Chapter Text
It's unfair, really, that despite needing help and even some moral support day to day, Coen is not only deprived of both, but scrambling to provide it for others.
He carries a gnawing, bottomless guilt in him, ever since Alin. And doing something, anything for his mother, for his siblings, for his ever-disappointed father (and oh God, when has Coen not disappointed him?) takes away some of that guilt. Growing up, each new sibling meant a new way to help his family, to make amends, and show that he can be trusted to have responsibility. Even if it meant his crutch wore out quicker than he would have liked and his leg ached not just from the residual pain of being crushed when he was a child, but also from all the stress he'd placed on it.
Pain wasn't anything novel. And Coen wasn't even the only person in Laslea to use a cane to get around, nor was he the only one to go to Anca for any remedy with the slightest chance to soothe his aching bones.
He might have been, to his shame, the first to be excited over the prospect of drinking from the vrakhiri.
And why wouldn't he? He'd seen what it could do. How those 'monsters' had taken Lunka, so sick, on the verge of death, and given her back anew. At the time, Coen couldn't even feel the agony of his leg (it had been hard, almost impossible, running from Skender's men; he still wasn't sure how he'd managed), consumed by an ignited hope so bright and warm it took away all pain, even if for a moment.
Brencis had claimed to be life, to be death, to be everything in between. He'd also promised everything would be different for everyone in the Valley. Was Coen really, truly evil in hoping that would include him and his useless leg, and how much better it could be had it not hurt?
(He didn't even want it back. He just wanted to be useful. To not break everything he touched, cursed as he was).
To most, he knew, mass was agony. God, it was terrifying for his own mother. It meant hours of shakes and nightmares Coen would try to soothe her through, and hours more of staying awake, tending to the frightened children, promising that everything would be alright, that mama would be alright.
But it also meant that just a few days after, Coen would be alright. His leg would be stronger than ever, the pain would be gone, and he'd help more than he ever could. In the fields, out running errands, going to places with uneven ground that on a normal day was an impossibility.
It meant that Coen could sleep without waking up even once from the ever-hovering pain.
Some days are better than others, of course. But they're sometimes worse, too. And even with the healing blood, the good days are on a decline.
Everything comes with a price, Coen knows. Anca needs coin for all her services. The vrakhiri demand blood in exchange for their own. But none, he thinks, is worse than what comes after the dark liquid runs its course.
Those days are…not good days. And they keep. Getting. Worse.
Maybe it's because of how much more he relies on his leg while drunk on the blood. That the damage sustained during it remains. It's his body proving that this is not a permanent cure, only a stronger version of the remedies Anca provides. But how could it be, when Coen feels so alive, so normal when he's drunk that (disgusting, yes) but miraculous liquid?
The bad days are on the rise.
Today is one of those days.
He barely wants to get out of bed when his father comes to wake him up from that horrible nightmare, and he barely wants to do anything when he sends him to cut the wood, try to feed Esme, and then trek the long road to Anca to get mama's medicine. On any other day, before all of this, and maybe on days when his leg was merciful, it would be a pleasant walk. Something to look forward to, especially since Anca waited on the other side.
Today is not one of those days.
"Can Yanna go instead?" he asks, hoping, but anticipating the answer in the way his father's eyes flicker toward him, "I'm sorry, it's just that—"
"Do you really want me to send her, with all those soldiers about?" he asks, and Coen ducks his head. No. No, he doesn't. She's becoming a young woman, and they're not the only ones with eyes that can see that, "No. Be slow, if you will, and don't stop anywhere along the way, but you'll be the one to go."
Coen nods. He leaves without touching his breakfast.
But of course, he can't not stop along the way.
Premysl isn't pleased to see him when Coen comes demanding Gremla's banner. But the two have had a camaraderie that no other villager understands, given both their afflictions, and he gives up his foolhardy mission when Coen asks nicely. He speaks to Crina, watches over Iorgu's son while the man goes off to find his missing pig, and works the fields as much as he can until Gavril returns with a shaky Lazar.
He gets to Anca's a few hours before mass.
"Hot, but not boiling water, and three spoonfuls. Got it," Coen repeats, reading over the written instructions, "Sounds simple enough."
"Yes," Anca says, her usual smile a tad soft as she watches him wince while turning to the door, "You look tired, Coen."
"My leg isn't doing so well," he tells her, hoping she doesn't catch the lie. His leg isn't doing anything, at this point, and it's only the thought of mass, of that sweet, sweet blood, that gets him still moving.
"Anything I can do to help?"
Coen shakes his head, smiling sadly, "I don't think there's anything anyone can do for me, Anca."
She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
So she helps him up the small climb on the road leading home, and promises to see him tonight.
The road is even longer this time.
He pauses a few times to catch his breath, to wait out the ache flaring up and down the limb, but when it becomes clear he'll be late if he continues this way, he pushes through, gritting his teeth and biting his tongue until he tastes copper.
Back home, his father doesn't even have to say anything to admonish Coen about the time. He can see it in his eyes. But he seems to forgive Coen when he works on the recipe, and actually manages to get Esme to drink it with a song, a relic of the past.
"Good," Pieter says, mostly to Esme and the room rather than Coen's starved ears, "Good. She'll get through tonight."
"Yes," Coen says, watching his mother doze off, feeling the urge himself but knowing better than to hope. He'll thankfully get some rest tonight, "You know, dad, if you need to talk—"
Pieter stands up like he's been burnt, and leaves for the hearth, back to Coen as he does whatever he needs to do to avoid talking about himself. Coen nods to himself. He was a fool to think it was possible to pry any vulnerability from his father. Even as a grown son who could be relied on.
Not for the first time, Coen curses all that he is, and all that he could have been.
Thankfully, he doesn't get much time to ponder on it. The bells begin to toll sooner than he would have liked for his mother's sake, but not soon enough considering the ever-growing spasm in his leg.
Pieter can't help but get both him and Esme to the church, but Coen has already fucked up his leg today. What's a few more minutes of walking?
The winter air bites into his skin as they leave their home. Coen huddles into his coat, and winces with every step he takes into the night. He bound his wooden support below the knee tonight because he doesn't see how the crutch alone will support him along the road. But even so, they're one of the last to enter, the guards flanking them from behind, like herding sheep to slaughter.
At least one lamb is happy to be here.
Inside, the only open pews are at the front. Of course they are. No one wants to sit close to them, even though everyone prefers to offer their blood first. The sooner you bleed, the sooner you can go home. Coen doesn't mind the wait. It will give both him and his mother the chance to rest.
And rest he tries to do, until their lords enter. Father Florin goes about his usual speech or about their whereabouts. Coen is a little too distracted by his leg to listen. He massages it harshly, biting his tongue whenever the pain spikes. It doesn't help much, but it's all he has until he can get what he needs.
Thankfully, he's still aware enough to hear the doors opening.
Several footsteps enter the building, one significantly more…expressive, than the others. Around him, Coen's neighbours begin to stand in greeting. Coen tries to do the same, but he is shaky, having exhausted all his reserves, and makes for a sorry sight: hunched over, leaning on a wooden crutch and the pews for support.
Knyaz Brencis' gaze sweeps over him once, swiftly, tainted with recognition, and Coen hangs his head. Nothing good comes from meeting the eyes of a monster.
Father Florin begins to speak again. They all sit down. Brencis cuts a line down his palm, letting it pool into the grail in the father's hand. Coen watches the dark red, almost black, blood trail down skin and then drip, drip, drip wonderfully into the cup, before it disappears behind Florin's lips, tainting them red.
It's time.
The villagers fall into line and one by one, let themselves be bled for the vrakhir and be bled for in return. No one complains; they know better than to, running their tongues over bloodied teeth until they return to looking human.
Nothing about this could be human.
Coen follows his father to the end of the line. Esme's groans and mewls grow the closer they get. Coen tries to help; he does, but by God he's tired, and his words fall on deaf ears.
He can't do anything but watch as Ambrus' arm shoots forward and grasps his mother by the neck, forcing her forward. It's all too fast, over before Coen can say anything to stop them (he can never stop them).
Esme bleeds, and then feeds their masters before Ambrus throws her to the ground. And Coen can only watch as Pieter drops to his knees to help her up, and there is a word, a horrifyingly honest word on Coen's tongue that perfectly captures what these vrakhiri are.
Monster.
It's a word that would get him hurt. More than he already is. More than he can endure. He is a turncoat, he knows, but he's given up all hope of being a man who makes his family proud. He just needs to be good enough. He cannot be good enough if he's dead or non-functional.
All words die in his mouth as Brencis opens his.
"Weak. Thin-blooded."
Coen wonders if he imagines the Knyaz looking directly at him as he says this, lips pulled into a sneer.
"It appears this herd shall soon need culling."
And Coen is weak. If not for being a cripple, then certainly because he is a coward.
Peter settles Esme down on a pew. Anca is beside her, rubbing a hand up and down her back while whispering in her ear. Coen doesn't know when she got there, but he's grateful. Mass isn't over yet.
The blood mass is one of the rare moments where proud men swallow that pride. Pieter is no different, especially with a sick wife and crippled son in the near vicinity. Head bowed to conceal his expression, he steps forward, offering his hand. Florin raises his knife, cutting a deep line down his palm before forcing Brencis' blood down his throat.
All that is left is Coen.
Slowly, he steps forward. There are a few steps leading up to the dais, and that means he has to struggle in front of the whole church, like a spectacle for the masses, as he clambers to reach Florin. But they're all patient. Even though Coen is pretty sure Boyar Bakir would rather do anything else but watch his feeble attempts.
He extends a hand, and Florin cuts it open like the rest, letting his blood mingle with the crowd's in an unholy concoction. Unholy, but not unwholly disgusting. Coen would be a hypocrite to think so. From the corner of his eye, he sees Ambrus' nose flair, eyes narrowing towards him in suspicion.
Father Florin presses the cup against his teeth before Coen can think much of that. The rim is warmed by so many breaths touching upon it, but Coen has yet to say anything, even as the blood whispers sweetly to be had.
"Sire," he says before his cowardice and jackrabbiting heart can get the better of him, making sure to keep his head bowed and his nape exposed. The perfect little lamb, "A moment of your time, I beg of you."
He's too much of a coward to look into Brencis' face, but he takes the prolonged silence as permission. Florin steps back, taking the alluring cup with him.
"You have been kind to me, once. Benevolent to my sister and me when we needed mercy," he looks up slowly as he falls to his knees. His bad leg hurts, sending a sharp jolt up his spine. He mustn't care. He takes a moment to steady himself, swallowing thickly, ignoring how those ever-hungry eyes trail the movement, "My mother…my mother is unwell, as you can see, and I have a sister and brother more to take care of. My father and I would be enough, had I…Had I been healthy."
He touches his bad leg with his hand.
"It is with your b-blood that I find the strength and relief I need," he almost chokes on the words, digging his nails into his leg. If nothing else, the pain is a good reminder of why he needs to go on, why he needs to ask and even beg, if necessary.
He looks up, letting those glowing, ancient eyes pin him down as he whispers, only loud enough for Brencis and his kin to hear, "Please, sire, allow me to a-ask for more."
The words leave his mouth like they're ripped from his tongue. He drops his gaze to the ground again, and tries to imagine his father isn't behind him, staring at his back and wondering just why the fuck his son would be near supplication for the monsters who hurt his wife.
Coen knows he's right. He also knows there's only so long he can live this way before he does something to end it all.
Well. Whatever happens now, even if it ends with today being Coen's last, it would be over. That would be preferable to Brencis refusing. Then Coen would have painted a mark on his back, forever known as a traitor to his own kind, and a failure and shame without compare for his family.
Perhaps all Coen does want is death.
With that in mind, he looks up. His shoulders sag, and he barely has the energy to remain present as he looks up at the one who will determine his fate.
Brencis steps forward. A pin-drop silence shrouds the entire place.
"How old are you, child?" Brencis asks, voice level. His clawed hand reaches out, his old, wrinkled knuckles pressing coolly against the scars under his pale blue eyes — it's not the first time he's done it. But if it means Coen will get what he wants, he's not one to complain.
"18…19 summers?" Coen says, unsure himself. Brencis hums, turning his hand around so he's cupping Coen's face instead, one long nail pressing into the skin under his eye.
"And what can you give me in return for such a boon?"
Coen was expecting this.
He opens his eyes, but makes sure to not look into Brencis'.
"I have no wealth to my name, nor any prospects," he says, and doing so, dips his head as far as it would go. His hair falls down his neck, concealing it, except for a sliver of skin poking through here or there. He takes a deep breath, "I-I have heard you have outlawed drinking directly from humans, my lord."
Brencis hums. Coen doesn't expect him to lift Coen's face, so they're looking at each other again, face to face. Coen continues. They're a private audience now. An alcove away from the rest, even though he knows Pieter and Ambrus especially are watching very, very intently.
"Please allow me to be an exception to that, sire, in return for your generosity."
And then…Brencis does something that has Coen fearing for his life, for a moment, thinking he'd taken things too far.
The Knyaz leans forward until Coen can feel his cold cheek touch his, while he noses the column of Coen's throat without touching it. Vrakhiri don't breathe, but apparently they still can smell, and whatever scent Brencis catches from Coen, it's enough to make him pause.
He pulls back. Coen's skin warms up in his absence.
Standing up, Brencis looks over his people. Oh right. They're still here.
"Return to your homes," he orders, and it's almost comical how quickly they all file out, rushing to escape this nightmare. Coen, braving Brencis' wrath, looks over his shoulder and finds Pieter's wide eyes staring back.
A hand in his hair stops him from lingering too long on his father. Coen looks back at Brencis, but the man's focus is elsewhere, on the knife in his hand. It's still sticky with blood, more than just Coen's, but perhaps he can distinguish something from it that Coen cannot.
Brencis holds out a hand, waiting patiently. Coen flushes when he realises he's supposed to surrender his own.
Once his right hand falls on Brencis', the man cuts a thin, swift line across his palm with a single claw. Coen winces, but it isn't anything worse than the knife. Far gentler than a blind man's efforts, in fact. Together with the rest of the vrakhir, he watches beads of blood rise from the milky skin until a small amount collects by the surface.
Brencis traces a finger through it, then brings his finger to his lips for a taste. He pauses, much like he did when he took a whiff of Coen's scent.
There is something in his expression Coen doesn't like.
"Well?" Ambrus asks, impatiently, and Coen would be shocked at the informality, were he not surrounded by four powerful vrakhir and currently in the Knyaz's hold, being bled, being tasted, "How is it?"
The hand below his curls around his wrist in a strong grip, before Brencis replies, "It's perfect."
Ambrus grins, scars pulling horribly as he does. Coen doesn't understand why he looks so pleased, but he knows it cannot mean anything good. He looks back at Brencis, and the intensity of his expression makes him want to cower.
"I did say he or she was probably from the northern territories, didn't I?" Ambrus goes on, voice smooth and proud. Brencis shakes his head, letting go of Coen's hand. Ambrus catches it before it can fall, and then faster than Coen can blink, presses his tongue against the line of blood there.
Coen's instinct is to flinch and get away from the horribly wrong gesture and the unnatural coldness of the appendage. But Ambrus doesn't let him, holding on with an iron grip until he sucks out all he can from that tiny sliver of skin. Or until Bakir's pestering gets him to stop.
"Yes, yes, many congratulations on your victory," the hulking giant says dryly. Coen would not have expected sarcasm from such a beast of a man, "Now time for me to taste, I think."
"I don't understand," Coen says finally, looking up at Brencis as the two continue to bicker. In an odd turn of events, Brencis (and maybe Xanthe, God forbid) seems to be the only sane one remaining. Coen did not like the implication of that one bit.
"All you need to know, my little Pearl," Ambrus drawls, ending his argument with Bakir. Hovering beside Coen, he trails a hand up from his shoulder blades to curl into the back of his neck, feeling the pulse jolt beneath his fingers, if it was even possible for Coen's heart to thrum any faster, "That you'll never have to worry about that pesky little leg of yours ever again. Or much else, for that matter."
"I—"
"I accept your proposal, Coen," Brencis cuts in, hands behind his back as he stares him down. His commanding voice forces them all, including Bakir, to snap to attention, "Your blood, in return for mine."
The relief that floods him is instant, and so much more wonderful than he could have imagined.
He heaves a deep, great breath, hunching forward because of how much his shoulders slump, now that he's not held up by the terrifying ordeal of talking to them, making such a request.
"Thank you," he says reverently, at the shrine of God but uncaring about his blasphemy. He hopes Brencis can understand how much it means to him. How profoundly life-changing it is, "T-thank you, sire. I am eternally grateful."
Brencis nods like he knows this already. He turns to the dais, and lifts the goblet Father Florin had left behind, holding it out for Coen to drink.
Coen does.
When Brencis lowers the cup, Coen, having drunk till the last drop, feels like waking to a new, better age.
And then, Brencis takes it all away.
"You have an hour to bid your family goodbye, if you wish."
Coen blinks, "…I'm sorry?"
"Rest assured, they will receive a stipend in return for your services. More than enough, in fact, to compensate for the loss of a son."
Not for the first time that night, Coen says, but this time far more desperately, "I don't understand."
The group stares at Coen, expressions blank, until Ambrus makes a noise of understanding, clapping his hands.
"Oh, Coen," he says, almost cooing, tilting his head as though he were observing an infant stumbling on its feet, "Little Pearl…Did you think you would get to stay in this shithole?"
Understanding dawns on Brencis, as dread dawns on Coen.
"Oh no no no…" Ambrus says, grinning too wide, looking too inhumane, "You'll be coming with us, I'm glad to say. Where you'll be put to some actual use."
"I didn't—" he scrambles to say, and suddenly finds that the nerves he'd felt before speaking to Brencis were nothing, nothing, compared to the terror filling him now, "That's not—"
"If you refuse now, I will take back my offer of compensation," Brencis says coolly, narrowing his eyes, "Your family would be left penniless, as well as without a son."
This wasn't what he wanted.
This was annihilation, when one wanted death. A forest fire when a small hearth was all that was needed.
This wasn't what he wanted!
He looks behind his shoulder, again, to the empty church, and wonders what is worse: saying goodbye knowing it would be the last, or leaving now to spare them all the pain?
"Will I ever come back?"
Ambrus scoffs, muttering, greedy, greedy. Coen feels his cheeks flush, but he looks up at Brencis anyway. The Knyaz has the final say, after all.
"Perhaps," Brencis says after a moment's consideration, "I'll take it into consideration, if you manage to please me."
Coen hangs his head as he says, "I would like to say goodbye, my Lord."
"Ambrus—"
"Of course," he cuts off his master, stepping forward. He helps Coen to his feet, and not for the first time, Coen is taken aback by the sheer strength they possess, "We shall be at the gates within the hour."
And then they're gone. Ambrus slips Coen's arm into his, as though they're two friends out on a stroll. The path is obscure in the dark, but those vrakhir eyes must have some use other than terrifying onlookers, because Ambrus leads them without a hitch.
Coen presses his lips together, weighing the words in his mind, before he asks, "Do you know me, sir?"
Ambrus chuckles, "Why of course I do. You're the poor whelp who Skender was going to off, had we not been there. Hard to forget the dawn —well, dusk— of my reign."
But that's not what Coen meant. Ambrus knew that too. Surely he must. Coen can't see much in the dark, but he still has his ears, and Ambrus is smiling wide as he speaks, on the verge of laughter. He wants Coen to ask. And Coen does.
"You mentioned…" he licks his lip, trying to find the right words, "You called me a pearl in the church. I don't understand."
"Yes, that seems to be a common theme with you, I'm afraid," Ambrus sighs, and if Coen wasn't linking arms with the man (or if the man in question wasn't actually a monster), he's sure there would be another outcome to this, one where Ambrus received a lovely punch to the jaw, "I am in charge of blood distribution in the Valley, as you might have known."
Somewhat.
"Blood is much like wine…The region, the climate, and variety all contribute to the taste. And I am a man of taste," he stops for a moment by a great oak tree, as he says this, quietly, like he's afraid others will hear, "I diversified my deliveries. If that oaf Bakir received a barrel from the east one month, he'd get one from the west the next. And so on, for each of my comrades."
Coen nods. He doesn't know why they need to stop to talk about this, or why Ambrus needs to lift a hand to his jaw.
"It's not easy to distinguish between all of them, of course, but there is character," Ambrus pushes forward until Coen's back hits the tree, and not for the last time that night, his heart jumps to his throat, "And we've noticed a certain, precious tone in those barrels. Something oh so sweet and replenishing. Despite being mingled so with the rest of the unsavoury lot."
He grins. Coen can see the moonlight reflecting off the sharp points, "I dubbed that taste Pearl. It would have been impossible to find out who this lovely aroma belonged to, though I did guess the general location. Aren't we lucky you were kind enough to let yourself be known?"
"You could taste it?" Coen asks, incredulous, that would be like… "That's like finding a dropped pebble in a lake."
Ambrus hums. His clawed hand reaches up, tracing the skin beside the collar of his tunic with a sharp nail, so gentle that Coen barely feels it there, "Are you impressed?"
Terrified is a far more appropriate term. Coen nods anyway, and Ambrus' grin widens.
"Very good," he purrs, and oh God, he's close now, close enough that Coen can feel the cool of his skin against his precious enough, close enough that, had Ambrus wanted, he could rip his muscles to shreds and chew on the bones, "I feel rather lucky tonight. You should, too. It is truly as if fate personally wove you into our tapestry."
"What makes you say that?" Coen asks, taking a sharp breath when a fang catches on his skin, not bleeding (not yet), but making itself known. Coen wonders if it's possible to feel the hunger of a vrakhir in the way their teeth pulse, and wonders what the fuck he's feeling if it isn't.
"You were our first witness, if you remember," Ambrus says, pulling back so he wouldn't nick Coen, but not far enough, almost hiding his hair in the dark curls falling down Coen's shoulders, "When emerged from the shadows and felled that fool, Skender. And now? You also happen to be the one haunting my taste buds all these months. Hm. Brencis always told me Fortune never smiled on our kind. Perhaps She's changed her mind, after all."
There's a bite, then, so small Coen might have missed it if he weren't so aware of everything around him. He can't help the whimper that leaves his mouth as Ambrus presses his cold, dry tongue against the small incision by his collarbone, lapping at the blood until it stops, whispering all the while between swallows, "Shh, shh. You're alright."
Coen closes his eyes; lets Ambrus have his moment, even though it hurts and aches to be drunk from so intimately, and though he's anxious to not waste the meagre hour he has and get home already.
As if hearing his inner thoughts, Ambrus pulls away. His eyes, always so bright in an otherworldly light, stare at him, unblinking, tongue running over bloodied teeth. Coen makes the first move. Slowly, he pushes away from the tree and begins to walk home. There's not much time left, and though Coen trusts Brencis to keep his word about allowing a visit, he also knows the promise was left purposefully vague. Who can tell when he'd be able to see any of them again?
And who can tell him why, deep down, it didn't feel like the worst thing in the world, to be taken away?
Stopping him mid–step, Ambrus turns them around, linking their arms again.
"It's this way," he tells him, amused but not cruel. It still makes the tips of Coen's ears burn, under his hair.
So much so he forgets to ask how Ambrus how he knows where his family home is.