The Tattoo.
Written in response to this.
Micheal stands at the winery. Intent on reaching the steps, he hesitates for a half step. The magnitude of this decision weighing in his mind.
His hand hovers and suddenly the heavy wooden door opens.
Its her. Micheal feels chest tighten, attempting inhale a breath it does not need. She stares up at him. Always impossible to read. Her face is a blank mask as he lower his hand, fingers finding the tiny silver crucifex that lives within. Running a finger over its soft grooves he says simply. "Yes."
----
The foyer is... distinct. Micheal doesn't move like he normally would. Hardly relaxed his stomach twists. Focusing on the strange details. The paintings that hang are beautiful and yet unfamiliar, either personal or done by men who are long forgotten. A shrunken head sits casually in the open, Micheal cannot help but raise a brow. But nothing compares to Madeleine.
She moves with a quiet grace and assured stride. She invited him here. Micheal feels tugged to follow. A sensation he hasn't felt since Genevieve. His first and greatest. And he knows that for whatever purpose he is here, it will be grand.
The library stinks beautifully of musk and dust. The scent of age. The scent of knowledge. Also a scent Micheal knows well. The scent of art. The paintings and sketches are magnificent. His eyes flick to a painting and a pair of sketches. Instantly he recognizes the hand of the drawings as Madeleine's. They are older here. Well tended and displayed proudly but not for the reasons someone would normally choose.
Micheal is interrupted from these thoughts by the sound of a struggling and sticking lock. As Madeleine forces the door, a waft of warm and musty air washes over Micheal.
For long seconds, he stares as he comes to the door. His face is unreadable but his eyes move swiftly, drinking in the incredible and macabre detail. The room is dominated by a bloodstained table that splinters and warps at odd ridges. The walls lined with old drawings and older books. The drawings are exquisite. There is an artistic truth to them. Passions laid bare and displayed for all who care to look.
Micheal was never close to being Toreador but as he watches the paintings, he can feel that same flutter of fascination that they hear as a booming song. His eyes glimmer and his nose twitches at a distinct scent. Vitae and fresh. His eyes turn toward her as she mixes. The vitae sinks into the pigment, liquidizing the pigment into its desired shades.
“I don’t do things by halves,” She says. Her tone is blank but reverent. She loves her work and takes it seriously. “You may disrobe at your leisure.”
-----
Micheal has never been one for shame at his appearance. Whether it be his uniform, station or scars. He has always bore them with pride and honor.
There is a rope burn around his right wrist. Deep enough to cause strange coloration differences in his palm, even when freshly fed. His arms are lined with shallow cuts and scars from decades of training with swords. Each one is a lesson.
His left shin has a long scar from when his femur burst free. His first plane trip and landing. It took him ten years to try the craft again.
His legs are lithe and graceful and he moves like a dancer. Every step precise. Planting his foot hard on the soft rolls of his toes.
His chest is by far the most dramatic. Bullet wounds. Sword marks. Burst ribs. And a dark pit in the center of his chest. Some twisted mixture of burn and stab wound. The scar is deep and runs straight through to his back. An impaling wound, almost directly over the heart.
She doesn't flinch, having seen all of this and worse, but he watches a glimmer of sympathy in her eyes at his wounds. Scars from a life of pain.
He lies down on the table. Without complaint or regard. Discomforts of the flesh have not been a concern of his for many years. And despite its splinters and odd lumps, he had worse on the vessels he crewed in his youth oh so long ago.
Micheal hears her ask one last time if he is sure. His eyes flicker blue one last time before he turns to stare up at her. "Yes." Then the pain begins.
-------
Micheal trusts her. Out of love. Out of sympathy. Out of integrity. She has an honor about her that she doesn't deny. She does not hide or conceal her essence within weaves of lives. And now she gives him this essence. The depth of this gift is something Micheal cannot deny. As she works, he is motionless, allowing himself to be a corpse for a moment.
Feeling the taste of his sire's blood for the first time. The sweet taste of eternity. The touch of forever as it fills his empty veins with fire.
The taste of Genevieve's blood, as he embraced her so does she welcome him into the fold of the Spina. The cold and clinical ticks of the clock as his soul bends and conforms to their wishes and powers.
The cold and solemn stares of his enemies as he flagrantly adds to his line before them. Transforming a friend and brother into a childe and son forever.
She curses and he turns his head, snapping from his visions. “Madeleine?” he asks. His brow knits in worry. “It is almost dawn, you will never make it in time.” He almost says no. Almost offers to summon the chopper. Almost thinks to call his contacts in the police and clear the line to home. He almost thinks to simply run and leave this place with the anticipation and fear for what comes next. “I can stay.” He says. His eyes look to her’s and she closes her eyes. Robbing him of his empathy.
“I’ll show you a room,” She says simply and in not speaking, he can sense something.
------
The room has the scent of dust. Clearly adorned and occasionally cleaned but that was at least a few months ago.
She stays at the door as Micheal enters and scrutinizes the room with his artistic eye. He turns just in time to see her smile politely and depart. The weight of the morning rushing forward. Micheal makes a phone call quickly to Shannon to let her know of the arrangement. The relationship with Shannon is forged by years of adoration and competence. In all his years he has never found a more dutiful and faithful companion. Every few months he considers embracing her, but she never wants it. She would be a terrible storm to unleash upon the kindred populace. Perhaps another time. Perhaps another place. But not now.
He reassures her. Gentle whispers of affection that set her at ease. This is not the first, nor last, time he will be gone for a time.
She sounds sad as he terminates the call.
The day is almost on him and he finds the sealed bed chamber to sink into the cold rest of the day. Almost as an afterthought he transforms her work into an eternal aspect of his form. Too late to stop now.
-----
The next night starts early and soon he is back on her work table.
Lying down as she works at her needle he cannot help but think of her. The caustic glances of their first meeting. A pair of minds that were too similar to enjoy each other. Enjoying a facade designed to keep all away. Over time, their masks faded and what he saw enthralled him. He sent her gifts at first. Trinkets and baubles. Shiny objects that enthrall the shallow and the easily impressed. She dismissed him and with a strange and uncharacteristic gesture, his mask departs. His opinion of her changed. This one was not a simple worshiper of trees or some amorphous pagan. A true believer.
He is pleased by this and offers a single flower, gently covered in a thin sheen of red. Dropping it as he leaves. Knowing that even now she picks it up. He wondered if she realizes the magnitude of its meaning.
The pain continues as more details are added to the artwork, he remains still until she again whispers of the approaching dawn.
They linger at the door this time. He turns away and heals the wound, again accepting her influence into his shape. He closes his eyes and fights back the sense of relief and adoration he feels, his eyes blossom into the blue. She whispers his name and before he can stop himself, he peeks over his back. Clenching a fist, his nails dig into his palm and the pain fights back the pigment to his eyes. He turns at last and closes the door slowly. She watches him until the latch clicks closed.
-------
The final night comes and for the first time, Micheal feels his body twitch with uncertainty. She works on the painfully simple straight lines. He tries to remain still as her efforts bring forth more pain. He twitches once and feels a sharp sting across his shoulder as she corrects him. He can’t help but smirk at that but remains still as she circles the table. The gentle tapping of the needle draws the line over Micheal’s back until it is complete and then comes the last of the details. She works lovingly over his skin. The last of the scent of vitae in the air fades with the last of the ink. Even before she speaks he can recognize the final artistic tap of the final stroke. “I am done.” And even as the words exit her lips, he accepts the wound. His vitae churning to transform the marks into his flesh. His back is a canvas of truly magnificent artwork. As he rises he rotates his legs off the table to face her. Staring up at her as she looks back. Again, Micheal fights with all his might not to speak, not to have his eyes burn cold and reveal his affections again. But she knows.
No words are spoken, none are needed. Micheal lets his eyes go at last and she watches the slow and hypnotic transformation as his blue eyes emerge.
Without any effort his hand reaches up to find hers. Gently entwining their fingers.
Micheal stands at the winery. Intent on reaching the steps, he hesitates for a half step. The magnitude of this decision weighing in his mind.
His hand hovers and suddenly the heavy wooden door opens.
Its her. Micheal feels chest tighten, attempting inhale a breath it does not need. She stares up at him. Always impossible to read. Her face is a blank mask as he lower his hand, fingers finding the tiny silver crucifex that lives within. Running a finger over its soft grooves he says simply. "Yes."
----
The foyer is... distinct. Micheal doesn't move like he normally would. Hardly relaxed his stomach twists. Focusing on the strange details. The paintings that hang are beautiful and yet unfamiliar, either personal or done by men who are long forgotten. A shrunken head sits casually in the open, Micheal cannot help but raise a brow. But nothing compares to Madeleine.
She moves with a quiet grace and assured stride. She invited him here. Micheal feels tugged to follow. A sensation he hasn't felt since Genevieve. His first and greatest. And he knows that for whatever purpose he is here, it will be grand.
The library stinks beautifully of musk and dust. The scent of age. The scent of knowledge. Also a scent Micheal knows well. The scent of art. The paintings and sketches are magnificent. His eyes flick to a painting and a pair of sketches. Instantly he recognizes the hand of the drawings as Madeleine's. They are older here. Well tended and displayed proudly but not for the reasons someone would normally choose.
Micheal is interrupted from these thoughts by the sound of a struggling and sticking lock. As Madeleine forces the door, a waft of warm and musty air washes over Micheal.
For long seconds, he stares as he comes to the door. His face is unreadable but his eyes move swiftly, drinking in the incredible and macabre detail. The room is dominated by a bloodstained table that splinters and warps at odd ridges. The walls lined with old drawings and older books. The drawings are exquisite. There is an artistic truth to them. Passions laid bare and displayed for all who care to look.
Micheal was never close to being Toreador but as he watches the paintings, he can feel that same flutter of fascination that they hear as a booming song. His eyes glimmer and his nose twitches at a distinct scent. Vitae and fresh. His eyes turn toward her as she mixes. The vitae sinks into the pigment, liquidizing the pigment into its desired shades.
“I don’t do things by halves,” She says. Her tone is blank but reverent. She loves her work and takes it seriously. “You may disrobe at your leisure.”
-----
Micheal has never been one for shame at his appearance. Whether it be his uniform, station or scars. He has always bore them with pride and honor.
There is a rope burn around his right wrist. Deep enough to cause strange coloration differences in his palm, even when freshly fed. His arms are lined with shallow cuts and scars from decades of training with swords. Each one is a lesson.
His left shin has a long scar from when his femur burst free. His first plane trip and landing. It took him ten years to try the craft again.
His legs are lithe and graceful and he moves like a dancer. Every step precise. Planting his foot hard on the soft rolls of his toes.
His chest is by far the most dramatic. Bullet wounds. Sword marks. Burst ribs. And a dark pit in the center of his chest. Some twisted mixture of burn and stab wound. The scar is deep and runs straight through to his back. An impaling wound, almost directly over the heart.
She doesn't flinch, having seen all of this and worse, but he watches a glimmer of sympathy in her eyes at his wounds. Scars from a life of pain.
He lies down on the table. Without complaint or regard. Discomforts of the flesh have not been a concern of his for many years. And despite its splinters and odd lumps, he had worse on the vessels he crewed in his youth oh so long ago.
Micheal hears her ask one last time if he is sure. His eyes flicker blue one last time before he turns to stare up at her. "Yes." Then the pain begins.
-------
Micheal trusts her. Out of love. Out of sympathy. Out of integrity. She has an honor about her that she doesn't deny. She does not hide or conceal her essence within weaves of lives. And now she gives him this essence. The depth of this gift is something Micheal cannot deny. As she works, he is motionless, allowing himself to be a corpse for a moment.
Feeling the taste of his sire's blood for the first time. The sweet taste of eternity. The touch of forever as it fills his empty veins with fire.
The taste of Genevieve's blood, as he embraced her so does she welcome him into the fold of the Spina. The cold and clinical ticks of the clock as his soul bends and conforms to their wishes and powers.
The cold and solemn stares of his enemies as he flagrantly adds to his line before them. Transforming a friend and brother into a childe and son forever.
She curses and he turns his head, snapping from his visions. “Madeleine?” he asks. His brow knits in worry. “It is almost dawn, you will never make it in time.” He almost says no. Almost offers to summon the chopper. Almost thinks to call his contacts in the police and clear the line to home. He almost thinks to simply run and leave this place with the anticipation and fear for what comes next. “I can stay.” He says. His eyes look to her’s and she closes her eyes. Robbing him of his empathy.
“I’ll show you a room,” She says simply and in not speaking, he can sense something.
------
The room has the scent of dust. Clearly adorned and occasionally cleaned but that was at least a few months ago.
She stays at the door as Micheal enters and scrutinizes the room with his artistic eye. He turns just in time to see her smile politely and depart. The weight of the morning rushing forward. Micheal makes a phone call quickly to Shannon to let her know of the arrangement. The relationship with Shannon is forged by years of adoration and competence. In all his years he has never found a more dutiful and faithful companion. Every few months he considers embracing her, but she never wants it. She would be a terrible storm to unleash upon the kindred populace. Perhaps another time. Perhaps another place. But not now.
He reassures her. Gentle whispers of affection that set her at ease. This is not the first, nor last, time he will be gone for a time.
She sounds sad as he terminates the call.
The day is almost on him and he finds the sealed bed chamber to sink into the cold rest of the day. Almost as an afterthought he transforms her work into an eternal aspect of his form. Too late to stop now.
-----
The next night starts early and soon he is back on her work table.
Lying down as she works at her needle he cannot help but think of her. The caustic glances of their first meeting. A pair of minds that were too similar to enjoy each other. Enjoying a facade designed to keep all away. Over time, their masks faded and what he saw enthralled him. He sent her gifts at first. Trinkets and baubles. Shiny objects that enthrall the shallow and the easily impressed. She dismissed him and with a strange and uncharacteristic gesture, his mask departs. His opinion of her changed. This one was not a simple worshiper of trees or some amorphous pagan. A true believer.
He is pleased by this and offers a single flower, gently covered in a thin sheen of red. Dropping it as he leaves. Knowing that even now she picks it up. He wondered if she realizes the magnitude of its meaning.
The pain continues as more details are added to the artwork, he remains still until she again whispers of the approaching dawn.
They linger at the door this time. He turns away and heals the wound, again accepting her influence into his shape. He closes his eyes and fights back the sense of relief and adoration he feels, his eyes blossom into the blue. She whispers his name and before he can stop himself, he peeks over his back. Clenching a fist, his nails dig into his palm and the pain fights back the pigment to his eyes. He turns at last and closes the door slowly. She watches him until the latch clicks closed.
-------
The final night comes and for the first time, Micheal feels his body twitch with uncertainty. She works on the painfully simple straight lines. He tries to remain still as her efforts bring forth more pain. He twitches once and feels a sharp sting across his shoulder as she corrects him. He can’t help but smirk at that but remains still as she circles the table. The gentle tapping of the needle draws the line over Micheal’s back until it is complete and then comes the last of the details. She works lovingly over his skin. The last of the scent of vitae in the air fades with the last of the ink. Even before she speaks he can recognize the final artistic tap of the final stroke. “I am done.” And even as the words exit her lips, he accepts the wound. His vitae churning to transform the marks into his flesh. His back is a canvas of truly magnificent artwork. As he rises he rotates his legs off the table to face her. Staring up at her as she looks back. Again, Micheal fights with all his might not to speak, not to have his eyes burn cold and reveal his affections again. But she knows.
No words are spoken, none are needed. Micheal lets his eyes go at last and she watches the slow and hypnotic transformation as his blue eyes emerge.
Without any effort his hand reaches up to find hers. Gently entwining their fingers.