If death was a bitch, then childbirth, for all intents and purposes, made you its bitch, because there was nothing quite like swimming in a pool of amniotic fluids one second to being wrung out of some poor woman's birthing canal the next. It was an experience she wishes the reincarnation deities had spared her from, but it seemed god had forsaken her in her second lifetime as well, dooming her to suffer the mortification of being attached to a stranger's nipple for the subsequent two years.
That, and the croons of her new mother, affectionately referring to her as "ma chère Vivi". Whoever said God didn't have a sense of humor was a liar, because not only did she now share the same name as her friend's favorite k-pop star's dog, but out of all things, she'd been born French.
She hated the French. And it wasn't just because her high school French teacher had driven her to dropping the class after humiliating her to the point of tears when she'd mistakenly replied "je suis chaud" to an inquiry about the weather.
…she hated the French.
More importantly, she hated Ruthven—the tall, imposing vampire with the face of a gargoyle that had taken up residence in the living room of her father's homely flat. She glares at him from a crack in the doorway, eyes narrowed. If he senses her, he doesn't react, choosing to nurse his tea with closed eyes.
"You've been gone a while, Ludwig," he states, matter-of-factly; no animosity or underlying venom (then again, for all she knows, the statement could've been a declaration of war; vampire politics and all). "The senate has noted your absence. I cannot shield you any further."
Across from him, her father says nothing, continuing to sip the tea she'd prepared (he'd always had poor culinary skills, something she'd begrudgingly decided to make up for). There is a momentary pause before he opens his eyes, unreadable, to meet Ruthven's.
"The senate, or you?"
She stares contemptuously, paying no heed to the kettle currently setting her fingers ablaze. Ruthven, Ruthven—where had she heard that name before? She squints, ruminating over the blurring, sepia-hued memory fragments of her past life while pushing the door open with her hip. Ruthven, Ruthven, Ruthven… a name better suited for some distant relative of the Addams family than the googly-eyed blokes she'd been acquainted with in her previous incarnation.
That unsettling, ochre gaze rests on her momentarily when she sets down the tray on the table; what would normally be considered a fleeting glance feels like hours, making the hairs on the back of her neck go rigid, but she returns his stare with her own, unblinking one, having decided life wasn't really worth living if it meant growing up in 19th century vampire!AU France.
Unfortunately, Ruthven is neither homicidal nor ruffled. An offense she takes personally, considering how she'd been both feared and bullied for the odd, ghoulish rouge of her eyes—a painfully ironic giveaway of her lineage in the human world, which really did suck because she couldn't even reap the benefits of full vampirism; and it was during one of those days where she'd spent cooped up in her flat away from prying eyes (her father had written her condition off as partial albinism (not that it fooled anyone)), watching kids her age cuss and kick rainwater at their friends' clothes from her living room window that she realized that God had either forsaken her or was teaching her some karmic lesson for terrorizing the boy she had a crush on in kindergarten because she would've rather died than admit to puppy love.
Her lack of human interaction didn't necessarily send her spiraling into depression or promote daddy issues; it simply left her a touch socially impaired. Nothing a monthly visit from a persistent Dante didn't cure, though it would be wise to mention he would depart in tears screaming obscenities about what a "sadistic monster" she was more often than not.
"Your daughter," Ruthven breaks her train of thought. Blinking, she peers at him through a curtain of unkempt hair, mouth set in an unsoft, straight line. She feels her father stiffen, the subtlest of changes—a twitch of the finger curled around the cup handle, the stretch of gloves. Metaphorical hackles rising. "She's a dham."
The statement is neither mocking nor accusing; simply a statement. Her guard doesn't let up, but she opts to curl next to her father on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest. She isn't one for affection; no amount of regression or baby-fication had ever managed to make her endearing. However, she allows herself to rest her head against her father's side as reassurance, all the while keeping her gaze locked on Ruthven.
"She is," Ludwig responds. A pause, to finish his drink, followed by a stoic look. "You can see why I am in no haste to return to Altus."
"Dhampir have as much of a place in Paris as in Altus, Ludwig, that I'm sure you're aware of."
Even a drop of her father's anger is explosive; she blinks, once, twice, and suddenly she's staring at a shattered teacup, the steaming contents dribbling down onto wooden floors. The birds perched on the windowsill had all but dropped dead on the spot at the sudden suffocating atmosphere. She can't say the damn pigeons don't deserve it.
"I'm sure you aren't suggesting I'd sell my daughter."
Ruthven's answering look makes it obvious that he hadn't considered the level of animosity his suggestion would bring; the man opts to close his eyes once more and takes another languid sip. Her mind races to fill in the gaps—were dhams in Altus enslaved to the nobility? Married off as whores to the bottom feeders of society? Whatever it is, it has her father breaking his frosty composure—to his superior, nonetheless. Both she and Ruthven know there had been an overstep. His next words will make or break the outcome of this meeting, this she is certain of; her father would either throw him seven stories down the window or die trying.
Her father is strong, this she knows. But something about Ruthven has her stomach curling at the thought of a fight. Because she's out of her mind (and not yet able to discern the fine lines of vampire mannerisms), she instead reaches for a biscuit from the platter and offers it to her father.
"You like the chocolate ones," she says, stupidly, because she had always been awkward, jailed to her room, and terrible at mediating. Ludwig stares at the rare peace offering from his daughter, schooling his expression into a blank-faced one once more before accepting her gift.
Ruthven observes the exchange with unreadable eyes. It's not long, however, before he breaks out into a startling, unexpected smile. All gentle bends and crinkles around the eyes, causing her to almost choke on her own cookie.
"It seems I've been a poor judge of character," Ruthven, daresay, laughs. She squints, a sour look replacing her façade. For some reason, that makes her hate him even more. Ruthven smiles at her, regarding her as sentient for what seemed to be the first time that afternoon. "Forgive me, mademoiselle—I have yet to be acquainted with a name?"
I'd rather you stay unacquainted, thanks. "Vivienne."
"A lovely name." He rests his chin on folded hands, leaning in with his arms propped up on the table. She thinks it's an effort to match her gaze, a common psychological tactic used to appease children. Huffing inwardly, she leans back in her chair, mouth curved in obvious distaste now. His grin stretches wider. "I'd never have expected any progeny of yours to be quite so expressive."
"She doesn't like you," Ludwig says bluntly. Ruthven ignores him.
"Tell me, mademoiselle, how do you like it here in Paris?"
Vivienne's eyes dart south. She refuses to play into his hands, is what she tells herself at first—but then realizes it's an ultimatum. A safe way out. Her father doesn't want to leave for the vampire world, knows she'll be in an even worse position there—something more terrible than being jailed in an apartment and the lingering threat of being crucified. However, she also knows Ruthven won't leave without him. So, he's giving her a feeble chance at swaying the tide. At breaking her father's resolve so things won't get ugly.
It's a threat.
She lacks the hyperintuition of a full vampire, but her past years have seasoned her gut enough to know that Ruthven is dangerous.
She grits her teeth.
"I don't care much either way."
She's playing right into his hands, this she knows. Indifference is victory. She hopes her defiance doesn't go unnoticed. By the subtle curl of his smile, it doesn't.
"I have a proposition for you, Ludwig."
"I doubt I truly want to hear it."
"Regardless," Ruthven laughs good-naturedly, a sound that makes Vivienne want to strangle him, "I doubt it's something you could pass up. A maisonette right outside of Averoigne. Fresh air, village children uncaring of bloodright."
"...de Sade territory." It's the closest thing to repulsion she's seen in her father. Another bulb blinks in her metaphorical memory of string-lights; she'd heard it before. It wasn't her past father's name, nor was it a friend's—it couldn't have been the name of the first boy that had asked her out. Not the name of a ruler, either—she'd never gotten above a D in history. Her eyes glaze over in thought. The vampire across from her observes the shift in expression, thoughtful.
"Not the de Sades," Ruthven begins to correct,
"—apologies, the progenitor of evil himself," Ludwig sneers. Ruthven sighs.
"The areas governed by the senate are all ruled by aristocracy. I know you are not fond of the de Sades, but I can assure you, Averoigne is as peaceful as they come. It would be of best interest not for you, but for young Vivienne."
It's not working. She can't quite put her finger on where she'd heard the name before, a frown downpouring her features. Before she can scrunch her face further, a large, gloved fist reaches across the table, obscuring her vision.
Ruthven's smile is disarming. Vivienne is taken aback by the newfound allure in his eyes; a quality that can only be described as hypnotic. She stares, unable to rip her gaze from the gold of his sclera, gold of his irises, sepia everywhere.
"What strange eyes you have, mademoiselle. Your mother, though human, must have been quite the oddity."
"I… what?" She finds herself unable to focus. She thinks she hears her father slam his fist down on the table, eliciting soft laughter from the man with a lion's mane.
"Look down, child."
Her gaze snaps to the table. The trance ends as abruptly as it starts, as Ruthven uncurls his fist; stupefied, she can only blink as a bright, red-winged butterfly flutters up from his palm, landing on her nose.
"Lacewing cerosa. A type only found in Altus. They have a bit of an exotic quality to them, you see, because like us vampires, they too, on occasion, dine on blood."
She feels the creature prick the tip of her nose. Her father's fingers reach out, catching its paper-thin wings, and it's not long before the thing is crushed to fine dust.
"They say they get their color from their first blood," Ruthven continues. Her vision begins to blur; Ruthven blends into a canvas of crimson and flax. Arms catch the back of her head before it can roll into the armrest. "I wonder what first blood will do to yours."
Her eyes give out before her ears do.
"We do not have time, Ludwig. You've shirked your duties for far too long."
"...at the end of the day, I shouldn't have expected anything from a dog of the senate."
"Be that as it will. Forget not, Ludwig, of the day you were stripped of your family name and title. Never forget… you are a bourreau."
Bourreau… bourreau. De Sade. Ruthven.
The words stir together in the crockpot of her mind like soup; she searches for the thread of commonality. Something is missing.
Altus. Vampires. France.
She is fifteen again, handling the spines of an eastern comic; she is splayed on the library couch with a latte squished between her thighs. It's hot, hair fraying from summer humidity.
The world distorts, because she is no longer fifteen, and she is eight, unable to open jars or reach the top counter or endure the brutal glare of a human gaze, and all she can do is grip tightly onto the pantlegs of a man who is as brutal as fatherhood will allow, and she is being swallowed in Ruthven's vapid, all-encompassing gaze.
That night, she dreams of a blue moon and bioluminescent flowers. When she comes to, the sky is a spiderweb, red and bleeding.
A/N: I'm back baby! In 2022, nontheless... I wonder if anyone even uses this site anymore cri. Regardless, hello to the VNC fandom! And hello to fellow Louis lovers as well :)