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This is literally a dumping ground for all the little Drabbles and Oneshots that tend to pop up in the margins of my books. Enjoy if you will. Feedback is very much appreciated.


At the end of it all, Vlad could only look back to a pile of dust and and a crushing feeling in his chest.

At the time he had thought his actions had made sense; Bertrand had appeared to be a traitor, and the Tutor had always been a starch believer of the proper way to deal with a traitor.

No one could ever say he hadn't learnt from the best.

Except Bertrand wouldn't have let his anger determine his actions; he was far too clever, far too smart to let anger be the sole determinator of fate, and far too noble to stake another being when they hugged you.

Maybe Vlad had been taught from the best, but it seemed as if he sure as hell hadn't learnt anything.

The stake in his hands had felt so right in his hollow anger at the betrayal of his tutor; but the weight in his hands, and the pile of dust was now nothing but a heavy reminder of the price that those around him payed for being so close. The price ofloyalty.

Surely the French Vampire would have been so much better off had he decided not to play bodyguard for the Chosen One. He'd certainly be alive, for one. Maybe he would have returned to his home country, among those who spoke the language he knew best of all. Knowing his nature, he'd probably have found a nice Castle and stockpiled a grandiose library to satisfy his particular tastes for literature while everyone had denied the existence of a Shapeshifter.

Even there, he hadn't learnt anything from the sole Vampire who was utterly loyal to him.

But now the pile of dust was gone, and he couldn't even try to rectify his mistakes with a proper sendoff.

And the crushing feeling in his chest could only be described in an utterly Bertrand manner;

'Avoir le mal de quelqu'un'; The feeling of missing someone so badly, it makes you sick.

He had learnt his lesson far too late.


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