Queen of the Damned
It's freezing. The snow falling heavily from a dark midnight sky, coating everything in a layer of ice cold, sparkling chill. His boots have frozen nearly solid, he can't feel his fingers, nor the skin on his cheeks and nose. Every breath is painfully cold, stabbing repeatedly over and over as fatigue builds gradually in his stiffening bones, but he knows if he stops walking now, they will freeze to death, and he refuses to let that happen.
Faintly behind him the odd screech or choked out holler whispers along the wind, sounds that make his spine shiver and his hands tuck his son tighter into his chest. He can smell it still, the further they get away - burning flesh, death all around him, the metal copper of blood - it all hangs heavily in the air.
They barely made it out before all hell broke loose. A lucky break that Roland had stretched his little hand and bopped Robin in the nose, a terrified look in his son's eyes - "Papa, fire." He'd rolled over to see the pulsing electric glow of wildfire burning the village around him to cinders, a flame used for one reason, and only that reason - Vampires.
He remembers not how they got out of their cottage, only that he had Roland slung into his arms, screaming in terror as Robin ran, through the crowd, passing bodies half broken and burnt, crimson blood streaming through the cobbled streets as women wailed in pain, their panicked husbands drawing weapons and torches that would do no good in the end. He tried to not look at the children as he ran. Couldn't bear to linger on the ones who sat in the frosty snow around their dead parents, some crying so hard their ribs surely would break, others just staring in shock, unable to move, easy targets for the devils that surely would consume them all.
It feels like his heart verges on throwing up thinking about those who didn't make it, and if he didn't have his own precious cargo to protect, he'd have stayed, and tried to rescue some of them. But he knew if he stopped moving, stopped running over dead bodies and through the flames, Roland would die at the hands of a monster.
So he ran. Into the darkness. Into the cold. Away from death. As far as he feet could carry him.
His son shivers in his arms, big brown eyes glassy and red rimmed heavily peeking up from the thick wool cloak. He looks so tired, worn out beyond what a five year old should be, having seen too much even if Robin had tried to hide his eyes from it all.
"Papa, I'm cold."
Robin's heart clenches, though he smiles softly down at his boy, "I know, my boy. Just keep singing Mama's song, alright? Stay awake for me." Aside from the devil's in the dark, Robin knows that a cold which settles into the bones for too long is a sure killer as well. He's lost many a friend to the winter elements, has seen their skin turn black with ice burns, fingers and toe tips splintering off, the ragged final breaths before death consumes them whole. If he doesn't find some shelter and get a fire going...no...he won't think of what will happen - they've made it this far, there is hope, he just has to keep his iced over feet moving regardless of whether he can feel them or not.
The heaviness in his joints is beginning to weigh him down, concrete building in bone and muscle with every step. He focuses on the slow, shaky breathing of his boy, the slight heat to the breath that puffs into the sky, the soft humming of his voice, skipping and faltering at points as hypothermia reaches deeper. They come to a crossroads - and Robin stops; it's dead silent - not a sound aside from his boots crunching the snow beneath.
This is the furthest east from their village he has been. He has no idea which way to go, what path to follow now that the road has split in the middle. North would be towards Brookenshire, but that is at least twenty miles away, they will never make it. Looking to the southern road, his eyes narrow, a chill the wind licks up his spine. It's darker, barren trees arching over to cling and wrap around each other, it's not exactly a road that many carriages travel is seems - the road is far too rough, filled with craters and holes. He has no idea what is that way... but something in his gut tugs him forward.
All roads must lead somewhere. He just prays that it's closer than the town he is turning away from.
"You gots snow in your beard, Papa." Roland giggles quietly from his cocoon, reaching his hand up to brush away the offensive cold from the near frozen whiskers on his chin. "Are the bad people coming?" His eyes are wide and fearful as he gazes up at his father, and Robin tries desperately to not show the terror that bubbles in his heart at the thought. In the woods they are completely exposed to the blood suckers. Smiling as calmly as he can, Robin shakes his head, bussing his cold nose to Roland's, "No, my boy, they are gone."
He knows it doesn't placate Roland, his boy is far too perceptive, which in moments like this, Robin wishes he wasn't. It would be so much easier to not see anxious panic painted in those brown eyes.
"How about you count the stars for me?"
Roland nods, shifts a touch as Robin sets forward onto the south road, winding their way deeper and deeper into the woods, praying they are gaining distance from whoever may be following. It seems to go on forever, the thickness of the trees expanding with every turn, hiding the moonlight Robin had been using to see.
By the time Roland reaches the end of his counting ability at forty four stars, Robin knows they are lost. He won't admit it, but he can't see much in front of him anymore, the air is uncommonly silent around them. His feet throb, icy pins and needles that drive up into his knee with every step. Roland is small, but the weight of carrying him for what feels like hours on end has Robin's arms burning, his back cramping beyond his ability to push the pain down anymore. He stumbles, lead feet catching a risen tree root and he damn near drops his son into the snow bank. Thank god his brain had enough sense to throw a hand out, bracing their fall on the tree trunk. He hisses, feeling the stabbing pain of something driven into his palm, scowls darkly at the blood that drips into the hem of the frozen tunic at his wrist. It's deep, a thorn protruding from the meaty pad of his palm.
"Roland, I need you to stand for a minute, lad."
"No!" he whines back, clinging tighter to Robin's neck. "Papa, I'm tired, my legs are cold."
Tears spring to Robin's eyes at the whimpered sob of his freezing five year old. It's not fair that he should have to endure this. They should have left years ago, before Marian... no - he doesn't want to think about what happened to her, not right now. Roland sniffs hard into Robin's scarf, "My belly is hungry. It hurts."
"I know son." Robin presses a hard kiss to Rolands curls. "We will stop soon okay?"
The thorn in his hand burning as blood oozes out of the punctured wound. He can deal with this pain for now, once they find shelter he can tend to it. Not now.
"Papa." Roland leans up, "Papa, look."
Robin turns, and his heart soars.
"It's a house, Papa!"
Robin beams, hugs his boy tight and wills his damned feet to start moving again. It's not five hundred yards away, tucked into a clove of trees, and the closer Robin gets the wider his eyes grow. It's not a "house" per se, but a magnificently large looming mansion. How he has never heard nor seen of this place before is beyond him, and a question for another time. It's grandiose, the kind nobles live in as far as he knows, the kind of places that have more rooms than occupants, an obtuse, obnoxious showing of riches in his opinion.
"Do you think they will have supper, Papa?"
"I don't know, my boy."
Silently, he sends a prayer up that these people will let them inside. Not all folks are welcoming to strangers, especially in these parts where one will never know if they are inviting in friend, foe, or a murdering undead creature. His heart hammers hard as they approach the front iron gate, it whines and screeches as Robin pushes it open, a god awful noise he hopes hasn't alerted those in the forest to their whereabouts.
It's all dark obsidian stone, high, thin turrets, thick green ivy that creeps up the walls along half of the right side. There is no smoke from any of the chimneys, which either means they are asleep, or perhaps no one lives here. It looks deserted enough, unkempt and untamed. Abandoned would be best in his opinion, at least for right now, until he can figure out where to take Roland.
Huffing the large oak door open, Robin steps slowly inside.
"Hello?"
His voice echoes into the farthest reaches - "Anyone in here?" - still nothing, not a single answer or sound aside from Roland's chattering teeth. Blowing out a breath, he closes the door, swings the wooden barricade lock down with a thump, praying it will keep unwanted things out.
Walking through the foyer he stares wide eyed at the massive curving staircase, the carved stone creatures that sit silently as guardians on the bottom. Crows he realizes. They are beautiful, intricate and almost lifelike. He's never really been a fan of the bird though, their piercing screeches, black, seedy eyes, dagger sharp beaks, and in his mind no bird should be as smart as a crow is. They can remember faces, miles and miles of land, and from what he has heard they are the messenger of magic carriers.
"It's quite something," he whispers out to no one in particular as his fingers drop from the carved bird's silk feathers, continuing down the hallway into the room on the left, which thankfully houses a massive, granite fireplace. Clearly whoever lived here had a taste for over the top sized things. The hearth stands nearly as tall as he does, wider than the cot he'd slept on for the past five years in their cottage. He settles Roland down on an armchair, wrapping his cloak around his little booted feet with a smile. "Let's get you warmed up."
There is firewood, stacked in eight perfect rows, enough that they can heat their frozen bones until the morning. It takes him a few times to get the matches to light, his fingers shaking relentlessly from the cold, but the second it ignites, Robin breathes a sigh of relief, gently guiding the small flame against the tinder, blowing gentle breaths to coax life into the fire. It heats, blossoms and crackles around the log, and the sting of heat on his cheeks is more than welcome.
"Come here, Roland."
The little boy slides off the chair with a tiny thunk, the leather hissing lowly at the movement. Robin notices just how pristine it is, the chair - it's impeccably clean, not a single crease in any part of the leather that hugs the frame. Surely there should be some wear and tear to it. Weather, especially cold frozen weather like this, will crack hard leather like that in an instant, yet, it sits there, singularly in the room, as though it's never been touched before.
His eyes drift around the walls as Roland settles between his thighs, tiny chubby hands rubbing together in front of the soft flames.
There is nothing really in here, not much furniture, not a picture hung on the walls. It's all long draping black curtains tugged across the windows, cascading from the peaked ceilings, down to the dark tinted stone floors. These people weren't much for seeing the sun then, he chews internally, and swipes his finger along the ground. It comes away without a speck of dust on it. Which is impossible, no person alive could keep stone from disintegrating even a little bit.
It's...strange.
Roland slumps against his chest, shucking his boots off so ten tiny toes can gain their feeling back. Robin leans down to rest his chin on his son's curls, reaching around to squeeze those little feet, massaging gently, feeling a touch of relief at the small sigh that escapes out of Roland as he grins up at Robin, all toothy and dimpled with exhausted eyes.
They need sleep. Both of them. And Robin just hopes that whoever owns this house won't mind their minor intrusion, or that those outside these doors will stay exactly there.
Wincing at the popping cracks in his joints as he stands, with Roland in tow, Robin shifts back to the leather chair, it will be better than sleeping on the hard stone he assumes, not that stiff leather is really any more forgiving. But it will do. His eyes are already drifting closed as Roland snuggles into his chest tighter, little hands tucked into his tunic, soft puffing breaths ghosting out.
The last thing Robin thinks before he too falls asleep, is how grateful he is that his son is safe, that they made it alive out of the massacre, and how desperately he needs to find a better home for them both. This is no life for a five year old, to be in constant fear of fangs sinking into butter soft skin - no, tomorrow he will find somewhere better where demons are a thing of the past.
If only he'd kept his eyes open a second longer, he would have seen that their abandoned shelter was home to another, one whose eyes sparkled a dark gold, warily curious at the invaders who ever so casually have taken up residence in a place where they have no right to be. But exhaustion takes over his body, his head bobbing heavily against his chest, a final long drawn in breath of consciousness before he sinks away. Not hearing the heels that click near silent on the stone floors, the swishing of a black cloak sweeping along the floors, closing the distance between intruder and stranger.
What an idiotic fool. A man without a brain clearly.
She arches a scowling brow at the silhouette snoring in her chair - Her! chair. The daft man must be wishing for death acting this bold. Breaking into her mansion, lighting a fire without her permission, warming his body by her hearth.
Snarling, she stalks silently behind him, ready to carve a single sharp nail across his throat. Quick and quiet. She's never been one to enjoy the screaming that echoes before death. The pitiful begging most screech out, the mess they make in their clothing out of fear. It's not her desired way. No, she prefers seeing their life ooze out slowly, a cascading waterfall she can drink for hours on end. It keeps them warmer this way anyhow. Letting their blood pool and clot within the confines of their bodies.
Her jaw waters the closer she gets, a thrumming need in her throat to soak down the taste of hot metal. It's been years since she's had live human prey so close. While most of her kind may terrorize villages, they are also the ones who die by a spike and green fires that burn flesh from their bones. A horrendous thought, her skin is far too perfect to take such a risk. Animal blood doesn't quite satisfy the same, but she's made do and is still "alive" in a manner of speaking for it.
But something about the smell of this man, heady and thick, has her eyes nearly rolling into her skull at the mere thought of dragging her tongue over his pulse, feeling it beat steadily as her fangs sink into the soft creamy flesh.
He's rather handsome, this idiotic man. Strong jaw, wide chest, slight scruff to his cheeks. It's a shame this is the place he decided to invade, the world needs pretty men like him.
Swallowing thickly, her fingers curl around the frame of her chair, dangerously close to the cloak draped about his broad shoulders. She inhales deeply behind him, feeling her entire body tense at the strange spark that flickers against her fingers as they trail over the side of a stubbled neck, a barely there touch, but it's enough to have her brow cinching.
Perhaps he has magic like she does? Perhaps he is here to finally end this abysmal life she is chained too. Such a fool he is. Sleeping ever so soundly, ever so unknowingly.
The memory of human flesh blazes through her, the hot meatiness hidden behind succulent skin. Deathly quiet, she leans over him, red merlot lips part wide, fangs pointed, jaw watering as she breathes in his scent.
"Papa?"
She freezes, flees back with a hand clutched over her heart that hasn't beat in over four hundred years.
A child.
He has a child with him, stretching beneath his father's cloak.
What fucking stupid man would bring his child into the living space of a vampire? She scowls darkly. Some people are just not fit to be parents. Rolling her eyes, she takes a silent step forward from the shadows, peering around to see the young voice's face.
It's all ruffled chocolate curls stuffed into the man's chest, a tiny button nose, small pink lips and big brown eyes that stare wide, and right at her. He shrinks into his father, terror written across his face, the tears bubbling quick and heavy in his eyes.
"Papa." He trembles, patting hard against his father's chest, "Papa, wake up!"
She should move. Vacate in a plume of smoke, but for whatever god damn reason, her feet stay frozen to the ground.
He's a beautiful child.
"I won't hurt you," she whispers softly, a completely foreign tone to her. But it's true, she won't ever harm a child. The loss of one is something she, even to this day, remembers far too well. Even for a dead monster, one that should have absolutely no feelings for anything or anyone, that pain has yet to fade away. The little boy stares wildly at her, shifting to hide most of his face in the cloak bunched around his body.
Licking her lips nervously, she swallows a heavy breath and takes another step, stilling when the boy whimpers and his tears begin to fall. "Don't cry," she hushes quickly, not particularly wanting to rouse the father. "Are you hungry?"
He nods, wipes his nose, though the tears paint his cheeks regardless. Magic blooms in her palm, "Do you like apples?" She extends her hand out to him, careful to not touch him as he narrows his gaze at her curiously before reaching for the offering.
Her lips part into a faint smile as he takes the apple, eyeing her up as he takes a hard crunch into the fruit, a dribble of sweetness running down his dimpled cheeks. Her heart thunders as he levels the most brilliant smile at her. "Do you live here?" he munches out, sitting a bit taller in his father's lap.
She nods, wisping a chair for herself into the room, settling down quietly as he awe's at the display, a hushed wow! escaping him. Somewhere deep something inside stirs within her. Something strange and foreign, a feeling long forgotten.
"Me and Papa are sleeping here."
"I can see that."
He smiles, wipes his mouth and flips the apple over to devour the other side. "What's your name?"
She stills, no one has dared asked for that in centuries.
"Mine's Roland!"
A name from Shirewood, meaning Strength and Purity. It suits him, she decides.
Thumbing at the hem of her cloak, she stares into the fires for a second, nerves creeping up her spine. The last living person she spoke to had been decades ago, some silly travelling peasant that stumbled across her path in the woods, luckily enough she had just finished feeding and had not been looking for a second meal.
It's strange though. And he is only a child, inquisitive minded, clearly, but still - this is not what she does, or who she is, nor has she ever been one for simple chatter with common folk, even less so since the night fate sought out to damn her to the undead.
"Regina." It's barely a whisper, a small, half nervous thing that slips out as she flares her gaze to him anxiously.
"Hi, Regina. This is my Papa."
He turns his chubby face upwards, and Regina freezes, being met with a pair of bright blue eyes staring stunned at her. His jaw tenses tightly, a hand wrapping firmly around his son, the other reaching for the knife tucked into his belt. Valkarian steel. A weapon meant to drive into the dark hearts of people like her.
"Papa, this is Regina's house!"
Neither of them say anything. His hard gaze holds hers darkly. He knows what she is. He must. The color of her skin, a shade off marble is a dead giveaway. But it's her eyes that are the true window. Golden brown when placated, a dark crimson when hunting, and near obsidian when feeling threatened, and she knows her eyes are painted the color of a midnight sky right now.
"She gave me an apple," Roland pipes up, fruit triumphantly in hand with a half mouthful.
Robin's eyes drop horrified, "Roland! Don't eat that!" He swipes the apple from his boy's hands, uncaring at the cry the young one lets roar, nor the glare Regina levels him with.
"I wasn't poisoning him," she spits hotly.
"I don't care. Don't touch him," he snarls back.
"Oh?" Her brow cocks high. "And what are you going to do about it?" she growls, a flame bursting into her palm. "I could have killed you both the second you decided to intrude in my home, and yet here you are."
It seems to hit him square in the chest, her words. She is right. He knows she is, though his grip doesn't slacken on the knife or his child. "We needed shelter." He gestures faintly down to his son who pouts within the confines of Robin's tight grip.
"Does it look like I care?"
He scowls, gives her an indignant huff. "Fine. We will leave."
"Papa, no! It's too cold outside."
His whimper has her eyes darting down to the young boy. He can't be any older than four or five. Small, tiny muscles and smaller bones that hold his frame up. But his eyes are boldly defiant. Clearly a trait from his father.
The man flicks his gaze to Regina who sits stalk still, a deep breath following before he settles down into her chair. "I mean no harm. I just needed to get my boy out of the snow and away from our village."
"Why?"
"Because the bad people came," Roland squeaks out.
Must be Gold. And the vile he chooses to surround himself with. What irks her more though is his blatant disregard that this is her territory. He should know better than to trespass. To say she isn't a fan of their "ways" is an understatement. They pillage, murder and kill without real reason or need. Psychotic beasts. They are the reason their kind has garnered such a scornful name.
"I ask your permission to stay the night." The man sighs, his piercing eyes stabbing through her, and they are rather nice, his eyes. They match the rest of him, handsome and strong. Perhaps she will let them live. She's gone this long without human blood coasting down her throat.
"And if I say no?"
"Then you are sentencing my boy and I to a certain death."
She glowers at him, knowing that he is using his son as a defence against her normal intuition to drink him dry of life. Licking her lips she eyes him up long and hard, glancing momentarily down to the little boy who stares wistfully down at the apple half eaten on the ground.
"Touch nothing," she seethes whilst standing to her full height, cloak sweeping around her, not missing the way his gaze travels her body momentarily. He nods curtly, a silent promise to abide her demands.
"Fine."
He smiles, barely, but it's there. Deep dimples behind the dark blonde scruff.
Huffing, she turns on her heel, leaving without a second glance, and trying desperately to not let the strange bubble in her gut blossom any bigger. No one has ever smiled at her like that. Her hand hits the stone crow on the staircase, a whispered watch them, ghosting out.
She hears the little boy telling his father her name, and the sharp understanding inhale that follows.
"Who is she, Papa?"
"She's a Queen, my boy."
"But her name is Regina?"
"Aye, Queen Regina."
A faint smile creeps onto her lips, he knows who she is, what she rules over. She waves her hand behind her, hearing the light gasp of the little boy and the brand new fruit that has landed neatly in his lap, a small, second not quite as perfect one for his father.
Who knew the Queen of the Damned had a soft spot for children, and apparently sapphire blue eyes.
TBC