Arran Mordecai

Fire crackled in the hearth, heat snapping the logs in into dust as the glow reached out to caress her in her seat. She was as unaffected by the warmth as she was by the cold, indifferent to clash of temperatures while thoughts raced and jumbled and clamored in her mind. There was a book in her lap that she hadn’t even bothered to open. Delicate fingers traced absent lines over the embossed cover as she stared blindly into the flames. 

An irregular rhythm had taken hold of her heartbeat. The muscle was rattling incohesively in her rib cage, thrashing against its prison of flesh and bone with a feeling she could only identify as apprehension. What would happen now that Arran was fed, healed, and bathed? She could not bear to lose her son, not in any sense, but also recognized that it wasn’t her decision to make. 

With barely two centuries to his name, he was still a newling, a child. Her child. Could she stand aside and allow herself to be discarded by him? If it was what he wanted, could Amory watch as he walked away from the love and protection that she and Hadrian were so desperate to give him?

No.  

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not now, not in a hundred or a thousand years. He was her son whether he liked it or not. Arran could run to the end of the earth, as far and as fast as he wanted to, but he would never be able to outrun that singular truth. He was her son, and she would never let him go. 

Time drifted past unawares. For minutes or hours all Amory did was stare into the fire and fight back her fear that she was already too late. The thought that Arran had already made up his mind was one that churned her stomach with nausea. It filled her with dread. Her songbird was stubborn. Once his mind was made there was nothing to be done to change it again. 

An ear pricked at the sound of the door pushing open, followed by soft, graceful footsteps. Not moments later there was a rap on the study door and Amory turned her face only slightly to answer the inquiring beat. “Come in,” she called quietly, knowing he would be able to hear the words even if she had whispered them. The study door swept in with a soft creak and Amory didn’t turn to watch him as he entered. 

Arran’s gaze was down cast as he took his place in front of her as a servant might, waiting for direction or instruction, anticipating a punishment that would never come. For several long moments all Amory did was stare at him. It was all she could do, ignoring her wariness for the wave of relief that washed over her. 

He was upright. He was clean and he was healed, her blood having worked more efficiently than any balm or salve. Dressed in fresh, white garb, her son appeared as an angel before her. A comparison that might have pulled a fiendish smirk to her lips, were the circumstances different than what they currently were. 

“Yes,” she finally responded to his desire to discuss his position within their family. Amory placed her unread book atop the table beside her seat, and smoothed out the skirts of her robe before pushing herself from the chair. As she strode toward the fireplace, to claim the space beside where Arran stood at attention, she stared into the crackling fire. Not looking away from the dancing flames, she agreed, “It’s time you understood your position in this house, Arran.” 

Amory held her hand, wringing her fingers a bit as she continued to stare into the flame, not seeing the fire while inserting, “For you to understand I must tell you something that I should have told you long ago.” She looked away from the fire’s rapturous flicker and sway to stare sidelong at her son beside her. “All this time you have yet to realize what it is you mean to your father and I, and it is because I have kept a truth from you, my beautiful songbird.”  

In spite of her vow to herself to not touch him until her story was told, Amory reached up to caress knuckles onto Arran’s cheek. Her gentle touch followed the strong line of his jaw and she stared woefully at his beautiful face for a moment before pulling away again. Her words sat heavy on her heart, pulling it down into her belly as though they were a lead chain secured to a heavy stone, tossed into the black of a bottomless lake. 

“I had a son once,” she stated abruptly, forcing the words from her mouth and her heart so the truth could spill into the world to be examined by them both. Still not looking at Arran, Amory muttered and amending, “Decades before you were born I was meant to have a son, but I… he…” Her voice caught in her throat and she scrubbed the pad of her thumb into the top of her palm. 

Shaking her head, she forced a breath to steel her resolve. The story was started, now it must be finished. Arran needed to know, he needed to understand. She needed him to understand, not just for her sake but for Hadrian’s as well. 

Quietly, but not weakly, Amory explained, “Hadrian and I had been trying to conceive for nearly two centuries. As you know, infertility is the curse of our kind. A turned vampire will never produce young, born vampires are rarely an exception. Hades and I, we both hail from old bloodlines. The oldest recorded. There are few with blood purer than we.” 

She stared down at her hand, her thumb still rubbing aimlessly at her heart line. “We knew it would be difficult. Breeding between vampires always is. But we could do it. If we just kept trying… I wanted so badly to give him a son.” The tears had snuck up on her, pricking at her eyes and sinuses in a surprise attack she had not prepared defences against. 

When a tear rolled from the length of her nose and fell into her palm, Amory quickly sniffed the rest back and wiped the bead of moisture from her hand. She cleared her throat, loosening the tension, before speaking again. “We nearly gave up hope when I learned I was with child.” Something of a smile surfaced to her lips at the memory of that discovery. “You cannot imagine the joy I felt, the dreams I had, the plans I made.”

Amory’s smile fell away. Another tear dropped. This time Amory caught it before it could stream down her cheek. Discretely dabbing her face dry, her story continued. “I lost the babe. It is far from uncommon, especially with our kind. Every moment from conception to birth is a danger to both babe and mother alike, but I had thought… our bloodline is so old, our blood so pure… Surely…” She shook her head and shut her eyes, the smile on her lips a miserable thing as silent tears broke through her lashes to slash down her cheeks. “Five months into the pregnancy and an agonizing pain in my middle woke me from the dead of sleep to discover bloodied and ruined sheets.”

Wiping at a cheek, she couldn’t allow herself to stop. Not yet. No matter how painful the memory was, it was more important that Arran understand. “I still had to birth him, you see. Knowing that he was dead in my womb, and that he would soon be dead in my arms, I still had to push him from my body.” Amory stared down at her hands, blurred by a wall of tears, as her mind filled her palms with that bloody little thing that never got to so much as cry. A sob broke loose with a tight, “He was so tiny. So impossibly tiny. Adon. We were to name him Adon.”

With a shuddering breath, Amory wiped her face clean of the tears she’d allowed to run free before straightening her spine. She peered up at the tall portrait that stood vigil over the fireplace, not seeing the painting but hoping gravity would ally her in keeping her tears in check. A moment was stolen to level her breathing and calm her heartbeat. She struggled to gather herself once more. 

Though not done with her story, Amory could not break the silence she’d fallen into just yet. She could not trust her voice to not crack under the phantom pain of that night centuries ago. The silence held for a moment too long.

His steps towards Amory’s chamber were slow, heavy and from elegant. Even if he was dressed the part it seemed showing it in his movement was still beyond him. Though it was an improvement, before his bath he’d been barely able to hold himself upright without legs trembling akin to those of a new-born doe... New-born. The term along made him grit his teeth and pause between steps.

The pause caused him to reach a hand out and grip the wall, slumping against it for a few moments. If he listened hard enough, beyond the crackling of fires and the muted voices of those still awake he could hear it, a fine, light breathing that was just a touch quicker than all others within the estate. It was a necessary action, not one brought about by habit. That tiny, light breathing... it had destroyed his life.

What kind of existence would he have now? Even when he was a human he may have been powerless, but legitimate. Now... here he’d be a ward at best, a weaker, unnecessary position that could (and was) so easily discarded to the way-side.

Not, enough.

His fingers curled, leaving tiny dents in the wood before he withdrew the hand and slumped a shoulder against the wood instead, eyes closing from fatigue and misery. Childish though the sentiment was, it wasn’t fair! Had he not been a good enough ward?

He must’ve been complacent, been lacking in his progress, failing in his training and in his position. So his parents... his sires, had gone and created a new life that would in turn snuff his out. Would this new life be worth living? Yes... Anything would be better than the heat of that accursed sun; anything was better than death.

So he continued on, down the corridor on shaky legs that hit the floor clumsily until he reached a door that months ago he wouldn’t have hesitated to simply knock once and walk in. Now he knocked and waited, a lower position needed permission and he was given it. He pushed the heavy (to him) door open and stepped inside, closing it behind him and hanging his head when Amory didn’t even turn to acknowledge him.  

The silence was oppressive. If not for the crackling of the fire he felt as though he might go mad and break the damnable quiet. But that wasn’t his place anymore. A ward could speak first, talk as though to family yet he was less than that now, to speak out first would be an act of rudeness; he couldn’t bare to make his punishment any worse.

At least he was somewhat presentable now. These clothes, they’d been a gift for his last birthday. He’d thought it somewhat funny they still celebrated such events when they lived so long but now... he lamented that he’d unlikely to receive such gifts again. He’d instead need to rely on the joke behind them, playing at innocence.  

His gaze lifted slightly at her single-word response. He saw her move the book and refused to raise his gaze any higher, it wouldn’t be seemly. Instead he followed her movements towards the crackling fire and waited for her to continue, burning with trepidation as he was, Arran wouldn’t allow himself to act in such a manner. When Amory finally did speak, he swallowed and nodded his head slightly, curiosity kindling at her words, a secret? Had they planned to be rid of him all along!? “Yes, Amory.”

Unable to help himself, he rose his tired eyes just enough to take in more of her frame, noting, perhaps for the first that, a sense of ill-ease within Amory. The way she moved her fingers and continued to look away from him. As she turned to look at him his gaze once again dropped; the nickname she spoke so easily making his shoulder’s rise just so. It had once symbolised his position as their son, as a favourite, now it only held echos of such privilege, it hurt to hear.

He didn’t move as her hand rose to touch him, the softness of the gesture causing him to lean in, just slightly, before he forced himself away, such feelings would be rarer now, he couldn’t treat them as though they’d be so common anymore. Only when she turned away from him once more did he raise his eyes a little more to see her better, forcing fatigue away out of curiosity and trepidation to hear what she had to say.

He couldn’t hold in the small gasp her words caused; his mind began to twist and swirl around the information, what it meant, all the experiences it showed in a new light, why had she- no. He forced the questions down and continued to listen; she wouldn’t tell him something so personal (and tragic) without good reason. And if it was related to his own place here... Well, already ideas formed.

He knew. He’d asked why there were no children within the estate a few weeks into his new life and been told the curse of their kind, it hadn’t bothered him to know he’d not have a child, it had never been at the forethought of his desires.

Their place within the vampire community, the hierarchy they held, he knew too, it had been a point of pride for him to be chosen by two of such standing. But... Knowing they’d tried so hard to have a child of their own, a true heir... He’d been a replacement before he knew. They’d always wanted a child, he’d simply been a last resort.  

It was natural, the bloodline, the lineage, the next generation. Family, to continue it was what they existed for. His human father had always talked with pride about how so many sons ensured his future, that he had done his work. It hurt Amory so to be lacking a son, an heir. His small looks caught the tears... he’d never seen her cry before this eve.

She’d always been a creature he’d thought incapable of it, not out of a cold heart, just out of strength. Her, Hadrian, they were ancient, what could hurt them now? This. A child. What he was a substitute for. “I understand.” he said softy, pausing a second, hoping his words were acceptable, “A child is what all wish for.” Save himself it seemed. Perhaps that was one more failing. One more defect within him.

He’d assumed the child was no more, whether through tragedy or accident Arran now knew. Miscarriage. It wasn’t uncommon, even amongst humans, but he felt for her, truly he did. To loose the place he had here was awful, but he loved Amory, seeing her in pain made his chest tight. He wanted to comfort her... But it wasn’t his place. And what could he do? A failure, a substitute such as him. “It’s a strong name; he’d have born it well, Amory.” He said quietly, eyes looking mournfully to the floor. He’d have given up all this to give her her Adon back, after all, he couldn’t miss what he’d never had. He’d have remained a sixth-born son, damned to obscurity. But she’d have had what she wanted, a true son.

He swallowed, the pain in her story so piercing his hands twitched with a desire and punishment or not he could hold back no longer. Taking a step he placed a hand upon her shoulder and ducked his head, as though afraid of recompense, before licking his lips, “I...I cannot imagine.” his soft voice almost beaten out by the crackling of the fire. “A mans burdens are nothing to those a woman must endure.” They seemed uselessly formal words to speak but what could he say? He’d never understand that pain; even if he now understood why she’d do desperately wanted a surrogate. A substitute.  

“And... I understand. You wanted a child. Your own child, long before I was within this world.” he let out a shaky breath, “And when you thought it beyond you, you saw a being who needed you and you could need in return. You’ve been nothing but good to me, you and Hadrian. I’ve had a life I never dreamed I could have. And I understand it has to end.” His hand slipped from her.

A reassurance was born with a thought and died at the tip of her tongue. Amory wanted to argue that it was his place to question the gods. It was all of their place to scream and rail at forces that demanded their reverence, when so little was offered in return. None of which found voice as she held Arran to her, kissing the top of his head while the hand cupping his cheek thumbed soft, unblemished skin and the other rubbed soothing circles into his back. 

He returned her every touch. Hands much larger than her own rubbed at her arms. Thickly muscled arms encircled her and clung with a force that would have broken a mortal in two. Arran –her sweet, beautiful, thoughtful songbird– was lost. With Thalia murdered and Bran gone to whatever hell his grief had taken him to, it was not the gods that Arran needed. What did any of their wisdom or power matter in wake of what they had lost, when that wisdom and power hadn’t prevented their loss to begin with?

The truth was that her son would find as little comfort in her reassurances as he would in the gods themselves. The faith he’d been born into had been one he’d grown out of. Blessedly so, all things considered. But Arran did not need the gods, not as Amory did. What he needed was his family, his mother, and she would sooner cut out her own heart than let him endure this agony alone. 

“Does it matter?” murmured Amory in turn. Though hardly a time for a philosophical debate, she didn’t bite her tongue and allow his question to pass unanswered. Did the gods care? She believed they did, Amory’s faith offered a rather illogical kind of comfort, but he couldn’t find comfort in her faith when he had none of his own. 

So, holding him tighter, she mused, “Will the answer change anything? If I say yes Thalia will still be dead and Bran will still be gone and we will still be miserable because, regardless of the gods and whether they or not they care, nothing has changed.” A fact she hated most of all. 

As she bit down on her molars, Amory cursed the Accords. That blood pact she’d conscripted herself to, that she and Hades had conscripted them all to, were shackles. If not for that enchanted parchment and her oath to uphold it, she wouldn’t be a poltergeist in her own manse, haunting the halls and raging for the chance to bleed out and disembowel those responsible for this tragedy. She had never been a woman of inaction. That all she could do now was comfort to her coven filled Amory with a dissatisfied restlessness she couldn’t shake. 

Until now. Until it was Arran that needed comfort after days and days of being the backbone that his name demanded him to be. It was no easy task to bear the surname they’d placed upon his brow like a crown his human life would have denied him. He was a Mordecai, and that meant being a source of strength when there was none to be found. It demanded bravery, courage, selflessness, and it was a crown that Arran wore best of all. 

He was everything they’d ever expected him to be, and so much more. But not even Arran could be all things at all times. He had to denudate the amour he wore or it would crush him, as it was now. Though none would judge him for the cracks in his facade, it was best that he relinquish the role of “unshakable obelisk” to her, here in the privacy of his music room; with none but the gods as witness. She would take care of him, as she always did. As she always would. 

Arran needed this moment of privacy and weakness. He needed allow her to carry the weight he so effortlessly volunteered unto strong, wide set shoulders. Nearly as much as she did. Because if Amory couldn’t scour the streets for Thalia’s murderer, then holding her family close was as near to useful as she’d feel until answers and justice were found.        

She didn’t speak as Arran finally unloaded his every frustration, his grief and disgust in fate’s cruelty. Amory pulled his face from the round of her shoulder and held him in front of her. She stared into his silvery eyes, lids rimmed with red from the force of his restraint. He was safe to fall apart, and still he resisted. Because he was her son, hers and Hadrian’s, and she’d never met a more stubborn pair than the both of them. 

Well… other than their children. 

Not daring to interrupt his furious rant on the stupidity of his wishful thinking, Amory grit her teeth. Her nostrils flared as she felt the sting of emotion prick at her sinuses, pokers jabbing glowing points into the backs of her eyes. Moisture gathered before her vision but she willed them back, not allowing a single tear to dive from her lashes to race for her jaw. She had had her moment, to scream and cry and curse the gods. She had had her moment, and Hades had carried her through her pain until it she could shoulder it with the grace required of her. 

Now she would do the same for Arran. He had been graceful. He had been selfless. He had been dutiful beyond reproach. The time had come for him to be weak, for him to let go and let her carry the weight of it all for a while. 

Still holding his face between her hands, her thumbs swiped the moisture from under his eyes, the few tears that managed to escape his mulish hold. Amory shook her head in a gentle side to side. “There’s nothing you can do, Arran,” she whispered to him, as quiet and tender and loving as her caress on his face. “Not right now. Not like this. You’ve spent so long reminding others how to swim, you’ve allowed yourself to drown.”

Adjusting her hold on her face so that he could meet her gaze with those bleary, bloodshot eyes, Amory murmured, “It’s your turn.”

Of course it wouldn’t be so easy as her commanding him to let the dam break and himself fall apart. He was her son. He was a fighter, especially when that fight was against himself. A hundred things would come before him, countless details he declared more important. 

Freyja was important. Not more important, but equally so. Amory hadn’t forgotten the girl, would never forget the girl. So she answered with the truth. “We can’t ever replace them, Arran. I’m not suggesting that we even try. But we are her family. We’ll be there for her, protect her, support her, just as Thalia and Bran would’ve wanted us to.” Amory stared deep into her son’s devastatingly beautiful blue eyes and bore her own certainty into their locked gazes. “She will recover from this. We all will. We just have to feel it first.”

Stop fighting, Arran, she said without words, with her touch and the kiss to his brow and how she pulled him into her again. Amory wrapped him up in her arms and squeezed him as if she could absorb his pain and heartache into herself. When he started to apologize, the walls of his fortifications crumbling to the ground, Amory hushed the string of ‘I’m sorry’s and cradled him to her. 

As she held onto her son, holding him upright as he finally allowed himself to fall apart, Amory sang for him. Like she had all those years ago, like she had while he’d been mid-transition, fighting for the rebirth they’d promised him. She hummed the old tune and held him, because that was all she could think to do. 

Arran had spent centuries trying to understand where his place was. He’d understood he was at the bottom of the chain of wealth and power when he was a human; the youngest of six sons was hardly worth a second look. As a young vampire he’d thought he had everything, and then Eva had been born and all such notions had all been ripped from him. Arran had needed even more years to understand his place as an older brother, as a true son... whether he did either role justice he couldn’t be sure.    

While he was abundantly aware of how he looked, the thick muscles and strong chest that made up his frame, around Amory and Hadrian he still felt like the skinny boy they’d met so many centuries ago; that he could clung to either and not cause the slightest amount of pain. And he wanted to cling, desperately so, hold until everything fell away and he could pretend there was nothing but himself and the parent he held as though she could keep all else at bay.

But no. He couldn’t turn away from these feelings, from the grief, the anger and the injustice he just wanted to yell at the skies until someone, something answered him. Who cared how unseemly it looked to behave in such a way? What did it matter that he’d never be answered? Nor that he’d feel satisfaction? It was screaming and yelling and writhing and that alone brought appeal...

“To you?” He breathed, “Yes.” If nothing else he knew his mother valued her faith, even if no one else in the coven did she’d carved a space of it out within the mansion; it had been there before he’d come here and Arran suspected it would endure long after he had left. “To me?” he paused again, the barest shake of his head, “No.”

“I don’t care about my misery.” he whispered, “I don’t care what changes. I care that they’re gone... That Thalia... That my first friend in this coven-” he cut of. Amory and Hadrian had been wonderful parents, but Brandyn had been a friend to him, on his own age... And that had been sorely needed.

He wanted revenge, to kill whatever had done this and present it’s head to Freyja. It wouldn’t do her any good but she had asked for it so he’d crawl over hot coals to see she had it. He’d endure injuries beyond what he’d suffered in the past to see the perpetrator of this crime brought before that girl so that she might have some closure. So that he might slit a throat. He ached to move to his room and retrieve his twin-blades, they yearned for blood as much as he, and slaughter any who stood in his way. Eva would join him in a heart-beat, and justice could be theirs.  

But, his anger was short-lived. Orders of grief meant nothing now, he’d denied the pain for days on end and instead focused on seeing other’s through their own. The anger of it all now felt as though it was swiftly doused by waters deep and dark. They pressed down on him and vampire or now he felt as though he couldn’t get a breath, as though every moment was a struggle to bear through.

Failing again. As he always had. Despite all the successes he’d had over the centuries, all the moments he’d earned looks of pride or laughs at his success, when it came down to the moments of true importance, those that mattered more than any other... He would crumple and reach out for help; incapable of managing on his own. Some son, one who could be left to his own devices only when it didn’t matter. Shame. He brought shame to the name of his Sires.

But, here she was, Amory was beside him, holding him, providing the comfort he felt as though he’d fall apart without. Unasked, unbegged, she was there. What power did he have to resist and stand tall when he had someone like her sitting and holding him, ready for the swill of pain, demands and tears.

Despite it all, she was there, she endured and his anger did nothing to phase her, to cause pause or retreat. No. It was taken in and she did nothing but remain to ensure the swirl of emotions were drained. That he didn’t drown in the waters of his own pain and despair. He’d done all he could to help those within their coven but it wasn’t enough. Why couldn’t his own pain wane with theirs?

No. Emotions were too cruel to have such an easy form of dismissal. Instead they waited like an ambush predator to lunge and pull him to their painful embrace with no escape, no reprieve and no help... Or so he’d thought. His mother was here, as she always was, and what was one more failure when he’d left so many in a string behind him over the years? One more to add to a shameful supply.

Shameful... Wasn’t he just?

Being caught up in his own emotions he continued to decry the truth, the demand punishment for his own stupidity at trying to escape what couldn’t be put off... Yet there he sat wanting so desperately to jump from one escape to another. His breath grew shorter in-between angry sentences, the momentum beginning to wane and fall away to something more... heavy. Anger could be damaging but it could so rarely endure. Instead the tides of pain, of grief rose up to take their turn at the forefront, to wash away all but their own lamentations.    

The first of what would be more tears trickled down his pale cheeks for only moments before Amory brushed them aside, the tracks behind them all that was left behind. “There’s always something that can be done!” he said, voice quiet but still fierce, still desperate for another way out, another way to ransom off these feelings that were killing him. “I don’t need to breathe... I don’t want to.”

Drowning was frantic for moments but then it was peaceful, couldn’t he just find that peace and be left to it?

“Why?” he asked, voice breaking, a further loss of composure and another hopeless demand for answers. “I don’t want my turn-” pathetic, childish, rebelling against what had to pass...

Couldn’t he force these down, just into a trench for a little bit longer? Long enough to help him feel more able to cope. “Can we?” he whispered, “H-how can we be what they were?” To be a parent, what Thalia and Brandyn had been to Freyja, what Amory and Hadrian were to him and Eva... It seemed an insurmountable role he could never hope to fill. Meet her strong gaze while he felt so weak was hard, “It’s too cruel.” he whispered, shaking his head, “Too cruel.” How could Freyja be coping when he couldn’t even manage?  

Just as he asked the question his muted apologies spewed forth, followed by more and more bastard tears trickling forth as he clung to his mother like a babe. Sobs refusing to grow louder than a small whimper yet each syllable holding within decades worth of pain. Her hushing unable to quiet him further, yet he tried. Between further sobs and desperate breaths he still tried... and again, he failed.

   One day Indra would look back on all of these things and realize her own naivety in how she dealt with people. She would understand just how many times when she’d felt beautiful, or tended to, or even liked… how much of it had been a grab for the power that she wielded. It wasn’t even a power she had ever intended to use in the way that most people wanted her to, and yet it still was one of the most driving forces in why outsiders — she did not count Willow in that in any way, nor most of the members of her coven, but sometimes the line was blurred — went to befriend her at all.

   She would stand in front of a mirror, tracing the lines on her face as age would finally catch up with her — no one lives forever, Indy, not even witches — and trace each one with reverence to a moment in which she had her spirit broken; when she found out a friend she had made was just an enemy in disguise waiting to destroy her once she’d been used up. She’d smell the liquor in the air and hear the music trilling against her ears and she’d frown, deepening the lines of age…

   But then and now, she merely smiled at Arran, as true and brightly as any one would if they were meeting a new friend, and pushed her hair lightly behind one ear before speaking, “I am not really sure what to get here… I haven’t actually been here until you had sent out the call for your friends to show up.”

   That’s good, Indra, remind him you’re budding friends. People love to know that they are being looked after, and if you take care of people they take care of you, and it forms community and fosters better relations between all the factions and covens. You’re doing good right now, her mind piped in before her smile twitched and she turned slightly so that she could better see him on her stool, adding, “It was no trouble, either! It was nice to have a reason to go out… I had plans for the night but… she had to tend to something else.”

Willow had her hands full, and Indra would never fault her for that. Things were happening on the other sides of lines and Indra knew too well of her best friends’ attachments therein. She would never ask anyone to forego their grief and the grief of those they loved just to keep a movie date, “I… it’s not important. What do you think I should order?”

There was a fine art to coercing a person to your side; Arran had been perfecting this art for centuries and it would be no fault of Indra’s to fall for his charm, she certainly wouldn’t be the first. And yet, despite this, Arran didn’t set out to cause people pain, he simple knew what he wanted and would do whatever it took to get it. Once he had it, well he no longer needed the person but he wouldn’t be unnecessarily cruel. Back in the day it had been easy, he could simply vanish or erase their memory; now, with the accords in effect, he needed to be even more careful.

But, that was a line he’d been straddling since he was ten years old and learned he could get his eldest brother to share his honey if he asked nicely and told him what the others had been doing while he’d not been around. It was almost funny really, be it honey, magical inventions or information, the process was still very much the same. Indra would be no different than the thousands of others he’d dealt with. Maybe she’d look back with shame, with anger, or perhaps even with longing; he wouldn’t be there to witness it.  

“Ahh, you’re new to The Manor,” he smiled, “Well, you’re in for a treat, how about you let me take care of it, hmm?” he raised a hand slightly and the bartender rushed over, “Swift as always, John,” he smiled, “I’d like a rum blazer for my companion.” The bartender rushed off again and Arran chuckled, sipping his drink and enjoying the burn.

“Oh?” he asked, eyebrows raising, “Shame to have been let down, but at least it means I have you all to myself. Sorry to take the lead on your drink, but inspiration struck, you must know that feeling.” he asked with another small smile. As if on queue the bartender returned and proceeded to pour spiced rum, Grand Marnier Liqueur together before setting it ablaze and pouring on cinnamon dust. He mixed the burning concoction together before swirling the fire out in another glass and placing it down.

“Hm…” Freyja hummed and then smiled. “Well now I’m even more curious.” She giggled. Before tonight, she would have never purposely make herself intoxicated. But tonight, she did think about it. What harm could it do, really? And who knew, maybe it would numb the pain just for a little while? Honestly, she wouldn’t know unless she tried. “I could use some laughs.” She let out a sigh before taking another sip of her drink. Freyja knew that not everyone acted like that when they were intoxicated, but she hoped that she did. “Well I would. I know i haven’t been living as long as you but you are definitely better than pretty much all of the musicians that I’ve heard.”

Enthusiasm. It was something that Freyja used to have every single day. But now? Not so much. She couldn’t even remember the last time she was so joyous or enthused. Possibly before her parents died and disappeared. “Easier said than done.” She muttered as she took another gulp of her drink. 

“Does that mean you don’t enjoy spending time with me? That you’re just pretending?” A frown formed on her lips as she glanced towards Arran. He could be pretending, or just helping her have a good time, and she wouldn’t even know it. “Yeah, they’re great.” She agreed before taking another sip. Part of her was jealous that Arran still had his family. The Mordecai’s were great, amazing even, but they weren’t her parents. They weren’t the ones that raised her. Not really. 

“Now, now. I shan’t be seen as a bad influence; I’ve already had my turn of that with Eva.” Though, really, she hadn’t needed his help in the endeavour; Eva had been born with a talent for trouble. Of course, he’d taught her a thing or two and (in some cases) made her victim to a few tricks of his own. “But, a little drinking while you can still experience it would hardly be a bad thing.” And as he’d already decided, he could always call more coven members over to see them home safely. He chuckled slightly, “Well, hopefully a few centuries from now you’ll think the same. If you don’t I’ll be very offended.” he added with a playful little pout.

“Aren’t all things in life?” he asked softly, looking at her for a moment before taking a sip of his own drink. “But I have faith in you, even when you lack it in yourself I’ll have faith in you.” And he suspected he may need to have faith for both of them several times over the next few months, maybe even years.

He looked over at her, eyes staring straight into Freyja for a few moments before he raised a hand and gently trailed it down her cheek, “Never. Never with you, Little One. I’ve adored you since the moment I held you as a babe, you were a tiny thing with a bright red face but you found my finger and you gripped it strong.” he smiled softly, “I’ve done a lot of things wrong in my life, Freyja, but you, us,” he gestured between them slightly, “In this I think I finally got something right.”  

It wasn’t fair, childish though the notion was Arran couldn’t help but think it. Freya had last so much so quickly and closure was not forthcoming. It was all he could do to simply be here now he’d found her until she either returned with him and retired for the day, or asked him to leave her in peace; he’d do as she asked either way, the girl could decide how to move in her grief.

Arran did wonder if his touch was a comfort or not, during his own period of rebelliousness he’d cast off kind touches or met them with vicious remarks. As it was, Freya wasn’t acting at all and he wasn’t sure if that was a positive or a negative sign. Her questions has no easy answer and upon hearing them he sighed and spent a few moments staring at the blooming flowers.

“No. This isn’t something you’ll wake up one morning to find gone. It’s a process. For me… I had to come to accept the words of those around me; that I had a place, that I was welcome, that I was loved.” he paused and confided, “Truly I still don’t wholly believe them. And that’s how it will be with you, Little One.”

“You may never again feel like you felt with your parents; but the pain will lessen. Each day shall become a tiny bit easier until breathing once again comes easy and a smile forms on your lips; and even then there will likely still be moments of sadness.” he nodded at her, “And the time will come. But for now, just focus on yourself. And don’t thank me, we’ve all got to be here for one another.” And he’d do all he could to ensure that ‘forever’ remained in tact.

“I wish it happened more quickly…” Freyja muttered as she glanced down at her knees that were still pressed up against her chest. She wanted to feel at home again. That she had a place in the world. But recently, all she felt like was an outcast. Someone that no longer had family. Someone that never would have family ever again. 

She almost felt bad for Arran. She knew that Amory and Hadrian loved him, but she wished that he truly felt that way. That he not only knew, but accepted it. But she knew that there wasn’t anything that she could say to really make that happen. “They really do love you, Arran.” Freyja said with a soft, quiet voice, as she glanced up towards him. 

Freyja nodded slowly, hoping that he was right. That the pain did lesson after a while. But she wasn’t so sure. She leaned into his touch, letting the scent of him comfort her. “I want to thank you. You deserve a thank you.” Freyja said, offering him a small, sad smile. “Thank you.” 

   It wasn’t like her to go against the wishes of those she cared about, but truly she was trying to branch out in the name of continued peace; with everything that was going on around them, it was hard to imagine that she would be safe anywhere, let alone at the Manor, but still she stood at the bar with her hair loose and wild around her shoulders and her eyes rapt on every motion around her. The inklings of ideas that came as she people watched astounded even her sometimes, and it was the best way to get out of her supposed funk with her magic of late. 

   Her dreams weren’t helping, leaving behind the ghosts of thoughts — grand schematics of ideas and processes she could easily use to better her coven and all of those around her that flitted to the corners of her memory like wisps of smoke — and nothing but annoyance and frustration in her waking hours.

   She hid it well behind her practiced smile, and even as she stood there knowing full well it was not the best place to be standing without guard or consort, she trusted Arran as much as she could with what she knew about him, and knew that — however sad the thought is, to be honest — he wouldn’t let harm come to her because she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, she was useful to everyone if they could harness her.

   … it kept her alive more than anyone knew.

   “A drink would be fine.” Indra offered, turning on the ball of her foot to face him; she was a damn sight less frumpy than she had been the last time they’d spoken, and truly the girl cleaned up nicely, her hair tucked and pinned just so to be wild around her shoulders but not wholly in her face. Her outfit was simple, but classy, and she had on shoes — boots, of course, but they were nice boots at least — and the smile she shined at him could melt ice, “You were really wonderful.”

To perform was to at once leave oneself bare to the world and embalm in comfort; Arran still keenly felt the loss of his dear friends but he needed to bring himself into the world. Hiding away would not better his coven and it certainly wouldn’t see them any safer or any closer to pinning down who was behind these attacks. So, he continued life as he would live it, sure to always take advantage of any and all opportunities that came his way. Seizing the moment had always been something of a talent for Arran and at times fate simply wove it’s way in his favour.

Which was why when he saw Indra waiting at the bar he was half-tempted to thank the gods his mother bent the knee too. She could be a key to many thing if his information was correct, and making a few more inroads with her could bring him closer to helping his family, to fulfilling his duty.  

“Then a fine drink it is,” Arran responded with a smile, turning his full attention to the witch which he knew could enrapture lesser beings with ease. Indra though, was very much her own sort of creature and wouldn’t be so simply won over; not that he minded, quite the contrary, a challenge could be a dual-fold distraction from his pain and a highly productive endeavour.

Both of which he sorely needed.

Freyja had changed since the last time she saw Arran. She wasn’t crying in a corner anymore and instead was trying to have new experiences, especially ones that she wouldn’t normally have before. Sure, she still locked herself in her room at night and refused to let anyone in, but during the day she was able to at least pretend she was feeling better. And the alcohol she had been drinking each day helped with the facade. She never drank too much, only enough to feel happy. Even if it was partly fake happiness, it was enough for the time being.

“I have yet to get completely intoxicated, although, I’m a little curious about it.” Freyja said with a smile as she sat down next to Arran. She was curious about a lot of things. Mostly things that had to do with her potential vampirism. “Well it’s lovely and I want to hear more of it in my life.” She said, the smile still on her lips as she placed her elbow on the counter and leaned her head on her hand. Her black hair cascaded over her shoulder and spilled onto the surface of the bar. “Well I think you’re more talented than Hendricks.” Her smile was meaningful and genuine.

“I’m trying to get out more.” Freyja shrugged her shoulders. “Some days are better than others.” A sigh escaped her lips as she took the wine glass lightly in her fingertips and toasted with him. When she went out, she forced her sad emotions aside and that’s exactly what she was doing now. “I did, actually.” She said with another smile. “There’s not many people that I like spending time with lately… but you’re one of the only ones that I do.” She took a long sip of her wine before setting it back down on the counter. “I bet they loved that.” 

He was no fool, the grieving process, especially regarding those closest to you, was never so easily finished. Arran was still coming to terms with their recent loss and he’d dealt with centuries of life and past pain; for Freya, it was likely a great deal harder. But, if this was one more way she was continuing to cope with what had happened than far be it from him to take it away from her. Besides, even if she wanted to overindulge of an evening he could see her home safely, or even call a few more coven members out to see them all back; either way, it was certainly doable.

“Well, I didn’t indulge too much in my human years,” he’d been too busy plotting the ways in which he could outdo his siblings to try and gain more power, “But if I recall there’s a certainly, lightness to it.” he chuckled, “Yet everything feels even heavier.” A poor way to try and explain it, but he was pulling from a centuries old memory. “Oh, and everything seemed to make me laugh... Probably the one time I found my older siblings truly funny.” he deadpanned. A smile formed at her words and he inclined his head slightly, “I’d never make so bold a claim.” Though, honestly, he agreed with her.

“And it’s likely that’ll be the way for some time; but meeting the good days with enthusiasm is a very important thing.” Her words got a laugh from him and he shrugged slightly, “I can count on one hand the number of people I genuinely enjoy spending time with. I’ve just become expert at making people think I enjoy their company. Still, I appreciate the graces you hold me in.” He took another drink and tilted his head slightly, “It struck a cord, no pun intended. They were as spectacular back then as they are now. I was enamoured after an evening spent in their company.” he shook his head.