Author's note:

Vampyr and its characters are owned by DONTNOD Entertainment and Focus Home Interactive. I'm just having fun playing with the characters, both as a game and now with writing.

The title comes from Myrddin's poem, and the concept that the Red Queen's conflicts with Myrddin's Champions are the dreams meant to keep her quiet and asleep.

I want to give fair warning that I don't have an update schedule. I work full time and will write when I can, but the time I have for writing varies.

The idea I have for this story will include the major plot points of the game, but I also plan to expand on what we were given and make choices we were not able to make in the game. There will be some repetition for those who've played the game, but I will try to keep it to a minimum.

A few explanations of my thoughts, and potential spoilers below, be warned:

Mary lives in this story mostly because her canon placement in Southwark made no sense to me. With the state of the world at the time, Mary wouldn't have had time to miss Jonathan's arrival home, receive notice of his death, and pass through several quarantine zones as she searched multiple hospitals and gravesites for his body. Likewise, there will not be an accidentally turned vampire as that seemed just to be a plot device to gain Redgrave's attention by showing off how powerful Jonathan's blood was. I also do not anticipate writing a romance, especially not between Jonathan and Elizabeth. That seemed forced and awkward, not to mention sudden after only a handful semi-cordial conversations between the two.

Chapter 1

Doctor Jonathan Reid breathed in deep as he exited the ship he'd travelled on into Southwark. The stink of pollution and smog filled his nostrils, but it was still welcome after years surrounded by the scent of death and gunpowder. As awful as it was, it was still a scent to remind him he was much closer to his destination: home. It was quiet here after the turmoil of war, just a murmur of voices from other passengers and crew, clangs and groans of machinery, the gentle lapping of the river against the hull of the ship. No gunfire, no screams of the wounded, the gurgling gasps of the dying. Not right here anyway. He didn't delude himself to believe that would be the case in other parts of the city.

After having spent the last, interminably long, three years serving as a medical officer in the Great War, being back in London, no matter what district, was a relief to him. He looked longingly across the Thames in the general direction of his family home in West End, squinting against the glare of the setting sun reflecting from the water. It was a rare cloudless day, probably one of the last before winter took hold.

Jonathan took a moment to imagine his return home while he waited for the queue to disembark the ship. He thought about walking up the steps of the grand mansion and being greeted by Avery. Technically their butler, Avery may as well be family, like an uncle to him and his sister, Mary. He imagined seeing his sister and mother again. He smiled before he remembered the news from his sister's most recent correspondence to him. He thought of the emptiness without his brother-in-law and nephew adding their presence to the large house. Jonathan didn't know details, but knew from Mary's correspondence that her husband had been killed in the war and her son succumbed to illness.

It was yet another reason for him to return home now. His family had suffered too much loss in recent years and they needed him. He'd been luckier than most and, other than some superficial physical injuries, the damage he'd sustained in the war was entirely mental and spiritual.

Some police seized his attention, as well as the other passengers, and they briefly explained about the influenza outbreak that had struck the city the past summer, and the quarantine zones that had been put in place to slow the progress of the disease. It seems they would need to apply for passes through the quarantine zones, and there wasn't a straight path from Southwark to West End. Jonathan idly wondered how many zones he would need to go through to get home.

The newspapers hadn't said a thing about this! He knew Spain had been hit hard by an especially virulent influenza outbreak, but he hadn't read anything about it hitting England too. He knew from Mary that his nephew had died from the flu, and he'd wondered if it were perhaps the same strain, but there had been no official announcement. Even with his status as a doctor, he'd been kept ignorant until now.

If this was true, and he had no reason to disbelieve it, if the flu had spread here, the citizens should be informed about it! His plans shifted as he considered the implications of this outbreak. He would have to keep his visit home a short one and then apply to one of the local hospitals, whichever one was in most need, to offer his services. If it was anything like what he'd read Spain was dealing with, then the hospitals would need every able person to lend aid.

Surely his family would understand, especially after having already lost a family member to the disease. If he could prevent even one other family from experiencing the same loss, the effort would be worth it.

Jonathan joined the queue of other passengers who were applying for passes through quarantine zones before heading for the nearest inn to clean up and rest before continuing their journeys.

Jonathan secured lodging for the night at the famous George Inn and retreated to his room. While it was too late to make his way home, especially with the quarantine zones, he was restless from the voyage and not yet ready for sleep. He pondered the wisdom of taking a short walk before retiring.

This part of town had an unsavoury reputation, especially at night when criminals felt protected by the darkness hiding their misdeeds. Serving in the war had taught him how to fight, even kill when necessary, but his primary vocation was a healer and he'd rather avoid a fight if possible. If he stayed within the well-lit streets and didn't wander too far, he should be safe enough, he reasoned.

As a precaution, he armed himself with a Liston knife from his medical bag as well as his service pistol, before leaving the inn.

As he walked, he took in what he could see of this part of city. All signs of life, from when the ship had arrived until he checked into the inn, had disappeared. The cobblestone streets were deserted and eerily silent, the ambient sounds of modern civilization gone.

It was well into night by now, but still early enough that shoppers and pedestrians should still be out. Granted, he didn't know the habits of the citizens of Southwark like he knew West End, but he couldn't believe it to be this dissimilar.

A few automobiles were parked to the side, but none were in use. A glimpse down an alley showed him scattered trash, crates, and several barrels...more debris and refuse than he recalled from when he left for France a few years ago. Was this due to the war or the influenza? Both probably, and it was a clearer indication to him about the severity of the situation than quarantine zones and everything explained earlier.

He saw torn and faded war recruitment posters on the walls of buildings. Weeds were growing in clumps through the road, which weren't being maintained like he remembered them being when he departed for France.

On a whim, Jonathan turned down a side street into what appeared to be a residential area. He didn't have to go far before he stopped, consumed by dread at this evidence of just how bad the situation in London was. Just a short distance ahead, he saw a house with boarded up windows and graffiti on the door. A cold shiver ran down his spine at the sight of the large white X and large block letters spelling out FLU. It wasn't the only house afflicted in this neighbourhood either. Some graffiti differed, like some with the words "KEEP OUT" on the door, but they all conveyed the same message: these residents had all been afflicted, and possibly died, from this influenza outbreak.

He couldn't bear seeing more of the same without being able to help to help anyone he might encounter and so, with a heavy heart, turned around to return to the inn. He'd only travelled a couple blocks before he heard a nearby voice that caused him to pause again. It was male and seemed to resonate around him. He couldn't tell where it was coming from.

"'Twelve dreams for the Red Queen who sleeps under crown of stone, that she might linger longer with her eyes kept closed.'"

"Who goes there?" Jonathan called out warily, striding forward again, staying as close to the flickering street lights as he could.

"'Eleven thorns blooming from her troubled brow, awaiting the next harvest to be gleaned at brisk springs.'"

"Who's there?" Jonathan asked again. Looking around, he couldn't see anyone. The street seemed just as deserted as ever, except for the voice.

"'Ten copper veins ripped from the belly of the earth, melted into tears flowing towards banished brothers. Nine glorious pyres on the scorched plain, to punish those whose hands were slow to obey.'"

Shaking his head in confusion—understanding poetry was never one of Jonathan's gifts—he concluded the man speaking was unlikely to be a threat and continued his way to the inn.

"'Eight voracious beasts born from eight restless nights, their backs hardened by their race with the sun. Seven notes of warning in the summer sky compelling child to shielded sheets of sleep. Six watchers bent on the hunting trails; shadows of their spears trace the tired furrows.'"

Irritated with the voice now, and still wary despite his logic, Jonathan looked around again to see if he could spot the speaker anywhere, but his efforts yielded nothing.

"'Five houses to fall before song's end, then five more reborn from their blackened ashes. Four nails piercing the flesh of the sinner, restlessly hung to the dark wood of his crimes.'"

Feeling more and more worried—no matter how far he had walked the voice kept pace with him—Jonathan sped up. He was walking swiftly now, almost jogging.

"'Three books scribbled by pen of the dancer who refuses to answer the call of the abyss. Two giant rival snakes slither in ageless forest, coiled to the bones of mortals destined for the grave.'"

"Who are you? What do you want?" Jonathan called out.

"'One prayer for the summoned called by this song, a child born from darkness whose path he must find.'"

"Are you speaking to me?"

All was silent now. The mysterious voice had stopped reciting its insane poem. Unnerved, Jonathan grasped his pistol and spun around, still trying in vain to catch sight of the man. Without warning—he hadn't heard a sound, no footsteps, no breathing, and definitely no further speaking—he felt a hand on his head, wrenching it to the side, followed by a sharp pain. He struggled furiously to get out of his assailant's hold, but his efforts proved futile. He felt himself growing weaker and weaker, lightheaded, and his vision began to dim.

His assailant was killing him. How ironic was this? He had survived war, only to just barely make it home before being murdered in the dark. He would never see his family again, or help in the current crisis, or have the opportunity to advance medical science more than he already had.

"No, no! There's still so much I want to accomplish!" was his final thought before he lost consciousness.

Jonathan awoke an indeterminate time later to the same mysterious voice, only it seemed to be resounding inside his head rather than outside.

"Death... since the apple was plucked from the sacred tree, mortality was believed to be God's punishment... a righteous snare to keep mankind from ascending to the stars. They were all so wrong. Death is not a wicked thing, nor some holy retribution. A true punishment would be to never know its sweet kiss. Awaken from the harshness and be born once more."

He felt terrible; his body was weak and he felt a burning thirst, worse than anything his memory could conjure up. He could barely think past the awful sensation. Opening his eyes didn't help. Everything was grey and out of focus. What was wrong with him?

"Where am I? What's happening to me?" he rasped aloud.

He tried thinking back to what could have happened to leave him in this state, but all he could concentrate on was the terrible burn of his thirst. He needed water, something to quench the desperate thirst so he could think again.

Stumbling to his feet, Jonathan tried to get his bearings but failed. The world around him was still indistinct, grey and blurry. He couldn't make out anything in his surroundings that made any sense to his befuddled mind. He reached out with his hands and felt a rough wall next to him.

Using the wall as a guide, he took a few faltering steps forward but tripped on something he'd failed to see. Instinctively his hands pushed in front of him to brace his fall, but instead of hard, unforgiving ground they encountered something soft, wet, and sticky. He looked down and gasped. He still couldn't see right, but it was enough to make out several bodies below him.

Where was he? He moved to stand again and his fingers snagged on something as he pulled back. He was distracted from investigating the object in his hand by a noise to his right. There was a lot of clattering—something wooden by the sound of it—some shuffling, followed by heavy footsteps, harsh breathing, and a dragging sound.

His eyes immediately snapped to the first spot of colour he'd seen in his current monochrome world: a bright, vivid, pulsating crimson. The bright red was moving towards him, followed by a dull, darker red close to the ground.

An alluring scent came to him next, and all rational thought—little as there was with the burning thirst consuming him—fled. A predator's instinct took over, and he silently moved back to a darker corner where his prey could not see him.

His prey, vivid crimson and drawing closer, turned away and heaved its burden, the darker red, onto the pile of bodies Jonathan had stumbled over. Seeing the opportunity, his body acted on its own volition and he leapt forward, grabbing the vermilion figure in his strong grip. Claws burst forth from his fingers, digging into tender flesh, ensuring his prey could not escape him. His mouth settled over the jugular and he bit down, his new fangs extending and easily piercing the skin.

Hot liquid spilled into his parched mouth and throat, immediately soothing the burning thirst. It was pure euphoria. It was the best thing he could ever remember tasting. The mythical ambrosia couldn't be better. He felt complete ecstasy and satiation as he drank greedily.

Jonathan saw flashes of images as he drank. He saw a tall, thin man he didn't know lovingly tending his elderly mother, then leaving their house enraged and finding a stranger to murder and calm his demons. His mother doted on a young orphan nearby and the sight of it set his fury alight once more and he vented that rage on the next person he met. His inner demons calmed and became quiet again. He saw the man dragging his victims to a hideout beneath the docks.

As the flow of soothing fluid slowed, Jonathan heard the man's voice in his head. "So this is what it feels like to die at someone's hand. I had no idea... I'm... I'm sorry."

Jonathan pulled back, clarity returning to his mind, along with full colour to his vision, and with it the euphoria, caused by what he now realized to be blood revitalizing his body, turned to shame as he realized what he'd done. Was he now some kind of... of vampire?! No, that was ridiculous, it was impossible. He must be experiencing some kind of bizarre nightmare brought on by lingering trauma from the war. It felt too real to be mere manifestations from his mind, though.

He reeled as he looked down at the body of the man he'd just killed. It wasn't the first time he'd killed someone. It was the first like this though. All other times had been in defence, of himself or his colleagues or comrades, or most regrettable, before now, due to mistakes he had made as a physician and scientist.

The man had been a monster, killing randomly and compulsively. He never would have stopped on his own, and would have been executed if the police had ever found him. Still, Jonathan was a doctor. He'd taken an oath to do no harm. Of course, that line had already been crossed far too often for his liking due to his service in the war.

"You must drink, my childe." The voice was in his head. It took Jonathan to recall it as the voice from Southwark, the one reciting the poem. Is he the one who turned him into this? Why? How? "Rotten or pristine, each heart contains the seeds of life."

Jonathan understood the message this time. If it was true that he was a vampire now—and no matter how impossible that seemed yesterday, the evidence now showed otherwise—then he would have to drink blood. The penny dreadfuls seemed to indicate that was the case anyway.

If he had to kill people—no matter how distasteful the thought was to his mind, his body now craved the life-giving substance, more than craved... it needed with a ferocity he'd never before experienced—it was better if he could at least make the streets a little safer by hunting humans that were as monstrous as it seemed he was now. He would have to experiment though. Did he have to kill? Could he just take a little, or drink from donated blood? Did the blood have to be human? If it did have to be human and if did have to kill, well... the city had no shortage of human monsters who managed to evade justice.

He wondered what his next course of action should be. Before all this, he had planned to return home to his mother and sister, and then to volunteer at one of the local hospitals and help with the epidemic. That seemed so long ago now. Idly Jonathan wondered how long it had been since he had disembarked the ship from Southwark.

He felt a tug on his hand and looked down, recalling the object he'd found on the body earlier, before the man showed up to dispose the body of his latest victim. He brought the object closer to his face to look at it. It was a necklace, with a bloody note attached to it. It seemed that the necklace had been intended as gift from the man he'd just killed, who was called Seymour, to his mother.

He had a direction for tonight at least. He didn't know what the future would bring, but for now he could deliver this final gift to its recipient. It was the least he could do after taking her son from her.