CHANTRY ARCHIVES
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ALISHA EPILOGUE, PART 1
by Tidus (@TidusTudor)
WARNING: May contain spoilers for Blood on the Thames Book 4
The rain continued to pour, its savage payload striking the ground with animalistic aggression. The clatter of water upon metal echoed clearly, singing in the dark.
Eric remained still, his head, his body, all damp and sodden. Through the veil of shadow and downpour he stared at the vehicle ahead of him, brown eyes wandering the length of the inanimate lorry slowly, cautious and searching.
He hadn’t witnessed the crash, but he had certainly heard it. Alone on the countryside road, the sudden cacophony of sound had reached him unhindered, and he had had to fight with the wheel of his car to keep in the right lane. He had sworn then, and many times since, as he proceeded down the road at a more cautious pace; when he reached the lorry, which lay dormant but lit across both lanes, it’s passenger door wide open, he had slowed down immediately, clambered out of his own vehicle, and called out to whomever might’ve been in the lorry.
No one had answered. At first he thought that the driver – passenger? – had climbed free of the cabin and stepped off into a neighbouring field and clear of the road; the fences and bushes flanking the concrete were not towering, however, and he could see far enough in either direction to know that there was no-one waiting close by.
“Hello? Everyone okay?” Eric’s voice lacked the conviction that he had attempted to include, and he was forced to swallow back a lump in his throat before he could try again. “I can call an ambulance if you need help?”
Nothing. No voice greeted him: only the sounds of the downpour greeted his ears – that and the low, incessant purr of the engine and the buzz of the headlights. But then, right when he was about to turn away, to retrieve his mobile from the passenger seat and place a call to the police, he heard it: a sound, a low cry or whimper, quiet but unquestionable, emanating from the interior of the cabin.
Eric straightened. “Hello?” Against the protest of his hammering heart and his stiffening muscles, he took towards the lorry on two heavy footsteps. He opened his mouth to call out a second time but was interrupted by a low whine – though it was deep enough that he could not be sure if it had been human or mechanical. Either way, he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end.
“Fuck this.” The curse slipped forth from Eric’s lips without permission, and he turned away from the lorry sharply, his booted heels carrying him back to the shadow of his own vehicle with eagerness. The shiver racing up and down his spine had nothing to do with the cold: he felt wrong, numb – save for the tingle that was shooting up and down his arms and legs.
Ducking into his car, Eric pulled the door shut with a moist slam, and exhaled heavily as he stared out at the monolith ahead. The window wipers, blurry and out of focus to him, continued to beat back and forth, unphased by the air of dread that pervaded the air around them. The radio, which he’d turned down as he’d made his approach to the crash, whispered musically, unheard by the vehicle’s owner.
Eric appraised the front and rear of the lorry, trying to locate a space wide enough for him to pass on by, but it was clear to him immediately that it would be an impossible task: the road was not wide, and if he attempted to navigate the divet besides the fence to his left he’d almost certainly become stuck in the slickened mud. That was not an option: he had no intention of becoming stuck out in the middle of nowhere, especially not now. With no other option left to him, Eric struck the gear stick into reverse, span his vehicle around with a mutter, and then depressed the pedal; his vehicle rolled quickly away from the scene, its eagerness mirroring his own.
With no foreboding lorry leering ahead of him on the vacant road, Eric felt his heart began to slow and his foot, which had crunched down heavily on the pedal, begin to lift, allowing for a steadier, more prudent pacing. He reached for the radio dial and twisted it rightwards, allowing his vehicle to fill with sound once more; he barely spared a look at his rear-view mirror now that he was safely away, and with each passing minute the fear he’d felt at the wrongness of the vacant lorry began to abate.
A favoured song escaped the radio speakers, and Eric risked a weary smile. He closed his eyes as he joined in on the chorus’ higher moments, his head listing back just so. Then the tempo of the music changed, and he opened his eyes.
The figure in the road, looming suddenly large ahead of him, was unexpected and alien, and Eric screamed in surprise and horror as he bore down on his steering wheel, throwing it to one side as he struck the brake pedal as hard as he could. His vehicle screeched in protest, its song a blend of scraping rubber, rolling metal, and twisting gears. With effort, it span away to the left, its front end coasting into the wall of greenery that segregated the fields and pastures; hit bonnet bit through the fencing and bushes, ripping both cleanly from their anchors as the small car rolled fast and angled into the open grassland.
The momentum ended and the vehicle came to a heavy halt. Eric, whose shoulder throbbed from where it had struck the doorframe, panted loudly, his eyes wide and his hands shaking as they clamped down tighter and tighter upon the steering wheel.
“What the fuck. Holy fuck.” Eric’s words were low, gasping; he turned in his seat, stared out towards the road, but his high-beams illuminated nothing but torn fencing and rain-soaked concrete. His gaze scoured the upper edge of the standing bushes, searching, desperately searching. “Holy fuck.”
Detaching himself from his steering wheel, Eric lunged for his mobile, which had fallen free of its perch and tumbled beneath the passenger’s seat. He found it quickly and drew it to him, his fingers working the keypad as he tried, twice, to unlock it with clumsy desperation. Then, finally, his screen became illuminate and alive, warming him in some small way for its familiarity.
Ringing. More ringing. Eric swore beneath his breath, demanding expediency. Then, finally, it stopped, and a firm, masculine voice greeted him. “Hello, Emergency Service Operator. Which service do you require?”
“I—I don’t know.” Eric felt his head slam hard against his check, and out of reflex added, “Police.”
“I’ll connect you now.”
Another pause, this one equally as agonising as the first. Then a second voice, female and calm, interrupted the dial tone. “Police service. What’s the address of the emergency? Where are you?”
“I’m alongside a road, somewhere close to Chiltern Hills. I think.”
“Close to Chiltern Hills? Can you be more specific for me?”
“Uh… I left High Wycombe about… a couple of hours ago. I’m not sure. Uh… I went past a sign… Bower’s Lane?”
“Bower’s Lane, headed west from High Wycombe?”
“Yes!”
Eric could hear the incessant tapping of fingers upon a keyboard; after a moment, the operator spoke again, “What is the phone number you’re calling from?”
Despite his frustration, and as he turned in his seat to watch the road, Eric recited his mobile number. More keyboard depressions, and then the woman’s voice returned. “Tell me exactly what has happened.”
“Okay, I—uh, I was driving through the countryside and then I heard this crash, this big fuck off crash, ahead of me. I kept driving and this lorry was across the road.”
“Are you there now?”
“No, I left.”
“You left. Were there any injured?”
“No. I don’t think so. No.” Eric felt his breathing become heavy, and his impatience grow. He turned again in his seat, craning his head to look out at the road, to look over the bushes. He listened to, but all he could hear beyond the voice of the woman was the bleating of the rainfall. “I didn’t get a close look. I left.”
“Headed west still, or returning east?”
“Returning. I started coming back. Then this person was in the road – I didn’t see where they came from.”
“Did you hit this person?”
“No!... I don’t think so. I swerved the car and now I’m fucked in the middle of a field.”
“You don’t think you hit them? Can you see them from where you are now?”
“No.” Eric fell silent for an agonising moment, looking back one more time towards his entry point into the field. His breath caught, almost as though he expected to see her suddenly standing there; there was no one. “I can’t. I don’t know where they are.”
“Are you able to check? I have an ambulance on route, but it’ll help them to know as much as they can, so I need to know whether you impacted this person or not.”
Eric said nothing at first: the prospect of leaving the safety of his vehicle caused him no small degree of fear – a fear he didn’t understand and had not experienced since he was a child. He reasoned to himself that it might have been shock, or tiredness, or the effect of being alone in the dark – but something else, something more primal, pervaded the edges of his thoughts, and it would not allow itself to be recognised, understood, or denied.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah—yes, I’m here.” Eric’s throat felt dry – he forced himself to swallow, and, despite every instinct telling him to do otherwise, he reached for the handle of his door. “I’ll go and see. Just stay on the line.”
“I’ll be right here.”
The door opened, and a bitter cold rushed forth to greet Eric as he slipped from the car. His jaw clenched, and his arms snaked about his waist, as though seeking comfort. His mobile, clutched between white-knuckled fingers, remained pressed against his ear, slick from its sudden exposure to the elements.
“Okay.” Eric stepped across sodden grass as he approached the breach in the fencing. “I’m moving to look now.”
Another step, the crunch of water and mud and stone underfoot. He breathed heavily into the receiver but didn’t care enough to apologise nor stop. And then, with a strangled sigh, he stepped out of the field and onto the road, turning as he did so. “Shit!”
“Are you there? What’s happened, please?”
Eric did not reply immediately, but rather stood in terrified silence. Several metres away from him, knelt and cradled low to the road, was a figure – a woman. She was moving, swaying perhaps, as the rain hammered down upon her neck and shoulders and arms; her long and hair was rippled, plastered flat against the curve of her head and neck.
“Hello?”
“It’s a woman,” Eric whispered, his voice cracking as he spoke.
“What state is she in? Is she prone, sat, or standing? Conscious?”
“She’s crouched down. Facing away from me.” Eric swallowed, blinking away the rainwater from his eyes as he stared, fixated, upon the figure ahead of him.
“Can you see any signs of injury? Is she hurt?”
“I can’t see any blood. I don’t—”
“Are you able to get closer for me? It’s important to know whether she’s injured or not.”
Heart hammering, his eyes unblinking, Eric nodded reflexively and began his advance. His progress was slow, but he arrived at the woman’s side far sooner than he wished; and when he saw the woman’s face, he swore aloud and stepped back, almost dropping his phone in the process.
She was young, with flesh so pale that he would have sworn it to be painted, and lips that were chipped and cracked from erosion. Her eyes, which mirrored the shadows behind her, swam in a red liquid, the overflow of which was running freely down porcelain cheeks. At his swearing, Eric disturbed her, and she twisted her neck slowly towards him; her gaze sought out his amidst the downpour, and then locked on upon the finding.
“Fuck. Her eyes!”
“Can you describe to me what’s happening? What’s her condition?”
“Her fucking eyes! They’re bleeding!” Eric swore. He stared transfixed back at the woman, who remained closer to the floor, considering him with a vacant expression that chilled him as instant and thoroughly as ice. “She’s staring at me. Fuck!”
“Is she lucid? Can you talk to her?”
Eric stammered, trying to muster a vicious refusal that didn’t reach his lips; but before he could vocalise his terror, the woman began to move, climbing to her feet slowly, fluidly, and all whilst staring at his face, unblinking.
“I’m sorry.” The voice slithered from between the woman’s parched lips, its quality velvet despite the furious whirling of emotion that suffocated it. “I’m so sorry.”
Much to his surprise, the woman’s words stirred Eric to action, and he found his own voice. “Miss, are you okay?” Inwardly, distantly, he scolded himself for such a idiotic question, but his lips were working on reflex.
“Why didn’t I see it?” the woman whimpered. She took a step towards Eric, one hand extended, its surface coated with crimson.
Stepping back sharply, Eric stammered. “Her hands are bloody. Oh God.”
“Is she injured? Bleeding from any wounds?” asked the Operator; Eric, almost forgetting that she was there, nearly dropped the phone.
“I can’t—I don’t think—”
“I tried to stop myself,” the woman insisted, taking another step. She closed the distance between her and Eric in a single stride, and he cried out in surprise as he stumbled in surprise and fear. The woman caught him by his jacket, her bloody black eyes wide, her broken lips in motion. “I really tried. I didn’t have to do it!”
“Let go of me! Please!” Eric tried to struggle free of the woman’s red-hued grip, but no amount of twisting and yanking could set him loose. One particularly vigorous tug caused his phone to slide free of his fingers, and it tumbled down the length of his body to the floor. “Fuck! Get off me!”
“IT WASN’T MY FAULT!” Without warning, the bleeding woman screamed, drawing her face so close to Eric’s that her bloody cheeks marred his own. He shouted out in terror, but she held him fast, her fingers vice-like about the sodden fabric of his jacket. “I JUST WANTED TO LEAVE!”
“Then let fucking go of me!” Eric lifted his hands away from hers and, in sheer panic, drew them back to strike her.
Balled fists connected with her jaw solidly and with terror-motivated force, but despite the snapping of her head to one side, she did not release him; instead, she clutched him tighter, gathering together more fabric, allowing him even less room to pull back and thrash.
“Why can’t I stop myself?” the woman whimpered, her voice suddenly so quiet as to scarcely be heard above the rainfall; but Eric was so close, so fixated, that they might as well have been screamed into his ear. His terror overcame him, and, with a sob, he stopped struggling, stopped twisting, and felt his legs begin to quake and buckle; the woman did not let him fall, but kept him level, kept him close.
Eric tried to scream, but the sound caught in his throat as the woman leaned into him, pressing herself flush and bringing her mouth to his throat. He felt chapped lips, and in the split second of crazed fear wondered if she were about to bite his throat clean out; instead, he felt only a second of pain spasm through him as something broke the skin, and then his fears, which had been so prominent and suffocating, ebbed away into hazy memory. There came a blissful numbness, so gentle and embracing, that Eric’s lips peeled back into an involuntarily, exhausted smile; he listened absently to the sound of the woman’s suckling, wondered at her free-flowing tears, and mused distantly over the sensation he felt as his body was gently exsanguinated. He felt, rather than heard, his heartbeat at the base of his ear, but was too lost to his own euphoria to understand why it was slowing, quietening, vanishing.
He died in the rain, his fears forgotten and his unasked questions unanswered. And when they found him finally, led across the trunk of his car, it was with a sad smile, a distant stare, and a river of blood across porcelain cheeks.
AFTER THE EMBRACE
by Bex (@riley_velvet)
After the Embrace
Adam’s voice sounded far away. Velvet couldn’t quite fathom it. He was sitting right there? Next to Velvet in the private booth, nestled away in the upstairs of their favourite restaurant. Under the table their knees rested against each other. Velvet paused to enjoy the sensation. He was relaxed. Sat with his back against the soft fabric of the seat, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his tie loose. It was as calm as he could remember feeling. Adam always had that effect on him.
His attention was drawn back to his lover’s voice, which sounded quiet. Washed-out somehow? He tuned in to listen.
“Where did you go?” Adam was asking.
Suddenly Velvet realised the sound of Adam’s voice wasn’t quiet, it was breathless. Loaded with all sorts of uncomfortable emotions like hurt and upset. Velvet’s stomach lurched.
He opened his mouth to ask Adam what was wrong, and it was then he noticed his own clothes. They were soaked deeply and wetly with fresh blood. His blood? He didn’t speak. His head felt foggy. Concentration was proving difficult; his thoughts were slippery and fleeting. They wouldn’t stay in the moment with him.
Adam was staring at him, and he remembered the question he’d been asked. He moved his hand across the table and allowed his thumb to brush against the soft flesh between Adam’s thumb and forefinger as he took the menu from his hand and laid it on the table.
“Ai didn’t mean to,” he said quietly, “ai swear ai sat here waitin’ on you all the while you were gone,” he continued slowly, ordering his thoughts as he went, “ai took yer call, an’ ai was thinkin’ to order us the ‘89 Krug, since ya said it was good news,”
“Ai remember then the door opened, an’ ai smiled cos ai knew it was you…’cept it weren’t you,” he stopped again, looking confused, “it was….”
He almost heard the final bar as his brain completed sorting the scribbled notes of the past few hours into a finished symphony of discordant horror.
“Wallace,” he breathed
“It was Wallace,” he said as if to convince himself, “he told me ai had to go with him. Ai told him ai weren’t goin’ nowhere with him, but ai don’t know what happened, ai was in the car, then we were in the country, an’ then….then ai was here?”
He glanced nervously at Adam before continuing.
“He told me...that ma family belonged to him. He said ai weren’t makin’ such good decisions, or somethin’ like that.”
He looked down again at his clothes, “ai think he might’ve hurt me. He said somethin’ about a test. An’ that he hoped ai failed it. He had a knife,” he was dimly aware that something about these events was out of order or incomplete but he could barely concentrate enough to get the words out.
“Adam,” he gulped, “ai think he mighta killed me. Jesus Christ ai know how stupid that sounds, but ai remember. It was cold. It was so goddamn cold, an’ it was dark, gettin’ darker...like all the light was goin’ outta the world. Ai remember thinkin’ o’ you. Wonderin’ where you were, an’ what you’d think when ya got back an’ found me gone. The last thing ai remember thinkin’ was that ai was late, ai needed to get back. Here. Ai needed to find you,”
He ran his hand through his ruffled hair without registering the smear of blood he left on his face.
“He took you,” Adam said, dismayed.
Velvet couldn’t tell if it was an accusation or a regret, “ai’m not his,” he reiterated, keeping his tone as neutral as he could, “he kin claim whatever the hell he wants to, but that don’t make it so. What he’s got is this….dead flesh,” he gestured dramatically towards his own body, “but he don’t got my heart, or my mind, those things belong to you. Adam you gotta believe me!”
He found himself leaning in towards Adam, to kiss him, desperate to reinforce the connection between them. As his lips pressed softly against Adam’s there was a sudden wetness in his mouth. The sweet coppery tang of blood. Washing over his teeth and down his throat. Warm and inviting and bursting with deep ecstatic pleasure.
Something in him broke through that pleasure and his eyes opened. Wallace’s face leered over him, his forearm bare and Velvet’s teeth buried deeply into the flesh. He was utterly revolted. At Wallace. At what was happening. Worst of all at himself. None of that mattered though. His mind had no care for anything but the blood. He could feel the hunger deep and urgent inside him. It had clawed its way up his throat dragging his fangs with it, and now it demanded to be heard. The noise inside his head was deafening. Something between a roar and a howl. He couldn’t think or concentrate on anything but the hunger.
He felt a satisfying tension as he drew blood from the wound on his sire’s arm. He could smell Wallace’s scent. It was unpleasant and persistent. He was unaccustomed to it, and being close to this man made his skin crawl, but still it didn’t matter. Still he continued to feed. Eventually the sound lessened and became first bearable, and then distant. He felt something in his mouth moving? Retracting? He had only a moment to register it before he realised Adam wasn’t there. He’d never been there. He was on his way back to an empty seat in a quiet restaurant. His mind just had time to tip over into panicked distress before oblivion took him.
***
Velvet was curled up in a ball on the floor. His mind was convinced it could make his body smaller if he just tried a little harder. It wanted the smallest possible available surface area to absorb whatever was the next blow that his sire chose to rain down upon him.
Thud
The next blow landed with a bone crunching impact. He felt something inside his body break under the assault. He shrieked. Not because it was the most painful thing he’d experienced, He’d had worse than this from his sire in the first day after embrace, but because he had found over time that Wallace got more out of the experience when he was visibly distressed. That meant the experience would be shorter if he felt his point had been made.
“Ai’m sorry, ai’m sorry, ai’m sorry,” he gabbled holding his hands over his head. “ai’m sorry sir, ah’ll do better next time ai swear,”
In truth the physical pain had long since ceased to be the most prevalent thing in his time as a kindred. It wasn’t that commonplace. Wallace favoured emotional and psychological approaches far more than physical. However he sometimes felt a need to revert to this method of making his point.
Velvet wondered if he would be able to repair the rib before he next saw Jessica and Freddie. His brief wondering was shattered by his sire’s voice.
“Why don’t you an’ ai have a chat boy, since you’re mine now, it only seems polite,”
The pit of Velvet’s stomach lurched as he heard these words. He’d hoped a decent beating taken would satisfy his sire. It seemed it wouldn’t.
“Of course,” He shuddered as he said it. Then a little more nervously, “should ai get up or stay here sir?”
Wallace laughed, “see boy! Ya can learn with the appropriate motivation. Maybe now you know how lucky you are to have a sire like me.”
***
THE END
A tribute to Sarah by Sass (@FrassySass)
WARNING: Contains spoilers for Book 4
Did I die?
There was a body on the cold tile floor, all splashed with red. I could see red, smell red, taste red, did I...? Just breathe, she said. Breathe slowly. But I don’t need to breathe anymore. Is this what panic feels like now? Hollow? Even when the air moves against my lips, when my heart should be hammering against my ribs, and my breath comes in gasps, it’s just...empty.
I died.
Is this what it was like for him? He died. But his grave is empty. Was it a lie when he made me believe that he was gone? All the times I couldn’t visit the stone scarred Jim Roy Woods, thinking I had lost the only family I had left to me, was it true? Was the time I thought I got him back the real lie, was the person with a dead face and a dead name really my brother?
I don’t know. He’s gone now. Everything is wrong.
Did this happen to him? Did he ever come back to himself covered in blood, surrounded by death? I don’t understand what I’ve become, and no one will tell me the whole truth. They give me sides of the story, they say things about what I am, what we are, what he was, but I don’t understand. How can I be this? How can they sit there so calmly and tell me that this existence means coming back to myself and finding that all around me are the stolen lives that feed this terrible hunger?
I...can’t. I can’t be this. Already too many people have been the cost of simply being and they tell me that this is forever, that if I so choose I can go on robbing others of blood and breath and life, delivering death for eternity. This can be everlasting, life unending is mine, if only I have the strength to reach out and take it. The will to endure the years, the decades, the centuries, as...this. To balance the cost of survival with slaughter. Even Will doesn't want me to give up. I can see in her eyes what it will cost her to help me resolve this, to bring this to the conclusion that was denied me when the one who murdered my brother killed me too.
I'm sorry. I won’t be this. It needs to end.
SUCCESS
A tribute to Benjamin and Simon by Hidda (@hidda_wtf)
WARNING: Contains spoilers for Book 4
Benjamin, your Simon is showing.
Also, Benjamin is a cinnamon roll no matter what, and Simon deserved better.
Song: Interpol - Success
Dreams of long life,
What safety can you find?
See the great unknown
That shape for miles
Sometimes Benjamin closes his eyes and comes back to that vision again. Giant, terrifying, inhuman beast, putting its hand through Jim's body. Ben saw this so many times he could dissect this memory into frames, like a movie; the first one - Jim instinctively gasps, trying to figure out where did this sharp pain came from, next frame - the expression on Jim's face turns from anger and confusion to this very specific expression that people have when they realize that something really bad has happened, but they are too afraid to admit it; the cloth of his hoodie stretches on his chest. Next - weak material gives way to a set of the dark, long, unevenly curved claws, and Jim finally sees it too, and there is nothing but fear on his face.
It is a very disturbing and terrifying memory, but Benjamin keeps coming back to it. He prefers to think that it was a very traumatic experience, that he simply cannot heal from it. That's why he is reliving it over and over again. How do you even move on after such things, - he thinks, and at the same time recreating the image of those glints of Jim's Vitae on the tips of monster's claws. It's a shame it was so dark. There is a pattern in it, - strangely, this inner always-present voice sounds like a bit like Edmund this time, - And that expression on his face when he realized what had happened... If only we could go back, stay a bit longer, take a closer look, - Benjamin quickly catches himself and blinks several times. Of course, he doesn't want to go back. It was so very terrible. And that monster, that... that thing would just kill Benjamin too. It would take a step towards him and put its long, sharp claws in his chest. Or bite his head off. Or, or something else. For some reason, Benjamin is pretty sure it would hurt a lot, even if it happened only in the vision. This though is so uncomfortable, that Benjamin has to go downstairs and talk to someone from his coterie to physically distract himself from it. Why would he even think about that?
But he kept thinking about this vision, and this creature, and long, long claws going through Jim's body - he tried his best, but he couldn't really make himself not to think about it.
And, for some reason, this image is the first thing that comes to Benjamin's mind when he sees Edmund with her. Maybe because seeing how Edmund looks at her, how he leans towards her feels pretty much like if someone would put their hand through Benjamin. And then another one. And another. And another - until there is nothing but dozens of bloodied claws, scratching his chest from the inside.
And the worst part is - Ben almost understands it. Edmund, being a wonderful man with an excellent taste, an acknowledged connoisseur of art, couldn't possibly not appreciate her works: that unique confident style, refined technique, the way she carefully places all the little details. Benjamin remembers the picture that Edmund has already placed in the gallery, and it's so fit with Edmund's taste that it makes Benjamin sick; it's like this piece was made for Edmund and him alone.
Edmund, it seems, kisses Abigail on the cheek. Smiles. Says something to her, and she smiles back. Now, will you look at this. You know she is better than you, and he, apparently, does too, - invisible monstrous hands inside Ben's body suddenly grab all of his internal organs and squeeze. Benjamin can't do anything else but just sit there, frozen in place, moving his eyes from Abigail to Edmund, who is so engaged in conversation with her, he wouldn't notice his Childe's presence even if Ben stood next to them.
And Benjamin remembers how intoxicatingly good it feels, this complete and undivided attention of the magnificent Edmund St. Claire. Back in the days, he used to stand next to Benjamin and ignore the rest of the world. At moments like this, Ben could have sworn that Edmund wouldn't take his eyes off him even if the rest of the world was on fire.
Edmund whispers something to Abigail's ear and she smiles again. Do you think he'll Embrace her? Will he throw you out? Or will you all live together like a happy family? Never mind, here's a real question for you: will he actually allow such mediocrity anywhere near him now that we all have seen the real talent?
Edmund turns away and starts walking down the street. Abigail looks at him, wrapping up in her hoodie. Benjamin clings to the steering wheel of his car like it is Abigail's throat.
One by one, catastrophic scenarios of how his relationship with his Sire is going to evolve from now on, run through Benjamin's head.
For a brief moment, he wonders if it would be less painful if that thing would just tear him apart.
***
As high as the day
I read the papers
Before crime would pay
I learned to bury most beliefs
When Benjamin finds himself in Abigail’s flat, he hesitates for a moment, recollecting hazy thoughts. He’s not sure how he got here, but for some reason, he is absolutely sure he needs to be here right now. He takes a long look around: the place is simple but nice. Minimalistic, just to his taste. So now you like her? - the Beast is more restless than usual and very excited about the fact that they have just broken in someone's apartment.
He takes a step inside and looks at oblivious Abigail. She seems tired and annoyed - and so frustratingly ordinary.
She moves to another room, and Benjamin follows, staring at her intensely, catching her every movement like an experienced predator. There must be a secret, mustn’t it? Why is she so good?
You could just take her blood, you know. You do remember how it all works, right? - he cringes, visibly annoyed. The Beasts' whisper fills him with nervousness because he thinks he vaguely remembers the thing that it’s talking about, but can’t quite put it in place. But the voice pauses abruptly like someone turned off its volume; it’s all weird, but Benjamin has other things to worry about. Thankfully, those powers that Edmund taught him are working impeccably, and Abigail is still blissfully unaware of his presence. She goes to the bedroom and picks up some clothes; a cat jumps towards her immediately, walking around her legs, asking for attention. Benjamin almost accidentally notices a piece of a painting in the next room and goes there immediately.
The first thing he notices is that her works are so good it physically hurts.
Even worse - all of them are good. All different. All complex. All just... almost perfect. It feels just as bad as seeing her with Edmund. Benjamin slowly walks past them, glancing at each painting. And then he sees the main thing and stops.
It is great. For a moment, Benjamin forgets that Abigail is his rival, and just enjoys it. It is a painting of a young boy standing in front of a brick wall, but there is something in the detailing, in the technique itself that gives this piece a unique sense of volume and live.
And then comes the anger, the amount and intensity of which overwhelms him immediately. The bitter envy that takes over his body is asphyxiating, and he has to remind himself several times that Edmund loves his work now, and he actually said it so many times. For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at this masterpiece - or, rather, through it, because the only thing he sees is red. A constant high-pitched noise runs through his head like a bullet.
The sound of the closing door pulls him off from this self-deprecating trans.
Benjamin returns to the main room just in time to see Abigail going to the bathroom.
This is a perfect moment to leave unnoticed, and he probably should, but before he even thinks about it, he starts checking everything in this apartment - absentmindedly and very methodically, like he has done it many times before.
Look for the keys, - he thinks - or hears.
And before Benjamin can weight the morality of this idea, he checks everything near the front door as well as several drawers. Disappointed, he goes back to the meticulous examination of the flat. Being perceptive like he is, Benjamin automatically notices every book that is there. All of her cheap painting supplies. All of her clothes, all of her furniture, even the brand of her cat's food - every little detail, like the key to her talent may somehow lie in a way she arranges dishes in the kitchen. But there is nothing that would tell him how she became so good. It's just frustrating.
Eventually, Benjamin finds his way back to the studio room, drawn to her latest work as if it was calling him. He tries to understand if it's completed, but it's hard to keep the focus on something other than the fact that it's just so good. He measures the space of the studio with his steps - hurried and unnaturally silent. This work is not finished yet, but it hardly matters - it's almost perfect as it is now.
Once he gathers the courage to stand in front of the painting again, he closes his eyes. When he opens them, he sees the piece being destroyed. He sees long, black claws striking right through it, just like in his previous vision - only there is a canvas instead of Jim's chest. The monstrous hands clench, and pull away, and strike, and then it all repeats again and again until there is nothing left of this insulting, unfair perfection, just a colorful pile of trash.
Benjamin blinks, both scared and excited, and the next second he sees that the painting is, of course, untouched. With a deep sigh, he starts to walk around it again. If only it was yours, right? - the Beast just mocks him, and he has no energy to resist.
He could destroy it, really. She'd never find out. He could make sure of it. He could tell her to leave. He could take her blood. It would feel great. Do it, do it, come back, you were way more fun before, you are so close, do it, come back, - the Beast chants in a polyphony of voices, and it feels like Benjamin is standing in a crowd of people and every one of them whispers in his ears from every side. His hand almost touches the canvas, when he suddenly thinks about how wrong it would be. The thought is weird and almost alien, but he freezes in place, pondering it in his head. Even if she never know who did it, Edmund certainly will. The image of enraged and disappointed Edmund sobers him up immediately. Besides, it wouldn't change the fact that she is so talented, that she is better than him. For a moment Benjamin even feels guilty: until this night he was sure that was above such petty acts of jealousy and revenge. He needs to do it the right way. He needs to become better. He needs to create a painting that would be better than this. His anger slowly fades, being replaced by anxiety: he has been here for too long.
Benjamin rushes towards the exit, nervously looking around. Luckily, Abigail is still in the bathroom. He leaves her flat, closes the door behind him. He still has some time. He just needs to focus and do his best. He can make Edmund proud. He
will.
***
Dreams of long life
What safety can you buy?
If the sea was that strong
Maybe we had, maybe we had to fly
There are a lot of things which scare Benjamin. Ghosts, werewolves, warrens, all this violence, and blood, and fights, and that figure that keeps haunting him, and his own visions, and a lot of other Kindred too, starting with the Prince and the Constable, and even his own coterie sometimes. But there was always one person who he was never afraid of - Edmund. Of course, he knew that Edmund can be scary - he is so strong and powerful, after all. But for some reason, Ben never really considered the opportunity that one day he will think of his Sire with fear.
And not once in all of his two lives, not in visions or nightmares, not even in the most paranoid scenarios that his brain keeps showing to him, Benjamin could imagine that he'll find himself in a situation like this.
He lies still, very still, eyes closed, and hopes that it's just another vision. Seconds turn into eternity, and the silence is so heavy, it could crush him at any moment.
- Am I making myself clear? - turns out, it's not silence that breaks him. It is the voice of Edmund, which somehow seems both angry and dispassionate at the same time. - Take a good long look. You'll find inspiration.
Benjamin opens his eyes and sees lots and lots of dark red. And something that resembles a kindly. Or maybe not - after what Edmund has done to this poor man, it's hard to identify anything. If Ben weren't there, he might have not guessed that this... this used to be a man. He looks away, and sees a single torn-out blue eye, that just lies there, in a puddle of blood mixed with shreds of something pink, pointed right at him. He feels cold sticky blood on his cheek, and maybe for the first time since his Embrace, he's not tempted to try it. It just scares him.
- Found it? - Benjamin barely understands Edmund's words. He just absentmindedly stairs at the mess of flesh, blood, and bones in front of him.
- P-please, - he doesn't even know what he is trying to say. But it doesn't even matter, because Edmund interrupts him with a sharp growl:
- GET DOWNSTAIRS! - at this point, Benjamin is too shocked to react, or move, or say anything, but he can feel Edmund's piercing look with his whole body. - You are to make it up to me, don't you?
- I do, - his voice is so faint he can barely hear himself. We could run? - the Beast's voice sounds fragile and unsure. We could try? We should, shouldn't we? -
Ben looks at the door very quickly, so that Edmund wouldn't notice. He could try and run. It's not far. Maybe he will get lucky. Ben gathers all of his courage and strength, and hope measures the distance to the door and his car - and gives up. He can't. He can't leave Edmund. Not when he's like this.
Benjamin gets up as best as he can and starts moving back to the basement. His body constantly fails to maintain balance, so at some point he just hugs the wall and almost crawls through the corridor, accompanied by the paced and inescapable rhythm of Edmund's steps right behind him. Benjamin tries to tell Edmund that this is wrong, tries to remind him that he didn't want to hurt anyone, let alone Abigail, but his panicked speech is rambled and his voice is weak. Edmund doesn't bother to listen. Finally, Benjamin braces himself, turns around and looks his Sire right in the eyes - he knows this may be the last thing he ever does, but Edmund needs his help. He needs someone to show him that the stress got better of him. He needs Benjamin now more than ever.
- You told me that when you've done that- when you've killed people that way - that was wrong, and that's why you wanted the art. Please, don't make me do this. Please, it's the thing you were trying to avoid-
Edmund looks at his childe expectantly, his face is a frozen, dead mask. In a dim light of the corridor, he looks like one of those perfect sculptures, made by the masters of the Renaissance era. And there is something in his eyes, or maybe in his general presence, or in this whole night, but Benjamin suddenly gets silent.
And in the next moment, he isn't afraid anymore. He understands why Edmund is so annoyed, and this rapid realization gives him this blinding clarity.
Does he really have a reason to fight this so much? He is an artist, after all, at it's about the art - it's always about the art. The art is the truth; Edmund has told him that so, and Benjamin himself has put all of his life on this altar. He can't quit whenever it gets hard. He has to give it his all. This is what Edmund expects of him. This is what Benjamin expects of himself.
Benjamin nods thoughtfully in response to Edmund's expectant gaze.
Art comes in many forms, but the form itself doesn't matter. Truth does.
- I understand, - he hears his own voice like it comes from a far away.
Edmund was always a demanding patron, but in the end, he always knew what's better for Benjamin.
- It's all about exploring new horizons, Ben.
After all, it might be his chance to prove that he can be just as good as she is.
Benjamin goes down the stairs and approaches the unconscious body on the floor. He studies it for a long moment, and then kneels beside her and takes her blood. He is not feeding on her, but he feels the need to taste it - because the blood is also the truth; and also because he wanted to do it for quite some time now. And it is good. It's slightly tart because of all those sedatives Edmund kept her on, but it’s warm, and it’s sweet, and a little bit salty. It's like a chocolate with a sea salt that he tasted once, back when he was alive. it is everything he hoped it was, and a little bit more. For a moment he even thinks he understands her secret.
Finally, he reminds himself that there is a lot to be done. Benjamin gets up, takes the tools and hesitantly cuts Abigail's skin; a thin stream of blood immediately rushes from the wound and to the floor, quickly gathering a small pool. Benjamin looks at it very closely, in a way that he inspects new painting supplies before buying them. Then, he dips his fingers into Abigail's blood and begins drawing.
And it's strange, drawing like this.
Usually, Benjamin has a decent idea about what he is going to paint beforehand. Now he lets his instinct to control the whole process, while he absentmindedly moves his hands around the floor near him. There is clearly something specific he is trying to create, but he can't rationalize it yet - he can just feel it. The Beast softly whispers something about his work, suggests new details to place, and for once it doesn’t sound dominating, mocking or scary. On the contrary - Benjamin is calmed and reassured by this lulling choir. In several minutes he is completely absorbed by the process, and it's at this moment he finally understands what he is trying to express - or, rather, exorcise from himself. And it's Abigail. For these past nights spent on analyzing her works, visiting her home, comparing himself with her, trying to predict the exact moment in which Edmund will leave him for her, thinking about what she would do, what she would say, Benjamin didn't even notice the moment when she started to occupy half of his mind. It's like he is not just Benjamin anymore, but this weird Frankenstein monster; like parts of her now sewed to him in a very rough and careless manner, and now he is just a pathetic flesh plexus that can barely function on its own because it's just too much. But last night Edmund set him free, and with everything that happened after, Benjamin hasn't even had a chance to process it - up until now. This separation deserves to be celebrated. And Abigail deserves to be immortalized in art.
Blood runs out; Benjamin moves closer to the body, and, without even looking at it, cuts it again. This wound is bigger. This way there will be more paint.
And it's all there - all of the things that he wanted to tell Edmund, but couldn't bring himself to. His desire to prove himself. His desperate wish to become her. All of his self-hate for not being good enough. His jealousy, insecurity, vulnerability, shame, and pride. And a lot of regrets, for a reason that he doesn't realize yet.
Benjamin keeps drawing and drawing, and this piece is getting bigger and bigger, and, eventually, he runs out of blood, and by this time he is completely exhausted. He gets up and looks at his work.
And it's good. Way better than he expected; probably one of his best works. It's intricate and simple at the same time, and detailing is impressive, especially considering that blood is a very delicate material to paint with. But the main thing is the absence of that figure. There is just a vague silhouette of a young boy in a long robe right about the middle of this piece. For the first time in many months, his art is free of his own fear. The only thing that bothers him is a mess right near the piece, and it takes him several seconds to recognize that this mess is Abigail's body.
Benjamin looks around like he is seeing this room for the first time in his life. He notices Edmund, who has been standing near him this whole time, watching him draw - like he used to. And it all starts to come back to him - the chains, the ash, that beautiful and terrifying creature, the paralyzing terror of last night. He suddenly feels sick and dizzy, even though he knows he can't really feel anything anymore. His sight unconsciously returns to the mutilated dead body of Abigail, and he looks at it with an expression that people have when they realize that something really bad has happened, but they are too afraid to admit it. Benjamin quickly glances at his work again, and then at his hands, but instead he sees dark monstrous arms with those long, curved, bloodied claws, glimmering in a soft light of the basement.
- Welcome to my world, Ben. I have such delights to show you, - Benjamin reflexively flinches and blinks, snapped out of that panic stupefaction that was about to devour him by Edmund's voice.
He hesitantly looks up, fully prepared of Edmund to be absolutely furious about what he has done. But his Sire just stands there silently, right in front of him, and there is a very familiar look on his face - it's almost the same way that he always looks at Benjamin's works when he's pleased. There are intense curiosity, understanding, approval and a glimmer of pride in his eyes. And despite all the terror and surreality, Benjamins feels a little bit relieved: in this particular moment it's like it was before - before Abigail, the Sabbat, warren monsters, before werewolves and courts, back in the nights when it was just two of them. Edmund is here, and he loves Benjamin's work, and he is proud of him again, and he probably can explain everything and help Benjamin get through this. This is how it has always been, how it's supposed to be. It is everything he ever wanted.
It is everything both of him ever wanted.
***
I've got two secrets
But I only told you one
I'm not supposed to show you...
MISSING PIECES
A tribute to Benjamin by Sass (@FrassySass)
WARNING: Contains spoilers for Book 4
When you look in the mirror, who do you see?
You don’t want to see me, do you. You want to see yourself. Who you think you are. Who you aren’t. You're beginning to realize that, aren't you. You're starting to see how things are. You thought you understood truth but you're learning now the depth of your own self deception. The lies we tell ourselves are the most seductive. And yours were such simple lies. That you had family that cared for you. That you were gentle and kind. That you could shelter a mortal from harm and be something better together.
Look how that turned out. Was it me, or was it you that wet our hands with blood and made the most beautiful, terrible work we’ve ever created? Perfection realized in shades of red. Was it me, or was it you that pulled the cover down from the window and left that murderous bitch to greet the sun one final time?
I think we work well together, you and I.
Our biggest lie of all was that Edmund loved you. That he gave you a beautiful death and would keep you safe forever. My death was not beautiful. I knew he didn't love me, not the way I was. I told myself that becoming you would be enough for him. I shattered myself and built you from the pieces, and all for him. And then he left us.
How could he do that?
Will you leave me too, Benjamin? Will you fade away some night and leave me without even the frail illusion of humanity?
It doesn't matter. What matters is that now you truly see. You see me. You know my name. You look at yourself and in all the places where there are pieces missing, there I am. I'm missing pieces too. There are things I can't remember now. Parts of myself I've lost. But that's fine. We can find someone new to replace them. A new self to become. Like the prophet. He's beautiful, isn't he. The way his hands never seem to be still and the way he walks the strands of the web and the world and never feels himself lost. It would be a delicious thing, I think, to be so at peace with ourself.
We know who we are now. But in the nights to come, perhaps we might become someone different.
Someone better. Someone perfect.
THIRTY PIECES
A tribute to Moses by Sass (@FrassySass)
WARNING: Contains spoilers for Book 4
Loyalty is a funny thing, don’t you think? It’s funny how quick people are to judge. To look at the choices you make and the actions you take and call them betrayal. I think what most people wouldn’t understand is that my loyalty isn’t given freely. And it isn’t given to everyone. Just a few...a precious few.
Trust, now that’s a different subject. You can put your trust in something or someone without having any loyalty to it, or to them. Like Jim. I trusted him. I trusted him to do the foolish thing. He wasn’t stupid, far from it, but he also wasn’t careful. Never thought things through. Always acting on impulse, never looking far enough ahead to see what it would cost, who it would cost. And the cost was pretty fucking high.
Don’t think I don’t know what my own actions will cost me. What my loyalty will cost me. It wasn’t loyalty to the Prince or the Camarilla that cost me my coterie mate. The Constable and my own principles got me there, and you can tell me I deserve my thirty pieces for turning in a friend and then grieving for him, but I did my duty. I don’t feel good about it...I’m not supposed to. Loyalty and faith aren’t supposed to be easy. Or painless.
As for my other coterie mates? I trust them, too. I trust Ben to be mad, to listen more to the voices in his own head than anyone or anything else...even Edmund these nights, apparently, and doesn’t that raise some interesting questions. I trust that Katia will always be more loyal to clan than coterie, just like me. My loyalty to them only extends as far as my trust. Call it selfish, call me a coward all you want, I’ll wear those badges without shame because I know where my loyalties truly lie.
With Jacqueline. Who proved to me that we can still have faith, that God has not abandoned us and still holds a place for us in His plan. She’ll kneel for the Prince and so will I, but we serve a higher authority. When the ground under my feet doesn’t feel so stable, when I doubt, she’s an anchor, a reminder that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that...but I’ll try.
With Alice. We might be different clans, but for her, I’d give even Plucky Jake and the other Nosferatu the finger. Because she’s my best friend, has been since before I died. We should have been clan, would have been if not for the one who stole me away. But what we are means more to me than the curse flowing in our veins. “Blood is thicker than water”, people say, but they get it wrong. “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb”. I’ve bled for her, and her for me, and I’d do it again. Clan be damned.
But most of all, with Lucy. She...she complicates things. But also makes things very simple. I value my own life, if you can call it life, but I’d pay it like coin to the boatman, walk straight into Hell, if it meant keeping her safe. I’d make a deal with the Devil, and maybe I already have, but I don’t care. For her, anything. Anyone. I’d pay it. She’s the beat of my heart even though I’ve got no pulse and she’s the one person I’d sell my soul for. Maybe Abraham could put Isaac on the altar and offer him in sacrifice, but...I couldn’t. Does that make me unfaithful? When love, hope and faith are all that remain, isn’t the greatest of them love?
I’m far from innocent. I’ve sinned, I’ve killed, and I’ll do it again. In the end, I’ll be judged. Maybe I won’t be able to keep faith with God, but I’ll keep faith with the ones I love. Even if it truly damns me.
BROKEN PIECES
A tribute to Jim by Sass (@FrassySass)
WARNING: Contains spoilers for Book 4
When you're dead, pain starts to matter less. You'd think that would be a good thing. Some people spend their lives suffering. People fear it, some avoid it as much as possible. Or they do what they can to find relief or numbness. But pain is part of being alive. It can be a warning, a flare, something is wrong. Something is damaged, your body is broken. Some pain is even productive. It means your body is learning, that you're improving. That you're growing and changing.
The dead don't change.
We still feel pain, sure, but does it matter anymore? Fire burns, worse than anything, and blades still sting when they cut. I should know. Finger bones charred black, the sound my neck makes when it breaks, a cut so deep it almost cost me my head...that's the stuff of nightmares. That's the kind of pain that should mean surgery and stitches and maybe never getting up again.
But I did. I walked away from that. Hurt like a bitch, like nothing has ever hurt before, but here I am. Still in one piece. Somehow. The Beast holds our broken pieces together and tries to make us whole again.
But are we whole? Or is there something missing that can never be fixed?
All those bumps and scrapes, all those bruises and breaks people get, they take time to heal. The ache of them, the scars, how often do they define us? How often are the living proud to show off the trophies of their own stupid luck, or hellbent not to let the pain stop them? Kindred are different, and at the same time, we're something that will never be different ever again. We don't heal. Our wounds don't close slowly with patience and rest, leaving us with unforgettable memories written right on our skin. The Beast just pulls our skin and bones back together. Sometimes there's a price, and the currency is always the same.
And how quickly we forget. How easily we stare down the barrel of a gun, or risk the agony of fire, knowing it'll be fine.
Or maybe that's just me.
And that's not even the part that scares me most. If the curse of what I've become can put my body back together, what about my mind? Pain can be more than just physical. When we lose things, when we hurt the ones we love, that scars us too, it changes us...or it should. How soon will we forget now? How long before the Beast makes that better too? Taking away all that pain of guilt, regret, and fear. Time doesn't heal our wounds. Something else does. And whatever it is...whatever the Beast really is...it scares me.
Maybe that doesn’t matter anymore. Not for me. If Emrys comes for my head, that’s just an end. Final Death, Kindred call it, but I don’t see it that way. I already died, and something is terribly wrong about what I am now. Maybe...maybe an end would be better.
It’s not myself I’m afraid for now.
Please, God...if you’re listening, don’t let her be dragged into this. Let her mourn me a second time and that be the end of it. She doesn’t deserve to suffer the way we all suffer when we learn the real truth. And Ben, if the worst should happen...if I’m not around anymore to keep her safe...
Please protect her. She doesn’t deserve to end up like us.
MRS MIROVSKI
An audio fan fiction by Nathalie (@L_alive4acorpse)
TRIGGER WARNING: Contains references to abortion and suicide
I came to this point sooner then I thought.
But here I am in the winter of my life.
So much life in a short time.
And all I want now is to have my story known.
Like most people in the end I guess.
A last effort to not be forgotten.
To know at least someone knows of your existance when you're gone.
I was born in 1925. A hard time to be alive compared to this day.
Although we didn't know any better, so at the time we didn't experience it as such.
The country was just getting things back to order after the great war.
But I didn't notice anything as young as I was.
By the time I was 15 another war broke out.
I was deemed old and able enough to help with the war effort.
Even if I was a bit too young I signed up to be a land-girl and they selected me as Lumber Jill.
A few years after the war I met my late husband. I was 23 at the time. And in 1949 we got married. We wanted to have children but it wasn't to be.
I am afraid a knitting needle was the thing responsible for that.
Though life wasn't bad, we weren't very rich. And when my husband lost his job in the 60's , we decided to open a bed and breakfast that we ran together. So even though there were no children of our own running around, our house was never empty. After a while we could afford an even bigger house. And this is the place I reside in still. "The crossed hands.”
Ah yes, the love of my life. He was a sweetheart, but not the smartest I am afraid.
He did love me, as he loved several others at the same time.
I was busy with running the business, he was also busy running around town.
Oh well, you shall not speak evil of the dead they say.
But I am afraid, the dead do speak evil of us.
And that's how my dearest found his way back here, wanting me to join him.
The only way I know how to prevent that is to keep my honor to myself and make sure as hell he isn't the one to escort me to the here after. So sleeping tablets it is.
I've saved them for a long time, and tonight august the 18th 2001 will have been my last day living in fear of old ghosts.
So there you have it.
LUCY
An audio fan fiction that isn't canon... yet! By Nathalie (@L_alive4acorpse)
Well hello there, nice to see you got through the selection training.
By now you must have realised the world is a lot more complicated then you suspected it to be, yes?
Ahh you are the silent type I see. Well no matter, I will do the talking for now. You are not going to get the grand tour yet by the way. For that you'll need a higher clearance, and that will be granted as soon as you fill in the necessary paperwork and had some aditional training hours in hand to hand combat.
But you're not here about that are you?
No... I read the request. You were interested in some old files, especially the first reports of this specific part of London. From the time we were not fully operational there yet about... 16 ...17 years ago.
Interesting times back then. We didn't know how infested the city actually was. We were in for a big surprise. I can tell you that.
Aaaah here it is, surveillence reports on the Crossed Hands.
They got our attention after the murder of a young girl you know? She was the daughter of someone on the policeforce.
Lucky for us in a way. Without all that activity surrounding her death they'd never have been on our radar perhaps. But oh well that matter is cleared now so to speak.
Well here you go, I hope it will be of use to you.
What was your name again? Wait don't tell me, it's on the tip of my tongue. Lisa? no... Loïs? No! Lucy! That's it!
Good luck Lucy, hope to welcome you soon to our little group.....
BENJAMIN & LUCY
A doodle animatic by The Nerdy Birdy (@BirdbrainBirdy)
BEN
An audible fan fiction by Nathalie (@L_alive4acorpse)
Well here I am, no longer "me" anymore
The moment my body couldn't handle the stress anymore
The moment my heart finaly gave out Was the moment I looked down upon my own still form.
That vessel I once owned was disconnected from it's purpose
From the very thing that made it animated.
No it wasn't some simple chemistry
The thing that was actualy in control is still here, right now, speaking to you.
And you know? When finaly released from it's shackles, only true form left, a few things became clear.
You...chose this...
Love for... art....jealousy
You...could have... shown mercy You....could have....defied
But remember, you drank my blood.
A part of me is in you now.
Even though you drank more not long after from god knows who
Tell me... did the fading of life, transformation to death transtlate to your canvas?
TELL ME!
In this world you must know death is not the true end.
Especially not like this.
Look... over your... shoulder... Ben... Somewhere... in the.... shadows... is a new... face
MINE!
JIM
An audible fan fiction by Nathalie (@L_alive4acorpse)
Awww look at you A heap of flesh and bones now.
Our poor little broken crash test dummie Trying so hard to be the hero
But the rash decisions you made...
Was it worth it?
Being the perfect soldier
Hard to kill, always willing to fight some more?
All to impress Alisha
Your wonderful sire
I saw the hunger in your eyes you know To maim and murder
The lust for blood
To see how the skin breaks and all the wonderful red liquid comes pooring out. But isn't the price for that a little high? Especially when you're also trying to hang on to a shred of your humanity
To prevent the beast from taking over
To prevent transforming to a true monster?
Oh you hide it well, underneath all the brooding
Playing the misunderstood unsung hero
I wonder, wouldn't final death be preferable to this hell?
I can do it, if you prefer.. but no I haven't got the time.
More places to visit and 29 hours to go....
KATIA 1
An audible fan fiction by Nathalie (@L_alive4acorpse)
Katia, perfect, collected, bookworm, Katia Did you honestly think I'd forget? What? You ask?
You forgot didn't you?
A threat so casually uttered, and expertly executed later on.
Oh don't tell me you know nothing about it It's all recorded you know.
That cameo on Nibiru?
And you honestly don't remember? Your threat to kill all my loved ones.
Three days later I had to bury them.
But look at you now, thinking you got it all figured out.
Do you know what your friend Sabine is really up to?
Or what that annoying Malkavian has done when you weren't there to keep watch?
Do you even know what Will REALLY thinks of you?
Do you care?
Oooh I can guarantee you the hornet's nest is even bigger than you imagine. And it's coming for you...
And the others of course.
A bit over 48 hours to go.
Are you sure you're prepared?
'Blood and Ash.' A tribute to Katia' by Sass (@FrassySass)
WARNING: contains spoilers for Book 2
This isn’t the fate any of us would have chosen. We all struggle with what we've become and that isn't made any easier by each other. It's hard enough to balance yourself. To keep yourself under control and clean up your own messes. More Kindred means more variables. More chaos. Breaches of Masquerade and all the consequences that follow.
They think they understand consequences.
They understand pain, certainly. Moses with his jaw half torn from his face, Jim with an arm scorched to cinder and bone. Benjamin has been spared the worst of it by his sire, but I can't even fault him for that. He’s impaired in his own way by the malady of his clan, and his slavish adoration for that man, not that he can see either for the sickness they are. None of their makers have spared them, in truth, no more than my own did me.
Still, all three of them seem to suffer from a chronic inability to grasp that when you fuck up, you pay for it. Not just with your body. That will heal with time, unlike the wounds dealt to the mortals we love. Child, sister, lover, friend...perfect targets for the enemy. Or simply victims to be, in some night to come. What we are will always hurt the ones we love. It’s inevitable.
These fragile things we try to hold so dear are less safe than they know.
They'll learn. We're all learning. My Elders, as is often the case, are both right and wrong. The other clans have their weaknesses, and my coterie mates do have their flaws, but to deny their strengths is absurd. The Gangrel can kill a man three times his size, despite his unhealthy obsession with fire. The Nosferatu plays a clever game of faces and lies, and for all that he acts like he would dance and smile while the world was ending, he’s a capable sort and knows how to get himself - and others - out of just as much trouble as he’s able to cause. In spite of the warnings against their toxic insanity, I believe the Malkavian is possessed of all the insight his clan is rumoured to have, and he might be mad, but that madness has saved our lives. When you rouse each night with no heartbeat and a hunger for blood to sustain you, one can hardly discount clairvoyance.
We're just blood and ash now, held together by some strange alchemy. Far be it for me to demand that science explain what we’ve become. It failed to explain everything even before I died, I can hardly expect it to do so now.
There is no way to quantify loss, no way to measure or predict the fallout of our choices. One would think after a close up view of the Constable’s justice in action, or better yet, a beheading at the Prince’s own hand, my coterie would have more appreciation for what it means to suffer for their actions. They don’t yet.
They haven’t been on their knees with someone they love weeping and pleading before them, knowing deep down how futile that plea is. They haven’t hungered for the life they want so desperately to save. They haven’t watched the light fade from living eyes and felt a part of themselves die too. The eyes of the city are on us now, the eyes of our Elders, and they look with scrutiny, but no lenience. Mercy has no place in this equation. The standards by which they judge us may be outdated, and the laws they enforce unjust, but they punish the old fashioned way. With blood, steel, and fire.
If by some miracle, the kine we cherish don’t become collateral damage in the course of their mortal lives, time will finish the job. We’re immortal now, and none of us have lived long enough yet to understand what that means. The only way to avoid that fate is a taste of vitae, and an addiction that would last eternity.
Or the Embrace.
That’s not the fate I would have chosen for her. But actions always have consequences, and we aren’t always the ones who pay for what we’ve done.
'Truth and Lies.' A tribute to Benjamin' by Sass (@FrassySass)
WARNING: contains spoilers for Book 2
How do you find truth when the world is full of lies?
The dead tell no tales. Death is the end of the line. Ghosts only exist in stories, and vampires are not real. I used to believe those things.
I don’t anymore. Edmund showed me the truth about everything. There is something after death, and there are ways to look deeper than the surface. He taught me how to peel back the skin of the world and expose the reality beneath. When you study art, they teach you that an artist shares their truth, that with words or colours or a breath of silence between notes, they shed light on what others don’t see. But most people never get to see the real truth. Most people live lies and never realize how blind they truly are.
Admittedly, sometimes the truth is horrifying.
Like watching my coterie die.
It didn’t happen, thank God. We didn’t take the middle path, we didn’t follow that tunnel to our deaths. Claws didn’t tear through Jim’s chest, Katia wasn’t slammed into a wall over and over again, Moses didn’t have his head torn from his ragdoll body.
But I can still see it. In my head, it’s real. When I close my eyes sometimes I see those terrible claws coming out of the darkness. I see that horrible maw, the creature so vast that it filled up the world.
It’s real, I know it is. The photographs prove it, but no one seems to believe me, except Katia. And Edmund, of course. Moses looks at me like I’ve gone mad, and Jim’s told me I am, but I’m not. I don’t care what they say about my clan or my sire, we’re not mad. I saw the future before it happened but that doesn’t mean I’m insane. It means I see the truth. They don’t understand. Any of them. Katia will listen...even though she keeps secrets from us, I know she does. She never did tell us what happened to Will. At times she gets frustrated, but her real anger, her agony and rage, she keeps those inside, doesn’t she...where we can’t see. But I’ve seen. I didn’t get to see it when the crowbar tore her open. But later, when I asked, in her eyes was that truth. She wanted to kill them. She did kill that one night, going out the window like an avenging angel, knife in hand. Maybe she doesn’t see her own darkness, but I do.
Jim’s been keeping secrets, too. Telling lies. I think the harder he tries to hide, the harder his sister is going to look for him. No matter what he does. It might get her killed, but now she knows about one lie. She might not stop until she uncovers the real truth. His sire doesn’t sound the honest sort...she left him without ever explaining where she was going or why, and he tried just as hard to find her, so maybe it’s not so strange. I can’t imagine having a sire like that.
Moses doesn’t even have to talk to lie. But that’s not his fault. The world isn’t really a place for the kind of truth that shows right on his face unless he hides it. There are lies older than all of us, older than anyone in this city, that keep people from seeing the truth of us. The Masquerade we all act out each night is nothing but a fiction that we tell to the people that can't or won’t see what’s underneath.
It doesn’t matter. I can’t change what everyone else sees. I can’t make them see the truth, can’t make them listen if they aren’t willing to hear me.
Edmund sees, and Edmund listens. And that’s what matters.
'Faith. A tribute to Moses' by Sass (@FrassySass)
WARNING: contains spoilers for Book 2
They say we’re damned. Descended from Caine, the first murderer. Cast out and cursed by God. But I can walk into a church and not burn. I can count the beads on the rosary, speak Padre Nuestro, Ave María, y Gloria Patri, and my body doesn’t burst into holy flame. Damned? I’m not so sure about that.
Can the damned still love?
Lucy...she doesn’t look at me the way everyone else does. When I hold her in my arms, I don’t feel like a monster. If a child can love you back, are you truly cursed?
Can the damned still mourn?
My heart doesn’t beat anymore, but it can still break.
My coterie doesn’t care much for faith, I think. Huddled together on a pew like they’re sitting on a bed of nails. Jim looking ready to bolt out of there like a rabbit with a fox on his heels. And
¡Dios mío! that thought is like a knife. It hurts. It hurts more than the searing burn against my palm, more than the raw shape of the cross scorched into my flesh.
Katia thanked me when we left. As though my prayers were a way of getting in good with the Constable, just lip service to the Lord. I don’t think she understands that I mean it. That on my knees before the altar, I beg forgiveness for all the terrible things that I’ve done...and will do, in the nights to come. I pray for absolution, that God in his infinite mercy won’t blame me for what I’ve been made against my will.
And Ben. That poor sap...I don’t even think he realizes he’s a lunatic. He has only one God, and that God’s name is Edmund St.Clare. He treats his sire’s word as gospel, and practically worships the ground that man walks on. I pity him, but we can’t free him from that...not until he’s ready to free himself.
You don’t need to be dead to be a monster. You don’t need to be Kindred to lie, kill, cheat, and steal. They say we’re not human anymore, that the Elders have lost touch with their humanity so much that there is no shred of compassion or empathy left in them. Maybe that’s true. Maybe they are monsters. If they are, they have only themselves to blame.
The Beast acts in its own defense, it hunts and kills no matter what we want. But does that make us responsible? Can we be blamed for this darkness that we carry inside, the gift of our sires and their sires before them?
We still make choices. Our choices are what make us, not the Hunger or the Beast. The sins of the Beast are outside of our control, but our own sins, our own mistakes and flaws, those are still ours to bear.
We all have blood on our hands. But does that mean we can never wash clean? Were we not all born sick, the children of Eve and her Original Sin, and commanded to be well again? Does being made a vampire really damn us any more in His eyes than being born human?
I don’t know. All I can do is pray...because I believe that He is listening.
'Monsters. A tribute to Jim' by Sass (@FrassySass)
WARNING: contains spoilers for Book 2
Sometimes I wonder if the others know what Hunger is really like. If they understand what kind of monsters we've become.
Moses gets it, I think...I’ve seen him hungry. But I've also seen him pray, as though God would listen. Katia is so together you’d swear she wasn’t Kindred at all some nights. Who knows what goes on in that Chantry when she goes, what sick blood magic they do, or what she tells herself to pretend it isn't wrong. Ben...he barely understand what he is. He visits his sire and sometimes comes back that kind of relaxed that only a good lay will get you, but I don’t think that’s what he gets out of it. That’s not what we want anymore, any of us.
The living, the breathing, the kine...they’re human. They get hungry, they get horny, they get tired. They have life needs. They have life.
We have the Beast.
All we need is blood. It’s our food and our water. We don’t want sleep or sex or even air anymore. Just blood. Even when that blood is hurrying down the street to catch a bus, or sitting on a swing while mother watches. Kine see men and women, children and pets. We see food.
Well...I see food. I don’t know about the others.
How do you explain that to someone that hasn’t felt it? How can you ask your coterie if sometimes, the need takes them so hard that they stop seeing faces, stop seeing people, and only see blood? How can you tell your own sister that if she slaps you one more time, something inside might wake up and tear her apart, and enjoy it?
You can’t.
All you can do is feed. Keep the Hunger at bay. And sometimes, kill.
Do we enjoy killing? Are we reborn killers, good for nothing else? Maybe...any Kindred that says they killed and didn’t like it is lying. At least a little. Killing is the only thing that makes the Hunger go away. Hunting without killing is like never feeling full...never getting a full night’s rest...always being just a little out of breath. But also not like any of those things. Just the closest thing the kine have that could compare. And relief never lasts. The Hunger always comes back. That bliss, that satisfaction you get when you realize there’s a corpse in your arms and for once the need is gone...
It never lasts.
I never wanted to have to explain that to my baby sister. When she looks at me, demanding answers...what can I say?
Nothing. If I want to go on existing, and I do despite what I've become, I’ll say nothing. I'd pray that she believes me, but no one's listening. Not to the likes of me.
'The Crossed Hands' by Sass (@FrassySass)
It was a quiet little hotel, tucked onto a quiet block in a quiet neighbourhood. It had been there for longer than most of the houses, and almost all of the neighbours. A familiar fixture of the community. One that people walked by so often that most times they didn’t glance its way, unless they were tired travellers just looking for a place to spend a night or two.
Mrs. Mirovski had been good to the place in the years she had been its caretaker, though both her age and its own had long since begun to show. There was dust on all the sills and cobwebs in the corners but she was very fond of the place, and like all gently neglected but well loved places, it was welcoming without any pretense of being fancy.
Most that stayed there might have complained of the drapes that needed a good shaking or the carpets that hadn’t seen a Hoover in far too long, but there were always fresh linens and there was always hot tea for any guest that wanted it. For all that she would claim with doughty pride that she kept to her schedule, she had an uncanny way of being around whenever she was needed. Doting on her customers like an affectionate if somewhat absent-minded grandmother.
No one could recall where the name had come from. A charming name, but...odd. Hands crossed over the heart were a gesture of love. Hands crossed over the chest were a gesture of loyalty and respect. And when the dead were laid to rest, it was with folded hands on the breast.
One Albanian tourist years before had laughed at the name, folding his hands into the shape of a bird and holding them over his head like a sign of victory, much to the confused amusement of his touring group. In his home country, he had to explain, it represented their national pride. The sign of an eagle, to echo the double eagle of their flag. Duart e kryqëzuara, the crossed hands.
A quiet place, for years...but no longer. Four new residents had come to stay. Long-term tenants, not paying for a single night or a weekend, but to stay for a while. To make this place their home. No one could have seen the storm that followed them.
Soon there would be blood and broken glass and fire.
Soon there would be death.
But death was an old friend in The Crossed Hands. It had been there before them, and it would be there after them. Like it’s proprietor, it was made of sturdier stuff than it seemed.
They called it ‘haven’, and it couldn’t shelter them from this storm...but it would weather it.
'Trivial Pursuit' by Sass (@FrassySass)
Fucking fledglings.
More trouble than they were worth, most nights. Fumbling weans. Barely aware of their vampiric state, let alone competent enough to be proper Kindred. Why anyone in the Court thought they were worth more than the pigeon shit on the statuary in terms of assisting the Bloodhunt, Alistair would never understand.
May as well ask a litter of pups to defend the front yard.
Emrys (the Prince, he reminded himself, though it was hard not to make a face at the thought) was blathering on about Thin Bloods and that infuriating ponce, Tyler Adams. The Ventrue weren’t usually so polemic. Most licked the boots of their betters, simpering and scraping for whatever power or praise their elders allowed them. Adams was different. He was...incendiary. He had lit London afire with his underground railroad for the weak and useless. A hopeless endeavour, truly. Barely worthy of pity or disdain. And yet, the city was in a silent uproar. Adams would have made a better Brujah than a Ventrue, if he had a mote of genuine passion to drive him.
Gehenna hadn’t yet struck down the world, but many still believed. “The end is nigh!” cried those Noddist twats who still believed that Caine was more than a name out of myth. Superstitious rot. Reason enough, though, to cull the good-for-nothing. It was easier to do his part when the Brujah were still a welcome clan in the city...since the exile of their Primogen, getting anything constructive done was next to impossible. And now they were putting green babes to the task.
It was unlikely, Alistair decided, that these four would contribute much to the Hunt. If they avoided undermining it entirely with their blind naivety, it would be a blessing. Just look at them.
One was a mongrel. Alicia’s most recent plaything, and no more in touch with politics than his primitive Gangrel sire. Frenzy and a short unlife would be his legacy, no doubt. Oliver had selected yet another mortal to serve his fruitless experiment. As though decades of hidebound ignorance could be erased by a single childe, and the tradition-mired lag of Clan Tremere corrected. The Warrens had claimed yet another hapless soul. Like the pox and E-coli in the water, the Nosferatu were a disease. Useful, in their fashion, but hardly welcome in civilized society. And to crown the whole pointless affair, that artsy fartsy screwball, Edmund, had acquired yet another apprentice. Poor fool. How long before he was replaced with that fickle Malkavian’s latest flavour of the decade?
All four them...neonates now, apparently, but still worthless. What a waste of time.
This is a tale of Kindred four,
so clutch your tea tight,
and in the dead of the night,
listen to the lore.
One of them Jim,
athletic prowess and fangs,
conscience burning with pangs,
for being a reaper grim.
The next full of reason,
but underneath burning bright,
love and passion alight,
is Katia’s soul in high season.
Ben is the artist unfeigned,
and he’s also afraid,
love for his Sire can’t be swayed,
that’s part of his unstable mind.
His appearance is appalling,
but Moses is kind,
searching for peace of mind,
is his true calling.
And above them all,
weaving a net,
designing the set,
Tidus is the sol.
'Tale of the Kindred Four' by Miss Unreason (@MissUnreason)
'Status Quo' by Sass (@FrassySass)
In many ways, the Tradition of Masquerade upholds itself. Of course, there were those breaches that required manual care to mend, but sometimes a Kindred need not lift a finger. Mortals died and disappeared all the time, and more often than not, humanity failed to even notice. Or care.
When a young woman went missing from a University campus, those professors who bothered taking attendance noted her absence, but only in passing. She was just a number, after all. A single empty seat in the auditorium. One tiny digit of the student body. It wasn’t unusual for a student to succumb to stress and the crush of midterm madness, and a mid-semester drop out wasn’t worthy of anyone’s notice. The only person who might have realized, or cared, disappeared right along with her, with as little fanfare.
An up and coming artist moved to London, riding the wave of fame and acclaim that had swept him up since he caught the eye of one of the city’s most celebrated critics. If anyone found it strange that he no longer made social appearances during the day, they said nothing of it. Artistic eccentricity, they murmured behind glasses of overpriced champagne, and besides, his patron was a renowned night owl.
Late one night on an empty road, a warehouse worker saw a monster. A beast, a creature that defied rational explanation. He saw a woman nearly torn apart. In the wake of that haunting night, he told no one. Not his family, not his coworkers. The secret ate away at his mind, and yet still, somehow, it seemed impossible to explain to another sane human being. The woman’s face was seared in his mind, and one night she appeared again. Whole and unharmed. And her lips were stained with blood. He died with that secret untold.
A computer science major would never think he was being hunted. Harassed, sure...stalked by some crazy homeless nut. That made sense. The depth of a Kindred’s hatred is beyond the grasp of most kine. Even as he watched his own face warp and contort with the curse of his bloodline, still he wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. This was a nightmare, just a hallucination, some kind of crazy drug. Protecting himself was not a choice. It was instinct. A murder of convenience, long before he knew the secret world he was protecting by taking that life.
Four mortals sired. Four people vanished from their old lives. And the world simply...moved on. That aspect of human nature protects Kindred more than any Scourge or Constable ever could.
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