#though I already love him for the dungeon scene

[catofoldstones]

I promise I’ll start reading ASOS tomorrow

[novaursa]

Web of Gold (aegon has a cold)

- Summary: Alicent could only watch as you handle her son like a lioness who plays with her food.

- Paring: lannister!reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: aegon in love

- Next part: aegon is jealous

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @purple-1995

Aegon lounges pathetically in his chamber, propped up by an unreasonable number of pillows, surrounded by the evidence of his misery. The usually bright and playful gleam in his eyes is dulled, his silver hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. A crimson flush colors his cheeks, but not from wine this time—no, it's from the fever that’s had him whining and moaning for hours. He coughs dramatically, letting out a moan that echoes through the chamber as if he’s on the brink of death.

Alicent stands at his bedside, her expression a mixture of concern and deep irritation. In her hand, she holds a small vial containing a thick, unpleasant-looking tonic, brought to her by Grand Maester Orwyle. She tries to smile, though it’s clear she’s struggling. “Aegon, you must take this tonic,” she says, her tone firm but coaxing. “It will bring down the fever.”

Aegon grimaces, turning his head to the side as though the very sight of the tonic might poison him on the spot. “No,” he mutters, voice muffled against the pillows. He pulls the blankets up to his chin like a petulant child. “It smells like the dungeons.”

Alicent’s smile tightens, and she takes a breath, clearly summoning her patience. “Aegon, you must be sensible. You’ll feel better once you take it. Orwyle says it will—”

But Aegon interrupts her with a dramatic groan, throwing an arm over his face. “No, Mother, I don’t want *Orwyle’s tonic! It’s foul, and it will probably kill me faster than the fever!” He opens one eye to gauge her reaction and, seeing her unimpressed look, he lets out an even louder groan. “Why don’t you just let me die in peace?”

Alicent's patience snaps, her voice growing sharper. “Aegon, stop being ridiculous. It’s just a tonic.”

Aegon, however, is already gearing up for a proper scene. He shifts dramatically under the covers, clutching his chest with a moan that would rival a dying knight on a battlefield. “I’m going to die, Mother, I can feel it. The fever’s too strong. I can barely lift my head. The end is near!” He pauses for dramatic effect before adding in a pitiful whine, “And if I am to die, I want Y/N here with me!”

Alicent blinks, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Y/N?” she repeats, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. “Aegon, you need medicine, not—”

“I need Y/N!” Aegon insists, reaching out to grab his mother’s hand with a feverish desperation. “She knows how to take care of me. She’s warm, and she’ll make me feel better with her presence. And she’ll bring honey cakes!” He glances at the tonic in her hand with a scowl. “Not that awful sludge Orwyle calls medicine.”

Alicent pulls her hand back, her lips thinning into a displeased line. “Aegon, Y/N isn’t a healer. She’s not going to make your fever go away.”

Aegon, determined to be as difficult as possible, shifts to stare up at the ceiling, adopting a pitiful, far-off look. “Then let me waste away. Alone. Unloved. Without the touch of my sweet lioness by my side.”

Alicent pinches the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath. “Aegon, you are not going to waste away. You have a cold, not greyscale.”

But Aegon is already in his own world of dramatics, ignoring her entirely. He clutches the blankets tighter, his voice dropping to a rasping murmur as if his strength is ebbing away. “Tell her I need her… Tell her it’s my last wish.” He glances sideways at his mother, his lips trembling with a pout that might almost be convincing if it weren’t so exaggerated. “You wouldn’t deny a dying man his last wish, would you, Mother?”

Alicent’s eye twitches, and she takes another breath, visibly trying to keep her composure. “You are not dying, Aegon. You’re being overdramatic.”

But Aegon ignores her, already raising his voice to the empty room. “Someone fetch Y/N!” he calls out to the ceiling. “Bring her here, or I shall succumb to this fever and perish before the day is done! I can feel the darkness closing in…”

Alicent looks heavenward as if praying for patience. She sets the vial of tonic down on the bedside table with a decisive thud, her expression turning steely. “Fine,” she says through gritted teeth. “I will send for Y/N, if it will stop you from this nonsense. But you will take the tonic when she arrives.”

Aegon’s face immediately brightens, his sudden smile undermining all his previous complaints. “Oh, thank you, Mother! You won’t regret it. Y/N will make everything better, you’ll see.”

Alicent gives him a tight smile that looks more like a grimace. “Yes, I’m sure she will,” she mutters, turning on her heel and leaving the chamber with an air of resignation. She doesn’t bother to hide the annoyance in her stride, the sharp click of her heels echoing through the hall as she goes to find the only person capable of soothing her impossible son.

As soon as she’s out of sight, Aegon relaxes back into the pillows with a contented sigh, a satisfied smile curling his lips. He reaches for the goblet of water by his bed and takes a sip, already picturing the way you’ll fuss over him and bring him sweet treats to “help with his strength.” For Aegon, being pampered by you is the cure to any illness—no tonic required.

You sweep into Aegon’s chambers with a swirl of your golden skirts, exuding the warm energy of someone who has absolutely no idea how to take care of a fever but is determined to make a show of it. Aegon, who is propped up in bed like a tragic hero, immediately brightens when he sees you. He looks as pitiful as ever, a blanket draped over his shoulders and a dramatic flush on his cheeks. The moment you step through the door, he gives a loud, exaggerated sigh of relief.

“Oh, Y/N, you’re finally here!” he croaks, though his voice is suspiciously more robust than it was when Alicent was present. He reaches out a hand to you, his expression one of desperate longing. “I feared I would perish before you arrived.”

You smile indulgently, sitting yourself on the edge of the bed and taking his hand in yours, patting it as if he’s a fragile, wilting flower. “Oh, Aegon, don’t be so dramatic. I’m sure you’ll make a full recovery,” you reply sweetly, though there’s a teasing glint in your eyes. “But I brought honey cakes just in case.”

Aegon’s expression lights up immediately, and he clutches your hand even tighter. “See? You understand me better than anyone. You know exactly what I need.” He leans back against his pillows, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “I’ve been telling Mother that you are my cure.”

You cast a look over your shoulder, catching Alicent’s displeased expression as she lingers by the doorway, but you offer her a serene smile. “It’s only natural for a wife-to-be to tend to her betrothed, Your Grace.”

Alicent’s expression tightens, but before she can respond, there’s the sound of footsteps approaching, and Aemond strides into the room, his boots clicking sharply against the stone floor. He takes in the scene with a raised brow, his single eye sweeping over you and Aegon in bed, with Alicent hovering nearby looking thoroughly exasperated. Aemond’s lips twitch in what might have been amusement, though his tone is as dry as ever.

“I heard that my brother was on his deathbed,” Aemond says, a slight edge of mockery in his voice as he crosses his arms and looks down at Aegon. “But it seems he’s found his miracle cure.”

Aegon, never one to miss a chance to exaggerate, clutches your hand to his chest with renewed fervor. “Oh, Aemond, it was terrible. The fever—it was like dragonfire coursing through my veins. I thought I wouldn’t make it through the night!” He glances over at you, batting his lashes in a way that he probably thinks is charming. “But now that Y/N is here, I feel hope returning to me.”

You play along with a sympathetic look, pressing a cool cloth to Aegon’s forehead as if that might truly stave off the fever. “He’s been so brave, Aemond,” you say, though there’s a teasing lilt to your voice. “But I think he just needs a bit of pampering. And perhaps a few more of these honey cakes.”

Aemond rolls his eye, clearly unimpressed by the theatrics. He looks from you to Aegon with a resigned expression, then sighs. “Brother, you’ve caught a cold, not the Grey Plague. Surely even you can endure a little discomfort without turning it into a full-blown tragedy.”

Aegon shoots his brother a wounded look, releasing your hand to point accusingly in Aemond’s direction. “You just don’t understand, Aemond! You’re all… stoic and serious. You wouldn’t know what it’s like to suffer through this kind of agony.” He lets out another dramatic sigh, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “But Y/N understands. She knows how to take care of me.”

You pat Aegon’s hand again, your smile turning a little smug as you glance at Aemond. “Well, I can’t fault him for wanting a little comfort in his time of need, can I, Aemond? Surely you wouldn’t begrudge him that.”

Aemond’s gaze flickers with barely concealed amusement. “Oh, I don’t begrudge him anything, Y/N. I merely question whether he is truly in as much peril as he claims to be.” He arches a brow at Aegon, who is now picking at the edge of a honey cake, nibbling on it like a spoiled child.

Aegon, catching his brother’s skeptical look, scowls and quickly adopts a pitiful expression, pressing the cloth to his head as though that might convince Aemond of his dire condition. “You see? Even now, my head is pounding. I’m practically burning up! Feel my forehead, Y/N. It’s like touching the sun.”

You humor him, pressing your hand to his forehead with the most serious expression you can manage. “Hmm,” you murmur thoughtfully, as if considering a grave diagnosis. “Yes, it’s very warm indeed. It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long, Aegon.”

Aegon beams at your attention, thoroughly delighted by your pampering. “See, Aemond? Y/N understands. She’s the only one who truly cares about me.”

Aemond, however, just rolls his eye again, his expression one of long-suffering endurance. “If you’ve truly caught a fever, brother, then you should rest and stop talking so much.” He glances pointedly at the untouched vial of tonic on the bedside table. “And perhaps actually take the medicine that Orwyle prepared for you instead of relying solely on sweets.”

Aegon makes a face, shoving the tonic aside with a weak swipe of his hand. “I told you, that stuff is poison. I won’t drink it.” He turns to you, eyes wide and imploring. “You wouldn’t want me to suffer through that awful stuff, would you, Y/N?”

You offer Aegon a conspiratorial smile, tapping a finger to your lips. “Well, perhaps if you’re very good, I’ll bring you something that tastes better. A little wine, maybe?”

Aemond’s eye narrows at you both, clearly exasperated. “Yes, because what you need right now is more wine,” he mutters under his breath, though you catch the faintest twitch of his lips.

But Aegon’s already nodding eagerly, looking far more animated than any feverish man has a right to be. “Yes, yes, that’s what I need. Wine and Y/N. The two best remedies in the realm.”

Alicent, who has been silent but watching the entire exchange with a tightly controlled expression, finally speaks up, her voice clipped. “Aegon, please. Stop behaving like a child.”

Aegon gives her a wounded look, but his grip on your hand tightens as though you’re his only tether to this world. “But Mother, Y/N is taking such good care of me. Can’t you see how much better I feel already?” He turns his gaze back to you, his voice dropping to a more pitiful tone. “Y/N, don’t leave me. I need you.”

You give Aegon a reassuring pat, your tone soothing. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you, Aegon. Not until you’re feeling better.” Then, casting a look over your shoulder at Aemond, you add with a playful smile, “Besides, it’s not every day I get to dote on a king.”

Aemond meets your gaze, his mouth twisting into something resembling a smirk. “Indeed. Though I can’t say it’s doing wonders for his dignity.”

Aegon ignores the jab entirely, snuggling deeper into his blankets, content to have you by his side and blissfully unaware of the thinly veiled amusement on Aemond’s face—or the deep irritation on his mother’s. And you, for your part, settle in for what promises to be a thoroughly entertaining afternoon.

[ms-snape]

Ok but perhaps you can please write something about severus having a to take his chubby little one year old daughter to work with him because mom was tired that day? Like just fluff

Title: Hope Eleanor Snape

Warning: Pure fluff

Words Count: 2800+

Masterlist

---

Severus Snape had never imagined himself the type of man to carry a baby through the halls of Hogwarts. Certainly not on a weekday morning, with a class full of inattentive students awaiting his arrival in the dungeons. But here he was, doing just that, the weight of his one-year-old daughter settled comfortably on his hip as her small hand tangled in the collar of his robes.

Hope Eleanor Snape was everything Severus never thought he deserved—soft where he was sharp, light where he was dark. Her chubby cheeks, flushed from a restless night, were pink against the stark black of his robes, and her eyes, a deep, intense black like his own, gazed up at him with an innocent curiosity.

It had been one of those mornings. Y/n, his wife, had been up with Hope for most of the night, soothing the little girl who had stubbornly refused sleep. When the morning sun peeked through the window, Y/n had barely stirred, her exhaustion evident in the deep circles beneath her eyes. Severus had kissed her forehead gently and told her to rest, knowing full well he would have to bring Hope with him to class.

As he strode through the corridors, Hope seemed fascinated by everything around her. The echo of his boots on the stone floors, the soft flutters of a tapestry as they passed, even the flickering of torchlight caught her attention. She babbled, her tiny voice filling the silence of the usually foreboding dungeons, and Severus found himself listening, a faint smile playing on his lips despite himself.

The doors to his classroom loomed ahead, and Severus sighed quietly, preparing himself for what he knew would be an unusual lesson. He adjusted Hope in his arms as she tried to reach for a lock of his hair, her small fingers grasping at the air with determination.

"Let’s see how you handle this, little one," Severus murmured under his breath. He could already predict the scene that awaited him: distracted students, whispers, stares. Not that he cared for their opinions, of course. His concern was that Hope, with her boundless curiosity and penchant for grabbing things she shouldn’t, might cause a disruption he’d struggle to manage.

Pushing open the door with a sharp flick of his wrist, Severus entered the classroom.

It took precisely three seconds for the room to descend into absolute silence. The students, who had been murmuring among themselves as they set up their cauldrons and ingredients, froze in unison, their eyes wide and disbelieving as they took in the sight before them.

There stood their typically dour, imposing Potions Master, dressed in his usual billowing black robes, holding a small, chubby child who was currently sucking on two of her fingers and blinking curiously at the room.

Severus didn’t need to speak to command their attention; the sheer absurdity of the moment had done that for him.

Hope, oblivious to the stunned looks from the students, wriggled slightly in his arms, tugging insistently at his robes as if trying to gain his attention. She was used to being the center of attention, after all—especially from her mother, who doted on her endlessly. And even though Hope loved his daughter with a fierce, protective intensity, he wasn’t as effusive with his affections as Y/n was. It was just his nature, but Hope didn’t seem to mind.

The baby let out a soft coo, her voice high-pitched and cheerful, and Severus felt the eyes of the entire classroom zero in on her. He could practically hear their hearts melting. He sighed.

"As you can see," Severus said in his usual low, silken tone, "My daughter will be joining us today. Your focus, however, will remain on your potions. I will not tolerate any distractions." He let his gaze sweep across the room, daring anyone to challenge him.

But it was a hopeless demand.

The students’ attention was already fixed on Hope, and there was little he could do to break the spell she seemed to cast. Several girls in the front row were exchanging looks of utter adoration, their eyes wide as they took in Hope round cheeks, the way her tiny fists grasped at her father’s robes, her dark curls tousled in an adorably messy way.

"She’s so cute," someone whispered, followed by a chorus of murmurs.

Severus raised an eyebrow, his lips tightening, though he couldn’t bring himself to truly reprimand them. Eleanor was, in fact, a spitting image of her mother, save for the eyes. Those deep, fathomless black eyes that mirrored his own made her seem more serious than any baby had a right to be. But her chubby face, her sweet, infectious smile—those were all Y/n. It was as if the world had taken Y/n’s softness and poured it into Eleanor, creating this little bundle of joy who had quickly become the center of Severus’s universe, even if he was reluctant to admit it openly.

He walked to his desk, settling Hope into a conjured playpen near his chair. She babbled happily as she was placed among her toys—plush creatures that Severus had charmed to move on their own, a small wooden wand Y/n had given her to wave around harmlessly, and her favorite—a stuffed dragon with large, flapping wings.

"Now," Severus said, his voice sharp as ever, "today’s lesson is on the brewing of Draught of Peace. You will follow the instructions precisely, or you will face the consequences."

But even as he spoke, he could feel the collective attention of the students drifting back to Hope. It was impossible not to be captivated by her. She sat happily in her playpen, one pudgy hand holding the dragon’s tail while her other hand reached for her mouth, gnawing on her fingers as she gurgled contentedly.

Severus began to pace the classroom, his usual routine of observing students’ progress, though today his sharp remarks were fewer. He found himself glancing over at Hope more often than he would have liked, just to ensure she was content. She, in turn, occasionally caught his eye and gave him a bright, gummy smile, causing an unexpected warmth to flood his chest.

She really did look so much like Y/n.

As the students measured out their ingredients and stirred their cauldrons, Severus heard more than a few muffled giggles from the back of the room. He turned just in time to see Hope standing up in her playpen, holding onto the side for support as she bounced on her chubby little legs. She was clearly proud of herself, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Sit down, Miss Snape," he murmured, almost to himself, and with a wave of his hand, the playpen gently lowered her back onto her bottom. Hope blinked, momentarily confused, before resuming her exploration of the toys.

The class went on, but the students were hopelessly distracted. Severus caught Hermione Granger looking over at Hope at least three times, her hands hovering uncertainly over her cauldron. Even Draco Malfoy, usually so focused on his potion work, had his attention split between stirring his potion and watching Hope as she waved her little wand in the air, making nonsensical motions.

Finally, one student—a Slytherin girl with wide eyes and a nervous smile—raised her hand hesitantly. Severus nodded toward her.

"Professor, uhm, sir, is she always this—um—energetic?" the girl asked, glancing at Hope as she attempted to chew on the stuffed dragon’s wing.

Severus arched an eyebrow, casting a glance at his daughter, who was now gnawing intently on the plush toy, her face scrunched in concentration. She paused only to look up at her father and giggle softly, a sweet, bubbly sound that filled the room.

"She is… persistent," Severus said at last, his voice a touch softer than usual. It was the truth. Hope, much like her mother, had an unyielding spirit. Once she set her mind to something—whether it was staying awake through the night or trying to stand in her playpen—she did it with all the determination a one-year-old could muster.

The students exchanged looks, their smiles widening. Severus knew he had lost their attention completely by this point. And yet, as he glanced at his daughter, now thoroughly entertained by her toys, he found he didn’t mind nearly as much as he thought he would.

The lesson continued, albeit with more focus on Hope than on the potions. Severus moved between the desks, making the necessary corrections to students’ work, though his mind was never far from the playpen by his desk. Every now and then, Hope would let out a delighted squeal, drawing the eyes of every student in the room.

By the end of the lesson, as the students began packing up their materials, Severus returned to his desk. Hope was beginning to tire, her little head bobbing slightly as she fought off sleep. Her dark lashes fluttered as she rubbed at her eyes with a chubby fist, and Severus could see that she was losing the battle.

He bent down, lifting her from the playpen and cradling her against his chest. Hope sighed softly, her thumb finding its way into her mouth as she nestled into the warmth of his robes.

The classroom had fallen silent again, the students watching with wide eyes as their stern, no-nonsense professor gently rocked his daughter in his arms. It was a sight none of them would forget—a rare glimpse of a different side of Severus Snape, one they hadn’t known existed.

"Class dismissed," Severus said quietly, his voice softer than usual. The students filed out, casting one last look at the sleeping baby in his arms before leaving the dungeon.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Severus looked down at Hope. She was fast asleep now, her small hand clutching the front of his robes, her breathing slow and even. He stroked her hair gently, his heart swelling with an unfamiliar warmth.

"You’re too much like your mother," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "And that’s a good thing."

For a moment, standing there in the quiet of the empty classroom, Severus allowed himself to smile. It was a small, fleeting smile, but it was real. And in that moment, with his daughter safe and warm in his arms, the world seemed just a little bit brighter.

With a practiced hand, Severus gathered the lesson plans and potion ingredients, all the while cradling Hope effortlessly in his other arm. It was a strange sensation—this constant awareness of her weight against him, the softness of her small form in his embrace. He hadn’t planned on being a father, hadn’t imagined this life for himself, yet here he was, completely captivated by the little girl who had somehow become the center of his universe.

Gently, he draped his black cloak over her, tucking it around her tiny body to shield her from the chill of the dungeon air. The familiar sweep of his robes trailed behind him as he strode out of the classroom, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridors. The journey back to his quarters was a quiet one, with only the soft rustling of Hope’s breathing to break the silence.

As Severus neared the entrance to their private quarters, he murmured the password under his breath, and the door swung open with a soft creak. The warmth of the room hit him immediately, a sharp contrast to the cool dungeons. The hearth in the corner flickered with a soft, golden glow, and the scent of herbs—Y/n’s doing, no doubt—permeated the space, creating a cozy, inviting atmosphere.

Y/n was curled up in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, a book in her lap, though she looked as if she’d only just woken up from a long-needed nap. Her hair was tousled, and she wore a loose sweater that made her look even softer and more serene than usual. As the door closed behind him, she looked up, her eyes immediately softening as she saw Severus standing there with Hope in his arms.

A small smile spread across her face, the kind of smile that made his heart stumble in his chest, though he’d never admit it. "There you are," she said quietly, her voice still tinged with the remnants of sleep. "How did it go?"

Severus crossed the room, moving toward the fireplace as Hope stirred slightly, her little head nuzzling further into his robes. He adjusted his hold on her, cradling her with the kind of tenderness that still surprised him, even now. He lowered himself into the chair opposite Y/n, careful not to jostle Hope too much.

“It was… interesting,” Severus replied, his tone dry, though the corners of his lips quirked ever so slightly.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Interesting, hmm? Do tell.”

Severus leaned back in the chair, one hand still resting protectively on Hope’s back as she dozed. “It seems our daughter has a talent for distracting an entire classroom full of students,” he said, his voice laced with a rare trace of amusement. “No matter how much I tried to focus them on their potions, they were more interested in her antics.”

Y/n let out a soft laugh, her eyes twinkling with warmth. “Well, can you blame them? She’s impossible to ignore.” She set her book aside and rose from her chair, moving over to sit on the armrest of Severus’s chair. She gently brushed a lock of dark hair away from Hope’s forehead, her fingers soft and tender as they moved over her daughter's sleeping face. “She’s always been a bit of a scene-stealer.”

Severus glanced down at Hope, watching the steady rise and fall of her tiny chest. He couldn’t argue with that. Hope had a way of drawing attention without even trying, her innocence and joy a sharp contrast to the darker, more complicated world around her.

"She’s just like you,” Severus said quietly, his voice carrying a depth of emotion that he rarely allowed to surface. “She has your light."

Y/n tilted her head, her gaze softening even more as she looked at him. "And she has your strength," she murmured. "Those eyes of hers—they’re yours, Sev. And that determination? That’s all you."

For a long moment, they sat there in the quiet warmth of the room, the fire crackling softly in the background, casting a golden glow over the scene. Y/n’s hand rested on Severus’s shoulder, her touch grounding him, while Hope’s small form was tucked safely against his chest, her warmth seeping into his very bones.

Severus’s gaze drifted to Y/n, taking in the gentle curve of her smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she looked at him. He had never imagined himself in this kind of life—never imagined that he could feel this kind of peace, this kind of contentment. But somehow, against all odds, it had found him. She had found him.

After a moment, Y/n stood and moved back to her chair, but her eyes lingered on the scene in front of her—Severus Snape, the man who had once been so distant and untouchable, cradling their daughter with all the tenderness in the world. The sight filled her with a quiet sense of joy, one that she had never quite expected, but was grateful for every day.

“So,” she said softly, settling back into her chair, “do you think you’ll bring her to class again?”

Severus raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching in something that resembled a smirk. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I’d prefer not to lose control of my classroom every time she decides to babble at them.”

Y/n chuckled, the sound light and musical. “I’m sure they were all enchanted by her. You know she has that effect on people.”

Severus hummed in agreement, his fingers absently tracing small circles on Hope’s back as she shifted slightly in his arms, her tiny hand clutching at his robe. “She certainly does,” he admitted quietly.

For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, the fire crackling softly and casting flickering shadows across the room. Hope remained blissfully unaware of the world around her, tucked securely in her father’s embrace, her tiny breaths filling the space with a sense of peace.

Y/n’s gaze softened as she watched them, her heart swelling with love for the two people who had become her entire world. She reached over, her fingers brushing against Severus’s hand. “You’re a good father, you know,” she whispered, her voice filled with quiet sincerity.

Severus didn’t respond immediately, his eyes focused on the sleeping form of his daughter. But after a moment, he squeezed Y/n’s hand gently, his voice barely above a whisper as he replied, ���Only because of you.”

And in that moment, as the fire crackled softly in the hearth and the world outside seemed so far away, Severus Snape allowed himself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he was deserving of the happiness he had found. Because here, in this quiet corner of Hogwarts, with his wife beside him and his daughter safe in his arms, he had everything he had ever wanted but never thought he could have.

[vesperaink]

Friends, my necromancer!Tango/grimreaper!Jimmy, Team Rancher modern with magic apocalypse AU, Graveyard Shift, for @mcytblraufest's Reverse Big Bang is here!

But wait there's more--go read chasing crimson written by @aliferous-ly, beta'd by @dibs2win, my fantastic team for aufest. If you love enemies to lovers, unlikely partnerships, and the power of soul-bound magic weapon contracts, this hilarious + dramatic 22.9k fic kicks off from this comic!

chasing crimson

Jimmy Solidarity works for the esteemed god of Death, reaping lost souls and taking care of unsavory characters. He's recently finished his training, and is determined to do well on his first solo mission. Perhaps this "Tango" would be a good start. Only, the god of Death disappeared years ago, and Necromancer Tango Tek's long since discovered a way around dying. He can't say he enjoys Jimmy swinging through and killing him where he stands, though.

Thank you to my team for being as feral about this AU as I am, and kicking everything about it up to 110. I had so much developing this world with them!

Thanks to @onawhimsicot for helping me with the comic's dialogue, fixing my composition woes with "just add more smoke," and encouraging me to complete it in full color! Check out Cadence's aufest fic, I take it back (ill follow till I fly or till im dead), a Cult of the Lamb AU about follower!Tango and Lamb!Zedaph, the meaning of devotion, silly experiments, eldritch transformations, and...the most platonic slowburn ever?

Lastly, thank you to the aufest team for another wonderful event! I had a blast again, and was giggling kicking my feet at everyone's reactions during claims, I loved every single one of them. Graveyard Shift is definitely an AU I'm coming back to. As always, my askbox is open if you'd like to chat, and I'd love to be tagged if anyone makes anything <3

Timelapse / AU art chatter under the cut!

While Graveyard Shift is the amalgamation of many of my interests, the main premise for this AU is loosely inspired by the webcomic, I'm the Grim Reaper, in both its apocalypse themes and its aesthetics! Not a required read, but highly recommend if you enjoy this au, as well as the anime and manga, Soul Eater!

I came up with a lot of AUs for this event but necromancer!Tango and reaper!Jimmy have been rattling around in my brain in separate AUs since before I started brainstorming for aufest. So I smashed them together, naturally.

(Unfortunately I didn't record all of my process, but most of it is here! CW for flashing; song is Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene by Hozier)

I could go on forever about concept art and character design if anyone's curious but here's some fun bonus details about this comic:

Originally, Tango's outfit was going to be more like his Dungeon Master outfit but I wanted the setting to be more modern and Jimmy stole the fantasy cloak vibe from him already lol

Jimmy's entrance of lightning is my nod to the Life Series final death sound

The scarf Jimmy's wearing is designed to be a boneyard shawl

The panel of strange text reads "Protection Three" in Galactic :)

+ The name "Graveyard Shift" was thrown at me by Cadence in like 3 seconds flat after i spent 2 days agonizing over a name for this au LOL

[lai-mar]

Re: Winged Lion fulfilling Laios' desires + "Marcille will no longer have to be alone"

Throughout the lion's persuasion, Laios has been acting reluctant / defensive / angry / embarrassed. He tells the lion that his desires of having monsters attack a village was a foolish childhood fantasy. Concerning Falin, the lion tells him he's being a hypocrite because he's wishing for a peaceful world and they can't revive Falin without magic, then the lion says they'll move onto more cheerful topics and digs into Laios' "true" subconscious desire to become a monster (reflected in the succubus chapter).

Laios is clearly uncomfortable but the lion continues digging in. The lion mentions Laios' own desires of becoming a monster, loving monsters, desires that define Laios as a person, and almost glosses over his will to revive Falin? Because we all know he loves his sister and wants to save her. It's a noble and sympathetic act. But turning in a monster and potentially terrorizing or at least scaring people? Just because he wants to? To make up for his lack of social tact and his seeming distaste for humankind? That's not noble. So naturally Laios clings onto his goal of saving Falin (evident in the scene when the lion curses him and Laios immediately thinks of Falin), and just as naturally, the lion wants to uncover that and make him confront his "true" desire.

Laios loves his friends and his party, but I think the lion isn't granting them full livelihoods out of pure selflessness on Laios' behalf. Because his party, despite everything, accepts him. They cook with him, they journey with him to save Falin, they trust him, they support him. In the dungeon, Laios' monster knowledge is respected and valued by his friends. Right before the confrontation with the lion, Laios gives each of his party members something to do, in particular telling Izutsumi to kill him. This is probably because of her skills and the fact that he's known Izutsumi the least (and they're less close compared to, let's say, Izutsumi and Marcille). But regardless of how long he's known them, he trusts them. He feels comfortable and confident around them. He feels supported. He knows his friends will do what he told them to do. And in a world in which Laios struggles to navigate due to his social skills, his companions are very precious to him. The party is aware of Laios' shortcomings but they follow and love him anyway. Keeping them unharmed is a noble act, but also selfish, because Laios likes being accepted and cared for.

Keeping the party safe is a vague concept, but then the lion goes for the kill— Marcille's lifespan.

And you can see Laios' expression instantly changes. There's a whole panel of his face. Previously, he's been uncomfortable and defensive. Even when the lion points out his "embarrassing" and "selfish" desire to be a monster, he's not as affected as he is. Now, he's shaken. He twitches. He knows something inside him just wavered. And the lion pounces on it.

Regarding why Laios wants Marcille to not be lonely, I have some thoughts:

Sympathy

Laios is the one who saw Marcille's nightmare and knows acutely what she fears. She lost Falin and was traumatised because of it. The whole party got killed and she was also traumatised. And Laios probably thinks it's his duty as a friend, party leader, and someone who saw into her nightmare to protect her and make her happy. Falin might never come back and maybe Marcille's already lost a loved one, and Laios doesn't want that to happen again even though it inevitably will.

2. Marcille's time as a dungeon lord

Laios' argument against lord Marcille is that she can't force everyone to eat from the same menu and not everyone wants to live that long. This might be a translation issue, but the lion doesn't say it's going to extend everyone's lifespans. No, it focuses on Marcille herself and says "Marcille will no longer have to be alone". Not "everyone will live as long as Marcille" or "Marcille will live as long as everyone else". It's not about ages, it's how Marcille feels. Which is something Laios obviously cares about.

Lord Marcille was unable to fulfill her desires. What if Laios does it for her, in a kind of "two in one" demon deal? Logistically, in order for the party to keep Marcille company, they'll have to live as long as she does (note the 999 years), or as the lion says, make up a fake version of themselves to keep her company. It might not be real, and with a bit of thinking, this dream crumbles, but the lion deviously targets the emotions and it overshadows rational thought. What if it's impossible to keep Marcille company for as long as she lives? Maybe the lion will magically make it work. Just maybe. And Laios holds onto this shred of hope.

3. Solidarity of being alone

Marcille, Laios, and Falin all experienced loneliness / feeling outcasted growing up. During the nightmare sequence, Laios says Marcille is different from him because her dream takes place in a library to show how hardworking she is. But ultimately, they are people who don't like being alone. Marcille warms up to eating monsters and accepts Laios for who he is. Laios rescues Marcille from the nightmare and the lion. They are each other's comfort zones and they keep each other company.

Laios doesn't want to be alone, hence the lion offering to save his friends. And he doesn't want Marcille to be alone, because he cares for her, and she's just like him in that regard.

Mentioning Marcille's feelings is what tips Laios over the edge. He isn't embarrassed or angry, he's frozen to the ground, shaken and persuaded. Arguably, saving Marcille is also a "noble" goal in the way saving Falin is a noble goal, but I think L+M has developed so far that saving her will feel like saving him because they both just want someone to keep them company (especially with the context of having lost Falin, who keeps them company and loves them for who they are).

Before all of this, Laios trusts Marcille with his precious gourmet guide. It's his hint that he's turned into his ideal monster, but the fact that he's given the embodiment of his dreams and desires to her shows how much he trusts her and feels comfortable around her. And it's Marcille who passes the guide around their friends as they all realise the monster is Laios. Even as a monster, Laios is recognised, his friends cheer for him, they want to save him.

I don't think I've seen anyone talk about this before, but later, Marcille tries using her summoned serpent / monster to eat monster Laios. (Like how she used it to eat her friends when she was a lord.) And Marcille's monster actually swallows Laios. But then Laios claws open its stomach and breaks free. Consumption is a form of love and salvation. I liked seeing their different monsters: Marcille's being a sleek serpent with flower motifs, kind of resembling her sky fish familiar that she used to rescue Senshi and Laios' almost chaotic chimera full of bits and pieces he picked up and carefully selected (including the scylla head he picked from the succubus). Marcille tries to save Laios by using her monster to eat him. They all save Falin by eating her monster parts. Even though initially Marcille was the one most picky about eating monsters, in the end she summons her own familiars and monsters and engages in her own way of creation / consumption.

And after all of this, it's Marcille who finds human Laios first. She doesn't berate him or anything, just treats him normally, tells him everyone is waiting for him. Because they accept each other and keep each other company. That's one of their core desires. Their character arcs intertwine and in the end they live together. Neither of them will have to be alone.

<3

[yandere-sins]

The Enemy’s Embrace

a/n: This doesn’t really has any big background. I saw a book quote on TikTok and thought that the scene would fit so well in a yandere scenario. So I wrote it! Hope you guys enjoy it :3

Warnings: Yandere, Mention of Stalking, Mention of unconsenting actions, Mention of Killing, Soft Yandere

»»———————— ♡ ————————««        

A shuddering sigh escaped your shivering lips as your gaze fell from the lattice above your head to the cell bars keeping you locked inside the cell.

There were so many things wrong with you being thrown in the dungeon. You didn't commit the crimes you were accused of and never fought the guards to deserve the resentment they've harbored. They had been downright glad to deliver you into the outdoor cell despite the early-winter cold setting in already, telling you you 'deserved' it.

Why did this happen?

Even after days, you lamented the questions of why and how, but the realization—a realization that made you angry beyond measure, furious and wild—had long set in. No matter how much you tried to ignore it for the sake of your own sanity, it wouldn't let you forget the reason you were here.

Not least because the reason kept talking to you with an awfully smug grin on his face as he waited for you to break.

"I don't mind sharing, you know?"

"I know," you mumbled, turning your back towards your cellmate and hitting your head against the cold stone to remain composed. You knew. You knew so well. The man wouldn't stop talking, belittling you with every word he uttered. And you knew he didn't mind sharing at the cost of you giving in to him.

It was driving you mad.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you watched your arch nemesis, the man you hated most in the entire world, flap his beautiful fur coat into the air, exposing the free space he had underneath to spare for you. That was if you could lose your dignity and sit between his legs, allowing this awful man to envelop you in a warm embrace.

He was grinning, as always, when he caught your eyes. Smugly. Challenging. Aware. Aware that you were slowly freezing to death in just your clothes while he had cozily bundled up in luxury unbefitting of a prisoner. He had been here longer than you, thrown into this dungeon for his crimes before they even came to get you. Someone took pity on the man who presented himself oh-so-dramatic and charming when he wasn't an insane villain. He just had to wail to and flirt with some of the noble ladies passing by the lattice until one of them decided to drop the poor man such a fine fur coat to survive the cold. 

It wasn't like he could come near you or hurt you again from his position, bound by chains around his wrists that weren't short enough to immobilize him but not long enough to walk away from his spot. But even after all this time, he still enjoyed the torment of your suffering; every breath you blew against your icy fingers sending a shiver of excitement down his spine.

Sadly, no one thought of gagging him as would be appropriate for a notorious liar. Though the court believed you initially when you told them about his misbehavior—the following, the touches, the murders all in your name—somehow, he convinced them that you weren't an innocent part in all of this. There was nothing you could have done to convince them of your innocence after he charmed his way into the hearts of the jury with fake reasoning and pleading for justice. He opened his mouth, and everyone played his game—except you.

For these reasons, you hated him. And for your rejection, he loved you.

He could have had anyone, even a noble knight or the princess of the kingdom. But he wanted you, specifically, and preferably on your knees, begging for him. His taunting invitation to a warm huddling under the fur was just another way to torment you. He simply wanted to have you just because he decided you belonged to him, and crush your mind to fill it with the same insanity as his.

You had fought him for years. You barely escaped him on so many occasions. But while it had felt like victory to see him being dragged off by guards to his new home, the outdoor cell you hope he'd never escape from, in the end, it had all been in vain. And as you stood in the cell, facing the grey stone wall, this realization was the hardest to accept in all your life.

Because you were really fucking cold.

Even if you had thought about the possibility of yourself dying while getting rid of this lunatic, the thought still pained you. Things had gone wrong many times, but you always made it. You wanted to live. You fought so hard for your freedom and to survive. How could you possibly just throw it out now and allow him to lure you into his grasp?

"What must I do to make you come here and stop being so wary of me? When have I ever done something for you to hate me so?"

Even when he let out a defeated sigh before he spoke, his voice was nothing but mockery. He once again played the role of a savior. A gentleman, a soft-hearted soul in a cruel world. He was right that the world was a cruel place, especially for a genuine and kind person like you. But if you needed saving, you didn't want it to be from an actor who played the role of the selfless hero while grinning at the blood on his own hands.

"I'm good," you replied coldly, much like you were feeling. Hugging your body, you sunk to the ground, rocking yourself back and forth while trying to ignore the annoying villain on the other side of the cell. Closing your eyes, you tried to imagine the summer sun shining down, warming your skin instead of the cold winter breeze ramming into you. Things would have been much easier if he had stopped talking.

"Not to unnerve you, but despite always being stunningly beautiful, the color of your lips is slowly making me nervous, too. We both know you are freezing."

He just wouldn't shut up.

"I. Don't. Want. You. Near. Me," you repeated the same phrase you've been telling him from day one. A phrase he usually liked to ignore and keep sputtering. However, not this time, and suspicion forced you to open one eye to see what he was doing as he didn't reply.

He was simply staring at you. Blankly, unnervingly. You had to look away because his unblinking eyes were unsettling to look into, wide like those of cats staring at an object of desire but void of the empathy of a human.

"Frankly, I don't care what you want," he muttered quietly, barely audible over the howling of the wind. "But if I beg you to come here and let me warm you, will that help? Would you stop torturing me with that pitiful sight of you if I pleaded and said 'please' and 'pretty please'? If I could, I would already be by your side regardless of if you'd let me, but don't you have pity on me, too? Pity on the man who has to watch the love of his life slowly freeze to death while he can't do anything to save you?"

You were so tired of his tirades. The endless amount of garbage he spoke as easily and freely as a bard sang of overdramatized adventures of heros without flinching about their lies. "Please," he breathed. "Please let me warm you."

Another shiver ran through you—from the cold or the desperation in his voice, you weren't sure—but you didn't move from your seat. Didn't give him the gratification of acknowledging him even if your body began to burn from the cold. You heard the rustling of chains, and when you finally looked up, you could see him twist and turn his wrists in the cuffs, trying to loosen them somehow. Only when he noticed your gaze on him did he change from fighting the restraint to giving in.

Letting his hands sink to the ground as far as the chains allowed, he kneeled on all fours before reaching up one hand, ignoring how the cuff cut off the blood flow to his hand. He could never reach you, but he was still trying. No matter what, he never ceased to pursue you, even in the most impossible situations. It made you shiver even more to know the person that selfishly claimed you as his, had the determination of a starving lion to get what he wanted even when he was chained and immobilized.

"I'm begging you," your enemy emphasized. "I'm begging you to let me help you. Let me hold you, so we can survive this together—or die trying. Together. Don't die so far away from me where I can't reach you. Can't even follow you... I can't even hold your hand. Please don't leave me like this. Please just... forgive me. Have mercy on my unworthy, oppressed heart."

Your eyelids were growing weary from the cold, and your mind even more so from his words. But as your movements slowly stilled, conflicting, old thoughts came to mind. Thoughts that you had chugged into the deepest drawer of your mind after he had been imprisoned. Thoughts you hoped never to have to resurface.

I'll survive this. I can escape him no matter what happens. This is not the end.

Slowly, weakly, your arm stretched out. The realization turned your enemy's expression into a surprised one, then he lept forward, ignoring any restraint and the impact on his body as he reached for your hand. His fingers barely grazed yours, but as you collapsed forward, he managed to snatch your wrist, keeping your face from hitting the dirty ground you two were seated on.

And before you knew it, you were enveloped in warmth.

He shifted all around you for a while until your feet were tugged in and under his legs, body covered by the fur and his—probably hurting—arms, one hand holding the coat closed around you so no draft could touch you, while the other one pressed your head into his chest, his chin resting on top of your hair. Completely absorbing you into the little warm orb that was the world he lived in.

"Finally," he sighed, turning his face downwards to nuzzle it into your hair, ignoring the grime that must have built for days. As if nothing about you could scare him off. He didn't seem bothered by anything as long as it concerned you, but you ignored anything he did for once, letting out a long sigh as the warmth slowly thawed you.

"You're not getting out of this one," he mumbled, planting a reverent kiss on your head, filled with the fulfillment of his longing for you, drawing it out as long as possible. Hand reaching up, he cupped your face and warmed your cold cheek with his palm while his thumb caressed you as if you were the most precious object he ever held in his grasp. "I finally have you," he muttered, and you couldn't help a weak huff as the words ever so softly reached you.

"You can't escape me now. You're all mine. Finally. I waited so long for the day you'd finally give in to me. I'll get us out of here, and you'll never have to want for anything, I promise. I'd do anything for you. You know that."

You simply let him keep brabbling while he kept you warm. Fearing that if you refused him now, he too would reject you. That this really would be the end despite all the hardships you had overcome up to this point. You felt nothing of the worship he felt for you, for him, but if this was the only way to stay alive, you'd bite your tongue and let him confess a million more of his crimes to your ears only. You'd overcome this all the same.

You'd survive this, too.

But for now, you'd be warm, cradled in your enemy's embrace.

[whiskeyghoul]

7 || She blinded me with science || [Spencer Reid x Goth!Reader]

First part, Previous part, Next part

A/N: Okay this is mostly just fluff to lead up to more things. Anyways, reader getting out of the lab dungeon! Yay! Also Spencer is definitely the type of person to get overwhelmed by feelings and get too into his head with everything. So here is a chapter of just the inner musing of the ‘oh my god I am going too fast.’ and ‘I really want to do more with them. What if I scare them off.’ type of things. Because he already realized his feelings but he is too blinded by them to see yours. Not proof read once again oops.

WC: 3 K

Tags: Fluff, just pure fluff, idiots in love, mentions of things from the past, reminiscing.

Warnings: None.

Spencer POV

Spencer had decided that he’d finish the week by staying home. So when he arrived at Quantico on Monday morning, two coffees in hand, he felt refreshed in a weird way. Where at the start of the week before he had felt terrible, tired, aching. Now he had a slight lightness in his step. The satchel hanging off of his shoulder was heavy, filled with his paperwork that he had done at home. He had spent that Friday actually working on it, feeling better than he had before that.

When you had come over that last Thursday, he had listened to your apology. Realizing how much of an impact on your life your ex had. He just hoped that it was over now. Because when he thought about you, being hurt, stalked. It made something inside him so angry. That when you had sat across from him at his dining table he just wanted you to stay close to him forever. So that he could be the one to keep an eye on you. It felt possessive. Which he hadn’t felt before. Not about a person at least.

About his favorite book, yes. Or his personal mug. About the chess set he had gotten from his mother years ago. Yet you were the first person to stir up similar feelings inside of him. He had almost even invited you to stay over that night. Which was moving way too fast considering you had just hurt his feelings immensely about a week before. Yet seeing you, in that big ragged hoodie, completely disheveled, vulnerable. He needed you close. He also wanted to kick Tommy in the teeth if he ever ran into him. For hurting you. For being a dick. He’d never felt like intentionally hurting someone like that. But you did something to him.

Spencer walked to the frosted glass door, knocking quickly before stepping in. He watched as you sat up at your desk, eyes meeting him, your concentrated frown turned to a smile. The way the crease in your brown relaxed at the sight of him made his heart still for a moment. He hadn’t thought that the sight of him was enough to make you smile. Wanting to immerse himself in that feeling. If only for a moment. “Morning Spencer.” Your voice was chipper that morning. He noted you looked put together, happy, carefree. Though that is what getting rid of a stalker usually does. He walked over, knowing he couldn’t stay long but wanting to spend as much time with you as he could.

“Good morning.” He returned with a smile, handing over the coffee that had kept his hand warm on his walk up. You gladly took it, taking an immediate sip. “You are a godsend.” You spoke with a smile after placing the cup down. “Because of the coffee or is there another reason for this compliment?” He asked, an amused smile playing on his lips as he took off the purple scarf he had worn on his way over. Draping it over the back of one of the desk chairs. “Both. I couldn’t get coffee this morning, I was in a rush since I got new evidence in.” You said, and got up from your chair, ready to show him whatever you got in. “Look, this is so interesting, they found a butt load of money on the victim. It was found at the crime scene, there was powder that could either be used for tracing or could be some drugs. Maybe it’s cocaine, maybe it is a poison absorbed through the skin.” You continued, holding up the evidence bag with a few hundred dollar notes.

“What’s the other reason?” Spencer asked. You blinked, just a little confused. “For the powder?” You questioned in return. “For the compliment.” Spencer answered and you blinked again. Doe eyed and a little embarrassed. Clearly you had changed the subject because you didn’t want to tell him the true reason. “Ehm… well, you- you look really good.” Your face had gotten tinged red as you stammered over your words. Spencer smiled. Without even thinking he leaned slightly down. Planting a tender kiss on your cheek. He couldn’t not, seeing your pinkened cheeks, the urge to kiss you was almost unbearable. But he could hold back enough to just press his lips on the apple of your cheek. Your skin was soft and warm against them. The smell of your perfume once again wafting up into his nose. It was a quick second of a move but he would keep that moment in his memories forever. 

When he pulled away you looked still as flustered as before. “What was that for?” your voice was sweet, not even a hint of apprehension in them. You feigned confusion, he could see it in the way your eyes looked at him with a slight twinkle. Only one brow quirking up and a lopsided smile that you tried to hold back. “You look really good too.” Spencer answered, his cheeks feeling just the slightest hint of warmth. He watched you, the way your bottom lip got caught between your teeth as you struggled to keep from smiling too much. He wanted to keep that look all to himself. His hands aching again to pull you closer to him, to let himself melt into that cherry scent. To never stop kissing those sweet lips. He could stay in the lab forever with you if you would let him. Or if his boss would. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket before the sound went off. The ding of a text message that was probably sent by one of his colleagues wondering why he was later than usual.

“I think you need to get to work too.” You spoke with a hint of disappointment. A sigh crossed your slightly parted lips. “I can come back for lunch.” Spencer spoke quickly, so ready to return to you even when he hasn’t left yet. “You always have lunch here, I am sure you must be sick of the lab.” You quickly protested. How could he be sick of the place where he gets to spend time with you. It was a preposterous thought. Nothing like that would have ever crossed his mind

“What if I come to you for lunch? Would that be okay?” you asked. “Are you sure? I mean… I would love that! If you want to of course. But isn’t this your space? I get it if you don’t want to go somewhere else to have lunch. Though if you do want to. I can show you my desk. Penelope would also be happy to see you, I’m sure.” Spencer rambled, until he realized he was rambling. The last word trailing off. He knew what you were doing, you were trying to make him comfortable. Even though he wasn’t uncomfortable in the lab. Yes, it was a bit of a walk, but he never complained because it meant you two would have lunch together. But he did realize he always came to you. And maybe, you had felt bad for making him come down every time. Though, you never asked him to besides the first time. After that it was all on his own accord. “I think I should broaden my horizons outside of the lab.” You joked, the giggle following your words sounding like a melody to him. “Right. Then, I would love to.” He smiled, his face feeling suddenly hot with embarrassment. His phone went off again. 

Spencer watched as you placed your hands on his shoulders. The feeling sent tingles down his spine. “I will see you at lunch then. Thank you for the coffee, pretty boy.” You quickly moved up onto your toes and placed a peck on his cheek. Mirroring what he had done to you. So casual. A peculiar kind that bordered on domestic. He locked that thought away for now. Not wanting to open that can of worms when he had just known you for a month, maybe less. It had only been 2 weeks since your first true kiss, in the museum. God he was moving quick, he might even scare himself with the rate at which these feelings grew inside of him. He realized he loved you, but saying that now would be too soon. You spun him around , his out of control thoughts quieting down, before giving a light push towards the door of the lab. Just as the notification sound went off for a third time.

When Spencer made his way to the bullpen of the BAU and took a seat at his desk he heard Derek whistle. “Got a little honey I see. And so early in the morning, how does he do it ladies and gents?” The man sidled up to his desk as Spencer bent down to put his bag on the ground. He looked back up to Derek with a little confusion, until he realized. His eyes went just a little wide. He had been so dazed by the fact you kissed him so quickly, and then shoved him to get to work, he forgot to check his face for what most likely would be a deep red mark on his left cheek. “You got a little something right there.” Derek pointed to his own cheek with a grin.

“Just because you can’t get it doesn’t mean you have to make fun of me.” Spencer sassed, grabbing a tissue and wetting it with water from his bottle, wiping at his cheek to remove your lipstick stain. Even though it hurt him slightly to remove the lasting mark you left on him. “Oh I am not making fun of anyone. I am proud. You return back after a week of absence due to a broken heart with what is clearly a sign that she’s still into you.” Derek explained, hands up in a defensive pose. Though he still had that grin. “Or you moved on to someone new really quickly.”

Spencer looked at the stain on the tissue, it was still vaguely kiss shaped. “We made up.” He said softly, a little embarrassed again. He knew Derek truly didn’t mean any harm with his words, they were teasing, like the older brother he never had but wished he did. “Good for you.” Derek said as he patted his shoulder before returning to his own desk. Spencer sat down, stuffing the tissue in his pocket before he went to work on filing the paperwork.

Spencer kept looking at the clock, hoping, praying they wouldn’t get a case until after lunch. Maybe that was a selfish thought, wanting the murders and the kidnappings to wait for his own gain. He knew that if they were needed they would fly out within 30 minutes. But lunch with you was important. So every few minutes he looked at the clock. Every time the elevator made a noise his eyes would flick over. The clock crept nearer to 12 pm, then when it hit 12:15 on the dot the elevator doors opened. And there you were, white coat foregone, two small bags in your hands that he supposed contained your lunch. You looked around the room a little nervous.

Spencer got up from his seat, waving you over with a smile. You lit up once you saw him, walking over quickly, boots thudding heavy against the linoleum of the bullpen. “Hey.” Spencer said with a smile, feeling a little too excited. “Hey.” you said in turn with a big smile. “I eh… got lunch for the both of us. If that’s not overstepping.” You said, holding out one of the paper bags. “I texted Penelope, she said you liked BLT so I truly hope you do.” you spoke quickly and Spencer grabbed the bag with a smile. The fact that you went out of your way to get him something he liked, to text Penelope, it made his heart swell. “I do. Thank you.” He said and motioned for you to take his seat.

As he did Spencer looked around the room for a second, a slightly surprised look from Emily, a confused one from JJ, and Derek just smiled before giving him a thumbs up. A sudden reminder that he never told Emily or JJ, and he was lucky David and Aaron sat in their own offices. He could not handle getting dating advice from David right now. You sat down in his seat as Spencer pulled a free chair over, sitting next to you. Closing a few books to make space to put the food down. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess.” He apologized but you simply smiled. “It’s okay. I like it, it’s your apartment but in desk form.” You commented, looking over the things on his desk.

He felt a little embarrassed by the few knick-knacks that were on there. The post it notes stuck to any service as reminders of things to do. He watched as you picked up the picture frame, a photo of his mom and him in there. “That’s my mom, Diana…” he said, as he watched your intent look. “She looks nice. You have similar bone structure.” You commented. Spencer let out a soft chuckle, “No one has ever commented on our bone structure before.” He said it softly. His mom was still a little sore of a subject, he knew the situation wasn’t likely to change, his mom would just get worse. But he wasn’t ready to tell you about that part just yet. Maybe soon. He did need to tell his mom about you. He’d probably have to tell her multiple times, he just hoped she would be happy for him. “But you do!” You quickly retaliated, turning the picture to him, “all these angles, the big eyes.” you tried to reason and Spencer only chuckled more. “Didn’t you come to have lunch?” He asked as he started to unwrap the sandwich that you got for him.

“And maybe to snoop a little.” You confessed as you quickly took a bite of your own sandwich. Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, just a little surprised and amused. “Shouldn’t snooping happen without the other person’s knowledge?” He asked, taking his own first bite of the sandwich. Somehow, it tasted better when you were around. You shrugged dismissively, though a small smirk played along those blood red lips. He thought about it, about kissing you right there in the bullpen. Looking pretty in his chair, at his desk. Though he’d probably never hear the end of it from the entire team. He didn’t really care. There was that possessiveness again. Wanting to show you and him were a thing… though you never really said you were a thing. “It feels wrong to snoop on you.” You admitted, sheepish grin and a slight nudge of your shoulder against his. This is what happiness felt like. The sadness of the last week is quickly forgotten, just by having you pay attention to him again. He was weak for you.

“I appreciate the informed snooping.” He laughed softly. “I’ll make sure to only snoop when you know.” Your reply made him smile more. The both of you finished your lunch, eating and talking, until Aaron walked in. “Round table room, 10 minutes.” He stated it coolly, only inferring to Spencer that this could be a serious case. Spencer looked at you, a little apologetic. He didn’t want to leave. Wanted to finish lunch in all peace with you. “I’m sorry.” He apologized as he started to pack up the half eaten sandwich back into the paper it came in. At Least he’d be able to finish it later. “It’s okay. It is your job.” You answered, standing up before a look of realization came over you. It confused him for a moment as you looked at him with your lips parted. “What?” he asked, brows scrunching slightly. “You left your scarf in the lab. I wanted to bring it. I’m sorry, I can go get it.” You rambled. “That’s okay, no need. I can pick it up when we get back.” He assured. It was sweet how you thought about it. Wanting to return his scarf when he had to leave. Maybe to make sure he wouldn’t be cold.

“Alright… You’d have to come back soon, be safe.” Those words made his heart skip a beat. It was sweet. How you cared, made him feel warm and fuzzy inside. “I will.” He said with a nod. He wanted to bend his head down again, to kiss you and not care about his friends in the room. Instead of giving in to the urge of wanting to kiss you, he pulled you into a hug. Wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his head on your shoulder. He felt your arms wrap around him. Warmth taking over him. He pressed his nose into the crook of your neck, taking in a deep breath. Emitting your scent to memory. The feeling of you in his arms tucked away for when he needed to remember it. He almost didn’t want to let go. You were the one to pull away first. Spencer reluctantly let his arms drop back to his sides. “I’ll see you soon.” you said it softly and with a smile. He nodded his head, “I’ll text you every day.” he answered before gathering his things and heading to the round table room. A quick glance back to see you still standing at his desk, a small wave goodbye before he left to go do his job.

He just hoped it wouldn’t be a long one.

Tag list:

@luvkatryna @emma-e-a @littlemadamred @cultish-corner @styleiconsize0 @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @depressedbutartsy @mikariell95 @jasf444 @queermaxwooo @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @sammy-4103 @thedevioussmirk @pleasantwitchgarden @khxna   @suckstobrlaurie @mega-kittyglitter-1 @superlegend216 @seninjakitey

[maxwellatoms]

What kind of video games do you like to play Mr. Atoms?

So many! Assuming there's time. These days there's generally not, so I've been bingeing Vampire Survivors in half-hour doses.

Above is a gif from Noita, my top game of the pandemic. It's an old-school "Metroidvania", but every pixel is simulated and you're a witch who can manipulate her spells (and thereby the world) in a seemingly infinite number of ways. Here, I've built magical "buzzsaws" around myself, which blinded me to the shadow amoeba. In Noita, almost every death is due to hubris, and I think I love that pendulum swing. If you're lucky and skilled, you can become a walking whirlwind of destruction, but you're always your own worst enemy. Bonus: You can turn your vomit into rats.

I'm currently on a break in the midst of my Baldur's Gate 3 run, with a party consisting of my BG2 character's daughter, Karlatch, Lazelle, and Shadowheart. Ladies' Night!

I'm also playing a bit of Shadows of Doubt. I'm not sure it'll hold up long-term, but it's got a lot of potential.

I don't really limit myself by genre or platform, but I'd say that I primarily play indie PC games. The games in my Steam library that I keep going back to again and again?

Cities: Skylines: A chill City Building Simulator. Lots of fun mods.

Darkest Dungeon: This thing is a classic strategy game IMO.

Death Road to Canada: A light, fast Project Zomboid. Dogs with guns!

Dwarf Fortress: For me, it's the ultimate fantasy sim. I love it so much. Looking forward to Adventure Mode finally appearing on Steam.

Project Zomboid: The ultimate lonely 2D zombie apocalypse survival game. Or non-survival game, I suppose.

Total War: Warhammer: For when I'm in a strategy-y mood. Like a lot of people, I'm a bit soured on the modern DLC scene, so I'm still waiting on #3 even though I'm a Chaos stan.

Not on Steam? I do play some Star Citizen from time to time. I backed it a decade ago. I used to joke that it was the game I was going to retire into, but more and more that's looking less and less like a joke. Still, it's made some good progress in the last couple of years and I'm hopeful that repair and engineering turn out to be fun.

The game I'm looking forward to most would be the next Elder Scrolls. I know it's still a ways off. Ever since my Nereverine landed in Morrowind with the intention of becoming a just and righteous cleric and instead found herself an unwitting villain and colonizer, I fell in love with the Elder Scrolls and it's deep, gray lore. It is (for me) a great way to really get into a character's head. Roleplaying... go figure.

Since Morrowind (and a backtrack into Daggerfall), I only allow myself one canon playthrough. My rule is to "let it ride", so that aside from death, if I screw up or if something unexpected happens I don't save-scum. All of my characters are related, either by quest or bloodline. I already know that my next character will be Aventus Aretino (the kid you catch summoning the Dark Brotherhood). My Skyrim character (above) had adopted him and then left him in the hands of a vampire, so I should be covered even if there's a big time jump. Now I just have to wait six more years for the game. And then maybe two for mods. God I'm so old.

I need to spend more time with Dave the Diver.

Anything current I'm missing out on?

[tanoraqui]

Dungeon Meshi Liveblog: Marcille is Not Handling Being In Charge Well

Yeah, that doesn't sound exactly like Thistle at alllll, Marcille!

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[Tolkien fistpumping in the background of the fantasy genre]

We'll know that shit's REALLY bad if Chilchuck ever stops making sarcastic comments.

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lol

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EYES /weeps

Also I just noticed that Marcille's hair has been down since we reunited with her. She no longer cares about the things she used to, she's openly using dark magic with no concern for the consequences, she's not taking care to manage her own mana... I wonder if the demon already ate her desire to style it?

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The Island Lord really is just completely useless, huh. He is NOT getting a role in Laios's new government.

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omg I didn't notice when it was in the dungeon, but it's the Sky Snake! Silver Wings that Race Through the Heavens, Marcille's sky snake!!

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This IS genuinely creepy. It's easy to forget that this whole adventure so far has happened underground, save for a few scant scenes. But we are about to enter, in effect, the real world...

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I remain sooo interested in this secretive paramilitary outfit comprised entirely of conditionally-pardoned criminals who already have their hands dirty with forbidden magic and aristocratic scions from families seeking to prove their loyalty, all of which reports directly to the Queen. Their mere existence is sooo dodgy.

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AIDGHADFC I DID NOT REALIZE THAT THE LION GAVE MARCILLE HER EVIL GOTH MAKEOVER! I thought she chose that herself... This is worse, actually... (And then it ate her desire to stop.)

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You're completely right, Kabru! "They're tripping each other up because you don't know enough about monsters to manage them properly" was exactly Laios's critique of Thistle's dragon horde, too!

Which, I will admit, supports the Elves' position about how incredibly bad it would be if Laios WAS the one leading this army. I do want some good fic about that maybe.

.

I always really enjoy the trope of, in a big battle or elaborate plan, things will go bad for the whole extended party at once even though their personal dramatic moments are happening completely apart and unrelated to one another - and, conversely, they'll all rally at the same time, too. It's very basic storytelling, an in-canon "coincidence" of timing required for a compelling rhythm of story, and I enjoy it every time.

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I'D KNOW THAT WING-HILTED SWORD ANYWHERE!!

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I'm going to make a goddamn COLLECTION of every time this woman puts the whole group in Outfits made of other creatures. She should do rabbits next. They deserve to dress like giant dungeon rabbits.

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lmaooo

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I love when characters say shit like this about their friends. I mean, @ Laios don't underestimate yourself, but actually he does mean "smart" in the sense of "unlikely to get manipulated", so in this case he's right.

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This, the first panels and then the next 1, was when I was like, "oh, okay, we're going to win." Laios was JUST saying that he couldn't defeat the demon if he didn't understand literally these things about it. Now, Laios understand it as a monster, and Kabru understands it as a person - so we're good. We've cornered it on two angles of 'guys who can kill things with remarkable efficiency if they understand them through their special interest.' We're going to kick this thing's ass. We're going to be okay.

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And then we're rewarded with a wink! Kabru trust Laios now!! Truly, life is good.

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Lolll at myself, and at this chronic faker. Should've known the Wink(TM) was a lie! The Wink is always a lie, or at least a tease.

It is so fun to watch this boy take charge of situations on sheer merit of quick-thinking, knowing all the factions involved, and confidence in giving commands.

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Hot. Obviously, objectively, this is hot. Walking confidently, unafraid and unsurprised, through a corridor of kneeling dragons? Laios, Lord of Monsters, damn fuckin' right.

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This really is Laios's interactions with collective humanity in a nutshell. They shun him, disdain and fear him, for what he loves (monsters). "It's all right," he says. "The misunderstanding won't last" - he smothers how angry it makes him. They'll understand eventually, he promises himself. (They never have before, but one day...) But also: he really genuinely does love monsters, and loves to be associated with them, even if the cost IS to not be associated with humanity.

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Izutsumi: I could still kick Marcille's ass. I'll kick anyone's ass. I'll kick my own ass.

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Laios, King of Monsters: loves every monster except squids and octopi. Those guys just suck.

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I love how her shout is almost in the black magic font, even as spoken words. That is her gesture for exploding things. This is what she looked like when she killed Mithrun 20 minutes ago.

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I connected the dots. I connected them.

[maleyanderecafe]

Love Hex (RPG Maker)

Created by: diamii

Genre: Horror

This is a fun little horror RPG Maker game made by the same person who made Synthetic Heart, another fun RPG yandere maker game. This game, while relatively short, is a fun little story that has a somewhat happy ending for the main character, Mina and the yandere Valen.

The story starts out simply with Mina being held captive by a handsome person who is attempting to feed her. We then see Mina attempting to create a hex/potion for getting a boyfriend. She's missing the final ingredient of a dark mage's skull and goes into a cave to retrieve it. As she goes through the cave, she finds various demonic circles with varies text on it, mostly talking about the sacrifices that are being fed to the monster. On each of these demonic circles, Mina talks to a tentacle like creature. She initially puts herself as a sacrifice to open a specific part of the dungeon, before talking about what the monster's favorite type of sacrifices are (the type that tastes like caramel), talking about what she's doing here in the cave, and then finally feeding the monster caramel as an attempt to kill it, only for it to enjoy the sweets. After getting into a locked security area, Mina is finally able to retrieve the skull she needs, but the monster seems rather unhappy considering that she's about to leave. After attempting to leave, she finds that the outside is blocked by black goo that slowly starts spreading. After unlocking another door, she finds herself inside of a laboratory. It is implied that the cult used both magic and science to keep the monster alive, but after some mishaps, was unable to contain it and got itself killed. Upon nearly leaving, the monster captures Mina, developing into a form that looks like a handsome human named Valen to appease Mina. When asking why she was looking for the skull, Mina starts to talk about her past.

She states that the entire thing was triggered by watching her brother get married. From when she was small, Mina was prophesied to bring doom to her village, thus shunning her from pretty much everyone except for her family. As her parents were busy and Mina was not close to her other siblings, she became very lonely and tried to make something that would get her a boyfriend. Valen seems to empathize with Mina as he too has been lonely for a long time. While initially going to eat her as she is a human that he enjoys the taste of, Valen seems to change his mind and instead asks if he could be her boyfriend instead. Initially Mina refuses, but Valen asks for her to play a game of chase with him. He pretty much declares that he wins by default as he's holding Mina and takes a protesting Mina into the underground. From there, we see the end scene of Mina and Valen hanging out together, with Mina complaining that she doesn't want to play house with Valen and Valen trying to eat food with Mina so that he can be like her. Mina accepts her fate as she enjoys being with Valen and continues to live with him, presumably forever.

The story itself is pretty good for a small game. I think that the idea of having magic and more scientific elements together in the cave was a cool idea and cool world building that is presented in such a small place. I also think that the reveal of why Mina wanted to have a spell/potion for a boyfriend is also pretty cool and does make sense why she would eventually have been happy being with Valen in despite being isolated because she already didn't have a lot of people whom she cared about (though I do feel bad for her parents though, since it seems that while they were busy they didn't have bad relationship or anything). It does make me wonder if releasing Valen (sort of) is what the prophecy that made Mina isolated in the first place, and if it isn't... then was the prophecy false? Would there still be something that she does that causes the village's downfall? These things seem to be left out for this game, but perhaps it can be explored in a future game. I do like that she is willing to try to trick and kill Valen for her goals, even if they don't really work at the end. She is very determined to get what she wants which was nice.

Valen as a yandere is pretty much made by Mina indirectly, considering he doesn't really seem to understand humans all that much. It seems that Valen was pretty much just used for sacrifice feeding, and initially only liked Mina because of the fact that she was a tasty sacrifice, even almost just using her as a meal. Of course, in the end, he does seem to sympathize with Mina more especially when she reveals the reason for wanting a boyfriend. He does take care in transforming into a form that she does like, and in the end does try to pretend to be more human so that Mina will like him more and try to play games with her. It is nice that he does try so hard to make sure that Mina actually does like him, even if it does seem like he doesn't fully understand what love is when it comes to humans. He does trap her and try to attend to her every need, so really both of their wishes of no longer being lonely is finally fulfilled.

While I do like this game, the one big gripe I have about it is the three codes that you have to put throughout the game. For the first one, I think you can actually find the code by using the last three numbers for each of the rituals that you go through, but if you fail, the game will automatically kill you after three tries. The other two locks seem to have no real good way of figuring out what you're supposed to type with them, with one being based off of the various grime on the number pad, which is difficult when you can hear the black goo coming after you and eventually killing you if you take too long, and the last code in the lab for the computer, which I have no idea how you were able to solve that one. I had to check the answers for the codes in the comments to find those out. Generally, games will have better clues on what you need to submit for the number puzzles, but for this one it feels like you really need a tutorial or have to stretch pretty far to figure it out, so it can be pretty frusterating to try to figure out what the codes are for that one.

Overall though, I do like this game, as it's short, it has a pretty fun and compelling story with some nice rpg maker gameplay and we get a nice yandere in the end, with a sort of happy ending. I want to be able to write a recommendation for Synthetic Heart at some point, maybe when we see more of the yandere action going on as it does seem like it has some interesting potential (but not enough for me to really talk on it more.) But I would recommend this game if you enjoy the premise of it.

[thebadboyfanclub]

I Will Wait (Aemond x Reader)

This version of the song was the only I was able to finish and truly get in the spirit of combining the requests, hopefully you get the vibe of the whole slow burn and growing to trust type of hype and you don’t find my skill to turn a bit rusty, thank you for being patient. Also one of the requests was from @blue-serendipity I hope you like it and didn’t let you down

The house Whent was relatively new in comparison to others, yet their correlation to house Strong kept them in a comfortable situation and helped them become a noble house, they resided in one of the biggest castles of Harrenhall, the walls of it were gigantic and most of the people in it considered themselves safe from all harm.

That is until Aemond Targaryen went mad, fire surrounded the city and all one could hear was the screams of agony of any man, woman, or child that was running for their lives, Aemond upon his fury had ignored the yellow flag with the nine bats as he broke into the castle and commanded for everyone to be killed, from the corner of his eye he saw two figures sprinting across the hall, instinctively he ran after them, it was a woman with auburn hair and a child.

“Stop”

He commanded, his voice booming through the castle, surprisingly the woman came to a halt in a few seconds he caught up to them though the woman still had her back turned to him.

“Turn”

The woman spun on her heel only to reveal something Aemond had given a battle to forget, the eyes that used to haunt his prepubescent mind, she looked the same except for the height and her figure, the same high cheekbones, same silk hair, same fire holding eyes the only difference was that those captivating hues were overflowing with tears, her lips pushed to a thin line and her chin quivered ever so slightly.

All the memories passed by his brain one after the other, how she helped him practice Valyrian, the first ride he ever took her on dragon back, her soft touch against his wound as she assisted with a balm the maesters had suggested would be helpful even though nothing could come close to how nurturing her grace was for his soul.

“(Y/n)?”

“Please, not my boy”

Her voice trembling and barely audible amongst the distant screams and curses, Aemond's gaze shifted from her to the young little man who was clinging onto her for dear life, he had her hair and her ever-defiant love if he was the only thing she could think about.

“I would not-“

He stopped himself from saying the rest, he had invaded her home, he had just passed dead bodies that were probably people she greeted every day, he had already caused her pain, and to say he wouldn’t hurt her was only going to be foolish.

“He is your son?”

“Yes, please my prince, let me escort him anywhere, I will not run… he is only 4”

“Prince Aemond!”

The guard interrupted, suddenly his face from a soft and confused expression switched to a coldness similar to the harshness of the winter's ice that they used to skate over the river when they were children, (y/n) clenched her boy's hand and prepared herself for the worst.

“Take them, they are our hostages, don’t kill them”

“No! Please! Let him be!”

“Mother!”

His yelling brought a certain uneasiness to Aemond, the scene that was unfolding in front of him was almost cruel, Aemond brushed it off as him being gracious, it was either that or instant death, a dungeon was better than an abstract result that is the strangers shadow.

Aemond instructed the guards to put the boy with his mother in one of the chambers that were previously occupied by the servants, locked of course, he figured it would be easier for her to consult her offspring if he had a bed to sleep on, even if it was uncomfortable.

(Y/n) had her entire life crumble beneath her feet in a matter of days, she had recently suffered through the death of the father of her child and now she was captured with her precious boy in a room, no clue of what could happen next, the uncertainty struck her airway though she did her best to cloak it with a smile and fairytales that helped the young boy drift into slumber, countless nights were spend with her head against her window, everything inside her screaming at her to break it, a side of her wanted to jump off but how could she leave her beloved boy behind.

Then came the question, why was he doing this? Why keep her? Was he merciful or was there a motive, Perhaps this was a scheme to gain power, but how?

“Has he fallen asleep?”

(Y/n) gasped at the sudden voice, Aemond had walked in for the first time in the room, partially he had stayed away at a loss for words, what was there to say? He had brought her here against her will and now what?

(Y/n) took her eyes off the floor and fixated them on his, he wasn’t wearing his eyepatch, it brought her a sense of familiarity to see the amethyst that decorated his lost eye, he used to take the eye patch off for most of the time they had spent together, (y/n) never asked why though she had been curious about it many times.

Aemond was grateful for her district nature, truthfully the act was his way of saying he trusted her, she never cringed or showed any type of emotion at the sight of his scar, quite the contrary she had been his only source of light, she had been the one to choose the amethyst “I think it will suit you” she had said with a smile and as passing as choosing a gown, (y/n) helped him view his mutilation as just a little mishap.

“Prince Aemond”

She spoke before she curtsied deeply, Aemond had to admit she was almost perfect at keeping her composure until someone gazed at her trembling hands, her voice was audible yet hushed in order to not wake the boy.

Silence fell between them, Aemond shifted from one foot to the other his mind scavenging on what he could do or how should he speak to her. She always made him nervous but not like this.

“What is his name?”

“Arthur”

“Your fathers' name”

“My father passed right before Arthur was born, I wanted to honor him, my husband was considerate enough to allow it”

“Generous of him wasn’t it?”

“It is not a matter to jest about”

That tongue of hers, “You have fire in you, daughter, you must master it or you will get burned” her father would always advise her, she had done her best to keep herself in a certain light still no one could prepare her for this type of scenario, it was similar to walking on a tight rope and this was her stumble.

Luckily, Aemond found it rather amusing, her little hiss brought a very toned-down giggle from the prince who kept his hands intertwined with one another in front of him, she was always smart and always had something to say no matter how much trouble it could have brought her.

“There you are, I was wondering if I had managed to just find someone that looked like you”

“You find this the right time to be sarcastic?”

“If we are fair there is no right time for that, especially not when the one that holds the keys to your room is talking to you”

“You are threatening me? That’s low Aemond”

“What else am I to do?”

“Free me, let us go Aemond and I swear we won't retaliate”

“I know you (y/n), you are not the one that will sit aside”

“So what’s your plan then? Keep me here forever?”

“In a way, yes, not how you picture it though”

“I do not picture anything, Aemond, please, let Arthur go, he doesn’t deserve this”

Aemond admired her selfless act of desperation, she wasn’t interested in negotiating her freedom, although when it came to her son she had no problem begging and pleading.

If he was honest he had to admit how much he had missed the sound of his name rolling off her tongue. Aemond had never put much thought into how his name sounded until it came from her lips, so elegant, smooth like honey, it was spoken like the best of compliments, even if it was just his name to him it brought goosebumps.

“Your son is safer in the red keep, one wrong move outside these walls could cost him his life”

“I would protect him”

“I know you would, who will protect you dear? Your husband has passed, you are on your own”

“I can do it”

Aemond took one step back, bathed by candlelight yet her spirit burned brighter than any type of candle, the way she raised her chin and squinted her eyes with perseverance, stubbornness ran through her veins.

“I know it is hard to understand my dear (y/n) but this is how I am protecting you, you know better than to step out alone with your son, they will eat you alive”

“Who’s they? Your supporters? Princess Rhaenyras supporters? This war was caused by your family and now I am doomed to this-“

“You are not doomed, I saved you, think (y/n), everyone knows that the lady of Harrenhall is now a widow, how long did you envision that it would take until men tried to jump over the walls or even worse, force you to remarry?”

“My son is the lord of Harrenhall, no one would dare-“

“You are foolish or way too optimistic and I don’t know which is worst”

“So what do you suggest? That I sit under your watch until when? Until I die?”

“No, I would never imprison you for your entire life”

Aemond was forcing himself into silence, his head ached from the torment that he had created for himself, wrapped under the iron spell of doubt, still when he gazed into those eyes, oh how he had missed her, her scent was enough to drive him into insanity, when he brought them to the castle his mother went wild, it was something she had thought about and now Aemond was willing to risk it all for (y/n).

“Accept Aegon as your king, declare that Harrenhall has fallen”

“It already has, last thing I saw was that you have turned my home into ash”

“And marry me”

(Y/n)s eyes grew wide at his audacity, how could he utter such a thing? He had invaded her home, taken her without her will, and her knees buckled after what he said,. Aemond's instinct was to catch her gently and wrap his arms around her, he felt her flesh grace his as her hands went over his to further support herself, slowly he sat her to the floor without ever leaving her from his grasp.

“Have you eaten today?”

“Yes, though your guards have not been generous”

“That is my fault, I did not inform them to feed you like guests”

“Cause we are not”

“You are, I- I- it sounds insane when I say I could have killed you, I did not, when I realized that it was you I just- I remembered the moments we shared”

“We had a few good moments I suppose”

“Remember the dance?”

“You had two left feet and you were so nervous”

It was a celebration, it was King Viserys name day and everyone that mattered was there, including house Whent, she looked splendid in that purple dress, she always favored the darker colors it was no surprise she chose such a thing, Aemond had stumbled over his words when it was time to ask her if she wished to dance, to make matters worst he tripped over his feet from being distracted by her smile.

They hadn’t exchanged a word during the entire time the dance lasted, their eyes spoke the same word as neither of them looked away, a string had been wrapped around their hearts and almost forced them to come together.

If there was anytime Aemond believed in fate it was when he met her, he was infatuated by everything about her, her laugh, her voice, her hair, the way she walked with her head high, how she liked to grace her fingers over the arm of a chair before she sat down, her weakness for peaches, even her fear of thunder he had found extremely adorable.

“Why did you marry him?”

“It was my father's wish”

“Did you love him?”

“He was kind and generous, he let me be after I did my duty and he was respectful, I… liked him and of course was grateful for his warm-hearted nature”

“I would have given you more, I can give you more, I can give you everything”

“You are a prince, I am not of your status”

“You are the lady of your town, you are a lady, even if you weren’t it wouldn’t matter, as long as I get to hold you”

“Aemond let us not speak of this, it is not the time nor the place”

“Fair enough, I shall leave you be my dear”

Aemond left a sweet kiss at the top of her hair while he sneakily took a nice whiff from her hair, it was the same sensation as stealing sweets from the baker before supper, sweet and the result made it worth it.

As he rose from the floor (y/n) stayed seated, contemplating what to do, the world was on her shoulders and she was shoved into walking on a rope, she always had a soft spot for Aemond, he had been the reason her adolescent heart beat erratically, if she could just turn back time perhaps everything could have been different.

“I will not pressure you into anything, I simply want to keep you safe and I even hope to make you happy one day, you shall be escorted into a different chamber on the morrow, this is not a proper home for you”

“Home, funny word”

Aemond pursed his lips at her remark, she was bitter and had every right to be however there was a part of him that yearned for her good graces, some would call him impatient if they saw how eager he was to earn a smile or a kind word off of her.

“We have plenty of time, I will wait, as long as you need my dear”

“I shall bid you goodnight, my prince”

“Sleep well, another day awaits you”

Requests are open!

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: Domestic

For those keeping tabs on the Blood of My Blood AU, this is currently just a fanfiction of that fanfiction. Also a doorstopper. Only @ibrithir-was-here can call whether this massive sucker is canon or not. But it's out of my head now and I can ice my hand.

Summary: A portrait of a special night for the self-appointed patriarch of Castle Dracula. One of strange intimacies, stranger revelations, and secrets hidden in stone and cemetery earth.

Warning: This contains mature material in the way of profanity, attempted assault, violence, and very dubious consent.

Happy reading.

His first attempt was also his last.

After his good friend had sold himself, after the baffling enigma of the pregnancy, after the boy, child of three bloodlines, was upright enough to not be an anchor in the arms of his parents. After all this, he made his attempt.

Months had crawled past the obvious point of action. Almost a year. Had the caravan with their burden of wagons been there, he knew he would have to laugh along with questions as to how he could hold off so long. She had chosen the airiest of her departed Sisters’ attire to glide in, her face was voluptuous in its venom, and she could not even speak aloud! A blessing, they would laugh, more so for being the spoils of war.

A warlord’s right. Yes, yes, it was so.

Had he a mirror and a reflection to find in it, he would have mocked it. Why this hesitation over a collared pet? Let her bite, let her hiss—her Sisters had done that and worse in their centuries—it would come to the same conclusion. Her will was his property as much as her veins, her teeth, her flesh. What was wanted could be had at the first impulse. Now the impulse was here. Enough of one, at least.

Already took her woman in Whitby. Her groom offered himself on a silver plate. May as well.

He frowned to himself. What was that? ‘May as well?’ As though it were a chore to get on with. He shook his head and wasted another quarter of an hour pretending to care about a choice of oil for the job.

Job?

A curse caught under his tongue and he twisted a coil of hair before his eyes. Black as tar. Black as hers. No, he couldn’t blame this dawdling on a waning prime. Such a thing was hardly a hindrance but a few summers ago. Not with his dear friend who had come willingly, fled fearfully, and slunk so docilely back into his arms.

Perhaps that was it. It was hardly the same affair without Jonathan himself in the scene. Was there any way to make him watch? If he was drained enough, he could be flung back from the bed like a child should he scramble to intervene. Or they could dust off one of the dungeons and drag in a mattress. Or, while the spouses were mid-tryst, the woman could be slipped on like a skin at his will, and Jonathan could look up to find his Master’s eyes in her skull, his grin in her lips…

For he would know. If not in that exact instant, then when their Master used the whole of the woman as his personal apparatus. Such games had been played before, once upon a time. Back when his Loves had excited anything from him. The idea held the same potential as the tableau of the three of them as a chain of warming skin, playing as adults do once children were tucked away in their dreaming. A notion that nettled something giddy awake in him.

Finally.

This time he cursed aloud and wished there was something at hand to break.

No, no, it wouldn’t do to herd them all into such games ahead of the rightful order of things. He was Count. He was Master. He was owed his claim. The Bridegroom had that particular flag planted in him years ago. Now for the Bride.

…The baptism was near enough, no? You claimed her that night in October. You collected in November. You told her yourself after your little indulgence that there was nothing you truly wanted of her. All that was wanted was the ownership of her, which you have. She is beaten. Can that not be enough?

On second thought, he no longer wished for a reflection. He wanted a doppelgänger whose throat he could wring like a chicken’s. Such whining! Such foot-dragging laxness! The ghosts of a thousand grumbling wives seemed to reach out as one to sneer at him. They had gone into their grim arrangements with less fuss than he put up now.

And why is that?

In lieu of answering himself, he pocketed a bottle at random and tore out of the room to find her. There was no need to fret over Jonathan or the boy. Both were out in the courtyard, enjoying the late spring night. Doting, Jonathan had brought home chalk for the child to scratch at the flagstones with. New words and prancing little figures. A cloying scene he was happy to leave them to.

To his surprise, the woman had left them to it as well. She was nowhere to be seen in the great moonlit square.

Instead, he found her at one of the furthest ends of the castle. Skulking around the chambers that had ostensibly belonged to her Sisters between daylit drowses. In all her time here, he had yet to see her paw over the littered jewelry and gowns left behind. Once or twice he had borrowed her eyes and seen her glance dully at the English books. Relics of the time when Castle Dracula had turned into a grammar school in preparation for a time of travel that would now never come for their lot. Beside these were glimpses of the trio’s pastimes. Unfinished paintings, a dust-caked violin, a frayed bit of tapestry with its threaded demons left half-made in Hell. Nothing had interested her bar the change of clothes.

Again, he thought of what he would have to grin along with the next time Old Danil and his men were beckoned. Did he tell them he had ordered her into the flimsy falls of silk and sheer? Or would it be better to tell the truth, that she slipped them on herself? The latter might earn some words of congratulation. They did not have to know she wore it for her husband and herself; for where had she to go out smothered in layers for strangers? What difference was there now between a nightgown and the full raiment of human decorum her useless career in etiquette had primed her for? What, beyond the allowance or removal of comfort?

Throw one of the heavier dresses at her, the internal voice tried to chuckle. Dress and shawl and cloak and all. Bury her in it. Ha. Ha.

The humor of the thought was so shallow as to be vapor. Yet he truly would prefer that she go about in the same elaborate cover as her Sisters. Her Sisters, who had chosen the dresses themselves from their fashion plates. Her Sisters, who he had foisted the scantier costumes on in younger centuries, back when they’d interested him. What was this in interest’s place now?

Later. He would answer his own nonsensical queries later. For now, conquest and consummation. He craned his head over his shoulder, eyeing the distant windows over the courtyard—

How long must he play nanny out there?

—before forcing himself to stroll rather than storm up to the room she hid in. She didn’t hide all that well, of course. There was no point when he could follow the thread between them or yank her to him with a tug. Most conveniently, she had chosen an area clotted with bedchambers for her den.

Less conveniently, she had let herself into a room he had forbidden her Sisters from on pain of punishment. Had he ever warned her against it? It did not matter, naturally, for he had not given her permission, but he wondered. He sighed. Pandora will always open what she’s not meant to. Such a pair, his Harkers.

He peeked through her senses and into the room as his stroll turned into a quicker stalk. Relief hit him first upon seeing that the space was unmarred. No more than he had left it, anyway. He had moved out the broken or burnt furnishings, leaving only bed, wardrobe, and portrait behind. The latter was the only one left of that likeness and he preferred to have it around for the occasional glare. Any further intrusion was cut short when her line of sight flicked down.

His mind snapped back into itself with a flinch. That it was a flinch made him want to laugh and strike himself at the same time. As if he had not seen flashes of her bare hide before!

When she is with him. When her skin is an inch from being a costume.

Even so. He had seen it all before. Worlds more with her Sisters. What a child he had become to grow skittish at seeing the woman below, gasp, a bit of décolletage. The gawping shame of the Englishmen had infected him on his single visit. He grinned it away. And why not?

She was out of tonight’s white dress and donning something else. He’d caught a glimpse of rich black. Odd, for he recalled nothing but heaps of white and red in the Sisters’ wardrobe. Blood on snow. He must have gotten them a splash of night to go with it once upon a time and forgotten. Ah, well. She would not have it on long.

He did not waste the gesture of a knock. Jonathan might bristle at the sound, his limited senses allowing him to occasionally be taken by surprise. Not so here. He let himself into the room and settled for clicking it firmly behind him. And, if only for punctuation, bolted the lock.

She did not move from her place behind the folding screen, only paused to slide the garnets of her eyes to him. A withering thing that might have stopped a mortal intruder’s heart. It pleased him to see.

It confused him when the glare caught on the brandished oil and, rather than flare in rage or horror, simply rolled away from the sight of it and him. She resumed her fumbling behind the screen, either shedding or fastening. An unplanned silence unfolded as he kept his back to the door and she kept her back to him. The oil sloshed in its bottle as he turned it.

Well?

The word fell in his head like a jabbing hand against a stuttering understudy on the stage.

“Well,” he bit back, “you take me by surprise. I had thought there would be more theatrics when we came to this.”

I have not come to this. Given even an atom of free will, I shall certainly not come to you.

He thought of and discarded a particularly juvenile rebuttal. It was something he might have reserved for Jonathan, but it felt cold and unctuous in trying to fling it at her. At least to say it out loud. He flicked it at her like a psychic worm instead. Another roll of the garnets.

Aloud, “You have only as much will as my will allows.”

So you love to remind us. Which is why the larger share of surprise is my own. You are so adamant in your role as Master of the Castle that even you cannot avoid bowing and scraping to it.

The oil froze mid-twist in his fingers.

“You have a gift for talking fluent nonsense. No doubt something you took from the Dutchman.” His gaze leapt to the crescent scar that still blazed in echo of the Eucharist. “Prior to the parting blessing, I expect.” Her ruddy lip curled like a warning wolf’s. His own curled back in delight. Better, better. “Do you think it would be him or the fawning doctor who swooned more at the state of you? We know already the lordling and the American would simply have killed you outright, but the supposed men of medicine would have a sermon apiece to wail out before grabbing the saw and stake.” He feigned a pondering stance. “I believe, if we think in volume of wasted breath, it would be the Dutchman who languished more. But his pet student would likely have an actual point to it, being so wrapped up in the effort to cry demon while also struggling not to play with his tool at the same time. His blade as well.”

Are you four-hundred or fourteen?

There was less ire than annoyance in the words. The mental equivalent of shooing a fly. More fabric shifted. She had gone through the formality of lighting a lamp for the room rather than trusting her vision alone. Its glow revealed the shadow puppet of her silhouette in the screen. Yes, she was dressing. But there was no bell of a dress as yet. Not even a chemise.

He withheld a sulk. Half the fun of the act was the prelude and half the fun in that was the peeling away of layers or circumventing them entirely. There was a certain pleasure in opening and shedding the frail shields of an ensemble—he admitted to some strange internal leap that equated it with the old work of skinning and dressing one’s kill in the forest—and almost as much in proving those shields protected nothing. A hand slipped under a hem was child’s play. Working that and other anatomy into place when making a mist of himself was a unique treat.

Had Jonathan told her so yet? If so, he likely needn’t have bothered. Not when such memories might be dropped neatly in her head as she paced and hissed. At last, she could experience it firsthand!

Ha. Ha.

The oil was fidgeted with again.

I cannot imagine this was the ‘charm’ you dragged out for her.

Her?

Ah.

Unbidden, his head craned to face the faded portrait. The figure in it was now all but a ghost on the canvas. A representation not too many brushstrokes removed from how she had been in life. Considering her appearance in the mausoleum, it remained an ironically perfect likeness.

A maiden of snow, alive and dead, with the artist’s dancing ice seeming to radiate from her rather than the backdrop of a leaden sky. Behind her loomed the Mountain where they had learned so many Lessons and taken their parting forms. Strigoi had held no appeal for her, even with its many gifts. Instead she’d chased the hardy vourdalak with its wan corpse-skin and its eternal voracious passions. Chased it and wore more names through the ages than even he had invented to wear the guise of his own descendants.

She who had spread love like a disease until settling on her resting place in 1801. Her precious little nothing-village, all turned. All free from mortal ills. All asleep and dreaming into each other in their graves. Content to be confined. With love.

For them.

Doting fool of a Countess.

How much a fool, really? She burned from the lightning. She once suffered the stake to her heart, the blade through her throat. And then she was up again. Unmarred and unbothered without a drop of blood upon her tongue. Bloodless and unbound to you, she stood whole after you’d shooed Jonathan’s idiot predecessor on his way. She would not have a scar from a spade still on her brow.

 Her painted eyes found his as he mulled this. That impossible glacial blue. His gaze shied from it and trailed down the flax fall of her hair, braided away to show the throat where his kiss ought to have gone. Up again to her lips. The only point of color that blazed on her, turned down in perpetual sorrow. This or disappointment.

All this woolgathering passed in an instant. He shrugged out of it with his own dismissing glance.

“There is a difference between you and her. One is maiden of noble blood, who was once worthy of courtship. The other is a trophy long overdue to be enjoyed.”

Where is she?

In a graveyard in a pauper’s village that dragged her down like a colony of filthy feeble vermin.

“Not here. If you wish to play comparison to my women of old, it should please you to know that none are of your particular measure. None of my bedmates thus far have been at once the downed enemy and the stolen wife. It—,”

In the painting.

As if he had not spoken. It was not even the pitch of one trying to distract from the topic. He followed her stare back to the portrait and its grim setting. The Mountain. An obsidian peak that seemed at once a mouth and an eye over her fair shoulders.

That peak isn’t one in this range.

Ah, fishing. The Dutchman had mentioned the Scholomance, he recalled. Tricky thing. But not by enough.

“Says the Englishwoman.” He clicked his tongue. “You know nothing of the land that holds you. You shall not for very long yet. What good fortune you have, you and your clever mind, to now have so much time in which to learn. I think by the end of the next century you shall know a third of the crags in the Carpathians. Maybe half!”

At the rate you dawdle, it will take twice as long before you get around to the same epiphany I have had to reconcile with since I first climbed out of the box. The same revelation that has been sitting out in the open, free for your voyeurism to trip over at any opportunity, only for you to go on strutting and preening at yourself. As though you still had a reflection to impress.

She had ceased dressing behind the screen. The outline of her did show the fall of a cloak, but still no dress. He found he did not much care. Not for her choice of attire or her tone.

“Do forgive me then. As you are suddenly consort and counsel, please, do enlighten me. What grand epiphany am I overlooking?” Then, in a moment of inspiration, he capped with, “Feel free to lecture between positions.”

Finally, a wave of disgust radiated from her. Hate. Wrath. Check, check, check. But buried under it all was an uninterrupted core of exasperation. Even disbelief. As if she had handed him an apple and he’d declared it was a grape. Indeed, though he couldn’t know it, she was kneading at her brow the way she had in private when a particularly dense group of girls was foisted on her to teach. There was a very clear and grousing sensation from her that spoke of desire for the ability to enjoy liquor again.

A lecture? Fine. You do so love hearing yourself talk.

Before he could grasp her meaning, she shoved the screen aside. Everything in him crashed against a stone wall as he recognized her ensemble.

You never brought them anything in black, piped the inane inner voice.

She wore the proof head to toe. If only because she was wearing one of his own suits. Being almost as long-boned as Jonathan, it needed only a few folds of the cuffs to fit and his stolen cloak masked whatever else begged for tailoring. On the whole it was…it was like…

Ah, see? You do still have a reflection.

His mind scrambled in something near to panic for salvation. He dug up memories of his Loves in nights long gone, when he had let one or another wrap herself in one of his capes in lieu of cover. That had carried some fine thrill once. But the fresher, the brighter thought, was of Jonathan in their private summer.

Back when his dear friend found his few English pieces disappearing one after the other until his courteous host began slipping his own clothes into the wardrobe. How well they’d suited him then. Better still today, when the rules of the house dictated he peel away the set of modern tailoring he kept for the town errands and sheathed himself in his Master’s uniform. White. Red. Black.

Once, in an older age, the red was swapped for blue. The death shades of necrosis, of walking winter. Their velvet was worn with the ease of cold Morena awaiting her yearly demise at the birth of spring.

He clung to all of these connections for a blink before the overwhelming memory tipped them over. A memory made precious only by its rarity in the murky sea of his human recollection rather than sentiment. Chiefly because it was one of the first times he began seriously considering murdering his brother. His little brother, who had snuck into his quarters, shrugged on his best raiment, and laughed as he was caught en route to some infantile play at the daughter of their father’s guest. At her.

This was not that. It wasn’t, it wasn’t, of course it wasn’t, he should be flattered, should be enticed, should be—

“You thieving bitch.”

If I am such, it is only because you set such a fine example in both the action and the role, O Kin of my Kin. On top of all the rest of your aggravations, you have even soured the daydream I once had of proving my former students wrong. My poor girls who swore up and down that to have siblings was a curse. I almost had a brother in spirit, once. It was a nice thing of sentiment and foam. But now here you are, smashing the fantasy and proving the girls right all along. What have you done since entering my life but steal what is rightfully Mine?

Something horrid was curdling in his stomach. A sensation he’d thought was outgrown centuries ago. What was this? What was this? In answer, a scrap of inspiration drifted to him. He nailed up a grin.

“Oh dear,” through teeth clamped so tight the words had to squeeze through, “you do take our boy’s idle talk too seriously. If dark hair and rosy eyes were all it took to make one a relative—,”

Three years. Three years ago, my son made that guess of brother and sister. You did laugh then. Laughed as if you might choke. But you have remembered it too.

“Hardly an effort when I can recall the last four centuries.” More or less.

And the last four years, no doubt. Years in which the nearest you have willingly gotten to me are when we lay down in our boxes or when you want to turn my Jonathan’s head.

 “Our Jonathan.”

So you delude yourself. Just as you thought Lucy was yours. Just as you think to welcome yourself to all that is Mine.

“Have we not gone over this Lesson before? Does it not follow that if one owns a dog, they own the creature’s toys? Its pups?”

She had been resting her hand atop the folding screen. The hand snapped shut and sent fragments flying. A reflex that he himself had needed to train himself out of lest he shatter or crush every bauble under his roof. For her part, she seemed not to notice the runnels of blood escaping the healing palm.

“Such a temper,” he chided. “Shall I kiss it better?”

Immediate bile rippled into him at the words.

Yet the bile did not belong to her.

Shall you?

She flapped her hand at him, streaked with dark coagulation. Her claws had grown out and the knuckles bunched up into a talon. The nails holding up his grin loosened.

Ah, but that is just the hand! Surely this is what you want?

As he watched, her face changed. Muscle and bone shifted like clay until a bestial deformation replaced the sharp beauty. A product of his own form of vampirism. While those he conscripted could not assume an animal’s full form, his efforts in the Scholomance bled down into them, filtered into countenances that overtook in a rage. Here was rigid and stretched flesh, a bristling forest of fangs in a beartrap maw, the huge and hating pits of the eyes. A bat’s face stretched into grotesquerie.

Now let us get on with the craved rendezvous! Come, where is my kiss? This is what you came for! What you have, with so much anticipation, withheld yourself from all these days and weeks and months and years! Delayed gratification must be the sole reason, no other.

Then, in a tone that did not carry her soul’s voice, but another’s he had known all his life, whispering up from his own mind:

Is it not so?

In asking, she had taken a step forward.

The back of his heel struck the locked door as he started back.

Enough.

He had initially thought to order her to the bed. His Loves of the past had needed the Lesson. An example as to how strong the chain their Master held was, as much as the rightful collection of that treasure that rests between a maiden’s legs no matter their surplus or absence of appeal in other regards. Now he had no patience for such puppet strings. His spare hand took her by her cravat and shirtfront—

Mine, these are MINE—

—and stopped just short of taking her by the neck as he had done to soldiers and subordinates in ages past. That much would be injury. And he did recall the laughable conditions his dear friend had laid out. So careful, his Jonathan. In all but his choice of spouses.

He thrust the latter on the postered bed along with himself, pinning her the way the wolves wrestled over each other to get at the throat. Before she could get tooth or claw into him, he brought down an anvil of his will onto hers.

“Take off that face. Now.”

The monstrous face twitched, half-smoothed.

You are squeamish over such a thing? I had not realized you were so delicate!

Her mouth, still jutting with spire teeth, managed to grin.

I wore the whole of that face before Jonathan once. Brandished it like Medusa’s head. The proof under the husk that passes for subsumed humanity. I wanted him. I want him. He was, he is, he shall ever be Mine. But the Vampire is made only of extremes. In that mood, I was at the extreme of self-loathing for what I had reduced his wife to. For the thing I had allowed myself to be. Yes, you were the infection. Yes, the others warned me against taking my own life even as I cozened them to take it in my stead. So quick they were, seeing none of my terror at their quickness, the same mercy wielded for my Lucy. They made their killing oath while Jonathan swore his own.

“He did. He killed to see you whored rather than dead. Such is the loving loyal gallantry of our—,”

We both know I lied when I baited him with tales of old. When I spoke of the men who would kill their womenfolk to save them the indignity of the enemy’s touch. A clumsy hook. One I only half-believed. But I wanted him to have an out, you see. We have known each other to the soul for almost half our lives. Just as he permitted me to know what was not written in the diary. Those gaps.

Her face hardened again, the abominable ridges stretching into a demon’s mask.

It was all but code. Something I could say before the others. And while I do not doubt he feared a grain of truth in that requisite threat—of this pantomime we are limping through now—the reality was always there at the top. No matter how I might have begged, might have entreated, bribed, or gnashed my teeth.

Her fangs clicked together once. Hard.

For all that you took me for my brain, for my senses, for the petty vengeance over your spoiled earth, for the cliché of a hundred other despots who prey upon a woman to attack her men, these were mere filigree. You took me to take him. Is it not so?

“Fix. Your. Face.”

Her face resumed smoothing…slowly. All the while her mind ran like a broken spigot.

Yes, of course it was. It did work out so prettily for you in the end. Not because of the blood on his hands and mine, not even because of our child. It has happened because I was as great a coward as you. You, who ran from my Jonathan when you saw he meant to cleave you in a crowded street. You, who fled back to this roost when the first wrinkle came into your plans after centuries of sitting idle on your laurels. And I? I spoke aloud of suicide before them all. Baiting their worry, their oath.

‘No no, Madam Mina, it is too soon to think such things! And worse, risks rising as the Un-Dead!’

Ha. Ha.

I did not do as Jonathan had, who makes his resolutions in silence. He held out as long as he was able, until the only option was escape or undeath. At that point he trusted himself to be broken on the cliff or torn by the wolves rather than risk eternity with the Sisters, waiting for you to come back and collect. A death that would have ruined him past the point that vampirism, still a mystery then, could have saved him. All for the chance to come back to me. Me, now a thing almost as unworthy as you, who clung to hope of life without the excuse of ignorance.

Obviously I could have ended it before he ever set foot on your mountains again. I could have burned. I could have shattered myself after a long fall. I could have found a dozen ways to destroy myself past your intended use for me. And I didn’t. I was not even a Vampire by more than an ounce, yet there I was. Shying from my own destruction when it could have saved them all—when it could have stopped him from putting himself on your altar.

And because I shied, because I lived to follow the thread you left behind, this is where we are.

He is Mine. Our child is Mine. But because you hold my chain—this reason and no other—you can imagine they are yours. That he is yours. So I showed my Jonathan what was left of his wife. The monster he sold himself to Hell for, a thing not worth the love he gave or being mother to the son they’d made, a thing who would lose hold of her martyr-mood soon, so go, Love, go and take our boy, run from the Pit.

Instead, he kissed me.

And to this night he stays and plays your games, does your work, keeps the dust from gathering on your child-brain. For me. For our son. But any reason would have done it for you, wouldn’t it? Any lure or collar. Anyone you knew had hold of his heart. You’d have turned his grandmother if that was what it took.

Her face was at last reset. Still his dead stomach did not settle.

If it were half a millennium ago, all of us wearing the roles we are in spirit, you really would have held a knife to your own kin if it meant—

A flash.

Little brother, teeth bare in glee, talking of how sad a state it was to have the younger son find his bride first.

‘Do not fret, you have your books and your bloodshed and your future under the Mountain to keep you busy! Ah, you will be missed. Perhaps even by her, tender thing that she is. You have addled her, Brother, with your talk of the Powers under the Earth. A shame to draw along some poor maiden with your occult fairy stories, wasting her canniness on war and drivel. But her interest will pass and I shall take care of her while you go try not to die to your Devil’s Lessons. Best of luck.’

A lie, of course. It had to be a lie. He was eldest, he was the ruler-to-be, Weathermaker, rider of the Dragon, Dracula, of course their father would promise her to him. Union would come into it, the wisdom of the move was undeniable, but more, it was his right. It was his due.

It was her.

Under the titles and the trades and, yes, even the teasing thought that she too wished to brave the Mountain, to grasp its Lessons and bring home its gifts to guard those she loved, whatever the cost.

To the enemy or to her. Prepared for any altar, in marriage or blood. Pliant as the snow, cutting as the ice. The chill of her like the breaking of fever. An impeccable spur to the mind, forever turning me towards joy as she parried wrath with her tongue or talent; occasionally in unison. Even in fear, in our play, recognizing the monster before I ever ceased to be a man, she kept herself a gag in my teeth. Oh, I was no fool, Countess. How many lives were spared because you blocked my way in word and flesh? The idiot chattel will never know.

You did love me once. When our hearts beat with our own blood. When we bowed our heads under the Mountain. When we crawled from it, half-mad, damned in our own directions, cold hands clinging together as revenants of different breeds. Yes, I think you must have loved me. Why else would you think to chase the form of your homeland’s vourdalak? I joked that you did not trust me and my kiss.

We laughed and I was not bitter. You had chosen Love and I had chosen Conquest and so I thought I had you forever. Vourdalaks can only Love or Hate. And you loved. And I loved. And it was well. Until it wasn’t. Until the coin of extremes flipped in you, seeing all that I had become. Love to Hate in a single night. I could not hold you when my chains were not in your soul. I could not break you when your dead flesh shrugged every wound. I could only heal from the mauling you left me with, losing you in the fall of hail and sleet. Gone to throw yourself to mortal maggots. A quest that took you to the rotting village and its endearing diseased cattle, weeping for fear of loss of each other.

The cattle who you chose to turn and dream with in the dirt.

Like you nearly chose…

Thunder snarled outside.

Under him, the woman bared her teeth in a grin he would swear he had seen elsewhere. In a looking glass or on the whelp he called a brother?

Enough!

He dropped himself upon her, willing her mouth to pucker and part for him. Doing so, he thought wildly of sieged buildings, of broken windows, of smashed doors, of barriers sundered, wood, glass, stone, iron, that was all, that was all, he would break in and be gone and—and—

His eyes were closed. Why?

You know why.

Something was wrong. Her lips were there, but also not. It was another’s mouth, heavy and coarse with hair. He opened his eyes.

And saw himself.

Himself, seen and felt through her senses, now crouched and crushing his own face with graceless gnawing.  

Shall I turn you over first? We can oil a stake if you’re so eager to bow for yourself.

So saying, she pressed her knee up between his legs.

He threw himself away from her as if she’d turned to sewage. A ball of coagulation and bile even managed to lurch up his throat. It coughed out of him with a retch, splattering on the faded rug. Thunder was joined by lines of lightning. 

“Disgusting witch!”

I take after my kin.

He spat again. The taste of her was the taste of himself. And, as though she were somehow in his head despite the burning wall he’d laid between them:

We are monsters, both of us, and neither has a preference for themselves. A point you have been trying not to know as you fought to convince yourself that you wanted anything more out of me than a sentient shackle to keep on my husband. This, when you once so happily crowed about my cleverness and fate as a companion-to-be. How much was in earnest versus mere theatre for me to pass on? Do you even know?

“Caveat emptor. Is that your supposed Lesson here?”

I am a teacher by trade and I would claim such a Lesson if it were mine. But it isn’t. I am merely trying to spare us all the collateral of your pride.

She twisted herself on the bed until she sat straight and crisp in her stolen garb, the pose of a queen on an invisible throne.

Order her on the ground. Have her bay like a jackal on hands and knees, lick the bile from the rug, claw off her own damned face—

What do you think would happen after he found out, O Lord of the Castle? You would have kept to the letter of the agreement, I’m sure. I would not have bled, I would wear no injury. If you were feeling especially needy you might have had me mouth mute words of worship. But after? What of him?

“What of him, witch?”

There wasn’t as much vitriol in the words as he wished. It was too fair a question. One he had only turned over briefly that evening as he resolved to get on with this belated task.

Task. That really is the word for it. Was the word.

In his brisk consideration of the aftermath to the afterglow, he had thought of Jonathan’s face. The revelation there. Not merely of despair and impotent fury, but the far end of acceptance. Acknowledgment of what could be done to his woman—their woman—on an impulse. A single Lesson for his friend on what could and would be done if he thought himself unburdened enough to leave them, to cut his leash and run before the period of agreed respite ran out. Twenty years. That was the most there would be. Enough for the boy to reach his prime without taking a life.

Jonathan, their precious fountain, their boy’s nursemaid. The gag in all their mouths to play at penance while shielding the mountain people from their thirst. A lesser soul would have broken a year after the child’s birth. Broken and run, with or without the babe. Without the wife-thing he had damned himself for. But love held him pinned in delicious Purgatory between life and death, not merely chained, but a willing servant. Willing in so many ways.

Yes, Sir, of course, Sir, if Sir pleases. That professional veil that let him hide in the veneer of mere servitude. A series of duties performed for a client.

Still so shy, his Jonathan.

Less than twenty years left of this charade. And then?

The white down of the hair, the marble throat, spectral blue bruised to violet to red to bed and now there is no leaving, no running, never again, I will watch you drink from the weeping cattle whose names and pity you will have learned after twenty years, oh yes, you will gorge yourself, we will all indulge, and you will feed yourself back and back to now, to here, to youth, to my friend, my Jonathan, my Bri—

It was a winter night when she’d left. When they’d warred. Lightning and ice. He had tried to goad as much as wrestle her. Hanging the lives of thousands of bleating human sheep over her head. A slaughter to paint the continent red in her absence. Had she been human, perhaps this would have worked. But the creature in her place was only Love or Hate. It was this very threat and a thousand other proofs of his monstrosity before it that had locked her into the latter.

Hate. Hate.

It had struck him deeper than the ice that speared him like a great thrashing insect. Boulders of hail had fallen that same night, hammering the edges of his castle into crumbling stone and mortar. He had driven his hand through her chest and twisted out her heart. In retaliation, she had slapped him. The print of her hand went black with frostbite. Eating. Cracking. Shards of his face breaking as his castle broke. So much blood it had taken to mend!

But he had not thought of it then. Only of the blinding black-white of the storms, of how even his winds could not hold her as she cut back and away from him. A ghost in the snow. Gone.

Gone, because she was not his. Not in a way that could be trusted, that could not be broken. Love was a chain and that chain needed strength. He wound that chain around every throat he kissed and fed the ichor of his heart. His, his, his.

Even the wretched thing in her stolen suit would someday bend as the Sisters had; centuries, that had taken, but it had happened. At least enough to smile for him. Even to laugh with him. His Loves, been and gone, like infuriating and cherished cats.

And is it an accident you hunted for a fair girl first? She, with her white-gold waves and spring sky stare? No, old devil. You know better. How hastily you threw yourself at two dark ones after! As if you could hide your own weakness from yourself by overbalancing the collection against that first desperate theft. Then came the surprise in Piccadilly. The one that nearly froze you so long the kukri all but gutted you where you stood gaping.

The surprise of his Jonathan. His hair was dark as earth the night before, but the morning had left it white. His eyes were bright and cold and dead in their living sockets. That same cold had scarred the air around him as he lunged out of his pack of Cross-wavers, he and the blade coming to kill him for the Love and Hate that made up all that he was then.

That he was now.

He is here out of love, she thought at him.

He almost jumped. His mind was walled off, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

There is something like peace under this roof and endless hateful play for you because of him. Because you hold the safety of his family hostage. Because he is himself, and because you are yourself, he is prepared to take a thousand blows to his dignity and well-being. This you know. But you have forgotten the cost that comes with endangering what he loves.

“Hardly. He buried the corpses of that cost, did he not? He is paying his own price ad infinitum.” A fee that had come with the forsaking of the kukri. Such a fine toy. It was still whetted and gleaming in its scabbard for the night it was returned to him, the better to watch him split a few squealing targets open with it. But until then, confiscated. “Or do you mean to imply he shall again come at me with a shovel? Do you truly believe he can do me any harm, by day or night, that I could not immediately shield myself with using your mobile carcass?” At last, an opportunity to leer back at her: “Or little Quincey?” An absurd name on the tongue. The American was a curse even now.

Her face rippled in that hideous shape again. Then settled as she thought a truth she hated to offer almost as much as he hated to hear it:

I do not know. No more than I know whether you are justified or not in thinking you can pounce and turn him before he strikes a blow. The only guarantee is that everyone in this castle, bar Quincey, is damned. For our sins, for our Nature, we are hellbound. The only thing we have left to lose is…

She gestured dully at the room, the castle, the entire imperceptible trappings of a stage. A grimace of almost comical dissatisfaction rested on her.

…this. A penny dreadful satire of the family home. One held together because my son is owed a life that Jonathan and I have forfeited for ourselves. We are all living in a balance that is maintained by the chain on me, by a child’s needs, and by the ability of my husband to cater to all of us by a strength of will you would not find out of a million men. This he does because no one has broken the fragile eggshell of his faith that you can be trusted not to kick a hornet’s nest.

 If that eggshell breaks, everything breaks.

The agreement. Truce. Relative peace. Whatever you wish to call this. Whoever is left to survive after, the only certainty is that those parties will be in a state of constant misery and war. A generally unpleasant prospect to most. Unless you were the sort to consider a permanent state of trying to hold back an opposing will from sundown to sunup, unable to budge lest you be mauled or worse, for the rest of eternity, a positive outcome.

A silent sigh gusted from her.

Understand this: If I thought it would spare him, no matter how he protested, I would play concubine as best I could. Being bereft of the ability to lie or to act on anything but my own wants, it would be a feat. But you could rut and pretend you were enjoying yourself all you liked, supposing it meant he would be left out of that particular chore. Except we both know that wouldn’t happen.

There is no contract with us. No consent. And, let us be honest while we can, you have not cared about me since you scurried back to the castle in that blighted old November. I have nothing to barter with to keep you from abusing my husband’s willingness to be a barrier between you and what he loves. By any means.

“I need no reminder,” he hummed. And, unable to help himself, “His means do so sweetly justify the ends.”

Her teeth bared again.

Pig.

His bared back.

“Bitch.”

Imbecile. Or do you have another name for a man who would throw a brick through his own window to prove he can? Neither of us wants to bed the equivalent of a twin. Neither of us wants to risk the discovering what would happen if Jonathan discovers what you attempted to force on me tonight, and each for the same reason—we do not know what comes after. Who lives? Who dies? Who suffers? I truly cannot guess. Can you?

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Scraped his tongue across his fangs.

In his mind’s eye, he wandered through the most probable outcomes:

Here was Jonathan returning to that uncanny rage upon finding his wife was preyed on. Even unharmed, he sees the contract as broken. Fine. He attacks.

His Master uses mother and child as shields. Perhaps he has her hold Jonathan down while the bawling boy is held at the window, ready to be dropped and splattered. A loss of an experiment, if need be. But no need! The woman holds her husband. The Master pries the man’s mouth open and, already pocked with years’ worth of kisses, the ichor turns him quickly. Then what?

Does he keep them all? Can he keep them all? Even the Sisters settled enough that he did not have to be on guard at all waking hours.

A coin toss between mother and child. At least one must go.

If the child, an immediate spur to the parents. An even worse strain. No.

Mother, then. Slain or preserved? Blood was necessary only for health, not existence. It would be an arduous process, but he wagered he could manage sealing her in her box and encasing it in concrete. No route for her mist through that. Let her rot in there a few decades while he wrangled the rest of the family.

But the boy himself would grow and be untethered. His Papa would strain like a rabid beast at every hour. A nuisance.

Fine. Dead mother, dead child. Put Jonathan in the sealed box. Wait. Talk to him through the concrete, the wood, the silk lining. Think at him. Check and check until he was ready to behave. Starved, insane, he would be broken out as a broken thing. Something to sculpt into proper form, into a companion who knew better, who would be a good boy, good Bridegroom.

Unless he really did find some way to end himself despite the grip on him. A Vampire was all want and Jonathan had wanted to die too many times as a human being to banish the notion, even with the undead form’s predilection for self-preservation. If anyone could, Jonathan would find a way.

And there he would be again. Alone.

Assuming other scenarios didn’t overtake these entirely. He had suffered much from results he was too sure of himself to even entertain. Now the potential outcomes included some which ended with him slain or abandoned. He couldn’t say which rankled more to contemplate.

The bed creaked. He looked up to see she was unlocking the door. She was in no especial hurry as one garnet eye regarded him blandly over her shoulder.

Your storm frightened my son, if you care. Jonathan has brought him inside. I will do us both the courtesy of not mentioning this farce to him.

‘This time,’ hung unmentioned between them.

She did already think herself living in Hell. There was little more to do besides count the hours or gamble. And if she truly thought this was a sword to hang over his head?

Well. That wouldn’t do.

His eye fell on a heap of white left behind the folding screen. The discarded dress. He hooked it with his boot, kicking up and catching it in a gnarled ball to toss at her.

“Do another courtesy and dress in a way that does not insult and sicken to behold. And, if you will humor me, bestow some clarification. The heart of the issue is, to you, the assumption of assault, yes?” Her eyes narrowed, but she gave no answer. He beamed at her. “If that is the case, you have my sincerest apologies for the misunderstanding. When I turn myself to acts of affection, I never dream of gifting them without consent. That much you should know from your husband. He is a selfless soul, so willing to accommodate. I shall be sure to make clear all intentions in our future together and to not make any advances without all parties’ allowance.”

He dropped a wink and sent a nettle her way. A hazy phantasm of the three of them, their spectacle condensed upon a single bed. Two bodies willing to trade themselves over the other. Only one being forfeit, lest horror and violence break him at the sight of his wife’s breaking. Him. It would always be him.

‘No, no, take me!’

‘If you insist.’

A loving wall between them. The living shield keeping their teeth away from each other. Their dear, dear Jonathan, knowing his wife would play out the scene expected of all martyr-maidens, trading their one universal coin for their beloveds’ sake. Knowing he would go mad to see her folded under their Master, the mechanics of the display made worse for it being an attempt to protect him. Their Jonathan would weep, would beg, would claw them apart and straddle their Master like a horse just to spare the woman the touch of him.

In contrast, she would be only too happy to wrench said Master’s head off. But she and her will could be held at bay. This he could do while she clung to her husband’s back, weeping precious red tracks as her Love loved another. For her.

A new storm roiled across the woman’s face. Claws ripped into the pale silk. Before she could linger for another mental barb, he willed a gust to rush from a window and down the corridor to suck the door shut on her.  

Good riddance.

He pondered the oil bottle still in his hand.

…Not an entirely mediocre play.

It wasn’t dissimilar from what he’d try in her position. Her grasp on the psychic angles of vampirism was also advancing at a pace that put her Sisters’ dabbling with the trance state to shame.

Ah-ah. She is not their Sister, is she? Surely we have established that by now.

His smile soured at the thought. What a waste to lose a harem and gain a relative. He wanted to spit again. Still, he could not grouse too much. She was a small price to pay for the prizes to be gained. He was Master of the lot, however much she might rankle at the notion. It was early nights yet and centuries enough would defang her.

In the meantime, there was the present to deal with. A little punishment for biting the hand and for the purloining of that particular costume. A theft that echoed days long gone. Perhaps he could deliver her a dream during the day, featuring all the many places one would have to dig around the castle to find the pieces of his covetous little brother. Just so she knew where he stood with regard to sticky-fingered siblings. But clothes were not the greater concern, much as he would prefer she think so.

Let her think it only a matter of pride and property. While she thought it, he would have to scour his room and be certain there was no breach of the hidden place where his souvenirs from the Scholomance rested. He hardly feared that the woman would decipher the texts within, let alone be able to limp through even their most basic instructions. But she was clever and ‘kin of his kin.’ She was therefore petty enough to set the ancient parchment ablaze in a fit of retribution.

Yes, it would need checking. Yes, she would need a crack of the whip in some way.

But first.

“Did that amuse you?” he asked of the portrait. “I’m sure it would have were you here. Would it serve your mood to know how many times I have failed to fill the hollow you left behind? You see I am never satisfied. Whereas you were content enough to settle for a village of half-dead bootlickers. It is a better thing to be gratified by only the best rather than to lower oneself to preen over scraps, don’t you think?”

The portrait did not say. Only stared on in that melancholy gleam of blue. So hard to think a creature like her had ever bloodied her hands. Out of love, of course. Always out of love. Such stories she had told under the Mountain, away from the eyes of a God who gave His flock mere trinkets to ward off the thousand monstrous and manmade evils of the world, the caring sins she had beggared her soul for already. Loved ones threatened. Loved ones rescued. Loved ones alternately grateful or aghast, but ultimately saved by her knife, her poison, or the lure of her chilled flesh.

Always there had been a chill to her. Even when her heart was alive.

The thought tugged him to the wall above the titanic bed’s headboard. His fingers traced the loose mortar around one stone. He thrice-checked that his senses were blocked from interlopers before moving it out. Three treasures waited inside.

The closest was a skull. Final resting place for a waste of time. Such a churlish solicitor he had first invited to his home! Had he ever introduced him to Jonathan? He had already thrown out the man’s name and redubbed him Yorick after his Loves and the wolves finished with his carrion. Were there less sentiment attached to it, he might have already gifted the lump of ivory to his dear friend, who so loved the Bard. It would make a fine paperweight as he bent over his myriad books and forms.

But the sentiment was there because she was there. She had seen the opportunity with the idiot wandering so close and had tried to herd him into her tearing hands. Love and Hate. She could not love a stranger, but she could hate that he was marked by the stamp of her Count, proof that he was intended for a task. There would have been no teeth in the man, no kiss. Just a disassembling of anatomy long before the wildlife tore him. With how poorly he’d received his host’s hospitality, perhaps all of them would have been better off if Yorick had never been rescued by the thunderbolt or the Wolf.

“You did tell me so, didn’t you?” Again he turned to the portrait. The skull turned over in his hands. “You told me not to go forward. Do not play Alexander, you said. You will conquer nothing and weep just the same. You knew already how it was back here. How I had not begun a true march upon the world, had not drowned it in its own blood.”

How he had stormed and slaughtered for only as long as the emptiness of the scarred castle could be ignored. This he did longer than any of the squealing countryside preferred. But not long enough. It had seemed only a blink. The frustrated lashing of a butcher mutilating the livestock until their fine cuts were mere pulp under his blades and teeth. And no gladder for the mess. He had stolen the first fair girl away before closing himself back in the high stone walls. A girl like sun on snow, who’d made her family laugh and her village swoon. With her collection the great conquest was brought to a halt.

Yorick’s skull gained a new crack where he gripped it. He tossed it on the bed in favor of the second treasure. Still shut in its jewelry box like a fairy tale’s secret.

Opening the ruby-pocked lid revealed a lump of stained linen. It swaddled the heart he had stolen from her chest. The meat had never rotted. Never attracted the vandals of fly and maggot. Simply sat there in the cloth, a dark red mound of muscle and dried blood. He remembered the hole that had closed up before his eyes as she vanished into the sleet. Had a new heart grown in her breast or had her form shed the anatomy forever? He still wondered. There were times when he thought of pricking it with the tip of a dagger. Vourdalaks were immune to a pierced heart. A cleaved head. One of their few advantages compared to the strigoi. It would feel good to halve the heart, he was sure.

But it went uncut. His thumb dragged over its curves as he convinced himself the pressure was felt all the way in that lightning-struck pit she still hibernated in. Bloodless and cold. Dreaming.

The heart was rewrapped and set in its box before the last treasure was perused. It too was still in its proper place. He caught himself close to a chuckle as he removed it.

How strange that his lifetimes before and after undeath had drawn so many little scholars to him, all with a penchant for bloating a journal with their personal scrawling. His Harkers seemed to have glumly hung up the pastime, refusing to pen anything which their Master would, naturally, have the right to peruse. A shame. There were blank volumes enough to fill another library with their prose if they wished. He had so enjoyed the few excerpts gleaned from their little manuscript that he’d tossed them a bejeweled book apiece to fill. Books that had found their way into the child’s eager hands, doomed to be ruined with crayon.

The book in his own hands had been a gift as well. A volume bound in dense old leather, the pages all thick leaves. Something to last through ages. He peered at the inner cover where her name was gouged. The one she had worn before the Lessons under the Mountain and after their vows were broken. She had given that name away to the worthless peasants of her necropolis to chisel in the marble. Not even another pseudonym, but her own maiden name, as though his title was a gangrenous limb to hack off.

“You do grow maudlin,” he sighed to the pages. The book returned to its place, the box after, the skull last. Back went the stone. Grudgingly, he resigned himself against forbidding entrance to the room. His own chambers were understandably forbidden, but this space would appear senseless to prohibit. Especially when it had been breached already and left unbothered with for nigh half a decade. It might be taken as an arbitrary thing—or worse, evidence to the woman that she had landed a blow with her act—but ultimately she might come sniffing around again. He would have to relocate the mementos soon.

But for now, there was more pressing work.

He found said work waiting for him in the library.

Out of all the cavernous rooms in the castle, it remained the nearest their strange brood had to a shared familial space. When it was allowed. He lingered a moment outside their perception as a shadow at the door.

The boy was tucked between his parents, insisting on reading to them from one of the books of fables and fairy tales. His Papa had brought home a version in every language he could find some while back. Mama had once tried to play go-between, fishing innocuous knowledge from their Master’s head to be secondhand tutor of the land’s many tongues. But it was a childish ploy and he had found them out with the ease of one kicking over a stone to watch the beetles scurry.

Jonathan, for his part, had made a more than admirable leap after his ‘brain fever’ left him in the care of strangers. The language barrier was one he had no intention of tripping over again, and so he had juggled his dead master’s business affairs and his first prodding at the Carpathians’ voices years ago. Now he was sharp enough to not only comprehend his paperwork and the talk of the townspeople without struggling on a given word, but to know exactly what he heard when his Master called:

“Draga mea. What has our little devil learned tonight?”

Jonathan showed no bristling of posture, no gooseflesh. Only the barest flicker of composure pulling its laces tight across the wan face. Even the smile refused to falter. The boy’s eyes flew up from the pages and bounced between fathers. He knew the term too, for it was one reserved only for his Papa.

“Father!” he chirped, holding up the book. It showed a painted girl in red walking through a wood with a smiling Wolf. “I have almost all of it! English and Hungarian and—,”

“Diavol.” His voice like a snap of fingers. The boy winced. His mother shot a look like a knife through his head. Jonathan spared a hand each for their shoulders. The boy’s back was to him now and so his eyes could flare in that grim crystalline way. Frozen lakes framed in whorls of snow. “Did I speak to you or your Papa?”

The child hung his head over the book.

“Please forgive me, Father.”

For I have sinned, the voice in him sing-songed. He swallowed an unbidden laugh.

“He has reason to be excited,” Jonathan’s offered. A soft roll of sound that now weighed almost as much as his Master’s in a room. “He has conquered the English, the Hungarian, half of the French and—,”

“The French?”

“Sweetheart,” Jonathan spoke lightly to the top of the boy’s head. “Show him.”

Sheepish but eager, the child brandished his new victory. Genuine surprise tumbled through his Father as he recognized the woodcut illustration. A view that stunned as much as tickled.

“So many of the best ones began in French writing,” the boy declared. “Charles Perrault wrote this one, Bluebeard,” he enunciated carefully, “Barbe bleue, forever and ever ago. It’s so scary! Like Mama’s ghost stories and your histories, Father. See?”

“I see,” he told the boy. And he did. The illustrator had done a fine job depicting the grisly chamber and its bounty of prying wives’ heads. “It is a good story to learn and a better one to take to heart.”

Like Pandora’s Box. 

Another surprise, hearing her tone chime through the mindscape. The surprise withered upon seeing the honed edge of her gaze. A warning that did not quite slip into the mental currents shared in the room:

Who here is Pandora? Who must mind the loose lid over the box of miseries?

Jonathan looked at her with only a mildly concerned curiosity.

Her word was kept. For now.

Fine, fine.

“Exactly so,” he said aloud. “And what is the Lesson in these tales, child? Do tell.”

The boy straightened where he sat, beaming, “Trick question! I know there is more than one. The first is that when you are told not to open a thing, it is for good reason. The second is that the terrible things inside are put there by a villain, who really does want the door or the box to be opened so that they can have something awful happen after. Third is that what’s scary does not last forever. Hope is in the box and heroes slay the villain in the end. And,” he wrinkled his nose at the book, somewhere between humor and annoyance, “it seems like people who made old stories really wanted girls to think they would only have an awful time to look forward to once they marry.”

“It can happen that way, Sweetheart,” from Jonathan, before Master or wife could jump to comment. There was no erasing the somber angles of his look for the boy this time. Even the smile he mustered was a solemn curve. “Not everyone is as fortunate in love as us. Sometimes people find themselves with spouses they do not love or who do not love them. It is…uncommon to enter something so terrible as these storybook marriages. Most spouses are not monsters. But some are callous, some are dull, and some only wed at all because they see it as a chore.”

“A chore?” Another wrinkle of the nose. “Like putting playtime away?” Jonathan nodded, the smile an increment lighter.

“Or doing Father’s papers or minding the horses. Something like that, yes.” The boy sat up scandalized at this. He looked from his Papa to his Mama and Father as if hoping for one of them to tell him this was a joke. The scandal deepened as he saw, for one of the few times in his small life, that Mama and Father’s expressions were an utter match. Both on their faces and in their minds.

Still, he tried, “That can’t be true, can it?”

It is, from her.

“It is,” from him.

Each answer flat as a coin. Again, he had to tamp down bitter laughter.

The boy’s mouth dropped open on a glimpse of pearly needle teeth. A fever dream’s vision of a cherub being told by Cupid himself that all the arrows had been burned and they weren’t to make any more.

“That’s horrible! You mean there are families who just pick a mama and a papa and a father and just—just—,” A thunderhead came and went on the little brow. “Just sit there? Not caring about each other?”

“Child,” his Father hummed as he finally idled from the entryway, “you seem more distraught at this than the dead brides.”

“Because it’s different! Barbe bleue, he’s just a monster in a book! And even if—,” ah, how sickish he turned, “—if there are real villains like him in the world, they are rare! But you speak as if the whole rest of the world is out there,” he waved a frantic hand as if to encompass everything beyond the castle, “making families of each other and not enjoying it. Not loving each other at all.”

“Not the entire world,” Jonathan began. Before he could go on, his Master finished for him:

“But not a small portion either. Love does exist, but it is a precious thing like gold or blood. Many wish to have it for their own, but not everyone may claim it as theirs, let alone find it. Sometimes not even those who have died for it.”

He stood before the three of them on the couch now. His dear Harkers. Fire from the woman, wonder from the boy, a wary stillness from Jonathan. All braced, all listening for the lecture’s Lesson. He knelt until his eye was level with the child’s. The child sat forward, his mind at full attention while the spades of his ears pricked like a pup’s. He really was a good boy.

“Your Papa is right. Not everyone is as fortunate in love as us. There are unhappy homes where mothers and fathers battle with each other and do worse to their children. There are homes where bones are broken, where there are tears every night and day, where there is only toil and hate and, yes, even death. For you are right too. There are villains in the world who slay the ones they should love, out of madness or for sport.”

He watched the boy’s eyes first widen and then well. Bright red beads balanced on the edge of spilling. If they ran, he would go to bed with hunger and then grouse all the more as he waited for their feeding night. So he laid the wide white spider of his own hand upon the child’s other shoulder. Jonathan gripped his side tighter. The woman grasped the boy’s small fingers.

“But this home is safe from that. We would none of us have come together were it not for love. Your Papa, your Mama, myself, we are all creatures of singular will. We do not do what we do not wish to do, and so we would not be here if we did not desire it, if there was no love in these walls. You are the proof. We made you together.”

The boy sniffled. His scarlet tears did not roll, but settled back with a blink.

“Like Pandora? She was made out of lots of pieces from lots of gods.”

“That she was. And like Pandora,” his hand drifted from the boy’s shoulder to drum his fingers on the book, “you have gone and opened something which brought you to tears. But there is Hope yet. You shall not lack for your own Loves when the time comes, diavol. For now, know that you need not weep for others and their clumsy pairing. Your heart will bleed forever once you start. And if that should happen? Why, your poor Papa will never have blood enough to satisfy you again.”

The boy’s expression squirmed for a moment, uncertain.

“…Really?”

Jonathan bowed over him, smiling, “Your Father jests. I will always have enough for you.” In his shift, more of the mottled throat was laid bare while his hair hung in a silver-white curtain. Through it peeked those strange sapphire eyes; melting ice set in soot lashes and a cadaver’s sockets. The mollifying mien of a living corpse.

An image passed behind his eyes of that pale smile daubed with blood.

The oil bottle dug against him in its trouser pocket.

“But not tonight,” he intoned. His palm moved from the book of fairy tales and up to the hand Jonathan still had on his son. The man barely tensed as he was pulled up alongside his Master. “Feeding is not for another dusk and your Papa has work waiting. Your Mama shall hear out the rest of your progress.” He flicked a glance her way. “Perhaps she could introduce you to one of Papa’s own favorites. I believe it was, One Thousand and One Nights.”

This time he could not stave off at least half a chuckle as his Harkers all seemed to jolt as one. Loathing here, curiosity there, and, laughably, a prickle of incensed decorum from Jonathan himself. There was even a flush in his pallid cheek.

“Would that not be best to reserve until he’s older?”

“My friend, he is reading of murder already. What harm could your little adventures do?”

“Sir—,”

“What’s it about? What happens in the Nights?” from the boy. His gaze now bounced eagerly among his herd of parents. There were few things his Papa would deny him and so to hear of something even he would try to hold out of his son’s reach was more tantalizing than any forbidden chamber or pretty dowry box. “Papa, I’m old enough, you can tell me!”

I can tell you, came the woman’s rescue. The parts you are old enough to hear.

“But Father said!” If Father said, the family Did. That was one of the rules. A good Lesson to hold above all others. But Jonathan’s eyes pleaded with both the promise of bribery for mercy and, again, that absurd flame of parental dismay. Very well.

“Father said perhaps,” he corrected. “And I said introduce. You do grow fast, child, but not fast enough. There are secrets meant for men and women that you must wait to learn before you can access all there is to consume. Until then, you can see what you can wheedle from your mother on the matter. But first, give Papa your good-day.”

Another shocked descent for the boy, another raising of hackles for his Mama.

“Papa’s working all night?”

“Ah-ah, not all night. You took him up for half of it, did you not?”

The boy shrank guiltily against his pillow, mumbling, “Maybe…”

A third, from the woman. At most.

Her eyes and scars seemed to blaze as he knew his own to do. Now it truly was an effort not to think of her as kin and shudder for it. The air in the room seemed abruptly charged as her line of sight refused to drop from his.

You could make her. Walk her off to the bookcases, even. See if she cannot accidentally smash her fingers under a leaden tome. Maybe—

Jonathan’s hand gripped his. Cold against colder. Then he was on his knee, cupping the child’s face.

“It is my fault, Sweetheart. I should have kept better track of the time. There is something that needs working out tonight, very important for your Father’s own affairs.” Another smile for the boy. Spring come to thaw. “Now please, can I have your good-day? I should not like to head to bed without it.”

And just like that, the boy was up and folded in his free arm, squeezing back like he could pin the man there to stay and read of Scheherazade and her Sultan until the sun rose. But his Father was watching and so he consoled himself with the embrace and the good-days and their bloodless kisses to each other’s cheek.

“Mama’s turn!”

Jonathan scarcely had time to repeat him, nodding—“Mama’s turn,”—before the woman had snatched him to her. Not a common display, this. At most they knew their Master would suffer only some saccharine peck and a pining stare in his presence. Let the woman rut while he at least had some distance and a turned back. Now she seemed on the edge of eating him. Not that Jonathan appeared to mind.

His eyes were shut far more lightly than his Master’s had been not an hour ago. A gesture of bliss rather than nausea. Because his eyes were closed, he did not see his wife’s eye crack open and shoot a line of mingled hate and joy into her Master’s skull. Over Jonathan’s psyche and masked from the boy’s questing mind, he dragged a mental dagger and spill of salt over hers.

This he punctuated with a very clear, Curvă.

She winced under the twist of the spectral blade in her brain, but did not let her nails become claws in Jonathan’s cheek. Her eye narrowed. Another blade was sent back to him.

There was even a dimpled hint of a smile as she enunciated, oh so lightly, Încornorat.

Jonathan bit back a yelp as he was hauled to the door with barely time enough to call back a, “Good-day, Darling.”

He no longer had his hand in his Master’s, for his Master held him by the wrist. So it remained until three long halls were between them and the library. Then another hall after that. Stairs. Hall. Stairs. Towards the tower.

Where all dragons keep their maidens.

The thought’s attempted humor died before it even drew breath. Kin of his goddamned kin, indeed. He could hear his little brother cackling up at him from Hell. Who did the contemptible sow think she was to dare? To even conceive of vomiting such a label at his feet? She, the one with the wedding band!

Yes, the same plain ring as his. While you, barehanded, claim to own them both. You are Master, you are Groom. And yet…

Jonathan sucked a breath over his teeth.

Their pace halted in the moonlight of a window-loaded wall. A glance at the trapped wrist showed it was connected to a hand going blue as the mortal bones grinded and creaked. The white hand curled open to reveal a hint of the bruise to come. Jonathan kneaded the spot without recoiling from his Master’s side.

The man’s smile had fallen away like a veil. Here was only his face as it was. The sweet-bitter mark of surrender that was the mournful turn of the lips, the frozen dew under the hoods of his lashes. Tired but waiting for the next scene. Wisely keeping the obvious question tucked in his throat: What’s wrong?

Instead his Master heard, “I received correspondence from Vidor today. He says the delay is due to losing one of the horses. They had to comb two villages for a replacement, but he thinks they can make it by mid-July.”

So casual, so ironed out into the cadence of Agent and Client. Anything else, Sir? Anything we might discuss in arid tones before the inevitable, Sir?

There was such talk available, if his Master felt like bothering with it. Stony talk of setting stone. A long-belated repair of the old damage to the castle’s crumbled edges. He knew there were also pamphlets and science journals waiting tidily on the ebon desk with the usual bureaucratic flotsam. Dreary things about the advancements of pipes and electric wires that would be an arduous and superfluous hell to weave into the grand old stonework. Especially when, in fifteen years’ time, there would be no humans left to want them under Castle Dracula’s roof.

Still, it was a good sign, these tries at what the English called ‘homemaking.’ Renovating his cage kept him busy between bleeding and writing. More, it gave an excuse to be allowed out of the tower. The same tower where his life might have gone on even to this night, with only the hungry visits of wife and child to prove they still existed. 

His Master had daydreamed about it more than once. How it would be the dance of that distant summer intensified and expanded when Jonathan Harker found he was locked permanently in. There would not be so much as the meager freedom of the office, where he could scratch and type and imagine he was far away in his snug English firm. No, in his dreams, he’d left Jonathan only the tower and the bedchamber at its top. Only what food his Master brought, what clothes his Master offered, what sundry supple tasks his Master put to him in that narrow box in which the spoils of war lived and bowed. Unable to dare so much as the thought of escape, even with a will that was all his own.

But no, no. Better to leave that sword hanging. A punishment threatened did more work than the punishment itself. Really, for all the savory misery it might wring from him, all the placations that might be offered for release, it would hardly satisfy in the long term. Not unless he wanted a repeat of his missteps with his prior Loves, turned idle and useless but for proving the castle was not his dwelling alone.

All this musing passed within a heartbeat he did not have. In the present, he crossed his arms.

“A lost horse, he says. And how did they lose it?”

A calculating flicker of the blue. Careful, careful.

“A broken leg, Sir. It had to be put down.”

“A broken leg. On what mountains? In what ditch between here and the mason?”

“He didn’t say.” No quaver in the voice. No dropping of his gaze. But there was a hairline crack in what should have been the calm of one delivering dull news. Small, but there. Then, the fatal line: “Why does it matter?”

Ah, my friend. Sometimes I do wonder if you enjoy dangling raw meat before my nose.      

“It matters because you are hiding something.” His hand landed light and immovable on the man’s shoulder.

“I’m not lying, Sir.” Yes, that much his Master could tell. Except.

“We both know there are worlds of difference between speaking the truth and choosing not to lie. Even the boy knows that.” The hand did not tighten, but claws now scraped against the shoulder. “So. What was it that Vidor blamed for his poor lost horse?” Jonathan opened his mouth. What could have been a word was cut off as he was suddenly wrenched around and marched toward the office. “No, let us not exhaust you with recital. Surely you still have the letter. I shall see it myself.”

“Sir—,”

But they were already at the door and the door had already opened on a handy gust. The same breeze tugged the heavy wood shut and, in passing out a different crack in the office’s window, skirted between the man’s legs. Jonathan hardly had time enough to flinch before he was thrust in the tufted chair that stood facing the desk. His Master was already thumbing cheerily through the immaculate filing; here was another reason to neglect his little fantasy of the tower. Mr. Harker really was an artful organizer. Never a paper out of place. Even the ones he wished he might get away with tossing on the fire.

But such liberties were only for his client to enjoy.

Case in point, here was Vidor’s letter, folded back into its envelope, neatly slotted in the Pending drawer. He kept his attention halved evenly between the note and his wincing friend in the chair. My, but the latter’s intuition had honed well with the years.

“He writes to me and says wolves attacked and ruined the stallion’s leg. Wolves cause him to be late.” He refolded the letter until its edges could slit a lying courier’s throat. “Wolves. Along the route I mapped for him.” His eyes leveled at Jonathan’s head like twin pistols. “You would hide this from me?”

“No, Sir. Only—,”

“Only what? You wish to see me deceived? To see these vermin get away with wasting my time as they drink and chase the slatterns along the road? By all means, explain.”

“I thought only that he must have made an error. That what he thought were wolves were merely dogs. There are few small breeds here and some are bred to outweigh their lupine cousins. More to the point, I do not see the why of purposefully delaying your delivery, even for a drink or a dalliance. Vidor and his men know they’ll not wring more money from you in losing time. The trek to and from all the destinations involved takes up days and energy all of them would rather spend at his home or some attractive holiday.” The closing statement: “He is not a liar, Sir, only mistaken.”

‘Please do not kill them.’ If only you had a violin to play as you grovel.

Out loud he sighed and shook his head.

“Do you never grow tired of covering for the ineptitude of others?”

It wasn’t an unfair question. Jonathan and his woman had been the key to dredging up the exact methods by which his Master’s web around England was forming and been instrumental in tearing them away. The Dutchman had led the lordling, the doctor, and the American along in slaying his poor Lucy, his fetching first claim planted upon the land. But the pack of them would have been running in circles without his dear Harkers. Too quick, too canny, and all the while shouldering the brunt of the effort in the hunt. There was some chiding of kismet in that, he knew.

He recalled that nascent night’s exact words.

You dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter.

Words from an unsuspecting old thing who’d had to run for his unlife for the first time in ages as Jonathan Harker slithered out the window of the Piccadilly house, steel thirsty and flashing. Coming to slay him. To pierce his heart and sever his head in the middle of a screaming street. Prepared for a cell or his own death as the chattel shrilled, not knowing there would be only dust where a carcass should fall. Yes, yes. He would have. He could have.

Once.

But Fate ensured he reserved that knife for his friends, who had sinned even worse against his woman. If Jonathan marked his Master as a thief, then the stalwart dogs who had dared to turn on the sole bitch in their midst were worse for daring her destruction. Such was the price of not recognizing a Jackal while busy hunting a Wolf. In fact…

“You say Vidor is mistaken? That he lost his horse not to wolves, but other beasts? If this is so, I would not wager it was a dog that did the work, but a jackal.” He folded his hands and smiled. “You wish him to be spared the punishment of a liar. Why not assure that the reality matches his words? It need not be done with the kukri. In fact, it need not be you at all. Dear Mina, she so regrets depleting you. Perhaps she would appreciate the sport of her own hunt.”

Jonathan did not blink. The fear remained in its careful place, the fatigue alongside it. But there, lurking just under the membrane of the willing prey, was something else. Cold and sharp.

“Even if such were not against our arrangement, Sir, there would be a dilemma.” There was no tremble as he said it.

“Oh dear. What dilemma is that?”

“The waste. Leaving aside the concern of relatives and friends raising an alarm about a group of missing workers, it will be counted as another strike against this place’s stability.”

It was an effort not to clap. Good boy, Jonathan. Follow the trail.

“Stability?” he pressed, doing what he could to drip with pompous ignorance. Jonathan did not crack.

“Yes,” he told his Master. “The stability of this place’s image as the home of a respected Count and not a guaranteed death trap. The people of the Carpathians live in the center of your influence. They understand what it is to risk angering you. But you know firsthand that this place exists inside a shrinking circle. More information flies faster, more straight lines are drawn that whittle the world down into maps that mark every dark corner down to its smallest inch. Which means that if Castle Dracula, to say nothing of its Master or those he controls, gain a reputation for erasing visitors in bloody fashion, people will just stop coming here. 

“Unless those people are in uniform and hail from tiers of governance above the one you choose to wear rather than frighten the human gentry with the reality of you. I know I say nothing you do not know. You have not kept these mountains under your thumb by being careless. That you would suggest the idea of Mina or I casually murdering innocent strangers as either their punishment for tardiness or to simply tug our respective chains to have us do a trick you already know we are capable of suggests only two things to my mind.

“The first, that you have more important issues on your mind than the delivery of a commissioned pile of rocks. The latter is an easier annoyance to deal with than the former, so you have laid it on the chopping block first.”

The white hands remained folded, but their claws grew again. His fangs ached. What blood he had left in his veins was all very busy rushing to a single extremity.

“How very astute, my friend. And the second thing?”

“The second thing,” Jonathan said with a precise note of exhaustion thrown like a comforter over his riskier patter, “is that you don’t know how difficult it is to convince anyone other than novice solicitors or loyal caravans to march up the mountains, even with what you’re paying. Modern men don’t need to be superstitious when they’re already skittish about known threats. Like the wildlife. Or the cliffs so high you cannot see the foot of them.”

“Or murderers?” The word was a purr and a knife. In answer, a whisper:

“Or us. Yes.” With this boulder pushed up the proverbial hill, Jonathan folded his own hands and stared back at his Master. Not to see whether the boulder would roll back down to crush him, but how best to lay in its path and cause the least amount of damage to those behind him. To that end, “I do not seek to belittle what you truly deem important, Sir. But Vidor and his troubles seem too small a thing to earn your genuine ire. If something more is wrong, I should like to help.” His eyes gleamed. His Master wondered if they might draw moths. “What can I do for you, Sir?”

The same pitch. The exact same. One echoed from back and back to—

‘Balaurul meu, you cherish your wrath more than your joy. You rage over having nothing to rage at. You rave only for the sake of baring teeth, tearing after whatever happens to be nearest. It is no good for you. You should devour only what is worth consuming. Tell me what that is, if you can name it.’

The chill of her hand on his. Her eyes deep and killing as the sudden crack of ice over a lake. Drowning him.

‘What is it you want to eat?’

He looked to Jonathan. The look tried to be a glare. A threat. A promise.

Jonathan’s look—

The lake, the freezing, pulling lake, drowning again—

—did not falter. An invitation to anything. To be and endure whatever his Master demanded.

The office had seen plenty of use before. A fine backdrop for the cliché of the mishandled secretary tucked under the desk on hands and knees or, the better to see him, said secretary bent and spread across the ebony. Other rooms had their turns, of course. Many others. Sometimes his own chambers, the ban lifted for such special occasions. But most often it happened in the tower.

Somehow he felt it would not be enough tonight. Even if he took his friend on a tour of the entire castle, every room and turret, even into the obsidian walls of his own coffin, it would not be enough, yet he could not place the why of it. There was the woman’s provocation to consider. Then the abrupt haunting from the ghosts his traitor mind had conjured to harangue him. The undead could not produce their own ghosts, he knew. Not counting those of the imagination.

That much would explain the leering vision of his brother.

Not so for her.

A wife whose unhallowed chamber was all her own while the dead brides in her wake were left to wander elsewhere. Bluebeard would balk. But Bluebeard had never had his Countess.

Perhaps the imagined whisper of her was right.

Perhaps he was only angry for want of something to pounce upon and feed his wrath. Something to overtake, to conquer, to crack a relieving fissure into the ever-denser callus growing over him and his unlife. Such restraint he lived under for the sake of a charade! For all that his subjects mewled over their lot, there was not a single devil in Hell who did not know how he now chafed under his friend’s ‘contract.’

So many ages he had spent withering himself, finding less and less point in the ownership of his genius loci and its shivering cattle, less and less point to the study and toil and terror of his manifestation. A Limbo broken only by his desperate planning for the taking of England, the modern Rome with its gluttonous hands sunk deep into the refined world and its culling colonies. It had been something to wake and drink and think for. A purpose to the infinity he had bought so eagerly only to grow listless with it like a cagey child bored of his gift.

Then had come his Harkers.

Jonathan, his blessed, blighted, bloodstained Jonathan, had come to show his belly and his throat to ransom his loved ones to his enemy’s mercy. A bargain made for the sake of the stolen woman who could not go from him, the raw newborn that she was. A newborn with a newborn; their impossible babe.

Oh, how fast it could have ended then.

How quickly he might have torn the Madonna and Child to ribbons—Better! Have her tear the latter apart in her arms first! Let his friend watch!—and fallen on the sweet screaming fool who had cast aside his blade. His friend might have been baptized against the red pool that had been the bride and brat he damned himself for with the slaying of innocent men. Then dragged down and away into his Master’s tomb to await the beginning of their new eternity together.

But he had done the wise thing instead. He had accepted the terms, had let them into the space once filled by his slain Loves. This he did not regret. Nor would he ever, for the sake of his mind. Oh, O, his mind! Damn them for a hundred little scratches as he bit into their throats, but the Harkers had saved and salved that much. Every night was freshly riddled with the promise of performance and pained fealty, of the warring of wills, of the crushing fist, of the rapid wheeling mental clockwork that he once chased so feebly while he rotted among his harpy Loves.

True, true. Except you have now grown too content in this little circuit you now walk. Walk, not run. Fed, not slaked. You became the nightmare of these mountains for a reason. The women had their helpings from the children’s sweetmeat veins. But you? You were the hungry shadow to watch for in the forest. In the roads. In the secret dark of the mountains. You were a horror who could be avoided when full, but brought death down on the unwary of any age when it came time to feed. Now here you sit. A pampered boyar like the rest, waiting on your helpings of flesh and succor while a Child is somewhere being tutored and a Woman makes a nuisance of herself and the only one carrying the whole thing is a Vassal playing duped and dutiful Atlas.

So much power. So much of him awake and thrumming. So much left caged.

A Wolf turned to a Dog.

Back in the office, time had passed only by another heartbeat. Plus the cracking of an armrest in the talon of his hand.

Jonathan did not react to the flying splinters, but did slowly, carefully, crane his head enough to steal a glimpse of the window. To his Master’s surprise, a twinkle of hope fell across his face. If not hope, enterprise. He faced the glowering shape of his Master behind the desk.

“The moon is full tonight.”

“What of it?” Each word a thorn. But this seemed only to draw Jonathan up another inch.

“How many hours are left until sunrise?”

“My friend, I am stung.” When he grinned it showed his teeth to the gums. “You wish to be rid of me so soon?”

“That is half my thought, Sir.” Jonathan leaned forward, gripping his hands so they couldn’t quake. “The other half being that you might benefit from a hunt.”

Tonight was a parade of surprises. Shock ruled his face while an agonizing ache struck him at the chest and groin.

“A hunt,” he parroted, already scenting the condition of the thing.

“Yes,” Jonathan nodded. “Though I am hardly a winning stag, I have not forgotten what it is to run from the demons of this place. Nor have I forgotten that my escape was built on luck rather than Providence.”

“My Loves were long since spoiled by then. Ravenous, yes, but comfort so often won out over craving. If it were not so, I should have returned to find half the Carpathians drained in their greed. Even here, our own home, they tried so many times to pin you rather than exert the effort of a chase. They could have pounced while you rested on the couch or at the window, but no. The trance came first. Lazy, lazy.” He clicked his tongue against a fang. “That in mind, I fear you would make a poor quarry. You escaped through lax claws and slow jaws, my friend. I would have you within the minute.”

Within this one, perhaps.

Jonathan risked a small shrug and looked again at the risen moon. Past midnight now.

“Perhaps.” A hard swallow. Then: “Or perhaps you are too used to easy meals to bother. I understand, of course, if you worry you cannot outpace me—,”

The chair slammed into the rug as Jonathan slammed into the tufting. A hand like a noose was locked around his throat. He neither gasped nor gagged. Only waited for his Master’s decision. His eyes drowning, freezing.

The oil bottle weighed more than a mountain now.

 ‘What is it you wish to eat?’

“You will have five minutes, stag.”

Out the window, down castle and cliffside, into the fringe of the forest. He willed the film of sparse clouds away to further free up the moon.

No lantern. No compass. There had been no pause to change shoes. Jonathan didn’t even wait to be asked before unlinking his pocket watch and passing it into his Master’s hand. This he did placidly enough. But his eyes gave him away, so wide and lambent in the gloom.

A wariness radiated from him now. The belated fear of one who has only just realized a foolish wager was made. It was not a fear of death—that particular aroma had lasted only so long even in their first faraway summer—but that unmapped dread of consequence which can make fatality seem a reprieve. His Master was happy not to relieve him of it.

“Five minutes, Sir?”

“Four and three quarters now.”

The last word had barely hit the air before Jonathan Harker dashed into the dark. A healthy pace for a trim young man. Remarkable, his Master knew, for one so routinely exsanguinated. It was almost precious to watch how his speed changed once the shadows grew dense under the canopy. As if the poor stag truly thought such a thing could mask his trick. But the hunter’s eyes were far keener than his prey’s and so he could tell at once when the healthy pace broke into the expected gait. From a mere quick jog to a fired arrow.

He had puzzled over the timeline of his friend’s escape from the castle more than once. Even among the plainer signs of that surreal metamorphosis, this aberration deserved attention. Such speed in a body that he himself drained the night before! Athletes of every era would have blanched at the idea of cutting across the Carpathians in their prime, let alone in the solicitor’s state. And that would come only after descending the towering face of castle and cliff without so much as a rope. Yet down and away his friend had flown. A powerful proof of the extraordinary.

One that went on to seem miniscule beside the scene of the men returning his soil.

The matter should have been equal parts tedious and amusing.

It had been the same men who had dug and boxed the earth in the first place, just as content to take his money and goodwill to reverse the process once the movers in England saw to collecting and shipping the crates. The Eucharists’ polluting presence had been ordered removed upon request. Jonathan himself had invented a delightful excuse that had been a joy to read:

‘In addition to a personal tragedy cutting short his intended transferal to London, my client has had the misfortune to discover an English variant of his homeland’s superstitious parties in the form of a band of modern-day zealots. They are apparently of a sort who regard Matthew Hopkins as an idol. While my client has not suffered overmuch from what he believes were failed attempts on his life by these individuals, they have taken pains to track the cargo that was delivered from a rich deposit of Transylvanian soil.

‘Irony seems to haunt my client, for his unwell hunting party seemed to regard this collection of scientific fodder as bewitched graveyard earth and so heaped—and, I may add, shamefully wasted—a loaf’s worth of the holy Eucharist onto the loam. My client requests that the movers sent to reseal and ship the abandoned crates do him the courtesy of removing the Wafers from his samples to the best of their ability. If the Wafers have attracted pests in the meantime or if any granules have scattered in the topsoil, feel free to clear these out as well. He sends his gratitude in advance.’

Words and money enough to reverse the shipment had brought the earth back home. A bitter victory for both sides, admittedly. Here was proof that Count Dracula had officially taken his bootheel off of England’s throat for the moment. But here too was the return of those men who had not only moved the earth to begin with, but had rushed their boyar out of reach. With their speed and aid, the woman was lost. The kukri had drunk. And all of this had come in the wake of their seeing the poor Englishman bleating and pleading in the window.

A sight that had rightly spurred them to laughter.

They had laughed again as they returned with the wagons, knowing what Jonathan was to their boyar now. Jonathan had already begun gleaning the language and so knew what commentary they had to share as he oversaw the arrival of the boxes and their unburdening. His Master had hidden to oversee him in turn. To watch his face and inhale the despair. Alas, there was too much dead in him for their jeering to stir much of anything in the way of insult. Jonathan Harker seemed a soul built for subservience and the polite receival of abuse. Even the caravan’s head, resplendent Old Danil, had frowned at his men the way a father scowls at his boys for kicking at a lame dog.

But that was the issue, wasn’t it? Seeing only a dog. A leashed dog, collared until he choked, crippled and toothless. Go on, laugh. They are safe.

Really, they had wasted much of their breath and time on laughter. Their boyar’s own grin had faded with the ticking of the watch as they lazed and drank and nudged the boxes only as breaks between the taunting chatter Jonathan appeared so deaf to.

Until they spoke of his wife.

The woman had not been present, needing to cradle her infant in the chapel to quiet his fit. But her Master had spoken of her in the correspondence with Old Danil. It was to be expected that she would leak into the men’s talk. Her scars, her silence, her beauty, how she had been ‘taken in bed’ as her husband slept through it all, how perhaps her Master would be good enough to have her share her hospitality with them, ha ha.

Jonathan’s stillness had changed. The late spring warmth had curdled around him as his head turned to those who spoke. They were clustered at the end of their wagon, two thirds of the boxes still stacked behind them. Jonathan had stared. The laughter had dwindled. Bluster had simmered in their tongue.

‘What, dog? Don’t like us talking about your bitch?’

Jonathan had not answered.

Jonathan, his Master knew, was silent as a flurry when there was a task at hand. Swift as a hailstone too. Between one blink and the next, the men had been hurled aside like flour sacks and Jonathan was on the wagon. A blink after this saw the men shouting and scattering as the earth-boxes were hurled off one after the other. The same boxes it had taken up to three men apiece to hoist. More shouts, more scurrying as the next wagon was emptied. Again, again.

Jonathan had turned to Old Danil, unmoved from his chosen post at the courtyard gate. A single iron brow had managed to rise over the whole scene. Jonathan had held up the purse full of pay his Master had given him for services rendered. His back was to one of those who had spoken of touching his wife. The man had his knife was out. The man took a step forward.

The purse of gold had flown back and cracked that man’s teeth. Then Jonathan himself fell on him as the man’s curse turned to a shrill. Other knives and pistols were scrambled for.

At the height of this, thunder had cracked in the clear night sky.

The Master of the castle emerged.

The men had jumped. Old Danil had craned his head. The man under Jonathan changed to a tone that ordered as much as begged through his bloodied mouth.

‘Get it off! Off off get it off me my hands please my hands damn you cowards get it OFF—!’

Jonathan had remained set upon his task. His Master could hear the crunch of it trapped in his fists.

‘Jonathan. Up.’

Jonathan had gotten to his feet, but without releasing the squealing man’s hands. It was a fascinating thing to observe now that he was not the one on the receiving end of…ah, but he still did not have a name for it. The enigma of Jonathan Harker, a man with a monster lurking in the chambers of his heart. A poet might call him a creature of Eros. Damned, empowered, and possessed by the weight of Love. But his Master was no poet and so admitted he had only his own title for the thing.

Jonathan, his Jackal. Obedient in all things—anything—but for the border of his Love.

When his eyes lifted, they had burned cold.

‘You heard,’ he’d grated in the men’s own tongue. ‘You heard.’

 ‘I did.’ Calm. Even. Easy, easy. Good boy.

Oh, the delicious balance of that moment. Did he dare shred the contract just to see if his friend would go mad at the rescinding of his one and only caveat while strangers lined up to have their turns in his wife’s coffin?

He had paused long enough to make dear Jonathan wonder. Just long enough to see his face harden to a full rictus. The unlucky fool in his friend’s hands let out a fresh shriek as something new broke and other bones crackled. Around them, the men had stood paralyzed in uncertainty, weapons half-drawn. Old Danil had checked his watch.

‘Let him go, Jonathan. Wait for me inside.’ He’d had to fling his will out at him. Hard. ‘Now. I shall see to the rest.’ Jonathan had released the man as if invisible fingers were fighting to pry up his own. Which was not too far from the truth. The man had scrambled away on knees and elbows, his head permanently turned to keep an eye on Jonathan—only to freeze again as his boyar clapped a white hand onto his shoulder. The courtyard had sucked in a collective breath. Every grip turned limp as jelly on their scabbards and holsters.

Jonathan had gone in.

His Master had chuckled, walking the broken-handed man to his wagon. To the blood-dewed pouch of gold abandoned on the ground.

‘You are to be envied, my friend. He left you with only a warning.’

‘Envied! Look at my hands!’

‘I see them. And you are lucky to have them still attached. As well as your head. He was being polite, you see.’ The hand on the man had tightened until the print of it bruised. ‘The last men to talk of laying hands on her did not get to live long enough to regret it. I do not know for certain what he did with the bodies, but I think they are buried. Wolves and jackals do so love to save their bones.’ Tighter. More than sweat had run on the man’s face. ‘He is such a loyal creature now. I have made him so. I have made him much more. And, like his Master, he does not take kindly to jokes made of touching what is his. What is ours. But perhaps he merely misunderstood, yes? Perhaps you and your brothers spoke of trying to bed another boyar’s property? Surely this is so. If it were otherwise…’

He had let his teeth show in full.

And the men had risen up in an assuring chorus that sang yes, yes, of course, they spoke of another castle’s woman, not his, never his. And the broken-handed man had scooped up the fallen gold with mangled fingers. And Old Danil, moved at last from his sedate constant enough to imitate curiosity, had approached him as the men fled back onto their wagons.

‘The Englishman. What is he really?’

‘Mine.’

Which was what mattered in the end.

Mostly.

He could possess so much without effort. Take where and what he liked. But that his friend, his Jonathan, was so alien a thing among the mortal flock made both the victory of his surrender and the temporary loss of England all the sweeter. For he had not run merely from the clamoring of the Dutchman and his pups or the waving of the Cross. Whatever Jonathan was in body and soul was as rare as…as…

Remember the sight of her in her loving throes? Before she was vourdalak, before you had ever whispered of the Mountain together, you had watched her at work. A favored serving girl left bloody after a visit from a soldier taking his due. An invitation to a dark room, unrecognized in her stolen serf’s guise. And then! Then! The art of it! The speed, the hush, the fruit of the harvested Adam’s apple! With this you saw her color her lips for the first time. And you had crept from your hiding place, offering to aid her in disposing of the corpse with the same tone as a courting youth offering his lady a rose.

Rare as a white stag, perhaps.

The initial defeat would have burned a thousand times more had it been the work of a lesser creature. The consolation—the whole concept of the contract—would have been cackled at before he gutted the wretched couple with his own hand. But his Harkers were worthy, curse and bless them for it. And Jonathan, his prize, his spoils, his quarry darting through the night for his pleasure, felt more worth the delay of conquest with each passing night.

He checked the watch.

The five minutes were gone.

In a blur, so was he.

It was easy enough work catching up. His poor friend had not thought to disguise his route by darting in new directions or taking pauses to steady his drumming heart. Every breath was a harsh pant. But for all this, he did not make the capture itself simple.

New bursts of speed came whenever he felt his Master’s presence press close. Each was a helpful lunge that would have left an ordinary predator snapping his jaws shut on air. It hardly hurt that his Master was enjoying the run too much to end it with a mere leap. Instead, he lingered over swiping his fingertips at the bare throat. A hand was pawed through the white cloud of hair. The teeth of a great bounding Wolf caught and tore the billowing shirt.

On and on down the slope they went, children at play.

He was at play, at least. Jonathan seemed to have found no fun in the game. Whenever his Master drew parallel there was always a look of anxiety bordering on terror waiting on his face. The eyes, like trailing ghost-light, stayed planted firmly on the terrain before him. Almost as though he were trying to outrun more than his hunter. It was when the latter politely allowed him another little lead that it became clear where the man was heading.

A chide and a chuckle rose up in him as he heard the rushing stream. The one meager haven the forest had to offer. Of course.

He let his friend leap down into the water, smiling at the muffled gasp that followed his splash. A sound that stopped short of becoming a curse. As if the noise would be what gave him away. Feigning a tutting posture, his Master idled to the ledge and let himself sprawl. He was halfway into his mist form and was not disappointed when Jonathan peered up at the effect with a shudder. Hovering between flesh and fog made a roiling giant of him, as though a great shadow cast by a candle were made solid.

Letting his eyes flare and his smile curl past the point where ordinary muscle should have permitted it, he shook the haze of his head down at the frozen figure in the water.

“Ah, now, now, my friend. That’s cheating.”

“Just…” Jonathan started. Stopped. Swallowed. “…endeavoring to give you a challenge, Sir.”

“Ah, of course. Always so considerate.” He let the smile become a maw as his arm unfurled down, down, down, the hand at its end wider than a man’s head. “My dear friend, Jonathan.” He solidified back into himself as Jonathan was snatched up onto land, the illusion of safety snapped neatly in two. “I believe that is you captured, stag.”

“It seems so.” The words were thin. His wide eyes seemed to both see and dismiss him. He actually shook in his Master’s hold. Taking notice, Jonathan forcibly settled himself by grasping his own arms. His head hung until the sodden hair could mask him. “Forgive me, Sir. I had hoped the water would be warmer.”

“Transylvania is sparing with her warmth, my friend. Even in spring.” His own gaze had ducked lower as he examined his catch. No, the stream had done no favors for the fish, but plenty for the fisherman.

He wears white far better than his wife.

Aloud, “But the nights are mild when hunter and quarry are wise enough to avoid such tricks. When the boy has grown out with a few years more, perhaps he should join us. He cannot subsist on you forever. Once our lovely family dinners are at an end, we shall all of us have to seek our fill…”

Jonathan stilled entirely. His hands gripped tight a last time before relaxing. Somewhat.

His head didn’t raise as he asked, “…You are certain you wish to invite him?”

“What reason is there that I shouldn’t?”

“There is none, I suppose. Nothing but my own mistaken assumption.” Jonathan moved to stand. His Master’s hand jerked him back down on his haunches. Still his head stayed bowed behind the pale curtain of hair.

“What assumption was this?”

“It is nothing, Sir. Please, forget I mentioned it.”

“What assumption, Jonathan? I am listening.” He heard silence. Sighing and smiling he whipped a mesmer hook into his friend’s will. “Jonathan. Speak.”

Jonathan’s lips twitched apart with a grimace.

“I had thought…that we might make use of this for something else…something private.” Finally, the head rose. The ice chip eyes had gone dark. “Where neither of us would have to be mindful of others.” He had bitten his lip in the effort not to speak. The skin had broken and painted him there. “My apologies for misunderstanding.” At ‘My’ the blood smeared without Jonathan appearing to notice, still dripping from the stream. His whole mouth was glazed red.

Looking back at the stream in what was either shame or—

No. No, it can’t be.

—disappointment, Jonathan did not see his Master’s eyes turn to lanterns.

“I love them. You know I love them. It’s why we’re here. Why I am here. And every night…” His fists balled into stones in his lap. The wedding band caught a sliver of moonlight. “Every night I must smile for them. For Mina. For Quincey. Sometimes for you. But it isn’t what it was between us in that summer, is it? When I thought I was acting only for my life and not my humanity. When you were seeing how far I could bend until I broke. Two months of pretending wasn’t bad back then. But that is old ground now. It feels ancient already. If you order a smile from me now, you order it. You couch it in pretense occasionally, but that much has been tainted by the comparison we live with every night.

“The playacting of it all. That’s for our son alone. A sweet theatre too cloying for the adults in the room to perform when his back is turned. And even with Mina I must—,” The lump of his throat leapt and choked him. “I have to give her something. Something we can both pretend is worth what we’ve given. So I smile for her too and she smiles back and I must try to bury so much under the bedrock of my mind to keep her from tripping over it in horror. Which leaves you. This.

“You can believe me when I say this or not. That doesn’t matter. I keep no diary to purge myself into and I have no doubt that if you show this memory to her, she will take it as a cruel joke you invented to hurt her with like so many others. Or else she’ll see it and know her husband has finally gone mad.” New wet tracks rolled over his cheeks. Clear as the stream. “You are the last refuge I have for admitting the worst of myself. The tower is no more than a box to rot in. My Mina, my Darling, how much worse would I become in her eyes if I were to be anything less than the Love paying his reparation for being too selfish to let her wishes be honored and have our friends live? And our boy. Our son. He will never know.

“There are only two monsters in your castle. Mina does not believe me when I tell her both of them strain under their performances. I cannot blame her. There is a slim line between the Count I first met and the one I serve now, but it is there. And for one who has spent lifetimes untethered by anything other than his own caprices, I understand this means much. I am grateful. I hate that I am grateful. I hate that I have just run from that great stone stage of a prison we call our home, and thrilled at the distance, knowing I was not merely dashing to a town in which to put on another act. I recognized my thrill and feared it and that fear did not stop it.

“Nothing is left, you see. Hope is out of the box and burned over a candle and there is nothing left that is sane or good to reach for but the safety of my Loves. Always, always that external greater good, never my own, and knowing such is deserved for what I’ve done doesnothing to soften my want of something, anything not nailed down to catering to the entire mess—to the fantasy that I’m anything other than what I am. Even if it is this. Two monsters in the dark with nothing good to intrude upon their abuses.”

Jonathan kneaded his eyes. Bloodshot blue.

“Ha. But I’ve ruined it already, haven’t I? Now that I’ve said I enjoyed it, it will be taken away. Perhaps that is best. This whole thing was foolish start to end.” Jonathan turned to look at his Master. “Perhaps we should…”

Jonathan saw his Master. Seeing him, there might have been an instant in which he realized he had said too much. Discarded some invisible ward without thinking or else let the current of his babble pull him into deep water. For something had happened during the pour of his words. Something which could not be taken back. Something that regarded him with a starving avarice that had been nurtured since the night two students clambered cackling and screaming from the Mountain, lightning and ice welcoming them back to the sight of a sky.

A new thunderhead rolled overhead. Abrupt and sultry as a tropic tide washing across the stars.

“You talk of monsters and their abuses as if you comprehend both. I fear you are acquainted only with one.”

One hand gripped the damp shirtfront.

The other thumbed open a glass bottle, spilling oil.

“Allow me to educate you on the other.”

Jonathan Harker was taught his Lessons.

He learned them on the thin bed made of his Master’s cape, with cadaver skin finally thawing in the tangle and grasp of each other, the only pause for words or breath allowed between the sealing of a nursing mouth on bloody lips. The castle had never housed a thing like this for them. Not under any command, any tugging of trance, any handful or taste stolen with the idleness of a man stroking his pet. Under the storm and worn by its maker, Jonathan seemed either to shed a husk or shut himself into an armor.

Whichever it was, it gave credence to his phrasing. Two monsters. They loved—

Hands, his hands are still cold, always, always her hands were cold, locked into my skin arms back can feel the lines drag there no matter no matter you can drink it away or let them stay a banner-badge-brand to bring home to the chapel do you see do you see little Sister you lose like the brother who came before and knew it when he died and oh oh it is the Mountain again out in the open after the years of work of horror of being Horror and here we are against the rocks and filth and grass again under the rain but oh O so soon so fresh from it all we could not be tender yet not yet and so we loved

—like they fought.

Jonathan turned them over first. The shock and strength of it let him manage it, the same curt motion as hefting an earth-box. He sat bent and digging his fingers into the undead hide as if to shred or cling. For a moment the view was enough to paralyze. Here was the white head thrown back against the marbled night, eyes bright as the lightning, howling a sound that could have been a shout in pleasure or fury or the harsh note of a lunatic that lost itself in the next thunderclap. His lip was bleeding again. The rain carried it over his chin and down a teasing line along his throat.

The moment passed and Jonathan was crushed on his back again. Still holding. Still held. He tried to rise again, that mystery of power straining against the pressure of his better, his Master, his Lord above God, his—

“Balaurul meu. Say it.” Had his voice shaken? No, a trick of the noise. So much thunder, so much drumming rain, so much balmy wind moaning in the trees.

“What?” A thrust. A cry and clutch.

“These are your Lessons. Now say it.” Another jolt, a snap of lightning. “Say it.”

“Balaurul meu,” in a gasp. “Balaurul meu. Balaurul meu.”

Good. Good. More.

“Eu sunt al tău. Now!”

“Eu sunt al tău.”

More.

“Sunt al tău pentru totdeauna.”

Jonathan repeated this and every line after, echoing and reechoing so that the two of them might only have been the ghosts of lovers reverberating in a cave. On and on, every oath that could be thought of, every line left branded in the walls of memory was poured out and engraved on the learning tongue. And his friend would keep to every word. Oh, yes. That was certain.

There would be no running beyond his reach, no raising of will he could not break, no leaving him injured and roaring a name out into the sleet, or begging the same name at the threshold of a cemetery where Hating eyes crawled like insects upon him, no, no, no. Not with him. Not with them. Not with the beginning of a new eternity here in the dark with his monster, his maiden, his victim vassal jackal bridegroom—

“What are you doing?”

—who fed him his draught of blood and drowned him in a lake of freezing eyes—

“Sir.”

—his Scheherazade who was prey and play and predator and anything everything all things with the magic of her talent on the altar of her Sultan’s lethal loneliness—

“Master. …Count.”

—and no, no, how could he waste such a thing, risk it slipping away—

“Stop!”

—over the stream and into a rotting future in a pauper’s graveyard, no no no, never, not him, no— 

“Dracula!”

He came back to himself as if slapped.

Perhaps Jonathan might have dared it if only his hands weren’t so preoccupied. The man still sat where he was slotted, but now with both palms flat against his Master’s chest while the pair sat upright under the rain.

The left side had been split open by a claw and now dribbled its dark fountain down his ribs. Its wound welcomed like a smile as Jonathan strained an inch from having his mouth crushed against the blood as his wife’s had been, two implacable hands clamped at his head and back. Pantomime of an embrace. If he snatched the man’s wrists up, if he took his hair for a handle and forced him down…

There’s still time. What say you, Count?

“Please,” Jonathan huffed through locked teeth. As if it would be barrier enough. “Please, not yet. They still need me as I am. Please.” The Arctic eyes slid up to the hellfire of his. “Please.”

The dead hands ceased their slow press, but did not move. Fingers twined and stroked in the wet snow of his hair.

“Draga mea. You know you only prolong your Purgatory as you are. I and my Loves, your ‘Weird Sisters,’ we were not without our pains at the start. Lifetimes as men count them came and went. It all turns to less than a heartbeat eventually. Even Mina,” a name he was proud to make sound like several other four-letter words, “for all her lovely vitriol, even she will someday match me in passing out of this shadow. Hate grows stale. Tiring. So too does despair. Do you think I laughed with my Loves outside your door because I ordered it? Do you think I let them get away with going behind my back to take what was mine, with mocking me to my face, because I remain forever in one mode?

“We three, we are in the middle of a long Lesson. The boy is a happy surprise, but even without the curiosity of him, it would still be us. Me and my Harkers, so hard-won. You and I in our sea of wonders. Whether or not you wish to hold onto guilt once you are free of humanity, time will still march, and you will still be mine. A moment will find you, despite how you drag your feet and cling to the miseries of an unclean Good Samaritan, where you will break as you broke tonight—and you will laugh and love as I do.” 

It was fascinating to see how responses rose, fell, and faltered at the edge of his friend’s tongue. Negations all, and all of them caught on the tightrope between lie or truth, both saturated with shame. Catharsis and comfort dangled out of reach only because he refused to crawl from the Pit he chose to burn in.

For his Love.

“You say it is inevitable?” Jonathan’s voice was now a croak. Gone raw with baying.

“I know it is.” 

“…Then it shall wait.” Four words made heavy with regret. The sheer weight of the latter, the dread of the hanging sword and the ached-for release of finally being free of waiting, were almost enough to stir another round. But even with the red taste lapped again and again from the torn lip, the well nearly ran dry. The bulk of remaining vitality was already going toward mending his split chest. A sight that made Jonathan sigh with what could have been relief or sorrow. “It must wait.”

“If that is what you will.”

“It is.” So saying, Jonathan paused. Then, so quiet it was almost less than breath, “Thank you for this.” Jonathan tried to stand. The white hands gripped again and threatened to shove him back in place. It was just a single day from the evening the family dined. The hunt could end with the intended meal and so provide the fuel for yet another gauntlet.

Or.

“Thank you, who?”

Jonathan’s tongue curled at the start of a Sir. But a creeping thread of mesmer reached out and prodded the proper response from him almost before he knew he was speaking:

“Balaurul meu, my thanks for the hunt. I look forward to being broken again. Te iubesc.” Jonathan leapt in his own skin as he heard himself. “That isn’t funny.”

“Of course not, my friend. Merely practice ahead of the inevitable. This is funny.” Jonathan had wobbled up to his feet and left himself open to a swat that made him yelp and stagger. The monster was asleep again, it seemed. Just as well. The fair maiden needed returning to the tower and some rest before the dragon broke his fast with the other suckling mouths.

It was as he mused on this and admired the view of his friend stretching and bowing to retrieve their clothes from the trees’ shelter that a stone broke against the back of his skull. Others pelted his shoulders. Wrath came to an immediate boil and just as quickly froze as he regarded the falling pellets. This freeze expanded until gooseflesh spotted him from the neck down. Jonathan’s voice reached him as if from the other side of the world.

“What is it?”

“Ice.” Then, because he needed to hear it said, “Hail.” He had unmoored his mind from controlling the sky and Nature had taken her reins back. Rain swept too high in the gale would freeze with or without orders. Fool. “It is only—,”

Looking up, he forgot what he meant to say. He forgot language. He forgot he knelt naked on his cape in the muck as he had once knelt before Powers older than any name for what Man called God. He forgot time and he forgot space and kept on forgetting until the only memory left was the one standing in front of him.

No, not memory.

Her.

She stood under the canopy of the boughs, her ice cascading by her as it did within the portrait. In lieu of the painted gown, she stood before him half-dressed. The garb she’d worn on the bier hung lightning-burned on her still. She looked as she’d been the night of the tug-of-war with the failed solicitor, Yorick saved from her rending, the thunderbolt thrown blind. He’d run as the Wolf. Slunk back as a Dog. He had dropped words of mockery and anger and hate and want and threat at the edge of her necropolis like a heap of bones, all of them amounting to the same frail skeleton of a plea as he pressed it into her mind.

Come back. Leave these chattel to their dreaming. Do not sully yourself in their earth. Come back. Come back. Te iubesc.

Și te-am iubit, balaurul meu, had come her answer. Her head bowed until the ice chip eyes whetted to points. But you broke that Love when you tried to break me. Your love is too much like war. Your cherished Conquest. You would have had me as a bound Bride. A partner made a prisoner. This I could not allow. No more than I could stay to help you march upon the world and slit its throat simply to exercise the ability to do so.

Lightning and hail had snapped at each other again. Tempest tempers raging.

Why, then? Why the Mountain? Why the peddling of your soul and self for what it offered just to consign yourself to this waste!?

The hail had softened to an almost gentle patter.

Certainty. Proof to myself that those I Love will be safe with my protection. Even if I must endure their Hate in the how of it, my Loves will never suffer while I stand guard. That is all. I need no more. Go back to your castle, Dragon, but know that it is better you kill your little Englishman or turn him away.

She had frowned then as she frowned in the portrait and as she frowned down at him here, now, stripped bare upon the earth.

Do not play Alexander. You will conquer nothing and weep just the same.

She moved toward him in the present. The hail did not touch her as she walked.

A dream! Yes, of course! Only a dream! It must be, she must be, do not fool yourself, old devil. Get up. Wake up. Now. Now!

But he didn’t. He was awake. And if he wasn’t, he would have snapped Morpheus’ neck if he dared to rob him now.

Close. Closer. Yet he remained on his knees, gawking up. Afraid that any motion might erase her like smoke in a breeze. His mouth was the only part of him that dared move. Not that he could hear himself. He didn’t dare speak so loud that he might miss something from her lips. But she came silently until his head was level with her skirts. A single hand reached for him, white and blue and grey with the pallor of her kind, cool as snow against the cheek she once rotted from his jaw.

But he felt her.

He felt her.

His arm snapped around the back of her like a vise while his free hand clapped against the fingers still resting on his face. She was not mist, could not be mist, for her kind were too solid, and this time, this time, she would not be gone, would not leave him, let her cut and freeze and skin him, but she would not go again.

Draga mea. Draga mea. How are you here?

You forget the time, balaurul meu.

Her trapped hand lifted his face from where he crushed it against her stomach. The eyes that met his were no longer ice or ghost-light. Only coins. The Ferryman’s toll.

Tonight is mine as it is yours. As it belongs to all our kin. The graves are open and the dead come forth to walk. And talk.

The scarlet sickle of her frown turned up.

Enjoy your Walpurgisnacht, my Dragon. I have enjoyed mine.

She was gone.

In her place stood Jonathan, caught and confused. Concerned. His mouth opened.

Do not ask me what is wrong, Jonathan Harker. Do not dare.

His mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked. Then, carefully, he offered the folded black bundle of his Master’s clothes. These were snatched away and their courier almost thrown more than released. Around them the hail thinned away. The rain ceased after it. Jonathan kept himself very busy with peeling up the muddied cape and snapping what muck he could from the exterior, doubtlessly wishing it had not been the velvet one that needed cleaning. But when he could help the cloth no more, he turned to his Master, still fighting with his buttons.

“Sir?”

“What?” No answer. His Master turned to bark the word again and stopped. Jonathan had rolled up his sleeve. Here was the tiny map of his son’s feeding. Kisses ringed with white and blue and grey.

“If—If you want it.” Jonathan gestured his gaze and his head at his Master’s face. “You have lost some. Sir.”

The meaning was lost to him for a moment. Then he realized his cheeks were wet with more than rain. In the same instant he took note of Jonathan’s right hand, the one that had been flattened and trapped against the bearded cheek. He’d fussed with the cape because he did so one-handed, trying not to lay the bloodstain on it too. The same was smeared onto the white of his shirt where his Master had set his head.

Even knowing what he would find, a white hand rose up and swiped under his eyes. Bloody tears came away on his fingers.

“Sir? Do you want it?”

‘What is it you want to eat?’

Jonathan was captured for a second time that night. This time the hunter feasted. Not from the wrist, but the bend between neck and shoulder, inhaling the scent of the nape. He was filled with heat and ache and when his teeth slipped back behind the sheath of his lips, the mouth stayed planted where it was. The same went for the cage of his arms, binding their catch for a moment that might have been a minute or an hour.

“…Are you sick?”

“No,” Jonathan breathed with what tried and failed to be a steady tone. The voice of someone trying not to sound as if they were scrambling for comprehension. “No, Sir. I feel well. Not ill, that is.”

“So you say. But I must have caught something from you to act so against myself. Perhaps it was something from your mouth.” A mouth finally scabbing. It left the bluish lips a mottled violet. “Or else the night itself is playing tricks. Too much lightning in my eyes. Do you disagree?”

“I don’t, Sir.”

“Yet you are not ill.”

“I do not believe so. But I could be mistaken.”

“Wrap yourself, then.” He stepped away and plucked the cape from Jonathan’s hold before twisting it into a cord tauter than steel. Rainwater fled it until it was all but dry. “Transylvania’s seasons are so very fickle. It would not do to have you unwell for tomorrow.” Before the requisite agreement could leave him, Jonathan found himself both swaddled and off his feet. His Master pondered the image of the hunter hauling home his quarry, his friend flopped over his shoulder like an indignant piece of game. But that would leave only one hand holding him.

That in mind, Jonathan was bundled up into the snare of both arms while remaining supremely unclear as to why. 

“This isn’t necessary, Sir. I am fine to walk.”

“Sunrise approaches. You are not up for a race back.” He said while dawn could be felt two hours away and his own pace merely ambled. “Rest, my friend.”

“I—,”

Rest.

An order that took his friend’s mind by the scruff and dragged it to bed. Jonathan furrowed his brow against the mesmer, squirming like a child even as his eyes drooped shut. The lakes iced over.

“I just…just wanted to ask what you meant…before…”

“What I meant?”

“Called to me… Didn’t know. Don’t know. What was the word? You never taught me…”

Sinking, sinking. Almost gone. He whispered down at him now, light as far-off thunder.

“What word?”

“Thought it must mean, ‘Come to me…’ So I came.” The lashes fluttered and fought with gravity. Lost again, showing only slivers of frost. “What does Dolingen mean, Sir?” He was asleep before he got an answer. Still, his carrier whispered.

“You misheard, my friend. That is all.”

Up to the tower, stripped and dressed, tucked into bed.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

A far more fruitful occasion for the term than the debacle of battling trances. Such a bleak little comedy. The thought brought him back to the boy and that inciting matter of the snared wolf, his would-be pet. Something near to mirth made him grin. He knew he was to blame for the child’s initial fascination with the creatures. A seed planted in infancy when, as a taunt, he had willingly cradled the babe as his parents stiffened mid-kiss. He had stood teasingly close to the window.

As he did, the wolves had started to sing of their own volition. The boy had perked up at once despite his hunger.

‘Rrooo, rrroooo. Fah-rr. Rrooo!’

In his head, a muddled but excited impression of wolves traipsed back and forth across the shared mindscape. The pack outside had howled again.

‘Rrooo!’ 

His Father had opened his mouth on jaws of changed teeth. No longer a man’s neat rows and the hanging fangs, but the jagged mountain range of the Wolf’s. He’d howled lightly as the child all but glowed with recognition.

‘Roo? Fah-rr roo!’

As his Harkers watched, their Master had entertained the child in a way that would have left any other parents in the mountains squealing prayers. For he had changed first his jaws, then his eyes, then the whole of his head to mirror those fantastical Folk of the picture books where Herr Wolf could knock at his victim’s door with a paw in a glove. The boy had shrilled delight and scrabbled merrily at his fur, even tucking his head into the open muzzle to see if it was really just a trick. But the proof had been offered as his Father lost his arms and legs to be a Wolf in full. One the size of a small bear.

In his defense—as if it were necessary—it had kept the boy from pestering his Mama to hurry so Papa could feed him. Ah, how he’d sulked upon looking in his Papa’s mouth and finding no signs of the Wolf there.

‘No, diavol. I am the only Wolf here. Wolf. Lup.’

‘Wohll. Luhp.’

 ‘Very good. Now take your kiss.’

It had sprinted along from there. Now the boy had graduated from attempting to trance a wolf into permanent residence to trying to coax the entire pack into natural obedience. A friendship to span three generations. He really did have his head too deep in the fairy tales. Perhaps there was a Lesson waiting in that. A small one to assure he did not idolize the softness of things overmuch…

But that could come later.

For now, the night still lingered with, fine, he could admit it, a wisp of the fairy tale. Here rested a beauty, living and dead, the only color resting across the mouth. Gently, he pricked the scab of the bottom lip open again, smearing red. Jonathan slept on.

There was no witness as the man collected a last kiss in ignorance before his dragon skulked down from the tower.

Down and deep and into the dark of the chapel. He did not stop to change and so was pointed out at once by the boy, always so eager to stay awake. His current project, a lopsided schematic in charcoal, was abandoned.

“Father, why are you all wet?”

“I was out hunting. Your Papa nearly got away, diavol.”

The boy gasped while his mother, still sitting with him and his palette, narrowed her eyes.

“You were hunting Papa?”

“I was. He almost got across the river. But he was caught in time, not to worry.”

“But why were you hunting him? Papa isn’t a,” the boy tried to think of hunted things, “a rabbit or deer.”

“No, he is not. Your Papa is many things, but not such meager creatures.” He looked over the child’s head and through his mother’s skull. “We were merely at play, diavol.” This came as an even greater shock to the boy.

“Grownups play? I thought all you did was work. You and Papa were supposed to be working all night.” A statement that carried all children’s dread; the fear that age came with a great dull void where enjoyment used to be.

“Grownups do work a great deal. Sometimes too much. Your Papa and I had such a problem and so we went out to play. You and your mother are free to do far more play than work, of course, so such things are outside your needs.”

The woman smiled and hummed into the shared mindscape:

Our play has turned to work, as it happens. Rather, it is work he wishes to try.

A hand upon the boy’s shoulder.

Show him.

Bolstered, the child gathered up his drawings and stacked them as neatly as he’d seen his Papa’s papers. As he did this, his mother sent a private message to Father:

What did you do?

He thought of showing her. He’d been thinking of it since first stealing her husband out of his clothes. But tonight was dense with secrets even as the Veil had turned to gossamer. Moreover, it was important that a man held some things out of reach of his woman. For everyone’s good. Especially when it left the imagination free to conjure up far more creative possibilities than a collection of curious wives’ heads.

So the answer he tossed back was merely that of a closed door, a key thrown into the abyss, and a fraction of truth.

Nothing that concerns you, ‘Sister.’

The boy rushed him before anything more could be said. He offered his drawings with a small flourish.

“See?”

His Father flipped through the sheets.

“I see a book in the process of being torn apart.”

“No, no! Being made!” He pointed to what was, to him, a clear depiction of himself and his mother piecing books together with nebulous arms. There was also a wolf sitting on a crescent moon and a bat flying in the dotted outline of a star. “I want to try bookbinding with Mama.”

“Child, there is a grove’s worth of blank pages in spare volumes for you to use. Why would you bother?”

“Oh. Just—,” the boy flicked his line of sight briskly from his Father’s face. The cobwebs and stonework were suddenly enthralling. Likewise the state of his own toes. “Just to make something. A fun kind of work. That’s all.”

It was all his Father could do not to sigh. The boy still could not lie to save his unlife, let alone duck a punishment for the attempt at lying in the first place. But before he could form the beginnings of a sentence, the woman came into his head, away from her son’s reach. This time with a uniquely acidic edge.

He wishes to surprise you and Jonathan with a gift. He’s realized he missed an important date and wants to make up for it.

Walpurgisnacht—this night, her night—almost rose to the surface of his mind. He buried and burned it behind a wall of fire. Casually.

What date is this? His day of birth has been and gone.

The woman glared at him with a perfect blend of loathing and disbelief. When he continued not to guess, perhaps partially to watch how much her ire would grow, she handed him the answer as one might hand over a chamber pot.

Yes. But he posed a question to me and I did not give him a lie. St. George’s Day has two meanings for this family. The eve before, anyway.

For a moment the answer was as baffling as the question. But epiphany quickly fell in place. He almost laughed aloud.

The first solicitor he’d beckoned had his useless life saved from the undead on Walpurgisnacht.

Jonathan had been delivered to him almost a year later, just short by a week. This had been on the eve of St. George’s Day with the glimmer of the blue flames lining the mountain road like a wedding procession. The night the boy’s fathers had first met. A magic alignment of dates to a child’s mind. Shame on his Harkers, letting the date go unrecognized by half for so long.

He smiled for the boy and stroked his hair, declaring, “Child, I am merely the bank vault to loot in such a request. You must convince your Papa to bring you materials, not me. Ah-ah!” He hooked the boy’s nightshirt before he could dash for the stairs. “Not now. Your Papa is asleep already. Wait for evening.”

For once the boy did not sulk over the coming of morning. He flitted as excitedly to his coffin as he had aimed for the steps, taking his art supplies and another book to wait for sleep with. The poor silk within would be ruined with charcoal and crayon before the year was out.

Having deposited his treasure inside, the boy whirled around and rushed back to his Father who stood waiting on the tomb steps.

“Can you do it all the way this time?” He feigned interest in the dirt and coagulation still under his nails. “I do not know that you have enough blood in you…”

The goading was small, but enough. He watched the boy shift from flesh to fog mid-step and surge up to his Father’s shoulders. His Father clapped once. It echoed against the chapel walls.

“There you are.” And, because the boy had earned it, he opened his arms. The child-mist became a child again, dropping as a proud little weight into his hands. He let the boy hug tight around his shoulders while the fragile curve of the head nuzzled his neck. “Good-day, diavol. Well done.”

“Good-day, Father.” A moment later he’d leapt down and circled around to his mother who stayed low enough to let him simply crash into her arms. They exchanged a bloodless kiss apiece to the other’s cheek. “Good-day, Mama!”

Good-day, Dearest. Please don’t sleep on your palette.

The boy notably made no promises as he climbed into his box and moved to close the lid. He paused before it could shut, looking out at them from the gap with eyes like expectant rubies.

Neither Father nor Mama could tell when the child had decided there was a ritual to complete before he could allow himself to begin trying for sleep, but it was one of the few points of their coexistence which they agreed upon in their distaste. The effect was doubled on her Master’s side, what with the final thread of any nuptial framing so grimly torn away since that evening’s confrontation.

Still, they smiled and closed the distance between them.

Good-day.

She laid her hand inside his and sent a vision of him thrashing and howling in a bonfire.

“Good-day.”

He skimmed her knuckle with his lips and sent back the sight of her abandoned on a mountaintop, the Dutchman having successfully removed her head and staked her heart, leaving her to the wolves and flies.

Finally, the boy shut his lid.

Yet there was no parting of ways. The woman gripped his hand.

Is he hurt?

“Of course not.” The pinned-up smile curled to a more natural state as he twitched his fingers out of hers. “We were only playing.”

You—

“I,” he hissed, still through a grin, “am tired. Many things more, many clever epithets, yes, but mostly tired. Whatever lecture you think is worth droning at me, it will wait for moonrise. Now go.” He leveled a finger at her coffin. “To bed.” If she had any more venom to spit at him, he made himself deaf to it. The wall of fire around his mind was turned up to a full conflagration as his will forcibly shoved her back to her box. The most she could spare him was another glower before the lid shut. Peace at last.

Of a sort.

He carried that feeling into his crypt and his coffin. Settling into that familiar dark, he would have called the feeling wholly new if not for the certainty that he had experienced it before, so many ages ago. Not a mere settling, not a tallying of little victories. It was peace. Peace as it counted to him. Even with the brief rattling of his foundations in the wake of Walpurgisnacht. Of women endured or women craved. Even with that.

There was peace. There was thrill. There was Hope drowsing in his box.

Look at yourself. Scrape this saccharine filth out of your head at once.

He didn’t. Though he was happy to build over it. Scenes of a future that may not be centuries into the future, but mere decades. Perhaps less. A future of ruling night and bled oceans. A future that bowed its head and bared its throat to him. A future where he laughed and the sound was not alone.

Like music and crystal. Like thunder and ice. Like broken things ecstatic to finally be pieced together in his image.

His future.

Their future.

That was the core of it, he knew. Thinking and enjoying in a plural shape rather than solely his own. Such was the dulcet trap of the domestic life.

In this vein his thoughts turned to the evening’s waiting kisses, the cozening of the boy before his pliant Papa, a trading of barbs with the woman, and, since they both could use it, perhaps an overdue bath for himself and his friend. Exsanguination tended to make a body languid, whether from the loss or indulgence of blood. A sweet-sluggish cleaning away of last night’s evidences would be most welcome. Even if his friend went and did something silly, like washing ahead of time to save the trouble.

No, no, my friend, I insist…

From that thought he leapt to others and others, descending down the trail of implausibility until he found himself somehow on a balcony of the English’s gaudy confection of a palace. He knew with the certainty of a dream that the boy was grown and flashing the winsome lie of his smile at a pack of hunters who’d thought themselves safe behind the Cross and Wafer just before they began to lose pieces. Elsewhere, his Sister was watching her former ‘brother’ of a lordling writhe upon the lance she had pierced him with, the sweet logic of fantasy refusing to let him die quickly as he paid at last for the theft of their Lucy. And with him? With him were his Loves. Both folded into the sides of him, painted red from the lips down with feasting. Ice chip eyes soft against his basilisk gaze. Two heads of snowdrift hair resting over his heart.

Yes, yes.

Peace at last.

She felt the Dragon slip into sleep.

Felt the Scarred Love stir carefully in her box. Testing the psychic waters. Wait, wait, but not too long. Yes, she could wall her thoughts off better than he knew. No, she did not dare risk anything but perfect ignorance either way. Up traveled the line like a wisp on a breeze. Brushing the mind of her living Love.

Darling, from her.

Darling, from him.

Their minds spilled up and down to each other. It was one of many secrets the Dragon did not know. This secret was as simple as it was vital: There were no secrets between them.

They gave the Dragon hollow prizes in the night. Pandora’s Box was empty. Bluebeard’s chamber left unoccupied. Even as the scenes they endured for the other, for their child, for their Love, all conspired to raise a fury that would blister the sun in both their hearts, there was no doubt in them. No accusation. The only tears shed were for the other, as ever.

I should have been closer! Should have at least stayed inside, in earshot! Mina, he could have—he was really going to—

He didn’t. He never will now. Nor will he think the room ever mattered to me. Not when he frets over his master’s chamber being plundered. All was as he left it. As I left it.

It was a thin respite she’d had before the Dragon made his attempt on her. Time was too short for more than confirmation. The work had to come after. While the boy was busy in his books and his mother was busy in her own and his fathers were out and away and lost to anything else. On that note.

You did not have to give so much of yourself to him. To let him do worse than he already has and preen over it. As if he deserved more from us, from you, than what he was content with before tonight. Oh, my husband, my Love, he will expect the same and more from you now! You cannot—

I can because I must. I must because it worked. It will work again. Just give the date and it will happen.

Jonathan.

Wilhelmina. We must not merely hope, but know he is distracted for you to do what’s needed. We must have the guarantee that his eyes will not look through yours and see what you’ve found. What you have already learned. Or was the hailstorm truly an accident?

It was not. Only an experiment. One made at too dear a cost—

Then she did not lie?

She had not.

The key was in her book?

The key that was written in blood from her own hand. It penned the details of translation from the Scholomance’s text. This had not been part of the Lessons, but her own precaution. She had split the key across the borders of the journal’s pages, hiding them in the illuminated ink. Her blood was the dullest part of the lush illustrations and carried a chill when traced. She had not made them easy to parse.

Yet the pieces were found tonight. Once they were arranged into the whole, it allowed the reader, the Scarred Love, the one whose mind had carried in it a grain of Sight long before she was bitten by the Dragon, to make sense of the first scraps of knowledge left waiting in old pages.

True, the Dragon had his hoard to go over, given the chance.

Given the time that one Love would sell himself to buy for the other.

But there had been early prizes waiting in the book behind the stone. One whose theatre had aligned so beautifully with her own small addition to the show. It had taken much, stretching the vision so far. Not in blood, for she craved none when there was no Love to carry it in their veins, but in focus. In keeping her pressure subtle as she pulled ghosts through the Dragon’s mind like a haunted sieve.

Walpurgisnacht had helped, insomuch as the forces that surged behind the night could be said to acknowledge anything like a human calendar. Such things moved more like a tide or a season. All one could do was ride the crest of them when possible. It might have been possible earlier. One, two, three, four years ago.

Except the child would be too young then. Not old enough to be left alone, with his reading and play and the practice of howls at the window while his Mama drifted off to do whatever mothers did. This year he was old enough. This year he could be trusted not to be an innocent witness, there to mention to the Dragon that his Mama had found the strangest things waiting for her inside a wall.

It was this year that she’d come to the Scarred Love by a daylit dream. Explaining what the Dragon had planned for her. What might be planned for him in turn. They had walked the labyrinth of the castle and into the abandoned room that was so Hated and Loved with its mementos still resting where the Dragon left them. The Dragon would move them as soon as he could once he found the Scarred Love there. Perhaps somewhere no prying eye or misty figure could reach. If she was to take advantage, to piece the key, to note and save and use it again, it had to be done within Walpurgisnacht. And the Dragon could not know.

All this was delivered up to her Love in the tower. How to parry the Dragon’s advances? How to hold his body and mind at a distance?

Each Love had given their answer.

Each answer had been Hated.

Each answer had worked.

Now they were a step closer. A foothold in the side of the Mountain. Good, good.

She was already retreating with the coming sun when she felt the brush of that entreating mind again.

They stood beyond the mindscape now. The dreamscape allowed for more Sight. Here the Scarred Love was not scarred, nor of the undead. Only what she remembered of herself. A living woman, scarcely more than a girl, clasping a journal that no longer existed as if it were a rosary.

She, the visitor, stood only as she was. Still corpse-wan, fair hair left in a fall as eyes of frost stared on unblinking. But she was not the ragged thing the Dragon saw. Her friends had come up from the ground for her, finding a dress to change for what was burned, their hands mingling with her own as they rebuilt the mausoleum stone by stone. Their kind was immune to the wild rose and to the garlic blossom, and so they’d planted them in abundance for good measure. The ash sapling grew higher each year. Such they knew, even as they settled easily back into their rest. Into the vourdalaks’ serene torpor and its mingling of souls, their Loved and Loving phantasmagoria.  

You are going? from the Scarred Love. 

I am. I must. from her visitor. The year brings few hours where we are allowed even more than the lot that Supernature grants us. My will and Self can only hold here so long before it snaps home.

Where is your home? How far? The question buried underneath, too important to leave unsaid: Can you help us?

Her visitor showed her the waiting home. The dead village laced with its history of disease and suicide and so much cruel decay born of Nature at her most callous. A village whose people had huddled within their scant borders, refusing to carry their ills out to their neighbors. Who had seen her ride to them and pleaded with her to stay back unless she sought death.

I told them I did. My heart ached with want of Love. With the burden of Hate. I left the Dragon to seek reprieve from both. You know yourself how difficult the strigoi are to end. It is far harder for the vourdalak. Yet I was prepared to try for such a miracle if I could not sate my nature. Satiation came when I found home with them. My friends. My Loves. It is a place not far as we would reckon it. Horse or train, perhaps, but not us.

The Scarred Love swallowed a breath she did not have.

Then..?

Her visitor shook her head.

I cannot help you as you would wish it, Mina Harker. It would mean leaving my Loves. It would mean the Dragon warring with me, which would mean warring with you. Or do you think he would not sacrifice you as insulation against my frost? No, you know he would, contract or no. Just as he would endeavor once more to cage and break me, as he endeavors with your Love. The Dragon is the best student of the Scholomance. I can battle him, I can escape him, I can parry and dance around him. But I will not be what destroys him.

You are a student too! from the Scarred Love. Vivid and livid with the unvarnished core of herself. Her dreamscape bled. You have your numbers! Your storm! We live in his chains, with our child and my own mind at his mercy, with my Jonathan a slave and worse to him! Please! Please… In her coffin, the Scarred Love wept precious scarlet lines down her cheek. Please do not go. Do not leave us with him.

Her visitor ached. Of course she did. She had combed through the entirety of the Harkers’ souls at a glance like Psyche herself filtering Charon’s harvest. There was much to pity in them and more to Love. But.

Would you like to see what he did to me when last we crossed paths, Mina Harker?

She did not wait for an answer. Only showed the Scarred Love how wise she had been in choosing the vourdalak and its endurance as her shape of undeath. She could not scar, could not crumble from an injury. But pain came in its plenty. Especially when a lightning bolt powerful enough to shatter stone and set her ablaze came firing down.

The Scarred Love watched in horror as her visitor keened and roasted and died.

And stood.

And healed.

And scoured the burnt flesh off the new skin, dead though it remained.

That he did by folly. A bolt with intent would have done worse. As for my storm, I mastered only enough to slay the living, who are the far more industrious and plentiful villain. I once shattered half the Dragon’s face off with my cold. Yet it mended with blood and time enough. Meanwhile, the only scars I have seen on himself and his kind amount to three marks.

The Son left a brand with His forsaking of you.

You kept the muting cut upon your throat, made before you had changed.

And then there is the Dragon’s only unhealed wound. A scar left by a spade in your Love’s hand. Why is that, Mina Harker? More, why is it your mind has suffered his petty puppeteer strings, yet rebuffed the transformation’s inebriating influence? You have not dulled in the years since you turned. You have not diminished to the state of the ‘Weird Sisters’ or your lost Lucy. If the Dragon were not so preoccupied with himself and his Conquest, he might know to worry.

A student of the Scholomance is admitted only once, Mina Harker. The Lessons are not easy. Triply so if not given access to them beneath the Mountain. But you have seen it is possible. That you were able to use the key at all marks you as a student. ‘Studying abroad,’ you would call it. You have the freedom to learn and to master all that you can bring yourself to dare. Which means you can master what the Dragon has. The will of the Weathermaker, the Speaker and Wearer of Beasts. It can be done.

Worst of all for the Dragon, he does not remember that what is sacred is not always the property of an Abrahamic hand.

You and your Love possess a holy strength that is innate. It does not hail from any church. The gods who bless and burden you, who have gifted you souls so tightly knit, are as old and steeped in sacrifice as the tutors in the Mountain. Some have even taught there.

Here, the visitor smiled.

It was one of them who made the first vourdalaks. The Passionate Dead who exist in only Love and Hate. Our Loves are made prey and protected forever, those Hated are marked for destruction. Love and Hate are your whetstones, Mina Harker, as they are Jonathan’s. Whatever weapon you wield, it will be sharpened to an edge the Dragon cannot heal from. Do you understand?

The smile broadened into a bitter curl of sharp ivory.

The Scarred Love thought she recognized the look. Her husband had worn it once as he whetted the kukri and listened to yet another announcement of doom in their hunt for the Dragon.

 I am not leaving you with him. I am leaving him with you.

The sun was coming now. Her phantom grip loosened. Almost time.

Almost time. Is there anything more you wish to ask?

The Scarred Love thought. Her answer came fast.

…What side of his face was it?

 Her visitor’s eyes burned white-blue, ice and flame at once. There was no tinkling crystal to her laugh. Only joyful madness.

The left, Mina Harker. Aim true.

Years would pass. Twenty long years of domesticity, of a sort. It was at the cusp of those twenty years,

As a young man boarded coach and ship and train,

As a Dragon found his keep robbed of its living treasures,

As a vow was upheld in a baptism of blood,

As a storm brewed at the will of a new Mistress,

As a thunderbolt fell with the precision of a needle onto a shock-slack face,

As a scar as brilliant and agonizing as the lightning itself erupted in the weathered skin,

As a Dragon realized this scar was the second one due to stay until he was dust,

Countess Dolingen of Gratz dreamed of her husband.

And smiled.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

I really liked the scene in which Alphard gets into muggle clothes, and looks at himself in the mirror, comparing himself with Tom. It feels a lot like the Prince and the Pauper, but only on Alphard's head. Like, the idea of himself not being a Pureblood, or worse, not being a wizard at all, seems a rather close thread of thought he could have easily reached. And I know he would be horrified and, to his horror, intrigued by.

It all comes together when he compares himself with Tom. Because Tom is beautiful, is talented, is everything a wizard should be except for the fact he is muggleborn. And, for a moment, Alphard thought, or almost thought, about what it could be if they exchanged places. And he knows he would be even more invisible and plain than he already sees himself.

And Tom seems excited by the idea of Alphard dressed as a muggle. Aroused too. And a perverse part of me wonders, I must admit, if this whole line of reflections could end up as them role-playing. One in which Alphard is muggleborn or a muggle (since, after all, he already is acting as muggle when he becomes Tom's fiancée), and Tom as a Pureblood. On the other hand, Tom in your fics seems too socially conscious and resentful to actually want to be a Pureblood, other than because of the privilege and power it may give.

I think a lot about those two. Alphard somehow became one of my favorite characters in HP, and he is barely even mentioned in canon. I really love what you (as in you and Vinelle) created when writing him.

Amulette d'Amour by me and @therealvinelle

Ooooh, thank you, anon! Look, @therealvinelle, praise!

I'm deeply flattered, anon, very deeply flattered, your thoughts are beautiful, and I love every word of this, but I'm also laughing because "I think a lot about those two" and this chapter you're describing came out yesterday.

Yesterday.

(And Tom is both very socially conscious and resentful and, at this age especially, he uh... would be very conscious period of any kind of 'I'm a bad bad Pureblood prince and you're my naughty Muggle sex serf' routine.

The man may want to be a pretend Dark Lord, a very serious occupation he assures you, but notice that his pretend Dark Lord was not going to form himself a pretend harem or build a pretend sexual dungeon.

And yes, this is where Tom's head immediately go if suggested any kind of 'role play' even though he and Alphard could role play anything they want or do what they're already doing where they entertain little old ladies in costumes at dinner parties and pretend they're getting married.

Tom would die, just die, if Alphard accused him of wanting this,

"It's not like that, I swear, I really am just a bad bad man.")

[nalyra-dreaming]

Hello!

Thank you for answering all those questions! It's really enlightening and I love it very much!

I have a question but I'm sure you have already answered it. Unfortunately I can't find it 🙈 but if it's too bothersome please ignore everything.

It's about the fall. I know Armand had his little mind in it so it didn't happen exactly like this but Louis fell and it was at least partially Lestat's fault, wasn't it? I know your theory about his hair. There are many question marks in my brain and I hope they answer some of them in the future seasons 😊

Glad you like! 🥰

Ahhh, the "drop". They better give us more context next season, because there are still sooo many things off there, despite Lestat admitting to it at the trial.

So, if you know the "hair" theory you know about the lack of blood there, and ... well.

Even back then, when the episode 5 aired, many theorized that the "drop" (or fall) would be set up as a parallel with another fall - namely Armand throwing Lestat off the tower after the trial.

Now, they gave us the tower scene instead. The "psychological wound". Personally I don't buy that one, sorry. For one, there is a comment by Sam that he wanted to go "full ghoul" (but Rolin pulled him back because they show us that psychological wound), and also there was a comment ages ago that you cannot "set him on fire twice". And I do think that the skin on Lestat in the reunion scene looks still healing. And then the weird discussion there, and Lestat just "hanging out" to "find his origins in Magnus' dungeon? Where he was kept chained with the other bodies? Tortured? No. Don't buy it. Sorry not sorry.

In the books, Armand takes a tortured Lestat out to the tower after the trial, and lies to him that Louis is already dead. And Armand lays the blame of the destruction of his old coven to Lestat then, refusing to help him, even though he told him he would if he ever returned to Paris.

"And it was you who drove us out of it with a flaming sword. What do we have now! Answer me! Nothing but the love of each other and what can that mean to creatures like us!"

That last sentence is particularly interesting here.

What do we have - nothing but the love of each other and what can that mean to creatures like us!

Armand is extremely disillusioned with Lestat in Paris, when he throws him off the tower - because he had hoped Lestat would return to Paris - for him. He offered help to him after all! Told him that only them could love each other! But Lestat returned, to get help - and save Louis and Claudia. And in that context... the words that were spoken in the sky between Louis and Lestat are really interesting:

I have waited, Louis. I have patiently waited in vain for you to love me as I love you. Just say it. Say, "Lestat, I am never going to love you". It would help me a great deal to hear that from your lips your quivering hateful lips.

I would not be surprised if we would get a similar scene between Armand and Lestat in season 3, which would then at least echo what happened there, in the sky.

And I wouldn't be surprised if the part outside, and the part up in the sky were maybe still different than what we got to see.

The fall happened, I think that's clear now. But there's still details missing, imho. Details they hinted at only.

We will have to see what Lestat's version of events is. There is definitely a lot of context missing, a lot of reason (to the whole of the story). There are events which can only be told by Lestat or Armand... and well, I don't think Armand will be telling them in s3. And he was not willing to do so last season, obviously^^. S3 is The Vampire Lestat... it will be very interesting if they include that part of the book - and how.

[sjmgirlie]

“Azriel needs someone who can accept his darkness. He needs someone who can fight at his side. Elain won’t ever understand him. Blah blah blah”

Are you sure? How do you know what Azriel needs?

We only got his POV in a bonus chapter where he would literally beg on his knees for Elain. And it’s not just lust, because his feelings are so strong he would fight in a blood duel for her (and win). He questions his own religion for her. Not because he’s full of himself, but because he feels so strongly about her. Plus we know the male doesn’t know how to articulate his feelings at all, so why are we surprised he can’t? **Cough** Mor?? **Cough**

How can you be sure that the male who was tortured by his own family, kept in a dungeon, is the literal torturer of the NC, was kept away from his friends during the war and used by Rhys terrible father, does NOT want a women who is kind, quiet, enjoys to bake and garden? Someone who is not violent, who is soft and needs him? Wants him?

Also.. have you met a middle child? Lol. They can handle darkness 😭 Not to mention having to handle Nesta and Feyre lol.

Why don’t we just stop saying we know what Azriel or even Lucien wants and start reading what they literally show and tell us they want?

Do you think it’s a coincidence that the only internal monologue we see from Lucien is that he says Elain is nothing like jesminda? The women he was so in love with that he thought a bond would snap? That Elain was thrown at him? That he doesn’t even stay in the Night Court to be around her? That Feyre says he hasn’t put in the work to bridge the gap between them? That he blushes when talking about Vassa in front of his mate? That he stays in the human lands with Vassa and Jurian?

Do you think it’s a coincidence that basically every single scene so far related to Elain has Azriel involved in some way? That he was the one to sit in the garden with her? To figure out she’s a Seer? That he was listening to her talk about her garden plans late into the night? That he rescued her? That he took the plate of potatoes from her hands and said he’ll handle it? That he made everyone wait for her to be seated? That he looks at her gift every single night? That gets her a custom necklace as a gift? That he literally questions his religion? Does this genuinely seem like a guy, who could sleep with anyone he wants, just pining for sex?

Can we all stop doing mental gymnastics when it’s actually really fucking clear what these guys both want?

And can we finally just stop focusing only on what the MALE characters want, but take the time to think of what the female characters want?

If Elain wanted Lucien she would show it. She would literally already have him. She doesn’t. She literally takes every opportunity to not involve herself with him. She literally tells Feyre that him bringing her a gift does not entitle him to her affections. She clearly shows indifference to him. And it’s not because she’s a bitch. She is a seer, maybe she sees something we don’t. Or maybe it’s just literally the fact he is associated with her human life being stripped away from her. Whether you admit it or not, Lucien did play a role in it. Maybe not directly like Ianthe, but it all started with Tamlin and Lucien just going along with it even though he knew Feyre was suffering and literally told Lucien to his face that she wasn’t coming back. Could they rationalize that it was because Rhys is bad and manipulated her? Sure. But they still literally went to Hybern for help. Like “oh no, the bad guy did something bad.” You know what she does show? She shows she wants Azriel.

Does Gwyn show she wants Azriel? No. She only blushed at Rhys. But I don’t blame her because I’d blush at the High Lord too. There have been no interactions where she shows she even wants Azriel. Gwyn is focused on her healing and the support she feels from her friendship with Nesta and Emerie. She’s trying to prove that she is strong to not only herself, but to the person who rescued her, which is Azriel. She’s also trying to prove it to Cassian which people forget to mention. To wipe the smirks off their faces. She has not shown any interest in romance at this time. Will she and does she deserve it? Yes and yes. But in canon at this time we don’t see that being a priority for her.

I want all these characters to get the partner they want. And so does SJM. They are her characters, she knows what they want and need, and she said that is what drives her pairings. What she knows her characters need.

Does the screenshot below seem like a male who is pissed he doesn’t get to just have sex with a female he’s attracted to? Or does it seem like a male that can’t be with the female he loves and as a result completely shuts down into what we can only interpret as how he always feels… like nothing??

[fumifooms]

Marchil crumbs part 3

Part 1 - Part 2 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7

Count of times canon reminds us that Chilchuck is very attracted to blondes: 3rd For context: this is the canon explanation for everyone's shapeshifters

I can’t get over Chilchuck seeing Marcille like she has anime sparkles around her hair. How long have you stared at it. It’s like with the handsome Senshi where everyone is like "no this looks legit and absolutely like the real one" but her hair is shinier/prettier in the changeling than in the actual her

It drives me crazy that Marcille styles her hair every day for herself but little does she know she’s giving Chilchuck the show of his life, daily arranging his favorite thing aka blonde hair into different unique ornate hairstyles. Not that he cares about the details but ohh my god.

It makes sense that Chil would be the first one to notice her hair being all loose and messy then. He’s bothered by seeing her like this and wants her to tie it up again, and is even more unsetled and shocked when she says she doesn’t want to anymore. Though he also recovers from the shock quicker than Laios and takes charge of the situation. HE NOTICED. HE CARESSSS. IT BUGS HIM

^ That is what you call a character arc, of becoming attached to her hair lmfaoo(more like to Marcille and her habits). Or lying. "Man I sure wish she'd shave her hair I'd be less distracted on the job. Her golden majestic hair is so blinding with how shiny and sparkly it is ugh" /j

He chose to do a portrait teehee <3

Chilchuck defending her honor even under mind control that makes them honest zombies

Marcille out there defending his VIRTUE. It’s not just that he didn’t commit infidelity, he HAS A PURE HEART!! Honestly, assigned virtuous by a bicorn would so be the type of novel shenanigan that Marcille would hella romanticize. Which we do see her do lmao but <3

They're so funny together in the golden kingdom chapters. First of all, sitting in front of each other at the table? Nice. Second, them being on the same wavelength all throughout lmao.

Them. Sharing the same numerous braincells, nodding together and making good use of it to make good decisions for the party. Valuing their noses

Also can we apreciate that they like, can talk together. Communicate and debate. Even under tougher situations or more sensitive topics. Shit this would have been a good place to put the pages when Marcille was dungeon lord... But they're lined up for part 4 and part 3 is already full with pics... You guys have no idea how much Tetris I'm doing for these marchil crumbs posts

I wanna do a full compilation of every time he laughs at her but in the meantime have this small imperfect collection as well as this reddit comp. I swear she's the person/thing that makes him laugh and smile the most. Besides alcohol maybe

The gang and Chilchuck both knowing her well and not at all lol. Gotta love Chilchuck's confidence about knowing her favorite meal, and him remembering the bare minimum that even Laios hasn't lol

Marcille infesting his life to the point that, quote, "her delusions" are even part of his adventurer’s bible life timeline. The only picture in fact, in the streamlined canon reference to Chilchuck's life. "Hey is Marcille imagining herself as an halfling and Chil's wife with a mini Chilchuck baby Chilchuck's canon family appearances" canon: well no but actually yes /j

Chil at her bedside <3

Looking out for each other comp Yes thank you Chil captain obvious (he's trying his best and doesn't want to die let's not be mean c'mon). But like you know with that whole scene of the mad sorcerer attacking, for Chil it must have been the most terrifying thing ever. Ancient magic?? By an elf, targeting them with murderous intent?? With only an elf with also ancient magic to keep them safe attack by attack in the nick of time?? His biggest nightmare. I'm also reminded of when Chil talks with Leed about how "our magician held under the mad sorcerer's attack" all fond and 'I am so relieved I can trust her with my life' and Leed is like "That silly looking elf?!" and Chil was like "Yeah she's silly. At least she's strong tho." I'm getting carried away but yes this scene was relationship-defining in some ways

But they keep each other in check too

She was trying to make conversation and sharing her interests aw Chil come on

They're sooo domestic. "Chil are we there yet" "Marcille I swear to god if you ask me that one more time-". Also second time through the manga that Marcille squishes Chil against the ground/wall.

Get squeezed idiot

Part 4 is here!