...
Caprice
Chapter VII
Trafalgar held on with his teeth as Lord Eustass bellowed and tried to rip him off of his neck. The thrashing was accompanied by a falling sensation, but only when Eustass slipped and smashed his back against the ledge of the fountain did Trafalgar feel it, jarring his grip loose. He could not repress an erratic coughing fit, spraying a few frothy drops of blood back onto the pale skin of the lord's neck.
That fresh, delicate scent. He groaned as it assaulted his nose and brought cravings to the forefront of his thoughts.
Lord Eustass' eyes were a light red, almost entirely washed out, when they locked gazes. He appeared positively demonic, and Trafalgar was more certain than ever that the man wasn't a mere human.
He was not given ample chance to debate with himself about whether to drink or flee. Eustass seized his shoulders and held him in place, grunting as the water splashed violently out of its keep around them. "You bastard," he spat.
"You bastard," Trafalgar spat right back at him. A few more drops of blood were sent sailing only to cling desperately to their original master's cheeks. It was a childish thing to proclaim, perhaps, but fitting.
They came to a stalemate, hands on each other in such ways as to block both of them from gaining the upper hand. Trafalgar was gripping Eustass' shoulders, and he slyly ran one hand towards the neck of his victim. The blood was weeping, disappearing under the thick, furred coat. Wasted.
He nearly let out a dejected whine.
Someone else beat him to it.
Trafalgar pressed his fingers down into the pockmarks, trying to curb the bleeding. The moment his fingers touched the skin, the lord below him that he was awkwardly straddling let out a groan that made Trafalgar jerk away. For some reason or other, that hand went straight to his lips, and he made no attempt to stop his tongue from darting out and licking the blood from his fingers.
The lord watched him, entranced and still.
His pupils shifted. Shrunk. Disappeared.
Crossing his arms across his chest for protection was all Trafalgar had time to do as the lord lunged for him. He was grabbed by the sides of his bare hips, the fabric covering him having ridden up in their struggle. The fingers were brutal and unforgiving in their ferocity. They bruised and dragged him along, depositing him outside of the fountain. The lord scrambled over the ledge and landed on his chest, pinning him down without the irritation of the water.
Panting and wondering if he was going to die a death befitting of a beggar, Trafalgar tried his best to struggle out of the bonds Eustass imposed on him. His progress was hindered by the words the lord was using to provoke him.
"You fucker! This is what I mean! How can you explain this?" At this, the lord grabbed one of Trafalgar's flailing wrists and twisted it so it fit between the tight space of their bodies. Trafalgar sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers touched the abrasive fabric of the man's breeches, and found the rotund shape he was palming was what the man spoke of.
"I'm certain that if you let me up, I would be able to explain this fully and comprehensibly so that even a wanton brute such as yourself would understand."
A dark aura struck Trafalgar then and he realized that the lord was looking down at him with a sudden absence of rage. There was a sinister thoughtfulness in his expression, a malicious curiosity.
"Maybe I should bite you back. See what happens," the lord mused, a twisted smile working its way into the curve of his mouth. "Hmm, bloodsucker?"
"I prefer the frank but orthodox term vampire, should you wish to refer to my species in my presence," Dr. Trafalgar said, barely able to conceal his anxiety. He didn't like the mischievous gleam that had appeared in the whites of Eustass' hollow eyes. The glazed over look of a madman never was good luck to anyone.
Before he could conceive an idea of how to get out of this predicament, Trafalgar found that Eustass had a wry sense of humour. He had his neck bitten, and the sensation that he'd often idly pondered about – what getting impaled with teeth would actually feel like – was finally revealed to him.
He screamed and growled, cursed and snarled. Still, the rational part of him knew that teeth sinking into his flesh was better than the alternative of getting his neck snapped in two. He did not doubt for a second the strength of the lord. The mostly one-sided battle had revealed it.
The lord withdrew after only a taste, a gory waterfall gushing from his mouth. Red streams fell from his chin back towards its master. Surprisingly, Trafalgar's only thought was that the man's technique was awful. Calling him on it, his next thought, was dismissed as stupidity.
"You drink this?" the lord wondered incredulously, mouth curling into a sneer of disgust. Bits of red dribbled onto Trafalgar's cheeks. How he wished he could wipe them away with the cuff of his sopping wet coat.
"I never have had the pleasure of drinking my own damn blood," Trafalgar growled, sarcasm clear. His neck throbbed, making his words raspy so that his pain was evident.
The lord's sneer twisted into a malicious grin. "Really? Then why don't you have a taste?"
Before the doctor could throw his face to the side and weather the attack with his dirtied cheek, Lord Eustass's bloodied lips were upon his, brutally ravaging him. A finger was inserted into the corner of his mouth, between his teeth, and he should have liked to bite Eustass' tongue clean off had it not been for the restraint of a locked jaw.
He fully expected the lord to pull back with a bloodcurdling laugh and spit saliva into his face, but the torturous kiss lingered far longer than what could be deemed a malevolent act. The taste of his own blood was perhaps the vilest thing he'd ever had in his mouth, yet the saliva exuded from the lord was enough to wash the taste out. Perhaps it was not so much the act but the scent of what lay beneath sugary flesh ripe for harvest so near to his fangs, lips upon his that were sweeter than any women he'd kissed that brought about this strange feeling of elation he was now experiencing. It could have also been the fleshy, wet tongue swirling around his most dangerous assets that did it. He knew, however, that it could not have been just one single thing that aroused him.
When the lord pulled away, the doctor saw that his pupils had reappeared. The element of lunacy still lingered, yet he appeared much calmer than before. A shifting of fabric drew his attention to the bulge in the slacks of the lord, still disposed for unlawful action.
The doctor experienced a shift in perspective that made him chuckle at himself.
Trafalgar began rubbing up against the lord with his hips, adventurous adrenaline pumping through his veins. He'd had men before. But they were not so much men as they were victims. The thrill of not being able to kill this…beastly thing, as easily as a normal mortal, excited him into quite a state.
His one free hand went to the back of Eustass' head, but it was slammed down to the brickwork beneath to join the other almost immediately. Without saying a word, the lord rose off of Trafalgar's body, eyes once again becoming white, fiery balls of barely repressed anger. While Trafalgar observed that his end could be very near indeed, his skull perhaps crushed under the heel of this man, the lord startled him by backing away to his horse.
The animal resisted until the man looked it in one of its coal black eyes, then the beast submitted docilely out of what Trafalgar guessed was fear.
The doctor scrambled to stand and, like Lord Eustass, casually fled the moment, going to the wicker bench he'd been sitting on when the man arrived. He wiped the blood from his face and neck with a black handkerchief embroidered with yellow trim that he kept in his pocket. From a distance he called out: "That was rather disappointing, Mister Eustass. Here I thought we were going to go somewhere exquisite with our bodies' desires."
Lord Eustass mounted and wickedly swung his charger around by a yank to the reins. "I won't let you lure me in again, bloodsucker."
With that, the bay was spurred into a gallop, and Trafalgar watched the red hair disappear into the shimmering emerald fields beyond the duchess' gardens.
-oOo-
The day following the duchess' banquet found Lord Portgas lounging in a drawing room after breakfast. Though his mind bubbled with excitement, he was waiting patiently for the arrival of his valet. However, his patience was frayed to breaking point.
At last Marco came in, announcing: "There are several letters for you, my Lord."
"Put them on the desk over there. I'll read them later."
Marco obeyed and deposited his catch on the mahogany wood of the desk. "Do you wish me to prepare some tea? Coffee perhaps?"
"I wish only for you to sit for me. Now," Lord Portgas said, impatient to get on with it. He could only endure so much waiting and idling about.
The lord rose from his chair and strode over to the man, whose form grew rigid as he knew not where to go or what to do. The lord did not dare to touch him, even gently upon the arm, for fear of setting himself off with an electric current of lust. "Remove your tails, please. I wish to capture the crux of human form. Too much fabric will conceal it."
Hesitantly, Marco undid the buttons of his coat and removed it. The lord's gentle smile was dazzling, so much so that it was nearly impossible to move his eyes away long enough to drop his coat upon a nearby chair. He was left in his dark slacks and white collared shirt.
The lord's fingers pointed him to a pale long chaise. "Sit there. I won't ask you to take off your shirt. I don't want you to catch a chill or anything of the sort."
This partially eased Marco and he slowly reclined on the chaise, unsure of whether he ought to pose himself or wait for the lord to do so. He assumed the latter, and sure enough he was given elaborate descriptions to which he obeyed. He was truly to lounge, with one arm over the top of the chaise. It was, perhaps, a nobleman's position. In that way it felt quite strange to Marco.
"Be honest with me, my friend. Does it feel natural? Will you be sore after only an hour?"
"No," Marco replied immediately, "I won't be sore. But I must confess that it does feel somewhat unnatural for someone of my rank to–"
"Nonsense. We'll crop that thought there," Lord Portgas interrupted. He was in no mood to talk rank with his valet.
He gathered brushes in hand and readied his paint, then lay down a wash of colour on his canvas to block in the shapes in front of his eyes. He was painting a rather small portrait, as he did not want Marco to become overly sore and ruin his chances for further sessions. There was enough space for details, however, and the lord set out at once to contrive them. He wished to capture a perfect likeness of his valet, something for him to look upon later and feel an enormous sense of relief from his cravings.
After a half hour in which the lord worked silently bringing in details around the room and on Marco's body, he decided the silence was overbearing.
"I usually paint on a caprice. A whim. I'm glad you chose to oblige me so soon, because the mood often passes quickly and without painting I often fear I may lose my touch."
Marco shifted the tiniest bit at the sound of his lord's smooth voice. "Oh," was all he managed, deeming it impolite for a servant of any sort to acknowledge thanks from his master. He had always, when praised, redirected it as modestly as he could.
"I am deeply obliged," the lord repeated, wondering what he ought to say next. He painted the dark curtains behind the chaise, which made the blond of his valet's hair stand out starkly like the first star to appear in the night sky.
"It is my pleasure," murmured Marco.
"No, I do believe it's mine," the lord whispered, inaudible to Marco's ears. He was mindful of the first stirrings of arousal, and took care to examine his subject with some degree of detachment. He took short glances at Marco and sweeping looks at his inanimate painting.
It was in this state of aloofness that he noticed an inordinate artistic error in his work.
The white of the chaise upon which Marco lounged was nearly identical to the white of the man's shirt. The whites bled into one another, making it hard to distinguish between the two. The lord could use harsh grey shadows between them, but to do so would mean to darken every aspect of the painting, which would be tedious and likely unsuccessful. The mood of the piece would surely change, and that was simply unacceptable.
"Marco, I have just made light of a distressing dilemma," the lord said, dropping his current brush into a jar of muddy water and wiping his hands on a cloth. As quickly and simply as he could, he explained the problem, and was mightily surprised when it was not he who suggested its solution.
"Is it too late to remove my shirt? If the problem is too much white, I'm sure my skin tone will even things out," he said, a shy blush rising into his cheeks. The lord assumed a similar redness, though his was derived of different emotions. He flushed for the chance at seeing Marco half-bare before him while his valet flushed for the darkness of his skin. A tan was the most basic mark of a servant or, as he had been in his youth, a slave.
"Only if you are willing and it is not a great discomfort to you."
Marco was already taking off his shirt. It was obvious he considered it a service, which made the lord ever more uncomfortable.
When it was off and bunched in Marco's hands instead, the lord instantly noticed the crude mark upon the man's chest. It was a cross of sorts, with a sweeping curve through the middle. His valet did not seem conscious of it, leading the lord to believe it had been there for too long to be mindful of.
He did not think it wise to question any sort of mark on a man, especially one that had led a life in service to others, and so chalked it up to a religious marking and nothing more for the safety of them both.
Regardless of Lord Portgas' discomfort, they continued after he asked Marco to drape the shirt over the top of the chair, where the wood decals were a dark brown. He painted that first, to calm his shuddering nerves, and then returned his eyes to Marco's body. Here his brush froze and trembled.
He observed Marco from behind his easel for a few minutes longer than normal, and the difference was marked by Marco questioning whether he had moved too far out of place.
"No, you're…" the lord trailed off as his mind presented two alternatives. He chose the safer of the two. "I'm simply pondering how to mix a certain colour. You have a radiance I want to capture. Your colours, I mean."
Irritated by himself, the lord hid behind his painting, and continued to perfect it. The portrait was finished within the hour, and he couldn't help but notice the slight nuances where he'd let sloppy brushwork go unattended. Yet he was tired and fed up with his alterations, believing that he'd never fully capture the beauty that lounged in front of his eyes.
He called Marco up to see it, as it was only fair for his model, and was privy to emotions on Marco's features that he'd never seen before. He observed the grateful shine in his eyes, the genuine curve of a smile, and the subtle slouching of his shoulders that told of his relaxed state. Total relaxation in the lord's presence was something he hadn't seen yet from Marco.
For that alone he could smile as if highly accomplished.
"It's quite beautiful," Marco said, his quiet voice showcasing his awe. "You've captured my likeness perfectly. I cannot even fathom the excellence of this portrait…"
For the first time it seemed, and only with the help of the painting, his valet noticed upon his chest the mark, which the lord had written off as a symbol of his religious values. Lord Portgas watched him pale and his shoulders tense.
"Will you display this somewhere?" Marco asked shyly.
"It is not to be seen by anyone but myself," replied the lord. "It is practice and exercise, not destined for exhibition."
"That is just as well."
Before the lord could work up the nerve to ask Marco what it was that got him into this state of distress, Marco excused himself on account of needing to attend to the horses in the stable. Apparently they hadn't gotten their troughs filled with hay this morning, even though the lord was certain Marco did it every morning not long after waking up.
Lord Portgas was left wondering when he ought to get more servants, as the excuses for his valet were numerous and cumbersome.
-oOo-
That night, Lord Portgas stood naked in his bedchamber, scrutinizing his work by candlelight.
He could not figure out what change would capture the spirit of his valet, and it irked him to a degree that almost made him want to take a knife to the canvas. He refrained on the sole excuse that it was a work that pictured someone he intimately cared for. Though he had yet to know the depth of the emotion, a part of him knew his fondness for the man ran deep into his core. He could not ruin the painting without stabbing a wound into his own chest.
Lord Portgas sighed and clothed himself in a dressing gown. He was too heated to be chilly, even though the tiles of his bedroom were cool to the touch of his bare toes, and yet the clothing was necessary. He found he could no longer stay in his room staring at a mere likeness of Marco, trying to discover a spirit, and knowing that the spirit could only be found attached to the person in question.
He ignored the bells of the clock and made his way downstairs earlier than what he'd normally deem safe. He simply could not wait longer. He located Marco's chamber and pried the door loose, then stepped inside, trying not to produce any sound.
The light, regular breathing of slumber reassured him. He carefully picked his way across the floor to the bed and peered down through the darkness, his demonic eyes already adjusted to take in every colour that would normally be seen under the influence of the sun.
He allowed passionate attachment that he'd denied himself earlier while painting. The wash of emotions that coated his senses overwhelmed him and he was picking away at the blankets surrounding his valet without thinking of the consequences of his actions. He revealed a tanned shoulder and neck, the skin disappearing under Marco's night garb.
A shudder ripped through him not unlike being hit by a frigid breeze off a lake. His demonic desire was rearing its ugly head, and he felt the innate need to climb atop this man and mould his body against every surface. There was something about mortals in such a prone position, lying down fast asleep, that excited his ingrained predatory traits. Only he did not wish to maim and kill. He wished to caress and press himself securely against this warm body. Kiss and lick his skin. To hold Marco close and be a barrier between him and anything that wished him harm.
And, of course, be with him in the most intimate of embraces.
These thoughts troubled his conscience, and the pull this man had on his subconscious made it difficult but necessary to extract himself from the room. He put the covers back over Marco and then put distance between them, returning to his room where he covered the painting with a sheet and forced himself into bed.
He used his mind to recall certain images from their shared afternoon, and managed to release some of his tension, but he could never completely sate himself using only his hand and imagination. It was impossible for an incubus to do so, as it went profoundly against their very nature.
-oOo-
With Robin gone off to greater places with her tiger-man, whose fur had returned to normal in every place but the top of his head, Dr. Trafalgar was left to his relatively empty abode. Shachi had taken his Caldrius down to the market in Grove 52 as company, as Trafalgar had tasked him with the replenishment of their fish stock. Bepo was off hunting, something he usually did when Trafalgar expressed his aversion to seeing his patients. Well, victims.
As a result, he was left all alone and bored rigid.
So uninterested was he with his duties in town that he sharpened his sword, an old nodachi that was often mistaken for a walking stick. It looked like nothing of the sort, yet he supposed people were not accustomed to seeing such long, decorative swords carried quite the way he did, or thought that there wasn't any point to a doctor carrying one. Besides, he mostly carried it on adventures through the Boin forest where people were loath to traverse. He kept the sword for his protection and, at times, his amusement.
As it was a sword designed and charmed to cut down his fellow demons of the night.
When he heard a great roar that shook the windows of his home, it was only natural that Trafalgar would hoist this sheathed sword over his shoulders and set out with it. He also took his medical bag, out of habit more than necessity.
Bepo came when called for, and it was clear he hadn't been the one to make such an upset by the way his hackles were raised.
"Some beast in the valley?" asked Bepo, half snarling his words so they were unintelligible. Trafalgar nearly had him repeat himself, but he had known his beast for so long that interpreting him based on body language alone sufficed in most situations.
"I have an idea of what it could be. But let's find out, shall we?"
Bepo snorted and lumbered down a forest path in his bearish form, raking the ground with his elongated claws. After a few minutes of tedious walking through the dense underbrush, Trafalgar swung up onto Bepo's back while he was still in motion, not intending to walk the distance to a sound that seemed far off yet. Bepo only grunted and accepted what was fully his master's right.
Besides, he was quite pleased to be of any assistance.
"Bepo, what does that smell like to you?"
Bepo raised his nose from the forest floor and scented the air. "Fire?" he grumbled, puzzled. "Well, smoke."
"Smoke indeed. That is all I can smell myself."
Bepo's sides expanded, widening his girth and causing Trafalgar to take up a different position on his back, feet on one side of his steed. Riding side-saddle in the barest of ways. "I also smell humans!"
"Really? What sort of humans?"
"Dirty humans," Bepo replied. His nose might have been much stronger than Trafalgar's, but his descriptions were weaker. Sparse, really.
"They're all dirty to you, Bepo. I'm asking about their status."
Bepo heaved another breath. "Oh, I'm sorry, Master. Very, very dirty humans. The dirtiest of them all."
Trafalgar tapped the tip of his nodachi against his heeled boot as he rode along, idly putting pieces together. "Pheasants, then. Well. I should have made that conclusion myself. Only drunken pheasants would dare go anywhere near the Boin forest."
"I do not smell intoxicators."
"Nothing? That is very strange."
As Bepo began to grunt that he could smell a strange scent amidst the odour of unwashed human bodies and smoke, a fierce bellow shook the tree leaves. This one was so loud, Trafalgar quickly concluded that whatever had made such a noise was nearly upon them.
"Bepo, you should probably move to the side of the path, and make ready for something that might want to pass."
Not one for exercising hesitation to his master's words, Bepo pressed his bulky body against the nearest tree off the forest path. Within seconds the ground began to shake, and a half-giant came tearing by a half-minute later, sparing them the smallest of glances with its dark, beady eyes.
Trafalgar was delighted by its appearance. "Bepo, I do believe that's the bergrisar you once had a bit of a row with. Pursue him at once."
Bepo whined, "Must we?"
"Oh, we must," Dr. Trafalgar said with a grin upon his face. As Bepo began to lop dejectedly after the mountain giant, voices through the trees caught the doctor's attention. He leaned forward on Bepo's back and grabbed for the scruff of his neck, reining him in with a forceful jerk. "What was that?"
"The humans I smelt," Bepo offered with a giddiness that told of how he was quite pleased that he had been right about one thing. "They must have been chasing him."
"Indeed," Trafalgar said as the scent of flesh wafted into his nostrils. "Hmm. Well. They have trespassed on my property. Perhaps we ought to reinforce the concept that I don't like people trespassing through the Boin forest. That the Boin forest is a dangerous place."
Bepo swung his head around, trying to get a better look at his master. "Will you kill them?"
"Certainly. I may also carve out their hearts, if it is of any interest to you."
Bepo snorted as his master slid from his back, nodachi in hand and a thoughtful, yet deadly expression haunting his features. "Go. Follow the bergrisar. Tell him I wish to have tea with him."
His shapeshifter was not pleased, but did as he was instructed.
Trafalgar was left in the darkness, watching torch light creep closer to his position. He couldn't distinguish the words of the bergrisar's pursuers, as they were the whispers of hunters. He drew his sword when the first of what could have been three or four was upon him. Deftly, he cut them down, one by one, silently slicing them. One from shoulder to hip, another across the neck, and finally lopping an arm and a head off of the third. A fourth realized the one causing this massacre was nearly upon him and tried to flee. Trafalgar stabbed him before he was able to get out of reach of his arcing blade.
He stamped out their torches with his boots, and the world went dark save for a few points of reflective light in the undergrowth and the waning moon overhead.
Sucking in a deep breath after that flurry of action, Trafalgar found his senses aroused by the gore staining the forest floor. Already he could see curious eyes in the darkness. Beasts waiting for him to abandon his kill. Perhaps even the vegetation under his feet was sucking the blood and bone marrow of his victims as he stood there in thought. He wouldn't put it past the Boin forest.
Grunting to cause a nervous stir in the creatures rapidly surrounding him, he knelt beside a fallen body and touched a few fingers to the blood pouring from a chest wound, then raised them to his nose. He sniffed.
A flash of disappointment coursed through his body. The blood was fresh, ridiculously so, yet it reeked of an impossible staleness. It did not excite him. Rather it put a damper on his delight.
He tasted it anyway and nearly retched. It tasted of decay, not life.
It wasn't as if he'd never tasted pheasants' blood before either. He'd feasted on many a pheasant. Their skin was often dirtier than a noble's, but their blood was the same. Human blood was always the same, and had, until now, all tasted delightful to him. He did not discriminate based on rank.
He moved off to another body and repeated his actions, even tasted what dripped off of his fingers. This time, he did retch.
He cleaned himself with a black handkerchief and got up, abandoning the bodies to the beasts lurking in the undergrowth. As soon as he cleared off by ten feet, he heard the commotion begin. Teeth and claws ripping flesh apart. The claiming of bits and pieces. A cacophonic symphony of snarls. His head began to throb.
"Bepo!" he screamed. "Bepo! Come here right now!"
He sat down on a fallen tree and thrust the blade of his sword into the ground. Breathing shallowly now, he listened to his shapeshifter lumber up, frantically growling and snarling his name. Demolishing trees that were hundreds of years old and frightening off the creatures hanging about his person.
"Bepo, calm down, I'm fine," Dr. Trafalgar said as his beast shoved his furred head into his lap, snuffling his chest for injuries. "I just got a little upset."
"But why?" Bepo wondered aloud, blinking big black eyes at him.
Trafalgar ignored his question. He didn't want to think too deeply on the matter. "Did you invite the bergrisar to tea like I asked you to?"
Bepo couldn't meet his eyes. Very subtly he gazed in the direction of the fallen pheasants. "Oh, I…well, I believe I lost him. I'm sorry! He can get on quick."
"Bepo!"
"Then you called me over with obvious distress!"
Trafalgar sighed. It was probably for the best. He had a feeling he wouldn't make a very good host if the distress he'd felt in that moment returned. "Let's go home and get a good night's sleep. I have patients I need to kill in the morning."
Bepo was happy to oblige.
A.N.: I actually love the fountain scene. Every single time it makes me laugh for some reason. Perhaps you laughed too, or experienced some other type of emotion.
Thank you everyone for leaving such nice comments on this story! My insides get all fluttery reading them :)
