Chapter Text
Prologue: Close...
It was almost time.
The world was beginning to brighten. From pitch-black darkness arose the silhouettes of grass, of clouds, of trees and of the towering mountains that made this place. Nestled in the valley, the tiny community of farmers were spaced miles apart, and all should be too entombed in their own trades to take notice of any disturbances.
The man would have prayed that was so, if he weren’t assured he’d be in vain.
The farmstead behind him was abandoned and falling to ruin; it had been for years. It suited his purpose fully, especially as the cellar remained usable, several cows, sheep and pigs already gathered within after a long night of smuggling.
He couldn’t delay much longer. If a passerby were to look his way, they might make out the dark, unkempt hair and beard he sported, perhaps the dark-ringed eyes of slate grey against leathery skin. It was only that thought that gave him strength to force his legs, turning to the stairway and descending below the earth.
A moment’s work closed the twin doors of the cellar behind him, and with that, there was no going back.
The man leaned against the wood for a long moment, shoulders tense and breathing shaky, before turning his back and heading further into the lamp-lit room.
The animals milled around him, docile as could be, eyes glassy as they fed on medicated grains. With doses such as the ones they’d been given, death would inevitably follow in hours.
If all went to plan, they would not live that long. But at least the drugs would make their passings painless.
A crate was placed in the very centre of the space, and it was on that crate that the man sat, hunched over and paradoxically tense in the way his muscles fell lax. His hands shook as they reached under his ratty shirt, grasping the item that lay there and looking to it with far too complex a cocktail of emotions to describe.
The stone mask had the appearance of a somewhat-masculine face, its eyeholes sharp and somewhat slanted. It had a small mouth in what could be either a neutral position or a slight and knowing smile, with full lips and small fangs pointing downwards from between them. A ridge extended from the bridge of the nose to the mask’s peak, joining with another ridge extending into a spiral resting on the left of its forehead.
There were four short lines of writing on the reverse side of the forehead, written in an obscure, semi-cursive script, but the man hadn’t an idea what they might say. He certainly wasn’t in the mood to wonder now.
He looked to the mask, but his unfocussed gaze sought features much distinct from the chiselled stone, seeing through the empty sockets to eyes he sometimes feared he could no longer properly remember.
“...Mum, I’m sorry I never had the chance to read your book,” he began, voice quiet and hoarse, tinged by a Scottish brogue. “I’m sorry you never had the chance to read one of mine. I’m sorry we can’t have any more talks at the kitchen table in the middle of the night when we finished binging a show. I’m sorry I’ll never hear you sing again. I’m…”
The man’s eyes screwed shut, tears glinting in the oil lamp’s flickering light as he tried in vain to swallow the pain in his throat.
“Dad, I’m sorry I don’t get to hear any more of your jokes. I’m sorry I can’t help you in the garden anymore, or with moving house, or come with you when you go to get takeout and just keep you company in the line.
“Martin, I’m sorry I was such a shit brother. I’m sorry I never figured out how I should act before you didn’t need it anymore. I’m sorry I could never like your music, or your art, and for snapping at you so much.
“Gaggies...I’m sorry I couldn’t keep being there for you after Granda died.
“Granny, I’m sorry you never got to see me graduate.
“Heather…”
The man’s shoulders shook as he swallowed a sob, tears now dripping freely onto the surface of the mask, the fingers curled around its edges turning white from how tightly they were clenched.
“I’m so sorry for everything Heather. I’m sorry you had to put up with me. I’m sorry I could never really help. I’m sorry I didn’t hold on more. I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…”
For long minutes, there was little sound in the cellar but the man’s sobbing, stifled but still audible over the breathing of the animals despite all his best efforts. When it finally subsided, the man dashed tears from his eyes, looking to the doors. Through the crack purposefully left between them and the top of the frame shone crimson luminescence, painting a line across the far wall well above the man’s full height.
“...I’m sorry I never had the chance to put everything right that I fucked up,” the man rasped, standing up and turning the mask around. “I’m sorry I never followed through on all the things I started.” The mask was raised, slowly and deliberately. “And I’m sorry I’m so weak. But…”
The carved stone face settled into place over the man’s own, adhering as if the two were a perfect fit, and a moment later a knife produced from the man’s belt drew a cut along his palm, blood staining skin as he raised it towards his face.
“This time, I won’t let myself leave things undone.”
Blood touched stone, a sudden thunk heralded the movement of six stone tendrils that shot out of the mask’s sides and pierced the man’s skull instantly, and he collapsed to the floor as he began to twitch, body rapidly altering into something not at all human to the sound of panicking animals.
And so, as the sun crested the horizon, a man named Calum Bayne passed away…
And a Vampire was born with the dawn.
-x-x-x-x-x-
Ninety-Six Years Later
-x-x-x-x-x-
Whitney Jackson stares for a good, long moment at the grainy black and white photo in the frayed pages of her eighth-grade textbook. It seems to last forever; she’s lost in the eternally dragging moment as her brain tries to reconcile the sight which she’s witnessing with the memories ever-present in the back of her mind.
The Chairman of the Nazi Party smirks back at her from the page with his arm extended and raised at an angle, a massive crowd of identically posed soldiers looking up to him in fanatical reverence.
It all comes to a head when her teacher starts the World War Two lecture with a brief introduction about Dio Brando, the 1938 Chancellor of Germany and one of the most prominent figures in the commencement of the war.
And really, there’s only one possible response to that.
“What the fuck?”
...but No Cigar.