vojvode | [oom] Come down into the Garden, Eve.

Entry tags:

[oom] Come down into the Garden, Eve.

The night is cold and bright. The moon casts a pale light over the world, throwing it into chiaroscuro.

He stands on the hill over looking the Bar and his thoughts turn to the gold of her hair and the gentle lilt of her voice.

So, we'll go no more a-roving

So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

He covers his face with his hands, trying to recall the sound of her laughter.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

He can still taste the sweetness of her mouth.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

He can still hear the beat of her heart.

Kate. Wake up.

I need you.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Her eyes open to the darkness of Doc's room.

Was she dreaming?

Was she dead asleep?

She doesn't know. It doesn't matter. She's awake, now, and his voice is calling to her.

She peels the covers back and slips out of bed -- Doc is sleeping soundly on the other side, with his head turned to the wall and his arms around his pillow; it's easier to get up this time, without waking him -- bare feet hitting hardwood as she pads her way to the dresser, gathering up her clothes. She slips into the bathroom to change -- again, a long skirt that belts at her slender waist, her button-up cranberry in color. She leaves her hair down this time, and the silver crucifix necklace she'd received from Bela gets tucked under her collar.

She steps outside the room before putting on her boots, not chancing waking Doc up, and then makes her way outside.

Once on the path that leads down to the lake, her eyes catch the sight of blue flames. They seem to lead somewhere, one ring burning soft and dangerous after another, and so she follows their path.

The path leads her across the meadow, along a winding deer path cut through the snow. There are no boot prints here, and yet in the distance, there is a dark figure standing at the crest of the hill, waiting for her.

He lifts a hand in greeting, and in her mind (in her dreams, in her blood) she feels the warm welcome of his presence, like a kiss upon her cheek.

She trembles inside at the sight of him, after so long a journey through the snow. The joints of her hands are aching and cold, and where once she wished she'd remembered to bring her gloves, now she only wishes for the warmth of his hands.

She makes her way to him, walking fearlessly through the snow, keeping her chin up and her eyes on his face.

"Kate."

He holds out a hand to her, his eyes dark with longing.

It is only when she is within a few paces of him that his demeanour shifts, darkens and grows cold.

"What is that? Around your neck?"

She stretches her hand out, reaching for his even before she's close enough to touch him. But when his expression turns cold, she flinches back.

"What?"

Her hand, curled and clutched at her chest, presses flat against her throat, searching. She looks away from his eyes at last, focusing on the silver crucifix in the palm of her hand.

She pulls it out and his expression falls.

"Why would you wear that here?"

His tone is dark, tinged with anger, but it does not hide the underlying hurt.

"Have I given you reason -- to fear me?"

Kate furrows her brow in confusion.

"I don't understand. It was a gift."

Inside the box is a silver crucifix. Keep it on you if you're here on your own. It should repel this kind of vampire long enough for you to get away or call for help.

"What does it matter t'you?" she asks, feeling the cold prickle of sweat on the back of her neck.

"Kate," he begins, his lips twisting in a grimace. "You do not know what you ask of me. Anything, I would give you anything just -- please. Take it off."

Blood calls to blood.

"Are you a vampire?" she hisses, hurt in her own voice.

Her fingers curl into a fist around the crucifix.

He draws himself up to his full height, the shadows around him growing long and dark.

"I am master of the storm, and the beasts of the field. Death has no dominion over me." His voice rings in the glade as he closes the distance between them.

His hand comes up, long fingers closing around her wrist, gentle but firm. His voice grows but loses none of its intensity.

"I am your eternal servant, Kate. I am a man who loved -- too well, and I paid a terrible price for the privilege. My war is not with you."

She takes a step back when he approaches, eyes bright with fear. His voice is ringing in her ears, and before she can think to move he has his hand around her. She gasps, alarmed, but the touch is not meant to hurt.

She looks up into his eyes under a heavily furrowed brow, endeavoring to understand his words. Endeavoring to uncoil the knots in her heart.

"I don't understand."

Her voice is weak and soft, pleading in its tenor.

"You're not... you can't be..."

"Kate, my beautiful Kate."

The silver crucifix in her palm grows warm, reacting to his presence.

"Trust in me. I need you to trust in me."

"Did you hurt my friends?"

Her fingers begin to shake.

"What do you think, Kate?"

Steam rises from between her fingertips, and she can feel the metal soften and become fluid in her grip. And yet her skin does not burn.

Tiny beads of silver squeeze out between her knuckles, hissing as they drop onto the snow.

"Now, please. I have -- missed you."

What do you think, Kate?

She shakes her head numbly, not sure what to think. She opens her mouth to speak, unsure of what she's going to say, when she feels the warm trickle of silver between her fingers.

"Ah," she gasps, opening her hand to watch what's left of the crucifix sizzle and melt. She cannot fathom why she isn't burning, bleeding, melting away like the metal in her hand.

Please, he says. Please.

I need you to trust in me.

"Who are you?"

She turns her face against the crook of his neck, eyes wide and searching, focused on nothing.

"Tell me the truth. Please."

He takes her in his arms, enfolding her in the warmth of his long dark cloak, crooning softly against her hair.

"Shh, I will tell you everything you want to know. Everything. Just be still for a moment. Shh. Be still."

Come with me. Hear my tale. Trust in me.

Somewhere in the distant reaches of her mind, she's dimly aware of the fact that she's being manipulated. After being tricked by the forge god Weyland, hunted by Ramon Salazar, and ostracized by Trout Walker, she's developed a keen outlaw sense that is screaming for attention. There's danger here, there's deception, you aren't yourself...

But even as he's given her reason to doubt, reason to fear, she can't feel unsafe in his embrace. Every worrisome thought strays just out of her grasp, until she can't remember what she was just thinking about, what she was searching for. It all fades to background noise.

She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his breast. He makes her feel safe, and wanted -- two feelings she desperately wants to cling to. He's always been kind to her, so he couldn't be responsible for all those attacks. He couldn't. Even if he is a vampire, it has to be someone else. Someone different. Jasper told her, after all, that there could be many different vampires from many different worlds, here.

I trust you.

Blood calls to blood.

"I didn't know. The necklace. I'm sorry, I didn't know."

He feels the weight of her shift, feels the surrender in her body and the tension in his body shifts. His eyes scan the horizon around them, feeling the warmth and strength of her, so close.

Her heart beats a tattoo in his ears, a call to action, and the rush of blood just beneath her skin is a siren song. Even the scent of her (so very alive) is intoxicating. His head tips back and his lips part, the cold of the night air hissing over razor sharp fangs that have descended. The sharp sensation borders on pain, and his eyes close.

No. No he will not squander this. She is too rare a treasure to spill upon the snow like a common harlot.

He wants to hear her recite her poetry in that sweet lilting voice again. He wants to hear her laugh. He wants to see that smile in the light of day.

There is another man, here in her thoughts. Her beloved. One she would die for, and one who would die for her.

Love transcends death. And here in this place, would he begrudge her that? A love that burns so bright. How could he?

Elizabeta, my love. I am so lost without you.

He breathes, wills himself to stillness, and pulls back to look into her face. "Come. Let us sit somewhere -- warm. I will answer all your questions. I will tell you, everything."

She meets his gaze, though with worry in her expression. Her brow is furrowed, eyes searching the bottomless brown irises staring back at her.

"Okay."

She nods almost imperceptibly, like she's warring with some part of her trying desperately to hold her back.

"Please."

His hand plays along her jawline, one thumb brushing her lips.

Once more he tucks her hand under his arm and covers her hand with his own. He leads her along the path, which somehow become stairs, though it feels as if she is floating on the very air.

In the manner of dreams, the sliver of the moon rises over head and before she even realises how much time has passed, there is a towering door before them, opening at their approach. Warm light flickers from within, a roaring blaze set in a huge hearth, framed in dark stone.

A velvet settee, a harpsichord in one corner, a tapestry on the wall, richly appointed velvet rugs beneath her feet. The air smells of spices and rare perfumes. Pomegranates, honey, and the almost too sweet scent of roses just gone passed their prime.

He leads her to the settee, and swathes her in a rich fur robe, again touching her cheek, brushing her hair back from her brow and pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead.

Around them, shadows swirl and undulate, a dark tide that never quite seems to find a point of rest until he settles beside her and is still.

Her eyes stray to his face as they walk. She's captivated by him, wholly focused on him, to the point where she puts absolute trust in him to lead her true. It isn't until they're more than halfway up the stairs that she notices the lighter-than-normal feeling in her belly.

She glances down, blinks hard, gasps in breathless awe at the opulent structure ahead of them. She isn't sure where they are -- where this is -- but she's too gobsmacked to rightly care.

She respectfully lets him lead her inside in silence, transported to an entirely different plane of sense and thought. She hugs the rich fur around her shoulders, not noticing the unsettled shadowy audience rippling around them, for how intently he has her focus.

"This is your home," she remarks in what is neither a question nor a statement, blue eyes drowsy with wonderment.

"Yes, of a kind," he admits, letting himself sink back into the corner of the settee, almost decadent in his languid demeanour.

"Are you warm enough? Would you like some tea?"

"I am a bit chilled, but y'don't have to worry yourself," she murmurs. "This is more than enough."

He gestures at the flames and they dance higher, the reddish orange light growing brighter, warming her cheeks.

"There. Is that better?"

She bats her eyes, awed once again by the display.

"Yes. Thank you."

She focuses her attention on his face, and bites the inside of her bottom lip.

"Will you speak with me truthfully?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject