“Father? Why…?"
“For her, even I will dirty my hands with such filth."
When everything is done, and you are king, what will you do?
King? No, that is not something I could ever be. Leave that to someone else.
You would deny your nature? It’s in our blood, child. More than that—it’s in our genes!
No, it’s in half of them. Surely, that means I can choose what I wish to be-- and I will not be you.
Choice? No, not for us. We cannot be other than what we are, what we have been made. Never forget that.
His throat burned. The feeling was raw, edged with pain, and no matter what or how much he drank, it was not slaked. Sometimes, in his darker, more humane moments of reflection, Sergei was almost sure that he understood why Lilith had acted as she did. If her thirst was anything like his… well, he was just glad that part of him was human and cared enough about other beings to refrain from hunting them.
As it was, the being that now occupied Sergei’s body was not so reflective, and he refrained form nothing. His carnage was beautiful, in its way, the brilliant brush-strokes of an artist who had mastered a single color and all its textures and patterns. The canvases of his macabre work were anything and everything: the ground, other foes, his own body, and still it was not enough.
The end was anticlimactic, as it always had been, as he simply ran out of things to kill. The few left in his area were fleeing, but he had no inclination to follow. They weren’t worth the heat of pursuit. He straightened from his crouch, the world slowly regaining its other colors. Sometimes, it seemed that all he could see in the battle-haze was black and grey and red. Everything else faded into nothing. He was conscious now of the state he was in, and grimaced at the feel of blood dripping from his chin. Fighting to steady his heartbeat from the erratic staccato it beat when he slew, he glanced down at his torn clothes and knew there would be no saving them, even if the blood did come out. Like more important things, that way.
He crested the hill that led back towards the Moon Dormitory, only to stumble upon a scene of the utmost grief. Sacrilegious stood, Takeru at his feet, and the Takagi twins not far off. There was a fading scent on the wind, one that he dimly recognized as belonging to Moirae. Surely… but it could be nothing else, and Sergei felt his heart sink. There was sadness for her passing, of course, as any should feel upon the release of a genuine and good soul, but in him there was also lamentation for those that yet lived. He could not descry the future, but he did not need that ability to understand that things would only get worse before they got better. How many more times would they mourn friends, allies, lovers, children, siblings, parents?
He knew only that she would not be the last. It was then that the sky opened up and the rain returned, fitting for the lament. Maintaining his distance, he spoke softly, perhaps more to the wind than any of those present. Words written long ago, by someone who understood such feelings.
With an inaudible sigh, he left then, to arrange what matters would need to be taken care of in the wake of this second invasion. If any of the staff or students were alarmed to see their good-natured teacher coated in the blood of mad vampires and nobles alike, none of them mentioned it, perhaps far too intent on finishing what they needed to and retiring to what rest they could scrounge for themselves. Not all were oblivious to the scene of mourning not too far away, but those few that might have approached were turned away by Sergei’s insistence that those in that place be left alone for the moment.
Meanwhile, in the relatively undisturbed Sun Dorm, a darkly-hooded figure, flanked by two others, entered the front room. The still forms of the vampires-turned-human lay yet on the floor, and with them, the figure of a young woman, scarcely more than a child, already coming into an inheritance that he’d sworn to protect. One he’d always hoped would somehow bypass her. Crouching beside her unmoving figure, the masked man ran a gloved had along her porcelain cheek. “Devotchka moya, moya printsessa,” he murmured softly, his tones, muffled as they were, unmistakably those of utmost tenderness. “What have you done, dearheart? They will know of you, now.” Effortlessly, the figure slid his arms under the slumbering Ekaterina, lifting her and cradling her to his chest.
“Vincent, Ophelia,” he spoke to the matched pair behind him, both of whom straightened to attention at once upon hearing the command in his voice. “Assist the hunters with the cleanup. Then, find me my son and send him to me. He is due some retribution for his foolishness. But first… slay these. They will not touch what is mine and live. Preserve the nearest one’s corpse.” The pair shook with matched shudders at the quiet venom in the master’s tone, but nodded at once, setting off to fulfill their orders.
When one served the household Rasputinov, one did not do otherwise.
King? No, that is not something I could ever be. Leave that to someone else.
You would deny your nature? It’s in our blood, child. More than that—it’s in our genes!
No, it’s in half of them. Surely, that means I can choose what I wish to be-- and I will not be you.
Choice? No, not for us. We cannot be other than what we are, what we have been made. Never forget that.
His throat burned. The feeling was raw, edged with pain, and no matter what or how much he drank, it was not slaked. Sometimes, in his darker, more humane moments of reflection, Sergei was almost sure that he understood why Lilith had acted as she did. If her thirst was anything like his… well, he was just glad that part of him was human and cared enough about other beings to refrain from hunting them.
As it was, the being that now occupied Sergei’s body was not so reflective, and he refrained form nothing. His carnage was beautiful, in its way, the brilliant brush-strokes of an artist who had mastered a single color and all its textures and patterns. The canvases of his macabre work were anything and everything: the ground, other foes, his own body, and still it was not enough.
The end was anticlimactic, as it always had been, as he simply ran out of things to kill. The few left in his area were fleeing, but he had no inclination to follow. They weren’t worth the heat of pursuit. He straightened from his crouch, the world slowly regaining its other colors. Sometimes, it seemed that all he could see in the battle-haze was black and grey and red. Everything else faded into nothing. He was conscious now of the state he was in, and grimaced at the feel of blood dripping from his chin. Fighting to steady his heartbeat from the erratic staccato it beat when he slew, he glanced down at his torn clothes and knew there would be no saving them, even if the blood did come out. Like more important things, that way.
He crested the hill that led back towards the Moon Dormitory, only to stumble upon a scene of the utmost grief. Sacrilegious stood, Takeru at his feet, and the Takagi twins not far off. There was a fading scent on the wind, one that he dimly recognized as belonging to Moirae. Surely… but it could be nothing else, and Sergei felt his heart sink. There was sadness for her passing, of course, as any should feel upon the release of a genuine and good soul, but in him there was also lamentation for those that yet lived. He could not descry the future, but he did not need that ability to understand that things would only get worse before they got better. How many more times would they mourn friends, allies, lovers, children, siblings, parents?
He knew only that she would not be the last. It was then that the sky opened up and the rain returned, fitting for the lament. Maintaining his distance, he spoke softly, perhaps more to the wind than any of those present. Words written long ago, by someone who understood such feelings.
“ The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.”
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.”
With an inaudible sigh, he left then, to arrange what matters would need to be taken care of in the wake of this second invasion. If any of the staff or students were alarmed to see their good-natured teacher coated in the blood of mad vampires and nobles alike, none of them mentioned it, perhaps far too intent on finishing what they needed to and retiring to what rest they could scrounge for themselves. Not all were oblivious to the scene of mourning not too far away, but those few that might have approached were turned away by Sergei’s insistence that those in that place be left alone for the moment.
Meanwhile, in the relatively undisturbed Sun Dorm, a darkly-hooded figure, flanked by two others, entered the front room. The still forms of the vampires-turned-human lay yet on the floor, and with them, the figure of a young woman, scarcely more than a child, already coming into an inheritance that he’d sworn to protect. One he’d always hoped would somehow bypass her. Crouching beside her unmoving figure, the masked man ran a gloved had along her porcelain cheek. “Devotchka moya, moya printsessa,” he murmured softly, his tones, muffled as they were, unmistakably those of utmost tenderness. “What have you done, dearheart? They will know of you, now.” Effortlessly, the figure slid his arms under the slumbering Ekaterina, lifting her and cradling her to his chest.
“Vincent, Ophelia,” he spoke to the matched pair behind him, both of whom straightened to attention at once upon hearing the command in his voice. “Assist the hunters with the cleanup. Then, find me my son and send him to me. He is due some retribution for his foolishness. But first… slay these. They will not touch what is mine and live. Preserve the nearest one’s corpse.” The pair shook with matched shudders at the quiet venom in the master’s tone, but nodded at once, setting off to fulfill their orders.
When one served the household Rasputinov, one did not do otherwise.