Chapter Text
Oakhurst was never a normal town; any passerby would be able to deduct that.
It’s a place enshrouded with secrets, even vampires who’ve lived for centuries have never been able to dig deep enough to uncover every crumb of its history.
Inhabitants of vampires only scratch the surface of what it holds.
Perhaps you would find some answers in the library; although Owen burned it down after his fit of anger. Before the beloved library was turned to smithereens though, there was a book.
An awfully lonely book, before its death it was veiled with dust and hidden away. Untouched.
It had a story etched in it’s pages;
Past the land and valley far, a shooting star will make its mark.
High and bright, for the townsfolk to see, symbolising a prophecy.
.
.
The children of the dark will rise from their slumber, calming their century-long hunger.
𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟༺ 🏹 ༻𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎡
The first thing he felt was the unmistakable taste of blood overwhelming his senses, not anyone else’s blood for a change.
His own blood.
Before he could question anything; the memories came flooding back to his brain. His hysterics with the townsfolk, Shelby turning him into a vampire, his kiss with Scott, and most notably - his demise.
He could still see their faces burned into his vision, cold and unfeeling while Pyro stabs him. They didn’t stop.
Why didn’t they stop?
He stares at his stomach, surprised to see that there was no puncture marks at all. Nothing significantly bleeding on his arms either. He might have believed that he dreamt the whole thing if not for the dried blood stains that remained.
He gently lays a hand on his stomach.
Nothing. No pain.
Finally, his eyes begin to dart around his surroundings.
Where on earth was he?
It was a small, enclosed, wooden, space with a human-shaped pillow at the bottom-
Oh.
He was in a coffin.
Maybe he did die - and this was his hell. God could have held a vendetta against him for killing Elle. Sweet, kind, Elle who didn’t deserve to be shot in the chest by his arrows.
His fingers were itching to open the coffin door and let himself be crushed by the soil, let himself atone for his sins. But then he heard the sound of dirt being dug up above him.
His thoughts fade into the background as he listens intently to the sound. Whoever - whatever - this was, it was getting dangerously close to him.
He swore he could hear two muffled voices if he tried hard enough.
His hands form a praying position, intertwining his bitterly cold fingers together.
The shovel bangs on the coffin, making him jump and causing a shaky breath to escape him. He could feel the owner of the shovel reach down and try pry the coffin open until it finally gave way.
And what he saw wasn’t some grave robber, or Satan - thankfully.
What he saw was the weary and disheveled faces of Martyn and Ren. Martyn used his already gaping mouth to speak.
“No fucking way.”