SURPRISE! This is my Valentine's Day Fic Exchange for whatisthisautumnsorcery!
I kind of went overboard with the prompt and took it to a whole other level when I started to plan it out in my mind and started to do research into Irish and English mythology. I hope you like it and I hope I did your prompt justice!
I spent a great deal of time researching Irish and English myths and legends as well as the history where the legend stories take place. There are (relatively) short A/N's at the end of each chapter explaining some of the myths, legends, and history behind each chapter. I'll also be updating everyday, so enjoy!
o o o
The dark Dublin night did not fail him. Michael found his prey. Cornered in a lonely cobblestone alley, the old woman started to weep, knowing her fate was sealed. Michael gripped the knife in his hands, trying in vain to fight the urge for her blood. No matter how many times he tried to stop himself, his lust for the sweet nectar flowing through her veins called to him. He needed to feed.
Michael cried out, tears rolling down his cheeks. He hated himself. His grandfather and mother told him it got easier as time passed, but he never got used to feeling his victims grow limp in his arms as he watched the blood drain away from their bodies and into his stomach.
He had tried to control himself his entire life, only drinking blood once a month, but the urge became stronger when his wife had fallen pregnant with their second child. He could feel the child's need for blood. Any blood Michael drank would soothe his and his child's blood lust. He felt his child's empty stomach and his own hunger. He feasted on pigs' blood as his wife grew in size, hoping the substitution would be enough to protect his child from craving human blood and satisfying their needs. But the child grew restless and Michael knew the consequences. If their child was hungry enough, Margaret would be killed.
Tonight, the urge for human blood was too much to bear. His wife was in labor and due to give birth to their child any moment. In the womb, Michael could feel his child's desperate screams for blood. He must hunt.
He stared at the old woman in front of him, trembling and begging him not to kill her. She dropped her parcel in front of her feet and fell to her knees, reaching for the rosary around her neck, praying to God that her death would be swift.
Michael cried harder, realizing who he was about to drink form. He had seen her before. She was the butcher's wife. She and her husband owned the butchery two streets down.
"Please, Mr. Branson!" She cried out.
Michael took a step towards her, the sickeningly sweet smell of her blood enticed him. He would have to stab her in the neck instead of using his fangs. He and his family had lived in Dublin since he could remember and they had ways of masking their true identities. No one in Dublin ever suspected that there was a Droch-fhola walking the streets, hiding in plain sight.
The urge was growing stronger. He stepped closer to the woman and stepped in a puddle, but instead of feeling the splash of water on his boot, he felt and smelled something thicker.
Blood.
She was carrying blood.
Losing all control, Michael threw himself on the cold cobblestone ground of the alley, ravenously licking the stones. He didn't care if it was proper or not. He and his child needed to feed and blood was blood.
Knowing that this was the old woman's only chance to escape, Michael growled at her.
"Go to your butchery. Get all the blood you can carry and bring it here. Go on! DO IT!"
Obediently, the woman rushed past him as he lapped at the blood on the ground. She returned minutes later carrying jugs of blood on her arms and back. Slumped over on the pavement, Michael snatched the jug from the woman's arms and drank.
"YOU TELL NO ONE! LEAVE ME!" he shouted as he sat, blood covering his mouth and chin, spilling onto the front of his shirt. She left the jugs at his side and fled the scene. Michael reached for another jug, then a third, then a fourth. By the fifth jug, the sweetness of the blood quickly turned metallic. The red liquid that fueled him for so long no longer appealed to him. He spit it out, disgusted by the taste. How could it have changed so quickly?
Realizing what must have happened, Michael hung his head low and started to bawl, knowing it would never end.
. . .
Little Tom Branson slept soundly in his cradle.
He had refused his mother's milk, but his stomach was full.
A/N: The Droch-fhola is the Irish vampire. Though there are other legends, this legend of the Droch-fhola is the one I took from.