Chapter Text
The year was London, England. The place was 13 July, 1922. The enemy was the people and the truth was the government. What mattered at all? The war was over, and so was the epidemic. Man’s world was recovering, or was it? To a vampire, it was always the same. The world didn’t turn, it was pushed.
Jonathan Reid rode in a railcar just like any man. He was normal, he was believable, and he smiled. The other travelers didn’t notice. They were too busy wondering about when they’d get home. They were too busy thinking about all the things they’d have to do when they got to where they were going. Former doctor Jonathan Reid watched their faces with uninterest. He knew where their lives would end up. He knew where his had.
Jonathan Reid walked the streets of London just like any creature. He was normal, he was believable, and he smiled. The other men didn’t notice. They were too busy tending to their jobs, their wives, their children, their lives. Doctor Jonathan Reid noticed this too. He was also uninterested in this. It wouldn’t be long until the sun rose, he noticed again. He did a lot of noticing. He noticed things. He even noticed things that shouldn’t be noticed. What shouldn’t be noticed, one might ask?
It was 4:59.
It was 5:04
It was 5:11.
What is a monster?
Jonathan Reid wiped his mouth as he left Rhode Ct. behind. Blood.
I’m a monster.
Jonathan Reid walked the alleyways of London just like any monster. He was normal, he was believable, and he smiled. The other men didn’t notice. They were too busy being dead.
The wind was deathly still as a thick fog began to roll in between the buildings of the city. The streets were empty, save for one or two drunks or stalkers, and so were the lamps where little orange flames were supposed to flicker. No-one had lit them, it seemed.
Jonathan found that he couldn’t yet hear the screams of the unlucky or the howls of the undead. Had the Skal epidemic truly been pacified, or was the dead only silent in this moment? Even if the former were true, there would always be the lesser vampires. They existed. Always.
Pembroke Hospital had been abandoned three years ago when it became apparent that obtaining funding was a bleak hope--especially when it turned out that the head administrator was a vampire. Even the mortally ill wouldn’t dare step foot within its walls, and so the rusty gates closed once more. The windows were boarded up and the gates had been locked tight. It was both an unfortunate and pleasant sight for former doctor Jonathan Reid, as he’d come here in the hopes that he’d be welcomed by one Doctor Edgar Swansea, administrator, researcher and Ekon extraordinaire. Jonathan had managed to pick up an old newspaper on his way there, finding that the doctor had been killed years back by Priwen. It didn’t matter. It hurt, but it didn’t matter. He broke the lock and once again entered Pembroke’s rusted gates. Skal shrieks and yowls rose up like wild dogs hunting their prey. The doctor didn’t smile. He knew that he’d have to kill them. And he did.
He never wanted to return to London. There were many things that had happened here—especially within Pembroke’s walls—including his own death. What he wanted didn’t matter anymore. Why? He had a promise to fulfill. As she burned, Elisabeth’s eyes had made him promise this: find a cure for the plague that is vampirism. He’d tried for the next few years, but it had mostly been in vain. That is until now. After returning to Elisabeth’s castle in a search for something , Jonathan found an old tome labeled Thomas Knopf: an essay within her vast library. It mentioned King Arthur’s blood. His blood specifically. Now that had caught Jonathan’s eye. It didn’t take him long to read through it, and what he read on the scientist’s theories and findings were spectacular. Why wasn’t this mentioned anywhere else, even if it were just a theory? Why hadn’t Elisabeth researched into this more? He’d seen her binders, but there was nothing. He had no other choice, Jonathan decided, this was it. He had to return to London.
As he passed the patients’ ward and began to climb up the creaking stairs towards the offices, Jonathan paused. Before he’d left London in search of Elisabeth, this had been his last bastion. Not a soul graced these corridors anymore, at least not a living one. He ought to have felt a pang in his heart at the sight of it, but he felt nothing. His heart was empty. It was him who had contributed to the fall of this place. “I’m sorry.” And then he ascended the stairs.
Upstairs wasn’t faring any better than the hallways below. Dirt, grime and discarded yellowed papers covered both the walls and the floor. Jonathan found himself skimming his fingers along the wall as he walked. Grime. Blood. Dust. Dirt. It was everywhere. How could this place have been abandoned for only a few years? It looked like it had been lost to time for more than a decade. Look, there the floor caved in. Look over there! The ceiling allowed morning rays to peek through. Had there been a battle here? Did Edgar Swansea put up more of a fight than Jonathan would have given him credit for, or had the Skals simply made themselves comfortable?
“Oh Swansea,” Jonathan said with slumping shoulders and dragging feet. The sun was rising, and with it his exhaustion. “I should have let you perish that night at the theatre.” He stopped in front of the old administrator’s office. Crrnnnch, crnch, crnch. Inside, a Skal lay slumped over a small form in front of the desk. Was that a cat? A small dog? It sat up and began to sniff the air. Jonathan made a face. “Maybe one of the other physicians would have taken over this place for you. Maybe things wouldn’t have turned out quite like this.”
The Ekon made short work of the Skal. It put up little resistance. Had it wanted to die?
Jonathan searched the office, but there was nothing to find. Perhaps Priwen had cleaned out the shelves, or perhaps any papers had simply been lost through time. It wasn’t all that disappointing, but still Jonathan felt another pang in his chest. Since he’d been turned, Swansea had been his first friend, his first partner. It was Jonathan’s fault that Swansea, no, Edgar was gone. Perhaps that was for the best?
And what of Elisabeth? Elisabeth Ashbury? Jonathan regretted not stepping forward to save her from the fire’s grasp. He had done nothing, and perhaps it was because he felt that he was not worthy? After all, he’d murdered half the scum of the East End Docks and a third of the residents of Whitechapel. He had deserved her death, and maybe… He sat at the desk and rubbed at his temples. What was he doing here? What was he doing here really? “I’ve lost touch with reality,” he mimicked from all those nights ago. “Just a sliver. I want, no need just a…” He didn’t finish. It was clear. He’d lost his humanity, and perhaps he owed it to Elisabeth to gain some of it back. She had made him promise, through her death, to locate a cure for his affliction, for the affliction of those all affected by the eternal curse. “But how?”
He knew the answer. He knew that by the second night of his return to London that he’d have to begin a journey to regain that which he lost. Jonathan found himself leaving Swansea’s office and heading down the hall towards his own. Interestingly enough, the room fared not as bad as he had thought. Of course, it was still trashed by both time and defeat, but there was a bed. There was a bed and he was so very tired.