Kyūketsuki
Lucien Masterlist
This is part of Lucien's story before Y/N comes into the picture. Disclaimer- I am by no means an expert on the history of Japan or medieval culture in Asia. If there are inaccuracies, I sincerely apologize.
The snippet is fairly long, so most of it is going under the cut!
It was the height of the Ashikaga’s power in Japan, in what would later be known as the medieval period. In Europe, the Black Death was busy decimating the human populations in every village, town, and city. In Asia, there was still turmoil and unrest, but mostly in the form of aristocratic bureaucracy. For Lucien, pesky politics were a lot less draining on his psyche than a seemingly incurable disease that took lives without rhyme or reason. There would always be corrupt leaders, after all. He was at least used to that.
Erythros had taken it too far this time. Lucien was done. Beyond done. If the Ancient Vampire wanted to be cruel and wicked, he could do that just fine by himself. Lucien, however, would be going. He had always wanted to visit Japan, and the combination of the plague and his master’s coldness were more than enough reason to take a trip.
The breeze of the night carried the cherry blossom petals off of their tree and across the gentle, bubbling streams surrounding Lucien’s little thatched house. Lucien had amassed more than enough wealth to afford a Kyoto estate, but some part of him had begun to associate excessive luxury with Erythros. The whole point of this trip was to forget him, maybe forever.
Yes, as Lucien breathed in the soft spring air, he became more and more convinced that this change needed to become permanent.
He strummed the shamisen, fretting with practiced fingers. It wasn’t too different from the lute he had back home… no, not home. Not anymore. The British Isles had not been his home in over two-hundred years. As he played, he gazed out at his garden. The flowers swishing in the breeze, a few critters scurrying about, and the sound of the water. The babbling stream was the perfect accompaniment to his instrument.
He joined in, singing softly of an old legend his mother used to tell him. If Lucien played long enough, he might have been able to trick himself into believing he was at peace.
A creak sounded on the deck outside. Lucien’s song stopped abruptly. He turned but saw nothing except tall grass. He shrugged. A rabbit, or perhaps a very large frog.
His fingers hovered over the fret board, but he could not get them to press down. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He set the instrument down and rose, gliding over to the window. His enhanced vision pierced through the darkness. There was nothing to see but the garden and shadows. Too many shadows. Shadows that were too deep and too long to be from the plants.
He took a step forward and promptly tripped over a silver wire, which glinted mockingly up at him.
Three armored figures descended upon him, each armed with silver weapons.
Lucien cried out, his eyes going wide as the moon above. He scratched and kicked and bit and punched. It did nothing to stop their assault.
“Get off of me!” Lucien shouted.
In Japanese, imbecile.
Lucien repeated the demand in the correct language this time. His assailants still ignored him. One of them pressed a cloth to his face.
“Why did you bring that? It is only good for breathing creatures,” one of them said in Japanese.
“This one breathes still,” his compatriot replied, “he said so.”
He? Who was “he”? What did these people want? Samurai, going by their armor. Vampires, going by their fangs and wings. If they were going to kill him, why had they not done so already?
Lucien didn’t realize he was hyperventilating until it was much too late. He had likely inhaled enough of the drug to take down a fully-grown brown bear.
“Sleep, fledgling,” the third said.
Lucien managed to get one last scowl up at them before succumbing to the drug.
…
Lucien awoke to a world shrouded in mist. The shapes and colors were blurred, and all sounds were muffled. He sucked in a breath, likely the first in hours.
“The fledgling wakes,” a voice said.
Lucien blinked rapidly in hopes of clearing his murky vision. He tried to unfurl his wings, but he was met with burning resistance. His limbs were similarly immobile. He attempted to sit up from where he lay on his side, which was when he was able to get a look at himself. Every inch of him had been wrapped in silver rope. It coiled around him tightly, and it burned every piece of skin it touched. He was lucky; it didn’t seem to be pure silver, only infused with it. Not enough to cause severe damage, but definitely enough to restrain.
When he still couldn’t sit up, one of the vampires approached him and sat him up against the wall. Lucien lurched forward, partly because he was still out of it, but also because the ground itself seemed to be swaying. His first captor steadied him.
“Where am I?” Lucien slurred.
“Aboard our vessel, the Blood Moon.”
“…Why?”
The samurai exchanged puzzled looks.
“He said you did not pay attention,” the second said.
They opened a scroll in front of him, at the bottom of which was an all-too-familiar, blood red seal. The color in Lucien’s face, which was minimal anyway, drained out of him completely.
Scrawls of dried ichor contained direct orders to bring Lucien back, unharmed, to Erythros’ castle in the British Isles. A bounty had been placed on his head for more money than most human families could accumulate in three generations. There were also specific instructions for how to capture him and prevent his escape.
“No,” Lucien said quietly.
His head snapped up at them.
“No, please, you can’t!” he begged, “you don’t know what he’ll do to me, I left for a reason!”
“The Ancient Vampire showed great concern for your well-being,” the second samurai remarked, “you should be grateful he wants to take you back after your defiance.”
“Please,” Lucien tried again, “please, just take me back to my garden. Drop me off at the nearest port. Put me anywhere you like, but don’t take me back to him!”
At this point, tears brimmed in his eyes. The samurai looked between each other, shifting their weight and avoiding Lucien’s gaze.
The third warrior, struck with an unusual jolt of compassion, knelt in front of Lucien.
“Your master cares greatly for you,” he said, “he would not ask us to bring you back unharmed if he wished to maim or end you.”
“You don’t understand!” Lucien sobbed in English, “he’ll confine me to my chambers for a decade, or bury me in the crypt until I can’t remember my own name! Please!”
A backhanded slap tore across his face faster than he could process. The second samurai fixed him with a cold sternness.
“You forget yourself. You are lucky to not be our usual prey,” he said, “and you are lucky still to be Erythros’ thrall. Make an effort to calm down.”
Lucien sniffled.
“If you settle down, we will remove the restraints for the part of our journey that traverses water,” the third said gently.
Lucien scoffed through his tears.
How generous, it’s not as if vampires cannot cross moving water on their own, no, of course not. Truly, what a gift.
Even so, Lucien was already going stiff from his immobility. He nodded, willing his tears to dry. The trio of warriors worked to remove the silver ropes binding him.
He rubbed his sore and burning wrists, which had little red marks across them.
“I will bring you healing ointments,” the first said, leaving the little room.
Lucien buried his face in his hands. What good would unmarred skin do for him now?
…
Their journey was unmercifully swift. They arrived in London in less than a week. After that, it was easy to return to his home in Kent.
Lucien had been bound once more in the silver rope and placed in a wooden coffin. He had fought this arrangement quite fiercely at first, but another soaked rag managed to calm him down into a fitful sleep.
The three samurai arrived at the castle on the lake in the cover of night. The coffin containing their charge lay in a covered, wooden wagon.
“Lord Erythros,” the first samurai greeted, “we have brought your thrall back to you.”
His English was remarkably well-spoken all things considered.
“And for this, you shall be rewarded,” Erythros said.
A few human servants came forward, their bodies riddled with bite marks. They held a chest gilded with gold and jewels. They set it at the samurai’s feet and opened it with a great effort.
Inside glittered jewels larger than a man’s hand, and gold from as far back as the early Roman empire. Ancient Chinese silk, old Egyptian jewelry, high quality Sumerian copper, and a few selected tomes from the Library of Alexandria.
“May these tokens serve you well,” the ancient vampire said.
“Your generosity is unmatched, Lord,” the second samurai said.
The three warriors bowed deeply. They unloaded the coffin and opened it so Erythros could see his thrall resting inside. They set the chest on their wagon and made to leave. The third hesitated.
“My lord,” he said, turning, “about your thrall…”
“What of him, Warrior?” Erythros asked as he picked Lucien up.
“He seemed… frightened. Like prey. Is he unwell?”
“Lord Renwick is but a fledgling. He has only been with us for a few centuries,” Erythros said.
“…He has been with us for almost three centuries, is this not so?”
“I appreciate your concern, Warrior, but Lord Renwick’s adjustment to our ways is my affair. Away with you; may fortune favor your flight.”
The third warrior bowed again, joining his companions. Erythros looked down at Lucien. He did not breathe, and his sleep was still. His sleep was a shadow of death. He rested like a vampire. Now if only he would live like one.
…
Lucien sucked in a gasp, but only stale air greeted him. He bolted upright, and promptly bumped his head against a very low ceiling. He couldn’t see, it was pitch-black all around him. He felt walls on every side of him. He pushed up on the ceiling, but it would not give. A great resistance met his hardest push, and the clinking of chains could be heard outside.
“No. No no no no no-” Lucien sucked in rapid breaths of nothing, “Erythros! Master! Let me out! Please!”
He banged on the marble lid of the coffin, and screamed until his throat was raw and his voice hoarse. Tears streamed freely down his face.
“Please…” he whispered.
…
Erythros made sure the silver chains secured around the coffin would hold. He extinguished the candles in the mausoleum. His thrall’s screams, though muffled, still managed to echo throughout the stone room.
Erythros had the ghost of an urge to return to Lucien’s side. No. He would never learn if he released him now.
The doors closed behind him with a loud finality. Lucien Renwick would remain imprisoned until the Black Death faded from Europe.
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