Aspasia - Caine - April - Snapshot I
The treasure was in Dominion’s hands. Immediately, the Amazon was drawn to it. The carvings, the worn flecks of paint - everything about the box said home to her. Greece.
It was beautiful. An Antiquity, a work of art. Even in her rattled, fog-touched brain, some things remained in Aspasia’s mind. One of those was her intimate knowledge of the myths of her people. Only one thing came close in description to what Exodus’ eldest daughter carried. The box of hope.
It didn’t occur to her to consider the oddity of such a treasure being in Canada. Only that it was ancient and compelling and no one could better appreciate it than her. It should be hers.
Dominion kept talking, but Aspasia tuned the words out, ignored all those present, Talbot and Brooke, the rest. She hadn’t felt such a keen attraction to something since first laying eyes on Edward Savage’s Machete a few year past. The box rightfully belonged with her.
Dominion would understand. Respect that. Perhaps that was even the reason why she wanted to share it with Aspasia now, and a with this small crowd of kindred. People who could appreciate it.
It was all the Amazon could do, not to reach out and take possession of the box immediately.
Of course, when Dominion opened it - all thoughts flew from her mind, as Aspasia fell to the floor writhing.
The woman was crying. She wouldn’t shut up. So Aspasia laid a blow across the food’s jaw, breaking it.
The crying stopped and she turned her attention to the man. He was yelling through the rag she’d stuffed in his mouth, tears falling down his face, making tracks in the dirt.
She looked from him to the other and back again. “No.” Her voice is raspy, “No. I can be kind.”
The words are slow, and hard to drege up. She looks into the mans blue eyes as she lifts him from the ground. “You don’t have to watch each other.”
He struggles in her grasp, and it confuses the Amazon, while her hands tighten like vises on his upper arms. “I can be kind.” She states again, as if willing him to understand, then she starts to drag him away into the dark, far from the coals of the banked campfire.
He keeps twisting, trying to look over his shoulder. Shouting through the rag. It hurts her head. She thumps his ear as she sets him down behind a rocky cliff side.
Again, she looks at the man’s face. “She won’t wake. Won’t feel hurt. I can be kind.”
Just then the moon peeks out from behind cloud cover, His eyes widen in horror as he sees her face clearly for the first time and realizes a vrykolaka kneels before him.
Aspasia drains him of blood.
She does the same to the woman, as she promised. Gentle.
And then she hears the baby cry. She stands up and moves towards the writhing bundle, resting in the middle of piled blankets.
Shivering on the ground, Aspasia’s eyes are unfocused, but reflexively, her hands come up to cover her face, and she curls up into a ball.
She moves to stand behind him, arms coming from behind to wrap about his torso. Aspasia rests her cheek along the expanse of his shoulder blade, above the very spot where she had staked him only weeks before.
They turn to face each other. They speak. Kiss. His lips brush hers as he murmurs, “Love him, give him your heart, it was always his anyway. Tell him he was right and to keep his eyes open. Wolf always comes back."
He sings in a language she does not understand. In one brutal motion he rips the claws of his right hand across his own throat, sinking to his knees.
His head leans back, exposing his neck to her. While their left hands cling tightly together.
His amber eyes shine at her, waiting.
And suddenly she is seeing though his eyes, looking up at her own face. Listening to her own voice murmur. "In the in fields of Asphodel, Karida. I will come to you there."
And there is the terrible sense of betrayal. Devastation.
Her strike is precise and deadly, powered with speed of the Kshatriyas and the strength of Gangrel.
She feels the pain. Both of body and heart. As his form decays, she dies with him.
The vision stops.
Aspasia stops shaking, but she hears repeated in her mind over and over, “Wolf always comes back.” And the feeling of guilt is almost crushing in its intensity. She sees Dallas standing before her. She sees herself killing him.
And there is a sense this is a sin, an evil she will never be rid of, never forgiven, not until the night that there is nothing evil left in the world. That is the only way his soul will be at rest.
As she stands up again, the Amazon’s gaze is fixed on Dominion’s face. And there is a connection there, one that did not exist before. A connection she can feel echoing in the blood, close to the ties of line but not of the same complexion. And it extends to the others in the room, who she notices are also starting to rise and move about.
Talbot disappears.
Aspasia holds out her hands. “That is Greek. I know somewhat of it. This will be safer with me.”
With a glance to her left, she waits to see if Bastian’s daughter will challenge her claim, but that woman is silent. Exodus’ daughter hands it to her. Aspasia caresses the now closed box once, as if to confirm it is real and not imagined.
Mine.
It was beautiful. An Antiquity, a work of art. Even in her rattled, fog-touched brain, some things remained in Aspasia’s mind. One of those was her intimate knowledge of the myths of her people. Only one thing came close in description to what Exodus’ eldest daughter carried. The box of hope.
It didn’t occur to her to consider the oddity of such a treasure being in Canada. Only that it was ancient and compelling and no one could better appreciate it than her. It should be hers.
Dominion kept talking, but Aspasia tuned the words out, ignored all those present, Talbot and Brooke, the rest. She hadn’t felt such a keen attraction to something since first laying eyes on Edward Savage’s Machete a few year past. The box rightfully belonged with her.
Dominion would understand. Respect that. Perhaps that was even the reason why she wanted to share it with Aspasia now, and a with this small crowd of kindred. People who could appreciate it.
It was all the Amazon could do, not to reach out and take possession of the box immediately.
Of course, when Dominion opened it - all thoughts flew from her mind, as Aspasia fell to the floor writhing.
The woman was crying. She wouldn’t shut up. So Aspasia laid a blow across the food’s jaw, breaking it.
The crying stopped and she turned her attention to the man. He was yelling through the rag she’d stuffed in his mouth, tears falling down his face, making tracks in the dirt.
She looked from him to the other and back again. “No.” Her voice is raspy, “No. I can be kind.”
The words are slow, and hard to drege up. She looks into the mans blue eyes as she lifts him from the ground. “You don’t have to watch each other.”
He struggles in her grasp, and it confuses the Amazon, while her hands tighten like vises on his upper arms. “I can be kind.” She states again, as if willing him to understand, then she starts to drag him away into the dark, far from the coals of the banked campfire.
He keeps twisting, trying to look over his shoulder. Shouting through the rag. It hurts her head. She thumps his ear as she sets him down behind a rocky cliff side.
Again, she looks at the man’s face. “She won’t wake. Won’t feel hurt. I can be kind.”
Just then the moon peeks out from behind cloud cover, His eyes widen in horror as he sees her face clearly for the first time and realizes a vrykolaka kneels before him.
Aspasia drains him of blood.
She does the same to the woman, as she promised. Gentle.
And then she hears the baby cry. She stands up and moves towards the writhing bundle, resting in the middle of piled blankets.
Shivering on the ground, Aspasia’s eyes are unfocused, but reflexively, her hands come up to cover her face, and she curls up into a ball.
She moves to stand behind him, arms coming from behind to wrap about his torso. Aspasia rests her cheek along the expanse of his shoulder blade, above the very spot where she had staked him only weeks before.
They turn to face each other. They speak. Kiss. His lips brush hers as he murmurs, “Love him, give him your heart, it was always his anyway. Tell him he was right and to keep his eyes open. Wolf always comes back."
He sings in a language she does not understand. In one brutal motion he rips the claws of his right hand across his own throat, sinking to his knees.
His head leans back, exposing his neck to her. While their left hands cling tightly together.
His amber eyes shine at her, waiting.
And suddenly she is seeing though his eyes, looking up at her own face. Listening to her own voice murmur. "In the in fields of Asphodel, Karida. I will come to you there."
And there is the terrible sense of betrayal. Devastation.
Her strike is precise and deadly, powered with speed of the Kshatriyas and the strength of Gangrel.
She feels the pain. Both of body and heart. As his form decays, she dies with him.
The vision stops.
Aspasia stops shaking, but she hears repeated in her mind over and over, “Wolf always comes back.” And the feeling of guilt is almost crushing in its intensity. She sees Dallas standing before her. She sees herself killing him.
And there is a sense this is a sin, an evil she will never be rid of, never forgiven, not until the night that there is nothing evil left in the world. That is the only way his soul will be at rest.
As she stands up again, the Amazon’s gaze is fixed on Dominion’s face. And there is a connection there, one that did not exist before. A connection she can feel echoing in the blood, close to the ties of line but not of the same complexion. And it extends to the others in the room, who she notices are also starting to rise and move about.
Talbot disappears.
Aspasia holds out her hands. “That is Greek. I know somewhat of it. This will be safer with me.”
With a glance to her left, she waits to see if Bastian’s daughter will challenge her claim, but that woman is silent. Exodus’ daughter hands it to her. Aspasia caresses the now closed box once, as if to confirm it is real and not imagined.
Mine.