A/N: Heh. Here's my take on what would have happened had Kurda's plan to form a link between the two clans succeeded -- with a bit of slash thrown in for color.
Disclaimer: I do not own Cirque Du Freak.
Kurda's smiles became increasingly strained, and ever more forced as the time of his invesititure crept closer. He became a Prince that night, and every vampire in the hall raised a glass to his name, cheering on their new Prince. That's when everything went spiraling out of control. One by one, Paris, Mika, and Arrow slumped over the table or out of their chairs entirely. Three lives were extinguished in the blink of an eye that night.
Kurda remembered even ages later how Paris had looked just before he went.
How the old vampire had looked directly into his eyes. As though he knew. And he might known; but the poison was working it's deadly charms by that point. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Kurda watched silently as the life flew from the eldest Prince's eyes, so suddenly.
It's for the good of the clan, it's for the good of the clan, Kurda kept telling himself. That sole thought gave him strength, assured him what he was doing was right, while the losses would be regretable. Many more died after that night. Noble but foolish people who refused to abandon their ways and throw in their lot with that of the vampaneze. Larten Crepsley, Arra Sails, Vanez Blane, Seba Nile...countless others. Or so he was told.
It's for the good of the clan, it's for the good of the clan. Even that thought was stolen away from Kurda in the end. It started slowly at first. The thought began to lose it's touch as the death toll rose steadily higher.
Now, it only brought a bitter smile to Kurda's lips. It was all a joke. There were now more vampaneze in the mountain then there were vampires. It wasn't for the good of the clan at all... he had messed up. There must have been some other way to solve things. He must have missed it. He hadn't thought hard enough, had acted too hastily.
Kurda tormented himself every hour with these thoughts. And he had an endless supply of time to reflect. It was virtually all he could do now.
He thought he would be executed as a traitor after things settled down. He was shocked when, as the vampire clan dwindled, he wasn't escorted to the Hall of Death. Instead, he was sent to his bedroom. His bedroom! What was this about? Even now, he didn't know. They kept guards, purple-skinned vampaneze, of course, outside his door at all times.
Perhaps they sought to drive him mad with the silence. Yes, that made sense. There were no answers to his questions. Every time he interrogated his guards, they would only respond with impaitent grunts. He was only told about the losses -- news of Vanez's death struck him particularly hard -- when a youthful vampaneze let it slip when he was tipsy one night while on guard duty.
And Kurda had lots of questions. Why hadn't he been put to death? What was happening outside the walls of his prison? Why was he being imprisoned in the first place?
Those questions swirled through Kurda's head constantly, along with recollections of the past. Since the past was so painful, Kurda would often assess the questions, rather then wallow in the past and fall into depression. Kurda refused to allow himself to do that. It would be so easy, but he wouldn't allow it. He knew he had to remain sharp, even if only to live long enough to find the answers to his questions. In a way, the questions both tormented him and kept him alive.
To punctuate the silences, Kurda had taken to marking off the days that passed by leaving deep scratches in the walls of his room with his nails. If he was correct, a little over a month had passed since he had been thrown in here.
Kurda sighed, rolling over in his coffin. He tried to pass the time by sleeping, but most nights didn't succeed. Tonight was no different. What time was it? He didn't know. Was it day or night? Again, he didn't know. Kurda realized with startling clarity that everything was beginning to fall away, despite his struggles to remain fresh. Within a few months, he imagined he would be a screaming wreck. His fears were closing in on him and he couldn't escape.
A few days slipped by. Kurda was pacing his room -- no, cell. That's exactly what it was. His eyes swept his cell as he paced continuously, back and forth... like beast, feral but caged.
I could...try clawing my way out, Kurda thought, reaching out and desperately running his nails over the rough stone barrier.
It would take ages for him to make even a dent. And by then the vampaneze that stopped by just long enough to slip food into his cell would notice. They would restrain him. For now, he was granted the ability to move around his confined space, atleast. But how long would it be before they took that away from him, too?
Silence. It was suffocating him, killing him slowly. But it wasn't, and that's what was so cruel about it. Atleast in death he would be able to escape. But he was a disgrace; the Gods of the vampires told him so. This was his punishment for slaughtering the clan. Kurda moaned, covering his face with his hands. It was so hot. And so very hard to breathe. He needed to get out...he was going to die. He wanted to die, but he didn't. It made no sense!
Kurda didn't sleep in his coffin anymore, but on the ground. The room he was in was already painfully small. He wasn't about to crawl into an even more cramped area.
He laid on the ground, often staring at the walls. They seemed to be getting closer and closer to him. As though closing in on him. Perhaps they would crush him? At that thought, his heart raced faster then ever, pounding against his ribs. How much time had passed, how much? Days, months, years? Kurda no longer kept track of the days.
He didn't know, it no longer mattered. Kurda was losing the battle.
That day, food was not brought to him as usual. Ah, they weren't going to deprive him of his mobile skills -- they planned to starve him instead!
"Please, please, no... Please," Kurda whispered. His voice was hoarse from lack of use, but he didn't notice. "Come on... where's the food? Where's the...food, you bastards? No, please..." One moment, he would be cursing the name of the vampaneze, the next begging. He didn't know which way he wanted to go, honestly. They had ruined his life, and yet they were the only thing keeping him alive at the same time. How could you truly hate those that kept you in the land of the living?
It was just like how he wished to die, and yet he didn't. Kurda was completely mixed up about anything and everything these days. He couldn't help it; the walls were closing in on him.
Two days later,and he still wasn't being given food. Kurda now screamed openly, howling at his captors to free, or atleast feed him. His pleas fell on deaf ears. When his energy was entirely spent and he could scream no more, he would just collapse in the corner of his cell, sobbing. But the tears wouldn't come. Countless sobs would wrack his frame, but his eyes remained dry. He spent away his tears long ago.
Though now, atleast, he knew the answer to one of his questions. They didn't send him to the Hall of Death simply because that was too swift, too merciful. This punishment was a hundred times worse then the Hall of Death could ever be.
Even more time passed. Along with his guilt, nightmares, and fears, Kurda was now plagued by a constant ache. It never faded, and was nearly painful by this point. He was hungry, and it would only grow worse.
He was in the center of his cell. He didn't go close to the walls -- convinced they would choose to close in even faster then they currently were if he did. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight..." He murmured under his breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three..." He often performed this exercise to break the silence, and still his racing heart. It helped. More then his screaming did, anyway. That only riled him up worse then ever.
Though now, it was growing harder to remain calm even for a short while. He ran a hand through his unkempt, dirty blond hair, breathing heavily.His heart rate increased. He was seconds away from fading into one of his screaming fits again. Kurda wasn't certain what happened during those times. One moment, he would be clear-headed and thinking about...Gavner's death, for instance.
The next, his fears would come back, full force. He would try to calm down, and then... then...nothing. Just blackness. Later, when he returned to his senses, his throat would be raw and sore, his voice hopelessly cracked from screaming for hours on end.
His vision blurred, his breathing became harsh pants that rang in his ears. Here...it...comes, he thought.
A sound that was neither breathing nor screaming broke through the silence like a gunshot. Footsteps. Kurda froze, hardly daring to believe it. The panic attack that had almost overcome him slunk back into the shadows of his mind. They were coming! To feed him, or kill him? It didn't matter! Kurda was just so relieved. Tears that had been painfully absent for the past few weeks began to flow blissfully down his cheeks, leaving clear trails in the smudges of dirt that had gathered on his flesh.
The door snapped open. Two vampaneze appeared, both with entirely unfamiliar faces. One's purple skin was creased with deep lines, while the other looked to be in his twenties or so. "There he is," The elder one said gruffly, advancing a few paces. He placed a hand over his mouth and nose, as though he smelled something foul. And he probably did. Kurda didn't notice the smell though -- he had been imprisoned for so long, he was immune.
Kurda didn't move. He just stared, wide-eyed, at the two. He was at a complete loss for words.
"Him? He's the one that's been howling the roof down all this time?" The young one snorted disdainfully. It only registered vaguely with him who they were speaking of.
"Mm, yeah. Enough jabbering, now. Let's just do what we have to do." The elder one answered. He grabbed Kurda's arm. With help from his companion, they hauled Kurda to his feet. Kurda didn't struggle, didn't scream, didn't speak. He just allowed them to drag him out of his cell. Into the hall. A powerful emotion swept over him. Relief. He was free! His eyes darted this way and that, taking in the corridors that seemed so alien to him now.
The vampaneze tightened their grip on him, as though they thought he might run. That was the farthest thing from Kurda's mind at that time. He was too fascinated with the sights and sensations -- the pain of their rough grip, it was so real, it was intoxicating! -- to think about running.
His legs were shaking so much they had to practically drag him down the corridor. Where were they taking him? To the Hall of Death? If that were so, it was okay. Kurda would comply, with a smile on his face. He was free!
A/N: Erm, yes! Kurda's just a little cuckoo right now. Heheh. This was really fun to type out. I love tormenting Kurda. I don't know why, but I've always had a sadistic streak -- especially when it concerns blonds. Hmmm. Well, review if you like. This NOT a one-shot like my other two, and will actually be continued. Slashy-ness up ahead, beware!