You shall live, she had said, but he had asked the wrong question, didn’t understand the answer. Live, he said, she said, but already this could not possibly mean life as he had known it. What would it entail, then? Blood, he supposed, drinking blood. But other than that, his mind was blank.
She did not elaborate, but she was still near and a comforting presence. Her hands in his hair. It was something to focus on, a small detail, a feeling that held him together and did not let his mind wander astray. The caress of her fingers, delicate, deliberate, along the contours of his jaw. (Was there blood on his face? He felt the stain of it on him, like he’d eaten like a heathen child or an animal - as though he had revelled in the mess of it.)
He didn’t know when he had last felt such fondness for anyone as she was showing him - he had never had an affair so intimate - and that made such little sense, because he didn’t know anything about her other than what she so obviously was, but he did not recall meeting a vampire, here or anywhere else in the world. He hadn’t been many places else. He hadn’t seen much. No wonder that he’d never been in love. So why was she so gentle with him, when he had earned none of the kindness she was showing him? (Was it kindness or, following what it had, sheer remorse?) That was what a killer did, sometimes, if they felt regret. Treat a body with tenderness or reverence once they’d savaged it. He’d seen a woman beat by her husband once in one of the boarding houses in Liverpool as a boy, could still recall the way the man had flinched at himself, jerked the back of his hand away and cradled it in his other, as though his own hand was someone else’s. He’d reached out to his cowering wife, after that, and pulled in her close, pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead as if that might undo the bruise. The comfort after the hurt. Was that what this was? Did she regret what she had done?
He hadn’t the energy to question her further, but it did not seem like they were in any rush to leave this place. Perhaps she would sit with him for hours - or days, or years - until he was ready to face this life; maybe the life she led was a surpassingly lonely one, and perhaps all she had wanted was a soul to comfort, anyway.
There would be time to figure her out, unpick her reasons and understand her identity. Ishmael was... well, not tired, for drinking that blood had seemed to ease all sensation of that, almost all human sensation he remembered... but exhausted in his mind, drained of all willingness to come to terms with anything right now. If he was going to continue ‘living’, then, if this was not some makeshift deathbed and she had resolved to take care of him, there would be time later to think. Too much time. First, he might have the luxury of laying here - simply existing in the sudden strangeness of his own body - without thinking.
Or not; sound thundered in his ears before he could help it, vibrations of the ground that seemed to travel too fast and too easily. Just because he had time did not mean he had the luxury of it here; he might have changed impossibly in a heartbeat, but the world around him hadn’t altered at all. This was still a street in the wrong pocket of a city, this was still New York in the midst of a rebellion that spanned the Atlantic. There were still humans about, and the muggle sort to boot.
There was a spark of worry in his chest, some vague instinct about pitchforks and villagers and witch-burnings, the same kind of defensive twinge that came about when he saw anyone scrutinise him a little too intently, just as often about the colour of his skin and signs of his ancestry as it was because they suspected him a thief. Ishmael didn’t know quite what his skin looked like now, but his hands looked paler in the moonlight. He slid his tongue along his teeth, wondering about them too, and indeed it caught on something sharper, something new. Should he really be worried about whoever was coming? He had been no match for the cloaked figure who’d snapped his wrist and sunk her fangs into his neck so easily. (Would he ever need be worried again?)
But she seemed to have been roused by the sound of soldiers, and he stumbled to his feet - though the very motion was more fluid, easier than he’d imagined - and took her hand mutely, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of the streets and... trusting in where she was leading.
He could not say why. But she hadn’t let him die.
Following her through the shadows, Ishmael stopped where she had halted and leant back against a wooden-slatted wall, managing a nod at her instruction. It was unlike him not to debate it, but his head was still spinning and silence felt in order, given the situation. He still couldn’t see her face, couldn’t make out anything more than the paleness of her hands and a few strands of her hair catching the breeze under her hood. And before he could find any words at all, she had gone.
Where to? Who knew. Too late to follow her, already; she had disappeared around a corner, and her footsteps were too light to hear. It was almost as if she hadn’t been here at all.
So Ishmael had waited.
And waited.
(And, in a funny way, though more than a century had passed and he had left that place long ago, part of him was waiting still.)
post count: 1000 words
She did not elaborate, but she was still near and a comforting presence. Her hands in his hair. It was something to focus on, a small detail, a feeling that held him together and did not let his mind wander astray. The caress of her fingers, delicate, deliberate, along the contours of his jaw. (Was there blood on his face? He felt the stain of it on him, like he’d eaten like a heathen child or an animal - as though he had revelled in the mess of it.)
He didn’t know when he had last felt such fondness for anyone as she was showing him - he had never had an affair so intimate - and that made such little sense, because he didn’t know anything about her other than what she so obviously was, but he did not recall meeting a vampire, here or anywhere else in the world. He hadn’t been many places else. He hadn’t seen much. No wonder that he’d never been in love. So why was she so gentle with him, when he had earned none of the kindness she was showing him? (Was it kindness or, following what it had, sheer remorse?) That was what a killer did, sometimes, if they felt regret. Treat a body with tenderness or reverence once they’d savaged it. He’d seen a woman beat by her husband once in one of the boarding houses in Liverpool as a boy, could still recall the way the man had flinched at himself, jerked the back of his hand away and cradled it in his other, as though his own hand was someone else’s. He’d reached out to his cowering wife, after that, and pulled in her close, pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead as if that might undo the bruise. The comfort after the hurt. Was that what this was? Did she regret what she had done?
He hadn’t the energy to question her further, but it did not seem like they were in any rush to leave this place. Perhaps she would sit with him for hours - or days, or years - until he was ready to face this life; maybe the life she led was a surpassingly lonely one, and perhaps all she had wanted was a soul to comfort, anyway.
There would be time to figure her out, unpick her reasons and understand her identity. Ishmael was... well, not tired, for drinking that blood had seemed to ease all sensation of that, almost all human sensation he remembered... but exhausted in his mind, drained of all willingness to come to terms with anything right now. If he was going to continue ‘living’, then, if this was not some makeshift deathbed and she had resolved to take care of him, there would be time later to think. Too much time. First, he might have the luxury of laying here - simply existing in the sudden strangeness of his own body - without thinking.
Or not; sound thundered in his ears before he could help it, vibrations of the ground that seemed to travel too fast and too easily. Just because he had time did not mean he had the luxury of it here; he might have changed impossibly in a heartbeat, but the world around him hadn’t altered at all. This was still a street in the wrong pocket of a city, this was still New York in the midst of a rebellion that spanned the Atlantic. There were still humans about, and the muggle sort to boot.
There was a spark of worry in his chest, some vague instinct about pitchforks and villagers and witch-burnings, the same kind of defensive twinge that came about when he saw anyone scrutinise him a little too intently, just as often about the colour of his skin and signs of his ancestry as it was because they suspected him a thief. Ishmael didn’t know quite what his skin looked like now, but his hands looked paler in the moonlight. He slid his tongue along his teeth, wondering about them too, and indeed it caught on something sharper, something new. Should he really be worried about whoever was coming? He had been no match for the cloaked figure who’d snapped his wrist and sunk her fangs into his neck so easily. (Would he ever need be worried again?)
But she seemed to have been roused by the sound of soldiers, and he stumbled to his feet - though the very motion was more fluid, easier than he’d imagined - and took her hand mutely, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of the streets and... trusting in where she was leading.
He could not say why. But she hadn’t let him die.
Following her through the shadows, Ishmael stopped where she had halted and leant back against a wooden-slatted wall, managing a nod at her instruction. It was unlike him not to debate it, but his head was still spinning and silence felt in order, given the situation. He still couldn’t see her face, couldn’t make out anything more than the paleness of her hands and a few strands of her hair catching the breeze under her hood. And before he could find any words at all, she had gone.
Where to? Who knew. Too late to follow her, already; she had disappeared around a corner, and her footsteps were too light to hear. It was almost as if she hadn’t been here at all.
So Ishmael had waited.
And waited.
(And, in a funny way, though more than a century had passed and he had left that place long ago, part of him was waiting still.)
