CONTENT WARNING: Quite a few:
- Discussion of trauma
- gore (moreso in description, though there's some minor blood from injury pictured)
- Deals with the topic of potential serious illness and medical stuff
Daniel
Ever since the first killing, Micah had made me look away. I could still hear it now, the sound of the knife puncturing flesh, and the blood-choked gurgles of the witches in their last moments. Micah would always talk to them in a hushed voice, saying he'd try to make it quick and painless.
Micah walked a fine line between merciful and merciless, and I don't know how or why. I never know how to feel about him, but I've got no choice to respect him. After all, he's the one saving my ass and trying to cover for me, because he knows I don't want any part of this. This could be worse; I could be paired with someone who was absolutely awful to me.
Lord Volpe has us in his drawing room, as a sort of 'review' of my apitude. That smile that Micah always wears is even wider. Volpe seems to have a ton of respect for him. If he weren't dressed like a witchfinder, you'd think he's just some ordinary man.
"And you think that Daniel is capable?"
"Of course," he replies, in a chirpy tone. "For such a young man, he's excellent with a sword, and he's really starting to get to grips with actually killing the witches. He's already slit the throats of three witches, Lord Volpe, without the usual tears or screams or throwing up you get with other people new to the ordeal."
I don't understand him. Is this all a front, or has Micah genuinely deluded himself into perpetual happiness to cope with all he has to do under Lord Volpe's rule?
"I see. Well, I trust your judgment, Micah. I didn't think you had it in you, Daniel, but I'd say I'm almost impressed. You're already much more capable than your father, and at half his age. Perhaps the youth of today aren't all half-wits too busy reading books to do a decent day's work, after all."
Volpe throws a wad of cash on the coffee table.
"Your wages. Five-hundred Simoleons each."
* * *
Micah's ghostly laugh cuts through the trees. "Come on, Dan, smile! Look! Who doesn't look upon all this cash and smile?"
"How in the hell am I supposed to explain five hundred Simoleons' worth of earnings to my father? No deliveryman earns this much."
Us three would be reliably fed for a while with this money. We could even treat ourselves if we wanted; Father wanted to decorate the place a little more, and now we finally had the money- but I'm not proud of how I earned it. Not only was it all Micah's work, it was all earned by the spillage of innocent blood.
Micah's laugh is grating after a while. "Is that what you told him? My, my, Daniel."
"Listen, Micah, I need to ask you a few things," I tell him. "First off, why are you so willing to cover for me?"
That smile. If it's false, then he does well to fake it.
"Because I like you, Daniel. You're a good-natured young man with a good head on your shoulders, and you've got a good heart. I want to preserve that," he says, softly, with what I think might be genuine compassion. "I don't want you to become like the rest of us- like me."
"You seem to enjoy it."
"Enjoy it?" Micah scoffs. "Daniel, I can tell you now that I don't enjoy doing this. If I could go back to doing my old job, I would. As I said before, this is a changing world. We're being replaced by steam and metal, one by one. This is the best-paying job out there for many men right now. Trust me, hardly anyone does this job anymore because they genuinely hate witches. I mean, sure, I don't trust them much, but I'd really rather they weren't killed like cattle."
Micah's words make me wonder if he's telling the truth. How many men are here because they genuinely want to be? I've noticed a lot of younger witchfinders skulking about lately, some about my age, some even younger. How many of them were forced the same way I was? How many were only doing this to spare their families from Volpe's grasp?
"I'm only doing this for my family- the same way you are. I'm almost thirty, Daniel, and I don't feel anything any longer. My cheeriness gets me through the day and allows me to keep doing my job without breaking apart. You're still young, and I want to preserve your joyfulness for as long as I can."
The way Father's guilt consumed him...I didn't want to be like that, but right now, it feels like it's crushing me from the inside. Micah won't be able to keep covering for me forever. Soon enough, I'd be on my own, or I'd have to prove it to Volpe in front of him, no doubt.
"I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this, Micah. There are so many people in my life that would despise me if they knew what I was doing. My family, for one, and my partner."
Now that Micah's revealed the truth about his joyful front, I see his true self for the first time. His expression falls completely flat, and when he speaks, it's almost as if it's a whole other person's voice. There's not a shred of emotion to it.
"You say your father was a witchfinder, Daniel? If you are going to tell anyone, tell him. He can't despise you for something that he himself did- not to mention he has blood on his hands and you don't.
I can't promise there's a way out of this, Daniel, but if there isn't, I'll do my best to look after you. I promise."
I scoop my half of the wages into a satchel. "Thank you, Micah- for everything."
* * *
I get home just in time for supper. Father gives me a stern look. He's been concerned for a while now why I get home so late. With my guise as a deliveryman already falling apart, I figure I may as well break the illusion. I empty all of the cash onto the dinner table.
Gideon
My breath catches in my throat and stops me from speaking.
I've been wondering what Dan's been up to for a while now. No courier gets home this late, and no courier earns this much in one wage packet, either. There's only one kind of man that works late and earns these wages whilst never discussing their work. I'd know.
Not my son. Not Daniel. I thought I'd taught him that what I did was completely immoral. Josiah looks worriedly upon the stacks of cash, and looks at his brother in horror.
"Daniel...How did you earn this kind of money?"
Josiah sounds as if he's on the verge of tears. "Dan...Please don't tell me you became one of them. Please."
Dan doesn't say a word to us. He seems to stare through his brother, and doesn't touch any of the food on the table.
"I won't be having dinner with you both tonight."
And, with that, he leaves the drawing room without another word.
"Daniel! Come back here!"
He slams the bedroom door. I can't just leave this where it is. I tell Josiah to keep eating, and I'll be back in a while. When I enter, he's kneeling on the floor in floods of tears. I can't quite make out what he's saying at first.
"Haven't touched anyone- haven't killed anyone- no choice- they'll kill all three of us if I don't-"
"Dan, slow down! What are you-"
"Lord Volpe forced me into it!" he screams. "He said if I refused, he'd kill you and Josiah and then me! That's the only reason-"
Lord Volpe said what to him?
"I'm going to kill him-"
"You can't! There's nothing anyone can do to him! There's hundreds of witchfinders under his wing now!"
"Does anyone else know about this?"
"My mentor, Micah," he replies, his voice trembling. "I haven't hurt or killed anyone, I swear! He does it all so I don't have to! I'm only doing this for you and Josiah!"
I want to be angry at him, though not as angry as I want to be at Volpe- but I can't. I willingly became a witchfinder for my family's sake. Daniel hasn't done it willingly, but he's done it for the same reason I did- to look after the people closest to me."
"Josiah is going to hate me for this. Mother would despise me for this. She's probably watching over me right now, wishing she'd only had the one son-"
"Dan...come here."
He shields his tears from me as well as his face, and I fear he worries I'm doing to hit him. I'd never do such a thing, and never have. I hold him. His tears soak into my shoulder. I can't shake off my burning rage. Is there a chance he targeted my son specifically to get at me for me walking out on him all those years ago?
Daniel stutters as he speaks, but his tears are slowing down.
"Micah is covering for me as much as he can," he says. This Micah...I'm at least glad he has someone looking out for him, for now. Maybe he's in the same situation Dan is in- not a witchfinder by choice.
"And do you trust him?"
"For now...yeah, I do."
"Daniel, once I figure out how...I'm going to try and sort this out. And if Lord Volpe tries to hurt you or Josiah, then I'm going to slaughter him and any of his cronies that he sends after us."
"Father...When I tell you that I haven't killed anyone, do you believe me?"
I bring him in closer. "Of course I do, son."
* * *
Alistair
In a peculiar boost of confidence since we'd last spoken, Oskar had requested that we practice with each other, like old times. There are plenty of reasons I don't want to, but it's impossible to get through to him, so I just decide to agree with it.
I decide to take him to a place that's hundreds of years old, and well out of the way- the Glimmerbrook battlegrounds.
Historically, it was a place where many a quarrel between spellcasters was solved, and where plenty of tournaments took place. It seems the tradition died out some time ago, but it still stood proudly. I could sense the strong humming of magic from the crystals. Oskar just stares into them, longingly. I suppose now he isn't a vampire, he can't sense magic at all. He's turned up dressed entirely in his old soldierly apparel. I knew he would, so I decided to follow suit.
I always liked the stories about the battlegrounds, and I'm thankful it is still standing. To me, it is a symbol that magic and the people who have it in their blood will never be toppled by those who try to stop them. At this moment in time, in the modern day, it is the symbol of an old friend's sheer overconfidence. Does he really think he can best me in the state that he's in?
Whilst his transformation seemed complete, I remember the other day when he had debilitating pain all throughout his body. Even if he looked fully human now, maybe there's still a part of him that's changing back.
"Oskar, are you sure you're up to this?"
"Of course I am!" he chirps, running his finger down the flat side of his sword. "I don't want to lose touch with swordfighting, so I need to practice with it again. I need to get used to it as a human, though I hate to say it."
It hurts to hear him say it; I know how much it's hurting him deep down, though he'd likely never admit it.
"Oskar, I really don't want to do any harm to you. I couldn't forgive myself if I-"
"The Alistair I remember never backed down like this," he replies, in a more serious tone. "I trust you, Alistair. I wouldn't have you standing in front of me with a sword if I didn't."
"That's not my point, Oskar! My point is that you need to go careful after the other-"
Even without his vampirism, Oskar catches me off-guard with his agility.
In the past, I'd only ever fought Oskar about three times. To tell the truth, I was too intimidated by him to even practice with him. Even though he had all of our best interests at heart, some of his methods were disturbing, even to the Lunvinchenaîné, who routinely watched their friends feed upon bloodied raw flesh in beast form. To anyone that even slightly opposed witches or werewolves, Oskar was utterly merciless, and made it a habit to toy with his prey before drinking them dry.
Even though his eyes had thawed from an icy white to a warm brown, they were no less daunting. If it weren't for our friendship, I'd be dead- and that thought has not left my mind since the discussion back in Lunvik. A years-old pact between the supernatural was all that stood between my attempt at redemption and my bloody murder by my former mentor.
Upon this battlefield, it feels almost as if the two of us are strangers on opposite sides.
Our blades clash with a screeching of metal upon metal. Even behind that determined, almost ferocious expression, I can see he's faltering, though I know better than to mention it. This was the fate of plenty of witchfinders back during the Bloodmoon.
It was only a sword's breadth between them and the embodiment of the assumedly-tall tales that were passed around about a certain white-haired vampire. If it weren't for the pact, I'd have shared their fate.
He shoves me to the ground. My face burns where the stone grazed it. Ordinarily, it'd take more than a minor wound to stop me, but I'm more concerned about him than myself. Oskar kneels against one of the glowing pedestals catching his breath, staring at the stone circle beneath our feet, with a mixed look of anger and disappointment. Even as a human, his swordsmanship is difficult to match, but it doesn't feel fair to continue.
I lift myself slowly to my feet, clutching at my aching chest.
"I can't continue this, Oskar," I say, between breaths, "for your sake."
Just as expected, a cocky laugh erupts from his throat. He wipes the blood from his face and wipes it off onto his coat as if it were merely a splash of water.
"In all the time you've known me, Alistair, have I ever surrendered to anyone?"
"No, but as talented as you are with a sword, you also aren't a vampire anymore, and I'm your friend. You wouldn't be 'surrendering' to me because I don't want to over...You're not listening, are you?"
Fine. I'll give him what he wants.
The two of us parry each other's blows effortlessly. Oskar's eyes are fixated on mine the entire time, as if goading me into giving him more of a challenge. Eventually, neither of us can keep up with the other. Oskar turns his sword to the ground and leans on his knee.
In that moment, the Oskar I remember comes back to him, and a small smile appears on his lips. "Okay. I'll give in, but only because you asked me to."
Out of morbid curiosity, he runs his finger down his blade and tastes the blood, and immediately recoils, spitting it back out onto the stone.
"Urgh! Disgusting! How did I spend the last one hundred and sixty five years drinking this?"
"Now you know how we all felt watching you do that back in the day..."
The two of us laugh together, as if we were young men sauntering home out of our minds after a long night at the inn.
"As much as I would genuinely love to sit here and reminisce about the past, Alistair, I can't keep fixating about it," he says, in a dreary tone, before laughing to himself. "That swordfight was strangely enjoyable. Exhilarating, even. Maybe having my emotions slowly come back to me isn't as bad as I thought."
"I know you inside and out, Oskar, and I know you're going to try and do everything the exact same way you did when you were a vampire. You're going to have to come to terms with-"
"Why do you think I brought you out here to practice?" he snaps, recoiling for a second and adjusting his demeanour. "I don't want to ditch defending Henford from the witchfinders just because I'm no longer a vampire. That's why I'm trying to get used to these newfound limitations. That, and...I'm trying to work out what's normal...and what isn't."
He ends his sentence on a low, droning tone.
"And what does that mean, exactly?"
He sighs to himself. I've never seen him look this defeated by something.
"Alistair, I haven't mentioned this to anyone else because I don't want to worry them. Since the other day, when you walked me back to the horses, I've been doing very little. It completely knocked me off of my usual routine for a week, and I did next to nothing and felt awful for it. I'm feeling alright at the moment, but..."
"- that was precisely how I felt before I took ill all those years ago."
I know it's just his paranoia speaking, but that sentence alone makes my heart turn to stone. Not too long ago, he was worrying about nothing. Now that he was human again, and completely susceptible to anything that could affect one, he had a reason to be worrying about such things.
We all did.
"I know you're concerned, Oskar, but all of these aches and pains could easily just be you still readjusting to humanity. Your body is trying to return to a state it was in more than one hundred and fifty years ago, and who knows what vampirism did to you biologically? I mean, in a sense, you've been almost resurrected. That's going to come with a lot of rough days for a while."
Oskar lies back on the floor, gazing up at the stars, with a smile on his face. He forgets he can't pretend he's okay around me, and that I'll see right through it every time.
"I want to say that I don't think it's anything to be concerned about, but to be on the safe side, it might be worth visiting a physician."
I want to tell him that, if it was the case, it might be curable now. Medicine can do amazing things today that it never could in his time- but I risk giving him false hope over something that might not be true, something I absolutely cannot do with someone like him- so I don't say anything.
"I know you don't want to do that, but I really think it's best-"
"If I promise I'll go, will you promise to not nag me about it?" he asks, laughing.
I find it incredibly difficult to talk to him about it, but he seems to be nodding along as if he understands exactly what I'm talking about. Is this because of his father's research, his own, because Eli told Samuel and Samuel told him, or every single one? Who knows.
"I am familiar with it, yes. My father carried out some extensive research some time ago. The only trouble is, even today, not much is known about such ailments," he says, feigning an air of calm. "And your previous vampirism only complicates matters. I'm afraid there isn't anything at all that I know about vampirism, nor about how the body would recover once it's no longer afflicted with vampirism. At present, I can only assume that the pain and the exhaustion are a side-effect of the body trying to 'come back to life', as it were, but that's only speculation."
His voice quivers when he mentions my no longer being 'afflicted' with vampirism.
"I understand that you're doing your job, Owen, but I do believe you know more than you're letting on."
Owen grips tightly onto the arms of his chair and takes a deep, angered breath in.
"I was trying to remain professional, Oskar, but I believe after all my father has put you through, I owe you what I know and nothing less."
"My father worked for four years on a cure alongside the Strong Bloodline, if you've heard of-"
"The Strong Bloodline?!"
Owen freezes in his chair, and I apologise for the outburst. He tells me not to apologise, and that such a reaction isn't unwarranted. So they did have something to do with this, after all. It seems all these slimy rich bloodlines are in connection with one another.
"Your suspicions are entirely correct, Oskar. This is my father's doing."
My entire body trembles with rage, but I forget I'm only human. I want to run up the stairs to his chamber and finish what I'd started, but I don't have it in me, so I feign an air of understanding.
"Your little brother mentioned that your father crafted a cure."
He adjusts himself awkwardly in his chair.
"Supposedly, but it was the first of its kind. I've no idea of its effectiveness, potential side-effects, or even if he still has it."
"Eli told me that he refused to share his knowledge, so I can only imagine it must be-"
"Oskar, I understand your concern, but I've let you have enough of your say," he snaps. "I'd like to politely remind you that I am the physician, and you are the patient. I understand that you know enough about what happened before that it's left you concerned about this...abnormality..."
Why is he stalling on his words again?
"...but we cannot assume the worst right away. Is that understood?"
"Very well," I reply, losing the energy to pretend to be polite. "Continue."
"I think the best course of action would be to perform a physical examination. Then, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a few various samples to have a look at. Then, I can try and match it with the little information I have on the matter, and we can go from there. How does that sound?"
I merely nod, and prepare for the examination without another word- but before I even remove my waistcoat, he calls me again. It takes all my power to not snap at him.
"I understand that these are terrible circumstances, but I promise, I will do all I can."
He folds his arms and smiles, but it's not a genuine one. His hopes are as high as mine, I can tell.
"This has little to do with me, Owen," I tell him. "I'm only doing this for the people I care about- your little brother, for example. Just make this quick, will you?"
Owen chuckles to himself. "I promise, it's not as bad as you think."
Owen
I didn't expect Oskar to trust me when I told him all that I did. I shouldn't have breached professionality like that, but I had little other choice. I owed Oskar as much of the truth as I could give him after what my father had done to him.
Upon physical examination, I couldn't find anything that seemed abnormal. He was breathing fine, his heart rate was normal, body temperature was normal. Almost everything, at a glance, was normal. If anything, it was fascinating to see just how normal everything was, considering he'd spent the last one hundred and sixty-odd years as a walking corpse.
Most of the samples didn't tell me anything, either. I revisited my own notes that I'd taken from my father's many years ago, which suggested that this illness started in the blood. Now I'd exhausted every other possibility for his unwellness that I could from what I had...
The trouble is, there's still so much more to know about it, and even the advanced knowledge of the Annorin family hadn't worked it all out. I couldn't look as closely at a person's blood as I could at everything else, but that was the benefit of being alchemists as well as physicians. Magic and science could work together, on occasion, and could help find the answers that science alone could not.
Devastatingly, it is this combination of alchemy and science that reveals to me that the blood samples are abnormal, and matches fairly closely to what's written in my notes...It has returned to him, after all, though it's still in the very early stages, from what I could tell. My father had tried to end Oskar’s life, and so I must do everything I can to try and save it.
I didn't want to tell Oskar about my father's prototype cure, as to not give him false hope. It was years ago. I have absolutely no choice but to demand my father tell me the truth about his cure, and hope to the Watcher that he still has it.
It’s not a question solely of if he still has it. It's a question of whether or not he'll hand it over to his own son, or what I'm willing to do to get it if he doesn't.