Cold…

He trembled in his sleep, a faint whimper escaping him. There was a small breeze, and it was brushing him squarely. A grimace grew on his face as he tried to think, because with each trace of conscience he retrieved, his migraine would beat stronger. After a minute, he finally noticed that he was resting on a cold surface. All that, combined with the icy flow of air, was causing him to shiver strongly.

Bastian groaned faintly, dizzy. He struggled to sit up and open his eyes, rather weakly. When he finally blinked, he realized two things, one worse than the other. The first thing he noticed was that something was lying by him; when his blurry vision cleared a little, he recognized that there were handcuffs latched onto his wrists, connected to a long thick chain. However, there was something more concerning to him. His vision was not right, at all. A shaky gasp escaped him, his hand moving up slightly, without daring to touch.

It took him a few minutes to lift his gaze from the ground, fearful of seeing what was wrong, because too many things were. The chain hanging by his handcuffs was tied somewhere, and he did not want to look around himself much. The ground was stony and dark, not one he recognized.

Eventually, he took a deep breath and finally let his hand brush his face. When he felt the unmistakable feel of dried blood, he decided to do the only thing that would confirm his fears. He closed his left eye, while he tried to keep his right one open. Blackness was all he saw, when he at least should see the shadows around him. He could not see at all, because his eye was blind. There was no doubt; he could feel the mark of that blade, which had cut upwards, scarring him.

His frame trembled, his hands dropping limply at his sides. That motion made the chain rattle, and its sound did not make him feel any better. He kept his eyes closed in fear, clenching his teeth involuntarily. Even though he had not wanted to glance around himself, he had caught a glimpse of it all. There was a big wooden and iron door, opposite to the wall he sat up against. It was like the one of a cell, something in which he clearly was in.

He remembered well the fire. And yet, he still wished that when he would open his eyes, he would see something far less ominous. He wanted this to be one of the cells in Hollowgrave, and her to be the one who locked him away, in one of her playful antics. Like that one time, when she locked him for stealing her favourite book, having snatched a key from a drunken guard.

What he recalled had to be a nightmare. He would open both of his eyes, brush his face again, and feel no trace of that wound. His fingers would feel no blood, and his vision would be clear. Surely, he couldn’t have possibly lost in a battle, he was not a dead man walking.

With that hope, he tried to open his eyes once more. Only one did. He had a hand right over his right eye, and he was not seeing it. A sob escaped him, because the scars were there, coursing up from his cheek to his eyebrow.

The memory flashed again in his mind, undeniable. He finally looked fearfully around himself, and he was quick to cower against the cold stony wall behind him. The further he stared at his surroundings, the more his breathing fastened. He really was in a small cell, cold and dark. The only light came from a small opening at his left, blocked by metal bars, very common in dungeons. He would barely reach it if he stood on his tiptoes, because it was near the ceiling, which was tall. The moon seemed to mock him through it, providing just enough light for him to distinguish what else there was.

In front of him, near the right corner, stood the big thick door; there was a small window on it, barred as well, to allow anyone who stood outside to peek in. With just one look, he was sure he would never be able to break or lockpick his way out. Not that he would be able to use anything to try to. There were only a few more things in the cell, and none offered any kind of aid against his predicament.

He was tied near the door; the chain was fixed on the wall at his right. To his left, the cell was void, offering most of the space available. The far left corner had a stony opening, covered as well by metal bars. Judging by the sound of water, he guessed it connected with a sewer system down below. Opposite to that hole, there was nothing, only a patch of dirt. The stony floor had been broken with time, or by a former prisoner who tried to dig his way out, unable to break the bars of any of the openings.

After taking in such depressing sight, he looked at the right wall near him, finally noticing the small fountain there. It was a stony sink, decorated with gloomy engravings, to match the mood of the cell. He leaned closer to it, without standing, still feeling the ache of his wounds. There was a small trail of water pouring from it, so faint that it would barely offer a sip. Still, it was a source of continuous water.

Their cells back at Hollowgrave did not have such a thing. And so, he retracted his hand, distrusting why vampires would allow their prisoners to access water like this. If rebels jailed someone, be it vampire or human, water would always be given at the door once a day.

If there was water here in a continuous supply, it had to be for a malicious reason, one that he would not try to find out about. Vampires were not humane creatures. Even if he was fainted for a long time, thirsty and injured, he would not risk it. This water could contain poison; only God could know for sure.

Bastian curled on himself, fixing his fractured gaze on the thick door, fearfully. Horrible thoughts flowed in his mind. He just sat there, trying to imagine what was to be of him. Many things could happen, because he was chained and locked away, by vampires. Those monsters could come in at any moment, stand over him and make him bleed. They would surely beat, torture, or toy with his body. Perhaps they only wanted him alive because he was a captain, someone from whom they could force a confession, which could aid their tactics.

Vampires could bite and cause horrible agony on their victims, all without ever killing. Whatever they would do to him, it would not be easy to endure. And so, he trembled, burying his head against his knees. His own hold was painful, his wounds barely healed.

The only thing he could do was sit there, waiting. He kept wondering when something would happen, the uncertainty torturous already. However, he would not dare call and question what they would do with him, not wanting to bring attention upon himself.

There was silence, which would not last forever.

———–

The vampire paced back and forth, questioning what to do, wordlessly. Her huge throne room was vacant, her own shadow her only company. The moon rose high over her castle, and so, her people were awake. However, no one roamed near the throne as usual. She had scared everyone away.

No one dared stand near her, not when she was like this. For days she had shown her anger, her inner conflict. Her thoughts kept her awake, sorrowful and impotent. Tonight, her fangs showed once more as she growled in frustration. Her claws kept on twitching, clenching and opening.

She threw one hand onto her long red hair, pulling at it with her eyes closed, a snarl escaping her. Her slow beating heart was pounding fast, as strongly as when she was human. Her veins were burning, hatefully. That emotion was for one, whose name she could not stop thinking of.

Bastian…

She had found him. A lot of time had passed, and she had begun to believe she would never see him again. Yet, suddenly, she had encountered him and taken him down. Now she was back in her land, with him kept captive.

Truly, she had not expected him to be the rebel that had been causing so much trouble. She would have never believed he would be able to fight like this, hunting vampires all by himself. But she had seen it with her own eyes. He had been murdering her kind.

Nerys let herself lean against her throne, letting out another eerie growl. Her heart ached, past and present stabbing deep into it. She could not let go of what she was, nor fully embrace what she had become. She had changed, far too much.

That bite brought her agony, but she survived, in a sense. It was almost unbearable. She felt how the disease flowed into her veins, clawing her being inside out. It made her scream until she fell dormant. When she awoke, everything burned. Somehow, she knew that she needed something, the pain telling enough. That sensation would not recede until she surrendered to that need, something she ended up doing desperately.

Nerys looked down sorrowfully, feeling a trace of it right now. It was always there, even if sometimes faint: bloodlust. Due to it, the first weeks after turning were hell. She wished she had just died with the bite; she survived, whoever, destined to suffer.

Lochan made sure Alaric’s word was kept, all who survived the ambush were free to go, her men unharmed. No vampire dared lay a claw on them, at least not the ones from his clan.

She trembled, remembering what she felt when she faced her comrades. It was one of the worst memories she kept. She had quickly lunged onto one of them, losing control for a few moments. Luckily, she managed to regain control before killing, even if it meant she would still feel that voracious agony.

At that moment, she expected them to loathe her, despise what she was. They did not, even if they should. They had seen and heard her plead for their lives, but that choice was not what swayed them to understand her change. She had always fought at their side, their trust had been there for years… and it remained after death. All had entered that dammed fort for the same reason. They did not blame her, for they felt as betrayed. One of their own had deemed their lives expendable, a simple tool. And so, they stayed by her, the one they considered most honourable in between the spawns of this rotten world.

Her sharp eyes narrowed in the dark, when she stood tall once more. She looked all around the courtroom, feeling pride upon the huge banners that swayed over every wall and pillar. Her castle stood mighty, its fortifications strong and resilient. All she could see now, she achieved by struggling against all odds.

Their fight was not an easy one, and they only endured it by staying together and united. With time, they shared her pain. She shared her supposed gift with most, for them to be able to attain their own territory in these cursed domains, their former home not to be roamed again.

They had become beasts, which needed human blood to feel their own heartbeat. Without sustain, they could not keep their sanity. It truly was hell. But they endured it all and raised stronger from the ashes.

All because…

Nerys’ thoughts grew darker, anger finally clouding her reason and serenity, all her memories haunting her greatly. She let out a growled whisper, not believing she had deserved this fate.

“How dare he?”

She had hoped it had been a mistake. She had wanted to be wrong, believe that her old friend was incapable of betraying her. The facts were damming, but she still tried to deny that Bastian was resentful, that he hated her.

Sometimes, she wondered if he was jealous, in love with Lyssa as well. That thought was always the most painful, for she had believed that she had seen care in those grey eyes, acceptance. Bastian had never voiced his feelings, which he always kept inside. Perhaps, he had hidden them all too well.

All this, she had tried to consider and reason against. But now she had crossed paths with him, and he was not a tactician, but a captain. It seemed that he was a very successful one; she had heard of his pesky doings in vampiric land for a while.

She was sure, he was truly spiteful. He despised her for attaining all the glory and recognition. Perhaps, in his faith, he loathed what she felt for Lyssa. She was nothing but a pest in his eyes, something to get rid of. All his words and peculiar glances made sense in insight.

Lochan saw that scout, which went away from that fort, safely. The report was given, and it was indeed pondered carefully. Bastian sent her there to die. He was able to kill, she had seen. Villages and fields had been burned, just to make way for his greed and stride. Her kind was fodder in his rise in power. She now understood that things were not black and white, but grey, a horrible colour that was not easy to gaze upon.

Her throne almost shook when her claws let go of it, clawing blindly. Her fangs sharpened as she let out a hellish growl, which echoed through the dark chambers of the castle. She marched out of her courtroom, her shadow growing under the moonlight. There was no love in her eyes as she dashed for the dungeons.