Chapter Text
“Wretched vampire, I told you…” A painful voice resurrected from beneath the wreckage. Bricks and boulders crumbled and descended, as if clearing a path for the young chasseur. “Your head is mine.” The boy wobbled where he stood. His strength and resolve crumbled faster than the ruins around him. Yet, he forced himself forward, trembling into each step, wincing with each breath. But he would deny it; he would deny this frailty every time. “It’s not…” His breathing faltered, caught in a lump of pain. “Over yet…” He chomped down on his lower lip, smothering the ache of having gone too far, having fought too hard, and having done the wrong thing.
Warm blood cascaded down his forehead where he’d been struck; it matted and tangled itself into his rosy hair. With one eye poking through his bangs, he watched the white-haired vampire carefully, anticipating him to lunge forward and recommence the fight any moment.
What are you waiting for?!
The chasseur waited. But the vampire was unmoving. He clutched desperately at this arm; blood had been pouring from it like a crimson waterfall. He could see that the vampire was gravely injured in the way he poured over his injury, hugging his arm to his center. The vampire’s blood stained his white coat, stained the white blossoms, just the way the chasseur had hoped it would. The vampire rubbed the bloody spot, probably hoping it might dissolve. All the world’s oceans could never wash away the sin he had committed though. Those bloody spots would never come out, the chasseur knew that to be true. But who would have thought that the vampire would have so much blood in him? It poured relentlessly. An endless crimson pool formed beneath him.
Good, the chasseur thought. But it’s not enough still, I have to kill him. All of the vampires need to—
“I’ll slaughter you all!” His thoughts projected through his voice. His eyes seemed to spiral in a black vortex: an abysmal whirlpool of shadow. He was unreachable, insatiable, unkind, and above all maddened with his inconsolable grief. Sadness had long since been transmuted into hatred, and evidently into the vampire’s horrendous blood that dripped steadily into the flowers. Surely to accept such sadness would be the equivalent to a soulful death. To seek vengeance was to heal his hounds, to stop the incurable bleeding in his heart and his mind. His chest squeezed at the thought. Wounds, he knew, stopped bleeding under pressure. And he fantasized about the glorious pressure of vampire flesh beneath his blade. He would have peace again.
He took one, then two unsteady steps forward until he froze in a sudden panic. His heart leapt and palpitated suddenly, rising into his throat, as if seeking escape from all of this, from this never-ending nightmare. A rippling ache at his chest intensified and it hurt so badly that he gasped. His own blood began to pool and collect beneath his eyes and at the corners of his lips.
“Astolfo.” A commanding and familiar voice interrupted his pain.
A tall shadow now separated him from the wounded vampire. The echo of approaching footfalls suddenly pacified him. He knew the rhythm of those steps. He would know this presence anywhere. For a moment, Astolfo’s eyes unfogged and he could see the world a little clearer. He could see the golden paladin before him. The paladin was an infinite ray of light. The sun seemed to encircle him in a halo; he shined brighter than anyone. He was light. He was a savior. And Astolfo wanted to hate him for it. Because hate was a comfortable feeling; hate was easy. But the blood dripping into his eyes and stinging him there was a subtle reminder that maybe this was not so.
At the paladin’s sudden appearance, Astolfo longed to collapse. He longed to go home. He didn’t want to be there anymore, but the reflexive memories refused to dissolve from his mind and again and again a dark force propelled these intrusive images back into his heart. The memories impaled him like a spear, in and out, in and out. He would never be free. He could never find paradise. He felt like he was there again–like it was that day.
The image of blood-spotted tiles and blood-painted walls flashed across his eyes in an angry reverie. His eyes expanded and flooded with hot, meandering tears, looking up at the blonde chasseur who had arrived to rescue them all.
“I beg you, sir paladin….help us,” Astolfo whimpered this plea, as the memory re-dramatized itself behind his eyes. He felt like he was his younger self-again: his naive, innocent self. Instinctively, he reached for the paladin’s gloved and armored hand; he longed to feel its reassuring warmth. “Please do something…or my sister’s going to die.” Astolfo’s voice shook against the rising onslaught of tears that seemed anchored to his throat. Behind his own eyes, he could see his sister: drained and empty. “There’s not much time.” He stared forward blankly, as though experiencing an entirely different moment from everyone else present. “Save her life. I don’t care what might become of me,” he begged. And it was true, of course; he didn't mind whatever would become of him, so long as he could escape this awful, suffocating feeling.
Then, in the next moment he remembered where he was. He remembered that he didn’t really want to fight anymore. “If it hadn’t been for me, none of this would have happened,” he realized as he faintly leaned forward. “It’s all my fault,” he uttered, reaching out to the blonde paladin once more. His body moved on its own, reaching full-heartedly for the paladin. He didn’t want to fight the vampire anymore—no, he wanted silence. He wanted all of it to stop: the memories, the blood, the fight, the horrible all-encompassing shame—he would do anything to make it stop. And so his body fell forward into the blonde chasseur. He hated how willingly his body trusted his. Astolfo was caught effortlessly. The young chasseur clung to the paladin’s waste, but his body felt so heavy that he weakly slid down to his knees. He lowered his head in so much shame that his hair covered his crying eyes entirely. The paladin followed him down, pulling the young one into his arms.
“It’s alright, Astolfo.” His green eyes started to shimmer, like it hurt him just as much. “It’s done,” he added. “It’s over now.” His low, tender voice trembled as he spoke those words of such poignant meaning. That tremor, that soft tremor in his voice was Astolfo’s final undoing.
“Don’t go,” Astolfo cried. “I can’t bear it.” All of his strength gave way as he hid his face on the paladin’s knee. All of his tears, so long held back, became convulsive. Yet, the paladin was calm as he raised the younger’s head and wiped his eyes. Astoflo closed his eyes at the paladin’s touch; it tranquilized his melancholic madness for a moment. But still, his shrinking body was torn with terrible sobs. He was engulfed in this horrible feeling (despair?) like a drowning child by the sea. He felt like he had water in his lungs, filling up interminably. This was the very feeling he had hoped to avoid. Quickly, it became too much and his body disengaged. Unconsciousness had claimed him swiftly.
“Come with me, my son,” the paladin said, smoothing his hands through the young chasseur’s rosy hair. The boy had fainted quietly, his sobs all of the sudden became silent. The paladin knew the reason for Astolfo’s unconsciousness was due to overexertion. Judging by the tiny puncture holes at his neck, Astolfo had injected himself too much and too quickly. The paladin could feel the young one’s stressful heart beat beneath him: Astolfo’s heart continued to pulse the drug through his blood stream. He would need medical attention right away.
“Roland, please help him! He injected too much. The young master was in so much rage and I couldn’t stop him from—”
Roland shook his head and looked up at the panicked chasseur. He was speaking too quickly and the paladin wouldn’t allow him to spiral into an episode of guilt. “Marco, prepare to leave immediately.”
Roland then rose to his feet, holding Astolfo protectively to his heart. Although he was unconscious he could see frantic movement behind the younger’s eyes. Blood trailed from his tear ducts and gathered at his cheeks. And then there was the matter of his incessant shaking. The young chasseur’s body trembled into him. He breathed heavily too-–panting—as though fighting a battle Roland couldn’t see.
However, he already knew the effect that an overdose could have on the body: internal bleeding, body tremors, nausea, high fever, and hallucinations. But most dangerous of all, was the fact that being left alone in this vulnerable state permitted and tempted demonic, unholy forces to inhabit the body. It was an extremely rare occurrence, mainly because very few chasseurs ever walked this line; most didn’t dare to risk a conjuring of evil entities. But as things were, Astolfo would become the ideal host for an evil spirit to occupy. A soul like his, full of unresolved grief and anger, made him the perfect target for possession. And so, they would need to return to the church immediately. He knew there were remedies for this, but such remedies bordered on exorcism.
Roland held the boy closer, feeling a sudden resurgence of guilt. He should have done more to control him, to counsel him, to heal him. Salvation was never out of the boy’s reach. Roland would find it for him, take it for him, anything to seal the cavity in his heart.
And now, there was even less time.
“I swear, Astolfo…” Roland whispered, feeling fairly confident Astolfo could hear him through his reverie. “I swear I won’t let anything else hurt you.”