(no subject)
TITLE: Dance of Death - Nocturne
RATING: G
FANDOMS: Taniec Vampirow/Elisabeth
SUMMARY: Death watches over the Graf and his child.
PAIRINGS: N/A
WORDS: 1008
NOTES: This is Chapter 2 of Dance of Death, at least 10 years after Prelude. Two in one day, I know :) I'm away for a week, though. Yay for holidays and chums to visit :)
_________________________
He stood upon the threshold.
Dark emptiness spread behind him, while before him the large room was warm and welcoming. A fire in the grate illuminated the figure of a young woman seated by the crib. She was of no interest to him.
Stepping down from the edge of his domain, drawing shadows with him like a cloak, Death approached the wooden cradle with its elegant carved decorations. His fingers trailed along the edge and he glanced idly towards the door that lead to the rest of the vast castle.
For months, he had been watching the Graf and his spiralling descent into a madness that had been beautiful in its intensity. Cursed with the sight, past, present and future had crowded in a mind already overrun with imagination and knowledge. His downfall had been remarkable.
And at every turn, Death had been his constant companion, whispering poisonous pleasures in that proud ear, turning his head, dazzling his mind, breaking it apart with glimpses of death and despair.
His death would have been exquisitely sweet, and Death had had every intention that it would be by the Graf’s own two hands, claiming Death’s mercy willingly, falling into his arms and accepting his embrace as liberty from the cruelty of mortal life.
Though a short span by his own reckoning, he had lavished a great deal of attention on the mind that had been so strong and steady when they had first encountered. It had been for his own amusement that he had - a piece at a time - broken it apart, simply to prove it was possible.
The proud Graf had been proud no longer, reduced to staring into shadows as a golden-haired creature with the voice and appearance of an angel and the words of the devil had whispered terrible and wonderful things to him.
Death’s expression darkened and the candles around the room flickered and flared, several sputtering out.
By the cradle, the woman looked up, pulling her shawl closer around her, her face drawn and white. There were the edges of madness in her features, he noticed, and given the child she watched over and the master she now served, he supposed it was not entirely unexpected.
Shivering fingers crossed her breast and she rose to relight the candles. Ignoring her, Death bent over the cradle, reaching down to trace the outline of the sleeping infant’s gold-crowned head.
Small fists were curled on either side of the pink-cheeked face, the infant barely a handful of months in age. Motherless too. Death remembered his fleeting encounter with the woman, even as the Graf had tried to pull her back from the welcoming doorway of Death’s realm, but he had been too weak to hold her to him.
With her blood on his lips, his own body the instrument of her murder, the Graf had only been able to watch as Death took her hand and lead her away.
It had been a brief morsel by comparison to the feast that the Graf’s passing would have been, but when another had interceded, stealing the Graf’s mortality along with his endless death, Johannes von Krolock’s demise had been forever denied him.
Breaching the abyss between the worlds of living and dead, Death’s fingertip ran over the small fist and he watched as tiny fingers uncurled. They wrapped around his finger, squeezing with strange strength for one so small.
For all the weeks of his father’s new life, a second-rate half-life, half-death, an existence dependant on the blood of others, Death had turned his gaze to this last remnant of von Krolock’s mortal existence.
If he could not have the Graf, then he would have all the Graf held dear.
His intention had been to turn the father’s immortal mouth against the child. He had hoped to see the infant’s blood spilled and knew that was the fate of the boy, though he could not see when the time would be. A mortal’s end he could see if he chose to look deep enough, but he would have to wait for this one, it seemed.
Still, he was impatient.
Lowering his other hand into the cradle, he closed his palm over the sleeping child’s nose and mouth, his teeth gritting together. He could feel the warm breath, sweet scented, against his cool skin.
The child whimpered, stirring.
At the candles, the nurse whirled around at the quiet sound, then uttered a startled exclamation. Death’s glanced over his shoulder to her in time to see the colour fade from her face as she sank to the floor in a swoon.
She was not, however, looking at him.
A long-fingered hand wrapped around his wrist, and he looked up into black eyes.
The Graf smiled without humour. “I would not,” he murmured. Without effort, the Graf drew Death’s hand from his child’s face.
Severing his bond to his domain, untouchable by those cursed with a half-death, Death’s mouth curved in a shadow of von Krolock’s own smile. He inclined his head mockingly. “Excellency.”
Had he been mortal, the vice-like hold on his wrist would likely have been painful.
“He will not be yours.” The black eyes were flashing with icy fire. “Not now.”
Death laughed softly, his other hand prying the Graf’s hand from his wrist. “But he will be mine, Herr Vampire,” he said in a laughing whisper. “As will all those mortals who pass through your everlasting hands.”
With a smooth swiftness, he rounded the crib, gazing into those blazing eyes.
“And when you drain the life from him, I will be waiting.”
Von Krolock’s hand grabbed at his throat and he stepped back into his own domain, out of reach, his mocking mirth ringing about the chamber.
And from the dark solitude of his realm, he watched the vampire stoop and gather his whimpering mortal son in his arms. At once, the child quieted, and the Graf bent his proud head to kiss the boy’s brow.
“Oh yes, Excellency,” Death whispered. “I will be waiting.”
RATING: G
FANDOMS: Taniec Vampirow/Elisabeth
SUMMARY: Death watches over the Graf and his child.
PAIRINGS: N/A
WORDS: 1008
NOTES: This is Chapter 2 of Dance of Death, at least 10 years after Prelude. Two in one day, I know :) I'm away for a week, though. Yay for holidays and chums to visit :)
_________________________
He stood upon the threshold.
Dark emptiness spread behind him, while before him the large room was warm and welcoming. A fire in the grate illuminated the figure of a young woman seated by the crib. She was of no interest to him.
Stepping down from the edge of his domain, drawing shadows with him like a cloak, Death approached the wooden cradle with its elegant carved decorations. His fingers trailed along the edge and he glanced idly towards the door that lead to the rest of the vast castle.
For months, he had been watching the Graf and his spiralling descent into a madness that had been beautiful in its intensity. Cursed with the sight, past, present and future had crowded in a mind already overrun with imagination and knowledge. His downfall had been remarkable.
And at every turn, Death had been his constant companion, whispering poisonous pleasures in that proud ear, turning his head, dazzling his mind, breaking it apart with glimpses of death and despair.
His death would have been exquisitely sweet, and Death had had every intention that it would be by the Graf’s own two hands, claiming Death’s mercy willingly, falling into his arms and accepting his embrace as liberty from the cruelty of mortal life.
Though a short span by his own reckoning, he had lavished a great deal of attention on the mind that had been so strong and steady when they had first encountered. It had been for his own amusement that he had - a piece at a time - broken it apart, simply to prove it was possible.
The proud Graf had been proud no longer, reduced to staring into shadows as a golden-haired creature with the voice and appearance of an angel and the words of the devil had whispered terrible and wonderful things to him.
Death’s expression darkened and the candles around the room flickered and flared, several sputtering out.
By the cradle, the woman looked up, pulling her shawl closer around her, her face drawn and white. There were the edges of madness in her features, he noticed, and given the child she watched over and the master she now served, he supposed it was not entirely unexpected.
Shivering fingers crossed her breast and she rose to relight the candles. Ignoring her, Death bent over the cradle, reaching down to trace the outline of the sleeping infant’s gold-crowned head.
Small fists were curled on either side of the pink-cheeked face, the infant barely a handful of months in age. Motherless too. Death remembered his fleeting encounter with the woman, even as the Graf had tried to pull her back from the welcoming doorway of Death’s realm, but he had been too weak to hold her to him.
With her blood on his lips, his own body the instrument of her murder, the Graf had only been able to watch as Death took her hand and lead her away.
It had been a brief morsel by comparison to the feast that the Graf’s passing would have been, but when another had interceded, stealing the Graf’s mortality along with his endless death, Johannes von Krolock’s demise had been forever denied him.
Breaching the abyss between the worlds of living and dead, Death’s fingertip ran over the small fist and he watched as tiny fingers uncurled. They wrapped around his finger, squeezing with strange strength for one so small.
For all the weeks of his father’s new life, a second-rate half-life, half-death, an existence dependant on the blood of others, Death had turned his gaze to this last remnant of von Krolock’s mortal existence.
If he could not have the Graf, then he would have all the Graf held dear.
His intention had been to turn the father’s immortal mouth against the child. He had hoped to see the infant’s blood spilled and knew that was the fate of the boy, though he could not see when the time would be. A mortal’s end he could see if he chose to look deep enough, but he would have to wait for this one, it seemed.
Still, he was impatient.
Lowering his other hand into the cradle, he closed his palm over the sleeping child’s nose and mouth, his teeth gritting together. He could feel the warm breath, sweet scented, against his cool skin.
The child whimpered, stirring.
At the candles, the nurse whirled around at the quiet sound, then uttered a startled exclamation. Death’s glanced over his shoulder to her in time to see the colour fade from her face as she sank to the floor in a swoon.
She was not, however, looking at him.
A long-fingered hand wrapped around his wrist, and he looked up into black eyes.
The Graf smiled without humour. “I would not,” he murmured. Without effort, the Graf drew Death’s hand from his child’s face.
Severing his bond to his domain, untouchable by those cursed with a half-death, Death’s mouth curved in a shadow of von Krolock’s own smile. He inclined his head mockingly. “Excellency.”
Had he been mortal, the vice-like hold on his wrist would likely have been painful.
“He will not be yours.” The black eyes were flashing with icy fire. “Not now.”
Death laughed softly, his other hand prying the Graf’s hand from his wrist. “But he will be mine, Herr Vampire,” he said in a laughing whisper. “As will all those mortals who pass through your everlasting hands.”
With a smooth swiftness, he rounded the crib, gazing into those blazing eyes.
“And when you drain the life from him, I will be waiting.”
Von Krolock’s hand grabbed at his throat and he stepped back into his own domain, out of reach, his mocking mirth ringing about the chamber.
And from the dark solitude of his realm, he watched the vampire stoop and gather his whimpering mortal son in his arms. At once, the child quieted, and the Graf bent his proud head to kiss the boy’s brow.
“Oh yes, Excellency,” Death whispered. “I will be waiting.”