He had missed his forge Night Haven. And from the looks of the remaining buildings that Emery had built fifty years ago, not much had been affected. In fact, it seemed as though someone had taken over for a while. Maybe after the Vikings left their lands someone local had pitched in to keep it afloat, or at least from being totally looted. Emery had not spent nearly enough time there, having just had the building made shortly after him and Rose were wed. He ran his hands over the wooden door and across the rusted locks with a sentimental smile; he needed some time alone.
He had spent night after night tending to Rose and making her feel welcomed in this life, a life that did not involve the plane of Limbo trying to eliminate her. Leaving her side was not an option nor a necessity; the two acted as newlyweds and pretended to be as such. Emery had enough coin and gold to get them through the winter. With The Serpent's Pass suffering heavy losses from the raids and his weapons being looted, Emery did not have profit coming in. He had plans, of course, to get the forge behind his shop up and running again. Maybe he'd employ an excited new apprentice to mock his beautiful craftsmanship, maybe not. He assumed his brother was fixing the place up, anyway.
But this forge was nearly intact, save a few vines that had grown along the outside of the barns and crept through the shattered windows. And there, amongst the echoing memories of hammering large tools and the sparks that bounced from the metals to burn delicately against his arms, Emery would finally be at true peace. And no amount of running in the woods with Shiloh or pushing his body against his wife's would satisfy the feeling of creating something like his father had taught him when he was a mortal boy.
When it came to the art of creating, Emery knew one day he’d have a progeny of his own…he just hoped that Michael would still be around to see it.
And so, with an anxious smirk against his lips Emery lit the fire pit in the center of the forge after collecting some wood and remaining coal. The walls were layered with old mantels, lined within wall mounts and dirty glass cases, dusty wooden shelving and large barrels. Still, within some of the cases, were antiqued blades that looked as though they hadn't been touched for ages.Â
In a way, it saddened the vampire. And as he walked around the large room, brushing fingertips against every single piece of woodwork, Emery couldn’t help but think about Brailston over fifty years ago. The memories were overwhelming; everything about his home in Brailston consisted of remnants of his family, both old & new. To imagine this forge now as it is, practically bare and useless, sent waves of noticeable guilt throughout Emery’s otherwise cold soul.
He had always been sentimental like that, especially when it came to his forges.
Finally, Emery stopped to gaze down at a weapon laying against the surface of his workbench; a solid piece of metal the size of a large picnic table, Emery laced pale fingers against the grip of his first forged sword.
How in the world did this get here?
It had always been a fine piece of work…the best sword he had ever wielded, in fact. There was nothing complicated about it and Emery had been practically a child upon forging it, but his father promised that this sword would last him a lifetime. Before the raids in Brailston fifty-one years ago, Emery had placed most of his prized collections in two large chests and buried them in the ground. Instinct had lead him to believe that something was going to happen to his home and forge, though he hadn't known what at the end. Months later, he recovered the chests with the demoness, Adarna, and saved his precious items.
But Emery had left everything behind when he fled to England with Michael. He didn't know why, and especially how, but somehow his sword found its way in plain site for Emery to see. With no dust marks, no indications that it had been there along, Emery could only assume that is was recently placed.
He didn't care.
He grinned in sick satisfaction, admiring the freshly polished metal as if he were looking upon it for the first time, and even ran his index finger against the sharper edge causing the smallest trail of blood to drip down into his palm. Stepping away from the bench the boy went at it; fighting against the air like a knight of the king, with technique fit for any simple man to learn yet distinct enough for only the speed of a supernatural like himself. It was an easy distraction, something that allowed him to detach from his senses if just for a few moments and feel the strength of his own body moving against the air in rhythmic motions. He closed his mind to rid them of annoying thoughts and allowed the flames from the fire guide him against the darkened room. He thought of Rosemary and how having her back in his immortal life was both the best blessing and most horrendous curse.  He swore that Rose’s smile would be the eternal death of him one day, and Emery was very comfortable with that.
With every make-believe slice into a body and imagining it as every single person in Athoria or England that had ever wronged him, and with every frustrating grunt escaping his throat, Emery lost his mind. The sword flew from his hands with an agitated yet primeval roar as his fangs dropped from their place in his upper gums and his senses became heightened on alert. He wasn’t angry and for once in his life Emery was not jealous nor confused. The adrenaline pumping through dead veins was strictly that of pure instinct and control. It was nasty yet delicious at the same time; something Emery craved as a vampire even more than he craved the taste of human blood. He wanted to run against the walls and jumped from building to building carelessly. He wanted to rip the throats out of every villager that walked by him innocently and throw their vocal cords at Jeremiah's face. He wanted to shove Rosemary violently up against a wall, tear her dress to shreds and have his way with her until her voice was hoarse from screaming his name and her body convulsed with undying pleasure..
It was his instinct of being a vampire, of being a hunter by nature and a killer by popular choice; of fancying the most glamorous possessions in life because of his ego and demanding that he be entitled to such vanities. His race, his specie, his kin, were what Athoria feared; more than the wolves that trampled the lower lakes & especially more than any disgusting phantom.
Emery ran. He ran from his forge and into the woods on the mountain. He sprinted so incredibly fast that his body collided with trees and low branches, that he tripped haphazardly over rocks that he’d otherwise be able to avoid but tonight he could not. And he didn’t care. The freedom of enjoying his specie was enlightening and the boy ran as though it were the first time he were experiencing his supernatural abilities. For all he cared, the beast could stay locked away forever if it meant that Emery would forever feel like this.
And it was then, for the first time since meeting returning from England, amongst the thick and heavy trees of Hallowed Oak as Emery’s boots imprinted the earth beneath his feet, that Emery Frost knew that life with Jeremiah in it would be just fine. The phantom would come and go, place artifacts from his past before him as offerings and toy with the very fibers of Emery's existence, but he prince knew...in the back of his mind, that he was in complete control.Â
Jeremiah would not win, and Michael would not own him. Emery would find his place amongst the Striga with Rose by his side, immortally.Â
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