#thremael

The great Temple of Fate stood atop a hill overlooking the small city of Nevarra; still young, but quickly growing and full of promise.

The people of Nevarra brought tribute to the temple, in the hopes that Fate would smile upon them; animals for the slaughter, fresh incense, fine wines and rich, silken cloth…

...and beautiful children to serve the temple as acolytes.

Children of Fate, the people of Nevarra called them. But Melarue and the others called Fate by another name. To them, she was Mother Moonlight.

She only came to them at night, after the sun had set. She would smile and sing to them, and call them her precious children, and she was the most beautiful person Melarue had ever seen. Her skin was frigid to the touch but her smile was warm, and so was the magic that danced at her fingertips.

At night she would show them her magic, show how she sowed it into the very soil to help the people that worshiped her have strong crops. Or take them all down to the banks of the Minanter River and show them how she would calm the waters, or call fish to the boats.

“These people believe I am their god,” She would say, and laugh in a way that always made Melarue’s chest tighten. “It is as it should be. I must be what I must be.”

---

The children keep up the temple: they sweep, and wipe the dust from the polished altar pieces, and make sure there is always incense burning. Melarue’s favorite part is tending the large garden behind the temple. The other children like roaming the dark tunnels below where Mother rests during the day, but Melarue loves nothing more than the feeling of fresh soil beneath their bare feet and the sight of hydrangeas in the sunlight.

Anaris is the eldest of them, and comes of age when Melarue is still young. He is the first that Mother turns, made to be her childe in full, to live in the dark with her and join in the destiny she has crafted for them all. The night of his turning Melarue sits with the other children in the upper chambers, and waits.

Mother Moonlight comes just before dawn, and tells them that Anaris is well.

“You must wait to meet him, my darlings. He must learn to control his hunger now, as I do.”

It is several months before they see him again, at Mother’s side when she comes to visit them all. Though physically he looks much the same, there is a sharpness to him that accentuates his beauty. His skin and eyes seem to glow from within, and his usual teasing charm seems amplified.

A vampire’s charm, now.

One day I will be that beautiful. I will be Mother’s childe truly, and she will be so proud of me. Melarue looks into Anaris’ eyes and smiles to themself.

When Anaris leaves the upper chambers, a new acolyte is brought in. Thremael, so young he can barely walk, orphaned by war, the son of a refugees seeking safety in the city of Nevarra. He looks so small in Fate’s arms, held close as he sleeps.

Melarue and Merith braid his hair, and weave flowers into the thick strands, and feed him goat’s milk when he cries out with hunger.

Merith is Melarue’s best friend.

He is kind and bright, and so very unlike themselves. They are always noticing faults in others, even if they do not say them aloud. They are good at lying, at telling stories that the others always believe. They are good at hiding, and getting their way. The others says it isn’t fair that they can always ask Mother for things and she will make certain they get them, but it is just because the others don’t use the right words.

Merith tells them that lying isn’t a nice thing to do, and that they should try to tell the other children how they feel properly. That seems foolish, because if they told some of the others how they really felt about them, well, Melarue thinks they’d probably get angry.

Merith is the only one who never gets angry.

Melarue counts down the years till their turning as they grow older, and taller. They are told they are beautiful and when they look at themselves in one of Mother’s mirrors, they find that they agree. Vanity, it seems, is another of their faults.

Merith is the same age, but he never gets quite as tall as them. His hair is wild and unmanageable, and his face is plain. Melarue still finds his smiles warm, and his friendship a comfort. He is still their dearest friend, even if he is not as eager as themselves, to receive Mother’s blood.

“What will it be like, to never feel the sun again?” Merith whispers to them one evening. Mother and Anaris have gone out to hunt so there are no lessons that evening, and the others have all gone to sleep. Melarue inches forward in the darkness, and wraps their long arms around their friend.

“We will all be together with Mother, forever. That is better than sunlight, is it not?”

“What will you do without your flowers?” Merith continues.

It has been one of their worries, certainly. “Mother is all that matters,” They say at last, “The flowers will still be there, even if I cannot see them bloom.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

Melarue holds him closer. “I am afraid of failing Mother.” It is the first honest thing they’ve said that evening, and they know that Merith knows it is so as well. He has always been so very good at seeing through their lies.

“I am not special, like you or Anaris or the younger ones.” Merith shakes his head, and his curls brush against their cheek. “What if I am not strong enough?”

“You will survive the turning,” Melarue vows, “You will survive because you must. Mother has chosen us, we will not fail her. She has never been wrong before.” Melarue knows that if either of them fail, it will be through a fault of their own, and not a decision Mother has made. Still, they think of the two they are the most deficient. If one of them were to fail, surely it would be them.

When Melarue and Merith turn twenty, Mother tells them they will undergo the turning at the next full moon. Melarue can barely contain their excitement, and even Merith seems pleased. They spend the next few weeks listening to Mother’s instructions, to Anaris’ descriptions of what will happen, and preparing their rooms down below where they will soon make their permanent home.

The night of their turning, Merith is taken below first. Melarue remains in the open chamber at the foot of the stairs, and listens to the sound of Merith’s screams. They can feel their heart beating wildly in their chest—out of fear for themselves or Merith they do not know. It is the last time they will ever feel their heart beat, they know, whether the turning is successful or not.

Finally, Anaris comes forward and gives them a smile, “Merith is well. Come with me.”

Some of the tension in them eases, at that. Merith succeeded! He is a true childe of Mother now, just as they will be. Please, they think, as they follow Anaris deeper into the lower chambers. Please let me succeed. Let me make Mother proud. Let me stay with my family.

Mother awaits them in the ceremonial room. It still smells of blood and Merith is nowhere to be found. They suspect that Mother has taken him to his rooms before letting Melarue inside. She opens her arms wide, and they walk into them without hesitation.

“My clever Melarue,” Fate sighs, “It is time.”

“I am ready,” Melarue answers, and they are not certain if it is a lie or not.

Fate lowers them gently to the cushions on the floor, her smile gentle and kind. Her eyes are bright, nearly glowing in the dim torchlight. They can feel the magic in the room, heavy, like a blanket being draped over them as Fate whispers words of bonding.

She uses her nail to slice along her wrist, tilts Melarue’s head back, and places it to their mouth. Mother’s blood is thick and sour, it burns as it trails down their throat. For a moment their mouth is full of the taste, and then everything goes white.

Pain lances through their body as their skin burns. They try to tear it away, but Mother is holding them close, whispering in their ear. They cannot hear her, can only think I have failed her. I have failed Mother. If I cannot do this, I am worthless.

They remember being alone, being small and without purpose. A world before Mother. They cannot go back to that. They can’t.

They blink, and look up at Mother’s beautiful face, and smile.

The hunger is...jarring. They do not fully remember their first feeding. Mother praises them, as they drain the body before them to the last drop, their stomach full, the blood so sweet they nearly weep.

“Clever, clever Melarue, you have done so well,” Fate pets their head, “You did not spill a single drop.”

Fate teaches them not to kill as well, teaches them how to feed and when, and who to choose from. Teaches them how to wipe the minds of those they leave alive. They find they are very, very good at it. They learn early on that they can alter those memories, turn them into other things that they wish. It earns them more praise, even as Fate tells them that even if they do not always kill, it is their right to do so.

Their ability to choose is what separates them from the other vampires, Fate tells them. Beasts that gorge themselves on human blood, who hide in caves and think that they can take what they will; base creatures that do not understand the higher calling of their immortality, of Fate’s plans.

“The mortals of this world pray to us for protection. We are their gods. It is our right to take what we must in return.”

That, they learn, is Fate’s true plan.

To become the God of all the mortals, to be worshiped forever. Is it her calling, she claims, and theirs as well. “My children will be gods at my side. The mortals needs us, just as we need them. We feed from them, and they do as we command, and we provide them with protection. It is nature’s way.”

Fate shows them what she has done with her magic, what she has used her thralls to make down below, where none of them have yet traveled; miles upon miles of tunnels and chambers below the surface. A city beneath a city.

“One day this will stretch across all lands,” Fate whispers, and Melarue can feel the certainty of her words in their bones.

“Why not find a way to block out the sunlight instead?” Thremael asks mother years later, after his own turning. “Surely that would be better. Let us walk outside without fear, instead of hiding beneath the ground.”

“And what would happen, if there was no sun?” Fate hums, weaving magic into a dark cloak.

“The mortals would die,” Merith answers for her. “They cannot survive without the sun. Their food would perish, and the air would be too cold.”

“And without their blood we’d die as well,” Anaris adds, sneering, “Come now Thremael, think for once.”

“Children,” Fate warns, even as she looks at them all fondly. “Do not fight among yourselves. It was a simple question, and Merith has provided a simple answer. Let this be the end of it.”

Melarue watches her siblings joke with one another, the moment of tension gone immediately, and looks back to the cloak in Fate’s hands. “What is that for, Mother?” They have not seen that type of magic before. They have been learning, over the few hundred years. Magic comes easily to them, and they have become more adept at it than even Anaris in this short time, a fact that they tell him often when he annoys them. They pick up the nuances very quickly, learn to manipulate and add, to twist what was seen. To trick and deceive. Mother says they are clever, they want to prove it true.

Fate holds the fabric up for Melarue’s inspection. “A minor protection, against the sun. It will not give more than half an hour’s worth of time, but it is enough, should you find yourselves in need.”

“Why would we have a need for it? We never leave the city,” Anaris sighs, curling up on the cushions beside Fate. There is a wistful tone to his voice; he does not like being so confined, even if there is an entire city to explore. He has always craved more; always the first to leave for a hunt in the evening and the last to return.

“I am sending you on a very important mission.” Fate responds, “War is upon the horizon. The people of Nevarra have asked for Fate’s aide, to turn the upcoming battle in their favor.”

It is not the first time they have been asked to help in times of war. They had even helped Mother sink enemy ships in the harbor with rough waves, once. Mother had needed to draw on the strength of all four of them for it, and it had left them all drained for weeks, but by the time the magically summoned storm had passed, not a ship had remained.

“The enemy army of Orlais is large, and has gathered on the edge of the Fields of Ghislain. The Emperor’s sons lead the force.”

“Their army is thousands strong.” Thremael shakes his head, “We cannot kill them all.”

“Kill the princes, and their top generals.” Fate orders. “You must fill the armies of Orlais with terror. You must show your power, so that when the bodies are found in the morning, Orlais will tremble in fear at the might of Nevarra.”

Merith swallows. Melarue catches the uneasy look in his eyes; aside from the night of his turning he has never killed a mortal he has fed upon. He does not enjoy killing, or the thirst they all have. Fate knows it as well, as she motions for him to sit on her other side, and gathers him close; even now they all seem so small in her arms. “I know it will be difficult, my childe, but this is your destiny. You are serving a higher purpose than yourself, and for that you must do things you do not wish to.”

Fate dismisses the others, so that she can continue to speak with Merith.

“Merith is going to get us all killed if he hesitates,” Thremael mutters, as the three walk down the hallway toward their rooms.

“Do not speak of Merith that way,” Melarue warns.

“You know it as well as I do. He does not believe in Mother’s plans. He thinks we should live as others of our kind do, and keep to ourselves rather than take the positions of greatness that Mother sees for us. He is weak.”

Melarue snarls, baring their fangs as they shove Thremael up against the wall. They are taller, but he is more muscular, and he quickly shoves them away with a growl of his own, eyes glowing in the darkness.

“It is a wonder he even survived the turn,” Thremael gives one last huff before storming off toward his rooms. Melarue watches him go, nails digging into the palms of their hands as they hold themselves back.

“He is not entirely wrong,” Anaris points out, after a moment of silence. He holds up his hands as they turn toward him with a glare, “I do not mean that Merith is weak. I just worry he will hesitate at the wrong moment, because he is too kind.”

“He would never disobey her.”

Anaris sighs, “Come into the city with me tonight. We should enjoy ourselves before tomorrow.”

---

Melarue enjoys themselves quite thoroughly, at Anaris’ prompting. They know being well-fed is important for the task at hand, and they drink a bit more from their targets than they would usually do so. They twist memories, plant fake ones, get inventive because they can and because a dozen different bloods are swimming in their system and their lips taste like fire.

Thremael joins them halfway through the night, and despite their earlier irritation with him they pull him close and into the pile of bodies twisting beneath them. Merith is absent, they note, but it is a fleeting thought before they return to the moment and the feeling of hands on their hips and between their legs.

It is a long night.

When the sun sets the next evening, Melarue takes the cloak Fate hands to them with reverence. It is a powerful magic, and for her to have made one for each of them...they can feel a bit of Merith’s magic in the weave as well, and feel a rush of fondness for their friend. He must have stayed with Mother to finish them the night before.

“Do as I have instructed, and we will finish this war before it reaches the walls of the city.”

Slipping across the bridge and through the forest is the easy part. The four of them are quick, as Anaris shifts shape and goes ahead, leaving the others to travel on foot. Even without wings they do not take long, immortal bodies moving without strain or need of rest at a pace no mortal could match.

The four pause on a hill overlooking the edge of the woods, and survey the scene before them. Little glimmers of torchlight move across the fringes of the army camp; sentries and guards, moving between rows and rows of tents that stretch as far as Melarue can see.

They remember the map Mother had shown them, with the locations of the princes and generals among the soldiers, they remember where they must go, to the far west of the camp, where the second prince lies sleeping.

They look to Anaris and Thremael, who nod and head into the shadows without a word, and look back at dear Merith. His expression is conflicted, eyes worried as he looks ahead. “They have not tried to harm us, Mel. Isn’t this too cruel?”

“The mortals that worship Mother will be harmed if we do not kill them.” Melarue points out, “And the Orlesians bring with them their worship of the Maker. They would tear down our temple if they overran the city. They would rape and pillage the people that come to us for protection.”

“I know,” Merith whispers. “I know.”

Melarue leaves him with a reassuring kiss to the forehead and goes where they must. They hear him move somewhere behind him, heading off to complete his own task, albeit reluctantly. 

It is not difficult to walk unseen, to deflect the gaze of guards, to silence their footsteps, to make their image hazy. They navigate through the tents until they arrive at their destination, and slip beneath the folds of the heavy fabric.

The room is dark, but they can smell smoke from the nearby candles, not long doused, and feel the warmth rising from the furs on the bed in the corner. The prince shifts, mumbling to himself as they walk forward.

He is not the first they have killed; but he is the first they will murder in cold blood. They know that Mother is right, and they do not hesitate, as their nails lengthen and they tear open his throat. His eyes open wide, full of panic and confusion as he chokes. His body surges forward but they pin him down, keep him quiet as the light fades from his eyes. Still, they do not think they will ever enjoy killing for the sake of killing.

They lick the blood from one nail and frown. It tastes no different than blood they have had before. There is nothing special about you, they think as they look down at the corpse. You may be a prince, but you are still just a man.

The next part they enjoy even less. They must make the Orlesians afraid, make them fear monsters in the shadows, make them think their God has forsaken them to the whims of demons.

They place his head upon the map in the center of the room, blood soaking through the vellum, crimson blossoming out from the center of Nevarra City and traveling outwards. The rest of him they pull apart and toss around the room. They leave his torso in bed, his limbs to the four corners, fill wine glasses with the blood that remains...and it is over so quickly they hardly register that they have done it.

Not so difficult, to take a life.

Two more they must take, before the night is through.

They kill the generals in a similar fashion, just as easy, but a tightness begins in their chest, a noxious twisting in their stomach. It may not be difficult, but it makes them feel wretched.

When they return to the hill they find Merith waiting for them, smelling of blood, eyes glossy and expression lost. He crumples into their arms and they let him sob as they wait for Thremael and Anaris.

The two arrive together, laughing over something, mouths crimson. Anaris catches their gaze and his smile fades a bit, but Thremael does not seem to notice as he walks forward, “Did your prince taste royal, Melarue? I thought I noticed a hint of rosewater with my own, though it could have been from the prostitute in his bed.”

“Enough,” Melarue mutters, both to Thremael and to Merith who still clings to them. “We must return before the sun rises. Even with Mother’s magic we will need to move quickly.”

“It isn’t like you to be so serious,” Thremael pouts, as the four head home.

---

When they return they learn that Mother has made the twins, Oranani and Felralan, true children in their absence. Welcoming their new family into the fold eases the tightness in their chest, and by the end of the week they have pushed it aside entirely. It was all Mother’s plan, and it works exactly as she had claimed. The Orlesians run, panicked, when they find their princes and generals slaughtered in the night.

Merith never forgets; the hollowness in his eyes never leaves him, no matter how comforting Melarue tries to be. They argue over it more than once, when Merith comes to their rooms to rest and seek solace, and asks them if they think it was right to do such a thing.

“It was Mother’s decision and we will obey it. Mother knows what she is doing. She has always known what we must do. Do not question her again,” Melarue whispers, holding him tight.

They know Mother would never hurt any of her children, but a part of them worries, deep down, that Merith would be in danger if someone else were to hear his doubts.

People continue to bring offerings to the Temple of Fate, as years go by.

New acolytes, as well.

The beautiful Geldauran, who Melarue can’t help be jealous of. His beauty outshines their own, they think, and he believes it as well. It takes a while for Melarue to warm to him, to see that there is more to him than conceit. They are both vain, and that vanity makes them competitive at first.

They learn that each of their new siblings has their faults, but their strengths as well. And no matter how much they fight, they are all children of Fate, and that connection is more powerful than any other.

Daern’thal is the last.

Shy, eager-to-please Daern’thal, all gangly limbs and sharp, perceptive eyes.

Not all who were given Mother’s blood survive the turning. Okri, Harra, Tamlen...Melarue mourns each of their deaths silently, for when Daern’thal had wept openly Geldauran had slapped him viciously.

“They were not worthy of being Mother’s true children, do not shed tears for them.”

There were others, they know. Others that ran through the marble halls and ate and laughed with them, whose faces they do not remember. Blurred visages, hints of memories that never quite surface.

Melarue focuses on their magic, as the city grows around them. They learn to shift their form, to take on shapes previously unknown to them, how to turn to mist, to pull themselves apart and put themselves back together.

They spend long evenings discussing new books and languages with Daern’thal and Oranani, or reveling in the growing brothel district with Anaris and Thremael. They try to pull Merith out of his melancholy to no avail, and quickly go frustrated, leaving him to sulk with Felralan, whose own somber demeanor matches him perfectly.

It is a phase, they tell themselves. Give him time and he will become his old self.

Wars rage around Nevarra. The city becomes a kingdom, borders spreading further and further. If Fate is worried by this new development she does not share her worry with them, simply continues her work. She shuts herself off in her chambers for longer periods of time, distant in a way they have not seen before.

One evening she calls all her children into her chambers, expression sober. She gives them all a gentle smile, the kind that warms Melarue still, a feeling of love and safety and belonging filling them. “My children, war looms upon the horizon once more, and my loyal worshippers call for aid.”

“I guess the Orlesians have forgotten our last battle,” Anaris jokes, and Melarue frowns as Merith stiffens beside them.

“It is not the Orlesians,” Fate continues, “The growing empire of Tevinter seeks to conquer Nevarra.”

“Then we will do to them what we did to the Orlesians,” Thremael shrugs. “There is no need to worry, Mother.”

“Orlais worships the Maker. Their strengths are limited. The Tevinter Imperium disregards many of the false god’s teachings.” Fate shakes her head, “They are not above seeking the aid of vampiric forces.”

Other vampires? Melarue swallows. They have never fought another vampire, never seen one aside from Fate and their coven. The concept seems so foreign to them, that others would exist out there in the world, or that they would somehow be a threat to Fate.

“This battle will not be easily won.” Fate holds out her hands with a soft smile, “But I have faith in you, my children. Nevarra’s pantheon must defend it against all who threaten this city. This is the beginning of what I have foreseen for you all.”

“Of course Mother.” Geldauran grasps one of her hands between his own. “Tell us what we must do.”

---

The night before the battle Melarue goes into the city with the others, managing to drag even Daern’thal, Oranani, and Felralan along to feast and revel. A distraction, something to remember instead of the bloodshed that will come the next they awaken. Only Merith remains behind.

“You are acting like a spoiled child,” They snap, when he refuses.

“Why must we fight our own kind?” Merith asks them, “What if they only wish to speak with us?”

“Stop doubting Mother. If she says they are our enemy then they are our enemy.” Irritation rises in them, hot and sharp, and then guilt overrides it, as they see the pained look in their greatest friend’s eyes. Their shoulders slump, and they gather him in their arms. “Oh Merith, I am sorry. I wish I knew how to make you smile again.”

“I love you Melarue,” Merith sobs into their neck, “I am sorry I cannot be like you.”

“I am glad you are not,” Melarue laughs softly, “I think you are much better as yourself. Come with me? It will do you good to get out of the temple. Enjoy yourself tonight.” They kiss his lips. “It can be just the two of us. Or would you like me to ask Anaris to join?”

Merith simply pulls away with a shake of his head. “Go without me. I do not think I would be good company.”

In the end they do not press him. They leave, and spend the evening with the others. They dance with a drunken Geldauran, and ride his slender body as he digs his nails deep into their thighs, and whispers adorations against his skin until he begs them for release.

They are sated and exhausted by the time they return to their chambers to rest before the sun sets, and do not think to check on Merith to see if his spirits have lifted.

It is their greatest regret.

---

Merith is gone.

Melarue is inconsolable, as they search the entirety of the temple and its underground chambers for him. Gone, as if he never existed at all. Fate holds them, and whispers comforting words, sings them into a state of calm to keep them from lashing out, sends the others to look for signs of him in the city.

“We cannot waste time,” Oranani states matter-of-factly, “If we do not leave now we will be unable to return before the sun rises. We must continue with your plan, Mother, before the Tevinter forces enter the city.”

“We must find Merith!” Melarue turns to her, glaring, “What if he was taken? What if he went out last night and could not return before the sunrise? What if he is waiting for us?”

“Melarue,” Fate sighs, brushing hair from their forehead. “My sweet, clever Melarue, it pains me to see you so distraught, just as it pains me that Merith is gone. We cannot let the city be taken, we must go and fight.” She pauses, “Would you like to remain behind? It will be difficult without you, especially now that Merith will be absent, but I understand your grief. I share in it.”

It is a rebuke, even if a gentle one. Melarue feels guilty over their reaction. The others are worried about Merith as well, how could they have let themselves act so shamefully? How could they have assumed Mother did not worry about Merith even more than themselves? They shake their head. “No...no I will go with you, Mother. I will look for him when we return.”

“We will all look for him,” Mother nods, “I promise you that.”

---

Melarue moves through the forest mechanically, following the presence of Fate as they fly through the air. They remind themselves that they are doing the right thing, that Mother needs them, and even though it rings hollow, they force themselves forward.

Merith left you and Mother when you needed him most. He is the traitor, not you.

It does not help.

They are so caught up in their thoughts that they nearly collide with Thremael in front of them, catching themselves just in time, shifting back into their vampire form as they land on the soft grass beside him.

Mother stands several feet ahead of them, looking into the woods ahead, as if she can see past them to the enemy that lies beyond. Perhaps she can. Melarue can sense the vampires somewhere ahead of them in the trees. So alike themselves, yet so different.

“They have set an ambush ahead,” Mother murmurs, turning toward her children. “Once they attack, I will leave the vampires to you, and move toward the mortal force.”

“Anaris should go with you,” Oranani responds, “There are too many. The size of the force will overwhelm you.”

“Leave the mortals to me.” Fate repeats, before she moves forward.

Melarue agrees with Oranani, but knows better than to defy Fate. They follow behind her, the comforting presence of the rest of their coven around them as they move deeper into the forest. They know from studying the maps of this region with Daern’thal that the forest continues for several miles before the ground drops to a wide, flat plain.

That is where the mortal army lies, waiting to move forward through the nearby ravine.

It does not take them long to find a small clearing—the ideal place for an ambush. The others know it as well, as they exchange glances, and feel the unmistakable presence of vampires around them; incapable of masking themselves. Young. Foolish.

Abundant.

Melarue dodges to the right just as the ground where they had stood erupts in a pile of stone and dirt, a shadowed figure standing in the small crater left behind. They hear the sounds of battle around them, the shouts of their coven,  the tang of magic in the air sour in their mouth.

So it begins.

They press their hand to the earth, feeling the roots of a nearby tree surge upward with their magic, shooting from the ground as a mass of vipers.

The vampire screams as they are torn to pieces, but Melarue has already turned, throwing up a barrier as flames encompass their form. They can feel the heat against their skin, but their own magic keeps it from burning as they brush the flames aside and redirect them, orange fire turning black.

It becomes a blur, after that. They do not remember how many they kill. They channel their grief into rage, imagine each of these shadowed strangers as the one that has taken Merith from them. These vampires are younger, less experienced, their magic weak. Many resort to claws and fangs or mortal weapons in the end, and Melarue slaughters them all.

Even so, Melarue does not come out unscathed.

They do not notice the pain at first, as the last vampire falls at their feet, and the clearing goes silent. Then their body begins to ache, the cuts along their arms begin to sting, and they notice that a large chunk of their side is simply gone.

They clamp a hand to their ribs and grit their teeth, pouring healing magic into the gaping wound. They feel their skin knit itself together beneath their palm, but know that it will take a good feeding to recover fully.

“Melarue!”

It is Anaris, who seems unharmed save for a cut along his forearm. He slings their arm around his shoulder and they gratefully put their weight against him as his own magic finishes mending the damage beneath the skin.

“Where is Mother?” Melarue manages, as Anaris leads them through the forest.

“I do not know. We separated after the ambush.” Anaris answers.

They burst through the trees just as the sky turns white. They both lift their hands to cover their eyes, but the light burns through their fingers—not painful, but blinding. The wind roars in Melarue’s ears, and blood trickles down their nose as the magic in the air condenses and then seems to pull itself apart.

The light slowly begins to dim, and Melarue blinks back tears, their blurred vision coming into focus to see Anaris staring ahead of them, eyes wide in shock. They turn as well, and let out an audible gasp.

Standing at the base of the cliff is Fate, arms outstretched before her, surrounded by three prone figures—the last of Tevinter’s vampire forces.

Beyond her is a field of corpses.

Melarue does not know what magic Fate has wielded, only that in its wake, the army of Tevinter is no more. Soldiers charred and turned to ash, husks left in place of bodies. The heavy magic they had felt moments before lingers like a fog among the corpses, before dissipating fully.

“...she truly is a god...” Geldauran whispers from Melarue’s right.

---

They do not find Merith.

Melarue searches for him for months, going as far as they can each night, always returning empty handed. They cannot understand why he would leave them, cannot bring themselves to think that he was killed by Tevinter’s vampires, or had taken the morning walk.

Surely he had not been so miserable as to leave them behind without a goodbye.

They mourn, they clean his chambers, hoping he might return. Mother lets them, mourns just as keenly. It is a comfort, knowing they are not alone in their grief.

They cannot stand to sleep alone. They fear one of the others will disappear, and cling to the thought that if they are with them, then at the very least, they cannot be fully abandoned.

It takes years for them to accept that he is gone, and that he is never coming back. He has left them, they are certain. Not dead, surely not dead, but gone. Unable to shoulder the burden of Mother’s great vision, Geldauran claims, and his words sting but they are meant as a balm, they know. Meant to give them hope that he lives.

As time passes, more city-states and kingdoms begin to rise and rain power, and the borders of Nevarra grow. Fewer worshipers come to the temple.

They stop sending offerings.

“After all we have done for the city,” Geldauran rages, “How could they do this?”

“Mortals are foolish,” Oranani frowns, “They will see the error of their ways soon, when they face danger and their city needs protecting.”

“Mortals feel like they do not need us anymore,” Daern’thal points out, and shrugs when all of them turn toward him. “Some of us speak with mortals instead of always feeding off them.”

“Or fucking them,” Anaris grins, and Oranani rolls her eyes.

“Speaking of fucking and feeding,” Thremael throws an arm around Geldauran’s shoulders, ignoring the younger man’s glare, “I say we enjoy ourselves tonight.”

Most of the others head into the city, to drink their fill and enjoy the night. Melarue remains behind, despite Thremael’s protests.

Mother has begun to isolate herself, calling on them less and less. Something is worrying her, has been ever since their fight with the other vampires in the mountains. Anaris has gone to speak with her, Melarue knows. If anyone can find out what is trouble their mother it is him, her first child.

Still, Melarue finds they cannot enjoy the night. They read for a while, look through their collected scrolls but cannot seem to focus on the words. Their mind is elsewhere.

Daern’thal, they know, has stayed behind as well, to study a book of drawings he received from a merchant at the river market; designs for buildings of some kind that he had found fascinating. Perhaps he can sufficiently distract them, and the two can wait out the night until the others return.

They head toward his rooms, only to find them empty, the door still open.

A surge of magic catches their attention, sharp and unmistakable, running through the ground like an electric current. It makes the hair along their arms stand on end. They follow its source, deeper into the maze of tunnels and chambers beneath the temple, fear rising as they realize where they are heading.

Mother’s chambers.

They are not ready for the scene before them.

Anaris stands over Fate, body trembling, her blood dripping from his fingertips. Daern’thal lies still beside her, throat torn open.

For a moment Melarue thinks he is dead, before he gasps, choking, blood pouring from the wound. They hurriedly use their magic to close it, feeling Fate’s own lying in the wound, fighting them. But Fate’s magic fades quickly, and they realize it is because she is gone.

Dead. Mother is dead.

It is hard to focus, with Daern’thal’s head in their lap and Mother beside them, unmoving. They do not know what is happening. Mother is dead, Anaris—Anaris has killed her. How? Why? It hurts. Something in their chest throbs, pain lancing throughout their limbs at the loss.  

“What did you do?” Melarue gasps out, tears streaming down their cheeks.

Anaris looks down at them, as if only then noticing their presence. His lips tremble, and he is crying as well. “I...I had to. I—” Before he can finish his explanation the door opens. Oranani and Felralan walk inside, smelling of fresh blood, talking together before they both stop in their tracks.

Melarue wonders how this all must look, watching as Oranani’s pupils dilate in full, pitch black against her pale skin, as her mouth opens to reveal growing fangs. “What have you DONE?” Her voice roars like thunder, and her form grows as she charges forward before either Melarue or Anaris can speak.

Anaris throws up a barrier just as Oranani’s claws carve through the air, sparks flying where her nails dig into the obsidian disc in front of him, chips of sharpened glass flying across the room and shattering; A sliver slices into Melarue’s cheek, jolting them out of their own stupor.

“I had to—” Anaris begins, but Oranani does not let him finish as she shrieks, stones flying from the walls and launching themselves toward him.

“Murderer!” She screams, grabbing the granite table from the floor and hurling it in his direction.

Anaris holds up a hand and slices it clean in half, the large chunks falling to either side of him. A flicker of movement on their side, and Melarue turns just as Felralan surges from the shadows on Anaris’ left.

Melarue had never thought of who they loved more among their coven, had never seen it as a scale or quantifiable difference. But their body reacts before their mind can process what is happening and they throw up a barrier, black flames eating away at the twisting vines that shoot from Felralan’s outstretched arm.

They have chosen Anaris.

The two halves of the table move, slamming together just as Anaris turns to mist, seeping between the cracks before reforming a few feet away, the golden beads in his hair beginning to glow.

Melarue twists their flames, burning the vines that erupt from the ground near their feet, grasping for them.

A bramble slams into their midsection, three inch thorns tearing into their flesh as they are thrown back against the stone wall. They let out a chocked gasp and swallow a mouthful of blood as more vines encircle their arms and legs.

They can feel poison seeping through their veins, burning their skin, as Felralan walks toward them to deliver a finishing blow. His expression is unreadable, the upper half of his face hidden behind an ornate, eyeless mask. This one has rubies in the place of eyes, an odd detail to notice, they think.

“I am sorry,” He murmurs, as the vines tighten.

So am I, Melarue thinks, as they close their open right hand and watch as the metal mask crumples, hearing Felralan’s skull crack as he falls to the ground, headless.

The vines around them turn to ash and they stumble to their feet, turning to see Anaris on his knees, kneeling atop Oranani’s prone form, his golden beads scattered on the ground around them, stained crimson. Melarue hooks a hand under his trembling arm and pulls him to his feet and off of their sister.

“...what will we do when the others come?” Anaris asks numbly, staring at the bodies before them.

They had laughed and loved with these two, had lived with them for centuries. Melarue had shared secrets with Oranani that no one had known, had gardened at night with Felralan who had taught them that some flowers flourish in the moonlight.

What have they done? They have killed their family. There is only one thing they can do, now. The one thing they are so very good at. They must lie.

“Oranani and Felralan murdered mother,” Melarue claims, voice oddly cold. They seem to have gone numb.

Anaris blinks, “But—”

Melarue grabs his face between his hands, their fingers still slick with blood. “They killed her, Anaris.”

They see the pieces falling into place as he nods, but a part of them feels sick. They have failed mother. They are letting her real killer go free because they are a coward, and they are afraid of losing more of their family. “They meant to kill Daern’thal as well, and nearly did so. We barely managed to stop them.”

A bit of tension leaves Anaris’ shoulders. “Yes.”

Melarue swallows, and tries not to look at their Mother. They can feel her eyes upon them, wide and unblinking; accusatory. “Let me tell it, when the others come. I am better at lying.”

---

The other two believe them, as Melarue knew they would. Geldauran mourns the most, his beautiful visage twisted by grief and rage, and the fear in him so sharp they can nearly see it rising from his skin like steam. Thremael takes Felralan and Oranani’s bodies outside without a word, to be turned to ash in the morning sun.

When Daern’thal wakes he cannot remember the night before...and despite Melarue’s rushed healing, he never regains the use of his voice.

“The mortals will keep coming for Mother’s blessing.” Thremael says at last, once they have all gathered in the lower chambers that had once belonged to their Mother. She is lying in the room off of this one, clean and covered in a crimson shroud. They had all gone to pay their respects to her, save for Anaris, who refused to enter the room.

Melarue’s own vigil they had spent apologizing, sobbing against her unmoving form, begging for forgiveness. How could they have let this happen? How could they have let Anaris live after doing such a thing?

You are no childe of mine, they can hear her whisper, curses crawling through their head like a writhing mass of serpents. They will never forget the feeling of numbness that had settled in them when they had seen her at Anaris’ feet. No rage, no desire to kill him for what he had done. That was their largest betrayal, they know. That they could not find it in them to want him dead.

They do not know what led Anaris to killing Fate. He does not tell them, does not speak of the night ever again. It is his penance, they think, to hold in the truth of that night and blame himself for it.

None of them have had the strength to suggest sending her off in the morning light. If they do so it will seem too real, make her death final.

“We will take up the duty, then.” Geldauran murmurs. “We are Fate’s Children, it falls to us. She said we would be gods beside her, let us take up the mantle now.”

“The world is changing. The Andrastians are gaining strength with their god, even here. The mortals are smarter now. They are learning ways to kill us.” Melarue shakes their head. “I am no god.” I cannot stay. I cannot stay here knowing that Anaris killed Mother and that I helped murder my siblings and lied to the others. I am not worthy of Mother’s plan. I have destroyed it.

“Where will you go?” Thremael asks softly.

Melarue shakes their head. “I do not know.”