His mind darted back to the light under the door, and the events of that night finally worked their way out of his silver agony induced stupor. The light, that light … Yes. He remembered it distinctly.
They had forced him on his knees before the Lap Dog. The blood loss and the silver had prevented him from properly fighting back against the two strigoi who held him down on either side. Four more stood directly behind him. Even in his current state, they were terrified of what he might be able to do. Rightly so.
He had looked up into the German's cold eyes, and they exchanged some unnecessary banter before the Nazi had raised a gun and pointed it distinctly between his eyes.
He had failed … after two thousand years, he had failed. Was this not his destiny? Was he not supposed to defeat The Master? What had he missed? He had failed them; he had failed Ancharia and he had failed her.
He considered closing his eyes, but instead locked gazes with the Lap Dog and simply smiled, "Finish it." At least he would be free and he had grown so very tired over the years.
Then there had been that light. It was as if someone had flipped a switch and turned on the sun itself. The room flooded with an intense burst of UV that baked all strigoi within its immediate shine: all the parasites that had been surrounding him, save only for Eichhorst. He remembered the German let out the most satisfying whimper before he quickly clawed his jacket over his face and used his impressive speed to bolt for the door. Damn … if he had been 4 inches closer, he would have been in its direct path and would not have been able to run. Damnation.
Without the support of his two guards, Quintus had fallen forward onto all fours. The silver was burning his insides with any and all movement. Hell, it was burning his insides with no movement either. He rocked back and sat on his heels to look up at the figure that moved apprehensively towards him.
It seemed large at first, but he immediately noted that the stature was quite short. It was too difficult for him to gauge properly from his perspective. He realized the figure itself wasn't large, rather the clothing it was wearing was though; obviously not meant for the size of the human that was inhabiting it. He saw a face hidden under the hood, but he was unable to make out any details. The pain blurred things. The silver needed to come out, it was killing him.
The figure continued to approach him, and he saw the glint of a knife in its right hand. He decided to be offensive, but his initial attempt to regain his footing failed and he met the floor with extreme intimacy. On his collapse, the figure stopped its approach and pulled its hood back.
Quintus squinted. The silver fever had already begun and he sneered, "FINISH IT!" It had been both a sneer and a plea at the same time, a combination of anger and desperation. He wanted a quick death, a warrior's death. To die from the silver fever would be agonizing.
It wasn't until he heard her soft voice, that he realized she was a woman. Her voice was high in pitch but soft in delivery. It gave an air of too much youth, but as he squinted at her dirty face further, he saw she was likely older than she sounded … at least slightly.
"What … " she hesitated and began again, her voice trembled … "What are you?"