#i already have a second alkaid card in mind (it's wedding unascended)

[romance-rambles]

au - vampire!alkaid | roses for the blushing bride

Your attempt at killing your kidnapper goes awry. How tragic it is—that the man who killed your love wore his face first.

2.1k, mentions of murder, suicidal thoughts and suicide, vampire/vaguely historical/reincarnation au, mentioned non-con kissing+biting, unhappy ending, reader is mc, inspired by my little ramble in the tags of this gif post, series: none

THE DOOR CREAKS LIGHTLY AS it opens, the warmth of your candlestick highlighting the steps beyond it. The monster that resides in this manor is foolish, and your Alkaid is—was—not. The hefty lock that once guarded against you sits carelessly beneath a portrait of a woman who looks like you—who was once you, if the ravings of a mad man are to be taken seriously.

And if they are, then you will meet him soon—the man you were set to marry, with the same bright green eyes and light blond hair, and a warmth that the lord of this manor greatly lacks.

And if they aren't, then, that is simply not possible. Because, you think, how else can this be explained?

Your fingers lightly graze over the most recent puncture wound at the base of your neck. They play connect the dots and the monster's claim draws a circle. It ends where it starts, with the gemstones on the dagger's obnoxiously decorated hilt digging into the palm of your hand and your teeth gnawing at your bottom lip.

There sits a bruise there, the likes of which you've only ever allowed one man to gift you. You can still taste your own blood upon your tongue, metallic and bitter, but you can no longer remember your lover's smile.

Yearning overwhelms you, for a man long dead. It is something you can fight off almost as well as the monster. And it is a maddening thing—the way your carefully-groomed nails desire to claw your skin off. The way your hand twitches, dagger still in hand.

It is a mistake to think of him at all.

You cannot afford any mistakes, not when your weapon has been promised a different target. You cannot afford any mistakes, when your next life is to be a happier one.

So, the candlestick lifts higher.

Heels you might've chosen for yourself in another life clack against stone, the sound echoing throughout the darkened chamber. Yet, the monster still slumbers, oblivious to your intrusion. At the very end of the room lies a coffin, and there he waits, surrounded by white and green. By roses and their stems carefully preserved, a silent mockery of the promise Alkaid once made you.

Eternal loyalty—but this is not the eternity you desire.

In hopes of composing yourself, of chasing away the familiar disgust, fury, loathing, you tear your gaze away from the coffin. The grey floor has borrowed an orange hue from the candlelight. As you cross the distance, you do not look at the portraits that line the walls, with their never-changing subject, the contents of which you know only because the monster brought you to his lair exactly once.

You, with the same dead eyes and the same dead love and the changing fashions doing little to distract from your likeness. You, who were unfortunate enough to fall in love with that monster in some other lifetime, having been blinded by his pretty face.

And the bile that climbs your throat at the thought, which you choke back with a tired grimace—that, too, is familiar.

WHEN YOU REACH THE COFFIN, the first thing you do is yank the flowers out of your sight. Your dagger comes in use much earlier than expected, handling all that your hands cannot.

It is the least you can do for Alkaid.

The monster remains asleep throughout. It's convenient—if you'd known it was that easy, you would've done it sooner. You would've avenged him sooner. Alkaid was a light sleeper, and you had assumed the same held true for the monster.

With the same hand that carries the dagger, you open the casket. It takes a bit of effort to ensure you never lose sight of your target—quite literally. The payoff lies in the way the candlelight illuminates the man resting within.

His lighter hair takes on a warmer hue, thought it's incomparable to the way Alkaid's hair would gleam golden under the sunlight. He is blue, dressed in an outfit that looks to be the furthest thing from comfortable sleepwear. Alkaid was beige and green, and he was always getting on your case about dressing comfortably.

Marking the spot where your hands should hover, you set the candlestick beside you, careful to ensure its enthusiastic flame avoids the hem of your dress. You're almost giddy with excitement.

You'll see Alkaid soon. You'll get to him, even if it takes ten or twenty—

The monster mumbles your name lovingly.

Alkaid?

The dagger freezes just before the blade can slice through the layers of fabric guarding his heart. Your heartbeat quickens. You watch the figure warily, waiting for anything that could signal his monstrous nature.

Why would Alkaid be here when he is meant to be dead?

But the monster has never said your name before. You are simply his bride, just the most recent in a long string of replacements. If you did not share the same name as all the rest, you're certain he wouldn't know what it was.

And if it is Alkaid, if he has turned into a monster, if he is just as much a victim as you—

How could you ever dare to hurt him?

You can't lose him again. His family and yours, if they're still alive, would gladly testify about the absolute wreck you'd been when he disappeared a few days before your wedding.

It was only when one of his friends mentioned that he had seen Alkaid near the monster's manor that you'd found the resolve to crawl out of your bed for the first time in weeks.

Of course, you hadn't known just yet that there was a monster at all. You hadn't known of all that was to transpire—that had already transpired.

Your grasp on the dagger's hilt tightens—you don't want it anywhere near Alkaid. You want to know if he's Alkaid. You want to shake the man awake and ask, Are you him? Are you the one I've been searching for? And what about the monster?

You know that if he says he was the monster all along, you'll forgive him with an ease he would not deserve.

Again, the man mumbles your name. It does much to distract you from your spiralling thoughts.

After all, it sounds like coming home.

You want to believe it sounds like coming home.

"Al—"

As if sensing that his name is on the tip of your tongue, the man rouses himself from his slumber. The first thing he seems to gaze upon is you—and the dagger you've pulled close to yourself.

Ah.

You tremble. His gaze is cold and his grip is bruising. Alkaid has never looked at you so unkindly. You used to find it disconcerting how easily the glare on his face would slip away if he glanced at you. Now you wish for it more than anything.

What have you done wrong? Why is he upset?

In your desperation, you almost beg: Alkaid—

Then, you blink, remembering the weapon in your hands. It coincides with the moment that a sense of clarity washes over you, beckoning you to recall your mission. To remember—

This man isn't Alkaid.

"Oh." Your heart flutters strangely. You want to claw it out too. "The monster."

Alkaid is dead, after all.

"Yes," the monster agrees.

The dagger plunges into his heart.

AN ORDINARY MAN WOULD KEEL over from the pain. The monster only grunts. You might as well compare it to bumping into the furniture by accident, with the way he seems so unfazed.

His gloved hand climbs down to your clenched fist, as if hoping to wrench the dagger away from your fingers. He is a monster and your Alkaid was not—that is what makes the difference between living and dying.

"You didn't die," you note, disappointment plainly evident in your tone. "Did you know?"

Did you know this would happen when you gave me this dagger?

"I'm difficult to kill," he responds flatly.

You wonder who the scorn in his voice is directed to. His gaze seems distant—which one of your predecessors is he thinking of? But you've never learned to tell the difference, so it's not as though the answer would make any sense to you.

"Unlike Alkaid?"

The monster remains silent. It only infuriates you more.

"I hate you," you spit out. Tears well up in your eyes, though for what reason, you're not sure. "I'm sure they all hated you too."

Anger briefly flashes across his bright green eyes. Instinctively, you pull your hand away, pulling the dagger along with you. Blood drips onto your nightgown, dying its white fabric a bright red.

Beyond an sharp inhale, the monster's expression remains unchanged. You're almost surprised at how easily he lets go of your hand, at only the slightest show of resistance.

"I know they did," he says, eyeing the new stain on your dress. You don't want to put a name to the emotion on his face. A monster like that doesn't deserve it. "They all told me as much."

You fill in the blanks yourself. Before they died. But they must've been the same as the monster when they died—that is why he refrained from performing that particular act with you. That is why the blemishes on your skin have nothing to do with any sort of traditional violence.

He hates it when you're hurt.

"And how did they die?"

He doesn't care enough to see that you're past that point.

He looks haunted. "That's not something I want to tell you."

A spiteful part of you delights in watching his expression. It wonders how much more his face will crumple when you meet the same fate. Dying is the only part of your gambit that was guaranteed to work out flawlessly in the end—the only time you've ever tried to trust the monster sitting in his coffin.

(I will turn you only if you truly desire it.

...I don't believe you.

Do as you please. I will hold onto my word regardless.)

The dagger is still in your hand. You pull it away from the monster's reach and nod almost imperceptibly. You cannot kill him because you do not know how.

But you are not beholden to the same laws of nature as him.

"And you won't tell me where to find whatever it is that killed them either?" you ask, though you know it's useless to ask.

For you, it is either death or a life spent with the very monster that stole your lover away. You will remember nothing of this conversation, nor of the pain you went through when you awaken once again. And you will go through the same pain and suffering, all the while cursing your predecessors for not taking care of what should be their mistake.

But you can still meet your beloved.

You want to meet your beloved.

"You have no need for such a thing," he says, with your name on his lips.

That is enough for you.

HIS EYES ARE GREEN JUST like Alkaid's. It's something you've noticed before.

As the dagger pierces your flesh, they widen in horror. You can't feel much of anything—if your hands were not holding onto its hilt, you wouldn't know you'd been stabbed.

There's an odd expression on the monster's face. Pained and familiar. It reminds you of the time you tripped over your own two feet, leaving you with scraped knees and elbows, and your dinner for the night littered across the ground.

You'd left Alkaid behind in a hurry, the siren's call of a warm meal too difficult to resist, and he hadn't been quick enough to catch you.

But the man in front of you is not the man you love.

Your lips pull into a faint smile regardless.

You're not sure why.

THE HANDS THAT WRAP AROUND are so terribly cold. You know for certain they belong to the monster. His tears drip down onto your cheek and you're surprised to learn that he can cry. But the blood on your hands, on the dagger lodged into your stomach, is sticky and warm.

Your neck remains untouched. His previous words echo through your mind—a man can only watch the woman he loves die so many times, after all.

You think you might pity him.

That is, before the memory of his confession, of the way he killed your love, leaves you with nothing but fury coursing through your veins.

You think you curse him.

You think he welcomes it.