Egg of Nemesis
CkyKing
Anita Blake/HP Prompt
Pairing : Wicked/Harry/Truth
Harry is a descendant of Belle-Morte and possesses the Ardeur. For whatever reason (to help his Ancestress, to find someone...), he ends up going to St-Louis (with his own vampires and weres of course).
I want to see Harry using the Ardeur and being the sweet Death that all the wielders of the Ardeur are (because I want to see a seductive, manipulative, deadly Harry).
-It seems that everyone in the ABVH verse thinks that Belle-Morte developed the Ardeur only because she became a vampire and that it was restricted to vampires of her line. But I think they forget that she was once human. What tells us that the Ardeur is not simply a power that she had while alive and that she kept after being turned
-And, if she had it while alive, wouldn't it be possible for the Ardeur to be a family trait, albeit very rare
-their family would make a magically binding non-aggression pact because I don't want to imagine multiple users of the Ardeur fighting against each other.
Belle as "Sleeping Beauty" and Harry as "Snow White".
0o0o0
Paris, France
"My lady." Apolline Delacour knew well to speak softly and keep her eyes low while entering the lady's chambers. For the news she brought would not please Belle Morte. Belle stirred from her bed and the men within it, turning to regard her with honey gold eyes like Apolline's own. They brightened at the sight of Apolline, who was glad to see such a swift show of favoritism.
"Ah, child!" Belle opened her arms, and Apolline embraced her readily, kissing her swiftly on each cheek. She was warm to the touch, and Apolline knew her to be well fed as was Belle's right as sourdre de sang and queen of the veela.
"Rarely you come to my court, daughter. What brings you to me in such haste?" Apolline flushed prettily, and clung to Belle Morte as if to prevent her from anger.
"My lady, I have done as you asked and gone looking for lost ones of your line and lineage, tracing them had not been an easy task for us." It had not been Apolline Delacour's task alone to find the first ones, the lost ones, the children of Belle Morte before her turning. It had been a task she had inherited, passed mother to daughter since Belle Morte had given them charge of it.
"I know this daughter, but it is a worthy task, my family has spread so far." There was a satisfied smugness to Belle Morte's tone, at which Apolline bowed her head in agreement.
Vampires had not always been called vampires after all, and this none remembered better than Belle Morte and her comrades upon the Council. Once upon a time they had been the old ones, the old gods and goddesses.
To be a sourdre de sang, what they call now a "master" and to be a master means making; but it also means mothering in the fashion that Marmee Noir taught her dark daughters. It means to bed and breed children to take pride in. This is a thing most of the Vampire Council no longer follows, to keep a living family.
A living family line used to be a point of pride, for it used to be in the days of Marmee Noir that a vampire was born, not simply made. A sourdre de sang kept a eye upon their living family, for once in a while came about a worthy son or daughter who was to be the scion of the sourdre de sang, the heir and often groomed from birth to rule as sourdre de sang elsewhere.
That Belle Morte has a living family was a fact, but they are flung far indeed.
"I have found one uncounted, lady; he lives in England, witch-begotten." Belle Morte frowns at this, for it is an oddity – a veela may marry a wizard, but rarely do they have sons, and rarer yet that that those sons possess magic.
"His name?" Apolline shivers at her curious and cold tone. Belle Morte goes so still that she would think she was embraced by a sun warmed statue if not for the breath upon her neck.
"He is Harry Potter, called also the Boy Who Lived." Belle Morte lets her loose, fixing her honey gaze upon the half veela.
"Why?" Belle Morte asks, frowning thoughtfully.
"He survived Oliver's descendent, the snake-speaker named Tom Riddle." Belle Morte hisses her displeasure, that one of her line would cross paths with the Earthmover's alone, and without Belle knowing.
"His family…?" Apolline Delacour keeps her gaze fixed upon the bedding.
"He is all but an orphan, my lady. He is alone." Apolline knew he would not be now, not for long – not with Belle Morte now knowing what she had told her. Apolline closed her eyes, and thought of her daughters Fleur and Gabrielle whom Harry Potter had saved from death. This telling would save him in turn, she felt sure. He would be a powerful immortal, not merely the Boy Who Lived.
Belle Morte stood from her bed and at her door were two vampire warriors that had let Apolline pass without a word or gesture, now they came to attention.
"Find him, my Wicked Truth." They bowed as if one was merely a mirror of the other, dark and light, obeying, going so swiftly Apolline did not see them leave.
Belle Morte turned her gaze to the Paris sky. It was not the city Belle Morte loved.
It had been the man that this city had been named for.
0o0o0
"What did you say?" Harry Potter sits across from Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts and knows his life will never be the same, but he can't help but ask. He can't quite make sense of what is going on or what he is becoming, not quite yet. Minerva takes a breath and lets it go as if it pains her. Her eyes lower to her hands as she speaks.
"You've been named as a scion, Harry." Minerva's voice is soft, regretful. Harry clenches his teeth and tries to understand that this is hard for her, she knows more than she is saying – and she knows how he feels about that lack on his part.
His temper feels like fire, and he swallows it down. He doesn't want it to get him into trouble.
"I heard that, just…what does it mean?" Her eyes briefly meet his, and close as she speaks.
"It means you've been claimed by a sourdre de sang of the Vampire Council. You aren't an orphan. You are the scion of a sourdre de sang, of Belle Morte." Minerva's knuckles are white with her tension.
"How am I, a wizard, a scion of a vampire?" Harry demands of her. He can't help looking nervously back to the two silent men who stand like soldiers near the door. He feels trapped, and knows they might let him leave – but they would follow.
"If I may, Headmistress McGonagall…?" They look so much alike that Harry isn't sure which one spoke. Minerva presses her lips into a thin line as she nods.
"You are probably aware that there are very old ties among purebloods. Yet the reason families of wizards and witches actually call themselves purebloods is because they are direct descendents of a powerful sourdre de sang vampire, such is what your connection with Belle Morte is, Mr. Potter. It is rarer these days for a sourdre de sang to claim a scion among their living kin, but Belle Morte well remembers urging the Vampire Council to form the Wizard Council so as to protect those bloodlines. You might say she shaped society as you know it here." He is blond and grey eyed, but his smile is chilling and wickedly superior.
"It is a rare gift to be wanted by a sourdre de sang; I suggest you take her up on it." Their eyes are the same grey, Harry sees; it makes him realize that beneath his dark hair and the start of a beard about his wide mouth they have very similar features. Harry has seen enough Weasley's to know relatives when he sees them.
"Who are you?" Harry asks them and the blonds' smile widens playfully.
"Wicked." His hiss is like a whisper, and Harry knows that Minerva hasn't heard it. It was inside his head.
"Truth." He frowns at Wicked knowingly.
"Those are not names." Harry states dryly.
"You live long enough and most people forget your name." Truth's smile is breakable, hurting. Minerva narrows her eyes upon them, and Harry realizes he is looking knowingly at his first vampires.
"Does Belle Morte know your names?" Harry knows they aren't used to being asked questions, that with asking he amuses them; Wicked nods, almost thoughtfully, as if he has to make an effort to remember such a thing.
"I haven't any choice, do I?" Harry clenches his hands upon his wand when Truth sakes his head. Wicked opens the door for him as he gets up, Harry doesn't look back as he follows.
0o0o0
At his first sight of her, Harry knows Belle Morte to be the most beautiful woman he has – or ever will – meet. It makes his breath catch in his throat; her dark hair falls in curling rings down her bare shoulders, she wares some sheer silk thing that he's never seen the like of before that clings and leaves little to his imagination it's knee-length, leaving her shin and toes bare. It's taunting and tantalizing.
She sees him, and her eyes ask if he likes what he sees.
Her smile is as sweet and warm as her honey gold eyes.
She winks, and the stunned enchantment, that sweeping all encompassing enthrallment, leaves him like a painful blow to the stomach. It's gone – Belle is beautiful – but beautiful in the way all women and men can be. What she had, what he saw, was a test. He's passed, and the passing was painful.
Harry wants it back, that feeling of power, that gift - that curse – of beauty. He wants to own it; it's his, a part of him that he never recognized until he saw her standing there showing it to him like a pair of shoes or dress she wanted his approval of.
"How?" Harry has to take a breath to ask, it comes out shakily, and she laughs. It's warm and dark like rich chocolate.
"I will show you." She whispers in his ear, a promise he learns she has every intention of keeping starting that very night. The power passes between the two of them, playing and enchanting her whole court, washing them in warmth and lust.
"Welcome home, Harry Potter." They dance, and no one can turn their gaze away from sourdre de sang and scion.
0o0o0
Belle Morte does not care for everyone she touches with her power, sometimes it can be like love between two – but sometimes power is only power and lust is her power. She owns it, owns everyone it touches; sometimes they think they love her, and there are many different kinds of love, some know it to be only powerful lust. Harry is not blind to that fact.
So when Donovan Reece comes to the court of Belle Morte, Harry knows it's more than lust he feels. He can't take his eyes off Donovan.
"Belle's little cat has caught his tongue." Wicked teases as coming up behind Harry and wraps an arm around his waist. Donovan sees it, and looks quickly away.
"Who is he?" Harry asks softly, so only Wicked – and Truth, who stands on Harry's other side – can hear.
"Belle Morte calls cats – but those like the swan king Donovan Reece and his swanmanes, or the veela, all the rest of them - they all are very loyal to Belle, they serve her out of their love of family and she protects the flock of them. She hatched from an egg, after all." Harry knows better than to ask if Truth is serious, Truth doesn't lie, what he knows, he knows for fact.
How he can know puzzles Harry for but a moment.
"You two knew Belle Morte, before she was Belle Morte." Wicked gives him a quick kiss on the neck, not quite a bite, but a small thrilling reward.
Harry has never been fed upon; and if he ever was, Belle Morte would be furious. Wicked and Truth have been playing with him, and he has played back, but he does not let himself wonder if either brother is serious in their attention and intentions with him. It would hurt if his own power was turned against him.
"Go play with your canary, little cat." Truth pats his shoulder, and with a look draws Wicked away.
Donovan Reece looks his way when Harry is alone, and perhaps that that Harry is makes him bold, for he approaches with a smile that lights his eyes.
"Will you dance with me?" Harry puts his hand in Donovan's and does just that. It feels right and good to dance with Donovan, like they fit as well as a puzzle.
"My name is Donovan Reece, I usually don't do introductions so backwards, but if you do not mind…what is your name?" His words make Harry smile, and he can't help but answer.
"Harry." Donovan does not stop dancing, but his breath stills, he doesn't dare breathe realizing too late that he put himself in Harry's hands – that if Harry wants to, he could trap Donovan and no one would protest it. Least of all Belle Morte, who may very well find it fitting and proper.
"Belle's... scion?" There is a fear there, Harry can feel it. It chills him in a thrilling way he's never felt before.
"That's right." Harry smiles, because he doesn't want Donovan to fear him.
"She is very proud of you." Donovan sounds defeated, and Harry hates it.
"I do my best to please her, she's my only family." Harry is aware now why there are pureblood families, to produce children a sourdre de sang would take pride in, would make scion – and protect them. Harry grew up without that very protection and foundation; it is something Donovan Reece as swanking grew up with, was groomed into.
His eyes widen with realization at what Harry has confessed – what it means.
"You are not alone now; you will never be without family." Harry's smile is bitter.
"You wanted to leave, how you can claim that?" Donovan claims Belle to be his family, his ancestress, as swankings have done for generations; she in turn protects his flock of swanmanes. Donovan can not claim Belle without claiming Harry.
"I will not leave you." It's a promise Donovan Reece always keeps as he and Harry learn to love and live with each other.
0o0o0
Harry has never met the six who sit upon Vampire Council until Belle Morte decides that it is time he will become a vampire. He knows it will not be Wicked or Truth, though they have grown close. It is perhaps because Belle sees this that she does what she does.
The Queen of Nightmares sits upon her throne beside the Dragon and the Traveler, Belle takes her place beside Padma and Morte D'Amour, who favors Belle with an open smile. Lust and blood-lust are much the same side of the coin, Belle acknowledges in a nod of her head.
"It is not proper that a scion be turned by his – or her - sourdre de sang." The Dragon says before Belle does as she looks upon them all. She knows what she speaks of, being once the scion of the Vittorio, and had been turned by the Day Father, her sourdre de sang. His passing had not weakened her, having power in her own right - but she feared never to being free of Marmee Noir, the Dark Mother whose essence they all held within them.
"It is a mistake we have seen time and time again." The Traveler agrees, when Padma frowns. He would speak, but he is youngest here – and least powerful – so he can, perhaps, protest last, but must hold his tongue in the business of his elders.
"Change, in this case, is perhaps for the best." Morte D'Amour adds, with a look to Belle Morte. She can see the strain Marmee Noir has had upon him, it echoes upon them all.
"He has never been my pomme de sang, I have no claim upon him – but, as his sourdre de sang I have the right to say who will make him childe." Harry looks them one and all in the eyes at Belle's words, unafraid to be so daring. He is not wholly human, Belle made sure of it - and the influence they could wield by eye contact they would not dare to do while Belle Morte sits among them.
"Do you have a choice of maker in mind, Belle Morte?" The Queen of Nightmares has a voice soft but full of thundering power, for they all strain to listen to her. She would not lead here if she was not so wildly powerful.
"Yes, I do, Jean-Claude. He is a sourdre de sang, he now rules St. Louis, he is a triumvirate with Anita Blake and Richard Zeeman – as well, Anita Blake has aided us against Marmee Noir risking her own triumvirate with Nathaniel Graison and Damian. Jean-Claude is of my blood, but not of my lineage. It is the proper thing to do." Belle finished, and the Queen of Nightmares nodded thoughtfully. Harry kept his mouth tightly shut, and Belle runs her hands though his hair soothingly, feeling his tension. Here he has no voice, but Belle Morte knows he is not happy – yet she knows he will see she is wise and has only his best interests at heart.
"Why would Jean-Claude do such a thing for one of your lineage Belle Morte?" The Dragon asked, frowning.
"He lacks a témoin now that Asher has left St. Louis." Belle Morte meets their eyes, daring them to call her a liar.
"How do you know that?" The Traveler asks with a purr, for once, he had had the pleasure of Asher. Belle Morte does not look away from him, for she knows he finds her gender…not to his tastes - from the Traveler, she does not fear. He has enjoyed the talents of her bloodline in other ways, enough to know not to cross her.
"Asher has come home to me to learn to tame his rage." Belle Morte smiles, and it is a dangerous thing – her bloodline may be lovely and the wielders of the ardeur; but they are hers. The Traveler has no claim to Asher unless Belle gives it.
"What would Jean-Claude gain, Belle?" The Queen of Nightmares, Belle Morte does not dare dismiss in answer.
"Harry is already powerful as my scion, he can wield the ardeur even now – and I have high hopes that he will form a triumvirate. He will be a worthy témoin for Jean-Claude, I have no doubts." Belle glances fondly to Harry, where he sits silently on a low cushioned stool at her side.
"There is also the matter of a seventh Council seat – I would put forward Jean-Claude's name." It was not the usual thing, for two sourdre de sang of the same bloodline to share power in such a way. It was why such a potential sourdre de sang was sent to rule away from the influence of their maker. To waste a sourdre de sang was frowned upon, but between two sourdre de sang of one bloodline, between makers, was always a rivalry – yet, in this, the Council knew, Jean-Claude was the first sourdre de sang of Belle Morte's blood – and she hoped Harry would hopefully be the first of her lineage.
"For what reasons..?" Morte D'Amour murmurs, suspicious as his nature. Yet he would listen to what Belle says.
"His triumvirate has become a point of power and influence we relay upon in this Council. To relay upon him in such a way, and than not to acknowledge it in reward is shameful upon us. If we do not give him a reward, well – he would be within his rights as a sourdre de sang to refuse to aide us further against Marmee Noir." Morte D'Amour is quick to flinch from her gaze, for he remembers well being controlled by the Dark Mother.
Jean-Claude, knowing or not, saved him too.
"Jean-Claude did kill Oliver." Padma reminds them one in all, expecting to stir them against it. Padma is young indeed, and Belle Morte hides her smile. It used to be the only way to get a seat upon the Council was by slaying someone upon it. Jean-Claude may twice have earned his seat to their minds if Belle has only convinced them.
"Let us put it to vote." The Queen of Nightmares declares, knowing well that a six way vote is a tricky beast.
"Against it?" Padma stands and he is alone, he has ousted himself as the only one who would not have Jean-Claude numbered among them.
Belle Morte does not bother to hide her smile now.
"You will give Jean-Claude this good news, will you not Harry?" Belle prompts, and Harry knows his answer is expected – it can be nothing but what she wants.
"Yes, my lady." He keeps his answer short and his eyes low so she will not see his anger.
0o0o0
Harry finds himself outside the Circus of the Damned; he stands with Wicked and Truth at either side of him, and with Donovan Reece beside. He looks to the clowns with their fangs, and wonders at the humor of vampires.
"You ready, little cat?" Donovan rolls his eyes at Wicked's words, he isn't pleased Harry tolerates being called that – and doesn't particularly like either to be called birdie or feathers either. ("There is no pleasing some people." Truth had muttered.
"Indeed." Donovan had sneered right back.)
Truth smiles down at Harry, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
"I do not see why Wicked or Truth can not do the deed." Harry says deliberately to Donovan while Wicked and Truth are near enough to hear. Wicked laughs, warm and dark as he goes to get the door open for them – it would not due to let Harry catch a cold, he's here to die, not to get sick, but there is nothing of the ardeur in Wicked or Truth. Harry has learned to be thankful for that. Wicked and Truth are just what they are, no more, no less.
They are scarily fantastic warriors, the best of the best – so good that they killed their master, and lived when their sourdre de sang died.
"If it was bedding you, little cat – well, have we not all done that?" Truth teases, keeping Harry close as he surveys the Circus, Harry is very aware that Truth is acting as his shield.
Donovan would open his mouth and hiss a swanking's possessive warning, if it was not, well, bad breeding. Donovan has the whole of the swanmane to call his own, Harry is not his. Belle would see Harry as his own master. Donovan does not dare interfere with that.
"No, neither of us are masters, so we can not be your maker, and to be without a master is…is a very painful thing, little cat. Be happy Jean-Claude will turn you, being his témoin will be no bad thing for you." Truth spots Wicked and gives Harry a squeeze, for behind Wicked walks at least a dozen others. Harry takes a breath; he must remember that this is a welcome, not an attack.
Harry sends his ardeur out as a pleasant pulse, a beat of buzz and bliss. He desperately doesn't want this first meeting to turn sour. It jolts into him that there are two echoes beside the pulse of his own power, one which is warm like a wolf – and the other with the passion and heat of a cat. It stills him, and when neither company seems inclined to introduce themselves – Donovan, with manners bred into him, does so, stepping forward without faltering.
"I am Donovan Reece, swanking, this is Harry Potter scion of sourdre de sang Belle Morte." Harry gives them a bow of his head, but very carefully doesn't meet any eyes yet. A woman, scarred and lovely with a fall of dark hair inhales sharply at that tell-tale sign. It tells her something she hadn't been sure of. Harry is human.
"Jean-Claude; this is my wolf, Richard Zeeman – and ma petite, Anita Blake." Jean-Claude is as lovely a man as Belle is a woman, and Harry knows he holds the ardeur, he had expected it – but the second sting of ardeur meant there was another. One living, one undead – and they knew him by his ardeur that he was living.
"Belle Morte wants you to, to turn this boy…this…this child into a vampire?" The scarred woman hissed to Jean-Claude, her eyes flashing in outrage. Her anger rolled over them all, the chill shadow of a storm. Richard frowned at Jean-Claude taking to Anita's side without speaking.
"Harry is no child, ma petite. Please understand he is to be my témoin – he is Belle Morte's scion he has been raised to do this." Jean-Claude showed not the least sign of strain at handling Anita's lack of restraint in speaking her mind. Harry felt that he actually took enjoyment in having her so untamed by him, free. It was something vampires rarely had, and they knew it for the gift it was.
"So he's some kind of gift, Jean-Claude – some kind of slave?" Anita wouldn't have that, and Harry kept his smile to himself.
"Anita Blake, isn't it?" Harry interrupts, and Anita looks to him with a nod and a tilted chin.
"Yes, that's right." She looks to Donovan, to Truth and Wicked, measuring them as if wondering how much of a threat they are to her getting her way. She's obviously used to such judgments – and surviving, it means she has well earned her name of Executioner.
"It is best if you think as Belle Morte as my mother, she wants what is best for me above all else. At times we are going to disagree, but it is ultimately my choice to be here. In a very real way, she is my only family. Jean-Claude is of her bloodline, a sourdre de sang – the first of her line to be so, it is my privilege to become his témoin." Anita doesn't like it but she is listening.
"The honor is mine, please, come in – my home is yours." Jean-Claude leads the way in, but Harry isn't fooled by his apparent ease. Harry is well aware that he and his people are surrounded by theirs. It isn't a comforting feeling, they are all strangers.
"Explain this scion of a sourdre de sang, thing, please." Anita keeps protectively to Harry's side, hovering. Harry has to smile, to see someone like Anita among this company is a relief.
"In many ways, Anita Blake, you and I are alike – we are both living and breathing holders of the ardeur, but yours came from the triumvirate with Jean-Claude. Mine is inherited; I might never have developed it, if not for Belle Morte. You know, I assume, that male vampires can have half-vampire children? The same is true too of female vampires in some cases. Belle had children before she was turned into a vampire – and, what is rarer, afterwards too." Anita's eyes widened, but she said nothing. She only kept pace beside him, and it was enough encouragement. He wanted to get to know her, he knew though that all of them could hear the conversation.
"Two thousand years ago, there was a thing called fostering; it was not done to raise royal children by the mother – or the father, it was a common thing to be fostered, raised by strangers to ensure peace between powers. Imagine being raised in that kind of world, imagine raising children in it and you come close to why Belle Morte is not at fault for loosing track of the children she bore, that they might have died, or had children of their own during travels …how was she to know? Mistakes were made, and she only found me by chance. I am an orphan, in a way Belle Morte is too." Anita used her ardeur like it was a thing apart from her, to probe at him, feeling as the ardeur could do, that his feelings were genuine, and his own. Harry knew what she would find.
"You…you truly love her, are loyal to her, like, like a son." Anita sounded baffled, as if she could not imagine Belle Morte loving like that, or being loved like that.
"You have heard much about Belle Morte, Anita Blake. There is much to hear about her after two thousand years, but you do not know her. I would like you to know her before you pass any judgments." Least of all if that judgment was to kill Belle as had been Anita's habit.
"You know, Harry – I just might do that." It was a thoughtful agreement, but Harry was only grateful it was not a rejection.
"So, you coming here as her scion, her son, it's like that fostering? She's raising you to rule as a sourdre de sang, as Jean-Claude's témoin…to strengthen his power, and hers, and keep the peace? That's how she sees this?" It was close enough that he did not bother to hide his smile.
"Yes, and she has voted Jean-Claude a seat upon the Vampire Council to ensure his protection, and mine." Jean-Claude stopped at the door, and turned to look at him, he saw Harry was serious, and he was very still in surprise.
"Wow. Better send her roses, Jean-Claude." Anita teased, and Jean-Claude couldn't help but blink at her in astonishment.
"Indeed, ma petite." Harry was fairly sure Jean-Claude was confused, and it made him laugh.
"So she doesn't see this as sending you to the slaughter, to get rid of you – doesn't she realize you've come here to, basically, die?" Anita pushed open the door, and held it open for Harry – it wasn't something she thought should be done for her or for him, it was simply her way of getting them through the door. Harry couldn't help but like her.
"There is that, isn't there?" Harry muses, keeping his calm in check.
"Do you want to die?" Anita frowns at him, protective, but judging.
"Belle doesn't see it as dying." Harry had to make that clear.
"Do you?" Anita, if Harry knows one thing about her, isn't the type to let go once she's following a conversation to find out something.
"It's not a bad way to die if you can come back from it." There was always a chance that he won't, and Harry knows that, he isn't blind to it. He doesn't have to like it.
Anita doesn't like it either.
0o0o0
There are two ways for Wicked and Truth to belong to a sourdre de sang, to belong to a bloodline; one is the blood oath, and another is that they have the good luck to make one. Harry knows what he's going to do – and Wicked and Truth may learn to like it, because Belle Morte certainly will not.
Harry would not feel justified in what he does if he had not realized he wasn't alone in what he felt. Anita wouldn't take this kind of treatment from Jean-Claude, so why should he obey Belle Morte if the result would be the same in the end? He could still be Jean-Claude's témoin, and become a sourdre de sang sooner, if he does this. He will simply be a sourdre de sang of the Wicked Truth's line, but of the lineage of Belle Morte.
To prove it he locks the door to the suite that Jean-Claude put them all in, and then, to simplify things, he lets the ardeur sing for skin upon skin.
"Harry?" Donovan is wide eyed and sits very still, aware that he's a swanking, a prey beast, in a room full of predators.
"It's time to do things my way." Harry confesses, as Truth licks his lips, fixing his eyes on Harry as if wondering where to start – and Wicked, Wicked is moving in, stalking forward to make a claim.
Harry lets them.
Lets it happen, when they bite him, and when they die at dawn, unaware of any fear, of any feeling of wrongness to what Harry has made them do - he knows he will be dying with them. He only hopes they can forgive him.
"Oh, god, Harry." Donovan dares to come up to lie against Harry; his fingers press against still bleeding bites.
"Over did it?" Harry smiles at Donovan through his pain, it lingers in his eyes, in the lines upon his face. His breath comes in a rattle that catches and hisses.
"Sorry." Harry whispers hoarsely to Donovan, weakly, as the swanking holds him gently skin against skin. Donovan is so warm, pale and cream.
"Why?" Donovan pleads, weeping freely. He's wounded deeply at his heart, but not upon his body, and Harry sees it, but he can't help. Harry can only hope that Donovan can forgive him this too.
"Had to die my way…" That's all Harry can think to say, the truth of it as he dies.
0o0o0
Harry wakes late, with Wicked holding him, sobs shaking his body; Truth touches his fingertips, not daring to do any more harm by his touch. Harry can't see or hear Donovan, he's aware but slow, feeling a primeval stillness sleeping within him – it's their words that urge him to full awareness, to speak, to do more than hear and see.
"We've killed him, how could he – how could we?" Wicked has been asking, over and over, while Truth can not seem to bring himself to say anything at all. Not to hope, not to comfort his brother.
"Alright..." Harry manages to choke out, his mouth dry, his tongue tastes like sandpaper.
"He's alive, well, not dead." Donovan murmurs, sure of what he says, he comes to the side of the bed where Harry can see him. His smile is a wonderful and frail thing.
"Why did you do it like that, why did you make us hurt you?" Truth asks, hand in hand with Harry his grip firm and cold.
"Wanted you, wanted us, together – a family." Harry knows why he woke to them, why he can reach them and why they were able to reach him – it's a success. He is their sourdre de sang.
"It was a stupid thing to do." Wicked reprimands as he is wiping away at his red-tinged tears.
"Do you hate me?" Harry doesn't dare try to feel that between them, he doesn't want to know it – not yet – not too deeply.
"No!" Wicked has never been good with words, and his feelings are too much to absorb, washing like waves upon Harry. He is their shore, their home that too is what it means to be sourdre de sang. Harry can't be content with it until he knows they are.
"I –we - are glad you did it. Just, it could have been…" Truth falters, and kisses Harry on the brow thoughtfully searching for the right words.
"More, better." Donovan offers, having seen this from start to finish, he has that right.
Harry embraces them, pulling Donovan upon him, and Truth taking his other side while Wicked still holds him near.
"Mine." He tells them, fierce and protective and possessive, a pride and loyalty and love they return without Harry needing to ask.
His, and he is theirs.
0o0o0
(So, yes, the idea of Belle Morte being Helen of Troy, wife of Menelaus and Queen of Sparta is mine, I simply adore that sort of thing. Well, here is where some people will go "wait, wait, aren't Helen and Paris two run-away young lovers?", well, facts being what they are, Helen had a handful of children before ever meeting Paris.
It's said that when she was young she bore a daughter to Theseus: this girl being Iphigenia, whom Agamennon (brother of Menelaus) sacrificed before sailing for war at Troy. Helen certainly left children behind, her nine year old daughter Hermione - perhaps Nicostratus, a son of Menelaus also said to be mothered by Pieris; but Plisthenes was a son she allegedly took with her to Troy.
Helen also had children by Paris at Troy; Aganus, Idaeus, and Bunicus - Corythus may have been her son, or the son of Paris's first wife Oenone (yes, he too was married, it was a affair on both sides) but given that the Trojan war took about ten years or more, it's perfectly possible that the four were fostered to other royal families outside of Troy where they would be safe.
Helen was said to be hatched from the egg of Nemesis, Greek goddess of indignation against, and retribution for, evil deeds and undeserved good fortune... In myth Nemesis was particularly concerned with matters of love.)