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Ferdinand begins – and ends – his day admiring the château. The estate is massive, only slightly more so than his own back in Aegir.
The grounds are wide and open, sloping gently down towards a rolling river. A copse of magnolias and oleanders flank the outer wards, with a thicket of beeches standing guard to the north. Thundercloud plums run through the center of the garden, rambling roses spilling out of them in a canopy of blooms. Their arms cast a lake of shadows onto the grass, reaching for the many flowering bushes that dot the landscape. Lavender, foxglove, baby’s breath…all accentuate the tall stems and cupped flowers of the prized roses wonderfully.
The gardens are well kept; as to be expected of the Noble House of Gloucester, known far and wide for their exquisite blooms.
It is easy to get lost in the beauty of it all and he spends hours admiring what only a privileged few get to see for themselves. He takes tea in the pavilion, savoring the taste and the atmosphere before he must return to task. Hard work requires an equivalent reward, after all.
Quiet moments like this he wished could last forever.
Sadly, all good things must come to an end. Much sooner than he would like, he once agains finds himself toiling away in the library, the light of the setting sun peeking through the heavy curtains and high windows of the manor.
It is located near what must be the oldest part of the building, partially offset above the great hall; it's a vast, airy space, better lit than any of the surrounding wings; and Ferdinand has never before seen such a collection. Certainly not one privately held — tomes and manuscripts and maps and scrolls and Goddess knows what else, all neatly organized under a vaulted ceiling painted midnight blue and adorned with glittering constellations. The effect is mesmerizing. And confounding. He resolves to inquire about it later.
Then, before he turns away, from the corner of his eye, he spots it. A dark, winged shadow sails high above, clinging close to the rafters.
A bird, perhaps? But its movements are rough and hurried. Surely not.
No, not a bird…a bat.
Ferdinand shivers, despite himself, before turning away. It takes little to recall how the screeching of a thousand of those creatures had sent him shuddering beneath his blankets many years before, when he was but a child. How the whole of them had sounded not unlike an unholy choir, a cacophony so deafening and powerful he was sure it could be heard all the way in Enbarr.
The experience had left him shaken and plagued with nightmares for years. While he had grown out of the fear since then, he still loathed the blasted things.
"Curious creatures, are they not?”
A voice rings out like a bell in the still and quiet. He turns heel to find Count Lorenz Hellman Gloucester standing at his back, almost close enough to touch.
"Oh!" All this time and it still surprises him. A flustered blush rises up his neck. "Forgive me, my friend. You seem to have caught me unawares. You’re so quiet, I didn't hear you enter!"
The Count chuckles and flicks his hand as though to dispel the notion. "Nonsense. There is nothing to forgive. I have lived here forever. Nothing about this place is unknown to me. Unlike you, I simply know which floorboards creak, and which do not."
There's something different about him — something Ferdinand can't quite put a name to.
He steals a glance.
The Count is handsome, almost preternaturally so. All sharp features, sleek hair, and porcelain skin. His clothing speaks of generational affluence, a statue dressed sharply in expensive garments heavy with embroidery. A velvet riding coat is carefully laid over his shoulders, arms folded at his chest.
Still, he is not quite sure it is anything physical, the thing that gnaws at him. The Count has a striking presence, that much is true; he carries himself with an air of pride and dignity as only a highborn aristocrat can. Yet, something else lingers beneath. Something strange, something…
There is an undercurrent of forcefulness to him, like an iron fist in a velvet glove. He looks at once both delicate and strong — a living, breathing contradiction of sorts.
The Count’s gaze flicks down, leaving Ferdinand to wonder whether he's got something on his face. He tries, futilely, to tamp down on the embarrassment. Though they may be close in stature and status, it takes some nerve to meet his eyes.
His eyes, Goddess Above…they’re beautiful. Like…falling stars, brilliant and blazing. They hold a kind of divinity that is inhuman, yet mortal all the same. It is wondrous. And terrible. It feels a sin to look upon them, yet equally unrighteous to turn away.
A strange kind of unease sets upon him. Should he stay, he might lose himself to their rapture, but he has not the heart to leave, to lose that lightning in a bottle.
A feather-light stroke along his wrist is enough to break the spell.
“Ferdinand, my dear? Are you still with me?”
His ears burn.What is with him today?
“Yes, yes!” The answer is off his tongue far too quick, “My apologies. I was simply…lost in my own thoughts.”
The Count hums thoughtfully, “So it would seem.”
He clears his throat. "I've some of the amended contracts ready for your perusal, if you've a moment —"
"I seem to recall you were quite the fervent reader back in our school days. Is that still true, your Grace?"
"Certainly," he says. "Though I have little time to indulge as much as I would like. The Classics. Vernes. Virgil, Polonius. And occasionally I treat myself to romance. Such flights of fancy are quite unbecoming, for a man such as myself, I am well aware."
The Count raises a well-manicured brow.
"No, no. Not at all. I think we are similar in that regard, you and I,” he gestures towards the books all around them, “Every work written has a purpose. To exhilarate. To astound. To captivate, or horrify. To never know the heights of a hero’s triumph? Or the depths of his despair? Oh, I pity the poor fool. "
Ferdinand finds himself in awe at the words. Considering the company he finds himself in, it is a perspective not entirely unexpected, though certainly a touch more poetic than he imagined.
"There is no harm in entertaining fantasy, my friend. It is just another way of understanding reality."
Ferdinand can sense the Count’s gaze once again upon him.
“Ah, but there I go again, waxing poetic. That is not what you are here for, is it? I did have something I felt might strike your interest. Let’s see…ah! There we are!”
Faster than he would have thought possible, the Count reaches for a cracked leather-bound tome from a shelf above, firmly pressing it into Ferdinand’s hands.
He can't resist opening it to the first page, and then, not recognizing the title, flipping through at random, straight to one of the most intricate and sensual images he's ever laid eyes on.
Two lovers, sharing an intimate embrace in bed, their bodies partially concealed by bedsheets. They cling to one another, intertwined as if afraid of being separated, lips locked and arms exposed.
He sucks in a breath, hoping to still his beating heart and ignore the way the Count’s smile makes his chest tighten.
"Ah, yes. A fantasy of the highest degree, dear Ferdinand, recently translated into common for the first time. I imagine it will be to your taste. Enjoy," Count Gloucester explains with a wink.
"In any case, I wanted to inform you that dinner is served. I hope it will be to your liking. Alas, I have not the pleasure of joining you. There is business to attend to and I will not be free until, well, long after you've retired for the evening, I daresay…"
"Oh," says Ferdinand, blinking. It's suddenly hard to focus — perhaps he's more peckish than he thought — and the Count’s steady hand at the small of his back is most welcome.
"Thank you."
He receives only a playful smile in return.
Wrapped in the warmth of the bedding, Ferdinand drifted off to sleep, but found little comfort in the embrace of oblivion. A night of fitful tossing plagued him, his dreams filled with shadowy figures and following eyes; always staring, always watching.
He awoke from his slumber in terror, sheets held tight against his breast, breathing ragged and heart beating rapidly. He hadn’t felt such a fear in years, not since he was a child. One thing he was certain of, sleep would not likely be returning to him this night. Rising, he reaches for a candle to light and a robe to fend off the evening chill. As beautiful as it is, the manor is far too drafty.
He makes his way out into the hall. There is a line of windows somewhere above him, high enough that it only sends a sliver of soft moonlight down into the chamber below. It catches the tarnished silver of an intricate collection of sconces, set into the walls on either side. They would have been beautiful with some polish. For now, they remained unlit and hardly visible against the stone.
His footsteps echoed along the old floors, robe and nightclothes trailing behind him like the tail of a specter. The candle did not offer much light in the ever encroaching darkness, shadows creeping up the walls and at his back.
In the dark, he finds his way.
A drawing room. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth. It must have been recently: the flames were only just beginning to expire. Much of the room was untouched by the dying light, but it was just enough to see. On the table beside the fireplace a bowl of fruit and a pitcher of water had been set. Ferdinand’s stomach growled pathetically, and he clutched the front of his nightshirt.
He had to tamp down the desire to immediately set into the bowl like a savage. He didn’t know what the pink fruit was, but he could identify bright slices of orange and a whole plum. They looked fresh, but he knew better than to trust what only the eyes could see.
He moved to edge past the table and the two wingback chairs facing the fireplace. He needed to focus on finding the source of that infernal ringing.
“I see you’ve decided to join me after all. I was beginning to think you were going to sleep through the night entirely.”
He jolted. Someone was sitting behind him.
The Count sat calmly watching him, a faint, pleased smile gracing his face. There was an air of satisfaction about him as he leaned around the back of the chair. He seemed at ease, if a bit weary.
“Do not scare me like that! I didn’t know you were there.”
He chuckled, “My apologies for startling you, I was simply teasing. You might want to work on your perception, though.”
He began to relax, frantic pulse returning to normal, “Is your sleep troubled, as well?”
“Mm, I haven’t slept well for quite a long time.”
A moment of silence swells between them, the candles flickering, casting a golden hue about the room. Dressed in evening attire, the Count sat before him as a vision, something not quite of this world, a spectral form. He gestures to a set of fine china on the table between them.
“Care to join me for a nightcap?”
The question knocks him from his reverie.
“That would be most welcome. It would be my pleasure.”
Another moment of silence.
“Tea?”
He nods and the Count generously pours another cup before sliding it over. He takes a sip. It is hot and mellow, settling low in his stomach.
“This is a Crescent-Moon blend? You have excellent taste, my Lord.”
The Count lets out a hearty chuckle, “You flatterer.”
The nobleman nodded earnestly, “I’m serious! It is hard to find a true connoisseur these days. I’m afraid the art of tea making will be lost to time before the century is out.”
“Of that, we are of one mind.”
A beat of silence lingers between them. “I see you eyeing the fruit. Go on, try a bit.”
The Count watches closely as he reaches in and picks one. He held out the bowl to him.
“Oh, you’re a sweetheart. No, thank you.”
A blush crept up his neck. Of course. He should’ve known. He was being ridiculous, offering the host something which by all rights was his in the first place.
“These fruits are not exactly to my taste. However, if you are feeling amenable to a chat…there is something I wished to discuss with you.”
His mind flashes back to the book.
Arms wrapped around broad shoulders. His face hidden by a curtain of lavender hair as their lips slowly —
“Well, I suppose that would depend on what you wish of me, my Lord.”
The Count holds up a gloved hand, “Please. It’s just Lorenz. We are friends, are we not? You are nothing if not my equal and I would prefer you address me as such.”
He nods, slowly. “Lorenz, then. How may I be of service?”
Lorenz stands, picking at his nails, but deflects with another question.
“You are aware of the rumors, I take it?”
“Rumors? Err, yes, I know of them. Your disappearance and return to high society was the subject of much speculation. Though I like to think there is little stock to be placed in idle court gossip. It is presumptuous to draw conclusions about a person from only what one has heard.”
He places both hands on either side of Ferdinand on the lounge, leaning down to meet his eyes, “A sensible man, you are. The truth is hardly ever as exciting as the novelty of the lie.”
“It is only reasonable. It is always assumed by the ignorant that people who do not discuss their affairs openly must have something to hide. They point their fingers and hope other’s problems are more obvious than their own.”
“Well said. Though there is usually a grain of truth in every rumor.” He tilts his head, lavender hair falling in a curtain, “In this case…the worst you’ve heard? All true.”
Ferdinand laughs. He laughs hard. To his credit, he has the decency to look the least bit ashamed afterwards. When he remembers how to breathe again, he holds up his hands in sincere apology.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just difficult to imagine you slinking about the countryside like some night-time predator. And to think some of our peers say you have no sense of humor!”
“What makes you think I am joking?” Lorenz’s words came like a sudden frost.
He pulls apart his lips, revealing a sharp and impossibly long set of canines.
Ferdinand’s heart skips a beat.
“Hideous, aren’t they? A rather unpleasant parting gift from the last man to share my bed.”
Heavens Above.
“He seemed so kind, so innocent ,” Lorenz whispered, and Ferdinand strained to hear him. “To think it was only a facade, a mask to hide an affront to the Goddess herself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. I suspect I never will. But it is parasitic by nature. It requires the afflicted to drain the life of mortals in order to survive.” Lorenz’s words were clipped and he spoke with an uncharacteristic urgency.
“It has infected me —” the strain in his voice peaked, and Ferdinand wanted to step closer, to offer some small measure of comfort, but a shift in the atmosphere — some primal instinct — kept him rooted to the spot, “— Cursed me,” he bit, “with its foul hunger.”
“I have done things I am not proud of. Fed on men unfortunate enough to cross my path. Some innocent, some guilty. All of them. Regardless of their virtue; it mattered not. The fact remains that it happened, and it shouldn’t have.”
Ferdinand swallows hard. He is standing so close, hot breath tickles his cheeks.
“Does it…does it hurt?”
“At first. The turning, it was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. The change was gradual, splitting headaches and terrible light sensitivity,” Lorenz revealed, leaning back against the chair frowning, “The night of the change was the worst. It felt like my stomach was trying to tear its way out. Nothing could sate it.”
“That must have been awful,” Ferdinand mutters, shaking his head at the thought.
“The pain is nothing more than a distant memory.” Lorenz stared off into the distance. “Be glad that you will never have to go through the same thing.”
He sighed. “I must agree with you on that. But what about now? What is it like?”
Lorenz pauses. “It is…better. The sun makes it difficult to attend to my obligations as steward of the Gloucester territories. Though it is extremely uncomfortable, it will not kill me. Delegation makes it manageable, but far from ideal. It keeps my people safe from me, at the very least.”
“Is that why you sequester yourself here? Why you are so elusive nowadays?”
“That is half the answer. The other is far simpler. A sense of self preservation, perhaps. Many would not look kindly upon me in this state, and I do not blame them. Though I loathe my condition, I do not wish to die.”
“Are you in any pain?”
“Not precisely. The hunger is incessant, but I can — and will will — do without. There is already enough blood on my hands.”
They stared at each other, eyes reflecting the hearth’s glow as it twisted and danced. Lorenz’s caught the light in a way they never had before, bright and wide, like a cat’s. He watched Ferdinand without blinking, as if waiting for something.
“If I might be so bold…perhaps I can be of assistance?” Ferdinand spoke slowly, “Your true form of sustenance is human blood, yes? But you do not wish to harm others. But if you did not need to —”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You do not understand what you are asking.”
“I do. I just do not like to see you in like this, especially after you’ve been such a wonderful host,” he takes Lorenz’s hand, “Please, let me do this for you.”
“You are sure? I do not want to hurt you.”
“Then do not. I am aware of my limits. Are you?”
He thought for a moment.
“I am.” He beckoned Ferdinand to come closer, “Very well. As you wish.”
As it were, he trusted Lorenz, and had yet to find a reason not to. He uttered no protest, crossing the room and positioning himself so as to face the Count.
The other man, for all his etiquette, had given Ferdinand little warning before grasping him around the waist and turning him around and setting him down, parting his legs so that the light-haired noble was seated comfortably enough upon his inner thighs.
Ferdinand could feel the strength in the Count's arms as they wrapped themselves around his middle, pulling him in until he was pressed up against the other man, his own body flush against his chest. His shoulders tensed, hands coming up to rest upon the back of the Count's neck.
He had heard the other man muttering something, but he was far too focused on the hand that trailed itself down the back of his neck, settling to rest upon the small of his back. Dimly, Ferdinand became aware of his own hands that were pushing Lorenz’s hair back, tangling it in his own fingers.
“Your heart is racing,” Lorenz whispered, “Please do try to be still, love. I’ll be as gentle as possible, I promise you. On my honor as a gentleman.”
The endearment makes his heart falter, fast as a rabbit’s. He holds Ferdinand steady, reaching up to touch him with a now free hand. Tenderly, almost sensually, gloved fingertips whispered over his bare neck, testing the pliant skin there. It sent a pleasant jolt through Ferdinand that made him shiver and tremble.
“Easy, now,” he hummed, “I’ve not even begun.”
Pale fingers made quick work of the buttons that adorned the other's nightshirt, catching the smooth fabric with his nails and pulling it back to expose an expanse of skin at the base of his neck just above his clavicle. He lowers himself to Ferdinand’s neck and a finger tests the side of his throat. He shivered. The primal part of him screams for escape, another
A stinging sensation , followed by the warm wet of a mouth on his neck. A dull ache begins to bloom in the area, though subsides as time passes.
He only has a vague idea of how much blood he’s been drained of. At some point starts to feel a touch lightheaded, but he trusts Lorenz to stop at a point that’s reasonable. The man is nothing, if not, a gentleman.
The mouth at his neck adjusts itself, lapping up a trickle of blood that nearly trailed away.
Ferdinand can’t help but marvel at the intimacy of it all. The act is done in the dead of night, with no one else to bear witness to him offering himself up like a virgin sacrifice. The thought brings a blush to his cheeks.
But was giving away his own blood something vulnerable? He is uncertain. Surely, he would do the same for any of those dear to him with the same affliction. If it was not vampirism, it would be something else. His skills, and, likewise, his body, are not just his own. They were tools to be used by others. There is nothing sacred about his flesh. After all, a noble’s job is to serve and protect and in truth, he craves nothing more.
Some might think him a masochist. The assumption is not strictly untrue, though he does have enough wherewithal to bear shame in it.
Despite the compromising position he finds himself in, and the increasingly intoxicating arousal, he does not wish to give himself over to indulgence. He won’t allow this to be a personal pleasure. It is purely for the sake of friendship, nothing more.
So righteous, his mind snidely quips, so thoughtful.
The thought is brushed away into some darker recess of his mind. Instead, he fixes his gaze onto the hearth and its molten embers and dead ash. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, but the smaller details feel more prominent with time. Or, perhaps, it could be the long time spent sitting idly.
He felt he had been perfectly professional at first, eyes forward and focused, but eventually his attention wanders. As if on cue, a touch brings him back. A hand wraps around his ribs, fingers massaging in small circular patterns.
Soon, the mouth removes itself from his neck, and he sinks back into the soft, velvety material of the settee. The chair is sturdy, and, thankfully, tall enough to accommodate the both of them. He was so very tired.
“Wait here a moment.”
Lorenz summons a filled glass from somewhere. Before Ferdinand can object, he’s nearly out of the room. Trying to follow is pointless, he is far too tired, so he must settle for sitting and drinking. The beverage is cool on his lips, sweet and fruity. It is delicious, but something about it irks him.
He didn’t do this with the expectation of a reward. He did not want one.
But, as it often goes, his desire is cast aside. It seems that the noble is eager to compensate him in ways other than money, much to his dismay. Not in the fact that he is being paid strangely, but in the fact he is being paid at all.
When his host returns, it is with a covered tray encircled in his arm.
“I took the liberty to procure something for you. It’s important for you to replenish your strength, yes?”
It is a simple meal at first glance, but hearty and filling. Fine wine, roasted beef, vegetables and gravy, along with a side of toasted bread and butter. Each of which looking far more delectable and exquisite than they had any right to be. All to his exacting taste.
He shoots the man a defeated look, he is not capable of much else. If Lorenz notices, he says nothing.
“Ah. Careful. The wound is still bleeding.”
As if by design, he takes the opportunity to intervene, seating himself on the chair’s empty arm. A long finger drags itself up the trail of blood as it continues to drip. Meeting his eyes, he ran his tongue over the crimson digit, sucking away the offending ichor.
Ferdinand felt like he had been clubbed. When he regained his senses, he managed to tend to himself as neatly as possible, pressing a fistful of white gauze to the wound.
“I have it now. Thank you. Please, do not need to worry about me.”
“Tch. Don’t be stubborn. You may not be in pain, but you are hurt, and I see no reason for you to suffer.”
In his moment of distraction, Lorenz manages to shift their positions, with Ferdinand now facing him on his lap. The change surprises him, and he lets out a small chirp of indignation.
“There we are. Much better. And now, love, it is my turn to take care of you.”
The only way Ferdinand could sit more comfortably was to lean into the man’s chest. He hesitates but a moment before resigning himself to it, knowing his host would not allow for anything else.
“Is this wholly necessary?”
“Necessary? Mm, maybe not. But you, darling, of all people deserve comfort. What kind of man would I be to deprive you of it?”
Comfort…perhaps, he is right. Beautiful and luxurious things have always been a weakness of his, and it is hard to be discontent while he is sprawled out in the lap of a handsome man. It takes little convincing to welcome the opulence of velvet pillows and decadent food.
He captures Ferdinand by the chin, touch as light as a feather, before turning his cheek and slotting their lips together. It is sudden, chaste, and altogether unexpected and he can’t help but let out a little gasp.
Lorenz maintains his grip on his jaw in one hand, grasping his hip in another, cradling him as though he were something precious.
He draws his thumb across Ferdinand’s cheek, chasing every breath into his mouth until the kiss deepens. He takes a moment to drink it in, that kiss, before leaning into it, the flowery sweetness of Lorenz’s mouth flowing like ambrosia. His palms rest on his chest and he has to force himself to breathe, his head spinning.
The sensation is dizzying and heady and wonderful. The kisses, they are a balm for his soul. Ferdinand swallows, lids heavy as he pulls away, Lorenz releasing his jaw. He smiles, all fangs, and eyes twinkling with delight.
The look the man gives him leaves him breathless, allowing for the opportunity to move one hand and slide his guest just a little closer, enough so the very edge of his long hair tickles Ferdinand’s shoulder.
It is a long moment before Lorenz speaks, his voice low against the shell of Ferdinand’s ear, “I am…not sure why I did that.”
He does not respond, instead reaching to brush a long lock of hair away from his neck. Without thought, Lorenz catches it in his own, interlacing their fingers, brushing his lips against the back of his hand.
“Thank you. For everything.”
Ferdinand says nothing, but his fingers squeeze softly at Lorenz’s in return. They meet once again in the middle, breath mingling and both hearts beating true. With nothing but each other and silence between them, the rest of the world falls away.