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It started with how the wind died.
How the branches stopped their swaying, how the grass stopped its rustling, how the air's still from movement sent cold slithering through the pale oak forest, like the wind was the last touch of colour that needed to drain from the world for it to enter the deathly still that transitioned into the castle. It was alive, but not. The ruins rose in grandeur as the forest shifted, changed, adapted for the unlife living slinking within it.
There were no birds in the pale oak forest. No birds, no squirrels, no insects. They say the blood from the survivors as they ran to hide from the massacre bled into the soil and killed it; that it is cursed ground. It burned, regrew, then sank into a half-state between life and death, the trees growing and thickening, moss carpeting and lichen crawling, thin, sickly blades of grass poking upwards to find the slivers of light they could.
Pyro felt the shift in the air when the wind died, the wisps of flowing sounds, tiny whispers, fading out and stopping. He was familiar with it, to a degree. It meant danger was near, that death was near. He almost chuckled—he was danger, he was death. His claws curled at his side, long pointed nails, soiled by blood and dirt, scraping against his loose pants as he balled them into fists, tips digging into the flesh of his palm. He felt them break the surface, but no blood came out. After all, there was none left, all broken down and drunk dry. His heart wouldn't beat anymore, anyway; there was nothing to push through a body that was meant to be dead.
It fit, he supposed. One monster—person? He didn't know—haunting a dead wood in the midst of the blood-red night. He glided from shadow to shadow, boots lightly crunching on the moss and grass, snapping softly as the soles pressed them flat. One hand ran through his hair, pale and white like the wood, reflecting the moon's light as the strands stuck to his forehead and fingers. He continued onward, a solitary figure hiking in the dead wood.
He was alone, well and truly. Scott—Sire—had turned him out tonight, told him he could do better. He clenched his fist again. He could do better, he knew he could. If he truly hated anything, Pyro hated failing. He hated seeing the quickly masked disappointment on Sire's face, followed by the callous, sarcastic congratulations. He wanted to do well, to impress his family, yet he failed to do that so frequently. He grit his teeth as he moved quicker, no longer masking his steps as he felt the tips of his fangs dig into the sides of his cheeks. Again, no blood. No taste of iron coating his tongue and sliding down his throat.
There, up ahead, he could see the silhouette of a person, the glimmer of their sword as they stood in the clearing around the beacon, gazing at the dark red light swirling around its nexus. Pyro slowed as he neared them, watching them step forward into the moonlight, revealing closely cropped black hair and silver crosses dangling from their ears. Abolish stepped up to the beacon and knelt on one knee, the vulnerable position so familiar that signified the intent to consecrate.
The vampire snarled and lunged, claws outstretched to kill, in the hope that a kill—a human head in his hands—would put him again in Scott's favoured light. He saw the moment Abolish noticed him, dropping to the side and whipping his sword about, slashing as he moved away. The beacon stopped humming, the lightening red fading back to blood. Pyro leapt forward again, high above his opponent as he tumbled off the dais, sword clutched firmly in hand.
He landed with a thud near Abolish's head, outstretched claws digging into the dirt where he had laid, just narrowly missing as he again rolled out of the way. He moved, inhumanly quickly, as Abolish swung, silver slashing through the air and cutting close to his cheek. He ducked under, moved closer, claws grazing his opponent's suit jacket as he shifted, minutely, out of the way.
They danced, blade and claws, snapping faster and faster, not yet tired, yet growing weary. There was a distinct, determined spark in Abolish's eye as he fought: a desire to live and to fight—to kill—the monsters that would impede on that. His face twisted into a scowl of disgust, of loathing, as he once again viewed what he could never have. Not if he wanted Sire to love him again. He briefly wondered if he could die again, now that his heart was stopped. The thought ceased to matter with each move, long strides bringing him to close quarters.
A voice called his name and he shut it out, hand landing in and twisting at Abolish's hair, yanking his head to the side. The silver sword came up, silver sizzling past his skin and cutting toward his ribs through the fabric, already tattered and torn by many scarcely dodged moves. His grip loosened and the human slipped away, sword swinging in a wide arc.
"Pyro!" the voice called again, and he turned to see this time, eyes widening when he saw Shelby running toward them, her thick white hair bouncing on her shoulders. He refocused on the fight, catching the blade with his hands and hissing as it cut into them, opening gaping cuts that wept a sticky, gel-like substance. He twisted and pulled, off-setting Abolish's balance and kicking him away, whirling on Shelby and shouting at her vehemently.
"Get out of here, Shelby!" he barked, each word laden with venom. He saw her freeze then continue running, dress catching on the long stalks of grass that hadn't been trampled. Protectiveness swelled in his chest as he refocused on Abolish, raising both hands to block the sword swinging down on him, halting it in its tracks. Family, family, family, his mind chanted as he moved in, a clawed hand stretched for the human's throat.
Abolish's other hand came up from his belt, sharpened wooden stake in hand. He drove it into Pyro's chest, finding a gap in his ribs and shoving it up, behind his sternum, stabbing through his unbeating heart and tearing the tissue within and around it. Pyro gasped, Shelby screamed, and Abolish stepped away, breathing heavily and going far out of reach as Pyro slowly reached for the stake, sunk to the crossbar of its shape in his chest. The wooden slivers spread fires through his skin, small feelings of burning that grew in intensity as he stood in the clearing, staring at the mutilated flesh hanging from his hands beneath the stake.
Footsteps ran up to him as he took a shambling step forward, claws outstretched to the human, the burning in his chest spreading outward and numbing his legs. A cold hand landed on his shoulder and he flinched, shoving himself between human and family, determined to stay standing. He growled, the wound flared, the knotted scars on his neck twisted.
Here in the clearing, overshadowed by the humming beacon, ragged breathing echoed. The bags under Abolish's eyes were unclear and blurred as he continued backing away, sword poised to strike. Pyro lurched forward again to threaten him, pushing against the twin grip Shelby had on his shoulders, holding him back. Protect, protect, protect, his mind sang as his heart complained.
The holy object was crude, roughly sharpened, bound together in the terrorising shape of the cross and shoved deeply into his chest, past what had long-stopped beating. It felt like fire, like flames licking across his chest, like lines of arching pain that stole from his sensation until he could feel nothing but his body falling and hitting the ground. He let out a high-pitched keen as moss prickled against his face. He'd wanted a kill, he'd gotten the kill, he'd failed the target. He'd started crying at some point. The water was strangely warm against his face as he curled inward, tight around the heat in his chest.
This was it, he knew it. His breathing turned ragged in his throat, whistling breaths heavy and uneven as he struggled and gasped, his lungs moving around the stake painfully. He coughed. Vaguely, he felt hands on his shoulders, turning and lifting his body. Tears dripped down his face as he squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering breaths wracking his body as his mind raced, chanting failure, failure, failure, as he pulled away. The numbness in his limbs fought the fire in his chest.
"Pyro—" A voice was calling his name— "Pyro, don't die, please."
He shifted slightly, desperate for contact, a pit forming in his stomach. He was dying, he couldn't stop, and he would never see Scott give his approval. He keened again, voice barely forming the word, "Sire…" as he trailed off, still burning, burning, deep in his heart around the wooden stake.
The voice was back, high-pitched and frantic. "Scott? I can't get him—" it cut off in a choked panic— "I'm too slow. Please Pyro—"
A hand wrapped around his, bone-cold against his fever. He could feel another holding him impossibly tight, pressing him to thick fabric as he shook, cried, the fire eating him from the inside. He scrabbled at his chest, digging around the stake and trying to pry it loose. The hand on top of his stayed them, and he finally opened his eyes, squinting through the blurry shadows to see Shelby, her face framed by pearly grey curls. He didn't remember her hair being so dark as he let out a shuddering sob, another soft groan for his sire.
Warm droplets fell on his cheek, dripping down from Shelby's chin as she sat by him, hunched over his body as she clutched him in her lap. She was crying, full, thick tears, unable to make a sound through the knot in her throat. Her hand tightened around his, wrapping the warmth in his chest with her ice-cold fingers, her thumb running over the back of one of his hands.
"It's okay, it's okay," she finally whispered, the tips of her nails digging into his skin. She lifted his hand and pressed her forehead to it, whispering softly as she pressed her lips to his fingertips. Pyro let himself be cradled there, nestled by the crook of her arm and the fabric covering her knees, eyes half-lidded as he struggled to breathe, to react, to the subtly warm air being softly blown across his fingers.
"I love you, you know?" Her voice tried to rise and cracked, dropping back to a whisper. "You're one of us—you're my sire. You gave me this gift! And now—" She broke off abruptly, her shoulders hitching with sobs as she bent over further, pressing her hand and both of his to his chest, over the stake, like she could stop the spread of the dullness now radiating through his body.
It took every ounce of strength for him to move his fingers, a light twitch that had Shelby holding him like a lifeline.
"Shel—" he whispered, words caught on breath that could barely be forced from his lungs. He took another ragged breath, then nothing followed but the slow relaxation of his body into hers.
Pyro had wondered what it would be like to die a second time.