𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌.

she would’ve thought   her second chances had run out by now.    how many has she had ;  two,   three ?    more than she deserves,    plunged into the grave & brought back out to see the light of day again,   & again,   & again.    IS IT FATE,   LUCK,   OR SOMETHING ELSE ALTOGETHER  that keeps her from the eternal pit of death where so many have threatened she would go when her final days were up ?    [ THEN AGAIN, SHE’S BEEN TO HELL, & FOUGHT HER WAY OUT. ]

once more,    it seems this life isn’t quite finished with her    ——    but is it the same life,   or something else entirely that has dug its claws into her mortality ?    does she still possess such a thing at all ?     when she convulses & rises from her lying,    heaving with lungs that no longer need breath,    IS IT EVEN THE SAME WOMAN ?    it can’t be.

EYES SNAP OPEN,    green irises so often thought to be alluring are now sickly saturated  ;  ENVIOUS FOR LIFE.    she is caught between aching & learning how to ache again,    between awareness & the lack of it,    & when her chest swells & recedes with instinct,    she does not know why it feels so odd,    or why she forgets this oddness in favor of a thirst so heavy & ill within her that it is the only thing her senses can take.    amidst it all,   she takes in what she can of her surroundings,    STRIKINGLY MONOCHROME,    except for a jolt of red against a dark & shadowed canvas.    were she standing,    natasha would have stumbled forth towards it   —   but she is on her knees on the dull mattress & begins to crawl with all the gracelessness of the wakened dead.

                  𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 in the kitchen, watching winter tighten its grip on the land outside. Ice locks the ground into a slick and deadly state, impenetrable to the crack of any shovel. They are stranded, at least for the night, not even an Ekon can outmaneuver the elements. Jonathan sips his breaths through clenched teeth, tasting the frigid atmosphere just beyond these walls. The cold hooks into his sinuses like a shot of gin, burning rest of the way down. His heart is a metronome, a steady rhythm by which to mark the hours, a countdown to the true consequences of his actions. 

               A particularly vicious gust of wind rattles against the windowpanes, howling like a wolf in the desolate chill. Jonathan places his hand against the frost-fogged glass, his skin acclimating to the temperature so that it leaves behind no mark. The cold hasn’t bothered him for the last hundred years, but he’s still drawn towards heat like a serpent, seeking out the warm slashes of red the beast so desperately craves. He is alone in this apartment, Natasha a dark and motionless silhouette within the walls of her bedroom. 

              Until suddenly, the blossoming of a pulse in his periphery, weak as a guttering flame, the unsteady flicker of a new life; a newborn. An apt term for the state of second childishness they all awaken into. Infantile clumsiness, motivated solely by the sand in their throat. 

               He’s in the doorway of her bedroom in an instant, crowding the frame. It was in these first few moments he committed the greatest atrocity of his unlife, he will not allow Natasha to make the same mistake. 

                           `       you   are   quite   cautious  ,     mister   reid  ,     to   so   consistently   skirt   around   the   truth .     `     it is the dead of night when he approaches the man beneath the light of a small lamp in amidst a more run-down part of the hospital .      i knew that the streets weren’t safe at night–neither were they during the day–and had told my friend as much but he had deigned not to listen .    intent, he was, on remaining in the building until the object of his curiosity slithered out from the woodwork .      𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐬 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦;    as instructed .     he stuck to his word, of course, and had been sat in a dark corner of the room for a good few hours before his target arrived .

                             `     i   must   admit  ;     this   is   a   first   for   me .     in   all   of   my   career   i   do   not   think   i   have   ever   spoken   with   a   dead   man .     `            @unalived

             𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍, 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 man, what do you see : your past rushing up to meet you where you stumble, loose ends unraveling into a million tiny threads; but it only took one to follow it back to the source. All these futile efforts to quell the rumors surrounding his death— how a man can go from missing in action to a locally contested mystery in only a few nights was a mystery to Jonathan. If he tried to keep his head any lower he’d end up burying it in the sand. 

               The good doctor turned to identify the voice, matching stares with well-dressed gentleman who, upon removing his hat, nearly reached Jonathan’s height. Expensively tailored and expertly bred, a fellow member of the upper class stuck out sorely in the dampened trenches of the East End. 

dr. jekyll was the sort of man who liked to keep himself busy. between his usual work as a physician and his chemical experimentation on the side, he hardly had much time to spare, but when the plague had begun to stretch its creeping tendrils into the heart of the city, he’d been quick to volunteer his services. taking on works of charity was not entirely an unselfish decision — if he were to confront his motivations honestly, more weight would rest on the idea of how charity made him look in the public eye than on the genuine benefit of his actions. nevertheless, regardless of his reasons, here he stood. without smiling, he reached out a hand for dr. reid to shake. “ dr. henry jekyll, sir. a pleasure. ”

❝  uncle vanya ?  ❞  she repeats the title while still stood at the counter - top,   tending to her tea,    though it is hardly a few seconds afterward that she turns to approach jonathan & read the promotion over his shoulder.     ❝   i do like chekhov.    ❞    natasha sets her mug down on the table,    & leans forward to rest her chin into the crook between his neck & shoulder.    ❝    that would be more than lovely,    darling.    ❞    & OF COURSE,    she puntcuates the endearment with a kiss to his temple.

     ❝ 𝐈 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐘 mother having a copy of the original English translations. She was a great admirer of the theatre. ❞  She’d taken him to see a production of Salomé in the original French as a boy. The dancing princess who asked for prophets’ heads on silver platters. The image of the actress pressing John the Bapist’s cold lips to hers haunted his dreams for months after. 

               Routine helps, surrounded as he is by temptation. He’s been given the opportunity to reclaim and perhaps even justify this new existence; one foot in the world of the living, while the other sinks six feet under. One wrong step and he could fall forever. 

               He’s only just made it out of his office when a voice tears the wool from his gathering thoughts.  ❝ Dr. Reid! ❞  A very harrowed looking Nurse Hawkins ascends the stairs to meet him, apparently unwilling to wait the thirty more seconds it would have taken him to reach reception.  ❝ I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a patient here who needs to be seen and Dr. Tippets hasn’t had a moment’s rest since he started his shift. ❞  He does his best to allay her apologies, knowing full well she doesn’t mean a single one.  ❝ Her name is Miss Vanessa Ives, she says she was previously treated by Doctor Swansea for the flu and is worried about her symptoms returning. She don’t need a bed, just a look-over. ❞ 

               Jonathan nods calmly, accepting a clipboard with the patient’s information.  ❝ I’ll see what I can do. Thank you, Nurse. ❞  She gives him a satisfied nod before taking off back down the steps. 

               A woman in black sits waiting for him in one of the less occupied corridors of the hospital. For a moment he’s stricken by the sight of her, dressed in shades of funereal gloom and looking everything like Mary did in her final moments. It isn’t until they lock eyes he finds the incentive to stop staring.  ❝ Miss Ives, I presume? I’m Doctor Jonathan Reid, what can I do for you this evening? ❞

subtlety  has  never  been  a  thing  easily  grasped  by  her.   too  domineering.  too  brash.  she  commands  a  room  with  her  shadow  alone.   these  attributes,  beneficial  at  times,  rears  its  head  in  sought  after  quiet  moments.   she  does  not  want  to  be  seen.   not  now,  anyway.   

her  newfound  interest  in  solace  had  been  abrupt,  sharpening  her  presence  to  a  curt  standoffishness  that  encouraged  her  family  to  give  her  space.  not  thinking  much  of  it,  reducing  it  to  the  very  human  desire  of  simply  needing  a  break,  violet  had  distanced  herself  from  the  tumult  of  her  familial  surroundings  to  experience  the  banality  of  every  day  life.  uncharacteristic  of  her,  perhaps,  but  a  thing  necessitated  all  the  same.  careening  herself  into  boredom  had  left  her  surprisingly  content.   it  also  didn’t  hurt  that  such  a  break  vastly  reduced  her  chances  of  being  on  the  business  end  of  a  knife.  

dwelling  on  her  proverbial  state  of  nonexistence,  it  is  only  when  she  rounds  the  corner  of  a  bookshelf  that  her  thoughts  are  baited  back  into  reality.  it’s  not  that  she  isn’t  particularly  delighted  to  see  him,  but  her  initial  silence   &   the  way  the  cloud  of  some  ambiguous  emotion  washes  over  her  face  for  the  briefest  moment  would  suggest  otherwise.   

violet  studies  him  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  watching  paint  dry,  eyes  glossing  over  his  face  before  she  decides  upon  a  tight-lipped  smile.    ❛   good  to  see  you,  too.   i’d  like  to  think  my  injuries  build  character.   ❜     

               𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 what to expect, encountering Violet in such mundane conditions given the usual context of their relationship. She’s a creature in captivity and about as noticeable as a car crash with the way she rubbernecks passersby. One cannot blend into the background if they do not match its setting.

     ❝ I’m sure your assailants feel the same way. ❞  Jonathan’s eyes pinch with amusement, apparently taking no affront in her lack of enthusiasm. He can imagine it’s difficult to summon any kind of excitement for someone you’ve come to associate with pain; even if it is the kind of pain that comes by healing. His exasperation for her recklessness has just begun to border on endearment; a clearly dangerous sentiment for a woman so caught in her own mortality. Nine lives down and counting. 

               The pause in the conversation presses on his nerves, he’s always been better at asking questions than simple conversation.  ❝ What book do you have there? ❞  He gestures, a brand new Gray’s Anatomy tucked under his arm. He wonders briefly how many stereotypes he might fulfill by explaining his intention to collect every volume.

     ❝ 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏 further! ❞  Jonathan makes himself known in the weary glare of the ranger’s torchlight. He does not so much step out of the shadows as they seem to part around him, dissembling like smoke in a breeze.  ❝ Apologies, it wasn’t my intention to startle you, but you’re about to step on my mold. ❞  He gestures to the animal tracks he’d scrupulously filled with plaster twenty minutes prior to the ranger’s arrival. 

 She  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  hallway,    turning  to  address  the  man  who  she  assumed  was  speaking  to  her  because  she  was  the  only  other  person  there.      Vera  blinked  in  𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚔  surprise,    the  action  made  fluid  with  practice,    and  she  smiled.        ❛  It’s  quite  alright.      I  was  hoping  to  get  myself  situated  tonight  instead  of  in  the  morning.      Could  I  𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝  you  to  lead  me  to  the  correct  wing?  ❜

Bright blue, near cyan her eyes, emitting a soft glow. A fault in her making, the supernatural pushing through her system, demanding to take up more in her than might be necessary. Perhaps her sire’s passion punished her so, but she knew not the reason for it. It could be the same reason why her senses spread beyond those of the living and her ears could pick up on the chatter and cries of those long dead yet still lingering. An abomination, an affront to nature. She is marked by those eyes, making hiding away very difficult, although her powers allow her to mask it should she choose to, but right now she is all too frazzled by what she just witnessed.

Her dress, though beautiful and now somewhat dirtied, is out of fashion by give or take twenty years. She blinks, her body still tense from fear, the comfort slowly starting to settle on her mind as she finally encountered a soul who seem to show kindness.     “   I-  I did not know,  I was so lonely, I just needed friends. I thought London will welcome me back,  I missed it so  and now  this…   “     Her voice shakes, mind still trying to make sense of it all, the shock making it all the more difficult to gather her thoughts, but the shaking is starting to subside and although still out on the cold, dark streets, she believes his presence brings safety, even if her muscles twitch with the desire to flee every time she hears another one of those terrible shrieks in the distance.

“   Forgive me,  I was roaming the streets, looking for familiar places but I had no idea what I would find. A creature, terrible looking gave me a chase and  I ran for my life…  I don’t understand what’s happening.   “     Voice slipping in and out of collected and desperate, she is fighting to keep her manners and composure. No matter how bad things get, we always hold our heads high, her father would say and she tries her best to live up to it.

                           𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐒 𝐀 savior in him, not the tall, dark stranger to be warned about, not another synonym for slaughter. An honest mistake, in the right kind of darkness anyone can look like light. What qualifies a “kind face” if it’s the last one a person ever sees?

               Jonathan loosens her grip on the lapels of his coat, gently coaxing a few centimeters of space from her grasping fingers.  ❝ Have you not heard? There’s an epidemic, Madam, the city is under quarantine. ❞  It’d be nigh impossible for her to avoid the news; the flu is an international crisis, claiming more lives than the war that preceded its gestation. The newspapers call it the the most deadly outbreak of the modern age, neither civilian nor soldier is safe.  

     ❝ The disease has certain—ah—mentally debilitating side effects... ❞  It’s not a graceful lie and he’s not sure how much more comfort it provides in comparison to the truth. To most people, anything is better than the unknown. Pulling back the curtain of night requires certain revelations not everyone is prepared for, Jonathan certainly wasn’t— isn’t, even as he attempts to settle her trembling form. His hands on her shoulders drop down like armored pauldrons, unyielding weight meant to reassure and defend. 

                  With more than a scant of distance between them, he’s finally able to make out the peculiar way her eyes catch the light; before realizing they are in fact, in near complete darkness, and he’s only able to see her as well as he can because of what he’s become. 

nonplussed,  she  watches  him  with    a  careful  sort  of  anticipation  as  if  awaiting  the  punchline  to  a  joke  that  hadn’t  had  a  particularly  humorous  set-up.   even  when  the  flame  is  proferred  to  her,  she  passively  disregards  it  in  a  refusal  to  sever  eye  contact  for  even  the  most  succinct  of  moments.  after  the  silence  stretches  itself  thin,  thinner  even  more,  violetta  barks  out  a  laugh  that  is  equal  parts  disbelief   &   genuine  amusement,  albeit  at  the  expense  of  herself.

❛   this  may  come  as  a  shock  to  you,  doc,  but  my  level  of  eloquence  leaves  much  to  be  desired.   ❜     curt   &   critical.   she  thinks  of  how  that  had  been  her  father’s  expertise,  bending  insincere  words  into  something  salvageable   &   lovely.   such  a  skill  had  forsaken  her  entirely.     ❛   look,  you  know  me  better  than  they  do.   i  hope  you  did  the  smart  thing   &   told  them  they’re  batshit  if  they  think  that’s  a  good  idea.   ❜

                  𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 a particularly deep inhale, smoke curling out the corners of his mouth when he flicks a burning ember directly into the ashtray. ❝ Not in so many words, but yes. ❞  The answer blurs his features, an ashy fog gathering above the doctor’s head like storm clouds. 

                  a   man   comes   to   the   reversed ,   inside-out   bowels   of   the   world.   the   place   which   is   no   place ,   emerging   from   itself.   here   is   the   creaking   wood ,   the   howling   wind   which   makes   haunting.   the  king   under   the   hill   opens   his   eyes   like   night   opens   itself ,   dark ,   darker.   he   opens   his   body   like   he   opens   his   eyes.   here   is   the   man   in   black   unbodying   himself   from   the   shadow   space ,   the   shadow-light.   this   is   almost-birth ,   the   almost-genesis   of   him.   the   king   stands   in   the   middle   of   the   room   —   and   defines   it.   a   room   which   returns   to  itself ,   not   timidly ,   but   feral.   &   confounding   and   chimerical   and   cannibalistic.    the   vines   are   bleeding  from   their   thorns;   the   red   like   a   flower ,   the   flower   like   an   eye ,   the   eye   watching   and   waiting.   the   man   stands   before   the   red   eye   of   the   hill.

               have   you   ever   seen   a   place   be   dismembered ,   jonathan   reid ? ,   says   the   hill.   (  the   kingdom   under   it   is   a   hall   of   mirrors.   realm   of   lack ,   house   of   abundance.  )   here   is   bloodflower ,   belladonna ,   dogbane ,   hyacinth.   here   is   the   wasp ,   the   serpent ,   the   spider ,   shrike ,   thorn   and   carcass.   &   ruthlessly ,   sweetly ,   like   a   lover’s   mouth ,   the   room   that   is   not   a   room   swallows   them.   deliciously ,   violently ,   a   throne   sprouts   from   the   earth   and   spreads   out  its   arms   to   the   king.   he   sits.   ❛ the children of the morrígan used to remember the stories. and they would refrain from walking into my kingdom.  ❜

               𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐙𝐄𝐒 and expands around him, as if he were walking through the pumping valve of some massive organ. He is devoured, the belly of the beast opening up into an overgrown throne room; meat-red flora gently budding from the pulsating walls. There is a man who is not a man at the center of it all, crowned in blood and bone, the self-proclaimed sovereign of this underneath place. 

               Jonathan is an uneasy subject, hesitant to bow even when beckoned by the circumstances, but he does not shirk decorum. In this world of kings and queens slumbering beneath the earth, he’s come to learn that primordial creatures respect etiquette almost as much as the English. So he bows, low and formal and hoping to appease. Flowers rise to meet his face, sticky with pollen, and he feels a sneeze rise up to the roof of his mouth. Such a human reaction, he’d nearly forgotten how to suppress it. 

     ❝ Forgive me, your Majesty. I didn’t realize I was trespassing. ❞  He finds the longer he tries to look at the King, the more fiercely he has to struggle to see him; eyes endlessly dilating in an invisible penumbra.  ❝ I will gladly leave your kingdom, I need only know the way out. ❞  He tries to remember the rules about bargaining— is it the fae or gods you should never tell your full name? 

        HE EXTINGUISHES HER HOPES in the unforgiving nature of his words, affirming a deeply saturated disquietude within her person. The moment his grip relents, she yanks the blade free, white-knuckled hold drawing its serrated edge to the throat of Carrel. The metal plunges through the soft & damaged flesh of his throat where Jonathan’s fangs had already torn. The crime is thusly masked. Elisabeth lets the body fall upon its own weight, dropping the knife nearby with a clatter. YES, she had intended on making it appear a suicide, not unlike many whom evaded justice through this method; Carrel would become another statistic in a gradually growing ledger. Her eyes follow his collapse. 

    ❝ Long ago, I asked you once if you trusted me.  ❞  Elisabeth’s voice bridges the gap between the thud of Carrel’s deadweight & the heaviness that lingers in the air. 

That gaze lifts a long moment later. She didn’t imagine meeting Jonathan’s eyes would ever cause her such grief as it does now. The war had taken too much. He did not understand that to be both judge & executioner would send him upon a path she’d already undertaken. There were far too many who perhaps deserved their wrath, but the addiction would overcome all reason. Eventually, deciding who should live & who should die becomes an impossibility; all that tends to matter in the end is the blood upon their lips.  

        ❝ If that hasn’t changed, I need you to trust me now, Jonathan. ❞  So comes the plea. Even now, she finds herself becoming overwhelmed by the alluring scent of blood within the room. She’d starved herself for too long; the temptation was utterly dizzying, a familiar call to drown. Elisabeth steps over the body of the man towards her partner, her hand seeking out his as she had done many times before.   ❝ I followed you here because I am concerned for you.  This role you have assumed – it is a dangerous one. I’m disappointed, Jonathan, but above all I am scared. It needs to stop. You must let it go. This is far beyond any concern regarding your ability to cover your own tracks. We are not the law! ❞

               𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐘 as she stabs through the wound, marring the inelegant tear of flesh even further. Once, he would have looked upon the sight with equal amounts of nausea and hunger. Now he feels nothing, not even that ever-present itch in the back of his throat, beckoning him towards heartbeats like low-hanging fruit. 

               Emotionally anesthetized by abundance, as if he’s fled behind the walls of his own righteous anger, peering out at the wreckage through an armored slit in his mind. Yet, he’s hyperaware of the way her eyes land on him, Carrel’s body slumping from hand and crumbling back to the floor. It’s a look he recognizes from their harrowed past, once backlit by open flame; a rictus of pain and desperation that frames her every word with a terrible sense of finality. 

     ❝ Trust is meant to be reciprocated, Elisabeth. ❞  He retreats further into spite, bunkering down behind old defenses. That dark seed his father had warned him about, planted deep in the marrow of his rage; he feels it sprouting, choking his reason with red-hot vines. Their enemies followed their whims with loaded guns, never hesitating on the draw— why should he now that they’re the ones running? 

 ❛ GOD PLAYED NO HAND IN OUR CREATION. ❜  and that is the beauty of vampirekind, by dracula’s humble estimation.  the immortals, dracula’s bestial descendants, prey wholly upon that which GOD loves.  ❛ the vampire is my vision, and my progeny, alone.  if that is unnatural…  so be it. ❜  this, he utters with grim satisfaction.

@unalived  /  ♡

the first sound of a voice in the darkness nearly stopped frankenstein’s heart in his chest. with a yelping cry, he whipped around, scrambled back, and flung a hand down to the knife at his belt, which, with some difficulty, he extracted from its sheath. he had always kept a weapon on him as a precaution, but he had hoped he would never have cause to use it. his surprise at the arrival of this pale-skinned gentleman, however, was very soon struck away by the sudden thrill of sheer terror that went shooting through his blood at the sound of the unholy shriek from further afield. sucking in a short, panicked breath, frankenstein twisted his head aside to stare into the blackness that surrounded the cemetery. 

       “ —what was that? ”