Jessie's POV
I've lived among humans for a while now, and it still amazes me their ability to care. And I know that sounds rather cold of me but vampires don't care, we are one being that dotes purely on our own survival no-matter of the cost. Cold? Yes. True? Sadly, also yes.
Yet their tears over that girl, had the ability to bring a lump to my throat; the care and the change in the atmosphere around them- I could almost feel their emotions on my tongue; the turmoil and bitter regret, it was horrifyingly twisted taste.
Myrnin and I are lying in our bed, him curled around me like a spoon. Never did I imagine a life like this, minus the Draug, I'm actually loved and adored- who would have even thought it. But what keeps me from the escape of sleep is the fact that I can't seem to find it in me to let go of the emotion I felt in that room, can't escape the glorified horror that infilled each and every one of them. Something I never felt before, even with Pete his emotions never affected me; even professor Anderson it was never this strong. I heard the girl's scream, heard it echo. Not one to gloat but I'm normally powerful, normally freakishly self-centred but some part of me is just screaming that this isn't right. That this girl should not have to be our sacrifice.
I've met Bishop many moons ago, a cold wicked man who would do almost anything to extend his life by even a matter of seconds; and something about this girl- even in her half-existence- having to lose her humanity to save us makes me think we're all like Bishop, in a twisted and sick sense. And that thought lies heavy in my stomach, creates a lump in my throat and a fog I'm yet to clear over my judgement; Myrnin has always been a little odd, all too caring of those around him but me… no I'm cold only Myrnin before I met Pete brought out the small part of my human emotion that still was harboured in my-self; and what is haunting my sleep more than even that girl's sacrifice is that idea that been placed inside my head of what would I have become if I had never gripped on so tight to that little row boat in the harbour would I have been as corrupted and blood-hungry as Elder Bishop?
'Lady Grey?' Myrnin whispers into the night, next to be me; beginning to kiss at my throat. I smile and allow my body to relax to his sensual assault, as with each sweep of sensation that runs through me I'm reminded just how different I am to the man- or should I say animal.
Amelie's POV
My father. Master Bishop. Each of those send a shiver down my spine, makes me feel nauseous; make me want to rip the hair from my head in a mixture of anger and upset. But no I can't afford to feel, I can't afford anything but to accept that the man who can save us all is also the one who can destroy everything; can rip my town apart piece by piece.
Hearing his name proclaimed as our saviour made my lungs expand, making me gag- made me shout his name. All I can think is why would he come back if it wasn't for revenge? Actually as alternative as it can be I now think how would one in which we turned to dust be back to save us?
My father was never a nice man; he was hungry for somethings he should have never been. He hated my mother, a weak woman who he impregnated mere days before his conversion; she was Queen, the true Queen; my fathers' thrown only came because of my dear mother parentage- that's why he was with her, that is for why he didn't just leave to find someone more suited. Doing my youth my 'dearest' father would open up the palace doors, for the weak, the homeless or the poor for a coin they would queue to sell their body to me father… this is where you find out he was just as cruel, if not a million times crueller to the women who so desperately needed a coin to survive… Their screams I can still hear so many centuries, even more than a millennium later, as he ravaged them but still they would come back and queue for the privilege of being able to feed their families; Bishop liked those nights, liked being so in control- normally his day would have started with some long and dreary speech in which he lapped up the rich with a few chosen words, and ravaged the poor, making the majority exceptionally poorer. But the afternoon was when he played judge, jury and executioner; his stats were the highest, majority of crime- even the pettiest- had the something bloody as a sentence. Loss of a finger? Or an arm? But his favourite was death, a swift blow of a sword. The bodies left, so he could drink them dry.
He changed me, late in my youth, around the point of the rebellion; where I was to be made Queen. I never made it to the throne, he bit me and changed me and raped me. My virginity, my humanity and my courage was all taken away in less than the time it takes to make tea. I was his newest and most favoured toy, one he could play with, long after all the others got tired or were worn out of use. I learnt to not fight him, scar upon scar on my body are the beauty marks left by that man, when he would pin me to floor, the bed, the wall; rip my clothes to shreds with his hands, nails or even teeth and push himself into me- even when I would scream.
So it profoundly petrifies me what he will do, and how he will try to manipulate us all in to pieces on his chess board- I'm no longer his pawn. What comes next is down to me, right?
The girls change, is still fresh in my mind. Her pain was tangible; it burnt me. Yet her conversion was not one of difficultly, so smoothly was converted my Turkish rug was even spared. How pitiful of me, especially when my safe haven may be already on route to destruction.
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