Chapter 116: 116
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Perhaps I should be grateful, be thankful that Soren has found some way to save my life and not simply let me pass into the great beyond like so many others would. But if I am to become what is supposed to become of me- a vampire, or worse, a hybrid or a halfling, there will be no place for me in this world after.
There is a reason why fallen angels do not exist in this world, why the tales that the ancient councillors tell over the glowing embers of a bonfire on the night of a clan gathering do not tell of an angel who has been bitten by a vampire. Such an act would be the ultimate betrayal to my kind, blasphemous, an attempt to deviate from the acrid tradition of hatred and spite for our 3000 year old enemy.
The councillors never take too lightly to betrayal. Of any kind.
Any angels who have been turned by a vampire have already ended up dead- but not by the hands of the vampires.
Maybe if I had any strength left at all in me, I might have shivered at that fact.
A fallen angel is the most controversial forms of 'hybrids'. Hybrids of any kind are always met with a certain type of awful repulsion- feared and equally admired by the creatures that roam through Faey with curious eyes and wanting hearts. But an angel-vampire hybrid- a fallen angel- is a combination that should never rightly mix. There would be no place for me in this world, or Illistrae- I could never return again to the throne, to the tyrannous, greedy hands of the council- my plans would be scuppered. And if I were to become a halfling vampire… Then I am to become a part of a horror story. A halfling is not a creature fit to live at all.
But I can do nothing, nothing, as the Scarlet Prince brings his wrist up to my mouth, wetting my lips with that nauseating crimson and the distinctly iron tang of a liquid I never thought I would find myself consuming. After I resist his first attempts, straining my body with what little energy it has left to keep my mouth shut, Soren frowns sadly, pressing a little more firmly. It is not that I want to take his blood, far, far from it, but I find as my mouth opens up against his wrist that my body simply doesn't have the energy left to fight any more. I have become a mere husk of the vivacious young sprite that I was, reduced to a pale whispering shadow, a shade of a being, condemning myself to an eternal fate as Soren's blood trickles into my mouth.
It tastes like death.
"There, there my little dove, my sweet darling mate," he coos, his voice whispering urgently against the shell of my ear as his blood trickles onto my tongue, cold as ice and twice as sharp. "I can save you, you will live and we can be together, you can see your friend again. I will not let you become what you fear to be. You have to fight the transformation, my dear, I know you can."
I sob quietly in sheer despair. No one in living history has fought the transformation that comes with a vampire's blood. And I- a weakened angel, straining to latch onto the last slivers of hope and life with barely more than a tether of consciousness, am hardly about to.
A vampire's blood is a dangerous thing, and about as lethal as the hosts in which it resides. To those like Soren, blood is a weapon, a force to control and a means to destroy; to him it is food, it is sustenance, regeneration, and it is the substance of his long, immortal life. Except this time.
Ever since I was a little girl, too young to understand why there were borders enclosing the people around our forests, and too naïve to comprehend the dangers of what exactly they were keeping out, there was something I understood without sense and reason, a morsel of knowledge that resided in the depths of my brain for as long as I can possibly remember:
If a vampire offers you their blood, you must never, never, take it.
You see, a vampire's blood is like a super-active virus. Unique to every vampire, a perfect blueprint of their being, their soul, their power. For a vampire to turn another, (though they rarely indulge themselves in such a rare commodity due to their horror at wasting precious blood on anyone other than their own kind), a vampire must give sufficient blood to create a proportionality powerful being. And then, to complete the final act for the turning to occur, you must kill them. It is this act which makes them both immortal and undead.
A drop of blood won't be enough to do damage, just as a singular virus is rarely enough to contaminate a healthy body, even a small mouthful may have no effects, or create the slightest impingement on the body to the extent it is barely noticeable. The virus of blood can be fought off, staved against- if the body is strong enough, but such cases rarely occur, for even with the smallest of doses, a vampire's blood will enact changes in your body that even the host is unaware of. Like any good virus, it leaves a permanent mark.
But the rate at which blood flows past my lips is certainly not a drop; my mouth is sticky with the red wetness that claws its way down my throat, entering my body with its invasive coldness like an arctic wind after a storm. A wintry frost runs through my veins, turning my blood to an icy cold, freezing up my insides. Tears flow down my cheeks as I struggle in vain against Soren's domineering grip. But it is of no use.
The first place the virus starts is the brain. From the lining of my stomach, it worms its way into my blood, trailing with it that icy chill that travels up through my veins with each beating pump of my heart. It burrows itself into my mind, slotting itself into the coding of the very fabric of my being, causing the tangy blood that runs past my lips to transform into a far sweeter taste. I groan heavily.
They say death is sweet, and I would be inclined to agree. Soren's blood is the sweetest and most delicious substance I have ever tried, there is no question about it. Like the honeyed nectar of the gods from the heavens, slick and delightful: the taste of my demise.
Soren doesn't even have to hold his hand up to my lips anymore, not as I draw my fingers up to his arm, clutching him tightly like a lifeline and allow my lips to willingly part to let the blood wash over my tongue. Through the haziness of my tormented mind, I can still recognise one thing: that this blood will be my saviour, but it will also be my doom.
Soren smiles a little, tangling his fingers within the strands of my hair to coo softly and reassuringly, as if he weren't poisoning my body with a virus I will never recover from. Yet in spite of the fact I have begun to vivaciously lap at the blood trickling down his arm, the Scarlet Prince still looks content, encouraging almost, as if seeing life return to my body is a far better alternative to letting me die untainted by his blood. There is a tense anticipation about him, as though he is waiting for something, some moment to spark into life and change the fate of this little game.
But as I drink, gulping down gulp after maddening gulp, no moment seems to come. The blood virus ensues.
Strength returns to my dying limbs as the wounds on my back heal themselves at a rapid rate, sewing themselves over at the skin re-graphs itself, reforming muscles and tendons, vessels and skin, rejuvenating the crumpled form of my body until it almost seems to glow with life. My body seems to almost hum with vitality, a faint enamouring light leaking from my skin simultaneously with that icy cold in my veins, the power of my soul working in conjunction with the virus of blood.
At last I pull away from his arm and sit up, eyes wild, breathing fast, crimson staining the outer corners of my lips with a maddening red. My body burns as it fights against the inevitability of the virus, but the truth of the matter is that I am far, far too weak to ever even attempt to stave it off. Soren however, doesn't seem to agree.
"Good," Soren breathes, lacing his fingers with mine as he leans us down onto the couch, trapping me beneath him to hold me still. Fear beats like a drum in my heart. "Your body is fighting my blood, your soul is working to maintain your form. Don't worry, my darling, it will be over soon. Do what you will to me, hit me, rage against me, if it helps you, then so be it. Do not let my blood consume you. After this you will be stronger, you will never have to die."
"Soren, I-" I let out a breathy gasp as a rush of pain floods over my body, a single tear escaping down my cheek as my body fights against this foreign infection that seeps its way into my bloodstream. The faint golden glow that emanates from my skin glows brighter, ardently blazing as my body fights in futile against this coldblooded invader. Soren's arms grip me tighter, his eyes widening a little.
I think he must realise in that moment, seeing my back arch in pain, tears stream down my cheeks, feel the foul cold radiating off my body like an artic winter, that no matter what potion he gave me, no matter how much he begs of me to fight it, it doesn't matter.
It is already too late.
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Perhaps I should be grateful, be thankful that Soren has found some way to save my life and not simply let me pass into the great beyond like so many others would. But if I am to become what is supposed to become of me- a vampire, or worse, a hybrid or a halfling, there will be no place for me in this world after.
There is a reason why fallen angels do not exist in this world, why the tales that the ancient councillors tell over the glowing embers of a bonfire on the night of a clan gathering do not tell of an angel who has been bitten by a vampire. Such an act would be the ultimate betrayal to my kind, blasphemous, an attempt to deviate from the acrid tradition of hatred and spite for our 3000 year old enemy.
The councillors never take too lightly to betrayal. Of any kind.
Any angels who have been turned by a vampire have already ended up dead- but not by the hands of the vampires.
Maybe if I had any strength left at all in me, I might have shivered at that fact.
A fallen angel is the most controversial forms of 'hybrids'. Hybrids of any kind are always met with a certain type of awful repulsion- feared and equally admired by the creatures that roam through Faey with curious eyes and wanting hearts. But an angel-vampire hybrid- a fallen angel- is a combination that should never rightly mix. There would be no place for me in this world, or Illistrae- I could never return again to the throne, to the tyrannous, greedy hands of the council- my plans would be scuppered. And if I were to become a halfling vampire… Then I am to become a part of a horror story. A halfling is not a creature fit to live at all.
But I can do nothing, nothing, as the Scarlet Prince brings his wrist up to my mouth, wetting my lips with that nauseating crimson and the distinctly iron tang of a liquid I never thought I would find myself consuming. After I resist his first attempts, straining my body with what little energy it has left to keep my mouth shut, Soren frowns sadly, pressing a little more firmly. It is not that I want to take his blood, far, far from it, but I find as my mouth opens up against his wrist that my body simply doesn't have the energy left to fight any more. I have become a mere husk of the vivacious young sprite that I was, reduced to a pale whispering shadow, a shade of a being, condemning myself to an eternal fate as Soren's blood trickles into my mouth.
It tastes like death.
"There, there my little dove, my sweet darling mate," he coos, his voice whispering urgently against the shell of my ear as his blood trickles onto my tongue, cold as ice and twice as sharp. "I can save you, you will live and we can be together, you can see your friend again. I will not let you become what you fear to be. You have to fight the transformation, my dear, I know you can."
I sob quietly in sheer despair. No one in living history has fought the transformation that comes with a vampire's blood. And I- a weakened angel, straining to latch onto the last slivers of hope and life with barely more than a tether of consciousness, am hardly about to.
A vampire's blood is a dangerous thing, and about as lethal as the hosts in which it resides. To those like Soren, blood is a weapon, a force to control and a means to destroy; to him it is food, it is sustenance, regeneration, and it is the substance of his long, immortal life. Except this time.
Ever since I was a little girl, too young to understand why there were borders enclosing the people around our forests, and too naïve to comprehend the dangers of what exactly they were keeping out, there was something I understood without sense and reason, a morsel of knowledge that resided in the depths of my brain for as long as I can possibly remember:
If a vampire offers you their blood, you must never, never, take it.
You see, a vampire's blood is like a super-active virus. Unique to every vampire, a perfect blueprint of their being, their soul, their power. For a vampire to turn another, (though they rarely indulge themselves in such a rare commodity due to their horror at wasting precious blood on anyone other than their own kind), a vampire must give sufficient blood to create a proportionality powerful being. And then, to complete the final act for the turning to occur, you must kill them. It is this act which makes them both immortal and undead.
A drop of blood won't be enough to do damage, just as a singular virus is rarely enough to contaminate a healthy body, even a small mouthful may have no effects, or create the slightest impingement on the body to the extent it is barely noticeable. The virus of blood can be fought off, staved against- if the body is strong enough, but such cases rarely occur, for even with the smallest of doses, a vampire's blood will enact changes in your body that even the host is unaware of. Like any good virus, it leaves a permanent mark.
But the rate at which blood flows past my lips is certainly not a drop; my mouth is sticky with the red wetness that claws its way down my throat, entering my body with its invasive coldness like an arctic wind after a storm. A wintry frost runs through my veins, turning my blood to an icy cold, freezing up my insides. Tears flow down my cheeks as I struggle in vain against Soren's domineering grip. But it is of no use.
The first place the virus starts is the brain. From the lining of my stomach, it worms its way into my blood, trailing with it that icy chill that travels up through my veins with each beating pump of my heart. It burrows itself into my mind, slotting itself into the coding of the very fabric of my being, causing the tangy blood that runs past my lips to transform into a far sweeter taste. I groan heavily.
They say death is sweet, and I would be inclined to agree. Soren's blood is the sweetest and most delicious substance I have ever tried, there is no question about it. Like the honeyed nectar of the gods from the heavens, slick and delightful: the taste of my demise.
Soren doesn't even have to hold his hand up to my lips anymore, not as I draw my fingers up to his arm, clutching him tightly like a lifeline and allow my lips to willingly part to let the blood wash over my tongue. Through the haziness of my tormented mind, I can still recognise one thing: that this blood will be my saviour, but it will also be my doom.
Soren smiles a little, tangling his fingers within the strands of my hair to coo softly and reassuringly, as if he weren't poisoning my body with a virus I will never recover from. Yet in spite of the fact I have begun to vivaciously lap at the blood trickling down his arm, the Scarlet Prince still looks content, encouraging almost, as if seeing life return to my body is a far better alternative to letting me die untainted by his blood. There is a tense anticipation about him, as though he is waiting for something, some moment to spark into life and change the fate of this little game.
But as I drink, gulping down gulp after maddening gulp, no moment seems to come. The blood virus ensues.
Strength returns to my dying limbs as the wounds on my back heal themselves at a rapid rate, sewing themselves over at the skin re-graphs itself, reforming muscles and tendons, vessels and skin, rejuvenating the crumpled form of my body until it almost seems to glow with life. My body seems to almost hum with vitality, a faint enamouring light leaking from my skin simultaneously with that icy cold in my veins, the power of my soul working in conjunction with the virus of blood.
At last I pull away from his arm and sit up, eyes wild, breathing fast, crimson staining the outer corners of my lips with a maddening red. My body burns as it fights against the inevitability of the virus, but the truth of the matter is that I am far, far too weak to ever even attempt to stave it off. Soren however, doesn't seem to agree.
"Good," Soren breathes, lacing his fingers with mine as he leans us down onto the couch, trapping me beneath him to hold me still. Fear beats like a drum in my heart. "Your body is fighting my blood, your soul is working to maintain your form. Don't worry, my darling, it will be over soon. Do what you will to me, hit me, rage against me, if it helps you, then so be it. Do not let my blood consume you. After this you will be stronger, you will never have to die."
"Soren, I-" I let out a breathy gasp as a rush of pain floods over my body, a single tear escaping down my cheek as my body fights against this foreign infection that seeps its way into my bloodstream. The faint golden glow that emanates from my skin glows brighter, ardently blazing as my body fights in futile against this coldblooded invader. Soren's arms grip me tighter, his eyes widening a little.
I think he must realise in that moment, seeing my back arch in pain, tears stream down my cheeks, feel the foul cold radiating off my body like an artic winter, that no matter what potion he gave me, no matter how much he begs of me to fight it, it doesn't matter.
It is already too late.
Perhaps I should be grateful, be thankful that Soren has found some way to save my life and not simply let me pass into the great beyond like so many others would. But if I am to become what is supposed to become of me- a vampire, or worse, a hybrid or a halfling, there will be no place for me in this world after.There is a reason why fallen angels do not exist in this world, why the tales that the ancient councillors tell over the glowing embers of a bonfire on the night of a clan gathering do not tell of an angel who has been bitten by a vampire. Such an act would be the ultimate betrayal to my kind, blasphemous, an attempt to deviate from the acrid tradition of hatred and spite for our 3000 year old enemy.The councillors never take too lightly to betrayal. Of any kind.Any angels who have been turned by a vampire have already ended up dead- but not by the hands of the vampires.Maybe if I had any strength left at all in me, I might have shivered at that fact.A fallen angel is the most controversial forms of 'hybrids'. Hybrids of any kind are always met with a certain type of awful repulsion- feared and equally admired by the creatures that roam through Faey with curious eyes and wanting hearts. But an angel-vampire hybrid- a fallen angel- is a combination that should never rightly mix. There would be no place for me in this world, or Illistrae- I could never return again to the throne, to the tyrannous, greedy hands of the council- my plans would be scuppered. And if I were to become a halfling vampire Then I am to become a part of a horror story. A halfling is not a creature fit to live at all.But I can do nothing, nothing, as the Scarlet Prince brings his wrist up to my mouth, wetting my lips with that nauseating crimson and the distinctly iron tang of a liquid I never thought I would find myself consuming. After I resist his first attempts, straining my body with what little energy it has left to keep my mouth shut, Soren frowns sadly, pressing a little more firmly. It is not that I want to take his blood, far, far from it, but I find as my mouth opens up against his wrist that my body simply doesn't have the energy left to fight any more. I have become a mere husk of the vivacious young sprite that I was, reduced to a pale whispering shadow, a shade of a being, condemning myself to an eternal fate as Soren's blood trickles into my mouth.It tastes like death."There, there my little dove, my sweet darling mate," he coos, his voice whispering urgently against the shell of my ear as his blood trickles onto my tongue, cold as ice and twice as sharp. "I can save you, you will live and we can be together, you can see your friend again. I will not let you become what you fear to be. You have to fight the transformation, my dear, I know you can."I sob quietly in sheer despair. No one in living history has fought the transformation that comes with a vampire's blood. And I- a weakened angel, straining to latch onto the last slivers of hope and life with barely more than a tether of consciousness, am hardly about to.A vampire's blood is a dangerous thing, and about as lethal as the hosts in which it resides. To those like Soren, blood is a weapon, a force to control and a means to destroy; to him it is food, it is sustenance, regeneration, and it is the substance of his long, immortal life. Except this time. Ever since I was a little girl, too young to understand why there were borders enclosing the people around our forests, and too nave to comprehend the dangers of what exactly they were keeping out, there was something I understood without sense and reason, a morsel of knowledge that resided in the depths of my brain for as long as I can possibly remember:If a vampire offers you their blood, you must never, never, take it.You see, a vampire's blood is like a super-active virus. Unique to every vampire, a perfect blueprint of their being, their soul, their power. For a vampire to turn another, though they rarely indulge themselves in such a rare commodity due to their horror at wasting precious blood on anyone other than their own kind, a vampire must give sufficient blood to create a proportionality powerful being. And then, to complete the final act for the turning to occur, you must kill them. It is this act which makes them both immortal and undead.A drop of blood won't be enough to do damage, just as a singular virus is rarely enough to contaminate a healthy body, even a small mouthful may have no effects, or create the slightest impingement on the body to the extent it is barely noticeable. The virus of blood can be fought off, staved against- if the body is strong enough, but such cases rarely occur, for even with the smallest of doses, a vampire's blood will enact changes in your body that even the host is unaware of. Like any good virus, it leaves a permanent mark. But the rate at which blood flows past my lips is certainly not a drop; my mouth is sticky with the red wetness that claws its way down my throat, entering my body with its invasive coldness like an arctic wind after a storm. A wintry frost runs through my veins, turning my blood to an icy cold, freezing up my insides. Tears flow down my cheeks as I struggle in vain against Soren's domineering grip. But it is of no use.The first place the virus starts is the brain. From the lining of my stomach, it worms its way into my blood, trailing with it that icy chill that travels up through my veins with each beating pump of my heart. It burrows itself into my mind, slotting itself into the coding of the very fabric of my being, causing the tangy blood that runs past my lips to transform into a far sweeter taste. I groan heavily.They say death is sweet, and I would be inclined to agree. Soren's blood is the sweetest and most delicious substance I have ever tried, there is no question about it. Like the honeyed nectar of the gods from the heavens, slick and delightful: the taste of my demise.Soren doesn't even have to hold his hand up to my lips anymore, not as I draw my fingers up to his arm, clutching him tightly like a lifeline and allow my lips to willingly part to let the blood wash over my tongue. Through the haziness of my tormented mind, I can still recognise one thing: that this blood will be my saviour, but it will also be my doom.Soren smiles a little, tangling his fingers within the strands of my hair to coo softly and reassuringly, as if he weren't poisoning my body with a virus I will never recover from. Yet in spite of the fact I have begun to vivaciously lap at the blood trickling down his arm, the Scarlet Prince still looks content, encouraging almost, as if seeing life return to my body is a far better alternative to letting me die untainted by his blood. There is a tense anticipation about him, as though he is waiting for something, some moment to spark into life and change the fate of this little game.But as I drink, gulping down gulp after maddening gulp, no moment seems to come. The blood virus ensues.Strength returns to my dying limbs as the wounds on my back heal themselves at a rapid rate, sewing themselves over at the skin re-graphs itself, reforming muscles and tendons, vessels and skin, rejuvenating the crumpled form of my body until it almost seems to glow with life. My body seems to almost hum with vitality, a faint enamouring light leaking from my skin simultaneously with that icy cold in my veins, the power of my soul working in conjunction with the virus of blood. At last I pull away from his arm and sit up, eyes wild, breathing fast, crimson staining the outer corners of my lips with a maddening red. My body burns as it fights against the inevitability of the virus, but the truth of the matter is that I am far, far too weak to ever even attempt to stave it off. Soren however, doesn't seem to agree."Good," Soren breathes, lacing his fingers with mine as he leans us down onto the couch, trapping me beneath him to hold me still. Fear beats like a drum in my heart. "Your body is fighting my blood, your soul is working to maintain your form. Don't worry, my darling, it will be over soon. Do what you will to me, hit me, rage against me, if it helps you, then so be it. Do not let my blood consume you. After this you will be stronger, you will never have to die.""Soren, I-" I let out a breathy gasp as a rush of pain floods over my body, a single tear escaping down my cheek as my body fights against this foreign infection that seeps its way into my bloodstream. The faint golden glow that emanates from my skin glows brighter, ardently blazing as my body fights in futile against this coldblooded invader. Soren's arms grip me tighter, his eyes widening a little.I think he must realise in that moment, seeing my back arch in pain, tears stream down my cheeks, feel the foul cold radiating off my body like an artic winter, that no matter what potion he gave me, no matter how much he begs of me to fight it, it doesn't matter.It is already too late.
