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“I hate tracking these things,” Midas mutters, carding his fingers through his matted tawny hair in a futile attempt to release some of the knots.
They’d been trudging through the wilds of Blaiddyd for two weeks now, following the hallmark trail of death of a vampire and its ghouls. It had evaded capture by the Royal Guard and Knights of Seiros for over two months. The local Lords were beginning to get antsy over the sheer volume of brutal deaths plaguing the region as their constituents became increasingly anxious.
It surprised them when the order came down from His Majesty King Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd personally to dispatch Midas and Glenn to track down the fiend and execute it; bring back its fangs as proof.
The order itself wasn’t unusual; vampires were native to northern Faerghus. Most lived in small nomadic covens and drank only to subsist, not indulge. However on occasion, if left unchecked, one might get far too comfortable with big game hunting so to speak and need to be corrected—or eliminated. Faerghus had a battalion of specialized knights for this exact purpose.
Curiously Glenn didn’t belong to that battalion; Midas wasn’t even a proper knight.
“Certainly, I’d prefer to be doing anything else myself,” Glenn groans and drops onto the fallen log they’d converted into a makeshift bench. He leans forward and his loose navy hair cascades forward obscuring his face from Midas.
“Not to question His Majesty’s decision—but I’ve been wondering if they’ve sent us as bait,” he says, flipping a silver dagger through their fingers effortlessly. They watch the way the red of the fire reflects against the metal.
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, I won't rat you out for your blatant treachery.”
Midas looks at Glenn, face neutral except the corner of their lips pulling upwards. The dagger he was playing with now rests in the palm of their right hand. It’s quick—the throw—Glenn catches it between the middle and index fingers of his gloved hand. If there’d been an earnest effort behind it, he might be telling a different story.
They hold their hand out expectantly and Glenn drops the dagger back into their palm. “So, you don’t think we’re decoys to lure the thing out for the knights?”
“Not particularly, no,” Glenn says and straightens his posture, stretching his back and running his hands through inky strands.
“Hm. Why is that?”
“Sorry Mid, I swore an oath of secrecy, you won’t be getting it out of me.” Glenn grins when Midas groans. They slip their weapon back into its sheath and drop it beside them.
“You’re not terribly fun are you?”
“Not when I’m working.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Working?” Midas asks, kicking the mossy forest floor with the toe of his boot.
“Well we certainly aren’t camping,” Glenn speaks flatly as he pulls his hair back and ties it off in a messy bun. “Anyway, it’ll be active soon; we should start moving.”
Midas sighs dramatically, springing to his feet and trudging across the tiny clearing they’d set up camp. Glenn heard them grumble, “my sleep schedule is never going to recover from this.” He might’ve agreed if his body had any modicum of a circadian rhythm anymore.
He snuffs out the fire whilst Midas makes quick work tearing down their encampment. They were travelling light: A canvas tent that barely fit two, bare minimum rations, a single bedroll shared between them since they were never asleep at the same time. Even in the dwindling daylight hours, bandits were a concern for a pair of young men such as themselves.
“The closest settlement—Dunburne—is about an hour northeast of us on the other side of the river,” Glenn says loudly, while he covers the remaining cinders with dirt. “It’s got to be starving by now, and since it seems reluctant to ambush us it’s next best option will be there.”
At least that’s what Glenn had been banking on when they’d finally caught the vampire's scent, and begun tailing it through the woodlands. It was smarter than they’d thought, which almost always meant older. Not that age mattered much to those possessing Kyphon’s blood in their veins. They were made to fell the undead scourge just as much as they were to be The King’s shield. He just wished they’d have selected him a different tracker; one that he could afford to—or at least be indifferent to—losing.
Suppose this was his fathers doing; making sure he didn’t do anything dishonorable and underhanded—like use his partner as a lure. As if he’d ever.
“Sounds good, at least I can take a bath if we’re gonna be stuck out here longer.” Midas slings one of the rucksacks over his shoulder and begins the short walk to where their horses are tied up in a small grassy patch. “You good to get the rest of our stuff?” they call back at Glenn.
“Yeah, I got it!”
The sun’s waned by the time they guide their horses onto the narrow forest path that leads directly to Dunburne. Luckily the woodland in this region is sparse and the full moon penetrates the canopy, illuminating their way. They chat intermittently, but remain alert and guarded. Glenn’s been anticipating an ambush for days now, and this far into the wilds—anything short of the creature keeping a human at its side to feed from—will mean it’s famished.
“Hey Mid—” Glenn trails off, gently tugging his horse's reins so she comes to a stop. “Do you hear that?”
Midas’ mare stops beside his own. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Yeah. Neither do I.” And that’s the problem isn’t it. There should at least be the sound of owls; this far north you’d expect wolves too.
“It’s close then,” Midas whispers, so quietly Glenn can barely hear it.
“Finally,” he mutters, dropping the reins. “Think you can get a general read on where it is?” His hand moved to rest against the pommel of his silver sword.
“Should be able to.” He flings a leg over his horse and effortlessly lands on the ground. Glenn watches Midas like a hawk as they circle the vicinity. They’re looking for signs of movement: boot prints, broken foliage, and sounds. Midas pauses in front of their horses, eyes darting further up the dirt road then back to Glenn. Their nod is nearly imperceptible to even his eyes.
Glenn dismounts quickly, keeping his eyes trained on Midas who’s cautiously trekking ahead, dagger in hand. The moonlight catches its eyes where it stands directly ahead of them. It’s alone, which means its ghouls are lying in wait somewhere nearby.
“My, my, unlike the kingdom to send two children to slay a beast isn’t it?” It sounds Adrestian from the accent, it speaks like it’s of genteel birth.
“His Grace and His Majesty assessed the threat level and determined this was all that would be needed,” Glenn says, stepping ahead of Midas and positioning himself between them and the creature.
Its wheezing laugh releases the sickly sweet smell of death in their direction. “Aren’t you a cocky one, I suppose it cannot be helped when Faerghus has never seen the likes of true vampiric prowess.”
The vampire is toying with them; walking towards them at a human pace. No doubt it’s anticipating making an easy meal out of them. It smiles when it’s almost within arms reach, revealing elongated fangs. Glenn knows it’s wary of him, it can almost certainly see the signs of a trained knight in his carriage and the way he reflexively grips his sword. That means it’ll aim for Midas—which suits Glenn fine, that’s easy enough to work with.
Several beats of silence, and then it moves with agility undetectable to the human eye. Glenn reacts with a trained sluggishness meant to obfuscate a good many truths about himself. Midas stumbles backwards; he takes the creature's bite to his shoulder. It rips itself away nearly as quickly hissing as if it’d touched silver.
He grabs onto his shoulder to stem the bleeding and looks directly at Midas. “You need to leave. It’s going to recall its ghouls.”
“What about you?!” Midas snaps back at him immediately, he’s not in shock at least.
“I’m going to kill it, obviously.”
“The hell you ar—” Glenn cuts him off, stalking forward and pressing his hand over his mouth. Midas lets out a muffled snarl and tries to bite through the blood soaked leather glove.
“Get on your horse.” Glenn says, staring down at his friend. The vampire has begun to recover behind them, they’ve but precious minutes now. “And leave,” he whispers the order, pushing Midas backwards towards where their horses patiently await them.
There’s a flash of confusion across Midas’ face, like they’re facing inner conflict with themself over what they want to do and what they’ve been told to do. Eventually, they grab onto the reins and shoot Glenn a look that almost looks like betrayal—perhaps it is.
“I’ll find and kill you myself if you don’t come back.”
“I wouldn't expect anything else.” They watch each other for a few more seconds before Midas nods and commands his horse to leave. Glenn shouts after him, “and don’t stop until you reach civilization!”
“How chivalric of you, sending your little boyfriend away to safety,” it rasped behind him. “Shame that once I’m done with you—I’ll hunt him down and have my way with him—maybe I’ll make him into a pretty little plaything.”
“I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood the situation,” Glenn says, voice laced with mirth. He turns around to look at the vampire, his eyes reflect the moonlight. “I dismissed him because some secrets can only be shared with the dead.”
Glenn smiles—and it’s all teeth.
Twelve Days.
It’s been twelve Goddess damned days since he’s seen Glenn.
Midas rode back to Fhirdiad alone, every time they considered turning back some niggling feeling demanded they continue going forward. The minute they left their horse with the stable hand Midas demanded an audience with Duke Fraldarius, it was imperative because his son was missing.
His Grace takes the news in stride, Midas finds it bizarre. There's no alarms raised, no fear in the man's eyes as he nods and thanks them for the update. Days pass by, there's no word or sign of Glenn, everyone in the palace is acting completely unsurprised. If he's dead—or worse turned—no one seems to care at all. Life goes on; even in Glenn’s absence.
He finds himself sitting on a bench in the royal guards training hall on the twelfth day. His heel tapping against the stone tile while knights come and go. No one really pays Midas any mind, why would they when he doesn't really belong? Those who do acknowledge him, with curt nods or small smiles; are part of the cohort of knights who knew Glenn and know they're friends.
It’s a weird spot Midas finds himself in, on some primal level there is a desire to grieve; an acceptance of loss. But then it’s juxtaposed by the sheer ambivalence of those around him—as if a man missing for nearly a fortnight is standard fare. Midas wonders briefly how Felix is reacting to this information, surely he’s beside himself, surely he knows this isn’t normal.
A sigh escapes Midas’ lips as they press their fingers against the skin just below their eyes, trying to relieve the pressure that’s building in their head. Regret is a bitter taste, and Midas knows how hard it can be to swallow it down. Maybe he ought to have said something; maybe Glenn would have made a different decision if he’d known. Then again, knowing Glenn, likely not. It’s not like there could ever be more—that he’d ever be theirs. He’d been promised to the Crown Prince from the moment The Queen’s pregnancy had been confirmed. A sacred oath between the eldest Fraldarius son and Blaiddyd’s heir.
They were friends, and it would have to do. Still, Midas wishes he’d chosen to say something different—should those really be his last words to him.
“Hey—Mid!” A hand waves in front of Midas’ face and when they look up they see a lanky redhead with a mop of curls.
“Syl,” Midas says, giving him a fragile smile. “I didn’t know you were in Fhirdiad.”
“Oh yeah, my father had some business with The Duke and The King.”
“Huh, Fe always complains The Margrave never brings you with him when he comes to Fhirdiad, what’s the occasion?"
“Mmmh, just some family stuff,” Sylvain answers with nonchalance, running his fingers through the hair at the base of his neck.
“How is Felix anyway?” Midas asks, hoping he might glean something.
“Felix? He’s the usual—maybe a little agitated he hasn’t been able to spar with Glenn for a month now.”
Midas looks up at Sylvain, assessing him. His body language is neutral; relaxed even. He’s not masking distress as he’s oft to do, it’s as if nothing about Midas returning to Fhirdiad alone is concerning. Midas cannot make heads or tails of it.
“Hey Syl—” he watched the teenager carefully, “—if you knew something that would be important for me to know… you’d tell me right?”
There’s the slightest flicker in Sylvain’s expression when he seems to comprehend what Midas is asking of him. The Glenn of it all; the indifference of his own father to his disappearance. Sylvain’s eyebrows furrow and he’s quiet for a while until he opens his mouth, “Mid…I—”
“Sylvain, Midas. A word, please.” It’s Rodrigue who calls them, his cape billowing behind him as he traverses the length of the training grounds, waving a clear dismissal to all other occupants of the room.
Everyone quickly filters out and once the space is empty sans them an attendant closes the door behind them. Duke Fraldarius remains silent, making some type of passive assessment of Midas and Sylvain. It sounds like he has news.
“Of course Your Grace,” Midas says, his heart fluttering with anticipation, hoping for word of Glenn’s return to Fhirdiad, that they’ve received correspondence, anything.
“The two of you are to depart for Itha posthaste,” Rodrigue says, face impassive. “We’ve located a nest related to the incident in Blaiddyd—it needs to be extinguished, immediately.”
There’s a doublespeak to Rodrigue’s words. A pit forms in Midas’ stomach at the implications. The incident in Blaiddyd is Glenn; who’s still missing. Had he been turned? Surely that can’t be the whole story or the entire kingdom would be on high alert over one of their most accomplished young knights being under the control of a vampire.
“With all due respect Your Grace, do you not think Lord Sylvain is a bit young to be going on such a mission?” Midas asks, looking between Rodrigue and Sylvain in an attempt to get some kind of read on the situation.
“Ah, Midas—I understand your concerns, however we have determined this to be comparable to much of what Sylvain has already experienced up north.” Just like they’d assessed that they only needed Glenn to kill the vampire in the first place.
He knows there must be more to it, yet everyone seems determined to keep Midas in the dark. Midas exhales slowly and nods an affirmative, maybe they can keep Sylvain safe. Because he’s already so very tired of leading people to their demise.
“Nests like this are different you know,” Sylvain says to them—finally breaking the long silence of the full day's travel—when the settlement of Gildas appears on the horizon. The sun’s sinking to the west of them, and when they arrive it’ll be under the cover of darkness.
“Are they?” Midas asks dryly.
“You were tracking a transient; with nests they’re all concentrated into a single location… it gives us the advantage.”
Sylvain sounds awfully cheery for a person about to fight an unknown number of vampires, with only Midas as support. Maybe that’s his lack of survival instinct rearing its ugly head; though he knows Sylvain would never leave Felix like that.
“I don’t understand how you aren’t nervous—the idiot’s been missing for nearly two weeks after being sent to do the same task,” Midas snaps, then clenches his jaw and stares blankly ahead. That isn’t Sylvain’s fault. “Sorry that was uncalled for.”
“Midas—” Sylvain sighs and lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck, “—people aren’t worried because it was… an outcome already planned for.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” Sylvain says, glancing to where Midas is riding beside him. “I promise no one left you in the dark out of spite—there’s just things only certain people are allowed to know.”
“But if he’s not d—” Midas stops themself and swallows thickly, “—then where is he?”
“Still working, I’d assume.”
“I’m going to kill him when I see him.” Sylvain bursts out into laughter.
Gildas is a small settlement, meaning there isn’t a stable hand available this time of day. So while Sylvain boards and tends to their horses; Midas walks the perimeter of the town, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The nest is supposedly in the old discommissioned catacombs. It had two entrances when it was in use: through the church's basement, and a hatch in the cemetery. The former has long been sealed with stone, but the other's only been locked to still allow the caretaker to tend to the nobles interred within.
From a comfortable distance, Midas observes the chapel, constructed of limestone with a simple, white wooden steeple. Nothing about it is unusual or out of place. It’s a small town with a small simple church. A dim light flickers through the windows from the sconces the priests have lit for anyone wishing to engage in evening prayer.
“You don’t look much like a kingdom knight.” The voice comes from behind him to his left. It sounds like a woman, but has the unmistakable rattle of a vampire.
“I’m not,” Midas replies simply. He’s armed, and mostly comfortable with the idea of fending off a single vampire on his own. Besides, Sylvain surely won't be much longer at the stables, and the pathway he’s one is the main thoroughfare to the inn.
“Of course not—” he can smell the sweet decay when the creatures breath ghosts across his cheek, “—it’s your boyfriend that’s the knight, you’re just a tracker.” It chuckles, sending a shiver down Midas’ spine. “I can take you to see him if you’d like,” it murmurs softly against his ear, something about its words are almost enticing.
“I apologize but I must wait for my friend,” Midas answers, watching it in his periphery.
The creature frowns but speaks again, “surely, you wish to be reunited with your beloved,” the vampire's voice has a melodious lilt, it reminds them of the descriptions of a siren's song in the knights tales he’s read.
Midas breath hitches when the puzzle pieces slip together, and they realize what the creature is trying to do. It’s trying to put him under a thrall, and for whatever reason it’s not working.
“…and you know where he is? Where Glenn is?” He asks, deciding to play along and see what the monster does.
“Of course, he’s inside the church—he’s been waiting for you.” It moves with an unnatural gait, taking Midas’ hand in its frigid grasp and leading them towards the church. Midas allows it, and when the creature turns away from him to lead him down the cobblestone pathway to the chapel; he unsheaths the silver dagger inside his coat, and plunges it into the vampire's back. It screeches, inhuman and piercing and lurches away from Midas. There’s a look of confused fury as it stumbles backward clutching the burning wound.
“How?” It hisses, stalking forward. “Humans cannot resist us and very few possess the ability to overpower us—” Midas steps back as it reaches out a clawed hand to grasp onto him, “—no… no, it’s because you’re already under a true thrall.”
The creature tries to close the gap between them, however a gloved hand fists into its hair and yanks it backwards. It lets out another screech when a long silver blade presses against its skin. Midas watches in horrific fascination as it writhes and struggles like a feral animal, pushing the sharpened edge deeper into its neck. Eventually something seems to snap and the creature stiffens and the sword glides through its rotted flesh, severing the head from the body.
Gildas’ streets are deathly silent in the aftermath; the corpse of the creature crashes onto the stone pathway, and the hand holding the head releases it from its grasp.
All Midas can muster the energy to say is, “and to what do I owe the honor, Sir Fraldarius?” It makes Glenn’s lips curve into the shadow of a smile.
Glenn appears exhausted, like he hasn’t eaten or slept in weeks—perhaps that is the case. He flicks the blood off his sword before returning it to the scabbard on his hip and shakes his head with a sigh.
“I’m sorry.” The apology makes the hair on the back of Midas’ neck stand up, sends a chill through his body, apologies from Glenn are few and far between, especially if it was a means to an end.
“Sorry for what?” Midas suspects he already knows.
“Vampires are known to take mates—the creature we were hunting—had one.”
“This one was its mate.” Glenn nods.
“I sent for you to lure it out—” there it was, he’d used Midas as bait the same way he’d used others in the past, “—because it thought you were my—” he pauses, “—because it thought it could put you under a thrall and order you to kill me.”
“…what did it mean when it said I was already under a true thrall?”
“When a human drinks blood from the progenitor vampire's lineage—it thralls them,” he answers, staring off to the side.
“But I haven’t been given any blo—”
He slowly meets Midas gaze, and he whispers softly, “haven’t you?”
Nearly two weeks ago, the hand Glenn had covered his mouth with when he ordered him to leave, had been saturated in his own blood hadn’t it? He’d bit down on the glove; he’d swallowed some. Glenn’s blood had thralled him. Glenn had thralled him. Which meant Glenn was a—
“What the fuck? Who knows?” Midas asks with a hushed tone.
“The King, The Prince, my family, Margrave Gautier, his son—and now you.”
“And here I thought I knew you,” they say with a bitter laugh.
Glenn groans softly, approaching him cautiously, “Mid please, it’s not something people can know about.”
“Don’t do that!” Midas snaps, the unsettling sensation of the thrall runs down their spine.
“Do wh—oh—I can break it for you, come here.” Midas sizes Glenn up for a moment before hesitantly approaching him. They watch him retrieve a long stiletto knife from within his cloak; its silver and bears the Crest of Fraldarius on its forte. “Your left hand, please.”
Midas holds their hand out wordlessly and Glenn brings the dagger to his skin and quickly cuts his palm, making Midas wince. “That’s it?” They ask flatly.
“Yeah… that’s it.” He sighs and tucks the stiletto away, “I really am sorry, you know.”
He gave Glenn a long suffering stare before shaking his head. “So… why exactly did it think I was your mate?”
“What? Where did you get that idea from?” Glenn laughs to mask the sharp exhale.
“That’s what you were saying earlier.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“I’m not an idiot Glenn—assuming I know you—which I thought I did. I heard what you said.” Midas huffs, crossing their arms over their chest and frowning in annoyance.
There’s an answer Midas can’t help but hope for. Something he’d never allow himself to have; something that’s never belonged to him because it was promised to another thirteen years ago. But maybe—just maybe—if the way Glenn's knuckles ghost along Midas’ cheek is anything to go by. Midas could have a piece of it anyway.
“Would it be… alright if we talked about this when we get back to Fhirdiad?” Glenn asks, the pad of his thumb grazing Midas’ face. “Because we should probably reconvene with Sylvain and deal with the rest of that nest, before they find out and we lose the element of surprise.”
“Only if you promise to tell me everything,” Midas mutters, frowning when Glenn pulls his hand away.
“I promise.”
Upon their earlier than expected return to Fhirdiad, Glenn is immediately assigned to the battalion escorting The King and Crown Prince on a diplomatic mission to Duscur.
Glenn never keeps that promise—Midas never learns those secrets.
Instead all that’s left is the familiar bitter taste of regret that things would have been different if Midas hadn’t been in such a rush for answers.
It’s a cruel revelation; hindsight is twenty-twenty.