Pieces

Ich Rekommi mal wieder so, weil ich es sonst wieder garantiert vergesse - ich kenne mich ja (*schaut zu den mehreren hundert unbeantworteten Kommentaren auf Ao3 und rennt weinend davon*)

Und ich sage auch einfach direkt mal hier Bescheid: Meine neue Longfic ist nun auf Ao3 - und es ist dieses Mal dann auch Dark Fantasy geworden. Mit Witcher Referenzen, Bastet

The lesser Evil

Zitat von Il Dottore

Und wow. Die Zusammenfassung der Geschichte klingt echt dark. Aber das ist keineswegs was Schlechtes, wie ich finde. Ganz im Gegenteil. Könnte man das schon als Dark Fantasy bezeichnen als Genre der Serie? Wirkt zumindest von deinen Beschreibungen ein bisschen so und well, was soll ich sagen - ich liebe Dark Fantasy. xD

Ja, die Serie wurde offiziell als Dark Fantasy/Horror deklariert. Auch zurecht, weil sie ist sehr blutig. Also in der ersten Folge sehen wir gleich wie ein kleines Kind zerfleischt wird und solche Späße. Also recht viel Splatter, würde ich sagen. Und eben ja, auch düstere Themen, selbst wenn das Dark Fantasy wirklich eher aus dem blutigen Bereich kommt, als dem anderen. Also wie gesagt: Es gibt eine Folge, die Vergewaltigungen beinhaltet. Dafür zwar gleich zwei hintereinander, aber es ist nur eine Folge.

Ach ja, übrigens, weil das BB aus irgendeinem Grund mir daraus kein Zitat machen mag: Ja, Castlevania ist ein richtig großes Videospielfranchise. Also so groß, dass es zusammen mit Metroid effektiv zur Grundlage eines Genres geworden ist: Metroidvania. Action-Plattformer, in denen man durch das Erhalten von Items und neuen Fähigkeiten zunehmend neue Bereiche begehen kann :D Wobei das zumindest ursprünglich so war. Konami... weiß wie bei Silent Hill nicht so wirklich, was sie mit der Lizenz machen sollen oder wollen. Weil, welp... Konami, ne? Sie haben effektiv einige Spiele gemacht, sind dann in den späten 2000er dazu übergegangen Castlevania Action-RPGs zu machen, die dann weniger erfolgreich waren. Dann gab es noch ein paar Spiele hier und da und dasneuste ist ein Mobile Game, aber sie machen wenig mit der Lizenz. Was halt auch daran liegt, dass sie... einen kleinen Fehler gemacht haben: Die Spiele gehen halt darum, Dracula zu besiegen, der effektiv alle 100 Jahre wiederbelebt wird... allerdings haben sie ein Maximum eingebaut - und dann war Dracula halt zum letzten Mal im 2. WK wiederbelebt und... Dann mussten sie schauen, was sie machen.

Danach gab es dann zwei Spiele, in denen Dracula als Japanischer Highschooler Wiedergeboren wurde (also technisch gesehen spanischer Austauschschüler in Japan mit dem Wunderbaren Namen Soma Cruz) - aber die kamen noch auf dem NDS heraus. Dann haben sie es mit einem Reboot versucht und seither... ist das ganze recht tot. Weil, wie gesagt... Konami.

Zitat von Il Dottore

Ich finde es übrigens außerordentlich sympathisch das du auch jemand bist, der gern weiterdenkt. Also Canon nimmt und sich dazu dann noch weitere Gedanken gemacht, es ausbaut und eigene Werke daraus macht. Das mache ich auch sehr gern; insbesondere wenn es eben auch Charaktere betrifft, mit denen man sich gut identifizieren kann oder die man einfach auch unabhängig davon absolut lieben lernt etc. Da ist es auch immer von Vorteil, wenn man auch die Welt mag und kennt, um da halt auch effektiv weiter dran rumzubasteln. Könnte ich tbh Stunden lang mach - mich einfach irgendwo reindenken und weiterdenken und daraus dann was eigenes entwickeln, was aber immernoch Bezug auf den Canon nimmt.

Werde demzufolge auch nochmal deine Werke "in der richtigen Reihenfolge" lesen. Insbesondere wenn ich Castlevania jetzt bald selbst schaue. :>

Ich meine, ich habe sehr viel Fluff zu der Serie geschrieben. Einfach weil ich der Meinung bin, dass die charaktere sich das auch mal verdient haben xD Es ist halt ein sehr großer Unterschied darin, wie ich das Trio (+ Greta) schreibe und dann halt die Styria-Truppe. Weil... Das Trio tut sich doch leichter, einander zu vertrauen und dann mal die Mauern fallen zu lassen. Hector und Isaac sind dagegen sehr guarded. Und dann haben wir halt noch Striga und Morana... Und während Striga halt sich eher bereit sieht in Menschen Personen zu sehen ist Morana dafür einfach zu alt. Ich habe sie nun 1700 Jahre alt gemacht (ihre Charakterdesignerin sagte, Morana ist über 1200 Jahre, vielleicht sogar 2000 Jahre alt - und ich wollte sie in eine bestimmte Ecke aus Persien setzen)... Und mit 1700 Jahren siehst du dir halt so ein Menschlein mit 25-30 Jahre an und denkst dir: "Ein Baby." Wobei ich darüber auch noch einmal ein wenig mehr schreiben werde... Ich meine, die Geschichte am Montag die ich hochladen werde ha Morana und Hector als Hauptfiguren. Aber auch so. Morana ist mit ihrem Alter halt allein. Selbst unter Vampiren überschreiten nur wenige 500 und kaum jemand die 1000 Jahre. (Sagt der Canon so nicht, aber... fast alle Vampire von denen wir das Alter kennen sind zwischen 200 und 500 Jahren alt - mit nur zwei Charakteren, die älter sind: Morana und Cho.)

Oh Gott, ich nerde dich gerade zu, tut mir leid. Es ist spät. Meine Filter sind weg lol

Aber ich habe halt auch... sehr viel weiterentwickelt. Ich meine... Ich... Ich weiß was in dieser Welt für die nächsten 100 Jahre passieren wird. Ohne Scheiß xD Aktuell sind auf meiner Festplatte gesamt 300k unveröffentlichte Worte zu Castlevania... Ahaha. xD""" Und ich schreibe noch an einer 25 Kapitel Geschichte dazu.

Und... dann habe ich da noch 2 Mittellange Geschichten (like 10-15 Kapitel so) zu den Kids von dem Haupttrio.

Zitat von Il Dottore

Nocturne ist dann quasi ... die Fortsetzung bzw. nächste "Staffel"?

Mehr oder minder.

Also wie gesagt: In den Spielen ist es so, dass Dracula alle 100 Jahre wiederkommt - und ab und zu nicht richtig besiegt wird, was dann bedeutet, dass er im selben Jahrhundert 1-3 Jahre nach dem ursprünglichen Auftauchen noch eine Bonusrunde dreht. xD Und Draculas erster Angriff in der Timeline der Spiele ist 1476 (was fun fact das Jahr des historischen Todes von Vlad Tepes war). Zwar ist das nicht das erste Spiel in der Timeline (das ist Lament of Innocent, in dem es um die Vorgeschichte von Dracula geht). Und die Castlevanai Serie handelt halt in Staffel 1+2 von diesem Spiel, wobei sie noch ein paar Aspekte aus Curse of Darkness reinnehmen.

Das beliebsteste Spiel aus der Reihe ist aber Symphony of the Night. (Zurecht, es ist ein richtig gutes Spiel.) Was technisch gesehen eben so ein Beispiel von "Dracula dreht ne Bonusrunde" ist, nachdem er 4 Jahre vorher in Rondo of Blood besiegt wurde. Und uuuuuursprünglich wollte Netflix sogar nur die Filmrechte für Symphony of the Night, weil es halt so beliebt ist, haben. Aber... sie haben die Rechte hierfür super billig bekommen... Weshalb sie halt erst das gemacht haben. Aber nun wollen sie halt Symphony of the Night und Rondo of Blood als Castlevania: Nocturne machen. Wobei das Fnadom aktuell rätselt, inwieweit die serie dann nun überhaupt auf dem Spiel beruht, weil a) wir wissen, dass Nocturne in Frankreich, statt der Wallachei spielt und b) ... müssen sie entweder das Ende der Serie soweit retconnen oder sich was anderes als Dracula einfallen lassen. xD" Weil... Ähm. Nun. Sagen wir es mal so, das ganze mit Bösewicht Dracula hat sich am Ende der Serie erledigt.

Zitat von Il Dottore

Und uh, sehr gut. Wenn du deinen Whumpuary postest, highlighte mich mal! Ich beobachte zwar die Topics im FF-Bereich aber manchmal übersehe ich auch gern mal was. Weil: Wirst mich wohl jetzt nicht mehr los als Leser, hehe.

Mache ich dann. Ich werde das hier wohl Ende des Monats als Batch posten. ^-^ Mit allen 10 Ficlets.

Oder soll ich es in Zwei Fünfer-Packs posten? Hmm.

Zitat von Il Dottore

Das ist mitunter nicht einfach, weil Charaktere manchmal sehr "starr" wirken können oder das Gespräch fast schon gezwungen wird, weil "die Charaktere halt mal miteinander reden müssen" oÄ.

Hihi. Das lustige hier ist ja fast, dass die beiden Notgedrungen miteinander sprechen, nachdem sie nun mal beide da sitzen und der Stute bei ihrer Sache zuschauen. xD Aber... Uhm. Ich weiß es ehrlich gesagt nicht. Ich channel irgendwie die Charaktere. Und Striga fällt mir sehr leicht zu schreiben - und sei es auch nur weil ich sie so massiv geheadcanoned habe. xD (To be fair, sie hat in der Serie fünf Szenen, in denen sie spricht - da kann man viel interpretieren.)

Ich weiß nicht, ob du The Owl House kennst, aber sie channelt gerade bei mir wirklich sehr Eda: "Haha, someone is beating up some dumb humans........ Wait, those are my dumb humans!"

Zitat von Il Dottore

Ich konnte mich gut in Hector hineinversetzen, weil du die Gedanken sehr gut rübergebracht hast zwischen den Gesprächen. Besonders gut hat mir auch das kleine Gespräch über Ehrlichkeit gefallen; also das Tiere ehrlich sind. Unumstritten ehrlich sogar. Das passt auch sehr gut zum Titel, auf den ich jetzt auch eingehen möchte:

Das ist gut. Er ist halt irgendwie so mein seelenverwandter Charakter (aka ich projeziere ungesund viel auf diesen Charakter). Er spricht halt auch so viel über Tiere, weil Tiere seine Art sind, die Welt zu verstehen. Er versteht Menschen nicht, aber Tiere versteht er. Weil Tiere ein wenig einfacher zu verstehen sind und in der Regel nicht versuchen werden auf Rachefeldzüge zu gehen oder ihn zu versklaven. Und ja, ich fühle das. Ich fühle das.

Zitat von Il Dottore

Zwar macht der Titel des Werkes Sinn, wenn man ihn zu Beginn liest, aber die wahre Message dahinter, bekommt man erst nach und nach im Werk selbst mit. Das hast du hier finde ich echt klasse rübergebracht, insbesondere diese ... ja, kinda Ironie dahinter. Weil wenn man es so betrachtet ist Loyalität ein sehr seltenes aber wertvolles Gut. Die kleine Doppeldeutigkeit (also das "Hunde" zwar als sehr loyal gelten aber eben "Hunde" sind und weniger eine "ebenbürtige/gleichgestellte Person" (= Sklave?) in diesem Kontext) gefällt mir auch sehr gut - zumindest in der Art, wie ich es interpretiere bzw. interpretiert habe.

Yay. Du hast gar keine Ahnung, wie viel mir dieser Absatz bedeutet, weil es einfach immer schön ist, wenn sich jemand damit auseinandersetzt, was man damit sagen wollte :D Und es ist halt ein Dauerthema in der Serie dass spezifscih Hector aber im weiteren Sinne Menschen - nun... Der Status als Personen abgesprochen wird. Hector wird immer als Hund oder Puppy von den Vampiren bezeichnet - und andere Menschen als Vieh. Und ja, es sagt halt auch viel darüber aus, wie die Welt gesehen wird - und das finde ich halt spannend.

Gerade, weil Hector im Umkehrschluss halt genau dasselbe Macht. (Er vergleicht die Vampire mit Raubtieren.)

Zitat von Il Dottore

Eine weitere Thematik, mit der ich mich auch gerne mal in Werken auseinandersetze, die mir sehr gefallen hat: Unsterblichkeit. Und das es eigentlich niemand wirklich ist - nicht einmal Vampire. Das hat eine so bittersweete Bedeutung, die ich gern mit in Werken habe. Diese eine Wahrheit, die jeder kennt, aber oftmals nicht wahrhaben möchte. Besonders nicht in einem solchen Gedankenkarussell. Dennoch wirkt es halt echt und greifbar, wenn man darüber nachdenkt - sei es nun aktiv als Charakter oder aber als Leser, weil man darüber dann ebenfalls nachdenkt.

Ja, das ist halt ein Thema über das ich mir wirklich viel Gedanken gemacht habe. Siehst du... Es gibt... bestimmte Ecken vom Fandom die sich sehr darüber aufregen, dass Lenore sich selbst umbringt. Und, tbh, ich kann es abseits von "Da war keine Triggerwarnung" nicht nachvollziehen, weil... Sie ist nicht 20, sie ist 200. Sie wird nie einen natürlichen Tod erleben. Entweder sie wird ermordet oder sie bringt sich selbst um - wahrscheinlich dadurch in die Sonne zu gehen. Und... Vampire sind auch nur Menschen, die unsterblich gemacht wurden. Und ich denke die meisten können die "Ewigkeit" nicht ertragen. Irgendwann geht es halt nicht mehr. Bei Lenore war der Punkt dann eben mit 200 Jahren erreicht. Ewig Leben kann nicht das Ziel sein.

Welp. Hier ist dann die nächste Geschichte, die in der Steiermark spielt. Dieses Mal mit Morana und Hector.

Für Kaios eine kurze Erklärung: Morana ist ein Charakter über den wir praktisch nichts wissen. Alles was wir wissen: Sie ist alt (laut einer Charakterdesignerin über 1000 Jahre alt) und kommt aus dem persischen Raum. Ich habe sie letzten Endes 1700 Jahre alt gemacht, so dass sie aus der späten Zeit des persischen Imperiums kommt. In der Serie ist es ein wenig seltsam. Sie ist eindeutlich keine Kämpferin. Also überhaupt nicht. Was komisch ist, denn eigentlich sollte man meinen (also anerkannte Popkultur und so) dass alte Vampire stärker sind und sie ist die älteste Vampira, die wir sehen. Da sie es nicht ist, habe ich ihr nicht-kämpferische Fähigkeiten gegeben: Empathische Telepathie und die Fähigkeit zu einem gewissen Maßstab Gefühle zu manipulieren.

Ach ja, und Freitag lade ich hier wohl mal die ersten fünf Whumpuary Geschichten hoch.

Kindred Spirits

Her room was still unchanged. They had not touched it, had not reused it. It was still the same. Small, compared to what Morana and her other sisters had used, because she had not been their equal when she had arrived—and yet had not wanted another room later on. It lacked the overbearing opulence Carmilla’s room had possessed or the wide architecture of the room that Morana was sharing with her wife once again.

No. Lenore’s room had always been simple. Looking more like a room in the farm of some country gentry, not an actual princess. Definitely not a queen.

Morana still did not know how she felt about it. Not the room, of course. No. Her death. Lenore’s death.

She was angry about Carmilla. About the man killing her. But she also knew that Carmilla had long perfected the art of making herself enemies. She had died in combat. Honorable. Of sorts. But Lenore? Sweet, naïve Lenore?

Morana had talked with Striga and of course Striga was right. It was not unusual. A lot of vampires walked into the sun at some point. Because what else was there for them? They would not die a natural death, so the choice was either dying in combat, through some sort of stupid accident or, well, or the death in the sun.

Living forever was not a thing human souls were made for. And too many of them possessed human souls.

No.

What got to Morana was learning how it happened. Two weeks after Carmilla’s death. Two weeks! And they had abandoned her. They should've returned, should at least have tried to save her. But they did not, just assuming she was already dead. Because it made the most sense, didn't it? How was sweet Lenore, who like Morana had never possessed much in form of combat abilities aside from the usual strength and speed that came from being a vampire, to survive, while Carmilla had died?

She was still struggling to understand.

Sitting on this sofa here, she sighed. She did not cry anymore. Because it would be silly. She was old. Ancient. Almost two millennia. Most people she had ever known in her life were dead. Because nothing lived forever. Nothing but her, that was.

She hated change. She hated to again and again loose whatever stability she had found in her world. But she had gotten used to it. Somehow.

And yet…

Morana got up to leave the room. The sun had just set—she could feel it—leaving her with things to do. Because it was the only reason for them to be allowed back here, right? In exchange for their services. Ha! Serving fucking humans.

She hated it.

She hated how things had changed in just about three years.

She hated how the self-proclaimed king would talk to her. As if they were equals. As if he even could imagine what it was to be ancient like her.

Nobody could, of course. Not even Striga.

Carmilla had not been able to understand it either, who had allowed herself to be lulled into a wrong sense of security. Into a worldview in which she could not be touched. Because she was clever. Because she thought ahead. And yet, she had not seen the forgemaster coming—had not seen their own forgemaster cutting of his finger to be free.

Ironic, really. As Carmilla of all people had to understand the lengths people would go through for freedom.

Their own forgemaster was so much quieter than the self-proclaimed king. He did not talk much about his motivation—and whenever they met in the library, she was rather certain he wanted to be elsewhere as much as she did.

“A scaredy cat,” Striga had taken on calling him. And Morana could see it. There was always this look in his eyes. Searching for a path to escape if push came to shove. His muscles where tense, whenever she was near. As if he was ready to jump up and run. He never had done so, no, but she felt he wished so.

It was the idea of the self-proclaimed king for them to run through this exercise. She presumed the man meant well for his friend. After all the little scaredy cat forgemaster wanted to learn magic, history, philosophy—and they had so many books on it. So many books he could not read, as his knowledge of old languages was restrained to Latin, Greek and just a bit of Aramaic. So, the king had decreed, she would teach him the other languages to be studied here. Akkadian, Egyptian, Persian, Sanskrit and Chinese. And the little forgemaster was a quick learner, being able to read three of the languages fairly well ever only ten months. He still watched her the same way, a sheep might watch the wolf entering the stables.

His fear was reasonable, of course, because he would've liked nothing more but to make him suffer. But she didn't. Because she assumed they needed stability. Because Striga did not want another fight.

Right now, they were working on old Persian – funnily enough the language of Morana’s few human years. Like Akkadian he still had trouble reading the cuneiform. While he had already known some words – both in Akkadian and Persian – from spells he had once learned, his reading was slow and shaky. “Thâtiy Dârayavaush xshâvi…”

“Xshâviyathiya,” she corrected him.

“Oh, right.” He did not look to her, looked only into the book, before trying the entire sentence anew. “Thâtiy Dârayavaush xshâyathiya kâra Pârsa utâ Mâda hya upâ mâm â.”

She could not fault him, of course, that he had never learned to read cuneiform. After all it was rarely ever transcribed onto paper outside of vampire libraries. At least not in long form. Sure, some humans had written down a sentence here or there, often spells of magic or something of the like – but to create new spells one had to understand the language on a level that humans these days simply didn’t.

Yet, she was annoyed with every mistake he made, with the way his voice would strain as he was reading the words from the paper. He was so human. So fallible. So easily killed. She could kill him. Of course, she could. And she could make it a long and painful death.

But it wasn’t an option. Not really. Not as long as she did not want to leave again. So, she sat here, listening to him read a simple historical text. A text that was still easier to understand than a philosophical or religious text might’ve been.

“I am sorry,” he muttered the next time she corrected him. He was making notes on pieces of parchment, his fingertips black with spilled ink.

She wanted to groan, she wanted to slap him, because he was stumbling over the same set of syllables again and again. But she didn't. She just sighed. “Take a break.” They had been at it for over an hour now. And it was not as if there really was a timeframe in which he had to master it all, was there?

At this he nodded, still without looking at her. Instead, he focused on his parchment, transcribing his scribbles into a clearer writing on another piece. Wasteful, she would say, but it was not as if they were lacking for much in the castle.

As he was finished, he looked into the book once more, as if it might reveal some information to him.

She could not even tell, what he was hoping to gain from all of this. Why he wanted to even understand it. He was only human, after all. Only a little human, who would die in maybe thirty to forty more years—if he was lucky.

The worst thing about this little forgemaster was his warmth. There was still warmth in him. Something that should not be there after everything he so clearly had done. Working with Dracula. There was a softness, too.

Whenever he was not in the library or with his dear self-proclaimed king, he would be out there at the stables. Caring for some animals. Or rather just spending time with them. He would just do that almost every day.

There was a stable hand lost in him. A much more useful job for him, instead of tiring his fragile human brain with philosophy. Humans would never be good philosophers, no matter how hard they tried. Because philosophy needed a hindsight that humans just could not possess with their ridiculously short lives.

But he… tried. That was the most she could say.

Not that she had ever read his writing. Not more than a few sentences here or there when she looked over his shoulder. He was wasting a lot of paper with it, as he was scribbling a lot, scratching stuff out, rewriting whole pages.

She had seen human scribes before and they usually worked… more cleanly. He didn’t.

He was not stupid (for a human) but unordered. But what else was she to expect?

Right now, he was opening it again, writing down some notes and crossing out others and once more she could not help but to look over his shoulder. His handwriting at least was rather orderly and easy to read.

He was waxing on, of course. Waxing on about the meaning of life—the most popular theme among human philosophers. His difference in approach, of course, was, that he had the perspective of knowing of immortality and how a life could be stretched on and on for centuries. There was one thing, that jumped out at her, though: I don’t believe, there is a happy vampire.

She could not help but scoff at that. “There are happy vampires.”

He instinctively covered his writing with his body, as he noticed her reading. “I…” For just a moment their eyes met, before he looked down again.

In truth, she did not really want to know what he was thinking. Or did she? “Do you think, I am unhappy?”

He looked at his writing, before closing up the book again. There was fear in his eyes once more, though he still did not dare to look directly at her. “I… I don’t think you are happy.”

Another scoff. “Why?”

“You’d rather not be here, would you? At the castle, I mean. With… us.”

“That is true.”

“And I do assume you were not happy out there, because otherwise you would not choose this over the life out there.” He spoke quiet, his eyes fixed on one of the table legs.

Most of all she hated to admit, that his reasoning was of course not wrong. “We were happy, before Dracula started his whole campaign on the world.”

At this he was silent. What could someone like him say to that?

She dared to sense him – something she normally did not do. After all she knew what she would feel there. Fear. She was right about this. Though there was something else. Anger. Well, she assumed that after everything this was warranted. And one other thing. Pity.

Pity from a human!

Just barely she held back the instinct to slap him, to shove him to the ground. She was not going to make a scene about it. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“Because I see it in your eyes,” he whispered. “You are all… sad.” He pursed his lips, so clearly considering how much he could say without getting killed for it. “The younger vampires, too. Their sadness is different, though. Yours… is cold. And angry.”

Once more she scoffed at him. Because this was just silly. “Oh, I am angry.”

“I know.” She could still sense the fear from him. Though trying to get a better sense she also could feel that it was mused in a way. He had accepted it, the fear. It was not the heart racing fear of a human freshly cornered, but rather the fear of a human fully aware he could die any day.

Actually not that much like a scaredy cat at all.

She sighed, because she knew that kind of fear well. Not from herself, though she might have had it before, but from young vampires. She had felt in within them so many times. In Carmilla, too, back in the day. As well as Lenore. Not in Striga, though. It had been what had made her different in the first place.

“Are you afraid of me?” Those words slipped out before she could hold them off. She hoped for a “yes”, because he would be more stupid than assumed if he said anything else.

He nodded. Silently. Before adding. “You enjoy making others feel pain, right?”

“Where is that coming from?”

“Just something…” He stopped, pursing his lips once more. “Something Lenore had said.”

To frighten him, right? She looked at him, though it was hard to gather more from his feelings. They were mixed up. Fear, anger, pity, sadness. All intermingling in his spirit, in his aura, as some humans would say.

Lenore had always tried to keep up with them of course. And had failed again and again. She had been weak. Really weak. She had not even gained those powers Morana had held—or Laura for that matter. And maybe she had also lacked the anger, that had made them strong. The other three of them. There had been anger, but not the hot, burning kind. Mostly just sadness over the death of the person she had never been allowed to be.

Oh, she had played this little forgemaster like a fiddle. But Morana had sensed it, too. Regret over it. Just a quiet, little regret, that was never to be spoken out loud.

She had been too soft for this. For ruling. For ruling over humans, that were nothing much more than cattle. A concept that only worked for keeping one above them, if you did not pity the cow let to the slaughter either, if you had not tears in your eyes, as you could hear the pigs in the slaughter house squealing for their insignificant lives.

Carmilla had often chided her for it. Had chided her as stupid, as too soft. And silently Morana had agreed—was still agreeing with it.

And yet, even she was not unable to see the bitter irony in how everything had turned out. With two kindred spirits more attached to life than either would admit.

The forgemaster was looking at the book they had been working from. “Should… should we continue?” he dared to ask.

She looked at it, then back to him. “Why didn’t she die when your precious king took the castle?” She still was unable—and unwilling—to hide her disdain.

For just a short moment the forgemaster’s eyes flickered up to her. “Because… Because I asked Isaac not to. Not to kill her.”

“Why?”

“Because I was a stupid idiot,” he muttered. “Because I actually liked her.” And he used that word— “like”, but he did mean something else, didn’t he? That little thing a human actually was unable to ever truly understand.

She felt like laughing over this and did not quite know why. She stopped herself, but she knew it would’ve been a rather sad laugh indeed. “You did not understand her.” She spoke those words, knowing she was lying. Because at least she was fairly certain about one thing: he had tried to understand.

And for once he was holding her gaze. “I know.” There was a new emotion in him. Self-loathing.

What she hated most, was the fact that it was an emotion they shared. Because it was a thing; they both were guilty of: her death.

And yet she did not voice those thoughts, because the last thing she needed right now was kinship with this stupid human. So, she just opened up the book for him, the cuneiform so evenly written over the page. “Continue.”

Okay. Aber wie ich es Kaios versprochen habe, hier kommen die ersten fünf Geschichten aus meiner Whumpuary Reihe. :D Diese sind auch größtenteils sehr fandom-blind friendly, da sie mit einer Ausnahme Pre-Canon spielen :)

Alle fünf genau 1000 Wörter lang!

The Chained Goddess

1064

Nightmares.

They were just another thing that bound them together. Nightmares, that were equal parts fear and memory. The exact flavor between them might differ, but they all had them.

Morana did not even know what it was like to sleep without them. Without nightmares. She did not even know whether there once had been a time in her life in which she had not been haunted by them. After all those things that lay more than 500 years in the past were blurry in her memory, getting only blurrier as time went on.

She could only wonder if those things she saw in her own nightmares were things that had happened or ways of her mind to fill the blanks. It was not even the blood and death that disturbed her most about it. It was more the knowledge that the same thing would happen over and over again. That people would expect her to do it over and over. To be the harbinger of death. To be the harbinger of justice. To be so many other things to so many at that.

While she barely did remember the kingdom she had once come from, she knew of the many roles she had inhabited in it. She knew of the many obligations she had. Towards the people. Towards men as well. Because it seemed there was no world in which women did not have obligations towards men.

She had tried to sleep. In fact there had been a time where she had not slept for a whole decade. Vampires did not need to sleep after all. They could go on without it. But it had turned out that without the sleep, the nights would bleed into one another, would become less real to her mind. Without the sleep strange specters started to haunt her waking life. And thus, she gave in. Thus, she slept again – only to be woken up every other day, sweat covering her body, as if in those nightmares it still remembered humanity.

Now she was here again. Sitting upright in the bed she shared with the other woman. She knew outside the sun was still high in the sky, forbidding her to leave the room. Because life had cursed her in more than one way, it seemed.

She was over a millennium old by now. She was ancient, even by vampire standards. And most ancient vampires… they did not become immune to the sun, but would no longer burn. Rather get the worst of all sunburn. She was not it. Just as her powers did not allow her to fight, she never had gained the ability to walk in the sun again. She was different.

Instead, she was confined inside during those sunlight hours. Sitting here, unable to find sleep again.

She had been a goddess in her dream. A goddess bringing death and destruction down to the world. And yet a goddess chained by her obligations, by everyone who wanted her to be something she really was not. A goddess at the same time powerful and powerless. A goddess, who had been alone for centuries. A goddess, who was expected to serve the same civilization, that in the end crumbled to dust, now nothing more than ruins buried under desert sands.

The last part she knew to be true. She knew that the city, she had once ruled, was long gone and forgotten. She even remembered the name – being maybe the only being to remember it. It had burned, but she did not remember who had been the one burning it. It might well have been herself.

And now she was here. In a place so completely different from it. In a place that might one day burn as well. In a place…

“Love?” The voice of the other woman cut through the buzzing filling her mind. There was a strong hand on her shoulder, gripping her firmly, reassuringly, pulling her back into the here and now. Away from the past. Away from the possible future as well.

She looked at the other woman, who had sat up now as well. Those eyes looking surprisingly tired for a vampire. “It's alright,” she whispered. “Just another nightmare.”

“Which one was it?” Striga asked. She pulled Morana close, held her in those ridiculously strong arms in a way nobody had done before they had met. At least not for centuries.

“I was a chained goddess,” she whispered. “Chained.” Chained and enslaved, really.

It was the one thing she was rather certain of: She had been turned into a vampire to rule. Because vampires were better rulers, as they no longer were bound by those silly, little mortal desires. She remembered that all the rulers of her city had been like her. Vampires. Turned by one other vampire. But she did remember nothing of him but blood-red eyes.

“Maybe we should travel there at some point,” Striga whispered, her hand so carefully caressing Morana's shoulder. “We could travel there and… See the ruins.” She already knew how much it haunted Morana, that she only remembered bits and pieces.

“No.” Morana shook her head. “No. I'd rather stay here with you.” Here, where her life had been stable for the first time in centuries. Stable… Well, it had only been three years now, hadn't it? Three years since she had decided to stay.

“I am not talking now. I am talking in a few decades time.” There was a smile so clearly audible from Striga's voice. “We have eternity, after all.”

This, at least, made Morana smile. “We do, Love.” And maybe, over the centuries, she would find a way to unlock those memories she had lost. To figure out which part of the nightmares were real and which imagined. To remember what had happened when her kingdom fell.

“Shall I hold you?” Striga asked softly, making Morana nod.

She lifted her head to kiss the other woman softly, smile at her. “That would be wonderful, my Love.”

The Last Belmont

1468

Those people… They had told him the creature attacking their village was a demon, a night creature of some sort. This wasn't. It clearly wasn't. It was a Bes and Trevor did not even have a proper sword on him.

The creature had once been a pig, no doubt, a boar, now possessed by the Bes, grown to the size of a small fucking tree, howling with a voice that was so clearly from another time. Raging red eyes watched him, as he held the long knife he had close.

The bloody whip was no good at all, as it did to squat against fucking beasts of nature. He already was bleeding, was already bruised from the fight and was somewhat sure he was about to die.

Ha. He should've stayed in fucking Targoviste. Because at least working the streets there did not get him killed. But, well, it was not much of a life either, was it?

Now the boar was running towards him again, those massive hooves just trampling the ground, crushing bushes in the way. And Trevor did the one thing his mind was going to offer. He jumped, trying to land on the stupid creature's head, to get a proper angle to attack. Somehow his jump was even high enough to lang him on the snout, able to push himself further up. He almost slipped and the bloody beast wanted to make sure he did. All it probably wanted to do was to trample him to dead and be done with it.

“Fuck you,” he growled, as he struck his knife into the creature's eye, enticing another otherworldly scream from it. He pulled his knife out again, just to go for another attack. Then another one. His own blood mixed with the black blood of the creature, as it finally managed to throw him off.

He was not even able to think properly, before his back already hit one of the trees. He groaned in pain, his vision going black for just a moment. It was instinct, nothing else, that made him roll to the side, before the now blind creature crashed into the very same tree. It was roaring in anger and pain.

Slowly his vision returned, as he tried so hard to get back up onto his feet.

Fucking family legacy. He had thought this was gonna come easy to him. Be a monster hunter. Finally fulfill his destiny. Finally do something fucking good with his life. But he might as well have thrown himself off the stupid city walls.

He tasted blood in his mouth, spat and was at the same time quite certain at least half of his body was by now covered in bruises. He bet, here were a couple of broken bones in there as well. Maybe some broken ribs or something. But at least the beast could not see him.

Maybe he should just leave it at that. With the black blood gushing out of where the monster's eyes have been, the thing would probably die within a few hours. Not a pretty kill, but a kill no less. He did not have a proper sword, nothing to pierce that thick skull.

So he just…

The creature turned its head around, apparently having heard the underbrush beneath his feet crackle. Another roar, as it was galloping towards him and this time he just was not quick enough. There were hooves beating down on him, trampling him, ready to kill. He was going to fucking die - and with him the bloody family legacy.

Because, hell, it turned out a kid did not make for a great monster hunter after all.

Only that there was some hunter instincts left in him still. It was not rational decision. Just a sudden hit of inspiration, as he brought his sword between himself and the creature's underside, that was so much less protected than anything else.

Cold steel cut into dark flesh, more of the black blood gushing forward, as the creature screeched – and then collapsed. On top of him. It was still twitching, still trying to get up, but then… He was not even certain. All he knew that it suddenly stopped, with the fucking beast on top of him.

He would've laughed, if he had been able to breath. He was still fairly certain he was gonna die now. Of… something. Anything. Trevor Belmont, the last of the Belmonts, dead. Slain by a single stupid bloody Bes.

What other end had ever awaited him, really? It had been five years, since his family had been murdered. And he was still only but a kid. A very human, very mortal kid at that. Not fully grown and rather scrunchy, given that he had not had a good fucking meal in quite a while.

He had been supposed to die with his family, God darn it.

And yet, he somehow was still straining, still trying to get his limbs beneath himself, just for enough that he could push himself out from underneath the cursed creature.

It hurt. It hurt so much.

Pathetic.

He groaned and pushed and pulled, somehow trying to get a grip on the marshy forest floor.

He should have died that day with his family. He really should've. If anyone had been supposed to life, why not his brother, who at least would've been able to continue the bloody family legacy? Why not his father? His aunt or uncle? Why not his cousin for that matter? All of them had at least learned how to fight by that day. All of them had at least been hunters.

He wasn't. He just was a bloody kid, who strained to get out from underneath the Bes, fighting down a scream of pain, as he realized at least some of his ribs were broken. And yet he struggled, until he finally managed to move, until he finally got free.

He was no bloody hunter. But he was the only thing left of his family.

The Dying Child

1471

“Ynes,” Sypha whispered, holding the young girl's hand. “Ynes?”

But the girl did not reply. She was lying there, feverish, her breath so heavy. Sypha could not even tell, if she was still conscious.

In the end she was supposed to get better, not worse. But somehow… Somehow it was not happening and Sypha hated it. Because all she could do was sit here and hold her hand, as it was her turn to stay by the sickbed. Only that it was not a bed, of course, just as sleeping place made from hay and fabric in the corner of an old barn. Just another place to stay until…

She looked at the girl. Ynes was just twelve years old of course. Her hair was dark like her mother's, who had fallen sick with the coughs as well, even though it was only autumn and the time for coughs should not yet be here.

Their caravan had even made it to the city, had even managed to get enough money to buy some medicine. Some herbs. Lime, chamomile and thyme. It should help the fever, the infection and the coughs. Only that it did not seem to be working for Ynes.

It had worked for her mother, somehow. Therese was still weak and her fever still there, but her breathing had improved. She was not strong enough to stay by her daughter’s side, but she would make it. She had to make it. But Ynes?

The girl had had the fever for six days now and no matter how many teas they would make from the blossom of lime, the fever was not going down. She was not coughing anymore for sure, but Sypha was rather certain, that it was because she was too weak to cough now. Her breath was so heavy, rattling in her lungs and respiratory system, while sweat was pearling on the girl's forehead. And all Sypha knew how to do, was to summon bits of ice in a feeble attempt to cool the girl down.

“Ynes,” she whispered, pressing the girl's hand. “Ynes…”

There were tears burning in Sypha's eyes. She hated this. She hated all of this. Feeling so helpless, so useless most of all. It was the same thing every year. Someone would die of the coughs. If not in their caravan, they would hear about it when they met up with another one. But someone would die. Someone would be killed by the coughs.

There it was again. The low whines the girl would make from time to time, squirming while her eyes were moving behind closed lids. Nightmares, maybe, or hallucinations introduced by the fever. Yet another thing Sypha could not do anything about.

What would she not give to learn healing magic. But even between speakers there were only mumblings about it. Some said it was not possible at all. Some said it was a skill only to be learned by creatures from other worlds. Nobody knew how they could learn it – how simple humans could learn it. But it should be possible, right? After all magic was nothing but forcing one's own will upon the world, so why should it's power end at the bodies of other humans? How could it be that necromancers and forgemasters were able to revive the dead and Sypha was powerless to beat the infection in the little girl's body?

It was not fair. It was simply not fair. And Sypha could not do anything.

Then the girl drew in an especially deep breath, followed by a weak cough. Sypha had not expected for Ynes to open her eyes again and yet here she was, green eyes staring at Sypha, who could not say if the girl even recognized her.

There was fear in the girl's eyes. A fear that Sypha could not even begin to describe. The eyes were wandering now, flashing from one corner of the barn to the next.

“Ynes,” Sypha whispered. “Ynes.” She pressed the hand once more. The little, sweaty hand, leading to the girl to look at her. Pale lips formed silent words, a whisper too quiet for Sypha to understand.

“What is it?” She whispered. “What is it?”

“Ma…” That was all the girl managed, looking around. There were tears pooling in her eyes, as she tried to sit up. “Ma.”

“Your mother is still sick, but she is getting better, I promise,” Sypha whispered. “So you have to get better as well, do you understand?”

The tears were running down the girl's cheeks, as she pushed herself up only to fall down into the hay again. “Ma…” she rasped, the breath once more rattling in her throat. The green eyes closed again, as Sypha shook the thin shoulders.

“Ynes,” she whispered. “Ynes, stay with me. You have to stay with me, do you hear me?”

Only a raspy breath was her reply. Even now the eyes were moving behind the lids again, but if she little girl tried to open her eyes again, she failed.

Fear was gripping Sypha now. She had been at enough death beds to know what this meant. She was not even thinking as she was turning around. “Tata,” she asked. “Tata, please!”

Her grandfather woke, looking at her questioningly. “Sypha?”

“Tata, I think she is dying. I think…” Even Sypha was holding back the tears now. It was bad enough when an older person died, but Ynes? She was still a child. Still had a whole life ahead of her.

Now her grandfather moved over to her, taking the child's other hand. He bowed down to listen to those raspy breath, each of them weaker than the last. Then he looked at her, shook his head.

“No,” Sypha whispered, as she pressed the little hand. “No. Ynes. Please. You can make it. You can…” Her voice was getting louder, more desperate now. Others were waking as well. “Ynes. Ynes, please,” she whispered, looking at the girl. But Ynes had stopped breathing.

The Broken Prince

1476

He did not even know why out of all places in the castle he had come here. He was not really thinking. He just…

He did not even know. He did not know anything. The one thing he knew was that he was alone. Again. And maybe it was for the best. Maybe...

He was alone.

He did not even manage to get to that bed, collapsing only at the point on the floor where his father had died. How long? Two months ago? Or was it weeks? What difference did it make? His father was dead. So was his mother. Everyone was dead. He was alone.

He had killed his father.

He had killed them.

What was he even supposed to do now?

What could he do?

Why was nobody here he could ask?

But who was even supposed to be here? His father? His father had tried to kill the world. The literal world! He had tried to kill everyone. He had to be stopped. Right?

Right.

But why?

Why was he dead? Why was he not here? Why was his mother not here?

He needed them. He needed them now. He needed to be held, to be hugged. He wanted it. He wanted his mother back, who would run her finger though his hair and sing him songs of old. Who had once read him stories.

It had been long ago. But he needed it now. He just needed somebody.

What was he supposed to do?

They were dead.

Everyone was dead.

What had he done wrong?

He had wanted to help them. Taka. Sumi. He had wanted to help them become proper hunters. He would have taught them. To fight. To do magic. He had the knowledge. If nothing else he had knowledge. The things his father had once taught him. The things he had learned himself from those thousands upon thousands of books in the castle. He knew so much. He should teach others. He had wanted to teach them.

But they had not trusted him. They had…

Why?

What had he done wrong?

Because it had to have been something he had done. There had to have been something he could have done to change things. To make things different. He had not wanted to kill them. He had not wanted them dead. He had never wanted anyone dead. Not them. Not his father. And yet they had died.

He had killed them.

What had he done wrong?

There must have been something he could have done different. Something he could have said, something he could have done. They were not evil, after all. They had not been. They had just been… wronged. Wronged by a world. By a whole world.

But so had Trevor. The stupid Belmont. He had been wronged as well. And he had not tried to kill him.

And yet he had left. Hadn't he? Trevor had left. Like everybody always left.

Maybe it was his fault after all. Maybe he was doing something wrong. Because people always left. His parents had left him, too. They had left him, once he had been old enough to stay by himself. So maybe it was him after all. Maybe he just was someone people did not want to be around. Maybe he was just…

But what was it? What was he doing wrong?

He had not wanted them to die. Not his father. Not Taka and Sumi. He had not wanted any of them to die.

If they did not trust him, they should've just left. Why didn't they just leave? Why had they done this to him? Why had they tried to kill him? Why did they… He did not even understand. He understood nothing any longer. What had even happened? Why had it happened? Why…?

Where had everything gone so wrong?

Maybe he was the one who should have left. Just leave the castle to them. What did he even care? Sure, the castle held some ancient magics, but most people would not even understand them. And the castle held some good knowledge, too. Stuff that could be used to help…

Why didn't he just leave?

But he couldn't, could he? Because he did not know the world out there. He did not know anything but this castle and those bits and pieces he remembered from the journey to and from Gresit. He did not know the world. He did not understand it.

Maybe that was his mistake. Maybe that was, where he had gone wrong. He had not understood them, had he? And because of that they had done this to him. Because he had not understood them and he had done something wrong. Only that he did not know what.

Maybe that was the reason why they had left him, too. Trevor and Sypha.

No. No. They just wanted… Sypha had a family. At least she did have a family. And Trevor… Trevor was just an idiot in the end. And idiot, who had left as well.

Why?

Why had he even defended himself? Why had he done it? Why had he not allowed them to kill him? After all there was nothing left for him in this world. He had no family any longer. He had no friends. He had no goals in his life, nothing he could reach. They had. They had wanted to defend their people. They had had a people.

So why had he even defended himself? What was there about him to defend? Why did he even want to live anymore? What for?

He did not know. He did not know anything. All he knew was, that he could not take it any longer. Any of this. The pain. The fear. The sadness. He did not want to feel it any longer. But what else was there? The world was not going to change. They would not come back to life. His mother. His father. Taka. Sumi. He would forever be alone.

The Circling Vultures

1471

It was a small knife. A tiny one, in fact. Just tiny enough not to be noticed. Tiny enough to somehow slide through between Isaac's ribs. Thankfully also tiny enough to not reach his lungs. He was rather certain of it. As such, he hissed, he groaned, but then managed to land a blow against his attacker's head.

The man was not doing this professionally. He was just a small-time bandit. All three of them were. Trying to get by, probably. But Isaac did not care. He did not care at all.

He landed another blow, this time getting the man to the ground, while Isaac was already opening his belt. He saw the other man coming for him and he was prepared. He caught that arm holding the longer knife within the leather, knowing fully well how the bolts were ripping off the skin. He did not care about that either. Ignoring the man's scream, his attention already shifting to the third bandit, who had kept his distance. He was holding a crossbow and was standing on the other end of the alleyway.

Why?

Why were humans like this?

So egoistical. So stupid. Isaac would not have cared about any of them. Would not have cared about their existence. They could all have lived out their lives apart from one another. But no, they had to attack him. Just like every human had to attack him, it seemed.

How had the Lord's great creation turned into this? Cruel. Pathetic. Evil.

The guy with the tiny knife got up and Isaac had enough of this. He kicked the men in the ribs, feeling the satisfying break of the rather thin bones. When the man was pushed against the alley wall, Isaac landed a second kick against the man's hand holding the knife.

There was a scream of pain, but Isaac did not care.

He did care, however, about the bolt hissing for him, somehow managing to duck. The wooden bolt splintered at the old wall behind him, while he was running. He was quick. Because he never could have afforded not to be. He had reached the third man, before the guy was able to reload the crossbow. Isaac's belt looped around the man's throat, ripping it open, blood spluttering all over the already dirty ground.

Leaving him alone, here.

Well, not entirely alone. The guy with the tiny knife was still wailing in pain. As was the friend with the larger knife. It did not matter. They did not matter. They were just like all the other humans he had ever met. Petty. Greedy. Not once did they think about not attacking him. About not taking from him. Like everyone else already had. No more. He would not allow it to happen any longer. He had come to that decision years ago.

He wrapped the belt around his fist, looking around once more, before shaking his head. Maybe he should kill them. It would only be fair. Because they most certainly had been planning on killing him. But in the end, they did not matter enough. Just some stupid, pathetic humans.

He had more important things to care about.

And so, he left. The stab wound between his ribs was maybe an inch deep. He could feel it with every breath. But he had long learned to not show it. Holding himself upright he walked down the mostly empty street. He had to hide the pain, because if he did not do it, the vultures would descent.

It was a cruel world and even these days he was struggling to understand it. Because he knew for a fact that God was good. And yet his entire creation was long rotten to the core. It deserved to be expunged from the face of the world. It deserved to be annihilated.

Isaac knew, that this included him. He was cruel as well. Because the world had not allowed him to be anything but. It was a cruel world in which only the cruel would survive. So, cruel he had become. Because he would not be eaten alive. He would not show the weakness the others were looking for.

So, he made his way with a slow, but steady pace out of the small town, keeping up that pace, until he was sure to be alone. Only then did he allow himself to hiss in pain once more, one hand covering the wound now.

It would not kill him. He was rather sure of it. It would not kill him, just as the other things had not killed him before. The Lord knew, how the world had tried to kill Isaac. Without success. He would live. Another day and then another one. Until the end. Until the end of the world, which could not come too soon.

He drew in another breath, before starting the four miles walk back to the ruins he was inhabiting now. Not home, but a place to stay.

Because he did not have a home. He never once had. But he did not need one. Just shelter from the world. From that open and cruel world trying to swallow him. Until that day would come…

He had thought about it. About ending the world by himself. He had found that book a while ago. A book by a renegade mage, speaking of a practice that would draw souls from hell to create monsters from them. An army of monsters, to end the world, to end the creation that had long gone wrong. A part of him liked the idea. A part of him did. But there was also this other part, that did not want to be the one swinging the sword so to speak. He was not a leader. And as such he was not the one to enact God's will.

Maybe he was just waiting for the right person. The warrior with the righteous fury to finally expunge the cruel creation and create true paradise.

Okay, ich habe die nächste Steiermark-Geschichte. :D Dieses mal mit Striga und Isaac.

Hintergrund ist hier nun noch einmal für die fandom blinden, für den fall, dass interessant ( Kaios ) hier zwei Sachen: Isaac ist kanonisch Muslim und er betreibt kanonisch Selbstgeißelung. Es ist ein wenig offen gelassen, ob er dies nach dem Ende noch macht, aber ich habe mich entschlossen, dass er es halt eben doch weiter tut.

Und boy howdy, ich habe für diese Geschichten angefangen im Koran und islamischen Schriften zu lesen. Zu meiner Überraschung habe ich festgestellt, dass hier wirklich recherche betrieben wurde. Aber gut, ich weiß, dass sowohl Produzent, als auch der Synchronsprecher von Isaac (die beide Muslimischer Herkunft sind) Sensitivity Arbeit gemacht haben.

A Question of Faith

The sun had just disappeared behind the mountains, as Striga made her way through the corridors of the castle that were so familiar after the four hundred years she had lived here. She could feel a slight bit of hunger in the back of her mind, not having fed for a week. Though she knew well she could go without blood for at least another week after this. She was old enough that she could bear the hunger for up to a month, though she preferred not to.

It was the inconvenient part of their new lot in life. She could not just ride out there, grab a single human and devour their blood. It had to be done properly. Only taking from consenting prey. Though in the end it was just this: An inconvenience for someone as old as her. It was the younger vampires struggling more with it, as the hunger was still very much in the front of the minds for them.

Just as she had half a mind to go down, to find someone willing to let her drink, she passed the door of their little king’s office, hearing very well that he was in there. There was a whipping sound, she by now had learned to expect. It was something he did. At least every other day, after his little boyfriend had stopped him from doing it daily.

There was still a morbid curiosity she felt about it, as she opened the door to enter. Because she did not understand it at all. It seemed not to be about the harm itself, as he was in a state of deep meditation over it. Yet, it seemed almost suicidal to keep doing it surrounded by vampires.

Again: She was old. Even feeling the hunger gnawing in the back of her mind, she could ignore it. Suppress it, even though his blood smelled sweet and promising. But younger vampires? He was a fighter, this self-crowned king. She knew him to be. He was a good fighter. But even a good fighter would die, if he did not expect and attack.

More than anything it surprised her though, how his body did not seem to react to the pain. There was some reaction to be expected. Maybe a twitch. Maybe a moan. But there was nothing. His face being completely even, his eyes closed as the whip snapped over his right shoulder, then his left, then back to the right again.

She had seen the wounds. They were never actually deep. After all he fought with his chest bare when they were sparing. And still... She almost winced imagining it – and she was able to heal superficial wounds like this almost instantaneously.

In the end, he stopped, opening his eyes. In a calm manner, he took the whipping belt, putting it over the chair, as he rose from his position. Only then he acknowledged her presence. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

She smiled a thin smile. “Not really, if you aren't to offer me your blood.”

He returned the smile. He was guarded, just a tiny bit. “I am afraid I won't do that, no.”

“I was afraid so.” She mimed an overly dramatic sigh, but shrugged. There were people living here now with good food and good drink, mostly just to allow the vampires to feed. People who were content with this. People who were being paid. In the end, as Morana would say, everything could be solved with the right amount of administration.

“What were you even doing here?” he asked, getting out a cloth to clean of the belt.

“Morbid curiosity,” she replied.

He looked at her for just a moment, then he shrugged. “I guess.”

It was also still rather confusing to her, that he almost seemed relaxed around her. As if he really did not expect her to attack. He would spar with her, as if she did not have reason to kill him. She would not, of course, but still, she could not make heads or tails of this trust.

This man did not seem to know fear – and it was something that made him interesting.

She leaned against his desk, watching him. Her arms crossed.

He did not even give her much of his attention, as he continued cleaning the belt, those small little metal thorns sticking out of it. The leather was already discolored from blood that had soaked into it – not just his own, as she knew. He was using it to fight after all.

“You can ask,” he said, still without looking at her.

She huffed, looking at his back. There were scars spread all over it. Scars from those years of self-flagellations. It was still unbelievable that he could stand, his back straight. As if he really could not feel the pain. But maybe he did not, given he was doing this for… well, it was not as if she knew for how long. In the end, she sighed, her arms still crossed. “Why?”

He looked at the belt in his hand, letting the leather run through his palm. “Originally I did it, because I felt the need to punish myself.” He paused, clearly sensing her question. “For being human. For being as corrupted as the rest of humanity. Spiteful. Cruel. I thought I needed to be punished for it.”

“And now you don't,” she gathered.

“I don't,” he replied, finally raising his head to actually meet her eyes.

“So, why do you keep doing it?”

He paused at this, now hanging the belt back over the chair again. “I found that it calms me, that it centers me. It gives me a feeling of control.”

“Control?”

“Over my own pain. My own experience.”

“So, you do feel pain.”

Much to her surprise, he chuckled. “Of course I do.”

She watched him for a long moment. “You are an interesting human. I will give you that.”

“I by now believe that most humans are interesting, once you get to know them.”

“Some are more interesting than others,” she countered.

He pondered this for a moment. “Maybe.”

The thing that made him interesting was the fact that she could still not quite figure him out. While he liked to talk about his philosophy, there was just this one piece she was missing: About three years ago, he had been Dracula's forgemaster, being the one creating little beasties for his master to slay the world with. She knew he had been saved by Dracula, when Alucard and his little human friends had attacked the castle. But then, after three months, he had arrived here in Styria, killing Carmilla and claiming the realm, making it his little experiment for a better world. And she was all-too curious what had happened in between.

“You are hungry and yet you are still here,” he observed.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Why?”

“As I said: Morbid curiosity.” She looked over to the window, where the sky was still tinted in a reddish hue. It was early summer and the window was open, allowing for a hint of the smell from the blossoming forest to drift up here. She enjoyed the scent. She enjoyed the summers. Maybe after having had some sips of blood, she would go outside, take one of her horses to ride. Maybe taking Morana, if she wanted to. But right now, she was still looking at the forgemaster crowned king. “You said you pray, when you are doing that.”

“I do,” he replied.

“What do you pray for?”

“Prosperity. Health. A good harvest,” he replied in his usual calm manner. “Forgiveness.”

She could not help a smirk at that last word. “So, you are feeling guilty.” He always seemed to be fine with the crimes he had committed against humanity. Other than his little boyfriend, who so clearly was trying to calm his conscience on other ways.

He hesitated at this. “I am… I don't feel guilty about those I killed, but I do feel guilt on my behavior. I…” He chose his words carefully. “It was not right what I did. But more than that I was overzealous. I thought that my work was the wish of God.”

“The one you are praying to,” she concluded.

“The one God there is,” he replied. “I thought I knew his mind. I was vain, I was prideful. I thought I was…” He hesitated once more, pursing his lips. “I thought I was chosen for a greater purpose.”

“That is vain.”

“I know.” He got up, taking his robes from the desk and unfolding them, before pulling them over his head. Once again, she had to wonder if they did not hurt against his skin, but if they did he did not show. “And I have to ask for forgiveness for it.”

She found herself smirking still, as she watched him. “I wonder though. You do believe in your god, your religion. And… Correct me if I am wrong, but is there no such thing as some sort of commandment not to kill? I never have read your holy texts— “ She had not even managed to sit through the whole bible, even after learning Latin. “—but I am rather sure such a commandment exists.”

“It does,” he admitted. “But it also allows for the killing of sinners.” He moved over to the window, looking outside as well. “So, if I believed the whole world to have sinned…”

“But you do not believe that anymore, do you?”

“Oh, I believe most people sin,” he said. “It is just that I understand now that they don't have much of a choice. It is the world that makes them sin. It is the world that makes them cruel. So, I do figure that instead of killing all the sinners, it should be my duty…”

She stopped him with a groan. “Yes, yes. I heard that one the last ten times you told me.”

He turned his head to her. “So, why keep asking?”

“Maybe because it is rare to find someone who actually believes in a god still.”

“You don't.”

“Most vampires don't,” she replied, knowing it to be true. There was this thing about immortality that allowed you to see the world in a new light. There was this thing about learning about all the hidden and forgotten sciences and about the true magics that made it so very hard to believe in a higher power.

And she knew that for most of the normal people, faith was a thing that if anything helped them survive, but that was often not a conviction. Not even for the men of the cloth, who would preach abstinence one moment and then father three children with three different farmers' daughters in the next. Sanctimonious. That's all they were. Most of them.

When she had been human, they had gone to church on the Sundays, yes, but she was rather certain that she had never actually believed. After all: If God was good, why would he have half her family die? And if God was bad, why would she ever pray to him?

Of course, there was not much faith left in Styria to begin with. It had only seemed sensible to discourage it. After all: As long as there was faith and men of the cloth, there would be Holy Water and the believe in them as demons. No, discouraging it had been the easy way to deal with it, to prevent further insurrections.

“I guess so,” he muttered. He did not take offense to it, did not protest, just nodded, looking out of the window.

“Why do you?”

This got him to lift his gaze again. “Because I know it in my heart to be true.”

“Even without any proof of it? Without anyone around you sharing that believe?” She raised one eyebrow.

“Even without it,” he replied.

She could not help but ponder this a moment, as her curiosity was still keeping up. He used her pause, though.

“But what do you believe in?”

“Me?” She laughed. “I believe in nothing.”

“You have to believe in something. What is your purpose on this world? What happens to your soul if you die?”

“I don't have any purpose but to live and make the best out of the life I have.”

“Who says so?” he asked further.

“I say so. Because it is what I decided for myself.”

This answer seemed to amuse him, as a slight smile was playing around his lips once more. “I see.”

“What do you believe is your purpose?”

“To enact God's will,” he replied.

“But you just said it was vain and overzealous to believe to know what it was, no?”

“It was.”

“So how do you know God's will?”

“I believe He will send me a sign if I am doing wrong.”

She could not help a chuckle. “So, did he send you a sign the last time around?”

“He did,” he simply said and ignored it, as she raised her eyebrow once again. With a slight sigh, he turned away from the window, almost purposefully turning his back on her, as he walked over to the desk to take his belt and put it away. Then he moved over to the door. “I am going to take a walk,” he said, turning to her with the faintest smile on his lips once again.

“You are not going to tell me, are you?” she asked.

“No, I won't,” he replied. “Because what happened is between Him and I.” With that he left through the door, leaving her in his office to ponder.

He was interesting for a human. And be it just because he had convictions and ideals, he could single-mindedly follow. He was a dreamer, even though he probably did not think of himself as such. But neither had Carmilla—they had just all known her to be it still.

A better world, because God commanded it. She chuckled at the notion, because it seemed so human. Believes changed, religions changed. She was old enough to remember a time, in which the Christians faithful would appear as sinners to the Christians today and the other way around. Morana remembered a time before Christianity existed—not the speak of the believe this man held.

Striga had to wonder though, what it would feel like to actually believe to be touched by a higher power. Who knew?

Vampires did not believe and still there was long discussions between certain vampires on why some religious artefacts and ordained things could harm them in a way that normal weapons never could. Some figured it was the believe the humans put into it. But of course, they could not know. Nobody could. It was all a question of believe.

Humans…

She shook her head, remembering the reason she had risen early. There was still the hunger burning in the back of her throat, so she supposed she would drink. And then… Well, the night was still young.

So. Ich habe total vergessen die restlichen Whumpuary fics hochzuladen! :D

The Helpless Warrior

‘Don't do this,’ she wanted to whisper, to beg, to scream as she realized the outline of her house in the distance. ‘Please, don't do this.’ But she did not say it. She did not speak. Instead, being like frozen in the saddle of her horse.

Her mind was racing. Trying to find a way to stop him. To stop the man. The man who called himself Lazarus. Not that it mattered.

She could not stop him, of course. What had seemed like out of a fairytale but two months ago had become such a dreadful reality. Vampires. Monster. All real.

She always had been strong. Strong enough to overcome any human she had ever faced. But he was not human. He was, as she understood it, not even normal for a vampire. Being old. Very old. Very strong. She was a fledgeling, as he told her. A fledgeling, the hunger still burning in her throat, still consuming her.

Everything in her wanted to storm that house and warn them. Get them out. Kocelj, Andrija, Braz and Mislava. Her siblings. The ones she had left home for in the first place. If she tried, Lazarus might kill her, but what did it matter? Her life had always just been second to theirs.

And yet she did not move. Still frozen in that saddle. Because the hunger was burning her throat. Like an angry cat it was scratching her up from the inside. If she went in there, it would be her killing them. She would kill them, because the monster having taken her over was stronger.

She looked at the man. Lazarus. He was broad shouldered just like her. His hair had already been grey, when he had been turned. Now it adorned his head short and stern. A short beard covering his chin. His eyes were blood-red and there was a smile playing around his lips.

He spoke. Speaking to her with this name that was not really hers, never had been. Not that he cared. Not that he ever cared. Nobody ever did. Because it was all she was to them. This name that was not hers, but the warrior’s she had been forced to become.

He said it again. That name. Red eyes piercing into her soul. The smile showing his fangs. “Don't you want to stop me?” It was a challenge. Just to see what she would do. She was his now. He had made that clear. His warrior. Just like the other five. His warriors, who would serve him without question.

She looked at the house. It was barely more than a hut. They had always been poor. Especially after their father had died. And then their mother. And Lovro, the oldest brother. Because that was, what people did. They died. Only that she would not, no? She would not any longer. Being barred from death as it seemed.

“Don't you want to go in there? Warn them?” He was taunting her.

The hunger was there. It was all-consuming. He had allowed her to feed only every three days, so that the hunger was always there, begging to take over, begging her to just go wild, grab the next human she saw and rip out their throat.

She had never wanted to be this, of course.

“I will give you a chance,” Lazarus said. “You go in there and get them out. You take them away. And I will let you go.”

She knew he hated that defiant gaze in her eyes, so he had spent those last two months breaking it down. What did she look like now? Desperate. She was desperate first and foremost.

Again. The name. The name that was not hers. “I am giving you a chance here. Don't you want to go?”

She looked at the house, the hut, the home. She did not cry, because boys did not cry now, did they? Her fingers on the reins were trembling and she wished to go. She wished to go and take them, those humans that had always been her world.

They had been nine children once. Now they were only five. And soon…

The name. Again. “I take this as a no?”

What could she do? What could she do? Nothing. Because no matter how strong she had thought herself as a human, she was nothing towards this vampire who had turned her into a demon she had never wanted to be. He had already taken so much. Now he would take the last bit.

She shook her head, the horse noticing her anxiety and prancing backwards.

“I thought so,” Lazarus smiled, as he looked to the other men. “It is going to be virgin blood, right?” His fangs were showing as he grinned and the other men were laughing. With only one of them hesitating for but a moment. Then their horses stormed off. Towards the house, that laid just a bit away from the tiny village. The house that only had one room, in which they had always huddled up during those long winter nights. The house that had once been her whole world.

They kicked in the door. And there were screams. Her siblings screaming. She did not even see it. But she felt it. Deep in her heart she could feel it. Their deaths. Taking away whatever had been left from the human that had left this place to make just enough money to allow for them to live a better life.

And still, she would not cry. Because men did not cry, did they? Only that she was not a man, never had been. Not a human now either.

The screams stopped. It did not even take long, until Lazarus' hand made it onto her shoulder. The smile on his lips was but a parody of a fatherly smile, as he softly said: “I want you to go in there. I want you to see them. I want you to finally understand, what you are.”

The First Kill

“I did not want any of this!” Her punches did not even get him to so much as twitch. She still tried, though. After all she had claws now, though those scratch marks healed almost instantly.

He did not look as if he was strong. A scrunchy thin man. A scrunchy thin man with fallen eyes, who just sighed. His hand on her cheek made her shiver. “You will understand soon enough, my Love, the gift I have given you.”

She howled in anger, in hatred, as she took a step back, then another one. She did not want to be touched by him. By anyone. Not anymore.

The girl was completely stiff. Completely under his control. Her eyes were so empty, as if she was already dead. But Carmilla knew she wasn't. Her ears able to pick up that heartbeat. Able to hear those weak breaths, too. She retreated from her, too, from the girl. Just a stupid peasant girl being out at the wrong hour, probably. She was sweaty and smelled of earth, had probably been on the fields, when he had taken her.

Yet, he took Carmilla's wrist, pulled her over. “You need to eat, my Love.”

“No.” She shook her head, staring at him. “No!”

The hunger was burning, though. It was not a hunger as she had known as a human. Not this strange empty feeling in her stomach. It was something else. A scratching in her throat and a need in her mind. A need more constant, more begging than anything she had ever felt. She could smell the girl's blood. So thick and rich.

But she would not kill her. She would not kill her for this man.

“Come on now, my Love,” he beckoned her. “You need to learn to hunt for yourself. Sooner or later you'll need to learn.”

“No!”

But her fury only made him sigh, made him look at her, as if she was a disobedient child. He took the girl's arm, too. Roughly. Not that he even needed to. The girl would listen to his every command. Carmilla didn't though. She tried to break loose from his iron grip. Tried to get away. She did not even know where. This castle was in the middle of fucking nowhere. But she knew she needed to get away. Because he would hurt her. He would hurt her and so much more. She should have never listened to his offer.

“Let. Me. Be.” She howled as much in pain against his iron grip, as she was howling in anger. Because she was done with this. With this everything. She was done being someone’s plaything again and again.

“You need to feed,” he said calmly. “And you need to learn to do it for yourself. I cannot take care of you all the time.”

“I won't.”

“You need to. Because otherwise you will go mad.”

She laughed at this. As if she wasn't mad already! She once more tried to break away, but the man just dragged her along, through that long castle hallway. And she already knew where. Her room. Her cell. Because it was a fancy prison cell, nothing more.

“You need to learn, my Love, that you are no longer human,” he said softly. “You need to understand that. I know it is a lot, but you will get there. I know it.”

“No!” Her struggle was so useless. Like a mouse struggling against the maw of a cat. Like some stupid shit trying to stop a storm, an avalanche with his voice. It would not happen. Because just as a storm this man was a destructive force of nature.

In the end he shoved her into the room, that only had a small window. The girl just followed her those grey eyes empty.

And he? He smiled. “You will feed,” he said. “And when you do, you will understand.” With that he closed that door, before she could barge against it, screaming senseless words in anger.

She was a vampire now. She was strong. She was supposed to be strong. It was, what he had promised her. Strength. And yet she was so weak, so useless. Just a plaything for his whims. Again. As she had been her entire fucking life.

But she would not do it. She would not kill. She would not become like him. She would not. She could not.

And yet the hunger was burning. It was beckoning her, while that girl stood there like a statue. She would probably not even feel it, too entranced by the spell. It was not as if it would make a difference. Because the girl would die. She would die.

But not through Carmilla. Not by her hands, her claws, her fucking claws.

By now there were tears burning in her eyes. Tears of anger. Of desperation. Tears, that dropped onto those hands – those claws – red and bloody. Because she did not even have human tears anymore. She really was no longer human.

She had wanted this and yet had not. What she had wanted was the power. The ability to finally be free. Free from all the men hurting her, controlling her. How had she been so naive? He was a man, after all. Just another man controlling her. Just another man, who saw her as nothing but a thing.

Once more she kicked the door with an angry wail. Trying to kick it in. To get it to move. To get out of here. Out of here and far away. But she could not.

And the hunger was burning.

She could smell the girl's blood. Could hear her heart pump it through those young veins. She could almost taste it in the air. And Carmilla was hungry. Oh, so hungry.

But she could not. Because she would not do, what he wanted. She would not kill. She would not…

Yet, when her fangs buried into the girl's veins, her blood was so thick and sweet.

The Empty Feeling

Hector knew he should feel something. He just was not sure exactly what.

Regret maybe? Sadness?

He did not, though. He did not feel either of the things as he returned to the burned-out husks of the house he had lived in until yesterday.

Maybe he should feel fear. He was a kid. He knew that. Thirteen years only. He was alone now. His parents dead.

But he did not feel fear either.

His fingers were still burned. Hurting. The pain was the most he felt right now. Outside of that there was mostly emptiness.

The roof had given in underneath the fire. Before everything else had crumbled. He was not even sure why he had returned here. Maybe to make sure. That they were dead, maybe. That he was… What?

His hands pushed some of the rubble aside. He had been afraid the night before. Afraid that his father might escape. He was a mage after all. Just like Hector. But it seemed he had not. Rummaging through the rubble, Hector found two burned down skeletons. They were dead. He was free.

So he could go.

Maybe he should bury them. Maybe he should do that. It was a good thing to do, right? Bury the dead. But he did not feel like it. He did not feel like it at all. Because when he looked at those two skulls in the rubble, he did not feel anything. Nothing at all.

Instead, he just took up a piece of wood, poking the rubble. His father should've had money somewhere. He needed to find that, Hector decided. Because he would need money to survive on his own. And if he did not take it, someone else would. And in the end his parents owed him at least that much, didn't they?

Clouds were covering the sky and the air told him, there was a storm coming. He should get out of here, before the rain broke. Find shelter.

So far, he had made no decision what to do next. He was only a kid after all. But he could do magic. He assumed he would be able to do what his father always said. Use magic to make money. He would not need much. Just enough that he could live by it.

Hector did not understand why people collected riches. Why his father had tried to do the same.

No. Hector had not understood his father.

The house was not big. Never had been. Because his father had been too greedy to buy a bigger house. Instead hoarding the money. Hoarding it for himself. Hector did not know for what. At times his father would vanish for several days and return without the money.

It did not matter now that his father was dead of course.

There. There were the remains of the desk his father had. Hector found it just as the first thunder rolled down from the sky. The wood was black and burned, but the desk was still standing. It took him some strength though, to pry open the drawer, to find what he was looking for. A nice metal box, somehow untouched by the flames, rattling so nicely, when he took it out.

As he opened it, he found, he had been right. It held coin. Quite a bit of it. Though Hector was unsure how much he would be able to buy from it. After all he did not know such things.

Still. He rolled it up in a scarf, before looking around.

He did feel regret about one thing he found. There were those nice old books his father had owned. The books Hector had learned magic from. They were gone now, too, burned. It was too bad. Hector would've liked to keep these books, but he had known that if he had hidden them, his parents would've become suspicious. So, the books had to burn and he guessed he would just have to make enough money, to buy new ones. Out there in the world.

Near the horizon a lightning bolt flashed down to the earth, followed by another thunder crack. The rain would probably be here, soon. As the house was far enough from the village, he might be lucky. Maybe the people would just think the house had been hit by lightning. Though he was fairly certain that even if people did not think that, nobody would suspect him.

He was only a kid after all.

So, he took his scarf and the box with the coin and climbed out of the rubble, his hands black with soot. He needed to get himself cleaned up, he figured. Maybe clean himself up by the stream. Then he could find a cave to stay in for now. After that? Who knew.

He had never made any big plans. All he wanted was to live his life in peace. No beatings. No screaming. No berating. Just be able to life. With some animal friends. Without said animals being killed. That would be nice, he thought. But other than that…

Not being hungry would be nice too, he assumed. Because he had woken on so many days his stomach grumbling with hunger. Now he had coin, so nicely rattling in the box. Now he had coin and could buy himself food. Though not today. Today he would just find himself shelter and a good place to sleep. Food and everything else would be a problem for him to think about tomorrow.

After all he had eaten yesterday. Today, even. Just a single apple, but it was not nothing. Tomorrow he could go to the village, maybe. Or start his journey somewhere else. Then he could buy food.

Today he would live through the slight rumbling of his stomach. He would rather get out of the rain, that now started to fall in heavy drops. Yes. Out of the rain would be a first step. And after that, there was a whole new world to explore.

The Comforting Touch

The smell of the herbs was overpowering, as Laura put the mixture into Lenore's hair. It was made from some scrubs and dried gooseberries, she had explained. It was an ancient recipe from a place called India, apparently. Though all of that still did barely register in Lenore's mind. What did register though, as the fact that when Laura pulled out the comb, it glid so much easier through Lenore's dense locks. It still twinged a little, but it was nothing compared to the pain she had gotten used to, when those maids in the household had tried to tame her hair.

Now Laura was just sitting there, by the side of the wooden bathtub the inn had offered, combing through Lenore's hair. There was something comforting in that touch. Something soft. Familiar. It was how Lenore imagined it would be when a mother took care of one. Not that she would ever know, given her mother had died so long ago.

She closed her eyes, sighing. She was still afraid. Because she did not know where they were going. South, Laura had said. She knew a place that was safe. Only that Lenore did not believe that such a place would ever exist. Because she knew one thing: There were wars everywhere. Humans liked their wars. It was just a fact of life. Down there, she was certain, there would be wars as well.

She could die in the sun now. Unable to go out. Not that she wanted to. But now she would die, if she tried. She could die so easily. And she was afraid of that, too.

“It's alright,” Laura promised, as if she was reading her thoughts. She could do that, she had said. “We are going to be alright. I promise.”

“I can feel it,” Lenore whispered. “The hunger.”

Her mistress took a bowl of water, using it to rinse out Lenore's hair. Those thin fingers gently rubbing her scalp. Another feeling that was good, Lenore supposed. Because she was certain of one thing. Somehow. She would trust this woman, who had been kinder to her than most people Lenore had ever met in her life.

“I know,” Laura said softly. “I am sorry for it.”

“Can I…” Lenore started, but Laura shook her head.

“You'll have to wait until tomorrow night. We cannot hunt too much, or they will notice us. Then they will hunt us in turn. It won't be good. But you will survive. Feeding every two nights has to suffice.”

Lenore slowly nodded. It was not as if she had a choice.

She was like this for a month now and their travel was only slow. They had almost reached the coast, though. And Laura had said they would find a ship to get down to the continent. That after that they might get a wagon. That in the end they would be safe.

Once more Laura rinsed Lenore's hair, before gently putting a hand onto her shoulder. “I know it is a lot. But you will learn. I will make sure of it, you see?”

Lenore nodded once again. The water was slowly getting cold, as Laura handed her a towel to get out of it.

Her body felt different from before. From when she had still been a human. It felt smoother, she had found. Moving around was easier, making her feel like a cat at times. And she would get quicker, Laura had said. Once she was getting older, she would get even quicker, maybe even gain some abilities like flight.

Lenore had always wondered, what it would be like to fly.

As Laura got naked to take a bath herself, Lenore found herself standing in that little bathhouse, fogged up by the steam. Laura had offered her some oil for her skin. Another thing that smelled so intensive of herbs. She had offered her more things than Lenore had even had in that stupid noble household.

But then again, she had only ever been a prisoner there, had she not? A prisoner. Something to be used. A wild prisoner from the north. Something to be tamed.

The scars had not vanished. Even though her new body healed out every new wound within hours, the scars from her old life remained. Those little burn wounds, left there by simple pettiness. And the big one on her stomach. The one that would not go away. The one that would've killed her, if it had not been for Laura.

Taking the oil, Lenore rubbed on it, as if she somehow could just wash it away, even though she knew it would not happen. That scar for be there forever. Quite literally, given that she could not die any longer, by anything but violence and the sun.

And yet, she would've been dead a month ago, if it had not been for Laura. She already had died once. And so had her daughter.

None of this had ever been supposed to happen. In a different world, she might just have grown up on the castle of her parents. In that different world, she would still speak her own language and might've gotten to know the son of another Learch. In that other world she would not have…

She wrapper her arms around herself, trying to hold back those emotions that would still take her every other day. Why had all of this happened? Why had it happened to her?

She did not cry, because she knew that if she did, those tears would fall red as blood and would leave her even more hungry. Because she was no longer human.

So she would not cry.

Then Laura was there. Being her. Wrapping her arms around Lenore to pull her in a hug. “I promise it will get better,” she whispered. “I promise you will be alright.” Once more fingers softly ran through her hair. “You'll see. Once we get to Styria, we will be safe. You'll be alright. I promise.”

The Burning Church

Anmerkung: Mathias ist der Geburtsname von Dracula

The air was heavy with incense. Such an annoying, distracting smell. It was not strong enough though to cut through his rage, through his hunger.

The stupid human. The stupid little human with his cross, wielding it in front of him as if it was doing anything. “Y-you have no power in here!” he screamed, his voice already wavering.

Another priest. Another man of the cloth. Another disciple of that false God. The god that had forsaken Mathias. The god that was so clearly forsaking this priest, too.

A grin showed in Mathias’ face. Because he had the power and he knew he did. No god would stop him. No mere mortal either. With the speed only afforded to immortals like him, he crashed into the man, throwing him against the altar.

The man was screaming, staring at him in fear. His pupils were wide in fear. “Y-you have n-no power!” His voice was hoarse now and Mathias could smell piss as the man was wetting himself. “P-pater noster, qui es in ca-caelis…”

Mathias' claws gripped the man's throat. He could not keep his grin down, as the man struggled and yet was so utterly helpless against him. Just a mere mortal. Just a stupid little human, trying to find sense in a world without it. No longer. Mathias would free him. Yes, that was what he was doing, as he buried his fangs deep into the man's throat. There was blood gushing into his mouth and it was the most wonderful thing in the world. There was this particular flavor about the men of the cloth he enjoyed. This flavor of sanctimony, as he called it.

Frail human arms were pounding against Mathias' chest, as the man tried to get loose. But his fight did not keep on for long. Soon enough his body turned limb, as his racing heart tried and failed to make up for the blood loss. Just another useless life ended.

Then there was a scream. A boy's scream. An acolyte Matthias found, as he turned around. What was the kid even doing here at this time?

Did he want to know?

The boy had more sense than the priest. Instead of fighting or trying to keep him away with prayers, the kid ran. But he was only human, so slow compared with the speed of an immortal. Mathias got a hold of him just a few yards outside the church.

He had already had his fill, but who could resist young blood like this? When the boy screamed, he severed his vocal cords to enjoy the blood in silence. How old was this kid even? Fourteen years, maybe. Just in this sweet area of not being quite a child any longer, but not yet an adult.

The blood was running down Mathias' chin, as he stood up. He grabbed the acolyte by the collar, dragging him back inside.

This was only a simple countryside church. Not a big structure, like they had in the cities. Barely more than a chapel. When Mathias breathed the spell, the structure so easily caught flame. Leaving him stand in the middle of it.

But the fire did not harm him. Because nothing could. No more. He was an immortal. A true immortal. No longer hurt by petty things. The flame only licked his skin, never quite consuming it, as he stepped outside, turning around to watch the church burn.

He did not yet know, where he was going. He did not yet know what he would do with his immortality. Except this. Except burning it down. The stupid faith which he had followed for too long. The stupid faith that had never saved anyone. Not his wife or daughter.

It was a starless night. Clouds hanging low in the sky. The air was heavy with the scent of snow out here. At least to his new senses.

New. Ha. Two years now. The first two years of forever.

As the roof caved in, he turned. He turned to move on. Just go further down the road wherever it took him. He could kill the next priest, he came upon. Because he really liked the taste of sanctimony.

Screams were still cutting the air behind him, as he just walked on. People had noticed the burning church of course. There was panic. There was superstition. There was prayer. Useless prayer. While everyone was just waiting for a good god to deliver them.

Almost everyone.

The whip cut the air and Matthias could feel it just a moment before it impacted. It burned, though it barely did actual damage. Those blue eyes were sparkling with courage even in a dark night like this.

“Mathias.” Leon, too, had changed. Of course, he had. Some of that bright-eyed idealism had finally left him. No longer was he trying to convince Matthias to change his ways. Now there was only a firm determination. A determination to stop him.

Mathias did not even reply. Because they had gone over this at least twenty times by now. For some stupid reason his former friend would not die. But he was still so very unable to kill him, either. So they would just exchange a few blows and then he would move on. Until Leon found him again. Annoying bright-eyed fool that he was.

Once more the whip snapped through the air, this time wrapping itself around Mathias' arm, burning through the fabric into his skin. So, Leon really wanted blood. Of course he did.

Even now Mathias did not reply. Instead using his speed to get to the man, grabbing his head and slamming him into the ground. He really should just rip out the man's throat and call it a day. So why didn't he do that?

Maybe Leon was wondering the same thing, as he looked up to him, fury in those stupid blue eyes. “Mathias.”

But Mathias just turned and walked away. Because it was just a silly human fury after all.

So, ich habe heute ein paar Valentinsgeschichten geschrieben und ich dachte ich teile die ersten beiden einmal. Die erste mit Trevor/Sypha/Alucard. Die zweite mit Hector/Isaac. :D

12 Ways To Say “I Love You”

I

Sypha knew there was still sadness in Adrian. How could there not be? While she herself had never actually had parents—her mother dying while giving birth to her, her father not surviving the winter when she had been four years old—she always had had family. Someone around. Someone who would take care of her. Her grandfather had always been there, a constant. And the other speakers? They had been like family, too. She could not even imagine how it would be to just lose everything she had ever known. She could even less imagine how it had to be to kill them herself. Of course, she didn't need to, because none of her family would even ever have the power to declare war on the world, but still.

She could see it now, as they were together in the forest, collecting some of the berries left over here. She was not entirely sure what he was remembering. His parents or those two hunters that had come here from the East only to hurt him even more, but she knew there was something. Just this sad shimmer in his eyes, as he was kneeling down to pick some of the berries.

She did not say anything. Instead, she crouched down as well, taking his hand, before pulling him in a soft hug. Because he needed it.

He did not say anything either, just returning the gesture, wrapping his arms around her and pulling in her smell.

II

Even though Sypha had never actually wished for it, Adrian had not been able to stop himself from looking it up. It turned out, finding out stuff about speaker culture tended to be hard. After all they were an oral culture and were rather protective of their oral tradition. Trevor still laughed about this one time his ancestors had gotten into trouble with the speakers over it. And without any speakers but Sypha to ask around, this surprise was rather hard to pull off. But there was this one woman in the village, Cristina, who apparently had a group of speakers camping out at her barn one winter. The old barn that was in a village that long had been burned down by night creatures. But she knew some of it—and Adrian made up the rest.

It was a vegetable stew, based on onions and root vegetables and garlic of course. Cooked for quite a while, before those sacrificial vegetables were taken out and replaced by fresh ones, with beans and chickpeas being added after it. Safron was used as a spice, too. And even more garlic. He had a bit of a chuckle over this.

There was some sweetness in this stew, too. With pears and apples being added, when available—and of course it was available still.

When Sypha came up from the library, where today she had taught the adults, who never had learned to read, she sighed, but stopped as she smelled the stew. It showed on her face that she remembered it, but she was not sure what to believe.

“What are you making?” she asked, leading him to smile.

“Olla gitana,” he replied.

She actually blinked away some tears, before coming over to him, putting her arms around him. “Thank you.”

III

Trevor still hated this. The stupid book with those stupid letters, that would somehow just blur into each other the longer he looked at them. He was still so very horrible at this—even though Sypha was by now almost a year into trying to get him to learn. He felt like the most awful idiot about it. Because even those other villagers, who never had learned it, were doing so much better than him. Sypha kept saying, it was normal for kids to learn quicker—but there were folks older than him who had learned it in like half a year.

And still he allowed for this, as they now both sat in bed to his side, while he was trying to make sense of the stupid letters. “O-once upon a time there li-lived a King…” He paused, as his focus was drifting again. “A King,” he repeated, “who had three… three daughters.” Another pause, another breath. The fairytale—because that was what Sypha had him training on, was not even very long, but it would probably take him quite a while to make his way through it. “Now it hap-happened that he had to go out… out to battle. So he called his d-dau-daughters and said to them…” He sighed once more.

“That's good,” Sypha praised him. “You are getting better.” And there it was, this tiny smile on her lips as she said it. The smile that was worth all the frustration.

A part of him wanted to grunt and disagree, because he still felt like an idiot. But instead, he just nodded and continued to read.

IV

“Oh my God!” Sypha groaned as she saw her two men, both of them dripping with mud. The mud itself was not surprising. The snow was melting after all and leaving everything out there in different states of mud. But they… Well… “What have you done? Have you joined the pigs for a mud bath?”

“Well, you see…” Trevor was looking at Adrian, who somehow had managed to not be much cleaner.

Adrian sighed. “Some of the kids had started a mud fight. And we tried to stop them.”

“And just ever so accidentally started to participate, eh?” Sypha could not help another groan. She would have liked to chide them for being menchildren, but she knew better. Neither of them had ever gotten the chance to live a full childhood. With Trevor ending alone on the street with only twelve years of age and Adrian not only growing up so much quicker than a human would, but also being kept away from other children, never getting to join other kids to play outside. “You two get in the bath now, you hear me?”

Trevor rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Sure thing.”

Even with Marie cradled in front of her chest, Sypha pointed down the hallway. “Bath! I will take care of this.”

“You know I can take care of myself, right?” Trevor complained, making Adrian chuckle.

“Can you, though?”

“Of course I can, you old bastard. Took care of myself since…”

But Sypha took his hand. “But you don't need to, anymore.” She smiled. “Now, go on. I will be there in a minute.”

V

When Adrian returned to the castle, he could hear Marie crying even when he had just entered the hall. It was not an unusual thing, after all, given that she still was but a few months old and had no other way to express her discomfort. But when he came up to the sitting room, he found both Sypha and Trevor with rather disgruntled expressions. Telling him that this had been going on for a while now, as he had been out there helping Greta fix the plough. He did not need to ask, what they had tried. Because the answer was most likely: Everything.

Right now, Trevor was rocking the crying child in his arms, though his posture and expression told Adrian, the man had long given up.

Adrian smiled. “That bad, huh?” He went over to his boyfriend, carefully talking the child from him, making the little girl pause for a moment at least. She was blinking at him, though only for a moment before continuing to cry, as Adrian softly caressed the back of her had. “It's alright, sweetheart. It's alright, Marie.”

“We have basically tried everything,” Trevor groaned. “She has eaten. She has a clean diaper and she does not want to sleep.”

“I know,” Adrian said, leaning his forehead against Trevor's. “Take a break. I will take care of her for that long.” He shot them a smile. “You look like you could use a bit of fresh air.”

Sypha sighed, getting up from the sofa and putting one hand onto her daughter's head. Then she looked at Adrian. “You are a lifesaver.”

VI

Standing here still felt unreal. While some of the Belmont hold had already been cleaned up last summer, there was still enough of the ruins left. One should think he could get used to being here—to it being here. But he never did. It just felt so wrong. That it was here. Like this. As fucking ruins. And he was here. All grown up. Still alive. And that there was the castle of bloody Dracula standing right next to it.

He sighed, as they were passing it. Still remembering the gorgeous estate it once had been, though he obviously never had thought about it that way as a child. He could still remember it, of course. And could remember spending early spring days like this one playfighting with his siblings and cousins.

“What are you thinking of?” Adrian asked. They were on their way over to the stables to fetch the horses. The first market of the year was gonna be soon.

For a moment Trevor just wanted to say “nothing”, but he knew it was a bad lie. A lie Adrian would look through with ease. “Just… The past. I remember how it looked. And… It is fucking sad to see what is left.”

Adrian looked over at it. “It must've been beautiful. I wish I could've seen it back then.”

A sad chuckle arose in Trevor's throat. “Well, my uncle probably would've killed you on sight, you bloody dhampir.”

Now it was Adrian's turn to sigh. “I guess.”

Trevor knew he was stupid saying things like that. But he just took the other man's hand. “You know, when everyone was still here… We would have those elaborate play battles in the yard. My older brother always willingly played the monster and we would hunt him.” He smiled remembering it. “And that could go on for hours.”

“What was his name?” Adrian asked. “Your brother, I mean?”

Trevor hated to admit that he had to think on this question, before he could answer. “Corin. His name was Corin.”

VII

It turned out, that this time of the year was rather exhausting. The fields needed to be ploughed and the seeds needed to be sawn. There were also so many other tasks to be taken care of—and she felt almost guilty for getting a pass on most of it as she was nursing Marie. The two men, meanwhile? Oh, Greta sure knew how to put them to work—and even though she found Adrian in the kitchen came late afternoon, preparing dinner for them. Trevor, meanwhile, only returned, as the sun outside had long set.

He grunted as he sat down.

“You look exhausted,” Sypha observed—because other than Adrian it always showed with him.

“No fucking shit,” he groaned, rolling his shoulders. But then he smiled. “But it's fine. It's definitely better than living on the bloody streets.”

It was always hard to see with what ease he spoke about this. About his rather sad youth and his early adulthood. And the many times he had almost died. It always did surprise her, how much softness there was in him. How easily he had trusted her in the first place.

“I know what you two need,” she said, as Adrian put the stew into bowls, serving it with lightly roasted bread.

“What do we need?” Adrian asked.

“You need an evening hanging out with Greta,” she replied. “Getting drunk.”

Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I am sure. You two will need it.”

Adrian looked over to her. “What about Marie?”

“She was fine for the day, she will be fine for the evening.” Sypha smiled. “Just eat and then go. I am rather certain Greta still has some beer.”

“Oh, yeah, I am rather certain of that as well,” Trevor grunted.

VIII

Adrian knew that Trevor did not want to bother him. Him or Sypha for the matter. He and Trevor were rather similar in that way. Both not wanting to worry anyone else. But Adrian had noticed the way, that Trevor was massaging his right arm from time to time. Rolling his shoulder more than usual. He knew the feeling himself, of course. While the scar his father had left on him was the only scar he had ever known, even it hurt from time to time—and from his father's books he gathered, that a lot of people were dealing even more with scar pain as the weather changed, as it did right now.

He also knew something to help it, though. Some oil, to help the scar tissue relax, as well as some extract from comfrey and lavender, which was said to help again the pain. Even his father had known anything better than that for such issues. Using the strong-smelling herbs in different sorts of ointments.

The strong smell also was, what made Trevor grimace, as Adrian opened the little pot. “What the fuck is that?”

“It's for your scar,” Adrian said. “Well, the big one.” It was after all kinda silly to talk about the scar with someone who did not have a single body part not adorned by at least two or three scars. “I know it is hurting.”

Trevor did evade his gaze. “It's not that bad.”

Sypha, who was already lying in bed, reading a book—still so very clearly determined to at some point read each and every book in the castle and the Hold, groaned. “Trevor, can't you just accept when somebody does something nice for you?”

Trevor sighed. “I… I guess I can.” He leaned over to press a short kiss on Adrian's cheek. “Thank you.”

IX

“See, it is not just an ordained weapon,” Trevor said, as he was oiling the leather of the whip—something that needed to be done once every few weeks to keep it even. “It is said, that the soul of a saint is sitting inside of it.”

“That's kinda dark,” Sypha remarked. She was just playing Sheep and Wolf with Adrian, as she was decidedly better at the game than she was at chess. “The poor soul being unable to move on.”

“Well, it is said, that she chose that fate to allow us to fight Dracula.” Trevor looked at the whip, at the Belmont crest at its handle. It was kinda a miracle that he had not lost it over the years, that nobody had stolen it. Maybe just a bit of fate had been involved here.

“That is rather specific.” There was a bit of bitterness in Adrian's voice. Understandable, even if Trevor hated to admit it. After all bloody Dracula had been the guy's fucking dad.

So he sighed. In the end it was not as if the whip had done a lot against Dracula, had it now? Nor had the Morningstar. It was basically just as if he had been stung by flies. No real damage. “Maybe it is just a stupid little tale. Family legend or something.”

Now Sypha looked up from her game. “Well, the weapon is still… It is your legacy.”

“It is,” Trevor said, continuing to oil the leather.

“What about the other weapons?” Adrian asked. “I mean, you kinda have a whole armory down there? What about the Morningstar, for that matter?”

Trevor smiled, understanding the gesture. “See, legend has it, that the Morningstar has been created by a German alchemist about three hundred years ago. It is also said that the steel was forged with the bonedust of a saint…” He stopped himself. He actually had never thought about the amount of dead saints involved in their collection. But, thinking about it, there were even more of the sort.

Adrian just looked at him—and Trevor looked back, before they both started to laugh.

X

Sypha woke up because of Marie, who was starting to whine, as clearly the hunger was setting in. It was routine by now, as it happened every night and every few hours. Without even thinking about it, Sypha lit the candle with a spell. Only then did she notice, that Adrian was awake. Even now he was trying to hide his tears from her, wiping them away as she turned around. This stupid, stupid man. With one hand she ran her fingers through his hair, before getting up to get Marie out of the crib.

With the baby girl in arm, she settled back into the bed, allowing the child to latch on, while once again she used one hand to caress Adrian.

His nightmares had gotten better over the past few months, but better was an improvement of having a nightmare once a week instead of a semi-nightly basis. And he just closed his eyes, continuing to cry.

Trevor, meanwhile, was still not a solid sleeper, having learned from his life on the streets to always keep one eye open—metaphorically. So her nursing Marie was enough to wake him up. He, too, noticed Adrian's trembling shoulders, and just like Sypha, he did not ask, just putting his arms around the other man and pulling him close.

XI

Adrian had not been looking for it, yet he noted the woad as he saw it on the market. There actually was dyer at the market, selling all sorts of dyes and basis. He knew Sypha wanted to get new clothes made, given that her robes were certainly getting worn—and he also knew she wanted to keep it blue, as it was still the colors of her people. So, he did not even think about it before buying the dye. After all she had once more stayed behind in the little village, given that she herself was feeling a bit under the weather.

He also did not think much about buying those candles made from bee's wax, as Trevor kept complaining about the smell of the candles made from tallow. And while they still did not necessarily need candles, as most rooms had electric lights, candle shine was much easier to sit with than the dazzling electrical lights. While he was at it, he found that the bee keeper was also selling some mead—which was rare around these parts, and most certainly something that would make Trevor's day.

Even though he was not entirely certain where the Belmont had gone again—just hoping he did not get himself into trouble.

XII

Trevor was a simple man, really. He knew he was and he had no interest in being more. And being here, with them, it was just so much more than he could've ever hoped for. Those shared little gestures, those touches, those kisses, it meant the world to him and they knew it. And of course, this was great, too. The sex. Just feeling them close. Hearing their voices, their moans. And cuddling up to them afterwards, their bodies still hot and sweaty. He loved feeling them close. He loved their warmth and their smell.

And as he wrapped his arms around both of them, knowing fully well that his left arm would get all tingly rather soon, he kissed the stupid dhampir's shoulder. “I love you,” he muttered, drinking in their smell.

There was a small chuckle from both of them. “We know.”

12 Stolen Kisses

I

Waking up next to someone was new. Hector could remember only two instances it had happened before. Waking up like this? That had not happened at all. It was strange—strange enough that he was not entirely certain how to feel about it. But good, too. Yes, he guessed he felt good about this.

He was not surprised to find Isaac already awake. After all Isaac seemingly did not need much sleep. He somehow always managed to be up until two in the morning, only to then wake up around eight and go about his business. Right now, though, he was just lying there, clearly waiting for Hector to wake up as well.

As he noticed that he was, there was a shy smile on his face. A smile that almost seemed unusual for him. Not that he did not smile a lot in those last two years. But the kind of smile was new.

Hector was not entirely certain, what to do about the situation. As he just looked at the man. In the end he rolled over, putting one arm around him. “Good morning,” he whispered.

“Good morning.”

There was an awkward silence between them. Because, Hector assumed, this was new to Isaac as well. So, what was a person to do, waking up to someone else like this? Someone, who… Oh, he was still not quite sure about those feelings.

Yet, somehow it felt right leaning over and kissing Isaac. Just a short, shy kiss against the lips, before Hector sat up. “Maybe we should get us some breakfast.”

II

This entire thing, this relationship, still filled Isaac with some insecurity. After all it was nothing he had ever had before—something he had never thought he would have. The feeling it brought with itself was good. It was warm and soft in a way that he had not experienced before. He was still not entirely certain that it was love—but maybe this just was because he missed a reference for what love would actually feel like. He had read some books about it, about the idea of chivalrous love, but all of that did not sound quite right.

Maybe it did not matter though. As he was at least certain of one thing: It was good and he felt better about himself than he had… in a long time at least. And that was saying something because his life here had him actually feeling rather well.

And while they were both going about their business—with Hector spending a lot of time in the library whenever he wasn't needed, while Isaac took care of all those many, many things that came with ruling, there were those moments, when they would just meet on the corridor. And at times, Isaac was daring enough to catch Hector by the hand and pull him close for just a moment, to press a short kiss onto his forehead. Then Hector would smile—and Isaac liked his smile—before moving onto his way.

III

Hector liked animals. He had always liked animals. Even those noisy chickens living in a coop on the backside of the castle. They would always get excited, when he came around, knowing that he was probably bringing food. It was rather funny. Given that up here the birds did not have to fear a fox coming around to eat them, so they were less afraid of predators it seemed. So for the most part, they just saw him as a feeder, would come close to him, as he crouched down in their coop.

There was one chicken in particular, a dark brown one, who had taken a special liking to him. Hector had called her Henriette. She would gently pick against his fingers, even if he wasn't holding any food. At times she had even tried to flutter onto his knees to cuddle up to him.

There was a chuckle behind him, as she did just that again. “You are popular it seems.”

Hector turned around. It was rather unusual to see Isaac at these parts of the castle, but he looked as if he had watched Hector for at least a minute or so. “Well, I am feeding them.”

Isaac came over to him, earning a bit of loud clucking from the chickens, as they were at least somewhat suspicious of the new person here. “They don't seem to like me.”

“Well, they are prey animals,” Hector replied. “So of course they might be suspicious of you.” He tucked the other man's hand to get him to crouch as well. “They will warm up to you, if you just feed them.”

According to Isaac's expression, he did not exactly believe this, yet, he stretched out a hand to the bucked full of grains.

This alone was enough to make some of the chickens curious, with three of them—including Henriette—coming over to him, carefully picking for the outstretched hand. Surprise showed in Isaac's face, as they did. There was a shimmer in his eyes Hector had not seen there before.

He leaned over, kissing Isaac onto the cheek. “Maybe you should do this more.”

“What?”

“This, coming out here to the animals. You might need it.”

IV

If anyone thought that talent at chess was an innate quality, Hector would proof them wrong. He was constantly getting better, even though he was only winning every third to forth game. This might become one of them, though, as he had Isaac in a pickle. There were upsides and downsides to keeping the king in its starting position—it was safe, yes, but it quickly could become a trap as well. With the pawns still in front of apart from the field to the diagonal right—which was covered by Hector's knight, there was only one field to escape to.

A smile showed on Hector's face, as Isaac moved his king accordingly, and he rather eagerly moved his rock to beat out one of the pawns. It was clear his next move would be to move the rock one square ahead to put the king into check again. Isaac could counter it, by moving his own rock over to cover the spot in between—but it would only buy him two rounds. So he sighed, as he tipped over his king. “You won,” he stated simply.

Hector took up his cup filled with tea to take a sip. He had said he was feeling a bit under the weather. “I am getting better,” he said. Without much of a comment on that, he was resetting his pieces.

“You are,” Isaac replied. “It is fascinating to see.”

“Oh, I am fascinating?” There was still some dry sarcasm in Hector's voice.

“Only in the best possible way.” Gently Isaac took his hand, holding it just for a moment. This was Hector's right hand, the one with still five fingers on it, though even it was covered in small little scars, undoubtedly left there by burning his hands several time. After all he had learned forging in more than one way.

Following an instinct, Isaac guided the hand to his lips, pressing a kiss onto it.

“What was that for?” Hector asked, to which Isaac shrugged.

“For winning.”

V

Isaac was taking his duties seriously, that much could be said. Serious enough that at times he would spend half the night in his office, going over decrees, over trade agreements, over other plans—not rarely with the reluctant help of Morana. But as the vampire did not need to eat, Isaac sure did—and he liked to forget about it. Sure, Hector could be much the same, spending hours upon hours in the library without food or drink, but while he did not notice it with himself—he for certain noticed whenever Isaac did not take his dinner.

So with a tray in hand, he made his way to the large office, knocking on the door and waiting for the reply.

It came soon enough. “Yes?”

There was just this little thing for Hector. The way Isaac's eyes lit up, as he realized it was him. And that gentle smile.

“I brought you dinner,” Hector said, nodding towards Morana who was sitting opposite Hector, reading through what seemed to be a letter of sorts.

“How late is it?” Isaac asked, when Hector put the tray down onto the desk.

“Past eleven,” Morana muttered, her eyes still fixed on the letter.

“Oh.” Isaac took a deep breath, as he pulled over the tablet, that was filled with simple Spätzle and some grilled vegetables.

Hector bowed down to kiss Isaac's scalp. “Make sure you get enough rest,” he whispered, before turning to go.

VI

The forest lay a good bit underneath the castle. Not too far, of course, but it was still a good quarter hour walk down there. Still, being surrounded by the forest and the spring greens felt good. Having a moment to breath did as well. Isaac looked over to Hector, who always seemed even more appreciative of this. The quiet. Just being alone. With him.

It was one of the moments, that Isaac regretted not having talked to him much while they were working for Dracula. But in the end he had been so convinced that Dracula would kill them both in the end—a silly notion, given the fact that it had been Dracula who had saved his life.

“It smells nice, doesn't it?” Hector whispered.

“What?” Isaac wasn't exactly sure what he should be smelling.

“Spring,” Hector replied.

“Oh.” For a moment Isaac allowed himself to close his eyes and soak in the smell. It was so clearly there. The faintest hint of flowering blossoms, of the sprouting greens. That clean smell the snow melt brought with itself still lingering in parts of the forests.

He could feel Hector's lips against his own, only then opening his eyes. Well, they were alone after all, so it seemed this was only the right way to use that. Weaving his fingers into Hector's hair, he returned the kiss, that ever so slightly tasted of spring as well.

VII

Much to his own frustration, Hector was not really getting anywhere with his book. It was now two and a half years and he just seemed to lack the ability to coherently put his thoughts onto the parchment. He was struggling with what exactly he was getting it. What was the point of this? Philosophy, that much he knew, but he could get distracted by other things as well. The intensities of magic, vampire history and of course the entire tragedy that had happened because some people killed a woman, who they had deemed a witch.

At times he would just get lost in his thoughts. When he was considering his own role in all of it—the way fate at played with him. At those times there was just a twinge of guilt coming over him, because it seemed with every week he more realized the harm he had caused. Something he had spent so long trying to ignore. Guilt was still a fairly new concept to him, as he had so rarely felt it before. But he was rather certain it was what the sick feeling in his stomach had to be.

Trailing of on this train of thought, he was just sitting there, staring onto the page written on in his rather scratchy penmanship. He did not even notice Isaac, before he was standing next to him, pressing a soft kiss onto Hector's forehead, as he so often liked to do.

“How are you getting along?” Isaac asked, making Hector sigh.

“It's… harder than it looks.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, giving his best impression of a grin, as Isaac sat down by his side.

“What are you thinking about right now?”

Another sigh escaped Hector, as he looked back at the page. “Just the way things might have been prevented, if I… if we had not been so blinded.”

VIII

It was Isaac's usual way to end the night. Strolling through the castle, making sure everything was in order—talking to the vampire guards from time to time. After all it was only right and proper to give them the same attention he was giving to night creatures and humans. This evening he was not alone, being accompanied by both Hector and Abel. Hector did this from time to time. Just coming along to keep him company, even though he so often ended up freezing in the nights that were still rather cold this late spring.

Still, he kept close to Isaac. Just carefully Hector pushed his hand into Isaacs, his fingers still being warm though. The night was starry and clear, with the thinnest crescent moon hanging overhead. There was not much to be worried about. After all they had peace. Peace with Austria and Bavaria. Peace with their Northern neighbors. And Hungary? Hungary was still trying to clear the matter of succession to the throne. With the new trade agreements this was hopefully going to be a good year.

The howl of a wolf cut through the night, answered by several other ones, making Hector stay still, looking downhill as if he was hoping to see one of the creatures.

“I doubt they dare to come close enough,” Isaac said.

Hector shrugged, but could not help a sigh. “They probably won't, no.” He paused, before looking at Isaac. “I have only seen a wild wolf a few times. There were some wolves living back in Rhodes, but they never quite trusted me.”

“Isn't it said they are very susceptible to magic?”

“Yeah, probably,” Hector muttered—yet he still looked rather sad about it.

Isaac smiled, putting one hand onto Hector's cheek. “You'll get around to seeing some at some point. I am certain.” He pressed a short kiss onto Hector's cheek, just as the howling stopped in the distance.

IX

As the early summer was progressing, Hector started to dread those days on which Isaac left. He knew Isaac had to—just as he knew that theoretically nothing was stopping him from coming along. But quite frankly: He felt safe at the castle in a way he rarely felt anywhere else. So he preferred to stay.

Yet, he could not help but slip his hand into Isaac's just as the man was done saddling his horse. He did not say anything like “stay”, because he knew it was not an actual option. He did not struggle, though, as Hector pulled him into a close embrace, instead wrapping his arms around the other man as well.

He felt so warm. Warm in a way that Hector was enjoying. He could feel Isaac kiss his hair, lifting his head to steal a kiss on the lips from him.

“Make sure you get back safely, alright?” he whispered.

“I will,” Isaac promised. “Abel will be with me, so it should be alright.”

At this Hector just nodded, always just hoping Isaac would be right.

X

“It's still surprising, how little information there is on old vampiric magic,” Hector said, the open book on his lap. “Or anything old really. It just kinda stops about two thousand years ago.”

“Well, people did not write in books back then, did they?” Isaac said, leaning against be balcony by the other man's side. He enjoyed seeing the twinkle in Hector's eyes, whenever he was talking about his research.

“Yes, sure, but the vampires have transcribed so much into books. So, it seems odd that it stops in that way, doesn't it?”

“Maybe there is a reason for it.” Isaac paused, looking out onto the slowly dusking sky, as the sun moved towards the mountains in the west. “What even is old vampire magic?”

“Well, it seems…” Hector paused. “It seems there are way, to control things that should not be controlled. I know Dracula had known things about this. Like controlling the weather and things like that.” He sighed. “I really need to travel to Wallachia at some point…”

“Maybe,” Isaac admitted, though he did so with a sigh. Because there was the simple fact, he would probably not be able to accompany him—given that it would keep him out of Styria for too long and one of them needed to be here to command the night creatures.

Maybe Hector sensed this, as he put his hand onto Isaac's. “I won't leave any time soon. Just… I don't know, maybe in a year or so. For the winter, maybe.”

“Yeah.” Another sigh came over Isaac's lips, before he leaned over to kiss the man. A feeling that was becoming more and more familiar. A feeling that he started to like.

XI

“You really should be more careful,” Hector said, though he did so with a chuckle, while disinfecting the graze on Isaac's shoulder. Once more Isaac had returned from training—this time not only with Striga but a few others too—with several grazes and a whole host of new bruises.

“I am careful,” Isaac replied. “But sometimes careful is not enough.”

This only seemed too true, given the fact that compared to both their night creatures and the vampires surrounding them, both of them were so very, very mortal. While vampires could still regenerate a lot of different wounds, they sadly couldn't—and even now Hector had not found anything on healing magic. It could not be impossible though, that much he knew. Just how it was supposed to work he wasn't exactly sure.

Cleaning out the last bit of slightly bleeding graze, he finally sat down next to Isaac, gently leaning his head against the other man's shoulder. He was tired, considering it was already past one in the morning and he normally would be asleep at this hour.

“We should get you to bed,” Isaac whispered, taking Hector's hand and kissing it.

“Yeah,” Hector agreed. “Bed sounds like a good idea.”

XII

Isaac found Hector reading, as he returned to their room that night. “Have you been waiting for me?” he asked, as he unbuttoned his robes.

“Yes, I have,” Hector replied with the faintest smile. He put the book aside, watching Isaac undress and pull over his night gowns. He would always stayed just on his own side of the bed, being careful not to overstep that invisible line until asked.

Yet as Isaac laid down on the bed, Hector skuttled further down from his sitting position until he was lying as well, rolling to the side.

Sensing his intention, Isaac did the same, taking Hector's hand. His left hand, that still at times felt strange as their fingers were interweaving with the missing ring finger there. But nobody knew better than Isaac that this was a rather small price to pay for freedom.

“I am sorry, I made you wait,” he said, kissing that stump on Hector's hand, as he so often had taken to do.

“It's alright.” Hector smiled, before turning around to extinguish the candle. “But I am tired.”

“I know.” Isaac drew in a deep breath. The window was open, allowing the air of the late summer night to flood inside. Then he quickly leaned over to kiss Hector on the lips. “Good night,” he whispered and even in the dark he could see Hector smile.

“Good night.”

So, ich dachte ich poste heute etwas lustiges. :P Einfach mal als Abwechselung nach dem Drama, was ich so gepostet habe. Und zwar eine Geschichte, die ich zusammen mit einer spanischen Freundin geschrieben habe! Und das Fandom ist nicht Castlevania! Stattdessen ist es zum Videospiel Hades.

Bonuspunkte für jeden, der korrekt die verschiedenen Spiele benennen kann, mit denen hier Latrunkuli verwechselt wird.

House Rules

The life of a shade wasn’t easy. Of course, living in the House of Hades was better than being out there, in Asphodel, just existing. In the House of Hades a shade had a purpose, something to do. A lot to do, in fact, so that moments like these were rather rare. Moments in which they could just sit here, in the lounge, facing each other.

Nike got out the play board, putting it down. “So, what color are you taking?”

“Latrunculi again?” Dienekes asked, falling into the opposite chair. “You know I can’t wrap my head around it, you just want to watch me make a fool of myself. I’ll take white.”

“No such thing, my friend,” Nike replied. They would’ve smiled, if there was such a thing for a shade. “Just a friendly challenge.”

“That is exactly what you said last time you dragged me to Elysium.” Their voice rose in a mocking high-pitch that sounded nothing like Nike’s, “‘You have to see the Minos Bull fight, it’s just a friendly spar, no one is going to suffer.’ There was blood, Nike! And spilled guts. You know I don’t do well with that. There’s a reason I dodged conscription when I was up there.”

“Ah, but nobody here is gonna die, are they now?” Nike sorted the colored checkers from one another. “So it really is just some harmless fun.” They laughed, before offering the white checkers to Dienekes.

Once again, Dienekes regretted their lost body, endeavoring to let Nike see their irritation through their silence alone. Maybe, if they thought about glaring for long enough, the other shade would notice; though they admitted to themself that Nike was unlikely to care.

With a sigh, Dienekes picked the first checker, rolling it over on the table and thinking furiously. “So, where are you assigned nowadays, anyway?” They said, hoping to buy some time.

Nike groaned, though they lowered their voice. “Darn Hades has me assigned with sorting the documents. Me! Sorting the documents! I am a warrior, by Olympus!” They put their own first checker, waiting for their friend’s next turn.

Recognizing the familiar argument, Dienekes loyally nodded in support of their friend, “I may not have seen your battle prowess in life, but I’m certain you’d do a better job of it than that blond they have guarding the west hall. I have certainly never seen him do anything but—what?” He stopped, finally catching Nike’s frantic motions for them to stop.

“Ah, you’d better not let Achilles hear that,” a voice said behind them both. “He might take it… personally.”

Looking up from the game board, Nike’s heart would’ve almost stopped—if it had not been for the fact they were already dead. “Pa-Pa…” They pointed at the old warrior. They might’ve melted into the floor, but this again was nothing that a shade could do. Not quite, at least. “They… They did not mean it. Right, Dienekes?”

Dienekes, however, had latched on to a completely different part of Nike’s words, “Páppa?” They exclaimed, abruptly standing up, “Oh, it is an honor to meet Nike’s family, they are so tight-lipped about their life! Won’t you sit with us, sir?” They said, proud of how well they had navigated the hurdle in the conversation.

One thing even a shade could do, was to slap their hand against their forehead. So that was what Nike did. If they had the ability to turn invisible on purpose, that might’ve been what they had done, but as it was, they just sat there, hiding their face—not that it was necessary for a shade to do.

Patroclus chuckled, “I’m afraid I didn’t have the opportunity to father children in life, though I’m sure your friend made their ancestors proud.” He did, however, take the offered seat, “but now that that has been cleared up, I do have to insist that you are more careful with your words.”

“About…?” Dienekes asked, trying to recall what they had been saying. “Oh, the blond guard?” They turned to Nike, feeling that they had missed something important. With a dreadful premonition, they added “... Should I know him?”

“That’s Patroclus,” Nike croaked. “Patroclus, the hero from the Trojan war.” Their voice almost failed them. “Patroclus… The blonde’s boyfriend…”

“Indeed, though I’d much rather be known for the latter. I was never the one meant for the epics, and I have made my peace with that,” Patroclus said with a small shrug. It was quite galling, how some shades managed to keep a human form more or less intact.

Dienekes, even if he privately still believed Nike was better suited for that particular job, had been raised right. “I’m sorry I implied anything against your partner then. I’m Dienekes, and they are Nike—Nike, are you feeling alright?” They asked incredulously as the other shade was acting very unlike themselves. Could shades get ill?

Nike let out a long and rather tired sigh. “I… I am. Everything is just fine.” They looked down onto the game board. “And I believe it is still your turn.”

Dienekes groaned, reluctantly going back to the board. They wavered over the placement… a corner piece would be useless, and Nike had the center. They should probably fortify their position, so left or right? With a mental shrug, they placed the peg to the right of his previous piece.

“Not a fan of the game, I take it?” Patroclus asked, watching with amusement.

“They are just a very sore loser,” Nike teased, before placing their next peg in their lower right corner. They had a plan, of course. And maybe more experience than Dienekes, as Nike got to play it a lot while still living above.

“I’m not, I’m just not good at thinking a billion steps ahead.” They said, jamming a peg in the row immediately over Nike’s. “I mean, harvest? That I know. You find a good spot, you plant a vegetable seed, you pray to Lady Demeter, you get a vegetable. Done. Rinse and repeat. It’s all you… metaphorically muscly types who make things complicated.”

Realizing how their words may sound, they tried to add something more conciliatory. “Are you and your partner avid players, sir?”

“Oh yes, war can be surprisingly boring at times, especially when it is a war of attrition,” Patroclus agreed amiable. “As for Achilles, you can ask him yourself,” he said, waving him over.

Nike made a sound not easy to interpret. It had to be something like the last sound someone drowning would make. At least that was to be assumed. Now they really, really wanted to just melt into the floor. Why did this have to happen to them?

Achilles himself, the best of the Greeks, reached their table. He automatically placed a hand on Patroclus’ shoulder. “I was wondering where you were,” he said, watching the two shades quizzically. Dienekes waved amiably, but most of their attention was still captured by the board.

“You come at a good time. We were debating the merits of Latrunculi,” Patroclus said, apparently deciding to keep the less-than-glowing comments about Achilles to himself. The blonde hummed with a new light of interest in his eyes and dragged a chair from a nearby table to sit as well.

“A time-honored passtime,” he said, not bothering to mask his interest. “Do you mind if I join you, then?”

Nike just quietly nodded. It was not as if they could deny someone like Achilles such a wish. “Of course…” Though they wondered whether they could even play this way.

“You haven't set a…” Dienekes’ trailed off, finally taking notice of Nike’s actions.

Usually, the Spartan would have already bullied them into setting all their pieces and would also be halfway done trapping them while berating every one of Dienekes’ choices. Really, Dionekes had never seen them act meek a day (night) of their afterlife. “Oh. Oh, no, don’t tell me,” they crowed in delight. “Nike! Are you a fan? Have I finally found your weakness?”

“I am no fan,” Nike grumbled. “I am just… I mean, this is Achilles. The hero of the Trojan war! There is no warrior out there, who has not heard of him and…” They looked onto the playing board. “They are one of the most important dead people, alright?”

Achilles blinked, clearly taken aback by Nike’s enthusiasm. He tried to speak, but was forced to clear their throat before he could say anything clearly, “I… wouldn’t go quite that far. And I am not certain that my life was one to be emulated.”

“Don’t,” Patroclus said softly, “It is done. Don’t get lost in your regrets, my love.”

The two myrmidons shared a glance filled with meaning, which the shades politely pretended not to notice.

Then, another voice sounded through the hall. “Achilles!” There was an energy to that, not quite in line with that of many of the other people crossing the lounge. Before Nike could even make sure, who this was coming from, the prince of the underworld came running over to them. “Achilles!” There was a wide grin on the godling’s face. “I have not expected to…” Zagreus looked at the play board. “What are you playing?”

“Hello, lad,” Achilles said, not seeming to notice that the two common shades had frozen where they sat. “Come; I quite recall attempting to teach you this game when I became your tutor. Of course, I’m aware you had… other interests at the time, so I won’t blame you if you have forgotten.”

Zagreus frowned, as he looked at the game. He clearly was wondering exactly what it was, but at the end he came to one conclusion: “You are playing it wrong.”

Nike looked at the prince. “What?”

The young god pointed. “You are playing it wrong. You start with the pegs on each side of the board and…”

“No, you start by placing the pegs and start from there.” Now, Nike was nobody to normally argue with a god of all people. But they knew this game. They had played it for… well, they did not quite know, as they were not quite aware of how many years had passed since their birth. But it had been for a while.

“Why are you arguing with him, are you crazy?” Dienekes hissed, before they realized that their outburst had brought attention right to them. “Um. I mean, hi, your highness. Lovely, uh, night we’re having.”

“Well, I would argue with him, because I know this game.” Nike looked at Zagreus. “And you start by placing the pegs over the board and then you play from there, moving either one place at the time or in a chain if you can jump an opposing piece.”

“The last bit is right.” Zagreus looked at the board again. “But you start with two rows of pieces at either side of the board and then you can push them as far as a whole line might take them.” He looked at Achilles. “Right?”

Achilles observed the board, tapping his chin. “I’m afraid that doesn’t make much sense to me. How would you trap your opponent’s pieces if half of yours are not free to move? That would be a completely different game.”

At that point, Dienekes realized they had been making a very embarrassing moan filled with fear. They clamped down on it before the prince could take notice and start one of his infamous rampaging sprees. There were too many gruesome tales flying around for them to trust the god.

Nike crossed their arms and nodded. “See?” Having Achilles out of all people agree with them, out of all people, was quickly making this day a highlight.

But Zagreus was a stubborn godling. He shook his head. “No, I am rather certain that you play it with two rows of pegs and…” He stopped himself, looking around for any support. In the end he noticed one person, who might agree with him. One of his not-so-secret partners. “Meg! Meg! Help me out here.”

The fury looked over to them, giving off an annoyed groan. Probably because she was busy. The furies were always busy after all. Still, she moved over, that darn whip of hers in her hands, making even Nike not entirely certain they liked where this was going. Megaera leaned over the board. “What is it, Zag?”

“Latrunculi.” Zagreus pointed at the board. “You play it with two lines of pegs and move them ahead, right?”

“No,” Nike muttered, though not as enthusiastic as before. “You play it by playing them into the squares and playing from there.”

Now Meg looked at the board as well. “No. No. You place the pegs for sure.” She did show no restraint, just pushing one of the pegs around. “But you place them on the intersections of the lines!”

“Ah, I have seen that variant, I believe,” Patroclus said, leaning forward to see the board more clearly. “There was a shade who stumbled into my glade a while back and insisted on placing them like that. Or at least, that is what I assume they meant. There was a bit of a language barrier.”

Despite knowing that as a shade, it wasn’t like they could be killed further, Dienekes still had to take a deep breath before they could contribute in a whisper, “Why would the square bits be coloured if it was played on the lines? Uh, ma’am,” they finished with a full-body cringe.

“Because you can use the game board for other games,” Megaera just replied with a shrug.

Nike looked at the fury with a frown. “And who would win that kind of game?”

“Whoever can surround more area on the game board.”

“How so?”

“When your pegs surround an area, that area is yours. Also, if you surround different colored pegs with your own, you steal them.”

“No, you can only ever do that with one peg,” Nika argued.

“I wish someone would steal me from this conversation right about now,” Diekenes muttered under their breath to no one in particular. Patroclus sent an amused glance in their direction.

A small pink object shot out of the prince’s robes, making him yelp. After it landed on the table, it was recognizable as a beautiful pink rose, gleaming and yet full of thorns. To the shades’ bafflement, a feminine voice immediately came from the little keepsake. “I know that wasn’t meant in the way I usually hear it, darling, but I couldn’t resist. Thank you for letting me know. So, is this a lover’s quarrel?”

“Merely a friendly debate, Lady Aphrodite,” Achilles said smoothly, having recovered the fastest from her sudden appearance. “There seems to be a disagreement over how to play this board game.”

“How boring,” the rose said, distinctively giving off the impression of someone pouting. “In any case, you are all wrong, dears. The point of the game is to cross the board, moving through the squares, and get the pawns crowned as queens.”

Zagreus frowned. “What is a queen supposed to be?”

Nike looked at the board. Now this was kinda getting out of hand. With even what seemed to be some sort of Olympian intervening. All they had wanted to do was to plan (and win) a little friendly game of Latrunculi. “Do you mean the general?” they still offered. because they did remember a version of the game played with an additional piece on each side. Often red and blue. With those pieces having a few more abilities as well as deciding the game.

“Please, don't make me memorize more pieces," Dienekes pleaded with a note of resignation on their voice.

"I mean female warriors, dearest," Aphrodite retorted. "Strong leaders and such, too. Oh, where is Artemis when you need her? I'm certain she'd back me up on this."

There was a sound as if a cork was pulled from a flask of wine, before a single grape materialized out of Zagreus robes, making the prince of the underworld frown even further than he had been before.

“Now,” a voice said from the grape. A voice that did betray a slight drunken slur. “I might not be dear Artemis, but I am Dionysus and as you might well know, I am also the god of games. So what might be the question we are dealing with?”

Megaera rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Now, please, everyone knows how this game is played!”

“Dionysus, honey, that is quite unbecoming,” Aphrodite scolded, “Surely you don’t need to boast your title wherever you go? What would Ariadne say?”

“At this juncture, certainly it won’t hurt to ask him as well,” Patroclus said, trying to placate the rising tempers of the gods. “Though I’ll confess I don’t have much faith in generals. This game is meant to emulate war, and it’s the common soldier who makes the difference in such matters.”

“Even among the soldiers, there are those who are born to lead, and those who are meant to follow,” Achilles retorted. “What’s the use of pretending that is not the case?”

“I see,” Patroclus said icily. He crossed his arms, turning to face his lover. “What a fascinating perspective. Please, do go on, Achilles.”

Nike looked from one hero to the other. “I mean…” They wavered. “It is just a variant and… I never played it as such and…” They did not want to disagree with Achilles, though, and really never had thought they would get this much attention from so many important people just over a simple game.

“Generals?” Dionysus now boasted. “No, no, there are no generals in this game! But with how many pieces are you playing? White plays with sixteen pieces and black only with one!”

Magaera was unimpressed by this. “I am fairly certain that is an entirely different game.”

“Are you disagreeing with me? A god?”

The fury’s eyebrow was twitching. “I assume I am, old man!”

Zagreus looked from the grape to his partner and back to the grape again. “I think I have to agree with Meg,” he dared to throw in. “I think you are talking about a different game.”

“Oh, please, little godling! I know more about games than a child like you!”

“By that logic,” Aphrodite interceded smugly through her rose, “clearly, my way of playing would be superior. I was already around when you were a thought in Zeus’ thigh, little boy.”

Dienekes looked at the other shades, hoping someone would stop the brewing argument. Unfortunately, Achilles and Patroclus—clearly the sanest people around—were engaged in a whispered but very heated conversation, and had no eyes for anyone else. Latching onto the Fury, who at least seemed to be on Nike’s side, they turned to the board. “So, um, so… I put a piece… here?” They said, placing a piece at random in the diagonal to one of Nike’s pieces.

Meg looked at the board. “Yeah, for example, and then you would try and cut them off here.” She pointed at the next intersection.

Once more Nike would’ve frowned if they were able to frown. “That’s cheating.”

Zagreus still looked onto the game board. “And it is totally wrong.”

“You, my dearest Aphrodite, are the goddess of love! I on the other hand am the god of games and having an all around merry time!”

“Perhaps we should ask Achilles what he thinks of that move,” Patroclus said, reentering the conversation and drawing the eyes of the rest. His words, however, made clear who his intended audience was. “Since he is clearly so very talented. The rest of us shades cannot hope to compare.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Achilles retorted, annoyance bleeding into his voice. “You’re being completely unreasonable.”

“He says I’m being unreasonable,” Patroclus told Dienekes, who had obviously heard the blond warrior the first time. The shade could only nod, though luckily they were clearly not required to add their input, as Patroclus continued anyway. “Unreasonable. That is what the epics will call me: ‘Patroclus, the Unreasonable’.”

Zagreus looked from his mentor to said mentor’s partner, then from one shade to the other. “Uhm…” He looked to Megaera, before his eyes browsed the lounge for any possible help. They stopped at Hypnos, who was just sitting in his corner fast asleep, then over to Orpheus, who was singing along. Then, however, they met someone else. Clear relief showed on his gaze. “Than!”

Turning their heads, even Nike and Megaera could make out the god of death, who did not quite seem like he wanted to have a part in this conversation. He stared over to the two players, as well as everyone else squabbling.

“Than! Than!” Zagreus shouted. “Please come over. We need your help.”

Thanatos paused. “I… do have a war to take souls from and…”

It was probable that Meg clearly knew where this was going. “You can spare a few moments, Than, can’t you?”

Strangely, this new godly apparition didn’t make Dienekes metaphorical heart race. Maybe it was the shock, but it was more likely the fact that they had always known they’d never be infamous enough to merit Death’s personal attention…

… before now. Fine, so maybe they were a tiny bit afraid, but who wouldn’t be?

“Please, do stay, Thanatos dear,” the rose said, ignoring the grape’s sputtering behind it. “It’s not nice to avoid one’s partners in a crisis, after all. Let me just get Hermes, I’m sure he won’t mind taking over for you.”

A soft chime sounded in the distance.

Thanatos gave a long and tired sigh that almost sounded as if it should belong to his brother. “What is the problem?”

“The game,” Megaera quickly explained. “Latrunculi. What are the rules?”

The god of death watched the game board and thought for a moment. “You try to beat the other side’s king.”

Nike just looked at the god. “There’s a king now?”

“Of course there’s a king, you dragged me to see him and the Bull the other day… night… at some point,” Dienekes said. They peered at the board, “Wait, are we the kings of the board, is that it?” They looked nervously at the assorted deities and mortals, all of whom, including Nike—especially Nike—could beat them in a matter of seconds. “I don’t want to be king.”

As if to accentuate their words, at that moment there was a third chime, and a third object zoomed towards the table, an orange and gold plume that fluttered lightly to land near the other two. “A very sound choice, my mortal friend! Okay, what did I miss?”

“I called you so you could go pick the souls of the departed in Thanatos’ place, not to come here to bother us, nephew dear,” the rose chided.

The plume snorted, bristling slightly where it laid, “Please, as if I’m not fast enough to handle both. Besides, how could I not come to see what my favorite aunt and cousins are up to?”

Zagreus looked from one god to the other. “We are having a discussion on how to play Latrunculi. So, these shades here are placing their pegs to start the game, but the game is played by starting with the pegs in two lines at both sides of the gameboard, right?”

“No,” Megaera argued. “It is played by placing the pegs on the intersections and capturing territory on the board.”

“That is obviously wrong, brother,” the grape argued. “It is played with sixteen white pieces and one black and then the white pieces try to capture the black piece, while the black piece steals the white ones by jumping them.”

“That’s what she said,” the plume childishly added.

“It is played,” the rose countered primly, “by setting twelve pieces in three rows along each side. The pieces can only move forward until they reach the end of the board, and then they are crowned and can move backwards and forwards.”

“That sounds reasonable to me, my Lady” Patroclus agreed.

“... If I say I’m sorry and that I won’t imply some men are born superior again, will you please forgive me?” Achilles asked with a sigh.

“Usually I wouldn’t lift a finger to help my darling Aeneas’ enemies, but this is really too beautiful a love for me not to encourage you to accept that apology.” The rose shuddered a little and Aphrodite’s voice gained an edge of mischief. “Though making your lovers work for forgiveness is always gratifying, so I wouldn’t blame you if you kept it up, dear.”

“I’ll think about it,” Patroclus told Achilles. The blonde’s shoulders relaxed with relief.

“Wait, this isn’t the game with the dice to determine the number of pieces you can use each turn?” the plume interrupted once again.

“There never was a dice involved in this game,” Nike protested weakly. Whatever honor they might’ve felt upon receiving so much attention from Achilles and the gods, that was slowly, but surely being extinguished by annoyance. They did not know whether this game might’ve had other variations, but did it matter? It had worked perfectly fine the way they had always played it!

“And I am telling you,” the fury now argued, “it is about capturing an area on the board.”

“No, it is a battle game,” Zagreus replied. “So you lead your armies.”

Thanatos looked at them. “But capturing the area is still a way of tactical battle strategy.”

“Right?” Megaera nodded, her fingers dangerously playing around with her whip. “As I am saying.”

“You are still wrong, though,” Thanatos muttered.

“Does it matter?” A whine came from the plume. “All those strategy games are so slow and boring. The only games worth playing are the ones where a bit of luck and a bit of risk are involved.”

“The ones where you can cheat, dear?” Aphrodite innocently added.

“It’s not cheating if the other player doesn’t catch you,” was the mullish reply.

“Why…” Dienekes cleared their throat. “Why do you say it’s wrong, Lord Thanatos?”

“Because it is played with different pieces and you try to take the other side’s king!” The god argued. Dienekes flinched a little at his vehemence.

“That clearly is a different game, though!” Zagreus replied.

“No, it is not. I recognize the game board.”

“Maybe there are different games played on similar boards?” Zagreus tried.

“You are both wrong, though,” the Fury argued. “It is about capturing territory.”

“No, it is about hunting down the white pieces, while they try to capture you!” Dionysus’ grape replied. “And I should know!”

“Oh, please, you are just dazzling us with your infinite wisdom.” The thorns in the rose seemed to grow larger and glisten ominously. “We ought to track Athena down and tell her to give up her title, for you are the smartest among the gods.”

“Ha!” The plume vibrated in place. “Now that’s something I’d pay my weight in drachmae to see.”

Dienekes looked around, feeling inexplicably like they may be about to discover how a shade could cry without tear ducts. Ignoring the three Olympian’s tokens for their peace of mind—and they weren’t truly going to call Lady Athena, were they?—their gaze landed on the powerful trio of Chthonic deities, who were still bickering like Dienekes’ children had once done, and then to the pair of legendary warriors who were now holding hands under the table and whispering softly to each other, heads bent together like teenagers.

Meanwhile Nike wondered whether the good Lady Athena might offer them yet another set of completely unrelated rules. They were shifting their position, looking at the game board, while the prince of the underworld, was angrily looking at the Olympian tokens.

“You are all thinking of the wrong game,” he argued with the conviction only a young godling could hold towards the Olympians. “They are playing Latrunculi, not whatever y’all are thinking of!”

“And I am telling you, Zag,” Thanatos said softly. “You are wrong. Maybe you are thinking of the wrong game.”

Zagreus frowned at him. “And what if I am not?”

Slowly—and almost afraid that some god might slay them for it—Nike started to remove the pieces from the board, gathering them back into the small leather bag they used to carry the pegs around. Then they looked at Dienekes, just as an olive leaf materialized between them. “Do you maybe want to go play somewhere else?” they asked hopefully.

“You’re playing with fire, Coz. Besides, until you get up here, all you have is second-hand knowledge, so maybe you should get back on that?” The plume was retorting at that very moment.

“That was a low blow, nephew dear, even if you do have a point.”

Under Dienekes’ incredulous gaze, the combined agitation of the gods was making the table begin to shake, screeching against the floor. They hurriedly looked up at Nike and the bag in their hand. They pushed the chair back, hoping that their departure would be masked by the glowing leaf. There was no doubt that it heralded the arrival of yet another deity who apparently had nothing better to do than to intrude upon some poor honest shades’ rightful afterlives.

“... Please. I swear I’ll never, ever complain about the game ever again.”

Okay, wisst ihr was? Ich löse mal auf, bevor ich es vergesse Caroit  Sunaki :D Einmal im Spoiler hier was die verschiedenen Spiele sind.

Wir hatten eine Menge Spaß bei der Recherche in die verschiedenen Spiele, muss ich ganz ehrlich sagen. Übrigens als Aufklärung: Wir haben die Geschichte in Rollenverteilung geschrieben und dann angeglichen damit es sich stilistisch halbwegs flüssig liest und nicht wechselt.

Annie war: Dienekes, Patrocholes, Achilles, Aphrodite, Hermes

Ich war: Nike, Zeg, Meg, Than und Dionysus

Zitat von Sunaki

Da gabs auch ein Spiel bei dem man andere Spielsteine schlagen kann und wenn zwei Steine nebeneinander stehen kann man mehrfach schlagen bis man keine gegnerischen Steine mehr in unmittelbarer Nähe hat. Hab vergessen wies hieß, war aber denke ich darunter.

Das ist eine Variante von Checkers (Dame zu Deutsch) :D

Zitat von Caroit

So ist es am Ende also kein Gedicht geworden, sondern deine Kurzgeschichte, die mich spontan gecatcht hat ^^

Das freut mich aber. Der Kommentar wurde natürlich auch in DeepL geworfen, damit Annie ihn auch mit lesen kann :D

Zitat von Caroit

Als die Rose von Aphrodite ins Spiel kam, war ich erst ein wenig irritiert´, weil ich es irgendwie nie so betrachtet hatte, dass sie durch ihre Geschenke kommunizieren könnten.

Wir haben lange überlegt, wie wir die Götter einbringen könnten. Ob die gerade alle zufälligerweise zu Besuch sind, aber Annie ist dann mit dieser idee aufgekommen und wir haben es dann einfach durchgezogen xD Ich gebe ganz offen zu, die Götter waren wahrscheinlich das lustigste an der gesamten Geschichte zu schreiben. Einfach weil die halt dann immer weiter eskaliert sind.

Zitat von Caroit

Vielleicht hätte Hades am Ende noch kommen können, um zu gucken, was das für ein Auflauf dort in der Lounge ist, und ein Machtwort sprechen können a la "Das wird so und so gespielt und jetzt geht wieder zurück an die Arbeit".

Wir hatten ursprünglich geplant, dass wir Hades und Dusa noch mit einbringen. Aber... wie das so ist. Die Charaktere haben sich dann verselbstständig und Dienekes und Nike hatten dann irgendwann genug von der ganzen Klamotte und haben sich entschlossen abzuhauen, ehe es dazu gekommen ist, dass Hades ein Machtwort sprechen oder Dusa mit hineingezogen werden konnte. Wobei ich garantieren kann, dass Dusas einzige Reaktion: "IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEK!" gewesen wäre, ehe sie verschwunden wäre xD

Zitat von Caroit

Und wenn ich jetzt gerade schon in deine Sammlung schreibe: Kann man eigentlich irgendwo deine Castlevania-FF lesen?

Klar. :D

Ich poste es noch mal ordentlich, damit andere es auch sehen. *hust* Tag geht auch an Bastet und Kaios heraus.

The lesser Evil

Fandom: Castlevania

Genre: Dark Fantasy

FSK: 16

They had thought they won. They had thought their battles were finally over.

They were wrong. Two years after defeating Death, Trevor, Sypha, and Adrian find themselves on the road travelling towards Hungary, where demons await them. A mage and a mad king are summoning the forces of hell to win their wars. And somehow, the three find themselves fighting side by side with vampires to prevent it.

They are not the only ones struggling to prevent conflict though, as Bavaria has declared war on Styria.

Ich habe es auf Ao3 hochgeladen und aktuell updatet die Geschichte einmal in der Woche jeweils am Freitag :D Kommentare sind auch so freigegeben, dass jeder kommentieren kann, selbst ohne Ao3 Account. ^-^ (Ihr wisst ja, Kommentare sind immer willkommen und so.)

Okay, die nächste Geschichte. Das ist halt eine Geschichte, die... ein wenig anders geworden ist, als ich es beabsichtigt habe. Weil ich diese Found Family Vibes wirklich nicht beabsichtigt habe. Und ja, ich liebe es zu schreiben, wie die Charaktere über Gott und Religion und diese Dinge sprechen. Ich habe echt unterschätzt was für ein cooler Ansatz das für Geschichten sein kann.

On God, Death, and Worldly Things

What a strange collection of people they were, sitting here during this dark winter night. Well, night. One could barely call it a night, given it was just past seven in the evening. But considering that the solstice was close the sun already set during the afternoon, giving the vampires a lot more time to roam around.

The sitting room had two tables. One of normal height and one in front of the sofas. Given that this was a castle, it was all so fucking fancy, of course. Yet, Hector could not help but throw a gaze over to the sofas, where Isaac was playing against Striga.

Again, they were a strange collection of people. And “people” almost seemed like the wrong word, given who they were. Here he was sitting in front of Abel, with the even creepier night creature of Nicolai sitting to their side.

“You take turns setting your pegs,” he explained. “Until all the pegs are set.”

“But the goal in the end is to steal the other players pegs, right?” Hector asked, as he tried to warp his head around the ancient game. It really was old, but not quite unfamiliar, given that it was not too dissimilar from checkers or Otello.

“Yes,” the night creature said with his usually hissing voice. “That is the end goal. But first you set up and try to get into the best position to do just that.”

Abel hesitated, before signing. This, admittedly, still was too new and while it had been Hector who had come up with it, it still took him some concentration to make sense out of the hand signs, before he could translate for Nicolai. “So, you steal the other players peg by jumping them, right?”

“Yes, only when there is a free space behind the other peg. You can jump chains, though.” With those sharp claws, Nicolai took three white pegs and one of the black ones, setting them up. The white pegs all spaced apart. Then he positioned the black peg on the other side, demonstrating to jump those several pegs in a row, before removing the white pegs. “Like this.”

Abel nodded to show he understood.

There was only so much to do in a later winter night. After all, even within the castle things slowed down around this time of the year. Even though the vampires had more ability to room around, the roads were by now blocked by ice and snow, so communication within the kingdom of Styria had come to a crawling halt.

Technically speaking it was a good thing, Hector assumed, given that he could hence also spent more time with Isaac. This was still uneasy though. Not the night creatures. He was fine with those. But the two vampires…

He understood by now, that he had nothing to fear from them. If they were intending to harm him, they would've long done so. No, they would not harm him. Nor would they harm Isaac, who so clearly had made friends with Striga by now. Morana still looked as if she was plotting their demise, but even she had started to calm by now.

Once again Abel was signing: “You go first.”

So, Hector did. The rules of the game were still unfamiliar to him, but seemed easy enough. He placed the peg close to the middle of the board. It was probably a risky move, given that this way he would be in a good position to move out—but also easily beat.

Abel remained more conservative in his move. Placing his peg in the middle of the row closest to him.

Hector was well aware that any outsider would probably find the view of them either hilarious or quite terrifying. The two vampires were too old to pass for human, their auras so clearly old, and the two night creatures did not look as if they should sit on a table. Nicolai did not, because for the most part he just looked like an overgrown insect with some humanoid features. And while Abel looked more human—apart from his wings, horns and five eyes—he was also giant with his almost seven feet in height.

Abel was maybe the strangest of the night creatures. While he was mute—many of them were—he also seemed to be quite thoughtful. Thinking about many things. Maybe a reason that he and Nicolai got along too well. Other than Nicolai, he did not remember much from his previous life. He seemed certain, though, that he had not been dead for very long. Maybe two hundred years, though life in hell or whatever afterlife his soul had been plucked from left many without a feeling of time passing.

And so, they went on. Taking their turns and placing their pegs. One after one.

There was a chuckle coming from the other table, as Striga was rubbing her chin. “You are not half-bad for a human,” she muttered, before moving one of her pieces. Hector could not see which one, given that the back of the sofa was blocking his view.

“’For a human’,” Isaac repeated, chuckling himself.

“Well, your kind tends to be hasty,” Striga teased, as she waited for Isaac to make his next move.

Isaac smirked. “One should think that by now you know enough humans to correct your notions on them.”

“Hector,” Nicolai reminded him of making his own next move.

So Hector focused on his own board again, putting down the next peg. He still listened to the others, though.

“Do you deny that humans fear death?”

“Yes,” Isaac simply replied. “Not all of us do.”

Another chuckle. “True, I guess.”

“Your death will not come because your time runs out, but it will come, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Morana interjected. She was sitting to the side of her wife and had been reading this entire time. Only rarely sparing a gaze to the chess board.

This much Hector had learned by now. Striga was like Isaac. Finding great enjoyment in the game of chess and other games that were largely based on tactical thinking. While Morana, just like Hector had done for Isaac, would indulge Striga with it, the game was more evenly matched between those two. Isaac and Striga.

Playing his last peg, Hector looked to his board. “You have played this game, when you were alive, right?” he asked Nicolai.

“Many times,” the creature replied. “It was a very common game, still, as I was living.” Given the unusually soft tone of his voice, Hector was rather sure the creature would've smiled, if he had been able to.

“It's funny.” He tried to think of a tactic, as Abel put down his own last peg. “To think how much was lost…” As he spoke those words, he was well aware of the scoff Morana gave.

Yes, yes, she would go on and on over the many things the humans had forgotten over those one and a half millennia, she had been alive. The thought alone still seemed too fucking foreign to Hector. To think she had lived even before the major religions had been established. When the Roman Empire or Republic or whatever had still been a thing. Though she had not been there, of course.

“But isn't it a military game? To train tactics?” he asked Nicolai, while considering his first actual move. Carefully he jumped the first of Nicolai's pegs, stealing it, as it seemed as good of an opening move as any.

“Well, you play chess, don't you?” The creature looked at him from those alien eyes.

Hector smirked. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you are not a military man, kitten,” Striga chimed in.

“I was a general of Dracula's army,” he replied, though he knew himself he had been half-hearted at it at best.

That seemed to be Abel's though as well, as he signed: “But were you ever interested in military tactics?”

He wasn't, of course. Which had maybe been one reason, why he had so easily been swayed by Carmilla. What she had said, had made sense to him, because he could not think of anything better. Honestly, he was still unable to see a good way to do that war they had been doing. In the end it had only been random acts of cruelty, had it not been? And he had been one of the people responsible…

He sighed, watching Abel steal two of his pegs in one chain, before making his own next move. This time just moving a peg backwards, to avoid another chain.

“It was not, as if I was especially interested in it, either,” Isaac muttered, with a hum. He was moving one of his pieces as well. “I… just wanted everybody to die.”

Striga was smirking. She did so often and it showed up in her voice, even though she sat with her back towards Hector. “How things change…”

“Indeed.”

It was kinda funny, to see Abel's giant hands or rather claws move those small game pegs. He could be so delicate with it. So gentle.

“No,” Nicolai said. “I played it with my wife. She liked the challenge, I believe…” A tiny sigh. “I still don't quite remember her name. Or her face. Or anything about her, really. Just her laugh.”

This, too, was a thing Hector was still struggling with. He knew, of course, that the night creatures they forged had the souls of humans who once had another life. But looking at the creature with the fly eyes, it was so hard to think of him as anything but a creature, a monster. But there had been a man, once, who had this soul. A philosopher, who had died by the hands of an early church.

“How much do you remember?” Abel signed and Hector translated.

“Just glimpses,” the other creature muttered. “I do remember some of my friends. Not their names or their faces. But a… sense of companionship. We would meet on Tuesdays. I can remember that. And then we would talk about nature, about humanity and about God.” He made a strange noise with his tongue, betraying his now inhuman nature. “I… greatly enjoyed this. I enjoyed talking about it. Questioning things. Coming up with my own explanations…”

“But the church did not like it.” Once again it was Hector's turn and this time, he went to steal another peg. He was still not sure whether to play offensive or defensive, though. Being still so unfamiliar with the game, that he had no idea of how to approach the different tactics.

“No, they did not,” Nicolai replied.

Once more Striga chimed in: “My experience is, that the church will again and again find things they don't like.”

“They do, don't they?” Isaac said. “Their vision is too worldly, I believe. They think of their selves first, not off the people they are supposed to serve.”

Morana scoffed. “There goes the philosopher again.”

Hector had to wonder, whether she was even fully reading. While had been sitting there with a book, he had not noticed her turning a page in quite a while. Instead, she seemed to watch the game of chess play out. Though Hector also knew, that this game could take quite long.

As Abel made his next move, he lost another peg. Only then the creature signed: “Everybody is considering the now. Not the then.”

Hector once more translated for everyone else. He had to smile though, as it had been what Isaac had said to him that night, after he had defeated Carmilla. ‘That is how they get us. They convince us there is no future, only an eternal now.’

He added himself: “They are fleeing death, aren't they? I… I read that it changed with the first plague. They became more… orthodox back then.”

“Oh, I can tell you they were fairly orthodox before that,” Morana muttered. “The church had always been…” She paused, before ending the sentence: “Worldly. Too busy amassing gold and power, playing favorites with kings and kingdoms.” There was a deep disdain in her voice. “Not once considering…”

Hector almost jerked, as Striga chuckled again: “Careful, Love. You almost sound as if you do care for humanity.”

“I don't care about humanity,” her wife replied. “But the cultures and their knowledge lost to the crusades and missionary work.” Her culture as well, wasn't it? Though Hector still had no fucking clue where she came from. Somewhere down south, no doubt, given the color of her skin. But other than that? Given that the German, they were speaking, was probably not even her tenth language and her own language had been long dead, it was hard to say. Though given the way she would keep getting annoyed with his mistakes, he did assume that her mother tongue was in fact old Persian. He had never asked her, though, given that out of all vampires, she was the one he still feared most. Because much to his surprise he had found a certain softness in Striga—but nothing of the sort in her.

The other vampires, the younger ones… They really were still mostly human. They hated, when he spoke those words out loud, but they were. The humanity would only get lost after a century or two.

“Hector,” the voice of Nicolai once again reminded him, that it was his move. He had not even noticed, but Abel had once again made an offensive move, trying to corner two of his pieces.

There was a way, to block this off, though. Abel would be unable to jump his pieces, if there was no room between them. So, he moved one close to the other.

“Those cultures might've been lost either way,” Striga said. “It is human nature to change.”

“You have not been there,” Morana muttered. “When they killed thousands, because they would not convert.”

Once more Isaac hummed. “Or because they asked too many questions.”

Hector could feel Nicolai's gaze dart over to the other man. He seemed unsure, whether to interject. Though Nicolai had so long tried to stay the monster, he had been created to be, even he had been unable to do so. Instead, he had started to behave like a person after a while. “I did believe in God,” he said slowly. “I did believe. But… not in the way, they wanted me to believe.”

Remembering something he had read, Hector looked to him. “When did you live?”

“I don't know,” Nicolai replied. “I still don't know. But… their God was new in my parts. And there was a lot of arguing about his nature.”

So just as Hector had thought. “They were arguing whether God was one with Christ and the Holy Spirit, right? I read about that.”

“Yes,” Nicolai said slowly. “It was one of the many things they argued about. But there had been one doctrine by the Church and they would not want us to argue with it.”

That meant it had been after the first wave of Christianity, though. When there was already a church established. Already a pope, too. So probably, when they branched out east. Nicolai had said he had been from Greece, so it made sense. What a strange thing to consider. Those beginnings of things.

Now Striga turned around to them. Her green eyes were focusing on the creature. “So, you got killed by them.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Obviously.”

She did not say anything else to it, but watched the creature. She had not talked much to the night creatures, had she?

“They came to my home and burned it down,” he said. “And took me. And tortured me. Until I confessed to anything they would throw at me. Anything and everything. I told them the names of everyone I spoke to. And I do assume they took them next.” He paused. “I don't know. I was not around then.” A short silence. “They beheaded me. I… weirdly still remember it. How it was when the sword cut through my neck. They needed three strikes before I was dead.”

Hector shivered at the thought. Of course, he had no idea how he would die, but he hoped it was going to be quick. Either way. He would probably prefer if it happened in his sleep or something. Though something told him, that it was a luxury not afforded to someone like him.

He himself was not sure, whether he did believe in God or anything else. He had always been agnostic. If his father had once believed in something, he had long lost that believe when Hector had been born. And while he knew his mother had been of Jewish heritage, she had not practiced the religion, either. Of course, when he thought himself to forge, he had read in those old texts, that the souls they were retrieving, they were retrieving from hell. But he was not sure he believed it.

He had read old texts and the believe in hell was fairly new. There was also the fact that he had started forging by bringing life to animals. And according to church doctrine those did not have a soul. While he could not guarantee that he had not pushed the souls of some poor human into an animal body, he rather doubted it. Because those animals had behaved just like the animals they had been. Though there was the obvious fact that forging a dead animal just gave you an undead animal, while forging with the body of a human would give you a night creature. There was some theory on this. How the night creatures would take the shape of the soul they possessed. But this, too, he found himself struggling with. Because talking to Nicolai, he most certainly did not feel like an overgrown fly with sharp claws.

Neither did Abel feel like…

The creature tapped his arm, reminding him that it was once again Hector's turn.

“Vampires can be like this too, no?” Striga muttered, as she once more turned to the board and the game she was playing with Isaac. “We have our way of seeing the world and force new vampires to adapt to it.”

Nobody replied to that. The silence only broken by the gentle tapping of the stones, as Hector jumped one of Abel's pegs, knowing already that he was once more ignoring his own defense.

Another slight tap followed, as Isaac made his turn. It was him, who spoke next. “This is, why there was no church in Styria.”

“It is simpler than that,” Morana interjected. “Priests have the ability to make holy water. Holy water can harm us. So, it only ever stood to reason to kill those priests and not allow new ones to enter the country.”

“Why is that, though?” Hector muttered. “That holy water does harm?” It was one of those strange things. Because even that undead bishop had been able to create holy water. Now, official church doctrine had always been, that the power of God was flowing through the priest, once he had been ordained by the church. But for fuck's sake, there was no way in hell Hector was ever gonna believe, that God would channel his power through an undead controlled by an unbeliever like Hector.

“Maybe just another spell.” Morana shrugged. “Different cultures have found different ways to harm vampires and demons. It might well be old magic, that they don't even understand.” Once more she spoke with this air of superiority. “Humans knew ways to slay vampires, even before the Christians came around with their bibles and holy water.”

“And yet there are vampires who believe,” Isaac said.

“But most loose that belief after a century or two,” Striga replied.

“Maybe, because it is convenient, though.” A slight smile was playing around Isaac's lips. “After all religions tend to have doctrine forbidding to kill.”

Another chuckle from her. “Yet, here you are. Still believing after killing thousands.”

“Because life is not about convenience.”

“So you say,” Morana growled. She lowered her gaze to the pages of the book once more.

Even Hector had to agree, that he was not quite understanding his partner. How could he be so content with the thought of ending up in hell?

“What do you believe, Abel?” Nicolai asked to much of Hector's surprise.

The creature, that had been so clearly pondering his next move, paused at this. Then once more he signed, waiting for Hector to translate. “I do believe there is some higher power. But I don't think that higher power has any interest in controlling our lives.” He smirked. “Maybe the higher power just wants to see where the story goes.”

Nicolai chuckled at this. “I guess that is possible.”

“So, you don't believe in fate,” Isaac noted, making Abel shake his head.

Once more he signed: “Life seems too random, to be controlled by fate.”

For some reason this got Isaac to chuckle, as he looked over to Hector and the two creatures. “Maybe it is just random, because we do not understand His plan.”

“Or maybe He is cruel,” Striga interjected.

This made Isaac sigh. “I thought so for a long while.”

“I know,” she said. “And now you do believe in a greater plan and the goodness of God.”

“Yes.” He moved another piece. “I believe God is good.”

Looking at those pegs in front of him, Hector found himself chuckling. “And I do believe this is getting too philosophical for my taste. Let's just…” He moved another piece. “Continue.”

Ups, habe noch gar nicht wieder gepostet.

Heute bringe ich ein wenig Hector Whump. Zwei Geschichten mit demselben Prompt ("Chicken Soup for the Sick") und beide Male ist Hector krank - nur mit sehr unterschiedlichen Kontexten. Gesamt sind es nur etwa 3400 Wörter, also nicht so viel ^^

Chicken Soup

It was not surprising, all things considered, but Hector felt like shit. The fact that it had been his first night in an actual bed in more than six weeks did not help at all. He pulled the blanket closer and was still shivering. His head was aching and his throat was sore. Really, it should not be surprising. He had been chilled to the bone so often during those last six weeks, had been beaten and otherwise abused. At some point his body really had to give out. Now was as good of a time as any, he assumed.

This did not stop Lenore from barging into the room though. “Wakey-wakey,” she announced herself, only stopping in her stride when he did not move.

Really, he did not feel like looking at her. He did not feel like talking to her. She had betrayed him. She had abused him. She had enslaved him. A nice bed did not change any of that.

“Oh, come on,” she said, walking over to his bed. She lit a candle, before sitting down by his bedside. “Get over it.” She put a hand onto his shoulder, but he just skuttled away from her, making her sigh. “You got to get over it or Carmilla will test out how bad she can make you feel.”

“It can't get worse,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Lenore would not have any of it, of course. She was used to getting what she wanted. Of course she was. Being a vampire. Being a princess at that. She once more grabbed his shoulder, only to stop. Being more careful now, she put her hand against his temple. “You've fever,” she noted.

At this he just shrugged. What difference did it make? Someone like Carmilla probably did not even understand the concept of sickness, being so far removed from humanity already.

There was a long silence, as Lenore sighed. “Very well,” she said. “I…” Another sigh. “I will come up with something to tell Carmilla. You…” She looked at him for a moment. “I will have a look whether our chef can make you some chicken soup or something.”

“Why bother?” he muttered, this time earning him a somewhat annoyed groan.

“One, I can't have you dying on us from a fever,” she said. “Two, believe it or not, but I do care about you.”

He scoffed at this, though the scoff quickly turned into actual coughing. He really was sick, wasn't he? And his head was fucking killing him. Maybe, a tiny voice in his head whispered, if he died, he could get away from it all. He could finally be at peace.

Still, his gaze drifted over to Lenore who shook her head. There was hurt in her gaze, though that might as well just be another act. “Just… Just rest for a while. I will look after you later.”

***

Lenore stayed true to her word. She brought over some chicken soup later, though Hector would not eat it with her present. There was no reason for him to trust her. Not after what she had done. She had played him like a fiddle, had made him have feelings for her and then used these feelings to enslave him. He had been wrong about vampires after all. They were malicious. Maybe not all of them, but many. She was malicious. As was Carmilla. He was their slave.

He was tired. Of course, he was. During those nights in that god darn cell he had barely shut an eye. His body had hurt too much. He had been cold, even with the added heat. He had been afraid. He still was afraid, of course. Because really, even with him enslaved he would not trust Carmilla from barging in and giving him another beating. He was completely at their mercy. If he tried to flee, that darn ring would just burn him up from the inside, would tear his insides apart – or at least make him feel that way.

But really, right now he felt like shit either way. His coughing got worse over the course of the night and his nose was soon stuffed up. The day did not make it any better. He felt sick to the stomach as well. Lying in bed he was groaning, trying to… well, there was no sense in getting better, was there?

It was only in the evening that the door was opened again. Lenore came in, ignoring the fact that he once again turned her back to her. “How are we feeling tonight, puppy?” she asked as she sat by the bedside. He would have loved to completely ignore her, but instead he was coughing once again.

Once more she extended her hand to feel his temperature, but this time he pushed her hand away.

“Ah, shush, Hector.” She groaned. “Don't behave like a child.” With ease she grabbed his wrist before using her own hand to feel his forehead. Her face looked grim. “You're burning up,” she muttered and gave a sigh. For a moment she closed her eyes to think.

These vampires were not Dracula, after all. Not Dracula with his collected volumes on medicine. In the end she made a decision, though. “I will look what herbs we have. I will make you some tea.”

He would've liked to reply something, but when he tried another coughing fit hit, so in the end he opted to just turn his back once more. Maybe he was dying, after all. Maybe he could escape in the end.

***

When Hector awoke he felt delirious. Only a small portion of his mind was lucid enough to reason that his fever must've gone up even further. But there was a cold hand on his forehead. An icy hand. Only now he realized that his head was no longer bedded on the pillows of his new bed, but a pair of legs.

“Shush,” Lenore hushed. “You're weak.”

He did not have the capacity to fight her off. Well, he never had had, right? But he did not even feel the least like it. Really, he felt like dying. A part of him wanted to skuttle aside, wanted to get away from her, but that icy hand on his forehead felt nice, made the fever at least a bit more bearable.

“I've some tea,” she whispered. “You should drink. It's lime blossom and chamomile. It should help. At least a bit.” She picked up a mug from the nightstand, gently leading it over to his mouth.

Just another trick. Just another trick to make him more pliable. To make him play along. That was all he was for her, right? A plaything. Yet, he opened his mouth, allowed for her to pour the already chilled tea down his throat. It did at least help a bit against the soreness.

He closed his eyes again, a part of him hoping he would die.

***

Waking up again, a bit of sunlight was seeping through the drawn curtains. Not much, just enough to give him the idea that the sun was up by now. To his surprise, though, he found himself not alone in bed. Lenore was there. Sleeping by his side.

He did not even know vampires did sleep.

Skuttling away from her he took a deep breath. He felt actually somewhat better. His head was still hurting and his throat still sore, but the coughing was not as bad anymore and judging by the clearness of his thoughts, he was no longer feverish.

So he did not die.

Looking around he found a mug and a jug by the bedside. Filled with more tea, he guessed. He did not care. He was mostly thirsty right now. And while he could not help but shoot Lenore an angry look, he filled the mug and took it, drinking thankfully.

He sighed and lay down again. She had betrayed him. She had lied to him. She had enslaved him. All of this was probably just another trick. Yeah, nothing more than another way to manipulate him. So why did he actually feel moved by her having apparently stayed by his side for the entire night?

He should not be this naive. All she was, was a manipulator. She did not care about him anymore than she cared about his place in Carmilla's great big plan. He was nothing more than a tool to her. A pet.

And yet… A pet was maybe more than he had ever been to anyone. Because at least pets were loved.

***

“You're feeling better,” Lenore noted as she returned to his room. Sometime during the early evening she must've slipped out, as he had awoken after dusk to find his bed empty once more. She was bringing a tablet with soup by the looks of it. Soup and some bread.

Hector sighed, as he looked up to her. “I am,” he admitted, though his voice was still hoarse. He would not thank her for caring for him. After all she had probably just done so for Carmilla. Even now he could not bear looking at her, as he had to remember the way she had looked at him down there in the dungeon. When she had tricked him.

“That's good.” She brought the tablet over to him, setting it on the night stand. “Because quite frankly, Carmilla might've killed you otherwise.”

“She might kill me either way,” he muttered.

“No, she won't,” Lenore replied and took up the soup bowl. Without saying anything about it, she dipped the bread in it, before putting it to his lips.

He tried turn his head away. “I can eat by myself.”

At this she smiled. He could hear it in her voice. “You can,” she replied. “But you don't have to.” Once more she pressed the fluffy and moist bread against his lips. “Come on, Hector, don't be like this.”

Really, he was a fool. He was. But there was one simple fact: No one, not even his mother, had ever cared for him when he had been sick. And he had been sick quite a lot as a child. He was a fool, really. But the truth was, that deep inside he wished for nothing more than for someone to take care of him. For once. Just for a while.

And while he hated himself for it just a bit, he opened his mouth, making her smile.

“See?” she whispered. “That's a good boy.”

To Care For You

If Hector had learned anything from his time in Styria, it was that he did not take well to the mountainous climate.

As he had grown up in Rhodes, he had rarely ever been sick. Which was good thing, because given the fact he had been on his own since the day he had been thirteen years old, he probably would not have survived. But here in Styria? Well, he was getting at least one cold a winter. But realistically speaking it was more like two or three. And so it was no big wonder as he awoke on this late winter day - maybe just a week or two from the beginning of spring - and found his head hurting and his nose stuffed.

He groaned, realizing that Isaac was already up, and just kept lying down.

It was his third winter here by now and he knew those colds would not vanish without rest, tea and maybe some soup. So he just tried to fall back asleep again, trying to rest, hoping that it would not get as bad as some of the other colds had gotten. He really did not take to this climate - but it was not as if he was going to leave here, either. Hence, enduring was all he could do, slowly drifting off to sleep again, only to be woken up by a hand on his shoulder.

“Hector?”

He blinked, looking up at Isaac, who clearly did not know if he was annoyed or worried. “Why are you not up?”

“Sick,” Hector croaked, noticing his voice was already failing. So maybe this cold would burn through quickly. “Just another cold.”

A soft smile showed on Isaac's face, as he put one hand onto Hector's forehead. “You have a slight fever,” he noted and sighed. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he took Hector's hand, caressing the back softly with his thumb. “Maybe you really need to rest.”

Hector just nodded, his throat already sore.

“Do you need anything?”

“Some tea,” Hector whispered. “And soup. Chicken soup.”

“I will try and get you both,” Isaac replied. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled the blanket further over Hector's shoulder to leave him be for now.

***

Hector drifted off to sleep again. While normally he was a light sleeper, the same was not true, when he was sick. Whenever he was sick, he would sleep for hours on end, not even being woken by conversations happening in the room.

There had been two times he had been sick when he was a child. Again, a good thing, because he did not think his parents would've cared enough to actually try and make him better. Both times he had mostly just spent lying in his little hay bed and sleeping, until the infection had passed.

He barely noted Isaac returning with a jug of tea, only realizing it was there when he woke during the late afternoon. By now the tea had cooled down, making it easier to swallow. It was lime blossom and chamomile, just the way Lenore had once made it for him.

His throat was really hurting by now, but that was to be expected as well. He was not coughing yet, but he assumed it would come. It always came, when he was sick. So he just filled another mug, drank it and then lay down again, to just try and sleep it off.

***

The next time he was woken, it was by Isaac putting down a tray by the side of the bed. He was shaking Hector's shoulder, as Hector did not manage to open his eyes right away. Still, there was a soft smile on Isaac's lips, when Hector looked at him. Though there was worry in his eyes as well.

“How are you?” Isaac asked.

“Horrible,” Hector muttered, leading Isaac to study his expression for a moment to see how serious it was.

In the end, he sighed. “I brought you some soup. Can you sit?”

Hector nodded. With a groan he managed to sit up in the bed, taking the soup bowl from Isaac. “Thanks.” His voice was not much more than a hoarse whisper, but much to relief he found, that the soup was actually helping. Some nice and hot chicken soup, with bits and pieces of vegetables and meat swimming in it. Some bits of chicken meat as well. He thankfully put spoon after spoon in his mouth, noting how nice it felt against his sore throat.

His nose was starting to run, though. And without any prompting Isaac got up to get him a handkerchief, which Hector took with a nod. He blew his nose, before continuing to eat.

At times he had to wonder over Isaac's patience. The man just kept sitting there, by his side, watching him eat. Not saying anything, just making sure he was alright, finally taking the bowl from it, once it was empty.

“Should I sleep on the sofa tonight?” he finally asked.

Hector hesitated. They had only started sharing the bed about two weeks ago. It brought a comfort to Hector, he had not expected. A welcome comfort. But if they shared the bed, Isaac might get sick as well. And knowing Isaac he would try to power through it somehow. So, Hector nodded slowly. “Yes,” he croaked, “that might be better.”

***

Hector did not wake until early the next morning. Mostly consumed by one very basic need: He had to pee. And even though his head was protesting, he tried to stand up, only to stumble after the first few steps, as the dizziness overtook him.

He was not entirely sure, where Isaac was coming from, but he was there. Already dressed he came over to steady him. “Are you alright?”

Hector nodded. “Yeah. Just dizzy.” His voice was giving out on him even further.

It was kinda funny, living in a vampire castle. And maybe a bit more complicated. Because until he had started to live with vampires, a chamber pot would have been the obvious solution. The normal thing to do anyway - but like this especially. But vampires had those fancy things called toilets, taking care of human excrements in a much more orderly manner. So, to the toilets he wanted to go. But as he was stumbling along - still supported by Isaac - he really was wishing for the stupid chamber pot, that would not have needed him up and running for more than a few feet from the bed.

He managed, though. Sweating, as if he had run a marathon, he managed to get to that toilet, emptying his bladder, while Isaac was waiting outside.

“This is humiliating,” Hector croaked, as he made his way out of the room, having to rely on Isaac again.

It was another thing that tended to happen, whenever he was getting sick: His circulatory system would give out on him, making him all dizzy, see stars at times, as he was just struggling along.

As he was finally back in bed, Isaac ran his fingers through Hector's hair. “I will get you some more soup for breakfast,” he said. “And some more tea.”

And Hector smiled at this. “Thanks.”

***

The day ran by in a blur. Again, he was still sleeping most of the time, being alone most times he woke up. Only in the late afternoon - judging by the sun - Isaac was there again. Which was earlier than the time he usually came back, making Hector sure the man had taken time off for him. He did not say anything to it, but could feel a thankfulness blossom in his chest.

Isaac was sitting by the side of the bed again, putting a hand onto Hector's forehead. "You still have fever," he noted. "Maybe I will bring you something to cool you off."

Hector just nodded, as his throat was feeling stuffed and sore. He rolled onto his back, even though lying on his side made it easier to breath. With one hand he grasped for Isaac, holding onto the man's fingers, just because it felt actually good to hold onto him.

Isaac paused. “Should I stay for a bit?”

Once more Hector kept his reply to a nod, closing his eyes, because it was surprisingly hard to keep them open. He really did not feel good, though there was still no coughing. So at least that was something he did not have to deal with.

He could feel Isaac's fingers running through his hair again. He knew Isaac liked to do that. To run his fingers through Hector's hair. And admittedly Hector enjoyed it as well. Just a soft touch. A caring touch. Something that had been kept from him for so long.

Only after a while Isaac got up. “I will get you something to cool down. And some food afterwards.”

Not having the energy to protest, Hector just nodded before drifting off to sleep again.

***

It was some time during the next afternoon that Hector awoke and felt somewhat alive again. His throat was still sore and his head still hurting, but at least he did not feel as dizzy and feverish as he had felt those last two days. There was still a wet cloth on his forehead, that had been filled with crushed ice during the night before, though that ice had melted by now, soaking both the cloth and Hector's hair.

He took it away, folding it, before butting it onto his night stand.

Much to his surprise he found Isaac sitting up in the sitting room next door, turning to come over to him. “How are you?” he inquired.

“Slowly better,” Hector whispered. "Thank you."

Once again Isaac was smiling. “Do you need anything?”

“I am hungry,” Hector replied, much to his own surprise. But it was true. While he still had that lingering taste and smell of sickness in his mouth and nose, he did feel some actual hunger again. More than just the need to eat. Some actual hunger. “Could you...”

“I will fetch you some more soup,” Isaac offered.

“And some bread,” Hector said. “I need something... solid in my stomach.”

Isaac smiled at him. “I can do that. Anything else?”

But Hector shook his head. His throat was still killing him though. “That should be fine.”

“Alright.” Isaac hesitating, before coming over for just one moment to take Hector's hand. He did not say anything, did just look at him with this soft gaze in his eyes. Then he turned to probably do what he had promised. Getting Hector some food. Some soup and bread, so Hector could feel properly human again.

Antworte ich mal ganz fix, bevor ich es vergesse.

Zitat von Sunaki

Das spielt wohl direkt nach seiner Ankunft. Wie war nocb gleich der Name des Ortes, Styria?

Es spielt effektiv keine 24 Stunden nach dem Ende von Staffel 3. Also er ist gerade versklavt worden mit dem Ring.

Und Steiermark. Styria ist die Steiermark xD Also das ist einfach nur die englische Bezeichnung für die Steiermark.

Habe noch ewig darüber nachgedacht, wohin ich das Schloss pflanze. Weil es ist deutlich ans Riegensburger Schloss angelehnt (auch wenn es mit sehr viel Art Deco gekreuzt wurde). Aber es ist halt recht unpraktisch für Vampire von der Lage - und technisch gesehen sieht der Horizont von da aus sehr anders aus (selbst wenn ich sicher bin das darauf eh keine Sau geachtet hat).

Habe sie am Ende aber nach Eisenerz auf den Berg gepflanzt xD

Zitat von Sunaki

Hector ist nachvollziehbarer Weise nmisstrauisch und auch zurecht. Lenore und seine Beziehung zu ihr ist auch eines der am einfachsten zu verstehenden Beispiele für eine Power Inballance.

Ich denke auch, dass deine Interpretation recht gut einfängt wie die Charaktere gedacht sind.

Lenore manipuliert ihn, hat aber auch eine gewisse Appreciation für ihn, die aber nicht auf Gleichwertigkeit beruht, sondern eher einer Haustier-Frauchen Beziehung gleicht.

Hector weiß das, oder ist in späteren Momenten zumindest noch auf der Hut, aber so ausgehungert nach Zuneigung, dass er bestimmte Warnmomente übersieht, oder Ignoriert.

Ja, das halt. Es war halt alles Manipulation. Ich mein, ich gehe in anderen Geschichten noch ein wenig mehr darauf ein. Weil letzten Endes ist es halt eben auch weitergegebener Abuse.

Das ist da halt eben die Sache. Castlevania ist eine Serie über eine Menge kaputter Leute, die halt irgendwie versuchen mit ihrem Trauma umzugehen in einer Zeit vor Psychotherapie.

Mit Lenore war es halt auch nicht, dass sie sich hingesetzt hat und gesagt hat: "Muhahaha, ich misshandele den Jungen weil ich's kann," sondern... In ihrem Kopf hat sie ihn gut behandelt.

Zitat von Sunaki

Ohhh, Ich sehe was du da vor hast. Du baust einen Kontrast zwischen den beiden Beziehungen auf und wie sie sich in Vertrauen und Powerdynamik unterscheiden.

Ja, genau das.

Weißt du, als ich Chicken Soup geschrieben habe, hatte ich die andere Geschichte noch nicht geplant. Aber dann bekam ich halt über eine andere Aktion noch mal denselben Prompt und war so: "Ja.... Ja... Das mache ich nun so."

Zitat von Sunaki

Dies zeigt eine weniger dominierte Beziehung die auf gegenseitige Einvernehmung basiert und dementsprechend den nötigen Respekt vor dem jeweils anderen zeigt.

Wobei es außerhalb des Kontextes der Geschichte sicher nichts zu unanständiges gewesen wäre hätte er ihm ungefragt Tee und Hühnersupper gebracht.

Wobei die Erinnerung an Lenore definitiv nicht verteufelt wird, es waren immer noch Momente der Wertschätzung von ihm und aie selbst war nicht wirklich schlecht.

Ich schreibe aktuell an einer ganzen Geschichte darüber, wie er halt durch das mit Lenore verbundene Trauma arbeitet. Ich bin nur so froh, dass Striga ihn auch ein wenig adoptiert hat. *hust*

Gerade schreibe ich eine Geschichte für Ramadan - aus Hector's Perspektive - die auch... deutlich depressiver geworden ist, als ich erwartet habe.

Weil irgendwo in der Traumaaufarbeitung kam sein Gewissen mit dem Holzhammer um die Ecke: "Du... bist dir dessen bewusst dass du zehntausende Ermordet hast, ja?"

Zitat von Sunaki

Ja, das klingt nach ihm. Ich sehe irgendwie nicht, warum Isaac so viel besser mit der Kälte umgehen kann.

Relativ einfach. Isaac hat zum einen einfach ein bessere Herzkreislaufsystem, weil er mehr Sport macht, zum anderen hat er aber halt auch einfach eine körperliche Beherrschung die nicht mehr ganz menschlich ist.

Ich erinnere daran: Für die gesamte Zeit von Staffel 2 zumindest läuft er mit einem offenen Rücken rum. Und... zeigt es nicht. Weißt du, ich bin halt auch davon überzeugt, das von den menschlichen Charakteren ohne Magie er der beste Kämpfer ist. Ich wäre nicht überrascht, wenn er sogar mit Adrian mithalten könnte.

Zitat von Sunaki

Ich fände es ganz gut hätte die Story mit einem kleinen komödiantischen Rollenwechsel geendet in der Isaac Krank ist.

Du wirst es nicht glauben, aber... die Geschichte gibt es bei mir schon.

Again: Herzliche Einladung auch auf Ao3 zu kommentieren :P

So, diese Woche gibt es eine Geschichte vom Anfang des letzten Monats. :) Diese Geschichte dreht sich um die vier Schwestern aus der Steiermark und dreht sich darum, wie Lenore bei ihnen angekommen ist.

Something Lost & Something Gained

The girl just sat there at the big window of the room, watching the snow fall outside. Her face was emotionless, her gaze empty. It had been for those last six weeks she had been here. While she was not half-crazed with hunger any longer, she was still not in a good place, that much was sure.

Laura’s fledgling. That’s what she had said. And if she wasn’t, how could she have known of Laura and of this place? No, even Morana had said she was telling the truth. That her feelings did not betray any lie. Which did mean, that Laura was dead and this girl…

Striga could not help but see her as a girl. What else was she? Seventeen human years and two as a vampire. She looked like a princess, now that her hair had been untangled and she was properly dressed again. Though Striga doubted that she had cared.

The girl reminded Striga of her own younger sister. Even though her sister—Mislava, had been her name, no?—though technically speaking they did not have much in common. Mislava had been a blackhead like Striga herself, that black hair unruly and wild. She had had greyish eyes, not auburn one like the girl. Mislava also had been only eleven years, when she had died. Or had she been twelve? Striga barely remembered. It had been more than two hundred years after all. But she did remember that Mislava had had that same empty look in her eyes, after their father had died. That same emotionless expression. She remembered how Mislava had spent that winter staring out of the window as well. Watching the snow fall. Just like the girl was now.

Though Mislava did have other people to lean on, no? This girl had nobody. And truly, Striga felt for her.

She understood that Morana was mourning. She understood Carmilla’s rage as well. But this girl… she was mourning as well. And she had been through a lot, no? So, was it not on them as grown vampires to take care of that fledgling, who had lost her sire?

Softly she leaned over to her own wife, kissing her on the cheek. She also knew that while Morana pretended to be reading in front of the fireplace, she had not turned the page in over five minutes. So, her mind was wandering. “What do you say to a little game?” Striga proposed.

Morana blinked, looking at her. “What is it, Love?”

“A game,” Striga replied softly. “What do you say about us playing a game?”

Morana so clearly did not understand, frowning. “What kind of game?”

“I don’t…” Striga paused, getting up. The problem was that most games they owned and that were suited for a cold winter night like this one were played with only two players. They had chess, checkers, nard, boards for Alquerque and mill, fox and geese… They had a lot of games collected, as Morana and Laura had enjoyed playing them during those first few decades and at times Striga enjoyed a game with Morana as well. Though she had always preferred the more strategical games, the girl was so clearly not in the mood for. They were four again, so maybe four seasons?

But going through the shelf with the carefully carved wooden boards, she found something else. Another thing that Laura had loved and that Morana had acquired from a merchant from the east.

Striga turned to her wife. “What do you say about Snakes and Ladders?”

At this Morana’s frown deepened. “Why that?”

For someone, who could read maybe not minds, but emotions, Morana could be quite dense at times. But Striga decided that her view was probably clouded by her own emotions right now. “Because we can play it together.” She gently nodded towards the girl.

Only now Morana understood. She looked over to the girl and then sighed. There it was again. That deep sadness that showed on her gaze. “Sure,” she replied. “That sounds… lovely.”

So Striga took that game board out of the shelf. It was carved and painted, even though the paint was flaking off at some parts, given the board had probably not been used in several years now. A dice and several colored pegs were quickly found, before Striga went over to the table, that was currently occupied by Carmilla.

Carmilla was not good dealing with her own feelings. Striga knew and understood it. So, where sadness and mourning should be, only anger resided right now. So full of that rage her quill was scratching over the parchment, uneven enough to leave little splotches of ink as she pressed down too hard.

With some force, Striga put down the board right in front of Carmilla and her parchment, making her sister look up.

“What?” she hissed.

“We are going to play a game,” Striga replied. “Snakes and Ladders.”

A small growl escaped Carmilla, before she diverted her attention back to the parchment. “No thank you.”

It was not as if Striga had not expected that reaction. “I think you should play.”

“I said no.”

“And I say, we should do something together again,” Striga replied calmly. “As sisters.”

Carmilla’s eyebrow twitched, betraying her distress. She had cried the night Lenore had arrived. The night that Morana had told them, the girl was not lying. But since then? No emotion. Nothing. Just… anger. Because anger was a feeling that Carmilla could understand, could control.

Striga might not be able to read emotions or minds, but she knew her sisters after those two centuries. Two and half, almost. And while they had never lost anyone like Laura before… They had all lost something. And be it just parts of themselves.

“Carmilla,” Striga said softly. “Please. Let us do something together. The winter is cold, but right now this room is even colder.”

“I…” Carmilla’s gaze flickered over to the window, to those falling snowflakes.

It was an icy night after all. An icy night bringing what almost felt like a building blizzard. The wind was raging against the castle again and again, howling, rattling, whistling.

In the end Carmilla gave a sigh. Not without some aggression she threw down her quill, splattering more ink onto the parchment. “Fine.”

Striga smiled at her, before pushing the game board into the middle of the wooden table. Then she turned. “What about you, Lenore?”

“You…” she heard Carmilla speaking behind her—some ill-contained rage in her voice—but just a gaze from Striga was enough to bring her to shut up.

Striga knew, that right now Carmilla hated the girl. Because the girl was here and Laura wasn’t. Because Carmilla blamed the girl for being the one to make it here, without Laura, without Carmilla’s wife. But it was not the girl’s fault. All of this had been as much out of her control, as it had been out of any of theirs.

“Lenore,” Striga repeated as the girl did not react. She went over to her, putting a hand onto her shoulder. “Lenore.”

Only this shook the girl from her stupor. She looked at Striga, her eyes wide. “What?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“We are going to play a game of Snakes and Ladders, do you want to join?”

The girl lowered her gaze, once more staring towards the window. “No, thank you.” She still spoke with a thick accent, though that was no big surprise, given she had just arrived and had only learned bits of pieces from the language. It would’ve been easier to converse with her in Latin, Striga assumed, though that language also did not quite roll off the tongue.

“I think you should play,” Striga said, ignoring Carmilla’s scoff from the table.

The girl looked at her. “Why?”

“Because I think it would be good on you to do something, but staring out of the window.” Striga shot the girl a smile, pressing her shoulder. “Come on now. A game won’t hurt, will it?”

A tiny sigh escaped the girl. “What kind of game?”

“Snakes and Ladders. Do you know it?”

She frowned. “No, not really.”

“It is fairly easy to explain,” Striga said. “Come on now.”

Another sigh, but the girl got up. While neither of them really knew where she was from and how everything but Laura’s death had happened, it was fairly clear she had been a noble of some sort. The way she held herself, now that her hunger was quenched. The way she pushed down her skirt as well.

Though Striga also knew she had been through something. She had been the one to wash the girl, when she had arrived. And there were quite a few scars over the girl’s torso.

But if Striga was to guess, that the mix of Laura’s death and her journey alone through a war-torn Europe were weighing more heavily on the girl’s mind right now. A fledgling should not be without their sire. So her taking that long journey without her sire had probably been a lot. It was a miracle she had even arrived here.

As she sat down at the table as well, the girl did not look at either of them, instead using the excuse to look at the board. She took it in, so clearly trying to understand the game just by this.

It was not a complicated game by all means. Just a simple game of luck. But as such it was easy on the mind and fun if played in a group. It originated—that much Striga knew—from the place Morana was from or fairly close to it. Even though it being invented and Morana leaving the place originally had still been a century apart.

“So,” the girl surmised, “you try to get to the last field?”

“Yes,” Morana replied. Her voice was still somewhat strained, but she looked at the girl with a sad smile. “You just roll the dice and move your peg accordingly. If you land on a field with a ladder, you move to the higher field at the other end of the ladder. If you land on a field with a snake, you have to move down to the lower one.”

“Sounds… simple enough,” the girl whispered.

“It is,” Striga replied.

She put the four colored glass pegs on the field. Red, blue, green and yellow.

“What color do you want?” she asked softly, hoping the girl would not choose red, as this would inevitably just anger Carmilla even more.

“Blue,” the girl replied. She so clearly wanted to pull her legs up to her body once again, but she refrained from doing so, instead uneasily shifting on her chair.

“Alright,” Striga shot her another smile. “Then I’ll take yellow, Morana green and Carmilla red.” She looked at her sister. “Right?”

Another scoff was Carmilla’s only answer. She, too, shot the girl a gaze, but hers was an angry gaze. A gaze so clearly wishing for the girl not to be there.

At least Morana was now understanding Striga’s intention. She tried to relax, as she was sitting there next to Striga—and one chair away from the girl, who was furthest from Carmilla. Probably for the best. “We each roll the dice and whoever rolls the highest number will be the one to start.”

At this the girl only nodded.

So Striga took the dice and rolled. A two. She handed it to her wife, who rolled a four. Carmilla rolled a five. The girl a three.

This small victory was enough to put a tiny smirk on Carmilla’s face. An angry smirk, but a smirk no less. “I start.”

She rolled once more. This time only a four. So she moved her peg to the fourth square of the board, moving her up right to the next level. It was funny, how those easy little wins made her smirk even more. It was only a game, but it might be just what they had needed.

She handed the dice over to Morana, who rolled a three, moving a peg accordingly. So Striga was up next, rolling a five, before handing off the ivory dice to the girl. She, too, rolled, though only a two.

“Tough luck,” Striga muttered, as the girl stretched to place her peg.

The girl did not reply, though, just leaning back in her chair again. She looked as if she wanted to cross her arms, but did refrain from doing that as well. So clearly had she been taught proper etiquette, even though it just never made it quite into her core.

Another round of them moving their pieces. Nothing much happening and still a firm silence in between them.

“So, Lenore,” Striga asked, just as the girl handed the dice over to Carmilla again. “Where did you come from?”

The girl’s gaze flickered to her, while Carmilla rolled the dice. “I… England,” she muttered.

“England?” Striga raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I grew up there,” the girl muttered. “I… Originally I am from the North of the British Isles… A place they call Scotland…”

Once more Striga short her a smile. And once more she ignored that scoff coming from Carmilla. “I am from a place called Croatia. Have you heard of it?”

Silently the girl shook her head.

“What is this supposed to be?” Carmilla asked. “Are we now all telling our life stories?”

Striga looked at her. “Well, why not?”

Her sister shot the girl another venomous gaze, before grunting something that was not quite audible.

“The place I am from is no longer around,” Morana offered up, while Carmilla rolled. She was a lucky one with the dice, once more ending up at a ladder.

“Laura…” The girl broke off, but then managed to bring herself to say it. “Laura told me about that.”

It really was rather unbelievable that they had so barely spoken during those last few weeks. But then again maybe not that surprising.

Striga turned to her, while Morana was once more rolling. “What did she tell you?”

The girl was sitting so straight. So clearly labored and against her inner instincts. “I… She told me this was a safe place. For vampire. And… for women.” She did not look at any of them, her eyes just fixed on the playboard, where Morana was now moving her peg. “She told me…” Her voice was so quiet. “She told me you were sisters. And that you took the kingdom from another vampire more than two hundred years ago.”

Another scoff from Carmilla, making Striga roll her eyes to look over to her sister.

Now finally Carmilla spoke, though. “I killed him! I killed the fucking bastard.”

The girl did not reply to this. Did not say anything.

“Carmilla did kill him,” Morana tried to offer up. “But another vampire tried to take the kingdom after that. We defeated him together and took it for ourselves. And we managed to hold it for two and a half centuries now.”

Once more the girl was silent for a while, until the dice was passed over to her. “I… I can’t imagine being that old.” This time she rolled well. With a five she landed on a ladder, climbing up to the fourth row.

“I could not either, after I had been turned,” Striga replied. “But… after a while you get used to it. To not aging. To not dying.”

“And to drinking blood?” The girl asked.

“Yes, that too.”

“Well, you drank before, right?” Morana tried.

“Yes.” That was the only reply the girl gave.

Of course, she had drunken. Otherwise she would not be alive. But it also seemed understandable that someone as young as her—who was not even a warrior—had qualms over just taking human life for their own. Hell, even Striga had had those qualms and she knew that Carmilla had had as well, even though those qualms were long gone. They both knew they were no longer human. They both knew that they could archive so much more than the humans they took from.

Carmilla once more rolled high—a five as well—moving her peg. She gave the dice to Morana, who was now fixed on the girl as well.

There was a question still lingering between them. A question nobody had yet asked the girl. Striga could almost sense the question in the air, but Morana held back on it so far, just rolling and moving—landing on a snake putting her back down.

“So,” Striga said, as she got the dice. “How did you even make it here?”

The girl shook her head. “I barely remember.” Her voice was just a bit hoarse during those words. “I… It is all a blur.”

“That’s alright,” Striga replied. “It has to have been hard.”

A slow nod was her only reply as the girl once more rolled and moved her peg.

The next round passed in silence, that tension just lingering around the table.

The truth was, of course, that as it was the girl needed someone to take the role of the sire. Given that Laura was dead, it only made sense for Morana to take that role. Morana, who had sired Laura herself. Though either of them might’ve been fine. Just someone to care for this little fledgling, who clearly had nowhere to run to either way.

Much to Striga’s own surprise, the girl piped up, as she took the dice. Her gaze was now directed at Striga. “She told me, you were a really powerful warrior. And that you have already fought all sorts of monsters.”

Striga chuckled at this. “Yeah. I guess I have,” she replied. “I have indeed fought quite a few monsters. Some of them humans. Other vampires.”

“But she said there had been real monsters. Like… Like from the legends.”

Striga nodded. “Roll,” she reminded the girl and watched her do right that. “I fought a few fae, yes. And an army of werewolves.”

As the girl moved her peg ahead—narrowly avoiding a snake—she was once more looking at her. “I never have seen a fae.” She handed the dice over to Carmilla.

“They mostly keep to themselves,” Striga replied. “They try to avoid humans.”

“Why?”

“Because they have their own world. Their own world away from the humans.” It was really all she knew herself. Because for the most part that was all there was to it. There had been one instance that they had been attacked by a few fae. And then there had been the attack of those creatures that had come over the mountains to the east. But to this day she did not know whether those had been fae or something entirely different.

“You have to be cheating,” Morana muttered, as Carmilla once again landed on a ladder, moving her up to the eighth row.

“No,” Carmilla replied. “I am just lucky, it appears.” Her bitterness did betray that she did not consider this as much luck, given that it was only a game in the end.

Striga looked at her with a smile. “It is a game of luck, after all.”

Morana was still in the fourth row, close to Striga and the girl.

“Are there many werewolves around?” the girl now asked.

“There are quite a lot in the Black Forest,” Morana replied. “They have built their own kingdom there.”

The tiniest of smiles showed on the girl’s lips—and be it just for a split second. “I never heard about any of this.”

Now Carmilla could not hold herself back. “Because you are barely more than a fucking human still. And you fucking humans just try to ignore the world as it is, fleeing yourselves into some stupid ideology and religion.”

There was another emotion rushing over the girl’s face. Not much, but an emotion at least. “I guess,” she admitted. “I guess I am… still very young.”

“You are a fledgling,” Striga said. “But you’ll learn.”

Carmilla grunted at this, while now Striga rolled as well, before handing the dice over to the girl.

As she, too, rolled the dice, she looked at the game board once more. “Laura also said, you can fly.”

“I can,” Striga replied. “I can grow wings.”

“I… I always wondered, what it is like to fly.”

Striga chuckled. “It feels great. As long as you are not afraid of heights.”

Another of those tiny smiles crossed the girl’s face. Just a moment. But it was good. It meant she was not entirely destroyed. Not entirely cold. She could still heal. Even though it might take a while. Striga would know, because at times she felt as if she was still healing herself. Carmilla most certainly was—and Laura’s death would make it so much harder now.

At times Striga had to wonder, whether it was another curse of their species. That the healing took so long. Because she felt that humans were better at it. At moving on, after those bad things happened. Most humans might take a year or two or even three. But they would heal.

She knew as a human she had healed after losing her parents. After losing her siblings to illness, too. But the pain from those last four siblings that Lazarus had killed? That one was still lingering and might never quite go away.

Another round brought Carmilla up to the ninth row, the girl to the sixth, while Striga came to another snake, ending up down at the very bottom once again.

The girl was shifting once more, so clearly fighting down the urge to cross her arms in front of her chest. It, too, made Striga smirk.

“You know you don’t have to cling to etiquette, if you are just with us, no?”

“What?” The girl looked at her.

“You can cross your arms,” Striga said. “You can put your foot on the chair for all I care. It is fine.”

“It is not befitting, though,” the girl whispered.

“We don’t care,” Striga assured her. “It is fine.”

Morana took a deep breath. Maybe because out of all of them she was the one most sticking to etiquette. “It is.”

“Hmm.” That was the girl’s only reply, as she pulled one of her legs up to her body, putting her arms around it as Carmilla was now once again rolling.

It was all very complicated with them, no? Because so far even Striga and Morana had not quite spoken about what to do with the girl. Sure, she was now with them. She had been sitting with them, had been eating with them—both the blood, that brought nourishment, and the food that was just for enjoyment—but really, they had not come to a conclusion what they would do with her now. They needed to, sooner or later.

Striga was fine taking some basic care of her. Because, once again, she reminded her of Mislava. But someone had to teach the girl sooner or later. How to hunt. How to feed. And… Well, that was the question, right? Was she going to be a soldier? By all means she should be, except if they made her something else.

She did not look like a fighter. And Striga suspected that Laura had not turned her to be one. But Laura was not here to tell them her reasoning of course. She was gone. For two years, almost, according to the girl. For two years, without any of them even knowing.

Another round passed, and it turned out that finally Carmilla’s luck had run out. “Fuck,” she grunted, as her once again high roll landed her on the second to last square and with it a snake, that put her back down into the fourth row.

This in turn managed to get Morana to smirk. “Too bad, sister,” she teased softly.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Play nice,” Striga replied, earning her another destructive glare, though this only made her chuckle.

In the end Morana rolled, just barely passing by a ladder.

So once again it was Striga’s turn. She rolled a six for once, putting her one more row up, just two squares behind the girl, who was now ahead. She was smirking, looking over to the fledgling. “I am catching up to you.”

The girl did not look at her directly. “It seems you do.” She was rolling as well—a three—barely passing by another snake.

“You see, I’ll get you,” Striga continued to tease, as the girl half-threw the dice over to Carmilla, who was still disgruntled over the barely missed win.

She rolled only a two, muttering to herself, as she moved her peg.

“You know it is just a game,” Morana said softly, as she took the dice from her.

“I know,” Carmilla grumbled.

Morana looked at her for a long moment. Maybe it was a mistake that she had not spoken to Carmilla after that first week of the girl arriving. Because in the end they both had cared so deeply for dear Laura. So much more, than Striga had had. Striga had loved Laura, sure, but not in the way either of them had. As a child for Morana. As a wife for Carmilla.

Though this moment passed. Morana stopped herself from saying anything more, just rolling and moving up a ladder, before handing the dice to Striga.

So, she rolled as well. Only a one, this time. Doing not much in the game. “Oh no,” she muttered, as she handed the dice to the girl.

Another tiny smile, then the girl rolled. A four—that put her down the next snake, though it was a short one. A turn of events that got a smile from Carmilla, though the girl was still ahead of her.

Again, the dice passed to Carmilla, who once more rolled high, catching up to the girl. Once more a round passed without much talk, as their little pegs just moved a few squares ahead. Each without hitting either ladder or snake. The same was true, mostly, for the next round, until the girl’s next turn. She rolled a three—but a three was just what she needed to land on the next ladder, moving her up until the ninth row.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Carmilla grunted, as the girl now finally dared to look at her for just a moment.

“I am sorry,” she whispered and they all knew she was not talking about the game.

Carmilla’s eyes narrowed, her lips thinning. “Then…”

Morana interrupted her. “Carmilla!”

At this Carmilla turned. “It is not right! None of this is right!”

The girl looked from one to the other. “I am…”

“It’s alright, kid,” Striga muttered. “It’s alright. It is not your fault.”

“But I…”

“It is alright.” Striga reached over the corner of the table to put one hand onto the girl’s lower arm. “It is.”

There was a quiver on the girl’s lips, as she lowered her gaze. She was not crying, but she so clearly was holding back tears, making Striga wonder whether she tried not to cry at all or just did not want to cry in front of them. But she did not say anything, just kept her hand where it was.

“She shouldn’t even be here,” Carmilla hissed.

“She needs someone to act as her sire right now,” Morana replied. “And…” She looked over to the fledgling. “It has to be me.”

“Why?”

Morana was quiet, not saying the thing that Striga was thinking as well: ‘Because that’s what Laura would’ve wanted.’

So, Striga turned to the girl. “Say, Lenore. Why did Laura turn you?”

The girl gave a long, sad sigh. “I… I would’ve died,” she whispered. “She was there and saved my life. That’s… That’s all there is to it. I was already half dead.”

“I see.” So, it had not been a consenting turn, though not quite a non-consenting one either. Just an attempt to save an innocent life, as the chance arose. “How did she know you?”

Another pause, as now all three sisters looked at the girl. “She… She was working in the… In the household. She said… She was there because of the library.” Once again pointing to it having been a rich household indeed. “And… We have not really spoken, before she turned me. But I have seen her before. And… Apparently she had watched me.”

Striga looked to Morana and could see that once again they were sharing the same thought. So for now, it was Morana, who spoke. “Why were you living there?”

Now the girl pulled her second leg up, hugging it, hiding her face behind her knees. “I… got married.” And her voice so clearly said it all. She had been married against her will. Maybe a political marriage. Maybe just a try to get her out of the house.

Striga did not want to pry further. Not for now. They would learn soon enough. What were a few weeks after hundreds of years after all?

So, she too sighed. “Well,” she tried to make a joke, “we won’t marry you off at least.” Once more her gaze met that of her own wife, who for once was just gently smiling, even though the sad shimmer in her eyes remained.

“We won’t,” Morana assured, making Carmilla just grunt.

Striga looked at her, too. “You know that Laura sent her here, to have us take care of her, right?”

“Well, we won’t ever know, will we? She is dead! Fucking dead!”

Morana sighed. “You know that is not right. Because we knew her. You off all people knew her.” And as their eyes met, Carmilla finally evaded that gaze.

With a howl, the wind clashed against the castle, rattling the windows ever so slightly. Striga could hear it all. She could even hear a balcony door further up the tower banging. But she sighed, looking at the yet unfinished game.

This was good, she told herself. Because no matter how much anger and sadness there was, at least they were talking for now. At least they were speaking again. “So,” she said slowly. “Are we going to finish the game now?”

For a moment she almost expected Carmilla to just stand up and leave. But it seemed that her pride won out in the end, as she grabbed the dice. “Fine,” she murmured, before rolling again.