15. Butterfly
A/n: I associate monsieur Smahlt with butterflies, it seems. You may be interested in listening to the Katzenjammer song Wading in Deeper to enjoy this a bit more – it sounds so absurdly like Kurda to me, it isn't even funny. o.0
When they asked him if he believed in paradise, the rising prince told them the truth forwardly, even if it was not what they wanted (or expected, or needed) to hear. His words were not flattery, neither abridged nor sugar coated; so his truth manifested itself like icy black feldspar along the edge of a riverbed, sharp and painfully unashamed. The young man was here alone and incompatible, a mismatched piece of clockwork trying to make it's way into the machine – and was not an undiplomatic shadow that Smahlt cast across the rushing water but his path was edged by the continental shelf, and (even he knew it) just one misstep could send him tumbling down to the darkest, coldest depths known to man. Is he a mouse or a man, a traitor or martyr?
It is a fine line and he knows it.
x.X.x
Sometimes, Gavner told him, when you got close enough and the light was just so, you could see just an icy void reflected back in his peacock-blue eyes, like his insides ate up all the light – and then he reached out a heavy hand, laid it on his shoulder, gave him a trademark this-is-for-your-own-good smile, and asked him to, please, please, please be careful.
The silence between them had lasted just a beat too long and for the first time the smaller man caught a soft-edged flash of fear in the other man's eyes – but this was beyond him, them, and everyone else - so Kurda grinned and brushed the hand lightheartedly away. He tossed his head dismissively and changed the subject, and they left the little alcove, walked back into the throngs of tussling vampires and joined the games together (for the last time).
x.X.x
Kurda met his first vampaneze early in his servitude, positioning himself carefully beside the man who blooded him and tried hard to look away as the two circle and growl like wild animals, wolves quarreling over a recent kill. The purple-tinted skin seemed obscene, at first, since it contrasted so strongly against the snow, but he watched how gracefully the man bearing it moved (in, out, in, out, side to side like a vipera berus skidding across the road) and began to admire, if only a little, how this 'beast' did not threatened him to gain leverage, as his own master would have done if the vampaneze had possessed a mirroring apprentice. In fact, he had initiated negotiations before the battle began, and assured his wretched master that the quarrel would not extend 'his dog', and that the apprentice would remain unharmed if he happened to die, not that his safety was of any concern to the man.
It is his first encounter with honor, and it changes his tastes forever.
x.X.x
He knows, deep down in the pit of his stomach, he'll someday have wrapped himself too tight in the nettles and thorns of his carefully crafted world and it will crash down around his ears. The wound will be deep – reach the very marrow of his bones – when he realizes how deep the water he treads has gotten without him noticing, and how far he is from the safety of the familiar shallows. He will fight the waves halfheartedly, for a while, until he has coughed up all the butterflies that drove him this far out to sea. Kurda will watch them fly away (see how gently they crest the foamy waves and rise, one by one, the salty ocean gusts) with the pride of a father and hope that – somehow, somewhere – their tiny wing beats will make a difference.
Then, he will let go and sink beneath the waves – drowning is only terrible for those who feel the need to fight the crushing embrace, struggle for one last gasp of clover-sweet air. But Kurda, as everyone he has ever met will attest, is not among these men; he was born in the clutch of Russian winter, and he has seen the frosted craquelature slither up and bring even the fieriest tempers into check, like brazen colts being trained to take the bit. Among the things that he has inherited from mother Winter, he decides, sits the resignation with which he will accept the blows of fate and, finally, fall into the death that has been breathing down his neck for all these years.
x.X.x
Particular crisis and turning points aside, life has come, sniffing at his heels like a regular pet. The cycles are constant, and he feels he can predict the turning of the tide – and if he can predict it, why shouldn't he work to change it for the better? He remembers all the times he has, clinging to the sheer walls of the German ghettos and tossing scraps of bread and cheese to the children clustered inside, even blankets and candies when he could. He flitted between the towns and spread word of the evacuations at Dunkirk, even broke the rules (not that rules matter so, after all) and carried babies to aunts, grandmothers and sisters already waiting at the coast when families had no hope of reaching the boats before the Germans would catch them. It is not weakness, he tells himself – and the men who corner him in the deserted tavern and meant have killed him, if the little girl he had been relocating hadn't run and sounded the alarm – that makes him spend so much time protecting the same people and righting the same wrongs, but compassion.
x.X.x
He went to say his vespers, once, on a windy night beneath a cloudless, red ribbon sky, at the little chapel above his village. He had chased the owls and foxes along the lightly powdered woodland path – he had never seen a butterfly, and so he made do pursuing the little grey squirrels from tree to tree and peering down rabbit-holes – up the hills and through the trees. The temperatures were harsh and the wind was biting but life prevailed even where there were no hearths to warm the bones, heart, and lungs.
He had prayed like a devil, that evening, fervent in his thanks. His hands were clasped tight beneath the alter and his eyes remained humble, never strayed once from the knotted whorls of the wood-grained floor. He had left the church with a warm smile to the priest.
When he neared his family home just after the sun had set, a neighbor rushed out to stop him. Her eyes were grave and tearful, but her words made him feel dizzy, and he rocked like a crib in the face of the wind. They had come, she told him, for his family, called them enemies of the state, and rushed them away into the woods at gunpoint.
Their fate was unquestionable; later, that evening, her husband went and fetched his father's pocket watch for him, and marked the graves properly. The house had been butchered, walls punched through with the fifteen rifle butts, thatch roof massacred by their violent ministrations. He sat beside the hearth that night too cold and shattered to feel the warmth of the flames, and knew that there was no god.
x.X.x
He is a traitor and a victim, wrapped in the guise of innocence, a wolf among sheep among wolves, but he is saving the angels and the devils from a far greater evil. The vampire is familiar with human philosophy, particularly the chaos theory. Something as simple as a butterfly's wing… he beats them all the harder.
x.X.x
A few weeks into his apprenticeship, the youthful blonde had stumbled across a baby owl, vulnerable and fallen on the wintry forest floor. He had tucked the owlet into his tunic and fed it bits of mouse and pocketed scraps of raw venison for it, and had kept it warm with his own heat and breath. But then the helpless infant had been discovered.
"Enough," the man growled, grabbing his wrist and twisting until the downy little bird chirred frantically and fell to the snow. Kurda snatched his hand away and dove after the infant, only to fall with a heavier thud in a deep drift of snow as he was kneed in the side mid-leap.
"You are becoming too involved. This is nature, мальчик, and you," the tall, broad man barked, "you would change her, corrupt her way like a dog pissing in the fields. Vampires have no for time sentimentalism."
"But, sir, it hasn't hurt a thing, and haven't stolen a thing, I've fed it from my own portions, honestly–"
"No, idiot! Now, stay there or I will make you."
The threat was a valid one, as he had been taught early into his apprenticeship. There was a sudden, tense calm between the two men, because Kurda had not lost all of his spirit to the man, and could not bare to pander, could hardly stand to bend because he knew exactly what the wretch would do to the bird –
Then he looked away in submission, murmuring an apology in heavily accented, broken Czech to his master even as the man stepped roughly forward and stained the snow with innocent blood.
x.X.x
Kurda could tell they were all staring at him, feel their eyes on their back. The young vampire's face reddened as he forced himself to stand tall, weave his way between the long tables, and find a seat at the far end where he could breathe. That man – he had never thought he would meet someone too cruel be called by his own name – had humiliated him, and he had snapped, lost his patience and fought back like a tiger. He was not feral, hated the propensity violence that had been afforded him; the half-vampire had even managed to get a few good blows in before he stopped himself (the sensation of turning on his sire like a rabid dog was foreign and upset his stomach – he was not so seditious at heart) and allowed himself to be felled by the heated blows. Now he ached and his lungs quivered passionately under the screaming, hellfire pain that would not leave his ribs. Bruises swam in a muddled haze across his arms, and he likened the colors to the first night he spent alone in life.
He had come full circle. After that man had beat him into a fog of memories and vague, detached sensation, he had disowned him, left him alone like a cur without a master to die in the streets. There would be no supplication this time because the louse had grabbed his walking stick and disappeared from the mountain without another word. It was a relief to be rid of the bastard, truthfully, but the world was not a forgiving place and with that display in the entrance hall he will be seen as nothing more than a mistake, a scourge on the clan. The blonde man could feel the pressure build in his throat, threatening tears, pushed his face into the dirty palms of his hands and stayed that way. His ragged breaths did not slow.
Tap, tap, tap, and the pressure of a heavy hand came to his shoulder –dour blue eyes raised themselves and he turned. Beside him is a substantial man, average in just about every way. This particular vampire is brown haired, brown eyed, and showcases the beginnings of a collection of battle scars – however, his most prominent quality is the asinine looking mother-bear smile that was then blinding him like a bonfire. Somehow, he cannot help but feel a bit warmer and smile weakly back.
For the first time in ages Kurda felt something reminiscent of humanity uncoiling in the back of his throat. Maybe he is not quite as alone as he thought.
x.X.x
The air is rushing over his back and whipping at his neck (the descent into madness is slower than he thought, because he has had time to think this much) and as he feels his body slip away from him, into the abyss, cannot help but wonder.
Perhaps he is, after all, just the dream of butterfly.
FIN.
A hundred years isn't a bad guess in terms of Kurda's age, is it?
Of course, I made him Russian. And I actually learned some history with this one.
I feel so bad for beating Kurda up and traumatizing him as much as I did, but adversity not only builds character and strength but also inspires.
мальчик – boy