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Delicate was the sort of apprehension that dawned in its own haunting to regurge itself through a skyfall’s reach.
Duq’arael shifted upon being struck by the gust of breeze, her hair being decorated with flowers in a braid from behind. A banshee was carefully interweaving the silver strands, fingers moving carefully enough as to not tug too hard on her scalp. Existing beyond the company was the kind of scrutiny amounted to a couple of more banshees nearby, who were occupied in conversing between themselves though still batted an eye on her every once in a while. Duq’arael plucked the petals of a chrysanthemum in her hand, her attention rested upon the scenery of the valley in front of her.
The weather had been this accommodating for the past few weeks, allowing her to enjoy the fresh air outside. It was as if the atmosphere in her room had suddenly squeezed out the air in her lungs; palpable was the sort of sentiment attached to each of their lobes. This way, the Sanguinarch could at least pretend to see less of Laqeramaline and his son, much less of them to occupy her mind in her sleepless nights and dying wake.
“And we are finished, my lady,” and her lady-in-waiting’s words rang slightly afeared, voice dwindling into the distance perceived. She retired before Duq’arael even thought of thanking her, much to the echoing displeasure of the latter. Maintained was the distance between them as she offered her a mirror, “You could check the result here.”
She did not particularly consider herself to be engrossed in her looks for it was futile in the face of carnage; left beneath the shade was her figure with the handheld mirror as it dawned on her that she appeared somewhat passable in-between the company of other banshees and their fingers in her hair. Sequestered was her presence in the enclosure as twilight approached, its fangs bare as sins.
How long have I been here?
Duq’arael fell silent in the company of the sky, its shades slowly altering itself through the course of time. Disgraced were the precursor of words to begin sprouting away from her mouth, as if reality alone would not be enough to satisfy the pondering of her penitence. Many people would be overjoyed at the prospects of her being locked away for good, for the spirit of forlornness was deemed worse than death; even the dregs she used to reduce for far lower than mere men would be throwing a celebration if they knew, but was that really the case there?
To slowly dawn upon her was the reminiscence of Danso’s words when they were still nothing in the distance; that even vampires like them would never reign above loneliness, that even the most superior being like them would not thrive without the company of another and the sustainment of flesh and blood. They would eventually wither in solitary confinement with sorrows to ever flood their cries of help.
“What a pity.”
The weight of Duq’arael’s own commiseration then sank underneath a set of footsteps approaching her. It was familiar in a way it induced revulsion from her, yet not enough to reduce them into a pile of flesh and a pool of blood. Her head deigned to turn over her shoulder for a look and the sight of Aefanyl returning home greeted her almost immediately.
That would explain the amount of conventionality in those footsteps, as she would condemn her oversight for not striking down the outblood. Regardless, she returned her gaze to what lay beyond the horizon and said, “You are home, Banshee.”
“I am,” Aefanyl was behind her then, his gaze somewhat downwards before taking a walk a little more to face her completely. “By the look of things, I have become certain that you may have missed me.”
Duq’arael was not sure whether it was the shackles on her neck and extremities tingling from the proposition or she had become soft to a degree where her bones may break down and get munched up in her bloodstream. Aefanyl knelt in front of her, took a bouquet of wildflowers from behind him, and smiled as if he had been innocent.
“How invested have you become in these customs?”
Aefanyl gently placed the bouquet in her hand as if either of those things had been easier to shatter than stitch up; its remnants of gentleness were brushed on her first web space through his thumb. His tone was soft, “They reminded me of you, so I picked them up on my way home.”
She did not immediately rivet her gaze on it—yet it travelled from Aefanyl’s eyes to the wildflowers, even slowlier than a clockwork; their colours reminding her of a dead man’s barely beating musculature no matter how sacred yet overlooked like a trifling sacrament. Gathered in her cradle then was its impression, their scent to be perceived through her nostrils as she inhaled.
“How repulsive.”
“Yet you enjoyed them anyway. How does the taste of your own hubris betray you, Vampire?”
As the evenfall struck past twilight, so would the sun sink further into its humble abode. Their attention would soon be diverted towards a tune being played from a bone flute in the distance; a set of somewhat cheerful notes to pervade the air anew as they became sure as to who would have weaved them.
Laqeramaline. Nobody else could have mistaken those notes, not when he played the song every single eventide these past days—as though he could have not been more overjoyed. lately.
“Time’s up. Father is urging us to have dinner,” Aefanyl would lean in to press a kiss against her cheek ever so fondly before helping her get up from the chair. “Let’s go, Duq’arael.”
Duq’arael was stunned for a moment, forgetting how to speak with so many tales of conquest sung in her name. And for the first time, she walked next to Aefanyl, her pace almost matched with his own.
Loneliness is a concept long branded on the surface of a vampire’s flesh like iron on leather. Its damaging properties slowly incapacitates their mind, rougelike are the bellowing cries of help when it eventually destroys them as a whole.
Duq’arael did not have many expectations when it came to Laqeramaline sanctioning her request one day to interact with some Bloodborn Spawn in her living quarters. She was taken aback when he actually did as he loosened her shackles through an incantation, euphemising the constraints underneath. Conjured were the touch of Sanguinarch from the tip of her fingers, yet as soon as she wanted to embrace them, her consciousness slipped away from her.
“This is for the life I owe you, dear sister.”
Seen during her lapse of sentience was a memory long misbegotten; of the time Duq’arael dug her brother’s heart with her fingers—and yet this time it was him gifting the pile of beating flesh to her instead as he smiled. She saw none of the rue to defile him, only acceptance and only forgiveness to stare back at her.
Perhaps it was the sentimental fragment of reminiscence to overstep her jurisdiction as she woke up in tears, not blood; people surrounded her figure like moths drawn to a flame when a doctor walked out, followed by Laqeramaline. The ghost of his smile was apparent as he handed away the Bloodborn Spawn which had been cradled in his arms while she passed out.
“Tell me what happened.”
“There is nothing in particular to worry about,” woven in the disappearance of his restlessness is a tone which was somewhat cool but tender, like the first strike of breeze in the course of remembrance as people left the two of them alone to tend to their business again, “The doctor said you were all right. Just desperately in need of more rest ahead.”
But the Sanguinarch did not buy that.
She had tasted enough distrust to pretend she had let it slide at first, eyes locked with Laqeramaline’s in a scrutinising amount of discernment. She could have twisted his neck from the inside in this distance, but the plight had made her weak, body bound to the mattress in frailness. She could have expected the worst this time, rouged up or silenced, yet all Laqeramaline did was to lean in and kiss her forehead through the kind of affliction that was almost adoring.
“You will be fine, Duq’arael.”
Almost.
Duq’arael touched the site of his affection when he left her room, discerning the once-familiar warmth exuded underneath—swallowing as it disappeared through the layers of her skin, basking in the coldness of her ichor underneath. She took her creation close to her chest, rested against her sternum, just yielding to her worn out whims pliantly enough to not cause trouble as her fingers ran over the surface of its body as though fear was never inscribed in her system.
And perhaps that was also when she decided to have breakfast together with Laqeramaline and Aefanyl just as the exhaustion did not rage on as much, weeks later. Her figure was seated among the father and son to silently dine on a bleeding burdenbeast’s meat, only to have sudden nausea so insufferable it made her escape the premise to the bathroom rather than facing it head on. The smell of blood had made her retch, spilling the contents of her stomach and bile into the toilet bowl while Aefanyl gently rubbed her upper back. She tried to take a full breath; the force of that final retch would not give in to her, however.
Duq’arael wondered how she got into such a discourteous point of life; not only could she not do so much menial labour befitting the Convallis’ spoils of war, but she also could not eat no matter how much she forced herself to. It made her stare at the toothpaste on her toothbrush—empty gaze deprived of its own will. She kicked out Aefanyl before the sight of her could irritate her any longer that morning,
“I will get the doctor for you,” losing in the war of wills, his figure would disappear behind the bathroom door, “Take care, Duq’arael.”
It was at night when the father and son pair decided they would accompany her during her rest. She had expected the worst out of it, yet they only cuddled up to her, watching the Bloodborn Spawn slithering on the ground; wrestled against each other in a sight so concerning yet oddly satisfying for one Sanguinarch that no longer retched by dusk. It was when Laqeramaline had his face pressed against her neck and Aefanyl’s lips was over the back of her hand like solemn prayers befitting fallen gods and obsolete graces that she began to have a premonition—a late onset of realisation.
“There must be something else which you talked about with the doctor when I passed out for the first time, Laqeramaline,” her words rang solemn against the profane silence; tone slightly cracked as though the news had been more of humiliation than merriment in her life, “Am I pregnant?”
And there was silence.
It ensued for the first few seconds until Aefanyl was about to refute her concerns when Laqeramaline dismissed him and spoke out—his hand gently enfolded hers, “You are.”
Her hunch had become right then, considering the amount of times they lay their hands upon her in the past. Duq’arael’s words were swallowed back into the vanishing twilight, an inglorious amount of disappointment weighed down on her like a divine mandate on punishment.
Laqeramaline leaned in to kiss the side of her head as if she was far easier to break than the rest of her touches, whispering reverence so godstruck it’s almost untrue, “We will take care of you.”
“And you are in good hands,” chuckled stiffly into the absence of an expanse between them, Aefanyl followed suit on the other side of her cranium.
As long as it’s not a banshee.
Her thoughts from ages ago rang clear in her head as she melted into the warmth, lamenting.