Give me perhaps half an hour to gather all the necessary materials together, and I shall meet you there.
[ Indeed, at the given time, Daniel will be just north of the castle waiting for Claudia. Shaded from the sunlight with his cane in one hand and a canvas satchel bag slung over the other shoulder, he looks more like a man prepared for a picnic than any sort of occult ceremony. ]
[she appears, abruptly. a blur of color, a haze pattern and whisper of fabric, her hair lifted by the impossible momentum of her own passage. and then, all at once, she condenses. the same small figure he saw, once, stalking through a library toward a different ritual. she's moving faster, but there's less animosity, somehow. more familiarity.
even if, maybe, yeah, she could have pulled some of those verbal punches over the leaf. to be fair, she doesn't know her own ... strength?] Hey, Daniel.
Love how you're not bleeding yet. [a reference to that initial meeting, obviously. is it 'strength,' though, when you really aren't trying to hurt anyone? she comes loping over the last short distance between them, her shoes jostling aside dead grass and crumbled leaf litter, all brown again, after that brief and unseasonal surge of summer.] Where we going?
[ As much as Claudia had already told him of her prodigious speed of movement, it is very much another thing seeing it in person. She is practically a blur as she approaches, a flash of color and texture that that all at once takes the form of the petite, not-really-teenage girl when she condenses by his side. He blinks, a bit startled by the display, though he recovers quickly. ]
A pleasure to see you, Claudia. I did say that today's ritual wouldn't require any bloodshed, yes? [ He understands that their first meeting may have quite irreversibly colored her perception of the Invisible Arts. He wonders if she'd believe that most of the rituals he performs don't require any degree of self-mutilation at all. ]
There's a spot I've passed through while foraging before, a bit of a clearing. I believe that should be a good spot for our purposes.
[ Is it particularly wise, walking into the woods with a known blood-drinker by his side? Not more than a year ago, perhaps Daniel would have felt rather unnerved by the thought. Yet in the past many months, he's become acquainted and even friendly with enough vampiric sorts that he doesn't feel quite as foolish spending time alone in one's company.
Plus, if Claudia was the ravenous sort, she would have had plenty enough opportunity to slake her thirst when he'd been actively bleeding onto the library floor. Clearly, she is no maddened alukite.
Thus, he'll walk with her quite comfortably past the treeline, the contents of his bag clinking softly as they go. ]
Well, I'm very sensitive. [claudia is not sensitive. she is a bloodthirsty monster who killed to eat almost every night for decades and regretted little that there was near no moral framework to who she chose.] Overwhelmed by that first image, see? But don't worry. Got the rest.
[to illustrate, she darts ahead one, wolf-like stride, if wolves could skip with the mischievious bounce and grace of a fourteen-year-old girl. landing on the ball of her foot, she gives a twirl. the plaid red cape around her spins like an umbrella, revealing the black scarf tucked in underneath. once shown off, she's an easy companion. and, notably, makes pointed effort not to outpace daniel. it's subtle, the pretext. as if her legs are too short for her to overtake him.
small talk goes on the way. comments like:] I used to burn up in the sun. Honest. If this was rural France, I'd be ash, flaking up your shoes right now. [not sensitive. at one point, she stops at his side, eyeing the bag. turns up a palm, offering to carry. not insensitive, either.]
Of course, [ Daniel responds wryly. ] I forget about your delicate sensibilities.
[ It is odd, seeing her frolic about as she does, knowing what she is. The rigors and sacrifices necessary to become Long in his own world meant that someone like Claudia existing would be a virtual impossibility. She rather upends his preconceived notions about what immortals are "like," even more so than the others he's met here. ]
Truly? A quality of your History's alukites, I wonder, or a quality of its sun...
[ In his own world, alukites had been repelled by Mansus-light. But then, the sun had been a rather changeable thing, and there are accounts of a time when it was gentler, even to mortals. It's not so much of a stretch to imagine that a sun could be decidedly unkinder, if pushed that way... ]
Flowers, herbs, feathers, certain kinds of wood—alchemical and ritual ingredients, generally. Do you remember the candle I made you for Christmas? I mentioned it was made with certain botanicals. [ He'd felt the need to specify, given their striking crimson hue. ] Anyway. It gets me out of the castle.
[ At her offer to take the bag, he hesitates for just a moment, not out of fear, but rather embarrassment. It makes him feel rather old, having this seemingly much younger person offer to help with his things—he has to remind himself that Claudia is no doubt older still. ]
Thank you, [ he says, handing it over. ] Careful—there's glass inside.
[ Perhaps that would explain the clinking. As Claudia takes it, she might also notice the sound of crinkling paper. ]
[despite her tendency to flex and play when opportunity presents itself, she is careful enough with the bag. her fingers close around the strap, shift it onto her shoulder. obvious enough, that the satchel weighs next to nothing to her. barely a dip to her shoulder, and what there is, is clearly to compensate for the weight bellying inside the fabric. paper and glass. not a problem.]
You don't worry, that Faerie's influence seeps into your magic? [a sidelong glance, brow curling high.] You using the local flora. Bits and leavings grown by them.
One of us—vampire alukite—he said the sun ain't 'real,' you know. [she toes through a little pile of leaves, sending up fragments of orange and brown like confetti. all without rousing even the slightest clink from the items inside his luggage. the litter falls again, eddying in the air.] Probably means the flowers, the water, rest of this isn't, either. In the essence.
Not criticizing. [a glance up, her red eyes studying him sidelong.] Know you've got to make do. Just figure a wizard's thinking about it. Even if he's cardigans over robes.
No more than I worry about the Fae's influence seeping into the food I eat, the water I drink, or the room where I lay my head. Which is to say: I do worry about it, but there's not much to be done. I must simply use what is available to me and hope for the best. At least the outcomes have mostly been as expected—except for with some of the books.
[ He looks over at her now, smiling slightly. ] Which is, incidentally, what you'll be helping me with today. In Hush House, it was quite often that I had to strip the protections of a book so that it could be read and catalogued, but the Fae use different sorts of enchantments than the ones I'm used to. In many cases, I can't dispel them alone. I need someone a little less... hmm... habituated to my own world's way of doing things. Though, there are still a few preparations we need to make.
[she's listening as he speaks. footfalls tramping along on a steady, ground-eating rhythm. not endlessly tireless, but close enough, compared to a human being with their normal biological limits. claudia is good at making people feel normal around her. better than most vampires, she thinks. but daniel owens doesn't seem the type to be perturbed by much of anything.]
Mind? [a quirk of her mouth, up in the corner. at least, in this way, she is easy enough.] Don't just read non-fiction, Mr. Owens. Big fan of all kinds of stories. All kinds of truth.
[she gives her little brown hand a little roll and wiggle in the air, as if setting a stage for someone. specifically, for him. the floor is his. in lieu of a spotlight, the warm winter sun, newly released back unto the world, just in time for his walk-and-talk performance.]
Wonderful. [ Daniel's smile broadens. ] I will preface by saying that this account contains both truth and rumors; in all, it is difficult to classify definitively as fiction or non-fiction.
I'll start with what is known to be true: long ago, in Bronze Age Greece, there lived an order of Long known as the House of Lethe. These were Long who, rather than serving the Hours, chose instead to live in self-imposed exile, rejecting both their past and future. Rather than seeking glory, they lived lives of obscurity and restraint, and their rules were many. However, there was one rule that was observed with a particular sort of severity and dread, a rule so great that even the Hours themselves live in fear of it: that no immortal may bring forth children.
The House of Lethe was considered radical, for even flirtation between members of the opposite sex could be met with corporal punishment or disfigurement. Indeed, potentially procreative copulation was punished with death.
Yet, there were whispers that those of the House in Damascus were even more zealous. Male initiates, it was said, were required to undergo castration, while female initiates were required to pay an still more grievous price: to strangle any of their children who still lived.
[ As Claudia listens, she may become aware of something within her reacting to the story, something simultaneously repulsed and captivated by it—a part that balks at the prospect of such rigidity and stricture, yet longs, too, to shed the past like too-tight skin. ]
In the end, the House of Lethe in Damascus shook itself to pieces with schisms and strife, yet it was said that some of the Long among them became wandering healers and exorcists under the auspices of the Sisterhood of the Triple Knot. Still, if any remain of their number, none have come forward to claim their history, and thus it remains a matter of speculation and rumor.
[ Daniel turns his head to look at Claudia, observing her carefully. ] It's not a particularly happy story, I'm afraid. But perhaps it is of interest to you, to know the history of some of the Long in my own world or at least their tales.
[as there are phases of the moon, claudia's expression passes through emotions in unmistakable succession. easy curiosity to start. she does understand he's telling her about his world's equivalent of her people, and that's reason enough for curiosity. but then dicks start coming off, kids start getting strangled, and—it's not visceral disgust or anything, because she did her share of dismemberment back in the day.
but movement lofts through her brows, genuinely surprised. her irises showing in full ruby circles as she studies daniel. quite a story to tell. technically, she knew that the librarian sees her as a full adult; he's never actually treated her like anything else, up to and including that initial telling off. the glint of her teeth is gradual, like something hatching through a crack in her face. a moment or three until she's smiling at him, wry, almost mirthless.]
Some vampires in my world took oaths more or less like that. Nothing to do with genitals, though. [a sigh.] All of them said I was a mistake. For obvious reasons. [a vague gesture of her hand toward herself, her short frame, its clear immaturity. her incapacity to age. sure, she can haul his stuff like it's nothing, tear a door off its hinges, kill a horse with one hand. but surviving in society, independently—impossible. her gaze shifts ahead.] Could say they succeeded, right?
A coven that's sworn off procreation has sworn to destroy itself.
[ Histories often rhyme; perhaps it should come as no surprise that the immortals of her world had abided by similar rules. Still, it is with a small shock of sympathy that he hears her admission. His own mentors had been too kind to call him a mistake outright, but it was clear enough in their laws—people like Daniel were not supposed to exist. Had they had the option, they would have killed his parents for even risking his conception. Knowing what he does, Daniel can't say he disagrees with such severity. ]
The House of Lethe saw their oaths as an act of kindness. I'm sure the Damascene branch felt the same, much as we may judge them for their brutality today. I don't think it was ever about ensuring their perpetuity—as individuals or as a group.
[ For a few moments, it seems like that's all he's going to say. But then, abruptly, he adds: ] Unless I'm misunderstanding how one is turned into a vampire, I don't see how it could be your mistake. It would belong to... what was it you called him? Your vile dog of a maker. Am I being naive, hoping they at least assigned blame correctly?
[ The Obliviates had had the sense to make that clear to him from the very beginning. Perhaps if it offered little solace and less protection, but the sin had belonged to his progenitors—not to him. ]
Don't think it's my mistake, Daniel. [her lips flatten mirthlessly, but somehow, the pull of her lips still bears some strange resemblance to a smile.]
I'm someone else's mistake. Or. Was. [the briefest, minnow flash of humor on her face. she glances at him briefly, pleased there's not any sodden, sappy pity in his eyes. is compassion different? she wouldn't know. vampires are bad at all of it. but at least, she doesn't want to reach over, dig her nails into his face and unseat it a layer at a time.] Pretty sure I'm the only one who dies for it, back home. Well. Me and my girl.
[a shake of her head. her strides continuing at a steady, ground-eating pace.] Maker's still alive, pretty sure. And the other one who raised me— [she actually doesn't know precisely how culpable louis was, but she will, one day.] —another here knew him. Said he made it out. No reason not to believe him. They wanted me, once. Thought themselves my parents. But that ended. Both the thought and the ... nature of the relationship.
Ain't a new story, if you think about it. [she kicks her foot through another mound of leaves.] You ain't naive, Daniel. Just—righteous. [her lips purse into a smile. she doesn't know what he's thinking, but by the shadow on his face, he is thinking. and when is he ever not? always a gerbil running in that wheel.] Were you wanted?
[ Dying for the sins of her maker—it’s a common tale in his History, too. In fact, it has generally been the inescapable fate of every child sired by Long—every one except Daniel himself.
He wonders about the Long who took Claudia in as their child. When one’s life is theoretically eternal, perhaps it is inevitable that any sort of familial framework would eventually break down. Another of immortality’s rubs, it seems. Not just outliving those that you love, but outliving love itself. And yet, so many still pursue eternity...
Her question startles him from his musings, and maybe it shows on his face, that flash of unguarded pain. He knows the answer. Sometimes, he wishes he didn’t. ]
I never knew my parents, [ he says, shoulders rising stiffly in a shrug. ] I was surrendered to a monastic order as an infant. My parents were always an abstract concept to me, I suppose. Perhaps it was better that way.
[ None of it is a lie. But none of it answers her question, either. Does it hurt her to talk about the mistake of her creation? Cowardice and shame keep Daniel from speaking about the mistake of his own. ]
There, [ Daniel says suddenly. ] That clearing up ahead.
[ Indeed, a few meters away, the trees thin, leaving a small glade. Perhaps in the springtime it would be a pretty little scene full of green stalks and wildflowers, but now, still in the grip of winter, there is nothing more to see than a sprinkling of dead leaves and patchy yellow grass. ]
[it's too much to say she regrets it, that flashpaper blaze of pain on his face. frankly, it's interesting. she's hurt too many people to feel it viscerally anymore, not the empathy that lights up your nerves as if what's happening in another person's body is within yours. but there's a downward tug at the corner of her mouth, and she thinks, maybe, maybe, she doesn't need to know more about that. not immediately.
'better that way.' maybe so.]
Gonna add 'optimistic' to your profile, Daniel. [there. that's positive, isn't it? granted, maybe just a more flattering spin to you think you know when you should back down from a fight, but you don't, but sounds prettier, looks better on paper. she smiles at him, gentle enough now to let go of that topic, her question. her head straightens on its stem, and she marches after the way he's pointing, carrying his belongings into the bare stretch of forest floor.
she lays down the bag carefully, carefully, so there's just the gentlest tinkle of the glassware inside. doesn't immediately move to open it, either, though she's deadly curious, this point. fingers curling at her sides, restraining the urge to help more, unasked.]
[ Daniel walks about the clearing, eyes downward like someone looking for a lost coin. After a few seconds, he seems to find a suitable spot: a relatively even patch of ground carpeted with low, scrubby grass. He takes the bag and sets it beside him there before gingerly sitting down himself. ]
Here will do, [ he says with satisfaction, motioning to offer Claudia a seat on the ground opposite him. Hopefully she doesn't mind sitting on the grass—if this were an ordinary picnic, Daniel might have brought a blanket for them to rest upon, but it is not, and such contrivances could subvert the Principle they are trying to cultivate.
He'll then reach into the bag, rummage around for a few seconds, and then pull out two objects. The first is a stout glass bottle filled with a dark, almost-syrupy liquid. The second is a small drinking glass wrapped in paper. He unwraps it before handing it to Claudia. ]
This, [ he says, hefting the bottle, ] is leathy. It can be consumed like any other liquor if one is adventurous, but for our purposes, it is a means of preparation. [ He'll gesture for her to extend her glass so he can fill it. ] Put simply, it will intensify the desired Principle for our ritual. Please, sip at your leisure; there's no rush.
[ He'll pull a few more objects from his bag as she drinks: a book, also wrapped in paper, a small gardening trowel, and a large pair of iron barber's shears. The book, he'll unwrap and place between them, opening it to show Claudia the pages. All of them are completely blank. ]
And here we have the purpose of our outing here today. There is something written in this book—I'm quite certain of it. But it's being hidden by a Fae enchantment. I need your help to persuade that enchantment to depart. I'm rather too... rigid, as you said, to be convincing.
[ There's a slight upward tug to the corners of his lips. She hadn't been wrong in her assessment, even if she'd put it bluntly. ]
[he makes a joke about the description she'd administered earlier, and her eyes swipe left and right, demonstrating the good grace to acknowledge that—might—have been a little exacting. not embarrassed, of course; certainly not apologetic, judging from the way her cheeks bunch up, two merry brown apples. she sat on the grass. no compunction about that, even if she does feel the chill emerging through the ass of her pants fabric.
and somewhere amid her happiness, her curiosity, she does finally locate it in herself—the vaguest sense that perhaps she should be afraid of what this is.
the vampire's eyes fall upon the book, irises two big red moons with burnt-black cores. pupils contracting at the faint glare of sunlight off the unmarked page. a beat, and they lift again, studying his face. knowledge kept from her—how intimately familiar, like a long knife fishing around between the ribs. what's new is the frisson of a thought, that maybe it's better that way. maybe she shouldn't know. maybe taking what she wants, reaching for what everybody else gets to have, is not safe. but there is too much defiance in her to let it stop just then. she reaches a hand to touch the corner.
easy enough, to hide fear under gruff irreverence:] Could cuss it out for you, sure.
[ For what it's worth, Daniel does not seem afraid. Sober-minded, yes, and focused, but also calm in a way he usually isn't. The nervous energy that usually radiates from him is absent. Here in the woods, amid his little assemblage of material components and recalcitrant book, he seems utterly in his element.
At her offer, he smiles. ] You'll certainly need to provoke it. It has been guarding this book for a very long time. It's grown prideful and stubborn. I need you to sew doubt, inconstancy. A yearning for something new.
[ A gesture to the glass of leathy in Claudia's hand. ] That should give you some additional influence, in the regard. Enough to get its attention and keep it.
[ He reaches now for the gardening trowel, taking it up and starting to gouge a small hole into the soil by his side. ] There will be several steps to the ritual. First, I will remove a garment and say a few words. You will do the same, then repeat those same words. Second, I will cut a lock of my hair, bury it, and say a few words again. Again, you will repeat the action and words for yourself. Then, you shall place your hand upon the book and close your eyes. You should neither open them nor remove your hand until instructed. As for the rest... [ A nebulous gesture. ] It would undermine our efforts for me to give you instructions that are too precise. Remember: Moth is instinct, yearning. Let those faculties guide you.
[ He'll wait for her to finish her drink before inquiring:]
[rare, for claudia to feel like she needs a drink. for nerves, for calm, for the intoxicating effects. not sure why that is; she's certainly seen plenty of mortals, even her own dubious 'brothers' enjoy themselves the afer-effects of sipping on a drunk. could be paranoia. not wanting her senses to be dulled, when she's always the most vulnerable, the weakest vampire in the room.
but somehow, it feels right to be putting liquor into her body as she listens to the instructions. as she contemplates the burial of hair and the emotional resonance that daniel is asking for. yearning. and he thought she was being a little much, with the way she'd described him. that word, that feeling, is the misery of her unlife. five decades of denial and want, of having nothing she saw the others hoard with greed and ease. not even more time.
suffice to say, she drinks a little faster. another swallow. then suddenly, the rest of the little vessel is emptied straight into her mouth. still tastes like chalk, but she tells herself she feels something, even as she gives her head a hard, brusque shake, rattling herself to focus. her scarf, the removable piece of clothing, abruptly feels too tight around her neck. she trusts daniel owens as far as she's ever trusted any man, but no. she does not feel ready to begin.]
Yeah. Let's do this.
Edited (edited one more word) 2026-02-16 09:16 (UTC)
Very good. Here. [ He hands her the trowel. ] I'll speak a few words, then we'll begin.
[ Saying this, he'll look away—or, not quite away. Just past Claudia, to the woods behind her. He takes a short breath, and then: ]
We call upon the Moth, who beats within the skull; who is dappled; who seeks among the trees of the Wood.
[ Not even a year ago, he wouldn't have dared invoked the Hours so boldly. Now, he knows they cannot hear him. They may as well harness the Principles of their liturgies.
This done, they can begin the ritual in earnest. He removes his coat and lays it on the ground beside him. ]
These are my garments, which I set aside.
[ He inclines his head just slightly towards Claudia, signalling her to do and say the same. Once she has done so, he continues, plucking the barber's shears from the ground. He lifts them to his head and snips off a curl of sandy brown hair, pinching the strands between his fingers. These, he drops in the little hole he has dug before pushing the soil back over them. ]
This is my past, but now I am changed.
[ He turns the shears around and passes them handle first to Claudia for her perform the same act and recite the same invocation. Once she's done, he'll hold a hand to take back the shears—then places them aside and, silently, puts forward the book on the ground between them.
Once Claudia places her hand upon it and closes her eyes, they will begin the next stage. ]
[claudia's heart beats only ever so slowly. it is a clockwork made flesh, a matter of magic more than biology, and that 'magic,' something never named to her. if her body were normal, her pulse would be galloping. making a break for it straight through her ribs. she watches him as he speaks to this 'moth,' to the 'wood.'
her eyes follow the article of clothing he ditches onto the ground. then the shining edge of the blade he takes to his hear. it's not very complex. not an intellectual challenge. certainly not—and she knows this, because she's listening to his nervy little rabbit heart—a trap masterminded by her companion. but it scintillates with promise beyond even her newly-seized power. teleporting through shadows is thrilling and esoteric and impossible.
dark books, buried hair. this turns in a different universe. (one called 'faerie.')
but she speaks and her voice does not waver. she lays down the scarf and her fingers do not tremble. and then the blade slices her hair with a brisk, dry snick, and that, too, meets the earth. in some perverse way, she learned all this from armand—she was, among other things, a stage actress, once. chin up and eyes clear, the moment before they close to accompany her palm on the exposed pages.]
Edited (tidying up the last step!) 2026-02-17 06:33 (UTC)
[ After Claudia closes her eyes, there is a moment of stillness. The soft forest sounds continue around them, birds singing, bugs chirping, unknowing and uncaring of the occult dabbling in their midst.
There is a rustle of movement as Daniel moves across from her, and no doubt Claudia will be able to sense him coming closer. A moment later, and she'll feel a slight pressure on her shoulder. At first, it's difficult to discern what it is by sensation alone, aside from some object resting there. But then, as it begins to drag slowly from her shoulder down her arm, she'll get a better sense of it: cold, metallic, and sharp.
It's the blade of the barber's shears, being dragged lightly down her arm. There is not enough pressure behind it to be dangerous, and yet as it moves from her sleeve to her skin, it becomes obvious that something is being cut, even if it's not her clothes or her skin. It feels as if she's been wrapped in cotton wool for her entire life, insipid and warm, and that only now is it being sliced away, only now can she feel what is outside of her, clear, and bright and real in a way that it wasn't before. The forest breeze, the vibrations of bird and bug-song, all of it flows across her nerves.
The blade continues down her arm, over her wrist and hand, and finally down the tip of her middle finger, leaving her skin prickling, a feeling of cobweb-thinness to it like some harder outer boundary has been dissolved. There's a soft scrape of metal on paper as the shears then carve gently down the pages of the book. ]
Your skin is but a blindfold, your name but a rope, [ Daniel's voice intones, more felt than heard. ] Both, I unbind.
[ And then, with the barrier between her and the book sliced open, she'll feel it—something in the book, pressed into the pages, something ancient, austere, and proud. Something that has sat in these pages for centuries and has grown haughty in its grand immovability.
This is where Daniel's instructions had ended. Now, it is up to Claudia to, through instinct, impulse, and desire to divine what happens next. ]
[to be perfectly honest, claudia thought he'd give her more instructions. some kind of an incantation. latin? does his 'history' have latin? sanskrit, maybe. also a popular one, in the old lore, or the references to them that claudia could actually read. but abruptly, they arrive at the precipice of what-could-be, and she has nothing but a naked book in her hands and the filaments of power contracting into a stranglehold around this moment in time, auspicious and terrifying. she thinks, doesn't say: why did he think i could do this?]
What the actual fuck, [is her eloquent headline, growled for all of faerie to hear. but she's not mad at him.
she's not even mad at it—this thing stained into the pages, deeper than the ink, intermeshed with the pulp of paper, so you'd break it beyond mending if you tried to get it out the normal way. with shears, for example—he ones he managed not to cut her with. but anger is sand on the bedrock for her, always, and beneath it, want and discord and the fundamental instability that all the old blood-glutting dead (ancient, austere, and proud) told her would kill her in the end. maybe it would have, if the fuckers hadn't come for her first. an angry line rifts her forehead in two.
it strikes with a flinty, ordinary fuck you and catches immediately, licking its way through the substrate of its existence, consuming, like fire that heeds no resistance, blackening with fervid intelligence. daniel owens cut the chrysalis off her. what comes forth is roiling and eyeless and misshapen. primordial goop and primordial flame are only differentiated, really, by texture. the visceral feeling kicked off in the soul of man who beholds it is the same. well. that is, if man were ordinary. the enchantment wobbles. the defenses of her mind do, too. he catches the thought escape like steam through fissure, old memory: like love as a small box to keep you in. don't stay in it.]
Edited (CATCHING MY TYPO BEFORE IT GETS LOCKED BY A REPLY !!) 2026-02-18 22:42 (UTC)
[ Through it all, Daniel watches, silent and still, the blades of the open shears in his hand pointed skyward. He’d told Claudia the danger was minimal, and he’d meant it; he’d judged her as being powerful enough to take on the gloating fragment of a soul sunk into the book—and if he’d misjudged her, he is at least confident enough in his own abilities to repair the damage. He’s never lost an assistant before, never.
Still, his fingers remain tense as they curl around the loops of the shears, ready to snap them closed if they need to metaphorically cut and run. Already, he can feel the air grow charged with the outflow of otherworldly energies, like sparks thrown from the collision of hammer and steel. His own skin prickles with it, with the echoes of unspoken words urging flight, escape.
But the enchantment in the book has not kept its vigil for so many centuries just to be tempted into dropping its guard now. It is the shadow in the soul's cellar—pride, yes, and hatred and fear. It darkens, condenses. This book is its domain, its duty, and sole possession. Why should it fly up into that world where it will have nothing, be nothing? Will it fly back to the soul that cut it loose and left it here to molder? No, no, anything but that.
It grows heavy and oppressive, threatening to drag down the soul that would lift it. It is immoveable. It is grand. That is all it has left. ]
[the power twists in the air like something struggling to manifest in physical form, the wan ghosts from old vodou stories, the vulgar tragedies that mixed in with catholic tradition and bayou stories. claudia is not without fear. she thinks to shrink from it. to lash out, short brown fingers curled like cat's claws. the defensive swiping of something small and frightened underneath the rage. but the soft marrow underneath does not weaken the bones of her want. she, like her maker, like every other vampire with predation branded into their blood before, does love to win.
you can't have this one.
where does the thought come from? she does not know this book. daniel chose it. never occurred to her to ask, and that is, admittedly, in no small part because she trusts the librarian's outsized sense of justice, of decency, but also his intellect. he thinks himself small in the grand scale of storied leaders, but claudia knows her history. ('history.' he'd like that.) she's experienced decades, herself, and felt the current of thoughts human and inhuman, of big men—mayors and artists and a maître or two. they began small. every single one of them. vampires aren't the only creatures borne of trauma.
you can't have this one. a lesson beaten into her, by hook and crook, a hundred times. not always malicious, but just the indifference of a universe too vast, too full of jockeying monsters, to buckle to one girl's every whim. but this second time she says it, it's gentler the way a silk cord, a tincture of laudanum, or a very sharp knife is gentle. reconciliation of terms. acceptance.]
[ At those words, sharp and precise as as scalpel, the thing in the books judders, rears up. That great and terrible pride it has is shaken; it feels all that it knows, all it has slipping away from it. And yet, if its pride no longer has a firm root in the pages of the book, its fear does.
What is there, beyond these pages? Beyond this purpose? Is it change? Oblivion? Is there a difference? Its defenses are weakened, its form wavering, but still, it will use the last of its will to fight like a cornered animal to stay in its cage. It must be overpowered—or persuaded. Perhaps both.
The pages of this book are all it has ever known. What is there for it to yearn for besides this? ]
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audio -> action
[ Indeed, at the given time, Daniel will be just north of the castle waiting for Claudia. Shaded from the sunlight with his cane in one hand and a canvas satchel bag slung over the other shoulder, he looks more like a man prepared for a picnic than any sort of occult ceremony. ]
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even if, maybe, yeah, she could have pulled some of those verbal punches over the leaf. to be fair, she doesn't know her own ... strength?] Hey, Daniel.
Love how you're not bleeding yet. [a reference to that initial meeting, obviously. is it 'strength,' though, when you really aren't trying to hurt anyone? she comes loping over the last short distance between them, her shoes jostling aside dead grass and crumbled leaf litter, all brown again, after that brief and unseasonal surge of summer.] Where we going?
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A pleasure to see you, Claudia. I did say that today's ritual wouldn't require any bloodshed, yes? [ He understands that their first meeting may have quite irreversibly colored her perception of the Invisible Arts. He wonders if she'd believe that most of the rituals he performs don't require any degree of self-mutilation at all. ]
There's a spot I've passed through while foraging before, a bit of a clearing. I believe that should be a good spot for our purposes.
[ Is it particularly wise, walking into the woods with a known blood-drinker by his side? Not more than a year ago, perhaps Daniel would have felt rather unnerved by the thought. Yet in the past many months, he's become acquainted and even friendly with enough vampiric sorts that he doesn't feel quite as foolish spending time alone in one's company.
Plus, if Claudia was the ravenous sort, she would have had plenty enough opportunity to slake her thirst when he'd been actively bleeding onto the library floor. Clearly, she is no maddened alukite.
Thus, he'll walk with her quite comfortably past the treeline, the contents of his bag clinking softly as they go. ]
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[to illustrate, she darts ahead one, wolf-like stride, if wolves could skip with the mischievious bounce and grace of a fourteen-year-old girl. landing on the ball of her foot, she gives a twirl. the plaid red cape around her spins like an umbrella, revealing the black scarf tucked in underneath. once shown off, she's an easy companion. and, notably, makes pointed effort not to outpace daniel. it's subtle, the pretext. as if her legs are too short for her to overtake him.
small talk goes on the way. comments like:] I used to burn up in the sun. Honest. If this was rural France, I'd be ash, flaking up your shoes right now. [not sensitive. at one point, she stops at his side, eyeing the bag. turns up a palm, offering to carry. not insensitive, either.]
And what was it you were foraging for?
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[ It is odd, seeing her frolic about as she does, knowing what she is. The rigors and sacrifices necessary to become Long in his own world meant that someone like Claudia existing would be a virtual impossibility. She rather upends his preconceived notions about what immortals are "like," even more so than the others he's met here. ]
Truly? A quality of your History's alukites, I wonder, or a quality of its sun...
[ In his own world, alukites had been repelled by Mansus-light. But then, the sun had been a rather changeable thing, and there are accounts of a time when it was gentler, even to mortals. It's not so much of a stretch to imagine that a sun could be decidedly unkinder, if pushed that way... ]
Flowers, herbs, feathers, certain kinds of wood—alchemical and ritual ingredients, generally. Do you remember the candle I made you for Christmas? I mentioned it was made with certain botanicals. [ He'd felt the need to specify, given their striking crimson hue. ] Anyway. It gets me out of the castle.
[ At her offer to take the bag, he hesitates for just a moment, not out of fear, but rather embarrassment. It makes him feel rather old, having this seemingly much younger person offer to help with his things—he has to remind himself that Claudia is no doubt older still. ]
Thank you, [ he says, handing it over. ] Careful—there's glass inside.
[ Perhaps that would explain the clinking. As Claudia takes it, she might also notice the sound of crinkling paper. ]
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You don't worry, that Faerie's influence seeps into your magic? [a sidelong glance, brow curling high.] You using the local flora. Bits and leavings grown by them.
One of us—vampire alukite—he said the sun ain't 'real,' you know. [she toes through a little pile of leaves, sending up fragments of orange and brown like confetti. all without rousing even the slightest clink from the items inside his luggage. the litter falls again, eddying in the air.] Probably means the flowers, the water, rest of this isn't, either. In the essence.
Not criticizing. [a glance up, her red eyes studying him sidelong.] Know you've got to make do. Just figure a wizard's thinking about it. Even if he's cardigans over robes.
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[ He looks over at her now, smiling slightly. ] Which is, incidentally, what you'll be helping me with today. In Hush House, it was quite often that I had to strip the protections of a book so that it could be read and catalogued, but the Fae use different sorts of enchantments than the ones I'm used to. In many cases, I can't dispel them alone. I need someone a little less... hmm... habituated to my own world's way of doing things. Though, there are still a few preparations we need to make.
Namely: do you mind if I tell you a story?
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Mind? [a quirk of her mouth, up in the corner. at least, in this way, she is easy enough.] Don't just read non-fiction, Mr. Owens. Big fan of all kinds of stories. All kinds of truth.
[she gives her little brown hand a little roll and wiggle in the air, as if setting a stage for someone. specifically, for him. the floor is his. in lieu of a spotlight, the warm winter sun, newly released back unto the world, just in time for his walk-and-talk performance.]
cw: mentions of castration, infanticide
I'll start with what is known to be true: long ago, in Bronze Age Greece, there lived an order of Long known as the House of Lethe. These were Long who, rather than serving the Hours, chose instead to live in self-imposed exile, rejecting both their past and future. Rather than seeking glory, they lived lives of obscurity and restraint, and their rules were many. However, there was one rule that was observed with a particular sort of severity and dread, a rule so great that even the Hours themselves live in fear of it: that no immortal may bring forth children.
The House of Lethe was considered radical, for even flirtation between members of the opposite sex could be met with corporal punishment or disfigurement. Indeed, potentially procreative copulation was punished with death.
Yet, there were whispers that those of the House in Damascus were even more zealous. Male initiates, it was said, were required to undergo castration, while female initiates were required to pay an still more grievous price: to strangle any of their children who still lived.
[ As Claudia listens, she may become aware of something within her reacting to the story, something simultaneously repulsed and captivated by it—a part that balks at the prospect of such rigidity and stricture, yet longs, too, to shed the past like too-tight skin. ]
In the end, the House of Lethe in Damascus shook itself to pieces with schisms and strife, yet it was said that some of the Long among them became wandering healers and exorcists under the auspices of the Sisterhood of the Triple Knot. Still, if any remain of their number, none have come forward to claim their history, and thus it remains a matter of speculation and rumor.
[ Daniel turns his head to look at Claudia, observing her carefully. ] It's not a particularly happy story, I'm afraid. But perhaps it is of interest to you, to know the history of some of the Long in my own world or at least their tales.
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but movement lofts through her brows, genuinely surprised. her irises showing in full ruby circles as she studies daniel. quite a story to tell. technically, she knew that the librarian sees her as a full adult; he's never actually treated her like anything else, up to and including that initial telling off. the glint of her teeth is gradual, like something hatching through a crack in her face. a moment or three until she's smiling at him, wry, almost mirthless.]
Some vampires in my world took oaths more or less like that. Nothing to do with genitals, though. [a sigh.] All of them said I was a mistake. For obvious reasons. [a vague gesture of her hand toward herself, her short frame, its clear immaturity. her incapacity to age. sure, she can haul his stuff like it's nothing, tear a door off its hinges, kill a horse with one hand. but surviving in society, independently—impossible. her gaze shifts ahead.] Could say they succeeded, right?
A coven that's sworn off procreation has sworn to destroy itself.
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The House of Lethe saw their oaths as an act of kindness. I'm sure the Damascene branch felt the same, much as we may judge them for their brutality today. I don't think it was ever about ensuring their perpetuity—as individuals or as a group.
[ For a few moments, it seems like that's all he's going to say. But then, abruptly, he adds: ] Unless I'm misunderstanding how one is turned into a vampire, I don't see how it could be your mistake. It would belong to... what was it you called him? Your vile dog of a maker. Am I being naive, hoping they at least assigned blame correctly?
[ The Obliviates had had the sense to make that clear to him from the very beginning. Perhaps if it offered little solace and less protection, but the sin had belonged to his progenitors—not to him. ]
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I'm someone else's mistake. Or. Was. [the briefest, minnow flash of humor on her face. she glances at him briefly, pleased there's not any sodden, sappy pity in his eyes. is compassion different? she wouldn't know. vampires are bad at all of it. but at least, she doesn't want to reach over, dig her nails into his face and unseat it a layer at a time.] Pretty sure I'm the only one who dies for it, back home. Well. Me and my girl.
[a shake of her head. her strides continuing at a steady, ground-eating pace.] Maker's still alive, pretty sure. And the other one who raised me— [she actually doesn't know precisely how culpable louis was, but she will, one day.] —another here knew him. Said he made it out. No reason not to believe him. They wanted me, once. Thought themselves my parents. But that ended. Both the thought and the ... nature of the relationship.
Ain't a new story, if you think about it. [she kicks her foot through another mound of leaves.] You ain't naive, Daniel. Just—righteous. [her lips purse into a smile. she doesn't know what he's thinking, but by the shadow on his face, he is thinking. and when is he ever not? always a gerbil running in that wheel.] Were you wanted?
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He wonders about the Long who took Claudia in as their child. When one’s life is theoretically eternal, perhaps it is inevitable that any sort of familial framework would eventually break down. Another of immortality’s rubs, it seems. Not just outliving those that you love, but outliving love itself. And yet, so many still pursue eternity...
Her question startles him from his musings, and maybe it shows on his face, that flash of unguarded pain. He knows the answer. Sometimes, he wishes he didn’t. ]
I never knew my parents, [ he says, shoulders rising stiffly in a shrug. ] I was surrendered to a monastic order as an infant. My parents were always an abstract concept to me, I suppose. Perhaps it was better that way.
[ None of it is a lie. But none of it answers her question, either. Does it hurt her to talk about the mistake of her creation? Cowardice and shame keep Daniel from speaking about the mistake of his own. ]
There, [ Daniel says suddenly. ] That clearing up ahead.
[ Indeed, a few meters away, the trees thin, leaving a small glade. Perhaps in the springtime it would be a pretty little scene full of green stalks and wildflowers, but now, still in the grip of winter, there is nothing more to see than a sprinkling of dead leaves and patchy yellow grass. ]
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'better that way.' maybe so.]
Gonna add 'optimistic' to your profile, Daniel. [there. that's positive, isn't it? granted, maybe just a more flattering spin to you think you know when you should back down from a fight, but you don't, but sounds prettier, looks better on paper. she smiles at him, gentle enough now to let go of that topic, her question. her head straightens on its stem, and she marches after the way he's pointing, carrying his belongings into the bare stretch of forest floor.
she lays down the bag carefully, carefully, so there's just the gentlest tinkle of the glassware inside. doesn't immediately move to open it, either, though she's deadly curious, this point. fingers curling at her sides, restraining the urge to help more, unasked.]
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[ Daniel walks about the clearing, eyes downward like someone looking for a lost coin. After a few seconds, he seems to find a suitable spot: a relatively even patch of ground carpeted with low, scrubby grass. He takes the bag and sets it beside him there before gingerly sitting down himself. ]
Here will do, [ he says with satisfaction, motioning to offer Claudia a seat on the ground opposite him. Hopefully she doesn't mind sitting on the grass—if this were an ordinary picnic, Daniel might have brought a blanket for them to rest upon, but it is not, and such contrivances could subvert the Principle they are trying to cultivate.
He'll then reach into the bag, rummage around for a few seconds, and then pull out two objects. The first is a stout glass bottle filled with a dark, almost-syrupy liquid. The second is a small drinking glass wrapped in paper. He unwraps it before handing it to Claudia. ]
This, [ he says, hefting the bottle, ] is leathy. It can be consumed like any other liquor if one is adventurous, but for our purposes, it is a means of preparation. [ He'll gesture for her to extend her glass so he can fill it. ] Put simply, it will intensify the desired Principle for our ritual. Please, sip at your leisure; there's no rush.
[ He'll pull a few more objects from his bag as she drinks: a book, also wrapped in paper, a small gardening trowel, and a large pair of iron barber's shears. The book, he'll unwrap and place between them, opening it to show Claudia the pages. All of them are completely blank. ]
And here we have the purpose of our outing here today. There is something written in this book—I'm quite certain of it. But it's being hidden by a Fae enchantment. I need your help to persuade that enchantment to depart. I'm rather too... rigid, as you said, to be convincing.
[ There's a slight upward tug to the corners of his lips. She hadn't been wrong in her assessment, even if she'd put it bluntly. ]
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and somewhere amid her happiness, her curiosity, she does finally locate it in herself—the vaguest sense that perhaps she should be afraid of what this is.
the vampire's eyes fall upon the book, irises two big red moons with burnt-black cores. pupils contracting at the faint glare of sunlight off the unmarked page. a beat, and they lift again, studying his face. knowledge kept from her—how intimately familiar, like a long knife fishing around between the ribs. what's new is the frisson of a thought, that maybe it's better that way. maybe she shouldn't know. maybe taking what she wants, reaching for what everybody else gets to have, is not safe. but there is too much defiance in her to let it stop just then. she reaches a hand to touch the corner.
easy enough, to hide fear under gruff irreverence:] Could cuss it out for you, sure.
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At her offer, he smiles. ] You'll certainly need to provoke it. It has been guarding this book for a very long time. It's grown prideful and stubborn. I need you to sew doubt, inconstancy. A yearning for something new.
[ A gesture to the glass of leathy in Claudia's hand. ] That should give you some additional influence, in the regard. Enough to get its attention and keep it.
[ He reaches now for the gardening trowel, taking it up and starting to gouge a small hole into the soil by his side. ] There will be several steps to the ritual. First, I will remove a garment and say a few words. You will do the same, then repeat those same words. Second, I will cut a lock of my hair, bury it, and say a few words again. Again, you will repeat the action and words for yourself. Then, you shall place your hand upon the book and close your eyes. You should neither open them nor remove your hand until instructed. As for the rest... [ A nebulous gesture. ] It would undermine our efforts for me to give you instructions that are too precise. Remember: Moth is instinct, yearning. Let those faculties guide you.
[ He'll wait for her to finish her drink before inquiring:]
Do you feel ready to begin?
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but somehow, it feels right to be putting liquor into her body as she listens to the instructions. as she contemplates the burial of hair and the emotional resonance that daniel is asking for. yearning. and he thought she was being a little much, with the way she'd described him. that word, that feeling, is the misery of her unlife. five decades of denial and want, of having nothing she saw the others hoard with greed and ease. not even more time.
suffice to say, she drinks a little faster. another swallow. then suddenly, the rest of the little vessel is emptied straight into her mouth. still tastes like chalk, but she tells herself she feels something, even as she gives her head a hard, brusque shake, rattling herself to focus. her scarf, the removable piece of clothing, abruptly feels too tight around her neck. she trusts daniel owens as far as she's ever trusted any man, but no. she does not feel ready to begin.]
Yeah. Let's do this.
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[ Saying this, he'll look away—or, not quite away. Just past Claudia, to the woods behind her. He takes a short breath, and then: ]
We call upon the Moth, who beats within the skull; who is dappled; who seeks among the trees of the Wood.
[ Not even a year ago, he wouldn't have dared invoked the Hours so boldly. Now, he knows they cannot hear him. They may as well harness the Principles of their liturgies.
This done, they can begin the ritual in earnest. He removes his coat and lays it on the ground beside him. ]
These are my garments, which I set aside.
[ He inclines his head just slightly towards Claudia, signalling her to do and say the same. Once she has done so, he continues, plucking the barber's shears from the ground. He lifts them to his head and snips off a curl of sandy brown hair, pinching the strands between his fingers. These, he drops in the little hole he has dug before pushing the soil back over them. ]
This is my past, but now I am changed.
[ He turns the shears around and passes them handle first to Claudia for her perform the same act and recite the same invocation. Once she's done, he'll hold a hand to take back the shears—then places them aside and, silently, puts forward the book on the ground between them.
Once Claudia places her hand upon it and closes her eyes, they will begin the next stage. ]
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her eyes follow the article of clothing he ditches onto the ground. then the shining edge of the blade he takes to his hear. it's not very complex. not an intellectual challenge. certainly not—and she knows this, because she's listening to his nervy little rabbit heart—a trap masterminded by her companion. but it scintillates with promise beyond even her newly-seized power. teleporting through shadows is thrilling and esoteric and impossible.
dark books, buried hair. this turns in a different universe. (one called 'faerie.')
but she speaks and her voice does not waver. she lays down the scarf and her fingers do not tremble. and then the blade slices her hair with a brisk, dry snick, and that, too, meets the earth. in some perverse way, she learned all this from armand—she was, among other things, a stage actress, once. chin up and eyes clear, the moment before they close to accompany her palm on the exposed pages.]
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There is a rustle of movement as Daniel moves across from her, and no doubt Claudia will be able to sense him coming closer. A moment later, and she'll feel a slight pressure on her shoulder. At first, it's difficult to discern what it is by sensation alone, aside from some object resting there. But then, as it begins to drag slowly from her shoulder down her arm, she'll get a better sense of it: cold, metallic, and sharp.
It's the blade of the barber's shears, being dragged lightly down her arm. There is not enough pressure behind it to be dangerous, and yet as it moves from her sleeve to her skin, it becomes obvious that something is being cut, even if it's not her clothes or her skin. It feels as if she's been wrapped in cotton wool for her entire life, insipid and warm, and that only now is it being sliced away, only now can she feel what is outside of her, clear, and bright and real in a way that it wasn't before. The forest breeze, the vibrations of bird and bug-song, all of it flows across her nerves.
The blade continues down her arm, over her wrist and hand, and finally down the tip of her middle finger, leaving her skin prickling, a feeling of cobweb-thinness to it like some harder outer boundary has been dissolved. There's a soft scrape of metal on paper as the shears then carve gently down the pages of the book. ]
Your skin is but a blindfold, your name but a rope, [ Daniel's voice intones, more felt than heard. ] Both, I unbind.
[ And then, with the barrier between her and the book sliced open, she'll feel it—something in the book, pressed into the pages, something ancient, austere, and proud. Something that has sat in these pages for centuries and has grown haughty in its grand immovability.
This is where Daniel's instructions had ended. Now, it is up to Claudia to, through instinct, impulse, and desire to divine what happens next. ]
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What the actual fuck, [is her eloquent headline, growled for all of faerie to hear. but she's not mad at him.
she's not even mad at it—this thing stained into the pages, deeper than the ink, intermeshed with the pulp of paper, so you'd break it beyond mending if you tried to get it out the normal way. with shears, for example—he ones he managed not to cut her with. but anger is sand on the bedrock for her, always, and beneath it, want and discord and the fundamental instability that all the old blood-glutting dead (ancient, austere, and proud) told her would kill her in the end. maybe it would have, if the fuckers hadn't come for her first. an angry line rifts her forehead in two.
it strikes with a flinty, ordinary fuck you and catches immediately, licking its way through the substrate of its existence, consuming, like fire that heeds no resistance, blackening with fervid intelligence. daniel owens cut the chrysalis off her. what comes forth is roiling and eyeless and misshapen. primordial goop and primordial flame are only differentiated, really, by texture. the visceral feeling kicked off in the soul of man who beholds it is the same. well. that is, if man were ordinary. the enchantment wobbles. the defenses of her mind do, too. he catches the thought escape like steam through fissure, old memory: like love as a small box to keep you in. don't stay in it.]
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Still, his fingers remain tense as they curl around the loops of the shears, ready to snap them closed if they need to metaphorically cut and run. Already, he can feel the air grow charged with the outflow of otherworldly energies, like sparks thrown from the collision of hammer and steel. His own skin prickles with it, with the echoes of unspoken words urging flight, escape.
But the enchantment in the book has not kept its vigil for so many centuries just to be tempted into dropping its guard now. It is the shadow in the soul's cellar—pride, yes, and hatred and fear. It darkens, condenses. This book is its domain, its duty, and sole possession. Why should it fly up into that world where it will have nothing, be nothing? Will it fly back to the soul that cut it loose and left it here to molder? No, no, anything but that.
It grows heavy and oppressive, threatening to drag down the soul that would lift it. It is immoveable. It is grand. That is all it has left. ]
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you can't have this one.
where does the thought come from? she does not know this book. daniel chose it. never occurred to her to ask, and that is, admittedly, in no small part because she trusts the librarian's outsized sense of justice, of decency, but also his intellect. he thinks himself small in the grand scale of storied leaders, but claudia knows her history. ('history.' he'd like that.) she's experienced decades, herself, and felt the current of thoughts human and inhuman, of big men—mayors and artists and a maître or two. they began small. every single one of them. vampires aren't the only creatures borne of trauma.
you can't have this one. a lesson beaten into her, by hook and crook, a hundred times. not always malicious, but just the indifference of a universe too vast, too full of jockeying monsters, to buckle to one girl's every whim. but this second time she says it, it's gentler the way a silk cord, a tincture of laudanum, or a very sharp knife is gentle. reconciliation of terms. acceptance.]
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What is there, beyond these pages? Beyond this purpose? Is it change? Oblivion? Is there a difference? Its defenses are weakened, its form wavering, but still, it will use the last of its will to fight like a cornered animal to stay in its cage. It must be overpowered—or persuaded. Perhaps both.
The pages of this book are all it has ever known. What is there for it to yearn for besides this? ]
cw death, depressed thinking
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