Chapter Text
The bell that rang out from Oakhurst echoed across the nearby lands. Easily heard from even the distant trees of the deadwoods, and traveling to the castle where Oakhurst's enemies reside. It warned of sunset, of the dangers that arose in darkness, and called those out of the village to return. And in several hours, it would ring again. Signaling safety to those that walked in the light, to show that the sun had risen once more. Safety and happiness to thrive under its watchful light.
Pyro was no longer the one that bell sought to warn. He'd once heard it, muffled under the waves as he'd been pulled under. The last echos of its sound bouncing off the hills that trapped him, when fangs had sunk into his neck. It might as well have drowned out his cries, but his head had been underwater, and the only sounds he'd made were the gurgles of struggling lungs. It hadn't helped to warn him of the danger that had already wrapped their claws around him. It had only reminded him that he was far too gone to make it home in time to survive.
The sound was no more reassuring now than it had been then. When it rang out, buildings down from him, Pyro had clamped his hands over his ears, flinching away. He knew the flinch was unbecoming of a vampire of his status, but he can't stop himself. Heightened hearing. He'd never been this close to the bells since his turning.
Someone reaches out to him, their hand hesitating before it hits the fabric covering his arm. *No touch.* That was something he made very clear when he'd first been taken in by the village. He couldn't trust himself to not attack. (He was dangerous, wasn't he? That's what they told him.)
"Its alright," the doctor says. Staying close by, never raising his hands. His best attempt at comfort, given the circumstances. "It'll pass."
Pyro can't tell if he means the echoing ringing of the bells, or if he means the hunger. He can only hope he means the ringing. Legundo should know better than to give him false promises. The hunger wouldn't pass. Not now. Not ever.
The ringing did fade, after it functionally settles into the curves of Pyro's ears and takes residency in his mind. He can't remember the moment he turned. He remembers bells. Chiming. No screams. Did he scream? Were even the bells in his mind?
"You should eat," Legundo says, bringing Pyro back to the present. "We've been more diligent about bottling the blood when we kill animals. Cooked meat for those who can tolerate it, blood for those needs it. I'll get you some," he promises. He turns away, looking back to Pyro over his shoulder with a worried look. He doesn't want to leave the vampire alone.
"I won't break anything," Pyro says. "Your clinic is safe." His hands twist together. Claws intertwined with fingers. No touching anything that wasn't his. (Which was all things.) An easy enough rule to follow. It was a lot simpler than the previous rules. And the doctor didn't seem the type to leave conflicting instructions.
Legundo's face twists in concern, but he turns his back. Leaving the clinic, and leaving Pyro with his thoughts once more.
He doesn't remember how it came to this, honestly. He'd been doing great in the castle. Sure, he had some anxiety some days, but it was a petty human traits left over from before his turning. It would fade with age, Scott had oft said. Pyro would grow past it, and learn to thrive as a vampire all his own.
He remembers being in the castle. Going through the monotony of his days there. Hunting, defending, keeping an eye on the bridge to see who may approach.
And he remembers being escorted into the village. Escorted, not kidnapped. Concerned people around him, leading to the doctor. Watching people tear out the silver barring the door, and having Legundo come out to invite him in. Firmly expressing that Scott wasn't allowed in, would never be invited in, and he couldn't reach Pyro anymore.
Pyro didn't know what to think about that. Had he asked them for help? A part of his mind, in the far back reaches of it, tells him he did. He didn't remember why.
That was sad, wasn't it? A strong vampire like Pyro, and he didn't remember his own breaking point. He should. It hadn't been that long ago. He'd been having more issues with his memory, lately. Scott helped him with it, most days. Reminding him when he forgot something Scott had said, or telling him when he misunderstood something else.
Scott helped him a lot. He should get back there.
Pyro raises from his seat in the clinic. Just in time, as the doctor returns.
"You're up?" He asks, clear surprise. "Are you well enough to walk?"
"I'm not sick," Pyro responds. He couldn't get sick anymore. But he was hungry. Ever hungry. That made him faster, less bound to a human form. It didn't make him weak, not until he was nearly starving. He could smell the bottles Legundo had brought him before they're revealed.
"If you say so. Here," Legundo says, reaching into the basket he'd brought. He presses a bottle of something red, liquid, and warm into Pyro's waiting hands. He clasps a hand around Pyro's knuckles, nodding. "Take all you need. I understand the hunger seems unstoppable. But we can counter it. Find ways to get you what you need."
Pyro looks to the bottle. His claws clinking against the glass. The blood swirls ever so tantalizingly, and he can imagine his unmoving heart picking up in excitement. He nods in return, pulling his hand back, tucking it away into his inventory. "Thanks, Doc," he says.
"Aren't you going to eat now?"
No, Pyro thinks, he could never. What if someone else wanted it? Needed it more? It was his responsibility to give when asked. He'd eat once everyone else had. The doctor had said it himself. Cooked meat for those who can tolerate it, blood for those needs it. More people than just Pyro needed it. More than the residents of the castle. Pyro could go without, for a little bit longer.
But he's not at the castle anymore. He didn't know when he'd return. The humans didn't seem prone to letting him out of their sight. He couldn't make sure the others had eaten. He didn't even know when he's see them again, he couldn't save it until then. It would go bad.
"I don't feel like eating right now," Pyro lies. He always felt like eating. He'd gotten used to it. "I'll eat when I can."
Legundo still looked worried. That care in his eyes sent a strange feeling down Pyro's back. Who was he, to get such looks? He was a vampire. He didn't need pity.
"If you say so." Legundo passes the basket to him, leaving him with the remaining few bottles. "Keep them. Take what you need, as you need," he insists again. He would repeat it as many times as he needs, until Pyro starts accepting it. He's seen trauma like this. He knows it takes time to work through.
"Listen, Pyro. I want to ensure your safety and your comfort in the coming days," Legundo says. He steps back, giving Pyro plenty of room. He didn't crowd closer, and didn't pressure him for an immediate answer. Pyro appreciated that. "You're free to come and go as you please. I can imagine you have some reserves about leaving the clinic. Or about leaving the village. But you are not a prisoner here, understand?"
Pyro nods. It's expected of him, to agree to blatant lies. Keep up appearances. Act nice. Be a noble. He couldn't leave Oakhurst. Not really. Not as long as he was bound to these lands. Not as long as he had this thirst. "I understand," he says. His mind has already returned to the idea of the blood, now sitting in his inventory. Could he really take it? Would no one mind?
"I mean it," Legundo says. He makes for the door, once more. "Tomorrow we can get some wood and make a new house for you. Somewhere to stay, so you're not cooped up in here all the time."
Tomorrow? In the daytime? Right. Another thing Pyro would need to get used to. He didn't need to sleep, but the village around him did. They'd expect him on their schedule. Who didn't? He can conform. He'd use the overnight hours to daydream what he'd put in a room all his own.
"In the meantime, you're welcome to your cot. Sleep well, Pyro. Please, come get me if you need anything at all."
Pyro sleeps in short bursts, restless and erratic. He didn't need to sleep. Hadn't consciously chosen to. Yet at some point, sitting there in that small room, he'd been dragged under. Dreams flit through his mind, memories he sought to flee from during waking hours.
In his dreams, he walks through a long hallway, stretching onward. It takes an eternity to reach the door on the other end. He doesn't get to open it. It swings open on its own, unprompted. Where shadowed individuals usher around him, guiding him to the long table, pulling a chair out, sitting him down. Was this the dining hall of his parents estate? Scott? Some rich noble his family made him visit to rub elbows with? He can't tell. They all blend together. The red furnishings are distinct of Scott's castle. The chairs from his parents home. Silverware with house engravings he doesn't recognize.
There's people around him, that his mind doesn't fully fill in the blanks for. Occupied chairs, busy voices. They ask questions they don't give him opportunities to answer. About his studies. His suitors. If he'd been getting along well with Czeslaw. If he'd seen him lately.
Pyro's rising fear is distracted by the arrival of food. Shadows deliver to the people around him, dropping off silver platters one by one. They all gladly dig in, enjoying their food. Pyro can hear the heartbeats surrounding him. A room full of living people. Distracted, not paying attention to the threat that sat within him. His plate was empty.
He was so hungry.
There's a platter set in front of him. He didn't notice it's arrival. The covering is pulled away by those same shadowing figures. A bowl, filled with blood. Finally. He reaches for it, hand going to the spoons. Silver sits harmlessly in his hand for the first time in a long time. There's a disapproving tsk from next to him— wrong utensil. When he looks back to the food, it's a plate, raw meat piled atop. Blood soaking out, still fresh. The hall has gone deathly silent. Heartbeats missing. He knows the food is human. He doesn't have to check.
Fork then.
Another disapproving tsk. The screech of a chair being pushed back. White hair. Red eyes. Scott stands in front of him, blocking the table from him. His hand reaches behind him to grab what is now a chalice, full to brim of red silky blood.
Oh. Pyro doesn't need to satiate the hunger today. Scott was hungry. He'd take the food first. Pyro could survive another day. What harm was there in one more missed opportunity to feed?
"You're new to this. You need guidance." Another clawed hand reaches out, wrapping around Pyro's chin, sharp nails pressing to his cheeks. The claws press in, tilting his head back and opening his mouth. Pyro can't look away from those sharp red eyes glaring compliance into him.
The chalice is tipped forward. Red flows out of it. It's blue when it hits his tongue. Pyro's body and mind rejects. Holy water. Blisters form on his skin, where the water doesn't even reach. He reaches up, clawing at his neck. Poison. He couldn't live like this. He couldn't live.
He chokes on the holy water flowing into him. The claws tighten, digging in. "Be grateful," Scott says, as calm as ever. "This blood could've gone to your betters."
Pyro doesn't get to complain. He gasps, struggling for air. He didn't ask for this gift. He was never meant to live like this. The holy water pools at his feet, ripples scattering across them. A bell rings out.
A high, sharp note. The Oakhurst bell, calling of sunrise.
Pyro jolts awake.
Pyro's new home gets built quickly. They retrace some roads for him. The only open spots had been were his previous home was, and where Scott's had been. Pyro had overheard some of them agree that neither location was fair for Pyro to live at.
He didn't have much input to give on the design. They'd kept coming to him for question, asking if he wanted oak or dark oak walls, stone or wooden roofs, one floor or two. Each time they'd been met with a blank stare, and him telling them to use whatever they had the most of. He didn't want to inconvenience. He didn't want to take anything more than they'd already given.
(And they'd given him far too much already. Attention. Food. Fresh clothes. It was too much.)
In the end, it was a collaborative effort from the people remaining in town that day. Some had gone off to consecrate, and others had left to gather resources. The remaining few had stripped the logs and built Pyro's home while he stood by in the shade.
They'd left him materials, too. Said he could decorate it as he wanted, now. Modify it and make it truly his. A chest half full of stone bricks and wood.
He didn't decorate. Not immediately. That would make it feel like home, and this place wasn't his own. Not really. They'd take it from him, for one reason or another. Wood was so flammable. He tried to keep it the way the village built it, in case they decided someone else was a better fit for the home.
The next day, he tears up the stone floors. They were so cold. And he hated hearing his shoes click on every step. It almost echoed, making him turn and expect to see someone behind him. White hair. Cold gaze.
He's found halfway through putting down the new planks. He was visited often. He wasn't allowed to be alone for long periods. They hadn't told him such, but he'd pieced it together.
"Ooh, New floors?" Drift asks.
Pyro hums out an affirmation. He's gotten the spots under furniture covered, and the linings of the walls, and was now getting the center.
"Looks good," Drift offers. "Need carpet? We've got plenty of wool these days."
Pyro thinks on it. He could get it himself. He should be self reliant. He doesn't need people to see him as weak.
Then he thinks a tiny bit further. The dark oak he was using was nice, but still hard wood. Still clicked under his shoes. Was still far too cold. And he thinks of the silver shine of shears, the lack of iron in these lands.
"I'd like that." Pyro nods. "Maybe, just enough to surround the bed?"
Drift brings him enough for the whole house. He can't thank her enough. It's not the only thing she brings. Pyro catches her standing at a window still for several moments, fidgeting with the thick curtains, before he questions it.
"What have you got over there?" He asks, careful to skirt the area the sunlight illuminates.
"I'm trying to guess which window won't mess with you if it's left open," Drift admits. There's a flower pot in her hands, adjusting how it sits on the windowsill. A bundle of green, barely sprouting. She places it in one spot, only to look behind her and frown at how large the sunlight cast glow is. She moves it to the opposite corner, leaving as much of the curtain down as she can.
"What's this for? Oh, is this some material the Doc needs to grow?"
Drift looks baffled. "It's just a plant, Pyro. I thought it would liven up the place."
"Oh."
He's not sure why, but he's not used to things being there without purpose. Everything has a place, a point to it. He was meant to. It kept things tidy. Under control.
Drift leaves soon after that. She's got things to do. It seems Pyro is the only one in the village left to his own devices. With no meetings or anyone to spend time with. He was as isolated here as he was at the castle. (As he was at home. As he was at the college. Nothing new.)
The plant stays in the windowsill. He doesn't move it. He forgets it's there.