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He was cold.
He shouldn’t have been, it didn’t make sense. He was in Hell, fiery for eternity. Heat was in the air, ash and fire being the only scent for miles. Killian wasn’t sure if he recalled anything else after so long. He should be warm. Vampirism, however, seemed to defy any kind of bodily science.
He lay beside a fire, this one of his own making, his arms around himself, his body curled in a fetal position. The vast crimson of both the sky above and ground beneath him were a blur. What his eyes, whatever color they were now, were focused on was the yellow glow of the blaze. The light it produced was intense, yet to Killian, it was the gentlest thing in the universe.
His cloak, tattered and ripped, draped over his body. The dark red reminded him of his house, of his family, of home. Long had it been since he’d been there. Had it been five years? Ten? After he’s been sent down here, down to Hell itself, on a holy crusade, time had quickly become impossible to tell.
Killian brought an armored hand to his face, first brushing away a ribbon of mussed hair. It was the color of a sun he kept on his mind consistently.
He began to think about the sun. The sky. The air, not diluted with smoke, but fresh and clean. He thought of home. Was anyone alive? We’re they unharmed if they were? It was foolish to think such things, rarely do humans survive dragon’s fire, but foolish dreaming was all he had.
Adelaide and Autumn came into mind. His sisters, the twin girls he was tasked with playing surrogate mother, and later father, for. He cares deeply for them both, he did. Far too much, in fact. He was quite a worrier back then, always fussing, even nagging. They were his world, and he kept them that way. He kept them.
His thoughts wandered deeper as he settled further, his body relaxing at last. He remembered Calliope, his fiancée and one of his closest friends. He loved her, he thought, or at least tried to.
He remembered his uncle, Augustine, the man who raised him after his parents’ passing. He hoped he was safe, wherever he was. It was all he could do now.
Killian remembered the church, his brothers and sisters in arms, his captain, his queen. And he remembered Vedette.
Vedette.
The name sent a fondness so sweet and so strong he felt a physical surge. Killian let his focus on his surroundings fade out, and his mind soon got lost in itself.
All he could see were a cascade of dark curls, never brushed. He could hear a laugh, strong and hearty, infectious, warm. He could feel a strong arm come around his shoulders, powerful, yet infinitely gentle. Wether it be in joy or hardship, it was always there.
His mind went back years, to a night when they lay in a field of grass. They should have been at a briefing, discussing tactics and war, but bloodshed at taken its toll on them both. A night for just the two of them was in order.
Vedette had been sprawled out in the grass, her hair wild in the green. Her head rested in his lap, her eyes closed, and a look of profound content resided on her face. She was rambling about everything and nothing at once. It wasn’t anything important, yet he could listen for hours. And he would. He’d ask her questions just her hear her voice. He loved hearing her speak.
The stars, he recalled, were especially beautiful that night, though he wasn’t sure why.
“Vedette?” He began, a bit hesitant. Nervous. Afraid?
“What’s up, Addy?” She answered, not opening her eyes.
“I…do you think I would make a good man?” He asks. He suddenly isn’t sure why he said that. He feels naked.
Vedette was silent for a moment, and Killian began to expect the worst. But then she raised her hand, took his where it rested near her forehead, and held it firmly. She smiled.
“You’d make a damn good one, Adds. A damn good one.”
In the present, Killian’s body was on Hell, but his mind was far away. His eyes were wet, and his lips were curved into a smile. He could taste salt.
He was warm.