There Must Be More Than Blood

by Paracorpus

Summary:

"There must be more than blood
That holds us together
There must be more than wind
That takes us away"

-Car Seat Headrest, "There Must Be More Than Blood"

Notes:

• For Zombierokuuuuu.

Chapter 1: Blue, Wide Eyes

Notes:

Merry Christmas, Rokku :)

Title from "There Must Be More Than Blood" by Car Seat Headrest because I am nothing if not tragically predictable. Speaking of references: there are and will be metric fucking tonne of them in this so have fun looking for your easter eggs lmfao

Dottore is also here because why not ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“The Donor: a sub-species variant of the human, created and produced for the longevity of vampiric species.

As the magnum opus of a century’s research, the Donor has no mind to think with, nor a will to break. These qualities allow for effortless feeding and/or phlebotomy, without the need for sedatives. Hypnosis, glamours, and sedative potions all slow the heart rate of a Human, turning consumption into a difficult endeavour when combined with the inevitable hypotension that comes with blood loss. 

However, as said above, sedatives are not necessary for consumption from Donors. By design, they are subservient and lack the ability to act beyond what they are commanded to do. Ninety-five out of a hundred Donors are guaranteed to develop tachycardia after four to five years, which additionally enhances and optimises both the process of feeding and phlebotomy.

Most Donors are capable of sexual reproduction and live birth like that of Humans and mature to the stature and health of a twenty-five-year-old Human within six years. However, sorcerous reproduction has proven to be more efficient— though it often results in abnormal hair and eye colour—as it shortens the amount of time before they are ready to be consumed from. Necromantic reproduction was attempted, but many Donor subjects that were Raised gained the ability to resist. 

The cause of this phenomenon is likely due to the channeling of souls that occurs during the process of Raising. Donors are exceptionally susceptible to disease, as their cardiovascular and immune systems have been altered for vampiric consumption (that is: exceptionally rapid replenishment of blood as well as rich flavour) and not immune response; but they are also extremely sensitive to magic and likely souls as well. 

Donors have been found capable of absorbing magic from nearby spellcasters up to twenty metres away, so it is to no surprise that their vessel-like bodies are capable of absorbing fragments of souls as well. Fortunately, they lack the means to utilise any absorbed energy, and thus pose no danger to users.”

–Excerpt from “The Donor” by Il Dottore

---

Only two Donors remained in the chamber: the blonde one with pale green eyes and the blue-haired one with equally vibrant blue eyes. 

After receiving a nearly fatal wound in battle, Otto had consumed six Donors in the span of a seven days—two more than his average weekly intake. Under normal circumstances, this would not have been such a dire complication, as he could have easily paid for the delivery of additional Donors to his residence; but the lingering aftershocks of a war against rebellious Humans had caused a widespread outbreak of bloodborne diseases, which in turn caused a massive shortage in healthy Donors. 

The shortage had initially left him with sixteen Donors, though that was nearly two months ago. Otto had initially begun limiting his meals—only consuming twice a week through phlebotomy—to stretch out his remaining resources. In this manner, he had consumed only one Donor every seven days, or eight over two months; however unforeseen circumstances had thwarted his plan. 

Human nourishment was his next solution. Although the very act of existing as a dhampir was damned by both vampires and humans alike, Otto’s bastardised constitution came with a few convenient advantages: one of which was the ability to stave one’s thirst for blood with human food. Unfortunately, the few servants (had they been alive) that remained in his service would have been absolutely hopeless in the kitchen, leaving Otto—who was equally hopeless—to his own devices. 

His ingenious plan now consisted of two parts: One, draw and preserve half a portion from the blonde Donor twice a week, allowing her to regenerate and last more than two draws. Two, feed from the blue-eyed Donor until death, revive him through necromancy, and enlist him as a personal cook. 

This plan would have worked flawlessly, if not for Otto’s thirst-addled mind. As he inserts a catheter into the blonde Donor’s arm, she flinches; though he does not notice, due to his unwavering focus on the trickle of blood into the container and the persistent ache in his fangs. The container fills in less than a minute, due to the tachycardic properties of Donors. Otto closes the valve on the catheter, then leans in to remove it.

Within a split-second, the Donor’s hand shoots forward, taking hold of his neck with a surprisingly strong grip. Her fingers clench, pressing firmly against his jugular. She brings her other hand up, forcing him back onto the stone floor. Otto Apocalypse, who had barely flinched when mortally wounded, panics; his hands shoot up and claw at her unwavering, determined grasp. 

Reflexively, he calls upon the only instinct he knows: destruction. With the Key of Revelation, he summons a spear and thrusts it toward the Donor’s chest. She collapses to the ground when he pulls the weapon out, spilling blood from the gaping wound on her torso.

Otto wipes the blood from his face, hands shaking as red drips down his fingers and stains his shirt. He turns to look at the other Donor, spear in hand, and is met by a pair of piercing blue eyes that nearly glow in the dim lighting.

For a moment, he is struck by a sense of awe. Every Donor Otto had ever come across had little to no vibrance nor life in their appearance. All Donors had a glazed, dull look upon their eyes, regardless of the variation in colour. It was a product of their significantly limited cognizance—both of themselves and the world around them. Many of them also lacked variation in their skin tone, very few did not present with a reddish pallor (the blonde one had not, but Otto thought nothing of it at that moment). 

This Donor—the blue-eyed, blue-haired one—lacked both these traits. His skin had the vibrance of a human’s, and his eyes had a determined gleam to them that was distinctly alive. 

Breaking out of his awed daze, Otto readies his weapon. The Donor’s gaze sharpens, and then– a swirling mass of chaotic energy materialises in his hand.

“I know what you are,” he grits out, and the air in the room crackles as he speaks. Otto grins, his fangs jutting out over his lower lip.

“And what am I, Donor?”

“You’re a vampire,” he replies, clenching his hand into a fist.

With that, he surges forward and strikes Otto square in the face, sending him back onto the dirty floor of the Donor chamber. His spear clatters off to the side, but he recovers almost instantly– it dissipates and materialises back in his hand at his command. For the second time that day, Otto wipes blood off his face and hands, but this time, it is his own. 

In a rare moment of clarity within bloodlust, Otto realises: he cannot kill this Donor, regardless of how much he wishes to. Out of his two remaining Donors, one was already dead. The blue-haired one was all he had left, and Raising him would only heighten his awareness of the situation, as well as his inexplicable affinity for sorcery. 

Righting his nose, he stands and faces the Donor, who is already forming another ball of energy. Otto dematerialises his spear in favour of a small, orange-gold feather: the Fenghuang Down. Using it, he searches for the threads of the Donor’s consciousness, then severs them in one fell stroke.

His knees buckle, then he collapses, falling forward under the weight of his own body. Otto catches the Donor by his underarms and begins to drag him out of the room, staggering under the surprising weight. 

He sighs, sets the Donor down, then fastens the Fenghuang Down—he needed to keep its ability active—next to the pendant already around his neck. This allowed him to effectively carry his limp body, with one arm under the crook of his knees, and the other just under his shoulder blades. 

With another exasperated sigh, Otto elbows open the door to the stairwell and carries the Donor to the upper floors of his residence.

---

It is after hours of researching Donors that Otto comes to a conclusion: the blue-haired Donor’s cognizance is nigh unexplainable. 

Six hours prior, Otto had dove within the Void Archives, seeking any potential information from the endless libraries of the Divine Key, to no avail. No matter how many entries and books he paged through, there was absolutely no record of a Donor gaining sentience. 

Even the mad genius responsible for the very existence of Donors—“Il Dottore”, who was actually a man named Zandik —had no explanation for the Donor’s inexplicable condition. Otto was losing all hope of understanding the enigma of a Donor that currently lay comatose on his rarely-used bed. 

It absolutely did not help that the Archivist had kept taunting him—in his own voice, too—at every turn of a page, floating around the imaginary space with as much menace and spite as they could manage. If it were not for their insistence on making his life difficult, Otto would have gone through the entries much faster, and in turn realised sooner that his quest for information was futile. 

With nothing left to look for, he does what any man who has lost hope would have done: he starts over. Using the Fenghuang Down once again, Otto probes through the Donor’s mind, searching for the faint spool of memories that he had. When he locates it, he unwinds any damning information and feeds it back into his own consciousness, though he does leave a few vague memories and knowledge in its wake. Unfortunately, there is no way of restricting his emotional capability, thus amnesia is likely the most effective way to prevent another attack. 

Gradually, Otto withdraws from the Donor’s mind, allowing him to naturally awaken once the Fenghuang Down’s influence fully subsided.

Notes:

boy do i have a lot to say. boy do i also not want to edit my notes so i can post them here so until i get around to it there will be no explanation of this insanity available for the general public.

Chapter 2: Looking for Ya'

Notes:

"Hans" is a reference to Hans Zimmer (sorry man. Had to get you in somewhere), Frozen, and the German word "Hanswurst", which means "clown"

When he awakens, he is lying within the columns of a heavily decorated four-poster bed—quite contrary to the strange vacancy in his mind. He cannot seem to remember anything prior to falling asleep, nor can he remember his own name. His mind is frustratingly foggy, and beside basic knowledge, he remembers absolutely nothing.

There is a small note on the table next to him. He sits up, takes the paper, and unfolds it.

Dear friend, 

You may not remember much of what I am about to tell you. 

Your name is Joyce and prior to the accident, you were employed as a cook and caretaker by a man named Otto, the Overseer of House Apocalypse. 

If I was correct in my predictions, around six months have passed since the accident, for most of which you were comatose. I had carried you up to my room—after finding you unconscious on the floor—and healed you to the best of my ability as you drifted in and out of consciousness. According to the Overseer, there had been an unforeseen eruption of psychic energy caused by experimentation with the Key of Revelation, a powerful relic used to enhance one’s capabilities of knowledge. 

The Overseer granted me permission to attempt the restoration of your memories, though with my limited knowledge of the mind, I was regrettably unsuccessful. When you awaken, I will hopefully have the relevant knowledge to assist you in the process of recovering your memories. Perhaps, by some stroke of luck, you will even remember my face. 

It is all a mystery, my dear friend. I, for one, am hoping that the day you remember our unbreakable bond will come. 

I digress. Attached is a map of the Fortress of House Apocalypse that I have marked up for you. The kitchen, your room, and the latrines have all been marked with the corresponding colours noted on the legend. I wish you the best in navigating the Fortress—it can be quite the maze if you were not raised there (I was, after all, and although you may not recall, I was the one who often guided you through the winding hallways).

An assortment of clothes is available in the wardrobe—through the door next to the window. I hope they are to your liking.

Until we meet (again),

Hans A.

He— Joyce, as the letter had said, has to read over the words a few times before their weight fully sets in. 

His name is Joyce. He is a caretaker, appointed by the Overseer of House Apocalypse. He had lost his memories in an accident involving the Key of Revelation—whatever that was. Hans , the man in the letter, was a close friend of his prior to the accident.

Joyce repeats these things to himself, yet nothing comes back to him; not even a sliver of what he reads again and again in that letter seems familiar. His mind feels just as blank as it had been when he first woke up, and it is quite the strange sensation—strangely freeing but almost hauntingly hollow, as if a part of him is missing. 

He soon dismisses the emptiness in his mind as a lingering symptom of his ailment. Perhaps it will subside, and he will remember more than the vague, blurry scenes that occupy his memories. With the letter and map in hand, Joyce rises from the bed and makes his way to the surprisingly large closet. 

The moment Joyce steps into the room is also the moment he questions whether these rooms are a caretaker’s quarters—it was rather extravagant for that of a servant. Nevertheless, he selects a cream-coloured shirt and a pair of brown pants, dressing himself in front of a conveniently placed mirror. 

---

Joyce spends the better part of his day wandering around the Fortress in an attempt to familiarise himself with his surroundings. He passes through numerous empty corridors and visits various rooms, though none of them stand out as particularly significant or familiar; and strangely, the maze of halls and doors all seem to lead him in one direction. Regardless of which path he followed, both the signs and map pointed him toward the main hall. 

When night falls, he gives up on navigating the building and begins making his way to the main hall in search of either something to eat, or someone to further explain his condition. 

He finds what he is looking for in the library—a person, that is—in the form of a blonde stranger paging absently through a book. The stranger turns to Joyce as he approaches, closing the book and setting it down on the table.

“You’re awake,” he says, and a strange, unreadable expression crosses his face.

He hesitates for a moment, though curiosity overtakes his inhibition. “Who… are you?”

“Ah, so you don’t remember me after all,” he says, and Joyce tilts his head in confusion. “I am Hans—the one who left you the note and map.”

“Oh.”

Joyce feels for the letter in his pocket, finding a small relief in the crinkling of the folded paper.

“You said—in the letter—that you knew me before the… accident .”

An odd look takes his expression at that; pale flickerings of what Joyce thinks is regret dance in his eyes—just what did this accident do to them?

“Yes. I did know you,” Hans finally replies, gaze passing Joyce as if he is focused on something behind him; and if he didn’t have any questions then, he certainly did now. He hesitates again, though, wondering if he should trust this unfamiliar man who claims to know him. 

Even so, out of all the equally strange people in the Fortress, Hans had been the only one that attempted to offer him an explanation—all the others had brushed him off without so much as a glance in his direction. Joyce supposes that Hans is his best chance at some semblance of understanding. 

“What was I like?” he asks, then adds, “Before the accident, I mean.”

Hans seems to break out of whatever daze he had been in, drawing closer to Joyce. Verdant green meets sapphire blue, and for a moment, Joyce sees a flicker of familiarity in his eyes. 

“I think it would be easier if I showed you,” he says, a hushed intonation that echoes in the dwindling space between them. An orange glow begins to emanate from what Joyce recognises is a feather-shaped pendant of sorts, dangling from a delicate golden chain. From the pendant forms another feather—one that is nearly identical to its source—that settles into Hans’ palm. 

“Touch it,” he says, holding the feather out to Joyce.

As his fingertips brush the glowing projection, he is swept away in a blinding curtain of orange-red feathers. Various scenes (of what Joyce presumes are memories) flash before him. Within the blinding haze, he loses his balance and stumbles back, nearly tipping over. Before he can fall, Hans catches him by the underarms, keeping him from an unceremonious trip to the floor.

When his vision clears, Joyce lets out a sigh of relief, briefly steadying himself with the hand that Hans offers him. 

“Better?”

With some amount of amazement, Joyce realises that the strange fogginess in his mind has mostly dissipated, though a dull ache accompanies the sudden clarity—a side effect of suddenly absorbing such a large amount of information, he supposes.

“A little,” he replies, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to dispel the ache. “Does this mean you figured out how to recover my memories…?”

“You may not remember everything right away, but yes, I believe so.”

Hans gives a small smile, and from some place at the back of his mind, Joyce recognises him—recognises the curve of his jaw and the slight quirk of his lips. He believes, without a doubt in his mind, that he knows this man, even if he had initially appeared as a stranger. 

“Hans… thank you.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Hans replies, albeit a bit stiffly. “Get some rest, Joyce. Your mind will need all the energy it can get to reprocess all your memories.”

Joyce hesitates for a moment; a million questions are running through his mind, and he fears that he will forget them if he sleeps.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

It is Hans’ turn to hesitate, though he recovers quickly.

“Yes. Goodnight, Joyce.”

Notes:

buckle up kids. we're going for a ride with this one

Chapter 3: These Are Not My People Here

Notes:

It doesn't make sense now. But it will make sense in a little bit. trust.

“Trust me. I won’t let you fall.”

“And if I do?”

“I’ll catch you,” he says confidently, holding out a hand to the other. “Do you trust me, ████?”

He looks down at the water—and blonde locks fall past his ears—then looks up at ██████, who offers a small smile. 

“I do.”

With that, he takes  ██████’s hand and lets him lead the two of them out into the deeper water. Out there, the water reached his waist, thoroughly soaking his pants as well as the lower portion of his shirt. He wrinkles his nose. The salt would definitely ruin the fabric in the time it would take for them to return to the Fortress. 

The Fortress— he thinks these words with all the venom he can muster— the stifling walls where  ██████ would inevitably meet his fate in a matter of decades.

“It isn’t so bad, is it?”

“Hm?”

“The water,  ████. It isn’t so bad, is it?”

 ████ gives a small quirk of his lips, though it is tainted by a hint of sadness.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Is something wrong?”

He knows. He knows what’s wrong, doesn’t he? In his mind, ████ laughs bitterly—both at his own plight and foolishness. 

“█████…”

“Yes?”

████ grasps his hand—the one he had likely been holding for far too long—in both of his, drawing it close. He tugs the collar of his shirt down and lays ██████’s hand on his chest, directly above his heart.

██████’s eyes widen. 

The skin beneath his fingertips is cold.

And when ██████’s hand lingers for a moment longer, he realises—

—Joyce is abruptly pulled from the strange dream by the sound of footsteps outside his door. The smell of seawater disperses, though the phantom sensation of cool skin lingers at his fingertips. He drags the back of his hand over his eyes, then shuffles to the door. 

Just as he is about to open it, a series of knocks sounds out from the other side. Joyce opens the door to a familiar face. 

Ah. That was him, wasn’t it?  

“Good morning,” he greets, still slightly shaken. 

“Good morning,” Hans returns, holding out a tray with a plate and various utensils to Joyce. 

He lets the man in, taking the tray and setting it down on a small nearby table. 

“Are you—”

“I had—”

Hans chuckles, gesturing for Joyce to continue speaking. 

“I had a strange dream—” he says, eyeing the covered plate on the tray. “—about us.”

The neatly arranged cutlery clinks softly as Joyce fiddles with the utensils. He isn’t particularly hungry, though he would rather not displease the only helpful person within his vicinity. Out of the corner of his eye, Hans’ feather trinket shimmers briefly.

“Dreams are a commonly anticipated side effect of memory transfer. It is likely nothing to worry about,” Hans assures him, sitting down at the edge of his bed. “You may also experience headaches and a bit of confusion until the memories clear up.”

“I see. Do you know why this is?”

He shrugs in response. “There wasn’t much written down on memory transfer. A scholar from eras ago—Fu Hua, if I recall correctly—theorised that it had something to do with an overwhelmed subconscious.”

“An overwhelmed subconscious…?” Joyce has fully abandoned the tray by now, deciding instead to invest himself in finding out more about his memories. He sets down the silverware, then sits down next to Hans.

“ Mm . Subconscious activity—that which your mind does involuntarily—has a limit to how much it can process at once, before it spills over into your conscious mind. Your mind is attempting to process decades of memories in a short amount of time, thus some of them may appear as visions or dreams in the meantime.”

Joyce raises an eyebrow. “Has anyone recently had success in this…memory transfer?”

“Besides me? No. Many people lost their minds in the process.”

“But you attempted it on me,”—and he is a bit horrified, yet awed—“without knowing whether or not it would work; without knowing whether or not either of us would lose our minds…”

He  nods solemnly in lieu of a response, though he has yet to meet Joyce’s gaze. 

“I don't understand… why would you do such a thing?”

Hans rises from the bed, turning and finally making eye contact—mirroring their encounter in the library. He holds his gaze for a moment, then reaches for the door.

“You will understand. It will come with time… Joyce .”

---

“...I wish I could say that I wouldn't forgive you, and although some part of me would still say it, I can't bring myself to care because I've forgotten what makes you unforgivable.”

“...”

“For centuries, my family has despised your kind, and rightfully so—they committed countless heinous crimes against humanity—and you should be no exception. You, out of all your kind, have sinned far more than I can recall—and that is just it. I find myself unable to recall what makes you damnable.”

Ah, but he does, no? If he so chooses, he can hold a grudge far deeper than any ocean.

“I held a terrible grudge against your father—and he has done far less than you have,” and he faces ████ with these words, sapphire locks swaying as he turns. “I killed him, ████. What has kept me from doing the same with you?”

“...”

“I have convicted you many times—at trials and gallows alike. You have every reason to despise me, and I you. How is it that you are still by my side, alive and well of my own doing? Have I not found it within me to rid myself of you?”

He pauses for a moment, hesitating. “████… have you bewitched me?”

“I have done no such thing,” he replies at last. “I am incapable of enthralling someone of your caliber.”

“Then… why have I not damned you to the depths of Hades? Why do I remain by your side? Is it cowardice, or something else entirely?”

“I cannot answer that for you, Ẇ̶͓̠͑͝a̷͎̋̆l̸̘̙̺̓̓̀t̵̼̃̈́e̶̤̞͋̅͆ṟ̴̇.” —

“—I had another dream. You were in it.”

Hans raises an eyebrow, motioning for him to continue speaking. Joyce turns to him for a brief moment, before turning back to the uncut fruits in the basket. He picks up an apple, turning it over in his hand before deftly splitting it in half with a knife. 

As he carves the fruit into neat wedges, he recounts the events of his dream. With each detail he mentions, Hans’ expression—though well-concealed—morphs from neutral to confused, eventually settling on a strange combination of concern and awe. 

“...is that all?” Hans asks when he pauses. 

“Yes, but I do have to ask,” he replies, setting the knife down and turning to face Hans “who was Joyce— who was I to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“In the dream… I seemed rather attached to you—and vice versa,” he muses, taking and setting the plate of apple slices down onto the table. “I’m not entirely sure that ‘attached’ is the correct word for it, though.”

“Attached, you say?” 

Joyce nods. “Something like it, yes. You barely spoke in the dream, but I could feel something lingering in your thoughts then.”

“ My thoughts?” 

The confusion on his face returns. 

“Your thoughts, yes. I do find it strange, though, given that these are meant to be my memories…”

Hans frowns, the trinket around his neck flickering briefly. He picks up a slice of apple and bites into it while Joyce watches. A pointed canine briefly appears from under his upper lip, but the other pays it no mind.

“Perhaps it is a side effect. I housed your memories for quite a while; it would make sense if some of mine intermixed with yours,” he suggests, gesturing vaguely with the half-eaten apple slice.

“Oh—by the way… Does the name Walter hold any significance to you?”

Hans visibly squints, muttering something beneath his breath before replying. “Not as far as I know.”

“Interesting. I heard it in my dream—you called me that before I awoke.”

“...”

---

—Sunlight streams through the narrow gap between the heavy curtains, casting a streak of light into the dark room. 

For a brief moment, the streak is obscured by a shadow, then the clank of the window latch heralds the arrival of a familiar presence. Light floods into the room as the curtains are pushed aside to make room for the person climbing through. 

“How fares my dear creature of the night?”

Said creature groans, sitting up and shifting to the edge of the lavish four-poster bed. The trespasser, who has now made his way to the bed and extended a hand, grins brightly—a stark contrast to his navy cloak and black leather armour.

An eyebrow arches at a steep angle, though he still takes the man’s hand. 

“Since when do you participate in such theatrics? I thought you said that you despise those ‘blind, romantic fools’”

His grin widens as he pulls both of them to the sunlit balcony. 

“I have something to tell you,” he says, stepping out onto the balcony and sitting upon the railing, “come here.”

“Is it the reason you are being uncharacteristically romantic today?”

On any other day, he would have scoffed at the statement and denied the weight of his actions. But today, he simply laughs and motions once more for the other to join him on the balcony. He follows, stepping out into the light. The sun does not burn his flesh, but an intense warmth settles into his skin. Were it his first encounter with sunlight, it would have brought discomfort; having taken advantage of his Daywalker blood many times over the years, he has grown accustomed to the sensation.

“What is it you wish to tell me?”

Joyce frowns. 

Strange. Not only did Hans look identical to this ‘creature of the night’, his voice sounded exactly the same as the one he had heard in the dream. The words, the intonation, the quirk of his left eyebrow—everything he had noticed about the creature was present in the man who stood before him.

It had to be him. The resemblance was unmistakable. Briefly, Joyce questions the integrity of his memories once more, considering the possibility of another side effect causing the distortions. Yet, it seemed nigh impossible for such a far-fetched change to occur. If the process of memory transfer truly was at fault, it had somehow managed to turn a resident sorcerer and a servant into a vampire and a hunter. 

All of it was strange to him—the side effects , the distortions, the conveniently vacant fortress, and the blurry names and faces in his memories.

Perhaps he is selfish and ungrateful in questioning Hans’ intentions. He has nothing to base his claims on, other than a dream of questionable accuracy. But, the notion lingers in his mind. Regardless of whether Hans’ word was the truth, there was more to this situation than what he was told.

“Nothing,” he replies at last, shaking his head. The last thing he wants to do is confront a potentially dangerous entity with little to no evidence or experience. He needs more time—more resources. Joyce curses himself for believing Hans’ testimony so quickly, and vows to discover for himself whether this man is worth his trust.

The library greets him with its towering shelves and lengthy ladders. He follows the gold-inlaid lettering at the end of each row, eventually coming upon a row labelled Biographies. Fortunately, the shelves were alphabetized, making it fairly easy for him to find what he wanted.

First priority: Fu Hua. 

The F section was fairly small, with Fu Hua’s entry being the largest of them all. Fitting , Joyce supposes. Hans had spoken about her extensive research once or twice. He removes Fu Hua’s biography from its place on the shelf and tucks it under the crook of his arm. 

Second priority: Hans.

It strikes Joyce then and there that he does not know Hans’ surname, nor does he particularly wish to inquire anything of him until he has more information. He would have to return to this one later on.

Third priority: House Apocalypse. 

Finding the A section was easy enough, though there was nearly an entire shelf filled with biographies of members of the House Apocalypse. He would have to return to this one as well. All he needed was context , not a lengthy documentation on some hundred family members. Combing through hundreds of books is not something he has the time nor patience for. 

The History section was far more promising. There, Joyce found two books that claimed to summarise the history of House Apocalypse and the family that dwelled within. Those, too, were removed from the shelf they sat upon. 

Fourth and last priority: himself.

He does not know his own surname—perhaps he does not have one, seeing as he is allegedly a servant, but will search nonetheless. Joyce hovers around the J section, searching for a name that matches.

Ja…. Je…. Ji…

He moves down a few rungs on the ladder.

Jo… Joc… Joi…

Closer still. Joyce steps down once more, until he comes upon Joy . There, he finds various books dedicated to a person with the surname Joyce , but none with a forename that he recognises—

Joyce, Walter.

The gold-lettered, leather-bound book stares back at him as he reaches for it. The volume is heavy in his grasp—heavier than the others despite its modest size. 

Walter… that was his name in the dream, no? If his memories were primarily undisturbed, Walter Joyce is his true name.

With his collection as complete as it could be, Joyce finds a chair in some corner of the library and begins to read. He starts with Fu Hua’s biography, which directs him to three volumes that she had written on her research. He finds and reads those too.

Her notes both proved and refuted his suspicions. Memory transfer was almost exactly as Hans has described; but her notes explicitly stated that any alteration to the transferred memories was due to the holder—or, host —of the memories prior to the transfer. 

Hans was not entirely dishonest, however he was not entirely truthful either. It brought some comfort to him, though, to know that Hans had not fabricated the story from nothing. There was some merit to his words; Joyce simply had to confirm what was true for himself. Inconvenient, but he supposes that everyone has secrets they wish to keep to themselves.

He sets the last volume of Fu Hua’s recordings down, and reaches for A Brief History of House Apocalypse . Judging by its size and word density, this volume would be a quick read. Skimming through the pages—for he was not particularly invested in this specific topic—gave him a good enough idea of what the Fortress was and how it came to be. 

Next book: the biography of Walter Joyce. Joyce flips to the first page, where bold, black-ink letters leer at him.

Date of Death: 24th of November 1XXX

Notes:

writer's curse hit me like a truck (holidays kicked my ass)
this took me far too many days to edit + i retconned half of the original writing while editing.

Chapter 4: I Think You Know That

Summary:

playlist for this mess

Perhaps he is mistaken. Perhaps that all he witnessed in dreams were distortions of his past life. But as reads through the events of Walter Joyce’s life, he finds himself matching them to the memories in his mind. The further Joyce reads, the more certain he is that there is far more that Hans has not told him. 

Joyce considers the possibilities thus far: 

One, he has been implanted with the memories of another person—Walter Joyce. He deems this one the most likely, seeing Walter himself had passed long ago, yet Joyce still retains “his” memories. In addition to this, he feels no personal connection to any of the memories; they linger in his mind but they are not anchored as they would be, had they resided within their true owner.

Two, he is Walter Joyce, though he has either been reincarnated or raised from the dead in some way. This is what Joyce had originally convinced himself to believe out of both fear and uncertainty. Yet, now, he refutes this theory with disdain. If he truly were Walter Joyce, and if he truly had such a relationship with Hans, why was he given so little information about his identity? Prior to his own investigation, Joyce had no notion of the name “Walter”—what sort of dear friend would leave their amnesiac companion to rudimentarily discover their own identity?

Whichever turned out to be reality did not matter. Hans had been dishonest with him, hiding the truth behind vague dismissals and convenient absences. Now that Joyce had discovered what may very well be blatant deceit, he needed to uncover the truth—to throw back the heavy veil cast upon him. 

He needed to confront Hans. 

---

The heavy thud of a book being slammed upon the wooden table echoes in the study. Neither of the men startle at the sound, though one turns around to face the other.

“What is the meaning of this, Hans?” Joyce demands, opening the book to reveal the first page. He points at the lines of text, accusatorily. In front of them, the same bold, black letters read ‘ Date of Death: 24th of November 1XXX. ’

Hans barely glances at the book, opting instead to meet Joyce’s burning gaze. A dim, orange-yellow haze, radiating from the feather trinket, begins to creep into the corners of his vision.

“Whatever do you mean, Joyce?”

“Whatever do you m—Hans, who am I? Why do I have the memories of a man who died over two centuries ago? Why do I share a name with him?”

“You are not Walter. You are Joyce,” he replies dismissively, drawing close and removing the book from Joyce’s grasp. “This the biography of Walter Joyce, a famed vampire hunter.”

Hans pauses, closing the book and setting it off to the side.

“Your biography…is written here,” he says, tapping Joyce’s temple.

Internally, Joyce is uncertain—he does not have enough information to support his arguments. He only has suspicions, founded on dated accounts and scattered recollections. Even so—even if he is far out of depth, he has nowhere else to go but to the man whom he cannot trust. But, if Hans wishes to dance around the truth, Joyce will follow in his steps.

“If I am not Walter Joyce, then what is my other name?” He asks innocently, cocking his head. The haze becomes a steady glow, and Joyce can feel it —something attempting to probe into his mind. He forces it out, glaring at the man in front of him. 

Hans frowns. “You have no other name, and neither do I. We are merely workers, Joyce.”

“Suppose that is the truth.” He nods slightly, as if agreeing,” Why, then, did you refer to me as Walter in my memories? Do those also belong to Walter Joyce ?”

“You—”

“Am I Walter Joyce? If so, why have you withheld so much from your dear friend ?”

“No—”

“Am I simply ‘Joyce’? And if so, why do I hold the memories of a ‘famed vampire hunter’?”

“Joyce—”

“You have lied enough. Who am I? Who are you? ”

Hans sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He reaches for the book, tracing over the spine with the tips of his fingers. The orange glow recedes, and so does the presence in his mind, seemingly settling back into the trinket.

“I should have known,” he murmurs to himself, almost mournfully, “Walter was always quite perceptive…especially of my intentions. It’s only fair that you inherited it as well.”

“Speak,” he says, then adds, “and do not even think about trying to poke through my mind.”

“What do you wish to know?” Hans asks, tone flat and even as if he had expected his very conversation to happen.

“The truth. All of it,” he states, firmly. 

“Where do you want me to begin?” He queries, still aggravatingly calm as if he hadn’t been accused of manipulating someone’s memories.

“I don’t—start with Walter. Who is he and why do I have his memories?”

“You already know who he is,” Hans sighs, “but as for his memories, it is because I took them from him… and gave them to you.”

The confusion on Joyce’s face prompts him to continue. “Those memories you saw in your dreams—of Walter and a man that looked like me—do you remember them?”

“Yes…”

“That man is me. I am Otto Apocalypse.”

Otto Apocalypse. That name seemed—

“Familiar?”

“I told you not to use your damn feather,” Joyce snaps.

“I didn’t use it. You would have felt it if I did.”

Hans—Otto moves past Joyce and motions for him to follow. He leads them through a few corridors and into the library. Past the towering shelves is a massive curtain, covering a large portion of the wall behind it. A rope hangs down from the side, likely what had previously held the curtain up. Beside the curtain was a bronze plaque, one that Joyce had seen before but thought nothing of it.

A wave of Otto’s hand is all it takes for the curtain to be tossed aside. Behind the heavy drape hung a portrait of—as the plaque underneath stated—the current heir to House Apocalypse, Otto Apocalypse.

“You… are the head of House Apocalypse,” Joyce starts, voice unsteady as reason surges forth.

Otto nods. 

“Then…the head of House Apocalypse is—” 

Joyce cuts himself off as the realization strikes him, eyes widening ever-so-slightly. Every confusing aspect of Otto’s life pointed toward one conclusion: the centuries he stayed alive, the aversion of windows during the day, and the godforsaken pointed teeth.

“I know what you are.”

Otto flinches, though it is nearly imperceptible. His voice is just as shaky when he speaks.

“And what am I?”

“You’re a vampire.”

---

Otto tells him everything. 

He tells him of Walter Joyce, the man whom he loved dearly—his first love. The vampire hunter who had been determined to end his life, was the same one who became enamoured with prolonging it instead. 

He tells him of the bond they had—of how Walter had brought light upon his nature. Otto Apocalypse, who descended from a vampiric father and a human mother was condemned as a bastard child. His father shamed the humanity within him, and his mother cursed the wretchedness in his blood. 

He tells him this: Walter neither shamed nor cursed his descent. He cared not only for one-half of Otto's existence, but for his whole being. With Walter Joyce, he was whole.

And then, he tells him of Walter’s death—of how it tore both his body and mind. Walter had been killed by Otto’s father, Nikolas Apocalypse, for daring to enter the Fortress of House Apocalypse. The only human who had seen him as one whole being—not one accursed half entwined with another—was murdered in front of him. 

He tells him of his own death, then, as the light faded from Walter’s eyes. The wholeness that Walter had given him was gone. Otto’s humanity had died with Walter Joyce—as he buried the body of his lover, he buried his own life beside him.

And so, in an inhumane act of vengeance, Otto Apocalypse usurped his father, casting him from the throne and watching from it as he choked out his own blood on the floors below his feet.

Then, he tells him of Kallen Kaslana, his first love in what he deemed his second life; she was a woman who suffered the fate of an evildoer despite her innocence. Even without conscious effort, Otto remembers the sway of the noose and the cries of those who knew the truth. Kallen had died in the hands of the unjust—not as a hero nor a martyr, but as a convicted witch .

Years blurred by after her death, with days becoming indistinguishable from nights—the impenetrable haze of grief hung heavy upon him. It was then that he sealed the final verse of his lament: Otto Apocalypse would love no more. 

Otto pauses then, as if weighing his next words. He sighs heavily, then begins speaking again.

He tells Joyce about himself. 

He tells him about Donors, about Joyce’s nature, and about the brief scuffle they had in the holding cell.

He tells him about his original intentions, about how a plan to survive became a gamble on the chance of bringing the light back to his life—a different kind of survival. Joyce, whose only purpose was to feed a race of vampiric creatures, became a blank canvas for Otto to paint upon.

He tells him, lastly, of how Walter had disrupted his plans once more, even while buried deep within the ragged soil of a potter’s grave. The hunter’s memories had given strength to Joyce’s mind, who already had a heightened affinity for sorcery due to his constitution. In tandem, these two things counteracted any attempt that Otto made to control Joyce, to turn him into an echo of Walter Joyce.

And Joyce? Joyce does not know what to believe. Intuition tells him that Otto’s words are true, but skepticism argues against his belief. Even so, as he looks at Otto, Joyce sees no flicker of orange nor trace of deceit in his eyes. 

Otto Apocalypse is inexplicably, yet irrefutably speaking the truth—the horrifying, raw truth. Everything “Joyce” had belonged not to him but to a man long dead. The memories he held were Walter’s. The body he inhabited was built to be bled dry. His name—the identity he thought belonged to him—was merely an echoing call for a man that would never answer.

How can he answer to a name that is not his? 

How can he claim a life lived by another?

He is not Walter. He cannot be Walter. But if he left behind everything that would mould him into Walter, he would have nothing left. Perhaps this is what Otto intended—to give him no choice but to become what he was told to be.

“—Joyce…”

“Do not call me that,” he snaps. “I am not him. I will never be him, no matter what you try to do.”

“What shall I call you, then?” Otto inquires casually, as if he were simply asking for the time.

He pauses for a moment, considering.

“Welt Joyce,” he replies at last.

“Welt Joy—”

“No,” Welt interrupts. “I carry the name Joyce not because I am him, but as a reminder; of both who I am not and of what I built myself from. You no longer hold the threads to weave my fate—you are not the one who chose this name. Without your influence, I will find myself.”

“Werde der du bist ”—Otto murmurs to himself—”Become who you are… who are you?”

“I am Welt,” he repeats, definite and final, “for I am the world you can only dream of.”

Notes:

God, this took way too long. Authour's curse is real I guess

Chapter 5: Nervous Like A Wild Dog

Notes:

Content warnings for this chapter are as follows (click here for dropdown):

- Intentional self-injury. Joyce cuts his own arm to draw blood
- Drinking of blood. Otto drinks Joyce's blood. it is consensual

For those returning while this is incomplete, I recommend re-reading Chapter 4 because I added some more to it after deciding that my original plan for 5 had too many events to cover

“How many others?” 

“I… do not know. I have lost count over the years,” he admits, eyes cast downward.

Welt looks horrified, and yet he asks, “How many… Donors do you require?”

“Require? Only one per month. Because I am only half, the need is not as intense, and I do not need to feed as often as a full-blooded vampire. I can subsist on human food as well… I think if I had access to human food I would only need to feed once every six weeks…”

Welt raises an eyebrow. “Did you not have access to food?”

Otto shrugs. “Not necessarily. No one in my family, except for my mother, ate human food. It was an unnecessary use of resources, and Donors were and still are far more economic—”

“Economic —gods, Otto. Those were people!” Welt interrupts, indignant. “Do you not realise how wrong it is to treat humans like bags of blood?”

Otto sighs, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “Donors are bred to be consumed—they are a result of research and experimentation from an order of vampires who dedicated themselves to scientific discoveries. It may be morally corrupt for you, a human, but for us creatures of the night, it is only survival.”

“Survival.” he repeats, disgust seeping into his tone. “You call murder and slavery survival?”

“Let me ask you this, Welt,” he counters, “Would you prefer it if we hunted down your kind every time we needed to feed?”

“No—”

“Donors are the children of a truce between night and day. They were created to satisfy the demands of humans—the demands that we vampires go against the order of nature, all because they are sapient enough to believe they have some meaning in this world—”

The chair he sits on rattles and screeches as he stands up. A sickening crunch echoes as Welt’s fist meets the bridge of Otto’s nose. 

“You disgust me,” he spits, eyes narrowed.

“It was obvious enough without you hitting me,” Otto gripes, holding his nose. “I thought we had agreed not to resort to physical violence.”

“Since when do you abide by agreements? You take all that you want freely, without regard for the victims of the repercussions.”

“I take freely because it is simply my nature,” he replies, a fang jutting out from under his upper lip, “we are all creatures in the end—I a creature of the night and you a creature of the day.”

“Then, will you also take freely from me when the time comes? You cannot last forever without blood; you will need it eventually. What will you do then?” Welt asks, uncurling his fist and flexing his bruised fingers. For a moment, he considers hitting the man again.

“I do not know. Only instinct will remain to guide me.” Otto says, oddly earnest. “I cannot tell you what will become of me, for I have never known any of my kind other than myself. I have never seen a dhampir mad with bloodlust, but I would assume it is possible..”

“Then… we will endeavour to prevent that sight,” Welt decides.

“What do you mean?” He asks, genuine confusion colouring his tone.

“You can survive off feeding once every month, no? Can that be separated into multiple occurrences with lower quantities?”

Otto’s eyebrow twitches, betraying his masked, calm expression. “I don’t—I would think so—the quantity is really all that matters. I need a certain amount of blood but I do not think the frequency at which it is administered would affect me, other than some mild discomfort…”

“So, even if you need to consume an entire human’s worth of blood once a month, that quantity can be separated into… say four occurrences in smaller quantities—one every week.”

Otto looks concerned. Guarded. “It is possible—what are you suggesting?”

“If that is so, then from now on, you will no longer feed off unwilling innocents,” Welt declares, rolling up his left sleeve as he sits back down. There is a blade in his hand—the short paring-knife he had previously used to cut fruit. The dhampir’s eyes widen, though he makes no move to stop Welt. 

“From now on”—he draws a diagonal on his arm with the blade. Blood seeps from the cut, dripping down into an empty chalice—“you take only from me.”

Otto’s eyes trace the trail of crimson from where it flows to the shallow pool in the chalice, pupils dilating. He reaches out to it, blind to everything but the alluring temptation set before him. 

He drinks. He seizes the chalice, hands trembling as he tilts it back. A soft groan leaves his throat as the crimson honey graces the tip of his tongue. Welt’s blood is rich and sultry—ardent and intense. It burns as he swallows each mouthful, yet the only thought his mind can comprehend in that moment is that he needs more. 

Shaky breaths and rushing blood flood his senses, drowning him in the raging depths of base instinct. The empty chalice clatters to the ground, yet the metallic clang that resounds seems distant and muffled to him. He draws close to Welt, focused solely on the vivid streak of red that lures him in. 

Were Otto of sound mind, he would have wrenched himself away in a split second and cursed himself for his lack of restraint. But here, swept away by the tides of something long damned , he cares not for reason nor dignity. He takes hold of Welt’s wrist—just barely, just enough to pull him closer—and closes his eyes as his aching fangs finally, finally sink into flesh.

This is who he truly is.

This is what he truly needs. 

Food, water, air—all those are paltry in the face of what lies before him. He grips Welt’s arm like a vice, tighter with each effervescent pull of blood from his veins. The world around him fades away—all that remains is the raging beast within him, urging him to consume . 

“From now on—” Welt starts to repeat, voice echoing faintly in Otto’s mind. He pauses, looking down at the dhampir—he was still lost in a reverie; Welt presses the flat of the blade beneath his chin and tilts it up. Otto looks at him, eyes hazy. Stray streaks of blood wander down from his lips; he reaches up, fingers wiping the remains and feeding it back into his mouth. Welt looks down at him, eyes darkening.

“From now on, I am your source of life.”

---

As Welt Joyce had theorised, it was indeed possible to sustain a dhampir with multiple small administrations rather than one instance in great quantity. Like clockwork, at the beginning of each week, Welt would drag a blade across the skin of his forearm, drawing blood for Otto to consume. 

One could call it mutualism—for two beings to benefit from interacting with one another and therefore thrive in mutual dependence. The truth, however, is that neither are thriving nor benefiting. No matter what Welt Joyce deigns to say about his duty to hold back a danger to humanity, he cannot confute any person who accuses him of sustaining that very danger out of some morbid sort of curiosity. No matter what Otto Apocalypse claims is a voluntary measure by means of survival, he, too, cannot negate the involuntary will that boils within.

In being the source of life to a creature of death, Welt is tearing the veil with his own hands, even if he does not know it. That which Otto Apocalypse so vehemently denied himself of may very well become the vice that shall doom him. The man who lacked control over even a mite of his life will walk willingly into death. The dhampir who claims to have seized control over his entire being will fall to the whims of humans and vampires alike.

For a period of time, though, they lived in subdued silence, daring not to disturb whatever facsimile of peace had descended upon them. Neither spoke of what happened that very first time. Every serving of blood since then had been delivered in some sort of vessel, cold and unlike the searing warmth of living flesh in every possible way.

Yet, with each passing week, it becomes increasingly evident that the dhampir craved more than just blood. The way he eyed Welt, the way his pupils dilated, the way his fang dug into and broke the skin of his lower lip every time he uncovered his scarred arm—if he was attempting to conceal his nature, his idea of a guise was grossly skewed.

Here he sits, attempting to wait patiently as Welt coaxes blood out from yet another wound. He had refused to use any of Otto’s medical equipment, citing a lack of trust and convenience. 

Otto shifts uncomfortably in his chair, trying to occupy his hands with something to quell their trembling. He tries to look away from Welt—more specifically his blood—but his eyes remain fixated on the river of life pouring out in front of him. Otto cannot look away, no matter any conscious input or attempt to tear himself away from the haze that threatens to consume him. 

The monster within him urges him to move closer—to poise himself for a strike to the neck. The human within him urges him likewise, desiring far more than just the occasional, accidental brush of fingers. Even so, he does not dare to reach out for Welt—it seems as if the space between them is insurmountable, even if he is exchanging part of his very life with the dhampir. Yet, even if the living water staves off Death, it does not satiate the hunger within. 

It is the hunger for skin to break beneath his fangs.

It is the hunger for flesh upon razor-sharp canines. 

It is the hunger for blood, rich and effervescent.

Out of these damning desires, he can only fulfill one request of the three-headed beast—the one that rears its head and growls its protest with each drop of blood that graces his lips.

This is not survival. This is torture.

Chapter 6: Waiting For The Attack

Notes:

Dropdown below is for content warnings. Proceed at your own discretion.

Content warnings for this chapter are as follows:

- Mentions of intentional self-injury: Joyce cuts his own arm to draw blood
- Drinking of blood: Otto bites Joyce and drinks his blood
- Bodily mutilation: Joyce cuts Otto's body open and rips apart his internal organs
- Cannibalism & consumption of organs: Joyce eats part of Otto's heart
- Character death: Both Otto and Joyce die
Neither Joyce nor Otto explicitly consent to the above actions, though neither struggle or resist against the other. Consent given is vague and relies heavily on the context.

The greatest tragedy of mankind is their inability to abstain from desires that minds deem as inherent needs.

Otto Apocalypse, who thought himself beyond both the confines of homo sapiens sapiens and homo sapiens necrosa—above succumbing to the needs of human and vampire alike—was surrendering to the desires of both. The weaknesses his father had scorned were whittling his mind; the wretched desire his mother had cursed was raging violently in his chest.

He had told himself this: he is only making use of the resources available to him. He is freely receiving what has been freely given. Yet, the ache that burns with every breath begs to differ. Every drop that touches his lips only heightens the intense need that had been held tightly under control for centuries. 

If the hunger of a human is an aching pang, then bloodlust is an excruciating, savage scourge upon the soul. 

Deep within, Otto has always known that this was the fated end. Even while caught in the throes of what a fool might call love , the persistent ache in his mind lingered, lying in wait.

It had started as a simple, base compulsion that all vampiric creatures experienced; the desire for sustenance in the form of blood was no stranger to Otto. But as his selfish venture blossomed further, instinct began to intertwine itself with another desire, twisting what would have been a simple culling into a web of his own making. 

He should not love Welt—not in any way, shape, or form—but he does regardless. Otto had convinced himself that it was because he resembles and carries the memories of someone he once desired more than life itself. Despite this, the vessel himself had proven that memories could not fully inhibit the development of his own personality; he pursued his own agency even with the burden of another mind. 

Perhaps that is why Otto desires him so. The vessel—Welt Joyce, he calls himself—is truly something to marvel at, and not only for his blood. He possessed the ability to resist even while subdued in the shackles of a Donor’s mind and body. He detected the various glamours that were placed throughout the Fortress. He deciphered the unfamiliar memories he saw in his dreams and deduced that they were not his. Welt Joyce has made it far beyond explicit that Otto has no control over him.

And even while free from the immediate control of Otto Apocalypse, Welt decided to give him his blood . Perhaps it was out of curiosity—unlikely, he thought. Perhaps it was out of pity—also unlikely. 

If anything, he is the one that has a coiling embrace around Otto’s heart and soul. He can do nothing but watch as he is drawn closer, tempted by both flesh and blood. He loves him—if such a wretched affliction could be deemed as such. He wants him, as if there is nothing else that can satisfy the burning need.

Otto turns away, meaning to retreat from the courtyard archway, yet he seems to gravitate back towards it, towards the alluring rhythm of a beating heart. Amidst the greys, greens, and browns of the surrounding area, a bloom of colour stands in its centre.

Blue , like his hair.

Blue, like his piercing gaze.

Blue , like the veins that emerge from beneath his collar.

As if in a trance, he draws nearer, until he is close enough to reach out—

Before either of them know it, Otto has placed a hand upon Welt’s shoulder. He turns, levelling a rather intense stare at him. He is wary. He has every right to be, Otto thinks. He knows what I want—what I need .

“What do you want?”

A brief spark of clarity graces Otto’s mind, the broken silence drawing him out from his reverie. His hand on Welt’s shoulder has drifted up, now settled along the side of his neck, thumb resting against his jugular vein. Welt eyes his hand, then reaches up, grasping his wrist and tugging his hand away. 

“Do you need blood? You fed only three days ago, you should be fine, no?”

Otto swallows thickly, words caught in his throat. 

“Come closer,” he whispers, tugging Welt by the gloved hand still on his wrist.

“Don’t—” Welt begins, though the words fade away in an instant. For a brief, deluded moment, Otto truly believes that he has finally succeeded in enthralling him. He leans closer, unaware that Welt’s lack of resistance was entirely of his own volition. 

A gloved hand meets the skin of his nape, and Otto looks up. It is then—as their eyes meet—that he realises: Welt is fully lucid. He is voluntarily allowing the dhampir to inch past the unspoken line that they had drawn. The hand on his nape slides up, gently threading through his hair. Welt does not pull him away nor urge him to press closer; he lies in wait, prompting Otto through hooded eyes to make his choice . 

And so, taken by something on the border between will and woe, Otto Apocalypse falls beneath the horizon between sky and sea; the herald of death strikes swiftly and silently. The tip of his nose just barely brushes the curve of Welt’s jaw before he bites down.

Ah. So this is how it is.

For centuries, Otto had denied himself the flesh of another, aiming to cast off the burden of his kind; for centuries, he had turned away from any sort of closeness that may bring the curse of desire. He had secured his life under the iron cage of voluntary action , and yet it had all shattered in an instant. 

His eyes flutter shut as skin gives way under his fangs. Blood spills forth; living water gushes from the fountain of life that he so willingly drinks from. A guttural noise wrenches itself from his throat—for all that he has drunk in his many lifetimes, he knows that even the most acclaimed providers cannot surpass that which flows freely before him. 

As if he were the one enthralled, his mind ceases its constant rumination; all that Otto is gives way to the blood of his lamb—the lamb who willingly laid himself out before a creature of the night. His heart accelerates with each mouthful that he swallows, giving life to what he once thought was dead and gone. 

The blood that now flows in his own veins urges him forth. He deepens his bite, and the sensation of tearing flesh only fuels the all-consuming hunger that rages within him. For as one man is claimed by a sinner, the jagged talons of want sink deeper into the other—he, too, is claimed by something beyond his power. 

Beneath him, Welt begins to lose his balance, supported only by an arm wound tightly around his waist. Slowly, they sink to the ground, entwined as they descend into the depths. 

---

Blood stains the stone floor of the courtyard, with dull splatters of crimson surrounding two huddled figures; one with its fangs buried in the other’s neck, one with a hand wound tightly in blonde locks. The hand in Otto’s hair supports him as he sways forward, following the sluggish trails that run down from the wound.

The dhampir cants backward, nearly toppling both of them onto the stone floor. Green eyes flutter open, glazed by both tears and Death’s brush; he peers up at the man above him, whose eyes are similarly altered—though not for the same reason.

I’m sorry , he tries to say, though the words catch between his esophagus and trachea. He coughs, a hoarse, stuttering sound lurching from his throat as blood trickles out from his mouth. Welt reaches down. Gloved fingers wrap around the dhampir’s throat, feeling the bumps and ridges of his windpipe through porcelain skin.

“You took my life,” he grits out, “and now you take my blood.”

Otto does not respond, only reaching for the hand on his neck. Slender, bloodied fingers enclose his wrist, grasping but not resisting. Welt tightens his grip in response, thumb pressing into his carotid in a mockery of the way fangs pierced his own artery.

“Take it,” he rasps, leaning forward into his grasp, “even the score, if you wish it so.”

His free hand slips beneath Otto’s outer coat, feeling for the dagger he kept. Walter’s dagger , plated in silver and sheathed in leather to prevent hurting the dhampir who held onto it. Welt draws the blade that is not his and presses the glinting edge of it against the curve of Otto’s cheek.

The dhampir hisses—the silver of the dagger did not sear a mark upon his skin as it would have for a full-blooded vampire, but it stings nonetheless. He leans into it, letting the edge bite his skin as it trails down his neck. Reddened skin splits under the blade, and a drop of blood pearls in the dip between his collarbones. 

Welt thumbs at the shallow wound, smearing blood on the cloth and skin atop his sternum. The blade in his hand follows the trail, cutting apart the remaining cloth that obstructed his view. Before him lay a tableau of immortal flesh, tarnished only by a singular streak of blood. He traces it with the tip of the blade—it taunts him, tempts him. 

Silver scores a line above the sternum, cutting between layers of sin-riddled flesh. Blood flows freely—like a river of wine—from the laceration, pooling on the stone below. Welt releases his throat and presses his fingers into the wound, lost in a haze between bloodlust and rage. 

Beneath him, the dhampir’s breathing shortens into shallow pants, though he does not shrink away from the hands that aim to tear him apart. This is his penance. This is the price he will pay—of fleeting moments and eternal suffering alike—to die at the hands of Walter Joyce once more.

In his hands, tissue bleeds and tears. His body cannot keep up with the feverish onslaught that Welt imposes upon him, his flesh cannot reform before he is laid bare. Each ridge of his ribcage is revealed—the prison encasing his heart is revealed, the cloak of flesh and blood cut away.

Welt runs his fingers over each rib, almost reverently, watching as gore smears over pearly white bone. 

The blade clatters to the ground.

His fingers scramble for the cuffs of his gloves, craving the rich sensation of blood on bare skin. Leather-covered fingers struggle to grip the material, slicked by blood and viscera alike. Managing to tug one glove off, he immediately sinks his now bare hand in the cavity before him. It plunges deep between cartilage and bone, and he relishes the feeling of falling deeply into something so godless—so terribly human. 

It isn’t enough. It will never be enough—not until Otto’s blood runs through his veins as his own, not until their very beings are intertwined in both life and death. 

His other hand is still gloved, fingers tangled somewhere between the ridges of his ribs. Caught between removing the offending piece of leather and the carnage before him, he attempts to do both, tearing hungrily at flesh and bone while tugging urgently at the leather hem.

Ribs crack, cartilage tears, and urgency reaches a fever pitch. He needs this—needs his life in bare hands, needs the blood scattered on the stones in him. Biting down on bloodsoaked leather, he wrests his hand free of the glove.

The moment his blood touches his lips is the moment he dives headfirst into the fires of Hell. Pushing past torn skin and broken bones, he cups his shaking hands, blood pooling in his palms and spilling into every crevice that lays in waiting for the lifeblood of another.

Palmful after palmful he drinks, ichor spilling past his lips as his trembling hands reach for the heart. It beats sluggishly within his chest, straining to support a body that has been torn apart. The silver blade is raised once more, though offered by the hand of his victim. Welt takes it, and though he plunges it down into his chest, not once does the dhampir’s grip falter beneath his, weak as it may be. 

As if blood had stained even his eyes, he does not see the havoc he wreaks upon the body below him. Again and again, Welt sinks the blade into the viscera, carving into it as if it were his last supper. All that remains in his vision is reddened by the blood of a sinner.

When the haze clears, he clutches his prize, the heart of the one who claimed his—the life of the one who took Welt’s away. Otto had taken his life, and now Welt would return the favour. He cups the heart almost tenderly in his palms, lifting it up.

In a cruel mimicry of the dhampir’s fangs, he sinks his canines into the organ, crushing the atria under his teeth like the plump arils of a pomegranate. Blood spills forth, coating his tongue with the life of another. Centuries of existence—of life, of death, of love —bleed into him as he drinks, pouring into him alongside the memories he carried.

When he, like Otto, has drunk his fill, the heart falls from his hands. The organ is marred with vicious tears, and it leaves bloody trails in its wake as it tips away. Welt collapses, his body no longer supported by anger nor adrenaline. He falls forward, head landing just above the desecrated portion of Otto’s torso. Blood warms his cheek as he tilts forward ever-so-slightly, shifting until his head rests in the crook of the dhampir’s neck. Like this, Welt can feel every minute twitch in his throat as he tries to expel the blood from his lungs. 

Weak, trembling fingers wander around, searching for the dhampir’s cool touch. Otto’s hand finds his, their interlaced fingers viscous with blood and viscera. He gives a faint squeeze, like the sluggish beating of a heart, then lets go; he leaves streaks of drying blood as his touch trails from Welt’s arm to his shoulder.

Cold, numb fingers trail up the side of his neck and thread through blue locks, staining them with his blood. A gentle tug prompts Welt to lift his head; their eyes meet once more. 

Entangled in this deathly embrace, neither can tell who is the first to set foot in the chasm. All that is clear is the urgency with which their lips meet, pressing once, then twice. The taste of blood lingers with each feverish kiss, until the border that divides one from the other is nigh indecipherable. 

Welt pulls back a fraction of an inch, then tilts his head, leaning their foreheads together. Harsh, stuttered breaths fill the space between, leaving no silence to be savoured. 

“Otto— I— ”

He does not find the words he wishes to speak—they are lost as Otto kisses him once more, like a sealing promise. 

The hand on his hip moves away. Were he of sound mind, Welt would have considered the sudden movement a threat, though now, he cannot bring himself to care. If he were to perish beside the man that deemed him a vessel, he may as well spend these last moments pretending that their bond was truly one of love and not some twisted parasitic ailment. 

A cool touch flits across his cheekbone, then the pad of his thumb rests just beneath his eye. Had Welt chosen to open his eyes and glare past the fog, he would have glimpsed a glint of silver from within the haze. Even as he remains blind, however, he does not deny the truth:

He who has offered himself to a sinner shall pay with his life.

Akin to the fangs that had sunk into his neck, a silver blade pierces his skin, driving deep into the viscera beneath. A harsh exhale is all that remains of the cry Welt chokes back. The hand that he is not using to support himself finds its way up once more, tangling in a fistful of golden strands. 

He pulls. Otto’s head snaps back, and Welt follows him there, hovering directly in his line of sight. The knife twists as he leans over the dhampir, tearing the skin of his torso as if it were the veil that divided them. Again, he collapses against Otto’s desecrated body; the excruciating wound drains the strength from his body, and yet his will carries on. 

With finality, Welt kisses him again—the fourth occasion of such.

Notes:

It is finished.

I don't feel like writing notes to explain whatever the hell this is. Figure it out yourself or DM me if you really want.