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Phyre had been pacing slowly around the apartment, quietly contemplating the events of the night, turning words over in his mind that had been said by Tolly or the Prince or Lou for any and all information that could be gleaned therein.
Fabien had been helping, sort of, as he could, adding in context here or there.
It had been their new normal, if one could call anything an elder vampire did normal, or a Malkavian for that matter.
And then Phyre had stumbled, gasped an agonized breath through clenched teeth, and Fabien had perked up, feeling out through Phyre’s senses to try to figure out what the Hell had just happened.
Oh. The mark.
Phyre had turned his hand over and cursed loudly, which Fabien probably didn’t need to know the translation of in English and wasn’t about to inquire into right that second.
“You, uh…. doing alright, buddy?”
“Fine.” Words spat through gritted teeth certainly backed that up.
“I thought the mark only bothered you—“
“When I try to leave the city? When one of the dalyarak Sabbat weakens me? Apparently not.”
Phyre had then put his fist through the wall into the bathroom, sending chunks of brick and plaster everywhere.
Not much of a downgrade to the apartment, all things considered. Maybe even an upgrade, you could see the front door from the shower now.
The hole in the wall was vaguely telling as to Phyre’s current mood and state of being though, even if Fabien hadn’t been able to feel the acrid distaste rolling off of Phyre.
And if that hadn’t been enough, the shadows of the room had begun to creep and skitter towards their master, obscuring him in odd ways in the light.
“Phyre. Hey.”
Whatever had struck the Lasombra, it was more than just the pain of the mark etched into his hand with his own blood.
“Siktir. I’m fine.”
Right. Don’t poke a bear.
“I think the wall disagrees, buddy, but whatever you say.”
It seemed politest to let Phyre have as much space as Fabien could possibly manage even if that wasn’t much, so he cheerfully added, “Let me know if you want to talk about it.” and then went quiet-ish.
As though that was going to help. Maybe?
This mark thing was really eating at the elder, and Fabien could understand why; to be coveted? Own? Marked as someone else’s property?
Well, no one liked that. Kindred even less so.
And Fabien had to imagine that existing for centuries made a lack of freedom even worse in some ways.
He was confident they would figure out how to remove it, but until then, they were stuck with it.
“……it is more. Than just to be owned.”
Okay. Uh.
“Oh?”
“I…” Phyre hissed through his teeth, with just enough force that Fabien instinctively wanted to look away out of animalistic deference to the more powerful elder. Not that he actually could look away. He had no face.
“You don’t need to explain if you don’t want to, Phyre, it’s fine.”
“No.” Fabien had heard him angry. Had heard him desperate. On the verge of letting his beast get the best of him. But here he just sounded… sad. “I— I would have you know. We are… sharing a caseload, as you say.”
Fabien nearly said no. That whatever he needed to keep private should be private.
But there was that fondness again, and a strange sense of vertigo, like Phyre was trying to contain himself so strongly that it almost hurt.
And there wasn’t much privacy to be had, not with two kindred sharing one noggin.
So instead, what Fabien said without really much more consideration, was: “If it would help, Phyre.”
“It would be easiest to show you.”
The elder made no other sound as he closed his eyes, the shadows inside his eyelids curling up like tendrils to pull at both minds inhabiting the same body.
Fabien wasn’t sure how long they stood there together, as Phyre metaphorically clawed every ounce of self-control back to himself, that sheer will forming into a barrier. Disciplined and raw.
But they stood. And Fabien watched. And he’d watch as long as Phyre needed.
The darkness suddenly upended, clarified into colour and light, more of a feeling than a place Fabien could see. A place of importance, full of power and prestige, and of death if one was not careful.
The first thing to truly clarify into being was Phyre himself. Not the version of Phyre that had been standing next to him in other visions and dreams, but a younger, warmer, mortal Phyre.
Standing in the refracting sunlight of a magnificently vaulted room, with all the practised grace and decorum of a court official. Hands folded delicately, hair pulled back neatly underneath some kind of… hat? Turban? Fabien wasn’t sure. It was coloured a deep, bold green, off-setting the yellows and reds of the rest of his many-layered outfit. Opulent but refined and, importantly, not the most opulent in the room.
It was clearly Phyre, even young, even with the rosy tinge to his cheeks. Even if he didn’t quite have the sheer force of will that he would eventually accumulate over the next many, many centuries.
He seemed… tired. Fabien could feel the soreness of his feet, the dryness of his lips as he stood, unwavering, watching courtly politics unfold in front of him.
“Over four hundred years later and you still remember how much your feet hurt?”
Fabien could feel the melancholic amusement of his Phyre, somewhere around but nowhere to be seen. Watching with him.
“I had been standing almost constantly for five days. It was memorable.”
The scene shifted slightly, a hush falling over the assembly as a man, face still showing its youth even more so than Phyre’s, and extravagantly dressed in silks and layers of other fine cloth entered to the sound of announcing voices.
He was a God amongst men here, and despite his youth and the reservations Fabien could feel from this mortal Phyre, it was clear that this was the Sultan and the Sultan’s word was law, unwavering and uncompromising. And this Phyre? His entire being belonged to this Sultan, to the Sultan’s family; no matter what the Vizier had ever wanted.
He was not a slave, but neither was he free, and that was simply the way that life was.
There were words spoken, commanded even, loudly, in a language that Fabien couldn’t understand but the meaning was clear enough; the Sultan was pissed off and that was everyone’s problem.
Fabien could feel the unease of both the crowd and this younger, stoic version of Phyre.
This version that had yet to become the Nomad.
Things escalated, although Fabien couldn’t track exactly how. A woman, as finely dressed as the Sultan was, had made a biting comment. Another man, taller, with a long beard, replied.
The Sultan clearly appreciated neither. There were fiery words and an instinctual pulse of fear from Phyre, but more like an echo of it. Shrouded in something almost like regret.
This was a memory after all.
Fabien could only watch, feeling somewhat helpless as the scene sharpened and this young, mortal, breakable Phyre stepped forward to… say something?
The room quieted so suddenly.
Fabien wasn’t sure what he expected.
The Sultan to swing a fist? Blood? Guards to appear from behind pillars to grab Phyre, or start knee-capping people?
Instead, despite everything that felt like this memory was building up to, there was… nothing.
Relative calm returned, whatever Phyre had said had worked. The Sultan, though clearly angered, seemed mollified to some extent.
Fabien felt his brow furrow, felt his instinct to find and understand begin to pace inside his head.
The memory felt… incomplete, without question. There were missing pieces but whether that was from gaps in Phyre’s memory or something he was pulling back, keeping from entering into their shared mind space was unclear.
“What did you say?”
“It was not what I said, Fabien. It was that I spoke at all.”
Fabien was about to ask more, to question the version of Phyre he knew, who he could feel hovering in his peripheral, when the scene shifted again.
Faded, softened, then sharpened once more into a smaller, far less opulent room, lit only by candlelight.
It was still beautiful, in its own way, warm and with a balcony opening to the flickering lights of a city that must have been Constantinople at dusk.
Tiled walls and floor. Geometric designs on every surface.
It wasn’t a king’s rooms but Fabien assumed it was a luxury of its time, with its delicate folding screens and a wide wooden desk and the smell of… incense, maybe? Sandalwood and herbal tea.
It felt like looking at home through a smoky glass. Four hundred or more years later, and this place that more than likely no longer existed felt like home, in some strange way.
And then, there was this mortal Phyre again, so young, but still exuding knowledge and power, his hair down, lips moving slightly as he penned something at the desk.
He sat back with an air of finality, waving his hand over the page to dry the ink, flowing and beautifully stylized, more of an art than a writing system.
Arabic, maybe? Was that what the Ottoman Empire had used?
That felt right.
There was something peaceful about the little tableau. The lights, the smells, the warmth. The cool sea breeze through the room.
A moment that hung in the air, suspended in memory and in time. A moment that was so crystal clear it almost hurt.
Fabien knew it wouldn’t last. Nothing did.
And this was connected to the previous scene with the Sultan, he could feel it, the anticipation bleeding into him ever-so-slightly from his version of Phyre.
Fabien wondered how many times the elder had relived this moment in his mind.
The peace was broken by the sounds of feet outside the door. Heavy footfalls, which the mortal Phyre reacted to with a furrowed brow and the sliding of his stool against stone flooring.
The door opened suddenly and with force, slamming into the wall and sending shards of a now-broken tile skittering through the room.
Mortal, stoic, young Phyre’s hand went to a drawer of the desk, scrabbling for a dagger, backing away from the doorway.
Not quickly enough.
There was, really, nowhere to go, not in the few seconds it took for armoured, helmeted, faceless guards to fill the room, an uncountable number that could have been four but felt like a hundred in the memory.
Far, far more than the Sultan’s Vizier could hope to contend with.
Fabien was suddenly quite sure of what he was about to see, despite not knowing exactly how this fable was about to unfold. There was a calm and sad variety of acceptance that bled crimson through his shared mind with the elder kindred.
Someone yelling, in Arabic or Turkish or similar, something Fabien couldn’t translate but could somehow understand.
“By order of His Imperial Majesty—“
Phyre, true to form, had apparently always been more of a fight than a flight sort of man, because he did use the dagger well, at least.
One guard went down, clutching at his neck, blood seeping between his own fingers.
But it was inevitable really. Fabien was watching history that had concluded long, long before even his own great-grandfather had been a twinkle in anyone’s eye.
And Phyre was showing him. Letting him see an intensely discomforting scene, one that Fabien could feel was taking some amount of effort to keep contained within the boundaries that Phyre wanted it in.
Like trying to keep a gushing wound from bleeding out.
More shouting, swords being drawn despite the fact that there was no way one smaller man could match these armoured soldiers in either strength or speed.
Fabien watched, frozen to the moment, as the young Vizier was disarmed and slammed against his desk, still struggling.
Another soldier, helmet in his hands, a captain maybe, judging by his more elaborate armour, entered like a cold breeze on a wet day.
Like everyone owed him money and he was about to collect.
The captain was speaking, perhaps not quite gloating but whatever he was saying, he seemed pleased with it; seemed pleased to see Phyre face-down on his own desk, ink and blood smeared onto the finely penned pages.
Phyre returned some words, sneering furiously at him, and Fabien could only watch as the captain held a hand out, receiving the dagger that had been disarmed from the Vizier moments ago.
Oh.
A flash of metal, blurred and inspecific, just plain and unadulterated knowledge of what was about to occur before it happened.
The dagger came down, directly into the beautiful wooden desk, and directly through the back of Phyre’s hand.
The scream that Fabien heard sounded more like it had come from his own mouth than from Phyre’s.
He supposed that was the thing about memories, they were usually from a first-person perspective, weren’t they?
There was blood. Dark tea spilled from a cup. All invading his senses, utterly overtaking the pages of beautiful writing, red on red on red.
Fabien could no longer see properly, relegated to only Phyre’s memory of the pain and the back of his own eyelids as he struggled against the agony and then the anger and then the humiliation as the captain pulled him back by his hair to spit into his face.
Another order, and the snap of bone and a man or two or three holding his other arm secure behind his back.
The scene blurred into red, into grey, into black, as Fabien watched this young, breakable, and so very mortal version of Phyre go limp, utterly at the mercy of men who would show him absolutely none.
Four hundred years and the memory was still so clear, in all the ways that mattered.
“…the Sultan ordered all this? Just for… speaking up?”
The scene slowed to a stand-still, time meaningless when one was replaying old sins and even older regrets in their mind.
“You’re the detective. You tell me, Fabien.”
That was fair enough, Fabien supposed, as he turned his attention to the minutiae of the scene.
There was the Vizier with his own dagger through the back of his hand; a fine dagger, jewelled even, silver and some kind of green gems embedded in it. The sort that only the wealthy could afford or provide, a gift perhaps. Not a fighter’s weapon, but neither was it a dull letter opener.
That didn’t tell Fabien much, not about what was current to the memory.
“The guards; they’re the Sultan’s?”
Phyre’s time-weary voice replied: “Yes, but his personal guard, not the palace’s.”
“Is this the palace?”
“Not technically. It was my own home, at the Sultan’s pleasure.”
Fabien nodded, stepped through between the faceless, helmeted memories of men that had no idea their impact on the future, hundreds of years after they would have been no more than ash and bone.
The commander or captain or whatever he was, was holding some kind of paper, folded on one edge, with a large, flowing script on one side, after a long paragraph of what Fabien assumed were… orders for the arrest of the Vizier?
“Correct.”
There was an unsaid ‘but’ that Fabien could sense though.
Fabien peered closer.
It didn’t help. The script remained in Arabic and Fabien was relatively certain that his Malkavian charms wouldn’t do much in a memory. Right?
He supposed he could try though, what could it hurt?
So he did.
Fabien sifted through the threads of his mind —what was left of it anyway— found the few he was looking for and pulled gently on them, forcing them through his vague reality with ease that only came from practise.
The paper fluttered briefly in an unseen, unfelt breeze, and a voice spoke.
“This is boring. What do you want?”
Amusingly, it sounded almost like Phyre in tone, though not in affectation.
“Sorry, Mr. Letter, just a few questions for you, if that’s alright?”
The paper sighed dramatically.
“Fine. It’s better than just sitting here. The captain’s hand is sweaty.”
“Great! So,” Fabien considered the frozen tableau in front of him. “You’re sent by the Sultan?”
“No one else would dare use his tugra.”
“Of course, yeah. His tugra.”
The letter scoffed. Rolled eyes it didn’t possess.
“His signature.”
“I knew that.” Fabien nodded. “And do you have a date?”
The letter leered. “You’re very forward, aren’t you, detective? You’re not really my type but I could make an exception.”
“I appreciate your flirtation, Mister, but I’m in a bit of a situationship as the kids say. I meant: do you have a date written on you?”
“Suit yourself.” The letter truly did not seem to give two figs about it. “And I do. Dated for… tomorrow. Looks like someone decided to get ahead on their work.”
Fabien blinked, looked down at the paper more carefully.
“Ah-ha.”
“Anything else, detective? Or can I go?”
“Nope, nothing else, thanks Mr. Letter. Your cooperation is appreciated.”
The paper blew a raspberry, then went back to its usual in-animacy.
Some people, and things, truly had no class.
Fabien turned back to consider the rest of the scene.
“Sent by the Sultan, but dated for tomorrow. Did someone make a mistake? Or…?”
There was no answer, so Fabien kept looking for his own.
“The captain. He’s pleased as punch to be doing this, even when he should, maybe, be off-duty? He wants to be here. This is personal; no reason to spit in a man’s face otherwise.”
A faint pulse of correct flowed to Fabien from his connection to the elder kindred.
“Then… no, this wasn’t by the Sultan’s orders, was it? This guy, the guard captain or whoever he is, was waiting for this. Maybe he didn’t organize the arrest, but….” Fabien frowned, realization slotting into place. “That’s why it’s dated for tomorrow but he’s here now. He came as soon as he got the orders, didn’t even wait. He knew he’d win. And he wanted you for himself,” Fabien cringed at his poor choice of words. “—until his orders came due. He wasn’t aiming to kill, he had plans, he was aiming to make you pay. This guy must have really hated you.”
Fabien studied the man, the captain. His face was well-detailed, well-remembered. This was someone Phyre knew. Trusted? No. But knew, certainly.
“I reckon you must have done him dirty as Vizier, right?”
Not a difficult leap to make.
He felt a pull of amusement from Phyre, with an edge of viciousness to it that Fabien had come to expect when they were cutting through Sabbat throats.
“His goal was to break me. He and I had been at odds for years; he had interrupted my… machinations too many times, I had executed his sons. I made a mistake in thinking that because he had fallen out of favour with the Sultan, that his ability to move against me was lessened. I was powerful and I was ruthless, but I was young. He saw his opportunity for revenge and he took it.”
Fabien whistled. “The pen is mightier than the sword, until there’s a sword at your throat.”
The memory began to play again, like some kind of vaguely disturbing motion picture, as mortal Phyre was dragged off of the desk.
His hand went with him, but the dagger stayed embedded in the wood, and the sound that the broken, bloodied man made was terribly, disgustingly mortal.
Agonized and torn from his throat and so very human.
More blood. A lot more blood, but it didn’t yet smell like the tantalizing bouquet Fabien knew that it would eventually come to be for Phyre once he was kindred.
It just smelled like… death.
Like defeat.
The shadows of history began to creep in as the men around the Vizier closed ranks, not to keep him from fighting back, but to each take a turn leaving their mark on him.
Humanity was, after all, full of monsters and brutality had never been the invention of kindred; Caine had been mortal when he’d taken a rock to his own brother’s head.
The darkness flowed in along with the sympathy and Fabien let it.
There was calm for a while, silence, as Fabien tried to collect his thoughts on the matter.
He could feel Phyre’s mind still prowling about near him, not asking, not invading, just there.
“Well, uh, yikes.”
Phyre’s eyes opened, and they were back in Dale’s room, sitting near the computer, the record player skipping.
When had they gotten there? Fabien must have been too distracted to notice.
“I guess we’ve all pissed off the wrong man once or twice in our careers.” Fabien finally said after a few moments, unsure if Phyre would really want to discuss it. “I would ask if they beat you to death after all that, but…”
“They made a valiant attempt that night. But I was to answer for my supposed crimes against the Sultan. I was imprisoned.”
Tortured. Broken. Used.
Those were things best left unsaid, perhaps, if Fabien was reading Phyre’s feelings on them correctly.
“It was the beginning of the end. I was eventually condemned to execution.”
Somehow Phyre managed to say it with an edge to the words that implied he’d wished it had taken less time to get to that particular result. “My sire… took advantage of the situation instead.”
Oof.
“Hey, uh, look,” Fabien wasn’t sure what you were supposed to say to this sort of thing, “I’m sorry that happened. That can’t have been a Sunday morning walk through the park.”
Phyre huffed out a short laugh as he stood and slowly made his way back to the main apartment, to apparently stare broodingly out the window.
Classic elder move.
“It was how I became what I am now. And it is, for everything that it means, in the past. It is only that this mark…”
“Reminds you of it, yeah.” It was quite the coincidence. Too much of one. “Do you think it was done on purpose? Put on your hand as opposed to anywhere else?”
“I do not know how it could have been. I doubt there were any records of my trial and execution that would have bothered to account for my,” Phyre bared his fangs. The beast wanted to slake its thirst on men who had been dead for centuries. “State of being in such detail.”
Fabien wondered how much you could truly come to terms with something like that. His own Embrace hadn’t been so… traumatic in the lead-up. Just the normal amount, a lot of screaming and crying, like pulling teeth with twice the blood and no lollipops as a reward afterwards. But it had been no more traumatic than it needed to be.
Fabien didn’t envy Phyre’s road to becoming kindred.
“Maybe they saw your memories somehow? Whoever marked you.”
Fabien didn’t like the idea any more than he could feel Phyre did. Which was not much. The beast never did do well with being shackled.
“Whoever they are, they’re trying to get to you, Phyre. Don’t let them.”
A moment, then two, then three, and then Phyre sighed.
“I would not allow them to.”
Fabien grinned, sort of, non-literally. Fake it til you make it.
“We’ll hunt them down, just you watch. And then you can squeeze them until their eyes pop out, how about that?”
Phyre didn’t say anything, for many, many long moments, minutes even, and so Fabien just pressed up against his psyche and hoped he was helping in some small, bizarre way.
Or at least he hoped that he wasn’t doing any harm.
“You do. Help.” Phyre’s voice wasn’t soft, but it was quiet. Reserved. Like he was admitting something sinful.
“I’m… glad for it, then.”
What a strange existence they now shared. How bizarre. How specific.
Maybe Fabien should have been concerned by how much it felt more like a blessing than a curse in these interesting nights. Should have but wasn’t.
“You’re very resilient, you know that, Phyre? Even for one of our kind.”
A kind word. Phyre’s mind flickered with a shadow of sadness-mixed-with-appreciation.
“There is no other option, Fabien.”
“See, that’s what I like about you, you old fart,” Fabien saw Phyre visibly twitch at that, gratifyingly so, “You see your path and pave it, damn what anyone else thinks.”
“Mm. Alma mazlumun ahını, çıkar aheste aheste.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means I shall be sure to rain Hell down upon those who have wronged us, Fabien. You may trust me on that.”