Work Text:
Prompt: blood drinking
In the haste to disembark at the station, one of those small provincial stops where there’s only a platform in the middle of the wilderness with a splintery bench and a little kiosk with a grumpy station attendant where the train slows to a crawl but doesn’t precisely stop, Hange left the briefcase with their research notes and their letter of introduction from the university on the luggage rack, and so it was with a sour mood that they stalked out into the dark of the rural night in search of their contact.
There was nobody about in the dark, moonless night, and very quickly the train thundered away around a bend in the track, leaving them alone surrounded by the howling of the wind through the trees and over the mountainous countryside. No lamp burnt in the station, and the only light came from the stars. Hange blinked and retrieved an electric torch from the depths of their coat pocket. Following the torch beam, they made their way out to the road, a bleak stretch of newly paved tarmac winding through the forest in one direction, while in the other the lights of a village twinkled, and as if on cue, the church bells rang out for compline. Hange paused in the road, considering the comfort of the village where an inn awaited, with a hot meal and a warm bed. Just as they were turning towards the welcoming streetlamps and the softly lit windows all aglow in the winter evening, there was the sharp whinny of a horse and the crunch of wheels on the road.
“Professor Zoe!” A little man leapt down from a hulking black carriage pulled by two spirited geldings and jerked open the door, indicating that Hange should climb in and sit on the worn velvet cushions.
“Did Mr Smith send you? In our correspondence it was agreed I should arrive on the evening train, but when I disembarked I found the station at Shiganshina quite desolate and abandoned. I thought, perhaps, I had been forgotten.”
The man scoffed. “Yeah, Erwin sent me. Getting down the mountain’s a real bitch. Get in, Professor.”
Then he climbed up into the driver's seat most adroitly and took up the reins, leaving Hange to toss in their duffle bag and scramble into the ornate carriage without assistance. The way up the mountainside and away from the village and the train station and all the accoutrements of modernity was obscured by the blackness of the new moon, and the thick foliage that pressed against the carriage windows, branches scraping and snapping as the horses trudged up and up an incredible incline. At last the carriage stopped and the curious little man swung open the door, peering at Hange with quicksilver eyes.
“You coming or what, Professor?”
Vervary Castle, recently purchased by Mr Erwin Smith with a fortune acquired through prudent investments made during a long and decorated career in the Survey Corps, loomed over the forested landscape; the gothic battlements were lit by torches, and the soft glow of electric light came from an upper window. The attendant waved Hange through the wide cobblestone courtyard and through a tall wooden door upon which a carved snake twisted around the tree of knowledge. The interior was draughty and dim. They passed through a great hall with a cold hearth and down a long corridor and up a winding stair, leaving Hange disoriented and rather lost, until the man stopped abruptly and pushed open a heavy wooden door, revealing a library full of the beloved smell of old leather and ink, with a plush carpet and a crackling fire and Erwin Smith himself seated before it in a Morris chair with an air of grandeur as if it were a throne.
“Erwin, we’re back. Shiganshina was shitty as ever,” the servant muttered.
Erwin smiled indulgently. He looked every bit the lord of the manor in a tweed suit and tall leather boots; his hair shone golden in the firelight, which threw shadows across his stern face and highlighted the prominence of his aquiline nose.
“Good evening, Professor, I have been anticipating your arrival. Levi, see to the horses.”
Levi scoffed again and slunk away, vanishing into the shadows.
“Your servant has a funny manner,” Hange observed.
“Levi's not my servant. He's my companion. Now, please, take a seat. I hope you're not too fatigued from your journey. From our correspondence, I know you're eager to begin your research. Would you like to see the manuscript tonight?”
Hange's fingers twitched with anticipation. “It would be my greatest pleasure, Mr Smith. Once more, let me extend my sincerest gratitude for your invitation.”
“Do you really think you can translate it? As you know, I have had it inspected by several scholars from the Academy at Mitras, and none could make sense of it.”
“I’ve spent my entire career expanding our knowledge of the Old Eldian lexicon. Searching for previously lost texts. Transcribing the grammar. It's not a boast when I say that if anyone can do it, it's me.”
Erwin rose and bade Hange to follow him into a smaller room off the library, with mullioned windows looking out on the sylvan countryside. There was a rosewood desk and a low fire burning behind a grate. In the centre of the desk was a book cradle with a bejewelled book lying on it under the yellow light of an electric lamp.
Hange gasped, their glee bursting forth unrestrained. They glanced at Erwin Smith, abashed, but he gave them the same indulgent smile he had bestowed upon Levi.
“The Ymir Cycle, it's supposed to reveal the secrets of Eldia,” he said.
Leaning forward, his fingers brushing theirs, he turned to a page, illustrated in the vibrant hues so common in Eldian manuscripts. A robed figure stood on a pile of bones, holding a cup brimming with blood. His eye gleamed with unbridled hunger.
“Are the tales true? Cannibalism? Blood drinking? Strange and powerful rites? They say the ancient Eldians could harness an unnatural power. That their empire was fuelled by blood and magic.”
“Mr Smith,” Hange hissed, not bothering to conceal their irritation. “I want to remind you that I am a historian and archivist; I seek knowledge and to catalogue the culture and history of Old Eldia. I'm not a mage or a necromancer; those myths are the superstitions of an ancient people who had a primitive understanding of the natural world and used myth and ritual to make sense of it.”
What did it matter if Smith was just another rich collector with deranged notions of the mystic power of Old Eldia, seduced by old wives’ tales and bedtime stories? What mattered was the chance to translate the manuscript, and if this man wanted to play at being a feudal Eldian lord and imagine he could harness some mythic power for himself, they weren't going to play into the delusion.
He gave Hange a rakish grin. His fingers, blunt and calloused, stroked Hange’s knuckles. They ignored the jolt of excitement that ran up their arm and up the back of their neck at the bold impropriety.
“Of course, Professor, you're quite right. I’ll leave you to get acquainted with the manuscript.”