Chapter Text
When Scott woke up, the first thing he felt was the pain in his back. When most people thought of vampires, they didn’t imagine immortal bloodsuckers dealing with back pain of all things. And yet, here Scott lay, his back throbbing with that sharp, pinching ache that came from staying in one position for far too long. He tried to sit up, desperate to get away from the cold, unyielding stone pressing against his back.
Wait… stone? Scott’s eyes flew open. At first, there was nothing but darkness. Slowly, as his vision adjusted, he took in his surroundings, analyzing the situation he’d somehow gotten himself into.
I’m in a coffin? he thought in confusion as he braced his hands against the inside of the stone lid. His fingers spread across the rough surface as he pushed upward. Once. Twice. The lid didn’t move an inch. Panic began to claw at his chest.
Why am I here? He pushed harder. With a sharp crack, the coffin lid finally gave way, flying off as a cloud of dust burst into the air. Scott sat up abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut as a sharp pain lanced through his head. Another pulse followed, and he grabbed his temples, groaning as the ache throbbed. After a minute, he slowly looked up—memories flooding back, snapping into place one by one.
–
“SCOTT GOLDSMITH!?” a man yelled, stomping through the main entrance. “Now there’s no need to yell, young man,” Scott said, projecting amusement as he sat on his throne in confusion.
What the hell?, Scott thought as the man walked forward, 20 more people following through the door flanking the young man's sides. “It’s time you died,” the woman on his left said quietly, confidently, and coldly. “And you, pathetic humans, think you can kill us,” Andrew, one of the new fledglings, said, baring his fangs as he stood up, the other fledglings—12 in total—standing up as well. Andrew walked in front of the young man; then as fast as lightning, the young man grabbed a silver stick and, as hard as he could, stabbed Andrew through the chest, piercing his heart. At first, the coven laughed at the humans, but then the hunter pulled out the silver stick and a sharp pulse of fear shot through Scott as the fledgling fell to the floor and didn’t get back up. At the loud thud of the body, the hall filled with laughter fell silent; the vampires had stopped laughing, staring at the dead body of their newest fledgling lying soulless, staring at the ceiling as blood pooled around his body. “Scott Goldsmith, we are the Valkyrie, and we're here to kill you and your coven,” the man said, stepping forward over the dead vampire's body. After that, everything was a blur as blood, friend and foe, covered the floor, ash in the air, the fire burning everything in sight.
–
Scott threw his legs over the side of the coffin, jumping off the raised platform. As Scott walked down the crypt’s halls, he saw all the skulls of his late coven members lying on the floor. As he stopped looking down another hall to his right, another memory came to him.
–
“Papa, why do the stories of vampires have them sleeping in coffins?” Angelica asked, sitting on his lap. “Because humans are scared of vampires, so they make stories to reflect that fear to get others to believe in the fear as well,” Scott said, finishing braiding Angelica’s hair. “Papa?” Angelica asked softly. “Yes, sweetheart?” Scott said, pulling her into a hug, her little head laying on his shoulder. “Can we make a hall of the coven’s crypt, bedrooms just for us?” Angelica asked, looking up at Scott. “Of course, my little bat,” Scott said, holding her tightly and standing up to spin her around, her childish giggles lighting up the atmosphere in the back of the courtyard.
–
“Angelica,” Scott whispered, soft and broken, as he opened a secret door to the bedroom they had made together for her. Tears ran down his face as he sat down on her little bed; she had only been six when she was killed. “I’m so sorry, my little bat,” Scott said, crying into a stuffed bear that one of the other coven members had hand-sewn for her and the other children of the coven. Bears had always been Angelica’s favorite animal, no matter how hard Scott had tried to get her to like bats more. Looking up, he saw a painting of his daughter on a swing in the courtyard that he had painted by hand. On a small table underneath sat a red velvet box with a bow. Scott knew what was in that box; he had commissioned a locket of a small detailed painting of her and him to give to her on her birthday—the day.
The coven was massacred.
Walking over to the table, Scott grabbed the little box. Opening it, he pulled out the locket, holding it in his hands. Opening the locket, another tear ran down his face as he saw his little girl smiling back at him, forever immortalized in paint and canvas. As he closed the locket and clenched it in his fist, Scott's eyes turned pitch black with sheer rage, and he grabbed the teddy bear he had been holding and threw it across the room with a bellowing scream—not one of hurt or anger, but one of downright fury and pain, the type of pain that no sword wound or dagger could cause, only the type of pain that you can get from losing someone so precious. With a heaving sob, Scott fell, curling into a ball.
“Angelica, my sweet baby bat, I'm so sorry,” Scott sobbed, holding the locket to his chest as tears streamed down his face. After what felt like hours, the tears finally stopped, and Scott lay on the floor motionless. Slowly, he began to get up, holding the locket in his hand. He opened the door and walked across the hall to the room that he had made for himself. After opening a tap to the river, water poured into the bathtub and lit a fire under the metal tub. As he waited for it to heat up, he started to strip off his blood- and ash-soaked clothing. After the tub was sufficiently warmed, he grabbed a bunch of soaps from a cabinet beside the tub and placed them on a nearby table, easily within reach, and began to wash off the dirt, blood, and ash from his skin. After maybe half an hour, Scott had finished his bath and got out, grabbing the nearby towel to dry himself off. He put on some new clothing he had picked from his closet.
Making his way back into the main bedroom after draining the water from the tub and turning off the fire, he put the locket around his neck and looked into the mirror. Scott studied his reflection with a critical tilt of his head, pale blue eyes flicking over every detail to make sure everything sat just right. His baby-blue hair framed his face in soft, messy strands, the color stark against his sharp, elf-like ears and the faint glint of fangs when he pressed his lips together. (at first he was surprised by the fact that his hair and eyes were blue again but after sleeping for 600 years Scott figured that losing almost all of his strength should have been expected), The white poet shirt billowed at his sleeves and collar, its ruffles resting neatly against his throat, where a red gem set in gold caught the light. The gem sat perfectly at the base of his neck, bold without being gaudy. Below it, the red corset hugged only his lower stomach, structured and firm, adding contrast against the loose fabric above. He smoothed it once, approving the way it pulled the outfit together rather than overpowering it. His tight black pants fit cleanly along his frame—tailored, not restrictive—and tucked seamlessly into dark brown, lace-up heeled boots. The boots added a bit of height and confidence, grounding the look with something practical yet sharp. Altogether, the reflection staring back at him looked intentional, striking, and unmistakably him. Scott gave a small nod to himself in the mirror, satisfied.
Turning away from the mirror felt wrong, like leaving the last intact piece of himself behind. (despite what the humans thought vampires could very much use mirrors, well unless they were silver),
Scott stepped out of the crypt in silence, his movements careful, almost reverent, as if the stone beneath his boots might crumble if he put too much weight on it. The stairwell stretched upward, cold and narrow, each step pulling him farther from what little safety he had left. The walls were unfamiliar—scarred, cracked, stripped of warmth. Dust coated everything. He climbed anyway, one step at a time, even as a quiet dread settled deep in his chest. His heart knew something was wrong long before his eyes could confirm it. When he reached the top and pushed the door open, the world ended.
Scott stopped moving. The castle was gone. Not damaged. Not wounded. Gone. What stood before him was a grave made of stone and silence. Towers that once scraped the sky had collapsed inward, reduced to jagged ruins. The great halls where voices once echoed with life were torn open to the air, exposed and empty. Rubble littered the ground like the remains of something that had fought desperately to stay standing—and failed. This was where his daughter had lived. Where generations had walked the same corridors, trusted the same walls to protect them. Where Scott had once felt small but safe, surrounded by history older than him, stronger than him. It had always been there. It was supposed to always be there. His knees nearly gave out. Scott’s eyes burned as he took it in, searching—hopelessly—for anything familiar. A doorway. A tower. A single intact wall. Anything that proved this place had truly existed and wasn’t just a memory now. But everything he loved about it lay broken, scattered, erased without mercy.
He could almost hear it—the ghost of laughter, the echo of footsteps, the warmth of candlelight that no longer existed. Memories pressed against his chest until it hurt to breathe. This wasn’t just stone that had fallen. It was time. It was family. It was every moment that had once made this place feel alive. His daughter was gone. Their home was gone. And Scott was standing alone in the aftermath, waking up to a world that had moved on without him—one that had taken everything while he slept. A quiet, broken sound slipped from his throat before he could stop it. He didn’t wipe his eyes. He didn’t move. He just stood there, blue eyes glassy, staring at the ruins of a life he would never get back. Because this wasn’t just a loss. This was waking up too late. This was realizing that even immortality couldn’t save the things you loved most, just the memories.