Chapter 1: The Monster in the Cellar
Summary:
Charles and his family are keeping a secret.
Chapter Text
He woke up.
It was dark. It was always dark, except when They visited him. He looked forward to Their visits, even if the lights They carried sometimes hurt his eyes. He himself needed no lights, although sometimes he missed the moon.
He pushed himself up from his bed, rising into a sitting position. He’d learned a long time ago not to stand—the ceiling was too low.
The chain clanked against the floor, making him wince. Not for the first time, he thought about wrenching it from the wall. They fed him well; his strength was more than sufficient to snap it.
But They treated him kindly, unlike any other humans he’d ever encountered. He didn’t want to risk losing that kindness. They would surely be upset if he broke the chain, as They had been when he had broken all of the other ropes and chains. He remembered Their panicked faces, the screams, half a dozen heartbeats like scampering rabbits. He remembered the moment when the noose had closed around his neck.
It was still there, connected to the swaying chain—but it hadn’t tightened yet. He hoped it never would. Maybe one day, if he was lucky, They would take it off of him.
Maybe not, though. Sometimes, when he looked at Charles, he remembered another dark place, and the noise of other chains. He thought that maybe he had done something to deserve this one.
The thought of Charles sparked another recollection in his mind. Twisting about, he rummaged through the heaped straw and blankets that he slept on until he found what he was looking for: a small plush doll, its yarn hair and hand-sewn outfit resembling Charles’ own. One of the others had given it to him, and he treasured it like nothing else he’d ever had—which wasn’t saying much.
The doll’s head was flattened slightly—he must have sat on it. That wouldn’t do. Carefully, he squished it back into shape. Its button eyes stared blankly up at him. He hugged it to his chest. Unlike the real thing, it couldn’t speak to him, but its presence was comforting all the same.
A sudden pang of exhaustion hit him, and he doubled over as he felt his heart skip a beat…two…three. The doll fell to the floor as he gasped for air, limbs trembling with the effort of holding him upright.
His old familiar hunger had returned. It had been a while since They last fed him, hadn’t it? That meant They would come and feed him again soon. They always had, so far.
The vampyre curled up in the corner of the cellar, and waited.
“Is it time again already?”
Flora fixed Charles with a look of dismay from across the breakfast table.
“Funny how fast a month goes by, isn’t it?” He tried to meet her gaze with a smile, but it died on his lips.
“I don’t find it very funny at all,” she responded. “Charles…how long are we going to do this?”
Charles’ reply was firm. “Until he wakes up,” he said. “Until he remembers. He has to, Flora, he has to. He always has before.”
Flora let out a sigh. “Charles, it’s been five months,” she said. “At some point you’re going to have to accept that he isn’t coming back.”
“And then what? Whether he remembers us or not, I’m hardly going to let him starve.”
Flora averted her gaze, brows knitting in a troubled expression. “It’s hardly humane, keeping him the way he is now,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be kinder to just…”
“Just what? Flora, what else would you propose we do?”
Flora buried her head in her hands. “I don’t know, Charles!” she cried. “I just…I hate seeing you like this. Both of you.”
Charles reached across the table to take one of her hands, covering it with his own. “I’m sorry, Flora,” he said. “I don’t like it either. But you know I can’t give up on him. He’s my friend.”
She looked up at him. Tears were beginning to well in her eyes, and the sight made his heart ache.
“Tonight, then?” she said.
He nodded. “Tonight.”
Charles walked down the cellar steps, heart fluttering as he made his way into the darkness. Holding aloft the lantern he’d brought with him, he peered into the shadowy corner of the cellar, and saw a pair of luminous eyes staring back at him, reflecting far more of the light than any animal’s ever could.
“Varney?” he called.
There was a shuffling sound, followed by the clattering of a chain. The pair of eyes moved closer, and the vampyre came into the light, half-walking, half-crawling, head hunched to avoid hitting the low ceiling. He stopped in his usual spot and sat with his legs curled up to his chest, staring at Charles expectantly.
It broke Charles’ heart, seeing him like this. There was a time when Varney would have answered his call, when they might have sat together and talked for hours about anything they liked. But that was months ago, before the cellar, before Anderbury, before Varney had lost his mind. These days, the vampyre never spoke. He would laugh or cry at times. He made a sort of little trilling purr when he was pleased, and he growled when he was upset or afraid. Once, Charles had heard him humming tunelessly to himself. But that was all.
Even now, the expression he wore seemed foreign on his face, a blank stare of wide-eyed incomprehension Charles never would have seen on the Varney of the past. He wore it all the time now, watching and listening intently to everything Charles said and did, but with no sign of recognition.
With a sigh, Charles sat on the floor within the vampyre’s reach, placing his lantern on the ground, followed by a roll of bandages. He met the eyes of the familiar stranger in front of him, and slowly tilted his head up and to the side, exposing his neck. The vampyre reacted without hesitation, closing the distance between them in a single motion. Charles braced himself against the stone floor as the creature latched onto him, closed his eyes, and waited.
Chapter 2: Memories of the Future...
Summary:
How did this happen?
Chapter Text
Varney dreamed without sleeping.
The pallid face of Clara Crofton loomed large and accusing in his mind, the serenity of her features seeming to mock him. Her eyes were closed, but he could not escape the judgment in her sightless gaze, the condemnation in the trickle of blood that ran from the corner of her ashen lips.
In his dreams, he piled earth over her casket again and again, but he could never hide his greatest sin from the world. Clara shone like the moon in death, and her corpse floated to the surface of her grave no matter how he tried to fill it in. Was it rainwater which filled the coffin, or blood? It hardly mattered. Over and over, Clara rose, and he fell, fell like Lucifer out of Heaven, like Wormwood upon the earth, far beyond the reach of any caring or forgiving hand which might reach out to him—if there were any that could.
The journey from the Grange to Naples was a blur in his memory—a mind-numbing shuffle of interminable travel, by boat and coach and train, through which he was barely conscious. He could not recall the name of the inn he’d stayed at, nor the face of the guide he’d paid to take him to the crater of Mount Vesuvius. He felt as though he was falling apart, his mind cracking and peeling like poorly fired pottery. Thoughts and fragments of memory flitted in and out of his recollection like ashes on the wind, sometimes burning, sometimes cold, always slipping through his fingertips. Dogged desperation drove him onwards, a sliver of fool’s hope that at his destination he might find the death he so craved. A thousand times, he had fallen into its embrace; a thousand times, it had failed to catch him. Now, he prayed, it would not miss.
When at last he stood at the lip of the mountain’s fiery maw, he felt the smoke in his head disperse for a brief moment, leaving his mind in a state of perfect clarity.
This was it. This was the end. Whatever awaited him next, it would not be on the soil of this accursed earth. He was free.
He leapt.
Everything burned.
After that, there was only oblivion.
Chapter 3: ...And the Past
Summary:
How did we get here?
Chapter Text
Charles lay on the straw of the makeshift bed, lost in thought.
The vampyre slept beside him, snoring lightly, his arms curled protectively around Charles. It had been terrifying, the first time he had finished his meal and dragged Charles into the darkness. Now, it was simply routine. Charles hoped it was a good sign, that he did this. Perhaps Varney, too, still remembered another dark stone prison, another straw bed on a dingy floor, when Charles had been the one in chains and they’d lain together just like this.
Or perhaps the vampyre was simply showing affection for the one who fed him, and Charles was reading a meaning into his actions that did not exist.
Charles sighed and curled up against the vampyre’s chest, listening to his even breaths and the steady rhythm of his heart. What had happened to him, to the man Charles had once known? How had he gone from confident, eloquent and clever rogue to…this?
Charles remembered the day they’d found him as though it were yesterday.
His uncle had received an invitation to a wedding in the seaside town of Anderbury—the union of one Helen Williams and the Baron of Something-or-other, Charles couldn’t remember. It wasn’t as though it mattered any, for the Baron turned out to be no baron at all, but Varney in the flesh—who no sooner was called on this fact than he took off running.
That was the last time, Charles reflected, that he had ever seen Varney as himself. A great chase had ensued, and by the time they finally caught up to the vampyre, it seemed to Charles as though those desperate bestial instincts, which Charles had known to ensnare Varney in times past, had taken hold of him. The vampyre snarled and raged with a fury Charles had never seen. In the frantic struggle to apprehend him, three men were wounded, and another killed, before the vampyre was finally felled by a pistol-shot from a footman, which pierced his heart. With admirably quick thinking, Henry had laid claim to the body, and insisted on their party being given leave to transport it home for burial.
None of them were particularly surprised when, upon laying the vampyre’s body out upon the lawn so that the moon’s rays might restore it to life, Varney awoke still in the throes of that terrible animal state which had overcome him in Anderbury.
What fools we were,
thought Charles.
What a fool I was.
He had braved the creature of his nightmares once more, confident that Varney would return to his senses upon having fed, as he had done in the past. Instead, at the conclusion of his dreadful repast, the vampyre had bolted, requiring the others to chase him down. Several excruciating hours went to the apprehending of the vampyre, for with his great strength he threw off every pursuer and broke every restraint that was thrown about him. Finally, a lasso cast by Jack Pringle happened to land about Varney’s neck, and the vampyre collapsed, trembling, upon the earth, and was quite docile as they led him inside.
In time the lasso was exchanged for a collar and a length of chain, for they found that the tug of a lead about his neck was about the only thing which could induce him to remain tethered. Charles was greatly unhappy about this, for he knew something of the vampyre’s history and had a fairly good guess why such treatment affected him so. His objections were overruled, though, for the others could find no preferable alternatives, fearing as they did that the vampyre might flee once more and place himself in real trouble. This way, at least, they could keep an eye on him; and who were more qualified to oversee his care than they?
So it had been that Varney the vampyre was locked in their cellar, where he had remained for some five months without showing any sign of remembering who he was. Nor was this due to a lack of effort on the part of Charles and the Bannerworths, for they visited him often, talking to him in the hopes of jogging his memory. Charles went to see him daily. He told the vampyre stories that he’d first been told by Varney himself; books he’d read, plays he’d seen, events he’d witnessed or taken part in. He recounted experiences the two of them had shared. He kept the vampyre updated on the events of his own life, outside of the confines of the cellar. Once, he and Flora and her brothers had even done an entire dramatic reading of Hamlet, with Charles inserting the ad-libbed line Varney had recounted to him from the first performance of the play he had ever witnessed—indeed, the first the world had ever witnessed.
None of it did any good. Though the vampyre seemed to greatly enjoy their company, he did so without so much as a glimmer of recognition for any of the words they said.
Once a month, Charles allowed the vampyre to feed on him, and it was on these occasions that Charles’ hopes rose to their peak and were dashed to their pit, for on each occasion he prayed that the stimulation of fresh blood might somehow awaken Varney from his madness. So far, it had not.
The vampyre shifted in his sleep, letting out a rumble. Charles patted him gently on the back. In some ways, his behavior showed echoes of the person he once was; this, Charles thought, broke his heart the most of all. His brazen desire for physical affection had forged the bond between them, winning Charles’ heart at a time when he was as far from being friends with Varney as he could possibly imagine. Now, this aspect of his nature manifested itself on nights such as this one, when Charles allowed himself within arms reach of the vampyre so the latter might feed; on each occasion, Charles had found himself practically kidnapped afterwards, to spend a night in the vampyre’s bed.
On these nights, Charles poured his heart out to the vampyre. At some point the ritual had ceased to be one of hope, and instead became an outlet for Charles’ own despair. He wept, and even then arose a faint spark of hope that tears might accomplish what words had not; but his hopes were in vain, for though the vampyre held him and tried to comfort him as best he could, Charles never once heard so much as a word from the friend whose voice he so desperately missed.
Chapter 4: Mercy
Summary:
She isn't an angel, but to Flora and Charles she may as well be.
Chapter Text
Alone that night in the bed she usually shared with Charles, Flora stared at the ceiling and prayed to the Heavens for a miracle. Give me something, she thought, anything to shed the stifling pallor of sorrow which has fallen over our home. Deliver us from this torment—myself, and Charles, and Varney too.
In a cruel twist of irony, it was in the throes of his madness that Flora found herself growing more fond of the vampyre. She visited him nearly as often as Charles did, reading aloud to him or talking to him while she worked on her needlepoint. Once, in a fit of whimsy, she’d made a ragdoll for him which she decorated to resemble Charles, a gift which had delighted the vampyre to no end. The strange, shy creature in the cellar had a sort of pitiful charm about him—to Flora, at any rate. His same attitudes sickened Charles, who grew more obsessive by the day. Flora tried to be understanding—she knew how much the vampyre meant to her husband—but she could not deny the widening rift between them.
It seemed an eternity ago to Flora that Varney had tried to drive the young couple apart, by a kidnapping and a set of forged letters. He had long abandoned any goal of antagonism towards them, even before he lost his mind, but now Flora felt as though he might just succeed at his long-discarded aim after all, though in a way none of them could have predicted. Things couldn’t continue like this.
Anything, Flora prayed, please.
The knock at the door came barely after sunrise.
Flora was awake already, her sleep being rather poorer on the nights when Charles was absent. The knock came again, insistent, and so she rose and dressed and went to the door to answer it.
The visitor was a woman, tall and slender and fair-haired, with piercing blue-green eyes and a look of devious intelligence about her face. Her clothing was costly and elaborate, and her accent, when she spoke, was French.
“Is this the residence of Sir Francis Varney?” said the woman. Flora eyed her cautiously, unsure how much to divulge to this stranger.
“It is,” she said at last. “He is…unwell, at present. He won’t be seeing any visitors—but if you would but kindly leave your name, madam, I’d be happy to pass along a message…”
“You may tell him that the lady Clarimonde desires to speak with him,” responded the woman, and Flora’s eyes widened as a jolt of recognition coursed through her spine.
“Clarimonde!” she cried. “You are Clarimonde, the vampyre?”
Clarimonde arched one dark eyebrow at her remark, lips curling up in an expression of faint bemusement.
“That I am,” she said. “My reputation doth precede me, it seems.”
“Please, come in,” said Flora urgently. “Varney has spoken highly of you, and I feel you may be our last remaining hope in recovering him from the terrible plight he is in.”
The corner of Clarimonde’s mouth twitched. “He is always in some terrible plight or another,” she said. “Oh, Francis, what hast thou gotten thyself into now?”
At this early hour, the rest of the household had not yet risen. Clarimonde sat at the kitchen table and listened as Flora spilled the whole tale to her of how they had found Varney, and everything that had followed. As Flora spoke, the vampyre leaned forward in her chair, and Flora found herself squirming under the piercing intensity of her gaze. When the narrative had been concluded, Clarimonde sat up, lacing her fingers together in her lap, and spoke in grave tones.
“You are fortunate indeed that I came to call,” she said. “Pray take me to him at once.”
Flora held her lantern aloft as she led Clarimonde down the cellar steps.
“Charles?” she called into the darkness.
“Here, Flora,” came the answering call. “Just a moment, I’ll be— whoah! Easy now, easy!”
A low growl echoed out of the darkness. It was the type of sound that resonated in ancient parts of the brain, causing the limbs to tremble in harmony.
Clarimonde shot Flora a glance. In the dark, her eyes shone the way Varney’s did, bright and luminous and uncanny. “Is he like this always?” she said.
“No,” Flora whispered hoarsely. She raised the lantern, hoping to see better.
Clarimonde stepped forward, striding over the chalk line which marked the boundary of what Varney could reach. “Francis?” she called. “It’s me— c’est moi— Clarimonde.”
The growl increased in volume, and Flora dimly made out the outline of Varney hunched in the corner, glaring daggers at the other vampyre. Clarimonde knelt on the floor in front of Varney and held out a hand, only to withdraw it a moment later as the latter’s teeth closed over the space it had been with an audible snap.
“ Mon dieu, Francis, mon Dieu, ” she murmured. “What hath happened to thee?”
Varney’s growling never wavered in pitch. As Flora approached, cautiously, she saw Charles struggle out from underneath him, propping himself up on his elbows.
“You’re Clarimonde?” he said.
“Yes. And you are Monsieur Bell, I presume?”
“Yes, I—one moment—Varney, hush, it’s all right. Hush, I said, she’s—Hey, stop that!”
Charles struggled briefly against the vampyre as the latter attempted to push him farther into the corner of the cellar, placing himself between Clarimonde and Charles. His resistance was unsuccessful, of course—when Varney had resolved on a course of action, there was only one method any of them had found that could dissuade him of it.
Charles reached up and gave the dangling chain a brief, sharp tug. The effect was instantaneous. The vampyre’s growl cut off into a strangled whine, and he stumbled backwards, sitting bolt upright and rigid with fear. Charles came out from behind him and sat beside him, taking the vampyre’s hand and caressing it in a soothing fashion.
“I hate doing that,” he said softly. “But sometimes it’s the only way to get him to behave. There, there, Varney, it’s all right. She’s a friend, see?”
The vampyre let out another whine in response, his gaze darting back and forth between Clarimonde and Charles. Clarimonde leaned forward, taking both of Varney’s hands in her own. He struggled and thrashed, but her strength appeared to match his, and she maintained her grip.
“Look at me, Francis,” she said. “ Look at me. ”
Their eyes met, and his gaze went vacant, while hers grew sharp and penetrating. Flora had come up behind them now, and she heard Clarimonde muttering under her breath while her eyes scrutinized Varney’s.
Varney’s lips moved. Flora strained her ears, and caught the faintest whisper of his voice.
“Go…away…”
Then, with a violent start, the vampyre wrenched himself free of Clarimonde’s grip, snarling. Clarimonde stood, backing away with her hands raised; the gesture seemed to placate Varney slightly.
“His mind persisteth yet,” she said. “He hath buried himself deeply, however. Here is what I request of you: Give me a place tonight where I may sleep undisturbed. You, Monsieur Bell, prepare a lantern and a traveling cloak, and have them ready at your bedside. I shall have need of your assistance tonight.”
Chapter 5: The Harrowing of Hell
Summary:
We find out where Varney's been all this time.
Notes:
Image CW: non-graphic nudity.
Chapter Text
Charles awoke to Clarimonde shaking his shoulder lightly. He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Come, let us go at once,” she said. “Rise, dress, and take the things which I asked you to prepare. I shall be waiting outside the door.”
“Where are we going?” asked Charles.
“To retrieve Sir Francis Varney from where he hath hidden himself,” came the reply. “Make haste, now.”
The vampyre left the room without another word. Bewildered, Charles stood and did as she asked.
“The lantern—it is well supplied with oil?” she asked, as he slipped out of the bedroom.
“Yes,” said Charles, “and what’s more, I’ve brought an extra supply of wax matches, in case of emergency.”
“Good,” she said. “Follow me.”
“I still don’t understand where it is we’re going,” he said, but Clarimonde made no reply as she swept noiselessly down the stairs. Instead of going out the front door, however, she led him to the entrance to the cellar and swung open the heavy oaken door.
“Mind your footing. The steps are steep and treacherous,” she said.
“No they aren’t,” Charles responded, confused. But as he held his lantern over the dark opening, he saw that, indeed, the stairs leading into the cellar were narrow and uneven, quite unlike how he swore they appeared in the daytime.
They descended in silence for what felt like some minutes. Charles was by now thoroughly perplexed.
“I feel as if I were dreaming,” he said.
“You are,” said Clarimonde. “But take care, Monsieur Bell, for some dreams are more real than others.”
At last, they reached the bottom. The cellar was pitch black, but Charles fancied it appeared rather deeper than it did in daylight.
“Take my hand,” said Clarimonde. “It would fare ill for us to become separated now.”
He did so, and side by side they walked into the dark and yawning maw of the cellar. The blackness swallowed them up without a trace.
For what seemed like hours they walked through the darkness. Charles’ lantern did little to illuminate their surroundings, picking out nothing more than a few measly square feet of floor around them. Clarimonde walked straight ahead, steady and self-assured, and Charles hoped her confidence was well-founded. They had not wavered once from their straight course, and yet Charles felt that, were he try to find his way back on his own, he would immediately become hopelessly lost.
He felt something sticky under his boot. He glanced down, and saw a puddle of something dark and dully reflective on the floor. Charles fought down a wave of nausea.
“We are close now,” said Clarimonde. “Just a little further.”
They walked on. Their footsteps went from sticking to splashing. Now Charles was aware of a faint, sickly odor around them, which he recognized with a sinking feeling as the scent of blood.
Clarimonde came to an abrupt halt. “He is here,” she said. She flung out her arm. “Look.”
Charles raised his lantern, squinting into the gloom. At first he saw nothing; then, as his eyes adjusted, he made out a pale figure sitting curled up on the floor, head bowed low. Charles felt his heart drop into his stomach.
It was Varney.
The vampyre was nude, chained hand and foot, his skeletal frame covered in blood and filth. Above him, Charles could faintly make out the outline of a rope—a noose, he realized, looped around Varney’s neck. He suppressed a sudden urge to retch.
“Varney!” he cried. “Oh, Varney!”
Breaking free of Clarimonde’s grip, he started to run to Varney, but his first step sent him plunging into dark water up to his shin.
Charles looked down. No, that was not water. A river of blood ran between him and Varney.
Charles set his jaw resolutely, and began to wade.
The river was deep, and its current deceptively strong. Charles raised his arms above his head, struggling against its flow as the dark liquid rose to the level of his chest.
“Varney!” he called out again. “Varney, I’m coming!”
There was no response from the hunched figure. Charles took a few more steps. The current seemed to be getting stronger.
Suddenly, the ground shifted under his feet, and he lost his balance. For a moment, he saw something bob to the surface of the oily river—the face of a young woman, pale and serene—and then he fell. His head went under, and he struggled frantically to surface. The lantern was swept from his grip and washed away by the current. Charles fought to stay afloat, but it felt as though the waves of sticky crimson were dragging him down, pulling him forcibly into their depths.
“Varney!” he cried desperately. “Varney, please, help me!”
His pleas for help were cut off as the current dragged him under once more. His hands reached out desperately for aid—
—and a grip like steel closed around his wrist, pulling him from the river.
Varney knelt in front of him, wide-eyed with worry.
“Are you all right?” he said.
Charles looked around. The river had disappeared. His clothes had not a trace of blood on them. His lantern sat on the ground beside him.
“I—I think so,” he managed.
Varney settled back into his former crouched position, though his head remained upright, looking over Charles with concern.
“You should not have come here, Charles," he said.
“Don’t say that, Varney,” said Charles. “I’ve come to rescue you from this awful place.”
“Rescue me?” Varney echoed. He shook his head sorrowfully. “It is too late for that, Charles. I’ve gotten what I deserve. Return to that side of the Hereafter from whence you came, and to whence you belong, and leave me to mine.”
“I have not come this far only to leave you—” Charles began, but Varney cut him off.
“That choice is not yours to make, Charles,” he growled. “Are you some delivering angel, appointed from on high, that you should seek to uplift my accursed soul? I have been damned since the moment the moon’s rays first revived my tainted form. Now I have finally shed the shackles of my earthly body, and shall bear these infernal ones forevermore. Make your peace with it, Charles; I already have.”
Clarimonde stepped forward.
“Thou art not dead, Francis,” she said. “Thy body liveth yet, propelled by a mere fragment of thy mind. This prison is of thine own making.”
Slowly, Varney raised his head. His eyes were dull and bloodshot.
“And dost thou haunt me as well, Clarimonde?” he said. “Is this part of my torment, to be tantalized by those few friendly souls I knew in life? Must I—”
He stopped.
“Charles,” he said slowly, “what is that on your neck?”
Charles looked down, and realized that in his earlier haste he had neglected to put on a cravat.
“Just a bandage,” he said. “I fed you last night, so I haven’t taken it off yet.”
Varney’s eyes widened in horror and astonishment. “Fed me?” he repeated. “What do you mean, you fed me?”
“We’ve been taking care of you,” said Charles, trying to keep his voice steady. “Keeping you safe and out of sight, and—and feeding you, and—Oh, Varney, I’m so sorry!”
A wave of emotion seized him, and he threw his arms around Varney’s neck and burst into tears.
“We—I didn’t want to do it, but—but I couldn’t think of another way, and—and—”
Varney patted him gingerly on the back. “What on Earth are you talking about, Charles?”
Sniffling, Charles ran his hand over the hempen rope of the noose. His fingers brushed the skin of Varney’s neck, and the vampyre shivered in response.
“This,” said Charles. “I—I think this is my fault.”
Varney placed his hands on the young man’s shoulders, moving him backwards until they were eye to eye.
“Charles,” he said, “none of this is your fault. No one is to blame for my condition but myself.”
Clarimonde knelt beside the two of them.
“Thou wert always thine own worst tormentor,” she said. “Listen to us, Francis. Home waits for thee to return to, if thou wilt but accept it. Wilt thou not cast aside thy bondage, and follow us?”
Varney stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time.
“You—your dress,” he croaked. “Could it be…Has the past century been naught but a horrible dream?” His voice took on a hushed tone, quivering with faint hope. “Did I…imagine her?”
Charles opened his mouth to ask Varney what he meant by this, but Clarimonde responded first.
“Thou wilt know not until thou wakest,” she told him gently. “Come, Francis. Thou hast suffered long enough.”
“Please, Varney,” Charles added. “Please…I miss you. Every day, I’ve missed you. Please come back to us.”
Varney stared down at his own hands and feet, and the chains that bound them. For a long moment, he sat in silence. Finally, without fanfare, the cuffs clicked open and fell from his limbs. He bowed his head, allowing Charles to remove the noose from his neck. Charles and Clarimonde each offered him their arm, and shakily he rose to his feet, leaning on them for support. Charles took the cloak which Clarimonde had instructed him to bring and draped it over Varney’s shoulders, wrapping it about his gaunt frame.
Then he picked up the lantern, and together they began the long walk back out of the darkness.
Chapter 6: Call Them Brothers
Summary:
Self-acceptance is more complicated when there's two of you.
Chapter Text
He woke up.
It was dark, and at first he thought that he must be within a tomb. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he made out the shapes of boxes and barrels. A cellar?
He sat up, and heard the clank of metal. Something heavy dragged behind him. His hands flew to his neck, and felt there the shape of a metal collar, secured with a padlock in the front and connecting him via a long chain to a ring embedded in the wall.
What the hell?
He stood up, and cracked his head against the ceiling. Letting out a string of colorful oaths, he sat back down heavily, and looked around. As his eyes drank in light that wasn’t there, he made note of a number of details which stood out to him from the mundanity of his surroundings. Teeth marks on a few of the boxes, which looked suspiciously similar to his own. A chalk line drawn across the floor near the steps. Half of a bone, the end jaggedly broken, lying in a corner. He thought it also appeared to have teeth marks on it, but couldn’t be sure.
There was a sudden clamor above, and the cellar door burst open. Light flooded the small room. Varney squinted into the light, and barely had time to register the figure of Charles Holland barreling towards him before the young man had crossed the room and practically collided with him, nearly knocking him over in the process.
“Varney!” he cried.
“Charles?” Varney replied, uncertainly. Charles raised his face to look up at Varney. His eyes were brimming with tears, but he was grinning from ear to ear.
“It worked! Oh my God, it worked. It’s really you.”
Charles pulled Varney into a crushing hug, the strength of which caught the vampyre by surprise, and buried his face in Varney’s chest. Caught off guard by this display, Varney awkwardly returned the hug, running the fingers of one hand through Charles’ hair the way he remembered doing all those many years ago. He felt the young man shudder and melt under the touch.
“It’s really you,” Charles whispered. “I’d nearly given up hope…”
Abruptly, he drew back, scrubbing tears from his eyes with his sleeve, and held up a key.
“Oh! Let me get this off you,” he said, reaching for the collar about Varney’s neck. It took Charles three tries to get the key in the lock, his hands were shaking so. Varney had never seen him like this in his life. If Charles got any more wound up, he was liable to start bouncing off the ceiling.
At last, the heavy collar fell to the floor. Varney rubbed gingerly at his neck, slightly chafed from the metal. Charles took him by the hand.
“Come on, let’s get out of the cellar,” he said. Smiling, Varney allowed Charles to lead him up the steps and out into the light of the morning sun.
Emerging into the light of the Bannerworth’s kitchen, Varney suddenly found himself face-to-face with Flora. She stared at him, wide-eyed, and Varney scratched his neck awkwardly. Where to begin?
“Flora,” he started, “I—”
He was cut off as she let out a shriek, and his heart sank—but then suddenly she had flung her arms around him, squeezing nearly as tight as Charles had, and sobbing into his shirt.
“It really worked!” she cried. “You’re really back!”
Varney was beginning to think there was some crucial piece of information he was missing.
“It is good to see thee looking like thyself again, Francis,” said a familiar voice. He turned towards the sound.
“Clarimonde!” he said. “What is going on—what on Earth has happened?”
“Come, sit,” she said. “We shall tell thee everything. And thou, in turn, hast quite a yarn for us, I expect.”
Varney lay in bed, one arm wrapped around Charles, who was fast asleep with Flora in his arms. He thought he might be in shock.
What a whirlwind of a day it had been! He didn’t think he’d ever been cried on so much, or by so many people. Even Admiral Bell, the bullish old sea dog, he’d caught dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. He’d listened with wonder, and partial horror, as the Bannerworths and the Bells unloaded the whole story of how they’d found him, brought him home, and kept him hidden for months in the cellar. When his turn came around, he told them of the century he’d lived into what was now the future—those parts of it he could stand to speak of, that is. He felt that he ought to confess to them those terrible events which had led to his final suicide and fantastic leap through time, but whenever he thought back on them a wave of the most dreadful feeling washed over him, and he felt a stirring in the back of his mind which so unnerved him that he decided to gloss over the matter entirely. Questions about the world of the future were foremost on everyone’s mind, but they seemed to pick up on his uneasiness, and let the matter rest for the most part.
That day would forever stand in his memory as one of the best he’d ever had, and its crowning jewel was the privilege he even now could not believe he’d been granted—by Flora of all people, even.
“I know you,” she’d said to him. “I’ve watched you these past several months, and I’ve heard every story Charles has to tell. There’s no way I’m letting you sleep all by yourself, not tonight of all nights. Our bed is plenty big enough for three, even—” and here she’d shot him a teasing look, “—for a third of your most singular height.”
And now here he was, lying next to the pair of them, feeling quite overwhelmed by the tidal wave of affection he had received. He could scarcely believe any of it was real. He curled himself around Charles.
If this is a dream, he thought, I don’t ever want to wake up.
Days passed, and the giddy high of that first reunion began to wear off, as Varney and the rest began to settle into a comfortable rhythm.
Clarimonde was sticking around for the time being, which rather surprised Varney, but he was unable to coax a more specific explanation from her than, “just in case”. Dr. Chillingworth and his wife had visited on the third day of Varney’s return, which had been a nasty surprise at first, but after spending an afternoon charming the skirts off Mrs. Chillingworth he had been pleased to find his reputation in the local rumor mill reversed itself practically overnight; now he was a gentleman vampyre and a matter of local pride, being as he was supposedly a part of the “rich cultural herrytage” of the area.
Varney’s days now were spent in peaceful recreation, reading or socializing or going for walks about the countryside. His nights were some of the most restful he’d ever had in his life.
Life was good—too good. Bit by bit, guilt and a sense of wrongness began to gnaw at him.
He didn’t deserve this. He, who had been the architect of such suffering to so many people, had no right to such a carefree existence as this.
Day by day, such feelings grew stronger within him. As they grew, he started to feel that restless stirring in the back of his mind again. He forced it down and ignored it as best he could, but it persisted.
Things finally came to a head on the eve of the one-month mark of his return. Seated at the dinner table with his family, enjoying the company if not the food and drink, Varney felt, for the first time since he’d awoken in the cellar, the pangs of death upon him.
He managed to brace himself against the table as the icy chill passed through him, but Charles noticed.
“Are you all right?” he said, and then, before Varney could respond: “Ah! It’s been a month, hasn’t it? You must be getting hungry again.”
Varney blinked at him, unsure if he was hearing what he thought he was.
“We already promised Mrs. Chillingworth we’d drop by for coffee this evening,” Charles continued briskly. “So…how does tomorrow sound?”
“Tomorrow,” Varney repeated. “For…for what?”
“Feeding,” said Charles. He gestured to his own neck. “You know.”
“Oh!” said Varney, too stunned to properly respond. “I—certainly, yes. Tomorrow. Right.”
He lapsed into silence, troubled thoughts swarming around his head. In truth, so anxious had he been to sink into the comforts of his new life and forget his previous sorrows, he had nearly forgotten the principal and most hated fact of his existence. Now, the prospect of renewing himself in such a fashion filled his heart with dread. In his mind’s eye, he saw once more the coffin of Clara Crofton, filled with rainwater, a pale and deathly face floating at its surface. It wasn’t Clara’s face this time, though. It was Charles’.
The stirring in his head was worse than ever. He forced it down again, and managed to maintain a facade of cheer for the remainder of the dinner.
That night, Varney lay awake for hours, tormented by his own thoughts.
How could he bring himself to drink Charles’ blood? Hadn’t he caused enough injury to the young man? To everyone? Why must he sustain himself in such repulsive fashion? What right had he to the happiness and hospitality of this family, loathsome being that he was? Surely they would be better off without him—surely everyone would.
Deeper and deeper he spiraled, until finally exhaustion overtook his racing thoughts, and Varney at last fell asleep.
The following morning, something else woke up.
It wasn’t dark. That was the first thing he noticed. It was always dark, but now it wasn’t. And he was lying on something very soft. Charles was there with him, and…
…Flora? Oh, he could remember her name now. He was pretty sure he couldn’t before.
He sat up, and felt an unusual sense of lightness, an absence of noise. His hands flew at once to his neck.
The collar was gone.
Letting out a trill of delight, he flopped back onto the bed, snuggling up next to Charles with a contented purr.
“Varney?”
Charles’ voice was thick with sleep; he must have woken him up. Oops.
“You awake, Varney?”
The words had meaning, now. That was new. Before they’d only been a chattering cascade of sounds, flying past his ears too quickly for him to process more than a few of them.
He made another trill in response to Charles’ question. Of all the sounds he could make, that one was his favorite. That and the big deep growl, but no one else seemed to like that one.
Charles stiffened. His heart began to speed up. “Varney?” he said again, and this time his voice carried a note of alarm. “Varney, say something.”
He thought that was rather a lot to ask of him. He’d only just got the hang of understanding words. Saying them was another matter entirely. He settled for repeating one of Charles’, though he felt his pronunciation left a lot to be desired.
Charles sat bolt upright, whirling around to look at him in alarm. He shook Flora’s shoulder, stirring her from her sleep. “Flora,” Charles said urgently, “Flora, get Clarimonde!”
She took one look at the two of them, nodded, and left the room without another word. When she had gone, he wilted against Charles’ shoulder. Evidently he had done something wrong, though he had no idea what. He hoped it wasn’t bad enough that They would chain him up again.
Charles patted him reassuringly. “There, there, Varney, it’s all right…” he murmured. His heart wasn’t in it, though. The vampyre could tell from how fast it was beating.
When Flora returned, to his intense displeasure, it was with the other vampyre. He let out a warning growl as she entered the room, to let her know not to try anything.
She held up her hands placatingly. “Peace, Francis, there’s no need for that,” she said. Then she sat down on the end of the bed. He moved defensively between her and Charles. There was plenty of need for growling, if she was going to be like this, always trying to get closer. Charles was his.
She took one of his hands in her own. He hissed in displeasure, trying to pull away. She hadn’t been going after Charles after all. No, she’d selected him as her prey, hadn’t she, with her troublesome rooting around in his brain, waking up the parts of him that were supposed to stay sleeping.
“Look at me, Francis,” she said. “Let me see where thou hast gone to…”
He hadn’t gone anywhere. He was right here.
Yes, I can see that. And who are you? You don’t appear to be Francis.
His name was Varney, wasn’t it? That was what They all called him.
Varney, then. My name is Clarimonde. Do you know where Francis is?
She was still looking for the other part of him, the one that was sleeping. He couldn’t let her disturb it. If it woke up, it would lock him away again, and then it would hurt them, or let them get hurt, and he’d already been hurt so much—
Sshh. ‘Tis alright. He can sleep, for now.
He ought to stay sleeping for a long time. He’d been awake for a long time, hadn’t he? It was—Varney, yes, it was Varney’s turn. He’d make sure they got hurt less.
I’m sure you will. But do not let him sleep too long, dear. Left to his own devices, he found ways to hurt himself anyway.
He…did?
That was why I woke him up in the first place. He needeth other people, or he will tear himself apart from the inside. I have known him a long time, Varney. It is admirable of you to protect him, but you should not attempt that task alone.
The vampyre let out a wail. Alone! Before They came along, he’d always been alone. There was never anyone who would help him, only hurt him and chase him and drive him away. All his life, all he could remember, was protecting them—protecting himself. There was nothing admirable about it; it was simply what he was for. His memories all blurred together, a thousand overlapping scenes of blood and fear. His lot was hunger and the hunt, first predator and then prey, drawing precious life from some victim’s neck and running, always running, running for his life, running from the angry yells of the mob and the baying of dogs, shunning torchlight and fearing the crack of the gun, running through windows and over fences and through fields and forests, running until his legs threatened to collapse beneath him and his heart felt fit to burst, ignoring the bite of brambles and rocks and freezing water, sometimes felled but always rising again and continuing to run, striving for escape but never knowing safety, only fear and flight and desperation and hunger and pain and death and—
Clarimonde released his hand. His head abruptly cleared.
“I see,” she said. She turned to Charles and Flora, who were watching the conversation with some bewilderment.
“There is nothing wrong with him, my dears,” she said. “He is simply…resting, that is all. Or…most of him is, anyway. This one, whom you have met before, is separate. For how long, I am not sure.”
“Separate? Are they…his present and future selves, then?” said Flora.
“I do not think so, no,” said Clarimonde. “Both hail from the future, as far as I can tell. This one appeareth to be what is left of my suicidal friend’s survival instincts. Treat him kindly, for he hath endured much. Give him a day, perhaps two, and then we shall see about waking up the other.”
Two days didn’t seem like very much time at all. Would the other one start to hurt himself so soon? Cautiously, he reached for the dark place in his thoughts which he usually left undisturbed.
Oh. He was hurting himself already—that was why he’d gone to sleep. He wasn’t resting—he was hiding. Had the other one been doing that all this time, leaving him to deal with all the trouble?
Frustrated, he began to claw at his own head. It wasn’t fair, he wanted it out —
“Varney, stop!”
Charles’ voice cut through his reverie. He glanced up as Charles took hold of his wrists, gently removing his hands from his scalp. Charles stared at his hands, and he followed the gaze. His fingers were bloody. He’d…hurt himself. How ironic.
Charles produced a handkerchief and began to clean the blood off his hands.
“Please don’t do that anymore,” he said. “It scares me to see you hurt yourself like that.”
He’d scared Charles.
He scared a lot of people, he knew. Most of them hurt him in response. Charles wasn’t like that. Charles had always cared for him, even when he was scared.
Still, he didn’t want Charles to be scared of him. And…there was the chain to consider, the iron noose that had bound him for months, when he lived in the dark. He didn’t know what he’d have to do for them to put it on him again. He didn’t want to find out.
Letting out a whine, he leaned against Charles’ shoulder. Charles paused his task of cleaning to wrap him in a hug.
The vampyre closed his eyes, savoring the feeling.
He felt safe, and loved.
He reached out to the dark place in his thoughts, in the hope that the other one would be able to feel it, too.
maglor_feanorian on Chapter 6 Sat 09 Nov 2024 08:25AM UTC
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