Archive of Our Own

His plan was simple: excavate information to put a stop to the looming threat of an endless night. Olrox had executed similar plans in the past, any type of remorse that lingered on his conscience after the fact had dissipated over the decades and decades of conducting such work. 

It was as simple as finding someone willing enough, desperate enough, to slip him convenient secrets through loveless passion and heartless embrace. 

Everything would have gone accordingly if it hadn’t been for the monk. 

Olrox had been attentive while he slunk through the city of Machecoul, watching the Knights of Saint John make their way through the streets. From the mortal perspective, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Their hospitaller's chainmail glinted bright white against the ferocious rays of sun like silty diamonds. The large pale emblems of their alignment spread across their wide chests, the dark fabric of their tunics appeared gray as graphite in the brightness of day. The men made their ways through Machecoul, greeting each other and the other inhabitants of the town as was normally custom. But to Olrox, the stench of death and rebirth fumigated from them in heavy waves, their faces gaunt from sleepless nights of carting the dead to the basement of the abbey. 

He knew what was happening in the pit of the abbey. It took no effort to slip in unsuspectedly. He needed more information about the people , the Abbott and his congregation of reanimated monsters, what this mortal man planned on doing with an alliance to a being he would never worship. Forgemasters needed to be close to their patrons, the Abbott was no different as far as he could tell, although his forging was different, an amalgamation of what Olrox knew. And this fool was pulling strings that were not meant to be pulled, dragging not only himself through the mess of his own vanity, but the monks and the townsfolk as well. Olrox needed to know more, he needed to bridge the gap between the abbeyfolk and the pompous vampires residing in the chateau. 

It was in this tempered search that Olrox stumbled across him, the monk.

Thoughtlessly loyal, reckless, stoic and strong, like the unyielding bow of a battleship; Mizrak was the sultry summertime swaddled in a cloak of biting winter. His tongue was a sharp, nipping spear, his eyes the deep dewy copper of a daylily. 

That was how Olrox would describe him anyway.

He’d noticed the monk before the monk noticed him, although he knew the man would like to think the opposite. He was always by the Abbott’s side, and gave Olrox the impression that he was more clever and tactical than his peers. He was different from a majority of his brothers and the townsfolk physically as well. Shorter but broader, his skin a hue of olive not unlike the warm sands of the Sonoran desert. He was no Frenchman, Olrox was certain of that. 

He’d seen him around the city in his exploration, stopping along his daily treks to assemble flower crowns for the children and aid in basic house-hold chores when asked for assistance by overworked mothers. Mizrak would put on a smile for these innocents, letting the children bring him pummeled weeds and dandelions and arrange them sloppily atop his short-cropped hair. Small, pale fists bestowing him wrung out bundles of lavender taken from their mothers’ gardens, which he would take gratefully with a subtly subdued smile and later, before entering the now demonic abbey, discard of to hide the whimsy of naivety. He always wore an expression of repressed guilt when he did such a thing. 

On rare occasions, he’d steal quick glances at other men with low buttoned, sweat-stained collars as he passed them before flicking his eyes forward, bowing his head, and quickening his pace. 

He was a good man. His solidity in the community was obvious. And so he made the perfect interrogatee. 

Olrox had been watching him in the courtyard of the abbey, slashing the air surrounding him with his blade, muscles rippling like powerful waves under his mail. He was sweating in the heat of the sun, his breath heavy and restrained. Like a panther, Olrox viewed this display intently from the periwinkle shadows.

He’d been slammed against the lichen-licked, battered walls of the abbey courtyard, dagger to his throat. The blade was no threat, and it took no effort to estimate that Mizrak meant nothing by it really. He could have dragged Olrox into the deadly caress of the sunbeams pouring over the stoney walls. He could have driven the weapon into his ribs, straight through his unbeating heart. But neither of these actions commenced, and they stood facing each other in the bluish shade of the courtyard. 

It was a tease, a soldier’s way of toying with a potential mate; the placement of his clad knee between Olrox’s thighs made that clear enough. The vampire understood, smirked, and flirted right back. Showing one’s skills, one’s bodily worth was always the way with soldiers, men of war such as Mizrak. He was strong; Olrox liked that. 

He knew Mizrak would be easy to sway. The smell of sweat, sandalwood, and sweet iron flooded his nostrils upon their first meeting. There was something else, too. 

The pungent scent of lavender, amaranthine and decadent. 

Yes, he was a good man. Too good. Perfect. 

And he’d fallen right into Olrox’s jaws, was seized and swallowed, crushed under Olrox’s thumb until he decided to set him free. Of course, Olrox meant nothing by being intimate with the man. It was just business, a type of deep-seated warfare. Mizrak would not be hurt in the process, unless he attempted to kill Olrox. He’d have to die for something such as that. 

 ☽ ✶ ☾

Olrox ran his fingers across the forest of dark hair on Mizrak’s jaw, his cheeks, his chin. Mizrak struggled to meet the vampire’s gaze, Olrox could tell. There was a hesitance, a heaviness to his mannerisms, like an invisible thread dragged his pupils to focus on the pillow under Olrox’s head.  

“It’ll be alright if you’d rather not do this.” Olrox whispered huskily, the scent of sweat and the outdoors blooming from Mizrak’s being. His face was hot and flushed, his dark brows furrowed in a mesh of stoicism and nerves. 

“Are you going to kill me?” 

“Mortals tend to share the belief that sleeping with a vampire means certain death. Maybe for most, it does. But I won’t kill you, Mizrak.” 

“Then what do you really have planned, vampire? Surely this is not just a simple fraternization.”

Olrox chuckled softly. So the monk was clever like he’d assumed. Why he agreed to even meeting him though, after preaching to him in the courtyard of the abbey, he was not certain. “I want us to establish an alliance, Mizrak.”

Mizrak’s facial expression did not demonstrate any changes, as if he’d expected this to be the case all along. 

“I need information about your Abbot, his plans, what you know of this ‘messiah’ he is doing business with.” Olrox could feel Mizrak’s warm breath above him, those rich brown eyes searching subtly for any confirmation that what he was saying was true. “I think working together will benefit both of us greatly. I know you don’t like what your Abbot is doing either.” 

“You don’t know anything about me, vampire.” Mizrak hissed. Olrox couldn’t help to suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. 

He brought the other’s face closer to his own. Mizrak finally met his eyes. For a split moment, they stood vulnerable, affixed to the elliptical emeralds. Olrox caught it, recognized it, related to its emotion. He would have let Mizrak leave if he’d wanted, but he was glad he hadn’t. It would have cost him more time in finding someone else willing enough to bed a vampire, especially someone like Mizrak; a monk, a close-knit companion of the forgemaster he so desperately needed to learn about. 

“Do not fear.” He whispered softly, “As much as you preach about your need for chastity, I know who you are.”

“How?” Mizrak’s voice was barely audible, it rumbled like a summer storm. 

“I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin. I can feel it stir your heart.” 

Mizrak seemed to contemplate Olrox’s words, letting them melt into his mind before continuing his descent onto the graceful man underneath him. Olrox wrapped his hands around the back of the monk’s head, letting himself be treasured physically even if just for a few dwindling hours in the night. He had his questions, but they could wait until dawn, when the shadows were scattered to the corners of the city. 

☽ ✶ ☾

Their passionate nighttime rituals continued. Olrox wasn’t surprised. He’d glimpsed a flicker of ambition, a clandestine desire in Mizrak’s fiery eyes. And now, like clockwork, the man made his way to the quaint inn every evening, when the setting sun struck bright orange beams of fragrant color across the city.  

He would be standing ineptly, face set stonily and unwavering at Olrox’s room door. The long hours of the day dripped from him, exhausted but ready to remove the vizard he relied on for survival. Olrox was fond of him, he supposed in the same way that one feels affection for a type of flower, his favorite mortal for the time being. 

The nighttime rituals weren’t terrible for either of them. Olrox didn’t mind the monk staying with him. They both seemed to benefit from the situation; Mizrak could satisfy the nature he’d been told to repent, Olrox had a companion, an ally he could rely on to hand feed him information. He wasn’t alone, like he had been for so long. 

He didn’t complicate it any farther. He’d had plenty of strictly carnal relationships with men in the past, this time was no different. And yet a week had passed in no time at all, and something was changing. 

“You have the grimoire.” Mizrak stated when he had gotten into the little room they had frequently been sharing. They had been discussing a plan to take the book, a blueprint of the forge and its offspring. It hadn’t been difficult to take, left unguarded in that shadowy dungeon beneath the abbey. 

It now sat on the little desk in the room, appearing harmless. “He’ll notice it’s gone.” Mizrak sat on the bed, fully clothed, taking the small knife out of its sheath along his thigh and running his fingers along its edge. “Then he will have us try to locate it. Although, I don’t think he needs it anymore. He has made enough monsters now that he knows the machine by heart.” 

“We’ll need to find someone who can use it.” Olrox commented, starting the process of removing his tail coat and vest for the evening. “I can perform magic, but only humans can banish and birth contracts with forges. If we want to get rid of the machine for good, a human with magic abilities is the only contender.” His eyes wandered to Mizrak on the bed. “You don’t happen to know any magic, do you monk?” He asked in jest. 

“The Renards,” Mizrak said, more to himself than Olrox, “they are speakers. Tera is a highly powerful speaker, as well as Maria. They try to hide that information from outsiders.”

“So they try to hide it from you.”

Mizrak’s brow furrowed. “I’ve seen them use their abilities before. I could try and give the book to Tera and explain the situation.”

“Your cover will be broken then.” 

“This is more important than if the vampires knew I was working against them. I don’t care if I have to die to stop this blasphemy from continuing. I serve no purpose in the stopping of Erzsebet compared to the others. I need to accept the role I do have.”

“Well, I care.” Olrox cut in, not taking his eyes off the duty of straightening the wrinkles in his vest. “If it puts you at risk, I can give it to the speaker. You shouldn’t throw your life away for this. Besides, I have methods of running away, if all else fails; you don’t.”

Mizrak considered this in silence, before lying back on the bed, his cloak tucked beneath his mass. They were plunged into a comfortable stillness, although Olrox could still feel his latest words floating in the air around them. He didn’t want Mizrak to die, despite having no real emotions toward him except those of an acquaintance, a correlation of mutual goals. He thought, at least, that was what he saw the other man as. Maybe something bordering a type of friendship, something beyond comity at this point. Olrox wasn’t sure, but one thing he was sure of was that he did not want Mizrak to die, and he was sure, deep down in his obscured resolve, that he would do anything he could to prevent such a thing.

“The other vampires,” Mizrak started, pulling Olrox’s attention away from folding the vest and jacket, “are they all bloodthirsty and murderous like this Erszebet Bathory, or are there others… like you?” 

Olrox sat his folded garments on a small stool and strode towards the bed where Mizrak sat, fiddling with the knife he had once held against the cold flesh of Olrox’s throat. 

“Desperacy can lead people to be rash.” He flung himself onto the bed next to Mizrak, attempting to stifle the smirk that threatened to erupt on his face when he heard Mizrak blowing his long hair off of his face. “Not all vampires are like Bathory, no. But some are forced to become that way to survive, or they change over centuries of… being alone.” 

He dwelled on the final part of his explanation. “Being alone for decades and decades can change someone. It can alter their psyche so much they don’t even notice the change.” Mizrak stayed silent next to him. Olrox could not see his expression, staring at the ceiling as he was, so he continued. “Drolta Tzuentes is like that. I saw you met her already, under the abbey. She used to be a priestess, or so I’ve gathered. A priestess of Sekhmet, the goddess she is hoping to bring back to the realm of the living.” Olrox clenched his hand, confined within the gauzy flow of his ruffled sleeves and pulled himself to turn on his side and face Mizrak. The monk glanced at him, a strand of Olrox’s hair twirled around one of his fingers. “But in making the resurrection of her goddess her entire purpose in immortality, she lost sight in why she even wished to do so in the first place. She’s given the power of an ancient Egyptian goddess to someone who was exactly the same when she was human; vile, wicked, bloodthirsty. Making Bathory a vampire, and the wielder of the ineffable power abilities of a goddess no less, was injudicious.” 

There was silence, the only sound the nearly inaudible twiddle of Mizrak playing with the strand of obsidian hair. “So time can corrupt,” he finally spoke into the quiet candlelit air. 

“Time has the ability to corrupt anything undying and unchanging, yes. Sometimes, who you were, what mattered to you, your past, your… soul, it can all just fade away.” They fell into a bout of more silence, the light sound of Mizrak’s breath wracking the lungs within his ribs and the soft shifting of his own hair was all Olrox could detect. 

“That will not happen to you, will it?” Olrox’s attention was piqued at this sudden question, and he felt that unmovingness in his chest quiver slightly at the implications of such an inquisition. He chuckled softly to quench the lilt of his heart.

“I’m old and powerful. I’ve seen the worst of humanity and the creatures that prey on it, and I’m still in one piece.”

“So is that a yes or a no?” Mizrak muttered, and Olrox couldn’t keep his lips from curving at the slight tugging sensation of Mizrak’s hand in his hair.

“Let’s talk about something else.” Mizrak looked at him with a poutish glare, but dropped the subject, instead focusing on the braid pressed between his fingers, the beads glinting the candle light across his face. 

“I’ve never seen you without this braid and these beads…” he wondered aloud. 

“I wear them to honor someone I treasure more than anything in the world.” He did not intend for his voice to come out in a hush, but it did. It made Mizrak sit up on his arm to face him, the tunic and maile he still wore chittered and shuffled with the simple physical movement, as if trying to restrain him. “The beads are carved from bone. His came out better than my attempt.”

“Really?” Mizrak had a mild look of surprise on his face, “they’re so smooth I always thought they were glass or porcelain.” 

“I understand why you would assume that.” Olrox huffed amusedly, his gaze focusing on the beads, so seamless, unblemished. A wave of sorrow struck him, a familiar feeling now. He took the plait from Mizrak, rolling the bead along the pads of his fingers. He remembered watching him, his love, his world for those years they spent together, carve them just for him. 

So that Olrox had a piece of him wherever he went.  

He’d said he looked beautiful with them. But he’d always said Olrox was magnificent, no matter how he appeared. 

“He was an incredible beadmaker.” Olrox whispered softly. Mizrak cocked his head to the side slightly, another puppy-like trait Olrox had noted. It wasn’t the time for Mizrak to know. He didn’t ever plan on telling Mizrak anything about his long, desolate past. Olrox liked to pretend such previous torturous events throughout his existence hadn’t occurred at all.

 Feign superiority, composure, power; surviving was the name of the game Olrox had been playing for centuries. His survival would be at stake if he opened up about a painful past and not-so-forgotten kinships. Although there was a part of him that trusted Mizrak, was comfortable around him, more so than he had been in the past two decades. 

He finally glanced at Mizrak’s clothing-restrained form on the bed. “Why don’t you take those clothes off.” He dropped the bead onto the sheeted surface of the bed. “But let’s just settle for talking tonight.”

  ☽ ✶ ☾

Olrox despised being in the chateau in all its gaudy, unnatural sterilization, surrounded by his fellow vampires drunk on devotion and bloodlust. He’d tried to distance himself as best as he could from the place without heightening suspicions upon himself. The vampire messiah had not made her arrival yet, still traveling to the country of France if he could take a guess. Promises of her imminent entry into the current politics and intellectual warfare made the air around the chateau thick with anticipation. Voices echoed through the marvelous high-ceilinged building with the sharp twang of a nerve-wrecked harpsichord. The white tiled floors and golden drapery did little to keep the apprehension and excitement the mob was experiencing at bay. Olrox hoped he wouldn’t be in the chateau when her presence was made. 

He stood by one of the tall windows overlooking the pared lawn filled with torch light and godless creatures beyond mortal imaginings. The moon’s light was cold and blue, casting a contrast of greens and blues against the yellows and reds of the chateau’s illumination, the gold and the flames chasing away the frigid darkness. He thought of the singing creature in that inhospitable prison beneath the church. That craving for freedom, no, that necessity . Music being the only plausible escape for a thinking mind, something the night creature shouldn’t have possessed. Olrox had seen night creatures before, he’d known forgemasters in his previous decades, centuries of life. It was not commonplace for such a phenomenon as an intellectual night creature, though it wasn’t unheard of. He mulled over the motivations and foils of a revolutionary monster that appeared, to him at least, more ethereal than monstrous. 

The blunt clicking of heavy threaded heels sounded from behind him. From the confidence in the footfalls, the silent yet indisputable braggadocio that filled the air between them, Olrox knew it was Drolta before she spoke. 

“It’s been a while since you’ve graced me with your appearance, Olrox.” Her observation carried an accusatory and derisive implication, “What’s it been, a week already? Enjoying your stay in the grandeur of France to the extent that you cannot stay with your comrades?”

In the reflection of the dark window, her eyes, pools of obsidian surrounding flaming isles, jeered at him, an irreverent smile sat perched daintily on her full lips. Olrox didn’t falter. He’d spent hundreds of years amongst execrable company. He parried the smirk but did not turn to the former priestess, holding his hands behind his back, continuing to stare out at the night creatures lurking aimlessly about on the dark cropped lawn. 

“I suppose the tranquility before the inevitable tempest has been agreeable, yes.” He chuckled loftily, masking the snarling bile that climbed up the back of his esophagus. 

“Inevitable, yes. Tempest, perhaps not.” Olrox was acutely aware of how close she was to his back when she stepped closer. She’d made a pass at him before, he knew her strategy for it was his too. Carnal alliship was an ancient’s tool. He hoped she would have gotten the hint nights previously when they had spoken last that he cared little for any type of companionship with her or any vampire residing here in the confines of the chateau. “Our hopes are to materialize a dictatorship over the humans, not create an apocalypse. Vampires need humans to survive after all, and the humans need sunlight in turn.” 

She paused for a moment and Olrox cocked his head in an inaudible invitation to continue with her exposition. “And you believe that harnessing the power of the eclipse can make that plan come to fruition. Weren’t you talking of upholding an eternal night?” 

“An exaggeration,” she quipped. “I find it hard to think that we would last very much longer if we drowned all sunlight from the world. Besides, this isn’t a suicide mission; we want to fashion a world where vampires are no longer oppressed, where we rule as gods, not be controlled by the belief of them.” 

Olrox’s gaze finally dragged from the window view. He looked into Drolta’s impassioned face reflected in the crisp cool window pane and she stared right back at him with that grin of enmity still etched in her face. “Playing god won’t get us far. The mortals tend to be unyielding about their faiths, whichever faiths they may be.” 

Mizrak the fool. 

Drolta’s hand came to slither against his spine, tracing through his silken tailcoat. His muscles did not tense, nor did he express any other form of tangible discomfort. However, he found himself, on this rare occasion, thankful he did not possess a heartbeat that could betray his revulsion to the other vampire. Drolta was ancient, older even than him. She was nearly three centuries his senior, although he presumed they were an even match in strength and skill. It was hard to make a judgement on such a thing, Drolta kept her cards hidden out of view from him at least. He’d never had the misfortune of experiencing what she was truly capable of in a first row seat. He hoped he never would. 

Though he supposed that the reason he was even here in the first place was to be a secondary Drolta, make up the third angle of a mephistophelian triangle of power deadset on world domination. Erzsebet needed two guard dogs to sit on either side of her steely would-be rulership. She also needed a guide into the Americas, that’s what he assumed was his purpose in their plan. And although it made his cavernous chest feel tight with disgust, it was something he had to play into, forced to dance across the palms of the ghost-faced, red-locked Erzsebet Bathory if he had any hope of stopping this disparity. 

“Mortal beliefs are as strong as we make them.” Drolta purred into his ear, coming up next to him to finally attempt naked eye contact. He obliged, begrudgingly. “Humans are small minded; there’s no thought greater than where the next meal will come from, when to crawl into their little homes away from the shadows, which civilizations they will destroy next for the mere sake of having it. I presumed you would understand how that is.” 

Olrox noticed her hand, which still lingered against his back, gripping ever so slightly, threateningly. “You underestimate the power of the human spirit.” He threw a chuckle at her to stave off any hint of his dread. “We have infinite knowledge and experience over mortals. Centuries and centuries of witnessing wars, genocides, plagues. Life is the only thing they’ve really got in the end.” 

Drolta’s hand dropped, and she made her way closer to the window, nudging the golden drapery to peer out at their parade of undead mutated soldiers. She appeared to be thinking, Olrox could almost hear her chewing things over in her head and then spitting them out. But he couldn’t tell what exactly she was thinking. Like a jaguar or panther, a feline representative of the thrill of the hunt and massacre, expertly concealing her exact strategy while simultaneously having a predictable motive. 

“My, Olrox, you certainly seem to favor the humans now don’t you?” Her flaming eyes met his in the reflection once again. 

“No more than I do any vampire.” 

“I wouldn’t expect you to be so foolish.” That smile again, Olrox mirrored it once more. 

“I’m no fool, I assure you.” 

“Vampires who favor humans always have been in the past.” Her words held more weight to them than Olrox would have preferred. Another accusation, and a small presence in the back of his mind couldn’t help but feel a twinge concerned that she somehow knew of his nightly escapades. If she had picked up on any type of clues during that night in the cemetery, she told him not. “Dracula of Wallachia was one of those fools. Fell in love with a human and refused to turn her for her ‘humanity’s’ sake.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“His plan was suicide in the end, and he wanted to bring every single vampire down into Hell with him. It’s honorable, but selfish, and, of course, foolish. We won’t be fools like him.” 

Olrox wasn’t so sure of that last point. Dominion over anything tended to result in violent backlash, and humankind as a whole seemed like no exception. If the revolutionary army could cause such an uprising, a small group of humans in the grand scheme of things, imagine what the entirety of humanity could do. 

“We’ll see.” Olrox responded, shifting his gaze back to his foe, who was still training her sights outside the window. “Seeing is believing, for me anyway.”

“But of course.” Drolta pulled her eyes from the miserable ensemble of creatures outside, “And you will see soon enough. The messiah should be here anytime now. She could even be here as soon as tonight. Which will be excellent timing since the human girl I’ve retrieved for her has been acting rather fretful in her little cage.” 

Olrox felt a muscle under his eye twitch instinctively. He tried to obstruct it with another forced smile. “Good timing indeed.” He clenched his hands behind his back and immediately thought of getting back to the inn, where he knew Mizrak would be waiting for him. An intrusion upon his mind made him imagine that it was Mizrak confined within the ornate golden cage instead of the poor girl. He needed to see him, even if it was only to satiate that irrational part of his mind and remind him that the monk was alright for the time being. He was working under the Abbot, he should not need to worry for his safety. Why was he worried anyway? 

As if she’d read him like a book, she continued, “It would have been so much easier to use one of those little religious soldiers they have at the abbey, but I don’t think the Abbott would take kindly to that, and I suppose our goddess prefers women to feed from over men.” She chortled to herself and Olrox felt his face twitch once more of its own accord. She looked over at him then, that grin still in place. 

“It will be sunrise before we know it,” he started, straightening himself, holding himself together by sheer willpower and self containment before glancing at Drolta once more. “I’ll be making my way back now. I don’t want to get caught on my way back.” 

She laughed after him, mockingly, but not openly so. Only a drab scent of it carried to him as he turned on his heels and started off, away from the window. “And there you go, back to the midst of humanity.” 

☽ ✶ ☾

  He didn’t love him. He’d told Mizrak that. Something was wrong though, and he wondered if he’d really been honest in his declaration the previous night. 

Mizrak had still stayed, still enveloped Olrox with his comforting weight. He kissed the lengths of his body and nuzzled deep into his neck as if Olrox hadn’t blatantly told him that he was nothing. Nothing to him. Just another dwindling moment in Olrox’s forever. 

But there was something there, some emotion. And whether Olrox allowed himself to find it familiar or not he could not tell. 

He could feel it in his ribs, to the very core of the soul Mizrak claimed he did not possess; the burning desire to be a part of him. Those eyes, the richest and deepest amber he’d ever seen in his many centuries of existence. He wanted nothing more than to be swallowed by them, consumed ravenously by their sharp hawk-like dominance; yet behind their facade, he’d glimpsed the true nature of the man he was so enthralled by. He was a rebellious spirit, a chained animal whipped to servitude by the guilt he carried like the heavy cross of the savior he believed would absolve him of his sins. 

Olrox knew the truth: there would be no salvation. He watched in festering grief as Mizrak turned his broad shoulder to his nature, the way he was made, the part of him he wouldn’t be able to smother out. Olrox understood, he’d had decades, centuries to come to terms with himself truly. Mizrak didn’t have that time. 

All he could bring himself to do was savor the moments he had with the mortal man. Even after their stifling, passionate intimacy, when the man had drifted into an exhausted sleep, slick with perspiration, Olrox savored him.

 He watched his ribs expand with every slumbering breath, he could feel the warmth emanating from his living body. Olrox found he was being drawn to Mizrak’s side, like a snake coming to settle on a sunkissed stone. The full, unfaltering breaths of a creature at utter peace filled the space between them, the soft, rhythmic thumping of Mizrak’s heart was like the sweetest melody to Olrox’s ears. The smell of warm, balmy skin, a hint of sandalwood clinging to his short-cropped hair and beard, was intoxicating. Olrox fought to touch the placid face in front of him, instead lazily memorizing every line, crease, fold, scar that he could, branding it into his mind the same way he had with him . 

Mizrak was mortal, he was a man of faith. ‘ Something he’s been very lenient about.’ Olrox thought to himself. He hadn’t technically lied to Mizrak when he said he didn’t love him, but then why did he feel a pang in the hollow cavern of his chest? He felt imminent regret in his words, he’d regretted the moment he witnessed Mizrak’s jaw set and that fighting flame in his eyes extinguish. Why had he stayed with him? Why did he care what Olrox, a fleeting moment to  satiate his carnal desires, said about him? 

Mizrak’s eyelids fluttered open, his golden gaze boring a cavity into Olrox’s thoughts. “You’re awake.”

“As are you, as far as I can tell.” Olrox replied, an instinctual smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Any good dreams?”

“I don’t dream.” Mizrak’s hushed tone carried with him as he went to sit up. Olrox subconsciously placed a hand on the other man’s chest, an insentient plea to stay for just a little longer. 

Unspoken words passed through the air between them. Olrox could feel Mizrak’s warm flesh under his soft caress, could track the soft flow of saccharine blood running through his whole body. He could smell it too. So incredibly decadent, full of that roaring fire and stoicism Olrox had come to adore in their time together. But he could feel and smell something else that lingered like a scar in Mizrak’s pulse; it was present in his body language, although he tried desperately to conceal it. 

“You told me you did not love me.” Mizrak stated, firmly and factually, breaking their silence. He did not make eye contact with Olrox as he spoke, placing his own callassed hand over the other’s. But he did nothing to remove it, letting it rest, settle. He reclined once more to look up at the ceiling, squeezing the other man’s hand the way a traveler would a cloak in a storm. “Do you lie to me once more, vampire?” 

In the deepest pit of Olrox’s bowels, he coiled at the word falling from Mizrak’s lips. 

Vampire .

He knew his heart beat no longer, yet something about that designation, the way it left Mizrak’s lips, felt like an abrasion in his chest. Propped on his elbow, looking at the monk, his hand still snared within the man’s grasp, he could detect the throb of his mortal heart, uncertainty and longing darting through his veins. Olrox could not bring himself to respond, rendered speechless. He couldn’t tell Mizrak, even if he knew for sure. He was a pawn to an abbott, a forgemaster that was a pawn himself. He was a liability, as much as Olrox didn’t want to admit it. A meer mortal man blinded by devotion and selflessness. He was not like Olrox; selfish, spiteful, cunning. It made Olrox wonder if that was why he had a craving for him in the first place. He knew it was tactless to hope Mizrak would want to be with him, knew that it was almost too much to ask that they meet in this shadow-stained inn to thoughtlessly relish in each other’s company. But he had always clung to that hope and Olrox knew it wasn’t fair. Mizrak didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve anything that had happened this far.

“You need to leave this place,” he whispered, his tone soft and melancholic. “Get out of France before Erzsebet has no further use for your Abbott.” 

Mizrak was quiet, but the hammer of his heart had spiked. Once slow and rhythmic, now it mimicked the beating of war drums. Olrox knew he would fight him tooth and nail; no one as honorable as Mizrak would abandon his post, even when he knew what was happening was wrong. He was already stepping out of ordinance with his vows, his faith, the societal rules placed by the vampire messiah and her hoard. Olrox shifted, bringing himself closer, their naked bodies entwining like the ivy crawling up the abbey walls. The vampire reached out his other hand to cup Mizrak’s powerful cheek, gently guiding his face to his own. Mizrak did not revolt against this action, willingly craning his neck into the touch. They were face-to-face now, Olrox needed to meet Mizrak’s strong eyes, even if just for the assurance that they were still there. 

“Mizrak,” his lips grazed the man’s ear, and he internally shuddered at the heat of his companion’s body, his overwhelming scent making his nostrils flare, “please listen to me and leave here. Go anywhere you’d like, but don’t stay here. You’re disposable to them.” 

Their eyes finally found one another. The veil of emotion swathing Mizrak’s face was not unfamiliar to Olrox. He’d seen it several times in his centuries of existence. It cleared what haze still clung to his thoughts and he wondered for a moment if Mizrak could read his emerald eyes as well as he could read Mizrak’s. 

“I cannot.” 

“You’re going to die.”

“If that is so, then it is what God has intended for me.” 

Olrox removed himself from the other man and found himself, for once, being the first to withdraw himself from the safety of their bedsheets. He didn’t have anything much else to say; he’d known that his pleas would go unanswered. 

Mizrak was loyal. Too loyal. Too trusting. Too altruistic for his own good. 

Olrox wished he wasn’t, and yet if he didn’t have every one of those traits, he wouldn’t be the man he was. The man Olrox found he’d lied to the previous night. But the lie was safety, the lie would, he hoped, keep Mizrak alive in the battle he knew was brewing at the core of the chateau. 

Olrox padded to the window, the morning light streaming through the small crevice between the linen curtains. He found himself fondling the purple lanterns of the lavender flowers Mizrak had picked from one of his routinely patrols. He’d presented them to Olrox with the awkwardness and tentative nature of a young hound returning to its master with a pheasant. The plants stood in a small glass from the abbey. Once standing tall and erect, the weight of their own blossoms now weighed them down. They had drooped dramatically since the previous day, and Olrox felt sympathy for them, these small, insignificant plants that he would forget eventually in his eternal life. 

Olrox heard the bed creak and shift as Mizrak stood up himself. The tension was malleable; Olrox caught Mizrak’s breath, short and held, trying to disappear altogether. The hefty, muted thumps and ruffles as the monk got dressed. Then a pause. 

“I will not be returning tonight. The Abbott is to meet at the chateau with… her.”

Olrox went still, his fingertips still kissing the blue cluster of lavender. No words came to him.

He said nothing. 

☽ ✶ ☾

“ Everyone has a weakness… priests, dragons…” 

Olrox felt the muscles along his spine grow taut, hackled, his vacant stomach clenched in shrouded, latent anxiety. He thought of Drolta’s words, over and over and over again. There was no way they could know of Mizrak. To them, he was just another monk working under the Abbott, their forgemaster; he had no relevance to their plans. 

So they wouldn’t do anything to him. They shouldn’t. But deep down he knew that Mizrak did not have much time in this world if he stayed affixed to the Abbott’s side. 

Why am I worried? Why should he be?

He’s reckless. So very reckless.  

In his room of the inn, Olrox tried to fight the urge to pace the length of the entire floor. He knew how to control his emotions, he’d done so for centuries for his own survival. But he could feel himself warring with his reserved rationality. Mizrak was not a target. Yet. But he was a price Olrox may have to pay if he let himself become too defiant. 

He stopped at the window, looking out at the town, the little light that remained from lanterns and candles casting cold shadows across the cobblestone roads. The windows were lit, shadows wandering from pane to pane, illustrating the occupants within each dwelling. 

His room was dark, he had not bothered to light a candle. Mizrak wasn’t coming back, he was sure. He’d left the grimoire to the speaker woman. He’d revealed himself once more to the Belmont boy and his fellowship. He had done what Mizrak and he had planned. There was no real reason to keep associations with each other. Mizrak was no doubt still upset over their last conversation, and Olrox knew it was probably for the best that they discontinued any form of communion with one another. 

But there his unbeaten heart lay, enclosed in his ribs, pleading with him to, for once, not think over the tragic possibilities, not think of the chance he could perish. Not think about the fear for survival that was now second nature to him. Not think about how, more than anything, more than the eclipse, the vampire messiah, the immediate threat to Europe, he wanted nothing more than for Mizrak to survive with him. 

The door clicked behind him and he turned, masking his surprise when he saw Mizrak standing before him, his body wracked with tremors as he gasped for air due to sprinting as fast as his mortal legs could carry him. When his dark eyes met Olrox, he felt any resolve he’d built up previously crumble. He rushed to him, his hair striking ribbons behind him, footsteps tapping across the wooden planked floors. 

Once he was within reach, Mizrak reached forward and grabbed him by the front of his coat. He brought his sweated brow onto his shoulder, continuing to pant through gritted teeth. It took Olrox by surprise, and instinctively, he grabbed Mizrak around the shoulders and rubbed the tense muscle, trying his best to sooth.

“The Abbott,” Mizrak finally spoke, his fists clenching the fabric of Olrox’s lapels, “he’s going to kill his daughter… He’s going to kill Maria for Erzsebet.” 

“When?” Olrox spoke no louder than a whisper against the shell of Mizrak’s ear. He really wanted to ask why the Abbott would even have a daughter, but he knew of these holy men and their non-compliance with their own rules.

Mizrak lifted his head to look Olrox in the eyes now, a slight rim of fluid glistened upon his lower lashes. “Before the eclipse. Tomorrow. He has been told to make a sacrifice to ensure to Erzsebet that he is loyal to her.” Olrox moved his hands down to clasp at Mizrak’s, still hooked into the lapels of his jacket. “And I fear that God will not come forth to stop such a thing from happening.” 

“Do you think he will go through with it?” Olrox inquired. 

“I hope not. I pray not.” Mizrak scrunched up his face, an exhausted laugh leaving him. “He has a daughter… he preached chastity to us all, and he’s had a daughter all along.”

“You and I both know how well the vows of chastity go for you men of the cloth.” Olrox snorted softly. He wondered if Mizrak would lash out at him like he tended to do when the mention of his belief flitted across Olrox’s lips, but he did no such thing. His dark eyes stayed affixed to Olrox, and he believed in that moment that if Mizrak had wanted to, he could have seen Olrox’s very spirit. Then those eyes were falling shut, his hands gripping tighter, and he was bringing his face closer to Olrox. 

He slotted their mouths together, his lips were soft and gentle, like a caress from a sunbeam. It was unlike what he would expect from Mizrak, a giant mass of musculature and strength performing the tenderest of gestures. Olrox let his hands come up to cradle the scratchy, bearded jaw and cheeks of the man in front of him, his head bent downward ever so slightly to meet him halfway, despite the thick soles on Mizrak’s boots. He felt Mizrak’s hand come up from behind him, his gloved palm came to rest on the curve of his spine. Olrox closed his eyes against this first kiss of theirs, treasuring it as if it was their last. For all he knew it could be. 

They broke apart, their faces still only centimeters from one another. Olrox let his eyes flutter open to see Mizrak, those daylily gilded irises boring into him, the man’s breath still lingered on his mouth as he caught it from the moment. A singular tear ran down his weathered cheek, and Olrox swiped it away with a thumb before kissing where it had tracked down his face. 

“What did I do to get involved in this?” Mizrak’s voice was shaky, but the question was not meant to have an answer. “I’m a wretched man. Nothing more than a lustful, wrathful sinner. And now a girl is going to die as a consequence of the monsters I helped raise to power.” Another tear rolled down his cheek, and when Olrox went to wipe this one away, he leaned into the vampire’s palm delicately, like he was made of glass. 

“You’re human, Mizrak. And you’re not responsible for this.” Olrox shushed him, kissing the small scar that ran to the edge of the monk’s eyebrow, “This is the work of your Abbott, the churches that aligned themselves with her.”

“I’m an accomplice, Olrox.”

Olrox felt his chest flood. Never had Mizrak used his name like that; almost affectionately, like he was more than the only ally the monk had to count on. Which he was aware he still was. His words were saturated with pure bitterness.

“I stood by and watched vampires and Emanuel’s hoard kill hundreds of innocents. I could have done something… should have done something, anything to stop it.”

“You couldn’t have done anything.” Olrox whispered reassuringly.

“I could have tried.”

“You’re mortal. And you were not blessed with a consecrated whip or speaker magic.”

Mizrak sank into Olrox, and Olrox held him steady. He knew what it was like to be vulnerable, to not have the power to do anything, to be an army of one against a colossal threat unlike anything he’d ever seen.  

“We can leave.” Olrox knew it was futile, but he wanted so desperately to try again, try and convince Mizrak that he was more than a casualty waiting to happen. He was more than the emblem on his chest, more than a vow, more than an ally to him. In the current world Olrox resided in, he was all that truly mattered. 

Mizrak pulled away suddenly, and Olrox let him, his arms falling to his sides. The expression on Mizrak’s face bordered on betrayal, a glint of pleading remained in the lines carving through his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere. There are people in danger!”

“You are going to die alongside every one of those fools in that abbey, Mizrak.” Olrox bit the insides of his cheeks, suppressing the passionate onslaught of what Mizrak would deem ridicule threatening to spill from his mouth. “Let me do something, anything, as long as you don’t go into a battle you’re not going to win.”

“I thought you would understand what I’m fighting for.” Mizrak took a step back, and Olrox resisted reaching for him. His words skirted a growl within his chest, his glance darted away, towards the floor. “I can never seem to make the right assumptions though, can I?” 

His gloved hand went to the rickety doorknob, preparing to make his departure. This time, Olrox did reach out and place a hand on the shorter man’s broad shoulder, though he knew that nothing could bring the mortal back in this moment. “Wait, Mizrak.” 

“You’ve made your choice, vampire.” Mizrak spat, shaking himself out of Olrox’s grasp. “I was selfish for thinking you would help anyone other than yourself.”

“I guess we’re both selfish than.” He knew it wasn’t true. Mizrak was far from selfish. He was the one throwing himself at the threat with no experience, no back up, a bird on the cusp of being speared by an arrow. 

No sound passed between them for a moment. It was almost pleasant, though the air was tense and Olrox felt like his whole self was caving in ever so slightly. His fists curled and he lowered his head. Mortals and their undertakings. It wasn’t the first time a mortal man he cared about had been reckless, running into the eye of the storm rather than avoid its imminent destruction. Mizrak was different though. He wasn’t him . He never would be. Why did Olrox always grow attached to the selfless ones?

Then the door was opened, and Mizrak was gone. Not even a farewell, no snapping at him or taking up an argument. He just left. To his doom. To the grave where his story would be forgotten and where maybe, every once in a while, he would be honored with flower crowns upon his headstone. 

Olrox crossed to the window, watching the monk pass through the street. A lone silhouette in the already pitch of the night. Watching him go, Olrox knew what he must do. He also knew Mizrak would despise him for it. 

He made his way to the bed, laying on its surface and staring at the ceiling, knowing all that was left for him to do now was wait. 

 ☽ ✶ ☾

He stood on the hill overlooking Machecoul. The winds had picked up, dragging leaves and blades of grass across the sky. The darkness of the eclipse above was heavy, almost suffocating. The eclipse would end soon, and Olrox would have to return to the dreaded chateau to feign praise and adoration to the false goddess. 

Mizrak had left him on the hill only minutes ago, but it felt like years had passed as he stood amidst the grass and wind. He tried to stop the tears from spilling, but they did nonetheless. It hadn’t hurt as much as he knew Mizrak intended for it to. There was so much hurt, so much raw anger and fear and sorrow that scattered the path he’d led in his life, both mortal and immortal, the words were almost numb. But they still stung so slightly, coming from Mizrak, the only thing that had really made him feel any type of ambition since two decades ago. 

It would be harder now, without that type of companionship to depend upon. He wondered if Mizrak would forgive him for saving him, though it was a ridiculous thing to think. Mizrak had his pride, had his steadfast beliefs that he knew would never waver. Watching similar events unfold left him colder than a corpse, the eclipse roaring in darkness above his head. He could only hope that Mizrak would make it, that he had taken him far enough from the battle that he would not make it back in time to yield his sword once more. 

He turned from his view of the town, tears frigid on his face. He barely noticed them as he made his way to the treeline to once again delve into the safety of the shadows found there. At least until the eclipse faded and the little world he resided in was free from peril for a short moment. It gave him time to process, think of a new strategy. But he already knew his goals, and change they wouldn’t.

His plan was simple: continue to feign loyalty to the dark messiah, put a stop to the endless night, and most importantly; keep Mizrak alive.