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She’s dying. Or at least, she thinks so. Death has always been carved out in her mind in spikes of fear; in largely dramatic brushstrokes that bled into people’s lives, staining wherever it touched. Like steel being sawed in half, atom by atom of existence shrieking apart. Life was wrenched from people out of their gasping hands without any reservation, as she had learned from other people. Living was, in short, the journey of avoiding death and the grief that came along with it.
Even the strongest around her were marked starkly with the wounds of loss. She noted—with a dull ache in her skull—that none of that fanfare was happening for her. No flashing of her life before her eyes. No cries clawed from people’s lungs, begging her to stay. She couldn’t recall where she was or how she had gotten there. The one thing she knew was that the pain pulsing through her was something that would surely kill her, as certain as the snowflakes that dripped from the clouds above. A grim kind of mirth seeped through her chest as she resigned herself to her fate.
And then it begins.
It starts with a breath. Gasping, sharp and stinging. It’s forced out in desperate wheezes and her lungs reeling from the bitter air. Stars spark in her eyes. Then comes the pain. Her skin is scalding, like her entire body is being baked alive in the coals of a fireplace. Ishmael flails around for a second desperately, trying to shirk it off. The heat is unrelenting. She reaches shakily to her head–the movement is difficult–and her fingers come away scarlet. Two specific points throb deep on her wrist, burning as if she had been branded there. She turns her arm, slowly, and spots two incisions staring back. Her arm is blisteringly hot. Everything is, actually. She looks ahead and attempts to crawl towards a pile of snow, seeking respite from the sickening heat. A hiss rips through her as her entire body aches, stopping her in her tracks.
A bout of dizziness tilts her vision, and she crumples again. White hot stars return in her eyes, fueling her frustration. The snow doesn’t help matters, unfortunately. It emanates a pearly white sheen, harsh and starkly contrasted by the dark blood that is splattered around her. Ishmael tries to regain her balance even as dull pain pulses throughout her. A shock of alarm seizes her as she realizes there is something very wrong with her right eye. Her vision is mismatched, her brain confused with trying to piece together the blinking darkness on her right side with the too-much brightness on her left.
She chooses to shut both, getting ahold of her bearings. Her jaw hurts. There’s something awful and awkward about it, as if it’s too big and heavy for her face. She writes it off as another effect of the beating from the hunters. The forest is quiet, air unmoving and in the very far distance, she hears the rustling of a bird in its nest. Her breath stills with the forest, as if one wrong step would shatter the serenity of it all. Nervously, she peels one eye back open–the uninjured one. She surveys the area. Blood is drying on her clothes, still warm and cloying. Her clothes are already worn from years of wear, patched with random scraps and stitches. The fight had served to only exacerbate the problem. She decides to focus on peeling away the fabric of her pants on one of her legs. There was no saving her clothes now; she would worry about new ones later. Her breath has slowed to a low thrum, and a grim curiosity urges her to inspect the damage.
Gingerly, she strips away the coarse fabric around a wound. She swallows. Where she had expected a gash left from where a bullet had torn past her thigh, instead there was perfectly healed skin, smoothed over and sealed with only a faint scar left behind. Cautiously, she checked her other limbs; the blisters by her ankles, the scrapes and bruises on her arms. Her fingertips prod, confirming that her other wounds are the same. Pristine, as good as untouched. Only the two marks, an even space apart on her left wrist, remain. Vague confusion pricks inside of her, but relief washes it away. Ishmael is more focused on being alive right now, not how she’s alive. She inhales deeply. The scent of pine and needles envelopes her. Her breath catches; air can’t move properly into her lungs. She tentatively reaches through her memory again and winces reflexively; the sensation of a sword slicing through her ribs is still fresh. Fresher it seems, than the wounds on her body. Warily, Ishmael unbuttons her coat. Her fingers barely reach the top loop before the sound of sizzling freezes her in place.
It takes a second for her to process what she’s seeing. Through the scraps of fabric and what remains of her undershirt, where the blade of a sword had cut deepest, the wound is bubbling. She can visibly see the waves of heat, rippling the air above her stomach as blood gurgles in the lesion. It seems to have a mind of its own, her ribs shifting back into place with a hollow snap; the edges of the wound coming together and pink flesh growing back where it had been absent merely seconds before. A multitude of emotions rush over her and a gasp catches in her throat, jaw fallen open. Her breath comes out shuddering again, but this time due to the abject horror clawing its way up Ishmael’s throat. She’s shaking, all the while more heat pours off of her and melts the snow underneath. Terror balls up in her gut, roiling and pushing its way up her windpipe, forcing her to dry heave over a patch of dirt. Her breathing is jagged again, and an agonized cry tears out of her. She knows what is happening to her.
Strange, heightened senses. Rapid healing. The marks on her wrist. An aching, weighty jaw that–Ishmael realizes as she runs her tongue over now–contains a pair of honed fangs. She wrenches her dagger out of its sheath, her knuckles white with how hard she’s gripping it. Opening her hand, palm up, she slashes the blade against it. Red drips from it for half a second, before she sees it again. Skin sewing itself together, smoothing out as if it were never there. She's still in disbelief. Tears prick at her eyes (Eye? She doesn’t even know if her right eye will ever function again), threatening to fall. She racks her brain. Grief and regret, laced with a thread of anger mixes into a poisonous cocktail inside of her . Whoever it was who turned her, it didn’t matter for now.
There was something more pressing; or rather, eating away at her. Starting from the pit of her stomach, but already threatening to spread. Hunger, the kind that rivaled the one from before. She pushed herself up and stood up fully for the first time. Rushing water calls to her, a cheerful river offering a drink. When she takes her first step, it startles her. Her body is different; stronger, faster. Suddenly she’s too tall and the ground is too soft and her limbs are strange and gangly and she almost face plants on the ground. The other half of her vision missing doesn’t help matters either. Thankfully, her reflexes are quicker too, and she catches herself before embarrassment can strike again. She makes her way slowly but steadily to the river bank, trudging into the icy slush. Blood washes away, letting her take better stock of what remains of her injuries. She patches together what remains of her coat, the stains of red fading. Out of the corner of her eye something moves and she jumps. She whirls around, before realizing that it was her own reflection that caught her eye. As her good eye focuses and the water smooths over, her face appears.
Christ. She looks like absolute shit. Dark shadows lurk under her eyes. Locks of her hair are still rough with carnage, and her eye… It’s seen better days. So to speak. The eyelid is lined with scar tissue, purple bruising still in the process of fading away. The eyelid feels gnarled shut, the scars making it hard to open. But she forges on anyway, pressing the eyelids apart with her fingers. Something inside her pleads, begging for it to be healed before– Nothing. Not even blurriness, or black, or rough, indistinct shapes. She can see nothing out of her right eye. Whatever remains of her pupil has been ravaged, no longer what it once was. Vampire magic could only do so much for her, she supposed. She wants to cry, or laugh bitterly, or curse the world for thieving from her this way. She does none of those things, however. Something else presses on and takes priority. Hunger calls from inside her mind again, and she cups her hands, bringing water to her mouth. She swallows, the water offering respite for a split second before constricting in her throat. It lodges, as if it had frozen into ice on the way down. Coughing it up and spitting to the side, disbelief makes her glare at the water. It had been too cold, far too cold even to swallow properly. Not only that, her body had rejected it like it was toxic. Nothing she had ever tasted had been as bitter as those few drops of water. She tries again, with the same result. The water drips from her hands, and she studies her reflection again, musing. Dismay dizzies her as she registers what her new body really needs. Blood. Not water. Not even food. She presses her palms to her eyes, swallowing dry. How could this have happened to her? How could she have let this happen?
She's about to allow herself wallow in regret again before her thoughts are interrupted by a soft, firm voice.
“Hey.”
She whips around, a figure coming into her view. Starkly white hair, a headband, and a dark cloak held by a metal clasp is all Ishmael sees before she draws her dagger.
“Get back.” Ishmael doesn’t know the full scope of what her new body is capable of. Of what would happen should her newfound instincts take over her.
“I won’t hurt you.”
“You might not, but I will if you step any closer.”
The person pauses, staring owlishly at her. It’s only then that Ishmael can take in the details of the figure. Soft, well worn pants. Something carved into the clasp holding her coat. A breeze blows past them, and an object inside the stranger’s cloak clinks. A weapon? Their gazes lock together and Ishmael falters. Light blue, but more importantly the same pupils that she had seen just hours before.
“You’re… You’re a–”
“Vampire. I think I would know by now, yes. Barked up the wrong tree, huh?” She inclines her head back towards the forest.
Ishmael lets out a breath slowly, the air coalescing into a cloud. “Leave.”
The stranger lists her head but doesn’t entertain a verbal response, simply reaching into her cloak. Ishmael's hackles immediately rise, and subconsciously she hisses and feels her fangs extend in defense. She raises her blade. Before she can do anything however, a glint catches her eye. It’s a bottle, made of crystal, with a cork stopper. Filled to the brim with brilliant red. She freezes. The cork comes off, and a scent follows it. Ishmael has smelled blood before, of course she has–but never like this. It was usually sharp and metallic, cutting into her senses. This was different. Warm, soothing, tempting. Like something was whispering into her ear, inviting her for just a taste. She could imagine the sweetness, almost saccharine. It promised to heal her, to act as a tonic for all her worries. Her mouth waters and her stomach whines with it.
Immediately, disgust and starvation are tossed into a war in her mind. Even as she forces herself to take a step back, her body screams at her, keening for the flask. Her body needs it, needs something to keep going. Her mind refuses it. The hunger sparks another emotion, a blaze of shame. Whatever her body has become, it is animalistic; unrecognizable. She is seized with the insane urge to try to rip her skin off. She’s locked in place, an internal battle like one she’s never experienced before gripping her. The stranger watches on, half confused, half curious. She offers the bottle to Ishmael, not stepping closer.
“It’s animal blood. Newborns take to it more easily, but eventually you’ll have to drink from an actual human.” She draws closer, her voice turning gentle. “If I wanted to hurt you I already would have. It’s safe.”
Ishmael rises to her full height, affronted. She had just taken on about half a dozen trained, armed soldiers. Her skill was nothing to scoff at.
The vampire noticed her stance and continued. “I have lived an entire lifetime’s worth of being a vampire, and you have been one for mere hours. I could’ve overtaken you easily.”
Nerves trickle in as she considers the words. Ishmael had never directly fought a vampire before—not one that was at full capacity anyways. She’s in a new body, and still barely knows how to even move. She considers her options. Stay, and see if the blood being offered to her is as true as the vampire’s word. Or leave. And then what? She doubted she could make it far before she collapsed from exhaustion again.
Light reflected off the red of the bottle, signaling the first beams of the sun. Her time to make a decision is ticking. Their eyes meet again. The vampire’s gaze is striking, holding Tian’s unwaveringly. Temptation whispers at her ear again, coaxing her closer to the vampire. It’s just a drink. Her will wavers. She’s tired. It’s been an eternity since someone has offered her help, let alone this readily. She has not had someone to share companionship with since she was a child. The strange encounter with her bounty at that castle hadn’t helped. Moonlight and a dance, invoking something long forgotten. A match, setting alight the flames of old wounds she thought she had moved on from.
The movement is unconscious. Her head tips forward, slowly, towards the opening of the bottle, and wisps of the scent reach out to her, beckoning. It’s as if strong hands push her closer to the sustenance. The vampire steps forward, closing the gap between them. She’s gentle, slowly tipping the essence into her mouth. Warmth is what she tastes first. The sensation is akin to stepping into a newly drawn bath. Her muscles relax as heat spreads from her throat all the way to the ends of her limbs. Her eye falls closed. The fumes are almost dizzyingly sweet, but not sweet in the manufactured, sugary way. Sweet in a comforting aspect. Warm, like her late mother's laugh. Her old lover’s smile, all quiet joy and mystery. Her head ebbs in and out of fuzz, sighs and breaths. The blood soothes her, a balm to her pain. It’s safe. The words the vampire had said echo back. Unbeknownst to Ishmael, the vampire has cupped her face, stroking her cheek softly. A tear rolls down from the corner of her eye, and the vampire brushes it away.
Faust has never seen someone have such a strong reaction to their first feeding before. Granted, she doesn’t encounter many newborns in general, but she thought it was unlikely there were many like this one. A bounty hunter. Someone who made a living getting rid of vampires, only to become one themself. Irony had a strange way of working sometimes. She had been tracking Ishmael ever since their visit to Heathcliff's castle. Though they hadn’t exchanged a word at the time, Faust was intrigued. Familiarity had tugged at her gut, but she hadn’t been truly interested until she heard what had transpired that night, told through Heathcliff's usual dramatic gestures and phrases. She had kept tabs on them ever since, getting updates from a tail. He had learned of her methods of hunting, and the reputation among other hunters that spawned from it.
It wasn’t until last night, when she had received word that Ishmael had tussled with fully trained vampire hunters that she decided to confront her face to face. By the time she’d arrived, the damage had been done. Ishmael, lying in a half mangled mess in the heart of the forest, and her humanity gone with the sun. On closer inspection, a fresh vampire bite on the inside of his wrist; and now, a vampire’s power coursing through her. Her life force had been on the edge of fading completely, before getting yanked back. He had time only to kill a nearby animal and collect its blood before the newborn vampire regained consciousness.
She had kept her distance from Ishmael, letting her collect herself. Or, more accurately, writhe in horror and self disgust for a few moments before she dragged herself over to the river, where Faust finally decided to approach.
She had jumped about a mile high when she saw her. Hackles raised, newly formed fangs already raring to be used. Faust wasn’t alarmed. Her life wasn’t in danger; even if she was at full capacity, she had never heard of Ishmael killing someone before.
Faust could smell the hunger on her, animalistic and snapping at her with desperation. Healing required a great deal of energy, and she could tell hers was just about spent. She approached slowly, a gentle hand and a voice as soft as it could go. It doesn’t take much for Ishmael to crack; she honestly thought it would’ve taken much longer. But as she poured the blood into her mouth, she realized. Ishmael was lonely. She didn’t have friends or anyone she trusted. It had to have been years since someone had taken care of her. Faust's hand rose to cup her face, and Ishmael's hand followed, resting on her arm. Faust could see it in the way her hands shook, in the dark shadows that lined her eyes. She had been living alone to carry the burden, without anyone to share it, without a real companion or an equal that could give back to her what she gave away so freely.
The last drops of the drink are gone, and Ishmael opens her eye again. She can already sense Ishmael is nourished. Her stance is stronger, body language matching the confidence her words hold. She levels her with an accusatory glare, as if she hadn’t basically nuzzled into her hand moments before.
“Why did you help me?”
A beat passes, the rushing river filling the silence between them.
She offers a noncommittal shrug. “I saw you at Heathcliff's party. Thought you looked fun to play with.” A lie. Or a part of one, really. She had chased them half on a spark of deja vu, half on a curious whim to see what she was capable of.
Her brow creases, offended. “I am not some toy for your games or whatever you vampires do. Leave.”
“Just in case you needed a reminder, those vampires include you now.” Faust offered her hand placatingly. “Come back with me. I can take you to Heathcliff, I can–”
She didn’t get a chance to finish her offer before– WHAM– her back hits the bank of the river, water already soaking through her cloak. Ishmael has a knee on her chest, hand pressing down on her shoulder and knife pointed towards her face.
“What did you just say? Heathcliff is still alive ?” The words were spat out with venom, Ishmael snarling in her face.
Faust raised a brow, more impressed than anything else. She had been able to catch her off guard, and knock her down at that.
The press of a dagger at her throat calls her attention back to the situation. “Answer me. You’re gonna tell me where the fuck he is, or I will hold you here in this river until the sun rises and we both burn to nothing.”
Faust peered over Ishmael's shoulder, where indeed, bright rays threatened to crest the horizon. She looked back at Ishmael. Something dark and seething was swirling in her gaze.
“No need to lose your temper. He’s probably still in the castle; his bunker is the safest in town.”
Ishmael's weight lifts off her all at once. Her hands release, as if she’d been burned. Faust watches as her face morphs from shock, incredulity, and finally settles on hard fury. She sheathes her dagger and rolls off of Faust.
And without a second glance, she was off, quicker than she had pinned Faust down. She watched them go, shadow dancing over branches and roots, and in just a few seconds, only footprints in the snow remained; the only proof that he was even there. Faust watches the sunrise, slinking behind a tree and wondering what she had said wrong.