Work Text:
Quinlan did not feel the need to bear witness to the inevitability of the last Ancient’s demise.
He slipped from the cavernous halls of the New World vampires quietly, while the remaining demigod conversed with the hopelessly aged yet admittedly ruthless professor. Easily distracted, the humans were completely captivated by what the vampires had already accepted, so filled with dread that they anxiously clawed at whatever could be distantly perceived as hope.
Were he not so focused on his own tasks, Quinlan may have taken a moment to feel pity for these people, perhaps doomed to live the rest of their short lives beneath the heady gaze of the Seventh. He had his orders, a last request of the dying Wise Ones to whom he had employed himself the last seven centuries.
The death of the first ancient, in the Old World, had been alarming in it’s own right; for Quinlan, the knowledge of the loss of the strigoi he had worked so closely with had caused him to pause. There was no true sadness, no real pain for the Final Death of those who certainly would not miss him were the situations reversed. Still… they had been efficient, had been allies. The sudden lack of support left a daunting void.
He was the only one left. No doubt even the other halflings had perished with their fathers.
Indeed, even without these final orders, Quinlan thought he knew what to do. There was no question as to what his next move would be. He had never forgotten his own personal vendettas, as the ancients had worded them, no matter how many years passed.
His bag was where he had left it, placed so that he could scoop it up and sling it over his shoulder on his way out. He moved with quick, powerful strides, nearly silent as he descended to the garage and entered his vehicle, tossing his belongings in the passenger side.
Truly, there was no safe place left in this city. Given his own needs, he had identified several places to move among as personal headquarters. He could not afford to be seen- though realistically he probably would be. Then he would be immediately identified as one of the few remaining threats, and there would be attempts to eliminate him. He had gotten this far in life by skills he had learned, and though he trusted his instinct, the masses he was up against were unlike anything he had ever faced before.
Finality was fast approaching- he could taste his own demise. Entering the bedroom of an apartment with the previous occupants long out of the city, he took a moment to reflect upon the idea of his own impending death, tested the failsafe walls of his resolve. He secured the area, only needing this one room, his focus partially distracted from the task at hand.
No more endless nights, no more long days. He would no longer feel the dry ache of his stinger in the presence of a pulse. No more strigoi hunt, no slaying. If he succeeded, he could give his endless life purpose, could perhaps soothe the dull throb in his chest whenever he allowed himself to become too pensive.
The contents of the bag were evacuated on to the tattered brown bedspread, and as was his habit he immediately sorted his various weapons of choice in to neat lines. Of course everything was here. Everything he would need during this initial period of time, while he made his assessments and readied himself. Everything, and then some.
His fingers closed around an item so familiar, something that had accompanied him on his travels throughout the centuries. Normally, Quinlan did not consider himself materialistic; items in this world had a tendency to rot, to turn to dust, and actually meant so very little in the long run. After all, the sum of all the riches in the world could not buy true experience; that was earned. Wisdom through hardship.
This was dangerous. He could not afford to be distracted. And yet, he removed his thick leather glove anyway, brushed his fingers lightly along the yarns woven tightly along the wooden doll’s torso, feeling the frayed knots in the fabric. Preserved as best he could during many years of travel, a physical embodiment of his most precious memories.
The doll had been a homely mess even in it’s brighter days. Quinlan made for an efficient warrior, a decent farmer, and an attentive husband and father. However, he was no craftsman. Even so, he had been willing to try, carving the modest profile of a girl’s face in to the wood, winding the body with yarn he had spared from the sheep.
Despite it’s shabby appearance, he had been rewarded tenfold for his work with a smile and hearty embrace on the day he had presented it to the child, just as he was readying himself to retire for the day. From that point forward, his daughter would often rush to him with stories of the adventures the two of them had. The doll even accompanied the girl on her daily duties.
Dangerous, his instincts whispered to him as he brought the thing to his face, touched his lips to the object as he inhaled. Don’t, a lesser part of himself growled as he imagined it still carried their scent-
The air was heavy this time of year, humidity causing the atmosphere to have a palpable thickness to it, as though it could be parted with a knife.
The darkness of night did little to relieve what his wife and daughter often worked through during the day. He had insisted that they both sleep in the basement during nights like this, while he was away. The ambient heat of his flesh caused them more discomfort, and so they never retired downstairs straight away after he came up. He began to rise earlier because of this, tolerating the last few hours of light while the cold ground absorbed the remnant heat of his presence, airing out the room for his women.
“Da,” his daughter said one night, through a mouthful of bread, “one game tonight?”
His wife, dark hair at the nape of her neck damp with sweat, looked at the girl with muted impatience. “It is far too warm for Da to be worried with that tonight,” she reminded the girl, “he has much to do to prepare for drought.”
The child looked so disappointed that he accommodated her without much thought, as usual. One game, he allotted, grunting as he pulled on thin leather boots. After you’ve finished supper.
He was gathering the pails to prepare for a trip to the well when she found him, running barefoot through the grass which was already strung with dew. He barely had time to place the items down before she was upon him.
“Momma said not to keep you,” she spoke in to his ear with her arms around his neck as he was crouched to her level. She never complained about his heat, sought him out regardless. The doll poked him in the back of his scalp. He waited for her to pull away, tucked a wet strand of her hair behind her ear.
Remember that you have your own duties to do tomorrow- mother wants you to be rested.
“I’ll wake up just fine!”
What would you like to play, then?
She frowned, made a show of looking back and forth before exclaiming, “You hide!”
He smiled, tilted his head at her in question. How will you find me in the dark?
The girl brandished her doll before her, holding it up with both hands for him to see. “She will help!”
And so with her eyes firmly closed her obliged her, climbing up a tree some twenty feet away with ease, watching as she loudly announced the hunt began. She held the doll out before her like a compass, marching on dirty little feet as her human vision, built for the light, swept semi-blindly across the scene before her.
After a few minutes of searching, he dropped down to switch his hiding place in the direction of her wandering, positioning himself so she could feel his heat.
She paused at the barrel, knowing she had him cornered, arms tight at her side in anticipation of what came next. She whimpered in mock fear as she tiptoed toward her father, then squealed in delight as he abandoned his hiding place and swooped down, gathering her in to his arms and spinning.
“Okay, now-“
Ah-ah! We agreed on one game!
“No, that was half a game! Now it’s my turn to hide!”
Of course he caved, agreed that fine, but this was it, after this it was time for bed. She nodded solemnly, then handed him the doll.
“Use her. Like she showed me!” He showed her he understood, held the thing out as though it had the capability to find her just on intuition. She made him close his eyes and by habit he tracked her pulse across the field to some nearby shrubbery.
He pretended to search before he finally “found” her, feigning his own surprise as she jumped from her hiding place and wrapped him in an embrace.
Now-
“Carry me home?”
Love, I have much to do... but she looked crestfallen, and he took her in his arms, mentally berating himself for spoiling her so.
“Don’t run,” she said, with her sticky forehead on his shoulder. “Just walk regular speed, okay?”
He willed himself to say her name, to whisper it in to the nothingness surrounding him, with nobody around to hear how ragged he must sound, even telepathically. The action caused a familiar constricting feeling, a rubber band around his chest, and he found himself yet again wondering if this is what it felt like to be human, to suffocate.
He moved his other arm, grasped the doll between the two hands that had released so many strigoi since the death of this child—his child.
So many had perished, and until very recently he could not see an end to it, kept going simply because he had nothing else to lose, and it mattered not how many times he slipped to that rocky bottom where the only way to go was up. He could ascend again, broken but not defeated, climbing those precious inches toward his goal. Toward vengeance.
Soon, he told himself, rubbing his thumb over worn wood, where the doll’s face had been.
He was so close. He would avenge them and put a stop to his father’s mad rampage. Then maybe- just maybe… he would be allowed to see them again.