Oh no you have it all over your fingers."
Instantly she knew this wasn't ignorance. Aronsen gave her a brief smile before elegantly sucking the chocolate off the tip of his finger. Her eyelashes fluttered with the rising pink in her cheeks.
"Manus? White chocolate too, please." she asked sweetly, standing close to Aronsen as he dipped more strawberries properly. She submerged the head of the spoon and drizzled it over the ones he prepared.
"We'll need something to drink." Aronsen said lightly as Seralah arranged the decorated fruit on a platter. "Champagne. Have you ever seen where our reserves are? You should know what our best tastes like if you ever entertain friends here."
Seralah never considered this. She had great desires to invite her precocious cousins someday. Perhaps this could be educational.
"That seems prudent." she said with a lilt as she followed Aronsen down a stony spiral to a wine cellar beneath the kitchen. Rows of bottles on shelves receded into darkness. Aronsen looked up at a shelf even taller than he was. Grinning, he turned to Seralah.
"Would you mind?" he asked, walking closer to her. His hands circled around her waist, smoothing up her sides. Her breath hitched at his gentle touch but he stopped under her ribs.
"What?" she asked, unable to think as his hands were on her.
"Mind if I lift you? To retrieve that bottle. I don't know where the ladder is." he explained.
Seralah laughed nervously. Maybe a little too loud.
"YES! I mean yes, that is fine. Apologies I didn't know what you wanted." she said, looking up at him. His smile was anything but polite but his hands were. To her surprise he bent down and bunched her dress against her, lifting her by her thighs to sit on his left shoulder. She had to hold his neck for balance as she squealed a small "oh!", adjusting.
"Go ahead, I've got you. Reach that bottle with the gold foil, right in the middle. Yes. That one. You've got it. Perfect."
Aronsen set her down gently and took the bottle from her, inspecting. He blew off centuries of dust, winking at her before shuffling back upstairs.
He insisted they stop in the library for books. She frowned with frustration as she followed him, carrying the basket of chocolate strawberries and now the champagne.
"What is this diversion for, exactly?" she asked, her puzzlement bewildering her. Aronsen smiled and piled some books into the basket he now insisted on carrying.
"Well we shouldn't waste your work day snacking without being productive. Something to⊠stimulate your mind while your belly fills with strawberries. While you regain your energy."
She frowned at his logic but didn't feel like arguing. It was quite nice to be around him and the way he looked at her made her cheeks warm and wanting more.
The greenhouse was glowing with roses that faded the twinkling stars behind the glass. The heady scent filled Seralah as Aronsen led them inside.
"I can lift you up to cut those samples up thereâŠ" Aronsen mused while pointing at some rather lush, untouched roses high above their heads. "But you'll need to change into something more practical."
Before she could argue, Aronsen asked Manus for help with a quirked grin. "Manus, please conjure us up proper clothing for this activity." he worded carefully. Their skin tingled as Manus conjured outfits on them to match. Hers was a ruby-red velvet feminine pant suit with satin bows and lace trim everywhere, flaring cutely at the waist. His was more casual but still dressy, a white shirt with a flash of red cravat at the neck. Seralah gasped and was so flustered she didn't know how to respond.
"This is⊠this is fine." she said, worrying her face was the same color as her wonderful new clothing.
They spent an hour cutting roses. Seralah would clip them with her sharp shears as she stood on his shoulders and he held her legs firmly. The flowers fell on his head and landed in piles around them. They chatted about her experiments and why she needed the very best specimens, instructing him from time to time on where to stand next. The greenhouse floor was a carpet of roses still pulsing with amethyst light.
"That should be enough." Seralah concluded, huffing with satisfaction as Aronsen lifted her down to her feet. He asked Manus for a picnic blanket and the round padded cloth settled on the floor with blooms encircling it. The strawberries and champagne were set out and Seralah found herself a little peckish afterall. Aronsen popped the champagne in a clever way, catching any spray to fill their glasses quickly which made her giggle. He settled in close to her, snatching a book of poetry. Manus started playing soft violin music as he read to her, adjusting his large body until eventually she found it most comfortable to see the ink illustrations sitting in his open lap. Mouth full of strawberries and champagne, she interrupted him to comment briefly.
"I'm so glad you helped me work today. This was a very productive day. So much better than indulging in some silly holiday. We should do this more often. We're a great team."
Aronsen smiled and turned the page.
"Yes, let's ignore every holiday together. I'm glad we agree."
Aronsenâs eyes were wide with anticipation. He said nothing as Seralah injected him with her experimental serum, offering a trust no other being held before. There was little sensation in his veins other than a cool spreading. Disappointment washed over him and he smiled to hide it, standing up heavily. His hand reached for the top of her delicate black bun and kissed her hairline as a lingering thank you for trying before taking her hand to leave the lab. Heâd find a way to battle these vampire instincts. Thoughts of Nycassia were already pushed away from their taunting by the time his hand opened Seralahâs door.
Like a switch, everything he felt he was changed. Liquid fire screamed through his veins all at once. He collapsed loudly to his knees, hands falling forward to catch himself.
âWHOA.â He warned, bracing himself for this sensation. It wasnât pain, it was something worse. It felt like erasure, an attack. His golden heart no one had ever seen connected with the living Dracone blood in the injection violently. The heart didnât reject it, it devoured it. Hungry for blood it never dared taste, he was glad Roval was still in the lab. Reeling from these desires passed as the living blood settled into every vein and root. A cocktail of magic and blood fighting with forces no one yet understood.Â
Crawling to the bed, Aronsen heaved himself messily onto the surface, pulling on sheets to adjust his anguished body. Seralah was fretting about him, wringing her hands with a grimace of concern. She was talking fast but he couldnât really understand what she was saying. Only his thundering heart pounded in his ears. His eyes opened bright with golden light, all the red gone. They lit up the dark room making pulsing halos of magic ripple from his skin. The power from his secret fatherâs ancient song had him ripping off his clothing, desperate to have nothing on. He hunched over on all fours nude, back arched as his skin smoked on his shoulder-blades, boiling and popping with angry red gashes. Aronsen screamed as a protrusion tore from each wound. He let this howl from his belly as it grew impossibly, the magic finding no other place to go.Â
Black blood poured out down his back until it slowed and trickled into a bright red. Large, wet wings unfolded, smashing lamps and knocking over everything in their way as they uncurled. An impossible array of black feathers like raven wings stretched from wall to wall before elegantly retracting into a fold. Aronsen laid on his belly, breath coming out him in short gasps. He took great effort to turn his head, which was now covered in long black hair with tips of pure gold. Dazed, he looked at Seralah as he shook violently, face changing rapidly into a strange, serene relaxation. His voice had an edge of echo to it, like he was talking in chorus with himself.Â
âSeralah⊠I feel... fantastic.â He said, unable to stifle a giddy laugh. Her expression was wide and unreadable. âBut why the fuck do I have... wings?"
Inside one of Castle Draconeâs greenhouses was a beautiful, deep pool that showed you treasures of the heartâs deepest desires at its bottom. Seralah had been fascinated with it since sheâd first seen it and secretly returned to it often. Her first experience with it haunted her with possibility.
It had been the day sheâd met Aronsen and confessed to him she didnât know how to swim. A childhood spent in a sick bed saw her missing out on summers spent in swimming holes, learning with other children. Cheekily, Hesthcliffâs older brother had offered to teach her, promising heâd let no harm befall her. Sheâd wound her arms around his neck and heâd pulled her through the cool, enchanted water as the bottom filled with beautiful tea sets, fascinating alchemical tools and a chatelaine she had immediately coveted. And then all the treasure dulled and lost its allure when she gazed into Aronsenâs scarlet eyes flecked with brilliant gold.
She had been in denial then. Sera teased the possibility of an affair with Heathcliff. Both of them had wounded hearts and she knew under different circumstances they would have so easily fallen in love. All the same, it had been a delicious what if and she had taken to spending sleepless nights gazing into the pool like a maid plucking petals off a daisy to see if he loved her or loved her not.
When she discovered that Manus could manifest just about anything when asked politely, the pool no longer filled with treasure and the bottom remained elusively dark. Perhaps it would only tempt doom through material greed, she thought with disappointment. Seralah desperately wished to be romantically doomed, to see the face of her heartâs true desire in the rippling, enchanted water. If it would only reveal what she wrestled with, it would make deciding so much easier.
One night, dressed in a billowing white nightgown, ink black hair down, she gazed into the poolâs still surface, sitting on the stone edge, giving it one last try. She clutched a vial in her hand, having decided the previous night to collect a sample of the water for a potion idea she had.
Suddenly, a pale face appeared over her shoulder in the water. Seralahâs eyes widenedâŠhad the pool revealed her heartâs desire at last? She leaned forward, squinting as the face came into sharper focus.
Aronsen. His grin was crooked, expression softly amused. It surprised her, that it should be him. Of course she found him attractive. He was beautiful in a way that it almost hurt to look at him. Like staring into the sunâŠor seeing a divine creature. She found him endlessly fascinatingâŠhis vampiric condition was scientifically interesting (and erotically intriguing) and he was funny. He always made her laugh and despite being occasionally crass, he always behaved like a perfect gentleman around her.
Seralah immediately accepted the poolâs determination. It made sense to her. I have grown very fond of him, she reasoned. When she accepted this was the secret longing of her heart, she wondered if the pool would try to drown her. After all, if one reached for the treasure it would.
âSeralah,â came Aronsenâs amused rumble, âdonât fall in. Iâll have to dive in after you.â
She startled terribly and yelped, half turning and nearly toppling backwards into the pool. Aronsen looped a strong arm around her waist and pulled her to safety against his broad chest.
âYou know the pool is dangerous,â he admonished, his brow drawn low in worry. âWhat are you doing? I didnât even get to finish teaching you how to swim.â
For a moment she was so disappointed she almost teared up. All she could do was pout. She wanted the magic of the castle to show her something as though she was a princess in a fairytaleâŠ.but it hadnât. Aronsen wasnât her heartâs desire and she couldnât bare to tell him what sheâd really been doing because that was embarrassing! Her face flushed and she was sure she looked miserable and properly scolded. She held up the test tube clutched in her hand.
âI wanted a sample of the water for a potion idea I had,â she said because that was half of it so not entirely a lie.
He righted her and smoothed his hands down her arms absently. âYou should have asked me to get it.â He plucked the test tube from her fingers. âLeave the dangerous stuff to me. Promise,â he said sternly.
Feeling flustered for a variety of reasons, she nodded, conceding without arguing for once (even if she didnât feel the pool was a danger to her because she didnât want anything apparently). âFine. I promise. You may assist in gathering dangerous materials for my experiments.â
He grinned down at her. It was so dazzling and charming she found herself mirroring it and blushing as he pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to the crown of her head. He left her standing there, pulse fluttering, face hot as he gathered the water for her. She watched him carefully remove the cork and place it snugly back after filling the tube with water. It charmed her how seriously he took the task. Aronsen grabbed her hand and placed the filled test tube in her palm before gently closing her fingers around it, his hand swallowing her much smaller one.
âWhat sort of potion will it make?â He asked with genuine curiosity.
Always desperate for actual interest in her experiments, Seralah motioned for him to follow, excited to start right away. She explained as they walked to the lab and as she pointed out tools she wanted him to get down from the shelves. He took her bossing automatically without hesitation or complaint.
âI want to make a potion that reveals what the imbiber most wants. Iâm not at all sure how that will manifest! Maybe vivid hallucinations! Or maybe an actual transubstantiation from the subconscious! Wouldnât that be something?â She gushed as she worked, trying an apron over her nightgown, ignoring how cold the labâs floor was on her bare feet.
Aronsen sat on a stool and watched her work. âIt would be. SoâŠ.itâs a potion thatâŠreveals what you really want?â
She nodded. âYes. Would really help with pesky indecision!â
An hour later, she had a cold, fizzy potion that smelled like something electrical burning. Before she could be stopped, she pinched her nose shut and downed it.
She sputtered and coughed. âEgad,â she wheezed, âthat tastes terrible! If it works, Iâll see about flavoring it with something.â Her eyes watered. It tasted like what she thought licking the bottom of a shoe would be like.
Aronsen looked appropriately alarmed. âIs that safe?â
She shrugged. âWe will find out, wonât we? OhâŠdonât fret,â she added hastily at his horrified expression, âIâm immune to most toxins and poisons! Some venoms too!â
Fifteen minutes later, she could barely stand and a very worried Aronsen had gathered her into his arms. âI can go get Heathcliff,â he said, tone tight with concern as she swooned.
She shook her head. âNo! I donât want him. Not really,â she breathed, on the verge of tears. The potion made it all so clear. She just couldnât articulate it properly and didnât understand that Aronsen thought she needed medical attention. âI want it to be uncomplicated, Aronsen. I want to be the first choice. And I donât want to give up the things I like for Rhuen either!â
He frowned, brow pinched. âYou shouldnât have to give up anything, Sera,â he said, voice strangely soft.
âI want to be loved because ofâŠnot in spite of,â she said sadly. âAnd I want family. Itâs been so lonely without them.â She wasnât making much sense, babbling her little wants and wishes, but she knew he understood. She could see it in the softening of his features.
âBut more than anythingâŠ. I wantâŠâ she said, sniffling, gazing up into his beautiful face.
âWhat?â He asked, urging her on, his voice quiet.
âFor you to kiss me,â she breathed.
Aronsen obliged her with an impossibly soft, drugging kiss. She felt as though she was drowning, unable to breathe or think. All she could do was receive his lips against hers as though somehow, he really was her heartâs desire before she knew it to be true when she lit a candle on her wedding night months later that would bring him to her.
Seralah deepened the kiss hungrily, immediately eager to tumble into bed with him now that she knew he was just what she wanted, but Aronsen wouldnât. Not when she was so clearly intoxicated.
Instead, he tucked her into bed with a parting kiss to her forehead and she woke with no memory of the previous evening. Heathcliff groused at her for leaving the lab in a state of disarray and they had a tiff over it because she maintained if he had his way, it would always be a mess.
Now, in the laboratory again, fussing over Leonardo and her various experiments with his unconscious body, Seralah paused her work when Aronsen said his Sire was in the castle and he needed to be drugged to keep him from acting on unnatural urges.
She moved to him immediately. There would be time for questioning after he was safe. Seralah rolled up his sleeve and swiped a cotton ball soaked with alcohol over his upper arm. âIâve just the thingâŠhowever the effects are temporary. Just how temporary Iâve no idea. But we will find out!â
Aronsen didnât fuss or argue and she was touched by the faith he put in her.
As she slid the needle into his arm, she explained. âThis will make you mortal. For a bit. Your Sire wonât hold sway over you in a mortal state. But just in case? The pistol is loaded with tranquilizer darts. And Iâm a better shot now soâŠthe family jewels are quite safe! Canât damage those,â she teased with a snicker. After the injection, she put a bandage over the site and kissed it. âLetâs go to my room? In case the transition is uncomfortable.â
Seralah thought then of the pool. FunnyâŠsince sheâs come back to the castle from her misadventure with Rhuen, sheâd not gone once. Maybe that night she saw Aronsenâs reflection over her shoulder (the only part of that night she remembered), it really had, in its way, shown her her heartâs desire.
Aronsen felt his sire Nycassia in the castle with warming certainty. The magic that calls to the old things in blood could not be resisted. It didn't care for feelings or circumstance. Time was equally irrelevant. Aronsen felt desire like deep compulsion warming his veins. He was never sure if it was love because the attraction was too powerful for his own free will. He ached to feel his skin against his sire, their unifying lips for hours like they used to instead of sleeping in the deep cocoon they'd make for vampiric slumber.
Before the horrors ripped them apart, he'd snarl and act like a ferocious lout in the company of others to prevent anyone entering their lair. Whatever was endured during the night would be whispered with kisses drinking tears until dawn. Aronsen's touch took away her pain and he devoured her sweetness in return.
He had been beaten, violated, exhausted and disrespected to his limit but the only real torture was when they were viciously separated. His voice was lost from screaming her name. When he went into a days long violent explosion of force the scourge used lich to subdue his will. Aronsen kept his eyes open even if his body obeyed like a puppet. He remembered every creature of evil and made marks in his mind. They would be put down. Someday.
That day never came. The war was over and the magic that raised the scourge was gone like a mist. Pointless evil dissipated with the dawn. There was no enemy to revenge against. The being that hurt him the most was his most beloved. Love, death and living became very confusing for Aronsen. His sire was gone and he was left to follow the scent of nostalgia and familiar things as his only anchor to a life. The Castle in the Ghostlands. He hated how his homeland was relabeled this way. As if the other elves wanted a demarcation between them and⊠every destroyed family that needed help. He wanted to gift his healing but people were too frightened of his ogre-like appearance from a distance. Beauty or not, Aronsen was still a huge vampire and there was no hiding the reputation that followed him like a bloody funeral cape.
Life was over for his heart as he settled into the Castle as his own cryptkeeper with his brother Heathcliff. Until Seralah awakened it.
From their first meeting, something within him stirred. She coaxed it out as he enjoyed making her laugh on her lab breaks in the foyer. Her presence in the Castle gave it life and without him realizing it over time a reason for him to stay. He was close to folding into the dark, earthy ways of vampirism. Convinced himself he should be in a crypt out of shame more than necessity. Manus would never let the sun's rays touch him inside the castle yet he still laid near the bones of the dead like he read about in the old stories about vampires. Not the ones he lived with in the posh San'layn palaces but the folktales of beasts with dripping fang and need for a tomb.
Seralah asked him too many questions about this all the time. She was fascinated. A few times he woke up to her watching him wake. He warned her never to do this since he might hurt her without meaning to. Cultists were lured down here and he often passed out before the bodies could be removed too. This only delighted her and she asked he consider donating the bodies to science. Love grew when he saw how unbothered she was with his condition and warmed to include her into these intimate rituals. He even started falling asleep in the foyer right on the couch instead of his crypt.
Only Nycassia or other vampires saw him feed until Seralah surprised him one day. He woke with the stars to hunt but breakfast was already served. Two humans sat hand-in-hand, lost in size by one of the long black velvet couches in the Castle's foyer. A young couple, heads resting against each other peacefully as if slumbering. Both wore white cultist robes. Their sandals told a journey of pilgrimage. Seralah was nearly vibrating from excitement. She had a ghost orchid pinned to her dress and looked a little fancier as if honoring this gift to him like it was an event.
"This is their honeymoon. Both have been indoctrinated into a cult that imprisons arcane addicted elves to harvest their magic pustules. The intoxicating high is really the entire goal. These two were on the road to horrific acts. I thought you might enjoy rich purpose to your meal along with a little poetry."
She smiled and picked up the bride's hand, displaying her wedding band.
"I invited them in and we toasted in celebration to their love. They are so happy. They will die this way." Seralah said proudly, beaming at Aronsen. "The sedative I gave them shouldn't affect your vampiric blood. Well. Perhaps a slight intoxication but who doesn't love a little buzzy now and then?" she giggled at herself.
Seralah gestured to them with a smile, backing away. Aronsen unfroze from his shock, looking at Seralah in a new light. He could smell the human blood and it called to him as it awakened his pulse. Aronsen's face changed. Where playful teasing once edged with laughter now looked ancient and brimming with lust.
He positioned himself on the couch so he could look Seralah in her eyes while he fed off the newlyweds. His eyes rolled back from the taste. She was right, their blood was sweeter from love and he felt his heart melt for her as it beat faster to drink it. No enchantments, no magic. Just a strange friend he now loved more with each moment spent. She didn't reject or fear the horrors others fled from, she turned it into a celebration. Romance.
Not a moment he wasn't looking at her, watching how her shoulders rose and fell in a tremor of arousal she kept politely restrained. She only nibbled on her bottom lip and returned his gaze, cheeks rosing pink.
He fed so carefully it looked erotic. The fair humans were wearing white and not a drop was spilled as he drank. It was very unlike the ravenous feasts he had with Leonardo in the same foyer. This was intentionally inclusive to Seralah. His politeness was to honor her gift while his gaze worked on a completely different message. One of open desire she had never seen in him before.
For months he carried this fire for her until she lit a candle on her balcony to make it her own. There was nothing he wouldn't do to keep it bright. When he heard Seralah describe the potion to relieve him of his curse even temporarily, he panicked with excitement. Horror flooded him for the audacity of this kind of hope. It meant many things but right now, it meant a way to resist unnatural desires.
Even thinking about Nycassia had his blood pumping against his will. He knew Nesnora brought her here, the fool. The thought of being tortured from want made him ill and something needed to be done. He wouldn't risk Seralah. Trusting her to accept him, he gripped her arm gently while shaking slightly as she worked in the lab.
"Seralah. My sister must be in the Castle. You haven't met her yet. She brought my sire. Nycassia Shadowglade. I have unnatural⊠urges with my sire. They sometimes compel my behaviors."
Her mouth opened as she listened, furrowing her brow in concern. He continued, eyes wide and pleading.
"Drug me immediately until this potion is ready tomorrow. I must stay in your chambers and not be allowed visitation. Please stay with me all night. Please. Seralah?"
Seralah had completely taken over the ruins of Heathcliffâs laboratory in his absence. First, sheâd conscripted her cousins, Lenora and Hazel, to help her clean. When they cried and whined about having to touch toxic substances, Seralah sharply rebuked them and made them go into the hall where they were instructed to ask Manus for milk of the poppy to deal with their ANNOYING hysteria. Theyâd return, loopy and far more pliable to her will.
She made no effort to hide her communications with her sister. She spoke out loud to Lottie, laughed at her jokes as she worked feverishly in the lab. She rarely slept and took all her meals there. This would be how Aronsen found her in the evening when he rose with dark circles around her eyes, a piece of cold toast half hanging out of her mouth as she poured over notes. She loomed over Leonardo, crumbs from said toast on his bare chest which she brushed off in annoyance.
Leonardo was pierced at every joint by long, thick silver needles sheâd had Manus create. Munching on her toast, she snapped her fingers at Aronsen. âHis ankle bones are giving me fits. If you could, my belovedâŠjustâŠram those two needles inâŠin between the bones preferably but if you missâŠyou miss!â
Hazel went even paler, standing on the other side of Leonardoâs prone form, trying to pry his mouth open to shove a rubber bite guard between his teeth. âSera,â she whined, âIâm going to faint if I have to hear that horrible crunch sound again!â
âShove some cotton in your ears!â Lenora said, stuffing cotton balls in her ears and then handing two to Hazel.
Aronsen had been told once what this was all about. Something called Anima transferenceâŠbut he had no idea what that meant and how it was supposed to help Leonardo. Not that he was concerned. Sera seemed to know exactly what she was doing. While her explanations were fascinating and interesting, they were so rapid fire and often went down wild tangents that he could only appreciate her passion forâŠwhatever it was she was doing exactly. Heâd never seen her so fired up.
So, Aronsen did as she instructed. Indeed, it made a terrible crunching sound when he rammed the needles into Leonardoâs ankles. It rather seemed the opposite of healing him, but the prone man didnât seem to be in painâŠprobably because of the IV drip of tranquilizer constantly pumped into his veins, but Seralah was happy the work was done. He sat in a chair by Leonardoâs head and watched her work.
When Hazel finished putting the bite guard between Leoâs teeth, Seralah tried to get her attention by snapping. But the cotton in her ears prevented her from hearing. Seralah scowled, annoyed with their prissy, silly behavior. So the ankle joints made a gross crunching noise when pierced by thick needles? The world was full of gross things!
âHAZEL!â Seralah shouted which finally got the girlâs attention.
Hazelâs big eyes widened. âWhat?â she asked too loudly, unable to hear the volume of her own voice. Notably, she didnât take the cotton out of her ears.
Seralah mimed pulling the cotton out and this finally did the trick.
âYou are utterly useless today! Go fetch Roval, please. If you canât find him in his room, then ask Manus where heâs at.â Seralah waved her cousin off.
But Lenora wasnât having it. âHey! Why does she get to go! I want to fetch Roval.â
Pouting and huffing in annoyance, Seralah watched her cousins fight over who would get to bring Roval to the lab. She didnât care which one of them did it, just as long as it was done. Throwing up her hands in exasperation, Sera stamped her foot. âEnough! Both of you go and make it quick! I had to up his tranquilizer dose because those needles are likely excruciating! Canât have him moving about so make haste and stop being silly! Please!â
They both wore hang dog expressions as they fled the lab and Seralahâs tyranny.
Aronsen made a face at the talk of excruciating pain which Seralah didnât seem to notice as she poured over her notes.
âI donât expect this to be permanent but the idea came to me in a dream!â she said excitedly. âI always keep a dream journal. I like to think my brain is trying to solve problems even when I sleep and this will solve two problems at onceâŠwell. If it works. And it probably wonât. Itâs a veryâŠah. Wild idea.â She scribbled down a formula and then ordered Aronsen to fetch the various chemicals and extracts she needed.
âFire salts too, please,â she said. âCanât forget those!â she chuckled. âIâm such a bonehead. It likely would kill someone without them!â
As Sera prepared some foul smelling tincture, the twins brought Roval into the lab. He had a girl hanging off each arm, cooing up at him, flirting and simultaneously badly reassuring him that he would come to no harm.
âOh, it shouldnât hurt,â Hazel said to him, patting his hand. âYou donât have to have the needles shoved into your joints. You just have to hold something and get your blood drawn.â
Lenora scowled, making a mean face at her sister, yanking on Rovalâs arm to get his attention. âI just learned how to draw blood and Seralah said I was a light touch. So, Iâll be sure to do a good job and not jab you too roughly!â
Roval looked very flustered. And nervous. âAnd justâŠahâŠhow is this to help Leonardo?â he asked awkwardly, grimacing when he saw that Seralah had made a grisly pin cushion out of the man.
âItâs science, Roval,â Hazel said with a roll of her eyes as if he had asked the stupidest question in the world. âYou couldnât possibly understand. NowâŠletâs get your clothes off!â
Sera wasnât in the mood to soothe anymore nonsense. Roval weakly protested being methodically stripped by the twins until he was just in his small clothes. She ignored this, not even bothering to explain why he needed to just be in his skivvies. And to be fair, Leonardo was only wearing a sheet over his groinâŠwhich Hazel and Lenora took turns peeking under and gasping.
The twins fawned over Roval. Pinching his biceps, trailing naughty, little fingers down his stomach, tracing ridges of muscles until the young man was red faced and sputtering. Once they finally had him undressed, the girls guided him to a gurney and helped him sit on the crinkling paper. Seralah shoved a silver rod into his hands.
âHold this very tight. Donât let go. Even if it burns orâŠtingles. Or shocks you a little. Do not let go. You will RUIN my experiment. And maybe youâll die. And that wouldnât be very nice, would it?â Sera asked ominously. He wouldnât die, but she figured heâd take her more seriously if he thought he might.
Rovalâs eyes went wide and his flush drained from his face. âW-waitâŠI might die?!â
But she had already flipped a switch which sent arcane and low electricity into the silver needles (which were now clamped by wires and hooked up to an arcane battery, something else Sera had invented over the past week). There was a horrible, unsettling buzzing and the smell of burning hair. A single wire went to Rovalâs silver rod and his dark curly hair stood up on end with static.
âIt tickles,â he said with relief.
âLenora, tie off Rovalâs arm with the rubber hose and prep for a blood draw,â Seralah said, tapping the gauges on her arcane battery. âHazel, fetch me a scalpel, if you please.â
When the scalpel was in her hand, she used her free hand to shut off the battery. Roval asked if he could let go of the rod, but Seralah ignored him. She swabbed Leoâs right forearm with antiseptic andâŠjust sliced neatly and shallowly. His blood was no longer black, but a merlot color. It smelled different too. It didnât look like living blood, but it was an improvement from its natural state. Sera collected this in a test tube.
âAfter you draw Rovalâs blood, draw Mister Leonardoâs, Lenora. I thinkâŠwe were successful! We wonât know for sure until tomorrow. I have to distill the samples.â
Aronsen peered over her shoulder to see what she was doing. Seralah set aside the scalpel and blood sample and yanked off her gloves. She turned to beam up at him. âIf it distills properly? It will make a potion that will make you mortal. For a time. Like I said, Iâve not figured out how to make it last yet. But I will,â she told him, taking his hands and giving them a fond squeeze. âLookâŠhis blood flows faster. His skin color is less gray toned and more pink. Isnât that amazing? And because the three of you are related, I figured it would help lessen the chance of a strange outcome or rejection entirely!â
Seralah felt so driven by purpose. By love. And without judgment or anyone telling her to exercise caution orâŠdecenct practices, she felt truly unstoppable. At last, she would conquer death in every way it could be conquered. Her necromancy and her science, wed together to give her sister a body and Aronsen a chance at a normal life.
Nothing more swiftly displays the measure of a man more than tragedy and horror. There were many roads Aronsen Dracone could have taken to avoid his fate. None would have called him a coward given the total destruction of his House and the grisly deaths of his family. If he had been overcome with grief and fearâŠor driven mad by rageâŠif he had given in to mortal terror and fled, none could have faulted him for this. It was what many survivors did as they were left numb to sift through the ashes of their lives and legacies.
But curses are strange things and what feeds them bears their strange fruit. Because Aronsen Dracone was a good, brave man whose golden heart beat with the drum of righteousness, he went to war instead. And because Aronsen did this, he was slain by his familyâs enemy. Yet it was the beauty of his soul and the magic in his blood that compelled Nycassia Shadowglade to spare him a true death. The strange possessiveness that welled up inside her was born from the feeling she had being near him. The sheer goodness of his nature and the wild magic inside him called to the very same in her. And when she brought him over the gray threshold of death, the vile force that reanimated her sunk her magic into him through the bond of their blood.
The curse between their houses was fed and the fruit it would bear would not be made complete for sixteen years. Nycassia being Aronsenâs sire ensured her half sister Anya would feel the same connection. Like always called to like.
In another world, another life, Nycassia knew she would have loved Aronsen Dracone. She was certain of this the moment she saw him. The bitter sadness of it cut through the veil of the Scourgeâs control as if it might shatter it. In some way, she was glad it didnât. To not get to experience the love she knew could be there were she not a monster of circumstance was a pain too great to bear.
Only when she was near Aronsen did Nycassia feel any semblance of her own will within her mind. Without him, it was a dull, numb haze, a pleasant opiate for her consciousness that she sank into with little hope for resistance. He gallantly presented himself in front of what remained of her father, bowing before Astalonâs suspended, reanimated corpse. She gazed down at Aronsen, willing him to rise, but she said nothing. They wouldnât remain here much longer. Soon, they would be taken elsewhere, made to participate in the slaughter of the living.
âIdiot child!â Astalon snarled at her. âYou were to kill him. You have disobeyed me, Nycassia,â he said in a low voice that had sent cold fear through her in childhood. It was merely a thin spirit of anxiety that needled in her mind. He could do nothing to her now. The worst had already befallen here and there was no degradation he could conjure that could cause her pain.
âDisobey?â she asked lightly, canting her head with a little, crooked smile curling her lips. âYou are no longer my master, Father. I serve another. You saw to that,â she told him.
It didnât feel freeing. It felt simply true. And empty.
âAronsen Dracone is mine,â she hissed at her sneering father as her hand dropped to Aronsenâs shoulder, fingers curling over the ball of it, her grip far harsher than she intended. âAnd no force may alter this. To kill him would have been a waste for he will make a fine champion for the Scourge.â
It was a foul thing to say and had slid past her lips without her willing it to. Another empty truth that left her feeling hollow. This was not a fate meant for him. Everything about it felt wrong. But there was no outlet for this rage.
âGet up,â she commanded him sharply. âDo not kneel for this betrayer,â she said more harshly than she intended. Aronsen should only be spoken to with warmth, softness. She couldnât reach those parts of herself anymore. âRise. You are too fine and true and he is not fit to lick your boots.â If only she could summon the rage and grief. All she had were these words of mild reproach for the horror her father had committed against her, her mother, her sisters. Against Aronsen.
The brutal machinations of the Scourge erased their shared, bitter history. They were no longer enemies. They served the same master. She kept him close to her at all times, unable to bear his absence even for a moment. She took to the field of battle with him, though she was no warrior. Nycassia found she was a very efficient killer now and felt no danger with his blade defending her. After bloody victories, she would wonder if love could truly exist between them as they were. Didnât it feel like love? This desire, this need, what other mask could it wear?
But too flagrantly did she act of her own will. While Aronsenâs fate would have been the same whether she had decided or those who commanded her decided, what she had done would not go unpunished. The Blood Prince who had made her could feel the deep, abidingâŠaffectionâŠNycassia held for her champion. Affection could not exist in the ranks of the Scourge. She could not be destroyed for bargains were made through magic that went beyond his authority, but she could be tortured.
When the Princeâs thralls came for Nycassia, Aronsen would not allow it. He had sworn to protect and defend herâŠand this is what he did, despite her begging him to stop, that he would be punished too. It seemed all the world and fate itself deemed these two that should have been lovers would never be together.
It took ten of them to subdue Aronsen. They tore Nycassia from the protection of his arms and dragged her away to be chained and muzzled like a dog, starved until she was mindless. He would not see her for many weeks and in the intervening hours, he was tortured ruthlessly in an attempt to break his spirit. The things done to him would haunt him for the rest of his existence, but his golden spirit would not yield, not even under the worst, most unspeakable violations of his flesh. Not even after the horrors they forced him to commit.
It was two months later in the Western Plaguelands that he saw her. The wild spill of her bloody curls was frayed and ragged and her eyes were animal and wild, filled with only hunger and rage. She had been starved to the point it had made her a mindless revenant. In his time as a champion of the Blood Prince, he had seen many driven to this state. There was no returning from it. They held her chained and leashed like a rabid animal to be unleashed on the living. That had not even seen fit to arm her. If she was killed by the living, torn to pieces by paladins and their Light, this was not a breach of the bargain. It was simply a loophole, a neat and tidy way to punish Astalon Shadowgladeâs unending hubris.
Aronsen didnât see her fall but he found her on the blood soaked remains of the battlefield. He knew she was to be left there, to be destroyed, picked apart by vultures, consciousness aware of everything. Nycassia had been cut down, her pale skin pierced with arrows. She lay on her back, crimson eyes fixed on the slate gray sky, watching the billows of black smoke like drifting clouds. Only when he said her name did she look at him.
After months of mindlessness and a fog of agonizing hunger, the sight of him, the sound and timbre of his voice brought the spark of her back. She smiled to see him, filled with peace and relief. She could die now, she thought. True death. She only wished she could take him with her. Her body would not obey her command to move, too injured and too weak. She desperately wanted to touch him. It could only be impossible love she felt for her Houseâs great enemy. The sun broke through the smoke and clouds to light his face and it was too beautiful to bear. Bloody tears slid down her cheeks.
âYou do it,â she told him, her voice like the rustling of dead leaves in the wind. âYou end me. Send me to the gilded halls of my ancestors. I want your face to be the last I see.â
And though it put him in grave danger, he did not honor her request. He saw that she was herself and that she hadnât earned the things that had happened to her. He knew her. And with this perfect understanding and the vow he made, he healed her with his golden Light, something that he should not have been able to do. But curses often drive the impossible and his spirit hadnât been broken despite the efforts to do so.
Aronsen would be punished for this, but spared so that he could continue to be a devastating weapon and source of endless, cruel amusement.
And now, as he sat with Leonardo while Seralah fussed over him, jabbing him with long, silver needles for some reason, he could feel the familiar tug on his spirit. The magic that had raised him in undeath, the spark of the familiar. His sire was in the castle.
Aronsen's titles were not earned in tournaments to cheering ovations. A man that wielded force of his size with graceful precision did not make fair competition. Men like this went to war and the Dracone men didn't even sleep on it. The day after the family massacre they were all on the road, dirt from their dead still under fingernails.
Not a word was spoken between them. It would be too profane, make it historical. The simmering fog deep in their minds from shock and grief kept Heathcliff, Aronsen and Leonardo Dracone in silent solidarity. Leonardo looked out the window, a numbed expression so stoic it could have only been hatred. He was smoking thoughtfully, hand shaking from the adrenaline crash.
Heathcliff was writing furiously in his journal. This peaked Aronsen's heavy heart.
"What are you doing?"
"Writing."
"What?"
"Writing."
"What are you writing?"
"Anything to distract me that I'm in a fucking carriage and my horse was murdered by the scourge so that's WHY I'm in a carriage. Which is the greater distraction for our shared unfathomable grief. Our fucking family. Our home. The destruction of everyone and everything we love."
"We're having a time."
"Yes. Wait. Are you making a joke right now?"
"Would that be in poor taste?"
"I'd say so."
"Then yes, I am."
The carriage jolted slightly and Heathcliff's lips thinned with worry. They were nearing the docks. Soon their paths would divert with different military obligations. Aronsen reached out his huge arms and seized Heathcliff and Leonardo by their hair to yank them together with his forehead into a huddle.
"You are my brothers and our roots and cocks will not burn."
"Aronsen, fuck that's so disrepect-" Heathcliff started to admonish before Aronsen cut him off, ignoring this.
"You are my brothers and we will be bastards to kill. We will be a relentless force of everyone's worst day. This is how we take back our home. We are the bite of the dragon. We are the thorn of truth and the flower of hope."
Leonardo snickered uncontrollably at Aronsen, getting them all laughing. Aronsen grinned and said with a growl "I said⊠flower of HOPE. Because we are, boys. We're all that's left. So we have to fight worse than devils."
"Aronsen, your war memoirs are going to be my favorite read." Leonardo teased.
Aronsen grinned intensely. It was clear his mind was far into the future, mentally preparing for the upcoming fight. "Leo, you won't need to read my memoirs to know what I did in this war." he smiled.
Heathcliff looked at Aronsen with approval, having no doubts he'd see him again. Aronsen was reliable like that. If death took him, he'd fight that too. He'd find a way. Heathcliff couldn't imagine a world without him. He knew his older brother's goodness despite his reputation and that gold never leaves this world without making waves.
The large elf in armor still stained with the blood of his sisters took Heathcliff's hand in his left and Leonardo's in his right and squeezed as the carriage stopped.
"I love you, brothers." Aronsen said, his last living words to them.
"I love you too, brother." Heathcliff earnestly replied, wishing he said it first.
Leonardo said nothing. When the carriage stopped, they unloaded their gear. A small arsenal of war followed them. At the docks, people waiting for them immediately loaded their crates of deathly explosives, chemicals, blades and bullets. No one saw Leonardo leave with their mother following with her haunting flock. Heathcliff was glad for it. He didn't want her near him for some time. And Leonardo didn't like goodbyes. Heathcliff tried not to feel hurt but there were urgencies now. His men greeted him as their Captain and briefed him on the journey Heathcliff already expected. He nodded, distracted getting a last look at Aronsen.
He watched Aronsen greet his friends with hard hugs and righteous promises. Heathcliff leaned on the dock awning as it started to pour rain. Dressed in uniform, theirs was black metal layered like dragon scales with thin red and gold ribbons of their king tied at the bicep. The Dracone battle-gear predated any bloodline of the royal elves so they wore what they wished. The ribbon was a courtesy. They were going to war for far more than colors.
He knew, observing the ship move when Aronsen stepped aboard that his brother would be magnificent. If Heathcliff believed in any myth, it would be one with his brother wouldn't be forgotten.
No one went near the meat grinder. Aronsen's battle stage was annihilation. Armed with two giant swords, his blades were vicious and absolute. Allies funneled enemies towards him when the waves became too intense. Aronsen had to be directed strategically for the amount of dead bodies piling on the field. From the command cliff high above in Northrend, his destruction viewed from above was a dark stain that spread for whole areas of the battlefield. The harder he fought, the more the scourge raised against him so he was fighting enemies twice. Screaming for help from priests to release these souls before they could be exploited, Aronsen found Leonardo in the heat of battle three days fighting on the front. He was rushing towards him with fear in his eyes on horseback. He didn't greet him or mention where he was for the past week. Only quick information.
"Large San'layn invasion. Twenties minutes at most from the south-east. They've got⊠they've got monsters. I don't know how to describe it. These demon fucking things with wings and⊠the bones of giants." Leonardo was having difficulty with the intel, fear stamped on his face. "I won't let them take you alive." he warned, knowing Aronsen understood what that implied.
Aronsen spat blood on the ground, so in-step with his death dance he couldn't speak. "I will never give up." he yelled back at him, pointing his sword at Leonardo's head. Leonardo backed away with his horse and fell farther back behind the lines to deliver his intel to the rest of command.
A horrible horn announced their arrival. Demons poured in number far greater than any wave before. The mood shifted to panic as it was clear they were overrun. Aronsen was surrounded and lashed by teeth and claw until a chain was wrapped around his throat. The earth shook as a monolith of stinking sulphur yanked him wildly. A huge demon the size of ships ran over the ground pulling Aronsen like a toy. He was dragged violently, unable to fight or flee until his bruised body went limp from the jarring white bashes to his skull on rock and debris. Chaos erupted the battlefield into defeat as they watched one of their champions brought low by this horrid creature larger than courage.
Then he got up. Still chained, Aronsen moved with such speed some say it looked like he flew to the beast's back, climbing up the stinking fur to lift his sword in a battlecry and bring it down into the demon's brain. It bucked wildly but Aronsen would not release his grip on his sword. He used this to anchor him to swing down and punch the demon's eyes wildly with his metal fists to blind it.
Howling with rage, clawing impotently, the demon tried desperately to remove Aronsen from his attacks. Aronsen endured mortal injury while fulling blinding it in both eyes as his cousin came to finish what he started.
Leonardo ran in the direction everyone was fleeing from with no shield or sword. He stopped, unarmed in the foul tremors of the demon towering over all this ruin and furrowed his brow, steadying his feet to unleash a powerful stream of shadow magic to wrap around the demon's heart. It shrieked with agony as Leonardo filled it with⊠beauty. Yearning, regret. Peace it would never be graced. This stunned the demon in agony allowing Aronsen to pull out his sword and jump down. It was a quick motion with his blade that finished it off. Aronsen's eyes shined like gold and his sword followed with a magic he didn't know he was unleashing. Glowing light pierced the heart with blade and the demon fell to quake the ground.
There would be no battle celebration as Aronsen passed out from exhaustion and was carried to a medical tent. The slash across his chest from the demon claw cut too deep and was festering. Danger for Aronsen was now fighting from within. They did not expect it there.
It was soft treachery that finally captured him. A Shadowglade spy in disguise sedated the handsome champion in his sleep and shackled him, stowing him away under a blanket in a cart through the dead of night as he lay dying.
When he awoke at the Shadowglade manor, he was confused, shackled in a strange room. He was told nothing but heard everything he needed. The Shadowglades. How long had he been drugged? He knew it was too soon to fight it. Nothing made sense. Why drag him back here? What was this for? It was hard to stay awake. He just wanted to sleep.
Then a liquid like love warmed his lips and he woke with a kiss, looking into a beautiful vampire's eyes. Fear didn't follow. Death felt so easy he only felt a twinge of disappointment. He expected the grit of battle to blur in his vision when death came for him, not with soft words and sweet honey. His eyes opened and closed heavily as he felt her blood knit his own. Was this a second chance?
Rapidly his strength returned. Aronsen sat up and asked she remove his shackles before speaking. She paused and looked him in the eyes, then did this for him. He rubbed his wrists and she confirmed where he was. When she asked him to protect her, his eyes flashed with a flicker of gold. He knew instinctively what had happened. The scourge magic was the warmest lie pressing against his heart and she was its thrall. He could hear the tune but it did not control him. If he resisted, he would be slain. No enemy would go to the trouble without this precaution. He had to cooperate for now. Would she believe him? Her hold wasn't entirely without enchantment over him with the constant whispering lies of the scourge but it was his choice that moved him next.
"Yes, I will. Always." he promised this curious stranger. In another time, he would have fallen in love with such a beauty. But these were not those times. Only his lips trembled slightly as he stood, feeling the rapid high of his new undeath. This he could not grasp at the moment, only the desire to still be in this world. He towered over her and lifted her chin absurdly to comfort. Aronsen bent to give her a chaste kiss. He wanted to release her mind but this would take time. Underneath the drum of force the scourge veined though them was her true voice. He would find it and get them both out of here. If the rumors were true, there was only one path he saw.
He asked to meet Astalon Shadowglade. She looked afraid but brought him to the undead monster that was her father. Aronsen showed no fear nor disrespect. He walked up to Astalon Shadowglade and bent his knee. His fists rested on the floor and the hulking champion bowed his dark head and spoke.
"My name is Aronsen Dracone and I am pledged to protect Nycassia Shadowglade with my life. She is my sire and I am bound to her by love and blood. How may I honor her?"
The winds of the North wailed like grieving widows through the icy crags and frozen peaks when Nycassia opened her eyes after her brutal death and saw the deal with the devil her father had made.
Her corpse had been cleaned of the evidence of her demise. The pond weeds had been pulled from her hair, her ruby curls perfectly quoiffed and arranged, the arrows yanked from her back, every violent puncture in her ivory flesh stitched to closed perfection with silver thread. The water still sloshed in her lungs along with the crimson rust of her blood, this she would have to expel on her own. Her ruined, sodden gown had been stripped away, replaced by buttery, wine colored silk and a high, stiff collar. She should have been cold. Should have been alarmed she did not need to breathe, but Nycassia felt only ambivalence, an apathy towards these things so extreme that she couldnât be sure if it caused discomfort or not.
Her mind became a realm of perfect peace. None of the passions she had in life burned in her now. Her soul felt as empty and cold as the frigid valleys outside the dark temple. Not a worry troubled her, no sense of unease. She stared up at the dark cathedral ceiling, the end of it swallowed by shadow, as cold hands tugged at her, sliding jewelry on her wrists and fingers.
She felt like a little, porcelain doll, empty, unable to move for herself, something frivolous and without meaning. Toyed with. Somewhere, dimly and deep within herself, she knew this should have caused indignation and outrage, but Nycassia couldnât muster these things.
Finally, the grim handmaidens finished with her and Nycassia sat up, legs hanging off the stone altar she rested upon. Dangling in front of her by his chained wrists was her father. HalfâŠof her father. Her gaze trailed down his naked chest to his waistâŠand there was no more save shredded ribbons of bloody viscera and shriveled loops of intestine. He stared at her, face a rictus of fury, the azure witch lights of his eyes blazing and casting flicking shadows over his angular face.
Nycassia stood. There was no horror. No grief. She could not summon a single emotion for the ruined mess of her father. The Scourge honored their bargain, just not the way he would have liked and she thought it had been foolish of him not to be more specific in his terms.
When she tried to speak, she found herself suddenly retching, pond water and old, clotted blood splashing out of her in a great, foul font. Her body rejected its formal mortality violently. The pain was tremendous but relished. It was feeling SOMETHING after all. She writhed and screamed and endured the handmaidens again who cleaned her of her own filth and helped her to her feet.
âFather,â she said, voice rasping like something dragged up from the grave, body thrumming with strange, new sensations.
At first, he said nothing, as if his rage and the sting of perceived betrayal choked him silent. But then his treacherous words slithered out of his frozen lips. âThe blood of our enemy drenches our Houseâs handsâŠwellâŠall but yours.â
Nycassia was not sure what he meant. But at the thought of blood, some great, terrible hunger rose up like a beast inside her. She swore she could FEEL the warm, wet pulse of living flesh near by. Her mouth filled with drool and her head swam.
As saliva slicked her chin, dripping down uncontrollably, her father continued to speak, dead voice filled with venom, rage and hate.
âThe champion of our enemy is in the chamber of this temple, left barely alive to slake your thirst. Youâll destroy the very best of them. Assure them of their defeat,â Astalon said. âYou must do itâŠbecause it has been denied me,â he spat.
She felt no sorrow at her fatherâs humiliation. There was some perverse joy in it that did not originate within herself. Nycassia found herself smiling all the same. She couldnât hear what he was saying any more. It didnât matter that she disappointed him. She was no longer his daughter. She had only one affiliation. Nycassia didnât need to be told where House Draconeâs champion and heir was being kept. She could smell his blood, feel it call to her. Being awakened to her new hunger, she found herself mindlessly ravenous.
Nycassia may not have had the fire of the Mother Tree, but she had enough of the spark that this Old Magic could rule over all, as if it was some universal decree. The control of the Scourge over Nycassiaâs mind dimmed when she looked down at Aronsen Dracone.
Her crimson gaze moved over his face, the angular perfection of it, the generous mouth and heavy brow. Even her hunger was quiet despite seeing his blood, smelling it. Where it pooled on the stoned floor, vines rose and twisted, growing from the vitae. Unconscious, he merely looked like a fallen angel sleeping, his ink black hair fanned out over the cold floor.
How was she to destroy something so beautiful? There was no internal conflict. The fire in her blood called to the magic in his. She obeyed only the will of the Mother Tree.
Aronsen Dracone was dying. Nycassia knew there was no way to save his mortal life, but she felt she could make him what she was and save him this way instead. To keep him. It was an odd, intense compulsion and not wholly welcome exceptâŠit was feeling something through the thick, numb haze that clouded her thoughts and smothered every emotion in ice and hunger.
She lowered herself to the floor, on her knees, smoothing his hair back from his face. âI will give you a beautiful death,â she promised, head swimming with the force of her appetite.
Nycassia always kept her promises. She lay atop his prone body and drank from his throat, touching him gently, pausing only to murmur soothing words all sweet as honey. And when his last breath slid past his lips, she bit down on her bottom lip and slanted her mouth over his until he tasted her blood and the magic was complete.
She waited for him to open his eyes, his head pulled into her lap. Nycassia smiled down at him when he looked up at her. She knew he would be docile for the same influence in her was now in him. She didnât need to fear his reprisal or rage, he would not be able to act on either, if he could feel them at all.
âI have saved you,â she murmured to him.
âSaved me?â He wondered, heavy brow furrowed.
Nycassia nodded. âI am no warrior. I need you to protect me. Keep me safe,â she told him.
But some things were beyond her control and she had acted far too rashly under her own will. Such things could not go unpunished.
TW: medical procedures, body horror, extreme injury, broken bones, blood, detailed descriptions of injuries
Seralah stood towards the entrance of the training room, wide eyed and very excited. Her pulse raced as she looked down at the still smoking pistol in her hand. Oh, but she liked firing it. Such an efficient delivery method of her tranquilizer. As soon as all the holiday excitement was over, she planned on asking Manus to construct a firing range on the castle grounds so she could practice shootingâŠclay pigeons or something.
Her gaze moved to Leonardo whoâŠdid not look well. Sheâd heard the horrible sound of his bones shattering and had felt a tiny lick of relief. She hadnât meant to shoot him in the groin three times and fortunately, three tranq darts in his dirty business was the least of his troubles. If he was even alive. Seralah didnât want him to be dead, though it seemed Lillandyr did so he must have done something terrible. BUT if he was dead, she hoped it wouldnât be in poor taste to ask to be given his remains.
She stood on the balls of her feet, getting Leoâs black blood on her slippers as she peered around the assembled crowd. Heathcliff didnât seem interested in anything but Lillandyr and she was cross with him besides. Heâd shot Aronsen with a tranq dart! Wholly unnecessary. He was not some beast to be subdued. When all this fuss is straightened out, Iâm going to have a very stern talk with the doctor, she thought, glaring daggers at him, pert nose scrunched. Seralah didnât think he noticed.
Manus said something about dinner, but she didnât want to attend. Her mind immediately wheeled to the last dinner he hosted and she had not cared for that at ALL. She would go, of course, but there were larger, more pressing concerns at the moment.
She hurried to Aronsen, who sat on the floor and was slurring and laughing about his father. She didnât know what he was talking about, but she just assumed the tranquilizer was doing the talking for him. Her features softened in pity and she smoothed her hand over his head.
âMy poor sweetheart,â she said. âSurely, that wasnât enough to impair you too badly? Do you think you can bring Mister Leonardo to the laboratory? Iâm going to mend his injuries. Iâve several ideas Iâd like to try! And if Iâm unsuccessfulâŠwell, letâs just hope for the best, hmm?â She grimaced as she looked at the puddle of flesh and blood that was Leonardo. She reached over and gingerly poked at his thighs. They feltâŠentirely too mushy.
Seralah withdrew her hand as though she scalded it. âGross,â she breathed, fascinated all the same. She had never seen magic quite like that.
It was very inspiring. Lillandyr was soâŠpowerful, she thought in a great warm rush of admiration. Seralah decided she should stop caring about whether her magic was palatable or not and perfect it.
Aronsen grunted and got to his feet, swaying a little. âRight,â he said. âI can bring himâŠI think.â He frowned down at Leonardo, clearly noting the state of his body.
âDo be gentle,â Seralah said, hovering at his elbow. âIâm not sure itâs a good idea to pick him up.â
Aronsen rubbed the back of his neck. âYeah,â he said, âI think she broke every bone in his bodyâŠ,â he trailed off, eyes narrowing as he looked around the training room. He stalked over to the opposite wall and took down a bulwark from the wall. The huge shield was almost as tall as Sera was and flat. She clasped her hands together, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
âOh! How clever, Aronsen! Thatâs a wonderful idea. Iâll help,â she offered as he set the shield on the ground beside Leonardo.
Together, they tried to scoot the bulwark under him, very carefully lifting the limp and squishy limbs. Aronsen made a face when his arm flopped in the wrong direction. Seralah was red faced and huffing by the time they maneuvered Leonardo onto the bulwark. Aronsen then lifted one end up to drag him to the lab.
Seralah walked ahead, barking out orders. âManus! I need an outfit change and please preserve my modesty or I swearâŠ,â she warned. âSimple dress. Wool. Lab coat, and my hair needs to be up.â Her slippers squished with every step, sodden with Leoâs blood. âNice lace up boots please, this feels wretched.â It reminded her of when she was little and her childhood cat Victor would hork up a hairball and sheâd step on it in her socks late at night on the way to the bathroom.
She felt Manusâs magic crawl over her skin as her clothes changed faster than mortal eyes could see. The lab coat had a lovely, bleached smell and was nice and stiff with starch. Just the way she liked it. Already, she felt certain and capable. She would fix Mister Leonardo right up.
In the lab, she set about disinfecting the large, steel operating table. Everything was covered in debris. It was such a shame. Seralah knew that Heathcliff was probably just so very upset about it all. Sheâd heard him say he was leaving with Lillandyr on a trip so she resolved to see the laboratory fixed up and restored before he returned.
Once the table was shining and free of even a speck of dust, she directed Aronsen to get Leonardo onto the table. He effectively poured him onto it and Seralah did her best to straighten out his shattered limbs. His heart beat though his pulse was thready, weak.
âHeâs going to need blood,â she informed Aronsen. âAs heâs apparently your brother, you should be able to donate. Iâll set up a transfusion. You just sit close to the tableâŠand erâŠyouâre going to be very hungry after this,â she warned him.
Aronsen did whatever she told him to, dutifully dragging a chair close to the surgical table. Seralah set up the hoses and needles, but would need to correct his broken bones first or he would just continue to bleed internally. âMost blood is made in the bones,â she informed Aronsen as she set the tubing on a steel tray. âMost people think itâs the spleen,â she said with a laugh and a scoff. âItâs the marrow~ HoweverâŠIâm not exactly sure how undead produce more blood. If itâs actually blood theyâre filled with. Perhaps itâs some necrotic ichor!â
âGiven his vampiric nature, I assume he can actually bleed to death,â she murmured, tapping her chin with a gloved finger, eyes narrowed as she gave the situation thought. âIt would be akin to instant starvation, I reckon.â
She lamented there were no medical textbooks on vampires. Most people tried to kill them and not heal them, so she understood there wasnât really an audience for this sort of literature.
âTo set his bonesâŠI fear Iâll have to cut him open,â Seralah said. âAnd some of them seem a tadâŠpulverized. His left forearm feels like wet bread. It has no bone structure left.â She puffed out a breath because it was a little nauseating.
Aronsen smiled crookedly at her, hanging on every word in his drugged state. It made her cheeks hot in a sweet blush and she had to pause to give him a kiss. It lingered a little too long and when she pulled away, she felt guilty and hoped Leonardo was still unconscious so he wouldnât realize she was making him wait.
âOkay! ClearlyâŠI canât cut him open like that. It would be worse than vivisection.â Though sheâd be curious to look at his internal organs. That could wait. If he died, she would certainly insist on an autopsy.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think how to do this. âI am thinking too narrowly,â she muttered, more to herself. âRelying on mundane means to solve this problem.â She thought of Lillandyr again, wielding her magic, looking wild and beautiful and full of rage.
âMagic,â she said, inspired again. Her eyes flew open and she snapped her fingers. âSpecifically, necromancy! His bones are as undead as the rest of him. I will command them to reform, though I should need to see the bones in order to visualize and thus, make it soâŠ,â she paused to âhmmâ thoughtfully.
She felt the cold presence of her sister hovering near. A brush of icy wind on the nape of her neck. Seralah shivered as Lottieâs tinny voice whispered in her head. I can go inside him. See his bones, she said.
Seralah brightened. âOh! A brilliant idea, yes please do, Lottie!â
Swiftly, she moved to Leonardoâs head and took several deep breaths. âWeâll start with the skull.â
Seralah could feel the chill of the foul magic seep into her. It felt like trying to move in icy water, sluggish and numbing. Every time this magic had come to her, it felt like it wanted her to be dead too. Her heart would race in protest, asserting its vitality and then slow, skip a beat. Seralah waited for the lurching, nauseating feeling to pass.
Lottie described what she saw. Leonardoâs skull had spiderweb fractures all along the sides. His jaw was essentially broken in half. Seralah let the magic gather in herselfâŠthen connect to him. For a wild moment, she knew she could make him her slave. Her puppet. Her will was strong and thatâs all it would take. He could fight her, but he was weak.
But having a slave wasnât something she was interested in and that wasnât the goal, so she left his will his own. Perspiration dotted her brow as she used the magic of her command over the dead to hold the bones together, stitching them energetically. It would still take time to heal, but this would hold him together while he did it.
She worked on his spine and thatâs when it was clear she probably should have given him some kind of anesthetic. Even though he wasnât fully conscious, horrible, gurgling moans issued past his lips. Her lips thinned but she decided stopping for an analgesic was a waste of time. Leonardo likely wouldnât remember any of this.
OohâŠthe bones in his forearm are just very tiny fragments, Lottie said. Theyâre all embedded in the muscle. The ligaments are ripped to pieces.
Seralah bleckâd and shuddered.
The magic felt very good now. Natural as breathing. Something sheâd been holding back from expressing. She smiled as she yanked all the teensy bone fragments out of the muscle of Leoâs forearm as he made horrible, strangled noises. âHowâs his heart, Lottie?â
It beats. Slowly, she said.
âGood. Any limbs as bad as this one?â
NoâŠwellâŠhis pelvis is shattered in many pieces, but theyâre big pieces. Not fragments.
Seralah winced. Sheâd yet to yank the darts out of his groin. Sheâd get to it. The tranq was helping to keep him out of it and it had the bonus effect of utterly paralyzing him. âI shall make more of this tranquilizer. He needs to remain still while he heals. If he doesnât, Iâm afraid Iâll just have to sever his spinal column until heâs better everywhere else!â
Aronsen made a horrified face at her, but she attributed this to the dart heâd been shot with. She wondered how long his drugged state would last and if it would hinderâŠcertain activities. She was very curious to experiment and find out.
He is in tremendous pain, Lottie told her.
Seralah waved a hand. âShhhâŠIâm focusing. Almost done with his rib cage.â
After an hour of piecing his bones back together, Seralah felt drained and sweaty. She set up the blood transfusion and told Lottie to remain in Leonardoâs body, not to take it over, but to keep her apprised of his vitals and how the healing was going. LIke an internal monitoring system! This gave her an amazing idea. If one were to capture a spirit and distill it via alchemy, then perhaps she could make some sort of crystalline structure, one for inside the body and one for the doctor or nurse. That way, one could use the crystal to communicate with the spirit and certain disease or injury could be monitored much more effectively.
She told Aronsen all about this idea as she set up the transfusion, ramming a needle in his arm. She was NOT a gentle nurse at all.
âWhat do you think of that idea? And oh, please remind me to write it down later,â she told Aronsen as she connected the rubber hose to the needle in Leoâs arm. She released the valve and watched Aronsenâs black blood flow through the tubing into Leonardo.
âThis shouldnât take too long. Weâll have enough time to freshen up for supper.â She said, squeezing Aronsenâs shoulder affectionately. âAre you worried about the dinner? I certainly hope itâs not like the last oneâŠwhich reminds me, actuallyâŠ,â she trailed off, frowning and feeling a strange feeling sheâd never felt before. At least, not in a romantic capacity. Jealousy.
Sheâd not been jealous of Lillandyr, even when she and Heathcliff had fooled around. Sheâd just refused to be the other woman. A good decision, she thought.
âAronsenâŠwho isâŠAnya?â She asked, feeling weirdly stung remembering the dinner. Remembering how he had drunk that potion to save a woman named Anya even after heâd been told it would kill him.
TW: gore, blood, body horror, weirdly horny, character death
The frigid winter air saw Tacheâs body numb, fingertips, nose and toes all nearing frostbite. But he couldnât stop walking. He had to get to the voice softly urging him closer. The voice itself was attractively deep and smooth, almost gentle. It coaxed and promised. He would be integral. He would matter. He could serve a House that would see Heathcliff Draconeâs destroyed. It was everything Tache wanted. Anya was promised to him, though in what capacity wasnât clear. Not that it mattered.
He realized, trudging over the frozen landscape, that he truly did love her. It had to be love. Only adoration of the deepest, most soul binding kind could see him follow her into that wretched castle. This made Tache feel noble, that what he desired, even if it was against her wishes, was pure because it was put through the crucible of love.
The voice in his head knew when to urge him on with gentle encouragement and praise. The voice had been masculine but was now feminine and gentle. The most beautiful voice he had ever heard. It told him his heart was good and true, to keep moving, that every step closer meant a swift end to all of his suffering forevermore.
Shadows moved through the trees. Shadows made of wine dark crimson, flowing like mist. Girlish laughter chased him with mocking sweetness. The voice assured him they were only there to help should he falter. Should the cold prove too much for his weakâŠmortalâŠflesh.
The laughter became the braying cackle of hyenas, of animalistic things giggling with snarls and growls, hisses and low rumbles under the bright mirth. Hungry sounds in the dark. When he staggered, they closed in, beautiful elvish women with snow pale skin and bright red mouths. They were as cold as the ice that crunched underfoot, like animated marble, smooth and hard to the touch, delicate feminine flesh merely an illusion for sharp teeth and endless appetite.
They carried him as if he weighed no more than a child, nipping at him, drawing blood, though no more than teasing scratches to amuse their palettes. Up close, they were not beautiful and winsome. Their eyes were bloody and their smiles too wide, filled with serrated teeth. His whimpered protests were lost to the howl of the wind.
He could scarcely comprehend what had become of the ruins of the Shadowglade estate. What was once a crumbling wall of moss and algae stained stucco, scorched black from the lethal fireâŠwhat was once a field of barren earth littered with bones and toppled garden statuesâŠa pond with brackish waterâŠnow was a sprawling complex of strange buildings. The air felt warm and humid even as the snow fell. The buildings looked like black marble temples to some wicked god and only now did he feel the first licks of mortal terror.
The voice had no need to soothe as it had him where it wanted him. Gone was the presence bleeding comfort into his brain. Too late he realized this had been an act of control, like Lillandyrâs magic, but more refined and far more insidious. It had all seemed like his idea.
He clutched a dark Dracone rose to his chest and had a wild thought. There was magic in this blossom, surely. He had sensed and seen it, shimmering in the air, the pollen infused with arcane. Could it sense his peril? Could it save him, alert Lillandyr whoâŠhe hopedâŠwould come to his rescue?
He prayed to it like a child who didnât understand the esoteric and the way of gods as the strange women dressed in diaphanous gold and crimson silk dragged him past the temples and altars that littered the steaming landscape. He had never gone this far back, through the brittle, dead orchards. Lillandyr told him all that was there was a lifeless irontree, bark black, with twisted branches clawing at the sky. The symbol of House Shadowglade. He had thought it terribly romantic and a little eerie that a house should have a dead tree as its symbol, but seeing it disavowed him of any sweet notions.
It was a horrid thing, huge and gnarled, ancient and malformed. It seemed to writhe as if in pain, massive roots coiled above the earth before obscenely plunging deep. Not even the roaring wind of the winter storm could bend the branches or make them sway. It looked like a tree carved out of dusky, dark stone. The tree filled Tache with such profound dread that he began to beg and whimper.
âPleaseâŠno,â he said to the heedless, jubilant women who only dragged him onward, his protests lost and half hearted at best.
He knew then that this was not what was promised. He had been seduced and misled. He had bet on the wrong horse when he had devoted himself to a woman who had never loved him. The sick part of him that desired degradation threaded through the terror, spilling horrified arousal through him as he was hauled inside of the dead irontree.
The inside of the tree was hollow and lit by flickering torches spilling dark smoke into the air, stinking as though they burned something greasy and foul. Something that smelled like cooking, rancid meat. He twisted and struggled then when in the circle of the torch light. Tache could see a long, stone slab and half of a body resting on its blood drenched surface. Two genderless, reanimated corpses, skin like crinkled, dry parchment, dipped silk cloth into bowls filled with blood they held. They squeezed and dribbled the blood over the desecrated remains on the slab.
It had no face, not anymore. Only a few leathery strips of flesh clung to the skull. But oh, it did have eyes. Intelligent witch lights that flickered and flared when they rested on his struggling body. He knew that this was the voice in his head. This thing was Anyaâs fatherâŠor what was left of him. Only a torso and head remained, shining wet with blood that kept it âaliveâ. Dried, curled entrails spilled out of the jagged mess of the abdomen.
Tache screamed and thrashed wildly. The voice murmured in his head, but he refused to listen. He crushed the Dracone rose in his hand, the thorns biting into his palms. His prayers continued to spill from his lips as his tears wet his face. Please, please, pleaseâŠ
There would not be an answer. The magic did not work for him. It rejected him as the foul, craven worm that he was.
The flickering torchlight caught on something golden, something at the back of the inside of the irontree. Tache had the impression of eyes, of being seen by this shine of gold in the darkness. Through the stench of lurid blood and the giggling of the ravenous creatures that pressed him down next to the ruined corpse on the slab, he saw shimmers in the air that held all of his attention rapt.
Whatever it wasâŠwas going to save him. He knew this. He felt it as he crushed the black petals in his trembling hands. These gilded motes of light settled on him, moved over his body, tingling and warm, eating through the numb, frozen cold. He wept at their touch, filled with a sense of completenessâŠof rightness. He thanked these lights for delivering him from what he knew would have been a grisly fate.
The little lights all coalesced and sank between his fingers before pulling open his fists. They wound around the crushed petals and lifted them from his hands. He watched as they floated gently above him, drawn to the back of the irontree. As the little lights bore the crushed petals, for a moment, what he thought was womanâs face was illuminated by these motes. She watched the petals from her prison and tomb of twisted roots that pierced her frozen flesh. The motes of light flared, consumed the petals and the face was gone as it was swallowed by darkness. The golden eyes closed again, and Tache forgotten if he had even been acknowledged at all.
That was the moment the blade crunched through his sternum and pierced his racing heart. Tacheâs death was swift, barely even registered by the Shalâdorei who let out a pathetic wheeze. The lights had not come for him, but for the rose. A gift for the spirit of the tree.
The natural order was not allowed to continue. His spirit was needed as much as his blood and anima were. The cursed blade that pierced his heart drew his howling spirit into it as the ruined body of Anyaâs father was placed on top of his. The reanimated corpse of Astalon Shadowglade began to hiss and smoke, old mummified flesh melting, bones disintegrating until it was all a vile, bubbling, viscous liquid. The muck slithered into Tacheâs nostrils and gaping mouth as the blade tore apart his spirit and used the energy of it to bind Astalon to his new body.
When it was done, the body of Elirtache Kuvaeth sat up and pulled the dagger free from his chest it left a forever wound that would never fully close, weeping dark blood and ichor. Astalonâs cold gaze was drawn to his palms where the Dracone roseâs thorns had pierced the skin. These bled too but had the taste of the enemy.
