Work Text:
Grass isn't supposed to be brown.
The thought snatches me out of my trance.
Grass is supposed to be green, but miles of flat, withered, brown grass extend around me endlessly. There is nothing on the horizon. No anything for as far as the eye can see. No where to go.
Behind me, the staticky sound of an old T.V. starts up, and I turn to see my house.
The door is open. Meredith sits inside, the perfect image of a doting mother. She rocks in her chair, face serene as she stares lovingly at the howling baby in her arms. Its face is red as a tomato and wet from tears.
I start to walk inside, but something takes a firm hold on my hair and spins me around.
A familiar face looms over me, absorbing all the air and pumping it out through flared nostrils. He's taller than any Dhampir could ever hope to be. His head blocks out the sun.
He winds my long hair around his knuckles. Its chestnut color turns gold in the sunlight.
"You should cut this." His eyes are fixated.
"The Moroi thing is cute when we're alone, yeah, but it's a bit much to just walk around like this."
My hair melts like molted silver in his hands, dripping to the ground and evaporating in the sweltering heat. He pulls me close, and suddenly we're on the porch. Meredith's loving expression is frozen on her face, and the baby's wails grow louder.
He's bending me over the porch railing now with the intent face he always has with me. The sun and its rays are unbothered by our spectacle.
My shirts grates against my overheated skin, my shoes are soaked with sweat, and water seeps out from the soles when I try to step away. The giant mass of him is suffocating in combination with that sun— unbearable. My legs melt from the knees down, sinking me closer to the rotted wooden deck we stand on. I'm immobile. He never looses his laser focus on my hair.
My jeans are tugged at, top unlaced. The sun expands until the entire sky is blinding white, burning, unbearable—
Meredith's bad ass little girl is standing over me, one hand holding my eyelid open, the other shining an uncovered lamp into it.
She startles when my eyes focus on her, but before she can drop the hot light into my eye, I shove her and the lamp back, sending them both crashing into the dresser.
I see her lip wobble in preparation to shed crocodile tears, but my glare is enough to still it. My skin crawls with heat, and I see red for the split second I think the little bitch has pissed on me in my sleep, before I realize I'm soaked in my own sweat.
Once she notices I'm not going to apologize or coddle her, she pushes her matted hair off her neck, calms her face, and sits up.
“Those people are here." Her eyes dart around the room like she's searching for intel to report to Meredith with. "Janine said to wake you up."
It takes a second for me to process, then I spring into action.
The guardians.
I sling my suitcase out of the closet and toss all of my clothes in. My wardrobe isn't impressive- just underwear, tanks, and shorts.
“Mommy said they picked you because they felt bad for you." The overly sweet voice grates on my ears.
“She said that choosing you to go to that school was wasting a spot an actual good person could've had."
I cut her a little slack and ignore her. The girl's spent her whole life under her mother, who has nothing better to do than pop out fatherless babies and fight, but I've never seen a child so enthralled with drama.
The little girl poked a finger in her mouth, upset her words had no effect.
Anyone who had a shred of ambition took guarding as an elective in school from kindergarten to graduation. Nobody really believed in the sacred duty of Dhampirs that the instructors always preached, but they did believe that guarding was the only thing that could get you out of the Posts.
Life here was horrible. It never stopped competing with Hell for hottest temperature, you couldn't walk three feet out of your own yard without some Moroi trying to grope you, and everyone was dirt poor. It was so awful that even the birds never stopped to stay. They took one look at the sorry excuse for a town and decided they'd be better off elsewhere. No one blamed them. In spring when the qualifiers came around and academy recruiters showed up, people bent over backwards to get noticed by them and have the chance at attending a school with more than one hallway. No one had been chosen from the Posts since 1987, but that never did stand in my way.
When Janine called me to the kitchen that day and showed me the letter from St. Vladimir's Academy, I felt like I was sleepwalking. It was the only thing I'd ever aspired to, suddenly accomplished. You'd think she'd have been proud, said "congratulations" or "good job", but all she did was say that if I chose not to go, I'd have to find somewhere else to stay.
I remember the sleek metal stake Janine has wedged between the floorboards, and shoo Meredith's little girl out before I retrieve it.
I don't know what she did to get something as nice as this. The weapon's metal gleamed brand new, not a fingerprint in sight, and extensive ward marks decorated every inch of it.
I tucked it into my suitcase. If wild Strigoi attacked, Janine could use one of the other stakes she thought she had cleverly hidden throughout the house.
I shrugged out of my sweaty pajamas, changed, and made my way outside. I'd only packed clothes, but figured they'd have soap and toothbrushes where I was going.
The sun blared in full force outside, yet the whole neighborhood seemed to be out on their porches. I could see why.
In front of our house, a sleek black car probably worth more than the entire town was idling. A huge man in a long and heavy looking coat stood unmoving in front of it, his expression masked by black shades. He looked ridiculous in the what had to be 100 degree weather, but didn't seem like he'd be taking his coat of anytime soon.
Janine was leaned against the weathered porch railing, smoking. Her light skin was already tinted pink from the sun. She took in my appearance with a disapproving set in her mouth and said:
“Don't come back. Nothing for you here,"
Before snubbing out her cigarette and heading back inside.
I didn't— couldn't— let it affect me.
The living statue of a man cocked his head up at me. "Rosemarie Hathaway?"
His foreign accent made me pause, but my own name wasn't hard to understand. "That's me."
He nodded, once, and opened the back door for me. I glanced back to see Janine staring through the window with a hard face, but she was gone before I could blink. I'd probably never see her again.
The car's leather seats stuck to my thighs, but it was freezing inside, for which I was thankful. We sped off without a word, and I shut my eyes immediately.
I was going to St. Vladimir's.
.
.
.
.
We'd hardly spoke during the entire traveling period, (hours of driving, flying, then more driving) but I had managed to figure out that the man who was escorting me to St. Vladimir's was named Dimitri, and he would also be training me personally.
"You are advanced in comparison to your peers," he explained, "But the climate at St. Vladimir's is very competitive, and the teaching style is far different from the one at your old school. Alberta (Alberta Petrov, legendary guardian and overseer of St. Vladimir's novices) wanted to make sure you didn't fall behind."
What I was hearing was "you were good compared to the redneck idiots at your old school, but now that you're going to a real school, you need an extra boost" but I didn't complain.
When we pulled up to the campus, the sight damn near brought tears to my eyes.
The campus looked like a hidden slice of Europe, with brushed cobble stones and sky scraping towers reminiscent of an old world church. I could already imagine my life there- myself being popular and respected novice who'd paint her nails at night and dominate lessons by day. Improbable since I had as much charisma as a spoon, but a satisfying daydream.
Dimitri, or Guardian Belikov as everyone called him- took me straight to the counselor's office, where I got my class schedule, campus map and met my guide.
"Mr. Castile here will escort you to all of your classes today," He gestured to a stocky boy to his left, who waved simply. Guardian Belikov started to say something else, but I cut in.
"I'm going to class now?"
Belikov blinked.
"Yes. It's better for you to get on our schedule sooner than later. Classes will begin in around 5 minutes, so-"
"I don't have any supplies-"
"Your first period teacher will give them to you."
"But my bags are-"
"We'll bring them to your room."
"Can I freshen up at least?"
"No." Dimitri checked his watch. "Class starts in 2 minutes. Have a good day, Miss Hathaway."
He strode down the hallway with flourish of his long coat, and I had to wonder how he himself wasn't tired.
The boy I'd forgotten was standing there whistled lowly and grinned. "Belikov's tough, but he fights like a god, so I figured he's the right." He stuck out a hand.
"Eddie Castile."
"Rose Hathaway."
***
By the time the end of the day came, I was surprised I could even walk. I stumbled my way through drills at the beginning of the day, and could barely lift my head through any of my academic classes. Luckily, I'd found a corner to take a half nap in during lunch, so the exhaustion had lessened, but not nearly enough.
I wasn't sure I'd make it through my last period, Slavic Art, until a blonde Moroi settled herself delicately into the chair beside me.
Her face was angled away from me and hidden behind a curtain of blonde hair, but my eyes locked on her before my brain could catch up and tell me why. After a second, I noticed it was because her breath was shaky. Her frame was so Morioishly slender that I could hardly miss the way her body trembled from trying to keep her breathing even, though she didn't make a sound.
Was she going to faint? Should I say something?
Right when I'd made up my mind on tapping her shoulder and asking her name or something, her head turned, and a red-rimmed eye met mine before flicking back down to the desk and disappearing behind waves of gold. She'd been crying, then.
The girl obviously didn't want to talk and probably wasn't in danger of fainting, so after looking for another second or two, I refocused on trying to stay awake.
At the end of class, when we'd finished sketching out the busts we were going to start on next time, the blonde Moroi carelessly shoved her stuff into her backpack and trudged out the door like she was carrying a house on her back. Eddie was stood outside the door, and when the Moroi made past him, he stopped her.
"Hey, Lissa." He laid a hand on her arm, and her head snapped up. He held his hands up in an apologetic gesture, and tugged the Moroi and I to the side. "This is Rosemarie Hathaway," He gestured towards me. "She's a n-"
"Rose, actually."
He apologized again and continued with his speech. "This is Rose Hathaway. She just transferred today, and she's your new roommate." The Moroi slid her gaze to me and barely nodded. She looked as exhausted as I felt.
An awkward silence.
"Um so," Eddie started, "I'll leave her with you so you can show her the way to the dorm. Guardian Belikov said he left an extra key under the doormat. Nice meeting you Rose. Lissa." He shuffled away, and we both watched him until he disappeared from sight.
I turned on the Moroi. "What's your name again?" She pushed back the hair from her face and dragged her gaze to me. Her face was properly angelic, like the star of an eighties high school movie, but very at odds with the flat eyes that seemed to struggle with looking at me.
"Lissa," she said, after a while.
"Pretty. Short for anything?”
She rubbed at her eyes and started to walk away, though I'm pretty sure she heard me.