#flakeblood

It was another rough ramble through town. Rough meaning knuckles bruised enough to break the skin stretched out over battered bones, a few teeth knocked loose in their sockets, and a nose bleeding thin streams past his lips and onto his tongue. Trevor could taste copper along with the fading remnants of bitter ale well past its prime window of desperate and needful consumption. In other words, bad decisions.

The trio of men hanging about the tavern were the usual breed of what Trevor so affectionately referred to as born fucking stupid louts. Shit smeared across their combined grins; if one had the wherewithal to look close enough, they would count the amount of teeth each man held in their heads. Admittedly, not the best thing to voice towards three inebriated piss sacks just waiting for an excuse to beat out the day to day frustrations felt by every common Wallachian with a pitchfork in one hand and a beer pint in the other. Casually wondering, a childlike curiosity, if the last Belmont was truly “up to snuff”. Not before denouncing that same family name, of course.

Trevor paid for that little comment concerning their lack of teeth—he’s still paying for it even as he stumbles out the gates of one more town covered in blankets of ever-falling snow. One more he can add to his list of establishments that would rather see him gone forever than well rested in a paid for bed, not bothering anybody. The list grows every week it seems, if not every day. While it becomes bigger, Wallachia, a country of what feels to be a wasted opportunity, shrinks in size. There aren’t many places left where the bastard of a dead legacy can hide.

He licks another drop of blood falling from his (third time) broken nose before teetering off the edge of his upper lip, desensitised to its rancid taste. Any other day he would inject a bit of dark humour into the reality of his decade long situation. Saunter away like a tomcat or true vagabond whilst caring fuck all about the perpetrators of his bruised muscles. He may be hell bound towards an early grave, not because he happened to stoop as low as some of those farmers did. Petty thoughts such as these usually help to pass the days easily and with less ass-splintering pain.

But Trevor is tired; the first time he’s admitting to this. Perhaps it’s the cold, the snow, or how the sun fades at an earlier hour. He doesn’t even know why it surprises him every year and why he denies it up until now; the feeling is always the same. That could be the answer. With winter comes hopelessness. Another push towards that early year he thinks so often about. He’s not afraid of dying itself, just that it might happen for some stupid avoidable reason.

Further the Belmont drifts from his newly hated town. Headspace light yet still pounding like an out of rhythm drum after all the hits it took. For once, the sorry state of his mind is not due to the alcohol. Trevor mentally pats his own back as though this is a victorious milestone for him. Well done, shit heel. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.

Halfway between an uncaring tipsy stupor and an angry concussion, he begins to wander aimlessly off the well-travelled road and into the woods. Boots digging deep into the accumulating snow while stray twigs snag at his tattered cloak, as though begging him to stay. Trevor keeps walking, or the closest thing he can accomplish given his current state. This is not without purpose. If he continues onward, past the beaten tracks, past the recognizable landmarks, past any semblance of human interaction with nature, he might get swallowed up by the forest where no one will come looking for the last Belmont to pick another pointless fight. Trevor enjoys those, against his own health. Once backed into a corner with no hope of weaselling his way out with his charming personality, he’d never refuse some good old fashioned fisticuffs. 

But he’s so fucking tired of it all. 

The trees grow denser. The snow, heavier. There’s no sign of a clearing. Trevor thinks to himself how it might not be the cold which finally puts his family name to eternal rest. Strange things are bound to happen deep in the forest and even stranger things are found. Mother, father, and some of his older sisters roped into babysitting told them like bedtime stories though every single one of them told the truth. Not all of them involved the usual company of vampires. 

Never wander outside during a lunar eclipse for the Pricolici might eat you along with the moon. If you see a man wearing a dog’s head, four eyes, with too many arms and legs, run, else the Căpcăun will snatch you up and tear off your own limbs to add to its collection. Wander too close to a pool of water, still as death itself, and the Rusalka will choke you with her long hair then drag you beneath the surface. Then there’s everything concerning those damn wolves, particularly the white ones.

I don’t care. Trevor has bested those beasties along with plenty more. Should one cross his path, he will simply deal with them in the traditional Belmont way—or lose, which might not be the worst thing. The leather braided whip that has always dangled precariously off his hip feels heavier. Surely, if his family tree has anything to say about it, there’s honour to be found in dying to protect the common folk of Wallachia from yet another thing that goes bump in the night.

But Trevor wouldn’t be protecting anyone. There’s nobody around to which he can self-sacrifice for; not now in these woods and certainly not for a very, very long time. He doesn’t want to fight for any so-called citizen of Wallachia. At long last Trevor finds that one tree he’s been searching for. Something which doesn’t speak, doesn’t think, and doesn’t feel has done more to deserve his attention. His respect, even. He collapses by its trunk, snowflakes caught in his lowering eyelashes, and prays to be granted one moment of peace. Outside and inside.

--

“Something wandered over the threshold?”

We saw him. We saw him pass out by the tallest pine tree.

The prince taps a blackened nail upon his cheek. Curious. “You found a human.”

He’s ugly. And he smells. All humans smell.

“There’s no need for hasty conclusions. You only just met our guest.”

Not a guest! A trespasser! He broke the rules of hospitality.

Punish him. Make him sick. Eat his heart.

No, let us do it! Pluck his eyes out. Slip thorns underneath his fingernails. 

“Enough from all of you. I shall decide what must be done with our visitor. Bring him here. And be gentle. Our guest deserves a more respectable welcome.”

--

Trevor doesn’t remember falling unconscious, nor does he remember being moved from his claimed spot under the pine tree. He wakes—not very gracefully—similar to after a night scumming around local taverns, searching for something to warm his muscles while also using his head as a battering ram once the morning sun reveals its irritable face. Small price to pay for poor temporary shelter from the cold. Only now Trevor doesn’t feel the familiar chill numbing his fingertips or the stagnant blood suddenly rushing to his cheeks in an attempt to save him from becoming another frozen body stumbled upon in the woods.

His eyes adjust, blinking out the last bits of grime left behind by the ever elusive and punctual sandman. Trevor expects to be blinded by stark white snow, fresh and untouched. He does go blind, a few seconds at most if even that, though not from snow. For there is none to be found on the ground, atop the branches, or nestled amongst the overgrown bushes. Leaves, fully grown green and twitching in a gentle breeze, shelter Trevor from the sun’s overhead rays. His sight should be clear by now, yet no matter how often each eye closes then reopens, that soft haze covering his vision never fades. Like looking at the world through nothing but the thinnest, most fragile linen fabric. Unclear, unfocused, muffled. Everything is bright, warm, and alive—everything that should be wrong. Never has he felt more unease in the presence of spring.

Trevor is presented with two options, one more logical than the other. This is a dream made all the more real thanks to whatever his parched throat tasted before he shuffled out of town with more than his deteriorating pride bruised. Or, he’s dead. Exposure claimed him under that tree and this is the fabled afterlife. Trevor doubts his own theory; he’s done nothing to earn himself a place in heaven, whether this one or another.

Enough of his senses return for him to feel what lies beneath his immobile body; soft, something like fur which envelops the space between his fingers. Flowers intertwined with vines and other sweet-smelling plants, braiding into a gently swaying hammock that feels no heavier despite who it carries. Nature comes together to create shelter with no steady footing or foundation, suspended off the ground (how high exactly Trevor cannot tell—not entirely certain he wishes to know). He cautiously moves each hand around, mapping out a general idea pertaining to this odd bed of his. Not perfect, no regard to pure accuracy, just enough to form some sort of grounded reality. More blankets and a few pillows surrounding him. This might as well be the world’s kindest cage.

Trevor isn’t given much time to further investigate his environment. Another weight shifts upon the same canopy. They sidle up closer and Trevor’s head inexplicably feels lighter as it's moved from one of the pillows into his visitor’s lap, sudden yet with grace so he’s not disturbed. Lithe fingers tipped with sharp black nails like talons touch along his chest, arms, and forehead, tender and fleeting but repetitive.

He wants to flinch from this foreign contact, yet something in Trevor’s heart outweighs his innate suspicion and sense of self-preservation. Instead, he pushes his faint vision to its limit in order to see the features of this second presence. A man, his face partially obscured by strands of long silken hair the colour of pale gold with every twitch of his head. Trevor finds two incredibly pointed ears sticking out from underneath. There’s not much colour in the man’s skin, giving it an unearthly hue. Eyes filled with darkness and yellow irises, drops of gold floating in pools of black ink. Atop his head above a delicate crown of copper-tinged rose thorns is the strangest feature of all: intricately entwined antlers, bone thin and sharp as daggers. He doesn’t seem to be wearing much else apart from a nearly translucent white robe that hangs lackadaisy off his shoulders and down his broad chest. Much like the unnerving discovery of the antlers, Trevor finally notices a pair of night black wings just behind the inhuman stranger, more akin to a gargoyle than any angel or bird.

The man opens his delicate mouth to speak, his voice like honey. Deep but sweet and slow moving. Trevor’s eyes dart towards the abnormally sharp canines.

“You were lucky to be found.”

Those childhood stories passed on into adulthood as important lessons. The Pricolici, the Căpcăun, the Rusalka, and more of their family members. It’s never luck stumbling upon any of them, unless one means to. Unless one desires the thrill of the hunt and won’t get easily subdued. Or reluctantly cradled in the arms of those Trevor once pursued.

“Not sure how lucky I am to be found by a Vila.”

Vila—he recognized the signs as soon as his vision allowed him to. Often mistaken for vampires in the east, which might have been the reason why his family bestiary dedicated so many pages to them. The southern Slavs traded warnings about these creatures, their own breed of faeries. Not the sort to plant mushrooms in a perfect circle or steal children’s loose teeth in exchange for a few measly coins. No, the Vila will just take the entire child and replace it with a devilish changeling. Beautiful, prone to entrancing humans, mostly hunters. They transform into swans, falcons, deer, or wolves and lure them with the promise of good game. Before the first arrow can be released or the beginning strike of an axe, they’ve already lost themselves. Usually quite friendly—usually, which plants a seed of nervousness in Trevor as this particular Vila chuckles at his accusation. It sounds pleasant, sweet, like everything else atop their canopy.

“I must admit, those with a more feral disposition wanted me to punish you.”

Not surprising. Vila are notoriously sensitive to the laws of hospitality much like their smaller, more frivolous cousins. One overlooked slight or phrase said with the wrong connotations, and some poor bastard would be forced into the most miserable lifestyle until his dying breath. With his own miserable existence in mind, Trevor thinks very, very carefully about what to say next. Or rather, how to present his query.

“Thank you. Will you permit me to ask something?”

The Vila threads his nails through Trevor’s poorly trimmed bangs, toying with a few strands. “If you desire it so. I shall permit it.”

“What’s your name?”

Before he can utter out that last syllable, the Vila presses a finger over his lips and shushes him, an odd look of amusement on his serene face. “Anything but that. I cannot allow it. Names hold power to those who know them.”

Another fae truth unsurprising to Trevor. Calling out one’s name unsolicited in the human world might be seen as simply rude but at least no one turns stiff and moves only with a difficult pain before dying of disease within the next year. Is this another subtle warning or a display of concern? Does he not want to harm his human? Either reason, it was a valiant attempt on Trevor’s part as his head sinks further into the Vila’s lap. 

“But I already know who you are.” Hands smooth over his chest as it slowly rises then falls, tracing the outline of his family crest. Shit. That crest brings him nothing but trouble.

“So I’m essentially stuck here until you either say so or don’t say so.” Trevor freezes, wondering if his question sounded unintentionally rude. A new expression creeps across the Vila’s black eyes, one of deliberate pondering.

“I am still considering what should be done with you. For now, rest. Let your body heal. It was meant to be the truth when I said you were lucky to be found.”

Trevor manages to shift slightly in his inebriated position. His body no longer aches or punishes him for the previous night of a liquid dinner along with an impromptu show of fists and kicks at no added charge. Though even he realises it would be in his best interest to not galavant off as though the bruises, cracked bones, and loose teeth were part of this assumed hallucination. Yet, he cannot keep feigning disbelief or scepticism. It all feels so real, something he’s slowly coming to terms with. Why would anyone want this to be fake? Where else could one find such peace and warmth in plentiful amounts without caveats or blemishes made plain to see. Precisely the reason why Trevor’s guard (admittedly weakening with the unclear passing of time) remains erect. Nothing offered by the world should be this perfect—then again, he’s aware that this is not the world he knows. Not one which has broken and spat him out only to chew him down into dust not just the next day but the next hour.

“Ask me something else,” the Vila requests with no prelude or hint. Trevor looks up and is faced with a look of genuine curiosity. There’s a strange comfort to his expression, nothing like how a cat toys with a trapped mouse. “I like hearing you speak.”

Trevor considers it, shocked at the sound of a compliment directed towards him. “Why is it so warm? Isn’t it supposed to be winter?”

“The forest has always been like this. You simply never looked at it in the right way. Ask another.”

There are plenty of unknowns, including the Vila’s sudden fascinating with hearing Trevor speak what must sound like simple, idiotic queries about a realm so mundane to those not human. Yet he takes longer to voice them as the easy rocking of the canopy coupled with gentle caresses where allowed eventually lulls him into a passive state. Muscles healed but feeling heavier, eyes hazier, falling asleep. Realising that his present company is far more enjoyable helps Trevor slip further into relaxed pleasantry.

“How long has it been since I came here?” The words struggle out, slurred and longer than they should.

“We do not measure events or experiences based on time. It has no place here. We only rely on our feelings and memories. What might seem like a fleeting second for you could be an eternity for us.”

Cryptic and frustrating; Trevor expected no less from fucking faeries. There’s little energy and consciousness left for him to voice his confusion. There is however one last question as he closes his eyes, prepared for sleep-driven darkness.

“Am I really going to stay here?”

He can still see slivers of light passing through the slits between his eyelids along with the silhouette of his newfound… friend? Trevor can’t say for certain. The interpersonal lines blur even more drastically when the Vila leans in, his breath smelling like rosemary and cedar. He whispers another cryptic phrase before his lips lay claim to an exposed patch of skin on Trevor’s neck and everything else fades away again.

“Search the undergrounds of a dying city if you wish to see me again.”

--

“Excuse me… hey. Hey! Can you hear me?”

The first statement manages to cut through Trevor’s mental fog, but the words are still muffled and distorted. Same way one is pulled from a dream too real to be the simple conjuring of a restless mind. The second sounds clearer, clear enough for him to make out an Iberian accent. He’s heard it before, in his youth. Back then it sounded louder, older, and far angrier. This version is a pleasant departure from that memory, though whoever’s calling out to him seems no less determined to make themselves heard.

“Are you alright?”

One confused blink after the other and Trevor is finally able to see his benefactor in all her glory. Eyes as large and blue as the sea next to her homeland, hair cut short and perpetually tangled. Blue robes, baggy, shapeless, and held together by a silver brooch. Songbird. Coupled with the accent reminiscent of another noticed during his childhood, he comes to a fair conclusion concerning which band of nomads she belongs to. This Speaker stares down at him like observing a sad little rat with a clipped tail. Worried, but also a bit morbidly curious.

“Here—” She offers her hand and with a grunt of thanks, Trevor takes it, rising to his unstable feet. Now he’s able to see the sunny main road and how he was unceremoniously dropped by the side of it. It’s still cold, there’s still snow, but no bruises on his knuckles.

“What happened to you?”

“I, uh…” He could tell her. Speakers know a thing or two about strange things in strange forests themselves, but Trevor sees the way she glances at the family emblem on his breast before turning away just as fast, never mentioning it. She’d call him another crazy black magic Belmont; maybe she’d be alright with that considering her background. Maybe he’ll tell her later, if he sticks around for that long. Right now, feeling oddly rejuvenated, self preservation comes first.

“Is your caravan nearby?”

“Yes. I saw you lying in the ditch and told them to stop for a moment. We were on our way towards a city in need of charity. You could… join us. Ride in one of the wagons and sleep off your hangover.”

“I don’t have a hang—” Trevor stops himself. He said it as a fake counter to her assumption, but it’s the truth. Once fully conscious, there were no signs of ailment on the outside or inside. For the first time in weeks, he’s clear headed. Like all the grime and shit accumulated between his ears was finally washed clean. It feels fucking weird.

“Alright. I’ll join your people for a bit.” Better with those genuinely deserving the best from the world than back on the trial alone. “What’s the city called?”

The two of them walk side by side down the road, eyes peering away from the blinding sunlight as it turns the fresh snow into sparkles.