Love Within Death
Chapter Four
By :
Celeny
Christian awoke the next night. He could smell the damp, cool, effervescent chatter of people arriving in Monmarte to spend an evening seduced by the rosy garnet lull of the Moulin Rouge. Through the blackness of his room violet light seemed to filter, and with his new fledgling eyes he could see the particles of dust dance through the air, like fairies flitting around each other. Blood. He smelled it, salty and tenuous, a bitter smile in his mind. Throwing away the stiff sheets that covered his body, he realized it was his own mortal blood that had streamed too softly from his throbbing throat. He reached his fingers, pawing, dead wrinkled spiders to the cold hollow of his neck where the marks where, twin puckered mouths that were already healed into two tiny concave valleys.
A mirror. He had to find a mirror. What kind of creature had he made a metamorphosis into, a creature that drinks blood as zealously as it drinks wine? But there was nothing that would reflect, only barren, dirty wooden walls. Thirst. He felt it curling in his throat in a hissing coil, crying for blood, for life. Christian pushed it away.
He remembered the note, the cool, lovingly scripted words that his Maker Claude had left. *My dear Christian, I have left you my possessions, you will find it in the room directly across from that which you are in now.* An outline of a door was hidden in the gloom, to which Christian slowly walked silently over to and turned the brass knob. Darkness was only met with more darkness, which sharpened into a long wooden hallway undefined by any ending. As promised, another door, identical to the first, was cloaked in a black haze. Christian opened the door and stepped inside, greeted by stoic silhouettes that clogged the room like sarcophagi of mummies.
The room's contents were shapeless and covered in blankets that had collected a web of dust. A huge window was shaded by a velvet navy curtain tucked firmly into the window lattice to block sunlight, which Christian pulled down hesitantly. Moonlight spilled through the glass and bled a large golden puddle on the floorboards Instantly the figures sharpened in the mixture of light and shadow, and a handful of moths beat their wings and launched into the air like spirits reaching heavenward at the disturbance. He needed to hunt, to drink. The thirst clawed at him, eating away the lining of his stomach.
Carefully Christian began to remove the sheets, unnaturally soft in his palms. Statues in marble, their faces Botichelli angels, grim, yet serene, sculptures of The Virgin Mary, her head bowed and her arms cradling the baby Jesus, a replica of the famous David by Michelangelo, and paintings of the renaissance, the women's sharp profiles and the men's patient expressions. He stared at the Virgin, pushing the thirst away. Evil, so evil, his mind screamed. Demon. Vampire. The largest shape was a beautiful baby grand piano, chestnut wood that sparkled even in the failing light, and ivory and ebony keys that, when pressed, sounded bold, lyrical tones. Endless furniture, glossy mahogany tables, chairs, desks, two magnificent bed frames, and an array of lamps and other gold, silver, bronze, and sometimes jeweled treasures. The walls were lined with antique bookcases, teeming with leather bound titles. Aristotle, Plato, Socrates, Marcus Aurelias, Leonardo Da Vinci, Dante, Donatello, Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, and hundreds more.
It was beautiful, this un orderly array of priceless artifacts and wealth. He ran his hands over everything, feeling the sensually hard surface of the different woods, stones, and leathers. Thirst so strong he thought it would drive him mad. Hidden in a corner was a small chest, covered with lace so fine that it felt as delicate as human skin. He lifted the top and gasped at the gathering of precious stones. Rubies and emeralds, round and heavy as birds' eggs, ropes of pearls like clots of milk strung through gold, and diamonds cut so that every facet captured a cornucopia of color. He would have to give these to Satine, but everything other than the diamonds, the sparkling, deceitful diamonds.
Beautiful, everything, yes it was, it was. Beautiful...
Then it was thirst. Thirst that hit again so suddenly it was burning, searing pain in every pore. Thirst. Blood. Humans. He gasped, doubling over with the needle like pinpricks crawling over his skin. His flaying hand knocked over a statue of the Virgin, which shattered against the hard ground, a fragment of her broken face staring up at him sadly, her eyes filled with a mellow despair. Disappointment in her gaze. Vampire. Unholy.
He broke out of the room and stumbled down the dark hallway, his steps loud and clumsy, echoing emptily in the passage. He ran on, hitting the walls as he went as the thirst, oh the relentless thirst, scorched his body. A door was there, at the end of the hall, and his fingers pried it open and he fell onto the balcony outside, wrought iron and chilled by the heavy night air. He leaned over, two stories up, and fell, hitting the cobblestones hard and on his back.
The clomping hooves of a horse tied to a carriage almost hit his head, capable of crushing his skull as easily as a little boy pulling the wings off a butterfly. The horse smelled sweet, of sweat, fear, and exhaustion, but it was the driver that burned in his mind, the driver that reeked of blood and blood and more blood. Unhurt, Christian pulled himself up and onto his knees, panting. The pull was irresistible, the pull to kill and drink until the body was shriveled and dry in his hard palms like an empty chrysalis. He licked his pale lips, feeling his vampire eyeteeth scrape against the soft pink skin and dewy drops of red drip from the tiny cuts. He could stand this no more.
Christian leapt after the carriage, moving so fast he was but a black blur, another shadow in a graveyard of darkness. The air whistled past, stroking his body like tender fingers. He caught the wooden edge and heaved himself onto the outside railing, being careful to make no sound. Inside was a woman, dressed in silk embedded with tiny pearls so small they were but a web of shining tears over the cloth, and long caramel hair that spilled over her sloping shoulders in twirling curls. She was beautiful, but also around her curved neck was a tiny crucifix, twinkling innocently under the colored lights of the street. He continued on to where the driver sat, holding the leather reigns that smelled of the horse in his short-gloved fingers.
Christian sat himself beside the man on the padded brown bench. The man turned, his eyes widening in horror at the brilliantly pale creature before him, but Christian wrapped his arms around the man in a soft embrace and buried his face in the warm skin of his neck. The skin was so hot, the vein throbbing against his parted lips in sporadic beats. He sunk his virgin fangs into the artery, sighing in pleasure at the gush of erotically burning blood engulfing his tongue. Gluttonously he sucked, purring at the pulse of the heart, slowing, slowing, but never stopping. He cradled the body gently, rocking back and forth in the rapturous haze that the boiling liquid instigated, the fiery impassioned heat scalding his throat and settling in a straining calescent ball in his stomach. His breath choked, gurgling, the harsh pants intermingling with the blood as he shuddered in pleasure. So beautiful. Yes.
He carefully dropped the body as the heart stopped, the driver's eyes open and glassy as they stared ceaselessly up at the starry sky. The horse carried on regardless, and Christian dropped from the carriage as silently as he had come. He knew, with a burst of horror, that soon the body would fall into the street, and he would hear the screams of the courtesans who found him, his body a shell drained of all blood. But Monmarte was replete with murders; women killed by jealous lovers, aristocrats shot in fights. This man would only add to an inconsequential series of numbers.
Christian's skin was warmed and glowing from the mortal blood, and in the glossy window of an empty shop he caught his reflection. Black hair teased by the breeze, a mop of dirty soot staining his ashen, glassy skin. Green eyes that burned, tiny smoldering fires so bright they seemed lost ghosts holding lanterns of jade. And black, how the black covered him in a coat only meant for a demon. Beautiful. Inhuman.
He stared at himself torturously, glaring at the creature he had become. Never had he wanted to be evil, to steal life from others to fuel his own. But never had he wanted to die. Never had he wanted to leave Satine alone in the arms of the duke. How he hated himself and what he had done. Christian turned from the window and walked back down the road quietly, to gather all of the jewels left to him and give them to Satine, but everything other than the diamonds, the sparkling, deceitful diamonds.
Chapter Four
By :
Celeny
Christian awoke the next night. He could smell the damp, cool, effervescent chatter of people arriving in Monmarte to spend an evening seduced by the rosy garnet lull of the Moulin Rouge. Through the blackness of his room violet light seemed to filter, and with his new fledgling eyes he could see the particles of dust dance through the air, like fairies flitting around each other. Blood. He smelled it, salty and tenuous, a bitter smile in his mind. Throwing away the stiff sheets that covered his body, he realized it was his own mortal blood that had streamed too softly from his throbbing throat. He reached his fingers, pawing, dead wrinkled spiders to the cold hollow of his neck where the marks where, twin puckered mouths that were already healed into two tiny concave valleys.
A mirror. He had to find a mirror. What kind of creature had he made a metamorphosis into, a creature that drinks blood as zealously as it drinks wine? But there was nothing that would reflect, only barren, dirty wooden walls. Thirst. He felt it curling in his throat in a hissing coil, crying for blood, for life. Christian pushed it away.
He remembered the note, the cool, lovingly scripted words that his Maker Claude had left. *My dear Christian, I have left you my possessions, you will find it in the room directly across from that which you are in now.* An outline of a door was hidden in the gloom, to which Christian slowly walked silently over to and turned the brass knob. Darkness was only met with more darkness, which sharpened into a long wooden hallway undefined by any ending. As promised, another door, identical to the first, was cloaked in a black haze. Christian opened the door and stepped inside, greeted by stoic silhouettes that clogged the room like sarcophagi of mummies.
The room's contents were shapeless and covered in blankets that had collected a web of dust. A huge window was shaded by a velvet navy curtain tucked firmly into the window lattice to block sunlight, which Christian pulled down hesitantly. Moonlight spilled through the glass and bled a large golden puddle on the floorboards Instantly the figures sharpened in the mixture of light and shadow, and a handful of moths beat their wings and launched into the air like spirits reaching heavenward at the disturbance. He needed to hunt, to drink. The thirst clawed at him, eating away the lining of his stomach.
Carefully Christian began to remove the sheets, unnaturally soft in his palms. Statues in marble, their faces Botichelli angels, grim, yet serene, sculptures of The Virgin Mary, her head bowed and her arms cradling the baby Jesus, a replica of the famous David by Michelangelo, and paintings of the renaissance, the women's sharp profiles and the men's patient expressions. He stared at the Virgin, pushing the thirst away. Evil, so evil, his mind screamed. Demon. Vampire. The largest shape was a beautiful baby grand piano, chestnut wood that sparkled even in the failing light, and ivory and ebony keys that, when pressed, sounded bold, lyrical tones. Endless furniture, glossy mahogany tables, chairs, desks, two magnificent bed frames, and an array of lamps and other gold, silver, bronze, and sometimes jeweled treasures. The walls were lined with antique bookcases, teeming with leather bound titles. Aristotle, Plato, Socrates, Marcus Aurelias, Leonardo Da Vinci, Dante, Donatello, Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, and hundreds more.
It was beautiful, this un orderly array of priceless artifacts and wealth. He ran his hands over everything, feeling the sensually hard surface of the different woods, stones, and leathers. Thirst so strong he thought it would drive him mad. Hidden in a corner was a small chest, covered with lace so fine that it felt as delicate as human skin. He lifted the top and gasped at the gathering of precious stones. Rubies and emeralds, round and heavy as birds' eggs, ropes of pearls like clots of milk strung through gold, and diamonds cut so that every facet captured a cornucopia of color. He would have to give these to Satine, but everything other than the diamonds, the sparkling, deceitful diamonds.
Beautiful, everything, yes it was, it was. Beautiful...
Then it was thirst. Thirst that hit again so suddenly it was burning, searing pain in every pore. Thirst. Blood. Humans. He gasped, doubling over with the needle like pinpricks crawling over his skin. His flaying hand knocked over a statue of the Virgin, which shattered against the hard ground, a fragment of her broken face staring up at him sadly, her eyes filled with a mellow despair. Disappointment in her gaze. Vampire. Unholy.
He broke out of the room and stumbled down the dark hallway, his steps loud and clumsy, echoing emptily in the passage. He ran on, hitting the walls as he went as the thirst, oh the relentless thirst, scorched his body. A door was there, at the end of the hall, and his fingers pried it open and he fell onto the balcony outside, wrought iron and chilled by the heavy night air. He leaned over, two stories up, and fell, hitting the cobblestones hard and on his back.
The clomping hooves of a horse tied to a carriage almost hit his head, capable of crushing his skull as easily as a little boy pulling the wings off a butterfly. The horse smelled sweet, of sweat, fear, and exhaustion, but it was the driver that burned in his mind, the driver that reeked of blood and blood and more blood. Unhurt, Christian pulled himself up and onto his knees, panting. The pull was irresistible, the pull to kill and drink until the body was shriveled and dry in his hard palms like an empty chrysalis. He licked his pale lips, feeling his vampire eyeteeth scrape against the soft pink skin and dewy drops of red drip from the tiny cuts. He could stand this no more.
Christian leapt after the carriage, moving so fast he was but a black blur, another shadow in a graveyard of darkness. The air whistled past, stroking his body like tender fingers. He caught the wooden edge and heaved himself onto the outside railing, being careful to make no sound. Inside was a woman, dressed in silk embedded with tiny pearls so small they were but a web of shining tears over the cloth, and long caramel hair that spilled over her sloping shoulders in twirling curls. She was beautiful, but also around her curved neck was a tiny crucifix, twinkling innocently under the colored lights of the street. He continued on to where the driver sat, holding the leather reigns that smelled of the horse in his short-gloved fingers.
Christian sat himself beside the man on the padded brown bench. The man turned, his eyes widening in horror at the brilliantly pale creature before him, but Christian wrapped his arms around the man in a soft embrace and buried his face in the warm skin of his neck. The skin was so hot, the vein throbbing against his parted lips in sporadic beats. He sunk his virgin fangs into the artery, sighing in pleasure at the gush of erotically burning blood engulfing his tongue. Gluttonously he sucked, purring at the pulse of the heart, slowing, slowing, but never stopping. He cradled the body gently, rocking back and forth in the rapturous haze that the boiling liquid instigated, the fiery impassioned heat scalding his throat and settling in a straining calescent ball in his stomach. His breath choked, gurgling, the harsh pants intermingling with the blood as he shuddered in pleasure. So beautiful. Yes.
He carefully dropped the body as the heart stopped, the driver's eyes open and glassy as they stared ceaselessly up at the starry sky. The horse carried on regardless, and Christian dropped from the carriage as silently as he had come. He knew, with a burst of horror, that soon the body would fall into the street, and he would hear the screams of the courtesans who found him, his body a shell drained of all blood. But Monmarte was replete with murders; women killed by jealous lovers, aristocrats shot in fights. This man would only add to an inconsequential series of numbers.
Christian's skin was warmed and glowing from the mortal blood, and in the glossy window of an empty shop he caught his reflection. Black hair teased by the breeze, a mop of dirty soot staining his ashen, glassy skin. Green eyes that burned, tiny smoldering fires so bright they seemed lost ghosts holding lanterns of jade. And black, how the black covered him in a coat only meant for a demon. Beautiful. Inhuman.
He stared at himself torturously, glaring at the creature he had become. Never had he wanted to be evil, to steal life from others to fuel his own. But never had he wanted to die. Never had he wanted to leave Satine alone in the arms of the duke. How he hated himself and what he had done. Christian turned from the window and walked back down the road quietly, to gather all of the jewels left to him and give them to Satine, but everything other than the diamonds, the sparkling, deceitful diamonds.