the horror was for love.

Paris, France. October 1899. Past midnight.

Though a warm breeze has blown in from the west, augmenting pressure in the already heavy and cloud-curtained atmosphere overhead, nonetheless Arthur still finds this a less stifling environment than the wearisome charade quarantined inside the building behind them. Upon the opulent threshold of Luxembourg Palace he fusses over the set of his evening jacket, having to accommodate a burst of blushing flowers tucked under his left arm: a gift procured for his sweetheart, protected from the elements by the enclosing fold of his cloak. He is careful with his package even as he fastidiously adjusts his appearance, ashen voice clipped as he otherwise vents his final flings of irritation.

"Never thought he would cease that tiresome monologue. Unbelievable how late the evening has run."

Beside him, Mycroft Holmes hums with neutral agreement and otherwise observes him with a sentiment Arthur could only describe as zoological fascination. Hardly surprising, their energies could hardly be more polarised in nature— himself, buzzing like an overturned beehive. Holmes, placid as a mountain-cradled lake. If he could bottle this man's patience and sup from it as one would a tonic to soothe one's nerves, he would have done so years ago.

Prompted to stir further expression from his otherwise content friend, he straightens and glances his way again. Neck somewhat craned and head tilted, as one must when directing speech to a man that could in daylight near block his view of the sun.

"You're certain you won't attend?"

The answer is serene, delivered with neither pause nor hesitation.

"Quite certain. The hour is late, and today's periodicals await my attention."

Arthur ponders upon the firmness of that decision for but a moment, a thoughtful noise turning in his throat briefly. He would have thought there to be more interest in this particular opportunity for leisure, though would admit that beyond the identity of the host it fell somewhat outside of Holmes' usual fare.

"Mm. Fair enough I suppose." He expresses with an almost perplexed raise of his thick eyebrows, comfortable enough to allow for the implication to show that he doesn't agree. More than anything, what he wanted right now was a stiff drink and his darling's welcoming bosom.

"Then a good evening, and we shall reconvene on the morrow." He doffs his top hat while retreating out upon the gravel forecourt, the palace's gushing fountain offering quite the magnificent backdrop to his departure.

"The report on today's conference—" Arthur suddenly recalls, half-turning to face Holmes with a gloved finger gently raised; his distraction is rewarded by a prompt response that all but completes both his sentence and train of thought for him.

"—shall ready by 5 o'clock, tomorrow afternoon."

Gratified for the knowledge that he can therefore obliterate himself tonight without further thought or consequence, Arthur allows a roguish half-grin to leap forth into his expression. Truly, what would he do without this man.

~*~

Rain breaks on his way to the venue, an aggrieved rumble ripping through the billowing clouds above the city before they at last yield to tender deluge. Avoiding puddles where he can and otherwise sidestepping ribbons of water lining the gutters of Paris, Arthur continues to guard his precious cargo while forging through the gathering storm. Rather than waste another minute waiting in line for a cab or carriage from the Palace, he would take his chances on foot— sure of his own constitution, his own course and ultimate destination. For these rain-spattered streets are mapped in his head like lines traced on a lover's palm: known to his heart, coursing his veins with intimacy.

Thus upon the next turn taken rises a towering, ornately furnished building several storeys high— once a grand hotel, now an exclusive club that promised to encase in amber this city's frenetic and pulse-pounding irreverence. Their lettered invitations had called this place Eden. Climbing sheltered stairs lain with red velvet two at a time however, Arthur begins to feel more in his soul as though he is surely descending within the jaws of some kind of Hell. The dread notes of recent grief mix with an effervescent zing of forbidden rite in a heady cocktail of laissez faire mysticism. Death and life have surely, but recently, made their sordid bed here.

A most invigorating premise with which to underpin a venue for evening leisure, he considers with passive observation.

Hounds hunt hares upon the walls of the entrance hall, while uniformed boys circle him and bark with protests he can hardly hear— there is a Lady within that has called upon him, and her voice alone can but command his advance. He must have ushered something of the storm in with him, for they fall away one by one beneath the heat of his gaze until there is a sole child left to take his hat, coat and gloves without so much as a word given. Smoothing back the wet thatch strands of his fringe until they fall into a languid fold upon his crown, he gathers the sumptuous bouquet of autumnal blooms in his hands and progresses to the central lounge.

And just like that, Heaven and Hell alike lose all meaning before his goddess of eternal night; her hourglass figure poured into a dress that wraps about her hips with hypnotic tension, a glimpse of collarbone shimmering white as marble, crowned with a profile sharp enough to cut any boy through bone. His beloved Valerie, jewel of all France, yet without a man on her arm to treat her with heights of worship such that they would be ripped from scripture for their sacrilege.

Ignoring the nervous glances of the club's band from the wall-fixed stage, who seemed to otherwise be in the process of packing up their instruments, Arthur collapses dramatically to one knee before his woman in awestruck supplication. In offering does he thus present his bouquet, fixed and fit for a Queen, flowering with blushing lisianthus, wine red hydrangeas and crimson roses reared to velvet perfection. A spill of oak and magnolia leaves complements the blooms, while sprigs of berries speak of their season's inimitable bounty.

Though the gift stands without a doubt at the very pinnacle of handcrafted luxury, it seems queerly paired with a gentleman half-drenched by rain and currently soaking the fine carpet with his knelt trouser leg. Nevertheless his verdant eyes twinkle with promise, an evergreen infatuation that shines forth from this otherwise humorously damp and dishevelled presentation. This is her man. A wet creature washed in from the storm-tossed sea, quick on his feet and quicker with his tongue. Armed with naught but his charm and an inclination for dramatic gesture by way of demonstrating his eternal, fixed and unwavering devotion.

In between the wine and the nectar, the gauche spectacle of high society corralled into a life and death theatre, tragedy sprinkled for a taste of something, and that vermin's figure scurrying back into the shadows, playing God with impunity– she is sickened. Lestat collecting his revived lover from the stage, Mort returned, a crime in the alley out back, belly warm and face washed, repowdered, and yet. Her boredom dulls her, sharpens her into thorns and edges. Grown tired of waiting, watching the door. Have the clocks moved at all? The grief of others not enough to rouse anything within her, tedium instead of compassion, unable to muster sentiment for any of those who had lost something out here, in this haunted corner of her birth city.

Disappointed in herself for having foolishly lingered around this circus for so long, hoping her darling would at last show, Valerie begins to prepare her leave. She is in no mood to queue with the rest of them, so she watches the crowd slowly thin through the doors, up the stairs, bundled up in lavish hats and coats while she quietly finishes her glass of pinot noir.

It is as she is considering whether to head back to the apartment or take a hotel room for the night that she is interrupted by the very man she had given up waiting for, who arrives in no small wave of commotion, commanding the room with gaze and entitlement alone. Valerie watches him approach as an incendiary cocktail of emotions burns through her breast, an almost welcome feeling in a night filled with nothing but drab pleasantries.

"Arthur." His name escapes her lips, shock registering first. It's unlike him to make such a public scene, arresting the attention of what was left of the crowd and weary staff, his clothes soaked in large, blotchy patches, face still misted with rain. The bouquet he presents is made all the more fragrant from the spray, voluptuous blooms in a dazzling arrangement. An apology. Why, it was always going to be an apology.

"Pick yourself up." The vampire's voice is low and gelid, having taken one good look at his lamentable presentation and failed to find it sufficiently moving or entertaining. She takes no pleasure in denying him what she believes was a genuine, heartfelt request, throwing himself at her feet for one last dance, but as the evening had progressed she had only been reminded of how frequently she is shifted down his list of priorities and put on hold. A trophy returned to shelf, brought back out whenever. As unbearable as it is to look him in the eye and refuse herself the very desire that had brought her to this godforsaken venue in the first place, Valerie stands firm in her decision, right hand resting on the jut of her hip, towering ominously over her man.

"You have made your choice, and the event is now over." She lifts her left hand to gesture vaguely at their surroundings, the music now silenced but for the occasional hum of a drunken guest, still loitering about the sidelines.

Her candid acceptance of her time on the mortal coil being finite draws a soft chuckle from him. He supposes he can appreciate one who understands the nature of mortality and find peace in its ending; beauty in how fleeting it could be, how temporary it was - and how that made each moment spent all the more meaningful. Still he, offers lamentation at the realization. "I will certainly try. Though the world will not know what a gift it has lost until you are one with the flowers I fear."

"Tasteful," he remarks. The hand not clasped in hers waves about the air in slow, deliberate circles. Fingers shift until a black wind becomes visible, building and swirling around his fingers before amalgamating in a cloud, taking shape and shifting in the light until the darkness is polished silver and deep red. The color of blood in crystalline form catches the stray rays, reflecting warm rainbows in sharp bursts, glittering in the light. Perfect metal gleams, curling and curving elegantly to form intricate shapes like beading. It is fanciful, graceful - but not gaudy. Nothing too outwardly showy, but enough to make a statement.

"As you wish." He offers them to her, set upon the palm of his glove in neat, straight rows. "Do let me know if they need adjustment. I am many things, but a master jeweler or procurer of fine wares is not among my specialties."

Even still, his work is not bad. It is enough to fetch a lovely price in a good market. A comfortable fortune at the very least.

"Though I do think these will suit you well. They bring out your eyes and mingle well with your skin tone. Not to mention your hair is quite lovely and brings out the shine of the rubies in sunlight - no doubt, they will look even more stunning under the light of candles or a chandelier." He winks. Now he's just being coy - a little flirtatious for the fun of it.

Paired with their late morning appearance, he's practically chomping at the bit to see the reactions of her kin. Call it the chaos in his blood seeking a rise.

Valerie smiles, but says nothing. Soon enough she is mesmerised by the spectacle of the jewels being forged before her very eyes, such easy wonder brightening her face, quickening her pulse with jovial excitement. Mr Black says he is no master jeweller but produces a most stunning pair of ruby earrings lined with tiny encrusted diamonds, which glimmering enticingly in his palm, crafted to invoke the utmost jealously in the hearts of others. They were the perfect accessory for their cover story: conveying his wealth and status, and most importantly his intention.

"Humble doesn't suit you." She lightly teases, at last releasing his hand so she may carefully pluck the jewellery offered to her and preciously hold it up to the timid sun now melting through the fog, casting a hazy, watery golden light about the forest. The metal was still warm, and her skin tingled faintly under its touch. As if on cue, the demon swiftly sheds his modesty to offer a string of enthusiastic compliments while she admires his creation, and Valerie wears them like a halo, shining brighter under the glow of his attention.

"They are ravishing. Thank you, Philip." Gracefully, the lady draws them into her pocket, intending to keep them hidden until she was supposed to receive them. She takes his arm again and restarts their march, a sense of weightlessness in her like she wasn't quite prepared to digest what had just happened. She was The Fool, embarking on a side quest, ignoring the very systems that had kept her safe but imprisoned thus far.

The concept was... convoluted. It was something even he did not fully understand despite all of his research. And he'd spent quite the amount of time trying to understand the trifecta that made up each living, mortal creature.

"Demons, however, are made only of Essence. Which allows the flexibility to change our forms but limits us in our travel. But because we are made of the same components as a human soul, while he cannot be changed, we can be... bound." His tone shifts, taking on something of a reverent quality, wistful and warm as a comforting reverie.

"To be bound is to undergo intimate ritual, combining the Essences of two beings to form a bond so pure and so raw, it is near unbreakable. Inseparable -- unlike a tether which can be dissolved. It is the purest act of love any creature can submit to; to take the very fabric of what grants you life, existence, and autonomy and eternally bind it to another's... to vow to share all feelings, all burdens, all pains and triumphs as though felt directly, to be eternally encompassed as one unit... it is an act of creation on par with the Almighty's. And while it is not the same as transformation, the qualities of each species are shared between each other. Humans bound to a demon will cease to age and may begin to exhibit some of their mate's abilities. And the demon will become attuned to walk the earth without chaperone."

A romantic concept indeed; one many strived for.

Though in the moment, it is hardly as romantic as the feeling her healed palm, her hand in his. He is delicate but firm; a strength and weight to agreement she's entered that is almost intimate. He should like to know the feel of her hand again at some point.

"Excellent. And your preferred choice of jewelry?"

It's a lot to get her head wrapped around, brow furrowing as these concepts are explained to her. Too much for a single morning, but she'd keep a mental note to enquire about this war and his 'demotion' (if it could be called that) at a later date. He loses her at the mention of fantastical hybrid creatures like vampires and werewolves, as well as the spirit being something separate from the soul; why believing the stories this archdemon had to tell her about the afterlife and Hell was easier than considering the real existence of certain folklore she couldn't say.

"Bound?" It appears to be something different than the deal they were about to enter, his tonal shift arresting her attention. If she'd thought herself a romantic, a contemporary of Blake and Wordsworth, then Mr Black was truly putting them all to shame. In truth, she's more invested in his dreamy reflection and how fondly he speaks of this bond than in coveting something so definitive for herself. She had yet to meet a person she longed to merge with in any shape or form outside fleeting pleasures of the flesh and mind, though evidently her experience paled in comparison to the demon's, and however long he'd existed for.

"I take odd comfort in knowing I will age and leave this realm at some point, so manage your attachment accordingly, please." Valerie adds in good humour, a glint of mischief in the corner of her eye. Unsure if she should withdraw her hand quite yet, she leaves it in his while contemplating this piece of jewellery he offers. Would he forge it out of thin air? Hit the shops in the nearest town? It would have to be something discreet enough to pass as everyday wear, which drew envy only upon closer inspection, the startling realisation that it had been a gift, a token of love given by another.

“Hardly. I'd say I am in the minority of demons who choose to engage with humanity. Most are comfortable in their lives - if not outwardly opposed due to old wounds they're still licking." He could go on about why - the Genesis of their downfall and the lingering resentment that followed in its shadow. But that was another tale for another time.

"It is... something of a complex topic to explain. But in summary, demons and human souls are made of the same substance - the same metal, for example. We call it Essence. But where demons remain in the forge, human souls are the metallic accessories ingrained in items like jewelry or clothing. The solid connection to something tangible and living - the flesh - is what allows mortal beings to exist in the earthly realm. Demons lack this physical connection unless through certain means, so we must remain in our realm - the forge. And likewise, flesh cannot enter our realm: the soul must come alone. And while you may think that souls are divided into heaven or hell, it is more complicated. What you know as Heaven is the realm of the divines, and no humans go there. Rather, all souls pass into the underrealm upon death, where they are sorted to the afterlife of their respective religion or belief system and judged for placement by each faith's standards. Hell is merely an afterlife- with most spending eternity in its cities as wandering souls existing peacefully. For those that enter and are judged to be wicked, there is a specific prison in Hell that I'm certain you've heard of. Novem - the Nine Circles. The prison is inescapable. It was designed to be so. But if I were to be called away, I'd imagine that would be the reason why."

He speaks freely of his realm's mechanics - and indeed, the intertwining of his originating faith with the many others in an interconnected collaboration of managing the living and the dead. The concept of as much would be heralded as heresy - blasphemy! But he spoke it with such confidence, for it had been an effort millennia in the making. The Queen had united the many fractured kingdoms into a united underrealm in hopes of bring lasting peace between them and their aether realm counterparts.

He watches her sway, admiring how the light shifts against her features. Her freckles charm him. A star-map set upon her skin he can't help but try to read, to navigate. He thinks them beautiful, and the idea of tracing them with his claws comes to mind where he's certain it will make a home and refuse to leave him.

"But of course. The connection is willful and requires reciprocal consent in order to be answered; it exists as a means to keep you safe while expanding your autonomy, not limiting it. Your dignity and comfort are the priority. Though I will say... if I come to find that the house is on fire or someone suspicious is lurking too closely, I may well need to interrupt your bathing." He speaks it with another soft laugh, but the message is clear. He respects her to a fault, and that fault is the existence of a true emergency. Anything that could harm her. Any danger that may persist.

He understands the delicate balance that is compromise between safety and security.

Essence. She mutters quietly to herself, focus returning to the demon with invested intrigue, watching his face as he speaks with captivating cadence. Frankly, nothing that he says sounds remotely outlandish to her ears in regards to the sorting of souls. Your beliefs would carry you, that much she had always believed in, and all this conflict between faiths was a waste of time. "The thought of humans being these jewels, these... crystallised forms of the same essence..." Valerie trails off, wonder sparkling in glass blue eyes, a small lopsided smile on her mouth. "To think that you and I have that in common. Can demons become human, and vice-versa? Were you human once?"

Despite her years, Valerie is not oblivious to the charm she possesses (her mother's ethereal beauty, her father's wit), and has learned to sharpen it to a point, use it to her own advantage. She catches him looking and, rather than confronting or shying away, she lets herself be seen. "I was unaware that the bond came with added protection, Mr Black. Noted, you have permission to interrupt my alone time if danger is near." A chuckle bubbles in her throat as her sway comes to a slow halt. Even before she is ready to answer, her dominant hand releases the basket as if by instinct, though she hesitates before accepting his terms.

Was it utter madness?

Yes.

But so was the alternative.

“Now, now, that’s hardly the way to greet your husband after all this time.” It is a lighthearted comment- a means of placating her with the distant memory of a life lived long ago, a game they played and played well, a trick and a ploy they’d laid out like chess pieces and conquered just as easily. “I am here on official business; tracking some rather crafty hunters of interest. I suppose I found my marks.”

But not before they found her it seems.

His eyes flicker to her injury, and instinctively he comes closer. Despite himself and despite the stretch of time that has passed, his sense of loyalty lingers like any other of his scars. Though the tether was broken long ago, a part of him remains with her, remains bound to her - feeling the flickers of her feelings, the odd whisper of her mind on the wind. It is a familiar comfort in many ways. To know that she is still around despite the ages.

He’d like to keep it that way.

It’s why he reaches for her hand - gingerly. Despite the presence of his long claws, his dark hands, the long, elegant hair that flows from his forearms - all the highlights of a monster - he retains that gentleness, that tenderness that he’d always reserved for her before. That has not changed. Not in how he finds her fingers, nor how he gently pull them away to study the wound, nor the way his brow furrows in concern as he moves to hover his hand over it.

Familiar warmth blooms from his palm and flows into the injury, stinging slightly before soothing with the mending of flesh and the sealing of the wound, leaving only a trace of a scar and some soreness to remind her of it. Though he knows the memory will live on in vibrant detail. Some part of him wishes he could take that from her, too - and the pain.

“Enough about me, parvutica. What are you doing out here?”

And why is she so angry? So distressed?

At least one thing she was certain of: none of the hunters in here had killed Mina. Valerie had looked them all in the eye, the only memory she had of the masked assassin, and didn't recognise that gelid hatred in any of them.

"...what a great coincidence." Her voice is dry and flat, straining not to bend under the nauseating bursts of pain radiating from her ribs. How could she not remember? Though their original pact had been dissolved long ago, the memory of him had lingered like a ghost limb, an imprint in the weave of her story, evoked against her best efforts to let it lie still. Valerie is, regrettably, the proud kind. She had been immensely grateful for his intervention in her great hour of need back then – but every encounter since she'd left it mostly to chance, not one to come knocking, not one to even call. Why should he bother, she was no longer helpless nor afraid, and he had bigger causes to care for.

But a million things had changed since, the world barely recalling a shadow of its former self. Wars, famine, disease; a kind of greed so monstrous two heads sprouted where one was cut, and so on, and so on. To have lived through it all, to remember all of it. Her cycles had also come and gone, and remained mostly steady for a hundred years or so, until Mina's death shattered any sense of direction she had left. In the low light, sleepless shadows show on sickly, pale complexion, bloodshot eyes failing to meet the satyr's out of fear she would strike him too, and shame to have been seen failing. Struggling, the vampire pushes herself up to a seated position, not wanting to meet him lying down.

"Leave me." She hisses, wounded pride wiring her up, but too weak to resist the velveteen touch of his palm on her wrist, no matter how much she attempts to angle herself away and conceal her face under a wild mane of umber hair, her usually meticulous waves in line with the decade's fashion trends now loose and neglected. He means to heal her. "I said–!" His anodyne magic flows to where her body is torn, rendering her thrashing useless. She grits her teeth against the last flares of pain as bone realigns and tissue mends, leaving only a faint, burning bruise, showing through black ripped cashmere, already ruined from the small massacre she'd singlehandedly carried out.

"They took something from me." As she waits for his grip to grow slack enough for her to withdraw, knowing that in strength he would always invariably triumph, Valerie contends with the threat of unravelling before his tenderness, refusing to be disarmed. Her ears perk at the dulcet sound of her old nickname; how formidable he is at retaining softness even amidst the grotesque.

In those small ways he saw parallels between his kind and the mortals that had garnered the Almighty’s favor. The desire to create, to commune, to coexist - to build societies in the hopes that each development would lay the foundation for a better future for the next generation. Though it where those similarities seemed to end was in the intricacies of social interactions and common manner. For demons, navigation was a matter of honest and straightforward communication and collaboration; there was no posturing, no status to uphold, nor subtext to be read into and interpreted to translate true intention. They’d all been equal in the fall, with only their loyalty and their honesty to each other to rebuild. And so it had remained.

Perhaps the young and inexperienced relied on deception or trickery - Hellions and fiends who had not let yearned the foundational keystone of their existence lied in truth and integrity. But all demons came to understand it in time. It was what had led them to grow in spite of their punishment.

Humans, by comparison, were a mess.

Words spoken were never meant, yet words unspoken were meant to be inherently understood, abided by. Subtext existed in every breath, every blink, every subtle movement of the body, communicating messages of superiority and intent that seemingly only a handful of people were meant to understand at any given time. Archaic beliefs founded arbitrary rules, arbitrary rules fostered inequitable conditions, and in that inequality festered discontent and misery on every level - even amongst those holding the most power and privilege. For such a social species claiming to be above primitive animals, humans held an uncanny ability to act with the most animosity towards once another.

“That depends on the needs of the kingdom,” he muses, his free hand coming to stroke his beard in thought. “Her Majesty has her Duke to answer her immediate needs with regards to in-realm issues, and with our military currently doing little more than managing civil service, I don’t imagine I shall be summoned back for some time. Not unless there is catastrophe.”

He laughs, that familiar deep, rich sound that has birds coming to rest closer in the branches rather than taking flight. A sunbeam catches his face, illuminating his features with an almost ethereal glow to highlight his joy. It fades as quickly as it comes, a reminder that whatever grace he once had he’d fallen from, become something darker. A fact not soon forgotten by the he grins at her question.

"Ah, I see. Naturally you have your own life and duty to manage first." Even if he was to disappear tomorrow to never be seen by her again, Valerie would likely understand. Something as queer as what they plot must come with a hefty dose of chance. It could very well just... not work. But since he'd made the offer, she certainly hoped it would. A few weeks, maybe a couple of months – that should be enough. Get her through the London Season, spare her from imminent disaster. Then he'd be free to go his way again. "I shall be grateful for what time and grace you offer me."

At the melody of his laughter Valerie lifts her chin again, catching the resplendent glimmer of his face in the gilded sun, which caresses her in turn, highlighting the dust of freckles across her cheeks and nose. Again she notices that breath the forest holds as they pass, quiet reverence, bowing under his presence. "No blood?" She meant it as a joke, but a slight hint of disappointment betrays her voice. This was starting to sound all very... clean. Not what she'd expected at all, stirring some suspicion over his honesty or intent. Threatening a girl with a good time by telling her to pick out jewellery.