Allow me to make a brief introduction to this new series before you continue reading. :)
As per the description, this story is set in a Gothic AU, with lace, frills, macabre and the like. As for Ivan and Yao, think of it as a dom/sub relationship, but lighter in the content and more elegant.
I often read old gothic novels and romantic poetry when I was younger. Authors like Poe, Keats, and the Bronte sisters actually inspired me to write in the first place. Here, I'm not trying to imitate their writing style, but this story is a little heavier in descriptions and character development than my last series. Though I have modernized the language a bit, the current style I'm taking is pretty exhausting to write, and as I imagine, to read. So the chapters will be shorter.
Both Ivan and Yao are deeply twisted and flawed characters, and this story essentially shows how their relationship spirals downward as time goes on. The first chapter is an introduction, and with the exception of the conclusion, the rest of the chapters will be diary entries written by Ivan and Yao. There will be five chapters in total.
I think for my next series, I'll change to telling a more heroic, feel-good tale.
So yeah, happy reading! I hope you enjoy "Tithe"!
Water dripped onto the floor in slow, steady taps— a polite memento that time had not stopped, even if it seemed like everything in the room was frozen, encased within the lead-heavy air. To Ivan, it was the only constant amidst the multitude of thoughts swirling in his head, the light, percussive sounds evoking a certain mode of order, of sanity within him. Having been enmeshed in his mental thickets for so long, Ivan needed to be reminded that there was still life in his physical vessel. His heart was still beating, and lungs expelling breath.
Before him was skeleton, every detail of which had been perfectly preserved from the time of death to now. A remarkable feat of nature, really. All of his joints were still intact, albeit a little rusty. The biretta on his head was still encrusted with jewels, and the thick black cloak he wore had yet to fall victim to hungry moths. Even the sword that took his life was still protruding from his chest, its clean, sharp blade reflecting the torchlight from above.
Upon the base of the sword was an unmistakable carving of the emblem of Ivan's family, Braginsky. Ivan let his eyes rest there for awhile, watching orange flames dance from the sword's gleaming surface. He gripped the handle and cautiously withdrew it, letting a few ribs fall like dominos. He placed the weapon into the empty sheath strapped on his waist, and looked fondly at it as if he had been reunited with an old friend.
Ivan didn't need to pry too deeply in retrieving that memory of a dreary winter's night, many years ago, when he had taken the man's life. This kill was the first of a myriad, and because of that, Ivan had dedicated a peculiar place in his mind for it.
Being the first didn't make it enjoyable, however. Ivan never enjoyed to kill. To him, it was just... special. The moment deserved to be stowed away like a certain manner of luxury, and re-examined many times like an ancient riddle.
Thereafter, Ivan never bothered to keep track of the other lives he had taken. To him, they all might as well had been one grey blur. Perhaps what made his first time so unforgettable was that he could actually recall it.
Ivan stood up. Sparing the skeleton one last glance, he stepped out of cathedral and into the rain. The skies were a sad, pale hue today. Tumbling clouds chased across the sky— a reflection of the unsettling seas below— the offing in the distance melding into a single canvas.
The cathedral stood on an islet amidst the sea, and a loyal chariot was waiting for him on land. Ivan stepped into a boat, his stance unfaltering against the thrashing black waters. He rowed towards the beach, his staunch arms and massive strength making the deed effortless.
He stepped up to the shore, and tipped his hat at his chauffeur, Toris. The man quickly gestured for his master to rise onboard, without saying a word out of line. Toris scrambled up to the ledge and pulled on the reins, as the steed neighed to life. They made their way upon the gravel path, and rode into the night. From afar, a cackling raven dipped from the branch upon which it was perched, and flew into the moon's eye.
Though not manifested, Ivan actually felt restless about the prospect of going home. In fact, he had been restless all the time these past few days.
Though Toris dared not to turn his head back to see, he knew that his master's violet eyes, peeking from behind sandy bangs, were glowing more viciously tonight than usual.
The horse could not trot any faster along the misty glens, and Ivan galled at the fact. Anticipation was making his stomach churn. Wet wind blew into his face, which he wiped off with his bare hands. He hung his head, and stared down at his boots. The midnight bells' chime echoed across the expanse, which Ivan acknowledged with a deep stirring at the pit of his stomach. The pearly white moon dangled from the heavens above.
A century ago, the founders of this land, the Braginskys, had built what was the largest, most impressive piece of architecture the county. Because it was situated in the lowlands, and thanks to the incessant rainfall for the past fortnight, Ivan's home had become a miniature Venice. But without sun, of course.
The chariot trudged through the muddy swamp of a front yard like flat ground, having made the same trip many times before. Ivan shifted in his seat uncomfortably, and his eyes scanned with indifference across the fleet of decaying sculptures across the garden. If his mind had been more imaginative then, he would have believed that the choir stone-etched angels were drowning.
An arcade of stone beams defended the front porch, onto which Ivan had stepped after bidding farewell to Toris. Two stark naked goddesses stood guard before the front doors, which Ivan just pretended were nonexistent, having laid eyes on them so many times before. Long ago, when his forefathers first laid the groundwork for the mansion, they had hired some architects from the Tropics, hoping their foreign talent would bring a fresher outlook. Ivan himself wasn't too fond of Roman art, with all its silly indecencies and confounding precision. But then again, he never became fond of anything unless given a reason to.
Stepping into the foyer, Ivan was greeted with the familiar chandelier hanging from the ceiling, which had collected a tissue of cobwebs since his last visit. However, the marble floors remain polished, pristine, like mirrors from which Ivan perceived his sodden, beaten reflection. Undefeated by the sight, he stepped to the end of the chamber, where stood a stone altar.
Candlelight twinkled at him, providing a pinch of warmth within the desolate sphere. A bed of silk laid upon the cold, solid surface, silk from the Far East, of which he had acquired an ample amount ever since seeing his precious little fawn in traditional European attire became an eyesore. Fresh rose petals from the moors down yonder were splashed upon it, their shells still wet with morning dew. But they were all but dead plant matter, in contrast to the one flower that bloomed most vibrantly of all, his flower. Truly, it was a sad sight to see him laying between that which shriveled in comparison.
Ivan took the other's hand, cupped his frail wrist, and felt his pulse, which was getting slower and slower by the second.
Yao was fading away.
Though, Ivan would like to believe that he had treated him well. Yao was well-fed, kept warm, and they frequently went for strolls into the outside world. Ivan had crowned him in opulence, and doused his toes in luxury. He invested all the time and attention he had in this hobby of his, which over time had become more of a guilty pleasure. Ivan cared enough to study Yao like a book, to engrave deeply in his memory every little thing that pertained to him.
His eyes— hazel in colour; his hair— black as tar; his lips— like cherries; his complexion— fair and rosy; his stance— petite, fragile.
Having the ardent heart of a true artist, Ivan made sure that every morning, the sun only basked its light upon perfection, and nothing else. It was perfection that no one else could achieve but Yao, which was a reminder that Ivan would often lean over to quaintly whisper into his ear.
But all that effort was wasted. Yao's once strong, beating heart now fluttered between life and death. Though, it mustn't be that Yao was ungrateful for what Ivan had done, and chose to betray him by slipping into eternal slumber. He had the mind of an angel, and could not think such lowly thoughts!
No, it must be that what Ivan did for him wasn't enough.
TBC
Thanks for reading, and please tell me what you think!
I'll try to write the second chapter as soon as possible. I just published the first one because I couldn't resist, and wanted an incentive to continue writing. ^^ Might be awhile though, I have an exam to study for first.