Original -- Red and White
Title: Red and White
Rating: PG
Word Count: 960
Warnings: mild violence
Prompt: "swan song" at pulped_fictions
Summary: Vincent Duval dies in a Parisian gutter.
Author's Note: eltea made me do it.
RED AND WHITE
Just after ten at night on February second, 1778, Vincent realized he was going to die.
It didn’t exactly come as a surprise.
He’d known there was something wrong two… or three… days previously, when he was shivering in the sunlight, and curling into the remains of his coat didn’t change a thing.
He’d known there was something even more wrong tonight. After he’d made a strong effort to evade the bill at the local tavern-and then made a stronger effort to avoid the beating from the infuriated barman-he hadn’t been able to keep down the not-exactly-free wine. Not-exactly-free was his favorite vintage.
Vincent sighed. Then he groaned. Then he made a sad, sobbing kind of noise and buried his face in his arms. Everything hurt, and his head was fuzzy, but not in the good way, with that happy haze of too much alcohol. His veins burned with something else, and his hollow stomach had twisted into knots, and there was a deep ache somewhere at the base of his skull. The recognition had set in. It was over.
Bit of a pity. He’d been a lot of places; he’d tried and given up on a lot of things, but he’d somehow hoped for…more. And he’d run and walked and ridden thousands of miles, but he’d never made it that far.
He was thirty-nine. That wasn’t young by any means; the real accomplishment was getting past the fifth birthday, but all the same he’d never quite thought it would end. Presumably no one really did.
He rolled onto his back again, staring up at the stars, at the moon, at these untouchable wonders that seemed so bright and fragile. They’d outlast him. They’d stay, unmoved, and he… would rot. Rather precipitously, given that he was currently sprawled in the gutter amongst the questionable water and, likely, other rotting things. Then again, he’d drunk such a staggering quantity of wine in the last month that he’d probably pickled everything vital, so perhaps…
There was a woman. There was a woman all in white, with red hair gleaming in the moonlight; with dark eyes; with footsteps that made no sound.
Vincent’s heart stumbled faster; he could hear it clattering in his ears, and he sought for the strength to raise himself out of the wet, to push away, to put just another inch between them. The woman paused, half-turned, saw him, and tilted her head.
Vincent had forsaken God after the final break with his parents. Vengeance wasn’t always swift, but it came.
“Please-” Vincent’s voice felt like a razor in his throat. He coughed, and something slick and unpleasant rose as if to soothe the wounds that speaking left. “Please, I just-I didn’t know-just let me have another chance-”
The woman moved closer until he could see her brown eyes and her red lips and the soiled hem of her white dress. She knelt, and Vincent thought his heart would stop and finish her work for her.
“Would you use it?” she asked softly. “Another chance?”
Vincent swallowed, which hurt almost as much as talking. “Yes. I would try.”
She considered him, and then she nodded once. Vincent was not terribly eager to ask what that meant.
He didn’t have time anyway; the woman shifted, skirts rustling, to settle beside him, laying his head in her lap. She carded her fingers slowly through his hair, and he wished he hadn’t come to this. He’d been very attractive once-when his hair was smooth and thick instead of scraggly; when he hadn’t had dark crescents beneath his eyes; when he’d been clean and fed and proper.
“Lie still,” the woman said.
“Are you an angel?” Vincent asked, the words like nettles.
The woman smiled.
Then she smiled a little broader, and he saw her fangs.
He tried to scream-the sound stuck. He tried to scramble to his feet, and his limbs twitched; he tried to writhe away, and he fell heavier against her; white silk slithered against his cheek, and he managed to force out a whimper.
She stroked his hair aside, and then hers brushed across his neck, prickling softly; it smelled faintly of rosewater. Her breath was cold but moist, and her lips were softer than her hair, and the pain was brief but sharp. Vincent managed another feeble twist, but she caught his shoulder and held him fast. He’d known he was dying, but this was different-this was a slow drain of everything he had left; this was wit and vitality seeping out with every passing moment as she drew and drew and drew-
“Wait,” he choked out. “Stop, please-”
She didn’t.
She leached the life out of him, in such a leisurely fashion that he almost mustered the energy to be insulted. His toes tingled and then went leaden; his fingers followed. It was over after all.
Vincent supposed this wasn’t too much worse than dying in the gutter of natural causes. Or of self-imposed causes. Or of any cause.
There wasn’t much left. His eyelids were defying him, dropping even when he fought hard to raise them, and he could hear his heartbeat slowing in his ears. The soft lapping sounds of the woman drinking his lifeblood were starting to drown it out.
He let his eyes fall shut this time. The rhythm of his heart was like someone knocking on a distant door… and then… giving up.
“When you wake,” the woman whispered, “kill. Kill, drink, and heal.”
Vincent died.
Then he woke.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 960
Warnings: mild violence
Prompt: "swan song" at pulped_fictions
Summary: Vincent Duval dies in a Parisian gutter.
Author's Note: eltea made me do it.
RED AND WHITE
Just after ten at night on February second, 1778, Vincent realized he was going to die.
It didn’t exactly come as a surprise.
He’d known there was something wrong two… or three… days previously, when he was shivering in the sunlight, and curling into the remains of his coat didn’t change a thing.
He’d known there was something even more wrong tonight. After he’d made a strong effort to evade the bill at the local tavern-and then made a stronger effort to avoid the beating from the infuriated barman-he hadn’t been able to keep down the not-exactly-free wine. Not-exactly-free was his favorite vintage.
Vincent sighed. Then he groaned. Then he made a sad, sobbing kind of noise and buried his face in his arms. Everything hurt, and his head was fuzzy, but not in the good way, with that happy haze of too much alcohol. His veins burned with something else, and his hollow stomach had twisted into knots, and there was a deep ache somewhere at the base of his skull. The recognition had set in. It was over.
Bit of a pity. He’d been a lot of places; he’d tried and given up on a lot of things, but he’d somehow hoped for…more. And he’d run and walked and ridden thousands of miles, but he’d never made it that far.
He was thirty-nine. That wasn’t young by any means; the real accomplishment was getting past the fifth birthday, but all the same he’d never quite thought it would end. Presumably no one really did.
He rolled onto his back again, staring up at the stars, at the moon, at these untouchable wonders that seemed so bright and fragile. They’d outlast him. They’d stay, unmoved, and he… would rot. Rather precipitously, given that he was currently sprawled in the gutter amongst the questionable water and, likely, other rotting things. Then again, he’d drunk such a staggering quantity of wine in the last month that he’d probably pickled everything vital, so perhaps…
There was a woman. There was a woman all in white, with red hair gleaming in the moonlight; with dark eyes; with footsteps that made no sound.
Vincent’s heart stumbled faster; he could hear it clattering in his ears, and he sought for the strength to raise himself out of the wet, to push away, to put just another inch between them. The woman paused, half-turned, saw him, and tilted her head.
Vincent had forsaken God after the final break with his parents. Vengeance wasn’t always swift, but it came.
“Please-” Vincent’s voice felt like a razor in his throat. He coughed, and something slick and unpleasant rose as if to soothe the wounds that speaking left. “Please, I just-I didn’t know-just let me have another chance-”
The woman moved closer until he could see her brown eyes and her red lips and the soiled hem of her white dress. She knelt, and Vincent thought his heart would stop and finish her work for her.
“Would you use it?” she asked softly. “Another chance?”
Vincent swallowed, which hurt almost as much as talking. “Yes. I would try.”
She considered him, and then she nodded once. Vincent was not terribly eager to ask what that meant.
He didn’t have time anyway; the woman shifted, skirts rustling, to settle beside him, laying his head in her lap. She carded her fingers slowly through his hair, and he wished he hadn’t come to this. He’d been very attractive once-when his hair was smooth and thick instead of scraggly; when he hadn’t had dark crescents beneath his eyes; when he’d been clean and fed and proper.
“Lie still,” the woman said.
“Are you an angel?” Vincent asked, the words like nettles.
The woman smiled.
Then she smiled a little broader, and he saw her fangs.
He tried to scream-the sound stuck. He tried to scramble to his feet, and his limbs twitched; he tried to writhe away, and he fell heavier against her; white silk slithered against his cheek, and he managed to force out a whimper.
She stroked his hair aside, and then hers brushed across his neck, prickling softly; it smelled faintly of rosewater. Her breath was cold but moist, and her lips were softer than her hair, and the pain was brief but sharp. Vincent managed another feeble twist, but she caught his shoulder and held him fast. He’d known he was dying, but this was different-this was a slow drain of everything he had left; this was wit and vitality seeping out with every passing moment as she drew and drew and drew-
“Wait,” he choked out. “Stop, please-”
She didn’t.
She leached the life out of him, in such a leisurely fashion that he almost mustered the energy to be insulted. His toes tingled and then went leaden; his fingers followed. It was over after all.
Vincent supposed this wasn’t too much worse than dying in the gutter of natural causes. Or of self-imposed causes. Or of any cause.
There wasn’t much left. His eyelids were defying him, dropping even when he fought hard to raise them, and he could hear his heartbeat slowing in his ears. The soft lapping sounds of the woman drinking his lifeblood were starting to drown it out.
He let his eyes fall shut this time. The rhythm of his heart was like someone knocking on a distant door… and then… giving up.
“When you wake,” the woman whispered, “kill. Kill, drink, and heal.”
Vincent died.
Then he woke.