Work Text:
Mizrak was dying.
Olrox could hear it, the feeble beating of his heart getting slower and slower. Each beat rang in his ears. With every one he prayed it would not be the last. But he could smell the blood still sluggishly flowing out from Mizrak’s wound, could feel his life force draining away. Olrox was familiar with the process of death, of achingly slow blood loss. He knew what was coming. He knew death. It had never terrified him so, except for once.
Not again, he thought, desperately, traitorously. How Mizrak would hate him if he knew. How he’d rage at Olrox for daring to care about him, for thinking about him like he thought about his lost love. Perhaps he’d even call him Satan again. How Olrox wished he would, because then at least he'd be alive.
Please, not again.
Olrox carried him in his arms. Mizrak’s eyelids fluttered, trying so hard to stay open, awake. Yet his breath was growing shallow. Hanging on by a thread. His head was tipped back, his neck bared. Olrox knew that Mizrak would never expose his neck to him like this if he had the choice, but he didn't have the strength to lift it. His entire body, dead weight in Olrox’s arms, like those pietá statues of the god he revered so. What a pity, that his god would not save him now.
But perhaps Olrox could. As he walked, candles flickering to life beside him, he stared at Mizrak’s exposed neck. He would hate him. But Olrox could live with that hate, as long as Mizrak lived as well.
Olrox laid him down on his bed, trying to make him comfortable. He held Mizrak’s hand, tracing circles into his palm as the monk’s breath grew shaky. A hollow comfort, but it was all he could give. Mizrak began trembling slightly. He was crying. Olrox could smell the blood coating his throat; he wondered if Mizrak could taste it, the prelude to death on his tongue. It was soon, now.
Tears rolled down Mizrak’s cheeks, falling into his beard. “I am afraid, Olrox.”
His eyes shone with tears. Wide open, seeing, for perhaps the final time. Such beautiful eyes.
It was staring into those eyes that Olrox finally made his decision.
“There's no need to be afraid, my love.” A confession, an ultimatum, a hushed consolation.
Those eyes widened. His breath shuddered. He knew. And yet, he did not rage, did not spit Olrox’s name like a curse. Maybe he did not have the strength. Or maybe, like Mizrak had said, he was simply afraid. Who wouldn't be, at the end? Well, there would be plenty of time for rage, after.
Fangs bared, Olrox leaned forwards, bending over until his mouth was a hair's-breadth away from Mizrak’s neck. At the same time, he moved his hand up from Mizrak’s gloved one, stopping for a moment on his chest, the final heavy beats of his heart. It was racing as much as it could, fear of the unknown propelling it, the blood darting through his veins. Always fighting, his Mizrak. Then he moved further upwards, to cradle his face. His skin was cold, clammy against Olrox’s. It would never be warm again. Silent tears slipped down Mizrak’s cheeks, and Olrox brushed them away with the pad of his finger. A hollow comfort, but a comfort all the same.
“It will be alright,” Olrox murmured, soft as a blade unsheathing, soft as the footfalls of approaching Death.
And then he bit down.
Mizrak grunted in pain, and then sighed. Maybe in relief, maybe in resignation. He turned his head slightly, leaning into the chill of Olrox’s touch.
Mizrak’s blood was warm on Olrox’s tongue. He'd never drank any quite so sweet, liquid gold pulled from his lover’s veins. It brought to mind a taste from his human years, xocolatl, the sacred gift of the gods.
Beneath his touch, his lips, Mizrak grew ever weaker. He had already lost so much blood, but he kept struggling to stay awake, alive. Always fighting, until the end. Mizrak began muttering under his breath, his voice so faint that even Olrox could only parse every other word. A few moments later, he realized that he was saying his last rites. Surely it was blasphemous for Mizrak to say it himself instead of calling a priest, but no sane priest would pray over this deathbed, this den of sin incarnate. Mizrak had already committed quite a lot of blasphemy, anyways. But if it brought him solace in his final human moments, who was Olrox to judge?
Olrox had closed his eyes at some point, both to better savor the taste and to spare himself the pain of watching the last vestiges of life drain from Mizrak. But he could still feel it, how the blood flow slowed, how the breaths stopped forming.
The words stopped coming. Either Mizrak finished in his prayer, or he no longer had the strength to form them. He was the slightest touch away from death, the thread he was hanging on by about to snap. On the precipice of the end and eternity. Exactly where Olrox needed him.
Carefully, Olrox edged away, trying to snag his fangs as little as possible. On most people he didn’t care in the slightest. Not that he was careless, but it was oh so easy to accidentally tear a gash in the side of someone's neck. Mizrak, needless to say, was not most people.
For a split second, Olrox admired his work. Two perfectly circular puncture wounds along the side of Mizrak’s neck, a few spots of blood welling up and tracing down to his sternum. They looked impossibly vivid against his pale skin. Somehow, Mizrak had gone even paler than he was before. He looked like a husk, like a corpse. The thought was terrifying.
He's not dying, Olrox reminded himself. He is not dying, not tonight.
At least his eyes were closed, which Olrox was immensely thankful for. He did not want to see them grow empty as a dead man’s. He wondered idly what color they would be when they opened again.
Finally, Olrox leaned back. Blood dripped from his chin, and he wiped it away with a sigh. He was not normally this messy, but desperation changes a man. He was covered in blood, dark dried splotches from the battling as well as a smear of red down his chest from Mizrak’s various wounds. He shrugged his coat off, throwing it over a nearby chair. He needed easy access to his wrists. The bed was stained too, the sheets certainly needing replacing. It was a small price to pay for Mizrak’s life.
He wanted to rouse Mizrak immediately, but unfortunately, he had to check the wound first. It wouldn't do for him to come back just to be killed by the same damned stab wound.
Olrox eased the mail of his shirt away, fingers ghosting over the outskirts of the injury. He exhaled in relief. It was mortal for a human, yes, but certainly not for a vampire. It would knit together in a few moments and not even leave a scar. It brought Olrox a slight thrill, that this ghastly mark would soon fade, but the evidence of his fangs in Mizrak’s neck never would.
He went to cut his wrist, but paused, eyes lingering on the cross design emblazoned across Mizrak’s chest. It wouldn't do for him to wake up and immediately be burned by his own shirt, either. Olrox cursed at himself under his breath for not thinking of it sooner. In his defense, it had been a long day.
A few minutes were wasted with him tugging it off, careful not to worsen the wound. In fact, once it was off, Olrox saw that Mizrak was practically covered in small wounds and bruises. The constant fighting had taken its toll. It was a wonder he'd stayed conscious for as long as he had.
Olrox resisted the sudden strong urge to fly back to the battlefield and show Erzsebet and Drolta some real pain. Maybe strike them with lightning a couple of times. But Alucard and that Belmont boy could handle it, and Mizrak needed him.
With that, he took one talon and dragged it across his wrist, the pain not even registering as blood pooled up and dripped down onto his poor sheets. The wonders of adrenaline. He held it out, right next to Mizrak’s face. Mizrak didn't move. Something akin to panic began to wedge itself between Olrox’s ribs.
“Mizrak,” he called into the suffocating quiet, “Drink.”
Still nothing. He wasn't an expert on turning in the slightest. He'd only done it a handful of times, but even he knew that it was not supposed to take this long.
“Mizrak,” he pleaded, to the unmoving body on his bed. Not again.
The smell of his blood filled the room. There was now a small puddle, on the bed, right next to Mizrak’s head. He twitched, turning towards it slightly, a movement so small Olrox would've missed it if he hadn’t been watching Mizrak like a hawk. He watched Mizrak weakly sniff the air. Surely the smell of vampire blood was tantalizing, even to someone who didn't want it.
Then, like a man possessed, Mizrak launched up, tangling in the bed sheets as he scrambled for a taste. His teeth clamped around Olrox’s wrist, hands wrenching it closer to his face.
Olrox laughed a little, nearly collapsing onto the bed in sheer relief. He had to grab onto the bed frame to steady himself as a bloodthirsty Mizrak continued holding his arm in a vise grip, almost tearing apart his flesh in his desperation. And Olrox, relieved as he was, would gladly let him.
It was a bit disturbing though, seeing him lost in a frenzy like this, blood painting his chin and hands a dark red. It brought to mind those vampires that were little more than remnants, nothing more than an insatiable thirst for blood trapped in a decaying body. The ones that made Mizrak look him in the eye and call him soulless, satanic. Mizrak would not want this, to be this.
Despite these very cheerful thoughts, Olrox reveled in the sight of Mizrak covered in his blood. Even if Mizrak was right, and vampires were monsters, what a beautiful monster he made.
Mizrak started to shake slightly, almost convulsing. That was the blood doing its job. No going back now. Still, Mizrak held on, propelled by an inhuman thirst for liquid life. He was weak, battered and bruised as he was, and he was hungry. Olrox let him have his fill, since, knowing Mizrak, it would probably be a while until he voluntarily ate again. He presumed that Mizrak’s Christian god did not approve of murder.
Maybe Mizrak would go on a hunger strike or try to throw himself into the sun. Olrox suspected he had a lot of thwarting suicide attempts to look forward to in his future.
Olrox waited as long as he could, but soon even he began to feel faint. Blood was now dripping onto the floor, staining the floorboards. That would be harder to replace. A wave of dizziness hit him, the kind he hadn't felt in decades at least, and Olrox had to clutch at the bedframe again. Okay, that was probably enough.
“Mizrak,” he warned, almost chiding, pulling his wrist back towards himself.
The feral no-longer-a-man clutching his wrist did not stop, groaning slightly as Olrox tried to move his arm away. Any more and Mizrak would make himself sick, not to mention that Olrox still needed some blood inside his body to properly function.
“That’s enough,” he said, wrenching his wrist away.
Mizrak’s eyes snapped open, and oh. If Olrox had breath he would've lost it. Such a vivid red, glowing like torches in the night, their color could put every ruby ever found to shame. What a pair they would make, red and green.
Those eyes narrowed and then widened in quick succession, and Olrox could see the moment his pupils dilated, the bloodlust leaving as the true Mizrak returned.
In a burst of lucidity, Mizrak leapt back, away from the outstretched wrist, the blood, Olrox, pressing his back against the wall. He put a bloody hand over his chest wound, instinctually, but it had already healed. The rest had too, the motley of bruises and cuts, only leaving his previously earned scars. And, of course, those two dots on his neck. A claim, a declaration.
His hand went there next, and it lingered. As if he could hide it, could take back what it meant. But his eyes were already red, his ears pointed, his fangs aching for more blood. There was no going back. Olrox saw the moment it hit him, the wave of disbelief and despair.
Finally, Mizrak looked at him.
“Olrox,” he said, and what a wonder it was, that his name was the first word uttered by his love at the dawn of his new life.
“Olrox,” he said, still half in disbelief. There was much more he could have said, but he did not need to. He did not ask why. They both knew why. He did not accuse, not yet. He knew that at least some infinitesimal part of him had wanted this. And yet.
And yet Olrox could see the anger building in those beautiful eyes of his, and he knew it was deserved.
“How—how dare you.”
How dare, when Mizrak had been knocking on Death’s door less than ten minutes ago, and Olrox felt like if he stopped for a moment he would die along with him. Olrox knew Mizrak would not appreciate the sentiment, at least not now.
Olrox would never regret turning him, not as long as he lived. He would do it a thousand times over again, but he also knew that every one of those thousand times, Mizrak would rage at him for the audacity. How dare he, when they were not supposed to care about each other. How dare he, when Mizrak was a man of his god. How dare.
Mizrak stared at him, breath shuddering in his chest like he'd just sprinted. He did not need to breathe, anymore, but it would take a while to realize. Olrox decided he probably shouldn't mention it.
“And is that what you have planned for me?” Mizrak had said once, disturbed at the concept. For a vampire was a soulless, vile, unholy thing. The same feeling now shone in his eyes as he stared at Olrox, something akin to betrayal alongside it. It was easy, Olrox supposed, to yearn for salvation on the brink of death. To beg for something, anything, to save you. And it was easy too, to later claim that you never even wanted it, to be reviled by it. Emotions, wants, such fickle things.
As such, the words, when they came, were not a surprise.
“I hate you,” Mizrak said, eyes burning bright as stars. He was furious, growing ever more so as his lucidity returned bit by bit. And yet, thankful, though he'd never dare to say it. How could he truly hate Olrox when it was his blood in his veins, dripping down his chin, giving him life? It was Olrox, after all, that brought him back when his god would not. Either for thanks or hate, that could not be for nothing.
“I hate you,” he repeated, voice like simmering coals. His newly forged fangs began to peek out as a cruel reminder, giving him the slightest of lisps, “I swear Olrox, I will never forgive you.”
It was like an entirely different man sat in his bed, irreconcilable with the poor monk who'd traitorously confessed that he was scared of death and what awaited him after. And yet, the tear tracks were still there, faint lines of salt cutting across his cheeks. Olrox wondered if Mizrak was still scared. Wondered if he thought this better than his eternal damnation, or maybe a punishment even worse.
Either way, Olrox tried not to be hurt. He'd heard far worse from Mizrak’s lips, and had been fully expecting the venom he now hurled. He welcomed it with open arms. Besides, it was hard to feel anything but sheer joy and relief when Mizrak sat before him, vampiric, alive, a sight he hadn't even let himself dream of but had longed for all the same. So what if he hated him? It would pass.
Olrox had seen another fledgling recently, Tera, and the difference between her and Mizrak could not be more pronounced. Perhaps he was biased, but to him Tera had looked like little more than a walking corpse, eyes dull, defeated. Mizrak, on the other hand, had never looked more alive than he did now. A creature of the night, basking in the moonlight. Eyes aflame, fangs bared, Olrox’s now-drying blood spilling from his chin and carving dark lines down his chest. He was radiant.
Resplendent as he was, Mizrak was still glaring at him. Olrox was smiling now, the way he hadn’t in a long time, which was probably only making Mizrak hate him more. Olrox leaned forward, slowly resting a hand on Mizrak’s. The pantomime of Mizrak’s breath hitched, despite himself.
“You may hate me now, but forever is a long time, my love.”
He scowled at the endearment but did not refute it, which was something.
“Forever…” he muttered to himself, like he didn't know the meaning of the word. Maybe he was just now realizing that he never truly did. An eternity, with Olrox. An eternity, for fighting and hatred and forgiveness. An eternity of existence, forever, together.
He shook his head, slowly, as if he could deny the very nature of what he now was. What Olrox had made him. Olrox thought he might start crying again, or praying to the god that could no longer hear him.
He did neither, surging up and pulling Olrox forward into a rough kiss. In truth, it was half-bite, half-kiss, Mizrak likely trying to hurt him with what was normally a tender display of love, to make Olrox feel a fraction of his pain. His fangs tore into Olrox’s lower lip, drawing dark beads of blood. Savage and livid and loving, all in one. They had each other’s blood on their lips, and now on their own. How perfectly vampiric.
Mizrak pushed back, eyes wide at the now-sweet taste of blood on his tongue. He wanted to be disgusted, surely, but Olrox could see how he hungered for more. The hunger pushed back the anger, keeping it at bay, for now. There would surely be cataclysmic fights, later, but tonight his eyes lingered on Olrox’s lips.
A moment later, he was lunging forward, kissing Olrox again with even more ferocity. Olrox fell back into his blood-stained bed, the beginnings of a laugh pried from his bleeding lips. They would heal.
After all, they had nothing but time.