Paroxysm (n):
1. A sudden, intense expression of strong feeling.
2. Violent disruption of power.
Phobetor (n):
The son of Hypnos, god of sleep, is the god of nightmares. He walks in dreams, a nightmarish figure, inflicting fear on those who deserve it.
1879- Russo-Turkish War.
Liquid ruby flowed through his teeth. It was a sensation he prayed he would never have to face. This particular flavor was repugnant, putrid, the blood tasted soiled. This woman was not supposed to die. Certainly not like this.
Falling droplets of blood joined hers over the ever whitening skin of her face as red tears began to flow and drip from his chin, further dirtying her pristine flesh.
'She will never be yours, demon.'
The threat laced within those words had never truly hit their mark until this very moment as she lay dead in his arms. He curled around her body protectively, clutching her small head to his chest as the rest of her mangled body sprawled out in a disheveled, vulgar, manner between his slightly parted knees.
That foul excuse of a human had been right. She could never be his. And now, as her broken, violated body lay in ruins, slathering red bruises over his clothes, he felt the weight of responsibility at his negligence. Now he mourned the loss of the only purity in his life due to his own reckless indecision.
Together they had recovered from their personal Hells. They escaped purgatory better known child slavery as a pair: one living, the other dead. Though, it would now seem that her Hell had far exceeded his comprehension.
He always imagined that in a time of dire need, in the unimaginable event of her premature death, he would turn her. Then, although she would lose the perfect innocence of her soul, she could stay with him and continue shielding him from this suicidal hate that currently felt exceptionally irrepressible. Tremors fell over his body as he tried to contain himself as not to crush her delicate little corpse.
No.
He felt her body begin to stiffen as rigor mortis slowly set in and this set off a chain reaction of violence that he was hard pressed to suppress. He couldn't lose this small shred of restraint she had given him. Not now. For now he was fated to endure an immortal life without light, without his guardian angel.
Finally gaining the courage to look at her face fully, his typically uninhibited grin nonexistent, it was replaced instead with a hard line as he traced her soft features with crimson eyes, then once more with the gentle pad of his fingertip to memorize her every line, curve and imperfection. The loveliness of her features aside, her pallid throat was completely eviscerated and torn in two from where he desperately attempted hoarding her dying soul in the darkness by biting her. His eyes traveled to her habit. It was torn from stomach to hip and the entire hem was forcibly removed, blood from the savage act of defloration evident across the white fabric. His stomach turned. He wanted to believe she was simply too holy to become a vampire.
His eyes wandered down the stretch of her left arm to her fingers, then over that blasted piece of metal encircling the space above one knuckle engorged with death. He couldn't help but utter a choked laugh, which sounded more like a sob. Even as she was being brutalized she refused to fight back, her hands were without cuts and defensive wounds. It was just the way she was, she likely prayed for the forgiveness of her attacker as he tore her body apart.
It was still there, mocking him, on her small hand was a small golden ring. His eyes squeezed shut to cut off the vicious screaming in his head.
A purity ring.
For years he tried to woo her with everything in his power. It became a game to make her give in to him like so many women had in the past, to make her give her body to him and no one else until the end of eternity. To make her marry him, sleep with him, stay with him, forever. His unbeating heart twisted painfully in his chest at all of the time he wasted on something so trivial as sex. She never did give him what he wanted. She was too good. Far too good for a diabolical creature such as him.
Slow crunching footfalls came to his ears as a pair of white boots with gold trim appeared in the top corner of his visual field, distracting him from the dead girl. There were small stains of blood on this one's robes, a pair of scythes on his back.
"Бедняжка" that slimy, accented voice came, "Это не должен был быть этот путь…" the male chided from above in a language the vampire could not understand, "Она была весьма красотой, она была нет?"
He understood that word. Artemy had spoken it so many times, how could he ever forget?
Красотой. That monster called his Artemy beautiful? Yes, she had been. But that was not for her desecrater to judge.
Violent fury overtook the vampire. He reached up with one long arm and gripped the skin of his smirking enemy's face, separating it from the adipose tissue beneath, then sloughing the loose dermis from its host, discarding it casually, yet, carefully as not to taint his fallen lover's corpse.
The Count stood as fresh blood dripped from his fingertips to cast a long moonlit shadow over the squirming man who gripped the exposed muscle of his face, screaming in pain.
Those were the last words that profane mongrel would ever utter. Aside from the bloodcurdling cries for absolution that echoed across the landscape as he tore the vile excuse for a human apart, savoring each cry and plea with satisfaction.
Vlad Dracula grimaced when the skinned man began moving, reaching out in desperation.
Even in death this creature had the audacity to reach out to her with an arm only composed of blood and torn muscle. The unnervingly calm vampire ceased the man's diminutive progress by crushing the extended arm under a heavy boot, causing it to explode into a fine ocean spray of red.
The man let out a strangled yell just before Vlad severed his throat, transforming the helpless scream into desperate gargles and voiceless gasps for air.
Vlad was unwilling to allow any part of his angel's ruiner to become part of his soul by sinking his teeth into the squirming mass of pitiful gasps and tears at his feet. Though the fear in the damned creature's eyes may have made it worth the sacrifice.
Small pitiful garbled noises escaped the skinned man's disfigured throat as the massively tall, dark haired vampire drove his daggar-like fingers through his chest to dig out the monster's beating heart, only to crush it in front of his fluttering eyes. Only when the man was reduced to a twitching worm did the vampire toss the deflated sack of meat to the ground.
Staying true to his reputation as Vlad the Impaler, he laughed at the whirlwind of blood and disarray surrounding him, even as those endless, heartbroken tears dribbled from his chin.
...
Alucard woke in a state.
He hadn't thought of her in an unforgivably long time.
It was amazing what detail his memory still served him with. Each strand of her platinum hair was placed in meticulous detail. The sensation of tearing through that filth's chest cavity, cracking his ribs, then reveling in the choked cries of desperation as that foul monster died watching his own heart crushed before his eyes.
It was all so real.
The dark haired vampire closed his eyes again more tightly to rid himself of the memory only to face another onslaught of images. These were far more tolerable yet exceedingly more agonizing.
They were of Artemy's sweet face smiling up at him when she told him she was joining a convent. Then the memory of how angry he became and how many times he commanded that she choose another lifestyle. It made him feel ill.
The scent of her virgin blood pulsing through her veins. The sound of her erratic heartbeat when he pushed her up against the stone wall with the full intent of drinking her only to give her a small kiss. At which, she promptly slapped him across the face with a peach colored blush painted prettily across the bridge of her nose.
A smile crossed his face at the memory.
He had chosen to let her do what made her happy, or whatever well masked emotions she felt toward the institution. If it helped her sleep at night, to ward off her own demons, then it was good enough for Vlad Dracula, Alucard, The Count, No-Life King, or any other aliases he went by. She knew what he was, she saw his every mistake when she looked into his eyes as a small child with so little fear it was almost disappointing. She accepted his sins and forgave him endlessly. Even now he couldn't regret allowing her to go down that path of immaculate rectitude. Even when he knew the deplorable consequences of his ignorance.
Imagining that she was safe with God was a result far more fulfilling than any hateful rage he could conjure toward his negligence at the moment. After all of this time he couldn't regret that she had died rather than become the darkness as he had.
And with that thought in mind, he found enough peace to allow sleep to find him once more.