Mine To Serve Alone
A Vampire Princess Miyu oneshot by Kian
~*~
They moved on, as was always necessary in order to maintain cover from human suspicion. Unlike Shiina, he knew why she had chosen to stay so long. However cold and detached she had been over the decades, there was still a part of her that was intensely human, much more-so than that embittered cur Reiha. This girl, this false girl, has fooled his little one into the belief that she could engage in a normal, unassuming friendship. In the end, it had appeared that the strange deaths had prompted the family of a stricken schoolgirl to move away from the painful memories for a fresh start. The humans were not far off in this assumption, in relative terms. His little one was indeed stricken, with guilt and all-consuming grief. But, true to form, he had been the only one who had seen her stumble, her weak moment, and lived to tell about it, if he so chose. In the end, though, she had taken the bird-man's present, the red kimono of her father's offering, which often caused him to ponder which of the two of them was more of a prisoner, the loyal servant or the steadfast Guardian?
He came to her aid even when not called, her blood pumping through his veins always slerted him to her danger. But unlike his mistress, he did not meet or learn the names of their victims or foes until on the battlefield. He did not risk attachment to Shinma or human, his concern resting solely with his little one. And concern it was. This fresh betrayal she was not taking lightly. It wore on her, weighting down her step, dulling the sharp light of her eyes. She had not tasted blood since.
She was not the only one affected by the birds' attacks, though. He often allowed himself to question his possessive nature and also his defense of the little one's abilities. He had not believed that she would lose, not even to her own emotions. Heartbreak, no matter its severity, always strengthened her. It was a character trait he respected and depended on. But her hurt never seemed to go away. And that was why he stood by her side. He was the only one who had power to bring an end to her grief, her pain, and he was fiercely protective of this role. In this way, he was her only comfort, a position he found very agreeable indeed. And this point was where he found his feelings split in opinion.
She had defeated him, a proud Western Shinma, and hid his face behind a mask that proclaimed his servitude. His defeat, his only defeat, was a source of shame and disgust for him. But it was a moment he held as a particularly dear memory in his mind. It was when he had first encountered his fearless little one, seen her eyes blaze with golden confidence, a beautiful and awe-inspiring sight. He could not hate her for her conquest; even at the time he had only felt respect and slight amusement in regards to the little one. He only ever loathed himself for his defeat, though the sting of the injury to his pride lessened every time she said his name. Truth was complicated indeed.
She owned him in ways that could only be called shameful; humbling him to wait upon her every command, spoken or unspoken. Perhaps, if she were other than what she was, he could have been able to hate her. But she was not cruel, nor was she fully dependent on his backup. She faced enemies alone if necessary, calling for aide only when it was truly needed, instead of hiding behind his more eclectic subduing procedures. And his little one trusted him, relying on his opinion and knowledge when making up her mind on something. He was her equal when she held her nightly vigils and she never second-guessed his embrace. In fact, she appreciated and took comfort from his actions when he would cover her with the folds of his garments, a visible incarnation of the possessive claim he had on her. She was his little one, and nothing, supernatural or otherwise, could pry him from her before it was their time. And that sentiment was a mutual one.
He was still warmed by the thought of her search for him when the past had come to try and reclaim him. She had suffered more from that encounter than he had. Even with the demise of his one-time friend, he had felt nothing but concern and affection for her. He would never forget the shock, the bone-chilling horror when they had taken him, when he had realized they intended to rip him from his little one. Nor would he forget the suffering that had radiated from her when she had called for him, and later at Reiha's betrayal of her two fledgling friendships. It was not the first time Reiha had acted so, and each time was a heavy blow against his mistress.
Reiha's final betrayal was no less crushing to his little one, for she never sought nor earned the other's malice. Due to his mistress' powerful sense of duty to the girl, she promised to wait for the continuation of their battle, allowing Reiha to mourn the loss of her surrogate father rather than hold to her challenge. And he despised the wretch for taking advantage of his little one's weaknesses. The needless interference and deaths, the continual patronizing and belittling speeches, the lingering hostility and resentment all wore on his mistress, adding a further burden to her stifled conscience. To imply that she had been responsible, accountable, for the passing of Reiha's true father and that his protection over and fondness for the other girl had severed his love for his daughter, was an action he could never forgive, nor let go unpunished. She hid it well as could be imagined, but he knew his little one had taken these charges to heart, believing and accepting every treacherous, selfish word. He hated the unnatural child deeply and anxiously awaited her demise at the point of his blade.
But even Reiha did not offend as the birds did. These despicable Shinma had sought open war with his mistress, war of an underhanded and perverse nature. They had attempted the unthinkable, to break his little one both body and soul by forcing her to choose. And they had taken him from her side, kept him from her, in the vain presumption that he could be torn from her. They had pushed him to call upon her blood, his shameful mark of servitude, to defeat them, for he had not the time to kill them of his own power. And she called, her blood called, forcing him to play his trump card to reach her in time. He hated them for having planned it all so thoroughly, for nearly succeeding. He hated his own weakness, his inability to see the trap for what it was. He had not protected his mistress; he had failed his little one. And he hated her especially, for wounding her so. He could think of no punishment in this world or the next severe enough for the bird-girl, no torture wicked enough to soothe his hatred.
Not only had she deceived his little one, but had murdered the two true friends his mistress had made, friends who had each discovered her secret, but might have understood and accepted it all in time. They were viciously ripped from her by the one she trusted most, who was no more than a farce, a mannequin for carrying the evil that lay within.
And yet, the falseness was so convincing, so deeply engrained in his mistress that she could not send her to her place in the darkness with the rest of her wretched kin. No, she was still so convinced of the puppet's prior wholesomeness and pure nature that she fashioned a paradise for it together with the other two girls. He despaired that she could not see the evil in sparing this one, but held his tongue as it was the only action that had helped the wounds.
They had left that same night; he would not allow her to stay amongst the painful memories. She had leant on him then, and many a time since, seeking the tenderness she felt she had lost. He longed to mend her, to see her continue forward with her unfaltering step. He longed to drown her within the length of his robes, to hear her play a night's melody upon her instrument. But it remained voiceless.
There were words for this back in the land from which he had come; human words that conveyed this longing, this need. He sang them to her when she sought him, though she did not understand. He murmured away her cold tears with foreign, mournful words. It was all his mistress sought of him, protection and compassion. In his love, he could remove all her pain for an eternity of rest, but his little one refused to ask.
Libera me, Domine de morte aeterna, libera me, Domine.
Lord, deliver me from death everlasting, deliver me, Lord.
Domine, dona eis dona eis sempiternam requiem, sempiternam requiem
Lord, grant them grant them everlasting rest everlasting rest
A Vampire Princess Miyu oneshot by Kian
~*~
They moved on, as was always necessary in order to maintain cover from human suspicion. Unlike Shiina, he knew why she had chosen to stay so long. However cold and detached she had been over the decades, there was still a part of her that was intensely human, much more-so than that embittered cur Reiha. This girl, this false girl, has fooled his little one into the belief that she could engage in a normal, unassuming friendship. In the end, it had appeared that the strange deaths had prompted the family of a stricken schoolgirl to move away from the painful memories for a fresh start. The humans were not far off in this assumption, in relative terms. His little one was indeed stricken, with guilt and all-consuming grief. But, true to form, he had been the only one who had seen her stumble, her weak moment, and lived to tell about it, if he so chose. In the end, though, she had taken the bird-man's present, the red kimono of her father's offering, which often caused him to ponder which of the two of them was more of a prisoner, the loyal servant or the steadfast Guardian?
He came to her aid even when not called, her blood pumping through his veins always slerted him to her danger. But unlike his mistress, he did not meet or learn the names of their victims or foes until on the battlefield. He did not risk attachment to Shinma or human, his concern resting solely with his little one. And concern it was. This fresh betrayal she was not taking lightly. It wore on her, weighting down her step, dulling the sharp light of her eyes. She had not tasted blood since.
She was not the only one affected by the birds' attacks, though. He often allowed himself to question his possessive nature and also his defense of the little one's abilities. He had not believed that she would lose, not even to her own emotions. Heartbreak, no matter its severity, always strengthened her. It was a character trait he respected and depended on. But her hurt never seemed to go away. And that was why he stood by her side. He was the only one who had power to bring an end to her grief, her pain, and he was fiercely protective of this role. In this way, he was her only comfort, a position he found very agreeable indeed. And this point was where he found his feelings split in opinion.
She had defeated him, a proud Western Shinma, and hid his face behind a mask that proclaimed his servitude. His defeat, his only defeat, was a source of shame and disgust for him. But it was a moment he held as a particularly dear memory in his mind. It was when he had first encountered his fearless little one, seen her eyes blaze with golden confidence, a beautiful and awe-inspiring sight. He could not hate her for her conquest; even at the time he had only felt respect and slight amusement in regards to the little one. He only ever loathed himself for his defeat, though the sting of the injury to his pride lessened every time she said his name. Truth was complicated indeed.
She owned him in ways that could only be called shameful; humbling him to wait upon her every command, spoken or unspoken. Perhaps, if she were other than what she was, he could have been able to hate her. But she was not cruel, nor was she fully dependent on his backup. She faced enemies alone if necessary, calling for aide only when it was truly needed, instead of hiding behind his more eclectic subduing procedures. And his little one trusted him, relying on his opinion and knowledge when making up her mind on something. He was her equal when she held her nightly vigils and she never second-guessed his embrace. In fact, she appreciated and took comfort from his actions when he would cover her with the folds of his garments, a visible incarnation of the possessive claim he had on her. She was his little one, and nothing, supernatural or otherwise, could pry him from her before it was their time. And that sentiment was a mutual one.
He was still warmed by the thought of her search for him when the past had come to try and reclaim him. She had suffered more from that encounter than he had. Even with the demise of his one-time friend, he had felt nothing but concern and affection for her. He would never forget the shock, the bone-chilling horror when they had taken him, when he had realized they intended to rip him from his little one. Nor would he forget the suffering that had radiated from her when she had called for him, and later at Reiha's betrayal of her two fledgling friendships. It was not the first time Reiha had acted so, and each time was a heavy blow against his mistress.
Reiha's final betrayal was no less crushing to his little one, for she never sought nor earned the other's malice. Due to his mistress' powerful sense of duty to the girl, she promised to wait for the continuation of their battle, allowing Reiha to mourn the loss of her surrogate father rather than hold to her challenge. And he despised the wretch for taking advantage of his little one's weaknesses. The needless interference and deaths, the continual patronizing and belittling speeches, the lingering hostility and resentment all wore on his mistress, adding a further burden to her stifled conscience. To imply that she had been responsible, accountable, for the passing of Reiha's true father and that his protection over and fondness for the other girl had severed his love for his daughter, was an action he could never forgive, nor let go unpunished. She hid it well as could be imagined, but he knew his little one had taken these charges to heart, believing and accepting every treacherous, selfish word. He hated the unnatural child deeply and anxiously awaited her demise at the point of his blade.
But even Reiha did not offend as the birds did. These despicable Shinma had sought open war with his mistress, war of an underhanded and perverse nature. They had attempted the unthinkable, to break his little one both body and soul by forcing her to choose. And they had taken him from her side, kept him from her, in the vain presumption that he could be torn from her. They had pushed him to call upon her blood, his shameful mark of servitude, to defeat them, for he had not the time to kill them of his own power. And she called, her blood called, forcing him to play his trump card to reach her in time. He hated them for having planned it all so thoroughly, for nearly succeeding. He hated his own weakness, his inability to see the trap for what it was. He had not protected his mistress; he had failed his little one. And he hated her especially, for wounding her so. He could think of no punishment in this world or the next severe enough for the bird-girl, no torture wicked enough to soothe his hatred.
Not only had she deceived his little one, but had murdered the two true friends his mistress had made, friends who had each discovered her secret, but might have understood and accepted it all in time. They were viciously ripped from her by the one she trusted most, who was no more than a farce, a mannequin for carrying the evil that lay within.
And yet, the falseness was so convincing, so deeply engrained in his mistress that she could not send her to her place in the darkness with the rest of her wretched kin. No, she was still so convinced of the puppet's prior wholesomeness and pure nature that she fashioned a paradise for it together with the other two girls. He despaired that she could not see the evil in sparing this one, but held his tongue as it was the only action that had helped the wounds.
They had left that same night; he would not allow her to stay amongst the painful memories. She had leant on him then, and many a time since, seeking the tenderness she felt she had lost. He longed to mend her, to see her continue forward with her unfaltering step. He longed to drown her within the length of his robes, to hear her play a night's melody upon her instrument. But it remained voiceless.
There were words for this back in the land from which he had come; human words that conveyed this longing, this need. He sang them to her when she sought him, though she did not understand. He murmured away her cold tears with foreign, mournful words. It was all his mistress sought of him, protection and compassion. In his love, he could remove all her pain for an eternity of rest, but his little one refused to ask.
Libera me, Domine de morte aeterna, libera me, Domine.
Lord, deliver me from death everlasting, deliver me, Lord.
Domine, dona eis dona eis sempiternam requiem, sempiternam requiem
Lord, grant them grant them everlasting rest everlasting rest