RP:Twixting
Coastal Street
Two moons had bloomed and wilted since Cesaria fled Vailkrin. She landed in Cenril where a plague left a wake of the newly dead, and where she could easily make coin off the recently bereaved. The glut of work afforded her a better apartment, a nautically-themed studio that overlooked the docks and the sea. On her fourth day in Cenril, still haunted by the memory of her humiliation and Haakon’s handsome, brooding face in equal parts, she thought she ought to do something about this state of disequilibrium. So she parked herself at her bay window and gazed at the chiseled, shirtless, sweaty men who worked the docks and whose toned bodies might help her forget, or at the very least diminish the importance of a man who played such a brief role in her life. But she found herself quickly bored after just one lazy afternoon of lust-less voyeurism. As she looked out the window, Haakon’s blue glare pierced its way to the fore of her mind. The shape of him, lean and tall, haunted the shadows of every crate and barrel. With her back to the door, she privately willed him to knock. Having failed at replacing his face with another’s, she tried burying herself in curse-related research. But even then his name appeared to her as an obscure reference to some long-dead scholar in the bibliography of a slim book. It was not the appearance of the name that irritated her so much as the sudden sensation that this was fate. How foolish of her to believe in such things. In the weeks since, she fell into a routine of research by day, work by night. Over time, the memory of the humiliation lost its sting, but memories of Haakon did not, and she learned to live with it like a second, albeit milder, curse. After eight weeks of working the Cenrili mortuary scene, Cesaria landed her first major client. She left her apartment shortly after sunset in head-to-toe black, wearing a wide brimmed hat, her veil, heeled boots, and a tailored, double breasted suit that accentuated her hips and the narrowness of her waist. She walked northbound on the docks to fish for gold in the wealthy sea of Cenril’s elite, and made damn sure to look the part.
Haakon loathed Cenril. While the Dark Land was filled with monsters, both literal and figurative, at least there was class there. Real wealth. Cenril, the crowded and stinking place that it was, only held thieves and scoundrels that reeked of fish and poverty. Worse still, more and more were witches to be found flitting about the place hocking useless crystals and scamming humans with dried weeds. And now, even above the typical squalor the absolute reek of death permeated every turn in the filthy place. He endured, though not without a considerable amount of internal cursing, to find the woman that had haunted him for nearly two months. He hadn’t expected her to run, had thought she might have guessed it would be a lesson in futility. It was easy enough to send his men. With enough means and coin, nearly any problem could be solved. Haakon had plenty of both to spare. So the vampire had sent his men in his stead, trustworthy and capable men, to watch her as she adapted to Cenril and carved out a temporary life for herself. What he guessed might have been just one of many. And he kept one ear to the ground for her as he worked. While Haakon had taken several years to cultivate connections and accumulate new wealth here in Lithrydel, and still it was quite a task for even him to find what he’d been after. Not a man for the fantastical or magical, he’d all but neglected to employ or connect with wizards, spellcrafters of the lands. He might have never been driven to seek the help of a bloody witch if not for the tangled inconvenience he’d gotten himself in for a pretty tawny skinned woman of secrets and poorly masked tragedy. But he’d done it. After throwing away what easily could have amounted to a lifetime’s worth of savings for someone with a less lengthy existence, an amount that would eventually make his accountant blush, Haakon had found answers. Had spilled blood as well for more when the answers he’d found didn’t satisfy him. Haakon wouldn’t have followed after her empty handed. He’d played plenty of unsavory roles in his life but a liar he was not. So the vampire waited until the sun, which was regrettably plentiful and unfathomably scorching even with the bitterly cold wind, dipped below the horizon and darkness took the city. Armed with a valise and his sword Haakon waited in the shadow of Cesaria’s building. The moment she stepped beyond the door her scent wreathed around him again. The ache that had become familiar, wanted even, settled like a burning ember in his throat. With considerable will, Haakon continued to wait until she had taken several steps beyond her temporary home before he moved silently from the shadows. His voice low and teasing he calls, “For a woman that spends a considerable amount of time insisting she is not a witch, you’ve certainly dressed the part.”
Cesaria shivered at the sound of his voice, unmistakably his and known to her despite the length of their estrangement and the brevity of their engagement. She smiled despite his ribbing, and that accursed affliction took her smile away as quickly as it surfaced. Instead of turning her face and fleeing, she simply hid her mouth behind her long fingers and focused on sobering thoughts. Back under control, she said “I see now why you are confused.” She tapped the brim of her hat. “Witches wear tall, pointed hats. My hat is neither. Glad we cleared that up,” she teased back, and again smiled and pursed her lips and hid them, this time glancing at passerbys warily, fearing that they’ll see her. She bid Haakon follow her into a shadowy alley where her face’s contortions would be shielded from third parties. She was surprised to discover that she no longer minded the occasional, small, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it slip in front of Haakon, though this newfound tolerance had its limits. Her dark gaze drank him in. It’s no wonder now why none of the dock workers could replace him in her mind. “You have terrible timing...again. I have a very important appointment on Beloy and I can’t be late. Did you rid yourself of the hex hound?”
Haakon watched her with unbridled intensity, a dark and predatory thrill running through him as his keen eyes saw the recognition come over her bodily. Carefully, he studied each move. The way the veil moved as she turned, her hand coming up to cover whatever hideous lie her curse told to cover what might have been a smile. The sound of waves crashing endlessly on Cenril’s shore, the dwindling foot traffic that crowded it’s streets, a call from a mother beaconing her children home, it all fell away. He’d nearly missed her correcting him on the ins and outs of lady’s fashion listening to the blood that moved just beneath her skin. In the dark his cold eyes flashed amber, the lines of his face sharped in the shadows. He hesitated to follow, just for a moment, and collected the tattered remains of his control. Voice suddenly thick Haakon shakes his head, “You’ll be missing it.” The vampire spoke with centuries of arrogance and authority. He was near her in a blink, standing over her and so close his valise might have brushed her leg. “Did you think I lied when I told you it would be you ridding me of this annoyance that you caused?” His agreeable tone belied the threat that flashed in his eyes. He shifts to stand beside her and place a hand on the small of her back and lead her toward the sea.
Cesaria hesitated to agree to abandoning her appointment, a silly pause derived from the foolish notion that she had a choice, which she knew deep in her bones she did not, and that knowledge excited her. However, the prospect of losing out on tonight’s pay did not. No small sum was promised to her (by Cesaria’s standards) and whatever drew Haakon to her made no commitment to pay her dues. As she deliberated over how to respond to a man who expected no response that deviated from total submission, which, again, was thrilling in a way that begged psychiatric evaluation. Haakon pushed on the small of her back and guided her towards the sea. The electricity of his touch was dampened by the sneaking suspicion that perhaps for him this game was only ever about the hex hounds. Feeling a little foolish for having expected something more, she shot back with evident irritation, “Fine. But you owe me 500 gold to compensate for the lost appointment.” In truth she had been promised 200 gold, but Haakon should pay a steep surcharge for making her feel foolish.
Haakon’s laugh was quick and dark. He focused on the sound of her voice, on the night that yawned before them, to distract himself from the warmth that pulsed into him from the barest touch he had dared. Though she’d shown no signs of resisting him beyond demanding payment from him, he kept his hand on her as he steered her through the shadow and salt drenched night. “500 coin is all then?” The vampire makes a sound of disapproval. From there it seemed they would travel in relative silence. While the world was alive with sound and motion for him it all seemed dim and very far away underneath the steady and enticing beating of her heart. He considered, not for the first time, why he’d chosen to go to such lengths to continue on this way. Hungry for her, throat burning in anticipation of that first life filled taste of blood on his tongue, and denying himself. Like an alcoholic white knuckling a bottle of whiskey in shaking, sweaty hands. He decided it was a game, a test. Something to pass the time, something to challenge his control. But underneath it Haakon knew it was more, was something else entirely. Embarrassing that she might see this before he could admit it to himself as they neared a secluded and sandy space that had been prepared for them on Cenril’s beach. Haakon had taken great care to ready the place for what needed to be done. To ensure no one would disturb them as they worked. Soon enough, even she would be able to see the light of fire and the smaller brightness of candles. There was something odoriferous simmering over the fire and candles dripped pools of black wax into the sand around a wide raised stone altar. The vampire bent to place his lips a hair's breadth away from Cesaria’s ear to whisper something in the tongue of his home land, following in common with, “Do as the witch says, Cesaria.” His hand fell away from her then. With long strides Haakon pulled ahead of her to stand before the witch. She wore a dark velvet ritual robe. The deep lines of her face were made more dramatic by the dance of fire that cast light and shadow over it. The vampire exchanged a quick word of warning to her before Cesaria came near enough to hear and, frowning, the witch turned from him to address her instead. “Welcome,” Her old voice croaked. Bent, age worne hands appeared from beneath her cloak, offered out for her to take and be guided toward the fire. If Cesaria followed, the crone would remove the stinking bundle of herbs from the fire to pass her through the smoke. “Open yourself dear. Have you ever meditated? You’ll need to open yourself to the magic, let go of control.”
Cesaria smiled unexpectedly at Haakon’s disapproval, then blushed at her foolishness. Here he was solely focused on ridding himself of his curse, and she smitten by every dark, brooding quirk of his character. Get a grip, she reminded herself before failing to do just that as they walked towards the beach with his hand on her back. She longed to return the touch but dared not lose the equilibrium which she carefully calibrated by revisiting horrific memories from her past as necessary. But upon reaching the beach, as the truth of this excursion dawned on her along with the realization that this was all for her, Cesaria lost complete control of her carefully calibrated mood. She yearned to embrace Haakon, but, already feeling herself turn, she turned away from him and hugged herself instead, her decrepit hands and thinning hair visible to him for an excruciatingly long, silent minute. She struggled to find memories dark enough to overcome this unbridled joy, and was grateful to him for waiting for her to knuckle through this happiness before whispering to her. Cesaria approached the witch, unable to look at Haakon for fear she may lose control again. “A little,” she responded. She followed the witch’s instructions faithfully but poorly, trembling from the exertion it took to prevent another transformation. Her mind was crowded with bad memories and she failed to meditate at all. Observing this, the witch asked Haakon to look away from Cesaria so that she may privately succumb. Eventually Cesaria does relinquish control and meditates in her most monstrous form yet, the flesh melting off bones, organs exposed, nose split. A blast of fear-inducing charm radiated from her, an enchantment to scare any who dare go near her should her appearance not be enough. The witch, prepared for just that, had shielded herself from the fear-enticing effect. After several minutes, Cesaria entered a state of deep meditation and the monster was gone, replaced by the young, full-lipped, dark-browed, curly-haired woman.
While the witch prepared Cesaria, Haakon turned away from the women as instructed and readied himself. He wanted, perhaps selfishly, to look at her. To meet her eyes when the curse took her, to show her she had no reason for the silly, human shame that rolled from her now. But instead he went near the altar and stripped down, discarded the fine coat to reveal the uncharacteristic tunic style shirt and durable trousers beneath it. With consideration, the tunic was dropped to the sand as well. As Cesaria passed through smoke, Haakon tightened the laces of his boots and strapped the black, amber pommeled sword to his side. “There we are.” The witch said approvingly. Placing the herbs back into the fire, the crone brought forth a wide bowl of boiling, tar black potion. Haakon was near within seconds, nearly startling the old woman, and offered his hand readily. He let the old woman score his palm, watched with cold intensity as his blood dripped into the bubbling potion below. “Wait,” He barked as the crone moved to mirror this act on Cesaria. His eyes moved to her. “Remove the veil.” And so she did. When both Cesaria and Haakon’s blood had been offered to the potion the witch passed it over the fire and filled the chilled night air with her magic. The wind that howled around them picked up and ripped around them in a frenzy. The crone dipped her fingers into the potion. Anointed Cesaria’s forehead, gently led her to the altar to sit. She mirrored the ancient writing on Haakon before he took the bubbling concoction from her and drank deep, without hesitation. As the thick liquid passed his lips he opened himself to the magic as Cesaria did, though with considerably more ease, and power slammed into him. The wind died. The flames of the candles rose to pillars and burned them into glossy black pools in the sand around the altar. In the sudden, profound silence Haakon drew his sword and something in the distance howled.
Having found her focus, Cesaria opens her eyes — all three of them. Sensing the third eye, the witch grew nervous. Things had just become a little more complicated, but only a little. The ritual should still work. The crone wondered if she should tell her employer, but looking at Haakon she knew he would not tolerate equivocations now. It’s too late for that. As for Cesaria, the intensity of the moment, and the anxiety of getting the ritual right, kept complicating emotions at bay. It’s hard to discern why she was able to look at him then without succumbing to the curse. Perhaps the ritual was already working, or perhaps with her third eye open Cesaria was removed from herself, less at the whims of her mortal heart. Whatever the reason, she was able to gaze at his sculpted body and the hard lines of his handsome face with the full knowledge that he spent months, and a fortune, doing this for her — no, for him. That realization touched her more deeply, that this was not solely generosity on his part. Cesaria held Haakon’s gaze for the first time without vain fear, and as a creature howled in the distance, she took his hand and pressed it to her lips without breaking her stare. Only when the audible patter of paws reached them did she release him so that he may do what he needed to do.
While the magic moved around them, through them, Haakon kept his eyes on Cesaria. He sensed, in the deepest and most hidden part of him, when the realization came to her. And in that darkness, with the brush of her lips on his hand, he shuddered. But the wolves came. The vampire knew that the witch’s magic had been true when he felt the change come over him. All around them came the sounds of snapping teeth and beastial growling. And Haakon rotted where he stood in the sand. His once smooth, eternally youthful skin pocked and festered. His vital, supernaturally sustained muscle withered until it was a struggle to stand, to hold his sword. His dark hair paled, thinned and nearly dropped away. As the first spirit stepped into the light of the witch’s fire, it took corporeal form. The moment it’s padded foot met sand Haakon snapped back into his own curse of eternal youth. He moved like a demon, struck as quick as a viper with the black blade of his sword. Before the lupine specktor could rear back on its haunches it’s head was rolling into the sand. More came, leaping with foam dripping from their open jaws from the shadows. Haakon cut them down, took blows himself as the curse gripped him in fits and starts. He would land a blow, send blood across the sand only to stumble into it weakly for a moment before he could regain control. The vampire felt teeth tear into his left shoulder as he went down to one knee, felt teeth and claw meet bone as it ripped through weak and rotting flesh. His sword dropped from his hand and into the sand. Quickly, he dropped his body down and gripped the wolf, pulling him down into the blood filled sand with him. With a guttural scream, Haakon sank his teeth into the beast’s neck and ripped at it viciously. The blood that poured into him and over him was fetid and black. Frenzied now, burning with his own savagery, the vampire ripped the beast asunder and took it’s no longer beating heart into his hand.
Cesaria covered her mouth as Haakon transformed into a rotting monster, her expression drawn into unadulterated awe. The wolves arrived. Cesaria was a woman of little martial prowess, but her years on the road mingling with dark magicians of all stripes had given her an opportunity to learn some tricks. When a wolf flanked Haakon, she snapped a bone charm from her wrist and launched magical darts of bone at the wolf’s thigh, slowing it down considerably to give Haakon a reprieve. She beheld Haakon’s vampiric savagery with little alarm (troubling commentary on the horrors she has seen in her short life), though her vision began to double and her legs were overwhelmed with sudden fatigue. His back was exposed, she had to do something. Her hands began to twitch into an arcane sigil to protect Haakon from attack as her vision began to tunnel. Just before the magic released, Cesaria fainted. The witch leapt to Cesaria’s side and kneeled to check on her charge. Burning a different oil quickly, she whispered a prayer and soon discovered something she had only read about in books but never encountered in her century of practice. “Stop!” she shouted at Haakon as she ran to the fire to snuff it out. With the fire extinguished, the wolves no longer became corporeal. “Stop! Stop!” she shouted again and again as she ran back to Cesaria’s side. She cursed under her breath and wiped at her mouth twice in quick succession and alarm. “If we rid her of the curse, it will kill her. It’s killing her now.”
Haakon lay still and bleeding for a long while in the sand. He heard the witch screaming. Felt the spell shatter around them and his connection to Cesaria snap away. It was pure and simple fury that had him rising up, all but flying off of the ground to loom over the crone. He was covered in black, sticky blood and dripping still with his own. The alluring lines of his face were dark and frighteningly sharp with his rage. Eyes amber and narrowed on the old woman with death burning in them. No words would form in his fury. In barely contained violence he waited for the woman to give him an answer. It was only seeing Cesaria’s body crumpled in the sand that eased some of the blood lust that tunneled his vision. He knelt over her, reaching out to feel the heartbeat that steadied him underneath his hand. “What is the meaning of this witch? Talk fast or it’s your life.” His voice was tight and thickly accented as he struggled to control the black, rolling storm of bitter anger and fear tearing through his chest.
“I will explain,” the witch said as she rolled Cesaria onto her back and tutted disapprovingly at the state of the woman. Without looking at Haakon’s fury for fear of losing her nerve, the crone said, “I can bring her back, but it will cost you 2,000 gold more.” With the knowledge that there was a tenderness between Haakon and Cesaria, the witch knew she had him.
The fear that had helped bite back the fury slipped as the witch spoke. The vampire was as still as the grave when he answered tightly, “Bring her back. Whatever the cost.” But he would be sure she didn’t live to see a coin of what she dared to manipulate from him.
The witch uttered a rousing spell. In truth, once the crone had extinguished the flame and ritual, Cesaria stopped dying, was simply unconscious, and would have eventually woken on her own. But for an extra 2,000 gold easily grifted from a lovestruck man, the witch sped things along. Sucker, she thought. Cesaria came to slowly then quickly, her dark eyes wide with terror as she beheld Haakon’s grisly wounds. She drew herself closer to him, examining him, reading the ever shifting expressions that move subtly across his bloodied face. “What happened?” she asked him. The witch spoke directly to her employer, “This is exceptionally rare, almost unheard of. I’ve never encountered it myself. It’s a Twixting. The person who cursed Cesaria also cursed herself with the same affliction.” Those words yanked Cesaria’s attention away from Haakon to stare at the witch, stunned. Her body went stiff as a surreal sensation dulled her senses. The witch continued, “Usually a Twixting is only performed on a victim who is expected to die quickly, because once the target is dead, the hexer is freed from the curse. I’ve never heard of a Twixting of a curse like this, not intended to kill the victim but instead make them suffer for decades. Whoever did this to you, child, has a deep hatred for you. Do you know who it was?” Cesaria’s ears were ringing but the crone’s words came through. “My mother,” Cesaria said barely above a whisper. The crone pursed her lips and gave the girl her space. She stood apart from the vampire and the human and waited to get Haakon’s attention and bid him over for a private word. Only to him, in a whisper, she revealed, “There are two ways to lift the Twixting. Either her mother lifts the curse herself, or… if the mother dies, Cesaria is free.”
Haakon felt relief rush through him the moment he saw the first fluttering of Cesaria’s dark lashes. His cold anger dropped away for a moment, reaching out to the woman even as she pulled herself nearer to him. “You’re alright?” He asks gently. There was a softness to him, an almost delicate concern painting the lines of his bruised face that he’d no longer believed he even possesed. It faded quickly when the crone’s voice raked over him. He listened carefully as his mouth moved into a tight frown. His eyes never left Cesaria. Haakon watched the emotion play over her face carefully even as he struggled to control his own. How was it that fear had ripped through him sharper than even the barghest’s teeth had? He might have spent a long moment denying that fear but for the whispered revelation that it was her own mother who had damned her to a life devoid of happiness. “Your mother?” His face suddenly moved into a careful mask, giving nothing away but for the chill that entered the depths of his eyes. Haakon moved again, reaching out to tangle his bloodied hand in the dark curls of her hair. In a heartbeat of time he was standing, stalking toward the witch with annoyance on his face as she beckoned him closer. What she offered him next only confirmed what he’d suspected the moment the true nature of Cesaria’s curse had been revealed. Release or death. He’d already resolved to kill the woman. The only decision the vampire was still unsure of was if he would try coaxing Cesaria into accepting it or forgiving him for it. A weariness that went bone deep settled over him as he pushed a hand through the loose strands of his hair. “Very well.” His eyes slipped from the crone's face to look toward Cesaria. “I’m grateful to you,” He says, his tone suddenly kind and endlessly tired. “Your money is in the valise.” He gestured toward the discarded case. The old witch seemed surprised. He could sense her pleasure as well as smell her fear. She only nodded, throat dry and hands sweating, and turned to collect her due. But as she bent down to collect the bag from the sand there wasn’t even time to scream before Haakon had sunk his teeth into her throat and began greedily drinking. It was only when the small woman was drained to the last drop that the vampire discarded her lifeless body into the sand. But the fury that clawed through his chest remained. Over the witch’s corpse he looked toward Cesaria with shame in his eyes. Not for killing the witch, but for the lie he’d whispered to her that night.
Cesaria’s distant gaze trailed Haakon as he consulted the witch. Her blank face echoed the hollow, reverberant sensation that she had felt countless times before, whenever her ardent hope was misplaced and cruelly incinerated with yet another failure. Her expression remained blank and unflinching as she watched Haakon attack and feed on the witch, a presumed ally. The sickening, monstrous act itself should disturb her, but it didn’t. She realized only then that her curse had twisted her into a wholly new person whom she no longer recognized. Six years she had spent on the road, exposing herself to the true horrors of the world, and that experience had sapped her of all the innocence and blissful blindness that accompany most souls on their brief traipse through this world. In six short years her moral compass lost its north and spun out of control as she sacrificed the limits of her principles in search for a cure. Why shouldn’t he feed on the witch, or a single mother of 5, or newborn babe? Why would fate spare them suffering when it so rarely deigned to spare anyone else? She was not spared of her father’s death, her mother’s hatred, or this hideous curse. He was not spared of the vampirism that sapped him of the goodness he may have had in life. She suddenly missed the girl she had been, who knew to run from monsters and had not yet learned that monstrosity was de rigueur and innocence a luxury. The only distressing thought that occurred to her as she watched Haakon drain a witch, was that one day it may be her throat pierced by his fangs for reasons so inscrutable that they are best summarized as ‘because he is and always will be a monster.’ She rose slowly from where the curse had felled her, but did not approach Haakon whose wounds were already healing quickly thanks to the infusion of fresh blood. Perhaps his motives were that base and simple, but she had to know for certain. “Why?”
The anger that had boiled through him like a poison had not lessed with the witch’s blood as he thought it might. The lingering taste was bitter shame and ash on his tongue. Haakon stepped over her body without a downward glace, his amber eyes never leaving Cesaria. She was quiet, so quiet as she watched him, and his anger only grew. When he finally turned from her it was to collect his valise and open the case. Ignorant to her own inner turmoil his own raged parallel. He did not regret killing the witch, as he could not see that she’d given him any other choice, but he might regret having done so infront of her. And why should he? He was a gods damned vampire. Why should he be ashamed of what he is? He’d never lied to her. Never pretended to be soft, to be anything other than a monster trapped behind the mask of a man. His movements were marked with this anger as he ripped clothing from his case and dressed himself quickly. “What answer would you have from me?” His tone was flippant, edging toward condescending. “How about a lie? Would you like to hear that I’d discovered somehow she was a threat? That she lied to me and stopped the ritual so that I might pay her double to do it all again?” As he spoke the anger bled through. He used it to carry him. To shield him from the shame that threatened to devour him. “I am what I am, Cesaria.” A monster. He closed the distance between them. He searched her face then, close as he dared, and waited for disgust and fear to find the depths of her eyes. “I cannot be anything more.” There was something else, beyond the anger and what might have been regret, in his eyes now.
Cesaria did not flinch through Haakon’s performance of indignation. He surprised her with his acerbic honesty that beseeched her acceptance. And she found, with little alarm and less surprise, that she could accept this violence, no excuses necessary. Oh the irony! The very same curse that they were so desperate to lift had twisted her into something just misshapen enough to understand a monster like him, and in turn, beguile monsters. (Perhaps Haakon should be thanking Cesaria’s mother; he seemed to enjoy her handiwork.) His sudden and aggressive closeness set her heart alight. She met his gaze evenly, perhaps even with a hint of tenderness, in no hurry to respond. Her fingers slipped through his as she said, “All I ask is that you give me a warning the day you turn on me.”
Haakon could not say what might have pained him more. If she had turned away or that she had not. But as her fingers intertwined with his own he felt as if she’d damned them both again. The softness in her touch and her gaze threatened the fragile hold he had over his control. There had been no question in her adjuration and this cut him deeply. Was she so sure he could do to her what he’d done to the crone that now rotted in the sand? Cesaria’s quickened heartbeat surrounded him, as so much of her did, and Haakon wondered if the creature he’d become could end such light. In another moment of surprising gentleness, the vampire’s face softened as he answered, “I won’t make any more promises I can’t keep.” He pulled away then, stepping back from her and turning away to collect his things. “Someone will come to clear away what happened here,” He spoke to fill the quiet that bloomed between them. “I’ll keep looking for answers.” This was the second lie he’d told now, another stain on an already damned soul.
Cesaria’s body ached as he pulled away. In his absence, all that was left was the crushing despair that followed tonight’s discovery that her mother hated her more than Cesaria already knew and made sure Cesaria would never escape that hatred. “Don’t,” she said in a tone more pleading than she would have liked. She took a deep breath to steady herself as she took in the sight of him, eternally perfect under a layer of drying blood and caked sand. “Stay. Just tonight.” The words stuck in her throat a little, her need foreign to her own ears. She had grown accustomed to solitude and was repulsed by her weakness now.
Haakon became very still. The vampire was all but healed now, another reminder that he was not human and could never be. Though he’d dressed again, his dark hair was wild and as uncharacteristically disheveled as his clothing. He’d even missed a button on his shirt. And he felt as wild and as undone as his appearance as she asked him to stay. He’d moved near again, if only to collect the sword that lay nearly at her feet, but now he stood like stone in front of her and looked down, into the vulnerability of her face, and felt pain. It crossed his face unbridled as he answered, “You don’t know what you ask of me.”
Cesaria stood transfixed under his gaze. She fastened the button he had missed as she considered his words, only glancing away from his deep blue eyes briefly. Her fingers spread gingerly over the button and his chest. Were it any other night but tonight, she might have heeded a vampire’s warning, but tonight the prospect of an early death was welcomed. She had no deathwish, but in the grips of this overwhelming despair, life seemed exceedingly doomed. If she spent the last of it with him, then perhaps that’s good enough. “Take me home,” she whispered.
Haakon covered the hand she rested against his chest with his own. He said nothing for a long moment, only watched her as he struggled between desire and self preservation. She thought of her death as he thought of her life. Finally, with a great deal of tenderness he had not known he could possess, the vampire pulled her into his arms and pressed a chaste kiss to the top of her head. And then he took her home. Abandoning his possessions in the sand, trusting his waiting men to collect them, he took her into his arms. With one arm under the bend of her knees and the other pressing her to his chest he carried her as if she were as fragile as spun glass. He didn’t release her even when they stood at her doorstep, only stopped to murmur, “Will you invite me in still, Cesaria?”
Cesaria pressed her smile into his chest, his body hiding the hideousness that stole her delight. The coolness of his skin befitted her sorrow-laced moods and made her wistful. His sweet kiss and the rush of travel at high speed only brought her flickers of joy that were quickly smothered by the weight of the evening’s failures. Cesaria no longer hid her monstrosity from him when it surfaced, though she would be quick to smother it, still too proud. But she didn’t have to work hard to smother anything. Whatever happiness he stirred in her was quickly overpowered by the greatness of her mother’s hatred. “Come in, Haakon,” she replied. She kissed him then, sweet and lingering, the monster slow to rise to her face as the fog of the evening continued to oppress her. The smell of recent blood on his lips set her body aflame with lust, and finally that damned curse stole her lips from him and made them no longer hers nor his. She pulled her face away from his, extricated herself from his embrace, but held his hand as she led him into the apartment. It wasn’t much to look at, a small living room with an open kitchen too small for proper meals, and beyond it a door which leads to a bedroom and a hand-pumped bath with no modern plumbing. Within minutes her lips regained their natural color and fullness, though the heat of the moment was replaced with the knowledge that this cruel curse was as limiting to the evening as a chastity belt. Cesaria watched Haakon carefully as he moved through the apartment. “Do you want to bathe?”
Haakon had leaned into the kiss gently, hands finding their way into her curls again, and let her lead. He’d pushed too far before when she’d ran, and though he’d never admit his selfishness or mistake, he was careful not to repeat it now. When she slipped from his arms he tried not to think of the warmth slowly leaving him. For a moment, when he’d carried her he almost could have convinced himself his own heart had beat in time with hers. He continued to follow her lead inside the small apartment, only nodding quietly and moving off to the washroom to clean himself. He was covered in blood and worse. His own and not. When he was clean, he indulged himself by going through her things in the bathroom. Would she have creams for her face, make up, perfumes? It was likely, as women were creatures who tended to collect a number of creams and potions for their vanity, even if she seemed to relocate quite frequently. He left the shirt on the floor, strolling out with wet hair and his pants slung low on his waist. His wounds were healed entirely, no mark or scar left on his pale skin. He wondered if, in the brief amount of time he’d spent away from her, she’d changed her mind about wanting him near. “Cesaria,” He calls her name without knowing what he might say next. Could he leave now if she asked him too?
As he bathed, she remained in the bedroom, cleaned herself up and changed into a black, silk slip that reached her thighs then cascaded in lace to her feet. The washroom wasn’t a room at all, but simply a space partitioned behind a paper screen. She spied on him through gaps in the partition, watched him poke through her vanity and smiled to herself. Her curse briefly flickered across her fine features in the dim candle light. Yes, Haakon, she had creams, oils, makeup, perfumes. When he emerged from behind the partition, Cesaria stood right where she was when she spied him, grinning behind her hand to let him know she saw him, she didn’t mind, even liked his intrusiveness, his presumptive nature, his entitlement. She took his hand and led him to the bed. “Take off your cool,” she said in her curious accent that adds vowels where none are needed and occasionally rolls r’s. When he looked puzzled by the odd turn of phrase, she laughed a little at herself, the laugh a little hollow still, the memory of her mother too recent. “It’s an expression from my home.” Her fingers brushed his chest in slow caressing arcs that traced the ghosts of recent wounds now replaced by skin as cool and smooth as marble. “It means relax, tell me about yourself. Show me you.”
Haakon was untroubled, would appear almost pleased even, to find her watching him. His smile was confident, and a little hubristic, even as his eyes distractedly and hungrily took her in. Candle light flattered her. She didn’t need flattering. His hand moved to touch the place where the silk of her slip turned to lace, his eyes never leaving hers. “A clever one aren’t you?” He asked, playful. When she took his hand he followed again, his own internal pain lingering like a poor guest. Each moment he spent with her felt like his grip on control and sanity slipped further away. With every heartbeat, every glance and soft spoken word he damned them both further. But it seemed beyond him now. He was caught in her like a ship being tossed about by the whims of the sea. And when she spoke again the war that he fought within himself played over the lines of his face, sharp and angled in the low light. He struggled with it. It was her hands that unwound the last of his control. He took them in his own and brought them to his lips, cursing. Then he took her in his arms again and tangled himself in her as he pulled them down. He wouldn’t kiss her. Wouldn’t take too much of her lead or more than what she had asked. But he would lay down with her. Tenderly, he pressed his lips to her temple. “I’ll give you what I can,” he murmured. “But only if you promise to… Take off your own ‘cool’.” He borrowed the phrase, his tongue clumsy.
Cesaria wrapped herself in Haakon as they fell into bed together and buried her face against his neck as he kissed her temple. He could feel her face transform against his neck, and she stayed there until she had it all under control again. She lay on her side facing him and brushed her fingers down the length of his arm, over the back of his hand, his palm, his hip, up his side, to his chest then back again. The soft candle light lit her from behind, casting a halo through her curls and kissing her skin so that it glowed as if warmed by the sun that Haakon would never see. As they touched each other, she asked him about himself. She asked him about his home country, his favorite memories from life and death, about his business, his favorite kind of art (music, books, paintings, plays?), but most importantly she asked him what he wanted to do with the rest of his immortal life. She answered his questions, too. She was from Galumbia, her favorite memories are those of singing with her father (he had a terrific voice), and so her favorite art was music followed by paintings that captured movement. She’d traveled far and wide in her quest for a cure, picking up odd jobs and odder skills. This is her first time in Lithrydel. What would she do if the curse was finally lifted? You tell her, Haakon. Anything you want. The placement of the candle behind her was strategic. With her hair casting shadows on her face, Cesaria was a little bolder. Only when she got carried away and the curse arrested her too fiercely would she rest her fingers gently on Haakon’s hand to stop him, ask him to wait. She wouldn’t flee or disentangle herself from him, but she also wouldn’t lose composure, both figuratively and literally. Only once her beauty had returned would she lift her fingers from his hand, a cue that it was alright, he could continue caressing her, continue playing this risky, intoxicating game. Occasionally she stole a kiss, or let one be stolen from her. Their game only made her yearn for him more, only sharpened the cruelty of her curse. Having believed intimacy off-limits to her, she felt lucky to have one night like this, even if it could only ever be one night, though she feverishly hoped there would be more.
Haakon had committed many sins in his lingering life. There were a great many dark marks on his soul, enough blood on his hands to have sealed his damnation long ago, and still each exploration of her felt as if he were steering his fate to something darker. Cesaria was warmth and light, life and blood and everything that would be eternally out of his reach. He explored her just as eagerly, hands and mouth, but made himself a proper gentleman when she stilled him. And he would wait counting each beat of her heart. And even as they explored each other with stolen touch, he found he was just as hungry to learn about her home. Her life before the curse and after. He listened intently, his hands always finding their way back to the waterfall of dark curling hair, and asked questions about her home land, her father, what food she missed that Lithrydel lacked. He answered her questions too, though some with more hesitancy. He was vague on his age, murmuring only that he’d died in a land away from Lithrydel several centuries ago as he trailed lazy kisses along her collar bone. He asked her to sing him a song playfully as she spoke of the memory of her father without ever mentioning a memory of his own. In truth, he hardly remembered the life before his death. But he told her of the art of his homeland and the bold, abstract paintings that he’d filled his home in Vailkrin with. He spoke of his work, if a bit less passionately, and admitted plainly that he had excellent head for finances. He commented on her travels by answering tales of his own, or interrupted her to ask expanding questions on how she’d enjoyed the places she’d seen. He’d even wanted to know what kind of weather she bloody preferred and it was around then that he realized how truly gone he was. And when the conversation turned to literature he seemed to open up. Settling back among her pillows to enjoy the small weight of her head against his chest with their limbs tangled together, he pulled the sheets over them for fear that his own chill might bring her some discomfort. Stroking her hair absently, Haakon spoke of his favorite works and admitted his extensive library was the true pride of the home he’d built. “I’ve no talent with words but you remind me of something,” Haakon interrupts himself to trail his finger from her shoulder to her wrist. “There is a line in an untitled bit of his work… He wrote “..and if the devil was to ever see you, he’d kiss your eyes and repent.”,” His eyes find hers. “I think of that line often when I look at you.” And he kissed her then, wondering again what she might do when her curse was lifted.. All the while knowing he could never be free of his own.
As Haakon came out of his brooding posture, his handsomeness became gorgeous. If he believed himself to strike the most dashing figure when angry, he was wrong. She was dazzled by the way his lips pulled when he simpered, the way his eyes lit up when he laughed with abandon, his secret smiles, and knowing glances when she wormed out of a response to some of his questions. But most questions she did answer directly. Her father taught her how to sing and dance. He performed at weddings in their town. He was a captain in the army and died at war when she was 10. She carefully avoided speaking of her mother by exploring new parts of his body with her deft hands and solicitous lips. Her homeland was mountainous and tropical and she missed eating a dish that consisted of raw fish served cold in citrus juices on a hot day over cakes of mashed plantains. The best weather? A cloudy, gray day over the beach in low tide. She obliged his teasing by singing a short couplet from a song in her native tongue, then translated the filthy, salacious, degenerate innuendo as best she could. She laughed, explaining, “As a child, I had no idea what the lyrics meant!” She wanted to see his paintings, she wanted to read his favorite books, and then read his least favorite books, too. The line he recited to her arrested her heart too quickly. She buried her ghastly smile against his body. The curse itself dampens her mood enough to restore her beauty within seconds. She met his kiss, a little sadly in the wake of a perfect moment ruined by her mother’s hatred. “Say that to me again when my curse is lifted. ...If it is ever lifted.” The subject moved on to cheerier things and he slowly sucked her despair from her body as if it were poison. As the candle burned to the end of its wick, Cesaria fell asleep against Haakon, facing him, her head tucked beneath his chin, her arms and legs wound around him as she dreamed of an evening just like this, but without the burden of her curse and its celibate imposition.
Haakon had laughed deep at her bawdy translation of the song, winging his brows in mock scandal and playful teasing even as his hands roamed where he pleased, and she allowed. He noted her avoidance of her mother and was happy to oblige, never having hated someone he’d never even met so deeply. He was careful too, never speaking of the future that suddenly yawned before him like a dark, endless night. And he promised her that he would tell her again, when the curse was lifted, the line that repeated in his mind when he looked at her in flickering candle light. In a rare show of deep vulnerability he admitted that his favorite weather had been warm, sunny days when skies were endlessly blue and fat white clouds floated lazily over the world. But the light that had kept the darkness at bay burned out. Eventually, Cesaria drifted away from him. He waited, still as the heart that would never beat in his chest, and watched her for a long while as she slept in his arms. Finally, slowly, he pulled himself away from her. With the scent of her clinging to him, he left her alone as dawn blanketed Cenril in pale indigo light.